[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 VI: Awakenings

Lights flickered, sparked, and died while walls trembled and cracked as the blast ravaged the empty wing of the facility that housed the biological agent. Conversations were cut short as the shockwave permeated the thick Titanium-A walls of the fallout shelter. The lights winked out momentarily, scientists and security guards alike held a collective breath then breathed a sigh of relief as the backup generator whirred to life. They assumed a loss of the main power was the worst that would happen, but Jason Matthews knew better. The ONI employees were all safe for now, he was sure; another rebel drop-ship was inbound to pick up the unconscious Spartans littering the halls, but the scientists on ajax would watch reports on television as the mutated soldiers were dropped into ONI military installations. For now though, all Matthews could do was just sit and wait for the inevitable search and rescue operation.

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Out of the select few things that could make Admiral Bill Jennings wish he wasn’t the head of ONI, the shrill ring of a phone at three o’clock in the morning was the worst of them. Like most military personnel, Jennings was able to go longer without sleep than most civilians, but just because he could do it didn’t mean he wanted to. The call was inevitable, really, the admiral’s favorite baseball team had gone into extra innings and as a sports fanatic, he had insisted on staying up to watch the game, much to the chagrin of his wife. Fate, it seemed, was not a fan of sleep.

Reaching for the receiver, he found himself wishing the phone would play a soothing melody to ease him out of sleep instead of being jarred awake by a nerve-grating tone that had accompanied the devices for hundreds of years. He silenced the ringing by lifting the receiver to his ear; a sleepy “Yeah?” was all he could muster at this hour.

“Sorry to wake you Admiral, one of our research facilities was just attacked by a large rebel force.” The voice was calm despite the information it conveyed.

“They hit a research facility?” Why?

“Yes sir, biological weapons research on ajax.”

Jennings bolted upright as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, his wife mumbled and stirred beside him. “I’ll be at the office in thirty minutes.” They know! Dear God the rebels know! The admiral was wide-awake now and even skipped his traditional morning cup of coffee.

Twenty-seven minutes later Jennings was sitting in his plush office chair poring intently over wordy status reports. After reading the last page he tucked the papers into a red folder marked ‘Top Secret’ and closed it.

“These reports are worthless,” he told his second in command as he filed the folder away in his desk. “One of these days I’m going to have someone explain to me why it takes four pages to say that a biological agent was possibly released and that’s all they know.” Jennings paused to massage his temples before continuing; “We need a squad of ODSTs on the ground to assess the situation.” If there is any ground left.

“It has already been done sir,” Captain Doug Pikins said from across the desk, “They should be coming out of slip-space near ajax within the next few minutes.”

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A set of pale blue eyes opened slowly, blinked twice, and gazed up from the ground at the rubble that was once a security station. Confusion set in first; the owner of the eyes didn’t know how he came to be buried by thick slabs of heavy concrete in a crumbling building. In attempting to wiggle free, he was surprised at his ability to move the slabs that would have flattened a normal man. Firmly planting his elbow on the floor, the Spartan curled his arm and lifted the rubble with relative ease. With a quick, powerful shove two slabs were sent hurtling through the air and came crashing down on a polished steel desk accompanied by a resounding metallic crunch.

The Spartan grinned at the results but his expression quickly melted into an angry grimace as a burning pain flared in his neck. With a newly freed arm he reached up and felt a thin object lodged just above his shoulder. Wolveryne removed the annoyance with powerful yet careful fingers and inspected it.

A needle?

Memories flooded the Spartan’s mutated brain as he stared at the bloodied object held in gauntleted hands. Remembrances of surgery and pain flicked through his mind like a poorly edited movie; the scientists had given him new skin. Metal skin. Anger began to burn as he recalled a happy childhood full of possibilities before they took him away and turned him into nothing more than a machine to do their bidding. Finally he recalled every facet of his training, every word uttered on the subject of combat raced through the soldier’s mind and laced his veins with sweet adrenaline.

