Mrs. Marquett stood by the large window to her penthouse watching the tropical hurricane blow over Indigo Seven's Capitol City. Behind her Gillian cleared a set of ceramic tea cups and saucers with his typical calmness whilst remaining un-phased by the days previous attempted assassination. To any visiting guests his demeanor would certainly appear to be nothing more than English senility in his old age, but… Mrs. Marquette knew better.

"I want you to stop for a moment," she told him without turning around, her eyes watching the beads of water run down the window panels. The aging butler chuckled mirthlessly to himself and stood gracefully to attention with a single palm behind his back. His master eyed his reflection in the window as his posture slowly shifted from that of a humble butler to that of a military stance with both of his arms braced behind his back and chest pushed forward.

"Sir," he addressed her sternly, coming out of character, switching from an English accent to something slightly less... cliché, Welsh perhaps, for the first time in months. Mrs. Marquette nodded numbly. In a way, she had come to appreciate how the old man had so easily played the role of simpleton family butler before countless individuals for several consecutive years. Few knew how utterly ruthless he could be when faced with a life or death situation as a fully trained soldier. Few knew the actual person who handled their cups of tea and baked those… what were they called again, ah yes 'crumpets.'

"Your thoughts?"

Leon nodded without a smile upon his face and began to elaborate, "If we stay on Indigo Seven, ONI will hit us again. That last Killteam was half assed, not so much a test, more they thought they could accomplish more with less. Now, they know differently. Next time they won't take any chances."

"Do you think they know about you?" she asked him, this time turning to face him, serious, as equals. Gillian had, more or less, been her bodyguard and chief advisor for the decades following her parent's deaths at the hands of a Covenant naval incursion during the last weeks of the war. She trusted his judgement above and beyond that of everyone else.

"Probably. I would be surprised if they didn't by now. Had they known earlier, they wouldn't have sent such an incompetent hatchet team with that last effort."

She nodded, "And you? If they send another Killteam it'll almost certainly going be all Spartans. Are you up for that?"

This time he grinned, "I don't blame that kid, one of Dr. Hasley's little bastards, for Atlas Station. Truth be told, it wasn't really his fault. 'We' were cocky, arrogant, we still saw them as... children pretending to be soldiers. The hit to my head and broken ribs wounded my pride more than anything, but there is no denying that we were in the wrong. However, I truly blame Dr. Halsey for..." he stopped to briefly mask his disgust at the mere mention of ONI's most notorious Dr. Mengele, "it wasn't until later that I learned how she let him continue, used us to see just how easily they could kill when let loose. She could have stopped him, but she didn't. And then, she had those of us who lived canned and kicked out of the military to save face. I'll kill Spartans, but it won't be out of revenge for getting my ass kicked. It'll be because I want to show her, that arrogant bitch of a scientist, that her little lab rats aren't as indestructible as she thinks. The more black ONI coffins I fill with Spartan 'numbers' the better that message will become."

Thunder boomed outside the windows as Mrs. Marquett nodded calmly. She looked at him, in the eyes, "What do you need?" four simple words which gave the former ODST assassin a blank check for any goods she could order from the local black market.

He smiled fondly, "Give me one squad of Immortals, and a means of jamming their motion trackers. I can handle the rest. Believe it or not, I have just the thing for the task at hand sitting in my private collection," Gillian laughed bemused of the situation, "It really does belong in a museum, my little toy, but… sometimes proper butchery requires 'exotic methods.'"

She nodded curtly, "Done."

And just like that Leon slipped back into his butler persona, bowing gently, returning to his English accent, "And with that my master I do believe that it is time for me to tend to the dishes." Mrs. Marquett chuckled to herself as he finished cleaning away some silver cutlery and wondered away with an aristocratic gait.

….

