Audacity

As the legend of the Spartan has developed, certain details have become expected. Stoicness, lethality and above all, an overriding duty to the mission and the parameters and rules that surround it. The class-twos had it, and 045888947 has carried on the tradition. That being said, I'd love to know the course of Emile's training pre-Noble. As impeccable as his mission preparedness is, he is not so much a Spartan as a warrior. The brutality of the original Greek Spartans notwithstanding, Noble Four's actions necessitate a far tighter grip on his participation during operations. It's unfortunate that this is the sort of thing that sparks his rebellious tendencies, however.

-SPECWAR/GROUPTHREE/NOBLE Performance Reports, citing file N-63732/S-III/A239 (WARNING-ACCESS LOGGED; BYPASS SCHEME "OPEN SESAME" VERIFIED)

0749 hours, 13th of March, 2550 (UNSC Military Calendar)

Kappa Indus System, Planet Esvorl IV

Dramus City, Halicarna

"These things are great!"

Laughing, Thom-A293 clicked the steering bars of his Mongoose ATV and spun the small vehicle around in a circle. He flashed the lights in the faces of the rest of the team, who were gathered outside the small warehouse-turned-motor pool. Pulling off his own white Mark V(B) helmet with the UA attachment, he revealed his lightly tanned face and wrinkled his nose. "Time is money, Commander. You guys are moving like molasses." He blew a strand of black hair out of his face and grinned.

Snorting, Jorge-052 strode up and picked Thom up by his shoulder plate. "Sure as hell won't be moving anywhere fast with you perched on that 'Goose, Thom. Shove off, this one's mine." The gargantuan Spartan clipped his machine gun to the magnetic passenger plate, and settled behind the wheel. "Happy travels, mates." Kicking the pedals, he trundled off through the darkness towards the perimeter. Thom looked aggrieved, but didn't press the matter. Someone of Jorge's weight wouldn't be able to drive an ATV with somebody else on it.

Carter-A259 shook his head and moved up to the marine sergeant in charge of the distribution of the 126th's vehicles. "Sorry about that, marine. You got some Mongooses for us?"

The sergeant nodded dourly. "Ashton informed me we'd be having a visit from Spartans, sir. Follow me." The man walked towards a series of racks, where dozens of swift Mongooses were placed. Many had scorch marks and pieces missing, but a few were in mint condition. It was a few such as this that were presented to them now. However, their fresh appearance was not the only thing that made them stand out. These ATVs were heavily armored, accentuating their blocky shape. A wide-barreled cannon decorated the area above the front wheel. The wheels, to counter this added weight, were twice as big as normal. Carter knelt to inspect the fore gun. "What are these? Not standard, I take it."

The sergeant's eyes had lit up at the sight of the vehicles. Evidently he was an aficionado. "Those are the new prototype Assault 'Gooses, sir. The typical Covie RAV carries its own guns, ours don't. Seems our boys at Misrah have decided to fix the problem. They added a fifty-cal to the front, and added some armor plating to boot. The general wanted you to have the ones we were given, sir. Only three other regiments that were, sir, and two of 'em in this M-EDF."

Jun ran a finger along the steering bars. "Amazing. When will these be regular issue?"

The sergeant shrugged. "Not for at least another five years. Mongooses are a dime a dozen, but outfit 'em with weaponry and armor, the price is gonna soar."

Jun sniffed under his breath. "Five years?" he muttered. "War'll probably be over by then." Carter jabbed him in the side. The last thing these men needed were pessimistic Spartans. He nodded curtly. "Thank you, sergeant. We'll take it from here." The man nodded and walked away, pulling a greasy rag from his pocket with the intent on cleaning a Warthog's windshield.. Carter motioned to the three Assault Mongooses. "Mount up, Noble. Kat, you're with me. Jun, go with Thom. Emile, you're going solo."

The skull-faced Spartan barked a laugh. "You don't trust me to ride with you, sir?"

