Then.

They stood at the observation window, shoulder to shoulder. Director Carter had cancelled the bleating assembly alarm. That the infantry were to assemble for orbital embarkation had been made clear enough. Particularly so now that a Stalwart Class Frigate, the UNSC Carpathia, had kissed down on the damp asphalt of the open concourse. It bathed the entire facility in its shadow; running lights pulsing in the fading evening light like blinking stars. Armoured Personnel Carriers loitered at its belly, clustering like suckling pigs. Eric watched it all, his eyes tracking the activity below with the darting quickness of the augmented.

"You leave in twenty minutes, 239. I'll leave force allocation entirely to you."

"Three teams should be sufficient."

"Fifteen Spartans? Isn't that overkill?"

"Prudence, Sir. We're going in blind. I'd rather not take chances."

"Three teams then. You'd better get prepped."

Eric made for the lift. He was halfway there when Director Carter's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Who did you choose?"

Eric turned around.

"Sir?"

"The Fireteams. Who have you chosen?"

Eric considered the question for a moment. He already knew his answer.

"The pick of the litter. Platinum, Trident." Eric paused, "Chimera."

"Chimera? Is that wise, given the mayhem they've caused?"

"It's precisely because that mayhem that I'm want them with us when we hit Granica V."

Idris Carter nodded sagely, satisfied. He pulled a crisp salute.

"Godspeed Spartan. Make sure you bring them home."

Eric returned the salute smartly.

"I intend to, Sir."

That had been two weeks ago. The resulting journey had been uneventful, and the Spartans had spent the time nestled within the central troop hold of the Carpathia. Their billet was large enough for an entire company of soldiers, though the excess bunks had instead been cleared, replaced with Armour Assistant prep stations, crudely soldered onto the deck. The Spartans, long since conditioned to daily struggles and relentless physical training, quickly proved themselves to be poorly suited to dormant inactivity. They grew restless, agitated.

By the third week, each Spartan had adopted their own particular coping rituals to deal with the boredom. Chidinma's was to stare out the view-ports, where the folding webs of light pulsed around the ship's hull. She found it soothing. Down by her side, her hand shook; a very slight tremble.

"Nervous?"

Chidinma looked up, her trance broken. It was one of Trident, a Japanese man by the name of Kazuo. He was slight for a Spartan, and wore a polite smile as he kept a respectful distance. Kazuo was older than she was, but had a youthful nature that stood in sharp contrast to her own regal solemnity. Like her, he was fully armoured up to the neck, though his was a midnight black, streaked with crimson, where hers was the uniform pale blue worn by Chimera.

She looked down at her hand, frowning. Still it quaked.

"Good," Kazuo said, stepping forward, "That makes two of us."

"I did not think I was." Chidinma confessed, "But now I stand here... and my hand; it will not stop. I have not seen war since a little girl. I thought things would be different as an adult. I find myself... worried."

"You're worried? At least you're a pilot. You could always steal a ship if things got to grim. Fly to safety." Kazuo leaned forward, "Besides, it could be a lot worse."

"How so?"

Kazuo smiled conspiratorially.

"A confession: before this, I was a gas station attendant."

She pictured his imposing black armour adorned with an apron, filling up somebody's tank. That made her laugh. Hard.

"Better." he remarked, before making his way up the corridor. Chidinma looked down. She blinked in surprise, a half-smile still frozen on her face.

Her hand was no longer shaking.

"Spartans on deck!"

Eric's footfalls hit the deck plate with reverberating clunks. His crimson body-plate was polished to a mirror sheen, though the pitted dents in its surface told a hundred stories, seldom pleasant. Behind him, three other Spartans followed in his wake: Loic, Chase and Damien. Factory fresh, their armour was similarly polished, and entirely undented.

An awed hush fell across the bridge. All eyes fell upon them. Eric nodded in acknowledgement, once, his golden visor betraying nothing. He presented himself before the captain, saluting crisply.

"Captain Reade."

"Spartan 239. Welcome aboard the Carpathia. Glad you decided to come visit us."

Captain Reade was a matronly woman, mid fifties, with grey hair that was almost white. The flesh of her eyes showed years of strain. Even so, the eyes themselves were kind; there was no sting to her remarks, but you could sense the steel within her. Damien warmed to her instantly, but kept his mouth shut. Eric was talking.

