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December 21, 2524

UNSC modified freighter Two for Flinching approaching Harvest

It had taken over three months, but, finally, the corvette that Johnson had boarded to Harvest had arrived at the planet's home in the Epsilon Indi system. Johnson had been in cryosleep for only part of the journey, but the dreams he did have were frightening. Lately, they all ended the same: the scope of a sniper rifle, looking into a restaurant, where a woman held a detonator next to a little boy's head…

Johnson had just finished putting on his Marine battle dress uniform, and was strapping on his boots in the Flinching's locker room when another man walked in. He had short blond hair and mischievous brown eyes. "Hey," the man muttered as he stepped past Johnson. Johnson responded in kind. The man went to a locker and took out a helmet with a red medical insignia on it. "Petty Officer First Class Davis Healy," he said as he inspected the helmet. "Corpsman."

"Staff Sergeant Avery Johnson. Not a corpsman," Johnson replied. Healy chuckled.

"At least I don't have to salute you," he said, referring to the fact that, since Johnson was a marine and Healy was in the Navy, neither of them outranked the other. Johnson nodded in agreement.

"So, what brings you to Harvest?"

"Oh, some sort of militia that I'm supposed to help organize," Johnson said. "You?"

"Colonial Militia Training? Dude, same here!" Healy responded. He presented his outstretched fist to Johnson, who bumped it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster; which is to say, not much at all. Both Healy and Johnson reported soon afterwards to the ship's hanger bay, which barely had enough room for two Pelicans, considering the ship had been modified for the comfort of its occupants. The pilot waiting by one of the Pelicans had his arms crossed and was undoubtedly glaring at the Marine and the Corpsman from behind his helmet.

"Eighty-nine soldiers I've had to deliver, and at the end of the line we stop out here just for two? There'd better be a good reason for going weeks out of our way for this," he muttered as he clambered into the dropship. Johnson and Healy followed him, strapping in as the pilot prepared the Pelican for launch. The pilot coerced the dropship out of the Flinching's hanger bay and into space. As Johnson stepped into the cockpit, he could see Harvest in all its beauty. The planet had one large continent devoid of frigid wastes or blistering deserts; indeed, it only appeared to have one mountain range. Most of Harvest's continent was composed of prairies and the occasional deciduous forest. It had no moon, but there was something in Harvest's thermosphere: what appeared to be two arcs, a larger one positioned above a smaller one and connected by a slanting piece of metal. It had to some sort of space station, albeit one of a strange design. The large open gap between the two halves had, upon close inspection, seven golden strands in them that lead down to the planet. As the Pelican maneuvered through heaps of weathered propulsion pods, Johnson could see that they were the ends of space elevators, and definitely not for the use of people like most space elevators. No, he decided when he saw a shipment of large metal boxes come out of one of them; they must be for agricultural purposes. The Pelican soon found itself approaching the docking bay of the orbital station, where it turned around and landed inside station. Johnson walked back into the bay and exited the ship along with Healy. The Pelican's bay doors closed and it lifted off mere moments after the two soldiers had exited the vehicle. Johnson and Healy found themselves in a mostly deserted hanger bay. Only one freighter was docked there, and only a handful of technicians were in the room.

"Welcome to the Tiara," came an unseen proper female voice. Johnson and Healy looked upwards, but the technicians did not. "I am Harvest's shipping AI SIF 3748-2, otherwise known as Sif. You are Avery Johnson and Davis Healy, I presume?" Both men nodded. "Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your transit more comfortable."

"Just some directions, ma'am," Johnson said as he took out his standard Marine cap from his duffel bag and put it on his head. He then elbowed Healy in the shoulder for staring a bit too long at one female technician.

"Of course. Just follow corridor two…yes, that's the one," the voice told the Marine and the Corpsman, both of whom were looking at a circular door with a large number 2 above it. "Follow that until you get to my main control room, and then make an immediate left once you're past there."

"Thank you, ma'am," Johnson said. He and Healy meandered down the corridor in silence, marveling at the incredible view of every window they passed by. Crates were being flung from the space elevators into the vacuum of space between the Tiara's two arcs. Small ships, most of which were piloted by AIs, swooped in to collect them, aided by the propulsion pods that Sif, being the Tiara's shipping AI, had placed on them. The corridor was brightly lit by white lights that gave the beige interior a calm setting. After only ten minutes of walking, and having passed only one technician (a male one, much to Healy's disappointment), the two men found themselves in front of another circular door, this one with the words 'CONTROL ROOM' written in black paint above it. It opened, sliding upwards as soon as they stepped within three feet of it. The room inside was empty, save for multiple unmanned computer terminals, a few well-placed homey plants, and a tall woman with wavy black hair, a drab brown jumpsuit and very dark skin standing next to a circular projector, on which stood the image of a golden woman with neat hair and a long, sleeveless gown. Both of the women immediately turned to look at the two men. "Umm…hello," Johnson said, nervously waving his hand.

