Disclaimer: I don't own any aspect of Metroid (belongs to Nintendo) or Halo (belongs to Bungie).

This plotline is original, however, powered by my imagination.

(Side note: K.O. means knockout.) (Other side notes: I decided to use the gunship from Metroid Prime 3: Corruption, as well as the certain plot elements from the game.)

Make A Break For It

—-—-/

Resounding rubber smacking noises, a chorus of jingling chains, and, if one strained their ears, faint grunts could be heard reverberating off of the shiny, forest green metal slab walls and bleak dungeon gray linoleum flooring of the recreation hall-section 2-B. This one gym of many was rarely visited due to lack of renovation and being so far out of any route taken by the occupants in the complex. The only logical cause of the commotion, especially at this hour, leads to a furious woman relentlessly pummeling a punching bag, as the place seems deserted except for her.

I, Samus of course, am that woman. If no one was around, how could they describe my whereabouts and activities?

Dressed to kill in a deep-sea blue skin-tight elastic sports bra, climbing up vertically to the center of my neck, draws attention to a somewhat concealed silver zipper traveling down the middle of the fabric and stopping at my empire waistline. Matching shorts, in color and material, hug the upper quadrant of my thighs in such a way that create a row of three miniature pencil-shaped buckles. As I shift my upper body with the routine of my punches, the buckles bend and crease rapidly like a teeter totter. The intense vigor boxing demands works up a negative feedback loop many organisms experience to cool their temperature- sweating. Coming out of nowhere it seems, the beads of salty liquid drizzle out of every known pore on my flushed face, my body hunched forward slightly in a boxing stance. The force and rate of pumping punches hit in precise locations to gradually split lines in the sheen, black rubber material. Rounds and rounds of consecutive deadly force traveled from my blazing, unpleasant thoughts, through my bloodstream, coursing down the entirety of my arm, and exploding forth at the pace of a military grade missile; all this through the blunt force of my split knuckles. Timed contraction and expansion of my balloon cheeks synchronize with my lungs as I narrow my eyes, determined on launching the punching bag sky's the limit. My light gold yarn colored hair secured in a high-rise ponytail, swishes hypnotically to the right when I strike with my right arm and swishes to the left when my left arm strikes.

People think me out of my mind to neglect the purpose of boxing gloves (as I've been told numerous times), but little do they know that I savor the tingling sensation pain exposes. A negative and aversive stimulus to most, I feel it invigorates me to advance my combative strategies. Adrenaline cancels out the excruciating pain as it escalates; I don't know what's the big fuss. A little pain won't hurt anyone. Then again, I attain a higher pain tolerance as I'm not an average human. Not solely a human, anyway-but that's a story for another day.

I imagine my usually pristine, unmarred face tainted the same color as my heart— beet red while pulsing erratically, yet calculated. My heart can barely keep pace with the rage of my emotions dictating my decisive attacks. Entirely focused on the bag and the grungy smell of recycled air conditioning, trapped in a four-steel wall exercise center— which I found myself in against my will—I felt the only aspect of my life I held the power to determine was the quality of the punching bags in this particular gym. Launching three of the present four in the gym, I delivered the final K.O. to the poor bag; needless to say, it joined the same fate as the others, surprisingly, in a rather neat pile. I jog to the fourth and final bag, work up some elbow grease, and successfully split the dangling eight foot ceiling chains (or the punching bag's life support, so to speak) in half, yet again, with explosive snap punches.

I step back forming my cheeks in a balloon and quickly pop them.

I give myself a cursory glance in one of the mirror walls and I look like a wreck: my deep-sea blue sectioned Zero Suit (essentially) is all lopsided from my erratic arm movement, and my shorts accumulated double the amount of those 3D creases. I look, and feel, like I was tirelessly exercising for hours on end, but in reality it was half an hour- as I discover from the caged clock built into the mirror wall; not those vintage clocks with the 'face', but the average digital alarm clock. This one was a unique variant though, as it's massive-about ten feet in length and width and juts out of the wall about three feet- with glaringly bright red-digits, beeping every hour. Yet another factor that makes this place a living nightmare.

Oh well, I'll be out soon enough... through my own means. I smirk knowingly.

