Chapter 4: Armor

It was morning on Reach.

Cold winds swept down from the jagged Highland Mountains, through sprawling forests, and over long valleys. Oceans of short, pale grass swayed and roiled like ocean water. In the fields, flocks of Moa raised their heads as gust after gust ruffled their feathers. Deep in the woods, wolves howled and darted in between the trees. Birds of prey circled overhead and their squawking echoed throughout many mountain ridges, gullies, and crags.

The sun shone, warmly and brightly, for a short while. There was not a cloud in the sky. One might have gazed up and hoped for a long, sunny day that would fight the chill. Instead, the wind carried fog down from the mountaintops and guided heavy, gray clouds through the sky. Slowly, like a crawling snake, fog filled up the gulleys and riverbeds cutting through the mountains. It dug into the forests, obscuring the trees and vast underbrush. When it came off the mountains, it drew across the land like a blanket being drawn to the chin. Above, the dark clouds filled the sky and obscured the sun. Far away, beyond the Highlands Mountains thunder rumbled and lightning slashed through the clouds.

Encroaching fog quickly enveloped Fairchild Field, covering its many hangars, administrative officers, control towers, warehouses, and barracks. Aircraft ranging from Pelican and Albatross dropships to Falcon VTOL's and Skyhawk jumpjets, disappeared. Pilots, mechanics, and Army troopers performing their duties all over the facility were swallowed by the mist. Beyond the airfield, Military Reservation 01478-B stood, ominous and imposing. But the fog drove on, overcoming the infirmary and surrounding structuring before covering the walled, circular facility itself.

Within, the occupants remained undeterred by the fog. Over seventy trainees were practicing hand-to-hand combat drills in the field beside the Pillars of Loki. The air was alive with drill instructors barking orders at them and the shouts of vicious fighting on the part of the young trainees. Fists collided with cheeks and stomachs, while sweeping feet knocked opponents of their feet. Hands were lowered, grasped, and the trainees regained their footing. When a mistake was made by one or both trainees, an instructor stepped in between them. He grabbed them by their black collars, widened his furious eyes, and screamed in their faces. Flecks of spit landed on trainees' cheeks and chins as they took the beratement without emotion. When it was over, the trainees were threatened with the loss of dinner and the fighting resumed.

Other SPARTAN trainees were practicing more advanced CQC techniques with instructors. Pin reversal, grappling, and takedowns were demonstrated and performed. But the trainees did not fight with one another, but instead their handlers. Veteran drill instructors, hardened by so many years of training and experience fighting the Insurrection, attacked the young trainees. Time after time, the instructors overpowered them through brute force and strength. Noses were bloodied, lips cracked, eyes blackened, teeth broken, and skin bruised. Rising with tears in their eyes, trainees lunged at their instructors or braced for a renewed assault. Instructors prevailed again and again, throwing and pinning trainees. But they got back up and kept up the fight. The teams were mixed that day, so teammates found themselves fighting alongside other trainees they normally didn't work closely with. Some even fought each other.

Carris-137 raised her fists in front of her and braced her feet. The boot heels dug deep into the soil. Her blue eyes gazed back at three separate opponents, each edging closer to her with their fists up. On the right was Kelly, Linda was in the center, and Fred was on the left. Each face was marked already from hard hits and falls.

Fred lunged first, throwing a hard fist. Carris blocked it with her forearm, then flattened her opposite hand and hit him hard in the face. As he stumbled, Kelly and Linda charged at him. They held hands, stretching their arms out to knock Carris down. Instead of evading, Carris formed an X with her arms as the two arms struck. Instead of knocking her down, it broke the two girls' stride for just a moment. It was all she needed. Carris brought her elbow down on their clasped hands; it was like a hammer falling on a nail head. Crying out, the girls' hands separated. Reaching back, she hooked her left arm around Linda's neck and brought her into a chokehold. With her free hand, she snatched Kelly by the forearm and with sheer strength, threw her onto the ground so hard she nearly wrenched the trainee's shoulder out. But Kelly was as fast a thinker as she was on foot. Flattening out on her back, she reared a leg back and tried to kick Carris in the knee.

