Cameron watched the ships fly into the space port she rescued. The port was tiny, only able to fit a four ships at most, but never the less, every available docking bay was crammed with supplies, fuel, and ships. There was a waiting line of ships that ranged from long-range bombers to massive battleships, both from the UNSC and from the Sparta forces. Drop ships were landing en masse on any available piece of tarmac, each attempting to scuttle as fast as humanly possible. The ships that were waiting for an available bay hovered silently on gravity pods; each seemed eerily like the Covenant. It made her skin crawl, but with all the ants running around on her skin, she missed most of the phantom feeling.
"Strange, isn't it?" Cameron asked Anna.
"Yea," her partner said, "damn strange to see them floating like Covenant birds. But it's nice to see we're not behind the technological eight-ball. Last thing we need is obsolete tech."
"But they're still drowning us in bodies."
"Hey, we do good against rushes," Anna smiled.
Cameron struggled to smile, even though she was still in her armor.
"So what were you doing?" Anna asked.
"Doing what?"
"When we were taking this port. You had a death wish if I've ever seen one."
"We…we have to get to our briefing," Cameron said, turning her back as fast as she could. UNSC personnel were already augmenting the nearly destroyed base; a few Spartan-Vs were staying behind to guard the base, but most Spartan forces were gathering up, getting ready to be sent to other corners of the planet.
Cameron's squad were standing by their Pelican, waiting for their orders to come in. Cameron tried to avoid standing next to Anna, but her partner kept on her heels. Her soldiers snapped crisp salutes to her; she struggled to return them.
"Let's get ready to move, Spartans," she said. "Now that the Covenant have been pushed back from this juicy piece of ground, we're expected to move out and help keep them from taking any more real estate. We're redeploying to central China, where a few shipping lanes are being attacked by hit and run groups. Questions?"
"Ma'am, how long will we be stationed there?"
"Until we get orders saying otherwise, or we find some major Covenant incursion," Cameron said.
"What about our reinforcement group? Have they been assigned to a theater of war?"
"Negative. Battle reports are still coming in, so that means we're still on our own. Any other questions?"
"When do we leave, ma'am?"
"Right now, Spartan," Cameron said, getting on board the Pelican. "Last one on gets latrine duty."
Like she was expecting, every Spartan jumped on board. She found her seat and plopped down, more collapsing than sitting. It just took too much effort to stand. She actually belted herself in when the ship took off.
"Haven't seen you do that since training," Anna said, nodding to her seat belt. Cameron groaned, but her helmet hid it. "You didn't answer my question."
"I just want to be alone for a bit."
"You're my partner, and my squad leader. I need to make sure you're going to be fine."
"I am fine." Cameron didn't even fool herself.
"Come on, talk to me. Why did you go running off like that? You scared me."
"Did I really?"
"I care about you, Cameron. That's what partners are supposed to do, care about each other. And I really worried about you when you tried to go off on your own."
Cameron wanted to cry, fall onto the floor, just do anything but be there in that moment. But she was a Spartan, a squad leader, and she was supposed to be above that, better than that. She wasn't supposed to feel anything, let alone everything.
The ship spun as it flew through the air, and she leaned back in her seat so she wouldn't be thrown about like a rag doll. It felt good to do nothing, to just be passive, even for a moment. The ants actually slowed down as they perpetually crawled all over her skin from every little imperfection.
"Cameron, you're doing it again. You're making me scared," Anna said. "The last time I've seen you like this…"
"Was when I tried to kill myself," Cameron mumbled. Something broke, and she started talking too much. "I know."
"What's making you sad? Was it something that Lucy did that I'm not?"
"No, you've been a great partner. But, but Anna, I can't do this anymore."
"Do what?"
"This," Cameron said. Why couldn't she shut up? "I'm tired. I really hoped I'd just be frozen for eternity; it'd be like being dead, with no one looking to me, wanting me to lead them."
"Why?"
"It's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"That everyone goes away and dies, but I'm left here," Cameron said. "Remember our augmentation? How many of us died?"
"Too well," Anna mumbled.
"Roc died. He was my closest friend. He could have been my partner if he survived, but he died, like all the rest, like half of us did, and I was left. Then Circumstances happened, and everyone else died. Bridget died, and I was left. So many of us died then. Why couldn't I? I was blown apart by a needler, I should have died, it would have been better, fairer."
"So that's what's it about?" Anna asked. "You wanting to 'make things right?' Pay back some blood debt? What about me?"