Carter glanced at him, half-serious, half-joking. "I can't say there's a whole lot I would trust you with, Emile. Particularly not driving while facing hostiles. You might try and use the damn thing as a bludgeon."

Thom laughed and smacked Emile's shoulder pauldron, eliciting a glare from the temperamental Spartan. It was hard to tell-the skull looked constantly angry. "Oooh, burn. You want some ice for that?"

Emile walked over to the Mongoose and got on it. Without another word, he accelerated the vehicle away. Thom watched him go, and whistled. "Touchy sort of guy."

Kat stood on the metal plate and hooked one of her arms around the bracing handle. "You can hardly blame him, Thom. I mean, it's you." Her voice was sardonic, cutting.

Thom gave her a pretend scowl. "You say the nicest things, Catherine. What if I told you that-"

"Enough!" Carter snapped. "Cut the chatter, Thom. Kat, sync those co-ordinates to our HUDs. Let's move! Go, go go!"

Even as their prototype vehicles growled into motion, Carter was still mentally berating himself. As team leader, it was his responsibility to preserve the discipline of the unit and ensure mission focus. He was letting Thom and Jun get away with far too much. To say nothing of Emile. Perhaps a possible insubordination-infraction notice would help keep their tongues from wagging.

The headlights of their Mongooses cut a jagged path threw the darkening air, throwing up momentary shadows. They trundled along the east access road. At a small checkpoint ahead, staffed by six marines, Jorge and Emile were waiting. The big Spartan looked almost comical astride the ATV, even with its added size. He barked a laugh. "These new 'Gooses are really something. With any luck, we'll get to keep them, eh?"

Emile chortled, which was an odd reaction. Apart from the odd cynical snort, he was not a laughing sort of person. "You'll probably break it as soon as we see some action, big man." He caressed the shotgun on his back. "Hopefully not too far away."

The corporal on duty strode up to Carter. "I have to ask your business, sir. The general wants us to check everybody that comes through here. I apologise for the inconvenience."

Carter could hardly believe it. They had already been briefed, by the commanding officer of the entire regiment no less. Not only that, but they were functioning as an auxiliary unit to the 126th. They had more or less complete autonomy. Why were they being waylaid like this? "We've already been briefed by Ashton, corporal. Our mission has commenced and we can't waste any more time-"

"I know that, sir, "the man said tensely. "But these orders come from the general himself, and are being applied to everyone. I even had an ONI reconnaissance team come through here that we needed to check. If you don't complete the registration, then I'm going to have to detain you. We can't allow any unauthorized deployments or ops."

Emile slammed a fist down on the Mongoose, making the entire marine group jump. Noble, by virtue of experience, didn't so much as flinch. Carter cast his gaze towards him, willing the temperamental Spartan to calm down. It was not to be. "You wanna try to detain me, little man? Come over here and try it!" He half-stepped off the ATV, fists bunching. The corporal stepped back, eyes widening with panic. He'd obviously never seen anyone like Emile before.

Jorge intervened, grabbing Emile by the shoulders and pulling him back. The Spartan-II pushed the snarling Spartan away from the checkpoint, off a few metres. "Don't mind him, "he remarked sardonically to the startled leathernecks, "he hasn't been house-broken yet." He went off to where Emile was seething to remonstrate with him.

Carter sighed audibly, and presented his hand to where the corporal had presented a large data-pad, which was being used as a mission log. He tapped in his name, rank, his commanding officer's name, the members of his team and the parameters of his mission. The screen pulsed green, and the marine stepped back. "Thank you, sir. You can proceed." His voice dropped a notch. "Is he…alright? In the head, I mean?"

Carter stared at him. "I'm not sure I know myself, marine." Giving a final nod, he got back on the Mongoose and hit the gas. Thom and Jun were close behind, and Jorge and Emile saddled up. Giving one final growl, the skull-faced Spartan rolled his ATV into the darkness.

