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Chapter Text

THE ROOKIE

0653 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

UNSC Dropship-class Owl Last Chance

Neutral Space, on approach to Planet K3-XP, Claso System

“Rookie, tell me you did not manage to fall asleep inside this thing.”

Doherty pitched forward and bumped his helmet on the top of the pod’s hatch. In front of him was a stern-looking woman with a square face and auburn hair dressed in ONI official black, which was adorned only with the three silver stars of a Vice Admiral. Flight and mission commander MacLaren.

Assuming it was what he'd been asked to do, Doherty secured the drop pod’s harness around his chest, checked his SMG and handgun were secure, and gave the commander a thumbs up. She sighed and reached up to pull down the separator between the rest of the modified owl’s passenger bay and the drop rigs. 

The owl they were in now, Last Chance , looked more like a flood carrier than a stealth vessel: some sort of ONI experiment to incorporate SOEIVs into insertion crafts. So far Doherty had to give it a zero out of ten, considering the slight sway of the pod as it hung in the rig made it feel even more fragile than when he was being hurled planet-side in a ball of fire. And, it had kept him awake for a good while - though no environment had managed to overcome Doherty’s ability to nap wherever he liked, yet.

Speaking of which, it had been Romeo's voice that had woken him, so the trooper updated a counter on his HUD.

Days since waking up to Romeo complaining: 0

Longest Streak: 12

They'd been so close to a new record, too. 

“Alright people, five minutes to go.” The pilot called, “approaching Frantic planet K3-XP. North.” 

K3-XP: a planet so distant to the UNSC that they hadn’t even bothered to give it a human name even just for the mission, or figure out what the Covenant splinter group there called it. It was a wonder they’d even identified the group that controlled it; a predominantly Kig-Yar and Jiralhanae alliance that had abandoned the Great Journey and turned towards a more… scientific approach to Forerunner and even human technology, if one could call the (semi-successful) plunder and reproduction of said technology ‘scientific’. At least, they didn’t believe they were holy relics, but rather tools to assume control of and point outward at anyone else trying to do the same. They were called Frantics for a reason, after all.

Which took them to the only piece of useful information Agent Dare had been sent (and subsequently showed Alpha-Nine) about Operation: REAPER. The Frantics had taken something very important from the UNSC, and they wanted it back. Mickey had bet him twenty credits that it was something defensive, like a new type of shield, so Rookie matched him that but for weaponry. Romeo and Gunny said navigational.  Really, it was anyone’s guess what ONI was up to these days, especially with that AI Cortana turning rogue and pretty much everything going on a need-to-know basis. Doherty couldn’t remember a time when they’d been given so little intel on a mission before. Even on Operation: JOINT MONITOR - with propaganda about the Flood running rampant - they’d been warned of a very real chance Voi was contaminated long before they left, and pretty publicly, too. Not to mention the UNSC had been pulling back every unnecessary AI from operation, so needless to say the C-Class AI that usually accompanied command pods like the Gunny’s and Dare’s had been removed. 

“I can't help but notice you haven't told us why the Rookie specifically was requested for this op, commander. Mind sharing why that is before we drop?”

MacLaren had been temporarily linked to their COM for the space-side portion of the mission. Once they were deployed, the atmosphere blocked almost any signals that weren't directly sent between SOIVs, and on the ground, there were no friendly satellites to bounce communication off of at all. They'd be on their own. “You've been told everything you need to know for now, GS Buck, and anything else necessary will be automatically unlocked on the data crystals once you reach your target locations.”

Gunny’s voice pitched at the overstatement, “ Everything we-?”

“With all due respect, commander,” Captain Dare cut in, “I think Buck is just concerned about the lack of intel we’re getting before dropping onto a hostile planet, especially when some of that information has to do with one of his people.”

“I don’t hear Doherty complaining.”

Oh. Why would she- to have requested him, MacLaren must have read his file. Doherty knew instinctively that his teammates would be miffed by the comment and one in particular was not afraid of being charged for insubordination. Hopefully Romeo was not in the mood for biting back today-

“I hope y’all are ready back there, we’re one minute to drop.” Saved by the bell, or, in this case, the pilot. A sixty second timer appeared in his HUD and the trooper ran through the final pre-drop checks. Hatch? Secure. Harness? Tightened. Hunger? Anticipated. There were some sweets in his thigh pouch along with the usual bland MRE affair in his hardcase backpack to save him from dropping on a full stomach. 

Last time he did that… well… it wasn't pleasant.

“Alright people, you heard the lady, ready up before MacLaren decides to just throw us out the door instead. Which, by the way, you sure know how to pick ‘em, Veronica.”

“I don't exactly choose my superiors, Buck. And if you think so lowly of the personnel I spend my time around, maybe I should change things up a little.” There was a smirk to the Captain's voice that wouldn't have been there only a few months ago. It reminded everyone that she was practically part of the team, even if she only joined Alpha-Nine on missions requested by ONI. The first time it had happened was Operation: GREEN FIRE, where Romeo complained that ‘Dare only hangs out with us when she has shit from ONI to do’ to which she replied, ‘You're not exactly pleasant company.’ The theme of bad company had become almost an inside joke since then.

“Well- I didn't mean-”

That didn't mean Gunny never fell for the bait, even after all this time. 

Dutch made a noise. “Get a room, you two.”

Technically, they were all in separate rooms right now, but Doherty didn’t think the clarification would be appreciated as the floor plates on the rig fell away and the countdown reached six seconds. 

“Troopers, we are green, and very, very mean!” It was the same send off Gunny always gave them, but Doherty couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate the familiarity as the light in his pod flashed red, yellow, green . On the final chime, the rig released, and he was falling towards the ground as G's clawed at the pod’s ceramic shell. That shell would eventually be burnt away by the atmosphere, leaving only an alloy crash cage over the pod-actual between the heated air and Doherty. It had been a terrifying concept, once upon a time, but after a while the only thing most troopers worried about on entry was their brake systems (plural, because there was a backup one for this very reason) failing, and plunging into the ground to die on impact. 

‘Digging your own grave’, it was called.

The pod rumbled, and Doherty’s grip instinctively tightened on the handrails as if it would do anything were he to start tumbling. 

“Remember everyone,” Gunny’s voice crackled over COM after a couple minutes, “we’re going to be landing some very hot metal on some very meltable snow. Try to get out before your egg sinks too deep.” 

In order to land with the smallest possible chance of detection, Reaper team’s LZ was situated to the far North of the planet where temperatures plunged far below where Jiralhanae were known to operate. The Kig-Yar would be fine there, but hopefully due to the nature of the Frantic’s cooperation between the species, the area would be sparsely populated, if not completely empty. After that, it was roughly a day’s walk to their first target location - the furthest any ODST had been dropped from the action, surely. A meteor or debris deployment would have been ideal, but apparently K3-XP’s airspace was pleasantly peaceful. 

“And beacons on immediately .” Dare added, as if after Teralni they’d ever forget again; though why Gunny must have told her about that embarrassment was anyone’s guess. SOIV beacons worked by communicating with other beacons in the same unit, bouncing the signal directly off of the others like mini satellites and usually avoiding enemy monitoring systems. Of course, typical ODST deployment didn't put a lot of weight onto secrecy, and the beacons were mostly used to recover pods or form up on a teammate.

Dare continued, probably about to announce the 915 metre mark to ground , but all Doherty heard was the sudden and discordant screech of metal above his head.

Oh shit. 

BUCK

0701 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Somewhere Cold

Unknown Northern Location, Planet K3-XP, System Claso

Buck was always a big fan of the fact that ground leaders of each ODST team landed a little before the rest, to be able to minimise confusion after landing and to lead by example instead of from the back. So, to see his newest (but by no means new) trooper’s pod fall past his as the others passed the 915-metres-to-LZ threshold was more than a little worrying. A status warning on Buck’s team view read: 

11282-31220-JD

Primary Drag Chute Failure. 

“Rookie, get that backup chute on now or so help me!” 

He didn't expect a reply, not only because Rookie rarely talked anyway, but because he should be focused on getting that secondary break deployed. In training, it was taught to be a delicate process, but in reality it was ramming your fist against the right buttons fast enough to avoid becoming a pancake on impact. The breaking rockets and softer surface would help some, but there was still the chance he'd end up too deep in the snow to be recovered before his pod flooded.

“Ah Jesus...” It could have been any of his troopers that mumbled - Buck was far too distracted by the speed of the pod below him - but it was most likely Dutch. After Draco III Dutch harboured a lot of guilt for Rookie's near-execution, and almost retired because of it. Instead, he became a little overprotective, and while Buck disagreed with Dutch about it he couldn't exactly fault him. Doherty may have been one of their best, but the sight of him tumbling from that balcony in a shower of blood was not one any of them would be quick to forget. 

Thankfully, the shot that had been made to end the trooper's life had only grazed his head and, as head wounds were wont to do, bled like a bitch, making it look like he'd taken the bullet straight through the skull. The sheer relief Buck had felt when he'd knelt to take Rookie's dog tags but noticed the man still breathing had nearly knocked him over. 

But really, who wouldn't feel a bit of terror knowing your teammate could be about to experience one of the most feared deaths by ODSTs out there, regardless of who they were?

The tight feeling in Buck’s stomach faded as his team view updated. 

11282-31220-JD

Secondary Drag Chute Engaged

Rookie’s reflexes were blessedly quick, but from the moment he was less than 850 metres from the ground there was no avoiding being knocked out on impact. 

850 metres quickly became 50, everyone's breaking rockets fired as expected, and then Buck was hitting the ground. On double-time he mashed the hatch buttons and all but flew from his seat, tossing all the equipment from his pod onto the snow sans a ply bar: handy for opening a fellow trooper's hatch when it was stuck, or they couldn't do it themselves. The other trooper had landed relatively close, only twenty metres away.

“Alright Rookie, let's get you out of there.” 

Veronica was busy getting everyone organised as they began to fall into the ground, but Buck paid them no heed. He grunted as he pulled on the ply bar wedged between the panel of metal separating him and Rookie, sorely aware of the ground beneath his feet turning to mush. A wave of heat met the cold air once the hatch was open: even a few extra seconds without slowing down could jump the pods’ internal temperature by a good few degrees. 

Unexpectedly, Rookie was already awake and clumsily fumbling with his harness’ release. He got it done right as Buck reached over to help him. Not trusting the trooper's coordination just yet, Buck pretty much threw Rookie over his shoulder, and scrambled back as the bottom of the pod started to fill with melted snow. 

Rookie huffed at the treatment, conscious and aware, then, but that wouldn't get him out of a concussion check. Helmets only helped so much, even the tough stuff of an ODSTs’. 

“Stow it, Rookie,” Buck set him down, noting the slight wobble of his legs, “helmet off.” 

Clearly displeased, the trooper twisted his helmet free of its armour locks and lifted it from his head. Rookie looked a bit rattled, but otherwise fine - his pupils were normal, eyes clear, and no visible injury - but he tried to move Buck’s hand away when the Sergeant asked him to follow his finger, which was unusual. ODSTs were not the type to baby each other (more so than other units due to the criticality of their speed and action during combat) so any medical checks made were usually taken seriously. 

“That’s not what I asked, Rookie.” He put his hand right up to the other’s face. “Follow it.”

This time the trooper did so, and Buck realised what he was so agitated about. “I'm not gonna ask you to recite your serial number or anything. You seem fine, Rookie.”

The trooper’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded, then fastened his helmet with a click, and burst the low-static of the COMs a couple times to show they were still operational. That explained the apprehension. Buck had once commended Rookie for his tendency to listen rather than talk, but he did so less often now, after discovering he wasn't always silent of his own volition. He often became anxious if he thought he would be pressured to talk, and Buck could only guess what his past units and life had been like, if after two years he still couldn't trust Alpha-Nine not to do the same. Even if Buck didn't understand how he could face death without flinching, but clam up at public speaking, at the end of the day he (and the rest of the team) would be stupid to discount Rookie for something like that, when the kid was a real force of nature on a battlefield and a good-hearted soldier. They were lucky to have him.

Predictably, Dutch was the first one to jog over. Buck watched him bring Rookie over to the rolling-T formation Veronica had set up until his VISIR chirped, and he opened the mission log.