Cameron looked at Anna.
"What about me?" She repeated. "How is this supposed to make me feel? That my partner wants to die and leave me all alone, by myself? How is that fair?"
Cameron suddenly couldn't look at Anna, even though she had her helmet on.
"Am I just supposed to report back to Sparta and try to act like nothing happened?" She continued. "I did that before, remember? Before I took you as my partner. And I didn't much care for it." She grabbed Cameron's hand. "Come back, for me, and I'll come back for you."
Cameron shook Anna's hand. But she knew that the her old self, the Attrition Queen, wouldn't let her walk back. And that was fine with her.
Hold position, Marcel said.
Roma tried to hold her breath, but it was so hard. Stealth missions used to be her bread and butter, the missions she excelled at, missions that she could practically do herself with no need for a squad. Stealth missions were what got her into OMAC.
But ever since her meds had worn off, it was hard to sit still. She still made herself stand still (she was a Spartan after all), but every fiber wanted to move, to fight, to kill, and she couldn't help but feel anxious about the possibility to be hurt again. Her rib was still cracked, and ached with a soreness that left her craving more.
They were waiting in a tiny valley, a little hole in the rocky seam of the Ark, waiting for a column of Nation forces to pass them. Every Spartan had active camouflage running, eating two bars of shields to properly power. Roma chewed on her lip, waiting for the moment. For all of her anxiousness to fight, she knew when the right time would be.
Just a few meters from her, grunts and jackals ambled by, with brutes and elites studding the line of troops. There were occasionally the odd ghost and wraith, but it was mostly an infantry march. Her heart slammed in her chest.
Ted, now.
The words were barely out of Marcel's mouth when an explosion rocked the valley, and he was upon the aliens.
Oh yeeeeeeeaaaaaaa! Ted screamed/laughed. Roma tried to not laugh herself.
OMAC, hold positions, Marcel said. When you see your moment, go for it.
Roma sighed. That meant more waiting, just when things were starting to get sharp.
The Nations reacted quickly to Ted, but Ted was faster. Grunts died, jackals were crushed, and a few elites were cut to ribbons. How could someone move so fast, kill even faster, and never seem to stop?
The Nations halted their march and responded to Ted. It was the moment Roma was waiting for. She burst from her hiding spot along the rocky walls, and unleashed her shots. By the time she had to reload, there were piles of dead grunts and jackals, all missing their heads.
She charged forward, switching to her assault rifle. Light brilliantly bloomed and every sound rocked her bones. The sharpness was back!
She didn't even bother shooting the grunts, she just punted them, leaving their bodies broken and twisted as she fed one shield layer to supercharge her suit's servos. She saved her ammo for the jackals, elites and brutes. Shields sparked and went out, then alien bodies were peppered with shots, some enough to kill, but most enough to incapacitate.
Roma killed her active camouflage, letting her suit recharge the two layers it took to power, and reloaded. Up and down the line of Nations' troops, OMAC soldiers were jumping out of their hiding spots, fighting and killing. With the sharpness, she felt indestructible, unstoppable.
Some brutes charged her, and Roma flowed around them like water, caving their heads in with the butt of her rifle to trading and parrying blows. They couldn't touch her, which she knew was good, but she wanted another cracked rib. Things were sharp, but they weren't as sharp as they were when she was hurt.
Finally, one red-armored brute charged her, and he knew what he was doing. He, it, swung its' bladed spiker expertly, blocking her punches and thrusts while keeping her on her feet as she dodged the blades on the gun's end.
Now things were getting really sharp. Roma could cut her eyes on the razor-keen definition that filtered through her suit, and she loved how it pained her. She made herself move faster, getting two hits in for every one the brute gave back.
But the brute was tougher than she thought it would be. Roma was able to float a rib shot past the brute's defensive pattern, cracking ribs, but it was an intentional ploy. The brute grabbed her arm, pinning it to its side, and jammed the spiker down on her exposed shoulder. Roma's shields sparked as they resisted the blades as much as they could, saving her life but ultimately failing.
Shield-less, Roma tried to free herself from the brute, but it held her fast. Instead of having her suit recharge her shields, he dumped the power into her servos, overheating them, and pried herself loose. But not before the brute sunk the spiker into her arm.
The blades glanced off the scant pieces of armor and found purchase on the gel layer, smoothly slicing through it and into her upper arm. Pain raced along her arm, burning her nerves and seemingly igniting the air in her lungs. Roma screamed, but she didn't know if it was from pleasure or pain.
