ARES, BLUE NIGHTS, SUNSHINE, & SKADHI: An Anthology of Stories Chapter 4, a halo fanfic

TOP HONORS

0800 Hours, May 27th, 2548

Camp Icarus Wildlife Preserve, Tau Territory

Tantalus, Epsilon Eriandi System

Roger-341 did not now his last name. He knew that once upon a time, years ago, he had known it, but despite all his struggles to maintain his own identity, it had eventually faded into the background. He had been only six years old the last time anyone besides him had said it aloud; for the first few weeks of training, he hadn't bothered, but when he'd felt it slipping away, he had starting saying it every night. That nightly ritual, however, had not lasted. Before long, it had felt wrong; not because the he felt disloyal to the program or, God forbid, to humanity, but to his team.

He might have hated those that kidnapped and inducted him into training against his will, but that hatred did not extend to his team. His team were, as Laszlo had put it, his törzs. It was Swedish, or Scandinavian, or Hungarian, or some other odd language. Roger didn't care; the only thing about it that was important to him was the meaning. His törzs were his kin. His family. His team – they were his törzs. Two months into training, Roger and his team had tried to escape the caves they lived and trained in; while they were unsuccessful, it had cemented their bond and transformed them from a squad into törzs. Roger had stopped repeating his last name that night, and within a year or two, it had faded into the hazy, indistinct past.

It wasn't that Roger hadn't loved his past life – he had, very much. He'd had freedom, independence, agency; his life had been his own, and his path had been his own to choose. Such notions seemed a fevered dream these days. But much as he had loved his life, he hadn't loved his family; after all, he hadn't had any. His father had died in the war, his mother when he was five. But his team – they were his family. To six year old Roger, it had felt like a monstrous betrayal, pretending to still be living his old life. Ignoring the sacrifices his new family made for him, spitting on the bond they had formed.

That had been almost eight years ago. Roger now wished he could remember. He had no doubts about the strength of his team's bond these days; eight years of training with them, spending every waking moment with them, had brought them closer together than brother and sister. But he nonetheless felt robbed. It was just one more strike against him, one more injustice done to him and his törzs. Their futures had been stolen, their identities had been taken, in the service of the "greater good". It did not sit well with Crimson Team. If they thought that they could have escaped – and survived the process – they would have in a heartbeat.

But they were realistic; even if they made it away from Tantalus, the galaxy beyond was an unforgiving place. The alien Covenant had been sweeping through UNSC space for nearly thirty years, killing everyone in their path, and every passing day seemed to bring the human race closer to total extinction. If the war was not won, they would not survive. It was that simple. And so, they submitted to training, submitted to the awful violation of their rights, and were even planning to submit to a dangerous and invasive set of surgeries and bio-chemical injections called augmentation. The upcoming procedure was designed to transform them into superhuman soldiers, ultimate killing machines: SPARTANs.

Their muscle mass would be doubled, and the fibers themselves would be more powerful. Their bones would be injected with chemicals that would increase the density, making them stronger than steel. Their eyesight and hearing would be improved, letting them pick out a needle drop in a sandstorm, or virtually see in the dark. Their reaction time itself would be altered, making them faster than any other humans alive. Augmentation, Crimson had learned, would make them nearly unstoppable, but it would come at a cost. The surgeries were even more dangerous than they were powerful. Roger's SPARTAN class was the third in the line of the near-mythical SPARTAN-II program, and the SPARTAN-II program had a painful history.

Two previous groups had gone through augmentation before them, and less than half had come out of the process unscathed. In the original Class of 2525, thirty candidates had been killed outright, and another dozen been crippled. The second class had fared no better. Worse, both of the first two classes had been carefully genetically screened for superior subjects, who would take better to augmentation. Roger had learned that only a few people in his class – him included – even came close to matching the same requirements. In the days to come, many would undoubtedly die, but the risks of abstaining from augmentation – running from the program – outweighed that of augmentation. The entire team had agreed on that, even those with the lowest matches.

Crimson wasn't supposed to know any of these details, of course. Officially, every single one of the Class Three teams was in the dark on the dangers about to befall them. But then again, Crimson knew a lot of things the other trainees didn't know. Roger and his squad didn't play by the project's rules, and never had. They liked the SPARTAN-II, Laszlo-108, who was training them, but few others in the program, and made no secret of it. What they didmake secret was the fact that, five months prior, they had attacked the base's computer security systems, and copied every file they could find.

That was why they knew about augmentation and it's dangers, while the other teams remained blissfully unaware. It was why he knew that the genetic matches were so low, while the rest of the class remained in the dark. It was why he knew and myriad of other little details that the rest of the candidates didn't know; that there were dozens of SPARTAN-class commandos operating in secret, that Laszlo had once fought through a brothel on Gilgamesh, and that their units commanding officer, who they'd once hated, had embezzled thousands of dollars trying to acquire better training and equipment to help them. And it was probably why Roger had been distracted enough to lead his entire team right into an enemy ambush.

"Crimson Team," Roger growled with frustration, "Weapons free!"

The order was scarcely needed, really, but with any luck, it would give their assailants pause. Roger flattened himself to the earth, pulsing the trigger of the MA5B Assault Rifle held in front of his chest. The weapon barked, draining a quarter of it's sixty round magazine in the second it took him to land on the ground and settle into a hasty firing position. Recoil from the high caliber automatic weapon slammed hard against his shoulder, but Roger steadied the rifle with practiced ease. He'd been firing the weapon since he was six years old; the motion was almost as natural as breathing.

Roger had no idea if he'd hit the target or if the enemy had a bead on him, but he rolled just in case they still had a line of sight on him. Roger's Team had no sooner cleared the concealment of the treeline at their rear when they had come under fire. The biometric readout in the helmet of his Semi-Powered Infiltration armor showed Roger just how costly his mistake had been; in the corner of his HUD, Maggie-327's vital signs indicated that her pulse had flatlined.

Roger swore and fired another fifteen round burst, laying down a horizontal line of fire. A dilapidated, bombed out shell of an old farm building lay directly ahead of his team, the remnant of past skirmishes. Roger didn't fire at the building itself, however – he walked a line of rounds fifteen meters to the right of it, and was rewarded with a faint cry of pain. Roger smirked and chuckled, checking his HUD. His IFF tracker indicated James-319 and Jacob-303, his team's chief point men, were slipping along the newly weakened right flank. Roger could have brought up a live feed from their helmet mounted cameras, but he had other worries. That bit of proactive thinking, independently pressing the flank, had to be James' doing. Roger would have been angry, but it was exactly the move he would have ordered himself. Instead of speaking up, he growled deep in throat and popped to one knee, emptying his magazine to cover his teammates advance.

No reaction followed this time; the aggressors were likely bunkered down, now that one of them had been hit. Roger seethed with rage. These assholes should have known better than to fuck with his team. He reached behind him and withdrew a replacement magazine from the ammo pouch on his waist. Normally Roger would have slotted it in automatically, but he glanced down, for the briefest of moments, to confirm nothing was amiss.

