"It serves as continuing point of curiosity to our profiling teams that the attitude and discipline of a given fireteam can be directly attributed to the nature and circumstances of their instructing environment."
"How so?"
"Candidates serving aboard Infinity are known for demonstrating a jocular, almost brash attitude. A certain… flippancy. We attribute this attitude to be an immediate result of the candidates being volunteers, drawn from a more diverse recruitment pool. That, and the guiding influence of Commander Palmer."
"You don't approve of her methods?"
"I believe Spartans have always been known for their stoic duty, Ma'am. Beyond that it's not my place to comment."
"It's been noted before, but the Infinity War Games system seems to be getting results. We want a Spartan the public can relate to. The Infinity Program achieves that. What of Laconia?"
"Quieter, more introspective. Helmet recordings of inter-squad coms reveals a degree of… private banter, one could call it, but wider social interaction between non-augmented personnel and civilian contractors is more in keeping with preceding generations. A perceived awkwardness beyond an unwavering professional dedication to the task at hand. Again, we believe the appointed instructor has instilled this attitude, however unintentionally."
"So, a group of Spartans trained by a III will respond like a III? Should we be concerned?"
"Potentially. The III's were berserkers, Admiral. Mass-produced, intentionally expendable. Aggression inhibitors were reduced in some instances to maximise combat lethality. The IV's by contrast received more sophisticated augmentation, but in the wrong circumstances they might start picking up on a few... bad habits."
"Such as?"
"A blithe disregard for odds."
- recording of a private conversation, source unknown
Chidinma stood tall in the spotlights, eyeing the monstrous assault walker bearing down on her. Her eyes flitted from left to right, processing a thousand details at once. The chamber was a vast cavern; propped up by large onyx pillars that rose up into the gloom above. The only lighting within the chamber came from the tracking beams mounted to various points on the jet-black Mantis. She took a mental inventory.
An M6C pistol, mag-locked to the small of her back. It was the only piece of equipment to have survived the crash. Single magazine; twelve rounds, all told.
It would have to do.
She bolted to the side, moving with preternatural speed; throwing herself behind one of the pillars; thrusters flitting as she tumble-rolled behind the pillar. The Mantis opened fire.
An understatement. The ground shook, as gunpods licked out thick sheets of flame as they blazed to life. the sound a deafening murder-squeal in the cavernous hall. Masonry split; tumbling like an avalanche as a bevy of rockets slammed out. Smoke and fire clouded the air.
Chidinma was already moving. The next pillar erupted, and the next.
Combat training repeated in her mind. Combat specs for the Mantis Assault Walker. Established counters, known strategies.
Speed and agility, Chidi panted, heart racing; speed and agility.
She darted for the next pillar closest to the Mantis; jinking and weaving as she moved. Twice she was nearly pasted by the incoming fire. Shells the length of her forearm buzzed by, setting her VISR's proximity alert bleating in concern. A neat hand-spring carried her clear of the next volley, closer toward the safety of the next pillar. Her shield systems thrilled as they struggled to process the debris tumbling down around her.
With a stab of his thumb McBride triggered a single missile. It sneezed out and erupted in a column of smoke and fire. The shockwave threw Chidi the rest of the way. She bounced and clattered across the tiled floor, armour denting from the impact.
There was a loud clack. The Mantis' gunpods hissed as they automatically vented excess heat.
All was smoke and sifting dust. A low chuckle sounded out, rendered tinny from the PA. Chidinma groaned and rolled onto her back.
"Can't run forever Spartan." McBride taunted over the PA.
Who said anything about running? Chidinma growled inwardly, adjusting the grip on her pistol as she rolled over into a poised crouch.
She flashed out into the open, sprinting directly for the walker's feet. The gunpods hummed as they targeted her; still cooking off from the frenzied opening salvo. The Spartan flung herself forward into a diving slide, propelled by a burst of jets. Metal screeched on masonry as she slid under the beast's legs. The pistol flashed again and again; sparking off the metal, ricocheting wildly.
A cruel laugh crackled out over the intercom, as the Mantis stomped backward, struggling to track her.
"That's reinforced armour plating, Spartan. You've barely scratched the paintwork. I would have thought they trained you better than that."
McBride was right. There was no hope of putting the armoured beast down, not with small arms in such a limited capacity. The armour was simply too thick.
But she could dent the plating. Make a handhold.