Hearing her scream, the brute laughed and pushed its advantage. Still keeping her servos overcharged, Roma brought her bleeding arm across her chest, brutally smashing the brute with a bridge hand. The shock of the blow brought on a fresh wave of pain and she nearly vomited.
The brute reeled back, and Roma was in on it, snatching the spiker from its hands and turning it onto the brute. She sunk the blades deep into its chest, and the brute's eyes bulged out of their already overly large sockets. But it didn't scream until Roma pulled the trigger.
The spikes punched clear through the brute's body. Roma pulled the spiker from the gaping hole and gunned down two grunts who got too close. Screaming with the pleasure/pain, she charged the rapidly retreating aliens, but they had nowhere to go; they had run right into Marcel, who gunned them down without a second thought.
Roma, status, he barked.
I'm fine! She screamed.
You're bleeding, Spartan. Keep pressure on it, I've got a med-kit.
Marcel was pulling gauze out before Roma could push him away. There was more to do! More sharpness and pain to find and catch! He put an arm on her shoulder, pushing her down so he could patch her up, so Roma pulled out her sidearm and kept harassing Nation troops. But there wasn't much to do; OMAC worked fast, and there were hardly any aliens left alive. But she still had the pain in her arm to keep things nice and sharp.
What's happening to you? Marcel asked her, switching to a private comm channel.
What do you mean?
You're…not you. You're loud, over-zealous, taking too many risks. That brute shouldn't have been able to draw on you.
It was a good fighter.
Maybe, but you seem to be taking too many chances.
Roma scoffed as Marcel finished his first aid.
We're near a FOB, we'll get you real aid there, he said, then switched back to his team's comm. Good job, Spartans. Back to the forward operations base to re-supply.
Can't we stay out here, more? Ted asked.
How the hell are you still alive? Marcel growled.
I like annoying you, Ted grinned.
Move out, OMAC. We need supplies.
Roma grabbed her discarded rifle with her cut arm, but the painkillers were already working. They dulled the pain, dulled the light, dulled the sound, and dulled her spirit. She was already feeling slow and dull and bland and medicated.
They ran back to the FOB, a small collection of pre-fab buildings and bunkers, and were welcomed by a skeleton crew of Spartan-Vs and a UNSC supply team.
"My partner needs medical attention," Marcel said as they ran in. "Where's a doctor?"
"I'm a doctor." A medic ran up to them, a big red cross painted on his body armor. "Who's hurt?"
"I am," Roma said, showing off her arm. The bio-foam and bandages had bled through, and blood was dripping from the soaked material.
"Jesus," the medic said, pulling out his pack. "Step over there, I need some light."
"Get patched up, then we need to talk," Marcel said.
Roma didn't want to talk, she wanted to hurt, to feel sharp again.
"Come on, let me see this," the medic said.
Roma sighed and let him examine her arm. He sat her down on an empty ammo crate.
"You're gonna need stitches, but I bet you already knew that," he said. "Morphine?"
"No, I want to feel it."
"I'm…sorry?"
"I want to feel it," Roma repeated. "That way I know I'm alive."
The medic hesitated, but eventually complied. He threaded a needle, disinfected her wound, and went to work. The alcohol, however, was doped with painkilling medicine, taking the edge off. It barely sharpened her sense of smell, let alone sight or sound.
"How's the arm?" Ted walked up to her.
"Getting better," she hissed.
"I bet," the psychopath grinned.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just seeing how you were doing, especially since your meds ran out." The medic gave Roma an uneasy look, but kept working. "Marcel didn't seem to like how you were acting."
"How did you know what he was saying?" She demanded.
"Let's just say I got a friend who's good with cracking comm channels." Roma noticed that he had carved into his armor even more; the skeletal breastplate now read, 'hyper-lethal and loving it!'
"Don't you dare eavesdrop on me," she snarled.
"Sorry, but my friend couldn't help it," Ted said. "She likes bent and broken things. Explains why she hangs around me so much."
"Don't you have a briefing to get to?"
"Nope. What with everyone suddenly not liking me, I'm resigned to being a point-and-click, fire-and-forget solution. Wind me up, set me loose and let me work my magic."
"Must be nice."
"You have no idea," Ted laughed. "Or maybe you will. Won't you care to find out and join me?"