The warm orange/white glow from the Caleo-X1 long led ceiling lights occasionally flickered, as I returned my blank gaze at the ceiling-to-floor mirror again-the unique tint of the light source made my hair shine dully in a particular way I'm growing fond of... I wonder if I can replace the eyeball-burning lights in my gunship for these pleasing ones. They possessed a soothing ambience that I crave after exhausting space expeditions- I'll definitely have to look into that, I muse. I wandered aimlessly to the mirror and examine myself more closely. I notice sweat slinking the curves and crevices on my arms and legs, then dripping onto the rubber mat...it's mesmerizing to watch. I touch the mirror tentatively with my index finger. I press lightly and trace the right side of my reflection in a daze-like state, tilting my head occasionally from one side to the other.

I sigh deeply.

I always feel taken for granted... whatever I do, I feel like I'm under constant scrutiny-that I can't accomplish something w when will I ever get a break? My finger descends to my right foot and I press with all my might. My face scrunches in distress as I visibly grit my teeth. New beads of sweat form, slinking to meet the floor. My face turns flush again. I hardly notice that my finger is pure white, but I'm too furious to care.

I forcefully push off of the mirror and throw my arms in the air from frustration. My little mission to blow out of these suffocating walls begins to unravel before my mind's eye. I growl like a bloodthirsty dog, steeped in anticipation to run free from my proverbial chains. The nerve of some people! If only I could put them in their place... Now's not the time to revisit that incident though; I came here to vent frustration, not fuel it. There's a time for everything, and now it's time to get my head in the game.

Not quite worn out, I ran cursory circles around the gym. I focus on my bare feet, pouncing from instep to instep, leaving compressed footprints-until a second or two passed and the mat reverted back to a flat, black rubber surface in kin to the punching bag material. It took tremendous effort for my strength to wane...I might be here for hours. If exhaustive exercise failed, I figured my head meeting a metal pole rather abruptly would suffice.

I shake my head quickly at that— these kinds of thoughts always find their way back no matter how many times I swat them away. The universe needs me...after all there's only one of me… right? As much as I know, anyway. Whatever keeps me going I guess. Not much does these days.

I condition my heart to gradually slow down before I stop running. I remember learning it from someone, I don't remember who though. The reason, though, is to keep your heart from switching on the dime (it's very unhealthy) if you're in a controlled situation. But if you're in middle of battle against Space Pirates, well... fight with your life.

I eye the whole area until I come upon a fifth punching bag in the immediate vicinity; how come I didn't notice that before?! I need to blow it of its chains! Good thing I have a habit of checking rooms before I leave. This will be extra practice/revving up for me to take out these creeps holding me prisoner. I sprint, flying almost, as I close in on and break the chains with one pointed punch to the center of the bag. The shredded chain and the soaring bag kicked my dopamine levels into overdrive. A grin sprawls to my eyes almost maniacally.

"WOO!" I puff out like the triumphant bounty hunter I am. Man, it feels awesome to unleash years of pent up frustration! I've never physically exhausted myself to this extent...at least that's how it feels right now. I'm not at my best performance though, that's probably why.

Impressed with my work and feeling a bit tiresome running myself into the ground (both literally and figuratively), I jogged in place to regulate my heart rate again, then promptly spun a 360 out of there for fresh air. With sweat patches along my clothes and matted hair on my face, I felt a bit self-conscious—then as soon as the feeling came, it went; to be truthful, I couldn't care less what others thought of me. Although, the way some soldiers and higher-ups reacted at my appearance made me chuckle; some had parted lips, raised eyebrows, and/or wide open eyes; a few nodded their heads in pride for my maintaining peak condition; and, my favorite one of all, them making a beeline as far away as they could from my path, in fear of encountering my psychotic tendencies. I chuckle a bit more.

Feels good to know there's always a brighter side to life to ease tensions.