PROCEED TRUE SOUTH 13 MILES

So, that's how it was going to be: no beacon, no objective, just a direction and a distance. Buck checked his NAV tab just to be sure, and yep; hauntingly blank. It was like some kind of messed up Easter egg hunt - or whatever the kids were doing these days. Did people even still celebrate Easter?

“You got that, Buck?” Veronica asked. 

He sighed, “Affirmative. Looks like we've got a bit of walking to do.” To everyone he said, “Let's get moving, people. Romeo-”

“Don’t say it.” Romeo warned.

“-You’re on point.” 

“Come on, Gunny,” the trooper spread his arms out, “I don’t even know where we’re going.”

Veronica pointed forward as she started walking; Dutch, Mickey, and Rookie following in formation. “No one does. But it’s that way.”

“Just ‘that way’?”

“For thirteen miles.”

Romeo sighed but jogged to take up point. “Fuckin’ spooks. Can’t they just be normal every once in a while?” he paused, realising his mistake, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry, Captain.”

Captain Veronica Dare, ONI agent and total badass, didn’t see the point in answering, and Buck smirked as Romeo was no doubt left wondering how he’d pay for that comment later. God, he did love that woman.

“Mickey, keep your eyes on the sky, alright? We might have drawn a bit of attention with our entrance,” Buck said as he joined the end of the T.

“Actually Gunny, I was just about to mention some shapes at oh-two-five. At around… ten to twenty degrees up, I'd guess.” Mickey replied, prompting Buck to look round until the compass point on his HUD landed at 025 degrees from North. At that range, Romeo’s sniper rifle wouldn’t accurately keep track of anything flying around, and VISR FOF highlighting didn’t reach that far either. So, Buck resorted to good old-fashioned squinting. Like Mickey said, there were three blobs that may have been anything from banshees to flying whales in the distance. Buck waited, finding that yes, the blobs were definitely heading in their direction. 

One thing gave him comfort; there was no way anything could have deduced ODSTs had been dropped here, scrambled a search and destroy unit, then got them this far in such a short time. It was more likely a routine patrol, coincidence, or a scouting party. Which gave them a bit more time to get away. 

“Let’s move into that treeline,” he suggested, nodding to the forest-y terrain 900 or so metres in the other direction, “at that height they can’t be using optical imaging, so they’ll have to land to see our tracks, and we’ll have better luck covering them in some greenery than out here.” While the snow was compact under the surface, a small, fresh layer on top ensured they’d be leaving footprints so obvious they might as well be waving a giant flag saying ‘Hello! Come and shoot us!’. 

A chorus of affirmatives returned the statement, and they moved quickly to the trees.

Chapter Text

ROMEO

1142 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Slightly Less North Than Before

Unknown Northern Location, Planet K3-XP, System Claso

It was only after another two directions were issued, UFE’s avoided (that was Unidentified Flying Enemies - everything was hostile until proven friendly on an op), that Reaper Team came across any sign of civilization. A rudimentary military compound, with Jackels stalking such well-worn paths in the snow that they formed shallow trenches - only their top halves visible by their hunched gait. The Brutes, obviously, towered much higher, but were few and far between.

“What do you think?” Gunny asked, lying in his own belly scrape about 15 metres to the left. Agu squinted again through his sniper. Having picked up a particular fondness of the weapon after New Mombasa (though he used it often before that, and had to get a new one after his old SRS99D-S2 AM rifle was totalled by a Brute Chieftain. The wound the ape gave him still bothered Agu from time to time, the bastard), it had accompanied him on every deployment since then, and was outfitted with a few non-standard parts that shared more resemblance to a railgun than a traditional AM. Faster fire, shittier ammo effectiveness. It was a trade off not favoured by many snipers. 

“Terrain’s definitely rough enough to go around without being seen by these lot. Could be a lot of snipers waiting out there though.” It had been enough trouble getting this close to the compound without bumping into any aliens as it was, but the next beacon was - relative to them thanks to some necessary detours -  squarely behind it, and they had to reach the damned thing to trigger the next set of directions. 

“If we could get onto a patrol path, could it take us cleanly around the middle building?” 

“I’m not sure; damn thing’s blocking the way,” In the very centre of a compound was a small, sad, grey block of a building, topped with a Jiralhanae looking as miserable as Agu felt laying in the snow, “there’s definitely lines of sight from the roof into the paths, though. One of the patrols on the West corner just waved to the lookout. Even if we pressed right against the inner side, we'd be seen by anyone on the outside.” 

There was quiet for a moment, then, “Rookie thinks we can use smoke,” Mickey said. Those two were paired off on a West angle, while Dutch and Dare were East. Smoke grenades weren't a bad idea. The chances this pitiful force had enough power to flood the paths with grenades or plasma were low, even if the lack of empathy of the Brutes ensured they wouldn't hesitate to do so if they could,  even with their own people still down there.

Gunny gave an approving hum, “Romeo, hold position and cover. Rookie and Mickey, I'll be on your six. Dutch and Dare, you're on your own. Both sides roll smoke into those paths and don't give ‘em time to figure out what's going on. Hopefully, they won't start sniping.”

“And if they do?” Dare asked.

“I'll deal with them.” Sniper to sniper combat was risky, but often smarter than short-to-mid ranged infantry trying to get close. 

“Alright troopers, any questions?” 

No answer. Agu shifted in his scrape, pointing his reticle at the ugly Brute that would be his first victim. 

“On my mark. Mark!”

Neither Agu or Gunny moved just yet. There was no point giving up position while both of them were still there. Fifteen seconds later shouts of confusion started to rise from the compound and smoke trails followed not long after that. Gunny took his queue, kicking up snow as he sprinted left. He'd probably start firing before reaching Rookie and Mickey, to give the illusion of a larger attacking force and panic the aliens a bit. Good. 

As soon as Gunny was away, Agu sunk three rounds into the Brute on the roof before it dropped like a stone. Disciplined, he scanned for other targets, picking them out through the steadily dropping visibility. He'd need to move soon, both to get a clear line of sight past the smoke and to avoid being discovered. His VISR showed no approaching enemies, but something would get too close eventually - they always did. Gunfire both plasma and kinetic penetrated the air, along with the chatter from the rest of the team - not to mention a cheer of his own on a successful kill. When there was nothing left moving in front of him, he picked himself up and slunk right. “Moving. At your back, Captain.” 

“Acknowledged.”

Gunny and the other two would have to make do on their own for a bit, with their three better prepared for unexpected assaults than Dutch and the Captain’s two. 

For a short while they were moving fast enough that Agu was basically rolling cover, the paths deepening a bit further along the route, but eventually they had to stop at a hastily made blockade about three quarters to the home straight. 

“Buck, we've got a situation here - they've set up a blockade and we can't get through.” Agu watched Dare fire at a Kig-Yar at the same time it loosed a charged plasma bolt back at her. She ducked behind the partial cover of a strut just in time for the green ammunition to splash across its surface. Dutch tossed a grenade in their direction, and Agu shot a Jackal about to answer in kind. The frag grenade served more as a distraction than anything - most of the aliens were content to move away from the blockade and shoot down now that the smoke was clearing, some returned to it to make a two-lined force. “How far along are you guys? We could do with some extra support.” 

“Am I not good enough for you?” Agu joked as he nailed a Brute in the face.

“Negative.” 

“Mickey, Rookie and I will cover you, cross to their side. Then us two’ll move around the back of the blockade.”

“Thanks Gunny,” said Dutch, “I don't think I could put up with Romeo's terrible target priority much longer.” 

Agu grunted, loading a fresh mag into his rifle. He chose his targets well and Dutch knew it. 

A smattering of shots switched trajectory further into the compound, but Mickey was already sliding down onto the path before they could gun him down. Another Jackal poked its head above its shield and raised a plasma grenade. Agu fired, missed, and the grenade went flying. He called a warning to the three troopers in its line and watched them scuttle back to avoid the blast. 

Unfortunately, he was finally spotted by the aliens, who started shooting in his direction. He flattened himself into the snow and rolled behind a thick tree. Bits of bark chipped off the edges and whistled past him. Agu stood, breathed, and whipped back around to kill the attacker with a double pump of his gun. His stealth compromised, Agu contemplated joining in a bit of CQC, but ultimately decided against it. He was still more useful back here than down there, where cover was already getting pretty cramped. 

Soon after the sounds of a M6C Handgun and M7 SMG pounded into the backs of the aliens, dropping the unshielded behinds of Jackals and mowing down the two remaining Brutes respectively. The blockade was broken, and Reaper Team moved further up to the objective. Gathering on one side turned out to be the right thing to do when two ghosts drove at them from the right as they rounded the middle building. Someone called them out.

Agu aimed for the head of the closest driver, but it swerved at the last second and the bullet landed in the ghost instead, not quite enough to have it coughing up smoke just yet. Two panicked Kig-Yar on vehicles were nothing for the elite squad of ODSTs, however, and soon the compound was quiet. Gunny asked for a sitrep, and found everyone unharmed.

“So much for running for it.” Dutch noted, checking his ammo. “Not that I don't love patting ourselves on the back, but that was a bit easy, don’t’cha think?” 

“I don't think they were expecting a bunch of ODSTs to drop in on them. Looked more like a casual guard than a military force.”

Rookie nodded at Mickey's suggestion, but that did make Agu wonder… “So what were they guarding?”

Everyone looked to Gunny, who looked at Dare, so everyone looked at Dare. She hated it when missions went off track, and would often disaude detours. But this time, curiosity seemed to get the better of her. “I don't see the harm in finding out. It could tell us more about what to expect from the forces around here.” So the lack of intel from the other spooks is what swayed her in the detour’s favour: live by sight, and not by faith, as Dutch might say. It was likely the bastardisation of some religious quote, but Agu didn't know, considering he'd never seen the point in believing in gods, even before the Covenant attempted genocide on his species in the name of their faith. Even as a close friend, he'd never been able to understand Dutch’s beliefs, but they'd never let it come between them. It wasn't as if Dutch was exactly pious, anyway. 

“Let’s make it quick, then. We don't want any reinforcements catching us, if they are coming.”

“Romeo,” the Captain walked over to him and held out her gun by the muzzle, “I'll take watch.” 

Gunny looked over as the rifle exchanged hands.

While he'd never really liked the bullet hose of the M7 SMG that Dare and Rookie used, it was preferable to standing outside while everyone else explored the building. If the Captain was willing to take that job, who was Agu to stop her? Besides, she was probably the only one he trusted with that weapon, given she was the second best sniper on the team. He gave her a little salute and joined the others. They swept the small building quickly; a couple of sleeping quarters taking up most of the space. It seemed everyone at this base had come outside for the firefight, leaving the whole place virtually empty. Except for one fairly large room, with a holotable in the middle and… bits of junk scattered around? 

Rookie had never once been deterred by the malfunctioning gun he'd incautiously picked up and shot himself in the foot with on one of their first drops together, and went around trying to piece together the purpose of the room in his typical hands-on manner (at least, that's what Agu guessed he was trying to do). Gunny and Dutch, meanwhile, were at the table itself. After a little poking around at the objects himself, Agu quickly grew bored of what seemed to be just scraps of charred metal.

“Unlocked?” Agu asked, watching the shapes on the table move freely under Gunny's hands. 

“Seems that way.”

“What did you find?”

“Well, nothing too interesting. Lots of maps of the system that command might like to get their hands on. But they're all centred around this asteroid, here.”

The map expanded, showing an innocuous-looking lump of rock that measured about 240 kilometres across. It was labelled Zurynaha . 

“And this one,” he swiped to another display, “Would explain the welcome party we spotted after landing.” At first it looked like another static map, albilet heavily abstracted, but then Agu noticed small movements of the background shapes. “They'd have seen us well before we even entered low orbit, but I'm guessing this thing doesn't do much in the way of identification, or they would have sent a lot more than a couple of banshees.”

“It also means they're used to things dropping in around here.”

A short whistle drew everyone's attention back to Rookie. He was holding three pieces of scrap, all bearing one or two letters of signature UNSC font. He gestured to the rest of the room: there's more where these came from . 

“Time's almost up boys,” the Captain interrupted over COM. “Download those maps and let's get moving.” 

Gunny inserted a data chip into the table. It was equipment standard on recon or recovery ops that had once been needed to even understand how the enemy functioned in the early days of the human-Covenant war. Now, it was just for the regular stuff like plans and locations. 