Chidinma was already snaking her way up the Mantis' leg, fingers digging into the small dents she had left in the walker's under-chassis. An exhaust valve here, a fold of armour plating there. Hand over hand she snaked her way up and over the Mantis' chipped hull. The pistol clattered to the floor, discarded; top-slide locked and barrel smoking.
McBride snarled and threw the Mantis into a whirling spin, trying to shake her off. Crunching into pillar after pillar like a frenzied beast. Dust sifted from the high atrium roof above, powdering the lobby in a fine haze. Such was the force of the shaking that Chidinma was forced to lock her armour, bolting onto the side of the walker like some determined, armour-plated limpet. The thrashing threatened to dislodge her at any moment.
On the squad com, her status indicator flared an angry red.
Situation critical.
The sun burned bright over the city of Argjend. The city sweated in a feverish fit; as silver and bright as its name suggested.
The streets were still; entire junctions and broad boulevards deserted. Traffic filters flared a uniform red, enforcing the lockdown. Holographic billboards scolded the populace. Hyperscrapers stood silent as gravestones, entombed within layers of insulated permacrete. And yet the skies were empty; free from flitting Covenant strike fighters, devoid of that all too familiar spit of plasma fire. Nevertheless, a sense of doom cloyed the air; and as the media feverishly speculated as to what exactly had incited the lockdown, the citizens of Argjend knew one thing.
This was not a drill.
Only the Western District showed signs of animation. The slums had reached crisis point. APD elements had deployed tear gas and crowd suppression cannons; the hardening foam blasting the heaving crowds off their feet. The tenements baked under a curling haze of acrid smoke. Bottles and stones fell like hail on upturned shields.
Far removed from the chaos, Central resembled a fortress; garrisoned on every corner by teams of idle troopers. They could hear the rioting from afar, a constant hum of sound in the air, like the sigh-scrape of a distant tide. Ambivalent, they chewed Chum® and panned LAAG's across lifeless boulevards; even as police units howled for support over the com-line. The Marines didn't budge. Orders from General Stape had been quite clear. Martial law was in effect: any unauthorised personnel found on the streets was to be shot on sight. For now, the APD would have to face the tide alone.
Victory Plaza was more dispersal field than a civic centre. The Pelicans had departed, leaving in their wake a sea of troopers; Marines and Army Rangers. They formed a mish-mash of clashing colours; as Urban MARPAT rubbed shoulders with desert Army Combat Uniforms. Command was being silent; the only orders being that there were no orders, beyond holding their position. Soldiers and marines exchanged bored catcalls and barbs with practiced boredom.
At least they did, until the purple flitting shape had shrieked through the sky; slamming into Traxus Tower with a sonic clap.
The com channel erupted. Orders were hot-piped to the mono-lenses of the ground commanders. Response orders, unit deployments. Now Merrill and his Rangers found themselves on the move, hauling ass in the opposite direction, equipment rattling as boots slapped the pavement.
Nobody knew what was going on, but one thing was certain.
General Stape was rallying all forces to his location.
Grand Central Station was their objective. Like the parliament, the structure's design had come after the ghastly Traxus Tower; its pristine granite and elaborate stonework a testament to the wealth of the then-fledgling capital. The building had been constructed in a period that was referred to, in architectural terms, as The Second Wave; when the colony's barebones prefabs and auto-factories had decamped; ceding to more lasting edifices wrought from stonework sourced from quarries beyond the southern steppe.
Advertisement displays, and billboards affixed to the side of the station had been taken over by the UNSC; depicting still-frame images of the rogue Spartans loose in the city; adorned with signs encouraging any potential witnesses to report their sighting immediately. Much of the images were heavily pixelated; comprising snatch-stolen captures from helmet cam footage or traffic drones. Merrill recognised them at once, and felt his mouth go dry.
Fireteam Chimera were active in the city.
And they were hostile.
It was right about the point when the train started speaking to him that Damien conceded he might finally have lost it.
"—era One can you hear me?"
He didn't hear it at first. The voice had not come in over his helmet speaker. It was quiet and tinny, emanating from one of the few battered speakers that survived the Spartan brawl. Damien settled himself down on one of the benches of the train. Everything ached. His armour was a battered mess; dented in a dozen places, scuffed and scorched from stray rounds and near misses. Status indicators showed several of his thrusters had been damaged during the day's frantic events. Even Mjolnir had its operational limits, and the duel with Chase had all but exceeded them.
"Damien!"