He only made it about twenty metres before a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him off the Mongoose with a start. Carter had stopped his vehicle and had been waiting for Emile to pass him. Slamming him up against a telemetry pole installed by the techs, he snapped, "What the hell was that, Emile? Are you trying to get court-martialled?" He shook him a few times for good measure. Jorge, Kat and Thom watched with interest. Jun, alternatively, looked away, bored.

Seeing Emile's helmet swivel to look at his sheathed kukri, he jabbed a finger in his chest. "Don't even think about it, Warrant Officer. Now explain, damnit."

Emile's tone was deceptively calm, which was somewhat spoiled by his twitching shoulders. "Bunch of morons, trying to stop us. The old man mustn't have his head on right, limiting the effectiveness of goddamn Spartans, sir. You trying to tell me you don't think that's off? That it doesn't get you mad? It sure as hell does me!" His voice was rising by the second. He tried to lunge at Carter.

"Stand down Spartan!" he bellowed, so loudly that the echoes could be heard for miles. It even managed to give Emile pause.

Carter released him, but his tone had become even more steely. "I agree it's out of the ordinary. But it's also no excuse to buck authority and go rogue. I'm team leader, and if I say to fall in line, then you damn well do it, Emile. Try anything more and I'll ship you back to Reach with an anti-deployment penalty. You won't be out on missions for months. Am I clear?"

Emile vibrated, but brushed himself off, and gave a stiff salute. "Clear as piss. Sir." With that cold rejoinder, he returned to his idling 'Goose, and settled in the driver's seat.

Without another word, Noble Team commenced their journey into the city. Fishtails of dirt flew into the air, and the six super-soldiers raced towards the nearest city entrance.

Back at the CP, General Ashton nodded as he heard the account of S-A239's actions at the checkpoint from the corporal. He audiotaped the conversation, and added it to his mission review. A small file, but many more…incidents…like that, and it grow exponentially. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought of a Spartan going on report.

God knew that he respected the bastards. Without them in the war, humanity would be even fewer than they were today. But there was one thing he couldn't stand, and that was insubordination. No-one, not even a Spartan, was going to become rebellious. Not on his watch. Holland had asked him to compile a report on Noble's effectiveness. This was only the start. His eyes were out there, in the city. If anything happened, then it would go on paper. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn't like he was discriminating. Right?

"I said get back, damn you!"

The crowd of drunken rioters screamed their fury and bellowed various profanities as they clashed with the line of mixed marines and DPD officers, who were trying to bar their way. The east opening of Pardindo Street, the main thoroughfare throughout the Narupt district, had become a battleground. Remnants of past skirmishes were scattered everywhere. Broken glass, rubbish, discarded riot shields and stun batons, even dead bodies-it was all added to the mix. The attempt to defuse the riots here had been going for seventeen hours, and it didn't look to be stopping anytime soon.

Colonel Gaspard Young, the commanding officer of operations in the district, ducked his head as another round of Molotovs made their way over the crude picket they had established, and shattered on bitumen, sending up dozens of spotfires. A man screamed as one exploded next to his leg, setting it alight. He writhed on the ground in agony, until another marine rushed over to beat out the flames.

Golf and Romeo companies had managed to set up various redoubts and checkpoints before the madness had spread this far, but they were under heavy beatings. They'd hit upon the idea of using the city's various discarded vehicles-garbage trucks, buses, even the odd JOTUN combine from the harvest fields north of Dramus-and form mechanised skirmish lines, supplementing the Warthogs they'd already possessed. The projectiles from the rioters had barely even scratched them, and precise justice-dealt out with no remorse-had begun to work. Many had deserted, and they'd advanced street by street.

That was when things got interesting.

Dramus had never been a metropolis prone to vigilantism or anarchy. The various leaders were tough on crime and lawlessness, and steady application of this philosophy for decades running had instilled an almost martial mentality amongst the populace. Do your part. Don't make a fuss. Don't cause trouble. It had worked, and worked well. Thus, it was pretty damned obvious that the riots had been caused by subversive activity. In other words, Insurrectionists. Who had not only whipped the citizens into a frenzy, but had seeded the crowds with something far more dangerous. Firearms.

