[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 V: Blood-Soaked Grass

The plan was a simple one, but that didn’t keep Jason Mathews from reviewing it in his head as he made his way down the empty corridors of a besieged ONI base. All non-combatants had made their way to the fallout shelter giving the assassin free reign of the compound, but that didn’t mean he could throw caution to the wind and stomp recklessly through the facility. Even in grocery stores back home he would subconsciously avoid other patrons, so it came as second nature to approach every open doorway and intersecting hallway as a potential for the unexpected. A wayward Spartan or soldier rounding a corner could end the merc’s career in a hurry.

If all was going to plan though, the military personnel would be tied up on the surface trying to defend a base that has already been infiltrated. The rebels would eliminate the marines quickly using snipers in the trees, the Spartans would then be left to expend their ammunition on elusive targets skirting the edges of the forest. Some of the more devoted rebels would charge the fortified base, sacrificing their lives for what they think is the greater good. Those were the most dangerous enemies, the true believers, the ones that convince themselves beyond any doubt that they are in the right. Anyone could pick up a rifle, act tough, and pretend to support an ideal, but when the bullets start flying, that is when you find out who is committed and who is just in it for show.

Once the super soldier’s rifles were empty they would send a single Spartan to retrieve more munitions, that’s where Matthews’ part began. There were certain parts of the plan that he wasn’t supposed to know about of course, one of which was an explicit order from Kazlov to the rebel leader in charge of the operation calling for the execution of the assassin before evacuating the planet. Jason was sure the leader would report him as dead when he didn’t show up to the drop ships, it would make Kazlov’s face all the more priceless when Matthews decided to drop in on him. For now, though, the assassin had more pressing matters to deal with.

The base had a clean sheen to it, which was to be expected at an ONI facility. The floor was polished and mopped and, even with only dim emergency lights on, reflected the mercenary as he ran silently in a crouch through the wide halls. He stopped at an intersection and pressed his back to the wall; according to the blueprints he had studied, the ammunition closet would be down the next hall behind an unmarked door.

Unholstering the silenced pistol strapped to his thigh, Jason glanced over his left shoulder and around the corner of the wall. It was his normal ritual for assessing the situation in adjacent hallways and rooms and one he had perfected, though it was hardly original. A quick glance gave him enough time to scan for threats while keeping most of his body behind cover. The hallway was clear. Slipping quietly from cover, Matthews moved like a specter towards an unmarked steel door halfway down the dim corridor.

After picking the lock he nudged the door open and peeked inside. The closet was small but adequate, rifles stood vertically in holders on the floor and two shelves running the lengths of three walls contained clips for the SRS99C-S2 AM Sniper rifle, BR55 Battle Rifle, and the M6D pistol. Satisfied with the discovery, Matthews eased the door shut and retreated back to the hallway he came from. After rounding the corner the merc crouched and waited, a Spartan would come along soon enough.

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The silence was laced with dread and apart from a strong breeze, not even nature dared to disturb the quiet. No animals called to each other and no birds were singing their cheerful songs, predator and prey alike waited for the clash with bated breath. In the sniper nest built atop the guard station centered in the compound, Xion stared through his scope at the swaying, almost hypnotic forest. Wolveryne’s voice came through the COM and broke the silence.

“Anything yet?”

The Spartan slowly scanned the forest for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time the only thing filling his scope was green foliage and brown bark. “Not a thing.”

The disturbing truth was rebels could be on the fringe of the forest and they’d never know it. Enemy troops could move with relative freedom in the thick undergrowth and not worry about disturbing the foliage and giving away their position due to the breeze that was already playing havoc with the greenery. It was an enviable place to be, Xion thought, much better than being perched in a concrete nest with little cover. Not only did the breeze mask the enemy’s movements, it also masked their footsteps. All Xion could hear was the rustle of leaves and all he saw was the forest moving as if it had a life of its own. As long as the rebels didn’t get too close to the edge, he might as well be looking for ghosts.

That is, until a salvo of rockets screamed from the forest like a charging bull. The 102mm High-Exposive rounds slammed into the wall, spraying bits of concrete into the air like shrapnel, but the barrier stood firm. Half a second later four additional rockets burst from cover and impacted the wall in the same place as the first rounds. A third barrage finally punched through, raining chucks of jagged brick onto the marines ducking behind the barricade.

“Light ‘em up with the fifties,” Captain Dawson barked from a crouched position.

The marines stationed at the remote turrets obliged and within seconds .50 caliber rounds were spewing from the barrels like horizontal rain, ripping through underbrush and falling small trees with aplomb. Using the view-screens behind the wall, the soldiers marched the chaos along the tree line and back again before Dawson gave the cease-fire command.