“Oh, one more thing, we've also got a name for this planet now; Zuryal . Making this planet Well , and that asteroid… Wellspring .” 

Chapter Text

NITH-BEK

First Age of Independence 

En route to Gryad Processing Facility

Han-yek Forest, Planet Zuryal

Nith-Bek huffed, the Rhuutian Kig-Yar’s quills bristling as a light snow started to fall. His fellow ferrymen, plus the one female with them, were in a similar state of boredom. They'd set off from Han-yek outpost Three this morning with little more than a human cannon and some trinkets: nothing that would get them the sizable paycheck they wanted. Not to mention, Guc would take the largest cut. Her clan had been all-but disbanded under the assimilation with the Frantics, but even demeaned with this menial labour, she found herself in a position of favour and authority almost everywhere she went.

Such was the nature of Kig-Yar society. Even ex-pirates such as himself had standards, and a shipmistress - even one of a disbanded clan - invariably demanded respect. And she would get it.

That wasn't to say any of the others would be opposed to stealing a few of the items themselves to see if they could get a better price elsewhere, outside the Frantics’ hierarchy. Nith-Bek would do so himself, if he wasn't so cowardly: the price of theft was often conscription to the Frantics’ fighting sectors. It was enforced, of course, by the brutish Jiralhanae at the top of the food chain, because every Kig-Yar knew it was foolish to try and quash the kleptomaniac tendencies of their species. It was likely several items had been stolen from the cargo transport less than two metres behind him by the braver (or stupider) of the crew already. 

The plasma pistol at his hip weighed his body lopsidedly, but Nith-Bek had grown used to it, since in all the time he'd been here the only fight he'd ever been in was a scuffle with Han-yek outpost two over what they'd all thought to be a functioning data chip that had landed almost perfectly between the borders of their scavenging grounds in the ruins of a ship. It had been broken in the fight, so whether it had actually functioned or not, none of them would ever know. But there hadn't been much to fight over recently. The asteroid Zurynaha had been less and less prolific over the past few months leading more and more Frantics to abandon the cause. Nith-Bek had often wondered where he would go, if the small group's main supply well dried up. Perhaps the Keepers of the One Freedom, or back to piracy like the good old days. 

Either way, they had to start turning a bigger profit soon, or Nith-Bek would- well, in all honesty, do nothing but grumble about it for a while- but oh, he'd grumble proper! Hopefully the scavenging party that had set out this very morning were bringing in a good haul: it had looked promising, from the video feed.

He couldn't wait to get back tomorrow and hear the good news. 

Just then, something a little ways past the trail caught his attention and he squawked a caution to the tows he was walking ahead of. They predictably were not alarmed. With no predator animals left in this forest, what was there to be afraid of? Even with his excellent eyesight Nith-Bek found himself squinting at the little flash of light he'd seen ahead, when suddenly it jerked in the convoy’s direction, and multiple yells rang out behind him. An ambush! 

Nith-Bek fumbled with his weapon, finding it clumsy and unwieldy in his out-of-practice claws. Maybe he should have done some refresher courses, especially after the fight with the twos... Speaking of which, who was attacking them now? He barely had time to look around before the shots of stalker rifles cracked the air, and he ducked down again. Realistically, what could he do in such a fight? Surely he would be better off returning to the base and warning the others? Yes, that sounded like a terribly clever idea. And his nestmates had always said he'd had quite the head about him. Staying low, Nith-Bek tried to determine which way to run that would be the least likely to get him shot, when the scales of a fellow Kig-Yar bumped into his back. 

“Oh!” He turned and found none other than Guc there, looking as terrified as he felt. Perhaps she, too, had never been one for combat. Hoping his exclamation hadn't gotten them discovered, Nith-Bek scanned the treeline again. Nothing… yet.

“What are you doing here, shouldn't you be fighting?” Guc asked. 

The hypocrisy of her statement gave Nith-Bek pause, but he recovered quickly. “I thought that it was important for someone to live, to be able to inform the others at base what happened.”

She appeared to think it over, until a plasma bolt scorched the top of the carrier they were ducked behind. “Very wise! We should run. Now.” 

“Agreed.”

The two took off in a sprint, and immediately ammunition chased at their heels, but for their cowardice and nimbleness they were rewarded; the sounds of battle soon becoming a distant nightmare. 

Chapter Text

DARE

1532 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Gransen Province

Planet Zuryal, System Claso

Veronica ducked back around the corner as the Kig-Yar on the closest watchtower swung his gaze in her direction. Most recently they'd been told to breach the Eastern wall of a ‘warehouse’ that had no business looking so much like a prison: human, alien, all of them had that distinct depressing atmosphere whoever was in charge.

After the forest, the subsequent instructions they'd been getting were making Veronica's head spin. They'd been led deeper into a province known as Gransen, according to the map Buck had downloaded at the outpost, but hadn't bumped into another living thing for the past hour. They'd been led through disused irrigation tunnels, past abandoned buildings, and over open stretches of land that were inexplicably not under watch by even one alien. Until now.

The sliver of the Office of Naval Intelligence that remained had clearly kept so tight-lipped about this place Veronica had to wonder if they'd already known the name of it, and simply decided not to tell them. To plan such a detailed route was impossible unless they were lying about how much they knew which, given her superiors, was not exactly surprising. It made Veronica nervous, the amount ONI must know about Zuryal and hadn't told them, but she wouldn't say so to Buck and the others just yet. Why bother? It would just distract them from the mission. She did reason, however, that if things started to get too fishy she'd speak up. Better to have Alpha-Nine a little wary over nothing than unprepared. 

She'd certainly learned her lesson after New Mombasa, and she could tell it rankled Buck that the rest of ONI hadn't spontaneously done the same. Unfortunately for him, there'd always be a need for something like ONI in this world- or, rather, galaxy... Universe? It wasn't inconceivable that humanity would leave the Milky Way one day, given they survived whatever filled the Covenant's power vacuum, anyway. 

“How's it looking on your end, Dare?”

“Same as everyone else. Two Jackal riflemen on the tower, a couple Jiralhanae on patrol between them, regular rounds on the ground and no obvious entry points… Buck, I don't see how we're getting into this place without someone noticing.” 

“That's what I was afraid you'd say. What do you think about waiting until dark and seeing what their defences are like at night?”

A risk for sure; any extra minute spent in such a hostile environment put them that much closer to detection, but Veronica really didn't see a way in right now. Besides, all the aliens they'd seen before now had been armed, sure, but lax, more like security than military. A half-trained faction who had never - as they were now - openly engaged the UNSC, and lived on such a remote planet it took several days to get here after the UNSC Say My Name had bid farewell to the small insertion craft. Maybe, like an old-fashioned museum, the night guard was little more than a skeleton crew. And if not, well, the chance to debrief was something they all needed on this strange operation. They could also corroborate what they did know, brainstorm, and maybe come up with something better than whatever distraction (read: explosion) Mickey was two seconds away from suggesting. 

She could feel it. That man couldn't go one op without blowing something up, and by now it was a little overdue. 

Buck continued; “and while we're at it you could help me convince Mickey not to try exploding our way in.” There it was- and yes, Veronica was all too aware at how similar she and Buck thought sometimes. 

It was only occasionally charming.

“Hey! I didn't say anything.” defended the trooper, his voice pitching in mock-innocence. 

“ Yet. ”

“...yet.” Mickey's reply was flat with resignation, “I have been thinking about it, to be fair.” 

Another voice joined the fray.

“On God, Mickey, why is it always explosions with you?” 

“I’d rather trust my detonators than your God, Dutch, and you ask him to help us out more than I blow stuff up.”

Romeo gave a curt laugh. “It's not as if his God took out that support beam in Laynoa and almost dropped a building on our heads though, is it?” 

“That was one time!”

“One time of almost completing the fastest total squad kill on record, surely.” Buck, the idiot, was close to reminding his team that he was the one who told Mickey to ‘go nuts’ with the distraction if he didn't sit out on this conversation. They'd be hard pressed to forget Mickey practically giggling at the go-ahead.

“The key word being almost .”

No Rookie; Veronica had almost come to expect at least one quip from the kid every now and then, and she had to admit casual banter was a very non-stressful way to do a sitrep. 

“Rookie?”

His COM clicked on and off. All good .

“Right. If we're all done reminiscing, we should join up here,” she placed a beacon on NAV that should be pretty easy for everyone to retrace their steps to, “then we'll find somewhere to hunker down for a bit.” 

“Got it, boss” And a few other such affirmatives greeted the order, and she moved back along the wall of the alley she'd chosen to survey from, careful to keep an eye on the lower roofs just above her. All it took was one turkey to squawk, and the whole thing could go belly-up pretty fast. It was the only reason they'd forewent pairs: the area was just too risky to have two ODSTs running around it together and getting noticed. 

Large, sweeping, steel- and purple-coloured structures suggested this planet had been taken from or abandoned by the Covenant. From almost anywhere it was possible to hear the humming of a hard light bridge or some other device, and many times Veronica had to skirt out of cover to give a wide berth to the automatic arched doors on many of the buildings. Most of Veronica's path was open to the greenish sky, which had only recently stopped spitting snowflakes, which meant using a technique called Chuck Step to disguise her footprints. It was a kind of shuffling named as such for its ability to ‘chuck’ all identifying features out of your trail, and hopefully hide the fact that someone had shuffled along the path in the first place. It also made her calves hurt way more than any leg exercise ever could, and Veronica was convinced whoever had come up with and implemented the method had never intended for it to be used long term or at speed. Or at least had never tried it themselves.

It was a long five minutes before COM silence broke.

“Hey Gunny?”

“Go ahead, Dutch.”

“I think I've just found us a way in.”

Veronica checked the NAV for Dutch's beacon. He was the furthest away from her, with the both of them bookending Reaper Team’s scouting paths. 

“How so?” Not that Veronica was upset they wouldn't have to wait until later to attempt a breach, but the long road of shuffling ahead automatically put a sigh into her voice. 

“Looks like a sewage access tunnel. I climbed down, and it runs in the right direction. It would make sense there be at least one access inside the wall. Doesn't look too populated, either.”

“Acknowledged; we'll make our way over. Hold your position if you can, or find somewhere secure nearby.” 

“Roger that, Gunny. Dutch out.”

ROOKIE

1659 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Unknown ‘Warehouse’, Gransen Province

Planet Zuryal, System Claso

“Don't you think it's a little weird we still don't know what we're looking for, even when we're in the building we're supposed to find it?”

“Don't you think this was a good point to make ten minutes ago?”

“More contacts.” 

“Maybe it's triggered by proximity?”

“Less talking, more shooting.” 

The words of his teammates were punctured by the heavy breathing of a long fight. Doherty brought his SMG around the corner, feeling recoil snake up his arm as he emptied the rest of his mag into the back of a Jiralhanae. Gunny, who had been seconds away from being crushed like a tin can under the Brute's oversized hands, took the momentary distraction to connect the front of his gun with the Brute's thick neck and fire two 12.7x44mm bullets into it. A little overkill, perhaps, but better than leaving one alive to ambush them later or raise an alarm. The latter was only a matter of time at this point, but every extra second was another encounter where Reaper Team had surprise on their side. 

“Mickey does make a good point.” Dare, of all people, complemented as they reformed the duel-wedge formation they'd been traversing the corridors of the maze-like building in. “There may be a specific tag or signal on the item that will act like the coordinate triggers our other orders were on.”

Gunny grumbled but said nothing. 

As point, Dutch called out a split in the corridor ahead. He and Doherty, who was on the older trooper's right side, would check the opposite sides first, turn so that they were facing their respective corridors back to back, and once the others had done the same they'd all move in Dutch's direction again. 

But the simple manoeuvre was cut short by Dutch being tossed at Doherty's side and them both tumbling to the ground in a heap. Pain blossomed from Doherty's head in the spot where their helmets had collided then quickly faded to a dull ache, and Dutch's secondary firearm dug into his side. Thank goodness for safeties. 

Perhaps a little unnecessarily Dutch shouted, “Contacts!” His voice was strained - probably winded - but there was no blood. Doherty helped push the other man to his feet and immediately checked their six. Nothing that way, but there very well might be soon, and not to mention the issue of the Jiralhanae at twelve. Besides the ape-like alien were two Jackals; one crouching behind a shield and the other holding a stalker rifle, using his buddy as cover. There were more behind, but the hallway wasn't wide enough to accommodate more than that abreast. 

