[HALO] Fallout, Not a Halo/Fallout crossover Options

[Sir Radont]

Part I: Dead Spartans.

It should have been a good day. School was done for the summer, the sun was bright and warm overhead and in his backpack was a report card that proudly boasted straight A’s. Despite life’s best attempts to spread cheer, the twelve-year-old walked alone with his head hung in despair. Each step was heavy and slow as if he had to coerce his sneaker clad feet to move. To him, summer wasn’t a time for playing or a time to visit friend’s—summer was a time of pain, a time to get ‘stronger’. He didn’t want to be strong anymore, all he wanted was a normal childhood, was that too much to ask? The brown haired boy rounded a bend in the paved road.

There it was.

A medium sized brick house in a medium sized suburb sat close to the road. As he drew near his heart threatened to jump straight out of his chest. Could it be? Is he really not here? Then he saw it, an old rusting blue pick-up truck parked in the short driveway. The boy stopped, feet refusing to move. The slight hope that had worked its way into his mind vanished like a wisp of smoke in the wind. Come on, if you’re not home on time it will only make it worse. Grudgingly, slowly, he urged one foot in front of the other until he stood outside the intimidating solid oak door, his hand gently squeezing the polished handle. Turning it slowly the boy eased the door open and peeked inside.

The entryway was empty, beyond that was the equally unoccupied kitchen. Stephen took a deep breath and slipped into the house. Setting his bag down gently he crept slowly across the tiled kitchen floor, skirted the edge of an old table, and peered through the archway leading to the living room. There he was, asleep as usual with four empty beer bottles on a short wooden table next to the couch. The TV was on and a local anchor was making a rundown of the daily happenings in the world of professional sports.

Stephen’s puppy, a recent gift from his dad, came bounding into the room tearing at a multi-colored rubber ball in a fruitless attempt to get the squeaking object to surrender. Upon seeing the boy standing in the kitchen, the black Labrador dropped the ball, cocked his head sideways, then let out a yelp of happiness. Fear and despair seized the boy as the real reason for the new puppy became apparent. It wasn’t a gift of love or a gift to offer him companionship; it was, in fact, no gift at all—it was an alarm. His father had gotten tired of him sneaking into the house while he lay passed out in front of the TV, the dog would assure him it never happened again. Stephen could still remember the pure elation he felt when he first saw the dog. He remembered thinking that things would change, his dad had gotten over his mothers death and things would be normal again. The crushing disappointment of the revelation was enough to make his knees buckle; he stabbed a hand out to the wall to keep from toppling forward.

The trembling boy watched in horror as the man on the couch, his ‘dad’, was roused. Two intense blue eyes turned their steel gaze on Stephen. A scowl formed on the sleepy Italian face.

“Were you sneaking in here again, boy?” His father raged as he stumbled towards the kitchen. The big man glanced at the clock. “Ah thought ah told you t’ be home quickly.” His words were slurring as he drew near, casting an imposing shadow over his frail son.

“I-I tried, father, but…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence; a powerful hand smacked the side of his face sending him reeling to the carpeted floor. Metallic tasting blood flowed warm and unhindered over his tongue. He stifled a sob; it would only make his father angrier if he cried.

“Git up!” Mark Marioli yelled as he grabbed his son and yanked him off the ground, “only a weak fool shtays down after the firsht hit, do you want to be weak the rest of your life?”

Another powerful blow sent the boy to the floor again. Mark leaned in close and stared intently at his son, waiting for him to start crying, waiting for an excuse to unleash his fury.

“I’m jus’ tryin’ t’make you stronger. Them teachers don’t teach that at school so they?”

Stephen shook his head. Marioli picked his son off the floor by the collar. “I expect an answer when I ask a question!” He drew his hand back for another strike; Stephen threw his arms up to shield his face from the blow. Mark dropped his son to the floor.

“Pathetic.” He turned and stumbled back to the couch. Diomed, the black Labrador, licked the boy’s bruised face in an attempt to comfort him. Stephen smiled through his tears and petted the dog’s soft head. I’ll always have you, won’t I? As if in response, Diomed climbed into the boy’s lap and laid across his legs, head resting on Stephen’s arm

For three summers Stephen endured his father’s beatings, for three summers he was a helpless, defenseless victim. The fourth summer was different. It started normal enough; Stephen came home on the last day of school expecting to be hit. He wasn’t disappointed. But there comes a time when healing wounds refuse to be torn open any longer. Instead, they scar, and eventually turn into unfeeling, uncaring calluses. His father stopped beating him, not because of any conscience he may have possessed, but because abuse ceased to be an effective means of control. The city became Stephen’s playground, and breaking and entering was his game.