"You're done," the medic said, slapping a fresh pad of self-adhesive gauze on her arm. "Try not to get hurt again." Then he was off, walking as far away from both Ted and her, as fast as he could without actually running.
"Look at him go! Man, do I tend to have that effect on people," Ted said, still laughing. "Try not to get hurt again. Or do. You seem to like it."
Roma glared at Ted as he sauntered off. Him and his grin. And his laughed. And his attitude. It all rubbed her raw, grated an her nerves. She hated Ted and his fucked up mental damages. She stood up and kicked the ammo crate. Her arm stung and ached, but it didn't hurt. It didn't make her feel sharp, it didn't get her blood pumping. It left her craving.
She walked around the buildings of the FOB, trying to calm herself. Maybe Marcel was right. Maybe something was wrong with her. She had a mental condition, she was off her meds. Could this be it? She walked around the back side of the barracks, trying to think what to do, when she almost ran into Marcel himself. He was coming out of the command bunker, talking to William. Both their backs were to her, and they missed seeing her.
"—thing wrong," William said. "She just seems…out of it."
"I've noticed," Marcel said. "I'm scared for her, but I know she can handle herself."
"Handle? She can barely handle fighting a brute."
"That was a tough brute."
"We both know that the Roma we knew could do better."
"What are you saying?" Marcel said, coming to a stop. Roma hid behind a corner. "That my partner isn't up to the task?"
"I'm saying we need to keep an eye out for her," William said. "She might be off her meds, but being around Ted seems to make her worse. Running off into battle without to second thought? Challenging a brute to one-on-one combat? What could be next?"
"I know what you mean," Marcel said. "I'm hoping that we get our supply lines finalized so we can get her more medication. I miss the old Roma; the new one, I don't even know if I know her anymore, let alone if she could attend to her duties."
"That makes two of us," William said, walking off. "Think she'll still make the cut?"
"To stay in OMAC? I doubt it."
Roma couldn't believe what she heard. Marcel, wanting to take her off OMAC? Because of a scratch, or her missed meds? Her blood boiled. She could handle herself. She made it onto OMAC, dammit, without Marcel's help, or any kind of kid gloves, for that matter.
She pounded the side of the barracks. How could Marcel even think about doing this to her? They were partners, and partners were supposed to have their backs. She wanted to feel sharp again, needed to feel sharp again. Marcel's whole betrayal was killing her, making her dull.
She needed something, so she picked at her stitches. She played with them at first, getting a dull, drug-addled throb. She tugged at the gel layer, pulling on the threads, then dug in with her gauntleted nail, trying to get some rise out of it, but the doped alcohol was killing her senses. She only felt the dull pain, not the excruciating bite of the razor's edge.
Roma stormed around the back of the FOB. She needed to feel sharp, dammit! Anything to get what she heard out of her head! She pounded the concrete again, her injured arm hanging limp until it brushed against her knife. She pulled it from its sheath.
The blade was six inches long, weighed for throwing and had a smooth, integrated handle instead of a hilt. It was made out of gleaming, Damascus-like steel, with dark and light ripples running along the entirety of its body. Roma had gotten it as a ceremonial knife when she was accepted into the One Man Army Corp, but never truly used it. But holding it in her hands, her breath came it ragged gasps, her body tensed and her legs shook. It might be ceremonial, for show, but to Spartans, there was never anything that was truly a 'show' piece.
She looked around, then entered the latrine. She found an empty stall and locked the door behind her and undid her gauntlet. She could barely keep control of herself as she peeled back the gel layer off her forearm. There was dried blood that had trickled down after her fight with the brute. It seemed like a good place to start.
The tip of her knife easily slid into her skin. Her arm seemed to sing, and things started getting sharp. Roma groaned and pushed the knife forward, being sure to keep the cut shallow. The longer the knife traveled, the sharper things got, until she was almost crying from agony. Light cut into her eyes and even the slightest smell seemed to overpower her. Her heart beat happily in her chest as blood welled out of the cut. She ended up making the cut seven inches long, and it was leaking blood.
Roma still had some leftover gauze in her ammo pouch, so she wrapped her forearm with it, then pulled the gel layer back into place and sealed her gauntlet. Feeling better, she opened the door to the latrine. A marine stared at her.
"Never thought I'd see a Spartan take a shit," she said.
"We're catheterized," Roma replied. "Can't exactly take this off when nature calls."
The marine wrinkled her nose.
"Then why the bathroom?" She asked.