Sitting at the top of the magazine, quadruple stacked, were a series of 7.62x40mm rounds. But, just as he expected, these were misshapen in a slight, almost imperceptible way. Roger slammed the magazine home without a second thought, content. The rounds inside were, like all the ammunition being exchanged, practice munitions; tactical training rounds, ballisticaly near-identical ammo with a proximity-fuse paint shell. They were designed to be fired exactly like a traditional round, and would explode ten centimeters from the target, spraying it with a brightly colored chemical solution that would induce numbness or even paralysis. The effect – sharp, extreme pain, followed by loss of sensation and dexterity – was as close the UNSC could come to simulating a real bullet's impact.

TTR was the standard issue stun round for all UNSC personnel undergoing training. As realistic and harrowing as this exercise was, that's exactly what it was: training. The SPARTAN-II Class III Top Honors program, Roger knew, had been patterned off a similar regimen undergone by members of the parallel SPARTAN-III Program: take a ten kilometer square area, and throw each squad into it with only two objectives. Eliminate the other teams…and survive their attempts to do the same.

Right now, Roger was more worried about the former than the latter.

"Mica, give me something on these assholes." Roger fired a short burst, still tracking James and Jacob on his HUD. "Location, strength, identity, anything."

"I know exactly jack shit," Mica-319's voice sounded through his helmet. "Sir."

Roger growled and fired another burst, only to duck and roll to his right as opposing fire scythed through the bushes next to him. He had to move, or he was going to be dead before he could rally his team. But the only good cover ahead was the farm house, and that wasn't going to be reachable. It was plain and simple, really; Crimson were in over their heads, and no matter of skill was going to salvage their bad positioning. They needed to move up.

"James, Jacob, do you have visual?" He tucked his head as suppressing shots whizzed overhead.

"Maybe." James was completely out of Roger's line of sight, but his IFF indicator lit up as he spoke. Roger made a mental note of his position. "Something real ugly looking maybe fifteen meters on our left. Might be one of these assholes shooting at us."

"Copy." Roger risked a quick peek up. The photo-reactive panels built into each suit of SPI provided a limited measure of invisibility, enough to fool the untrained eye or delay detection for a few crucial moments. Roger was betting on the assumption that their attackers hadn't zeroed his position too precisely. "Move up and hit them hard from the side. These dickheads want to mess with us, then we take them out."

Roger ducked his head down again as the rustle of bushes in the corner of his peripheral vision triggered alarm bells. A burst of fire cleaved the air just above him. He'd seen enough. The advance to the farmhouse itself would be dangerous, but if he made it that far, he'd have plenty of room to maneuver. He just had to get their first.

"Mica, you see that shooter?" Roger drew a stun grenade from his belt pouch and primed it in his hands.

"I see where he was." Mica sounded annoyed. "Any good shooter will have moved – "

"Then track where he went and keep his head down." Roger tossed the grenade, paused, and scowled. "Moving up."

James and Jacob were busy, and Mica already had a job to do. With Maggie down, there was no one to keep Roger covered. With any luck, he wouldn't need it, however. Roger sprang to his feet as the grenade rocked the ground, rifle up and firing the moment he was. Movement caught his eye and he drained a long burst in it's direction, trying not to break stride. He was halfway to the farm house front when his opponents opened fired in retaliation. A haphazard burst – likely fired on the move from a bad position – tore up the ground in front of him, then walked upward.

Roger was moving the moment the fire opened up, but he wasn't faster than a bullet. A pair of rounds hit hard against his plating, one in the side and one in the arm. The pain and force doubled him over, but he transitioned the fall into a roll and came up out of the shooter's line of sight. Angry and full of adrenaline, he hit the wall of the farmhouse and leapt through the nearest window, weapon out.

Just as he'd expected, the building was empty; it was just too obvious of a position for any team setting up an ambush to consider. Roger cleared the one room building quickly, sauntering up to a window and glancing at his HUD. James and Jacob were twenty five meters from his position, and with any luck, some of their adversaries were caught in the middle.

"I'm in the farm house, hit but not compromised." Roger checked his plates. They were dented and caved where the rounds had hit, and TTR covered the plating. Real SPI could survive a respectable amount of ballistic damage, and the training rounds were meant to reflect that. They were by no means invincible, but it would take more than a few glancing shots to drop one of them permanently. "Status report, now."

"Got at least one dickbag between us and you, boss." Jacob was winded on the other end of the line. "Plus an outhouse, utility shed, and some heavy machinery. Bit of a mouse trap."

"Getting some movement from your left flank." Mica paused and a shot rang out. "Slowing them, but they're still moving."

Roger vaulted out of the window, MA5B prepared. They had to move sooner, rather than later, else they be caught out of positon. "James and Jacob, push towards me. Put a round in that dickbag."

The back lot was overgrown with tall grass and the line of sight was hampered by crossrunning fences in addition to the obstacles Jacob had noted. Roger stacked against a tractor, then rolled under, emerging with rifle ready to fire up at any targets. None presented themselves. The IFF marker showed James sweeping along the field side while Jacob swung deep. Roger sprinted for the utility shed and tucked up against it, listening. In the background, two more loud shots rang out. In this terrain, Mica wasn't going to be able to hold four other SPARTANs in place for long, even with a sniper rifle.

"Jacob here, got movement." Roger noted his teammate's position as the point man spoke. "Dropping low towards you James."

"319 here, got it." James' beacon froze in place. "But I think we're – "

Gunfire – long extended bursts – broke the still air and Roger was moving before he even really realized it. There was too much of it – too long, too loud – to just be James finishing their opponent. Roger broke left, swearing as he spotted the flashes of muzzle flare through a fence and a stack of moldy wooden planks. On the biometric readouts in his HUD, Jacob flatlined. They'd been too slow.

"Crimson Team, fall back, fall back." Roger clenched his teeth and emptied half his magazine in the direction of the flashes, ducking below a fence and heading right along the side of the outhouse. James broke onto the comm just as another burst of gunfire cracked and drowned him out. Something man shaped and unfriendly looking appeared in front of Roger, and he finished his magazine putting a long burst in it's direction. The figure staggered, but ducked into cover and Roger lost his bead.

There was no time to pursue. Roger tossed a stun grenade ahead of him, then ducked right into a side passageway and emerged on a beeline for the trees. The grenade detonated with another deep rumble, but Roger doubted it had done anything but delay his target. Mica squeezed off another three pairs of shots in front of him, and the yelling that followed gave Roger hope he'd make the tree line alive. Fifteen meters passed and he slid into cover behind one of the trees, more or less intact.

In cover, he spun and slipped into a firing position, searching for a target. None presented itself, even as James broke from concealment and ran for the cover of the forest. Roger scowled, even as his teammate safely slid into cover ten meters to his right. There were at least two injured enemies on the other side of the field, but he had two men down. Their position was untenable.

"James, did you get the dickbag?" Roger kept the frustration out of his voice but let the cold anger remain. His team would know it wasn't directed at them.

"Affirmative boss." James had a warm air in his tone, but his brevity told Roger he was worried. "Confirmed down."

Roger leveled his gaze towards the farm house and scowled. That was one small bit of good news, but it wasn't enough. Even with the damage they had done, any sort of counter attack would be suicide with just the three of them. With a growl, he opened his TacMap and surveyed the surrounding area. They were closer to the center of the combat area than to the edges, and their engagement would soon attract the attention of the other team – if it hadn't already. As much as he would have loved to take the fight to the assholes who had dropped Maggie and Jacob, it wasn't going to happen.