Wolveryne snapped the needle between his thumb and forefinger and dropped the projectile as he stood to an imposing two and a half meter height. He took a step toward the elevator but a familiar object on the ground caught his eye and gave the behemoth pause. Yes, it was his head, it would complete him. After slipping on and securing the helmet Wolveryne headed to the elevator, he had three brothers somewhere in the base and together they would destroy ONI starting with this very facility.

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The drop-ship cruised through the sky of ajax low enough to cause trees underneath to dance and birds to scatter and chirp their protests. The vessel alighted gently on the battle-scarred, body-strewn clearing next to the security building as the rear hatch was lowered. Troy Palmer drove a buggy small enough to fit through the wide halls of the facility from the back of the Pelican with three additional rebels riding on the attached flatbed. Even with their motorized cart it would take the better part of a day to remove the MJOLNIR armor from each soldier and bring it all back to the ship. In addition, they needed to load up the individual bodies once they had all the armor secured and to top it all off the quartet of rebels were forced to wear bulky bio-suits that further slowed their efforts.

At least the Spartans are knocked out, Palmer thought as he motored into the security building through a blasted out wall. According to reports from rebels that had survived the assault, the first Spartan body would be in the security building. It took less than two minutes for fear to grip the soldiers as they stood in a Spartan-less room with rifles clutched in shaking hands. Troy composed himself enough to start giving orders but didn’t bother hiding his fear.

“Okay,” the big rebel said with a trembling voice, “we’re going to leave the buggy here and return quietly to the ship.” He paused to swallow hard before continuing, “From there we will report in and leave the planet.”

With no objections the foursome trotted as quickly as they dared back to the drop-ship. Once inside, Troy immediately tore off his helmet and went to the pilot seat while the remaining three closed and sealed the rear hatch. A loud metallic thump on top of the ship gave the rebel pause as he reached for the radio. Four pairs of eyes stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed fear hoping the sound was nothing to worry about but at the same time knowing they wouldn’t be leaving the planet alive.

Troy winced instinctively as an armored hand smashed violently through the roof of the ship and gripped the rebel’s head with five thick fingers. The skull cracked and sunk giving the assailant a firm grip with which to lift the flailing rebel. A scream escaped his lips, the Spartan’s fist balled, crushing Troy’s head like a ripe tomato.

The three remaining rebels watched in a horror-induced stupor as the body was released from the monster’s grip and fell limply to the floor. A pair of grenades were dropped through the new opening and rolled innocently toward the rear of the vessel. The soldiers turned in a panic to open the hatch but each one knew it was a futile effort. Less than two seconds later the walls of the shuttle were painted crimson with rebel blood.

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Three miles north of the facility a Pelican hovered just above the forest as a squad of four ODSTs fast-roped to the surface of ajax. Wishing the soldiers good hunting, the pilot eased the shuttle away from the treetops and rocketed back to the UNSC Atlas floating just outside the planet’s atmosphere. From the cruiser, the video footage from the ODST’s helmets would be relayed to ONI headquarters, giving them information about the squad’s findings in real-time.

The elite soldiers moved silently through the thick grabbing underbrush keeping their heads on a swivel to constantly check for possible rebel threats lurking in the foliage. Clad in black lightweight biohazard suits, the squad was nearly indistinguishable from the tree canopy shadows that covered them.

An hour later the four soldiers crouched just inside the tree line and gazed out at the ONI research facility. Using his helmet’s zoom function, Sergeant Tom Spielman surveyed the rebel drop-ship and the inside of the ruined guard station.

Most of his military career had been spent with the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. A soldier through and through, he enjoyed being in the thick of a firefight but his specialty was stealth. Sneaking behind the enemy and taking them down silently would never get old for the sergeant. Some said he was merely afraid of attacking the enemy head-on, to that Spielman would just smile and nod. He could understand why they would think that; they had never been stalked by an ODST and couldn’t fathom what real fear was.