The Brute roared and charged forward. It had no hammer, thankfully, but unarmed swings still did plenty of damage. The rest of Reaper Team opened fire from the branched path and in the concentrated space the Brute was forced to move back, caught on two sides. The same could not be said for the Kig-Yar pair who could shoot at their leisure, and we're currently doing so at Doherty and Dutch. The latter took a plasma bolt to the leg before the attacking turkey’s shield popped and Doherty was able to kill it. The Jiralhanae tried to charge again, practically swinging around the corner and using its weight to crash into the closest trooper it could, which happened to be Gunny (Doherty’s save earlier just happened to be a delay of the inevitable, it seemed). The charge was a desperate move from an enemy with no long-ranged weapon, but a desperate enemy was one of the most dangerous, one piece of evidence being the pained shout came over COM from Alpha-Nine's leader before the sound of bullets drowned it out. 

The lack of ape in the hallway allowed Dutch to spot whoever was behind. “Three more. Jackals”

Taking a leaf from the downed Brute’s book, Doherty moved forward, eager to close the gap between himself and the sniper Jackal before it either retreated, seeing both of its meat-shields missing, or took the opportunity to blow someone’s head off. As he passed the corner to the original passageway, the sight of Gunny being pulled to his feet filled the corner of Doherty's vision and he knew the other trooper would be okay: if any ribs had been broken, he would have been kept down. A squawk of alarm became the sniper’s last words as Doherty brought the butt of his gun onto its head, the narrow space and advancing aliens behind it blocking the Kig-Yar’s escape. 

A grenade thrown over his head gave Doherty time to glance back at Dutch, who was clearly keeping his weight off of the burnt leg that had been struck with plasma. Dare, Mickey, Romeo, and Gunny moved into the corridor, the first pointing her weapon down the opposite way from the fight, and the latter two toward the corridor they came from. 

“More coming from this way, including a fully armoured Brute,” said Romeo. “We’ll be like rats in a trap if we stay here much longer.” Not to mention they had no clue what needed to be done to secure the object; running and shooting through might not be feasible.

Doherty had turned back to the small group of aliens closest to them and was occupied with saturating the air with 5x23mm bullets to discourage any alien advances. But the SMG only had a sixty round magazine, and with a firing rate of nine hundred rounds a minute the gun was empty in no time. Even a quick switch to his handgun only provided deterrent for a little longer, and they couldn’t keep trading places to reload forever because eventually they’d run out of ammunition or, as Romeo mentioned, become surrounded. 

Gunny exhaled sharply. “We’d better get moving before that happens, then. Grenades?” 

No one had any, so they’d have to do a dry run. As the two with the most ammo Dutch and Mickey would have gone at the back, but Dutch’s leg would make it hard to manoeuvre the retreat. Doherty held up his empty magazine and pointed between himself and Dutch, the latter of whom quickly understood and tossed over two cartridges with only minimal hesitation.

“Let’s move out, people.”

Doherty hated this part of firefights the most. Being at the back absolutely sucked; firing at an enemy not to win but just to keep them off you and your team’s asses long enough to run away. Not to mention having blind faith in the forward facing crew to deal with or call out anything happening ahead of you, or wondering if they forgot to check their corners thoroughly enough. That’s why a unit had to have absolute faith in one another, or else people would become distracted, and a distracted trooper was only a few steps away from a dead one. 

“This remind you of anything Romeo?” Gunny asked, probably referring to when he, in his own words, had to ‘drag Romeo around the city like a lightweight who got plastered at the first bar of the night’ after the trooper took a grav-hammer to the chest in New Mombasa.

“I guess it does. How’s it feel to be the two pot screamer, Gunny?” 

“Not great, to be honest.”

Mickey ran out of bullets then, tagging out with Dare. “Shit, the NAV looks like someone left it next to the cooker while making spaghetti. It’s red all over.”

“Excellent simile, Mickey.” Gunny said dryly, “Maybe we’re getting close to something they really don’t want us to, like a certain piece of UNSC equipment we’d like to take back home? That’d be lucky.”

“And I think I’d have to agree. Keypad on the door ahead-”

Even if they had a spoofer, they'd be hard pressed to get through before the aliens caught up. Same rats, different cage. 

“-but I have a hack.”

Dare looked over her shoulder, and against his better judgement Doherty did the same. The door was only mostly closed, blocked by the corpse of a Kig-Yar with its head half-smushed and oozing purple. 

“Poor fella decided to poke his nose out and see what all the fuss was about,” Dutch said with mock sadness, taking one side of the door while Mickey took the other. 

“Dare, Rookie, fall in.” Gunny’s order came just in time, as Doherty’s gun spluttered its last bullet into the torso of an especially ugly Brute. Once they were in, Dutch and Mickey followed, and by destroying the keypad on the inside of the room the door was, hopefully, locked. When they weren’t all blasted by plasma in the next five seconds, Doherty looked around the room they’d accidentally hunkered down in: one other door, which no aliens were running through, and- oh wow- 

Stepping forward Doherty barely even heard the chirp of his VISR, but, still facing the sight before him as his fellow troopers were, he opened it anyway, just to be sure. 

As he read the newest part of the mission log several things suddenly made sense: the staggered instructions; the hyper-specific yet maddeningly vague intel; the need for Doherty specifically to be on the mission; and the secrecy. Always the secrecy with these guys. 

11282-31220-JD TO VISUALLY CONFIRM SPARTAN-B312

They were not the first troop to attempt this rescue. They were given information based on whatever the previous ones had recovered. They were given pieces at a time to reduce how much information was lost to the Frantics in the event of their capture. Doherty was chosen because he just so happened to have met with this Spartan before, so he could ensure they were picking up the right package. 

The click of each puzzle piece, as surprise sometimes did, loosed something in Doherty's mind and he said-

“Sierra-Bravo-312 confirmed.”

Chapter Text

SPARTAN-B312

1709 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

‘The Freezer’, Fort Gransen

Gransen Province, Planet Zuryal

When Spartan-B312 was fifteen years old, he had been reassigned from Spartan Beta Company to Cat-2, a career change that had ended up saving his life after the massacre of Beta Company on Operation: TORPEDO. About two months after that, ONI decided to drown his file in black ink and enlist him as a specialist operative for anti-insurrectionist operations. It had taken a while (though not long enough) for B312 to adjust from training to kill aliens for the benefit of the human race with a squad of fellow Spartans beside him, to killing humans, for the benefit of the human race, with unfamiliar humans beside him or more often than not on his own. 

Sometimes he was aboard a certain ship for only long enough to receive orders, and sometimes for two weeks or more. One such grounded period, as B312 liked to call them, was aboard the UNSC Fair Game under the command of its captain, General Glower; a man who's permanent scowl made his name something of a euonym. That deployment was long ago, and most of the details of the ship or its personnel were lost to him.

But there was one marine aboard whom he remembered with a fondness that grew from silent comradery. A green soldier who hadn't yet seen more than a few battles but brimming with potential and, most importantly, was capable of sitting beside the Spartan in the mess hall without staring him down with starry eyes or making him feel out of place. They'd exchanged no more than ten or fifteen words (most of them used to explain the rules of some card game, and only in a near-whisper towards the end of his deployment on Fair Game ), but for a Spartan sorely missing his brothers and sisters, the small moments of peace he spent with the marine were a blessing. Slowly the memory had lost its charm, and suddenly it occurred to B312 he hadn't thought of the marine for years. 

So, to see him standing there grinning like a fool in ODST gear put a drop of pride into B312’s heart. In comparison, B312 must have been a sore sight locked in his busted armour. The old set was riddled with dents and plasma burns, seal-compromising slashes and cracks. He had not been beaten or tortured in this place - those battle scars had come long before - but the week-long stretches of immobility caused by a device that interfered directly with motion circuits in a suit of armour controlled via a link to his brain were taking their toll. A numbing feeling at the base of his skull, for instance, suggested he was slightly overdue for a check-in with medical. 

“Armour locked?” One of the other ODSTs asked. The name Buck was inscribed on the top of his breastplate, and was sporting a dent of its own. He was probably in charge, though there was no mistaking the ONI agent near the far door; the eye symbol sat below the arm on their left shoulder. 

“A device on the back; freezes the motion circuits.” His own voice was alien to him, scratching his throat.

“Affirmative.” 

The armour-locking device was small - about the size of his palm - and circular, and seemed to magnetically attach to his MJOLNIR. It was fairly simple to remove, just, “turn it left until it clicks.”

The air was tense. B312 didn’t know how he'd been discovered here, much less who would stage a rescue operation. But now wasn't the time. His HUD flickered and a staggering wash of pins and needles buzzed at the back of B312’s skull as the device was released. He caught himself from falling, but only just, all too aware of six pairs of eyes on him.

Doherty repolarized his helmet, showing the unwilling Spartan a map of everything he'd been through and everything he'd seen through the cracks in his faceplate. One ugly crack, over his eye, that had been patched so shoddily his HUD still wouldn't function properly splintered out, like a web, threatening to cave in the rest of the glass onto his face. He should have died a thousand times over before now. 

“Sitrep?” They would have questions, he was sure, and he'd given his proper thanks in due time. Right now they were deep in a hostile facility with two - make that three judging by how one of the ODSTs was leaning heavily on one leg -  underperforming soldiers. Speaking of that injured ODST, something in the way his faceplate subtly shifted between B312 and Doherty suggested a protectiveness that would be reckless for the former to ignore unless he wanted to increase the tension. 

“Bingo on ammo and grenades, one with an injured leg, and no exit plan. There’s an increasing number of hostiles at that door and it won't be long before they breach it and the other one is blocked off too,” surprisingly it was the agent who answered. Her voice softened a touch as she continued, “There are a lot of people who will be happy to know you’re alive, Spartan. I’ve heard a Jun-A226 has been singing your praises these last few years. I’m Dare, Reaper Leader, this is Reaper Two, Buck. Three, Four, and Five are Dutch, Mickey, and Romeo. And it seems you already know our Six, Rookie.”

B312’s adrenaline spiked. Jun was still alive. He wasn’t the last. And it seemed some sect of the Navy was still operational.

And, Doherty was now ‘the Rookie’. Well, he’d heard worse callsigns before.

He nodded to Dare in thanks, then  stepped forwards and put a hand on Doherty’s shoulder, ignoring the way his stiff muscles protested even that small movement. “Looks like you got the lucky number.” A pleasant lie, perhaps, but B312 would always hold his time as Noble Six with a macabre fondness. What a coincidence that the trooper he knew bore the same number. But enough of that, it was high time they left this place. 

“Which way did you come in from? The roof?”

Now it was Reaper Two, Buck, that replied. He and Dare seemed to operate with joint-leadership, not unlike how Spartan fireteams preferred a flat command system unless necessary. “No. Underground tunnels. They popped us up right behind the first walls and we took it door by door from there. You got a name by the way, Spartan?”

“Call me what you like.”

All Spartans had names - even those brought to Onyx without them were given something other than their number to be identified by - but after so long, such a humanising concept just didn't appeal to Spartan-B312 anymore. He wouldn't be surprised if he never heard his name again in this life.

Six names filed under his HUD’s fireteam assignment, some of it unfortunately displaced or covered by non-functioning patches on the screen, but he got the gist. It would be the first time he’d worked with other humans for over a year, and it just so happened to be a prison break. 

“Alright troopers,” Buck announced, “plus Spartan, let's move.”

This was going to be interesting, but he was certainly excited to be killing covies again.

MICKEY

1718 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Fort Gransen

Gransen Province, Planet Zuryal

Gunny was on his own feet again, but Dutch was still injured. He'd been saddled with a dinky plasma pistol that shook his hand more violently than a centrifuge when the trigger was held for too long - hopefully not to the same end. Romeo, his AM on his back, was having a go at the stalker rifles Kig-Yar snipers used, while both Dare and Rookie had plasma rifles. No heavy weaponry, which was a disappointment, but it did lessen the chance of said heavy weaponry being used on them in return. 

