"Commissioner.

You had asked me for a review of all potential agitators operating within the capital. This had been within the context of the quarterly security review, and more particularly in light of Administrator Jennings' request for an overhaul in the manner in which the APD interacted with the wider public.

In the course of this study, citations are supplied within the foot notes and video links provided (particular reference should be made to my previous report; Outlook 2558: Policing in a Post-Cadiz World). It is sufficient to say for now, however, that there are a number of contributing factors which are beyond the immediate control of the APD: namely mass immigration, a shortage of jobs and satisfactory housing conditions. That the position in Habitation Zone 42-AER-T has been allowed to develop into as tenuous a situation as it has is regrettable, but ultimately unavoidable. Our system was coping with a mass influx of undocumented people from a volatile war zone, many of whom were suspected to be former combatants. Harsh measures were necessary, including protective quarantine from the city proper. Though regrettable, ghettoisation and the accompanying anti-social behaviour that comes with it was inevitable. The questions asked of us as a society are large ones, beyond the scope of this report. I will leave it to more qualified minds to answer them.

The single largest identified gang is the Argjend Assembly, colloquially referred to as the '42 Gang' or 'Zoners'. Primarily comprised of foot soldiers believe to have Insurrectionist sympathies, they are in fact largely apolitical, and mainly exist to further their own ends. Operations include a substantial narcotics and smuggling operation, with multiple instances of having penetrated Starport Security (see situation reports CRI 203-215, as appended). We have yet to determine who their leader is, though the degree of organisation, sophistication and influence beyond their immediate territorial confines points to more rooted forms of organised crime, potentially off-world.

You had asked about the so-called 'Hacker Slasher', referring to the spate of disappearances affecting seemingly unconnected information brokers within the city. From our initial investigation, and having due regard to the analysis generously provided by our counterparts in UNSC intelligence, we do not believe this to be connected with the Argjend Assembly in any meaningful way, and would consider any such suggested link to be wholly the product of active imaginations within the department. Further theories to this effect should be discouraged, and I recommend that anyone voicing such opinions be reported to Internal Affairs for immediate productivity assessment…"

- internal memo, sourced from the Argjend Police Department, retrieved 2559.

Rebecca threw her bag on the bed, breathless and sweating after her encounter in the market. She'd discarded her coat and paced up and down the length of the room, running her hands through her hair. She was still shaking.

There were no external windows to her apartment, but she turned and triple checked the door was locked. She had taken a grav-train back to the station half a block south of her apartment, and hurried from there. In truth it would have been more direct to go on foot, but something compelled her to change her routine. That prickling sensation along the back of her neck never left her.

The room was a modest affair. A queen size bed; an island unit functioned as both a cooker and a living space, depending on where items were placed. One wall was entirely bare, and served as a display space for her Waypoint connection. There was little else to speak of – she was a stranger to this city, and did not intend on acquainting herself with it further.

Her bag lay on the bed, lurking with all the pregnant menace of a land mine.

Rebecca shook herself and crossed the room. She pulled the bag open. Sitting in it was a boxy device of some sort. She pulled it out.

"What the hell…" she breathed.

It was circular in shape; black plastic, well-worn and cross-hatched with faint scratches. An ugly dent marred its otherwise smooth shape. Rebecca turned it over in her hands, and saw a button on the side. She pushed it.

A small disc popped out, barely larger than her thumb. She held it up in the light, marvelling as the light bounced off it; oily purples and greens.

Who even used discs anymore? She slipped the disc back in. It whirred inside. Abruptly, a small lens popped up out of the top of the machine; the light nearly blinding her. She turned it to face away from her. The tech was ancient, and the projector was all light but no image. What it did show was jumpy, distorted beyond recognition. She sighed, disappointed.

After all that, the focusing lens was damaged. It was a dud.

It was time for another approach.

"Hestia, activate." Rebecca said aloud.

"Good morning Ms. Pearson," the smooth voice of the apartment's wafted from all corners of the room. Bereft of intelligence, but unfailingly enthusiastic and maternal. "How can we be of assistance today?"

"Can you interface with this device?" Rebecca asked. "Project it to the wall display?"

There was a warbling blurt of negativity.

"Process invalid, command order not recognised. Would you like to file an error report?"

Rebecca sighed. Crazed A.I. or not, she would have given her arm for Kaizen right about now.