Ten more minutes and I'm still in the main hallway-the same drab walls and linoleum floor getting on my nerves. I roll my eyes at the architecture of this place; whoever designed it, I would like to meet personally so I can deal a K.O. punch to their jaw. They lack so much creativity that they must be a shell of a pistachio (A.N.: that made me laugh just writing that). My impatience drives me to break out into a sprint for the hangar-where my quest lies. I near a right turn, slowing down a tad as I approach, brushing the corner with my arm, and returning to full speed. A few more left and right turns and I'm seconds away from the entrance to the hangar- the location of my gunship. It's not anything unusal that it's in this particular place; in fact, it's supposed to be here, as all spacecrafts in the GF HQ are located here (as I'm sure with all other docking ships) but mine is under guard. Apparently my rules of how a bounty hunter operates greatly contradict GF consultant standards, and, consequently, I'm under suspension of duty as a "service to the universe"... whatever. Another day, another mission as I always say.

I'm now at the side entrance, but I can't use that it's too obvious. I have to use something more secluded... I search around the side hall for air ducts of any kind. Good thing no one's manning this entrance. Either security is low at this hour or someone's slacking. I venture into an adjoining corridor, the same decor as the previous hallways- honestly, it's so difficult to distinguish any one room from the next! Where's an air duct around here? There's usually at least one for every room, but this room seems the odd one out. My eyesight grows bleary. Maybe I did work myself too hard. Ah, forget it, I'll start tomorrow. I'm clearly in no condition to sneak around, I'll stumble all over myself.

I turn around to exit, but I spot a uniform headed my way at the end of the corridor... but her head's downcast. It must be her shift to guard this post and she isn't paying much attention. I plaster myself to the right side of the doorway, listening to her footsteps. It takes about thirty seconds-for the average person-to reach one end to the next, and, judging by her height, I would peg her around 6'1-almost my height. I take a deep, but quiet breath. It's all about the timing. My vision seems good enough-it won't affect me for an objective like this- I could apprehend her in my sleep. As the dull echoes resound louder and louder, I know she's about five seconds away. I slink to my left a few inches and slowly crouch to the floor. But then all of the sudden, the lights black out. I forgot the lights here are powered by motion activity. The soldier sighs and murmurs something before retreating to the side entrance, assuming her job was easier at this time of hour. She was mistaken. This actually works out perfectly though: All I need to do is make wide sudden movements and the lights will power on again- that way she'll know someone's in here. Then I'll take her down.

I hear a deep-toned feminine voice, with a hint of fear, call out "Who's there?" Careful footsteps follow, wary of an ambush. Enunciating each word, she calls again: "I said who is there?" She's within a few feet from the doorway. Come on, just step in. I slink away a few inches more so she doesn't see me right away. I hear labored breathing. She must be new, because she retreats to the side door again! Alright, enough of this-it's time to improvise. I face the wall I was shimminging against, lurch backward a few feet- to give some room between me and the wall- and quietly dart towards it. I scale the wall and rip one of the ceiling lights off. To finish, I crouch-land like a feline seconds before the fixture comes crashing down.

I hear a faint gasp and amplified foot movement. The area where I'm hiding now is darkened, so she won't notice me right away; she'll be inspecting the light that spontaneously fell out of the ceiling first anyway. I inch back, hopefully for the last time, awaiting her entrance. As I'm on her left hand side, I deftly form a plan to exact.

"What-" I immediately push her left shoulder down with my right hand, staggering her towards me (and out of view in the doorway), then I grab both shoulders, knee her in the stomach, and twist her over into the sleeper hold; she's out in five seconds flat. Securing a hold under her arms, I drag her about a foot behind me and place her neatly in the corner. Next, I swap our clothes- me wearing marine armor, and her wearing my work-out Zero Suit. I replicate her bagel-like hair bun and hope no one will notice. Good thing she's blonde though; if she wasn't, it would be much more difficult to pull off since her helmet's missing.

I tread the corridor and turn sharply to the side entrance as a cadet would-all nauseatingly pompous. Though, what I noticed from her, she didn't seem like other uptight marines-she almost reminded me of... myself. Hmm. What's her name? I look down expecting a name badge, but I forgot that isn't on GF marine armor. Oh well, why should I care anyway? What puzzles me though is she could've put up more defense- she was a marine after all, and an able-bodied one at that. Maybe she was lazy as it should be 4AM now. Or I'm too quick for her-hm, probably the latter. I don't know why I overthink everything so much.