The Spartan limped along in the middle of their wedge at an impressive speed, like the limp was a gait rather than the sign of an injury. He had a kukri knife that seemed to appear from nowhere when asked if he had a weapon, and had also been given a plasma pistol that stayed hilted on his belt. But it was still slower going than any of them would have liked. Mickey could see the others were anxious: Romeo was sticking his elbow slightly out too far when he brought his gun to bear; Dutch kept stealing glances at Rookie who in turn held himself in a closed-off manner, and Dare and Gunny kept almost stepping into each other's space, which would be close enough to accidentally trip or bump one another if they moved too quickly or without warning. As for himself, Mickey had no doubt the others had noticed him turning to check their six more often than necessary when they weren't in active combat. 

But even a limp said nothing about the Spartan’s capabilities. It had been him that crushed the first few enemies and relieved the corpses of weapons to hand over to Reaper Team. One such kill had been a Brute who, its back turned to the Spartan, received a deadly elbow to the base of the spine followed by the bite of the Spartan’s Kukri blade. It had only made a choked noise upon its death; a testament to the Spartan's speed. It was as if some backup energy or something activated in the presence of an enemy.

Speaking of- “red on the NAV,” Dare warned. The shuffling of seven soldiers readying their weapons replied, though they wouldn't all be able to fire safely in the tight corridor. Protocol - and common sense - dictated to never fire towards an ally unless absolutely necessary. “Thirteen hostiles behind that door.”

Unlucky number thirteen. Dutch must've been cursing to himself right about now. 

“Stack up.” 

“Moving.”

“Ready to breech.” The Captain held up her fist, then splayed five fingers.

Four, three, two, one-

“Let's fuck ‘em up!”

They moved as one body, smooth and purposeful into the room. The sounds of exchanged fire immediately filled the air, including from Mickey's gun. Killing was repetitive, and destruction had a rhythm. No matter the tool used to do it there was always a pattern. 

Fire; shk.  

Reload; ch-chk . 

Call it; “Target down.”

Repeat.

Despite his taste for archaic theatre, Mickey was by no means graceful, and being closest to the door gave him quite a bit of cover from the front. That didn't matter when Kig-Yar appeared on an upper level on both sides. He fired to the left, sorely aware of the danger to his right. Once the first Kig-Yar took a hit to the head he turned before the body had even slumped off of the balcony to find a red sight trained on him. The Jackal fired, and Mickey found himself struck not with a killing blow but a kick to the knee that sent him down and to the side. Plasma streaked over his shoulder, singing the armour, but before the Jackal could try again its head rocketed backwards, a standard issue combat knife pinning it to the wall. 

Now down on one knee, Mickey looked to the Spartan who had knocked him out of harm’s way and was now holding his arm close to his chest. The Spartan let out a hissed breath that probably meant, I'm going to hate myself for that later . Mickey knew the feeling, but considering the move had saved his life, he couldn't find it within himself to regret it.

“Sayonara scumbag,” he quipped at the glassy-eyed turkey. This was the kind of fight that kept Mickey here long after his mandatory service, not the bullshit they'd been sent on recently against other humans. 

A quick scan of the room revealed Romeo nailing a Brute in the chest, sending it spinning then flat with another slug in the neck. Dutch and Gunny were back to back, combating both sides of the room as Mickey and the Spartan had. 

“Grenade!” The tink of a plasma grenade drew Mickey's gaze to the floor and he scrambled back. Hateful shouts of “Imps!” (the old Covenant nickname for the ODSTs) and more surprisingly “Shadow Demon!” instead of just ‘Demon’ came from the last remaining enemies, spitting their wrath before they died. But soon even those died down, and with careful watch in case some aliens remained hidden, Reaper Team continued forward. 

It wasn't long before any would-be-pursuers were long dead, and their purple blood was washing off trooper boots in the puddles of condensation that collected on the curved stone floor for the tunnels.

At some point Dare, walking with Rookie and the Spartan towards the front, had begun filling the Spartan in on the mission so far.

“...And then it was up to the Rookie here to make sure you were what we were looking for.” 

The Spartan shook his head in understanding at ONI’s strange ways, though still muttered, “unnecessary secrets.” His voice hadn't recovered from the rough, disused quality it had when he'd first spoken, like Mickey expected. Maybe he'd damaged his throat, or naturally sounded like he'd smoked a Sweet William cigar every day of his life - though Mickey doubted Spartans even could smoke.

“It's the job.” Rookie shrugged and spoke quietly, and once again Mickey was perplexed how he had become close enough to this Spartan to feel comfortable like that around him. But the kid wasn't a fan of storytelling; either he (or the Spartan) would offer up an explanation later, or it was something private. 

It was silent for a moment. “You mentioned Jun, Spartan-A226?” 

Dare clicked her tongue. “If you're wondering where he is or what he knows, I can't tell you. I've seen him around from time to time, but not much else.”

The Spartan nodded. “And the Wellspring?”

Romeo, the man with a filter as durable as sugar paper, wasn't afraid to pitch in. “That asteroid? What's that got to do with anything?”

"It's what I'm here for." The Spartan's helmet tilted, "I assumed ONI would have at least told you that, and you would assist the mission."

“No, hang on,” Gunny broke off his conversation with Dutch to interject, “Our job was to recover you , not an asteroid.” 

“It's not the asteroid, Sargent, it's what's on it. I cannot return with you to the UNSC until I have it.” 

“That's not the mission.”

“Missions change.” 

Gunny sighed, and Mickey looked over his shoulder to see the trooper tilt his head back in frustration. The parade of seven soldiers slowly came to a stop.

“How important is this wellspring?”

“It’s a device that can tear a ship out of slipspace on a whim with massive structural repercussions.”

“So. Pretty damn important.”

“I'm going. Whether you join me or not.” Damn. He cut straight to the point.

It wasn't a problem of readiness. As ODSTs, each and every one of them would be the first to volunteer for almost anything, to dive into the front lines or feet first into hell, as it were. So why not? 

Perhaps the thought occurred to the others at the same time because Gunny continued; “Alright. But how in hell are we getting up to an asteroid that every satellite on this planet is pointed at without being blasted out of the sky?"

“I know a place where we can stay until dark, then a shipyard where we could commandeer a ship. That should give us time to plan.”

Mickey grinned, “I can do the flying. I have experience with alien vehicles.” 

The grey faceplate of the Spartan turned to him, and Mickey had the distinct feeling he was being judged. Well, the Spartan had yet to truly show them what he was made of, and he'd do well not to step on anyone's toes if he wanted to earn their trust. 

…

Mickey's bravado faded slightly. He was still staring.

“It's settled then,” Dare finished when the Spartan did not object, drawing his gaze away from Mickey at last, “Ping that location, B312, let's catch our breath and flesh out this plan until sundown.” She stuck her hand out for a handshake, and by his minute recoil Mickey could tell the Spartan was surprised. “Welcome to the team, Reaper Seven.” 

Chapter Text

NITH-BEK

First Age of Independence 

Han-yek Outpost Three 

Han-yek Forest, Planet Zuryal

“We are too late…”

Nith-Bek carefully kicked aside a Jiralhanae arm in his path as he and Guc arrived at the outpost. It was in ruin - purple blood painted the snow, and bodies lay strewn all around - some in multiple pieces where a grenade seemed to have gone off. The Kig-Yar felt his own blood boil in response; this treachery and infighting was supposed to be behind them: the Kig-Yar, free of the San'Shyuum’s influence in the Covenant, were no longer pressed under the thumb of favoured races like the Sangheili and Jiralhanae. To see them fall once again to tearing at their own species rather than their enemies was maddening. 

But they all had ambitions of profit and power - that would never change - and some were more willing to view allies as opposition when it came down to who had the most to gain. 

“We should leave immediately.” Nith-Bek proposed, even now feeling the eyes of others on his back, though if there were someone out there it was likely he'd be dead already, “The Frantics will likely fall to infighting before this cycle is through.” 

Guc hissed in dismissal. “Look at this; human ammunition was used here.” She waved him over to a corpse of a fellow Kig-Yar, “See the wounds in his head?”

He could see, with a queasy recognition, the too-clean wound of a human sniping bullet that had been shot straight through the Kig-Yar’s head. Purple blood had dribbled out of both sides and frozen, like a snapshot of death. “His name was Kahc. I knew him.” 

“Yes,” it was likely Guc did as well - this outpost was small enough that everyone knew each other at least by recognition - but her voice was void of sympathy, “But do you realise what this means? Our enemies ally with humans, they are stronger than we anticipate.”

“Even more reason for us to flee.” Nith-Bek turned away from the corpse, his eyes struggling to find some gore-free patch of ground to fixate on. He settled for the trees instead. “This has been coming for a long time now. Think of how long it has been since we traded harmoniously with our neighbouring outposts. They have formed their own packs against us and are now adding human fighters to the mix. There is nothing we can do.”

A soft wind disturbed the bristles on NIth-Bek’s arms and he fought the urge to hold his breath waiting for Guc’s response. He did not want to oppose her if he didn’t have to, and perhaps running away from here with a shipmistress at his side would open up better avenues of life once they were away than if he left on his own.

“I see. Perhaps you are right. I am not a fighter, and neither are you. But how are we going to leave? Any ships we collected here were not capable of flight or traded off soon after discovery.”

“We could go to the shipyard in Dirn,” There was no guarantee that the allegiance that had destroyed outpost three and ambushed them on the trail would not finish them off on the way - but it was the fastest way off-planet and towards better safety. “If anyone asks, we could have seen something adrift on our sensors that escaped Zuryal’s gravity and wanted to recover it ourselves. They will not pay much mind to two scavengers chasing a potential scrap.”

“You plan well, Nith-Bek.” Guc nodded back the way they had come, “We should get moving, then. The shipyard is a good few units away. Not as far as the processing facility, but…”

But still a long journey, and probably a dangerous one. It was lucky no one seemed to have been left behind here to silence any survivors. Nith-Bek waited for any comforting or reassuring words to form on his tongue, but none did, so he simply gestured his agreement and began walking.

DUTCH

1839 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Temporary Camp

Gransen Province Border, Planet Zuryal

They'd made camp one hour and a stim patch later. Taylor wasn't tired, but the burst of energy he received rubbing the small square into his arm made him worry less about his leg, and he was confident he could run on it just fine for a long while now. 

Sundown wasn't long away, foreshadowed by tantalising orange streaks running through the air above. With views like this it wasn't hard to imagine early civilizations believing they could be nothing more than a painting by a higher power but now, armed with knowledge about the sky and beyond, faith meant something a bit different than the blind trust in an all-powerful being that was supposed to have created all, protected all, and watched all. The universe was just too big to believe in the boxed stories of before. 

Most of the team had broken into their MREs - persevering soldiers they may be, but they'd gone twelve hours on only water, and a food now would prevent that twelve from stretching into something more unreasonable when their plan got going later. 

Predictably, Gunny’s curry was traded for Mickey's disgustingly bland tomato pasta almost as soon as it was taken off of the portable heater. That man couldn't be more averse to spice if he tried, and yet seemed to forget that fact every time he sat down to eat, and Mickey still hadn't figured out how to stop getting all the disfavoured mains that everyone else avoided. 

They'd offered food to the Spartan, who no doubt hadn't been well fed during his stay with the aliens, but he'd curtly refused all offers. So much for him, Taylor thought, rummaging in his bag for his own meal, but the gesture stuttered as he inadvertently uncovered a photo of Gretchen taped to the inside of the hardcase. 

Oh, they'd been through the wringer this past year. Taylor had been so close to retiring to be with her after Draco III, and Gretchen had been in full support of the idea, claiming a longing to try out the civilian life after having met each other and married while both of them were in active duty. But something had tugged at Taylor at the thought of leaving while the rest of his team were still out there, fighting. It put a bit of a strain on their relationship, exasperated more by Alpha-Nine’s deployment on mission after mission, flung to anywhere the UNSC needed extra hands in the chaos of the weeks and months after the Covenant's dismantlement. 

But as a wise man called Higgins had always said, when you're with the right person, even the hard times are easy. 

And there had been so much death in destruction in Taylor's life it could only be a blessing that he was still here, alive and well and able to return home to her one day. Others hadn't been so lucky; entire worlds glassed and battles waged that threatened to wipe out their entire species. Only this year an attack on Luna had left their own Rookie grieving, and though Agu was one tough cookie he and Taylor had seen things before Alpha-Nine and in it that would keep anyone up at night. 

Hey, there was a thought. Maybe the Spartan liked cookies. 

He plucked the grey packet out, and stood up.

Someone whistled. "You don't see that everyday." 