"My teams have unique billeting requirements, Ma'am; I've been focusing on their needs for now, but though it best to introduce ourselves before we commit to the AO. As a matter of courtesy."

"I'm sure." she looked up at the black, white, and blue armoured Spartans standing to the rear. "And these fine gentlemen are?"

Eric stood to one side, gesturing to each of the silent giants in turn.

"Fireteam Leaders Loic Bellard, Chase Keller, and… Damien."

"Damien…?" Captain Reade asked leadingly, eyebrow raised.

Damien paused for a moment, caught out. He never considered using the surname of his adoptive parents; Adams. It didn't fit him.

So instead he smiled politely, though the expression was entirely lost behind the visor.

"Just Damien, Ma'am. Spartan 451 if we're standing on ceremony."

"Well good to have you with us then, Damien." Captain Reade turned back to Eric, "I'll get your boys out to Granica in one piece. We'll be rendezvousing with the UNSC Reliant and Hood upon reversion. ETA is four days. Can your men keep settled until then?"

"Don't worry Ma'am," Eric replied, "I'm sure they'll find ways to amuse themselves."

Days passed.

Rashid stepped out from the Armour Assistant. The paint job was a nano-adhesive paint render, which instantly dried upon re-coating. Rashid's GUNGIR pattern armour, with its bulky face-plate and single eye lens, had been repainted a combination of dark silver-grey and industrial orange on the larger sections of the bodysuit. His own design.

"Awesome." Luke decided, as he watched his friend examine himself on a viewing monitor.

"You always say that." Rashid replied, "You always describe everything as 'awesome'."

"Because everything is awesome." Luke insisted, before he screwed his face up, head cocked to one side, "Except…"

"Except what?"

"Except you kind of look like a forklift truck."

"That's imaginative, coming from the man who coloured his armour grey."

"It's steel, actually, and it blends in with the ship around us. It's practical."

"Well so's my foot up your arse. Besides, we'll be on a planet anyway, you imbecile, I don't see-"

A third voice shushed them.

"Quiet." Viktorya hissed. Her nose was pressed in a book, her legs folded beneath her.

Both Spartans shut up at once.

Viktorya had already painted her armour; a pragmatic digital pattern. Ever the professional, she'd had the Assistant base the design on historical satellite images taken from one of Granica's orbital relay hub. Stay prepared, that was what Father had taught her. She would refine it once she knew where on the planet they were going to be deployed. Until then, she would read.

"What are you reading?" Rashid asked curiously.

"A book."

"I know that, dear. Rare to see paper these days. But which book, do you mind me asking?"

"Intelligence." she grunted.

"That's a tourist guide." Luke pointed out amiably.

"No it is not. It is intelligence guide."

"'A Guide to Granica, by Georgios Georgopoulos." Luke read aloud. "Well that's an unfortunate name."

That got a grin out of Rashid.

"The alliteration is rather ill-advised, I agree. Almost constitutes child abuse, really."

Luke snickered.

"I know, right? Try say it three times fa-"

Luke ducked, fast. The book struck the bulkhead where his head had been moments before.

Viktorya scowled at them both.

"We have a mission soon. You will focus, or it will get you killed."

With that, she got to her feet and stalked from the room. Damien was stepping in the same door as she swept by. He looked at the two other sheepish Spartans. An air of guilt draped the room. Damien reached up and doffed his helmet, unsealing it with a click.

"What's got Vee all riled up?" Damien asked.

"Nerves, I expect." Rashid replied, "Can't say I blame her. It's our first big show; our first real one, in any case. We're all being driven a little scatty. I think I've read just about everything there is to read on this tub."

Luke opened his mouth again.

"Except for the Guide to Granicus by Geo-"

"Can it, Grey. And it's Granica."

Luke looked at Damien in protest.

"Don't look at me, Luke: he's the brains of the operation, not me." Damien replied, "Listen up: briefing is at 0800 hours. Rash, go round up the other two will you? Luke, go with him. Try not to have Vee break your arms in the process."

"Got it, One." Rash said.

"Aye-aye, Chief. Always was partial to my arms."

Damien did a double take.

"And what in God's name have you done to your armour?"