More silence, broken only by the persistent breeze and now accompanied by the hiss of the .50 caliber turrets quickly dissipating heat from their barrels.

Xion’s voice cracked through every COM, “We’ve got incoming soldiers at twelve o’clock.”

Marines peered through the holes cut into the wall in time to see a squad of rebels materialize out of the forest. It was the last image to get burned into their retinas as sniper fire erupted from the wooded area. Eighteen heads exploded into crimson clouds before the six remaining of marines could duck back behind the wall.

A few meters away near the blocked entrance to the compound, Spudnik’s hands balled into tight fists as he witnessed the carnage. Palming a grenade, he spoke into his COM, “I’ve got this group, Xion.” A light in his helmet winked on and off as Xion acknowledged. The young Spartan glanced out of the base, the rebel squad moved toward the wall unhindered. After making a quick judge of distance Spudnik let the grenade fly.

It was not a soft lob meant for the explosive to land at the advancing squad’s feet, this throw was more akin to a major league pitch. A pitch thrown from bionically enhanced arms. The grenade was unidentifiable as it tore through the air like a missile screaming towards a target. Finally noticing the inbound object, the rebel squad leader turned in time to guess wrongly that it was a rock hurtling towards him. The only thing to enter his mind after the initial thought was a standard-issue frag grenade.

The projectile hit with enough force to flip the rebel over backwards, spraying a ribbon of blood from the collapsed face before hitting the ground in an awkward heap. The rest of the squad quickly went prone, searching wildly for targets that would never show. The soldier unlucky enough to have hit the ground next to his fallen leader caught the brunt of the explosion, his body ejected from the earth and spun in a grotesque ragdoll dance before crashing to the ground as a bloodied mess. The other soldiers in the squad didn’t fare any better as the shrapnel expanded from the squad leader’s skull and ripped through soft rebel flesh turning organs into unidentifiable mulch.

Another rebel squad ventured bravely onto the killing ground from the safety of the forest. The .50 caliber death-bringers lit up sending the squad running back into the foliage with lead messengers giving chase. More rockets erupted from the depths after the barrage of bullets had subsided and screamed towards the three emplaced weapons. They impacted and exploded into a fiery ball sending a brilliant display of sparks and twisted chunks of steel haphazardly to the ground. One gunner was lucky enough to be blown back by the impact and escaped relatively unharmed, the other two were crushed under the weight of their fallen weapons.

With the main defenses down and invisible snipers waiting in the forest, the remaining marines had no choice but to sit and wait for the inevitable onslaught. They didn’t have to wait long, from two separate angles more sniper fire erupted, slugs zipped through the newly formed hole in the barricade and sank into soft flesh.

Xion had had enough; with only Captain Dawson remaining from the marine squad it was time to retaliate. The Spartan wasn’t sure why the rebels hadn’t targeted him with their snipers, but he wasn’t about to return the favor. He didn’t have to wait long before another squad of rebels came into view. Xion aimed with steady hands and even breathing, waiting patiently for the squad to advance enough to make retreat impossible.

Fire belched from the rifle as the bullet escaped the barrel and sped towards its target. The rebel never heard the shot as a BIG POW round punched through his chest with a thick spray of crimson and slammed him violently to the ground. The remnant of the squad immediately ran, moving with erratic jukes and sidesteps to avoid the sniper fire. Xion wouldn’t have any of it, with inhuman precision he picked the squad apart one by one resulting in exploded heads, gaping chest wounds, and blood soaked grass. The talented sniper relentlessly decimated two additional squads before running out of clips.

“I’m empty, heading to the ammo closet.”

Xion leapt from the platform with uncanny grace for such a large soldier and disappeared into the compound. Wolveryne glanced from behind the wall through the gaping hole and surveyed the carnage then ducked back to speak to Captain Dawson.

“Anything seem strange to you about the rebel tactics?”

Dust from the blasted wall shifted and fell from Dawson’s helmet as he nodded to the Spartan. “You mean the way they’re sending out squads to be killed and using attrition when they have superior numbers? Something doesn’t sit right, that’s for sure.” The Captain glanced over his shoulder, “If the snipers move again they’ll have a clean shot right on our position, we should reloca-”

A sniper round punched through the back of the Captain’s head, leaving only the lower jaw intact as the body was thrown to the ground. Wolveryne grabbed the body and dragged it further down the wall as he tried to figure out the enemies plan. The snipers had a clear shot at a Spartan, but they chose to take down a marine Captain instead?

