Hong Kong is lovely this time of year. The vibrant sun begins to set below the horizon, melting the waterfront into beautiful liquid gold and red. The thin clouds in the distance look as if they've elegantly caught on fire, bright orange and yellow. A flock of seagulls flies overhead, a sailboat in the distance slowly drifts across from left to right with all the time in the world. The scene looks like a painting.
In the park on the edge of the water, I look around myself at the crowd of young tourists and sightseers that's gathered to admire the view. They all look like college kids, no one here looks older than 30. Throughout the park, in groups or couples, they do what people their age do, smiling, laughing, taking pictures. A young couple on the park bench next to me rest on each other's shoulders, gazing into the sunset. They look so happy, so peaceful, so young and full of hope.
That's a good word to describe the feeling around here these days: Hope.
A shining example of what people are looking for after nearly 30 years of fighting a losing war. The feeling around the airport was one of general optimism. Tourists walk the streets in abundance, up and down the Tsim Sha Tsui Promenade, and all throughout downtown as well. Hong Kong is one of the top destinations in the industry, with an economy that's on the rise. Easy to tell from all the tourists here on vacation, or their break from school. They call this place "The Pearl in the Crown," and it certainly lives up to that.
Post-war Hong Kong is doing quite well for itself, four years after the fighting stopped. There are not only one but two generations now, that can't remember a time when we haven't been at war with the Covenant. Now, without the constant threat of conscription or extinction, the citizens of the UNSC can finally look forward to a lifetime of peace and serenity. Why shouldn't they? They're young, they have their whole lives ahead of them. For them the war is over.
But I know I'm on the outside looking in. I know I can never join them. People like me don't get to enjoy a peaceful civilian life. I know that for me, the fighting will never stop. It's all I do, it's all I've ever done, it's all I know how to do. Hell, I'm just fine with that. After a while I stop gazing into the distance and leave the park on foot. As nice as it may be to stare at the sun, I'm here on business. I start making my way downtown as the sun gets lower and lower on the horizon.
This place got off lucky. When the Covenant landed on Earth, they didn't glass the city, it was mostly East Africa and Australia that got it. No orbital bombardments, no invasions, no killteams in the streets, and the space elevator was left intact. It's a load off my mind, since I own property here; an expensive condo in central.
Of course, Hong Kong has known the threat of invasion before. Countless times before, this island has almost been swallowed whole by the neighboring red giant. China has threatened to annex this place more times than I can remember from history class, along with all the neighboring small countries they were used to getting tax money from. Of course, the United Earth Government eventually put an end to all that, not that anyone would have done jack shit if China actually did invade. Dare and the world yields.
As the sky begins to darken, I make my way through downtown, in the shadows of the towering buildings all around me. The crowds of tourists on the streets begin to thin out, as people make their way back to wherever it is they're staying. They either plan on staying in, or are getting ready for tonight. The nightlife in Hong Kong is pretty much how people imagine it, mostly under 30, looking for a rave or a nightclub. This place being the vacation destination that it is, there are plenty of those places around. But I'm looking for something else.
As night arrives, Hong Kong transforms into the glowing neon paradise that most people imagine it is. Traffic picks up again, as the usual suspects come out to party, emerging from their hotels or taxis, wearing the latest fashion that I don't understand. Time and age don't apply to me, I've long given up on trying to keep up with fashion trends. Hell, I don't even dress normally; black combat boots instead of normal shoes, and black combat pants too. My belt carries an empty sidearm holster on my right hip, and an occupied knife holster on my left. I'd be wearing a vest too, but a black T-shirt with my dog tags on is all I could get away with. Not enough to cover up my ODST tattoo of a flaming skull on my right bicep. The bright signs and variety of lights all over downtown bleach my skin a hideous array of neon colors.
I look like the average gweilo, but I'm actually a halfie. I'm Chinese on my father's side. Hell, my last name is Wong, and that's just about the most Chinese name there is. To most people I look like I'm white, but a few of my friends can tell. I don't speak much Cantonese, everyone in my family only spoke Mandarin anyways, but at least I know how to swear. I've also got a tattoo on my left wrist that a few ODSTs I know also have. It either means serpent or dragon, depending on who you ask about it.
Taking another left, I finally spot the place I'm looking for at the end of the block. A sophisticated Asian-inspired bar with a lounge on the top floor, high enough to see the waterfront from the balcony, with a polished marble and jade exterior. Above the entrance, the gold Chinese characters proudly read; "Jade Dragon, bar and night lounge," in broken, bastardized Chinese. I know the owner, I told him to fix that fucking sign. It doesn't matter though, people can never get enough pseudo-Asian stuff, it's been that way for the past 600 years. Doesn't matter if the sign's wrong, probably nobody's reading it.
On the outside, it looks like an average, classy nightclub. Just some place for Joe tourist to lose some money betting on slots or digital poker, while he kills some brain cells over a few drinks. It is a legitimate business after all. On the inside, though, it's a different story. The people who visit this place while on vacation here have no idea about the kind of danger they're in. Not that we'd ever let them know. We're not stupid.
The truth is, this place is a front for our operatives while they're on leave, or waiting for their next deployment. Along with the twin hotel owned by the same guy, this place is the perfect cover for laundering money, and helping our people disappear when they need to. I'm sure a lot of people disappear inside the walls, but every time a body ends up in the harbor, the locals blame it on the triads.
ONI worries about what would happen if the truth about the Spartan-II program ever went public. But the truth is, our battle record is much worse, much more damaging, and much harder to swallow. The truth is, if the public ever heard about the things we did, it would be too much. Most people think they've seen it all, that they can handle almost anything, but this is it. This is the limit. If ONI ever let the truth about us get out, they'd have a riot on their hands.
The things we did are war crimes. I won't deny it.
Because the truth is that we're government sanctioned psychopaths, trained to kill, turned into living, breathing weapons, and unleashed on civilians at ONI's word. Brutality for brutality's sake… and because we thought it was fun. When they took the collar off, we did our worst, and we got paid to do it.
Psychopaths. Sociopaths. Serial killers. Rapists, murderers, sadists, sex offenders, it's all there. The worst of the worst, the dregs of society. We couldn't live in a civilized world like the UNSC, so they chose to do something useful with us. Collected from Earth and across the colonies, we were selected for our very worst character traits. Some were already in the military, some were taken from civilian populations, some from prisons and asylums, even sanitariums. Of course, we weren't all crazy, I've known some of us that have gotten in on their skill alone.
I'm not the worst, not by a long shot. I never raped anybody. I never skinned anybody. I never decapitated or crucified or cannibalized anybody. But I was still chosen, because I was still a killer.
The French have a word for what I used to be: gamin. If Parangosky hadn't found me when she did, I honestly don't know what would have happened to me.
