[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.


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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.


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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?

[Sir Radont]

Part IV: Three Strikes

The alarm clock cut violently into the silent night with shrill methodical beeps well before the sun’s first rays spilled over the horizon. Paul Jensen sleepily reached a hand through the inky darkness and fumbled for the off switch, there would be no snooze button today. Slipping from under the warm covers, Paul quickly rushed through his morning routine of showering, shaving, and downing the first cup of black coffee, all the while one thought occupied his mind. The bug. The defect in the Spartan program that every ONI geneticist had overlooked.

Now fully awake and dressed, Paul tucked his ONI ID in the vest pocket of his blue suit and grabbed the black leather briefcase waiting patiently on the kitchen table. A quick glance in the mirror showed his hair was impeccable, no need for a barber just yet. It was short enough not to need a comb but long enough that a few wisps of natural brown still managed to infiltrate the dominant gray. He didn’t really mind the gray, to him it was just a sign that he was getting wiser. His father often told him to wear gray with pride, no matter what the media said it would always come back into style.

Satisfied everything was in place, Paul moved through the entryway and stepped into a brisk Hawking morning. The sun was just beginning to make its dutiful ascent through the sky and had commenced battle with an early morning fog. Jensen walked three short blocks north and descended a flight of concrete steps into the subway station. It always surprised him that the subway lobbies were kept so clean. It seemed that every night there was a report of theft or violent crime in the subways, yet for all the traveling he did beneath the city the geneticist never saw any evidence that he was in a high crime area. No graffiti adorned the concrete supports in bright colors, no broken teller windows gave silent testament to shady deeds, and not a single piece of wayward trash could be found blemishing the cement floor.

Appearances can be deceiving, he reminded himself as he handed a few dollars to an overweight man too large for the small teller booth he occupied. The city of Hawking garnered a small fortune in tourism and an unkempt subway station was a surefire way to impact that income. At any rate, Jensen was never here early enough, or late enough, to warrant more than a passing concern for the items in his pockets. Marine-bred confidence seeped out of every pore in Jensen’s body and confidence repels a thief the way light repels a bat. The smart pick pockets shied away from marks like Jensen.

Yet, despite the hour, Paul still kept a wary eye on the fellow subway users as he waited patiently for the next train. They were nothing he couldn’t handle, two small woman and a short bald man, but he’d rather not have to handle anything this morning. He’d had enough of that in the last week to last well into retirement and beyond. He was a regular in this station anyway and wouldn’t be bothered by anyone looking for an easy mark.

Finally the telltale clinking of steel wheels turning on an iron track signaled that his train had arrived. The quartet of riders filed into the car without a word and sat. The bald man procured a newspaper while the two women moved aft and eagerly took out a book each. Though the titles of the novels were unreadable, it was easy to see by the bare chested man and the helpless damsel on the cover that they were romance novels. Paul slipped into a cushioned seat opposite the bald man wondering what women saw in those books.

Clicking the leather briefcase open, the geneticist rifled quickly through papers containing a plethora of statistics and million dollar words to procure the documents he had obtained the night before. The plan was all there in black and white but the clarity of the words didn’t make it any easier to believe. In truth, an oversight of this magnitude was inevitable, the fact that Spartans were genetically altered didn’t get a second thought when researching new weapons for fighting the covenant. To the scientists doing the research, there were only human genes and covenant genes and they tailored the biological weapons accordingly. Added to their ignorance was the fact that a Spartan’s MJOLNIR armor was specifically designed to withstand the fallout from biological weapons. When all was said and done there were serious consequences oft overlooked in the ONI weapons development labs.

According to the documents, the new covenant-specific bio weapon being researched and built on the planet Ajax would kill a normal human but alter a Spartan’s amygdale due to their unique genetic makeup, causing them to be more aggressive. In addition, it would stimulate the gene regulating quickness and strength, a deadly combination when combined with unchecked aggression. It was all theoretical, of course, and Paul tried to find solace in that solitary fact.