Carris crouched so her thigh absorbed the impact. She could take it better there than in a joint; it was pure muscle. Suddenly a pair of arms quickly coiled around her neck. Fred had recovered. In the same instant, Linda stopped struggling and turned in Carris's grasp. She began hitting her in the side with her fist. As well, Kelly was still kicking her, trying to hit a weaker point from the terrible angle she was in. It all hurt, but Carris could take it. Leaning her head forward, she brought it back sharply, slamming right back into Fred's nose. The shock loosened his grasp somewhat, but he was very tough. She did it once, twice more, and that finally Fred was so dazed he stumbled back.

Still holding Kelly's arm, she stood, stepped back, and yanked Kelly hard. Kelly was forced to roll over. Kelly attempted to kneel, but as soon as she did, Carris kicked her in the face. She then spun around, dragging Kelly by her arm, and then released her towards Fred. He was just getting up as Kelly flew into him, sending them both tumbling.

A jab in her side reminded Carris that Linda was still in her grasp. Loosening the chokehold, she grabbed Linda by the collar, grinned, and gut-punched her. Linda keeled over, the wind knocked out of her by that one blow. Grabbing her by the chest and groin, Carris picked the orange-haired trainee up over her head and threw her at Fred and Kelly. Both were still trying to untangle themselves from one another. Linda sent them into a heap of limbs.

But Kelly managed to spring onto her feet and dash at Carris. She covered the distance in just a few strides, nearly reaching a sprint in seconds. Her ability was astounding to Carris, even in the midst of the duel. Kelly threw nearly a dozen jabs; Carris struggled to block them. She simply was not as fast. Soon, the hits were falling in the soft parts of her side, sending shockwaves of deep pain reverberating through her torso.

Widening the distance would give her an advantage, a brief respite to go from the defensive to the offensive. However, she could not break away as Kelly was too close. She kept her arms close to her sides, but just as quickly unleashed a flurry of quick blows. But as she gave ground, Carris began to get a feel for the pattern. Two quick jabs to the face, which she could block, then four more to her sides before she could bring her arms down. Two upwards, four at level height, two upwards, four at level height.

Kelly went to punch, and Carris feigned a block. Instead she reversed her hand and caught Kelly's fist. Immediately, she squeezed as hard as she could. Screaming out in pain, Kelly tried to pry Carris's fingers from her hand. But her grasp was like that of a vise and there was no undoing. So she stamped on Carris's feet and feebly struck her with her free hand. Each blow carried less weight and coordination than the previous. Eventually, her eyes bulged with the agony and her attempts to strike became more frantic. The pain resonating in her coursed down her arm and flooded the rest of her body, even her mind.

It was a lesson that CPO Mendez taught her. 'Use pain to control your opponent. If you can force them to focus on nothing but that pain, they will falter in every regard.' So Carris squeezed and squeezed.

Eventually, her hand went to Carris's throat and tried to crush it. Instead of hitting her, Carris slowly reached up, carefully wrested Kelly's grasp from her neck, and then began turning the arm backwards. Kelly gritted her teeth and a long, ragged, moan of pain passed through her lips as Carris forced her arm back and back. The force was so great that Kelly was forced onto her knees. Towering over her, Carris reared her head back, and brought it down right on Kelly's forehead.

Dazed, Kelly fell backwards, clutching her face. Carris felt a gash on her forehead open and blood began to trickle down her face. As Fred got to his feet, he charged at her. Wiping the blood from her eyes, Carris leaned forward and waited for the impact. Fred slammed into her with the force of a Maglev train. Were it not for Carris bracing herself and maintaining her center of gravity, the rush would have turned into a tackle. Grunting with effort, bent over, and his arms wrapped around her center, Fred struggled to take her off her feet and onto the back. Carris dug her feet into the ground, but he was so strong that he was pushing her backwards. Her face turned red from exertion, she inhaled and held the breath, then bared her teeth. Once more, she planted her heels. This stopped Fred.

Before he could move, she raised her elbow and brought it down right between his shoulders blades. Fred hollered as he recoiled. Carris delivered an uppercut, a left hook, followed by a right, then two cross hits. Fed was so demoralized and stunned he could not bring himself to duck or block. In turn, Carris tackled him to the ground. He tried to raise his arms in a cross to cover his face, but she just swatted them with her hands and his arms fell. Balling her hands into fists, she began hitting him in the face.