I shake my head, psychologically tricking myself into clearing it, then I enter the hangar quietly. Most of the uniforms on guard are most likely asleep, if I had to guess. I tread intentionally, the shiny armored boots echoing is the only sound to be heard. I stop and conduct a routine scan of the whole room: a few uniforms at my 9 and 3 o'clock, but they seem to be messing around. Typical, I scoff. I resume my armored boot thuds as I casually scan each ship I pass, narrowing down each row. Although I don't need to scan each ship it alludes me to "inspecting" ships, rather than hunting for one. Now for my gunship...

"Hey! What's your rank?" a gruff, male voice snarls.

What? I thought I was blending in well. And weren't those lunatics slacking a minute ago? I huff in my mind. Just play it off, Samus. I turn around to meet his face. He's about 10 feet from me, that's good; probably won't notice I'm not his cohort.

"Name and rank?"

"No need for that."

"Really? You don't look familiar... I'm not asking you again: What's your name?" he enunciates each word, drawing his assault weapon.

"Hey," I put my hands up slightly, "Why don't you put your gun down so I can get back to my job. Would you rather someone breach security while we're both wasting time with something as trivial as a name? As I can see, your post is unmanned", I point to an entrance that lacks surveillance. "Oh, and are those your friends?" I also point to his fellow marines that were messing around earlier, but now can't keep their heads up.

He looks nervous, fidgetting with his gun. Now for the home run.

"Yeah, that doesn't look too good. Imagine if your superior were to know-"

"O-ohh no need for that... Ma'am" he straightens. "Uhh, pretend I was never here, alright?" he puts his hands up in casual defense and retreats. Phew, crisis averted. But before I go...

"Oh, I missed your name," I call after him.

"Baker-" he turns to shoot a confused look, but I'm resumed down the hangar again, in pursuit of my gunship, with the widest grin on my face. I somehow catch a faint chuckle though.

-/

At long last, my good ol' gunship. Or as I like to refer to her, the Stealth Strike Corvette (from Metroid Prime 3: Corruption). I meander to the underbelly, checking my surroundings first, then climb up the side and slip in through the top hatch. The glaring lights (I really need to replace those with the orange-tint ones as soon as possible) activate their red hue and the alarm sirens shriek, not recognizing the foreign armor. I'm not phased though, all I need to find is the eye scanner...

I deftly activate the eye-scanning option on my cockpit's control panel. The sirens dissipate and I immediately search for a change of clothes. I can only hope that no one heard all that ruckus, I huff as I throw on one of my black Zero suits. I plop into my cockpit chair and warm up the engines very slowly. That is, until I see another marine coming to rain on my parade. They must of heard the sirens. I roll my eyes and slip out of my chair like water, not making any sudden movements, and crawl to the farthest point of my gunship, redress in the marine's armorsuit, and wait poised for attack. I managed to pull a stun gun, too. I don't want to use it if I don't have to, though- it would be obvious if I threw unconscious marines from the top of my gunship.

Movement and a crystal clear voice says: "... Let's check this one. I think I saw someone in here."

They must be at the belly of the Corvette. Joke's on them, the hatch is at the top.

Which they figured, as they drop into the center of my gunship. They'll regret that.

"You search the cockpit, I'll take the back section." Wait, that voice sounds familiar...

"Baker, I'm not seeing anything here. Are you sure you saw someone?"

Baker makes eye contact with me. "Ah ha, I f-" I taze him a couple times, lower him down to the floor, and drag him slowly away from the doorway. I pull open a mini-closet and stuff him in-temporarlily. He'll be fine, I've hidden in much smaller compartments for days on end.

"Baker? Did you get lost? This gunship isn't that big you know," she eyes every crevice of the gunship and grimaces, "Hurry up will ya? This place gives me the creeps! It's really small and kind of run-down. If I had my own-"

I slide in and kick her legs out from under her with a grunt. The wind's knocked out of her, as she gasps from shock and mild pain-but moreso of shock. I kip-up and shoot her in the chest with my stun gun as well. "Sorry, I guess I cut you off," I snark. "No one calls the ship I built with my own two hands, "run-down"." I stun her in the chest again, knocking her out cold. This is the one thing I didn't want- liability; for GF marines, no less. I guess I have leverage at least: They won't shoot me down when I have hostages. This actually worked out better than I planned.