"James, start pulling back." Roger spoke tersely as he withdrew a pair of stun grenades from his belt and began attaching trip wires to them. His ordnance belt was getting much to light for his liking, but they would need something to slow the other team down if they tried to pursue. "Mica, keep eyes on them and keep heads down until I'm done covering our tracks. I'll mark trap locations with a waypoint then we'll drop low and swing north."

It wasn't Roger's preferred solution to the problem, but it was the only option he had left. Even if these exercises were little more than a glorified game, he still wanted to win. And just like in the real world, the only way to really win was to survive.

When he had been told the TTR sensors on the SPI armor issued to them for Top Honors would be modified to withstand an accurate amount of ballistic damage, Connor-338 hadn't worried too much. Unlike most of the team leaders within the Ares Contingent, Connor was a heavily specialized combatant – perhaps one of the most specialized in the entire group. It had taken mere months when training began for Connor to realize he had a particular gift with rifles, and years of practice had honed that gift into a talented mastery that put every other SPARTAN on base – including even Laszlo-108 himself – to shame.

His weapon of choice, the SRS99-S2 AM Sniper Rifle, held four 14.5x114mm Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot rounds in it's magazine. Effective at upwards of two thousand yards, the full combat model was commonly used to put down tanks before the emergence of the Covenant. Since that time, it's pinpoint accuracy and incredible stopping power had made it the go-to weapon for UNSC sharpshooters everywhere. SPI armor was durable, but it could hardly stand up to that sort of firepower. With the TTR modifications to the rounds and the trainees armor, the Sniper Rifle would fall well short of such power, but nonetheless, should have been able to take down a target with a single shot.

Should have being the operative term.

Connor hit the ground with a thud and kicked desperately as Draco-304, the contingent's designated living tank, cannoned into him. Draco was big – and much, much stronger than Connor. The other trainee wrestled against him, trying to pin him in place, but he slipped a hand to his hip and clasped his sidearm. Draco slapped against him as Connor brought it up, knocking it from his hands, but that gave him the room he needed to maneuver. Connor headbutted Draco just above his armor's collar seal, then rolled clear and broke free of the scuffle.

Draco wasn't quick enough to follow. Now that they were untangled, it was clear the bigger SPARTAN wasn't feeling too hot. He staggered at Connor, throwing a high, badly telegraphed punch.Connor ducked beneath the blow, rolling diagonally and slipping behind Draco. His sniper rifle – knocked away when Draco tackled him – lay at his feet. In the split second it took for Draco to turn, reach for his sidearm, and begin to raise it, Connor snatched the SRS99 and snapped it to his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger just as Draco raised his pistol. A crack echoed through the rubble, and Draco crumpled, faceplate covered in red paint and body paralyzed at his armor's command.

"And stay down." He muttered, climbing to his feet. He grabbed his pistol from the cracked pavement, and took off running.

Connor and his unit, Tan Team, had been hot on the trail of another squad for the better part of five hours. Lucy-329, one of Connor's teammates, had picked up the trail, and they'd been shadowing the other team ever since. They'd managed to get close enough two hours prior to confirm it was Jack-316's Olive Team, but they hadn't been able to get positioned in time to attack, and nearly lost the trail entirely. Only thanks to Lucy's skill had they even been able to follow, but they'd yet to get another shot at taking Olive down.

Lucy had been engrossed in the task of tracking Olive an hour earlier when Mellissa-332, Connor's de-facto second in command, had noticed something was wrong. Tan Team was no longer simply the hunters – they were also the hunted. Some other team had begun shadowing them, following, waiting for an ideal time to strike. Connor had continued their pursuit of Olive, keeping up appearances, waiting for a moment to eliminate their trail. Opportunity had come in the form of a sprawling old mining town-a jungle of instacrete pre-fabs and warehouses overrun by the woods and crumbling after a century and a half of abandonment.

Connor had ordered the rest of the team to move slow and head into town square, while he circled wide and took position atop a building on the town's nearest hill. All Tan had to do was make themselves look vulnerable enough that their shadow would risk an attack, then Connor could hit them from afar and catch them off guard. Even if an entire team pressed them, Connor felt confident his squad could hold them off long enough for him to thin the ranks. They were the best team in the whole contingent. Things should have been a walk in the park.

But as Laszlo had taught every single one of them, no plan survived contact with the enemy. Especially when the enemy were SPARTANs.

"Tan Two to Tan Lead!" Connor rounded a corner at a dead sprint as Mellissa's voice came over the unit com, strained. "We've been engaged! Hostiles front and flanking!"

"Tan Lead here," Connor cleared the corner and returned to his sprint in one smooth move. "Bunker down and watch your sides. I got jumped by Draco, but I'm on my way. Keep your heads on straight, guys."

"You got jumped by Draco?" Mellissa sounded pissed now. "Why didn't you just shoot him?"

"I did." Connor let a long pause hang in the air as he charged down two blocks. "Took more than one to drop him. Draco means Violet Team, which means Regulus will be trying his usual and looking to outmaneuver you. Eyes high and stop him, got it?"

The comm crackled like Mellissa was about to respond, then abruptly cut out. Nearby, gunfire echoed through the streets in long bursts. Violet had to know Draco was down, and they must have decided to press their attack before Connor got back. He swore, listening to the suppressive fire rattling through the streets. Violet Team's usual operating method was to let Draco-304 draw fire and soak up a little punishment while Regulus-302 scaled buildings and took advantage of any sort of unorthodox verticality to confuse. Even with Draco down, Regulus was probably up to his usual tricks. Melinda-323 and Anne-306 would be the ones laying down suppressive fire. And Kamala-354 would be waiting to take advantage of any chink in Tan Team's armor and open it with lethal force.

Most of the other teams in the division would likely be going down right about now. But Tan Team wasn't most teams.

Connor turned and ran straight at the tallest building he could find, a three story housing structure with a second story outdoor balcony. He kicked against the walls and tossed his rifle straight up, onto the balcony. With a grunt of exertion he kicked off the wall, reaching up and wrapping armored gauntlets along the base of the balcony. He lifted himself up, climbing towards the top bar and swinging himself over. He landed, scooped his sniper rifle from the ground, turned, and acquired his target a hearbeat later. He fired and didn't even stay to watch the target drop.

A hundred fifty meters away, Anne dropped to the pavement just as she broke from cover to advance, a florescent splotch of paint spread across her chest. Connor took three steps towards the third story and jumped, gripping the extended edge with one hand and pulling himself up one armed. He twisted a leg up, then rolled on to the top, never letting go of his rifle. Without hesitation, he rose to a crouch and fired again.

This time, it was Melinda who dropped, faceplate colored red. Connor paused for the first time in what felt like hours – even if it was minutes at best – and scanned the area below. He couldn't see his team-a good thing, paradoxically. Connor knew they wouldn't have gone down this quickly, and if he couldn't see them, it meant Regulus and Kamala probably couldn't either.

A pair of rounds cracked against the buildings wall half a meter below Connor and he hastily backed away from the edge, expecting a kill shot at any moment. It had to be Regulus firing; Kamala probably would have hit him. That, he decided, was good news and bad news. It was obviously good he hadn't gone down, but Kamala was dangerous. Connor would have preferred her focusing on him instead of his team.