"Hi," the black lady said. "Sif, are these the soldiers you were telling me about?"

"Two of the four, yes. Davis Healy and Avery Johnson. This," she continued, albeit with her gaze directed towards the two men and not the woman, "is-"

"Jilan al-Cygni," the woman interrupted, presenting her outstretched hand for Johnson to shake. He did so, and she then moved on to Healy, who also shook her hand. "I was just talking to Sif about a curious event concerning one of the freighters that left the Tiara a month ago."

"Yes," the AI mused, "the Horn of Plenty. I received a transmission earlier today from the ship's AI stating that it required salvage. However, just an hour ago, I received another transmission from the ship that informed me that the ship was under attack. Undoubtedly it has since been destroyed, but the pirates were out in the middle of nowhere."

"That's strange," Healy said, rubbing his chin. "Who would want to steal crops?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," al-Cygni stated. "In any case, it was a pleasure meeting you. Take care on the surface!" she said politely.

"We'll try, ma'am," Johnson said, saluting and smiling at her. The woman smiled at him, and Johnson and Healy walked past the room and through a small door into a balcony, with a little docking station five meters away and a massive glass window that displayed Harvest gloriously. The two soldiers walked into the docking station, which was just a tiny room with a square pattern on the floor. There was a small metal bench, but Johnson and Healy didn't sit down, for a ping was heard, and a tiny tan ship big enough for a dozen people appeared from the pattern, which was actually one end of a large pipe connected to one of the space elevators. Johnson and Healy entered it and took their seats. Almost as soon as they had finished buckling up, the ship retreated back down the pipe at a moderate speed. It descended straight downwards at a much faster rate once the pipe converged with the space elevator.

"So this is what ODSTs feel like!" Healy said. The tiny pod fell at an increasingly slower rate as it got back to the surface, until it was moving at less than five miles an hour when it finally hit the ground. Upon their arrival, they exited the pod as technicians started using a forklift to get the pod back on its track that led back up to the pipe. As they walked out from the base of the orbital elevator, they found themselves in a quaint little courtyard, with shrubs and marble stairs and a flagpole displaying the Colonial Administration Authority's flag complete with the grey ring of stars, with two semicircles on top, and the hands in the center grasping a unique symbol. Neither Johnson nor Healy would ever figure out what the symbol meant in their lifetimes. Located just in front of the stairs that led downwards to the street was an AI holotable, which struck Johnson as odd, until an image appeared on it. It was of a young man dressed as a cowboy, wearing a hat and a set of spurs like any cowboy would. "Greetings," he said to the two soldiers. "Now, formally, I'm known as MAK 3743-8, but you two gentlemen can call me Mack," he said in a spotless western drawl. "So, I heard you were coming to train some troops from our fine planet."

"We are, sir," Johnson said. "The Tiara's AI, Sif, told us that-"

"Ah, Sif. Ain't she a beauty?" Mack said, a smile splayed across his face. He was obviously very fond of his fellow AI. "Absolutely lovely. Hates it when I flirt with her, though," he added, chuckling.

"She said we were 'two out of four' soldiers assigned to train the militia. If that's the case, than who are the others?" Johnson inquired.

"You'll meet 'em soon enough," Mack replied as he stuck a holographic stalk of wheat in his mouth for no discernable reason other than to look more like a cowboy. "There's a taxi all set for you out front. Have a safe trip!"

"We will, sir," Johnson said. He and Healy walked down the stairs.

Harvest had no moon, and the stars were barely enough light for the soldiers to see the sign that arched over the entrance to the parade ground-turned-military barracks that would house them for the next few months. Fortunately, as they drove a little further on, off of the turbulent gravel and onto smooth pavement, streetlights and floodlights illuminated a large space surrounded by five buildings. A man was sitting on one of the building's steps. Well lit by the headlights, he had a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, tan skin and a robotic prosthetic right arm, with which he was holding a lit cigar. When Johnson brought the taxi to a halt, he was quick to get out and salute, something Healy did after a moment's hesitation. "At ease," the man said. "48789-20114-AJ and 23679-82351-DH?" He was answered by a "yes, sir" from both soldiers. "Good. I am Captain Malcolm Ponders. Here," he said, throwing the cigar butt to the ground and standing up, "let me help you with your gear."

