"Good morning Argjend.

Lot of activity in the casts this morning, viewers. Lotta talk online. You've all heard the stories. Of unmarked black dropships in the sky. Secret government projects, shadow wars between proxy agencies. Unsanctioned raids of the Refugee Zone. You all know who they are, the New Cadiz Truther type; same guys who claim Orbital Two's collapse was a controlled detonation, that it's all a false-flag operation funded by the government.

Tell you what I believe? It's baloney, every damn bit of it. The firefight in the 'Zone? A border skirmish - gangs muscling in on each other's territory. The dropships? Sensor drones, doing a sweep over some junkie's backyard. I mean, c'mon. This is 2558, people. Everything has a rational explanation.

Everything always does."

Media Cast from Airtime Argjend with Danny DeWitt, aired 2558

"Sir. It's Pershing. There's been a development with the Pearson girl."

"Report."

"She slipped the net. Police channels are reporting shots fired within the 'Zone. They've requested permission to enter the 'Zone. We've muzzled the request, but there's been no contact from our sources within the district. We suspect external intervention."

"Unacceptable. I want this situation contained, immediately. Do whatever is necessary."

"Understood Sir; I'll lead a team myself."

Watanabe took point as she led them through the warren. Any bystanders who tried to block her backed away as soon as they saw the machine pistol in her hand and the angry glint in her eye. Outside, crowds shrieked and gang members hollered instructions to one another.

They were being hunted.

One enterprising man saw them, tried to rush them with a crow bar. Watanabe didn't risk revealing their location by shooting him. She broke the man's arm in two places, finally cold-clocking him with a savage swipe of the machine pistol.

Rebecca carried no gun. She wouldn't have known what to do with one even if they gave her one. Instead she clung white-knuckled to the package the Spider had given her at the market. She had no choice but to trust these strangers. Her rescuers had given her a hat appropriated from one of the dead men. It was a canvass hat, the type mechanics would have worn out in New Cadiz, complete with a set of dust goggles. They gave her a jacket too. One that wasn't too blood-stained, so long as you didn't look too closely.

One of the few things going for them was that while the gangs' were on full alert, they had little idea of who they were looking for. That, and Rachel's newfound allies knew what they were doing. Twice Watanabe held up her fist. Fenton immediately grabbed Rebecca, a hand clamping over her mouth as they ducked into the shadows of a doorway or side room. For rescuers, they weren't afraid to be rough.

A half dozen gangers thundered past, their blood up. Entirely oblivious to the three people hidden inches from them. Rebecca quickly decided that she didn't mind them being rough, if it meant getting out of here alive.

They reached the edge of the building. Loud thumping music, tribal and hungry, reverberated the thin walls, rattling the brittle wooden door. Watanabe dropped her shoulder and smashed it open; her machine pistol up, panning left to right. The sound of the street hit them like a slap in the face; full of whoops and shouts, as dozens of people rushed about. Sound distorted here, at the base of the towers. Those coming to investigate weren't quite sure where to look.

After a moment Watanabe gave a nod.

"Okay, move."

They darted across the narrow street, ducking into the shadows of a dimly lit alley. It was not a planned street, not a deliberate construction. Very little in the 'Zone was. The building to the left was a three storey prefab; the rivets and steelwork the only elements that weren't choked with incomprehensible paint spirals and rotting mouldering posters. To the right rose a far taller building, seemingly built entirely out of salvaged metal sheeting. This low to ground level in the 'Zone, the place was a claustrophobic swamp. Harsh neon lights burned through thick smoke from a half dozen lit oil drums. Ventilation was non-existent here. Rebecca's eyes stung.

Rebecca must have been out for a few hours. It was fast approaching nightfall now. The sun was low in the sky; which had turned to a rosy-amber dusk. Automated lights sprang to life, pre-empting the darkness ahead. Long shadows sinister fingers reached across the street, deepening as the lights sprang to life in uncoordinated clusters.

In the growing darkness the trio skulked, surrounded on all sides by the very worst of Argjend's criminality.

"Three minutes out."

The two drop-ships were matt-black, flying in a staggered line, coming in on an insertion vector. Their bellies nearly grazed the rooftops below them. No insignia, no identifying marks of any kind. Compared to the ordered civility of the city below them, the zone ahead was a riot of neon and chaos. Large smoke plumes began to drift up. The 'Zone's own warning system, alerting its members that there was trouble afoot.

