11
Four men sat in a dark room, a transparent blue-tinted glass table sitting prominently at the center. It was ovular in design and supported by an intricate corkscrew type metal work at the center surrounding a central block. Small blue lights shone downwards on the undersides of the twists and turns of the supports revealing the men's black and leather business shoes, while a large white but dim light rest in the center atop the middle structure. A single downward facing cylindrical lamp hung from the center of the ceiling illuminating the room, but only enough to expose the suits of the men, but not their faces. Suit cases sat next to each of their cushioned, metal seats, large and prominent ONI emblems embedded onto the centers of each case. The seats themselves were nothing special, but the men who sat in them held a significant amount of power.
In front of each man was a portfolio that was thin in size and containing a small but crucial amount of information, save one that was thick with papers and files. The thin ones had, in big red ink, the word CLASSIFIED printed on the center of each portfolio, but the exception of the thick one having the word repeatedly stamped on it, some of the stamps faded. The man responsible for the large folder sat still and silent, a shining metal pin resting on his right breast. On it read Admiral Timothy S. Cullock. One of the men sitting farthest away from the Admiral clears his throat.
"Ahem, err… Admiral. You brought us here to discuss a certain matter." He shifts his tie left and right as he speaks then rests both hands on his lap. The Admiral continued to hold his silent posture after being addressed, not even moving his hands from the arm rests. All eyes fell upon him and continue to do so for another minute. The Admiral then lowered his right hand to the portfolio, opening it and placing a few pictures to the right of the folder itself. He crosses his legs and begins to speak.
"What you see in front of you here, gentlemen, are Reach's telemetric outer-zone frequency graphs. As you should know, the graphs represent any hiccup in slip-space activity within several hundred light years of the planet." The Admiral taps on the table to the left of his portfolio revealing an interactive interface on the glass surface. After several more taps, white, digital lines begin to form around the pictures until each individual picture is framed with white light. The large central light of the table begins to glow blue, along with the cylindrical lamp, revealing that they act as holographic mediums. A transparent cylindrical screen protrudes from the lamp itself, the base of it being at the table and rising as far as the top of the lamp itself. Images of the four pictures the Admiral presented shine onto the holographic screen and rotate in a circular motion to allow all men in the room to inspect the images. One of them gasp at the sight of one of the pictures.
"What the hell, are you certain this is real, Admiral?" The bewildered man, sitting to the Admiral's right turns his way, awaiting an answer. The Admiral waves his left hand over the table causing each individual picture to split up and duplicate itself into three sets of three. The images fly off in front of each man as to give them a better perspective of what they were looking at.
"The results are quite real, but what caused them, that is what our analysts are not sure of."
"When were the results received?" The one to the right asks. The Admiral pauses before answering, hands tapping his arm rests rhythmically in a moment of ponderous thought. He stops.
"Two weeks ago." The men began to murmur anxiously amongst themselves for a few seconds then return to the Admiral.
"And what… what does this have to do with us?" The man sitting left of the Admiral asked.
"We lost contact with one… no, two of our outer region supply posts on the Eastern seaboard of Reach's central continent. This was reported to us only two days ago."
"And the problem, Admiral? They're in obscure locations, communications is bound to malfunction some time."
"That is precisely why it is concerning to Forward Command. The obscurity of their position is what makes their ability to maintain communications vital. To cut off reports for three days makes it a peculiar case." The Admiral brings his hands together forming a pyramid, allowing his subordinates to contemplate the issue presented to them.
"Three? I thought you said it was reported two days ago."
"It was. Command gives them leeway of at least one day, a buffer to avoid unnecessary panic. It's been three since their last report, and Hayward said they're very consistent. Very." This statement made the other gentleman shuffle in their seats, discomfort obvious in their hands but seen nowhere else on their bodies. The one sitting farthest from the Admiral leans to the side and opens his suitcase, producing a water bottle to which he takes a drink from. From a simple observing view, this meeting seems simple and casual. But the air was thick with tension, each man becoming hot from discomfort.