She reached for datapad, tapped the Chatter icon. Option two.

Rashid seemingly never slept. He answered after two short bleats.

"Dr. Pearson? I'm not expecting you for another two hours; is everything alright?"

"Yeah. Well, no. I –"

"Wait." Rashid cut her off. "Okay, the line's secure. Go on."

Rebecca's summary was breathless, rushed. Frustrated too.

"Ran into a man at the market. Passed me something, said it was for a mutual friend. Some kind of disc player – projector lens isn't working, and my apartment A.I. isn't worth a damn."

"We are regret you are dissatisfied with our performance," Hestia apologised in a tone that was anything but sorry, "We here at –"

"Hestia, mute." Rebecca snarled, then sighed. "Sorry, Rash, where was I?"

"You were having problems with the device. Show me."

"Right. Give me a sec."

Rebecca crossed to the counter, settling her pad against the wall. She switched the com feed over to video display and angled the pad so that it focused on the battered old disc reader. Rebecca could see the focusing lens on her pad twitch and contract as Rashid took control of the device remotely, getting a better view.

"Projection system. Got to be as old as the colony itself; even older."

"Can you fix it?"

"I'd need to take a look at it in person. Can you bring it with you?"

Rebecca was already pulling on her jacket.

"Of course, I'm leaving now."

"See you in a bit."

The com line keyed offline. She stabbed the door button with an impatient finger, looking down to make sure she had everything; her bag, the data pad, the mysterious projector.

It happened so fast, Rebecca didn't know react until it was too late. She only looked up as the men burst into the room. Big men, lots of them. A heavy hand clamped over her mouth. She screamed, though the sound was muffled by a thick cloth. One that stank of chemicals. She kicked, she thrashed; arms flailing, fingers clawing.

Strong, tattooed arms restrained her.

Then darkness.

The restraint clamps popped open, releasing him.

Damien stepped down from the stirrups of the Armour Assistant, metal cleats thumping against the steel deck. The new armour felt strange. Its contours were unfamiliar, the wrist guards and weight distribution alien. It would take some time to adjust.

"Helljumper Pattern, custom import from CST." Park was saying. "Part of an on-going research program. Perks of being with ONI - this is bleeding edge tech, man. Real cool stuff. I've programmed it to be a close to your old armour as possible. There's a few improvements you're going to have to adjust to, so listen up."

Damien was bareheaded above the neck seal. Some things remained familiar. The armour was a dark blue, chased with white stripes. Emblazoned across his chest was the old Fireteam Chimera logo: snarling teeth and grasping claws; a feral, mongrel beast. Beneath that, his service tag; 451, rendered in bold type-face.

Damien had shaved, though his hair was still a few inches longer than regulation permitted. Park ran a scanning wand over him, nodding as he ran a final systems check. Eric and Perry were front side in the cockpit, focusing on their approach to Argjend's Starport.

"VISR system, shield deflector suite; that's all standard. It's the thruster system that's been tweaked. You'll still need a re-entry pack to break a deadfall from orbit, but you'll be faster, more agile than you were before: you're looking at a combat efficiency boost of about thirty percent. Try not to run before you can walk."

Park handed Damien the helmet. It was modelled on the classic ODST design, with minor aesthetic tweaks here and there; primarily around the helmet fins. Like his old helmet, the visor was an opal blue. Damien turned it over in his hands, admiring the spotless finish. He thought of how his old armour had ended – scorched black, entirely peeled of paint and battered beyond recognition.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Park."

"The improvements are being rolled out across the entire service line, but the local teams haven't been supplied yet. If things kick off groundside, you'll have an edge over the competition."

"So I'll be faster, but they'll have numbers. Good to know."

"Exactly. Now hold still, we're almost done."

Damien settled the helmet over his head. There was a snap-hiss as the suit pressurised. The HUD blinked to life, the shield system rumbling to life with an eletro-static crackle. Park ran the wand over the side of Damien's helmet.

"Shield system, online. Radar suite, configured and registering IFF signatures. VISR operational. Right, you're Status Green, Spartan. Any questions?"

Damien flexed his gauntleted hands, forming fists. The memetic fibres within the under-suit hardened in response, amplifying his already shocking strength. The strength of a god.

"Yeah. Just one."

Damien turned and looked down at Park; an impassive machine, built for war.

"When do I start?"