PROLOGUE

THE OPERATIVE

Location: Aboard the UNSC Special Operations Frigate [Name Classified]

Vermont tried to keep a calm pace as he strode down the hallway, eyes flashing at every corner and shadow. The last few minutes kept cycling through his head like an ominous photo reel as he headed in the general direction of what he hoped was the hangar bay. His finger rose to his earpiece again, trying to get ahold of her. It had to fall together now, or everything, everything that had been planned for this day would mean nothing.

"This is Foxtrot to Tango. He knows, and he's here." He hissed, trying to keep his voice below the octave he so badly wanted to take it to. "Where are you?" But silence and the droning whine of static answered his question. And nothing else.

SEVERAL MINUTES EARLIER….AGENT-MISSION DEBRIEFING ROOM 12-A

"And you're sure it came from him, today?" It was a loaded question; as much a courtesy as sending some tart-faced little secretary to deliver the news in the middle of his long-due shower. Fucking bureaucrats.

"Yes," she replied, turning with all casualness to one of the guards, giving him a patented glare that just screamed caution. Just in case, right?

The woman's voice drifted back. "...and the official date is just as accurate, in case tomorrow isn't…."

"Fair?" He leered.

"Convenient," she finished, shuffling her papers. So now the question wasn't even if, anymore. Only of when.

He'd spotted the two men who'd flanked her when she came knocking on his door, with nothing more than a clipboard that had that symbol on it, mocking him from the upper right corner of the page, filled with lots and lots of official regulations, articles, and bullshit.

But...mostly bullshit. The kind of cold, passionless validity that reminded him of a churchgoing, happy-fucking holidays sermon giver with a loaded pistol behind his back and a cheap bible in the other. The kind of bible that told him to turn over his weapons, armor, and...other classified items over to this woman, simply because she asked nicely. Something he was not on good terms with.

Pretentious bitch, he thought, giving her a simmering glare of indifference. She had the posture of someone who'd gone through the simplest courses of basic, but was that enough? Maybe…maybe not. It's so fun to have such one-sided options.

"Does anyone else know about the transfer?" he asked, miming curiosity with his eyes as he flipped through the pages.

"No, Agent Vermont. And they won't find out. But you were told to expect this, weren't you?" She straightened her glasses at him. He gave her a winning smile as he imagined what a rusty kitchen knife would do to that pretentious smirk on her face. He nodded to drive his 'quiet acceptance routine' home.

She reached into her bag and he bristled on instinct, suddenly wishing for that rusty kitchen knife...until she procured a pair of flat, silver rectangles that jingled and flashed in the light, and handed him a pair of -surprise, surprise- fresh dog tags that clinked together in the way that only brand new ones could. He wasn't concerned until he saw something else on them; a little color divided badge on the right half. Red….and blue.

That little badge stopped his hand, halfway to grasping a new identity and a new beginning.

"The old man didn't say a damn thing about simulation training. The fuck is this?" She retreated from him for a moment, seeing the danger behind his eyes. It was comforting to be feared, in a small but infinitely satisfying kind of way.

"This is your new identity...or rather, your first one. The assistant to the Oversight Sub-Committee thought that you of all people would appreciate starting over fresh." I would appreciate a fucking paycheck.

"Of course," Vermont said instead, his mind flashing to the row of lockers behind him. "I got something for you to tell the Spider though, if you get the chance…" He turned around as he said it, pulling open his locker, labeled VT. Inside, his precious possessions waited for him. They were arranged in two rows of gleaming steel, each one sharpened to perfection, only yesterday-

"Oh!" exclaimed the prune. He turned his head to look at her. "You should know; the Director wished to have a word with you before th-"

"The Director is here?" It took all of his effort not to yell. His hand remained hovering, eyes flashing to his knives- which were still there, waiting.

She only nodded, and in the flash of a moment, her eyes had the look. It was a noticeable difference from the usual assortment of guilty consciences and haunted expressions that most of the Project's staff carried around, like an extra piece of clothing that you couldn't remove. And it usually preceded the arrival of one particular person. And for him to be here now… he knew.