Young remembered their first incident with the armed hoons. They'd gotten far into Narupt, and weren't far from Obvensky Boulevard, which was practically the gateway into Semoln. He'd sent an advance platoon in first, quick and quiet. He'd wanted to gauge the landscape before doing anything drastic.

When the call came through they were being fired upon by plasma rifles, he'd thought the COMS were playing up. The next thought was that the Covenant had arrived. When the platoon returned-at half strength, and bearing horrific injuries-the answer had been neither. That didn't mean it was any less bad.

Things took a turn for the worse as more and more reckless, trigger-happy rioters came equipped with high-tech, military grade weaponry. Not many more Covenant armaments, but plenty of pistols from the M6 range, pump action em-nineties and even the odd MA5B. Numbers weren't the only thing on their side-now they had the weapons to match it with the marines. Deep down, Young had to admit: he wasn't sure how to proceed. Not without some sort of miracle. Or reinforcements. Or-and at this he snorted to himself-Spartans.

Shakily, the colonel got to his feet, and ran a hand through his red-grey hair. He had been wanting to inject some dye supplements into it-some last measure of vanity-but he had been on tour for the past four months without so much as a twenty-four hour pass. Not that it mattered out here. He grabbed the loudhailer from the ground and clicked it again. "This is a colonel of the 126th regiment, UNSC Marine Corps! If you do not cease and desist, we will be obliged to use deadly force-" He was abruptly cut off as a burst of machine-gun fire from further down the street slashed past his head, sending flakes of stone spurting outward from the concrete wall to his right. "Fuck!" he stormed, and hobbled over to where his XO, Major Bert Winstead, was standing, directing the squads. "Report!"

The major's long, ascetic face soured, which is what it usually did when he was asked anything. Young had worked with him for three years, and had never seen a more miserable man. "Can't keep this shit up, Colonel. We push them back, they just melt away into the streets, get a few more of their buddies and come back worse than ever. Hell, we may as well just blow them all away and have done."

Young shook a stern finger. "Don't be getting ideas, major. We're not here to conduct wholesale slaughter. Now, where are those tear gas canisters I ordered?"

Winstead threw up his hands in disgust. "Wish I knew, sir. We got Command on the horn, had it out with supply, and got confirmation. That was at 0700, sir, and not a whisper since then. Reckon we might have been screwed over. That, or some other unit's got it even worse than us and the gas got diverted. We're using the stun batons and tasers, but it's not enough-and we can't spare men to handle any of these dipshits that we do detain. We need reinforcements, more than anything else, sir. 1st Lieutenant Trement's platoon is down to twenty men, not counting police casualties. The barricade's starting to take some real hits, too."

Young chuckled cynically. "Is there anything else wrong, major?"

Winstead looked at him, deadpan. "I think I pulled a muscle in my arm, sir, but I'm otherwise alright." They both shared a moment of laughter, then fell silent. Young sighed, and stood up. "Well, nothing for it, major. As you were-"

Leaving a white vaporous trail, a thin bullet scored a jagged path through the thin hull of a Genet car and entered Young's shoulder, passing straight through. A roar of pain exploded from his mouth and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his bloodied shoulder. The wound felt like a crack of burning fire, eating through his bones. "What-the hell was-that?" he managed to say through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, Winstead shouted for all the men to get their heads down. Once that was done, he grabbed a hand-held radio and barked into it. "Minute-Man Echo, we require visual of hostiles on Pardindo Street access, approximately forty or so metres from established barricade. Can you spot any marksmen or other armed hostiles, over?"

A minute later, one of their snipers on the rooftops, code-named "Minutemen", responded. The man could have been anywhere. "Affirmative, major. I've got eyes on a group of hostiles gathering at the street's far end. They appear to have long-range rifles and other arms with them. Some of them are also gathering up usable vehicles, sir. Looks like they're preparing to charge. You need an assist?" Winstead looked at Young, who shook his head.