“Looks clear,” Tom said as he disengaged the zoom with an audible whir of electronics. “We’ll approach that hole in the wall one at a time and keep each other covered. Pay special attention to that drop-ship, if there are any rebels still alive that’s where they’d be hiding.”

With that the sergeant roadie-ran across the clearing and pressed his back to the wall. The waning sunlight glinted off the grey visor of his helmet as he slinked along the barrier to the jagged opening. Once there the ODST trained his battle rifle on the rebel drop-ship while Corporal Alan Redding proceeded across the green expanse and shimmied along the wall.

After getting into position the ODST tapped his leader on the shoulder twice, signifying that he had Spielman covered as he advanced further. The sergeant slipped through the open barrier and sprinted silently to the nose of the drop-ship, crouching and covering the security building as he arrived. Another ODST materialized out of the foliage and took Corporal Redding’s place by the wall, who in turn advanced and covered the crumbling building while Spielman methodically cleared it.

“It’s clear.” Tom said over his COM from within the building. “Let’s take a look inside the drop-ship.”

Less than a minute later the squad had regrouped and commenced the inspection of the vessel.

“The hatch is locked from inside.” Redding said from behind the ship

Sergeant Spielman backed away from the Pelican as he looked it over. Coming around to the front he spotted the hole just above the windshield and called Corporal Redding over.

“Give me a boost onto the nose,” he said, gesturing with his thumb at the ship.

Redding obliged and stood next to the Pelican with fingers intertwined into a makeshift stirrup. Using his fellow ODST’s hands as a step, Spielman clambered onto the drop-ship and slithered to the window accompanied by the scraping sounds of metal rubbing on metal. Clicking on a light attached to his helmet, the ODST peered into the vessel and nearly lost his grip. The scene through the glass looked like something out of a low-budget horror film. Severed, mangled limbs were strewn about the interior with aplomb and entrails hung from seats and equipment like cooked spaghetti.

Tom switched off the light but the visceral image was burned into his memory and reappeared in gruesome detail with each blink of his eyes. As he slid off the Pelican he knew the memory would fade in time. They always did.

“Someone or something must have hammered through the hull,” he began as the ODST unit gathered for a report, “Then whoever did the hammering just dropped a grenade through and left the universe with three or four less rebels.”

“Sir,” Private James Wilson asked, “How would one go about ‘hammering through’ the hull of a Pelican?”

Tom Shrugged, “I’m not sure, I’m not convinced it was a friendly unit that did it, either. From what I can gather, the rebels in that ship came on some sort of scavenger mission after the fighting was done, ONI has a lot of technology that people would love to get their hands on. Something spooked them bad enough that they left their buggy here and went back to the ship.”

Private Stephen Mazlow chimed in, “Spartans?”

The sergeant shook his head, “Not likely. If a Spartan happened upon a group of rebels he wouldn’t chase them back to their ship, he’d just put a bullet in each head and be done with it. The one thing I’m sure of is there are about a hundred scientists in a bunker at the bottom of this facility and every minute we spend out here is another minute whatever did this,” he gestured to the Pelican, “has to find them. So here’s the plan. Corporal Redding, you take Private Wilson and search the even-numbered floors, Private Mazlow and I will take the odd numbered floors. When you find something you seek cover and contact us, I don’t care if it is a scientist or an Elite, do not engage until we are all together. Everyone got it?”

Three armored heads nodded in unison.

“Let’s move out.”

The elite squad moved as one entity into the security building. Stairs were preferable to elevators due to their open nature, but a heavy concrete slab blocked the only flight descending to lower levels of the facility. With no other choice, the ODSTs filed into the elevator and dropped one floor down. The blast that had released the biological agent also disabled every security light in the compound. Night vision was switched on as the soldiers cautiously stepped out of the metal box and scanned the hallway with rifles raised. It wasn’t the green, scratchy night vision of the past, the technology built into the ODST’s helmets sent out a pulse, much like a bat flying at night, and returned the geometry out to one-hundred meters.