Time to go to work. Even as it dawned on him, he was moving.

"You are aware of the armed guards, correct?" asked Philos, the little translucent voice in his head.

"Yep," he murmured. "I guess this means it's time." Vermont took a breath, weighing out the possibilities unfolding in his head. The first was of the power node running under the floor panels, which had very delicate cables. His second thought went to the air filtration ducts running above the hallway outside. Then he blinked.

A coffee mug with The Project stenciled on it whipped through the stale air of the office as his hand flashed left, and smashed into the automated panel that controlled the lighting. The room went utterly black with a crash and a spark. The emergency interior systems would be kicking in...Now, he thought, listening to the door slide open, and pale fluorescent light flooded the room as Philos turned on the camouflage. The guards were barely turning when his knives came out.

"Well executed," proclaimed Philos after the three bodies had been stuffed, with difficulty, into the lockers inside. "The hangar should be to the left. We should steal a ship. Or perhaps two…"

"Shut up for a sec," Vermont snapped. He raised a finger to his earpiece. "This is Foxtrot calling Tango. You there?" Static.

A FEW MINUTES LATER...

"Fuck. She's not answering," he said, smacking the wall. It didn't matter at this point. The plan, in and of itself, was in full swing. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because not only was she not here, but here wasn't even where they were supposed to meet. But all he'd had to do was look at the label above the large, automated door in front of him. And more than a few of his worries disappeared.

How...perfect. He wasn't going to be anyone's patsy. Especially if it meant babysitting the Director's biggest secret in the middle of nowhere. Things were starting to make sense. Like why he'd been unfrozen from cryosleep on such short notice, or why they weren't at their original destination, some place called...what the hell was it? Charon? Chorus? Chupathingy?

That didn't matter either. But speaking of patsies…. Vermont reached down into a pouch on his waist, pulling free -to an untrained and obviously ignorant pair of eyes- what appeared to be a simple, black latex glove. "Hey Phil, you wanna…?" A small click in his earpiece announced the AI's acquiescence.

"Only a moment. Ah." A sharp exhale escaped his lips as a jolt went through his knuckles, settling at the base of his fingertips with a quiet, buzzing simmer. Felt like getting tasered, of all things. Another fun reminder of how he knew the feeling so well. But it would be worth it, just to see the bastard's face. Just to see his eyes go wide.

"You sure this shit'll work?" It was as genuine a question as he could manage without spitting foul words at the voice in his head. Not that it was doing him any philosophical favors. His gloved fingers brushed against the small, studded patches of fiber in an arcing formation on the door's control panel, indicative of an open palmed press. And just like that, he was in the Simulation Command Room. He vaguely noticed the familiar, clipped female voice that announced the pleasure of welcoming the man himself into the heart of his own steaming cauldron of deception.

Vermont tried not to grin like an idiot. Or some shit like that. What harm was there in enjoying your victories?

Oh, the fun things someone can do when surrounded by all these buttons. He thought, giving the console a genuinely considerate once-over. And there were quite a few buttons.

But since he'd paid fuck-all attention during computer class, he simply put Philos into the mainframe with a quiet click. He saw several tabs flash before his eyes, all labeled with the word 'Alpha' this and 'Alpha' that. Blue Team...Red Team…..

It only took him a minute to figure it out. Not that hard really. Low level operatives? Are you shitting me?

Well now he was just...fucking insulted, really. Low-level? He looked up the other outposts, positioned at key points across the unmistakably white, arctic moon. Had it been so long? Felt like a century had passed since he'd seen it. And he wasn't looking forward to seeing it again. No thank you.

He noticed that there were an abundance of bases under the Blue logo, which would make sense. Because he, like quite a few people, knew that the old bastard himself had an unmatched affinity for that particular color. A particular outpost stood out amongst the rest. In that it wasn't covered in snow and surrounded by an endless white waste. So if that was where the construct was….