"That's a negative, Echo. We might be able to head this one off at the pass." The major put away the radio and helped the colonel sit up. "Medic! The colonel's been hit." Within seconds, a woman bearing a satchel marked with a red cross appeared, withdrawing a bandage, some morphine and a biofoam canister. Shoulder wounds were low on the list of critical injuries, but they could still be problematic. Infection and loose shrapnel were often the culprits. Upon seeing the wound, the medic's mouth turned grim. "It's a good thing they're lousy shots, "she remarked.

Slowly, painfully, Young got to half-standing, while the medic began her work. "Get me that loudhailer, "he commanded. As it was placed into his hands, he stood up-though not quite above the barricade-and spoke into it. "Who the HELL just fired that shot? You are firing upon UNSC marines, and have been officially declared hostile. Either get out of here or prepare to die, fuckwits." His temper had been sorely tried, and the time for diplomacy was over. Winstead grunted a laugh at his words.

Jeers and scornful laughter were heard, even from that distance, and another voice responded, on a loudhailer of their own. "I officially declare you invading, oppressive shitheads, little man. You've tried to enforce your tyranny on the citizens of this city for too long, and we aren't going to stand for it, no matter how many people you kill or how many guns you fire." The voice was sickeningly sanctimonious, and other men in the mob uttered agreement.

"What in God's name are you on about!" Young shouted, deafening those closest to him. "The goddamn Covenant are the invaders, and that tyranny stuff is bullshit. The UNSC has never-"

He was cut off by a wave of loud invective, most of which couldn't be heard. Winstead grimly drew his M7 submachine gun from his hip and cocked it. "Wasting your time, sir. I think this-"he slid a magazine into the chamber-"is the only language they're going to understand." He grinned ferally. "Time for a little payback."

Young raised an eyebrow at Winstead's apparent eagerness to enter the fray. Guess we all possess a bloodlust. "It would appear so, major." Beckoning for the radio, he contacted their sniper again. "Echo, scratch previous order, we are about to be engaged. Requesting sitrep on hostile activity and support fire when the bullets start flying, over."

"Solid copy, colonel." There was a pause. "I make thirty, forty hostiles, all armed. Some of them have plasma rifles and pistols, others just garden-variety firearms. They've got a few flatbed trucks working, sir. It could get messy. Permission to put a few rounds into the tires?"

"Granted."

Loud cracks echoed down the street as their sniper fired upon the trucks. Strange pops followed these, and cries of shock from the rioters as their transports went bust. Winstead and Young exchanged triumphant grins. "Thanks for the hand, Echo. Feel free to sit in on this one."

The sniper chuckled over the radio. "Thanks for the invite sir, I'll post up here and try and-aaargh!"

The transmission was abruptly cut off. Young jerked his gaze upward in alarm. "Echo? Come in, I repeat, come in!" He glared at the inky mass of buildings, trying in vain to discern what had happened. It didn't sound good, whatever it was. The other marines had heard the transmission, and were glancing around nervously. If there were hostiles on the rooftops above…

But as luck would have it, they had to put those concerns aside. The sounds of engines were heard, and loud shouts. The rioters were charging the barricade.

Young risked a glance, and saw a 4x4 bearing down on them, whooping men huddled on the back. Gunfire echoed through the air. For one insane moment, he was reminded of ancient footage he had seen of ethnic genocides in the 20th century in Africa, during history classes. It was amazing how a simple vehicle could be turned into a literal devil's chariot. No matter, they had weapons to take them out.

"Someone get a Jackhammer on that truck!" Young hollered above the din, and was rewarded with the sight of a marine from B-Platoon standing atop an overturned street cleaner drone, a dual-barreled launcher over one shoulder. His comrades laid down some cover fire while he adjusted his trajectory. His hand tightened on the firing lever-

With a crack, a sniper round buried itself in the rocket jockey's head. Giving a strangled yelp, he toppled off the drone and crashed to the pavement, ragged bits of brain and bone visible from the wound in his head. The entire marine company flung themselves down, guns pointed upward. There was no doubt, now, that their sniper was dead. Someone had appropriated his weapon. Young was about to order return fire when a loud bang was heard against their barricade. Metal blasted outward, wounding nearby men and women standing too close. The entire barricade had been ruptured.