He learned what made floorboards squeak and how do avoid them. Very few locked doors were able to resist his picking and even the most rusted hinges would silence themselves at his command. The sixteen year old didn’t break in to steal—he used it as an escape. The rush of adrenaline that came with successfully infiltrating and exfiltrating an occupied house was enough to sate his adventurous thirst. In his spare time Stephen joined as many self-defense and martial arts classes as he could and quickly impressed every sensei he learned from. He was a machine—cold, emotionless, and lethal. And yet through all of it, Diomed wouldn’t leave his side. The dog was a warm soothing fire in the middle of a harsh winter; the only friend to a boy who had given up on friendship. To Stephen, Diomed was the last thread of innocence left from a life that had long since deviated from a happier path.

His first kill came two years later, the target slept as Stephen arranged the ‘accidental’ death. The coroner would say too much alcohol mixed with candles is never a good combination and pass it off as an unfortunate accident. He would wonder, briefly, if the deceased would be missed.

He wouldn’t be. Child abusers rarely were. As the flames hungrily gorged themselves on the house’s innards, Stephen stood outside the range of the orange glow and watched. See you in Hell, dad. A month later the empty shell joined the UNSC. He needed weapons training, and who better to teach him than the men and woman that kill for a living. Four years later, Stephen Marioli vanished.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Smoke always hung thick in pubs where ONI employees took their breaks and ate their lunches. Most complained that the allotted time given for the afternoon break was too short, forcing them to ingest the burgers, fries, and sodas too fast causing all manner of afternoon health anomalies. Some people never learn to drop the grease and order the menu items with the little apple symbol next to them instead.

To Ivan Kazlov though, an hour for lunch was plenty of time. The grey haired rebel spook glanced at his watch then worked on the salad in front of him. Five minutes late, this is the last time I hire this arrogant fool, he grumbled as he stabbed a cherry tomato with his fork.The spy smiled crookedly to himself, it would be the last job Jason did for anyone. It was too bad really, Kazlov hated to send men like that on suicide missions. Not that he cared if the merc lived or died, he just didn’t like to waste talent.

Ivan had hired many assassins in his time, all of which possessed of varying degrees of competence. None of them had the reputation of Jason Matthews though. With reputation comes rumors and rumors generate the stories of legends. It was said that Matthews had single-handedly killed three Spartans in hand-to-hand combat. Killing one Spartan was improbable, two was impossible, and to take on three of the super soldiers, well, just having their anger directed at you would be fatal to most men.

The windowed door to the pub swung open, letting in a shaft of sunlight that fell over tables and patrons. Kazlov glanced toward the entrance, the new arrival was in his late twenties, early thirties maybe, short but well built. Jason Matthews was about as remarkable as the salad sitting on the spook’s plate, perfect for blending into places he shouldn’t be. Sunglasses hid the merc’s eyes, when he removed them Ivan nearly gasped. The temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees, Kazlov was sure everything his potential employee looked at would turn into a solid block of ice. He had seen cold, piercing eyes before but they might as well be his mothers compared to the pair now moving towards him.

The suit-clad mercenary eased into the dimly lit booth without so much as a nod in greeting.

“You’re late,” Kazlov remarked without bothering to hide his irritation.

“So I am.” What are you going to do about it rebel, he didn’t add.

“Let me get one thing clear, you are going to work for me, and I will not be so casually disregarded by my own employees. You may have a reputation for small petty crime where you’re from but here in the big leagues actions speak louder than words.” He was sure he’d hit the mark, every mercenary considers himself to be the best and would not take an insult lightly.

“Fair enough,” was the cold, emotionless reply.