"So then… send a team. Send Noble Team. They always get the job done."
"First of all, Holland would never give clearance. Not for a mission so poorly supported in purpose. No. And second of all, not even ONI wants to send out any Spartan III's. A high resource cost for a small operation such as this is overkill. I advise against it as well."
"Wha- but that's our program. We should be able to send who we wa-"
"Your program, but not your soldiers. Weapon manufacturers are not responsible for the use of their products once it's been distributed. I understand your concern, but both UNSC and ONI do not want to waste high-grade resources on an operation like this." The Admiral taps on the table once again, this time forcing all images to retreat into the center of the table and deactivating the holographic computer. All lights return to a white tint.
"So then, Admiral, what are you proposing?" In response, the Admiral brings his right hand to the thick portfolio and produces a single piece of paper with a photo paper-clipped to the top left. He places the photo to the side and repeats the process that allowed the graphs to be displayed on the computer. The photo enlarges in the center of the room.
"Gentlemen if you'd please open the folders in front of you. Inside you will find a single person of interest of which we'd like to send in." The central image in front of all the men reveals a photo of a simple marine sitting among some cargo with two other men. His clothes, however, deviated from standard UNSC wear. His clothes were black.
"You will find some details that I think you will find intriguing. Selling points, you could say." The men began to scan the papers contained within their folders. One of them threw the paper down in an act of repulsion.
"My God, this man is a monster!"
"What do you mean?"
"He- what the hell do you people do!? He was part of the Tribute Massacres!"
"What we do is no different from your Spartan program. Keep reading, there's more that you need to know." Reluctantly, all men resumed their inspections of the papers. After a couple minutes they lay down their documents and converse once again.
"Does… does Halsey know of this?" The Admiral leans forward and reveals a portion of his face, a smile to be specific.
"Of course not. She would never approve of our use of him if she did."
"There are no records of… him having any siblings. These must be fabricated."
"Top brass like me have access to all kinds of information that any one of you couldn't even begin to dream of. Trust me when I say that this report is solid." All men but the Admiral stare down at the papers in front of them, weary at their contents. Finally, the one to Admiral's left raises his hand.
"Why do you want to send him in alone?" He asks.
"Not alone. He's already been reassigned to a platoon here on Reach, active two years ago. The marine division he is a part of will be assigned the mission. Force Recon."
"Then let me ask a better question," it is the man to the right this time, "Why do you want to send him in?" His voice demanded an answer, but the Admiral withdrew in his seat.
"It's not me who wants to send him. Per se, I was persuaded."
"Then who?"
"It was me, head Officers." A new voice enters the fray, only this time it is purely feminine and accented. She enters the light, revealing gray ONI garments.
"Gentlemen, I introduce Intelligence Officer and Chief Field Analyst, Captain Shauna Miller." She salutes to them and holds the posture.
"At ease Captain." She lowers her arm and proceeds to walk over to the Admiral's left side and begins to tap away on the table's interface. This brings up still images of several different scenes, some distraught with violence and some still shots of scenery. All of them contained images of the marine previously mentioned.
"It is his relation to that Spartan that is cause for my recommendation. He has had exceedingly great amounts of success regarding all of his operations, some of which are not revealed in your folders, but all of which are bore desired results."
"But the reports show that he's usually, if not always, the only one to come back. He's a curse, not a soldier of fortune," the one across from them retorts.
"That is why. He is usually the only one. Tribute. New Mombasa. Alcion VI. Any of his operations within Epsilon Eridanus, he was successful. And now, hopefully to add to his record, Reach. And think of his tendencies as a bonus. This makes him extremely expendable, putting the operation under wraps." Miller spoke with a significant amount of praise and professionalism, both of which awkwardly mixed. After straightening herself up, she returns to the group to address them.