Spitting dirt and blood, Young shakily got to his feet. "What-the hell was-that?" he croaked, for the second time. His ears were ringing and his tongue felt like it was coated with sandpaper.

The medic who had been working on him shook her head. "Sounds like they used something big-"

Another shot, and her skull exploded, sending the body toppling to the ground. Another two cracks and a pair of marines hit the dirt, their skulls drilled. Evidently it was an Innie sniper of some skill, and not some two-bit amateur. "Fuck!" the colonel shouted angrily. "We're getting picked off one by one! Major! Stand to!"

Winstead stumbled over, the right side of his face covered in flash-burns. His eyes were snapping with anger. "Sir! Barricade's gone to shit. They're gonna hit us hard in a moment."

"What's our strength?"

The major threw up his hands in despair. "Not enough to hold the street, sir." He lowered his voice. "Might have to retreat, colonel. Unless we get help, immediately." Winstead turned his attention towards one of the lieutenants, who had taken some shrapnel to the face.

The last thing Young wanted to do was pull out of a position they had only recently secured, would be nigh-impossible to retake and was their golden ticket into the Semoln district. But-as he saw more marines catch fire from the gaps in between the destroyed vehicles-he knew he didn't have a choice. More people under his command would die, if he remained here. Just as he was about to give the order for the company to fall back, he heard the roar of engines and the sound of another bullet sizzling past. This one went into his left leg, sending an explosion of pain through his nervous system. He cried out in pain, and fell down to the ground. Young waited for the next bullet to kill him. A few seconds passed. Then a few more.

Still nothing. The colonel twisted and looked up at the buildings. Still faceless and blank. But no sound of a sniper rifle cutting through their ranks. Suddenly there was a yell, and a scrabbling noise above.

A body crashed down next to him, scaring the shit out of him. It had evidently fallen from the buildings above. Young turned the body over, revealing a young-ish man with a short blonde beard and messy hair. He was clad in grey fatigues, and had a few distinguishing scars. Definitely an Insurrectionist. From the odd angle of his head, his neck had been broken. But not on impact. Indeed, it had simply been wrenched to one side, snapping it like it was no stronger than brittle wood. Who had the strength necessary to do such a thing?

Suddenly a voice came over the radio. "This is Noble Three, "a terse voice with a strange accent said. "Playtime is over."

The major found him again and pulled him up, allowing the colonel to lean on him. "Sniper seems to be down, "he said heartily, seeing the corpse on the ground. "But who-"

With a blast on the horn, the truck careered towards their line, crammed with bloodthirsty rioters firing their weapons. Plasma bursts struck, and bullets chattered. The barricade would not survive such an assault, and they'd be mowed down, sniper or no. But who was this "Noble Three"? That was a designation he'd not heard before. Would he help them now?

The truck was about one hundred metres away now. Seventy metres. Fifty-

With a bang, a column of twisting flame erupted from the ground ahead of the truck, sending incendiary matter everywhere. The truck ground to a halt, giving the rioters pause. Angry orange flames lit up the scene

And the arrival of the armored person.

Clad in blue armor with grey highlights, and a helmet with a golden reflective visor, the person walked into the street from an alleyway. Over his back was a Designated Marksman Rifle, an armament not used in the corps. That meant Army assets-and, if the rumours were true….Spartans.

The Spartan-if that's what he was-stopped in front of the rioters and faced them. A male voice, rough but steady, came from the almost beetle-like helmet. "I am Sierra Two-Five-Nine of Noble Team, "the man rumbled. "Lay down your arms or be neutralised."

The rioters had been stunned at the appearance of a Spartan, but quickly shook it off. "Fuck off, you freak, "one of them shouted, and fired his pistol at him.