The software updated the image over three hundred times a second and any ambient light was captured and helped process colors. The pulse was even sensitive enough to discern individual wrinkles on a face and textures on a wall. The ODST’s had learned the ins and outs of the equipment in training, all they really cared about right now was that it worked as advertised and they could see threats clearly in the inky darkness.

Satisfied the hallway was clear, Redding and Wilson slipped silently through a windowed door, descended two flights of stairs, and emerged on the second floor. Speilman and Mazlow continued down the corridor on the first level far enough apart that a single grenade wouldn’t take out both of them, but still close enough to discern hand signals. At each intersection the point man would kneel and peek around the corner while the second soldier provided cover. Windows and doors leading to an assortment of labs and offices were cleared in the same manner. Fifteen minutes into their search both COMs came to life with the voice of Corporal Redding.

“We’ve got something here.”

Spielman signaled for Mazlow to follow him into a cleared office, the last thing the Sergeant wanted was to be surprised by an enemy while using his COM. Once in position, the ODST kneeled and motioned for Mazlow to cover the door, then responded.

“Go ahead, Corporal.”

“It was a Spartan, he went into an office about thirty meters in front of our position. I don’t think he saw-“

Redding was abruptly cut off by the sound of shattering glass followed immediately by the screech of rending metal. The corporal’s voice came through the COM again but this time it was only an unearthly scream punctuated by a metallic cacophony of battle-rifle rounds exiting a barrel and impacting MJOLNIR armor. The shriek was truncated by the unmistakable sound of snapped bones but the macabre symphony continued. Through the COM the pair of ODSTs heard a wet smack, a slow gurgle, then silence.

“Second floor. Now!” The sergeant commanded.

Mazlow was the first to zip around the corner but collided with something metal and immoveable before taking two steps. Spielman heard the impact of metal on metal and exited with his rifle up and ready; the sight of a Spartan smashing its combat knife through Mazlow’s silver visor greeted him. The body instantly went limp and crumbled to the polished floor. Without another thought, the lone ODST’s rifle barked, sending a trio of 9.5mm rounds into the Spartan’s shoulder, dropping his shields.

Before Spielman could unleash another burst the super-soldier batted the rifle away and easily lifted the ODST by the neck with a single hand. With his free hand the Spartan removed the soldier’s helmet, he wanted to see the face of fear before he killed it. To Marauder’s surprise, the face was grinning as if it knew something the Spartan didn’t.

A brilliant flash of light illuminated the hallway as the grenade in Spielman’s hand exploded. Shrapnel tore through armor and soft flesh as the bodies were thrown in opposite directions down the corridor. When the corpses had finally come to a bloodied stop, silence reigned in the facility once more.

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From inside the back of a S.W.A.T. van parked outside the Gains Apartment building, detective Brian Kramer watched through video feeds as an elite police unit stacked up outside Ivan Kazlov’s residence. He had always wanted to join the city of Hawking’s Special Weapons And Tactics squad, but a minor leg injury during his final tour of duty prevented him from meeting the physical requirements. The wound had long since healed but it had done enough damage to keep him off the force.

At any rate, it was always a joy to watch the officers in action, but this time, he was sure, there wouldn’t be any action to watch. If Kazlov had any intelligence at all he would have long since fled the city and taken any evidence with him. Raiding the rebel’s apartment was a long shot, Kramer knew, but as a detective he also knew that even the most absurd searches could yield fruitful results. After a perfectly executed entry and subsequent search, the S.W.A.T. element leader’s voice lit up the van’s COM.

“Nothing here, sir, the place is spotless.”

The commander sitting in the van turned to Kramer on a squeaking chair, “Sorry, detective.”