The training program was grueling. Over 18 months of the best ONI could buy; retired agents, active ones, veteran ODSTs, and all sorts of Special Forces types, educating us in all kinds of ways to excel at killing people. Not the most solid plan, putting all those unstable characters together in the same place and turning us into dangerous killers. We took hundreds of side casualties in the beginning. Almost every day I'd see a body lying face down in the dirt, or under the steps to the barracks, or out in the open, face down in the mud while no one ever stopped or paid any attention to the corpse, all of them wearing the same charcoal black recruit uniform we always wore. The weak ones didn't last very long in there. But those of us who passed became the most vicious, ruthless, brutally effective killers ONI has ever seen.
Most of us that are left these days can pass for normal. The veterans, the ones sharp enough to last the longest, are some of the most dangerous operatives that have ever served in the UNSC. My friends, the officers in the ranks, have some pretty decent heads on their shoulders. The oldest of us are about as dangerous as they come. We were the best of the best. The most dangerous soldiers in the UNSC came out of our outfit.
We don't have an official name for ourselves. ONI kept us off the grid and under the radar, so that whatever we did was as deniable as possible. Very few people knew about our existence back then, and even fewer now. Most of us think of ourselves as ODSTs, we make drops in SOEIVs all the time, that was our main role when we were up against the Covenant. We usually refer to ourselves by generic titles: Ghosts, reapers, prowlers, lurkers, that sort of stuff. It's pretty cliché, but nothing's a cliché when it's happening to you. Besides, it sure beats what the civvies called us: rapists and murderers.
And of course, I'm the leader of it all. We don't have any official ranks, but I've been in the program since the beginning. I've been around the longest, and I was there to lead this outfit when no one else was. Last time I checked, I think I'm the equivalent of a Colonel. Then again, no one here's ever cared much about rank; the ops here have no need for leadership, that's just something civvies think everyone in the world needs because they've never known people as strong on their own as we are. Those are just the character traits that make people stronger, let them rise above the rest, no need to follow anyone else because they're not blind, and they're not anti-social either, just the best there is. I don't need anyone to lead me, none of us do, but for some reason even I don't understand, I'm the shot-caller. I've never cared much for rank myself, I just do my job, and I prefer to lead from the field, not from behind a desk. Maybe that's the reason they looked to me when they needed someone to lead them, and not some over-educated nerdy jerkoff straight out of officer-school. I'm experienced, I've proven to be more than capable, and I'm our oldest surviving member.
Of course, I think they chose me for a different reason. I could be cruel, savage, and bloodthirsty when I needed to, and a lot worse. I won't deny it. At times, I might have been the worst out of all of us. But I also have a conscience. I knew what I was doing when I did it, and I know it now. The levels of self-criticism never ever end. I think that's why they trusted me. I kept us grounded, kept us sober when we would have just run rampant.
There's not that many of us left. Not anymore.
Under the grammatically incorrect sign, I push through the gold-handled glass double doors, and into the bar. It's a nice place, lit by calming, dark purple ambient lights, cylindrical crystal bulbs on the dark columns and dividers, and pyramidal chandeliers that look like some sort of sculptures. A large aquarium takes up most of the far wall, with an elevated stage above it, playing a smooth jazz track where a live band would normally be playing, led to by dark, curving stairs on either side. This place has the setting of a nightclub, but the relaxed, stress-free, comfortable feeling of a lounge. A very long bar and with an extensive collection of spirits behind it are the first thing on the right, after the entrance. A wide, circular sitting area of dark tables, chairs and lounge couches takes up almost the entire left side, in a depression a few steps down. Along the length of the left wall, the floor raises again, where expensive booths line the far side, under crystal lamps that look kind of like the Sydney Opera House.
The well dressed bouncer instinctively stops me at the door. A tall, bald black man dressed in a wine red, five hundred dollar tailored sports blazer. He's built like a wardrobe, broad shoulders, a large muscular build, and rugged good looks. He's a pretty handsome guy, even after his fair share of broken noses. He stops when he recognizes me, a friendly smile already spreading over his face. His posture quickly changes, and he extends a hand for me to shake.
"Micky!"
"Rorke." I shake his hand, smiling myself.
"Good to see you again, man!" He cheers ecstatically. His smile keeps on getting bigger and bigger.
"Likewise."
Paul "Blitz" Rorke, one of the best. Determined, resilient, and well trained, he's been around for a long, long time. Not quite as long as me, but almost. He can be a real nice guy, but when he's in the field with his shotgun in his hands… Well, I almost felt sorry for those innies. I've seen him run through jackals and elites like they were nothing. He's got the skills, the reflexes, and the dedication it takes to make it in our line of work. I'm not exactly sure what was wrong with him that landed him here with the rest of us. Maybe it was his rage, or maybe it was his killer instinct, but whatever it was, it made him one of the best. Last time I checked, he had his own squad.
"So what brings you back, Mick?" He asks, he knows me so well by now that he calls me "Mick." That's just the way it is. "Last I heard, you were on ice."
"I've got a job. I'm here to talk to the owner."
"Ah, well, you'll know where to find him." He grins and lets me pass. I walk on, and turn to him on my way past the entrance.
"Be ready, I'm getting a team together." I say while walking backwards. He grins and nods, before returning to his post.
One way to look at our order of rank is in generations, since our recruiting process is kind of bonkers. We take the most dangerous jobs, the ones no one else could hope to pull off, the ones that would be suicide for anyone else. Missions that need to be done fast, right, and with our type of brutal efficiency and lethality. We're professionals, we get the job done, but at a cost, so we need new recruits every now and then, chosen for the same traits and reasons as the originals. Last time I checked there are seven generations, with the first, mine, being the originals around since the start of the project, and the seventh being our newest. Of course, there are always exceptions.
Once I'm in, I immediately find who I'm looking for. There, perched on a seat at the bar, hunched over his laptop and a fruity drink with an umbrella in it, is the owner. He wears a black leather jacket, a blue dress shirt and dark jeans, and dress shoes. Tommy Wu, a young guy with a civilian haircut. He's a halfie like me, but he's also part Korean. He looks like a civvie, but he's one of us, a survivor from one of the previous generations. He's not quite a veteran, really only sub-par, but we keep him around for his usefulness. He's smart, smarter than me, more of a computer hacker than a soldier, really. He would have been less than worthless to us in the field, but someone had to take care of the business side of things, and as long as he proves he can keep this place running smoothly, it might as well be him.
"Hey look everyone! Micky's back!" He announces to the room when he sees me coming. A round of applause comes from some of the patrons, dressed in all black, so I know they must be our people. The civilians don't know what all the fuss at the bar is about, so they don't pay much attention to the new guy coming in and making all the noise. The façade works so well we're practically invisible in public.
In the darkly lit purple background, I see shadows in black uniforms shift and move around, standing up from their tables and their friends, and look my way, their faces covered by shadows. They must be my friends, the vets, but they know I'm here for a reason. They know I'm here on business, so they'll wait until I'm done talking with Tommy, and I come to them. We're a very polite bunch of psychopaths.