The peace he grasped for eluded him though, he knew the Spartan genes front and back and with the document staring back at him with cold indifference he knew it was true. He was, however, able to find a thread of comfort in the fact that some questions remained unanswered. Though whether this was actually good was debatable, Paul needed to find some silver lining to this abomination of a rain cloud. The document didn’t mention how they would get the four Spartans stationed on Ajax out of their armor, nor did it explain how they planned on fighting through security to get to the storage unit housing the biological agent. For now, it seemed, ONI still had time to correct this mistake.

Jensen looked up as the train slowed to a stop, complete with screeching brakes and lurching passengers. The steel doors slid open and Paul exited, not surprised that no one else was here at this hour. Normally he was the only passenger to disembark at this stop but today the bald man and his newspaper also had business to take care of in the middle of downtown Hawking.

With deliberate yet unhurried steps the former marine made his way through the clean, concrete lobby. He didn’t like to be rushed; stopping to smell the proverbial flowers was the difference between really living and merely existing. It was another thing his father had told him on a regular basis, and he embraced that piece of advice. Some people were always in a hurry though, like the bald man behind him. Why is he walking so close? There’s plenty of room to go around me. Paul got his answer half a second later when an unseen elbow slammed into the back of his head and the surroundings faded into the abyss.

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Paul’s head throbbed as he came to. The first feeling to work its way through the pain was that of a scratchy burlap sack over his head and tied tightly around his neck. Jenson tried to reach up to feel the sack but his hands were securely tied behind the chair he was sitting on. The rope tied tightly around his ankles was already rubbing them raw and even the slightest movement sent burning pain up his legs.

The former marine wasn’t afraid of dieing, he had brushed elbows with The Reaper plenty of times while fighting the covenant and he was a devout Christian, but the thought of being executed didn’t sit well with him here. It was not a noble execution, he would not be a martyr, and he wouldn’t die trying to save someone. In movies the hero dies with glory and honor, not covered with a bag and stomach doing cartwheels.

A door opened and then shut again, Jensen’s stomach did backflips.

“Ah, Mr. Jensen, you’re awake. I hate to execute people when they are sleeping. It seems a bit… unruly.” The voice spoke as if exchanging casual banter with an old friend, yet it contained an unnerving coolness considering the circumstances.

It had to be Kazlov.

The disembodied voice continued, “You took something from my apartment yesterday, I would hate for that to fall into the wrong hands.”

There were no last words from Paul Jensen, no dramatic chambering of a round from his assailant, just the quiet whisper of a silenced pistol and the release of a soul.

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Chris Fisher exited the brick housing complex and walked casually down a well-trodden dirt path to the Ajax research complex. The entire planet was blanketed in a thick forest except where ONI had built its gray lifeless buildings that sat in stark contrast to the greenery of the terrain. The star that gave life to the planet rarely broke through the canopy of leaves overhead, and where it did it was often only a single ethereal beam. There was an underground hallway that led to the research facility from the apartments but Chris rarely used it, not many scientists did in the warm summer months

Fisher enjoyed the daily half-mile walks to the complex, the dense foliage was reminiscent of home where he would hunt in the thick forest that flanked his house on three sides. But unlike most hunters, his rifle was a camera and his prey rarely knew they were being shot. After arriving on Ajax over three years ago he was quickly tagged as a geek for his hunting habits around the housing complex. The fact that he had a penchant for white button-down shirts complete with pens in the pocket and black pants didn’t help his image any. He tried to keep his black hair neatly combed but by the end of the day it was a disheveled mess and jutted out at odd angles.

Most of his fellow scientists ignored him, Tom Sanchez and his wife Melissa were the only ones that acknowledged his presence even when it wasn’t necessary. Sure, all the scientists on Ajax had talked to him at one time or another, but it was always strictly business. Tom, however, would often tell Chris about a new animal he had seen that might make a decent photo and Melissa always seemed willing to look at any new pictures he happened to be carrying.

Chris finally arrived at the research building though he thought it looked more like a military installation with its high outer wall and square holes cut into it for defensive purposes. The first stop after entering was the exterior security checkpoint and everyday it was a new hassle for the young scientist. The security guards had an easy job and got bored quickly, they often eased their boredom at the expense of Fisher. Today, surprisingly, the guard merely nodded and sent him through. Chris quickly covered the thirty meters to the main entrance and happily opened the door, maybe today wouldn’t be so bad. The interior security checkpoint was a small brick room with a long polished desk off to the right. Straight ahead was the steel door that led to the elevator that brought the scientists to the underground research labs. Chris’ heart sunk, sitting behind the security desk was Gary Keller, the cruelest of the security guards.