Taylor knew he had a bit of a habit for coveting confectionery, and would totally be ribbed for this later. But between their strange meeting and the Spartan’s mysterious origins, Taylor had found himself openly distrustful of the Spartan, who probably decided the feeling was mutual, and if there was one thing Taylor knew from his time in service it was that distrust had a tendency to get people killed, so it wouldn't hurt to extend and olive branch to their newest (temporary) member. Even if it was just a practical one: even Spartans had to eat. Right?

The Spartan's impassive faceplate stared at Taylor's unpolarized one as the latter held out his hand.

"Dutch never shares cookies with any of us . You know, his actual squad ." 

The complaint seemed to stir the Spartan, who carefully took the cookies from Taylor. Somewhere in the back of his head, Taylor realised he'd half-expected the large, gauntleted hand to crush the fragile packet by accident.

"Won't even tell us how he gets them so often." Agu grumbled. 

Taylor tapped his visor just to the right of where his nose would be. “And I never will, jackass.” Because then he would never be free of his team teasing him about Gretchen sending him them in his care packages as a reminder of when they would try to steal them from one another any chance they had. 

Ironically, Agu would have already known all this if he'd been as observant socially as he was sniping. 

The Spartan stored the cookies in a pouch on his belt. "Maybe later. Thank you, trooper.” 

Rookie gave Taylor an appreciative hum, which, more than the Spartan’s thanks, made Taylor feel good about the gesture.

At that moment, Dare jogged back into camp. “I think we're going to have to cut this short. Are you good to go Dutch? Spartan?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Taylor as the Spartan stood beside him with his shoulders squared. He was a tall fucker, but not the tallest he'd seen of the Spartans. “What's the problem?”

“Some aliens sniffing around. I don't want them figuring out we're nearby before we try to take the shipyard.”

Taylor sighed, “In a single hour, she has been laid waste.” About half an hour, actually, since they'd been allowed to stop for a moment, but the grumble was mostly for show; he was already holstering his weapons and shouldering his backpack. On the way out of the warehouse-prison-building, he'd also picked up a Jiralhanae grenade launcher - very preferable to the light pistol he'd been handed before. Though when it came to weapons on a battlefield, beggars couldn't be choosers. 

The others hadn't all been so lucky with their scavenging of secondary weapons except Agu, who appreciated upgraded needlers almost as much as a standard UNSC sniper rifle. 

They made sure to leave no trace of their glorified pit-stop behind, hastily disturbing the ground where footprints covered it and kicking snow over the bare patch that the portable heater had melted through while heating up their meals. 

“We'll be crossing into Dirn province in the next twenty minutes, then it's not much further from there,” Dare announced, and with the team's acknowledgements of the order, they were on the move.

SPARTAN-B312

1912 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

The Shipyard 

Dirn Province, Planet Zuryal

Darkness fought for dominance in the low light of the shipyard. The patter of feet and chatter of aliens occasionally punctured the air, but B312’s helmet translator could hardly keep up: the bulk of the power from the jury-rigged source was consumed by the basic functions of the rest of the MJOLNIR. His body still ached something terrible, but he was excited for his first real fight with the Covies that had locked him up in this place, which made it easier to ignore his fatigue. 

The stealth of their operation did not discourage him: B312 had always been able to be something of a ghost on an op, and his time away had been no different. It had earned him a nickname, Shadow Demon, and though he would never wear a badge from his enemies proudly he was happy to know his actions were something that frightened the Covenant. Made a dent in their efforts, so to speak. 

Reaper Team was huddled at the edge of the shipyard, watching a patrolling Brute and Jackal pair walk languidly past. They were waiting for a gap in which to move down the hill that the shipyard was situated below, and climb the shoddy wall they were currently peering over from their vantage point. B312 would have preferred to just go ahead using his active camouflage, but Buck was very insistent they at least move into the area together. He could wait until then.

"UNSC wrecks are at the front, then Covenant ships are near the back."

“Modified, or the same as they were?” Reaper Leader asked.

“Clarify? I wasn’t aware Covenant ships had new classifications.” That was definitely strange - B312 wouldn’t call himself overly familiar with alien ships, but if they were so different the UNSC was classifying them completely separately he should have picked up on something. 

“...How long has it been- since you've been in contact?" 

B312 felt his adrenaline pick up, unsure of the question and Dare's tentativeness. It had been too long - far too long. 

After Reach, after he'd fought like hell to get off that planet and take as many Covenant down on the way as he could, he'd tried to contact anyone who might be listening. Radio silence was all he received, and with no idea where friendly forces would be and no recall, he'd doubled down on doing whatever he could from behind enemy lines.

Of course, he hadn't been completely oblivious to the things changing in the social and political landscape of this war: he’d assumed that the knew names popping up were simply Covenant sects that occasionally fought amongst themselves, or the rare breakaway group like the Jackal pirates that had tried to settle beside humans on the Rubble in 2535. 

"Early ‘fifty two. The attack on Reach."

A unit of ODSTs appearing to free him from imprisonment was something that at first, there'd been no time to question, but had recently left him puzzled beyond belief. He'd been waiting for a good moment to ask how they found him, who ordered them here, and more importantly, what had really been going on?

"Shit, Spartan.” That was Reaper Three, Mickey - the one who’d pilfered most of the team’s grenades, “That's two years." 

And he'd been just fine with that. Anything that wasn't gathering intel or killing something or taking care of basic necessities like food and ammo was put off, for later. For when he found UNSC or ended up in friendly airspace or a way to communicate. Just a constant cycle of later, later, later for two years . And there still wasn't time to stop. There never was. Save it for later, because either they'd win and he'd be returned to ONI, or... well, the alternative wasn't really an option, was it? After all, Spartans never die.

The dog tags he carried said otherwise. 

“The human-Covenant war ended on December eleventh, the same year we lost Reach. The Covenant is gone.” Despite the rising thunder of his own blood in his ears, the Spartan heard her clearly. Too clearly. Everything went sharp. 

"Hey." Doherty’s soft voice was a startling juxtaposition. The silence must have stretched too long.

What else could he do but admit it? “I didn't know.” 

It didn't really seem possible. His first thought was that he was being lied to. But why?

Behind the polarised visor Doherty might have been smiling by the tone of his voice. “We couldn't believe it either, at the time.” 

The mission didn't change because the names of their enemies might be different, for now, so he left it aside and turned his helmet to Doherty's. “There’s more to catch up on than I thought.” 

The trooper nodded firmly, hopefully hearing the Spartan’s request for the two of them to be reacquainted - if they had the chance - after this. He wouldn't ask for it though, not when he had no clue what was waiting for him back with ONI. 

“What’s the story between you two, anyway?” This time it was Dutch, the trooper B312 had been most wary about conflicting with. His concerns were seemingly for naught, as he’d given the Spartan a peace offering that now sat in a pouch on the Spartan’s waist. He would eat later. 

“Sorry Dutch, storytime’s over,” Buck drew himself into a low crouch at B312’s other side, “we’ve got an opening.”

Chapter Text

BUCK

1915 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

The Shipyard 

Dirn Province, Planet Zuryal

Buck dropped down into the shipyard, crouching on impact to muffle the sound. Veronica and Romeo came after him, and paired off one way, then Rookie and Dutch who went another. Once Mickey and the Spartan were over he intended to join them as a three, but after taking a second to look at Mickey, he turned back to find a noticeable lack of Spartan where there definitely was one just a second ago.

He pointed to the spot the Spartan had been, then at Mickey, tilting his head. Where the fuck did he go? Did you see?

Mickey shrugged.

How did they lose almost 7 ft of metal man right out of the gate?

Well, they'd just have to trust that the Spartan knew what he was doing - an almost paradoxical phrase in most cases, but apparently this one had been AWOL or something like it since the fall of Reach. He had to be good to survive that long on his own, right?

Movement of the red dots on his NAV prompted Buck into movement, Mickey trailing at his right heel. 

It was no difficult feat for the two troopers to reach the alien ships; they simply had to move fast and quiet where they could, and duck into the thick shadows cast by warped metal plates and pieces of Pelicans and Hornets where they couldn’t. With the strangely neat rows of destroyed ships around him, Buck couldn’t help but be reminded of some sort of fucked up muse or art exhibit, but it more so reassured him that going to retrieve the Wellspring was the right thing to do. He’d never wanted to lead his team into such a dark and uncertain corner of warfare again after the horror of New Mombasa, but they were all tough, and would rise to the challenge even when it put a bad taste in their mouths. Watching him in the low light, Buck almost believed Mickey would be preferring this mission more than their last ones, as he’d privately confessed to the Gunnery Sergeant that he’d seriously consider quitting if they were put on many more anti-URF ops. 

Some might think of Mickey’s aversion to human-to-human fighting as a weakness in what was meant to be an infallible Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. Buck had almost thought that himself, until reading the other trooper’s file before his interview: Mickey's parents had been insurrectionists. They were killed in a bombing of a UEG building, leaving Mickey to be drafted as was a condition for a release from foster care back during the human-Covenant war. But Mickey had completed his mandatory service and stayed in the UNSC. Maybe he just didn’t feel like he had anywhere else to go, but it hopefully meant he wouldn’t be following in his parent’s footsteps. That had worried Buck, admittedly, but Mickey was a good man - unlikely to be swayed to the United Rebel Front, even if he had tentatively voiced his sympathies for it when the topic had come up.

Buck had long since given up on debating him about it, though Romeo and Dutch still took the bait sometimes. Simply put, Buck believed there were better ways for the Rebels to get their point across that didn’t involve terrorism, and their lack of understanding that the Covenant wouldn’t just stop at destroying UNSC territory led to massive unnecessary conflicts that nearly crippled humanity on both the human and alien fronts during the war. But that was neither here nor now. 

The first ship they came across that looked space-worthy was a Phantom with the brand of the Frantics just about visible laying over its curved hull. 

With the door open it was easy for them to get inside and get a feeling of the place. If they weren't certain the ship would fly, there would be no point starting it up just to alert every Kig-Yar and Jiralhanae in the area for nothing. 

Mickey beelined for the cockpit while Buck kept watch, briefly glancing at the messy display of controls that, frankly, Buck would be hard pressed to even identify their purpose, let alone use effectively. But he wasn't an alien, or a pilot, so that was to be expected. Mickey, being the latter, nodded to himself then moved aft to check on the engine and shield generator. He must have seen something he liked, because he gave Buck the ok signal and a beacon was placed over their location on NAV. 

Being the first ones to find a ship had its perks; they could just wait here for the others to- 

“ Christ -” Buck swore quietly, startled by the sudden appearance of the Spartan who spared him a glance that could have been anything from judging to apologetic. He shook off then sheathed his knife as he entered the ship, boots barely clanking on the metal interior, as if the armour alone didn't weigh half a ton. Meanwhile, Mickey's shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Buck had a bad feeling the rest of the team would be hearing about this later. At least their missing Spartan problem was solved.

Gunfire outside sobered everyone quickly, as did the break in radio silence over COM.

“Get that engine started,” Dare said as she and Romeo approached the ship at speed, occasionally stopping to shoot as they went. 

“You heard the lady, get us going Mickey. Spartan, you're co-pilot.” Buck moved out of the ship to assist as Mickey and the Spartan went further in, quickly checking NAV to make sure Rookie and Dutch were also on their way. Purple lights spilled out of the ship and onto the ground, followed by a gust as it began to hover. 

Veronica stood on the other side of the door as Romeo made it the last few metres to them, shortly followed by Dutch and Rookie who'd had to backtrack instead of coming from the side. 

“Coordinates are set,” informed the Spartan, “there's three banshees and one unidentified ship above us. Someone needs to be on the gun.”

As the aft door closed, Buck watched Rookie move to man the turret only for Dutch to claim it instead with a, “I'll take it, Rookie.” Hopefully the younger trooper wouldn't be too annoyed. 

The ship lurched as it began to climb, bringing that promised banshee retaliation with it. Dutch did the heavy lifting with the Phantom’s turret, while the rest of them supplemented the fire with their smaller weapons when a Banshee came too close. The first one became a fireball before long, but the other two were more careful. Buck swore as Mickey haphazardly evaded fire and wondered if he'd fall off of the ship before the Banshees managed to destroy it.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this, Mickey.” Romeo complained, using the pilot’s grenade launcher after his rifle ran out of plasma. 

“I am! Do you want to try flying this thing?”