"Officers, it is not his skill or physique that makes him exemplary. If there's anything a soldier needs on an operation involving the unknown, like this one, it is a very special trait."
"And what is that, Captain?" She leans forward and places both hands on her table, the light shining on her face.
"A trait that Catherine Halsey's favorite Spartan II has. The reason my subject is not dead yet," she smiles, "Luck."
"Ach! ~cough~cough~" Water pours out of my mouth as I roll over, the left side of my face buried in the mud. My eyes open, everything hazy and bright, finding difficulty in making sense of what's in front of me. My legs are still in the terrifically cold water, the DMR barely strapped onto my ankle ready to be swept away by the stream. I lift myself up with what little strength I have left in my arms and crawl out of the water, planting my back onto some warm and moist grass. A warm breeze sweeps past me as I stare through the canopy above me, warming and cooling my body at the same time. Other than the rush of the waters near me, the only sounds that fill the air are the chirps of insects and small birds. The few streams of sunlight that break through the leaves pepper my body, slowly drying the spots they illuminate. After several minutes I can feel several bugs getting into my clothes and crawling through, but I don't care. Not at this moment at least. I'm aching, tired, frustrated and relieved all at the same time. From the Covenant to Insurrectionists and back to the Covenant once again. There is no such thing as a God damn break for us. Now that I think about it, why are they even chasing us? Are they even chasing us? Honestly, do we even truly pose a threat to them? It's surprising enough that they haven't killed us yet. They're supposed to be more technologically advanced than us and they can't even kill four simple soldiers… heh. The thought itself is funny. But then again, they massacred the rest of us. So it's at least nine for two. What a terrible fucking score. It would make Victor laugh…
"Hey Victor… man we are so fucked…" I speak aloud. A minute passes and there is no reply. Hastily, I jerk myself up and scan my surroundings. How long have I been lying there? Shit. I can't find anyone, we got separated after falling into the water.
Within moments my eyes fall onto a mass covered in mud, a bald head glimmering among the murky camouflage. I force myself to crawl over to it and turn it over, revealing an extremely pale Victor, a giant red stain boldly presenting itself from his right shoulder, a red stream flowing into the river. I place my ear to his mouth and fortunately, or fuck it, unfortunately, find that he is still faintly breathing. It's a light and weak breath, almost baby like. But for a grown man, this is a major cause for concern. I lift him up by the arms and drag him over to a drier spot. After taking off his body armor and shirt, I wring the shirt out and place it in some sun to dry. Inspecting his wound, I see that it is still releasing some blood. Fuck. As if there was any blood left in his body. I run over to the river and remove my own shirt, washing it in the water for a bit then let it soak up. After a couple seconds I return to Victor and clean his wound as best as I can then go back to the river to rinse off the shirt. This time, upon my return, I place the shirt in his mouth and force him to drink from the makeshift sponge. Satisfied with his liquid intake, I check on his shirt to see how dry it has become. It's only been a few minutes so of course it isn't in a desirable state, but it's warm enough to act as a basic bandage. I return to Victor and tie the shirt across his chest, tightening it so the pressure remains on the wound itself. This draws out a wince from Victor, giving me a sigh of relief.
"Hey, hey, say something. Tell me you're alive." I tap his face with my fingers, his eyes twitching after each tap. Slow and weak, he brings his hand to my wrist and grabs it, his grip lighter than ever.
"Knock… that shit… off." He manages, voice the quietest it has ever been. He smiles, but still only barely noticeable. Thank God… even if it's in this shitty state, I'm glad he's still alive. I just want him to stay alive. It's a selfish request, but I fucking hope that he's willing to indulge it.