The 'Zone itself remained oblivious to just how true that was.

On board, crammed into troop hatches and bedecked in the very latest military hardware, Pershing's kill team underwent final equipment checks. Ammo feed lines were connected to loading ports; visors were clamped into place and polarised. Every man was certified special forces; selected elements of the UNSC Army Rangers, Navy Marines, ODST and another half dozen exclusive units besides.

Every man was a practiced killer, chosen for their talent at ending the lives of others. Every man was chosen for their abject loyalty to Elias Becker.

Each fire-team member wore identical armour; matte-black Air Assault armour, complete with onyx visors. The make-up of each team was identical: one assaulter prepped for storm-clearance with a pump-action shotgun and demolition equipment, eight riflemen with a MA5 assault rifles, and a single heavy assault trooper for providing a base of fire. The heavy assault troopers were physical tanks; their body suits up-armoured with lift-assist gear to wield the M99A Rotary Assault Cannons they totted. The cannons were experimental, loaded with depleted uranium rounds for maximum penetration. Such was their bulk that their body suits came equipped with heavy respirator units; long tubes that stretched out from under their visors and snaked over their shoulders, feeding into the power unit at the small of their back. Their rasping breath filled the hold ominously. Short of physical augmentation, they were the most hardened shock troops you could ask for.

Pershing did not believe there was such a thing as overkill. He believed in absolute certainty.

Two such fireteams would hit the Refugee Zone, with the explicit intention of finding and neutralising one Rebecca Pearson. An additional compliment of troopers would remain on the Pelicans, providing reconnaissance from on high.

Pershing considered a map. He himself wore an armoured body suit, but had settled on a peaked field cap with inbuilt com-bead.

"There's a clearing just ahead. Looks like a communal meeting area." Pershing tapped the map twice, marking a waypoint, "Set her down there. Tell Bravo to set down a half klick within our location. Rally point is per my marker."

The Pelican tilted to the side as the pilot acknowledged, adjusting their flight path to make the final approach.

Pershing rolled his neck in a broad circle, tendons popping. He usually left the more direct field work to another member of his unit, McBride, who revelled in such carnage. Logistics and planning, deft execution, without emotion or sentiment – that was where he excelled. There was too much at risk here.

Besides, sometimes things demanded a personal touch.

Suddenly, the corrugated rooftops around them began to shake and shudder. Fairy lights strung between buildings tinkled and chimed like halyards in a sea breeze. Aircraft droned overhead. Drop-ships, coming in at dangerously low altitude.

"Trouble." Watanabe hissed.

Fenton nodded. They had to keep moving. He keyed his mic.

"Murph, where are you?"

"Warehouse three blocks north east. Close to the 'Zone perimeter. I have transport, but the streets aren't safe. We'll have to lay low and pick our moment."

"Copy. We're enroute."

The Pelican swung low to the ground, engine wash kicking up all manner of dust and scraps of discarded paper; plastic bags and slivers of paper foil. Thick weeds and untended fronds of grass wafted and swayed in the artificial breeze. Chain link fences shook with a rattling clink. Alpha Team leapt down from the side hatch of Lander 1 within the dust haze, weapons raised. The heavy assault trooper took point, his monstrous cannot leading the way ahead of him.

Pershing and his men fanned out, affecting a textbook sweep and clear pattern. He turned back to the Lander, and gave two waves of his hand. The ship lifted and moved off, moving to a holding pattern high above. Sensor data and gun-cam footage from the landers would be invaluable during their search.

The clearing was entirely empty, at first. With the gangs roaming the neighbourhood in an agitated state, the residents of the 'Zone knew better than to stick their heads out. The trouble was never worth it. They hid from sight, curtains fluttering as some of the braver and foolish risked the occasional peak from windows high above.

It didn't take long for the shooting to start. A lone gunman at first, probably just a juvenile street soldier, eager to make a name for himself. The first shots to come in were wildly inaccurate; pops and cracks from ill-disciplined amateurs. All passion, no focus; but a threat was a threat. The fireteam crouched low in response, calling positions - weapons primed but tightly disciplined. They would wait for a clear and visible target. Eventually two or three more gunshots added their contribution to the mix. More shooters. The rounds snapped closer, kicking up dirt around them. Heavier calibre, likely a hunting rifle or some cobbled together scattergun. Unlikely to damage a UNSC battle suit without concerted accuracy.