“Less talking, more shooting and flying,” Buck chided. Banter was all well and good, but not if it meant distracting the driver. 

One of Romeo's grenades managed to hit a Banshee square on the nose as it dived beneath them, creasing the hull and sending it into a spiral. “Boom!” 

The final Banshee, without its pair to trade positions with, followed the first two into oblivion after that when its wings were damaged beyond use and it plummeted. 

Mickey hummed. “Hey Spartan, did you see where that last ship went?”

“It didn't pursue, but it might have just dropped out of range. No visual.” 

“Alright. Well, keep an eye out for me.”

“Affirmative.”

Seemingly free from pursuers, Mickey took the opportunity to raise the other doors and started climbing out of the atmosphere. The Spartan had warned them the asteroid likely had minimal AA ordinance, but Buck wasn't too worried. Getting shot at in a ship like this one wasn't too dissimilar to a drop in hot airspace.

“Please keep all hands and feet inside the alien spaceship at all times, and enjoy your flight.”

“Thanks, Mickey. What is this, the SS-I-Forgot-To-Renew-My-License?” 

Dutch turned to Romeo and made a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand. “Eh, five out of ten for that one, Romeo. Your response was a little wordy.”

Romeo scoffed.

“And, it's not that kind of ship.”

“Even you, Rookie?”

Rookie nodded in mock-sympathy, and Buck rolled his eyes. This was a new thing they'd started doing that seemed very effective at taking the wind out of Romeo's bitchy sails. The man was surprisingly easy to divert: something Buck wished he had known back when Romeo was just a regular asshole, unlike the prickly but secretly-good-natured asshole he was now. The whole team had changed a lot since their first mission together - and as Buck shared a look with Dare over the team’s antics, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way. 

ROMEO

1945 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Zurynaha Airspace

In a Neighbouring Orbit to Planet Zuryal, Classo System 

When the ship’s alarms started to complain of a targeting system locking onto them, it was met with a colourful swear from their pilot and a sudden lurch that left most of Reaper Team stumbling about the trooper bay. The Spartan must have heard their scrambling from the cockpit, because a half-serious, half-superfluous, “hold on to something” crackled over COM. No one complained at the advice, more focused on keeping their asses off the floor. 

“We’ve got two AA guns on us,” Mickey explained, “It’ll be a rough landing.” 

“You’re saying we ain't at ‘rough’ yet?” It was a little hard to know if Romeo was shouting over the alarm. 

“Incoming!” 

Romeo’s stomach dropped - in a sort of familiar way - as the ship became little more than a dropped stone. A terrible screech went over their heads, tracked by a line of slightly discoloured material. They’d been that close to being toasted. The ship’s engines picked up again. 

“Yeah, this is worse than a SOIEV,” Gunny sighed. So that’s what had felt so familiar about this.

Dutch shook his head, “You’d be dead if something came that close to a pod.”

“It never would'a had the chance- woah- ”, More wobbling pre-emptively cut-off the debate. 

“Brace! Brace!” The warning came a split second before the nose of the ship dipped and Romeo’s feet almost slid out from underneath him. Phantoms weren’t really made for anything more than packing in troops and spitting them out wherever required, so handholds were in short supply. He did his best, mentally berating himself for his comments earlier. What other ODST pilot could pull off a landing in an alien aircraft, on a hot LZ, with two guns targeting them and no ground support, if not Mickey? If they somehow survived this, he’d kiss that man on the mouth. 

---

When Romeo’s boots finally hit the dirt, it was with less force than he expected, and with a relief that he hadn’t declared his ultimatum out loud. He’d been on an asteroid only once before, but not one with its own atmosphere and definitely not an artificial atmosphere at that. There was nothing in the ‘sky’ to suggest he should be able to breathe right now, staring up at a cloudless, unobstructed view of the stars like he was standing on the outside of a spaceship. 

Forerunner bullshit, almost certainly. So useful and yet so dangerous - their tech made up the largest collection of big red buttons in the universe. Enticing buttons that shouldn’t be pressed, no matter how tempting or how good they looked on paper. Just look at where that got the galaxy when the Halo rings were discovered, and the Flood was unleashed.  

So here they were, trying to take a button for themselves once again before it was turned against humanity. War never changed, not for infantry like Romeo and the rest of his team. 

“No time for stargazing, Romeo,” Dutch nodded the way they were going. On the barren and (unusually) flat asteroid - which, really, was probably as artificial as the air on it - it was easy to see why even a faction as pathetic as the Frantics would fight tooth and nail (claw?) to guard it. The encircling buildings were much more imposing from down here, seeming to vanish into nothing as their peaks condensed to impossibly infinitesimal points. And then, of course, there was the central building, which supposedly housed both the thing they were here for, and the largest concentration of aliens in the Classo System. All Romeo could think about was that at least they had done one thing right, putting so many of their forces on their most precious ordonnance. Too bad it wouldn’t be enough. But like Dutch had said, there was no time to stand around and stare: Romeo jogged with the others as they made their way to the first spire. 

Halfway there, the thundering of a dropship complicated things. It settled behind them, and Romeo grunted in annoyance. He had a storm rifle in hand and a needler on his hip: the former came to bear, popping Kig-Yar shields like balloons, and where he could, Romeo switched to his needler to finish them off. Plasma-burst weapons were more efficient on flesh in the short-range, or more concentrated fire like the carbine, so a needler suited the Kig-Yar better once their shields were down. Sue him, Romeo liked to know about how to use alien weaponry effectively, especially when - between new alien allies and ops behind enemy lines where care packages were in short supply - it wasn't uncommon to spend most of a fight with something non-UNSC in hand. 

Or, like the Spartan, you could skip all that and try CQC with an armoured, hammer-wielding Jiralhanae, though Romeo personally wouldn't recommend it. 

The larger fight seemed to stutter as both sides marvelled at the one-on-one combat: more nimble than the ape, the Spartan weaved between hammer swings until he was too close to be hit with it, a knife in hand that stabbed down into the Jiralhanae’s brandishing arm. The alien roared but did not let go of its weapon, strafing back to gain that distance needed to pound the Spartan into the ground. They traded blows between their armoured bodies until a smart pivot from the Jiralhanae put the Spartan in hammer range, and the Jiralhanae delivered such a strike that the over 100lbs of super-soldier flew a full three seconds before skidding along the ground and coming to a stop. The rest of Reaper Team moved to cover their downed member but the Spartan was up again before they could finish the manoeuvre, away one second and back the next, one hand darting up to the front of the Jiralhanae's armour and leveraging it to swing onto the alien’s back. It twisted and clawed fruitlessly until the Kukri was driven home into the back of its neck, reducing the hulking threat to a pile of meat. But the Spartan wasn't done, reaching over the falling Jiralhanae for its hammer, which was spun out to the side at two aliens coming to their senses. They dodged, but the distraction provided ample time for the Spartan to draw his plasma pistol and, pushing off his last victim, rushed to engage more targets. 

“If that's how you fight fresh out of prison,” Romeo called, turning his attention back to his own freshly irritated enemies, “I'd love to see what you're usually like.” but he'd hate to find out what had managed to take the Spartan down. Gunny came to Romeo's elbow, crossing fire lines to nail a Kig-Yar he hadn't seen, its overcharged plasma bolt splashing onto the ground with a hiss as the bird alien rag dolled. “Thanks.” They took opposing levels, making it difficult for the Kig-Yar to cover both their heads and feet at once without compromising manoeuvrability. Soon three more were dead, and the two troopers crowed the victory. 

“We need to keep moving,” Dare interjected. The dropship decided that moment was time to make itself known once again with a stream of plasma from its mounted cannon, causing its target, Rookie, to run from the blue bolts carving a line into the ground at his heels. Dutch was immediately on the gunner, pumping it full of needler crystals until the Jiralhanae exploded into pink mist. “Continue to the spire.” 

“Solid copy,” Gunny was up and moving already, a pat on Romeo's shoulder - more encouraging than forceful - drove him the same way. Their sector was already clear, meaning no danger came to turning their backs and running until they came level with the others, still picking off their opponents. Rookie had made it back to the pack after his dance with the dropship, which had since retreated. He scooped up a mangler from a dead Jiralhanae, looked over it once, and whistled to Mickey. 

Rookie came to a stop by Mickey, holding out the but of his new gun, “trade?” 

Shaking out his needle rifle to ready a fresh batch of ammunition, Mickey agreed, but was less than pleased when he checked the ammo. “Only half? Come on, Rookie.” 

Romeo had no sympathy: judging by the purple haze only just dispersing around him, Mickey had likely used up just as much ammo before hanging off his gun to Rookie, anyway. The mangler spat spiked projectiles with a heavy chrk, chrk, chrk, behind each one that receded at Romeo’s back as he pressed forward, eager to barrel on to the next objective. 

“Keep up, trooper,” called the Spartan over COM to Mickey as the mangler went quiet, nothing left for it to destroy. At first Romeo thought that perhaps the Spartan was - for the first time - expressing the ability to engage in some friendly banter like an actual human being.

But his voice had been strained.

Chapter Text

DARE

2014 hours, August 12, 2554 (military calendar) 

Forerunner Structure, Zurynaha 

Outer Neighbouring Orbit to Planet Zuryal, Classo System 

Veronica’s muscles felt tight as she waited for the rest of her team to arrive. Her jaw was already aching.

The Forerunner tech had been a bust: as Buck had accidentally predicted, it was the whole damn asteroid that made up the ‘device’ that managed to drag things out of slipspace. A fake fucking asteroid two hundred and forty kilometers in diameter built, by some unknowable ancient species, to scoop things out of slipspace at their leisure. And her team were going to die on it. 

Mickey was in the front of the new commandeered dropship, tutting at the Spartan’s clumsy repurposing of the slipspace drive that left wires and pipes spewed over his workstation. But they needed the messy work - it would allow them to coast an explosion in slipspace itself out of here without being slung back at Zuryal’s surface, and made sure the wellspring never gave water again. Veronica was sure her co-workers would love to dissect the ship if they managed to drag it back to the Say My Name . 

As far as retreats go it should have been simple, and straightforward, then Buck had gotten himself cornered and pinned down like an idiot and between everyone dying and the mission failing, or leaving one person behind… the answer should have been obvious. And it was, to them, but not in the ‘correct’ way.

Not even the Spartan dared suggest they take the protocol-sanctioned approach, and seemed eager as he jumped back out of the dropship to assist. Veronica had almost tumbled out after him, held back only by an uncharacteristically firm grasp by Rookie that brought her to her senses. She could not move as fast as a Spartan, and time was something they did not have on their side. 

Veronica felt a bitterness overtake her awe as the Forerunner structure seemed to glint in the starlight. Pristine silver against suffocating black. Really, she should not be surprised: the first Forerunner technology ever discovered by humanity was designed to kill every living thing in its sights, so at least this one had a narrower range. And, even if they hadn’t created entire orbital bodies just for the purpose of destruction, humans were not much better when it came down to the line. 

Dutch was assisting Mickey in the front, Romeo was in the dropship’s other ‘arm’ making sure it was up to scratch. It would do no good to take off and find out there was a Jiralhanae sleeping back there, or some other complication to sabotage them out in space. 

So everyone was accounted for. Just Buck and the Spartan to go. Maybe when it came down to only two missing members, thinking she was waiting for ‘the rest of her team’ was a little impersonal. 

God, she was going to punch that man if they both survived this. And then she was going to kiss him. An unoriginal move after their reunion in New Mombasa, perhaps, but an effective one.

NITH-BEK

First Age of Independence

En Route to Classo System Edge,

Inner Neighbouring Orbit to Planet Zuryal, Classo System

Nith-Bek cursed his stupidity. He’d seen the Phantom, pursued by only a meagre team of fighters, heading for Zurynaha, and yet he hadn’t thought it prudent to encourage Guc to land their ship and wait to see what became of whoever was approaching the Wellspring. The slipspace drive in the back of the cargo ship was not standard, and squatted in the back amidst a tangle of wires and plating, looking for all the world like nothing but a bomb waiting to go off and rip the little ship to pieces. Well, you’d be wrong for assuming that was all it would do, but considering they couldn’t jump so close to Zurynaha, and an activation of the split space disruptor would agitate their own drive even while it wasn’t in use, it really was nothing but a danger until they made it out of the system. 

But it seemed they would never get that chance. 