Luke pointed over the Armour Assistant.

"What, don't tell me you expect us to wear our training colours for the rest of our lives, do you? We're Spartans now, we get to choose; hell, it's in the regs. Ask Rash."

"For once he's actually right." Rash nodded. "Just don't blame me if Luke decides to set the default pattern to flaming pink."

Damien looked at the Armour Assistant mounted on the wall, then at the baby blue of his training Armour.

A thoughtful look crossed his face.

"I suppose it would nice to have something with a little more… style."

Not for the first time that week, Dr. Rebecca Pearson wondered why Idris Carter insisted she tag along.

She winced as she smacked her forehead off the bulkhead over her bunk bed. Longingly, she thought of her apartment back on New Francisco, long since abandoned, but never quite forgotten.

FLEETCOM had difficulty sympathising with the logistics behind letting a psych-analyst accompany the task force, and had reacted to Director Carter's insistence poorly: petulantly assigning her a tiny washroom cupboard of a billet. They had told her the room was an officer's billet, that to have a room to one's self on a Navy vessel was a privilege. Privately she had her doubts. The seams around the lie began to show, evidenced by the number of spare parts and storage materials dumped around the base of her bed. She wondered what the room's previous owner could have done to warrant being assigned this personal hell.

There came a knock at the door. It was Rashid.

"Rash." she smiled groggily, "Your armour's different."

"A matter of taste, Doctor." he stepped into the officer's quarter. The tiny room became infinitely smaller all of a sudden. He lowered his voice, holding up a memory transfer chit. "Regarding our previous conversation. Don't worry, I've removed the encryption alarms."

She took the chit from his massive armoured gauntlet, looking up at him.

"How did you get this?"

"You'll be amazed how many doors unlock once you've had an ONI A.I. spend a few days rattling about in your suit's neural lace."

Rebecca slipped the chit into the side of her data pad. The holo-pane extended, filling the walls and ceiling of the cramped cabin with a thousand flickering images. Most of them red.

The recordings flashed up, relaying helmet cam footage at dizzying speed. Of Insurrectionists, shrieking as they were torn apart. Of Elites, snarling into the lens of the camera, only to be butchered shortly thereafter. Weapons discharge, hissing plasma. Each memory was punctuated by an angry vid-blurt of frenzied violence. An older memory; of Spartans in cruder armour than those worn by the Chimera candidates. Ones with bulbous visors and what appeared to be shifting coats of mirrored glass. They died, one by one. Countless Covenant died with them.

Spartan 239's Psyche profile loaded shortly thereafter. Spartan III Candidate, first combat mission undertaken age 15. A thousand red flags glared up from the tiny projected screen. Anti-social tendencies, fits of uncontrolled rage. A willingness to undertake dozens of missions, each more potentially suicidal than the last. A checkered record of what the ONI spooks termed "unacceptable audacity" in neutralising anti-establishment threats. And that wasn't even the half of it. Even the redacted files had been heavily censored. EYES ONLY, the screen read. ADDITIONAL CLEARANCE REQUIRED. Rebecca looked up at Rashid, shocked.

"Fireteam Scimitar." the Spartan said grimly. "An older ONI story, and one even less pretty than Chimera's. Child soldiers; half our age. It's not a pretty picture, is it?"

"He's not combat certified." Rebecca breathed. "Not since the war ended."

"You're not here for us, Doctor." Rashid's targeting lens fixed her squarely, "You're here for him."

The briefing commenced at 0800 sharp, as Captain Reade promised.

The briefing chamber was a deep, sloping room with theater seats laid out in a wide semi-circle around a centralised holo-console. The Captain stood on the main presentation platform, accompanied by Eric and a number of senior staff members.

Only key Navy personnel had been permitted. A sea of mid ranking officers from a vast array of disciplines; transport chiefs, fighter pilots, and flight officers from the Pelican crews. The safe deployment of the ground teams would be their immediate responsibility. Mixed in with the above were a number of colourful parties. Veteran officers from the 34/1st Armoured Reconnaissance Division, mech jockeys all, rubbed shoulders with senior service personnel from the 605th Mechanised. They were swarthy types, machine crews used to deafening noise and trundling power.