The heavy assault trooper on point remained standing, VISR scanning the street for heat signatures. One round spanked off his shoulder plate, leaving the faintest scratch. He turned to face the direction the shot had come from.

There they were. He could pick them out, clear as day, hiding in the shadows. Three heat signatures, crouching low at the far side of the clearing by the burnt out ruin of an old APD police cruiser. More men (and they were invariably men) gathered at the far edges of the clearing, picking out shots from windows and shadowy doorways. Others stood well back, observing, cat-calling. Not all of them were armed. Not that they needed to be. Glass bottles and rocks came down, tinkling and smashing against the grass.

The trooper calmly opened his com line, unfazed by the missiles sailing down around him.

"Reporting hostile contact." The trooper reported, "Multiple targets. Requesting permission to pacify."

"Granted." Pershing replied.

The assault trooper's response to the scattered incoming fire was comprehensive.

There was a shrill whine as the rotary cannon cycled up, up-spinning to fever pitch. Recoil containment systems mag bolted to the arms of his suit locked tight, as he planted his legs carefully.

Then he triggered the secondary trigger next to it, engaging the ammo feed.

The cannon screamed online; streamers of fire licking from the barrel like a murderous afterburner. The tracers split the air like a laser beam, ripping through steel and bursting concrete walls. The far side of the clearing lit up in a ribbon of explosions, like a miniature napalm strike. Entire shanties sagged under the deluge of fire.

The 'Zoners didn't die. They evaporated. Men fell apart; their bones burst, bodies sawn in half at the waist. Limbs vanished, as some men were lifted off their feet, torn apart and churned into meat-spray. Left to right and back again, as the cannon arced its murderous path back and forth. The skeletal remains of the police cruiser disintegrated, spalling into smouldering wafers of shredded metal that dazzled in the flames.

The weight of incoming fire abruptly ceased.

The trooper snapped his finger off the trigger. The barrels spun down, glaring red hot. Steam vents purred and hissed out a waft of sighing smoke. He kept one eye on the temperature gauge on his HUD, the other on the devastation ahead.

The entire street burned, littered with dead. The kill team surveyed the carnage, entirely unswayed.

"Clear." The trooper announced calmly.

"Move out." Pershing barked, urging his men onward with a chop of his hand.

Kill Team Alpha advanced, heading deeper into the 'Zone. Six hundred metres to the east, Kill Team Bravo made similar headway.

Caught between them was their target: an old habitation shelter, the last known position of Rebecca Pearson.

The atmosphere in the 'Zone changed. There were no more drums, no more fog horns or cat calls.

There was just gunfire, frenzied panic. Animal fear and screaming. Then that terrible burring roar, over and over. Those sounding the gang's make-shift intruder alarm fled from it, streaming past the gunmen who moved to intercept this new threat invading their territory. Many snatched up weapons of their own, desperate to defend their homes. The search for Rebecca and her companions was quite forgotten in the ensuing chaos.

Not that it mattered to Rebecca and the others. They still had to avoid the major patrols rushing toward the carnage. There was no coordination to the gang's movements. The new threat seemed to be coming from all directions. At a glance Fenton and Watanabe would pass for the 'Zoners, but even with the makeshift disguise they had pulled together for Rebecca, they would not take the risk.

It came in fits and starts. There would be the staccato pop and echoing rattle of small arms fire, then an awe-inspiring rumble in response. The sound drowned out anything else. The ordinary citizens of the 'Zone were hardened survivors, who had fled the horrors of New Cadiz. They instinctively left their homes as soon as they heard it, moving in the opposite direction of the fighting. They knew the destructive power of ballistic weaponry in the 26th century, had seen it chew through brick and building and bone. This was the horrific reality of modern warfare, where hiding alone would not save you.

Pershing's team advanced, a well-oiled machine. The assault trooper drove the hordes of fleeing gunfighters, wiping a dozen at a time with a single spurt of shrieking fire.

The rest of the squad stacked on the south-east corner of the target building. The breaching specialist didn't bother with a breaching charge. He simply blew the cumbersome lock apart with a single blast of his shotgun. A savage mule kick took the door off its hinges. He entered the dimly lit building, breath loud in his ears within the confines of his helmet. The sensor suite was alive with movement. There were dozens of people in the building still; squatters and no hopers.