Kazlov barely contained his shock, “Yes… good… on to business then.” The spook lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly. “For the last decade rebel geneticists have been working on turning some of our own soldiers into Spartans. I will spare you all the technical details, you wouldn’t understand the in’s and out’s of the program anyway.” It was a low blow, Kazlov knew, but this merc had to be proud of something or have some emotion in him. Jason remained stone faced. The spook continued, effectively hiding his disbelief. “Six months ago we successfully created our first soldier. He’s not trained yet and it will be quite some time before he gets used to the improved strength and speed but we are ready to start the next phase of the program, we need MJOLNIR armor.”

“So build it,” Jason suggested.

Ivan chuckled slightly, “It is far too advanced for any of our scientists. If we had a full suit of it though we may be able to copy it, or at least start to develop our own version.” They couldn’t build them, of course, but if all went well they wouldn’t need to. All Kazlov needed was a few Spartans with some exposed skin; the virus would do the rest.

“You rebels are all the same; all you want are dead Spartans.”

“No, we don’t want them dead; we want them brought in alive. Four of them.” He studied Jason’s face to discern any signs of emotion. Nothing.

Kazlov had heard rebels say they weren’t afraid of the legendary super soldiers, but behind the words, behind every pair of lying eyes, their very souls quaked with fear. The man sitting across the table was different. No nervous glances, no shifting eyes, just an unwavering gaze that spoke for itself: Spartans had died by his hand. Probably not three at a time, but somewhere Jason was hiding a MJOLNIR helmet, a trophy not many hunters can claim.

“I can’t just walk into ONI and drag four Spartans out.”

“No,” Kazlov replied, “you can’t. Which is why I have taken the liberty of finding them for you.” The rebel slid a folder of documents across the polished table. Jason flipped through them while Ivan continued, “our friend’s at ONI are developing some sort of bio weapon, specifically designed to wipe out the Covenant without damaging any structures. They’re researching and building it on the planet Ajax, it’s remote and small. There are mainly scientists there, naturally, a small group of marines, and four Spartans.”

Jason finished looking over the documents and closed the folder. “It’s doable.”

“I can spare a thousand soldiers; they will attack the base directly while you come up from behind. I know you are gifted in the areas of stealth, you’ll need those skills there.”

Jason nodded.

“I thought you’d agree. I went ahead and picked out the soldiers for you, they’ll be ready when you are.”

Kazlov leaned back; this was going better than he had first anticipated. He expected some sort of challenge, some kind of arrogant display of, “I work alone, you’re soldiers will only get in my way.” But the mercenary kept it civil and businesslike. It was unnerving really; a man with a casual attitude towards killing was hard enough to control. When someone was apathetic to taking lives they would just as soon kill the person that sent them. Money’s alluring voice fell on deaf ears when dealing with these kinds of mercs. Offer them a challenge or offer them nothing at all.

“I can offer you a hundred million up front for your services and a hundred million more upon successful completion of the mission.” He could offer him the entire planet and it wouldn’t make a difference, Jason Matthews wasn’t coming back from this one. What Kazlov underestimated was the mercenary’s intelligence, offering that kind of money up front set off alarms in the trained killers mind. There was more to this mission than getting MJOLNIR armor and he would find out what it was.

“That’ll do,” Jason said as he stood, picked up the folder, and exited. He needed a drink. Not alcohol though, he never touched the stuff. Water would be fine. The pub emptied onto a busy sidewalk in downtown Hawking, a city reminiscent of Earth’s New York. The city was just hitting its stride for the day, drivers honked angrily and people walked briskly. Three blocks away and down a back alley was a small convenience store, Jason let out a sharp whistle and a black Labrador fell in stride with him as he headed down the sidewalk.

A bell jingled above Jason’s head as he entered the small store. The teen behind the counter smiled politely, “I’m sorry sir, we can’t allow pets in the store.”

Jason didn’t argue, “My apologies,” the merc bent down to scratch behind the dog’s ears and whisper a command. He stood again and opened the jingling door; the Labrador obediently walked out, sat, and waited patiently. Satisfied, Jason flashed a forced smile to the clerk and proceeded down a narrow aisle to the coolers on the back wall.

Grabbing a bottle of water, Matthews turned to head to the front when the door jingled again. A sweatshirt clad teenager entered, hood pulled up over his head and hands stuffed in the shirt’s front pockets. Normally the merc wouldn’t think twice about a kid in a sweatshirt, but it was summer and over eighty degrees outside. Great, some punk getting drug money. The mercenary ducked behind a display of Pringles as the youth quickly scanned the room. Satisfied the store was empty he pulled a small caliber handgun from his sweatshirt and demanded the young girl running the register give him all the money it contained.