"I know you're in pain, but we need to move. There's no way the Covenant are gonna be nice enough to let us-" in a moment's notice, an ear shattering scream emanates from the sky above us. Two or three screams, to be exact. I bring my eyes up immediately to see three purple blurs pass over head, blue air streaks being left to mark their presence. Logic only says that it's the Covenant Air Force. Or whatever the fuck those alien bastards use. All that matters to me is whether or not we were seen. I scan the river bank to look for the DMR and find it muddied up in some grass some ten feet away from us, its scope glint being the only give away. After rummaging through Victor's pockets, I pull out one of his spare magazines and run over to the rifle, reloading it and cocking the weapon. Sand and dirt fell out of the chamber, but it otherwise seems functional. Throwing the strap around me and flinging the rifle behind me, I run over to Victor and begin to lift him up onto my shoulder. He groans as he rises slowly, his arms and legs quivering due to the strain until most of his weight falls upon me.
For at least a dozen steps I am able to adequately support Victor on my arm, but he becomes unable to walk on his own. He falls onto the floor causing me to curse to myself, kneeling down to pick him up.
"Vic, c'mon man. Stop screwing around, we need to get out of here." My lips withdraw at the sight of his limp and weak body. It lays there curled on the floor, pale and profusely moist from sweat and some blood. I refuse to see him like this. I lift him up onto my back and begin to give him a piggy back ride, my hands supporting his buttocks while his chest rests on my back, his arms flailing on the sides. His head rests on my shoulder allowing me to hear his strained and rugged breath, the sound of it both reassuring and disheartening at the same time. The weight I carry now will definitely do a number on my legs, but this is the only option I have left. Taking in a deep breath, I heave forward and begin walking. Even after only several dozen steps I can feel my legs burning, the burden of Victor's weight already giving me a tough time. As I trek through the forest alongside the river I do my best to walk along declines in the path, giving my legs even just a moments worth of relief. Sweat pouring from my forehead begins to sting my eyes, but it didn't matter to me. Victor was in no condition to walk on his own and I didn't plan to leave him alone.
After an hour my pace has slowed down now, settling down to eight or nine steps every minute. It hurt, but it wasn't much compared to an assortment of many other things I've been through. Victor and I, we've been through worse. Something like this wouldn't end us. Sarge worked us harder than any CO I'd ever met, so the shit we've been going through… a cake walk. That's what this is. Victor's always been stronger than me, so he'll make it through this. He has to, or he'd never forgive himself, not while Hitch hasn't been properly avenged. He needs to kill a few more Covenant bastards before he's allowed to drop, that's just how he works.
"Hey… hey Vic. Remember back at the base… when Hitch got toilet duty for a week… because he spilled coffee all over Sarge's dick?" I wheeze out a chuckle as I speak, still forcing myself to move forward. Victor releases a few quick bursts of air out his nostrils, a sign of his humor being wrought out. I smile at this and move a little faster this time.
"And, and how we would always fuck up the toilets just to screw with him?" Again, air blew out his nostrils. The warmth and cooling of his breath gives me a rhythm to follow, warm being the right foot and cold being the left foot. Following this pattern and using small talk, I manage to keep my mind off the pain in my legs. For an hour I keep the conversation going. Ones reminiscing about our time back at the base, or complaining about my family back on Earth, or talking about old flames. Pointless and stupid things, memories to share with him. Things to look back on so that when we get back into our barracks we can talk about how stupid I sounded. About how desperate I was. About how shitty I would feel.
Left. Right. Left. Right. The rhythm has now become automated, the feeling of his breath becoming irrelevant. The DMR behind me has now left the backs of my thighs sore from being bounced back and forth between each step. It throbs but it won't stop me from getting to the outpost. There we can find medicine to fix up Victor.
"Hey… we're almost there Vic, I can feel it. Just bear with it a little longer…" I choke the words out of my dry throat as I see the end of the river flowing into a mangrove, signaling the sight of the ocean ahead. I smile at the sight, partially relieved that the outpost may actually be closer now. I pick up the pace in order to reach the beach head. When I exit the forest the sun beats down on my sweating body while the ocean breeze cools it off. I scan left and right, finding no sign of life. With little after thought, I begin to follow the beach south ward, ready to find the outpost that's been so damned important to us.