Wolveryne moved back down to the jagged gap in the wall and looked into the forest from behind the rubble. What are you planning?

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Armor clad feet running on a polished tile floor echoed through the empty base. Matthews un-slung the custom rifle from his back and waited. The feet stopped, a door rattled and opened, munitions were quickly swiped from a steel shelf. As the door shut, Jason eased around the corner and got into a prone position with rifle secured into his shoulder and crosshairs on the back of a purple Spartan. The assassin squeezed the trigger and a small ball of condensed plasma whipped silently through the air towards its target.

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What got his attention first was the wet smacking sound of a liquid impacting his back at high speed. What made him worry was his suits alarm system warning him that the shields had dropped to zero percent effectiveness. Normally under circumstances like this Xion would quickly find cover and let his shields recharge, but before he could take a step another object impacted his back. This one bore through the armor and lodged itself between his shoulder blades. A burning pain came next, as the Spartan reached for the object embedded in his armor the hallway tilted and the subdued colors from the dim light began to swirl together. Darkness followed.

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Matthews watched with satisfaction as the Spartan fell forward and hit the ground with the weight of a boulder. The floor trembled slightly on impact and even though the armor-clad soldier didn’t move, Jason held his ground just in case the prey had come with backup. After several seconds of silence Jason retrieved another dart from a chest pocket, slipped it into the chamber of his gun, and closed the bolt. With caution the assassin moved down the hallway towards the felled Spartan, always keeping a watchful eye on the far end of the corridor.

Once beside the unconscious super-soldier he quickly located the latches under the helmet and it. The head behind the helmet looked surprisingly human, not that Matthews was expecting anything else, but there was always a certain stereotype ingrained in every mind that Spartans were nothing but machines. The mercenary checked the Spartan’s pulse; it was even and strong.

The easy part was over, now Matthews wouldn’t have an opportunity to shoot his quarry in the back. There was no way he could move the unconscious soldier so he would just have to leave him in the middle of the hallway. Another Spartan would be along soon and, hopefully, would stop to check on his comrade. That’s when Matthews would strike again.

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Rebel squads came at regular intervals now, spreading out as they advanced to force the trio of Spartans to expend more ammunition and question the use of grenades. Wolveryne leaned out and ripped another squad apart with a few well-placed bursts from his rifle. Ducking back, he ejected the empty clip and slammed a fresh one home. Across the gap in the wall, Spudnik and Marauder were taking turns firing and reloading, between the three Spartans they were able to keep a steady stream of morale withering fire on the advancing enemy. Mangled and bullet ridden bodies fell onto twisted, grenade blasted corpses as the body count continued to rise.

Wolveryne slipped behind the wall again and slid his last clip into the rifle.

“I’m on my last clip,” he said with uncanny calmness into his COM, “how about a warm up, Marauder?”

The armor-clad soldier nodded as he slung an empty rifle over his shoulder and procured his pistol.

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The sound of feet approaching the hallway echoed down the corridor again, though this time they were quieter and laced with caution. Matthews waited just around the corner for the footsteps to stop at the downed Spartan. The mercenary slowly peeked around the corner; the armor-clad soldier was crouched by the body checking for vitals. Jason eased the rifle up to his shoulder quietly and gently squeezed the trigger; a second shot came after thumbing the selector on his rifle. The Spartan jerked back like a startled snake when the plasma hit then winced as the needled embedded itself into his thigh. He managed to yank the needle out and attempt to examine it, but his arms fell limply to his sides. The soldier’s legs gave out next and he slumped to his knees then finally fell forward next to his fellow Spartan.

Matthews advanced slowly with his rifle up and a fresh needle in the chamber. After removing the helmet and tossing it into the ammunition closet, he moved further down the hallway and glanced around the corners. The next Spartan would be as cautious as a surgeon doing brain surgery on the president so Matthews needed to find another location to wait. In the adjacent hallway, a few meters to his left, Jason spotted a small office. The assassin crept to the abandoned workspace and entered, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The office was bare save for an empty wooden desk, Matthews assumed the former occupant was either fired or had resigned. As he started the waiting game again he found himself wondering why anyone would want to leave this planet. If ONI hadn’t settled here first he would have enjoyed living here; with the thick forest and abundant wildlife it was a hunters dream. And there was no greater hunter than Jason Matthews.

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Wolveryne dropped the empty rifle and palmed his pistol, the rebels had stopped rushing the base but they still skirted the edge of the forest. From behind the wall he spoke into his COM to the only Spartan still topside.