That's when Linda charged and tackled her from the side. Carris saw her coming, turned, and wrapped her arms around her as it happened. The two grappled as they rolled across the hard ground. In the end, Linda ended up on top but it only lasted for a moment. Carris punched her on the right side and that stunned Linda briefly. Raising her legs, she forced Linda forward on top of her. Carris grabbed her, rolled her over, then squatted over her. She flipped Linda onto her belly, got on top of her, and pulled her leg forward over her back. Keeping her leg pinned with her arm, she took Linda by the opposite arm and yanked that bag so Linda's leg and front were being pulled towards her center. She began shouting in pain.

Kelly and Fred came at her together. Carris could see the fire in their eyes. Letting go of Linda, she sidestepped Fred's heavy fist, cracking him in the back with her elbow. Kelly attempted to duck and try to knock her off her feet with a sweeping kick. Instead, Carris caught Kelly's leg, yanked her off her feet, then threw her into Fred just as he turned. As he stumbled, Carris punched him in the face again, and then forced him down hard on top of Linda. All three trainees lay in a heap, panting.

Stepping back, Carris raised her fists and bounced on her feet, waiting for them to get up. Groaning, gasping for air, and wincing at the slightest movement, they attempted untangle themselves.

"Well done, One-Three-Seven."

Carris dropped her guard and spun around. She stood at attention as one of the other instructors approached. He was dressed in a crisp olive drab heavy-duty training uniform, rather than standard PT shirt and shorts on lighter training details.

The instructor who approached Petty Officer First Class Damien Losa. He was a tall man, broad in the chest but slimmer at the waist. Rippling with muscle, his fatigue shirt seemed almost too tight. While most of the other instructors were clean shaven or grew mustaches, he had a ragged, choppy beard. Rumors circulating around the trainees stipulated he was once a special operative in one of the myriad deep covert units that populated Naval Special Warfare Command. Many were known to sport thick beards and long hair to obscure their identities and fit into local populations; perhaps Losa had not kicked the habit.

He stood right in front of her, his hazel eyes glaring into her's. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkled and his cheekbones rose.

Saluting her back, he rested his opposite hand on her shoulder. Carris glanced at it and saw the golden wedding band on his ring finger. She looked back up at him as he tapped his temple. "You're strong, but you didn't beat them just because you are. You thought on your feet, improvised, and adapted. You know when to implement a tactical move and when to utilize brute force. If you can combine a sharp mind, a strong body, and diverse skills, you will always achieve victory.

"Yes, sir!" Carris shouted, holding her chin up high. Although her face betrayed no emotion, she felt very proud.

But then Losa's hand closed on her shoulder. It did not hurt, but it was a tight grasp.

"Don't forget, however, you stood alone. Strength comes from numbers, but just the mere mathematics. A unit that gels and cooperates, that works together, is stronger than anything into this great, wide galaxy. An individual can obtain victory, but teamwork keeps you alive." He pointed at them. "They worked together, taking pressure off one another and occupying your attention so they could rest, recover, and renew the offensive. If they hadn't fought together, if they hadn't fought for each other, they could not be standing."

Carris looked over her shoulder and saw that all three were standing up. Fred was being supported by Linda slightly as he checked on Kelly's hand.

She watched them for a moment before looking back at Losa. He smiled at her. "Be there for them, and they'll be there for you. Your teammates are better than any armor."

"Yes, sir."

Carris turned around, ran a hand over her short black hair, and walked over to Kelly, Fred, and Linda. "That was a good match," she said. All three stared at her, then they smiled.

"We'll get you one day," Kelly said.

"I'm glad you're with us," Fred added. Linda did not speak, but she offered a respectful nod and an amiable smile.

Before the conversation could continue, Carris saw the emotion in their eyes changed. Their features dropped, as if aghast. For a moment, she thought they were about to attack. But then she heard someone moving behind her. She could feel motion in the air. Before she could turn around, she felt one arm wrenched above her and the other wrapped behind her. A booted foot swept her feet out from under her and she landed face-down, hard. As she wriggled, she felt Losa press his sharp knee into her back.

"The fuck do you think you're doing, 137!?" he shouted. "Training does not stop!"

Carris didn't know if he was trying to promote his logic by putting himself in a position for Fred, Kelly, and Linda to assist. But she was not going to wait to find out. Bringing her leg back, she cocked it like a shotgun, and shot it upwards into his groin. The strike was not powerful, but it caught him off guard. Utilizing her split-second advantage, she free her left arm, brought back her elbow, and struck Losa in the sternum. He still had her right arm, but Carris scrambled to her feet. Before she could turn, he snatched her other arm and brought it behind her. Spinning her around, he charged her towards one of the Pillars of Loki.