Most of the Ghosts that I can see at the front are young, very young, not old enough to know me personally. They're probably the new generation, they've probably only ever heard stories about me from their officers. Officers who will be retelling those stories now. He's that guy. He's the one I told you about.
"Tommy, I see you're still breathing. That's a relief." I poke at him on my way to a seat on his left. I shake a few hands with some old characters I know, but I'm here to talk business with Tommy.
"Missed you too." He says sarcastically.
"I bet you did." I reply flatly. There's not much that can make me smile anymore.
"How'd you know where to find me?" Tommy asks.
"You're always at the bar."
"How'd you know I hadn't sold the place?"
"That stupid sign," I state flatly, and point a thumb behind my back as I pull up a chair on Tommy's left, "a new owner would've had it fixed."
I get a laugh out of him. "It's been, what, four years?"
"Sure has."
"You've been out of the game for too long, old man."
"Christ, don't I know it." I groan. "I mean, have you seen what the pelicans look like these days? Jesus. Ugly fucking birds. I'm gone for a few years, and look what happens."
The pretty boy bartender comes over to take my order. He's an averagely handsome guy, but I don't recognize him. He must be one of us, though; Tommy only hires people from our outfit, what with all the brutal secrets we have to keep. I'm sure there's a dead body strung up in the back somewhere. But the bartender doesn't look like a soldier. No scars or permanent marks that I can see, no uniform, no tattoos, just a black UNSC T-shirt and dog tags. Of course, most men who wear dog tags haven't actually been in the military, the pretentious twats.
"What can I get you?" The bartender asks, smiling innocently.
"Oh I don't know, something with alcohol in it." I snap back at him with hostility.
"You haven't changed a bit." Tommy laughs, before turning to the bartender. "He'll have what I'm having," He says, very seriously, and points a finger at me, "and he drinks for free, got it?" The bartender nods and slinks off to the side with his head lowered.
"That's very generous of you, Tommy, but you know I have money." I selflessly remind him. What with all the murdering and war crimes I've committed in the name of ONI over the years, I've got plenty of money saved up from over the years. I'm one of ONI's most valuable assets; I know that for a fact. Leader of the most vicious, brutal, and ruthless shock trooper outfits the UNSC has ever denied existed. That does come with some privileges, of course. I'm basically rich. I own property all over the word, and even on some other worlds too. Of course, all those planets are glassed now…
"Hey, it's the least we can do for our boss." Tommy assures me, and slaps me on the back. "So what brings you here, Micky? You were on ice for four years. Must take something big to bring you back, huh?"
"Yeah," I mumble, "times have changed. New birds, new fight, a new Spartan program… I'm feeling pretty old."
"You are old."
"Fuck you."
"Aww, come on." He shrugs innocently. The bartender returns with my drink; it smells intoxicatingly sweet and fruity, an obnoxiously colorful vacation drink, mostly yellow and orange, a maraschino cherry at the bottom. After a sip I think it's supposed to be mango. I'd have to drink a hundred of these if I wanted to get drunk, there's almost no alcohol.
Mulling over my drink, I sigh deeply. "Things have changed."
"Yeah…" Tommy replies, deep in thought. "Yeah they have."
"They've got me on that new rig they built." I tell him. My voice never rises louder than a stressed murmur. "Infinity. Ever heard of it?"
"They've got you on the Infinity?" Tommy asks, surprised. "When did that happen? I've been asking to get people on that thing for months, but the office always said no. How'd you get on it?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because I'm the boss?" I snap sarcastically. I'm about to tell him something else, when I'm interrupted by one of the civvies suddenly taking the empty seat next to me.
"Hey there." She opens with, smiling. Caucasian female, brunette, mid twenties, wearing a skimpy pink dress, probably a student. I smile politely, but I ignore her. She's got a glass of her own, another obnoxious, toxic, fizzy drink.
"Hey…" She coos persistently, still trying to get my attention. Tommy is still going on, so I quickly signal for him to stop. I can't fucking stand it when too many people are talking to me at once, it drives me fucking crazy. In the field it's not that big of a problem, I can handle radio chatter, screaming, but at a time like this it drives me fucking bonkers.
"Hey." I answer deadpan. Most men in my line of work are terrible, shameful womanizers, but not me. But not me. I don't like anyone.
"I bet you could get us into the VIP section…" She tries to speak in her lowest, most seductive tone possible. It's alright, but it's falling short of moving me. I'm just a cold, loveless bastard. She tries leaning closer and puts a hand on my knee, a very tempting look on her face in the dim light, staring straight into my eyes. I must look very unimpressed, because she draws back a little, trying to look mysterious. Her colorful, armless dress reveals her fair, if not a little pale, skin. I can see she has tattoos on her upper arms, her shoulders, and her back, all pseudo-Asian stuff. A koi on her back, lines of Chinese script on her left arm that I can't read, and a large character on her right shoulder.
"I like your ink…" She comments when she notices that I'm a helljumper. She's easy on the eyes, but I'm not interested. Most men in our line of work are disgraceful womanizers with a libido that won't quit, but I'm different.
"Uh, yeah, I like yours too." I tell her, absentmindedly. I don't actually, but I'm not about to correct the big one on her shoulder, because it clearly doesn't mean what she thinks it means. I turn from her, back to Tommy, and back to her, not quite sure what I'm supposed to do. I can't think of anything to say that would make her leave, either. Tommy is getting a free show.
"Aww, come on, big guy, let's go to the balcony and watch the sunset. Maybe we could rent a room together…"
"Sorry." I finally cut her off, and hold up the back of my scarred left hand to show her the silver band on my ring finger. It helps to wear it at times like these. "Already taken." I lie.
I finally return my attention back to Tommy. After that, she doesn't say another word. I don't look back, but I can tell she's leaving.
"You still keep it? After all these years?" Tommy asks.
"Yeah… I don't think I could ever get rid of it." I admit, looking down sentimentally at the old ring. It hasn't lost its shine. It's ironic, the finger it's on is a fake. I lost the last section of my end finger, and two sections of my ring finger years ago in a crash. I was in the driver's seat when our warthog rolled. When I came to again, I realized I'd already lost my digits, severed under the steering wheel. Those parts of my fingers are synthetic now, all of it kept under the skin after surgery. They look and feel absolutely normal, exactly the same as how I was born. No one can tell if they don't already know, hell, most of the time even I forget. I can even grow the nails.
We don't say anything for a long time. I just silently hang my head, and drink until there's nothing left. I ask for another, but something different, something stronger this time. With the bartender gone, and Tommy now lost in silent reflection, I feel very much… alone.
"Four years," I groan, still not over it yet, "have you seen how much has changed?"