“The rebels must have infiltrated the base; I’ll stay just inside the door of the security building and hold them off as long as I can. You run down to the ammo closet and find out what happened. If you can’t find anything just grab some ammo and double-time it back up here.”

Spudnik nodded, “I’m on it.”

With a few last shots into the forest the pair of Spartans ran into the security building, Wolveryne knelt by the door with pistol aimed out, Spudnik sprinted to the elevator and punched the button. The Spartan took a few steps back and trained his rifle on the steel doors. They slid open, the elevator was free of threats, Spudnik entered and pushed the button for the next floor down.

The doors slid open, too noisily the Spartan thought, and Spudnik leapt out, rolled, and came up with rifle at the ready. An empty, lifeless corridor greeted him; Spudnik proceeded to the first intersecting hallway and stopped. Nothing showed up on his radar, friendly or otherwise, but Spudnik still cautiously peered around the corner. Nothing. The soldier quickly moved past the intersection and stopped at a second crossing, glancing around this corner revealed two downed Spartans. Spudnik immediately withdrew from the corner and turned in a tight circle with rifle at his shoulder, everything seemed clear. Slipping quickly around the corner he advanced cautiously down the hallway, periodically checking behind him for threats.

Without taking his finger off the trigger of his weapon and without looking down Spudnik checked for a pulse on his fallen comrades, both were strong. He activated the COM and reported the findings to Wolveryne.

“Are they secure?” Came the reply mixed with sounds of gunfire.

“No sign of threats, they should be ok.”

“Good enough, get some clips and frags and get up here.”

The Spartan slowly backed his way toward the ammunition closet, pivoting slowly at the hips to sweep for threats. With one hand he reached back and opened the door, only after slipping into the room did the Spartan lower his rifle. After swiping four rifle clips and an equal number of grenades from the shelf Spudnik shouldered his rifle again and ran in a crouch back down the hall to the corner. From there he made a quick sweep left and right and headed towards the elevator.

Suddenly his shields dropped to zero, half a second later a burning pain raged in the middle of his back. The Spartan spun quickly and went prone, scanning for threats but all he saw was darkness as his head went limp and hit the floor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the third time Matthews slowly and methodically made his way to a fallen Spartan. After discarding the helmet he continued to the elevator, there was only one Spartan left and, Jason assumed, he would be distracted enough to make a quick strike topside. When the elevator doors opened one floor up he realized his mistake, the Spartan was no longer outside but crouched inside with pistol out and ready.

“It’s about time…” the Spartan said as he turned but stopped when he saw Mathews standing outside the elevator. Jason’s training took over instantly as he dove sideways behind a steel desk. Wolveryne only had time to take one step forward before a salvo of rockets impacted the building just above the door. Wolveryne was thrown to the floor as heavy chunks of concrete rained down like meteors falling from the sky.

Through the dust and debris Matthews saw his quarry on the ground. Moving before he could think, the assassin sprinted to the dazed Spartan and quickly removed his helmet. Procuring a needle, Jason slammed it into Wolveryne’s neck as close to the shoulder as he could get it, being careful to miss any vital arteries. Jason sat back against the table and breathed a sigh of release as the tranquilizer went to work, even though his mission was not totally complete, the hardest part was over. After a few seconds the assassin stood and went to the elevator, he exited one floor down. Matthews sprinted through the complex to the underground passage, upon emerging from the depths into the apartment building he quickly scooped up the clothes he had set aside.

After changing and pulling on a lab coat he picked up his dark green suit and spoke into the COM.

“I’m all set here, see you at the extraction point.”

The mercenary dropped the suit but secured the pistol in the small of his back under the lab coat. Satisfied everything was secure, Matthews made his way to an elevator and descended twenty floors into the earth. As the doors slid open he was greeted by a short, wide hallway built from thick Titanium-A. To the right was a door leading to the stairs, at the end of the corridor was a thick door with a small security camera above it. As Jason approached a security guard opened the door and glared.

“You’re late.”

Jason nodded fake his submissiveness. “Yeah, sorry about that, I was out in the forest and I didn’t hear the alarm.”

The security guard waved him in and shut the door, grumbling at the lack of common sense exhibited from seemingly brilliant scientists.

As he entered, Jason realized that ONI went all out to make their employees feel comfortable. The large circular room was more akin to a ritzy country club than a shelter for people in danger. An alcove opposite the entrance housed vending machines and cappuccino makers. The center of the room was lower and contained comfortable looking chairs and couches where a plethora of scientists sat discussing anything from sports to politics. Everyone seemed oblivious to the conflict outside; they must think this is some kind of drill. Jason let the thought slip from his mind, soon enough they would know the truth.