She planted her feet, forcing his sprint into a slog. Gaining that control, she hopped off her feet, planted them against the Pillar, and pushed backwards. It was enough to tip Losa backwards. Falling on his back, he released her and she rolled over on top of him. Just as she was about to land another blow, he flipped her to the side, forced her onto her back, and attempted to pin her again.

This time she was ready. As he tried to press his hand on her face, she made a fist and shoved his arm. He was holding that arm with his other hand for maximum weight, thus it was his only support. Falling to the side, she grabbed his throat, forced him up, and grabbed his belt buckle. Grinding her teeth, groaning with exertion, veins bulging, and with sweat pouring down her face, she managed to take him off his feet. With a great cry, she threw him back towards the Pillar of Loki.

Losa hit the Pillar diagonally and back-first. There was a horrible, sickening crunch sound. His eyes bulged, his mouth opened as if he were about to gasp or cry out, the color left his skin, and he crumpled over onto the ground.

Instinctively, Carris brought her fists up to prepare for another attack. But Losa remained motionless. Slowly, she dropped her fists. Fred, Linda, and Kelly assembled around her.

It was Linda who took the first step. She ran over to Losa, knelt beside him, and held his wrist. Then she took two fingers and pressed them to his neck, right below the end of his jawline. Slowly, she looked back, eyes wide.

"Chief Petty Officer Mendez!" Kelly cried. She ran and Carris watched her. Kelly approached a cadre of instructors assembled around the imposing CPO Mendez. He was watching another group of trainees and instructors, arms folded across his chest. Dr. Halsey was with him too, clad in a white lab coat and watching the same group with interest.

Carris could not hear Kelly speaking to them, but she saw Dr. Halsey's eyes widen and Mendez drop his arms. Both the Chief Petty Officer, doctor, and the entire group of instructors looked in her direction simultaneously. All jogged over, crying, 'Corpsman, up!'

Mendez and the corpsman ushered Linda out of the way as they knelt beside Losa. The corpsman began taking out his medical kit. He began speaking to Mendez in hushed tones. Other instructors and trainees began approaching and gathering around.

Carris watched in silent shock. She was not sure what was happening. A hand fell on her shoulder. Its touch was soft, but not tender.

"Come Carris, I think you've trained enough for today," Dr. Halsey said in an even tone. But Carris could not tear herself away. She watched and listened, trying to understand. Eventually, she stepped forward until she was right behind Mendez and the corpsman. The latter had stopped working and was sadly packing up his materials. Mendez was gazing at Losa, one hand resting on his knee. He shook his head.

"S-sir?" Carris managed to say. She realized her lips were quivering and her hands were shaking. For the first time in many years, she felt very scared. Fear billowed in her core, seizing her heart, clouding her mind, and filled her extremities like fog filling the gullies, ravines, and valleys of the Highland Mountains.

Mendez turned, looked at her, and stood up. Authoritative, he clasped his hands behind his back and tilted back his head so he was looking down his nose at her.

"One-Three-Seven, return to your barracks immediately."

"Sir, I-"

"That's an order trainee," he said firmly, but quietly. "Go."

Carris's eyes fell to Losa. He was not moving. The corpsman covered his eyes, rubbing them. A moment later, he reached down and opened Losa's blouse. Reaching in, he pulled up his metal dog tags. Just as he began to pull on them, Carris Dr. Halsey take her hand. She was turn around and was being led towards the barracks. As she walked, she looked at all the faces she was accustomed to; Fred, Linda, Kelly, John, Daisy, Joshua, Cal, and so many more. Turning, she craned her neck to try and look at Losa again. But a phalanx of instructors were lining up in front of him, obscuring him from view.

###

All the other trainees had gone to their mandatory class for that day, but she was relieved from going. She asked if she was confined to quarters and the answer was no; she had the choice not to attend class, that was all. When she pressed, and asked why, CPO Mendez informed her Losa was dead. The fifth and sixth vertebrae were completely severed and he died instantly. There was no saving him.

