Chapter 4: No Place for No Hero

June 23rd, 2568

Sydney, Australia, Earth, Sol System

Andrew was bored, he had one month where he was supposed to relax and act like a civilian. The only problem being that he'd never taken leave, not once in his entire career. His duffle bag and rifle case sat in the passenger seat of the Scout Hog. His case was 9.6 kilos too light. This made the Spartan quite frustrated. His hand hovered over his data-pad. 'Fuck it.' He pressed the button and a dial tone rang in his earpiece. "Hello," asked a familiar voice. "Commander McKnight, it's Andrew. Look, I'm here in Sydney and I have no fucking idea what I'm supposed to be doing. Can you help me out here. What do civilians do," Andrew asked.

The line was silent for almost a minute. She sighed deeply and responded with measured patience. "You're not supposed to do anything. You do what you want to do. Go to the beach. Go to a gun range. Do something with no real measurable value. I swear to God if I hear your voice before you touch down in Fort Keyes, I will shoot you. Am I clear?" Andrew pondered for a moment. "You're gonna have to do better than that if you want this data packet. You know the deal. You help me learn civilian life and turn the cheek on Phoenix's gambling. I give you parts of my files that O.N.I don't want you seeing and twenty percent of what we make. Don't worry, the channel is secure. Not even the almighty Eye of Odin knows what's said here." She sighed in defeat. Andrew and the rest of Phoenix were a thorn in her side that couldn't be shaken so easily. "Go camping in the outback." Andrew mulled it over. "Fair enough. Get something physical to write on and don't let anyone see it. This packet will delete itself in twenty four hours. Compare it to my public files and write down every discrepancy between the two. Believe what you will, Commander. Have a nice day. Please do give me some more suggestions in about six days." With that said he sent the packet and killed the channel. Andrew started the Hog's engine and pulled out of the motor pool.


Andrew stood in the bed of the scout hog, his right leg up on the rear support beam. His BR85N rested comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. From his perspective the desert went on forever. The summer sun hung low on the horizon. It was mostly quiet, mostly. A light crunch to his left alerted him of something's presence. Then a man cleared his throat. "Oi, whatcha doing up there? Huntin' season's over. Put the rifle down or we're gonna 'ave an issue." Andrew simply swept his sentinel scope across the horizon. "Your mongoose stopped moving forty minutes ago. You noticed me, determined I'm not a threat, and proceeded to creep up here. You're a wildlife ranger, not the stealthiest. Your hand is resting on an M6, some civvie variant. Trying to sneak up on a war vet is a good way to lose your brain. Relax, old Third Street here ain't loaded. I'm just eyeing the horizon. Looking for a good place to set up camp. Want some water, it's mighty warm today?" The ranger found Andrew's nonchalant tone highly unsettling. He stepped towards the hog and stepped up onto the bumper. Andrew lowered the rifle and grabbed two bottles of water from his cooler and handed one to the ranger.

"Vet huh. What branch?" Andrew pointed to the emblem on his shirt. "Spartan? Damn, you must be one tough bloke. How long?" Andrew turned to face the ranger. His polarized smart glasses left the Spartan's eyes to the ranger's imagination. "Classified. What about you? You serve," Andrew asked. "No. War ended before I could sign up. Nothing to fight after that." Andrew let out a loud huff. "Bullshit. I ain't stopped fighting." The ranger took a sip from his water. "What, you got somethin' to fight here on the Cradle? Out in the desert no less?" Andrew shrugged. "Not all battles happen in the field. I'm on leave though. Stationed in Lambda Rho." The two remained silent for some time. Andrew eventually hopped down off the bed of the vehicle and started to set up his camp. "You oughta get moving. Night's setting fast. I'm sure you've got a post to report to." The ranger nodded and hopped down from the Hog. "Stay safe mate, don't let the Taipans get ya."


June 29th, 2568

Sydney, Australia, Earth, Sol System

Andrew stood in the hotel lobby looking worse for wear. Five full days in the bush with no amenities left the Spartan caked in sweat and sand. Despite all this Andrew was a little disappointed to come back to civilization. Haphazardly driving the Hog through the desert was surprisingly fun. "Here's your room key, feel free to use the pool and gym. I would recommend a shower first though," a voice broke Andrew's train of thought. He took the key and sauntered to his room. Other guests gave him looks as he walked by. 'Clearly these people have never roughed it in the middle of nowhere.' The hotel room was nice, it had a TV, desk, computer terminal, mini-fridge and wardrobe. He set the weapon case on the desk and sat on the bed to rifle through his clothing. He pulled out a plain PT shirt, boxers, socks and a pair of cargo shorts he had bought before going camping. With the last of his clean clothes in hand, Andrew walked into the spacious bathroom and started the shower.

