Interlude:Misshapen Chaos of Well Seeming Forms
Everyone had a plan.
Some people thought that was all they needed to succeed in life: a plan.
Matt Keller used to say, "Every time someone thinks 'I have a plan', Jesus gets a belly laugh".
That usually got a belly laugh out of his small circle of friends. That always got a laugh out of one friend (or more than friend, depending on which year you were looking at) in particular.
Matt Keller never had a plan. If given the option, he would've stayed in high school days forever. He was a solid A student, a beast on the track and field, and a hardcore online gamer. He drifted through freshmen year to senior graduation that way.
Then came the boom.
He decided to join the Marine Corps. The war was getting closer and closer to home everyday, something that tapped into some emotion that Matt didn't even know he had.
If asked, he would have said it was the closest thing he had ever felt to inspiration.
That was when of course, he informed his steady girlfriend of almost three years of his decision. Claire Avalos was famous for her fiery temper, and the resulting fallout from that conversation could be measured on a Geiger counter, it was that nuclear. She broke up with him that day, be it out of spite or as a pre-emptive measure, to save her from the pain that was sure to be hers when she would be informed of Matt's seemingly inevitable death on some distant battlefield.
And so Matt entered the United Nations Space Corps nursing a broken heart and a bad attitude. He got in enough fights with other trainee's that he was almost dropped, but his training sergeant, a grizzled veteran of fifteen years named Graham, saw potential in the trouble young man, and immediately recommended him for Special Forces training.
So Matt went on to serve in a Marine Spec Ops unit for three years. On a whim, he applied to and transferred over to the 105th ODST Division. He almost got burned alive on his first jump, something that left him with an unhealthy obsession with fire. Not surprisingly, he was his team's ordnance and demolitions expert.
Then out of the blue, Claire Avalos appeared out of the ether, entering the same company he was slate to. He had confronted her, she had given as much lip as he did to her, and what was left of their relationship was destroyed in a series of fiery exchanges that spanned three months.
Keller, an emotional misfit, could never find the right words to tell Claire why he was so pissed that she had followed him into the Corps: that he was afraid that she would die in the war. Never mind him, the hell with him! He wasn't worried about his own life, but even the thought of her beautiful skin, burned by searing Covenant plasma, turned his stomach to water.
And the thought that that might happen under his watch was too much to bear.
So Matt, unable to articulate these deep thoughts, transferred out of the division. It was then that his volatile record received attention of the Office of Naval Intelligence. It was the perfect job for someone who wanted to disappear. Matt joined and became team leader for one of its covert ops teams, running stings against priority Covenant installations.
That was, until he and his team was captured on assignment. Three men were killed right off the bat, another two died from their injuries, leaving three men and two women. Matt, being singled out as the leader, was submitted to all kinds of torture for information. The Covenant were curious about these secret ONI teams that struck from the shadows and disappeared just as quickly. Curious enough to keep Matt and another man alive, barely so. The other man and the two women- Jackal food.
For nearly six months, Matt was beaten, shocked, starved, whipped, burned, drugged, and poisoned by brutal and pragmatic Elites in black Spec-Ops armor. They warbled to him in their strange tongues, sometimes asking in broken English if there were other teams like them, and if so, where they were in this particular star cluster. Matt never told, not because he refused to- by the third month he would have given his mother over just to end the pain- but because he flat out didn't know if there were other teams out there.
The Elites didn't seem to notice, or if they did they didn't care. They relished their opportunity to beat a human brainless, judging by their laughs.
In between sessions the Elites would toss him into a cell with the other human prisoner, an Army veteran named Emil Volkov. The man was a hulking Russian with a shaved head and a calm, detached personality.
During those months in captivity, they learned to talk.
Matt tugged off his boot with a groan. Today, the Elites had wised up and gone after the only place they had yet to bruise- his ankles. One of them felt broken.
