THE MOUNTAIN & THE HOUND

Location: Freelancer Monitoring Base 17-M, UNSC colony of Gemmanon.

The thing was coming for him... wait, no. Not for him.

In reality, 'thing' was as close as Davy Doggett could get without getting that bad taste in his mouth when it came up during the weekly briefings from Command. It wasn't a person. Everyone said so. And you had to listen to everyone...because everyone said so. Otherwise, you'd end up just like-

"Agent Maine! Stand down now or we will be forced to put you down!" Boomed a voice over the loudspeaker. Doggett couldn't tell whose it was; though his money was on Flasser; the fat, perspiring bastard who'd transferred over from Command a while back. Not even a few weeks in, and their new CO was already tagged as the office bean-bag . It showed in his quivering attempts to communicate with that...thing coming towards them. Slow and steady.

Doggett raised his rifle, trying not to squint too hard at the reflective visor that was the giant's head. Luminously orange and admittedly imposing, it gave off a bad impression from the start. Not that any giant, lobotomized freaks had stopped by, just to be fair.

His eyes flicked over to where the only other two security personnel on site- Joannes and Cleery- stood stock still against the bulkhead of concrete that hid them from the giant's view, doubtlessly counting their rosaries, like the damn bible-thumpers they were.
Just Doggett's luck that they were all he had here, in the middle of an island.

Which has to be some kind of horrible metaphor. But regardless, Doggett had the bastard, dead to rights. All he needed was the okay from Flasser, who- as it turned out- wasn't in his office. Nor was he responding. So where the f-

"I would hold very still, if I were you." .

Doggett didn't even know the man was there. Hadn't even heard. Before his arm could so much as twitch, something was pressing into his helmet, banishing his thoughts away in a flush of cold, dreadful sweat. He felt the tremor coming before it hit him. Always happened when he knew he'd been made. And all he could do, really, was just breathe. Long and loud. This was to be it, then.

He didn't need a degree in ballistics to know that- even without the specialized black muzzle or lack of a serial number on the weapon pressed against his temple- this guy was extremely bad news. Probably worked for you-know-who, if his luck was really working its luster. Because, even saying the old man's name nowadays was grounds for investigation by a 'Recovery Team'. And disappearing into one of the Director's black bags was a decidedly un-pleasant future, in his mind.

Hadn't even heard the bastard, before the click of a hammer sliding back was all that kept him from bolting. Which he very, very badly wanted.

"Hi there." Said a voice. It was deceptively calm, that voice. He shifted his gaze ever so slightly to get a view, and only saw a flash of gold on grey before the muzzle whipped into his view. Suddenly he was blinking back stars as the world swam out of focus.

"I've got a few questions, ummmm..." gloved fingers brushed over his collar as he caught his breath, and then a brief pinch against his skin as the tags around his neck were ripped free. The pistol remained centered on the bridge of his nose.

"Private Doggett?" He could only nod; not really sure of what else he could do. The whole thing was numbing him to the bone. But then something crunched behind the pair of legs, echoing from behind the main compound. Where Joannes and Cleery were supposed to be hiding. The gray helmet rotated, briefly regarding the sound.

The tripled crack of a battle rifle reverberated through the air. The grey one jerked as if he'd been shot himself, sinking a knee onto the pavement as his thrust his pistol towards the noise. And then the screaming began. And, god help him, he knew whose voice it was.

"Joannes!" His elbows found leverage. Found the strength to push. A shadow passed over his hand as he shoved into the dirt. He looked up as the armored foot came down, so quickly and so...cleanly, that he didn't even know his leg was going numb until a scream was building in his throat.
And then it wasn't.
Until a fist clocked him across the jaw, and he felt something pop inside of his cheek as his helmet went flying. His tongue, more on instinct than actual need, shoved itself into the new opening that had replaced his molar as he fell to the ground.
He tasted blood as his face cracked against a rock, or at least what he hoped to god was a rock. The blackness began closing in as he saw the gray-armored legs spin around in a spray of sand and gravel, darting...towards...the...sound of...

"...ow many fucking times have we discussed this? No really, tell me!" The voice of his would-be murderer carried through both eardrums. That was a good sign, maybe. He tried to twitch something...or anything, really, and only got pain for his effort. From what he could...feel, most of his essentials were still in good shape, and barring that; probably in need of immediate surgery.

The thought went away as quickly as it had come, looking at the compound. He'd expected fire. More screaming, as fucked as it sounded.

He forced his eye to push open, and Doggett had to blink back a few thick goblets of dark red before he got a clear picture. Standing with a finger to his helmet was the grey bastard, his other hand clutching a pistol with a still-smoking barrel.

"He's not even supposed to be here unless I call him in! That was the goddamn arrangement when you signed the release, Chairman!" The voice continued. Still so calm, even...reverent at this point. He turned to give an emphasizing thrust of his head at something Doggett couldn't see.