Gary was slightly overweight from a sedentary lifestyle and a sub-par diet. Not that there weren’t any places to exercise, everyone making a living on the planet had access to a gym built into the living complex, and ONI encouraged their employees to stay healthy. But Gary’s only exercise was lifting beer bottles to his lips and clicking through channels on his remote. His red hair looked unwashed and greasy, as usual, and a toothy grin split his face at the sight of Chris.

“Hey, my favorite scientist!” He was loud and boisterous.

Chris pushed thick glasses higher up on his nose nervously. “Hey there, uh, Gary, how are things?” He asked, unsuccessfully trying to sound nonchalant.

“Couldn’t be better, man. Hey listen, I just got a call from the higher ups and they said you didn’t need to come in today. They said there was something wrong with some kind of guidance system or something, I don’t know. Anyway, they asked me to tell you to go home.”

Chris stood silently under the gaze of the security guard. He knew Gary was lying but if he called him on it then it would only be worse tomorrow. One day he would stand up to the bully, but not today. He turned dejectedly and headed for the door, it was time to write up yet another complaint that would be completely ignored. As Gary moved to return to his post he casually knocked the files from under Chris’ arm, the papers scattered over the dusty floor.

“Whoa, you should be more careful with those, aren’t they top secret or something?” Gary chuckled at himself as he rounded the desk to return to his post.

With jaw clenched tight in anger, Chris scooped the papers up and walked out. The young scientist started down the path towards his apartment with head hung in shame, why couldn’t he just stand up to them? He hadn’t walked ten feet when a familiar voice stopped him.

“Something wrong Chris?”

Fisher looked up, Melissa Sanchez, seven months pregnant and glowing, stood in the path, a look of concern fixed on her angelic face.

“Just Gary. Again.”

Melissa frowned, Chris almost grinned. He could walk right past Gary now, nobody messed with Melissa, especially not a pregnant Melissa. It didn’t hurt that her husband was in the company gym every single day and was built like an NFL linebacker.

She grabbed Chris by the arm and stormed up to the security building, Gary jumped as she burst through the door with the scientist in tow. One poison filled look was all it took to get the security guard to cooperate.

“H-hey Mrs. Sanchez. Uh, let me get the door for you.” Gary punched a button behind the counter and the steel door leading to the elevator unlocked with a metallic click. “Have a nice day ma’am.” As the pair of scientists walked by Gary scowled, Chris flashed him a triumphant smile, it may be worse tomorrow but the young scientist would revel in victory today.

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Inch by inch the immaculately carved box was lowered into the ground. The UNSC flag draped over the black polished coffin hid most of the intricate details, but even if it hadn’t obscured the carvings no one would have remarked on the beauty of its craftsmanship. People rarely did at funerals, especially not with the mother weeping and the father trying his best to stand solemn and strong.

When at last the casket had been lowered to its final resting place, heads were bowed in quiet contemplation as a light breeze tried to comfort the black-clad mourners. Some wept openly, breaking the silence with sobs, while others let quiet tears slid down their cheeks. One man made a vow. Detective Brian Kramer, former UNSC marine, would not mourn until he saw his best friend’s killer lying in a crimson pool. The detective turned and walked across the grass carpet of the cemetery to his waiting car, it had been three days since they had found Paul Jensen’s body. The killer had been alive three days too long.

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Jason Matthews was lost in deep thought despite the roar of the drop ship’s engines. The information he had gleaned from Kazlov’s computer was disappointing at best. Damning was a better term for it, though Matthew’s soul wasn’t the one in trouble this time. No, as usual he would be the curse-bringer, the arbiter of death willing to bring down the hammer of eternal condemnation on those that crossed him.

