"Chimera's performance to date?"
"Satisfactory. They're still third in the standings, four weeks in. Chidinma's flight scores are keeping them in the running. Rashid's technical aptitude scores too. Platinum we expected to be good, but Trident are proving to be the real surprise."
"'Satisfactory'. You promised us that the Chimera candidates would be exceptional."
"And they are. But they are competing with exceptional people, Sir; many of whom have real military experience. Give them time."
"They've had time. Ten years and counting. In the same time we could have outfitted an entire armoured division, for about half the cost. Your belief had better not be misplaced, Director."
"Chimera will deliver, Sir, I have faith."
"I hope you have more than that, Director. Ask the Covenant: faith doesn't win wars."
"No, Sir: Spartans do."
- transcript recorded from [REDACTED] Committee Meeting, January 2557 (retrieved 2561)
Viktorya stepped into the armoury, absently rubbing at her bruised shoulder. Hand to hand combat drills had been running for most of the morning, and six hours of throws and counter throws had taken their toll. She moved past a rack of MA5B assault rifles stored neatly on a rack, toward where a selection of long range rifles were kept. Here were the precision tools: the designated marksman rifles and the box-scoped anti-material rifles, the precision beam weapons; hard-packed and inert in their plastic-moulded storage casing. The air was thick with gun oil, a metallic petrochemical stink that cloyed at the back of your throat. Viktorya loved that smell.
She heard a scrape behind her.
She wasn't alone in the room. It was one of the members of Fireteam Trident, the comparatively diminutive scout, Suraj. Neatly folded on the table beside him was a worn leather roll-case, containing a series of small sharpening blades, a battered antique compass, and a compact suture kit. Suraj was sharpening the wicked edge of his signature khukuri with one of the sharpening blades. From the look of it, it didn't need any more sharpening. He looked up and offered a polite smile. Like her, Suraj was a man of few words, though polite to a fault. She hadn't noticed him, sitting there in the corner, as quiet as a shadow but for the scrape of the knife.
"Hello, Chimera." he said, scraping the sharpening knife back and forth.
Viktorya nodded at him silently, her eyes on the knife. It was a look of professional appreciation. Suraj noticed her interest and smiled, somewhat bashfully.
"The khukuri. My people have used this weapon for hundreds of years. Do you have a weapon of your own?"
Viktorya simply shook her head. Suraj held it up in the light, turning it. The weapon had a curious forward slant at the front of the blade, almost looking like it had been dented forward. The grip was also leather, well-worn and inscribed with dozens of tiny etchings. Family markings, probably, or religions icons or vows of honour. Their meaning was lost on her.
"It represents more than just a weapon. To the Gurkhas, it is a symbol of our heritage, our honour and martial pride. It reminds us of our place in the universe. Of who we are."
He thumbed the sharp edge of the blade. Blood welled up on his finger, and slid down to two little notches at the base of the blade above the hilt. He looked up at her intently.
"Our edge is sharp."
Viktorya stepped closer to examine the blade. Suraj deftly spun the knife in his hand, offering it to her, pommel first. She took it, testing the weight in her hands.
"Do you see the notches?" he asked, pointing to just above the grip. She nodded.
"They stop the blood from ruining your grip. You do not lose control." Suraj offered a cheerful smile, "An Elite's neck is thick, but not too thick, you understand?"
It was true. The neat droplet of Suraj's blood had slicked down the front of the weapon, welling into the notches as promised. Viktorya nodded in appreciation, before handing the knife back to him. It was only then that she noticed Rebecca standing in the doorway, looking decidedly pale. Suraj continued to study the knife, entirely oblivious.
"You are looking for somebody, Doctor?" Viktorya asked, half glancing aside. The weapon held considerable fascination.
"I was looking for Rashid."
"Armoury." Both Spartans answered in unison, transfixed by the gleaming knife.
Rebecca swallowed and left the two killers to their own devices.
Rashid hissed in frustration as the plasma torque slipped from his fingers, hitting the deck with a hollow metallic clank. The Chief Armour Engineer, Park, grinned and handed it back up to him. Rashid was half suspended in an Armour Assistant chassis; his lower body still encased, his powerful upper body exposed from the shoulders up. The chest plate hung loosely off his torso, the seals half-popped. The Armour Assistant's servo-limbs were folded back and inert, like the legs of a dead spider. With his feet locked in the restraint stirrups, the standard issue Army field engineer kit was distressingly just beyond reach.
This wasn't the first time Park had stooped to retrieve the torque.
"You know, strictly speaking, you're not even supposed to be meddling with your armour. That's the machine's job."
"Perhaps."
"I'm sensing a 'but' here."
"… but if I'm going to be wearing this into combat, I want to make it mine. To know how it works. How it can be improved."
"Gen 2's bleeding edge. Hard to improve."