Beside him, Volkov aided in removing the boot, his large hands surprisingly gentle. "Easy. Bad sprain on that one. Nothing to do but wrap it." He set about tearing a strip of cloth from his sleeve.
As the boot was removed, a small plastic bag fell out. Matt reached for it, broke the seal, and removed the contents: a small photograph. He smiled, pain suddenly forgotten, as he gazed at the shot of himself and Claire in his arms. It had been just after they had started dating.
Volkov took a glance at the picture. Matt handed it to him, and the Russian's large gray eyes mournfully perused the picture. "A girlfriend?"
"At one time, yes." Matt hissed as he began wrapping his swollen ankle. He finally gave up and sighed, his head thumping the wall.
"It's over between us, me and her."
The Russian handed back the picture and carefully began to wrap the ankle. "Sorry."
"Don't be." He laughed, coughing like a sick dog. "You remember how I told you I don't believe in plans?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, we broke up over the only plan I ever made."
Matt went on to tell Volkov how he had planned to serve a few tours of duty, earn enough cash to go to college, then, once he had a steady job, he would build a home, a home for Claire and himself.
Volkov didn't say a word until Matt had finished. "You planned to wed her?"
Matt didn't take his eyes off the photo. "Yeah, at one time, yeah."
"But I'm guessing you did not inform her of plan?"
Matt laughed again. "What, and have her laugh in my face? All my life I preached that 'no plan' shtick and now I had a plan? She'd never let me live that down."
The Russian shook his head disapprovingly as he tightened the ankle wrap. "That pride, Sergeant, will get you killed one day."
"That pride is the only thing keeping me alive." Matt's smile faded as he thought about it. "Sooner or later these Covenant fuck-mook's are going to figure out I don't know squat, instead of just holding out on them out of pride. Then they're gonna shoot me in the back of the neck and toss me out the nearest goddamn airlock. I'm fucking dead, I'm just living on borrowed time."
Volkov nodded sympathetically. "Yes, we both live on borrowed time. Our only hope, is that when the sharks do smell blood, we may get to die with boots on our feet."
Matt favored his cell mate with a strange look, then remembered he wasn't wearing boots, caught the irony of the statement, and laughed hoarsely. Volkov grinned broadly, revealing silver caps on his teeth.
The photograph, and those talks with Volkov, were the only thing that kept Matt alive in those months.
Of course, the Covenant ruined that too.
One day, the Covenant took both Matt and Volkov out of the cell and tossed them into a kind of cage. Chattering Grunts and hissing Jackals surrounded the bars and set up a loud clamor. Matt, delirious from hunger and thirst, barely registered. Volkov wasn't faring much better, but he had enough sense to rise to one knee.
Crouched on the top of the cage, two Elites tossed down large, unwieldy pikes with razor sharp edges. The larger of the two Elites used a third prod to coerce Volkov to pick up one of the pikes. Matt roused himself long enough to try and make sense of what was going on.
Volkov looked up, his pockmarked face sorrowful. "It seems, Sergeant, that they want us to fight to the death."
Matt smiled, lips dry and cracked. He waved him away. "It's okay, you win." He whispered through a parched throat.
"There is now winner in this one, Sergeant." With that, Volkov tossed the pike down, struggled to his feet, and folded his arms across his chest. Matt found a surge of energy long enough to rise to his own feet.
The Grunts and Jackals screeched disappointment. The Elites roared and gestured to the crowd. In the blink of an eye, two Grunts had scaled the cage bars and dropped down on top of Matt. In his weak state, he couldn't fight back.
The two Elites jumped down and confronted Volkov. Practically shoving the pike in his hand, the larger Elite pointed towards Matt and growled. Volkov locked eyes with Matt.
Matt smiled weakly, as if to say, Fuck it. Might as well go for broke.
Then Volkov smiled back, showing those silver canines of his, and mumbled, "Well, I guess this is it. I'm sorry, Sergeant."