"No need, Captain, it's just the two bags," Johnson said of the duffel bags he and Healy had over their shoulders.

"Travel light, first to fight," Ponders said, smiling. He motioned to the taxi. "Sorry about the civilian vehicle, I've got my other platoon leader looking for the Warthogs in Utgard. Shipping delay, can you believe it?" He chuckled and lit a fresh cigar. "Recruits aren't arriving until Sunday, so you've got two days to prepare."

Johnson was sleeping soundly an hour later when he heard a slamming noise. He woke up grumbling, slowly getting up from his bed in the officer's section of the barracks. The door that was opposite his bed was open, letting floodlight shine into the room. Silhouetted against it was a tall man. Although Johnson could barely make out any features of the man, whoever he was could certainly see him plainly. Healy had awoken from the noise, too, in his bed next to Johnson's. "That's a well-made bed, Johnson," the man said as he stepped further into the room. "After a month in the hospital, you get an eye for that sort of thing." Due to his thick Irish accent and the venom in his voice, Johnson knew all too well who the man was.

"It's good to see you again, Nolan," he replied nonchalantly. Nolan Byrne had thin black hair, a thin beard without a moustache, and blue eyes that brimmed with hatred. The left one had a set of burnt scars surrounding it. He was dressed in a standard Marine BDU. "I'm glad you're alright."

"Are you now?" Byrne yelled as he walked closer to Johnson, his fists tightly clenched. The latter got out of bed.

Johnson held out his hands defensively and backed up. "I'm sorry, Byrne, they were all good men-"

Byrne acted surprisingly fast, charging at Johnson and pinning him to the wall, his hands at Johnson's throat. "Not sorry enough," Byrne growled. While Johnson's hands reached up to his neck, his right leg lashed out and kicked Byrne in the groin. Amid the ignored drone of Healy's "woah"s, Johnson threw a punch at Byrne, who sidestepped, and managed to hit Johnson on the chin, and land another punch on his chest. Johnson stumbled back, and when Byrne charged again, he landed a blow to the Irish man's head, causing Byrne to tumble onto Healy's bed. Healy promptly ran out of the barracks in an effort to inform Captain Ponders. Johnson, meanwhile, aimed his fist towards Byrne's face, but Byrne kicked Johnson's chest to send him reeling onto his own bed. Johnson rolled off and tackled Byrne, and then stood up. The door opened, and Captain Ponders walked in.

"Johnson, Byrne! Stand down!" he ordered. Johnson stood where he was while Byrne lurched to his feet. Ponder stared at them both with malice. "Perhaps it's best if we separate you two tonight. Byrne, you and I will sleep in the normal bunks tonight. Now come with me, Staff Sergeant."

"Aye, sir," Byrne replied. He shoved Johnson out of the way as he followed Ponders out the door. Healy, meanwhile, walked into the room, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

"If you don't mind me asking," he asked Johnson, "what the hell?"

Johnson sat down on his unmade bed. His olive t-shirt was drenched in sweat, and his cargo pants were all wrinkled. He hunched over and told his story to Healy. "Byrne and I were never the best of friends. We were constantly arguing about something. Even so, there was one op in July," he stated. "And the mission started out so well…"

