(A/N) Hey guys, it's now time to get back on track with Phase Two: Betrayal, and I'm glad to say that the last fic still requiring to be updated – X-Ray and Vav – will receive an update tomorrow morning. The next update for this fic will take place tomorrow, and then we'll resume our normal pace – Monday, Wednesday, Saturday – and I think we'll be able to maintain that for the foreseeable future! This one is written by our own BrambleStar14, and features Ian Harper, in a long awaited return! And boy, does it deliver!
Think you'll enjoy this one, because I know I did!
Chapter Fifty – Sold Into Slavery
Lt Ian Harper
Written by BrambleStar14
"Come on, I want you to do it, I want you to do it. Come on, hit me. HIT ME!" – The Joker, The Dark Knight.
"Just for the record, I still strongly dislike this idea," Harper muttered, feet up on the dashboard of the truck as he stared at his boss, his hands gripping the steering wheel with an intensity and his muscles tensed in such a way that showed to Harper just how much he was wishing he had picked the other truck to drive. But, apparently he couldn't trust Harper with driving responsibilities. He couldn't imagine why. He hadn't crashed many times, and the six cars back at Aurora were begging to be set on fire anyway.
As were most things, actually.
For example, the former Freelancer sitting next to him was certainly a contender, as a matter of fact. Harper rolled his eyes at the tense silence, taking the time to cross his arms behind his head. Trust the master strategist over here to create a plan where all three leaders of the entire Insurrection allow themselves to be caught by whackos with a superiority fetish. Who the hell even wanted to be caught by slavers anyways? Harper just reckoned that Arkansas had some kind of handcuff fetish or something. It would probably make sense. To some people. Ark had been slightly colder towards his lieutenant recently, Harper had noticed. It definitely wasn't the usual bout of imagining things, as he so often had, like the time he swore it was Falcon who was holding the lighter that had destroyed the bar filled with unfriendly Yanks.
He had noticed the small discussions Ark had been having with Athena, his simply wonderful new secretary, alongside Pennsylvania, his fellow traitorous Freelancer. Obviously, he hadn't heard these meetings, but word did get around. One didn't have a poltergeist on their team for nothing. It was almost hurtful, to hear Ark's potential smear campaign. 'Almost' being the key word there. His squad had women at one point, he was tempted to point out. They just hadn't made it out alive. Ark should know all about that. And then there was also Circuit, who had told him quietly that he had been testing the security of the Crimson Sun's networks. Give him a bit of time, and he could reroute the entire system's CCTV cameras.
Harper grinned at the thought of turning Ark's own paranoia against him, the muscles in his cheek pulling absently at the half healed cut running along the underside of his eye socket. While that shard of glass hadn't blinded him, or even impaired his vision, it hadn't healed entirely; Harper had been pulling it open far too much purely by grinning. He had to admit it did look nice while it was there. He sighed, looking back at his erstwhile 'boss'.
"Arky… You're being boring again." No response, though Ark did grip the wheel tighter, if at all possible. "Boss-man, this plan is kinda…" he trailed off. Ark obviously wasn't listening. A new tactic was obviously needed. "I can always sing the rest of the journey-"
"That won't be necessary." Ark replied curtly, cutting him off. "This plan, Harper, while not perhaps the masterpiece you would have created, stands a very high chance of success, compared to walking very slowly at the prison and setting fire to it. All three of us being there allows us a much larger advantage then the Sergeant-Major's own home field advantage."
Oh yeah, the assassination, Harper had almost forgotten that the whole 'get yourself imprisoned routine was all to scratch off another one of Ark's Christmas list photographs. He sighed, thinking uncomfortably of the prison ahead. He didn't like being locked up at all, the first time had been bad enough.
Suddenly, the truck jolted to a stop and Harper leaned his head back with a groan. They were at the exchange points already. Climbing wearily to his feet, he pulled on the metal, rusted door, sliding it to one side with a slow, drawn out grating noise. At the back of the truck, Harper came face to face with his squad, all of them looking apprehensive. He couldn't blame them. The last time they ended up in a prison was not a particularly pleasant memory, even for an optimist like himself.
He didn't need to tell them the plan, they had already gone over it. They get sold to this Sergeant Arthur Dent (he felt the familiar contempt for the UNSC scum, who thought he was better than him because he ran a damn prison. Lieutenant was such a better sounding rank anyways.), got locked up for two weeks and then rioted at midnight next Thursday. He did have to admit, he was particularly looking forwards to that event. Killing some UNSC would certainly provide him with suitable entertainment, some of the stuff he'd craved since the foundation of this mockery of a revolution.
Looking over his squad, the handpicked soldiers who he could actually call friends. Well, acquaintances, really. He didn't know if he had friends. You have to know what something is before you know if you have it. His eyes stopped on the youngest one, the kid nearest the back of the vehicle. Kyle Mathesson, ex-Marine and newest member of Harper's squad. It was unusual, to have some new people join the squad, considering the rest had known each other since ONI, most even before that. He'd done it once before, and while he couldn't say Jay was reliable, he was still impressed with the results of his work. Time would tell if Rook would be as beneficial for the squad as Hunter was.