Movement. A woman scampered across the corridor. The shotgun thundered reflexively. The blast took her in the back, spinning her around and slamming her off the door jamb. She flopped gracelessly on her side, legs still kicking from where the nerves didn't have the sense to know the body they served was already broken. He turned the body over with a toe of his boot. Shocked eyes stared up at him, unblinking; a look of surprise frozen on her face. The trooper compared the blonde woman's face to the one in the corner of his HUD.

"Negative I.D." he reported, stepping over her. "Moving on to the marker."

Further up the corridor, two more commandos dove into the next room. The dark doorway lit up with pulsing flashes of gunfire. The two commandos emerged moments later, weapons smoking. The air was thick with cordite. One shook his head at Pershing.

"Last room secure. Building's clear, Sir."

"Extend the target area. We're not leaving until we have a confirmed kill."

The street outside was fast becoming a war zone. One half of the team was busy maintaining an external perimeter. They held down the surrounding streets, disciplined rifle fire cutting down anyone brazen enough to attempt to cross the street. The most hardened elements of the Argjend Assembly were getting into the fight now. Imported, makeshift or stolen, it didn't matter - their automatic weapons more capable of putting a dent in the kill team's armour. Pershing's team didn't intend on giving them the opportunity.

They had a job to do, and would stop at nothing to accomplish it.

Watanabe swore and fell back on her ass. Hard rounds stitched the corner she'd been peaking around. They had gotten turned around during their flight toward the evac point. Ended up looping back toward the very location they had fled from. The men shooting at her had been trained marksmen, firing from an elevated position. Low light equipment too, judging by the accuracy. She knew the sound of the weapons they carried, had often carried them herself. She was used to plasma fire, to flashing green bolts and sizzling azure fire. She'd never been on the receiving end of a kill team before.

"Back, back! The other way!" she snarled as she scrabbled to her feet.

Fenton led the way now. He turned a corner, almost walked straight into a trio of nervous youths fingering a selection of handguns uncertainly. Kids really, none of whom had any business being in a warzone like this. Fenton drew on them, catching them by surprise.

"Walk away." He ordered. "Put the guns down, and walk away."

The youths held up their hands, quite forgetting the weapons they carried. They still had their hands up when a volley of shots stitched across them. They jinked a morbid dance before collapsing to the dirt.

Rounding the corner was a mob of gang fighters. Their tattoos set them apart from those from the Argjend Assembly; less Cyrillic, more oriental. Mohawks and elaborately coloured jackets set them apart from the 42 Gang. A rival gang, looking to capitalise on this latest intrusion on the Assembly's territory. They'd shot the young gangers because they were the first target they came across.

Which left Fenton, Rebecca and Watanabe square in their gunsights.

A series of low thumping cracks lit up the street. The first of the new gang members toppled, a significant section of his torso missing. More shots, more bodies fell. The thugs threw themselves down, returning fire, taken by surprise. This wasn't erratic gangland shooting. This was disciplined marksmanship.

On the far side of the street was a single man, unrecognisable for the dust-cover and low light goggles. He held an M392 DMR and evidently knew how to use it. He set down a base of fire, relentless. Fully half the incoming gang were dead or dying in the middle of the street. Fenton recognised this newcomer immediately. He dropped to one knee, adopting a classic sharpshooter's firing position. The harsher spit of his service pistol added to the chorus of cover fire. Muzzle flashes lit up the street.

That was the only signal Watanabe needed.

"Come on!" Watanabe snarled, shoving Rebecca across the street, one hand on the back of the traumatised doctor's head, keeping it low. She sprayed discouraging bursts of her machine pistol as they made the dash. The two women flung themselves to the ground, taking shelter behind Rebecca's latest saviour.

Fenton went to join him. A stray round clipped him in the meat of his left ankle. He yelped and tripped in the middle of the street, reduced to dragging himself forward. He still clutched his pistol, the determination in his eyes mixed with a frenzied pain.

"Watanabe, cover fire." The newcomer ordered, as he calmly handed his rifle to her. He sounded a bit like Damien, though older. Watanabe duly complied, taking his position. She operated the rifle as though she were born holding it. The stoic professionalism of it all shocked Rebecca.