Jason poked his head around the display; the cashier behind the counter locked eyes with him briefly, something not many people could do. You’re brave, kid. Tears began to glisten in her blue eyes as she handed the money over with shaking hands. Matthews had two choices, he could sit back and let fate decide the outcome by itself, or he could get involved and help fate make up its mind.

If he sat back and did nothing someone might die, which meant there would be police involved. Maybe the assailant was professional enough to not panic and stay cool. Probably not. The young criminal glanced nervously through the window to the street, paced restlessly in front of the counter, and held the gun in a quivering hand while shouting commands. He was anything but professional. On the other hand, if Jason taught the punk a lesson the young girl behind the counter would be happy that she wasn’t dead and wouldn’t call the police at all.

Jason stood, he didn’t like being considered a hero, but he liked talking to the police even less.

Unscrewing the cap on his water, the mercenary took a long swallow, returned the cap, and moved casually towards the front. The cashier glanced at him then back at the gunmen then back at Jason. Stop looking at me, you’ll tip him off. One more glance and the youth got it, he turned quickly but Matthews had covered the last few meters in a sprint, with momentum and surprise on his side the merc batted the pistol away with an outstretched arm. The young cashier, eyes wide with fear, ducked behind the counter. She heard a sickening snap of bones, a scream of pain, another snap, and finally a muffled thud.

The door jingled and the cashier stood slowly, a five dollar bill was lying on the counter, lying on the floor was a young teen writhing in pain, his wrist and elbow bent at awkward angles. She quickly glanced out the window but saw only the brown bricks of the adjacent building. Maybe there were good people in the world.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back in the pub, Ivan Kazlov finished his salad and leaned back, a smug smile cracked across his face. He glanced down at the ONI I.D. badge hanging around his neck bearing his picture and the designation: Barry Klemens, Geneticist.

“Well Barry, I think it’s time we parted ways.”

The spook plunged his hand into his front pocket and procured a cell phone. After punching in a number and hearing the party on the other end pick up, Ivan spoke briefly.

“We’re on for tonight.”

The line disconnected without a word. To the patrons of the pub, Kazlov might have just confirmed a date with his wife, or a business meeting with a prospective contractor. In reality he had just condemned the only ONI employee with enough intelligence to catch the bug in the Spartan program before the rebels had a chance to exploit it. At this stage, even if he did find it, it was probably too late to do anything about it. But Kazlov didn’t care what was probable, he wanted assurance, and so three assassins now waited patiently outside the ONI building. Three should be enough. How hard could it be to kill one scientist?

[Lord Revan]

that sarge got what was coming to him, and what in the world since when could a spartan get knocked out by a marine?!

I wonder if MC will be at least mentioned......

[Sir Radont]

..since when could a spartan get knocked out by a marine?!

I thought that was strange too after I wrote it. My thinking when I was writing that they get knocked out in Halo multiplayer all the time but I failed to remember that it was always another Spartan doing the beating and not a marine.

Part III: Old Friends, New Enemies
The blast happened shortly after midnight; Barry Klemens’ apartment was consumed instantly in the fiery inferno. The amply fueled flames danced and cracked their way through the adjacent apartments, devouring the wooden interior like a hurricane feasting on an unsuspecting town. Smoke alarms screamed their warnings and drowsy parents hurried sleepy children out of the building and into the warm night. Most made it out safely and watched in horror as their lives burned. The unlucky ones only had time to hear the initial blast before being consumed by an unforgiving force.

It was an acceptable loss; or so Ivan Kazlov thought as he puffed on a cigarette eight blocks away. Each pull on the Marlboro lit his emotionless face in an intense orange glow, casting dark shadows around uncaring eyes. It was done; his last major connection with ONI had been severed. In a few days the authorities would blame a faulty gas line for the explosion that took the life of Barry Klemens, a respected ONI geneticist. The body in the room would be burned beyond recognition. Who would notice one less homeless person wandering the streets? The only thing left to do was getting rid of the files in his other apartment but that could be done later; tonight he would celebrate.