"Yeah, I know. I've been here." He says, heavily. He doesn't look up. "We're not what we used to be."
"I know." I tell him. We used to be the best of the best. Before there were Spartans, before there was MJOLNIR, before there was the 30 year war with the Covenant, we were the best there was. I, personally, used to be ONI's number one agent. No doubt about it, anyone they sent me after was as good as dead. Admiral Parangosky used to think of me as her own personal angel of death, I heard that myself, and quite honestly, I liked it. We were dependable, we were professional, we were the best there was. Now we're a raggedy bunch of aging helljumpers, going from job to job.
I'm feeling pretty down, not quite depressed, but I've been better. When my drink comes, some obnoxious green fizzy stuff, I gladly start downing it ASAP. I don't know what it is, but least it's strong. I have a suspicion it might be watered down absinthe. After all these years, I don't care what I'm drinking, just as long as I can get drunk.
Christ, I've become my mother.
"Anyways," Tommy says, shaking off whatever's been keeping him down, "you were telling me about your time on Infinity."
"Yeah… You said you've heard about it before?" I ask, curiously.
"Oh sure, boss, everybody's heard about Infinity. Biggest ship there's ever been, as big as a city, or so they say. That's where they got all those new Spartans on. I can't believe you got on it!"
"Yeah." I murmur, zoning out again. I can't help but think of everything I saw of S-deck. New Spartans, new technology, really impressive. I know we could never be replaced, but…. It kind of feels like I am.
"Hey Micky, did we used to know a Zane?" Tommy asks unexpectedly, out of the blue.
"Who?"
"Ilsa Zane. Sound familiar?" He repeats.
"Uh… No, doesn't ring any bells. Sorry." I answer, a bit confused. I don't have the greatest memory to be honest, but I'm pretty certain I've never known any "Zane."
"Yeah, thought not." He concludes, satisfied.
"Why?"
"I'll tell you later. Anyways, about Infinity, tell me about that. What's the story?"
"Yeah, they've got me stationed there, working for some pushover named Lasky. He wasn't a player in the game before. They've got quite a cast of characters on Infinity, that fucking thing… Hey, think you could run some names for me?" I ask. We're ONI, it's our job to know everything there is to know about everything important. "See if you can dig up some dirt on them? I've got a list."
"Sure thing boss," Tommy replies happily. If there's anyone I trust with the intelligence work, it would be him. He's the educated one, and he's got a crew of the most talented, thorough and reliable intelligence analysts in the office. "We can help. So I guess you're not too happy about being on Infinity, huh?"
"No. I'm not." I admit.
"What's wrong?"
"I almost died when I got thawed out today." I tell him plainly. I don't actually know what day it is, but I don't care. I stopped worrying about what day was after spending more time in cryo than any normal human being ever should, became part of my job on a regular basis. "Never happened to me before."
"Really? You were dying?"
"Yeah, bleeding from my eyes. Felt like had another lobotomy." I inform him very factually. I nonchalantly sip my green drink as if it's nothing to worry about. When there's nothing left but ice, I ask for something different.
"That's funny." Tommy says, with narrowed brows, and a puzzled look on his face. "Because you were supposed to get thawed out along with everyone else for the-"
"New Phoenix incident." I finish his sentence for him. "Yeah, I heard they brought everyone back for that."
As ONI's most loyal, dependable and brutally devoted enforcer corps, we're called upon in the UNSC's times of greatest need. They needed us for the war with the Covenant, so we were there. On Admiral Parangosky's word, the whole unit could be activated in only the most desperate, urgent situations. It's only ever happened twice: New Mombasa, and the New Phoenix Incident. I personally made a combat drop into New Mombasa in 2552 because Admiral Parangosky asked me to. But this time, though, this time something was different. Like I said, things have changed, and anyone as stubborn as I am hates change, and the new management we have now.
"Yeah, on CINCONI's orders." Tommy grumbles, and his posture worsens.
"Admiral Osman?" I ask, a name we're all familiar with. "You mean her?"
"Yeah." He says. "After she took over, well, things haven't been too good."
"I know," I tell him reassuring, "I got a new assignment on Infinity. It's all about that new Spartan program... Which reminds me why I came to talk to you- I had a meeting with Admiral Osman today, you know, about the whole dying thing, and she gave me my next assignment. Oh we had a very informative conversation."
From the look on my face, Tommy can tell I don't have any good news for him. I pinch my next drink that's arrived between my trigger finger and my thumb and lift it off the counter. A short, wide glass filled with oversized chunks of crystal ice and sparkling green liquid, it must be some kind of green apple thing. Not bad, but definitely a drink that belongs in a club like this.
"It went that well, huh?"
"Yeah. It went so well it's driven me to alcoholism."
He laughs. I can always make him laugh. "I'm sure you've got quite a story to tell, Micky… Care to share it with the rest of us?"
I drink from the straw in the corner of my mouth, pushed to one side by the grin that's unexpectedly twisted on my face. A small, contained laugh on my tongue catches me off-guard.
"Buy me a drink first."
My flight landed on the pad some time during the day, though when exactly I didn't know. I felt the deck lurch and shake beneath my boots as the wheels touched down, and the pelican's frame settled on the landing gear. The angry whirring of the engines died down from a howling roar, to more of a droning whistle, and the ramp lowered. I sat relaxed in my black uniform, I felt at home in the bay of a pelican after all these years.
Bravo-6, ONI headquarters in Sydney. A real fortress, dark, monolithic blast walls tower over the surroundings. The defenses are practically impenetrable, manned here and there by skeptic, paranoid gunmen with itchy trigger fingers. I remember a time when I didn't need to show any ID card to get past security, I could just walk through the front, no questions asked. Of course, I have to now.
I made my way through the lobby, eyed by security from all directions. I let them stare as much as they wanted; someone who's been around as long as I have doesn't care. I've been around way longer than anyone in the building. I walked in like I owned the place. I didn't strut, of course, that's not my style, but I was confident. Most people who ended up in Bravo-6 had been summoned by powers greater than themselves, and it always showed on their face, nervous, worried, on edge. But not me, I was as familiar with this building as I was with a pelican. I said hello to old George when I passed by Washington Crosses the Delaware, the painting they've had up for as long as I can remember.
I already knew where to go. I blew past the receptionist without a second thought, through the door, and down the hall. After I passed security, I had a clear shot at where I was going next.
The thing about ONI facilities is that they're mostly underground. I didn't take the VIP elevator, I prefer to use my own two feet. Not like there's much choice at Bravo-6, though. A long, sloping ramp, a barely noticeable decline, made up most of the corridor I found myself in. A long, silent walk, kilometers even, just one long tunnel lit only by the dull lights overhead, paced evenly like streetlamps. The whole thing reminded me of The Andromeda Strain, or the ancient Diefenbunker from centuries ago. A normal person wouldn't have noticed, but I already knew the long walk was actually an illusion, meant to help people forget they're kilometers underground.