"Y'allright there, Rook?" he murmured. Kyle jumped about a mile, glancing up at his new squad leader, before shrugging. The name, short for 'Rookie' was not one he particularly cared for, but it stuck. He just used a load of chess analogies now.
"M'fine," he muttered, fishing some gum out of his pocket and taking some, chewing slowly and closing his eyes. Satisfied, Harper leaned against the wall and reminisced about when he'd been given the 'privilege' of training the recruits. What joy for a man like him, training the rookies. He'd been lucky to find any talent at all when he'd started. Rook had just been a stroke of luck.
Harper sighed from beneath the helmet, observing the gathered men and women in front of him. Ever since the Crimson Sun had started, it hadn't taken long for there to be a severe impact on the morale of the UNSC, and on the increase of interest in their group. Farmers, defectors, any surviving Insurrectionists that Harper could contact, they were all slowly gathering under Ark's banner. And now he'd dumped the pleasure of training them onto his least favourite lieutenant. What a joy Arkansas was.
Which was why Harper was currently concealing his face behind a visor, like the rest of his squad, all of them spread throughout the room, with the exception of Geist, who sat in an overhanging vent with a cigarette lodged in his mouth, observing silently. All Harper had to do was listen to the men around him and he could gauge where they were at, what they were thinking and, far more importantly, how interested they actually were. A few interesting comments about Harper himself had him smirking: wonders if he was there, assertions that he was in fact dead, and so on. He almost hated disappointing them.
"Alright, that's enough waiting," he rolled his eyes, leaning away from the wall and walking over to the small arena, designed like an old fashioned boxing ring. He did love the classics. Grabbing a rope and pulling himself up to see the crowd, he absently waved. A loud voice from below cried out in frustration.
"Who the bloody hell are you?!" Harper smiled beneath his helmet. Showtime. At long last. Fluidly reaching up, he pulled off his helmet, much like a showman, bowing mockingly as he heard the mutters and gasps in the crowd.
"Hey there. Ian Harper, Insurrectionist, Maverick, extremely large number of kills, brutal, extremist, etcetera, etcetera. I'm certain you've heard of me, but that's only partly why I'm here. I'm also here to teach you. Class in session. Lesson One: Getting the basics. As in, I get the basics of you." He spread his arm wide, the other one still holding the rope. "Before you is a ring. Step into the ring and we will see how much you know. Be warned, the selection of who you face is random and if you survive, which you most likely will," he made a dramatic sigh of disappointment, "we will know you as well as you know yourself. Perhaps somewhat better. So," he jumped down and gestured at the ring. "Who's first?"
There was a tense moment of silence, in which he could happily observe the ring, which seemed to his eyes to look a whole lot more threatening than it did before his rather nice, in his opinion, speech.
Eventually, the kid he'd picked up during the massacre earlier that month, Kyle, stepped forwards. Harper watched with a smirk as the recruit hauled himself into the ring, looking straight back, defiance in his gaze. A second later, Geist was in the ring and Kyle was on the floor. There were several muted gasps from the surrounding crowd as Kyle hauled himself back up, cursing as he swung a furious blow at Geist. Instantly, Geist was no longer there; Kyle's fist had connected with empty air. Behind him, Geist wrapped an arm around the kid's throat, hauling him into the air and slamming him to the floor with brutal force.
"Who's next?" Harper called, examining his newest project as he hauled himself up unsteadily, holding onto the ropes to support him as he blinked rapidly. There was a rustling among the crowd as the other recruits tried to decide who was heading up next without any words.
"Again." Harper looked back around in glee as Kyle spoke slowly, trying to dispel the urge to applaud. He looked at his squad, who were in various stages of indifference, before he spread his arms, eyebrows raised.
"Well? Someone get in there." Rolling his eyes in long suffering exasperation, Falcon pushed himself away from the ropes, ducking Kyle's clumsy attempt at a punch, side-stepping the boot Kyle had furiously lashed out with and slamming his elbow into the side of the recruit's head. Kyle dropped as Falcon kicked out, the blow connecting solidly with Kyle's solar plexus. Winded, the kid hit the deck as Harper mock winced, looking out at the crowd.
"He's too slow, see? Obvious in his attacks and leaving himself open. Ah well. He tried. Falcon, get him out. We need him alive for later." As Falcon went to haul the rookie out of the ring, he spoke again, having crawled to his knees.
"Again." His tone was final, furious, though with Harper or himself, he could not tell. Harper slowly turned his head, gleeful at the obstinate expression he saw there. Tilting his head, he nodded slowly, before pulling his left glove off, shortly followed by his right glove.
"Fine," he muttered quietly, still smiling as he threw his handwear to the side. His squad were glancing at each other in what was most likely surprise. Harper walked up to Kyle, who was blinking rapidly, likely fighting to stay on his feet. Spreading his arms wide, Harper grinned, tongue held between his teeth. "Throw your best shot at me. Go ahead. Hit me."