The rounds hit the armor-and were deflected by a fluxing golden aura. An energy shield. Barely registering the impacts, the Spartan pulled the DMR off his back and cocked it at the gob smacked rebels. "So be it. Jun?"

A quarter of shots rang out like thunderclaps, and four rioters went down like ninepins. It happened so fast, it was impossible to tell who had been targeted first. Shouting in fear, they all piled back into the vehicle, and put it into fast reverse, while the blue Spartan stood still. They wanted away from the armored warrior and his deadly commands. Turning the truck around, the driver put his foot down.

Just then, a pair of smaller vehicles raced out from the other end of the street. Mongooses. The occupant of one quickly dismounted, while the other ATV-this one carrying two-stayed where it was. The first man quickly strode up the street, and seemed to grow in size by the second. Even by Spartan standards, he was immense, clad in armor that was a riot of green, orange and red. Clutched in his gargantuan hands was a machine gun of deadly proportions. Clicking the first ammo belt into position, he swung it up. A deep voice echoed from his helmet. "'Ello there."

Opening up, the giant cut down his attackers like they were stalks of wheat. A few tried to fire back and were riddled with bullets until they no longer seemed human. The storm of gunfire pulped the truck until it looked like scrap metal. Shrieking in terror, the few survivors fled down a nearby side-street. The titanic Spartan did not pursue, rather shouldered his machine gun, and proceeded up the street to join the first one. He threw off a salute, making a dull clang on his helmet. "All clear, Commander."

The Commander nodded, and then proceeded to the barricade, where ranks of marines and cops parted silently to let him through. More than a few looked frightened. The Spartan surveyed the remnants of Golf and Romeo Companies. "Who's in charge here?"

Young limped forward painfully, still supported by the major. "That would be me. Colonel Gaspard Young, district commander. Thanks for the hand, Spartan. Who are you guys?"

The blue-armored Spartan saluted crisply before removing his helmet, to reveal a thirty-something man with cropped black hair and serious blue eyes. "Commander Carter-259, SpecWar Group Three Noble Team, sir. We've been deployed to help assist the push into Semoln." He cast a gaze behind him, to the shambles Pardindo Street had become. "Resistance seems fierce in these parts."

Winstead snorted. "Understatement of the bloody year, Commander. They're dug in like sewer rats and every time we flush one group out, five more pop up to replace them. All it takes is for a group of them to get their hands on weapons and-" He saw the look Young was giving him, and subsided. "And so on."

The man, Carter, nodded understandingly. "We've come to break the chokehold, gentlemen. However, we are acting in our own capacity-we'll help you as we see fit, but Noble won't be riding shotgun with you on this one. What do you plan to do next, sir?"

The question came so quickly-and bluntly-that Young had to take a few seconds to collect himself. "Well-uh-we're going to secure this area first. Wait on reinforcements, then push deeper in. I assume you don't want to hang around?"

"You assume correctly, sir." He turned, just as the gargantuan Spartan clanked his way towards them, machine gun held at waist height like it was a briefcase. "Sir, Thom and Kat are posting down the end of the street. Reporting no signs of activity. Jun sends his compliments. As for Emile…"

Young heard the frown in Carter's voice. "You check his post, Jorge?"

Jorge shrugged. "Empty as a mouse hole, sir. I think he went off in pursuit. Against orders, of course." There was a matter-of-fact tone about his voice.

"As if I didn't know, "Carter muttered. He placed a hand to his COM unit that was inserted in his helmet. "Noble Four, come in. I repeat, Noble Four, acknowledge immediately." Another voice returned on the two-way channel that had been set up. It sounded coarse, and-if the colonel didn't know better-had an undercurrent of fierce, malignant joy. It was unnerving. "I hear you, commander. Just gotta mop up a few strays that the big man didn't wipe." There was a noise that sounded like a knife being unsheathed, and a strangled scream of pain. Every marine present flinched back in revulsion. Carter's fists clenched momentarily, then released. "We wait, then." Sighing, Jorge went to sit down on the bonnet of a crashed car. Carter remained standing.