Shock absorbing structural integrity, EMP shielding, and more than three kilometers of solid rock in all directions. This was the safest place on Earth, and for good reason. Someone very important lives there.
After an eternity on foot, the lights on the ceiling and the sides of the corridor dimmed, and I was in the home stretch. At the end, I saw the set of closed door I've passed through a million times before, guarded by two black uniforms. Likely veteran ODSTs, they both held suppressed M-7s, lowered but ready. Each one undoubtedly held a cold bullet sleeping dormant in its nest, ready for anyone who so much as twitched the wrong way. One wrong move, and they'd cut me down in a heartbeat. No questions, no hesitation, no regret, just a dead agent and a bloody mess to clean up. The two guards at the door looked normal enough, though, not like the crazies I've seen posted there before. The guy on the right though, he was something else.
I know a gangster when I see one. People sometimes tell me I look like a triad, what with all the scars I have on my face. This guy, though, he definitely looked like a Mafioso. He had a massive scar on his jaw, something like a "Glasgow smile," almost impossible to miss. We made eye contact, I with him. He wasn't bad looking, but I could already tell he didn't like being looked at. He eyed me with contempt.
I smiled faintly. When he saw my scars, the checkmark shaped one on the left side of my jaw, we both knew there was nothing to talk about. I know some people are very self-conscious about their scars, the way it changes how you look, but I always thought they added character. One of the reasons I didn't trust Commander Palmer when I saw her. No scars.
I breezed by the two, a simple smile and a nod as I passed by, though the door and into the room. Old room. A room I've spent years in. Of course, it hadn't changed much after all these years. A dim overhead light above the large desk filled the room with a comfortable tone, and a fake "window" to my right cast a bright, sterile light through the drawn shades. I've seen it before; they use it to trick people into believing they're above ground, maybe on a high floor in a skyscraper, not buried underground. Through the half-drawn shades, I saw Sydney's skyline, the forest of building, the harbor, and the opera house. It always seemed to be in this office. Not much had changed around these parts, even after all these years. Except for the lady in the chair. She was new.
"Serin." I called her by her first name. She'd been expecting me. "I hear you're an Admiral now. I remember when you were this tall." I said, and passive-aggressively held a hand next to my holster, empty of the sidearm that had it had been denied. It sounded strange saying that. Hell, she looked older than I did.
Admiral Serin Osman, personal understudy and protégé to the former head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, Margaret Parangosky, I'd learned about her passing on my flight over. Now, with Big Maggie gone, Osman was the one trusted with me and my services. But not just me, my friends too.
"Micky," she smiled, "good to see you're ready for duty." She was a nice person if you knew her, but there was just something about way she spoke. Her voice had a sort of icy, calculated cadence to it. Like she was half con artist, half serial killer.
I shifted on my feet in front of her desk, crossed my arms. "So it's official, huh? Old lady Parangosky kicked the bucket, and you're in charge now?" I always thought of Admiral Parangosky as a friend, not someone to be feared, like everyone else. Which is not to say I didn't respect her, I just didn't think she was terrifying.
"Looks that way."
"And I hear one-one-seven's dead too. Is that true?" I asked, harsh and cruel. It was no secret I wasn't too fond of the Spartans. She didn't give me an answer, but I assumed the master chief was dead anyways.
I knew Serin had been a Spartan-II once, one of the program's many dropouts. She was forced to quit when Dr. Halsey's bullshit surgeries almost killed her. She's still a Spartan though, trained with the best of them. They were a tight group, the Spartans, brothers and sisters. But the Master Chief was always the favorite son.
My tone didn't betray my opinion, though. I held no love for the Spartans. I didn't admire them, or look up to them, or dream of being them. I had no illusions. I'd often looked around myself as every marine in the corps gazed longingly into 117's golden visor. I have no idea why, but they all seemed to worship him for some reason. He was everyone's favorite, the special one, special to Halsey, special to all the other Spartans. I never understood why. It was no secret the only reason he excelled was because he was the luckiest, even Halsey knew that. I'm a soldier, a professional, a veteran ODST. I've been doing this job for years, and I never needed no damn Spartans to get my job done for me. If you're a soldier, and you rely on luck of all things, you have no fucking business holding a rifle.
"Oh, that's just too bad." I mocked, condescendingly. The guy didn't even have a fucking face, and he was the poster boy. I never understood why they wanted to replace us ODSTs. We're the ones who actually have faces. But then again, I guess that's exactly the problem. "So, Osman, want to know how I've been lately?"
"Oh I'm sure you'll tell me." She replied. Her voice kept a sort of reserved detachment to it, hidden behind a wolf's smile. There was always something about the way she looked, the way she spoke, like she was dying to tell me I'd been poisoned.
"I got thawed out today, as per your orders, woke up on Infinity. I got your assignment, and I've been dodging your hatchet men ever since."
"And you came here just to talk to me?"
"I woke up this morning and started bleeding from my eyes. That's never happened before. You got something you want to tell me?" I demanded impatiently. I know I've been paranoid before, but I suspected Osman had tried to kill me in my sleep. Everyone Admiral Parangosky wanted ghosted; I ghosted them, reliably and efficiently for years. ONI's most valuable asset, I was indispensable because I was the best, and the leader of ONI's ghosts. But after Osman was put in charge, she'd have been given access to our battle records. What's in there is enough to make anyone want to kill me and erase me from the universe.
The things I did ages ago make the stuff Osman's done look like a party.
"I'm sure it will pass." She assured me. "You're not as young as you used to be, you know. And you've been away for far too long."
"And now you've brought me back to work for you on Infinity?" Even then, I knew I sounded like a jerk. "You think you can control the ghosts? You're playing with fire, Osman. You can't be serious."
"Believe me, I am quite serious, and you should be too."
"And now you've got me working for those jokers? We both know I shouldn't be working under them. And I sure as hell don't plan on being a Spartan."
Osman pivoted in her chair and crossed her arms. She gave me this look that just said: Oh really? Why?
"The Spartan program is over-rated." I said, dead serious, poised with my hands defiantly on my hips. "It was back then, and it is now. But everyone throws the word around like it holds the weight of the entire human race."
"You'll think differently when you're a Spartan."
"You're not making me a Spartan." I protested. "You of all people should know that."
"You should be grateful, Micky. You've been given a chance to continue a proud UNSC tradition." She said, passive-aggressively. I could tell she didn't like me. I played a part of the SPARTAN-II program when I was working for Admiral Parangosky.
"Oh for crying out loud," I kept shifting on my feet, "all you Spartans think you had such a fucking terrible childhood. You should have seen where I grew up." I know it sounds strange, I knew all about the Spartan-II program, but I still meant it.