July 14, 2524

Cabash, Tribute

Two AV-14 Attack VTOL craft flew above the city, weaving through buildings and halting directly over a nondescript square grey building. Even before they softly landed, the occupants-four soldiers in each Hornet-had jumped out and onto the roof. All of them were wearing black, heavily-armored jumpsuits and UNSC pilot helmets. They left the two silver helicopters with twin engines idle on the rooftop and firmly set up grappling hooks on the edge of the building, just above some large windows. All eight soldiers stood above their designated grapple point, and one of the two squad leaders held up three fingers. He and his team were about to enter an Insurrectionist bomb-making factory cleverly disguised as a car manufacturing plant. Their commanding officer had given the mission the go-ahead, and so the teams were sent in to get rid of the bombs and neutralize as many Insurrectionists as possible. The grappling hooks were attached to the trooper's belts, and they each gripped the point where the rope and belt connected firmly in their non-dominant hand, while their dominant hands held their weaponry, save for the one squad leader: one silenced DMR, four silenced SMGs (one of which was holstered), two silenced Magnums and one Stanchion gauss rifle. The soldiers each took five long strides backwards, and though the winds of dawn whipped around them, they were undeterred. The squad leader lowered one finger, then another, and finally made a fist. The moment he did so, the eight men burst forward with incredible speed, jumping off the building and turning around in midair. They burst through the glass of the factory, landing on the top floor and surprising the 'workers' at their posts. Through the shards of glass, three of them rolled to kneeling positions and fired while the other five fired their weapons immediately, with even the soldier using the gauss sniper rifle landing a glancing blow to one Innie's shoulder that blew the terrorist's arm off. Most of the sixteen Innies were armed, but those that were were killed before they could do more than fire a handful of bullets from their pistols. Though the Insurrectionists had better cover than the UNSC troops, they had poorer weapons and seven of them were gunned down immediately after the troops landed. One Innie, hidden behind a support pillar, tried to detonate explosives in her suit, but she was hit by the quickly-fired rounds of an SMG in the chest and arm and dropped the detonator she had been holding as her body slumped to the ground. The soldiers walked closer to the Innies, firing at any they saw. A few tried to escape, but once one was shot down, the four survivors turned around, fell onto their knees and placed their hands behind their heads. The firefight had lasted only twelve seconds.

One of the squad leaders, the one with the sniper rifle, took a scanner from a small pack on his belt and scanned the manufacturing equipment. He was searching for any explosive materials that the Innies might have put in the cars. Normally, such devices would be easy to find, but the terrorists were constantly changing what compounds made up their weaponry. The six squad members were conducting searches of their own, while the other squad leader was standing by the prisoners, all of whom were shaking nervously. Three men and a woman, between the ages of around thirty to fifty. Scum like them didn't deserve to live. "Nothing in the engines," one team member reported.

"Alpha One to Command, the scanners can't pick anything up. Please advise, over." The squad leader only had to wait for a second before a voice squawked from the communicator in his helmet.

"Time to take the gloves off, Johnson," the voice of the team's CO said.

"Affirmative." Johnson responded. He looked over at the other team leader and nodded once. The other squad leader took the nearest Innie's arm and twisted it, causing it to snap.

"The bombs. Where are they?"

"The-the tires! They're in the tires!" the terrorist cried. The other three prisoners sat silently, glowering at him. Two soldiers ran to a stack of tires and scanned them. Their devices' screens turned green, and they gave thumbs-ups to Johnson.

"Command, this is Bravo One," the other squad leader said in his Irish accent. "We've determined that the bombs are located in vehicle tires. Keep an eye out for the following…" He paused as he scanned over a list of explosive compounds one of his subordinates handed to him via scanner. "Twelve compounds, over."

"Roger, Byrne," the CO said. "Do you still have prisoners?"

"Four of 'em, sir."

"ONI wants the ones you talked to. Neutralize the rest."

Byrne actually smiled behind his helmet. "Affirmative, sir." As the terrorist with the broken arm was still moaning in pain and struggling to get up, Byrne shot the contents of his cartridge into the back of the Innie next to him. Before he had fallen, Byrne shot the prisoner next to him in the back and neck, while the final prisoner received bullets to the side of the head. "Get this sorry wreck up top," Byrne ordered a soldier. The trooper nodded and hoisted the injured Insurrectionist over his shoulder. He and the others walked up a set of stairs adjacent to the side of the factory and onto the rooftop. They arrived just in time to see a police-variant Pelican arrive. Three more were in the distance, and the sound of sirens filled the air. Fortunately, no police officers would be killed that day. Eight more Insurrectionists would perish, though, along with three UNSC troops, who boarded a Hornet and flew off into the dawn mere minutes before their deaths.

"We've located a new source of the explosive compounds," the CO's voice chirped in Johnson's helmet. "Tire markings, headed into a Jim Dandy's diner at the corner of Lawyer and Sixth. Due west of your position."