He would miss this life; the high pay that came with spying on ONI and the top floor apartment would linger in his mind like a tumor long after he returned to rebel desk work on some obscure asteroid. It was just one more price to pay for a worthy cause. Like the families burning in their apartments, sacrifices had to be made, even by the true believers like Ivan Kazlov. One last puff of the cigarette and the spook dropped it to the ground, crushing it beneath a black dress shoe. The rebel then turned and shuffled casually down the lamp-lit sidewalk. Craig’s Pub was calling his name.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Across the city in the upscale part of town, Jason Matthews was planning an op of his own. He reclined on a black leather couch sipping tea while visualizing the night’s upcoming mission. His meeting with Kazlov had gone well—too well. There was more to this than bringing back MJOLNIR armor, and the only place to find answers was inside Kazlov’s head or in his apartment. Matthews decided to check the latter. Rebels weren’t known for being talkative; the really devoted ones would die for their respective causes rather than give up information. No, he would not get any answers from Kazlov directly.

Infiltrating the top level penthouse of a thirty-story building should be easy enough and it was something he’d done plenty of times. For most, the height of a dwelling was directly proportional to how secure the resident felt. Jason knew it was no different with Kazlov. He was arrogant and enjoyed the lavish lifestyle too much to be bothered by guards. The rebel would have a couple goons outside the door, naturally, but once inside the large apartment Matthews would have free reign of any information the spook carelessly left out.

Jason didn’t really care what he found there. He’d do the mission regardless of the devious underpinnings that may be associated with working for a rebel. It paid well and he could be anonymous, a bonus for any merc. What he didn’t like was the fact that Kazlov felt it necessary to withhold information from him. Matthews would remedy that tonight then go on to complete the assignment. He had never failed a mission and didn’t plan on starting any time soon. Upon successful completion the assassin would get his money straight from Kazlov’s hand; then he would execute the rebel. Not because he hated him, but because that’s how business was done. Jason had proven he was trustworthy; he had a right to know more about the op he had agreed to undertake. You don’t keep information from your employees, especially the ones that wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet between your eyes.

The time for reflecting was over. Matthews stood after downing the last of his green tea and navigated richly carpeted stairs to his bedroom. He exchanged the comfortable fleece pants and sweatshirt he was wearing for a pair of blue jeans and white tee shirt. Once downstairs he moved to the front entryway where a black duffle bag waited his attention. Jason lifted it and headed into the night, making sure to deadbolt the door and activate the security system in the grey brick house.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul Jensen was doing much the same thing in his medium sized home fifteen miles away, though his motives were different. It wasn’t often that ONI geneticists were targeted for assassination. Someone had made the call though, and whoever it was had underestimated him. Which meant, Jensen thought, he was targeted because he was a scientist and scientists are supposed to be weak and timid. Had this Kazlov fellow known Paul’s background he would have sent more assassins; or at least sent hitmen with more competence. During his stint in the Marines, Jensen had fought young inexperienced rebels with more battle prowess than the fools that tried to take his life not seventy-two hours ago.

Paul stuffed a black, tight fitting jumpsuit into an equally black briefcase sitting on a small round table. On top of the suit he tossed a silenced pistol loaded with tranquilizer darts instead of deadly lead. He had already killed one man this week and his conscience was at ease only because it was done in self-defense. Murdering someone, whether it is in the name of good or evil, while breaking into their home was a whole different story; not to mention the police wouldn’t be as forgiving. Jensen checked the pistol for the twelfth time to be certain the darts were loaded; satisfied, he returned the modified weapon to the briefcase and clicked it closed.

Paul stood and paced around the living room anxious for the phone to ring but dreading it at the same time. Rappelling off a thirty-story building was a lot different than zip lining into a hot LZ. The last thing a soldier worried about when hanging from a Pelican was falling to their death. Generally, they were more worried about the bullets glancing off the thick armor of the drop ship and getting feet on the ground as fast as possible. Dangling from a building was a job for window washers, and even then they had something solid under their feet.

The shrill ring of a phone pulled Jensen from his daydream.

“This is Paul.”

“Hey Paul,” the disembodied voice of Detective Brian Kramer said through the receiver, “looks like our man is out for a while. Ready to play Spiderman?”

Spiderman. That’s rich. “Ready as I’ll ever be. See you in ten minutes.”