Mendez did not stay long. He told the UNSC was a well-oiled machine, but even the best-kept machines suffered malfunctions. Accidents, even prepared and trained for her, were sometimes impossible to avoid. 'They just happen,' Mendez punctuated before he left. He seemed pressed for time despite his concern. Often, he gave lectures, imparting his personal wisdom as well as military ethos. He devoted so much time to the trainees, yet he seemed uncomfortable that he could not do it at that moment. It was not so much trying to comfort her as it was a brief rationalization to soften the news. Somehow, Carris knew he or someone else would be back in the next few days to speak with her again.

Unable to sit in the stifling barracks, Carris thought she would go to the range. Slowly, she swung her legs out and began walking towards the door. Her legs seemed to wobble and her hands kept shaking. When she opened the door, she put her foot down on the step leading up to it.

As soon as the door shut behind her, she collapsed on the edge of the step and began to cry. Balling her hands it into fists and covering her eyes with them, she sobbed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting through the dust picked up from fighting in the dirt. When the wind blew, it made the tears sting her eyes and cheeks as it was very chilly. Sometimes, she cried so hard she lost her voice, so the tears fell and her body shook, but no sound came from her wide open mouth.

She could not comprehend it; she felt so much yet felt so little. Killing was what she was training to do; one day she would fight Insurrectionists. They would have spouses and children, and she was being trained to ignore it all. Yet, Losa was an instructor; no, he was more, a mentor. He was giving her skills to survive and carry her duties as a soldier. Now he was dead and it was her fault. What kind of student slayed their teacher and got away with it? They kept saying it was an accident, an accident, an accident, but it did not feel like an accident. Carris wanted to die too, it seemed like the only way she would gain redemption. How would she do it? Jump from one of the Pillars of Loki and break her neck? Slip into the facility's armor and shoot herself in the head? Maybe she could sneak out of the facility and just walk, walk, and walk until she collapsed, dying long, slow, and alone in the hinterland of Reach. That would be fitting; an unsoldierly death for a weak, murderous trainee.

But it was her survival training, the rigorous, grueling concept of self-preservation instilled by instructors like Mendez, Losa, and so many others that kept her seated on the steps, sobbing painfully. Each sob was more painful than the last; it wracked her strong frame, made her shake, and burned her throat. Her eyes stung from so many tears and the cold wind.

When she finally lifted her head and dropped her hands, she gasped for air. It was as if she had not breathed for a month. Using the back of her hands to wipe her glimmering blue eyes, she noticed a figure a short way off. It was Dr. Halsey. She wore a white lab coat and gray hoodie and blue trousers. Her black hair came down to the middle of her neck and her blue eyes were very cold. She was a rather beautiful woman with fine features, an elegant nose, soft cheekbones, and small pink lips. One saw her everywhere, usually with a data pad in hand. This time, it was tucked under an arm.

For a while, she stared at Carris. Rarely did she show emotion. In that exchange of gazes, Carris could see little movements, twitches, in her face. It was if she was trying to smile or raise her voice to say something. But she did nothing but stand and stare.

It became too much. Tears poured down her cheeks. All of a sudden, Carris found herself running. She ran and ran, pumping her arms, sprinting as fast as she could. It felt as though she was being chased, but she knew it was a foolish thought. There was no one. She was alone.

She only stopped when she was at the beginning of the obstacle course. It was a field of sharp gravel, leading to a series of low-to-the-ground barbed wire tunnels flanked by machine guns. At the end were the Pillars of Loki and the larger area around it.

With tears still in her eyes, Carris hastily untied her boots. She threw one away with a cry of effort, followed by the next. Ripping off her socks, she bolted across the gravel. Each step fell heavily and she felt the uneven edges of the gravel slice the bottoms of her feet. When she got to the end, she dove into one of the barbed wire tunnels. Normally, instructors manned the interval positions on either side and fired live ammunition over the heads of the trainees. Both positions were empty and the machine guns were absent. She crawled savagely through, clawing into the dirt and dragging herself forward. The ground the barbed wire tunnels sat upon seemed to always be muddy or clogged with dirt. By the time she made it out, her black training uniform was covered with muck and her face was dirty. Tears cut swathes through the grime.

Then, she stopped. She was right in front of the Pillars of Loki. If she looked to the right, she could see the exact Pillar she threw Losa against. Such a sight was horrifying to her.

She looked up at the ten meter tall Pillar in front of her. Immediately, she jumped on it and wrapped her arms and legs around it. With great effort, she began sliding and clambering her way up. It was a herculean effort, requiring every ounce of strength in her body. Stopping to rest was impossible; if one stopped, they would fall. Grunting and snarling like a struggling animal, she finally managed to reach the flat top.