Brian dismissed the apology with a wave, “Don’t worry about it commander, I didn’t expect to find much.”

The Shotokan blackbelt clambered out of the van and returned to his waiting car. Hawking’s chief of police told him to use any means necessary to track Kazlov down and he was running out of options. Every scrap of information the detective managed to glean on the rebel spook turned into a dead-end. With his mind made up, Kramer pointed his car towards home, if he was going to pass as a rebel then he needed a haircut.

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Admiral Jennings watched a replay of the ODST massacre in stunned silence. Even during the second viewing he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, yet every gruesome detail was playing before him and the video couldn’t lie. A pair of Spartans had butchered the elite squad as if they were mere cattle. Jennings was pulled from his musings as the COM on his desk came to life.

“Admiral, there is a Lieutenant Leiter here to see you.” The female receptionist said.

“Right, send him in.” Jennings replied, thankful for the distraction as he switched off the video.

Half a second later the room seemed to shrink as the six-foot-three frame of Lieutenant Sam Leiter filled the office. “You wanted to see me, sir?” His copper skin, black hair, and dark piercing eyes made woman stare as he walked by and his gravelly voice made them faint.

Admiral Jennings motioned to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat, Lieutenant.”

The two-hundred and thirty pound officer eased into the chair with surprising grace.

“I have a simple job for you that will garner a nice chunk of hazard pay.” Jennings began. “I’m assuming you’ve seen the footage from the incident on ajax?”

A nod

“Good, I need four Spartans dropped near the facility and you came highly recommended. Be ready by oh’ three hundred, you leave as soon as the UNSC Atlas gets back and refuels. Once the Spartans are on the ground you are to stay there until they get back, should be a quick operation.”

The Lieutenant stood and snapped a crisp salute. “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”

Leiter exited the office and shut the door, leaving the admiral to think over his plan again. Ever since Radont killed his commanding officer, Jennings had been getting no less than thirty letters a day demanding the Spartan’s execution. ONI accountants frowned on simply killing a multi-million dollar soldier, but being killed in action was a whole different story. The admiral was almost certain Radont would die on ajax, when it came to skill, he was average at best compared to his fellow super-soldiers.

Of course there was still the problem of the rouge Spartans to be dealt with. Eliminating a threat of that magnitude would require a Spartan of superior skill, and there were none faster or stronger than Radont’s own brother, Gray Fox. Adding Bugsy and Legion to the roster was a no-brainer, the quartet of soldiers had fought in so many battles together that they were often considered a single entity when deployed as a unit.

It was this very camaraderie that had the admiral worried. They would not simply stand aside and watch one of their own die, which forced Jennings to have a plan in the event that Radont made it out alive. ‘Newly discovered information’ could easily be leaked to the media that would turn Sergeant Winfield into a butcher of unarmed civilians and Radont into a bonafide hero.

Either way, he thought, it was a win-win situation.

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Despite his outward calm, Jason Mathews was growing anxious. It had been four hours since the blast and so far there were no signs of an ONI rescue attempt. The assassin leaned back in his plush chair and stared at the waist-high marble barrier in front of him while only half listening to the conversations around him.

“Hey scientist-man,” an overweight, red-haired security guard said as he strode up to Matthews, “It’s your turn to stand for a while.”

Jason didn’t bother lifting his eyes from the marble wall, “No thanks, I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

The guard fumed, “I don’t recall giving you a choice, now mo—“

Matthews shot him a look of pure venom.

“I, um… I’ll… I was just joking, man.” With fists clenched the guard stormed through the crowd to the opposite side of the room and glared at the assassin through narrowed eyes. Jason would have to keep an eye on that one, embarrassed bullies were prone to making rash decisions and would stop at nothing to redeem their pride.

Having witnessed the spectacle, and satisfied no violence would come of it, the guard at the door returned his attention to the thick glass window that looked into the hall.

“Looks like we’re safe now,” he turned to address the room, “the Spartans are here.”