Paul returned the phone to its cradle and hoisted his briefcase. A deep breath followed by a slow exhale and Jensen was ready. This was Spiderman’s night.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jason Matthews was getting impatient. He checked his watch again; it had been thirty minutes since he’d arrived and no one had left the small twenty-four hour pizza parlor. There had to be some fraternity in need of food somewhere in this city; didn’t the citizens of Hawking get delivery anymore? Matthews leaned against the rough brick structure again and waited in the dark.

The door to Mike’s Pizza opened with an electronic ding. A boy no older than seventeen stepped out, expertly balancing three grease soaked boxes on one hand while fishing in his pocket for car keys. Jason let out a whistle; the boy nearly dropped the pizzas in surprise at the figure that materialized out of the darkness.

“A word please,” Jason said coolly.

The boy glanced around, confused. “With me?”

Matthews nodded and the delivery boy approached reluctantly.

The merc reached behind his back, the teen backed away holding up his free hand in submission.

“Whoa, hey man, you can just have these pizzas. I don’t want any trouble ‘k bro?”

Jason forced a slight smile as he held up three crisp hundred dollar bills.

“I’ll pay for those pizzas, your hat, and your silence, bro.”

The boy looked up dumbly at his official Mike’s Pizza hat before handing over the boxes and red cap.

Matthews held out the money, the boy snatched it and stared greedily, his eyes wide. When he looked up again Jason was gone.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul eased his car into a tall parking ramp building, stopping at the gate to get a ticket before proceeding to the top level. Once at the summit he spotted Detective Kramer’s car and pulled into the tight empty spot next to it wondering how larger vehicles managed to fit. Brian was sitting with his back to the concrete barrier that served to keep the cars on the roof. He had brought his S2 AM sniper rifle, a weapon Kramer used skillfully in the Marines to save the geneticist more times than he could count. Brian was a crack shot, and Paul felt safer with him behind the scope watching his back.

Kramer stood as Paul rounded the car, their hands met in a solid shake.

“Thanks for doing this,” Paul said to an old friend.

“Hey, I don’t get to take this baby out much anymore,” Kramer replied, hefting the rifle, “You ready?”

A nod.

“The rappelling equipment is all set up on the roof courtesy of our local S.W.A.T. team. This key will get you in the service entrance,” Kramer handed over a non-descript brass key, “there’s a bathroom immediately inside to your left, change into your infiltration clothes there. Put your street clothes in a garbage bag and set it outside, we can pick it up later. The service elevator will take you directly to the roof. I’ve got a clear line of sight to the apartment from here, just make sure you open the curtains once your inside.”

Paul grinned, it was like going twenty years into the past, “Just like old times, eh?”

Brian grunted in response, “I wish the rest of the squad could be here. We’d kick the door down proper then, none of this sneaking around stuff,” he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the apartment building.

“Touché my friend,” Paul replied as he headed for the stairs.

He descended quickly to street level and crossed the black car infested pavement as casually as his nerves would allow. Gains Apartment Building was an intimidating structure wrought from steel and glass, the outside sheen reflecting the busy nightlife like a giant mirror.

Paul circled the building’s wide girth and entered the unmarked service door. Most of the tenants didn’t want to be bothered by the employees that made their lives easy, so the service entrance was both private and discreet. Jensen eased the bathroom door open and peeked in, empty, as was to be expected at this hour. He chose a stall and stripped the tee shirt and khakis that marked him as just another civilian looking for something to do in a city that never slept.

Clicking open the briefcase, Paul procured the black infiltration suit and inspected it before pulling it on. It was skin tight and lightweight with a holster for a single weapon on the right thigh. Next he donned a lightweight Kevlar vest but not because he was anticipating being shot; the vest had rappelling loops built into the front, all he had to do was clip and go. With the vest secured tightly he holstered the pistol and pulled a black mask over his head leaving only his eyes visible under the dark cloth.

One final check of the equipment and he was ready to proceed. Jensen slipped out of the bathroom stall and glanced in the mirror, all he needed was a sword sheathed on his back and he could easily pass for a ninja. Not bad. He eased the bathroom door open again and peered down the hallway, it was as quiet as a graveyard. The infiltrator stole down the short carpeted passage to the elevator, thankful that the door opened immediately when he pressed the call button. Inside he punched the button for the roof. So far so good.