Balancing on it, she sprang to the next pole, and to the next, and the next. She didn't stop until she reached the sixth pole in the Pillars of Loki. She found her energy waning, her strength fleeting. A strong wind came, bringing with it fog. Tottering, she squatted down on top of the Pillar and wrapped her arms around herself. For some time, she gazed at the mountains surrounding the facility and the fog as it rolled down the rocky, jagged slopes. Then she hung her head low, and the tears fell from her eyes, running down the Pillar. She felt so cold.

Carris sat on the cot in her quarters. She had removed her armor and accompanying materials, which were mounted on a stand provided by the base engineers. It was facing her, nearly assembled on the mount. Her blue eyes did not leave the golden visor.

She did not know how long she stared at her own armor. It was easy to remember when she first received it. At first it seemed so foreign, as if her body resided in a different dimension that one she existed in. One could not tell if they were floating or being crushed. While others marveled at the feeling and the acute response of the armor, she found it so strange. But with time, it became her home. One did not feel anything; whether it was rain, snow, or wind, whether it was the heat of the cold, or a nearby explosion. She could stand in a sandstorm or a blizzard, and feel absolutely nothing save for the modulated temperature provided by the thermal layer.

More than anything else, she felt safe in it. Carris adopted the creed of the Spartans, their duty as soldiers and defenders of humanity. Even if she was not born for this life, she was made for it. Built, constructed, molded, trained for it. All she was taught, all she learned, it was imbued in that armor. It was a part of her, and she was a part of it. Her life was that armor. Or at least, she used to think so.

Years were spent in that suit of armor. Now, she seemed to rarely put it on. Her life was that of the Marine, rather than the Spartan.

Destiny? Fate? Such ideas were above her station; she decided that long ago. Being a Spartan was what she wanted. But, being with the squad, that was something she wanted too.

She looked down. Her digital camouflage fatigue jacket and trousers were standard-issue Marine-greens. So were the black boots. If one looked at her, all they would see was a rather tall Marine. She could care less about being a Marine; it was those people who were Marines she wanted to be.

Being confined to quarters felt familiar enough. She was alone with the Prowler Corps for so long, she got used to the lack of noise, distant bodies, leering gazes, and the complete absence of any conversation. She was always spoken to, never with. No praise, no punishment; just orders.

When the ONI officers looked at her, they saw her armor. To them, she was a military asset. All that made her human was easily and entirely ignored and detached. Rarely did they see her face or hear her voice. Some officers who gave her orders never saw her without a helmet on; she must have appeared a drone to them.

But when those Marines looked at her, they didn't see the armor. They saw her. They did not say, "One-Three-Seven," they said, 'Carris,' or 'C.' As they did with each other, they tapped her on top of the helmet, patted her shoulder, bumped fists, and high-fived her. What made them so kind? So open? It was almost as if they were children.

Carris looked at the single window. It was still early in the morning, far too early for most personnel to be up. But she saw her reflection in the glass, then saw those ten faces gazing back. They were all grinning at her, and she smiled back. Moments passed and the faces began to fade, one after the other. Frost was the second to last to leave and Steele was the final; their smiles disappeared by then.

They were more than a squad; they were her friends. She vowed to keep them alive, and she knew they would die to save her too. Losa was right about that, she never doubted him. But she did not see it the way other Spartans did. It took his death, decades worth of time, and a rabble of misfit Marines to make her finally understand it. She would always be there for them, and they for her. Carris knew this in the deepest part of her heart.

But she saw the gunfire flashing and the bodies falling in the snow. Blood oozed and smoke rose from the wounds.

Carris leaned forward, pressing her hands together. She could not betray her squad. But could she betray the creed, the ethos, embedded in her personage from the time she was a little girl? For days, she wrestled with the question. It was beginning to torment her and she was having trouble falling asleep. So she sat up all night, gazing out the window, trying to figure it out.

The door to her barracks opened. It was Captain De Vos. She was holding a plate of steaming food.

"A bit early for chow," Carris said, looking back toward the window.

"Orders are orders," De Vos said, walking into her quarters and setting it on the desk across from her bed. Beside it was the hulking suit of armor.