The alarm warned the ship’s passengers of major power fluctuations and pressure changes, but it only fell on the deaf ears of two Kig-Yar certain they were about to die. It almost seemed like too much work just for Nith-Bek to cling tightly to the fastenings of the co-pilot’s chair as if the flimsy restraints would save him as they were torn apart in slipspace. He thought he heard the roaring of wind - entirely impossible - as the ship both accelerated and decelerated to impossible speeds at the same time, and the beautiful landscape of Classo and its dual stars flickered in and out with the dizzying blur of slipspace. 

He could no longer tell what was up or down, which direction they were moving or even how fast, just that it turned the world into a kaleidoscope of colours and a high-pitched ringing. 

Until darkness and silence overtook him.

--- 

When Nith-Bek awoke again, it was to a pounding headache and the angry face of Guc staring at him. No- not angry- she was terrified, but of what?

Maybe, Nith-Bek thought with no small modicum of hysteria as he looked over her shoulder and out the viewing glass, it was the giant human ship drifting beside them with the words UNSC Say My Name inscribed on the side.

They weren’t out of the woods just yet.

Chapter Text

SPARTAN-B312 

0002 hours, August 13, 2554 (military calendar) 

‘The Freezer’, Fort Gr -- Unknown Location,

Unknown System

B312 couldn’t move. He was lying supine, faintly registering gravity anchoring him to a hard surface. And he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even flex one finger. His helmet speakers must be broken because they were relaying a distracting whine that seemed to shatter his thoughts as they appeared. Except, he couldn’t hear his own breathing properly either. It was his ears that were ringing. 

He blinked a few times and his vision slid back into place. A red warning overtook the usual blue of his HUD that simply said Seek medical attention immediately , which juxtaposed the other warning right below it that told him its hydrostatic gel had pressurised and would need several minutes to bleed pressure before he could move again. The shield monitor bar at the top of the HUD was empty, but it had been for about eighteen months, so he didn’t feel that it needed his attention. His blood pressure and heart rate were elevated. And he couldn’t move . The Spartan refused to believe the freezer had bothered him so much that a simple pressurising had him- he wasn’t panicking. This had never been a problem during his stay with the Covies ( not Covies, just Frantics) so his injuries and lack of knowledge about what was actually happening must have been messing with him. 

The sound of tactical combat boots thundering into the room (it was an alien ship, not a room. They had stolen it to escape the asteroid) pulled him out of his head. Noises began to return to normal; the whining stopped. 

“Is he dead?” B312 guessed that was Mickey.

He answered with no small effort, “Armour’s gel layer pressurised; can’t move until it's bled off. ‘Couple minutes.” More short-term memories resurfaced, “How’s Reaper Two?”

“Slow down, Spartan,” That was definitely Dare, “Buck’s stable; Rookie has him. Romeo and Dutch are fine. Everyone’s more than a bit dazed, but alive.”

She was giving him a full sitrep. Standard procedure to distract and inform fazed personnel at the same time. He would be rankled by the sentiment if it wasn’t so helpful. 

“And we’re five minutes out from a UNSC cruiser - the Say My Name - so try and get yourself sorted before then. Mickey isn’t as good a medic as the Rookie, but I’m sure he can help a little if you need it.”

She must have said that last bit as a joke - but B312 couldn’t turn his head to see if she was smiling. What he did pick up on, more so that the fact he was about to step foot on a UNSC ship for the first time since Reach, was that Doherty was the team’s medic. Hearing that did make the Spartan smile, knowing that the trooper had signed up to the Navy for one reason: to save lives. 

He’d said his second career choice had always been doctor. 

And, he thought with a wince, it wouldn’t hurt to have a visit to the infirmary himself when he could. As fast as he was B312 had had a tough time delivering both himself and Buck back to the dropship alive, especially when a fuel-rod cannon with unfortunately skilled aim had nearly put him out of commission for good, with nothing to be said of the unaugmented, much less armoured ODST he had been carrying. Someone had once told him that Spartan-II’s were like humanity’s shield, and III’s were its sword. He didn’t really know how true the sentiment was, but nothing does shield quite like two layers of MJOLNIR trying their hardest to cover a fully grown soldier from a plasma weapon with splash damage. 

After that, it was all a little bit of a blur. 

B312 fell asleep. 

--

B312 was surprised when he managed to walk off of the ship without stumbling into anything. He was separated from the rest of Reaper Team almost as soon as they were docked, only catching a glimpse of Buck being carted off to medical with his team alongside him. It was touching, despite the context. Alone, B312 was asked to be ready for a meeting with the Captain in exactly five hours, or, a marine added with a hesitant nod to his burn-riddled form, if he couldn’t be, to let someone know. 

So his first stop was the armourers.

They'd taken one look at his armour and requested he shuck it immediately, then one look at his vitals and it was off to the infirmary. He wouldn't be allowed to keep the armour, he knew. Something to do with a battery that was just as likely to explode as it was the power the MJOLNIR and its half-functioning systems. Just not up to code.

MJOLNIR - or any Spartan armour for that matter - had not been designed to be removed without machine assistance, but with plenty of time and a great deal of effort he'd been able to don and doff it enough over the past two years. Still... He was thankful for the hygiene layer. Too much time in its hold left B312 uncomfortable without his second skin, and to simply twist and remove his mirrored face - to be able turn it around and see the distorted image staring up at him from the splintered visor, with its pale skin and hard blue-grey eyes - made him uneasy.

He knew he couldn't blame his... Abnormal early life and training for this classic depersonalisation. Other Spartans were not so mechanical - many were comfortable being people as well as soldiers (only when it was appropriate, of course) - but B312 had at some point lost the ability to snap out of it. He didn't know if he could or even if he wanted to. How could he, if he didn't know what it would be like?

Maybe it had grown slowly, since Reach, or maybe long before that. Back when people stopped introducing him by anything other than 'Spartan-B-three-twelve', and he'd been okay with that.

That was practically a name, right? Or would it be a serial number, more suited to a weapon like him anyway?

It was that quality, after all, that pushed him to protest as much as he did against the Captain at the meeting (it had taken longer than expected to wriggle himself out of ordered bed rest, but he’d managed). B312 was only mildly surprised he was the only one there, as he’d assumed this would be some sort of debrief, but perhaps that would come later. This was a personal meeting, about what they wanted to do with the Spartan next. 

Apparently, they were going to take him out of the fight.

"Sir. With all due respect, I'm much more useful to you out there than-" he struggled to find the words. They hadn't even told him where he'd be shipped off to for however many months it took for him to 're-integrate'  and 'mentally recover'. The first he understood: the war had changed, and he wouldn't want a soldier running around slitting his new allies' throats either. But the second was just another way of saying he'd be taking psych evals for the rest of his goddamned life. Would they even discharge him if they thought he'd never be ready for battle again? He realised faintly he'd never considered a life that wasn't UNSC - one that didn't end with him dying on a battlefield. Was it even possible for Spartans to retire? All the more reason for him to assure ONI of his battle-readiness. That he'd be better off out there, rather "-than here." He finished lamely.

"No one has forgotten your skill, Spartan. That's partly the reason we named the operation after your old moniker, after all." 

B312 suppressed the urge to flick his eyes around the room in annoyance and held the Captain's gaze with a slight glare. Some mandated time off was expected, but months? Plural? B312 was pretty sure he wasn't crazy (or whatever they thought he was that surpassed the normal baseline for a Spartan) now, but he definitely would be if he had to stay idle for that long.

"You deserve some shore leave, Spartan, and we need to know that you're ready before we send you back out there to fight. Enjoy it, rest a bit. It must have been difficult these past two years."

"Like you wouldn't believe." He hadn't meant to say that out loud. "Sir."

The Captain leant forward again, fingers steepled on the desk. "Whatever happens, we'll be needing a full debrief - whatever you can - before anything else. Someone will come and get you at seventeen-hundred tomorrow."

B312 nodded. This was a chance, at least, to negotiate again later. 

"Until then, you're dismissed."

"Sir!" B312 saluted, and briskly left the room, pretending not to hear the sigh behind him.

--

Three days later, briefing delivered and something like anticipation bubbling under his skin, B312 turned a corner on his way to the mess hall and almost bumped into a familiar face. 

"Hey." 

Jun. Standing there. Helmet under his arm, head tilted casually to the side and a smile that crinkled crows feet into his face around the eyes. His fist-and-three-arrows tattoo was a darker ink that B312 remembered, but his face was definitely the same. 

For some reason, B312 hadn't expected to meet him again like this - like it was natural - probably because at some point in the last year he'd had the feeling he'd never see anyone he'd known ever again. But even on the way here, all the way onto the ship with the knowledge the other Spartan was onboard, it still seemed too anticlimactic. 

"Jun- it's good to see you." I thought I'd never see a friendly face again. How have you been? 

"You too, Six." 

There was another name he thought he'd never hear again.

"I heard you were having some disagreements about PTO with Captain Shelly," A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

B312 shifted his weight. "I wasn't built for rest."

"None of us were," Jun shook his head, "but I understand where they're coming from."

B312 felt his mouth twist into an involuntary frown, and Jun continued, "I'm not saying I agree, I'm just saying ONI is probably wary of putting someone so volatile right back into missions again."

Volatile. A light word all things considered, that many might have found insulting. B312 realised he’d missed Jun’s honesty. "I can't just stop, Jun. Not even for a month, definitely not two. I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

Jun's gaze was understanding for a moment, then turned conspiratorial. 

"Maybe you won't have to."

"What do you mean?"

"Follow me. Let me show you what I've been doing all this time.”

Chapter Text

ROOKIE

Some Time Later 

…The following is a letter of recommendation for all members of the Alpha-Nine ODST team of the 103rd Shock Troops Battalion to be admitted to the Spartan-IV program if they so choose to volunteer…

Doherty glanced up from his datapad. The other two were similarly engrossed in their screens as he had just been, presumably having been sent the same message. 

“You guys gettin’ this?” That was Dutch, drawing everyone’s attention as he waved his datapad lightly.  

“Recommendation to the Spartan fours, shit.” Romeo’s typical cynical commentary must have been overtaken by his shock. Rookie was almost in a similar state: a number of years ago if you’d have told a bunch of ODSTs they could become Spartans, there would have been a lot of insubordination charges going around of troopers laughing in their commanders’ faces. 

But times change. 

“You think we should go find the others?” 

Doherty nodded. They could read through this as a team, first, and then make the decision for themselves. He had the feeling that, after years of relative steadiness, they'd be losing Crespo after this one. His heart hadn't been in the fight for a long time, even after they stopped being assigned so many… human targets. If the rest of the team were on board with the program, this might be one step too far for Mickey. But he was thinking too far ahead. 

People come and go quite often in teams, in Doherty's experience. Hell, most of Alpha-Nine were ‘replacements’ (Gunny's words) on Doherty's first mission with them in New Mombasa. 

Then they'd stayed the same for two years - not unrealistic, if uncommon - but then for a further handful of years had only experienced the temporary loss and gain of members from time to time (never for more than five months - Doherty himself had been temporarily appointed to the Wasp unit for a while, where they actually called him by his last name) and the more permanent addition of one new member: Dutch's wife, Gretchen. 

Which had brought their total married troopers on the team up to three, when Gunny and Dare finally got together. Even if Dare didn't work as closely with the team professionally anymore, it wasn't uncommon to see her around the common areas, or to pop in and whisk their team leader away for a time. 

Another message came through, this time addressed directly to the team, from Spartan-B312. 

You can come and ask about the program in more detail if you want to. 

Special treatment from B312 was often like a teacher who gave you extra homework because they ‘saw your potential’: a nice sentiment, but often tedious. It only happened from time to time - their lives rarely intersected even before the Spartan was cleared for missions again, and B312 was not the type to go out for socials -  but when it did it made Doherty smile. 

He remembered how difficult it had been to surprise the Spartan with the ODST tattoo. The man never sat down long enough for them to propose the idea, and it had taken three weeks after Gunny's recovery to get it done. Even so it seemed he'd happily take the time to sit down for an hour to discuss a program his team might not even be a part of, just for their benefit. 

“We should go.” Romeo and Dutch turned towards him, “Just to see.”

They both agreed and, with a plan to round up the rest of the team soon to talk it over, got back to their duties for the day. 

And Doherty had the feeling of being at a turning point.