She could only watch as the stranger bolted over to Fenton, hauled him over one shoulder, and hurried back. Every step of the way bullets snapped into the dirt around them, missing by inches in some cases. Had the lighting been better, had their attackers been more disciplined, there was little doubt both men would be dead.

The two men collapsed into the alleyway, breathless but otherwise unscathed.

"Help me with him." The man huffed, setting Fenton's back up against the alleyway.

"Thanks Murph." Fenton managed through gritted teeth. His leg was a ragged mess. The newcomer had unpacked a portable BioFoam canister from his belt.

"Didn't drag you halfway from Crassus just to leave you here, Mike." Murphy replied, spraying the wound, "Situation's deteriorating pretty fast. Thought it best to come get you."

"It's appreciated."

The man pushed his goggles up on his forehead, pulled the dustcover down from his face. He was in his mid-thirties, his dark hair flecked with grey. Even in the dim half-light, his eyes were wild with adrenaline.

"I have a hold-up point not far from here, but Becker's men have air cover over the entire district. We won't be going anywhere, not 'til things die down."

"How far?" Rebecca asked.

"Well that depends." Murphy grinned, rubbing his chin, "How fast can you hop, Fenton?"

They half ran, half hobbled the two blocks to their temporary sanctuary. It was an old warehouse, long since converted into an open shelter. Whichever residents that were squatting in the lower section had long since fled when the shooting started. A series of tarps covered most of whatever was stored here, forgotten under the dust covers.

Murphy had made his home on the mezzanine level, on a platform overlooking the warehouse floor. He had the run of the place to himself. Based on what little Rebecca had seen of the man so far, she imagined he could be quite persuasive. It was clear he had been living here for some months. There were stacks of medical food supplies. A recently opened weapon crate and discarded weapon cleaning kit sat on his bed, which was little more than a mattress atop some wooden pallets. There was a table beside the bed, littered will all manner of military paraphernalia.

They lay Fenton on the mattress, the still-hardening BioFoam and slick bloodstains dyeing the sheets a dark crimson. Rebecca went to apply what little physical medical knowledge she had, only to find Watanabe had assumed the role of combat medic. The woman's versatility amazed her.

Fenton was pale but conscious. Sweat shone on his skin. He too was riding the combat high. Murphy had taken a lookout position at the window. Dusk had truly settled now. Gunfire still crackled in the air. Streetlights for blocks around them had failed, either the power failing or being destroyed in the ensuing fighting. The two black dropships soared overhead, barely discernible against the darkening sky. Their engines beating down at the plumes of smoke rising up from a district at war with itself. Fires were spreading, unaddressed by the city's emergency services. Nobody went into the 'Zone, not without formal sanction.

The 'Zone was tearing itself apart. The fuse had been lit, and now every lingering enmity in the sector was flaring to life. Upwards of five separate gang factions were involved. Old scores resolved themselves in a bloody reckoning. Hundreds of innocent bystanders were already dead. Hundreds more would be wounded in the night ahead. As if on cue, there came another keening chatter of a rotary cannon. Another plume of fire rose up. Closer this time.

"We need to get her out of here." Fenton was saying. "That's a kill-team. They'll purge this entire area until they have a confirmed I.D."

"We can't move you, not with this injury." Watanabe shook her head.

"We can't fight them either." Murphy replied, his eyes still on the flames licking across the ruined sector. "We've served with teams like that in the past. Hell, I used to lead 'em back in the war. They won't have shown up here unless they had the means to level the entire district."

"So what can we do?" Rebecca asked.

Murphy pursed his lips. He crossed over to the table, setting the rifle down. He took an inventory. Three pistols and a single machine pistol lay on the table next to the rifle. Beside that, a half dozen grenades of varying shapes and sizes, and a smattering of magazines. Beside them, a single, solitary combat knife.

He rested his knuckles on the table, brow knitted in thought. Compared to the raging carnage outside, to the murderous whine of the cannons and the accompanying screams of the dying, it made for a particularly disheartening arsenal.

Eventually he turned back and faced the others.

"Here's how I see it. I have one rifle, with two mags plus change. There's a shotgun in one of the stores downstairs. Maybe a mag each for each of the handguns. Fenton, you're walking wounded, and while 'Tan here might the hardest bastard to ever step forth from a UNSC drop pod, the team that's after us is probably carrying the most sophisticated weapons technology a modern military force can employ."

"We've been in worse situations." Watanabe sniffed.