The elevator deposited him into a small, bare hallway with white walls and a scuffed linoleum floor. The only exit was a door to his left leading to the service stairs and a steel door affixed to the end of the passage. Paul stepped lightly to the door and opened it with a loud rusty squeak. The roof was calm and the stars shone with a white brilliance overhead. The rappelling rope was tied tightly to a solid metal pole rising vertically from the center of the roof.

Jensen picked up the nylon rope and gave it a firm tug—it seemed secure enough. He threaded the rope through the harness on his vest and tossed the excess over the side of the building. The former marine cautiously approached the precipice, turned his back to the edge, and hung out over the street thirty stories below. With a deep breath he started his descent; slowly, cautiously working down the sheer building as his rubber soled shoes gripped the glass surface like fresh tires on dry pavement.

Twenty-five feet later the geneticist was in position dangling like a spider from the side of the building. The infiltrator reached into a Velcro pouch on the front of his vest and procured a window pick, okay spidey, time to get to work. The geneticist smiled at himself as he slipped the pick under the window and, three minutes later, unlocked the glass barrier with a barely audible click. After returning the pick to its assigned pocket Paul carefully slid the window open and climbed through.

The closed silk curtain slid noiselessly off the latex infiltration suit as he adjusted to the new surroundings. He was crouched on a polished hardwood floor in a spacious living room; beyond that was the equally impressive entryway complete with grey stone sculptures of ancient Romans and Greeks guarding the door. In the center of the living room was a mahogany upholstered table, a black laptop sat quietly atop the expensive piece of furniture waiting to be used. Jensen pulled back all the white curtains covering the windows to give Detective Kramer a greater field of view from across the street.

Paul skipped the computer, if Kazlov came back early he wouldn’t have time to shut it down before hiding. Instead, he headed towards the entryway, there had to be a library of sorts in the massive apartment. Veering to the right was a hallway ending in a document-cluttered study; that would be the most logical place to look.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jason hurried to the tall apartment building with his delivery. The clock was encroaching on three a.m. and he wasn’t even in the apartment yet. The lobby of the high-rise was specifically designed to intimidate the non-wealthy with a sensory blitz of bright lights and polish that made the whole room sparkle. The marble floor shone with the luminance of a star, the walls were brilliant and gold colored and the ceiling loomed two stories over head. Circular stairways with polished brass handrails led up to the second floor that housed a gym and fitness center. There was no point in having money if you didn’t look good flaunting it.

Matthews wasn’t impressed but feigned awe for effect as he entered and approached the reception desk.

“I have a delivery for Mr. Kazlov,” he said sheepishly, looking at his feet. By looking down he made the dark haired female receptionist feel powerful and also effectivly hid his face under the brim of his hat.

“What’s in the bag?” She asked, gesturing to the black duffle bag and making the gold, diamond studded bracelet on her wrist sparkle.

“Clothes. This is my last delivery of the day and I just want to change and go home. My work clothes smell like pizza you see.”

She frowned slightly but consented, he was only a pizza delivery boy no matter how strange his nuances. Though, she wouldn’t consider someone in his late twenties to be a ‘boy’. Some people just weren’t as fortunate as she was, some weren’t meant for a life of wealth.

“Very well,” the receptionist said, “he’s on the top floor. The elevators are just over there.” She pointed an immaculately manicured finger towards a pair of marble outlined elevators.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he nodded and hurried to the mirrored doors, pushing the call button with a free hand.

Once inside he set the pizzas in a corner and tapped the button for the penthouse level. The elevator hummed and climbed resolutely through the interior of the building, dutifully taking the hunter to its prey. When it neared its destination Jason stopped the elevator, unzipped his bag, and sifted through his normal clothes to find his own infiltration suit. After location and donning the black garb the assassin fitted a dark mask over his head and secured a silenced pistol to his thigh. Next, he opened the overhead door and threw the bag on top of the elevator. Satisfied with his new look, Jason punched the start button and the elevator continued its journey.

The vertical transport dinged pleasantly as the polished doors slid open to reveal a hallway every bit as brilliant as the reception lobby. Jason paid it no mind as he dove out of the elevator, rolled, and came up in a crouch with silenced pistol pointed down the well-lit hallway. Twelve meters away was a solid oak door complete with intricate carvings and a polished brass frame that shone like a million pieces of gold. On either side of the door were two surprised guards reaching for their concealed weapons.