The Jackal's pushed the weak and frail human scientists captured from ONI Blacksite 9 down a long metal corridor buried deep beneath Perseus Fifty-Three, a numerically designated asteroid mine within the Perseus System. Unbeknownst to ONI, this mine had long ago been converted into a hidden and self-sustaining laboratory complex away from the prying eyes of the UNSC. The only time any Indie ships arrived or left the Perseus system was to off-load new staff and equipment which couldn't be manufactured on-site… roughly once every three years. Nobody knew this place was here, and that served its patron perfectly fine.

"I demand to know where you have taken us?" said Dr. Greeves with far more authority than he actually felt. The man was a coward, he knew it and took a certain amount of dark pride in the fact. One of the Jackals, a male dressed in golden armor, turned to face him with a wicked grin. The kidnapped ONI scientists had long ago learned that this one was their leader, an individual called 'Mr. Tek' by the human Indie rebels greeting them upon arrival to this instillation.

Prior to then, it was a complete mystery. Greeves and the rest of Blacksite 9's kidnapped staff had spent at least a week in a cold damp cargo hold eating scraps of food with nothing but aliens for company. The fact that most of the creatures guarding them were jackals who knew very little of the human lexicon made sure that very little information about their captures could be learned.

"This is the Perseus Research Station. It is a…" The alien stalled his poorly enunciated sharp chirping words in brief reflection for what information best to share with the captured human scientists, "It is a facility built for a single purpose."

"And what would that purpose be? And, whose purpose would that be?" asked Greeves spitefully. One of the alien guards escorting the group smacked him on the back of the head for his uncouth reply resulting in a brief chuckle from the others within the armed escort. Everyone laughed with the exception of Mr. Tek who merely continued to lead the motley crew down the long metal passageway towards a set of airlock doors.

"You will see soon enough."

Beyond those doors was a vast internal atrium nine floors high, lined in steel habitat modules buried deep into the asteroids stone bedrock. A thick oxygen rich atmosphere cycled through the main habitat from an elaborate series of algae archologies on the bottom floor from which numerous creeper vines emerged from a bubbling goo of recycled plant waste. Several additional scientists dressed in white lab coats briefly acknowledged the new arrivals before once more resuming their assigned data shifting tasks during lunch breaks or off hours.

The group of captured ONI scientists were assembled in a staggered line at the entrance before an oversized hologram pad. Suddenly, a blue hologram materialized before the arriving group of captured men and women, as Indie soldiers formed up all around them with nasty looked shock batons. This hologram was of a young man, slim, military cut hair buried under a mock beret. The holographic illusion of the stations AI construct wore combat fatigues which complimented his bushy beard and mutton chops.

"Oy, you the new fishes sent by the Boss? I've been waitin' for ya, you pansy little ONI bitches,'" he addressed them with some sort of rustic Earth accent Dr. Greeves couldn't quite place.

"What is this? An AI? Never heard one with such bad grammar before," laughed one of the captured scientist in cringe worthy mockery. Unfortunately for her, the data-being took the insult personally, "Hoy, the big lug with the rifle standing nearby, slap that woman across the back of the head," he ordered one of the escorting jackals with a slight stare from his rotating holographic head. The alien obliged the order by breaking the woman's jaw with a lash from the butte of a Covenant Carbine. She toppled over missing a few teeth which lay in red shards upon the grated floor, muttering a screech somewhere between a scream and a moan.

"My name is Commander Pots. I'ill be yor' warden for the rest of yor' godforsaken days. This place," he motioned around the inner chamber with his arms, "is the Perseus Research Station. The more intelligent among ya probably guessed that we do some seriously evil shit here so congratz, welcome to the club'."

"I will never work for Indie trash like you," stated one of the members from the captured research staff out of defiance, his proud chin held high while looking down upon the AI base commander.

"Oy, we always get a few tough birds who think they'z be special what-not. Always helps to make a demonstration, Mr. Patronis," the AI looked at a nearby Indie human soldier wearing black combat fatigues over a skintight vacuum suit.

"Yes Commander," replied the Indie-man, placing his arms behind his back, going at ease as if the AI were a physical military commander on a parade ground.