"No!" Exclaimed the voice again, breaking the calm veneer of the moment. "I'm not your fucking dog, Hargrove. And I'm definitely not babysitting a fucking...mountain of psychopath every time he decides he wants to murder something!"

Doggett averted his eyes as the grey one turned, giving the area a once-over before disappearing behind the concrete wall. Maybe, if he could just play at being dead for a minute...
Fucking psychopath Freelancers, all of em. He'd bought into the rumors, of course. Who wouldn't? Especially with all the...entertaining prospects of being on a waterlogged rock with nothing to do but count a used deck of cards...

Doggett's eyes trailed left suddenly as a shimmer in the air flashed past him. Something above him hissed. Doggett looked up. And any moisture left in his mouth that wasn't just blood congealing in his gums suddenly left him in a single, sharp inhale as a massive, gloved hand materialized from thin air.

The thing was looking down at him. And a sound came from it. Like listening to some feral beast from the deepest circle of hell, crunching into fresh bone and muscle for the first time...all over again. The Great War had a habit of bringing bad memories back. And a subsequent chill that he was fairly certain he shouldn't be getting.
The shorter grey one was there suddenly, still pressing an earnest finger into the side of his helmet, before cocking his head at Doggett, like he was just this amazing little fucking miracle. God, he hated indifference in the morning.

"Hold that thought, Hargrove." Who the fuck is 'whore-grove'?

The grey one slowly ambled over, pistol sweeping the air around him with practiced fluidity. But Doggett couldn't look at him. The looming frame of the thing above him was lowering itself, neck outward and head cocked low, like an administering bird of prey fondling its young. It was a funny thought.

A massive, gloved hand found his throat, wrapping each deliberate digit around it until he was encompassed completely. His breath came up shortin the next instant, and then his own fingers were deliberately

"Meta!" Snapped the other voice. The grip around his neck was still tightening, and suddenly something was spraying past his cracked lip, spattering the insidious golden mirror with red liquid.

"Goddamnit...Maine! Let him go. Now!" The golden mirror turned so slowly that for a horrible second Doggett wondered if it was preparing to eat him. A horrible, slurping snarl came from deep within the helmet as it stopped halfway. A slight tilt as it stared the grey one down. The grey one did likewise, still as a statue, gun raised halfway like a quiet, solemn question mark. But then the vice-grip on his throat was slacking, and before he could say 'don't' his legs were crumpling into the ground before he could get a hand underneath, and he landed with a grunt and a gasp as a spasm went up his calves.

"So...Doggett. Can you tell me...ugh, jesus I hate this part." The pistol lowered until he was staring into the hole of the barrel. The creature stepped back with another hiss, though this one was different; shorter, even.

"And no, Meta. Ground rules, remember? You got your one chance, with...with the other one." The brief glance backwards told Doggett all he needed to know. A small, unheard prayer that he honestly didn't believe in went to the heavens, for the soul of Thomas Joannes. Sweet, naive dumbass that he had been, he didn't deserve that.

"Wait," he coughed. "You said other, as in one." Even as the words left him, a small spark in his chest gave him the wind he needed to sit up, scooting back until the foot of a concrete barricade stopped him. "Does that mean that Cleery-?"

"Ah, shit." Cursed the grey one, turning indignantly to the giant. "You didn't even...?" The giant remained silent, instead looking back towards the compound. Doggett followed his gaze, and bit his lip as another wail threatened to escape. He didn't care about the bloodstain on the wall. All he had to see was a pair of bright yellow cleaning gloves -one so burnt that it was almost unrecognizable- strewn next to a charred pile of...oh jesus.

He didn't try to stop the surge that went through his stomach. How could he? Every little movement was pain in this horrible world of blood and utter confusion that was his now. The stream of pale fluid and chunks that came spraying forth from his parched lips only served to add more shit to the blood and bullet shells scattered across the pavement. Cleery would be pissed.
Cleery was the post's janitorial specialist. Gloves came with the job, of which Cleery had retained an absurd, almost fanatical pride in.

"I doubt he'll be cleaning... well, anything soon, private. So, for the sake of your imminent lifespan, try to focus on me." And Doggett did, as absurd and narcissistic as the option sounded. Might as well make something happen, while he still could. Why not? Better than just pointlessly dying on the job he didn't even want in the first damn place.

"What do you...want?" It came as half of a gasp. Because now, even talking hurt. The grey one paused at that, before reaching into a pouch on his waist and gently sliding something free, and Doggett was surprised to hear the flap of paper unfolding. Of all things he expected to see, the last one on that list was a hard-copy photo.

He had to really strain to get a good visual; the eye not currently swollen over was still raw, and it was just a foggy mirage wherever he looked. Black-gloved fingers entered his peripheral vision, and he jerked back on instinct, smacking his head against the concrete.

"Fuck," was ll he could manage, really. It fit the bill.