"Yeah, but not much worse." Fenton grimaced.

"Then we pull the only card left in our deck." Murphy said, "The ace in the hole."

Murphy reached under the bed. He hauled out a non-descript briefcase, set it on the bed next to Fenton. With a pop of the clasps, the briefcase opened.

It was a transmitter of some kind. A signal beacon, intended for wide-band, emergency broadcast.

"Telling them where we are? That's your plan?" Watanabe stared.

"You activate that, they're going to have a fix on our position." Fenton agreed.

"I know."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Rebecca asked. She felt like she should say something.

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

"A good idea? I really haven't a notion, truth be told. I wish I could tell you there was a plan. That I was relying on anything other than my own instinct."

He crossed back over to the window, eyes on the horizon.

"So I won't lie to you: there is no plan. We have no options, and the bogeyman man is at our doorstep. So we'll hold up here, dig in. Give these bastards a fight they'll remember. But mostly, I'm just counting on one thing."

Murphy triggered the activation switch on the com relay. It sprang into life, began emitting a regular bleating ping.

A steady green light lit the display: signal activated.

"That whoever or whatever that beacon brings, it's bigger and nastier than anything this city's ever seen."

Pershing was agitated. Six blocks they'd swept and still nothing. The worst of the 'Zone had been thrown at them, and the kill teams had fought on unfazed. His preparations had been more than adequate. Throngs of gang thugs and slum filth weren't any real contest for a well-drilled team of dedicated specialists. Like beaten dogs they had fled, unable to compete with raw lethality and the night vision capability of the strike team. They would return in the morning, but by then Pershing and his men would be long gone.

Still, Pershing was concerned. The Pearson girl continued to elude them.

Deliverance came unexpectedly, from a com-signal relayed from one of the circling Pelicans.

"Sir, we've got an emergency distress broadcast. Distress signal, but the tech's military grade. Heat signatures show four targets inside. I think we've found them."

"Position?"

"Coordinates marked on your map now, Sir."

Pershing activated the Tac-Pad on his wrist. The observer's report had been accurate. Not far, not far at all. As luck had had it, the team had been headed in the right direction all along.

"All units, converge on the marked location. We have them."

Damien had asked Park when he could get started. The answer came sooner than expected.

They had been in the air for three hours. Damien had run through some basic motion tests with the armour, pacing the deck, getting a feel for its weight. Not enough room in the hold to test the improved thruster system, but there would be plenty of time for that later. There was little sound on board but the muted thrum of the engines. It had been a smooth flight.

Damien was unused to wearing a helmet after so many months out in the cold, in a quite literal sense. His own com chime took him by surprise.

"Better get up here, 451." Eric's voice growled in his ear.

Damien thumped his way to the front of the Condor, stepping into the cockpit section. With two fully armoured Spartans up front, it made for a tight squeeze. Perry was calmly surveying the instrumentation as the drop-ship took its place at a rear of long line of ships queuing to approach Granica Station. The orbital station was primarily a customs hub in low orbit over Argjend, well stocked with a full complement of tariff agents, boarding personnel and a standing force of accountants, legal advisors and anyone else tangentially related to the business of shipping.

This high up in the atmosphere, the colour of the atmosphere was a milky purple. The curvature of Granica V stretched ahead of them, banded by a broad expanse of pearlescent white cloud. Connecting the planet and the station like a ribbed umbilical cord was Orbital One, the last remaining orbital tether left to the planet. The sight of it filled Damien with guilt.

They were all manner of ships ahead of them, running lights blinking in the early night sky. Boxy bulk haulers, freight carts and even a few repurposed Condor ships like the very one they were flying. No too looked alike, dressed as they were in the livery of the myriad trade companies and co-ops acting out this far on the galactic rim.

"Hell of a wait ahead of us." Perry nodded, "I have our transponder identifying us as the Meridian, a re-fitted pack hauler bringing in a new supply of fish from Tana. While this makes us less likely to get swept by customs, it does mean we take a backseat relative to the more connected transports coming through. Medical, humanitarian and military get top of the pecking order, and we're something of a luxury item on that list."

"We can't afford to wait." Eric glowered at the ships ahead of them, "We're out of time."

Eric turned and looked at Damien.

"Signal just came in. Distress call from the ground team. It's open channel, wide-band. I know our men groundside. They wouldn't use it unless they absolutely had to."

