SIX POV

JULY 24, 2552, 07:28 HOURS

The blue clad spartan examined his helmet, satisfied to find it more or less in good condition.The insurrectionist's homemade bomb on Harmony had been a close call, leaving small dents on the side of RECON helm. Michael B312, now formally named 'Noble Six' by UNSC Special Warfare High Command, picked small pieces of rubble from one of the multiple lenses of the B5D-O OPTICS SUITE, an amalgamation of scopes and cameras mounted to the side of his helmet. He didn't have much time to clean his gear before being pulled from the field, thrusted into a cryo pod, and transferred to Reach aboard the clandestine ONI Prowler Speak Softly as a replacement for a recently KIA member of Noble Team, effectively putting an end to his solo counter-insurgency on the inner colony.

The warthog he was riding in rocked over a small bump in the impromptu gravel road, momentarily launching both occupants of the vehicle into the air before they were pulled back down under the force of gravity. Six heard the audible cue of ammo cans, rifles, and his own personal duffle bags noisily crashing together in the back of the transport hog. He glanced to his left, eying the nervous private driving the vehicle. The private was visibly sweating, obviously very uncomfortable in the presence of the Spartan III supersoldier. Despite being the defenders of earth, most of his fellow soldiers saw Michael and the other Spartans as standoffish, intimidating, albeit awe inspiring masses of metal and grit.

'Some things never change, I suppose.' Six thought solemnly to himself.

Six slipped the helmet over his head, brushing more dirt and debris out of small crevices on his chest piece as the helmet's HUD came to life on his visor. He began the routine Mjolnir systems checks that had been beaten into him since he was a child.

Shields Charged? Check.

Ammo Counter? Check.

System Diagnostics? Green.

Servomotors oiled and locked? Check.

Motion Tracker? Che….

Here Six hesitated. Shown on the circular motion tracker were dozens of friendly IFF tags buzzing about. As the warthog crested a small hill, Six saw that they were approaching a base camp nestled in the valley between sheer, snow capped mountains at which he would meet his new team; a ramshackle grouping of small, portable command shacks based around a small helipad cut into the dirt. No fence. No obvious command center. No gate guards. He peaked up through the open canopy of the hog just in time to watch twin falcon helicopters screech overhead, landing only meters in front of a building marked A1.

Moments later, the private brought the warthog to a sudden halt in front of the same building. Six quickly disembarked the vehicle, and hefted the green burlap duffle bag out of the back of the hog and over his shoulder. The Spartan made a movement with his hand to thank the young marine, causing the kid to flinch. Six hesitated for a moment, giving up and shaking his head as he turned heel towards the steel shack. He brushed past the tail fin of one of the falcons, observing a man sitting in the troop bay of the helicopter clad in olive Mjolnir casually loading massive bullets into a magazine. He was bald, had a tattoo of a fist full of arrows on the left side of his head, and only paused for a moment to give Six a cursory glance as he passed by.

As he approached the building, Six could hear a conversation between two individuals within; one voice obviously coming from the scratchy speakers of an old, abused field computer terminal:

"Contact with Visegrad Relay was lost last night, all signals flatlined at 2600 hours. I responded with trooper fireteams which have since been declared MIA."

"And now you're sending us." Came from a disembodied voice within the building.

At that moment, Six entered the building and his attention was immediately drawn to a fellow Spartan sitting on an ammunition crate. His Mjolnir armor was maroon and grey, dented and scratched from years of battle. He was sharpening a kukri against the rerebrace that covered his upper arm to a wicked point, yet what caught Six's attention was the skull pattern etched into the faceplate of his EVA helmet. The man hardly paid Six any mind, continuing to sharpen the knife.

Six was quickly intercepted by another Spartan, a woman in light turquoise armor with white highlights on her armor attachments. She brought an arm across his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He looked down and saw that his advance was blocked by a thin, metal, cybernetic prosthetic arm. Her lack of a helmet revealed short brown hair, a tough face, a scar running down her left cheek, and eyes that glared at him with suspicious skepticism. Six raised his eyebrows slightly. Few, if any soldiers were allowed to fight on the front lines after being critically injured, but the chain of command saw fit to bend the rules for a Spartan. The war was just that desperate.

He poked his head past the woman currently glaring daggers at him to see two more men at the end of the room. One of them, a heavy armored green and gold hulk of a man, sat leisurely with a massive belt fed machine gun resting on the floor next to him. He was 7'5" easily, and the behemoth that he called a weapon only hinted at the man's strength. His helmet rested on the table, and his graying stubble, baggy eyes, and sun aged skin did little to hide the man's apparent wisdom and experience. A Spartan II, Six realized through his shock.

Beside the Spartan II was a man that fit the textbook description of a battlefield hardened, by-the-books commander with a serious face, squared shoulders, and a regulation 'high and tight' haircut. His armor had the same blue hue as Six's, but lacked the white highlights of his armor attachments. Like most, he gave Six a glance before returning to the holotable in front of him.

Six was able to see the holocommunicator, which displayed the veteran face of Colonel Holland, acting commander of all Spartan III special warfare projects on Reach.

"The Office of Naval Intelligence believes deployment of a Spartan team is a gross misallocation of valuable resources. I Disagree." Holland said.

"Commander." The turquoise clad spartan said over her shoulder.

The giant of a spartan spoke in a leathery voice. "So that's our new number Six."

'Six. Yup, I guess that's my name now." He sighed internally.

The skull masked Spartan spoke next. Nodding to the light blue woman. "Kat, you read his file?"

"Only the parts that weren't covered in black ink." She said coolly.

Six turned to report for duty, but was interrupted once again.

"Anyone claim responsibility, sir?" Said the commander.

Six shrugged and dropped his duffle bag by an unoccupied rack.

"ONI thinks it might be the local insurrection. Five months ago they pulled a similar job on Harmony. Hit a relay to take out our eyes and ears and then stole two freighters from drydock. That cannot happen here. Reach is too damn important. I want that relay back online, Noble 1."

"Sir, consider it done.'

Noble 1 turned to the rest of his team. "Lieutenant?"

Six just nodded his head and said "Sir."

"I'm Carter, Noble Leader. That's Kat, Noble 2, Jun, Emile, and Jorge." He said, pointing to the various members of Noble team as they filed out of the barracks towards the falcons.

"Just one thing, Six." He continued, leading Six out of the barracks and into the flurry of dirt and rocks being kicked up by the falcon's massive dual rotors. "I've read your file, even the parts the ONI censores didn't want me to. You work well alone, but we're a team." He said, settling into the troop bay of the transport helicopter with six. "That lone wolf stuff stays behind, got it?"

Six nodded again and responded flatly, "Got it, Sir."

Jun elbowed Six in the side lightly as the falcon began to rise towards the mountains.

"Welcome to Reach." He said, amused.