I lost my parents when I was very young. I had to leave home. I grew up on the streets. I was an only child, and the only family I knew was dead and gone, and I couldn't rely on anyone but myself. Just me and my oversized steak knife that I took from our kitchen, just a kid, up against the world, even at night, even when I started losing my vision in the cruel, unforgiving night.
I was stuck in that god damn horrible part of life that no one ever considers: limbo. The way I lived, all I had to live on, it was my own personal hell. It was purgatory. Too little to live on, too much to die on.
So I guess I don't look up to the Spartans like everyone else. Because I learned a long time ago, in a dark, forgotten city alley, bloody, ragged, starving and alone: I could never depend on anyone but myself. I learned not to scream when I was scared. I learned that no one comes when you cry. I learned that when you need help, you need to help yourself. I never asked for help from anyone, I couldn't, I just had to keep myself breathing. Dodging the superintendent, a worthless myopic piece of shit, it was just as blind as I was. I was able to stay hidden in that city for over a year, living on my own.
Of course, then there was the orphanage. That fucking place was more like a corporate prison than a charity. Parangosky found me, she took me off the streets when I was 14, and I've been in the program ever since. I know for sure I was seen as one of the prototypes for the Spartan-II program, me and the other street kids.
Before anyone could say another word, I went blind. I completely lost my vision, or at least that's what I thought had happened. Everything just went dark, but not completely dark, though, more of a dark blue.
"That's no way to speak to a lady." A disembodied voice said seemingly out of nowhere. Male voice. The strange thing was that it didn't seem to come from anywhere, it was just there.
I took a step back. "What the fuck?" I said out loud, not exactly out of surprise, more like a frustrated curse. I dialed in on the object that had obstructed my vision, but it was hard to understand what it was. It took a while for my brain to understand what exactly it was I was looking at, like an optical illusion. A three dimensional object, a dark blue cube, seemed to hover motionlessly in the air directly in front of me at eye level. It had colour, but it seemed to have small, almost unnoticeable pixels on it's surface, like a holographic projection.
"You should show the Admiral a little more respect." Said the voice again, the same one I'd heard before. It seemed to be coming from the cube. "This far underground, you're exponentially more likely to disappear, or rather get disappeared. You've already saved us the trouble of burying you."
Osman seemed to catch on to my confusion. She casually waved a hand in front of the scene before her. "Micky, this is our friend BB." The avatar seemed to bounce and then spin in place at the mention of its name, as if to say "that's me," in its own annoyingly cheerful way.
"What's that supposed to stand for? Blue-Box?"
"It's Black-Box, actually." The AI retorted. He sounded snappy.
Osman took that as her cue to speak up again, since she saw that I needed someone to explain. She stood up from her desk and stepped to the side for a better line of sight, since BB had materialized directly in front of my face. "BB here doesn't believe in masquerading as something he's not, as I'm sure you can see. He prefers to reveal himself to us as what he really is: pure intelligence."
"A black box?" I asked, rhetorically. I'd sort of caught on by now, though I didn't have the heart to tell him that an aircraft's flight recorder isn't actually black, and that it's normally orange.
"Now you're getting it." The thing condescended from its avatar. "Look, Serin, he's learning!"
"That's the best you could come up with? A box?" I mocked the AI back. The passive-aggressive tension was so thick in the air it was as if I could feel it dripping from the walls.
"Faces are for wannabes." BB declared. Somewhere deep in his voice I heard pride.
So that's how it's going to be. I instantly stopped paying attention to the avatar in the room and turned to face the corner to my right, craning my neck up to look at the black sphere of a camera embedded in the ceiling there. I remembered AIs use cameras to see, that's where their real presence is, they only show their avatar to give us meatbags something to focus on. This was the equivalent of me looking him in the eye. "Can't be too smart, I can wear black and you can't." I learned a long time ago I could usually freak out AIs like this. In truth, I could understand where BB was coming from. He had a strong sense of self identity, like me when it came to the Spartans.
Speaking of Kilo-5, I turned back to Osman in a heartbeat and started up a new discussion without breaking stride.
"So, Osman, word is you're the one who sold this "Jul 'Mdama" guy his weapons."
That took her by surprise. "How do you-" She began to ask, before I cut her off.
"We are the ghosts, Admiral Osman, it's my job to know." I stated, and put my hands on my hips like I often do. Osman may have been promoted to the head of ONI while I was frozen, but make no mistake; the ghosts have been the blood in ONI's veins for over a lifetime. We own every piece of intel that comes through this office. I was able to get myself caught up during the flight over, with help from Tommy's people. I may not have the talents that Tommy and his people have, I was a field agent instead, but I'd learned everything there is to know about Kilo-5's record: They supplied the elites with weapons after the war to arm an uprising in their caste system, and keep their civil war going long enough for us to come in and give them the push they needed after they'd dug their own graves. Because that always works; supplying the enemy with weapons. Yeah, that never goes wrong.
It was Osman's turn to get the so that's how it's going to be look on her face. I knew I'd killed the chances at a friendly conversation before I ever set foot in Sydney. "Oh, I see."
"And that's what you've brought me back to do, is it? That's what you've got me on Infinity for, to kill this "Jul 'Mdama" character and his 'splinter' guys? It's not my job to clean up your mess, Serin." I said. Whether or not I sounded like a jerk, I wanted to put that out there.
"This is not a clean-up operation, Micky." Osman said, short. I heard she was beginning to get cross with me. "But if it helps, you can think of this is your chance to do some good for once, set the record straight."
"Jesus Christ, Osman, ever since Halsey, ever since you took over, you and the rest of those Kilo-Five losers became the fucking morality police!" I said, like a scornful old lady.
"And just who do you think has had to clean up your mess after everything you and the rest of those psychopaths that call yourselves 'the ghosts' have done in ONI's name?" Osman snapped right back. Yeah, she was done. She made for her desk again, casually walking over to take a seat. Whether or not she had a gun there, I didn't know, but if she did she could have easily killed me, no doubt about it. "They call us 'organized crime in uniform' for a reason. Because of everything the people like you have done. You and the previous administration have had your turn to drive the Office of Naval Intelligence's name into the ground. And I'm not sorry to say I'll be putting an end to your rampant killing spree."
"Is that what this is, me on Infinity? What if I refuse?" I challenged.
"Are you aware of just how many people this office has ghosted, Micky?" There is was, the killer's voice again.
"You're goddamn right I am." I seethed. "Parangosky might have had a reputation for ghosting people, but who do you think it was who ghosted them?"
"Yes, Micky, you're a regular Keyser Söze. In which case, you should know just what happens to soldiers who abandon their posts." Osman said, official again.
So, that's how it's going to be, was the loudest and clearest though in my again. It just played on repeat over and over again as I weighed my options. I didn't have many.
"Rules of engagement?" I asked, finally. I had run out of options until I had only one left. "I got your assignment, I just want to know the mission parameters."