The next few minutes passed in relative silence, punctuated only by the groans of wounded marines, the murmured orders of the officers and the popping and crackling of the flames. After sometime, another Spartan-this one clad in green-grey armor and bearing an SRS99 sniper rifle across his back-emerged silently from an alley and went to stand beside the commander, without preamble. The "Noble Three" earlier, no doubt. Young went to offer his gratitude, but received only a taciturn grunt in reply. A hard-bitten lot, this Noble Team. And these were hardly the worst. He remembered the voice over the radio, and shivered.

Footsteps sounded not far away, and a lithe figure appeared further down the street. It was hard to see in the fading light, but it was obviously another Spartan. As he marched towards them, more features became visible, and more of the men shrank back in fear. Even the dour Winstead blanched.

Steel grey armor, with red shoulder pauldron-not surprising in itself. The copious amounts of blood splattered all over it was. An especially dark red stain decorating one hip suggested an arterial flow. An M45 Tactical shotgun, over one shoulder, looked to be untouched. Instead, it was the bent-bladed kukri, clenched in one hand and positively dripping with gore, that looked to have been in the fight. The barbaric Spartan paused, slowed down and picked up a discarded shirt, and used it to wipe the blade.

Sauntering over to Carter, the Spartan stood to attention and planted a salute on his head. "Commander, reporting all hostiles neutralised." A sudden burst of flame illuminated his helmet-causing a collective gasp. A demonic skull had been etched on his dome-like visor, looking nothing less than the gaping maw of hell itself. Young tried to imagine what that would be like facing. Beaten, broken, probably cut to ribbons by that goddamned knife, staring your own mortality literally in the face…nope, not for me, thanks.

The Spartan chuckled deeply. "It's a horror movie, right there on your TV, I know." He faced Carter. "Orders, boss?"

The commander's voice was deceptively calm. "Go with Jun and retrieve the Mongooses, get them up here. We move out in ten." Without another word, the pair of Spartans moved through the ruined barricade, heading for the street entrance. Marines literally scrambled to get out of their way. Young didn't blame them.

He turned to find that Carter and Jorge were moving down the street, to join the rest of their team on the Mongoose. That was the end of their brief partnership, presumably. He was glad for their assistance, all right-his leg was a constant, throbbing reminder of that-but he couldn't say he was sorry to see them go. He remembered seeing the infamous Spartan II "Red Team" in action on Arcadia, and how precise they had been. This casual brutality was like nothing he had ever seen. It was unsettling. "Interesting bunch, eh Major?" he murmured to Winstead, who scowled and spat. "Too right. I reckon we're well shot of them, sir."

The colonel sighed, and limped off to find a medic. He needed a shot of morphine to dull the pain.

Winstead looked around to make sure no-one was looking, and then pulled a small data-pad from his ammo belt around his waist. Quickly, he tapped in a few short sentences and then transmitted the message. If the damn thing was working, then it would reach the personal pad of General Ashton. Regarding a certain Spartan's unprofessional conduct. It had been in his orders, prior to deployment. He was largely unconcerned. What was the worst they could do to someone like Skully?

Once he was done there, he moved off to help the wounded.

"Did you see their faces?" Emile chortled as he and Jun picked their way through the debris and twisted metal that littered the archway that represented the entrance to Pardindo Street. "Like spooked bunnies who've seen a wolf."

Jun snorted. "More like a rabid dog. You're a wild one, Emile. Boss is going to have your ass in a sling if you keep this up." He went behind a marble column and got on his RAV which had been placed there.

The skull-faced Spartan shrugged, and found his own one. "Can't help it if I've got my head in the game. These bastards don't deserve mercy. Disrupting UNSC efforts, targeting buildings-worst of all, killing civilians. It's disgusting-"

"Like you care, "Jun shot back. "You've never shed a tear for any civvies who got killed on a mission, whether they were under our protection or not. Don't pull that crock of shit on me, man. It's not going to wash."

"Well, you got me there."