The rebels had no bio-engineered soldiers; this was no ‘test run’ to measure results. The four Spartans on Ajax were all Kazlov ever had, which is why he wanted them alive. That was strike one against the rebel spy, lying was never a good way to gain trust, and lying to a hired gun was the best way to wind up with more holes than the human body is meant to have. Since he lied about the mission he surly lied about the payment, Matthews had that figured out the moment the offer left the deceitful spy’s mouth. Strike two. Two strikes were enough to get anyone killed in this business, but three strikes added a layer of cement to the death warrant that would not easily be repealed. Kazlov’s third mistake was assuming Matthews wouldn’t come back alive; nothing will haste death’s cold grip more than an assumption. Strike three.

So Matthews would do the job, surprise Kazlov by returning, and then execute him for lying. He may not get paid the full amount, or at all, but it was the way the game was played. At least, that’s the way Jason played it and it had served him well thus far. It wasn’t that he hated Kazlov, hate was too strong an emotion for the assassin to conjure, but he expected to get paid for services rendered, either by blood or by money.

The pilot announced over the COM that they would be landing in two minutes. A thousand other soldiers populating a fleet of drop ships heard the same message from their respective pilots. Jason shoved all erroneous thoughts from his mind and replayed the mission while making a final check of his gear. The lightweight suit he bore was custom made and contained electronics to make him invisible to a Spartan’s motion tracker. Constructed from a breathable material, the dark green suit was like a second skin, allowing Matthews to move quickly and quietly from one location to another. It didn’t offer much protection if he were to engage an enemy, but then, he wasn’t planning on being seen until all four Spartans were taken care of.

To take care of them, he had another custom made item, a weapon he simple dubbed ‘The Stick’. Strapped to his back now, the weapon was painted the same color as his suit and resembled the S2 AM Sniper Rifle. One barrel was loaded with projectiles similar to the Covenant needles, except instead of exploding into plasma, the needles in The Stick would deliver a dose of chemicals able to knock a Spartan unconscious. An added under slung barrel had capsules of pure plasma that, after striking a target, would have similar results of a plasma grenade without actually hurting the Spartan. In essence, The Stick would render MJOLNIR armor nearly useless by disabling the shields and then delivering a projectile that could pierce the thick plates.

Jason un-holstered the pistol strapped securely to his thigh and checked the magazine, he knew it was full before looking but he had a methodical routine before missions that always ended by checking the pistol’s clip. The assassin slammed the magazine home with a satisfying click of metal and smoothly slipped the pistol back into the Kevlar holster. Scanning the drop ship’s dark interior showed rebels checking their equipment as well or sitting silently in contemplation. Less than a minute to touchdown, Matthews was ready.

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Xion peered intently through the scope of his sniper rifle waiting for one of many stationary target three hundred meters away to pop up. This was too easy, a child could hit a Covenant silhouette at this range. The thought gave the Spartan pause, fresh out of the ONI program, he wasn’t much older than a child himself. The Ajax research facility is where ONI sent Spartans for additional training if they weren’t quite “battle ready”; apparently their idea of training was babysitting a couple hundred scientists while shooting at inorganic paper.

A silhouette stood without a sound to the Spartan’s left. Xion adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger, the rifle returned its signature crack as the round sped toward its target. The universe now had one less paper Elite to worry about. It could be worse, Xion thought, he at least had a competent trainer.

Wolveryne was a Spartan of legend; he had fought the Covenant on more planets than he cared to count and had battled the alien race across every conceivable terrain, including the vacuum of space. He wasn’t one to boast though, and that made him a perfect candidate for this job. Some Spartans felt discouraged when sent for additional training on Ajax and it wouldn’t help their attitudes if the one training them was arrogant. Instead, Wolveryne humbly corrected mistakes and praised even the smallest increment of improvement while downplaying his own accomplishments.

“Nice shot, your reaction times are improving,” Wolveryne said, “maybe we can go hunt some live targets tomorrow, there are big, fast animals on this rock that would just as soon eat you as look at you.”

“Sounds good,” Xion stood and slung the rifle onto his armored back, “will Spudnik and Marauder join us?”

Wolveryne nodded, it would be good for the trainees to work as a unit for once, all three were ready for combat and would make fine Spartans. Behind the mirrored visor Wolveryne opened his mouth to speak but was cut short as a transmission came over the COM. Multiple rebel drop ships were inbound.