He pulled up an adjacent file, labeled RED ARMY. Noticed there were quite a few Red bases too, and they all seemed to be overstaffed, in his opinion. And considering what he planned to do after he got off of this ship, he could use something to keep the heat off. Especially since he was about to be Killed In Action. All it would take was the press of a key. And he didn't hesitate.

"God...damn!" he said, smiling, unable to control himself as the screen went red and his profile -and to an extent his life as he knew it- ended.

With the press of a fucking key. He took off his helmet as exhilaration spread like a fire in his bloodstream. "How's that for ironic?" he said quietly, half-laughing.

"How's that for ironic?" he shouted, suddenly not caring. "You hear me? YOU EVIL FUCK?" He screamed it to the air, laughing to himself and to anyone who was listening. He was so elated that he almost wanted an audience. But he knew the old man couldn't hear him. Would hear him. And Vermont would give fucking anything to be alone with him, for some real heart to heart. But that time would come. Oh yes.

But first, he had find help, had to get out of the system. And to truly disappear….he knew as well as anybody that everyone had their price. At that moment, a ping in his ear let him know that she knew what had happened. Good.

"Phil!" He snapped.

"Ugh...yes?"

"Time for us to make our getaway."

"Affirmative, yes yes. But-"

"What?" Seriously. What?

"A heavily encrypted message just pinged across the net, I guess. Very...hush-hush and all that. And you will not believe who sent it. Interested?" Vermont swiped a gloved hand across the screen, and tried not to let his jaw drop when he saw the return address. Well now…wasn't that just perfect?

A WHILE LATER….IN THE HANGAR BAY OF THE UNSC SPEC-OPS FRIGATE [NAME CLASSIFIED]

"So...how are you gonna get it down to the planet?" asked a worker as the M808B Battle Tank was shuffled into the holding bay of the dropship waiting to go dirtside. Vermont watched with as much rigidity as he dared. Had to look casual. Had to watch the ship leave. Otherwise, he'd know he was screwed. The man next to the worker fiddled with an electronic pad, and glanced vaguely at the aircraft.

"I'll just...put it in the dropship, dude." The worker seemed to consider this deeply.

"N-no, I know that. What I'm saying is that you could just put guns on the nose or somethin'…. y'know, use it to fight the aliens." The kid said like it was the cleverest thing in the world. The other guy- who happened to be the pilot, as it turned out- laughed.

"Kid, where my passenger is going..." he said, eyes turning slowly until-

Vermont sucked in his breath and his body went rigid as a pair of aviator glasses settled on him. The motherfucker had him. Dead. To. Rights.

And without his helmet, or even a decent face. The man regarded him with cold calculation for three whole heartbeats, and then he was turning back to the kid, all casual. "...he ain't gotta worry about aliens."

Jesus fucking christ. He ran a hand through his half-shaved scalp and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. Needed something to calm his nerves. The pilot must be in on it. Has to be. Or he's just smart enough to know it wouldn't end well for him. With a polite nod the pilot left, disappearing inside the bird. Vermont decided to get closer, fuck all else. He couldn't take it. He got to just beneath the left wing when something tapped him on the back of the shoulder. In a blink his pistol was free, and he jammed the cold metal into the forehead of the finger's owner. And then he looked down. The kid's big, blue eyes stared back, pupils centered on the barrel of an M6C Magnum.

"Err...w-what?" was all that squeaked out. Vermont breathed out very deeply before he replaced the pistol with an open palm that clamped over the kid's mouth.

"I wouldn't struggle, buddy. In either case, I know about….thirty-seven ways to murder you. And every one of those lovely scenarios involves you disappearing forever. And no one would know until they found your head stapled to the ramp of this bird." He rapped a knuckle against the pelican's hull for good measure, letting his eyes go dead as he stared the kid down.

"Understand?" He got an unmistakably comprehending bobbing of nods and smiled.

"Look," he said, relenting. "It's bad enough that I've basically been fired from one of the worst job you could get fired from, but the workmen's comp is being sent to the ass end of the galaxy. But now I'm trying to leave, and you've seen my face, and while. That's bad for you..."