"No, not fuck." Said the grey's voice. The fingers came back, this time pinching a small white cloth between them. Doggett got the message.
The tissue stung as it gouged into his socket, but the relief that immediately followed made it worthwhile to grunt and grimace until the delicate work was done.

"Better?" Doggett blinked, and the helmet nodded, almost as an afterthought. And then he looked back down at the photo, pointing with the pistol and tapping the now blue-ish image in the center. Doggett looked down as well.

"Holy shit. Is that...?" Doggett wasn't all that smart. He'd be the first to admit it. But he had a damn good memory. And one needed a good memory when one's only neighbors for a hundred miles in any direction kept stopping by to ask for new requisition forms. Among other, more ridiculous things.

"You know him?" The calmness was gone now, replaced with cool steel that made him grit his jaw. Doggett nodded.

"Yeah (cough). But what do you want with him? This is a (cough) Red base; not too many of their type around here." The grey and the giant shared a mutual turning of heads.

"No questions. Just answers, thank you. Now," he stood, motioning with his shoulders towards the main compound. The giant gave a faint shrug of its own massive shoulders and stomped away, each step leaving an inch-thick indent in the pavement as he dissapeared from sight, like someone had taken a giant fucking eraser and just-

"W-what is he doing?" Doggett ventured, flexing his fingers. If that motherfucker even thought about touching the bodies...

"He's, uh..." a resounding thump from inside the base snapped Doggett's attention forward, just as the first wisps of smoke began trailing out of the windows and slots. "...cleaning up the mess."

Oh christ.

"So..." The grey continued, as if they were old pals; just shooting the shit over craps and beer. And a handful of mutilated corpses. Yippee.

He didn't see the smoke until it was billowing out of the compound's every little opening- slowly at first, like a trickle, and then in great black clouds of choking death that came unbidden into the setting sunlight. Bright, dancing light enveloped the area as the fires within began to take hold, building behind the grey one's shadowed frame until the entire building was engulfed.

Something roared from inside. The man in grey spun around in a flurry at the sound, quiet curses seething from beneath his helmet as he turned. He sprinted towards the fire, skidding to a halt outside of the ruined entrance and slamming an armored boot into the ruined frame of the entrance door, knocking it off of its lone remaining hinge with a muffled crack. The man in grey disappeared into the smoke.

In all retrospect, it was probably only a few minutes that Doggett waited; though every ticking second of it was a lifetime of being in and out of consciousness. He had no illusions of escaping, as any casual glance down at his ruined leg would attest.

"Fuck!" It just felt right to scream, at this point. He was fucked, either way. But he still clawed at the barricade, dreaming of purchase for his bruised fingers, when another roar from inside made him turn around on his stomach.

"Fuck..." The smoke came out in such a gust that Doggett mistook it for an explosion, until he saw them. He deliberately kept his gaze on the shorter of the two figures that came dashing free of the flames. Not that he could hold it very long. Blackness wavered at the edge of his vision with every blink. The man in grey was in front of him, and he looked up into the golden visor, hoping for an insight into the bastard's intentions.

But the man in grey was staring at it. It stood stock still, quivering like the pale, rigid hand of the almighty, massive shoulders rising and falling in slow, deliberate rhythm. Its deep, rasping breaths carried above the din of the crackling flames as the last embers clinging to its arms withered and died. It held something bulky and chrome-colored in its hand. Doggett leaned forward to get a better look. But then the man in grey was turning back to him, and Doggett settled back into his comfortable position of slightly less pain then before.

The grey's fist was down by his side; clenched so hard that he could actually hear the leather straining against the skin. And then he was kneeling, tapping that same picture again to get his attention.

"So...?" Doggett ventured, hoping that his attempt at familiarity wasn't getting more of him than he'd intended. Which wasn't saying much, since he couldn't really intend to do anything else with a shattered kneecap, a half-severed tongue, and- he tapped his head as delicately as he could- a concussion. What a fucking great day to be him.

"Hey!" Fingers snapped beneath his nose.

"Jesus, what? Isn't it enough that I'm fucking crippled?" He would've punched the bastard if he was closer.

"Michael James Caboose." The name hung between his face and the grey's visor for a long moment. Tried not to dwell on what he saw in the reflection.

'Who?" The pistol tapped the picture again. Doggett just swallowed as the helmet in the picture clicked in his mind. So this was how it was. But this didn't matter right now. What mattered is that he would live. Davy Doggett would live if it fucking killed him. Which...sounded alot smarter before he thought about it, cursing himself for his own stupidity. But the grey didn't need to know that.

And he'd never really liked the new arrivals at the canyon.

"I think I can help you, Agent...?" The photo went back into the grey's pocket with more aggression that he would have thought necessary at the word agent, but he didn't judge. Especially when the judged in question had him at gunpoint.

"I'm not an agent...or anything, really." Said the grey, holstering his gun as the thing strode over to them, helmet fixated on the beeping device in its hands. The man in grey regarded it for a few seconds, before nodding silently. Grey turned back to him.

"Just call me Washington."