After cleaning days of dirt from himself the Spartan took his duffle to the hotel's complimentary laundry room. 'The perks of having deep pockets. Hotels with free washers. Thank the Verse.' He tossed his laundry in the washer and pulled out his data-pad. He knew King and Thermer were in America visiting family. Sam, well who the hell knew where he went. He shot a message at the team group chat. "How goes it? Just got back to Sydney from camping in the outback." He closed the chat and opened up the waypoint. The news seemed fairly optimistic for Earth. The defense fleet was stronger than ever and most of the orbital platforms destroyed in the waning days of the War had been rebuilt with the latest technology. Andrew opened one of his bookmarks, a page regarding news on Tribute, his homeworld. The new UNSC shipyards were working on refitting Strident and Anlace class frigates. Even sixteen years after the war ended they were still rebuilding the destroyed infrastructure of Casbah City. 'One day I'll visit. One day I'll go home.' An ad came up on screen that caught his eye, a gun range with a killhouse. Andrew knew what he'd be doing tomorrow. Today was R&R.


June 30th, 2568

Sydney, Australia, Earth, Sol System

Andrew stepped into the lobby of the range, the displays caught his attention first. Civilian weapons of all shapes and sizes filled the walls. The counter displays were filled with optics, magazines, lasers and grips. Everything for an enthusiast to deck out their favorite firearms. While the Spartan looked around all eyes were on him. To be honest, he didn't realize that civilians found him physically imposing. He stood at 2.05 meters tall and most of his 117.48 kilo mass was defined muscle. His fireteam shirt did little to hide just how defined his core and upper arms were, his pants however hid a powerful set of legs. He could crush a man's arm with ease if he wanted to and everyone in the lobby could tell. He made his way to a counter and set his gun case on top. "I want to try your killhouse." The woman behind the counter grabbed a data-pad and brought up some digital forms for Andrew to fill out. "You ever been here before?" Andrew looked up from the pad. "Doubt it. Haven't visited the Cradle in over a decade." The clerk looked at Andrew's gun case. "Case is pretty big, mind if I open it to register your weapons with our system?" Andrew passed the pad back. "It's 9.6 kilos too light for my liking," he opened the case for the clerk and removed the Battle Rifle from its eggshell foam bed. "Had to leave Bertha back at base. I won't be using the scope. I also have an M6C SOCOM. Can I use exotic ammunition or will I need to buy a box?" The clerk eyed Andrew's Battle Rifle while he removed the SOCOM from his thigh holster. "Depends on the type of ammo. Incendiary is off the table. Can't dispose of it properly." Andrew sighed, "One box of twelve seven by forty mil then. Jacketed preferably." The clerk reached down into the counter and grabbed a box of 12.7x40mm ammo for the pistol. Few could handle the weapon's recoil effectively, even with the integrated suppressor. "The empty slot, that's for an M739 SAW. how'd you get your hands on one? Don't know many people who can get a license for that kinda firepower." Andrew looked up from his rifle, continuing to remove the sentinel scope without looking. "I'm a Spartan. I don't need a license." Clerk nearly dropped her data-pad. It was fairly common to have military personnel come through their doors, but this was the first time she had seen a Spartan in the flesh. A bonafide hero standing before her, she stammered her words. "Sorry, I didn't know. That explains the service tag in place of a surname here. So, do you have a name for all your weapons?" Andrew laughed on the inside. He was sure that the clerk had nearly shit herself. "Just the guns. Bertha is the SAW. My BR is named Third Street and that SOCOM is named Bunsen," seeing the confusion on the young woman's face he pointed to the box of 12.7x40mm incendiary ammo. "Had the barrel modified to withstand higher temps associated with phosphorus tipped rounds." The clerk looked from the ammo to Andrew and back. "Ain't that illegal in combat?" Andrew shrugged. "Not if I'm hitting materiel. We good here?" The clerk nodded and pointed towards the door to the killhouse.