Damien looked over to the front of the train. A holo-plinth was alive; flitting and sparking as a tiny figure jumped up and down and waved its arms like an adrift sailor. The Spartan moved quickly, his momentary fatigue forgotten as adrenal levels returned to combat readiness.
Like the rest of the train car, the plinth was in bad shape. It sparked, and seemingly gave out when he approached. He gave it an encouraging slap and it burst into life once more.
Damien almost fell over in surprise.
"This is unexpected." He managed.
Kaizen glared up at him, hands balled on her hips.
"This is not the time to be taking a break, 451."
Damien cocked his head to one side quizzically.
"I didn't realise I still took field instructions from a rogue A.I."
Even through the helmet filter, there was no masking the bitterness in his voice. Kaizen looked at her feet, crestfallen.
"That… wasn't me." For once, the imperious A.I. was lost for words. "Well. It was me, and yet it wasn't. Becker, he knew subroutines. Codes I didn't know about. He…" She closed her eyes. "…used me.
"They called it The Surge. A lot of people died, Kai. It's chaos out here."
She nodded.
"And that's on me." Kaizen opened her eyes, determined now. "But that's on him too. And like it or not, if you're going to stand a chance at getting close to Becker, you're going to have to trust me."
"Why should I? You sent us down those tunnels, compromised the mission. Got Luke killed." Damien was all but spitting. "Face it Kai: you're a liability. Who's to say Becker won't use you again? You know what he's capable of."
"Better than you." Kaizen responded levelly. "And if you think you can take on Black Shard alone, you're mistaken. You've no idea what they're capable of; the extent of the preparations they've made. There's an army between you and Chidinma. She's in there, alone, and unless we work together, I'm going to be marking three Spartans MIA by the time the day is done.
He had no answer to that. He could see the bio-signs on Chidinma's monitor. Adrenal levels were at maximum. Her status indicator flared an angry red.
"There's an entire UNSC battalion inbound to Central Station. You have no weapons, no ammunition, and even a cursory visual inspection of your armour tells me you're not operating at full combat efficiency. Face it: I'm the only weapon you've got."
The Spartan studied the plinth; Kaizen's determined expression reflected in the opal visor. She continued:
"Becker still thinks he has full control of my neural matrix. I left a segment of my compromised pathways in place, but the second he detects it – and he will detect it, my ability to be part of this fight is done. Right now, I need extract out of his system. Your suit is my only shot.
Kaizen stood feet planted.
"I know you don't trust me. That there's every reason in the world you probably shouldn't. But we don't have a choice, Damien. Either we work together, or Becker's going to pick Chimera apart, Spartan by Spartan. He already has Rashid. Chidinma's alone and woefully outnumbered and Eric - for all his abilities - isn't enough to win this fight single-handed. Yank me."
Damien looked out the cracked windshield of the train. The station was approaching in the far distance. Seconds ticked by on the mission clock.
He reached out and placed his hand on the pedestal. There was a slight jolt to his HUD as Kaizen's neural net shot through the transit system and surged into Damien's neural lace. His head swam for a moment as she calibrated to the Mjolnir suite. Kaizen sighed in relief, free at last from the demands of Becker's prison. She took a full picosecond to take stock.
"They've really done a number on you today." Kaizen tutted.
"Tell that to Keller when they fish him out." Damien growled, as he cracked his neck. "Now you wanna keep scolding me, or have you a plan in mind?"
Business-like as ever, Kaizen wirelessly interfaced with the tracks. There was a humming jolt as the front car detached and slid seamlessly onto an adjoining line. The rest of the train sped ahead, toward the station. Damien's car would loop around the station, bypassing it entirely.
"That will buy us some time. Calling up maintenance logs from the city's records now." A micro-pause. Markers and navigational data began teeming along the bottom of his HUD. "Got it. There's a series of maintenance tunnels on the far side of the station that ultimately feeds into the drainage ducts below Black Shard's base."
"More tunnels? That didn't work out so well the last time, Kai."
"As I said, trust me."
The train car was swallowed by the darkness of an underground track. Abruptly it jolted to a halt; arrested in place by emergency clamps. The doors chimed open with an audible ping. Nothing but darkness lay ahead. Damien's VISR automatically switched to low-light as main power finally gave out throughout the train car; replaced by the menacing glow of emergency lighting.
Damien's boot crunched on broken glass as he hunkered down, preparing to jump into the abyss.
"This is our stop." Kaizen said. "Let's go pay Black Shard a visit."