He would have said more, but his eyes had flickered for the briefest moment to something else, waiting beside the ship's loading area. It gleamed like a shining beacon of deceit and opportunity. Or something. "Hold on just a minute," he said, half dragging, half pulling the kid towards it, hand leaving his mouth.

"I heard it was a pretty easy job, y'know," he stammered, like it had just slipped. Vermont considered ignoring him, but stopped anyways.

"Yeah, yeah. And I'm pretty positive a fucking monkey could do yours. Keep your mouth shut."

"Hey! I'm pretty sure an idiot wouldn't want my job either, sir," the kid retorted. That checked Vermont. He turned, eyes curious.

The kid couldn't have been more than nineteen, maybe even twenty, and those big blue eyes made him look like some lost goddamn puppy. He was of average height with thick shoulders, but was otherwise unremarkable. His hair was dark, barely longer than regulation permitted, and even then, it looked as though someone had hacked away at it with a pair of pruning shears and a straight razor….poorly.

'Lost puppy' didn't even begin to cover it.

He smacked a big green button, and the locks around the suit of cobalt armor in front of them released, and the frontal plates slid away to reveal the inner layer. Vermont sized the teen up. The helmet would be a little tight, but hey, the kid could probably manage. He stepped over to a terminal, surrounded by smaller screens. Must be important. As it turned out, Vermont had everything he needed. He found the slot in the Blue Team roster, and bit back the urge to swear out loud. His fucking name was still in the database.

"May I make a suggestion?" chimed in Philos out of nowhere. Vermont bit back another boiling urge to scream.

"Oh what, now you decide to fucking pitch in?"

"Yes," the AI responded. "Discretion is the better part of valor, no?" Vermont tapped impatient fingers in an uncoordinated rhythm as a silence filled his earpiece.

"You done?" he asked.

"Ahem," the AI chimed, not clarifying., "...with this wonderfully deluded young man here, we could er...theoretically...find a 'replacement' for the Blue Team's new recruit. Which will enable us to-"

Ohhhhhhh, okay. A small tingle in his spine as clarity kicked in. "Right…."

Without a word, he twisted the kid around to face forwards, and gave him a firm shove into the bracketed machine, pressing the button again before the younger man could so much as flinch. As the magnetic locks sealed the youngster inside the armor, a plan was racing through Vermont's head. A plan to finish business with two very angry, vindictive women. A plan to stop the monster- the...thing that had once been a comrade to him, even a friend. Now it was an eight-foot lobotomized monster, waiting under his bed like a foreboding boogeyman with a very damning conviction on its head .

Just like everyone else's, he thought, instinct making him glance around, just to be sure. And then of course, the clone crossed his mind. The Chairman would want that most of all. One game at a time.

A small grin entered his features. "What's your name?" he asked. The helmet visor slid up to reveal the big baby blues. The kid's mouth moved, but nothing came out, and it wasn't until the glass began to fog that it was clear he didn't know about the suit's comm system. Vermont smacked him to put a stop to it.

"Just write it down, moron." The worker pulled out a small clipboard, flipped through it, and scribbled something onto the first blank canvas. Vermont kept expecting his name to pop up on one line or another. He almost wanted it to….

No….he wasn't the old man's fucking lapdog anymore. His name -not that it actually meant anything outside of this ship, or the UNSC's military records of convicted criminals- was almost a distant memory. But it was still there.

And at the moment, he concluded that it sounded a lot better than stenciling off one of fifty consecutive provinces of a defunct nation onto his next job resume. So it was to be Gates, then.

Born again on the fourth of….wait, what day is it? Fuck it. Didn't matter. Gates, thus self-christened in the moment, gave the sheet- and the name scribbled onto the dotted line- a short window of attention.

Wow….Seriously?