"Tan Leader to Tan Team, status." Connor glanced around the roof, looking for anything that might help him. "Two more down, ankle-bait and the pyscho still at large."

"Copy, lead." Amber-373, one of Connor's squadmates, answered tersely. Two and Four got flashbanged. Could use a little help."

"Could use a little myself actually…" Connor found nothing useful on the roof and glanced down at his ammo belt. Ordnance was going to be vital later in the exercise and he didn't particularly like the idea of parting with any of it this early on, but he didn't see any immediate solution that didn't put his team in even more risk. "Ankle-bait has a bead on my position, and I can't get eyes on."

"You need eyes on is all?" Jackson-348 laughed, "I got that covered. Post office, thirty meters our right."

"You're in the mayor's building?" Connor visualized the town square, trying to piece together the layout from the scattered snapshots he'd accumulated between the hilltop and his current perch.

"Affirmative lead." Jackson's voice was calm. "Three's covering the front door and I've got our rear."

"Keeps your eyes open for the pyscho, then." Connor risked poking his head out long enough to check for signs of movement. Another shot splattered against the edge. "Don't forget two years ago. Kamala could hit from behind any moment."

"What about ankle-bait?" Amber asked. "We got a plan for him too?"

"You could say that…" Connor withdrew a grenade from his hip pouch, then positioned a spare magazine for his Sniper Rifle next to him. "Three? You're on point. Advance on Mr. Ankle-Bait and put him down hard, on my signal. '47 special. I'll keep him so busy he won't even notice you."

Connor paused and took a deep breath. Even if he knew, intellectually, that everything was simulated, it all still felt quite real. That was the point, after all. Some of the other trainees – hell, even some of the other team leaders – might have relished the sense of danger, basked in the excitement, but Connor did not. The realness of the danger did not give him pause, but it didn't excite him either. What he was planning to do was going to be risky. A risk he was willing to take perhaps, to protect his team, but undeniably dangerous.

"Three." Connor exhaled explosively and tossed the grenade. "Execute."

In perfect, finely tuned control, Connor rose from his crouch and started running. The nearest building was a full story lower but at most five feet away; he fired his sniper rifle one handed towards the post office and leapt the gap, letting the empty magazine drop into the alleyway below. His other hand came up, smoothly inserting the fresh magazine, as the grenade sailed into the open in front of the office. Connor's eyes darted to the helmet-cam display of Amber's perspective displayed on his HUD, and he caught a flash of movement as Regulus ducked into cover inside his building, fully ready to weather the grenade's cloud of simulated shrapnel.

The same display bounced and shook as Amber sprinted into the street, taking advantage of Regulus's distraction. She leapt off the wide staircase and hugged the building, out of any line of sight the Violet Team leader might have. Connor hit the roof and rolled, coming up with sniper rifle primed and ready. A shadow flashed across the wall behind the window, but it disappeared as quick as it had come. Connor wasted no time waiting for an opportunity to present itself; he ran for the next nearest building and jumped into the gap, sliding down the wall in plain sight.

The absence of a shot in his side informed Connor quite nicely that Regulus must have still been bunkering down, waiting for the grenade to detonate. Amber, still in the street, was well within the blast radius now. She ignored that and kept up her pace, stalking towards the post office building quick and deliberately. Connor slid to five feet off the ground, then let himself drop, crouching as he landed to absorb the impact. He had seconds, at best, before Regulus realized he'd been played.

Seconds was hopefully all he needed. Connor ran into the street, legs pumping in a dead sprint towards a tree that had been planted at least a century before, as decoration. The monster had grown well beyond it's intended size, cracking the sidewalk, roots spilling over into street. At least seven seconds had elapsed since Connor had thrown the grenade, and Violet Team's leader was infamous for his fast-thinking. Regulus had to know something wasn't right.

And know he did. Just as Connor reached the cover of the tree, a burst of gunfire filled the air and a burst of rounds whizzed through the air just next to him. Connor grunted and slid into cover, careful not to hit too hard. The photo-reactive panels that gave SPI it's trademark quasi-invisibility were delicate equipment. Any edge he had was going to be crucial in the next few moments.

Another burst pounded into the tree, shaking it. The thick old growth held up handily, and Connor leaned out and snapped a shot off, hoping to draw more attention. Amber was nearly at Regulus' building now, pacing forward slowly, deliberately, an M7 Submachine-Gun trained on the nearest window. The rate of Regulus' fire increased, nearly winging Connor as he ducked back into safety. The snapped shot hadn't given the Violet leader a single moment of pause.

"Amber, I've got him pretty well fixated." Connor glanced nervously at the sides of the tree. It was just barely wide enough to cover his entire body. "Do you have ingress ready?"

"Affirmative Lead," Amber gestured pointedly at a window on the building with her SMG. "But it's not fifteen feet from ankle-bait's position, and looks like an open hallway."

"Copy." Connor weighed his options. "Stand by for my go."

Connor tried to remember how many shots Regulus fired, but drew a blank. He hadn't thought to keep count, and he kicked himself for it. Regulus usually carried an MA5K Carbine, and it's thirty round magazine could be anywhere from freshly topped off to nearly empty. If he broke cover, he had no way to know how much ammo Regulus could put down range. But the alternative – staying put, letting Amber charge in and potentially get hurt…no, it wasn't even a question in Connor's mind.

"Three, go."

Without even waiting for Regulus to finish his current burst, Connor rolled away from the tree and came up sprinting. The suddenness of his out of the blue suicidal move probably saved his life; Regulus took a split second too long to pivot, and in that time, Connor spotted his window for himself. He snapped another shot off, knowing full well it would likely miss, without pausing in his run. The road ahead was nearly devoid of further cover, which made running next to useless.

Connor had two more rounds left in his magazine. He fired again, this time pinging the brickwork above Regulus. He might have been the best long range marksmen in the contingent, but at a run, with a sniper rifle? Connor was well aware he wasn't anywhere near that good. He dove for the ground, going prone behind a segment of sidewalk that had bulged upward from some unknown event. It covered maybe half of him, but the rubble surrounding it would hopefully blur his position, giving him a second or two longer than he would have otherwise managed.

It also gave him an excellent line of sight on Regulus, who had ducked below to reload – an action that probably had spared Connor a bullet in the side. As he came up, he came up firing. Connor pressed himself into the ground, hoping to make himself as small a target as possible. Regulus' fire was clearly hadn't been aimed with an actual target in mind, however, and Connor realized he had done his job toowell. Regulus didn't see him, which meant he was that much likelier to regain his situational awareness and notice Amber moving up on him. She was right under the window now, moments from breaching. Connor held his breath, and did what he had to do.

While he could see Regulus relatively fine, his rifle was out of position for a precision shot. He had landed just wrong, and he prayed it wouldn't come back to bite him. His final round sailed a foot above Regulus and just to his right, splattering the wall behind him with red paint. Regulus flinched, but didn't drop into cover, didn't move a muscle. He had always been aggressive and bold, fearless. And quick thinker that he was, had definitely been counting Connor's shots.

The moment seemed to take far longer than physically possible. Connor stared, feeling the spent sniper rifle kick against his arms with recoil, watching Regulus stare back. As the other trainee leveled his rifle and steadied himself, sighting on Connor's position, his body language spoke volume. Regulus was at ease, confident. Behind the mirrored visor, Connor would have been unsurprised to see him smiling.