The bulk of the infantry would be drawn from the "Fighting" 40th Marine Battalion, who were recognisable by their jar-top haircuts and muscular frames. Their C.O., Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Howard, would have the single largest force of infantry under his command. He was a burly man of African-American descent; cool-headed and experienced. The task force could do a lot worse than a man of his calibre. The marines around him wore white boarding helmets, their eyes hidden by gold-tinted eye-visors.

Sitting to the right hand side of the chamber were the traditional special forces: members of the 22nd Royal Commando and the 808th Pathfinders. The 22nd Commando wore uniform Air Assault-pattern helmets and sleek ebony body suits. The 808th were a somewhat grubbier lot, whose gear was a mismatch of traditional ODST armour, Beta-V security gear and more loosely cobbled together field kit. Some wore beanie caps, others bandanas, and a large percentage of them proudly sported bristly beards. The only semblance of a uniform they shared was a crisp Green Beret, which would never be worn in-field. Where the Royal Commando specialised in hard-contact orbital drop raids, the Pathfinders would be responsible for prepping the battlefield in advance of the primary task force: planting signal markers, providing reconnaissance of target objectives, and liaising with ground-side sympathisers to build a logistical support network, in the event centralised government had fallen apart. Both units were consummate professionals, the very best of the best.

Then there were the Spartans.

All fifteen Spartans had been permitted into the briefing room. They were simply too large to fit in any of the seats provided, so they stood at the back, at the height of the chamber. That the practiced veterans sitting below them kept straining their necks to turn around and gawk at them showed how curious a sight they were.

And what a sight. Fireteam Platinum stood out for their uniform pearlescent armour and impassive golden visors. They stood stock still and attentive, quietly absorbing every little detail, making efficient notes on their data pads. Ruthless and machine-like as ever, Damien thought to himself. Chase only spared him the slightest glance.

Trident were almost a complete tonal swap; their night-black armour highlighted by fiery reds. There was the mighty Maori, Aata, and the comparatively diminutive Gurkha, Suraj. Loic, his tanned face exposed, nodded to Damien from across the room, offering a wan smile. Damien returned a nod, touching his brow in a casual salute. He was glad Trident were here. Of all the fire teams on Laconia, they were the closest thing Chimera had to an ally.

Damien caught more than a few stares directed in Chimera's direction, and he took a moment to consider the appearance of his own mob.

They were the most eclectic mix of Spartans by far. There was Rashid in his deep orange and silver-grey armour, Viktorya in her ever-pragmatic digital stripe. Chidinma had settled on a dark and vibrant purple Aviator Pattern suit. Her reasoning for the colouration was suitably grim: were she ever to bail out in a space-brawl, she'd rather be mistaken for a piece of Covenant wreckage than not. Luke exchanged a look with Damien, rapping his breastplate with a closed fist for luck. The younger Spartan was still clad in his steel-grey "Imagination Armour" - a term he had coined for the specific purpose of annoying Rashid.

Damien caught his own reflection in the polished machinery hanging down from the roof-mounted projector suite.

Damien's armour was dressed in a far deeper shade of navy blue than it had previously. White racing stripes ran up the vertical lines of the armour, picking out the raised edges, and a UNSC Eagle had been stenciled on the top of his Recruit-Pattern helmet. Beyond that, he had retained the armour for all but the smallest of improvements, even keeping the standard opal VISR. The armour was the only thing he'd ever owned, and it had served him well. He saw little reason to change it now.

A low announcement chime called the briefing to order. A hush fell over the chattering crowd. Captain Reade and even Spartan 239 snapped to attention as a lone figure stepped down from the ready room at the back of the briefing hall. The entire room rose to its feet.

General William F. Stape was in his late fifties, but his back spine stood ramrod straight. Clean shaven with tanned wrinkled skin; his face resembled a rumpled towel, and was topped with a layer of ice-white hair, razor sharp. From the haunted look in his eyes, it was clear his time as a Marine had never left him. As Damien's VISR tracked over him, it automatically uploaded an exhaustive list of combat citations and command ribbons. There were too many to read, but the time-stamps appended to his term of service stood out in particular. A thirty year veteran, astounding.

General Stape waved them back into their seats.

"At ease, people, I'll try to be brief."