Kyle paused for a split second, which was all the time he had before Harper's palm was connecting solidly with his nose. He fell back, face now gushing blood. Harper caught his arm and spun him back to his feet, before standing back, opening his hands and sighing.
"I said hit me, not stand there like a lemon. Again. Actually try this time." Kyle lashed out again, fury etched across his features as he swung at Harper's neck. Harper ducked to the side, dodging the follow-up blow as he spun back, laughing gleefully. "You're learning, rookie." Catching Kyle's clumsy kick, he twisted his leg suddenly, sending his startled opponent crashing to the floor with a series of scraping noises. It did nothing to slow the bull-headed defector as he pulled himself back up, lunging at Harper. This time, Harper simply stepped forwards, inside his defences and catching him in the neck with a lightning quick jab.
As the rookie gasped, jerking, Harper kicked the back of his knee forwards, sending him falling forwards. Catching him by the throat, Harper pulled his gun from his holster, bringing it down on Kyle's head and sending him to the metal grate with a final sounding blow. Tilting his head, he re-holstered the magnum. He'd turned back to the crowd when he heard the slight shifting behind him and Kyle lashed out from his half-standing, half-slouched position, catching Harper on the cheek. Spinning away, Harper put a hand to his face, feeling with an odd sense of victory the split wound under his eye and the blood leaking from the wound. Looking up at Kyle, he laughed, adrenaline flooding his system, once again whispering to kill something.
"Falcon, get the Rookie here some armour! I like this one!" He turned back to the crowd, absently rubbing his hand over his knuckles, smearing them with the blood collected there. "That, my fine ladies and gentlemen, was called persistence! It is the one thing I cannot teach you and is therefore the one thing you must have to succeed. So," he spread his arms wide, "Who's next?"
Turning his head back from his newest teammate, he scowled at the front of the jeep again, before opening the back doors wide with the usual metallic screeching noise that was as friendly to human ears as one can imagine a sound sent straight from hell can be. Ahead, he saw Athena and Goliath, Ark's new favourites, talking with this Arthur Dent. He already didn't like the man; he reminded Harper too much of what he loathed about the UNSC. Dent held himself with all the arrogance one can expect of a man who knew he was doing something illegal but expected no consequences. Harper really hoped during the riot, he'd be able to cause an 'unfortunate garrotting accident'.
"That really is the final offer," Dent was insisting, leering at the collected 'prisoners' before him before he turned back to face the two 'slavers'. "That's the price we'd already agreed on and I'm not taking it any higher then you've already wrung out of us. My employer won't accept a price change. He's not the sort of man you negotiate with."
Athena rolled her eyes, before storming over to Penn, flinging her arm at him in some form of presenting earthshattering proof to a sceptic. "Look at this one! He's worth at least two on his own!" Dent took in the behemoth before him, blinking a couple of times. He hesitated, before sighing.
"An extra five percent. That's all I'll do and count yourselves fortunate I went that high!" His tone was becoming quickly irritable, with the air of a man wanting to get this over with. His voice was also rather irritating and Harper found himself daydreaming about what he could do with an hour with Dent and a blowtorch. He was snapped out of this wonderful fantasy when a pair of handcuffs closed over his wrists with a snap. Clenching his fists, he fought the urge to smash the nose of the UNSC grunt before him.
He really hated cuffs. He'd had enough of them for a lifetime, thank you very much. The group was quickly bundled into the back of Dent's truck and driven away. Ark's two lieutenants were left behind in a cloud of dust as the vehicle picked up speed.
Harper did have to examine the prison with a critical eye, having essentially run his own secure base before Freelancer had even gotten underway. It was a nice system, he had to admit, staring at the cold concrete and steel barbed wire ahead of them. Though it could do with more dead bodies in the front. Or some guards with those evil smiles that would say "Welcome to hell" while they politely beckoned you inside. Great, now he wanted one as well.
The group was quickly led inside, under the careful, all-observing eye of their target himself, the Sergeant Major. Evidently satisfied with the latest crop, he nodded at Dent, who led them into the prison's 'B-Wing'. As they lined up in front of their cells, Ark turned to Harper, on his immediate left.
"For god's sake, Harper, stick to the damn plan!" Harper gave him a winning smile in return, eyes as innocent as he could make them. Ark was evidently unswayed. He tried a different tactic.
"Arky, when have you ever known me to stray from the plan?" he murmured, his face expressing the hurt he claimed to feel. Ark didn't look any happier as he was led into his cell. Dent, walking behind the line, relayed one last piece of wonderful news to the room, making Harper feel so much better about his stay there.
"You all start work tomorrow! No exceptions! If you can't keep up, tough, keep working. If you don't finish your part, you keep going until you have, no food. If you can't finish, you starve. Simple as that. Have a pleasant stay!" Harper rolled his eyes, catching Rook's eye as his own cell door was slowly unlocked.
"Yo, boss," Rook muttered under his breath, glancing at Dent out of the corner of his eye, before turning back, satisfied. "Any last advice?" Harper just gave a lopsided grin in return.
"Don't drop the soap, Mathesson."