Then the burble of submachine gun fire crackled through the air, and the post office lit up with muzzle flare. Regulus stiffened as his chest plate instantly transformed into an ugly canvas of red splatters, the repeated impacts driving him backwards until he toppled to the ground, immobilized. Connor let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and rose to his feet, too hyped on adrenaline to feel anything. From afar, he watched as Amber paced forward and delivered a coup de grace, putting a final burst dead center into Regulus' faceplate.

"Three to everybody, all clear in here." Amber sounded breathless and the tiniest bit worried. "You hit, lead?"

"Negative." Connor automatically changed magazines as he rose to his feet. "Everyone else clear?"

"Two here, feeling a little better." To Connor's surprise, Mellissa was the first to respond. "Four's coming around too. Everything's hazy, but we're not comatose."

"Five?" Connor jogged over to the general area where he'd thrown the unarmed grenade and found it after a moment of searching. He slid it back into it's pouch on his belt, a bit surprised the ploy had worked. "Any sign of the pyscho?"

Dead air was all that answered him. Connor keyed the comm again, a feeling of dread settling into the pit of his stomach, when Jackson finally came through.

"Lead, I'm hit – " Jackson's voice cut off with a hiss of static, but it bore the clear sounds of a man in pain. " – Took one in the leg and Kamala blew past me, I think she's heading for Mellissa and Lucy…"

Connor was already running as Jackson trailed off, sounding disoriented and exhausted. The training rounds weren't designed explicitly to cause pain, but Kamala had always been an expert at that. Even if Jackson wasn't permanently down, he could pass out at any moment. Connor just ran, pulse pounding, desperately trying to reach his friends. If Amber was behind him, he couldn't tell. There was no time to check, but she could handle herself. It was Mellissa and Lucy that needed him now.

"Lead, coming in!" Connor charged through the open door, rifle up, visualizing the layout in his mind. It was a small two story building, with only two entrances and limited office space above. No elevator, just an ancient staircase in the corner. He sprinted up it, fighting back the tiniest sliver of panic. "Mellissa! Lucy! Status report, now!"

No response came. Connor rounded the corner of the stairs, charging into the room. It was an open floor plan, but the sightlines were hampered with a dozen cubicles. A burst of fire rang out and he flattened against the nearest one, but a moment later realized it hadn't been directed at him. He rose to his feet, and ducked into the open. It was clear. He paced forward, listening intently for any sign of movement.

"Connor, this is Lucy." Connor almost jumped at the sound of his teammates voice, and chided himself for getting so tense. "Kamala's in here. We drove her back but I don't think she's hit…"

"Copy. Northwest corner?" Connor glanced down at his motion tracker as movement flickered along the edge of it's sensor range.

"Affirmative." Lucy dropped a waypoint on her location, and Connor altered course correspondingly. The room should have been well lit by the multitude of windows ringing it, but the ancient things were muddied with age. The sunlight came through hazily, casting long shadows across the vacant rooms.

Connor reached the end of a long hallway, and Lucy and Mellissa's IFF tags appeared at the edge of his radar. It was empty of any red dots, superficially indicating the absence of a nearby threat. Connor wasn't fooled and kept his rifle up and ready. SPI's motion tracking was notorious for missing to slow, deliberate movements; Kamala could be anywhere, stalking him.

Even as he felt his way through the building towards his friends, Connor couldn't help but wonder at what Kamala's game was. She had to know that she couldn't face Tan in a straight up fight. Connor knew his team was good; she might have wounded Jackson, but she'd taken him by surprise. The fact that Mellissa and Lucy were still standing made it clear to him that she was out of her depth with his squad. Granted, she was arguably the deadliest member of Violet Team, but even so – she had to know she was outmatched. Connor had a moment to wonder whether this whole attack had been a diversion – a feint, to get Tan more worried about surviving her than following her.

Then the gunfire began in earnest.

Connor swore under his breath and took off at a run, as his motion tracker exploded into a messy array of red and white. Something big and electrical crashed to the ground ahead of him, followed by another to his right. His tracker swam with phantom dots, white points obscuring any trace of Kamala's movement. He could hear Mellissa swearing up a storm, as he sprinted through the storm. Suppressive fire – whether from his friends or Kamala, he couldn't be sure – drowned out the particulars, but Connor got the gist of things. It seemed he'd underestimated the Psycho.

He was maybe ten meters from his teammates when Kamala finally pinged on the motion tracker. Connor's heart plummeted into his stomach; she'd somehow managed to sneak past Mellissa and Lucy and hit them from their rear flank, putting the two of them between Connor and herself. Connor twisted around a corner and took in the situation with one quick deliberate glance; Lucy crouched behind a desk and computer monitor, firing her submachine gun into the darkness beyond her, and Mesllisa, shotgun in hand, bounding from cover to cover, trying to push up.

Connor brought his sniper rifle up and activated the scope, trying to zero in on where Lucy was firing. Just as the integrated sight appeared on his HUD, a tell-tale clank echoed through the dusty halls. Connor dropped into a crouch and slid back behind the wall on instinct, before the sound had totally processed as a grenade. Kamala must have cooked it – something dangerous with the standard UNSC M9 HE-DP Frag, but well within her skill level – and it detonated mere moments after it landed, spraying "shrapnel" against the walls. Connor gritted his teeth against the concussive force of the ovepressure wave, then swung out from his cover, finger on the trigger.

Mellissa's advance had been halted, but both her and Lucy looked unharmed. They had reacted almost as quickly as Connor, sliding into cover as soon as Kamala's explosive landed. Connor swung his rifle towards the darkness and tensed on the trigger, but Mellissa rose from her crouch, now holding an MA37 Assault Rifle, and blocked his shot. Connor sidestepped, trying to clear his line, but Kamala had already moved. The Violet Team soldier darted right, firing an extended burst as she sprinted in and out of the cover offered by the cubicles. Connor realized with a cold feeling that her maneuver was designed specifically to get her out of his line of fire.

In front of him, Lucy and Mellissa scrambled to try and counter. Mellissa pushed forward, putting as much lead in the air as possible, trying to predict where Kamala would pop up next – without much success. Lucy meanwhile pulled back – firing more sparingly with her SMG, despite it's deeper magazine – and clearly just trying to get clear of the whole mess. Connor slipped sideways into a side passageway, turning right and emerging into a cramped, low cubicle. Kamala finished her flanking maneuver and pressed forward, just as Mellissa's magazine ran dry.

It was like watching a freighter collision in slow motion. As Mellissa dropped her magazine and scrambled to get into cover, Kamala emerged, SPI armor fully de-cloaked and olive drab armor clear to the world to see. Connor watched it develop as if time had slowed to a crawl, unable to raise his rifle in the tight quarters, unable to do anything but watch. Lucy's hasty retreat had dragged her out of position to cover Mellissa, and Violet's psycho had her dead to rights.

No, it wasn't going to happen. Connor raged inside, moving forward. He would not lose a squad mate to Violet Team, not in some damned training simulation. The floor ahead of him was essentially a large open space, devoid of any cover besides a few very permeable magazine stands with pages long rotted away. The moment he landed, he'd be in the open, easy pickings after Mellissa was down if he didn't save her. Connor didn't hesitate, didn't pause for a single moment. There was no time for doubt, only time to get it done. If he didn't hit his target, things would be over for him.