Before I take off though, I need to apprehend their weapons... and their armor, to be safe. I'll replace the armor with extra clothes I 'borrowed' from the Federation. I technically did borrow as it'll be returned when they're back at HQ... whenever that is. Both neatly in a miscellaneous closet, I decide I'm going to wing the final phase of my plan. The rest of the marines are sleeping anyway they won't notice until it's too late. Oh, but I should make sure I leave a threatening farewell message to Admiral Dane- his hands are tied as now, I have the upperhand this time. I activate my internet connectivity and type away. He should expect this anyway- it's not the first time I've successfully fled from here and it certainly won't be the last. My Striker now charged and calibrated, I begin ascending cautiously; the more asleep they are the better. I'm at an altitude of approximately twelve feet as of now, a few more and I can cruise out. I shift to the right, concealing myself behind a gargantuan fighter class ship as I gradually work up to thirty feet. As I reach the exit, I find that the hangar isn't open-oh well, I prefer rambunctious exits anyway. Dane already knows, so why not? I gear into overdrive, pushing the throttle to full-capacity speed towards an adjacent window of the hangar's overhead hatch. The obliterated chunks of glass spew on my viewscreen for a second, before it's sucked off by the gravitational force of space. I gear into maximum overdrive, launching the Striker Corvette, housing myself and the two ship-crashers, into hyperspace.

-/

"Sir! Sir!" comes running a pack of marines. The crowded halls of GF officials and soldiers of all ranks plague the halls.

"We need to get to Admiral Dane! Move it!" The team body checks any road blocks between them and the Admiral, leaving chaotic scuffles to ensue behind them.

"Who shoved me? Was it you?!" A brawn marine tackles a random soldier in the crowded hallway.

"What're you doing?! I didn't even touch you!"

"Sure, so we're meant to believe!"

"Hey, break it up-" a chorus of shouting and jostling follow.

"Admiral Dane!" The pack of five marines burst into his office, panting. The Admiral tilts his head up just enough to see the marines, then sighs with a tired look, "what's happened this time?" It was the norm for unannounced barge-ins of his office doors to occur. So much that the double doors are usually flown off the hinges, needing immediate repair. This incident is no different. He points to an assistant standing by to take care of that as the marines make their plea.

"Samus Aran made a break for it! She just fired up her ship and bam!" one of the marines makes sound effects of the "bam" noise, "she was set off into hyperspace before we could blink!"

"I know, I saw her grand exit," he responds blandly.

"But-how-" all five marines stutter, taken aback.

"She messaged me. To be frank, I expected this; she's done this before, you know," he announces as though it's absurd they were surprised by this. "I knew she would get away one way or another, but why didn't any of you," he pointedly makes eye contact with each subordinate, "see her enter the hangar, much less advance into her vehicle and take off? A moment of silence. You're all suspended."

"Bu-ut sir!" one male marine steps forward, "we manned our posts and made routine inspections of all the spacecrafts-by the book, too!"

"Oh, and you're sure you didn't doze off in between?" He was on to them.

They all gaped for a second, but suddenly found more interest in the lineoleum floor than their superior's eyes.

"That's right, I saw the security footage. Two month suspension, 150 hours of training duty, and 1,000 push-ups for all of you. But first, hand over your weapons." They produce their weapons with grim faces.

"You," Dane points a finger to another stand by assistant, "process their weapons and make sure they execute all 1,000 push-ups correctly." He salutes and starts right away on his orders.

Meanwhile, Dane walks off ,with hands behind his back, towards the hangar. Arriving at the main entrance, all the soldiers and maintenance workers salute.

"At ease," he says as he continues to the crash site.

"Admiral, sir. We are assessing the damage as of now. But in the mean time, we patched the hole the best we can to prevent more damage," a soldier informs him as he keeps pace with the Admiral.

"Perfect. Keep up the good work... Private," he figures from a cursory glance at the soldier's armor. They salute and return to mend the hole-in-the-wall crisis.