"Everything can be improved, my good man; it's simply a question of persistence."
"Mhm, I'll bet." Park replied amiably, "Torch-cutter?"
"Please."
The echoes of Rebecca's flat shoes against the gantry sounded comically tiny compared to the reverberating clang of the passing Spartans. She ducked amongst them, feeling all the while like a child cutting across the crowded dance floor of a particularly bulky wedding. A particularly sterile, monstrous wedding. She found Rashid, half trussed up in the Armour Assistant. Pieces of discarded armour (and fallen tools) littered the gantry floor. Rashid had one arm locked up in a servo-restraint. The other was stabbing a sparking torch into the wrist guard of the tethered hand, attempting to prise away a seal that evidently wouldn't be prised.
"Rashid?" she called out.
The torch-cutter tinged as it clattered to the deck. Rashid swore violently, then glanced up. Shock lifted his eyebrows.
"Doctor Pearson!" he smiled sheepishly.
Park wordlessly retrieved the torch-cutter and stood to one side. Chimera's personal shrink was something of an oddity to on-base personnel, and not the kind of oddity Park had any interest in getting himself mixed up in.
"Hi Rashid," Rebecca said, looking up at the trussed up Spartan, "Do you have a moment?"
"He's a bit tied up at the moment." Park remarked.
"Very droll, Mr. Park." Rashid glowered, "Can you give us a moment?"
The technician shrugged, punching a button on the side of the Armour Assistant which released Rashid from his restraint clamps. The tech offered a single magnanimous bow, then made himself scarce on the far side of the chamber. The Spartan stepped down from the chassis, sparing a moment to scowl at the treacherous tool box Park had left behind.
"How can I help you, Doctor? Another story perhaps? Perhaps a game of chess?"
"I was hoping you might be able to do me a favour, Rashid."
"Ah, a favour." Rashid smiled wickedly, "Far more dangerous. One moment."
Rashid retrieved his helmet from magnetic holding restraint of the Armour Assistant. He glanced up at the observation deck, then reached for a plasma cutter. He made a subtle adjustment to something inside the GUNGIR system's helmet seal. The cutter flared once, and something sparked within the helmet. He wordlessly beckoned to Rebecca, nodding at her data pad. A finger was pressed to his lips, prompting silence. She handed the data pad over, confused. He tapped a series of commands into the slate, the finger movements too fast to follow. Her neural lace abruptly went offline with a descending electronic sigh.
Rashid handed the data pad back to her.
"There."
"You're being monitored?"
"Goodness no, Doctor." Rashid leaned forward, conspiratorially, "We are being monitored. You and I; Civilian and Spartan."
Rashid fixed her with a curious aside glance, the corner of his lip curled in amusement.
"Or did you think the tracking software they installed in your neural lace was simply a welcome gift? Subtle software, certainly, but as always they underestimate me."
Rashid looked pointedly toward the observation walkway. A duo of technicians, broader and muscled than the other armour specialists within the assembly chamber, had suddenly materialised on the walkway. They were staring directly down at the doctor and the Spartan.
"Do you see, Doctor? Speak quickly, we don't have much in the way of time before they get suspicious. You wanted a favour."
"It's Eric. I've been looking into his background."
"And was there anything to find? Quickly now, those men above are watching."
"There's nothing. No service records which aren't redacted, no colony of origin; hell, there's not even a surname attached to his file. Director Carter shut me down, Kaizen too."
"Shocking." Rashied said softly.
"I was hoping for some sort insight. I've dealt with PTSD cases before; there's something about him. Something that happened. I want to know what it was."
"Difficult. Eric is a ghost because he was designed to be a ghost."
"So you can't find out?"
Rashid smiled. There was a gleam in his eye; a dangerous curiosity.
"I said difficult. Not impossible."
The techs had descended a ladder, and were making their way over to them. Rashid spoke quickly, one eye on them.
"Give me two week, Doctor. I'll need to be careful, doubly so now after this. I'll need a data pad with secure access to the UNSC Mil-Link. Not yours, before you ask."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because there may be repercussions." Rashid replied. The overseers were almost at them. One of them called out, sternly.
"Two weeks, Doctor." Rashid repeated. "Go now."
Then he reactivated the listening device inside his helmet. Rebecca switched her data pad back on, doing her best to feign a frown. Acting was not her strong suit. She could feel the technicians collective glare on the back of her neck.
"Gentlemen, was there something you require?" Rashid asked innocently.
"You're conducting unsanctioned tests on classified UNSC war material." one of them frowned, "Explain yourself."
"Gladly, although you'll have to excuse me, Doctor Pearson, but I'm afraid our catch-up shall have to wait: this is about to become rather technical and decidedly tedious."