He vaulted the wall of the cubicle, left arm pushing off with every ounce of strength his adrenaline fueled muscles could offer. He lifted clear of the wall, sniper rifle swinging behind him, never once tearing his gaze from Mellissa and Kamala. His friend twisted as she leapt for cover, trying to minimize her profile, shock written all over her frame. She hadn't expected Kamala to come at them this fast, this aggressively. Kamala leaned forward, rifle swinging down and around, deadly intense. In her mirrored golden visor, Connor again caught sight of himself, swinging forward, part acrobat and part warrior.

He blinked.

His sniper rifle cleared the low wall, snapped up to his shoulder as his legs kicked into a crash, and he fired. In the quarter meter open space between the top of Mellissa's shoulder and the wall of the nearest cubicle, the big bore round cut through the air faster than the speed of sound. Kamala's head snapped violently back, her entire body crumpling unceremoniously to the ground. Connor blinked again, expecting something more – for his body to be shaking, for her to fire as she fell, for his feet to skid out from under him, for another team to come pouring through the door firing. Nothing came; he held a simple crouch, rested his rifle in his hand, and calmly exhaled.

Mellissa landed with a crash, scampering into cover. The frantic energy of her movement was a sharp contrast to the stillness that had settled over the rest of the room. Connor rose wearily, relaxing his tense muscles. Lucy emerged from cover scanning the room suspiciously, and Mellissa stopped squirming into cover and looked up. To her credit, the shock of glancing back and seeing Kamala's still form was well hidden. If Connor hadn't lived every day for the past eight years with her and the others, he was sure he would have missed it.

"Thanks for saying clear, Lead." Mellissa grumbled as she climbed to her feet.

"Everyone good?" Connor tried his best to set his tone to business. "Four, you ok?"

"Nothing but a few sore knees, Lead." Lucy rested her hand on his shoulder reassuringly, her tone much warmer than Mellissa's. "Thanks for the save, Connor."

"Three to lead." The moment broke as Amber came over the com line. "I'm with five, and he's not moving so well. You need to get down here, sir."

"Copy that." Connor checked his mission clock against when the engagement had started. It had been over fifteen minutes since Draco had first tackled him – they needed to get moving before another team decided to finish them off. There was no way their skirmish would have gone unnoticed. "Tan Team, marking a waypoint for rendezvous. Two, on point."

Working his way down the stairs, Connor ran through the engagement in his mind. Parts had been too close for comfort, but they'd all come out the other side alive, and that was ultimately what mattered. Connor was satisfied with his team's performance.

Even so, as Mellissa darted into the street and checked their route for threats, Connor reminded himself not to get complacent. Violet weren't slouches by any means, but they were hardly the biggest threat on the field. There were undoubtedly more difficult fights still to come.

"Gold Actual to all points, hold position." Inside her SPI suit's sealed helmet, Jacky-359's radio crackled faintly. "Gold Two, status update."

"No contacts, Actual." Jacky, on point, listened as Mason-317, her team's marksman and rearguard, spoke his piece. "Rear flank clear."

"Gold Three?" Matt-363, Gold Actual, and Jacky's squad leader, turned his attention to her.

"No contacts yet, sir." Jacky replied, scanning what she could see of the landscape before her. "But we're almost at the end of the canyon, Actual. Soon as we're in the open, things might be a whole different story."

For the briefest of moments, the radio channel went silent. Jacky knew Matt was mulling over their options, planning what to do next. Since they'd dropped into the exercise two hours prior, Matt had kept them moving – cautiously, but quickly. As they'd maneuvered, they'd kept their eyes open for any and every sign they could find of the other teams. Ten kilometers, on paper, sounded like a relatively large area; put ten squads of SPARTAN trainees into the same area however, and it compressed rapidly. Gold had noted at least three engagements so far, and done their best to maneuver themselves out of the line of fire. They'd wait to engage the enemy, at least for now.

As best they could tell, they weren't the only looking for strategic positions instead of rushing into the fray. A little under twenty minutes beforehand, Jacky had noticed clear signs of another squad – possibly even two – in their area and heading towards each other. When she'd alerted Matt, he'd contemplated looking for a spot where they might be able to engage the winner at an advantage, but decided against it. As best they could determine, the fighting so far had mostly been limited to the central areas of the arena. That meant other teams would undoubtedly be moving for the outskirts, looking for somewhere safe to regroup, and Gold had no intention of engaging some team only to get blindsided by a second force. Matt instead had opted to get them out of dodge, and let the others thin each other out.

"Move out Gold Three." Matt said at last, waving them forward. "Two, return to formation and establish proximity rearguard."

On point, Jacky moved up quickly but cautiously, her eyes locked front. When Gold had opted to maneuver out of the thick of things, they'd found their best option to be a long, steep, canyon trail. Matt's TacMap had informed them that the canyon was part of a high mesa that stretched out beyond the westward boundary of the arena, sweeping into the area again much farther north. The canyon itself was the remains of an old river gorge, water long dried out.

The walls, at least a hundred fifty meters high, would have been nearly impossible for another team to scale and gave them handy protection from flanking maneuvers. The obvious issue, of course, was their vulnerability in front and from behind. The skinny passage afforded little in the way of cover, outside of the winding twists and turns of it's walls; every time Gold rounded a corner, they were open to attack.

That was where Jacky came in, naturally. On point, well ahead of the rest of the team, she kept her eyes peeled for even the smallest sign that something was amiss, ready to spring into action. At least in theory, if they did make contact, Jacky could warn the team, rush the enemy, and draw attention long enough for the others to get into position to either support her attack or cover her retreat.

In theory, of course. Jacky had always been a very observant and precise individual, a skill she'd honed alongside her others during training. She watched everything, with a particular eye for little details – the shifts in eye movements and should position that could clue her into someone's emotional state, the intricate twists and rises of terrain that told the story of a position's tactical strengths and weaknesses. She'd realized immediately upon entering the canyon that given the topography, she'd be hard pressed to protect the team, even on point. She'd told Matt, but hadn't managed to sway him. It was their only truly viable route to move north, away from the fighting, unless they wanted to risk bumping into another team on open ground. Jacky accepted his decision without hesitation, electing to keep her eyes open extra wide. In Gold Team, they respected the chain of command; Matt was the squad leader, and his decision was final. All of them trusted him to make the right call.

"Gold Three to Gold Actual," Jacky keyed her comm as she neared the final bend in the canyon. She ducked her head out, taking in the bulk of the detail of the terrain beyond their narrow walls. The gorge ended startlingly sharply, feeding into a rock field. "Confirming eyes on post-canyon terrain. Dirt pack and shale, poor vegetation, large rocks, interrupted sightlines forty meters north, medium sized ridge on our eastern flank."

"Access to the ridge?" Matt asked, sounding like he was caught up in thought. "Cover for advancement?"

"Sufficient cover to move north, western routes vulnerable." Jacky slipped around the bend fully, MA5K Carbine at the ready. She was perhaps her most vulnerable now. SPI might have provided some small measure of camouflage, but ARES teams had been drilling in it for months. If someone out there was watching the exit, it wouldn't take long for them to spot her.