The kid was easy enough to convince, as it turned out; evident as he adjusted to the suit's functions without complaint, the various metal plates sealing around him until he was fully clad in cobalt steel. Gates pulled up the worker's file on the terminal, used the override that only a member of the Project could know.
"You know this is illegal." That was Philos again, deciding to be the voice of reason for once. Which was funny, considering what Gates knew about the bastard.
"Oh, like you're a fucking saint," he muttered. A pause in his ear as he fiddled with the computer.
"Fair enough," continued the AI. "I believe the buttons you're looking for are Control-Tab." He typed them in, silently cursing his bloated, sad excuse of a high school technical professor. Brought up the Blood Gulch Outpost military database, Section Two, simulation team One Alpha-Nine.

They could use the extra muscle, he thought, watching as the not-so muscular Michael J. Caboose lift a crate easily twice his own weight off of the floor and shove it into the waiting ship's cargo bay with a practiced rhythm, the contents inside rattling as they impacted with the tank already stored inside. The armor had made him significantly stronger. But that was the point, so why embellish it? Right.

The ship was departing, and all non-essential staff were clearing out. "Make sure that you get this stuff to Blue Base, and give them a convincing backstory," he said, backing into the shadow of a bulkhead. "You're a Blue now, remember that."

As Caboose put on his helmet, the last thing that Gates saw was bewilderment gracing his almost child-like face. "I still don't know what your talkin' about, sir, but you seem to be a nice guy- even with the whole 'gun-in-my-face' thing, which was pretty awesome. So, I'll just go ahead and-"
He was abruptly pulled into the cargo bay by an orderly in an orange jacket, and Gates sent a vague prayer to whatever benign deity had intervened.

"You the rookie?" The orderly shouted. Caboose vainly turned his head towards Gates, who raised his thumb, trying to look as genuine as possible behind the mirror-image reflection of his helmet.

Caboose nodded enthusiastically at the other man, otherwise busy strapping the youngster into a seat as a rifle was shoved into his hands by the crew chief.
"Yeah…" he said, snapping a safety belt across his chest. "...screw it. That's why I'm here, I guess."

THE DECK OFFICER

"Hey! Come back! What the fuck?!"

Flight 219 left the hangar with as much gusto as the silent void of space provided, but with practiced speed that the deck officer should have predicted from the pilot. Too fast for him to raise any objection to seeing his only on-duty worker step into the cargo ship, after being shoved into one of those 'self-armament' stations by that tweaked-out smoker he'd seen earlier.

He picked up the clipboard and a pen, and flipped over to a new page, scribbling down the essentials of the flight plan and its cargo, until he came to 'Personnel Occupancy'. It had an initialed name that he didn't recognize, I.G, Lieutenant 2nd-Class, and a short list of accompanying statistics. He wrote down the name of the worker, which he had more trouble remembering than he'd have liked to admit. No one will miss some moon-bred retard who couldn't even pack a crate. And of course, he would need a personal talk with….

Where did he go….?

Instead of a half-shaved man with dark, brooding eyes and a lingering aroma of cologne and old tobacco, he only saw-

"Put down the pen. Now."

The floor echoed as the metal pinged against its almost stainless surface, and the deck officer actually felt some of the wind go out of his legs as the barrel inched closer. But his hands were empty, and he followed his emergency hostility training, keeping them high as he lowered his eyes. Until they leveled to just below the gun.

And he smiled.

The last thing he expected to see aboard a very classified, very notorious military-sanctioned stealth frigate was black leather. Or red lace, intentionally visible or not. But there it was.

"Nice knockers. You pay for them yourself, or…?"

The pistol lowered, revealing a pair of the deepest hazel eyes he'd ever seen, framed by dark auburn hair and a furrowed brow. And a look that made his already taught sphincter shrivel against whatever semblance of courage he had left, despite her figure. Pretty sure it was just his bladder, but he'd been wrong before.

"Fucking hilarious, as always." She said, her voice solid and not-quite frustrated, but so very, very close, as ever. The gun disappeared in a flash back into its holster beneath her jacket, barely concealing her weapon, her intentions, or her-

"So did you see it happen? Did you see Vermont? Is he actually on the ship?" The deck officer nodded. Keep it simple.

"Yeah...he...left." He tried not to let it show on his face that he was giving her the switch-around. Double-crossing members of Project Freelancer tended to end the way most stories about them did.