"Take that bastard who just shot off his mouth, and shove his fat arse out of an airlock. I don't take lip from no stuck up ONI goons on my bloody station," The man who had boasted of never wanting to work for Indies while captured suddenly paled as two very large Indie commandos grabbed him, knocked him out with some shock rods, and then proceeded to drag him away back down the metal corridor the group had just arrived through.

One of the captured Blacksite 9 scientists started to cry from the side of where Dr. Greeves was standing as the AI looked them all over collectively, judgmentally like some sort of butcher inspecting his flayed beef, "Oy, sorry for the trouble lads, but we can't have you guys thinking about such annoying things as escape. You guys need to understand things, and I'm going to… teach you, savvy that?"

"Commander's going to do some teaching!" yelled one of the nearby human Indies standing at ease before the group.

"Damn straight," replied the AI Commander Pots, "Now listen up ONI-men. You're going to do some research for us, make us a nice bio weapon capable of getting past UNSC security. If it works, we'll find us a place in our organization for your sorry asses. Don't worry, it ain't all bad. We have a nice and fancy dental plan, vacation days, the works. Now… what say you?"

"Never," said another ONI scientist in defiance near the end of the line of research suits. This time Commander Pots made the example immediate.

"Shoot that bastard in the face," the captured man blinked out of bewilderment, well… before one of the nearby Indie-soldiers drew his sidearm and blew his brilliant brain out of the back of his head in a fantastic yet grizzly pink mist.

"What say the rest of you?" The question went down a line. One by one the ONI scientists refused. One by one they were shot and killed until only Dr. Greeves was left alive, standing in a pool of blood and bodies. When the question was posed to him the ONI man felt a brief thrill to show off his pro-Earth patriotism… and then his inner scumbag kicked in.

"I'll do it," said Greeves. The assembled group of Indie guards and alien commandos chuckled amongst themselves from his ignoble response. Greeves was an honest man… in his own way. He was honest enough to admit that he was a coward, a scumbag, perhaps slightly lecherous. However, he wasn't an idiot, and there were certain 'benefits' to being 'the last man standing.' Yeah sure, he was betraying Earth to save his own sorry ass, but guess what… all the people who cared and who would shank him for that betrayal were now in a bloody pile at the base of his feet. So yeah, he agreed to build that Indie doomsday weapon because pragmatically they had given him a way out.

"Always one bastard in the bunch," said the AI approvingly, "Not that I disapprove… Mr…."

"Greeves," replied the captured ONI scientist with a bit of authority, "Dr. Greeves."

"Right so," said the AI Commander, "Just so you know, the offer I made earlier will stand. You fore-fill your end of the deal, and we'll get you sorted so that you never have to fret over such things as Spartan ninjas until the day you die. Savvy that?"

"Yeah…" replied Greeves with a sense of foul forbidding, "I savvy that." This was it, crossing that final line from a slight scumbag to full blown scumbag. Oddly enough, Greeves had always thought that crossing this particular final line would be more… difficult. As things stand, he barely felt anything negative at all. If anything, he felt better. He felt good. Fuck Earth! Fuck ONI! Fuck his crappy job, in a crappy lab, being watched by crappy soldiers! No no no no, screw all of that nonsense. Private sector was where it's at! "When do I get started?"

Commander Pots grinned. This was a rarity. There was always one scumbag in a group willing to go turncoat, but this Dr. Greeves was a real piece of crap. Pity about the floor though. Had he known the last man standing was going to say yes he could have saved the janitorial staff all that trouble cleaning up the blood and guts.

"Mr. Tek," said the AI commander to the alien mercenary, "Our mutual boss has a message for you. It's in my office, up the stairs four floors. The big room with hunting trophies. I'll meet you there." And with that the AI hologram of Commander Pots dissipated away into nothingness leaving his personal security to handle the necessary details associated with Dr. Greeves continued detainment.