"Like I said on file, you can have anyone you want for this assignment, but the ghosts are absolutely off-limits. Understand?" Osman folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, back at home base again.
"And what's going to happen to the others?" I asked. I felt like I had to, but wish I hadn't.
That's when Osman dropped a bomb on me. "As of one week ago, the Office of Naval Intelligence's enforcer corps was ordered out of cryo stasis and brought to full standing force. The ghosts are once again at full strength and available for tasking."
It took a second for that to finally sink in, but it eventually hit home… Like a car crash. I was stunned. My heart might have clutched and come to skidding halt in my chest, but I was so taken off guard I couldn't even tell. I don't even know if those were her exact words, but they might have been something along those lines.
"W- Wait... You did what?!" I asked, eyes wide in shock.
"Yes, everyone's been thawed out, even you." Osman repeated, oblivious to the problem. "Now the ghosts are once again at full strength, although you'll be working on something else, obviously."
"Osman, you are way out of line here." I insisted, no longer focused on trying to have a pissing match with Osman or BB. I was more genuinely concerned with the situation at hand. Admiral Osman, the new head of ONI, had brought out every last killer we'd kept in cryo stasis for years. Anything short of the reckoning paled in comparison to the kind of hell I had just learned had been unleashed. We had some real fucking whackjobs in there. The average ghost is the most elite killer in the Corps, but the majority of the ones we were keeping on ice, the ones that had been around from the first generation, my generation, are the absolutely most dangerous human beings alive. Unbreakable, unfazeable war veterans, and the most psychopathic stone-cold murderers this side of Valhalla. Not to mention a lot of ex girlfriends.
Something wicked this way comes…
"No, actually, I don't believe I am." Osman stated plainly, before the door opened behind me and the two guards entered, hefting their weapons lowered but ready. I didn't turn around, but I knew they were taking up positions to flank me, ready to raise their weapons and gun me down, cold. "Now, Micky, I believe you have some work to do."
The guards took a step toward me. Time to go, I had worn out my welcome a few dozen insults ago. I left without an argument, the guards each took one of my arms as I was turning to leave. I shrugged them off, and walked out on my own. Osman had the last word.
"Congratulations, Micky, now it's your turn to become a Spartan."
Tommy listens as I tell him the whole story. He doesn't ask any questions or interrupt, he just listens as silently and as patiently as I need him to be.
"Wow." He finally says, as if he's so stunned he can't find the right words, but he's gonna try anyways. The bartender comes over to take away what I think was my fifth drink, but I lost count when I was telling Tommy about my Sydney encounter. Not that I've been drinking that much, I just didn't bother keeping score. I didn't even get drunk anyways.
"So… Big Maggie's really dead, huh?" Tommy asks almost apologetically. He keeps his shoulders hunched and his head hung low, looking at me sideways with a depressing expression. He looks disheartened, when he looks at me with a sideways glance I can see just how serious he is. He used to know Admiral Parangosky when she was alive. He looks like he's not completely sure he wants to know the truth.
"Looks like it." I give him my answer.
That's not what he wanted to hear. He gives a dry, stressed, small laugh; He'll shrug it off for now and let it hurt later. "You know, Harper bet a hundred credits they put Admiral Parangosky on ice in the basement somewhere. Is that true?"
Yeah, that would be Harper. I honestly have no idea if ONI's got Admiral Parangosky Walt Disney'd in the basement somewhere, but it's not unthinkable. Most of us in The Ghosts are cryogenically preserved to elongate our lives in the service. Especially us from the first generation, we're valuable assets. They say they keep me around because I've got a rare talent, a killer instinct that's hard to find, they can't afford to have me wasting time living, aging. Up until recently I've spent near all my waking moments fighting and killing. I've gotten to be over a hundred this way, with the body of a 29 year old. So maybe Parangosky really is in cryogenic stasis, kept alive until we find a way to conquer death...
"No comment." I answer, like one of those clueless corporate suit-and-tie fuckwits when they're put on the spot in front of a camera. That makes him laugh a little, me too. But the laughter soon dies out, leaving us both in silence again. We stay like that for a while, not saying anything to one another. I'm comfortable with silence, but if I don't speak up, no one will.
"They want to make me a Spartan, Tommy."
"Yeah."
"They're going to. It's going to happen. The surgeries, the augmentations, they'll change me."
"I know." He reassures me.
"It'll change me forever." I drive. This is nothing new, we already had this discussions forever ago. We asked all the important questions before; with the Orion project. We talked all about the moral dilemmas we'd faced back then. If we were to permanently change someone, to turn them into something beyond a normal person, bend their body to the cause, and turn them into a war machine for our purpose... Don't we have a moral obligation to prepare them for that? If a person is willing to sacrifice themselves to the cause, shouldn't we make sure they're prepared to spend their live the rest of their life as something different than what they were born? To never feel normal again?
They had fun with their little collective consciences with that one. I found it amusing watching all those directors on the board mull it over. As if they knew what they were talking about.
"Did you hear what that scumbag, Musa Zero-Nine-Six said about the Spartans?" Tommy mentions, bringing up another name I'm unfamiliar with.
"Who?"
"Musa-Ninety-Six" He repeats.
"Am I supposed to know who that is, too?" I ask rhetorically. "What, was he a Spartan?" I remember that the number 96 would be a Spartan-Two designation. He must be retired, I'd think they all are by now.
"Yeah," Tommy confirms, "did you hear what he said about the Spartans?"
"No, what's this guy done to get you so upset?" I ask rhetorically, mocking him.
"He said that it was them who saved humanity, that 'we would not be here were it not for Spartans.' He thinks we need them to save us." Tommy says, in massively exaggerated air quotes.
I shrug like I don't care. "Well, what do you expect? Guys like him and Osman, they've spent their whole lives as Spartans. It's all they've ever know, what else are they going to think? Can't blame them for that." I tell him very understandingly.
"Yeah, well did you hear what that bitch Halsey said about the Spartans?"
"No, what's she done this time?" I laugh. Oh that Doctor Halsey.
"She says that 'her' Spartans are, 'humanity's next step, our destiny as a species.'"
Okay, that actually pisses me off. Because Halsey makes it sound like what she did was evolution, and it's not. Evolution takes billions of years, all she did was abduct some kids and try to play God. As if anyone who's not a Spartan is just more fucking evolved than everyone else. Still, I'm not about to get too upset over it. I just shrug again, and sip my last round, the one I've been waiting for; a piña colada, the real vacation drink.
"So you're going to go through with it?" Tommy says. He sounds half unsure, but also like he knows beyond a doubt I'm gonna say no.
"Sure I am." I give him my answer. It's his turn to hear something shocking.
"What? Why?" He demands.
"Orders are orders, Tommy."
"You don't have to accept them this time, you know." He says.