"And the ridge to the east?" Jacky checked on her HUD as Matt spoke to make sure Anna, Gold Four, was on her tail. "Is it a viable over watch position?"

"Standby." Jacky prowled to the edge of the canyon, Anna close behind, then ducked out, trusting the other trainee to watch for hostiles. She took the ridge's layout in with a glance, smiling. "Set of switchbacks to the top, Actual. Covered, quick access."

"No sign of hostiles north or east of us, Matt." Anna added. "Motion tracker shows all clear."

"Understood." The subtle shift in Matt's otherwise even tone made Jacky suspect he was anxious. She wondered if anyone else even noticed. Maybe Anna…but that was a whole different can of worms.

"Gold Team, move up." Matt spoke at last, hesitation gone as far as Jacky could discern. "Gold Two, post on the ridgeline. Gold Three, Gold Four, move left. Gold Five, on me up the middle."

Jacky moved left, nodding at Anna as she passed; the other trainee spun on her heels and wheeled to follow. They crackled across the shale, moving quickly – the sliding, shifting, clacking rock all but ruled out stealth. On point, Jacky kept her head on a swivel, alert for movement. The helmet feed from Matt's HUD showed him doing much the same. Mason's feed showed little besides rock, dirt, and the marksman clambering up over them. The rocks surrounding the switchbacks gave him cover, but that meant they'd have to wait for eyes on.

On Otto's feed, Jacky watched him and Matt slide around a large boulder obstructing their path and sightline forward. The area was filled dotted with the massive rocks – each at least fifteen meters high – and they played hell with the sightlines. She glanced right, and spotted the pair dashing north, weapons up and clearly ready. Jacky and Anna tentatively skidded to a stop, checking their rear and left flank, respectively. They did it silently, automatically; it was the same motions they'd been training, practicing, for eight years. It was all those years of drilling that made Jacky shift uncomfortably as she turned north and took her next step forward. In between the clatter of the shifting rock and her own quiet breathing, she heard something…distinct. Distinctly not Gold Team.

The radio crackled. Jacky's eyes darted to the other helmet feeds. Adrenaline spiked and her grip tightened around her carbine. On screen, clear as day, and directly in front of Matt and Otto, were five ghostly figures clad in SPI armor, spaced evenly in a proper line, just like Laszlo had taught them.

"Contact front." Any other squad leader would have been yelling, caught in the open with an entire hostile squad a stone's throw away. Matt didn't even raise his voice. The entire contingent knew that when the pressure was on, Gold Actual went cold. Jacky liked to imagine it terrified more than a few of them. "Gold, engage. Three and four move left, two, get scope on target from the ridge."

The calm in Matt's voice in no way did justice to the scene of chaos unfolding in front of the team. Jacky's rifle snapped to her shoulder, up and ready for the moment a target presented itself. She pressed forward, Anna close behind, as the sharp metallic crackle of gunfire ripped through the rocky hillside. It quickly became apparent as the two of them moved forward just exactly what Matt's thinking was. A trio of boulders ahead formed a wide passage – two on their left, one larger on their right – and blocked their view of Matt, Otto, and the unfolding battle. If they moved quickly, they could rush through the makeshift path, drop on the enemy's flank, and be in perfect position.

The danger, of course, was the potential danger if their opponent predicted their move and hit them before they made it out. As always, Matt had the full range of potential issues covered.

"Hostiles dispersing, rifle pair moving left, grenadier pushing ridgeline." Through the short-range helmet feed, Jacky watched Matt and Otto sprayed fire on the move as they ran for cover closer to the ridge's base. "Gold Four, suppressive fire on northern approach, Gold Three advance and engage."

Jacky felt her hear thumping like cannon fire in her chest, the rush of the moment – the rapidity of the maneuvering – getting to her. She did her best to multitask, watching the end of the tunnel for the hostiles she knew were about to round the corner and keeping tabs on the rest of the team simultaneously. Matt and Otto had broken contact, both still alive and intact, but the enemy hadn't been hit, either. They'd managed to take cover, putting a boulder between them and the opposing force, but combat moved fast – and faster still when those involved were all SPARTAN trainees.

"Gold Two in position, targets obscured." As Mason's voice filled the comm channel, a figure slid around the corner of the passage in front of Jacky, blurred and ghostly; she pressed herself against the rock on her right, the curve of the boulder just barely shielding her from sight. "Pretty sure that grenadier's trying to scale the ridge and flank you, Actual."

"Copy. Gold Five, watch our six." As Matt spoke, Anna opened fire behind Jacky. The MA5B in the other trainee's hands was hardly the most accurate rifle, but it's deep magazine and tremendous rate of fire meant it could put an impressive amount of lead downrange. Jacky didn't stop her advance; she could trust Anna not to shoot her in the back. "Gold Actual to Gold Two, check the eastern flank of the center hostile position. Fire in the hole."

Jacky slowed for the briefest of moments, poised on the cusp of turning the corner. Gunfire erupted just ahead of her, the shooter hidden behind the curve of the bend; a rifleman, from the sound of it, returning fire on Anna. The shoot couldn't have been more than a meter and a half away from Jacky. At that distance, she would start with the element of surprise, but wouldn't retain it for long. HUD feeds showed Matt priming a grenade, Otto lying in wait, Mason carefully watching an empty patch of ground, and Anna slotting a magazine into her rifle. Even Jacky, good as she had always been with details, wasn't totally sure what Matt was planning. It'd been only seconds since they'd engaged; a counter plan was still far beyond her conceiving. That, of course, was why Matt had been chosen all those years ago to lead them. Anna let loose another long burst of fire, forcing the shooter back, and Jacky moved. That was her cue.

Exhaling explosively, she flashed her acknowledgement light once and charged around the corner, finger hovering on the trigger. Anna let off a short burst, aiming well high of the enemy; Jacky was grateful for the added distraction. The first target, the shooter who'd been trading fire with Anna, was caught wholly unprepared. The slim figure tried to spin and bring it's BR55 Battle Rifle to bear, but whoever they were, they simply weren't quick enough. Jacky feathered the trigger, unloading a burst directly into the other soldier's chest. Round after round hammered into her – Jacky was reasonably sure it was another woman – and she crumpled to the ground without firing another shot.

Jacky had been expecting something along these lines when she'd charged in. Matt had said rifleman and he wouldn't have told her to advance unless he knew she could handle it. She trusted his judgment on her abilities, more perhaps than she trusted her own. With Anna on cover fire, she'd expected one rifleman she could drop immediately, and another she could hit in the following close range confusion. Perhaps two, maybe three trainees in the ARES contingent were faster than her. She had expected no serious competition from a rifleman saddled with a long gun. What she hadn'texpected was to be staring down the barrel of a shotgun, in the hands of what was clearly enough close quarters specialist.

"Rifleman my ass, Matt." She growled.

Jacky charged forward, firing. With a downed enemy at her feet and no time to properly steady her aim, her spray of rounds did little to actually eliminate the target in front of her. The other specialist strafed sideways, darting clear of Anna's firing line, and started bringing his shotgun to bear. With nowhere to go but directly ahead, Jacky leapt forward and tackled the man before he could finish her with a cloud of buckshot.