"Oh. I took a hit in our last action, thought it might have ruptured a seal or a pump with the waste system. Had to check it out in case it broke and leaked." The lie came quick and smooth. Where it came from, Roma didn't know.
"Shit."
"Exactly."
"And?"
"False alarm. I can go to the bathroom with ease."
"It's the little victories in life," the marine laughed. "Speaking of bathrooms…"
"Be my guest," Roma said, letting the marine into the latrine. Her heart was pounding, but she didn't know from what: her cutting, or her close call. Either way, things were nice and sharp again. She felt better, more confident. Now she could really take the Nations on. She walked out of the latrine, ready for anything.
Ships floated in the void, waiting for the order to fly out to the theater of war that needed their help the most; Shangeilos. It was General Naomi's plan in action, but because of the sheer size of the gathered forces, the order to move out had slowed down.
"Status update, Holly," Commander Sterling said.
"It is the same as last time, our forces are working on mobilizing," Holly, his AI assistant said.
Sterling did his best to hide his annoyance and not growl.
"How far past our deadline are we?" He asked again.
"Six hours," Holly sighed, "but that was a self-imposed deadline."
"We've been waiting a week for the reports to come in," Sterling said, pacing on the bridge of his command ship. "We needed to leave six hours ago."
"You know as well as I do that moving this many forces would take time," Holly said, actually turning on her holographic avatar, a flaring meteor. "We have a full fourth of the combined armies of Sparta. It takes time to mobilize those forces."
Sterling pounded the edge of the holotable, his way of saying that he knew. Holly kept her avatar floating in space as he stalked around the table, knowing he would be back soon.
"Sterling, please relax. Fifteen of our ships are ready to travel, the other forty will be coming online in the next twenty minutes, at latest."
"That's good, but we need to be better. Have you gotten any more reports in?"
"I have, and none of them are ideal," she said. "Our air superiority has been challenged, nearly over-turned."
"The Nations have the skies?"
"No one has the skies, in any theater of war. It has been a bloody battle of attrition, one we have never seen, not even during the Human-Covenant War."
"Any idea what they could be doing?"
"None. They seem to attack like rabid animals, relying on superior numbers and sheer tenacity than having any actual military tactic. If it wasn't for their numbers, this war would have been won."
"Strange," Sterling said, examining one of the many reports that was sent from Earth.
"I'm also picking up a strange signal," Holly continued. "It appears to be an ancient UNSC distress beacon, but it's been degraded. Maybe it's been flying out in space for too long, gotten decayed from solar radiation? Maybe the source has decayed, giving a bad signal?"
"Stay focused, Holly, we're needed somewhere, and we needed to be there a full day ago."
"Yes, sir."
Sterling walked from the table to take another lap around the command deck. Spartans and civilians sat at their posts, each trying to cram more work onto their already overflowing plates. They were making good time, but they needed to make better time. The future of the war depended on it.
He just wished he could actually fight. He was itching to jump back into the fight, to be with his brothers and sisters instead of seeing them as statistics and figures in a blank report. Sterling sighed. He didn't even know why he suited up anymore; he was a Commander of the Navy, he would never get his hands dirty with the infantry.
"How are we looking, soldier?" He asked, walking over to a civilian.
"We're getting word from the fleet; they're ready, or will be ready in the next five minutes."
"Excellent. Set a course for—"
"Stop!" Holly screamed. Sterling could almost hear the Slipspace capacitors shutting off. "All hands stop! All ships stop! We need to find this signal!"
"Holly, I'm commander of this fleet and when I say we jump, we jump," Sterling hissed. "We're needed to fight a war, not go on a bug hunt."
"This is important!"
"We're important! Lives are counting on us, and if we don't get there—"
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is UNSC FFG-201 Forward Unto Dawn, requesting immediate evac." Everything truly ground to a halt as Holly played the mysterious, ancient SOS over every available comm channel, speaker and noise-generating hardware she had. "Survivors aboard. Prioritization code: Victor Zero dash Three dash Sierra Zero One One Seven."
Sterling stared dumbly at the holotable. Hearing the old 'Sierra' code sign, and the numbers, had shut his brain down. They couldn't have found him, could they? After all this time?
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is UNSC FFG-201 Forward Unto Dawn," the message looped.
"Find that ship," Sterling yelled. The bridge was suddenly full of activity again, as Spartans and civilians alike pounded out new orders. "Holly, get all ships to triangulate the position of that SOS, now!"
"Already working on it."