His voice was husky; whether this was from too much whiskey or too many years breathing plasma fire was difficult to tell (the rumours varied) - and not the type of question you'd ask if you valued your spleen. His beady eyes stared out at them all over lips of tired flesh, but he wore a friendly expression, despite the reputation.

"Welcome to Taskforce Enduring Resolve. As you might have guessed from our distinguished colleagues at the back of the room, FLEETCOM has given me oversight to bring in the very best; Army, Navy and specialised Spartan personnel. I want to make one thing clear from the on-set: I'm an Marine, through and through, but a also a fair man. There'll be no favourites here."

Stape favoured Eric with a side glance.

"That goes for your Spartans too, 239."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Sir."

"Good." The General waved a hand. The holo-projector reacted to the data-aura projected by his neural lace, and the display shimmered into life.

"The planet we're inbound toward is Granica V. It's a large colony, as Outer Colonies go, and it remains in CENTCOM's interest to make sure we keep it that way. Population of three billion, scattered across a few key settlements. Both the UNSC Hood and Reliant are in transit from Capernicus Station. They're about a week behind us."

Granica looked just like any other habitable world. A smear of blues and greens, feathered with white splotches of sifting cloud. Two major landmasses were depicted on the rotating globe. Red pulsating dots depicted major settlements. Two in particular stood out, large hoop-spined towers rising out to a small cluster of orbital constructs hovering above the planet's surface.

"Our first priority lies in securing and maintaining the two Orbital Tethers linking up with the planet's orbital loading infrastructure. That means getting boots on the ground on two settlements: the capital, Argjend, and the city of New Cadiz, a minor city on the southern continent. Nothing gets in or off world without filtering through these cities first. Ground-side information reports are sketchy, but we understand there is a significant insurrectionist presence on Granica."

Raymond Howard raised an arm.

"Estimated force strength, Sir?" he asked.

"Undetermined at this time, Colonel. One of the first things the Innies took down were the planet's transmission network - believe me when I say we're in the dark as much as you are."

The General pressed on.

"A combined Marine and armoured support column will deploy to Argjend directly. Secure the governmental seat, and establish a localised command post from which we can effect ground-side operations. Spartan Fireteams Platinum and Trident, you'll assist Lieutenant Colonel Howard's men in restoring order to the capital. Combined Operational Designation is Combat Two-Zero."

Loic and Chase both gave determined nods. The Marines took notes, as professional as ever.

"The second Tether will fall down to Combat Two-Two. That's the 31st/1st, 605th Mechanised and you, Fireteam Chimera. Two-Two will land forty klicks south of New Cadiz and proceed along the central highway, the I-17. We're not anticipating much in the way of resistance here, but stay on your guard. Anything could happen."

One of the 22nd Commando was the next to raise his hand. Damien's HUD identified him as Henry Fowler, Operator. The bulk of his file was classified, pending ONI approval. English born, judging by the accent; gruff, no-nonsense.

"Sir. Our orders?"

"The 22nd will stay in reserve; I'll want a hard-contact response team ready to respond as required, and believe me you're it. The 808th Pathfinders will drop in ahead of both combat elements. Secure the landing areas, prep for the ground teams."

Chase rose his hand in protest.

"Sir, request permission to accompany the Pathfinders. That's a high risk op."

Always looking for the glory, eh Chase? Damien thought to himself.

"Denied, Platinum One." Eric replied, stepping forward to address him. "Securing the Tethers remains priority one; your team is needed there. High risk ops are the Pathfinder's specialty. Fireteam Chimera provide assistance if required."

"Hoo-ah," one of the Army operators murmured in assent.

General Stape stepped to the fore once more. He rested his hands on the border of the holo-projector. Starkly under-lit by the harsh light thrown up by the projector, his face became laden with responsibility, his eyes frank and open.

"Make no mistake, gentlemen: we are going in blind here. This will be a liquid situation. Orders may change, priorities and objectives too. I have faith in your abilities: they tell me you're the best, and I expect you to exceed those expectations. Any further questions? No? Good."

General Stape rose to his full height. The room rose with him. He snapped a salute.

"We transition in twelve hours, approximate. Make ready. Write your families, make preparations for your loved ones as required. If you're a praying man, make peace with whatever God you have. With a little luck, we should be home and safe within a month or so."