The other soldier swore as she hit him, both of their primary weapons tumbling away. From the voice, she knew immediately who she was dealing with. Out of the entire training class, there was no team hated more than Scarlet, and Gold Team had an especially rocky history with the nasty group of trainees. Jacky had dueled with Michael-356, Scarlet's close quarters specialist, dozens – if not hundreds – of times over the past eight years. She was fairly certain she knew his moves better than he did; killing him was something she'd practiced too many times to count. It didn't hurt, of course, that Jacky could guess that the Battle Rifle-toting soldier she'd killed moments before was none other than Jennifer-347, Scarlet's leader.

The enemy team leaderless and weak, with Michael the only remaining obstacle in her way? Jacky didn't mind the odds of that scenario at all. She smashed an armored gauntlet into the third neck seal of Michael's armor – it's weakest point, she had long since noticed – and reached for the shotgun on her back. Michael wasn't quite ready to be done; he head-butted Jacky from below, forcing him off her, and started reaching for a weapon of his own. Jacky elected to let the momentum carry her instead of fighting it, rolling backwards and finishing her retrieval of her shotgun. She brought the weapon to her shoulder, but Michael made it to his feet before she could fire, hand on his M7 Submachine Gun. Still, even as he drew, he had to know he wasn't fast enough. His gun was still at his hip, and Jacky had him dead to rights.

She pulled the trigger, but as she did, thunder rolled through the ground and air. She had no warning, no clue to brace for the detonation; she stumbled forward, her shotgun discharging uselessly into the dirt. In the corner of her HUD, Mason's helmet cam feed showed an overview of the battlefield, cluing her in to what had gone wrong. The grenade hadn't been Scarlet's – it had been Matt's. From the footage, it was clear that Matt had tried – and succeeded – to flush out the two Scarlet soldiers plaguing him and Otto, intending to force them into Mason's firing line. Matt hadn't been intending to inconvenience her; he just simply hadn't been able to keep track of the entire battlefield on such short notice.

Intended or not, the detonation was making her life difficult. Jacky tried to transition from her stumble into a rough charging attack, but Michael read her weakness correctly and closed the distance, striking her while she was off balance. He kicked the shotgun clear out of her hands; Jacky swore, unarmed, and watched as Michael leveled his SMG on her. A pair of sharp cracks split the air – not Michael firing, but rather Mason dropping two members of Scarlet. At least something was going according to hastily-conceived-plan.

For all her doubts moments, the plan didn't fail the left half of Gold either. Just as Michael open fired, so did Anna; Jacky dove into the dirt, as gunfire buzzed over her head. Michael looked ready to track and hit her as she fell, but a round from Anna that caught him above the elbow quickly convinced him the real threat was the one still shooting at him. Jacky watched as Michael spun, shifting his fire and spraying an extended burst towards Anna, who had to duck backwards behind the rocks once again. She made it behind cover safely, and Jacky went to work using the time she had bought her.

Before Michael could turn to face her, Jacky was on him. She rose and darted in, dropping an elbow strike onto the joint of Michael's injured arm. He staggered backwards as she spun, kicking him hard in the knee, and squirmed in panic as she wrapped her arms roughly around his neck and shoulder. Before he could fire or squirm out of her grasp, Jacky shifted her hips in an underarm throw, slamming Michael onto the ground, back first. As Michael crashed into the dirt, she shot a hand out, snatched the submachine gun from his flailing hands, securing it before he even hit the shale. In one smooth motion, with a fluidity and crispness that almost surprised herself, Jacky brought the captured weapon up to her shoulder and emptied the magazine into Michael's wriggling form.

"Gold Three," Breathless, she dropped the empty SMG. "Two targets down, left flank clear."

"Took you long enough, three," Mason answered her, not Matt or Otto. "I got my two three and half seconds ago."

"Cut the chatter, Gold Team." Matt interjected without any hint of emotion. "One hostile at large. Any eyes on target, team?"

Jacky stooped to collect her shotgun and fallen MA5K, easing into cover behind the rocks at the end of the passageway she had just fought her way down. Slowly, deliberately, she slid around the corner, searching the landscape for a sign of the missing Scarlet soldier. The large boulder that Matt and Otto had taken cover behind obscured much of the ridge; she spotted nothing.

"Gold Two here," As Mason spoke, Jacky waved Anna up to her own position, getting ready to move up on the flank should the others need support. "Motion tracker is showing movement below and north of me on the ridge. Should I engage?"

"Negative, Gold Two." As Matt spoke, Jacky paused, sensing somehow this fight wasn't going to involve her. "Gold Five, cover eastern approach and prepare to engage. Target will present itself."

"Copy." There was a long silence, as Otto carefully watched the eastern side, sweeping the ridge. Jacky shifted from searching the ridge to watching their backs, confident that if Matt thought Otto had things covered, he did. A firefight was only slightly inconspicuous than firing up a signal flare; even as short as that one had been, every single trainee had to know where they were now. The vultures were undoubtedly already on their way.

"Status?" Matt asked at last.

"Stand by." Otto had always been a bit taciturn under pressure. "Engaging."

Two rapid-fire three round bursts echoed through the rocks, followed by a dull thump and, a moment after that, a muted detonation. The surviving Scarlet member had to be Arnold-351 – he had always been the one on that team to pack heavy weapons like the grenade launcher he was obviously now using. Jacky snuck a glance towards the ridgeline, her view still blocked, and briefly contemplated moving up. Then a lone, final burst split the silence, and the radio crackled again.

"Target down." Otto laughed, sounding relieved. "Never even figured out where I was hitting him from. To distracted looking for Two apparently. Grenade went off an easy thirty meters from me."

"Gold Actual to all points, we're clear." Matt wasted no time congratulating them on victory. "Gold Two, on point. I want us moving north, and I want a tactical assessment of the terrain. Gold Three, Gold Four, hold the rear flank and follow at a twenty five meter displacement. Leave Scarlet's supplies on their bodies and rig them with claymores. Eyes groundside, Gold Team."

Wordlessly, they moved out, smoothly transitioning into their new roles. Jacky and Anna split, moving to plant their booby traps on the "corpses" Scarlet had left behind. Laszlo had a made a point to tell them in advance that unless they were in need of serious medical attention, they would all be being left where they laid for the duration of the exercise after being "killed". A way of further treating things like reality, and an opportunity for Gold to potentially catch another team unawares. None of them had fired more than two magazines, leaving them comfortably set on supplies. Other team's might not have been so fortunate, and it was possible – albeit unlikely – Gold could get lucky and take out some of the opposition when they tried to scavenge Scarlet's plentiful remaining ordnance.

With the traps set and the rest of the team already moving out, Jacky waved Anna forward before settling into position behind her, at the end of their loosely spaced line. She breathed deeply, and turned to check their six every five paces, doing her best to slow her heartbeat. Her hands had an almost imperceptible shake as she held her carbine, but Jacky ignored it. She'd dealt with the after-effects of adrenaline plenty of times; she could deal with it now too. The helmet camera feed for Mason disappeared from her HUD, as he moved out of range; Jacky didn't fret the loss. She might have lost a first person, strategic view of the battlefield, but it wasn't crucial to her job. Matt still had the link, and that was what mattered. It was his job to make the decisions. Jacky's was simply to kill the targets he put in front of her.