As Andrew entered the large warehouse that contained the day's activities he couldn't help but revel in the smell of spent gunpowder. The killhouse itself was a large, prefab steel structure. He noted a few people in line, waiting for their chance to get in and make record times. Some watched the camera feeds from within the structure and others got their gear ready. He couldn't help but chuckle at the mix-matched group in front of him; camo patterns that didn't match, armorer patches, plate carriers covered in more pouches than needed, and some private security forces that he looked at with disdain. He set his rifle case down and removed two empty magazines for Bunsen. Loading them was almost therapeutic to him. Fifty targets, twelve shots with both weapons before reloading was a must. Two magazines for Third Street. He put a mag into Bunsen, racked the slide and dropped the mag to load a new round in. Forty nine shots, guess I'll load a mag with one shot for Bunsen. Can't knock these targets with a throwing knife. With his weapons loaded and ready to go Andrew removed his boonie hat and put on his smart glasses and headphones. With the two linked Andrew began flicking through his personal playlist. It was mostly flip music. He found the song he wanted and waited in line. The man in front of him turned around as the killhouse reset. "You're one big motherfucker. Been training to join up," he asked. Andrew didn't respond, instead just polarizing his lenses. "No matter, UNSC is just a bunch of imperialist bastards with shit training. Watch how Liang-Dortmund does it." Andrew gritted his teeth as the man ran into the killhouse. 'Fucking schmuck.'

The green light came on, time for him to show these mooks how it's done. The idiot before him held the day's record, but Andrew knew the moron would've been killed halfway through. He blinked the music to play. A song called Shreddin' filled his ears, the heavy guitar and drums made him feel right at home. He entered the building, time to beat, two minutes and three seconds. He was shockingly quick on his feet and even faster to react. The first two rooms were cleared in a mere fifteen seconds. The third room required him to change magazines in his rifle. By the fifth room he had a definite lead over everyone, but his rifle was empty. He counted rounds now. Three more rooms and he had spent twenty four rounds. 'One in the chamber, mag is empty, drop it and slot the next.' His single round mag went in with more force than needed. 'Last room.' He rounded the corner. 'Contact left. Contact center, hostage situation. Caution.' CLACK CLACK! The center target dropped first then the left. No damage to the hostage dummy. He left the room, one minute fifty seconds on the clock.

As he approached the waiting area Andrew was met with shocked stares. He removed the headphones and walked straight to his rifle case. The man from earlier approached him from behind. "Phoenix Zero Two, huh? What are you? Private military? Security forces? How the hell do you clear a killhouse that fast with exactly fifty shots?" Andrew turned around, a magazine for his SOCOM in hand. He slid around into place. "That's how Spartans do it, you ungrateful shit." The man took a step back as Andrew spoke, his baritone voice booming through the warehouse. Those that weren't watching sure as hell started now. The meager 1.7 meter man was shocked. A poster boy of the UNSC had just treated him like a second class citizen. Insulted him in public. "What was that, freak?" Andrew rolled his eyes, 'Freak, real original kid.' He set the magazine down and walked up to the LDC security contractor. "I called you an ungrateful shit. If I'm not mistaken you called the UNSC 'imperialist bastards with shit training,' before running through the killhouse and making enough mistakes to kill an entire unit. You're not a hero. You're a dumbass glory hound who's going to get people killed." Andrew's words came down like a sledgehammer. The weekend warriors began to shy away, but the private military types started towards the irate Spartan. A few still held their weapons. "Try anything with those and I'll break 'em over your heads before you can get a shot off." They stopped dead in their tracks. "You people run through this thing making more mistakes than I care to count. You fuckers over there pretend to be soldiers in the freetime and you private military types cause more trouble for the government and UNSC than you're worth." Andrew walked back to the weapon case and finished loading his magazine. Metal scraped on metal and was followed by a loud smack. He stuffed the pistol into his holster and strapped the Battle Rifle into its foam bed. He closed the case and turned around. While the LDC contractor had shied away, the others had gotten closer. "This ain't no place for no hero, Spartan." Andrew put his hat back on, bringing the brim low over his brow. "I ain't no hero, glory hound." The Spartan marched towards the exit, his hand hanging dangerously close to his sidearm. His body language was enough, one move towards him and you were bound to be a statistic. He stopped in the range's lobby and bought a new knife, one with big enough straps to go around his gauntlet. 'I hate civilians.'


Note: The Spartans of Fireteam Phoenix and any other named characters are part of a large community that I have been part of for the past five years. Each character has a fleshed out backstory. This story is meant to explore part of Andrew's past. I chose to make chapters three and four less focused on Andrew's past as an attempt to keep me from burning out and explore greater aspects of his personality.

The Spartans of Fireteam Phoenix are:

Jesse Thermer aka Phoenix One or Boss- Team Leader, Designated Marksman

Andrew-G199 aka Phoenix Two or Viper- Demolitions Expert, Squad Automatics, Interrogations and Cyber Intrusion

Brandon King aka Phoenix Three- Squad Automatic, Stealth Reconnaissance, Close Quarters Specialist

Samuel Caster aka Phoenix Four or Peanut Boy- Sniper, Reconnaissance

Phoenix is a direct action and intelligence retrieval team formed on Delta Forti III (Trost). Their tactics are uncanny and sometimes outright ridiculous, but no one gets results quite like them.