De Vos always looked impressive. She was made of muscle but was surprisingly lean. Her fatigues were crisp, clean, and immaculate. No crease could be found on her blouse or trousers, which was tucked neatly into her black boots. Even though she always held her head high, she never looked down on soldiers. Contact was eye-to-eye, cordial, respectful, and by the book. Carris admired the pathfinder-turned-ODST; she was an officer she would follow into battle no matter how dire the consequences.

She turned around, smiling quizzically. "You know it wasn't confiscated because it's too heavy, right?"

"That was my first guess," Carris replied. De Vos pulled the chair from the desk, turned it around, and sat down. Crossing her legs professionally, she rested her clasped hands on her lap.

"Major Holst and I had the privilege of fighting with a unit of your troops, call sign Blue Team, once. I used to think the Helljumpers were the best outfit in the entire UNSC. That day I watched a few soldiers turn the tide of a losing battle in just a few hours. I realized, then, we were not even close. They're worth twenty experienced ODSTs, maybe even more." Her smile faded and she inhaled sharply. "General Amsterdam has fought alongside them as well, which is why she wanted your armor confiscated and you restrained at all times. I convinced her not to do either."

De Vos paused here, seemingly trying to solicit a response from Carris. But she refused to make eye contact with the Helljumper; Carris's gaze rested firmly on the glass of the window. She did not see the glass, nor the raindrops pouring down, or even the dark sky beyond. One could look, but they could choose when and what they wanted to see. Carris saw nothing.

Seeing she was getting no response, De Vos continued. "She's still worried you may don your armor and try to break your boys out of the stockade. Which is why there are still ten very confused Army grunts standing outside your quarters at all times. Just in case you try something."

Her tone changed. It was not snide nor goading, but there was a clear challenge in it. It was one Carris could not shy from.

"Ten wouldn't be enough to stop me even if I didn't have my armor," she finally said, but her eyes remained fixated on the window.

"Perhaps I should recommend boosting the security detail to twenty men?"

"I'm not going to attack fellow soldiers," Carris said, maintaining an even tone. "My duty is to keep them alive."

"I know," De Vos said, "that's why I told her not to take her armor or put you in cuffs. Your integrity is not in question."

"Of course it is," Carris said, "they're questioning my loyalty."

"Loyalty to your team, or loyalty to the principles that embody the UNSC." De Vos folded her arms across her chest. "Personally, I don't question either. You're a good soldier. You've saved lives and become an invaluable member of this task force." De Vos leaned forward. "No matter how this turns out, you will not be transferred."

"Too much ONI paperwork, I gather," Carris mused. De Vos smiled.

"That's above my pay grade."

Carris smiled a little. De Vos's disappeared. "I've made sure you haven't been treated as a prisoner, I've kept Amsterdam from barging in here demanding answers, and I've made sure discharge is impossible. It has not been easy. Please, tell me, just what happened that night. There were no helmet feeds, no comms during the incident. Waters saw nothing, Frost and Steele are under trial; you're the only one who can resolve this matter."

De Vos un-crossed her legs and sat forward. "We need Waters, we need those boys, and we need you. But we can't put our needs above military law. So please, let's put an end to this, and try to come out of this affair with some dignity. I've not seen it, but I'm sure your record is spotless, and it should stay-"

"It's not," Carris said sharply. Silence grew between the pair for a short while. Finally, Carris at back and ran a hand through her thick, black hair. "Tell me this Captain; if Major Holst was to do commit an act deemed illegal by military law, would you turn him over. He's your commanding officer and your friend, and your troops worship him."

Carris pointed at her. "You tell me what you would do, and I'll tell you what I saw."

Word Count: 6,260

Author's Note: About an hour late, but it's here all the same. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I certainly enjoyed exploring the concept of the Spartans training and the minor lore related to Carris's background. It was challenging but I enjoyed the research.

Comment Responses:

Qrs-jg: Soldiers react in thousands of different ways to killing. I've done as much research as possible to construct realistic reactions. As for Steele, and the others in general, I wanted there to be a conflict of the UNSCMC's aggressive training and their own moral compasses; a thirst for combat but a disdain for killing humans. I wanted it to be tumultuous, changing from moment-to-moment. In the end, Steele would like to believe and portray himself as indifferent to killing other humans, but even he is not immune to it. For what'll happen to who, you'll have to wait and see. It's good to see you, Qrs-jg.