Jason’s silenced pistol whispered twice, two bodies collapsed in front of the door. The merc waited, his pistol held steady, watching and listening for more guards. No one came. He holstered the weapon and snuck quietly to the door, carefully maneuvering around the pools of blood that were forming.

Procuring a pick from one of the few tight pockets on the black suit, he went to work on the door. Too easy, he thought after silently unlocking the door in less than sixty seconds. Easing the oak barrier open and slipping into the dark entryway, the merc scanned the room and spotted the computer. Perfect. That would be the most logical place to start looking.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul held several documents in shaking hands. He couldn’t believe what he was reading but it was all there in plain black and white. How could he have overlooked something this big? If the rebels were somehow able to pull this off they would have to be taken as a serious threat equal to, if not more-so, then the Covenant. No. This couldn’t be right. There was an error in these documents somewhere, there had to be; but now was not the time to search for it, right now he needed to exfiltrate. Jensen folded the papers and tucked them into a pouch on his Kevlar vest as he made his way back into the hallway and out into the living room.

Paul froze.

Less than fifteen feet away was another infiltrator with the exact same military grade suit. Be cool Jensen, you were trained for this. The intruder’s back was turned and he was silhouetted by a bright computer screen. All Paul had to do was sneak up behind him and knock him out; it seemed simple enough. He wouldn’t use the pistol unless he absolutely had to because it was a custom weapon with custom darts that could be traced back to him.

Slowly, one tense step after another, he approached the black clad merc.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jason had the information he needed. Kazlov would get to see his altered Spartans in action but that’s not where Matthews part would end. It was actually only the beginning—Kazlov would beg for mercy before being executed.

As the assassin closed the laptop a floorboard squeaked behind him. He spun on his heel with unnatural quickness and drew his pistol in one fluid, seamless motion.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul’s training instantly took over and he drew his own weapon.

“Drop it,” the intruders said in unison.

Paul wouldn’t fire from this close; the darts were lethal within eight feet of a target. He could bluff though.

“Who are you,” he demanded; cold unnerving eyes stared back from behind the mask.

“I’d rather not say,” the voice was smooth and unwavering. Was he an ODST? Did ONI know about the assassination attempt? Before his mind could begin to formulate answers the doorknob in the entryway rattled and turned.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jason tensed when he heard the door opening but kept his gaze on the man in front of him. The other intruder turned his head to look in the direction of the sound. Matthews used the diversion to his advantage, he swung his free hand and slammed his fist into the intruder’s temple. The black clad opponent grunted and staggered back, giving the merc an opportunity to sprint towards the door.

The oak door swung open just as Jason arrived to reveal a surprised gun-totting Kazlov. Matthews used the momentum to slam his elbow into the side of the spook’s head, knocking him back and out of the way. He sprinted down the hallway, into the waiting elevator, and punched an illuminated button. One floor down the exquisite door slid open; Jason exited then slammed through the door leading to the stairs and navigated thirty stories of stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jensen was still recovering from the surprisingly powerful blow when he saw Kazlov stand again in his peripheral vision. Paul sprinted toward the window, firing his pistol at the glass but the darts bounced harmlessly off. He didn’t have time to stop and open the window, he needed it to break. Another pull on the trigger and the gun reported the metallic click of an empty clip.

Great.

He would just use momentum to smash through the window and try to grab the rope. This isn’t the movies, it won’t work. It had to work, there was no other way out and Kazlov wouldn’t be dazed much longer. Three steps before he reached the window it exploded into a thousand tiny fragments. For a brief instant time seemed to stop as the shards of glass hung in the air like moonlit snowflakes on a crisp winter night. The illusion passed and the glass scattered across the floor like crushed ice. A shadow of a second later a 14.5mm armor-piercing round slammed into the marble wall across the living room. Thank you, Brian.

Paul leapt head first through the window and grabbed the nylon rope swinging in a wide arc away from the window before planting his feet on the building again. The former marine scrambled up the rope and felt a twinge of relief after getting the solid roof under his feet again. He left the rope dangling as he sprinted through the open door and into the service elevator. Once outside again he snatched the trash bag with his clothes in it and tore across the street.

He owed Detective Kramer a beer.