"How much time do we have before they get intercepted?"

Eric didn't break Damien's stare.

"Not enough. Get down there, and do it quickly. I'll have further instructions once Dr. Pearson is secure."

"Sir." Damien tapped the brim of his helmet in salute.

The Spartan strode the rear of the Condor. He already knew what he needed.

Eric was still briefing him over the com.

"You're within strike range of the target AO. This is the only chance you'll get to supply, so take as much as you can. Beyond that, weapons and equipment are OSP. We'll be running remote support, but make no mistake: once you kiss dirt, you'll be on your own."

"Understood."

Damien pulled a set of webbing over his armour, giving it a shake test. The various grenades, flashbangs and breaching charges didn't so much as rattle. He nodded once, satisfied. He knelt down and clipped a knife sheath around his ankle.

Next, weapon selection. He plucked an MA5 from the rack, mag-sealing it to the small of his back. He then picked up a BR85, snapping the charge handle back, inspecting the chamber. That he bolted onto his torso. He'd need both hands free for a hard drop.

The re-entry pack was next. It was a large boxy unit, ending in three fluted exhaust valves. It clamped itself onto locking points on his armour with a resounding chatter of metallic teeth. He shrugged his shoulders once. He still had mobility. Good.

Park was watching him.

"Uh, am I missing something, or is that a re-entry pack?"

Damien swept past him, moving toward the rear of the ship.

"Situation's changed. Eric wants me ground side. Seal the rear hatch."

"An atmo drop? You're crazy! We're almost in the stratosphere!"

Damien turned and faced him, armed to the teeth and bristling. One of his friends was in trouble. This really wasn't the time.

"It's been done before, Park. Higher altitudes, older systems. You wanted field test data?" Damien clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking the portly tech off his feet, "This is your opportunity."

Park shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He was an engineer, a service technician. Dropping people out of planes was so far beyond his field of expertise, he didn't even know where to begin.

"Jesus. Okay, okay; hang on."

Despite his inexperience, Park made preparations quickly. He had studied for it, after all.

First he pulled on an insulated jacket and gloves. Then he made his way around the hold, securing cages on each of the weapon racks, locking everything down magnetically just to be sure. He then clipped himself on to a harness affixed to a holding tether on the ceiling of the hold. Last came the helmet, a sealed environment mask typically worn by UNSC service crew. For a moment he fiddled with the air mix, making sure everything was suitably sealed. He resembled a giant insect by the time he shuffled his way to the emergency release hatch, the security harness following him like a canvas umbilical.

Damien stood by the rear hatch, hands by his sides, entirely unrestrained; waiting.

Park's voice sounded tinny as it fed through his helmet speaker.

"We'll be over the optimum jump zone in about five minutes. You're aiming for the western part of the city. Target area's called the Zone, and by all accounts it's bandit country, so good luck."

Damien raised his left wrist. A holographic map sprang to life. A nice improvement over the previous system. A red target icon showed him the beacon's origin point. Gave him something to shoot for.

"Plenty of roof gardens and canopies among the high rises – try to avoid being conspicuous."

Damien shrugged his shoulders, his dark blue armour pauldrons emphasising both the gesture and his massive size.

"Be inconspicuous. Got it."

Park punched the release button with the heel of his hand. There was a strange tightening pressure as the air was sucked from the room. Then the environment seals un-seamed. With a hydraulic yawn, the rear hatch began to open down. Fierce winds pulled at them, tugging at the folds of Park's flight suit. The temperature in the hold plunged.

"Keep your suit systems dark until you're within a half klick of the city. You get picked up before that? The mission's over before it even started."

Perry chimed in on hearing that.

"Just so you know. The city's got a pretty impressive anti-air system; prerequisite for any colony worth its salt nowadays. You don't want it targeting you, trust me."

Damien nodded sagely, stepping forward to the very edge of the ramp. The running lights on his armour winked off, draping him in the shadows of the hold. Behind him, filling up the entire horizon was the entire city of Argjend, massive in size. A billion street lights winked up at them. Damien turned to face Park, his back to it all. He would see it up close soon enough.

Park formed an O shape with his thumb and index finger. They were in position. Damien flashed a thumbs up, then thumped his fist against his breastplate once, for luck.

Then, arms spread wide, he stepped backward into oblivion.