"Well, this comes down from Osman, and she sits on the right hand of God. So yeah, I'm doing this." I say with finality. I'm not one of those "do whatever it takes," or "finish the mission at all costs" losers. I think it's fun to watch those guys die. I've never lived with that mindset, that's just what those guys tell themselves to make them believe that they've got something useful to live for. Yeah, make yourself useful and stand in front of me. Which is not to say I'm a deserter or a coward, I've put in more than enough years to earn the right to brain anyone who dares call me that, and it's not that I can't commit either, I don't give up easily, I'm probably the most stubborn sonuvabitch in the whole lot of us. I've just never seen any point in throwing my life away. Call it selfish, but I always thought that I could contribute more to the war effort if I'm actually alive to do it, and I'm still here.
"You could always resign," Tommy offers, "quit and find a new job."
"Yeah right, what am I gonna do?" I ask.
"You could always teach kung fu or something."
"I told, you I had a Sensei, not a Shifu."
"Yeah, whatever." Tommy says dismissively. I swear to God I'm going to hit him if he says same thing. I still remember my old Sensei; the only old man who would take me in, even before Parangosky did. Everything I learned about fighting, I owe to him. He didn't just teach me how to fight, he taught me how to survive. I got two of my tattoos back when I was his youngest student.
"You could be a pilot." Tommy offers.
"I'm too stupid to be a pilot." I say, truthfully. It's only after I've said it that I realize I shot that one down really fast. Tommy laughs it off and waves a hand as if to disagree, but we both know he's the smart one here.
"You could be a mercenary," he offers again, "work for the private sector. I bet that would be good for you, a lot of folks are switching over these days. You might end up escorting someone important."
"Mercenary just isn't my style." I say, although it's true I used to be a bodyguard. Parangosky was a close friend, I used to be her chauffeur and personal escort. She reassigned me after I shot a cab driver. After that I went on to intelligence gathering.
"I suppose doing paper work in an office is out of the question?" Tommy asks delicately, as if trying to not sound intrusive.
"Absolutely." I answer immediately. Boy, Tommy's really going through the list.
"Didn't you say you wanted to be a paramedic at some point?" He asks, and points a finger. "Maybe save some lives, be someone's hero?"
"Nah." I tell him. "That doesn't sound like any fun."
"Well think, Micky, there's gotta be something else you'd be good at." He insists.
"Aww, Tommy, you know that's not true." I try to dissuade him. I have no idea why Tommy wants to help me find a new job, but it's not going to work.
"Come on, haven't you ever thought about doing something else?" He asks.
"To be honest?... Not really." I tell him the truth. "I mean look at me, what else have I got besides this? Where am I gonna to go? What am I gonna do? This is all I do, this is all I've got, this is all I know how to do, this is all I've ever done."
"So you're not even curious? Why not?"
"Come on Tommy, I love my job. Think about it, I get paid to kill people." To tell the truth, I don't know what else I can do, or what else I could do if I wasn't doing this. This job is all I've ever known since I was a barely a teenager, for most of us this was the greatest opportunity we've ever had in our lives. We got benefits, a steady job, health insurance, dental, home, auto, life insurance, a retirement plan, everything I could ever need. For most of us, we got the help we needed, and I was eternally grateful. I pledged my life to Parangosky, and the service.
I've lived a long life, and I've done more than I could ever wish for. It's true that I've had many roles in my life, and I've done so much over the years. I've been a soldier, a murderer, a shock trooper, a combat medic, a war hero, a lifesaver, a specialist, a bodyguard, a spy, a field agent. Once, even a prizefighter. "I could never walk away from this."
"So you're gonna do the job?"
"Damn right."
We laugh and clink our glasses together. I may not know exactly what's in my future, but I do know that there will be fighting. I'm looking forward to it.
"You gonna need a piece?" Tommy asks as he looks down and notices my empty holster.
"No, I'll be fine." I answer honestly. It's only after I say that, that I realize that I do need help, or that I will need some time down the road. Osman said no drawing from the ghosts, and she is the boss, but I know there's a way to do this. "Gonna need some help, though."
Tommy doesn't look too sure about that. He looks like he's struggling to say something he doesn't want to say, and face something he already knows. "We're not what we used to be."
"I know."
"There's not many of us left." He depressingly admits.
"I know."
Good people are hard to come by. Of course, we keep the fresh meat and the crazies too whacked out to tie their own bootlaces frozen in the basement, and we shamelessly use them as meat shields for our own purpose. But the experienced ones, the sharp ones, like my friends, are a finite resource. There was a time we used to deploy up to 30 taskforces when we were at full strength. But those days are over.
"We're losing people faster than the next generation's coming in." Tommy confesses as he looks as if he's going to be sick, and very, very disappointed. "New jobs keep coming in and our numbers keep getting thinner. And on top of that, we've got more and more agents going rogue every day."
Damn. Ghosts going rogue are a special brand of Pandora's box. Rogue elements from our unit would be more dangerous and deadly than imaginable, and definitely impossible to stop for anyone else but us. I've run the scenario through my head more than countless times before; killers break away and become splinters, chaos elements, uncontrollable and unpredictable, and always costly when it comes to deploying assets. It's not hard for me to imagine my brothers in arms hunting and gunning each other down, if just for the blood, but that's not as likely anymore. Now that we're under new management and not Admiral Parangosky, I'm sure the more agents dispatched to round up the rogues, the more rogues there will be. Cannibalistic, self-destructive behavior. Osman is trying to spend us all. She wants us gone.
But that's not going to happen.
"I know. And I'm sorry, Tommy, I really am. I wish I there was another way, but there isn't. I need this job. And I need your help."
He looks straight on and sits quietly, thinking. He doesn't say anything for a long, long time, longer than I'm comfortable with. If he's not talking then it's a bad sign, and I know he's smarter than me. Then, he finally says the words that get me off the edge. "Alright." He exhales. "I'll see what I can put together for you."
"Also, gonna need a tech crew."
"I can help you with that." He promises me. "Well, not me personally, but I can give you my guys."
I nod in agreement as a few people I know walk over to the bar. One of them rests his hand on my shoulder. "And boss, I get it if you're just playing along with Osman for now, but this whole becoming a Spartan thing… Are you absolutely sure you want go along with this?"
I shrug. "They want to make me a Spartan? Fine." I ask rhetorically, and raise my piña colada up to my lips. I give him my final answer in a whisper very quietly, and very purposefully.
"I'll be the best fucking Spartan they're ever seen."
And there we have it, another chapter done, and I'm afraid I have some bad news. This is the last chapter that's going to be published in what's probably going to be a long, long, time. I sincerely hate to do this, but I'm still writing and editing more of Crimson, which is going slowly but I want it to be perfect, so I promise to not give up on this one. I'm sorry, this was never supposed to take this long, if it had all gone according to plan I'd be done already, but there's no point in getting hung up on it now. Anyways, I'm just saying it might be a while, so for now...
-Peace