Usually with someone floating in space, whole or not. But Vermont wasn't part of Freelancer anymore. And once the payment that the bastard had promised him came through, the deck officer would share that distinction. With pride.

Which meant that he had to play his part. She knew him already; knew what he'd said during their little conversations in between hangar shifts. So many fun things to talk about when you worked for a spy agency. And while people could say alot of things about the lady's talent, she was still lacking that oldest and most important of survival skills.

Which was doubt.

Doubting that Vermont was still committed to bringing the Project down in a grand standoff with the all-father himself. That was one. Another mistake was doubting that the deck officer- who had never actually brought it up, thank god- was satisfied with his pissant, minimum-wage slum worker salary that depended entirely on his voluntary lack of a social circle.

Virulent threats to our security endeavors. He remembered those exact words from that scheming little worm of a man that called himself the Counselor. And the deck officer doubted that she'd dismiss the possibility of her so-called 'partner' being sent away unexpectedly by the old man himself. So he and Vermont had devised. They had schemed. The deck officer had pulled his own strings to get her onto the ship, which was saying something; since the Director himself had called for her head, all those years ago. And now, the Director was here.

The lady's intentions were a misstep away from being completely exposed, and if everything that was supposed to happened within the next...fifteen minutes,- not including his possible involvement in killing the CEO of the UNSC's most controversial private intelligence cell- it would all come down to flawless, unprecedented timing.

But by now, Vermont was halfway to the planet's surface, with enough food and water to last until the rendezvous with the third party. That's if she decides its worth the risk of losing her damn bird.

And by now, he thought, glancing at his watch. The ship's security systems should be shutting down.

But nothing happened. For a few moments, the numbing quiet was almost, almost comforting. Until it wasn't.

"Hey Max," came her voice. He looked up at her, and swallowed. Texas was looking at him, unblinking and unmoving, her eyes a pair of burning holes that made him shiver.

"You wanna tell me where...exactly Agent Vermont is?" The pistol's hammer drew back with a click- so subtle and yet so loud, echoing off of the walls of the hangar. It seemed bigger than before. Realer, even.

Max Gains shrugged as the first blaring red alarm klaxon next to the hangar's entrance screeched across the hangar bay, before an all-too-familiar voice announced that the ship's emergency lockdown protocols were activating.

In less than-

"Five minutes? Are you shitting me?" Max couldn't tell if she was actually asking. He remained still, conscious of his eyes twitching back and forth, from her narrowed eyes to the chrome barrel of the pistol, so close that he could smell how recently it had been used. Keep calm. Stick to the story.

"Hey." He said, directing that look straight at him with bone-jarring quickness. "You wanna know where V's headed?"

She slowly nodded her head.

" If you're lying about this, I will know about it." The gun remained perfectly still, leveled at the bridge of his nose. And in all honesty, he guessed that she probably would know; soon, even, given the circumstances.

"And when that happens Max, I will kill you." Her gaze did not waver from his, and he had to stand there for a full second before it was too much.

A cold feeling came and went through his essential systems, like a sudden premonition of death's temperamental embrace, and how quickly it would end; with the twitch of the bloodiest trigger finger in the Outer Colonies. The new chain of events was starting to register in his head. He could work his way around the insatiable anger. Probably.

And if Vermont could convince her- somehow- that this wasn't a blatant, long conspired back-stab; in the absolute worst place to be stuck in when you are literally- not figuratively- being hunted, far outside of most normal people's sense of jurisdiction. "I understand, Texas." He said, deadpanning his face. He'd cooperate, sure. The glare didn't fade, but the pistol lowered nonetheless. She sighed.

"So, you have a plan, I'm guessing." She leveled him with a sobering, almost tired look as she massaged her temple with the barrel of her weapon. He couldn't help but grin. Not much else to do when things came together.

He turned to the expanse of the hangar bay door frame, eyeballing the row of shadows that preceded a full wing of Pelican dropships. All on partial standby in case of emergencies, and primed for ignition.

"You could say there's a plan, yes."