“Warthog, now!” Wolveryne commanded.

The two armor clad soldiers sprinted to the small vehicle without another word. Wolveryne slipped into the driver seat while Xion climbed into the back readying the M1100-Mk II by disengaging the safety and bracing as Wolveryne slammed down on the accelerator. The over sized tires spit out rocks as the duo tore down the dense forest path sliding through turns and scattering all manner of indigenous wildlife.

Thirty seconds later Wolveryne yanked the hand brake up and skidded to a stop, wedging the warthog in front of the gate to the research building. The pair of Spartans dismounted and double-timed it to the barracks on the east side of the complex. Inside was a whir of activity as marines donned their battle gear and checked their rifles, two additional Spartans stood like statues among scurrying ants.

Captain Craig Dawson, at a commanding six-foot-three and two hundred twenty pounds, entered the barracks, the ants snapped to attention.

“At ease men, this is not a drill.”

He had the growl of an old western villain and dark eyes to match. Gray hair was covered under the standard issue UNSC helmet, it was a testament to his skills that he had survived long enough to warrant gray hair. The captain wasn’t one for long speeches either, he expected the soldiers under his command to know their roles and carry them out with precision befitting his beloved corps.

“Wolveryne, get your sniper up in the nest for recon, have your other two Spartans flank the entrance but make sure they stay behind the wall for now, we don’t know if they are using snipers of their own yet. As for you, I want you to support any squad that needs it. Marines, get on the fifty cals and give ‘em hell, move out!”

He watched as twenty five marines sprinted into the sun-soaked day and took up positions. Three soldiers manned the trio of .50 caliber machine guns that were electronically controlled from behind the wall, view screens allowed them to see what they were aiming at without being exposed to enemy fire. The soldiers not manning one of the heavy weapons took up positions adjacent to one of the myriad of square holes cut into the wall and waited for the signal to commence firing.

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The drop ships crashed heavily through the tree canopy in a cacophony of snapping branches as they descended to the surface of Ajax one mile north of the facility. With rocket launchers liberally distributed though the ranks, the rebels picked their way through the dense forest. They knew there were Spartans here and they nervously swung their heads from side to side checking every shadow for the legendary soldiers. Upon exiting the drop ship, Matthews immediately disappeared into the dense foliage, heading west towards the scientist’s living quarters.

The squat brick buildings looked empty, which didn’t surprise him, the alarm would have been raised by now and any non-combatants would have made their way to the fallout bunker underground. The assassin crouched just inside the thick forest scanning every window with cold blue eyes; once he committed to the open lawn there was no cover to hide in. Convinced it was clear, Matthews moved his limber girth from the shadows of the forest and ran in a crouch to the nearest green door.

The lock gave up easily to his picking and the green clad soldier slipped through the narrow opening closing the door gently behind him. The hallway was well lit by recessed overhead lighting, and red lights blinked dutifully signifying that the alarm had indeed been raised. Doors leading to individual apartments flanked the hallway at regular intervals. Directly in front of him was the door leading to the underground passage to the facility, this one was unlocked but he had other business to take care of first.

Matthews crept down the hallway and picked the first locked door he came to. Easing the door open, the assassin scanned the room cautiously. Nothing moved. It was a well-kept apartment with plenty of space for a single scientist; the living room was plain yet comfortable and the kitchen was well stocked. Jason ignored all of the sights and headed straight to the bedroom to find a suitable change of clothes; he wouldn’t be able to get into the fallout shelter wearing his green suit. The assassin grabbed the first clean shirt he found and also pilfered a pair of jeans; they were a little big around the waist so he procured a belt from a nearby dresser. Satisfied with his newly acquired items, Jason headed for the hallway dropping the clothes on the floor just inside door. Once the Spartans were taken care of he could quickly change and get to the shelter.

Once in the hallway Matthews quickly made his way to the door leading down to the tunnel. After descending two flights of stairs and proceeding through another door the assassin emerged into a long hallway constructed of cement blocks. It was the kind of hallway that screamed out ‘military’ with its less than adequate lighting and drab, almost depressing, walls. Jason took no time to ponder the décor of military installations as he keyed the radio built into the suit’s sleeve.

“I’m in, start the attack.”