"Understood, Colonel. We're en route," Johnson said. Twenty minutes later, the Hornets arrived at the restaurant. Johnson could see the tire markings from his position on one of the Hornets hovering above an office building across an intersection from the diner, and could also see the vehicle that had made them: a large hauler. Through the thermal view of his Stanchion rifle's scope, he could make out red blips on the tires of the hauler. This was because of what had made the marks on the street below, which also glowed red through the scope: the explosive compounds. The scope made Johnson view things in only four colors. People or other hot objects were white, while lukewarm objects were grey and cold objects were pitch black. The explosive material was a vivid red, though. As he peered at the restaurant, he saw over three dozen people inside, most of them eating. He noticed one bright area that was completely red, at the foot of a stool which was occupied by a man who had faint traces of red coloration on him as well. "Target located," he whispered to his CO. However, by the time Johnson had finished saying that, the target had walked out of the diner, holding the door open for a young couple and their two rowdy boys. The individual had sauntered to his hauler and was ruffling through his pocket for the keys when the CO replied, "Fire when ready." Johnson, who had tracked the man since he first detected that the man was covered in explosive compounds, wasted no time in firing. The white blast flew in a perfectly straight line from the barrel of Johnson's rifle to the back of the target, sending his body slamming into the side of the hauler. There was an exceptionally large hole through the man, and a blackened impact mark on the door of his tan hauler that was rimmed with blood.

"We all clear?" Byrne growled over the comm.

"Negative," Johnson replied. "There's still a bomb in the diner, right next to a stool."

While Johnson and his team remained hovering above the office building, Byrne piloted his team's Hornet towards the restaurant. Already, pedestrians were trying to get a good look at the corpse, but when the Hornet landed, and four burly UNSC soldiers jumped off of it, most of them exited the area immediately. The soldiers rushed inside the restaurant. A few people who were calmly eating their breakfast got up and stared. Those sitting on stools near the front counter looked on in a mixture of awe and terror as the soldier known as Bravo Three snatched up a silver purse from the ground. As soon as he did so, he heard a faint voice say, "Crap." Standing there was a middle-aged woman in black pants and a silver top looking wild-eyed at the purse in Bravo Three's hand. Through Johnson's scope, he could see that she, too, had specks of red on her. He fired, but, in the split second before the bullet would have hit her, she leapt to the right and grabbed a little boy. The bullet made a massive hole in the tiles of the restaurant floor, and its occupants panicked. Byrne and the rest of Bravo squad couldn't shoot her due to the risk of hitting civilians, most of which were running towards the exit. Byrne was actually trampled by one man, who fell on top of him.

"Oh God, run!" the civilian cried.

"Shoot her, Johnson! Fire NOW!" Byrne screamed, even as more diner patrons surged in front of him, knocking him down just outside the entrance to the restaurant.

"I can't get a good angle…" Johnson muttered in response.

Meanwhile, the Innie was backing up towards the restrooms. "Get back or I'll kill them all!" she yelled. Johnson couldn't distinguish her from the boy she was holding in front of her. The boy's father was slowly walking towards her, his hands held up in a peaceful manner. One of the soldiers, however, took a more direct route, jumping at the woman while another soldier held the father back.

"Now, dammit, NOW!" Byrne yelled as he got up and started backing away from the restaurant.

The woman had nothing but terror in her eyes as she hit the button on the detonator.

The resulting explosion had an epicenter of the purse, which was lying at the feet of Bravo Three. The shockwave shattered the glass windows of the diner and knocked many people still in the restaurant off their feet. It completely demolished the diner, sending people just outside of it flying into the street. One such person was Nolan Byrne: he couldn't withstand the explosion and was sent back fully a dozen feet, his armored frame hitting a car in the 'shotgun'-side door. The visor on his helmet had been blasted apart, and some of the shrapnel was located around his eye. He couldn't move; the pain was just too much. As he lay there, slumped against the car (whose occupants were running away from the explosion), he heard the sound of a Hornet. In an odd twist of fate, Bravo Team's Hornet had survived the blast, but most of its occupants hadn't. As soon as Alpha Team's Hornet touched down, Johnson immediately ran over to Byrne.

"Nolan…Byrne! Are you alright?" By this time, the other Alpha Team members had crowded around Johnson.

"Why…didn't you take…the shot?" Byrne inquired weakly. Johnson opened his mouth to reply, but, with a shuddering gasp, Byrne slumped to the ground. "Tell command…to wake me…when they need me."

December 22, 2524

CAA Militia Training Reserve 036-1

"Ten civilians died in the blast, along with the bomber and all the other members of Bravo Team. Like I said, Byrne and I have never really gotten along…but he didn't deserve that. Three broken ribs, a bunch of stitches…the agony of a mission gone wrong…" Johnson sighed. "No wonder he hates me more than ever. If I had just taken that shot…"

"As a medic, I constantly lose people that I feel I could've saved. Would you have been able to cope with killing the boy if you could save the others?"

"I…no, I couldn't. He was too young."

"He's with his family, now, somewhere. Now, I'm going to bed." Healy lay down on his bed and crawled under the covers. "I suggest you do the same."