"I'll take my leave, then." Rebecca smiled, nodding politely at the two techs
Even as she left, Rashid still had the conspiratorial look in his eyes. So the grouchy veteran Spartan has a background blacker than a singularity. The Spartan smiled inwardly as he launched in a thoroughly detailed and somewhat unnecessarily verbose explanation of his armour modifications.
Challenge accepted.
The rifle cracked in his hands. He felt the burring-recoil reverberate through his arm, the kick of the gun against his naked cheek. Heard that satisfying tinkle as bullet casings tumbled to the floor. Smelled that smell of cordite.
The timer buzzed. Damien snapped the barrel of the rifle down and switched magazine, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Within seconds the buzzer sounded again. A trio of new targets popped up down range. Old school cardboard cut-outs, the type used in civilian training programs. Each depicted a snarling alien, pantomime caricatures with glinting fangs and villainous ember eyes.
Not for much longer. Rifle up, snap to target. The rifle kicked once more. Cardboard became splintered mush. Tight spacing in the center mass. Tight groupings at maximum range. Solid marksmanship.
The buzzer sounded a final blurt and the drill ended. Damien placed the BR-85 on the prep table in front of him, rendering it safe and began field stripping the weapon down to its constituent parts. His hands moved fluidly, unscrewing and click-sliding parts free as necessary.
A second series of gunshots rang out, the sound deeper this time. The bark of a DMR sounded out three times. Three matching holes appeared in each of Damien's target's. Head-shots, clean and precise.
Damien doffed his ear protectors, setting them on the table alongside the half-stripped BR-85. He stepped back and looked at the firing booth to his right.
It was one of Fireteam Platinum, judging from the shoulder insignia. The large South African, the one with the trimmed moustache and the scarred, weather-beaten face. His arms were like hams, and the skin inked heavily in tattoos that had stretched out of shape as his body adjusted to the stretching bulk of augmentation. Damien wasn't the best with names, but the distorted Helljumper tattoo told him enough to know that he wasn't a friend.
The brute smiled at him. Though his eyes were broadly hidden by the orange-tinted eye protectors, the smile itself was evidently all teeth.
"Hendric." the taller man nodded.
"Damien."
"You are Chimera's leader, eh?" It wasn't really a question. Like Chidinma, the man's enunciation was clipped and precise. Each syllable was carefully pronounced, but where Chidi's voice was musically delicate, Hendric's was cold and efficient, matching the well-oiled DMR in his hands.
"They say we ought to look out for you boys. That you are not natural."
"They say a lot of things, apparently. Nice shooting."
"Ten years ODST." A glint of icy pride flickered in the man's eyes, "In combat I go for centre mass, but these targets, they are easy to hit you know? Did you serve?"
"No."
"You've never killed?"
"Never."
"So it's true then."
"What is?"
"You Chimera boys. You're some kind of experiment. Abducted children, conscripts. The others are all talking."
"I didn't realise this was an Academy for gossips."
"It's not." An ugly edge entered Hendric's voice. His shoulders tensed as he stood upright, emphasising his towering frame. "But it's not an Academy for freaks either."
"That's quite enough, Hendric." a new voice said behind him. Platinum's Fireteam Leader, Chase, had appeared behind them. Like them he was wearing orange eye protectors and a sleeve suit. Chase dismissed Hendric with a flick of his head.
"Sir." Hendric saluted sharply and disappeared to the weapon checkout desk.
Chase studied him for a moment. The expression in his steely grey eyes was calculating. Damien wasn't sure whether he was being sized up as a potential peer or just another target down range. He imagined it was a bit of both, and did his utmost to hide his surprise at the unintentional compliment.
Chase looked out toward the targets, running his tongue across the top row of his teeth. He chose his words carefully.
"I apologise for Hendric's… bluntness. He's not the most subtle man in the world, but second to none in a firefight. On Calypso I saw him down three Brutes single-handed, using nothing but small arms fire, an anti-tank mine and an entrenchment tool."
"I imagine that kind of experience is what makes him such a charming conversationalist." Damien didn't blink as he met Chase's gaze openly, "Chimera do so love being called freaks."
Chase cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed.
"My point is that Hendrics did all that pre-augmentation. No power armour, no problem. He didn't need a Gen2 combat chassis or a cocktail of gene-enhancement to make him a proper soldier."
"And you're saying we do?"
"I'm saying you're good, but there's better. I've studied the combat logs. There's nascent promise there. But it's doctored; a performance perfected in a lab. On the battlefield, there's no real substitute for combat experience."
Chase handed him a briefing wafer packet. It was one of the wisp-thin paper mission assignments doled out to candidates before
"Your team have been paired with Platinum on the next Op. Escort mission, Tier One Asset." Chase said, "Screw this up for us, and you'll regret it, Chimera."
The blonde Spartan was already gone by the time Damien looked up. Damien's eyes narrowed. The message dispatch crumpled in his fist.
"Likewise."