Admiral Dane takes a few more steps before halting to inspect Samus's handiwork. That girl never changes, he thinks to himself. He smirks invisibly, hoping whatever's up her sleeve won't cause too much trouble. Whatever you're up to Samus, be careful. With a final nod, he promptly exits the hangar.

-/

In a peculiar squid-like spacecraft, with seemingly two dorsal fins and two abdominal fins, murmuring of an uncertain language persisted. It almost sounded like hushed arguing- or maybe that's how the language naturally sounded. The body language was difficult to follow because of the horrific skeletal structure of the species. The luminescent lights glared and ominous sirens blared within the expansive cockpit. The murmuring of the mysterious creatures intensify as they jostle each other at the ship's control panel, causing the spacecraft to sporadically change course. Unknown to them, their ship was headed for a deadly collision with another spacecraft within a matter of seconds.

-/

I wake from a much needed nap, stumbling to the cockpit to observe the Striker's progress. I stand behind my cockpit chair, yawning half-heartedly, and carefully look through my slime green viewscreen. My eyes become bowling balls as I jump into my seat, smash the auto-pilot button off, and force the joy controls to the right as far as possible without ripping them clean off. I grit my teeth and hope my actions weren't too late. Maybe there won't be too much damage, maybe just a scuff or a scrape. My expectations are a far cry from reality, as the ship in my view continues to adjust in direct alignment with mine. Time seems unpervasive, like I'm in an underwater parallel universe...probably because my hearing seems impaired. Muffled shattering, crunching, grinding, and clanging, accompanied with a shower of glitter shifts everything to rainbow colors. I can't make sense of my surroundings, and what's worse is I feel a searing pain tearing through my body-almost like I'm burning up.

That's an odd feeling to experience in space...Wait a minute...I look down at myself.

I'm on fire. And my ship is, too. I try to take control of the situation, but I'm completely scatter-brained as everything I see is a swirling rainbow. Color slowly drains from my vision as I tumble into a deep sleep.

-/

Notes:

Thank you guys so much for your patience on this update! I apologize for the length of this chapter at first- I had no idea it was that short! (I typed it on my phone, it seems much longer on there) so I decided to add much more detail this time around.

Important note on updates: It took me around 2 whole months to finally complete the first chapter! I'm so sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused, but I will work diligently to update at least once a month. If I for some reason don't make the deadline, feel free to spam the reviews and PM's to keep me accountable. I absolutely dread being a writer that takes so long to complete chapters-definitely one of my biggest pet peeves when I read stories. Although, I have to say I have a much greater appreciation for writers-sometimes it's challenging to craft the best version of a story on the first try (hence why I redid this chapter for much needed enhancement). But back to update information, I would very much like to know what you guys would prefer reading, as writer's block and procrastination at times prevent ideas flowing.

Another thing about my updates is I usually post at night. I don't know why, but at night I can think much clearer and story ideas literally tumble out. Sometimes I need my phone right there so I won't forget about the immaculate scenes playing in my mind.

Story notes/extra info:

New change to story content: Mental health themes will be included through various dramatic scenes in later updates (no swearing or any other content like that will be included though. That's my golden rule).

From beginning of story (punches): Snap punches are very quick, calculated punches that can expel power and offer high defense with the speed of retracting and releasing your arms. Boxing is actually a very precise sport, requiring constant training to align breathing and release of punches all in a particular stance varying on each type of punch.

See this website for more information: /how-to-throw-a-snapping-punch

Search this for the led lights I was referencing, too (they're not as white as in the picture though: I envision it more orange-toned, but the design is exactly what I was looking for. Also, the link wouldn't work, so I put the model instead): Caleo-X1 long LED ceiling light warm white

Fun fact about the word "alright" and "all right" I found while writing this chapter: /words-at-play/all-right-or-alright-which-is-correct

Where I got Baker's name from (I was blanking on a name): wiki/Troy_Baker

Now onto reviews:

LoneRider-09- First off, thank you for the feedback! I see that would build more interest in ending off on a cliffhanger of sorts. I incorporated that into this chapter a bit and I will continue to end off on a note that involves suspense/mystery...it's much better that way.

Thank you for reading!

~ U can glow too