"Look Vic… the beach… maybe we should stop for a little swim?" I chuckle softly, staring down at the sand around my boots, each movement forward leaving a dragging trail behind us. As I trudge forward I stare off into the ocean waters, mesmerized by the rolling waves. In and out, in and out, the white bubbles come and go, leaving me in a trance of thoughtless motion. Every step becomes light, as if the burdens I've been carrying for so long are being lifted off both my shoulders and legs.
"I think… I think we're gonna make it…" I say quietly. But no response. I can't even feel his breath on my neck anymore. My heart begins to throb as I halt in the sand, all the feeling returning to my body.
"Vic… hey buddy, c'mon wake up." My voice cracks pleadingly as I shake him on my back, his arms moving aimlessly. Lifelessly.
"No, no, please. Wake up. We're almost there." Sweat begins to bead on my forehead as I lower myself into the sand, the weight of Victor becoming heavier than it's ever been before. I could feel knots form in my chest and throat as dark thoughts cloud my mind. They tighten as every second passes, forcing tears out of my eyes and drool out of my mouth. I can feel my body quiver in place as I sob in place but I can hear nothing. Not the sound of my own voice, not the rolling waves to the left and not the howls of the flowing wind. It is a deafening and destructive silence and wrought out a pain in my chest that was incomparable to anything I'd felt this entire operation.
"Victor… please…" I manage to squeak out once more. Nothing again. I release my hold on his legs and let him fall into the sand. His body was there, but Victor was not. For the first time in a long time, I am finally alone. The though nauseated me to a crippling state. As I turn around to inspect his body, I see a pale and lifeless corpse splayed out onto the sand behind me, a marionette of death beckoning every despairing emotion it could out of me. The sight of it forces me to vomit, the first time in a long time I would be vomiting at the sight of a dead body. Oddly enough, the burning of the acid in my throat and mouth gave me some kind of twisted warmth and relief. It was like releasing the grief within me, but this feeling didn't last long. After staring at him for only a minute I bury my face into the sound and begin screaming at the top of my lungs, sand sticking around my eyes due to the sweat and tears. My screaming allows sand into my mouth, but I don't care. I just want to die. This loneliness, this isolation. I haven't felt this in a long time, but I have felt it many times before. And every time I want death to engulf me.
"GOD DAMN IT. IT'S ME EVERY TIME," I shout as loud as I can, rearing backwards and lifting my head to the sky, "Just kill me. Someone. Anyone. Please." I say these words but I know that I don't speak the complete truth. While death sounds like a sweet relief, something inside me wants me to stay alive. I wouldn't call it hope. No, nothing sanguine like that. It is an instinctive and primal drive that forces me to stay alive, and I don't like it. The sight of the sky is red to me now even though it was clearly blue only moments ago. I bring my view down onto Victor one last time, sickened and saddened once more at the sight. My eyes examine the lifeless visage, the edges of my sight blackening and tunneling the image into my mind. It burns deep, imprinting the disgust I feel for myself as well as the grief that consumes me. The sight of Victor reminds me of my many other operations, the death of innocents and comrades. The feeling welled up inside, disabling my motion, locking me in place as if to eternally punish me. Is this my fault? Have I been acting irresponsibly as a leader? What right do I have, making us complete a mission that seemed futile from the beginning… and now look where it's gotten us. All of us. It's always been like this. I guess every time I go on a mission I'm hoping I get killed in action. But some cruel fate keeps me the fuck alive. And this is the price others pay for associating with me. God dammit. God. Fucking. Dammit. This is my fault. It's always been my fault, I should have resigned a long time ago. Then maybe Hitch and Victor would be alive right now. I'm sure they deserve it more than myself. I close my eyes and fall backwards into the sand, falling into a deep but restless sleep.