And with that, Volkov swung the pike at a frightening speed. The sharp head of the weapon collided with the smaller Elites head and the tall alien fell to the ground, a massive gash spilling cobalt fluid across the floor.
The larger Elite roared in anger and tackled Volkov. Instantly, a half dozen Grunts leapt over the cage bars and began assisting the Elite as they beat Volkov mercilessly. Matt could only watch as the massive Russian took blow after blow, silently, squirming his bulk in a hopeless, meaningless attempt to dodge the next kick, the next scratch.
Watching his last friend in the galaxy being beaten to a pulp by a gang of aliens, something inside Matt snapped. He jammed his elbow into the first Grunt, shoved the second one in the chest, and grabbed the little creatures Plasma Pistol as it stumbled away.
Before anyone could tackle him, Matt rose to his knees, aimed- and fired a single plasma bolt into Volkov's face. The Russians massive head snapped back, then lolled. A neat, round hole on his forehead smoked gently. His sad gray eyes stared into eternity.
Matt dropped the pistol to the ground. The last conscious thing he did, before the gang of Grunts turned their attention to him and beat him senseless, was raise his right hand and give the entire crowd of Covenant the middle finger.
Two weeks later…
Time had lost its meaning to Matt Keller. He lay alone in his cell, curled up, a vacant, empty smile on his emaciated, skeletal face.
After he had euthanized Volkov in the cage, the Elites had doubled the pressure on him. For the life of him, Matt didn't know why they bothered still. Whether he surrendered information or not, whether he screamed during the beatings or not, whether he ate and drank or not, it didn't matter. He was dead, dead as Volkov.
Speaking of which…
A clearing of the throat resonated in the tiny cell. Matt rolled over and faced the source of the noise.
Volkov sat with crossed legs, back against the cell wall. He looked pretty good for two weeks dead; the only thing that was different was the color. Where his skin was once slate gray, he was now a light blue. Oh, and that hole in his head, that too. Besides that, he looked fine. Spending your death in the vacuum of space probably did that for you.
"Volkov." Matt mumbled, licking his lips to try and speak better.
"Sergeant. Good to see you."
Matt smiled, even though he was zapping Volkov with animal hatred on the inside.
"You are a miserable fucker."
Volkov shrugged. "I know."
"You left me here to stew in this particular brand of Purgatory. You're warm and safe in the afterlife, and I'm still rotting away here, taking the beating you should have taken."
Volkov shrugged again. He seemed unfazed by Matt's malnourished hate, which only served to infuriate more.
"You knew what you were doing. You knew I would go for the pistol and put you out of your fucking misery. You killed yourself without laying a hand on yourself."
"So, I killed myself. I leave you in this shithole. Yes, I do that. But tell me: does it look like I am warm and safe in so-called 'afterlife'?"
Matt couldn't respond to that; the effort of speaking had left him exhausted. Volkov continued.
"Besides, if you are so pissed, why not kill yourself? Wait until guards bring you out for torture session, go for gun, and kiss world good-bye with muzzle of pistol?"
Matt still didn't respond.
"You are dead anyway, Sergeant. Another day or two, and you'll be here with me, chatting about nothing again. If you're lucky, you'll see your girlfriend soon too."
That was enough to force Matt to respond. "She's… not… dead."
"Here you are, a corpse waiting to be sent to the grave, and you talk about 'not dead'? We're all dead, Sergeant. You, me, your girlfriend, her new lover, humanity, Covenant. We're all dead anyway."
Matt couldn't respond. His mouth felt like it was bleeding.
After awhile Volkov disappeared, leaving Matt alone with his thoughts. He didn't move, he barely breathed or blinked, all he did was stare at the floor, tasting the foulness in his mouth.
All the while those words ran through his head.
We're all dead anyway we're all dead anyway we're all dead anyway we're all dead anyway we're all dead we're all dead we're all dead Humans Covenant galaxy we're all dead I'm dead you're dead let's all be dead together be dead in the glory of death now I lay me down to sleep I pray the lord my soul to keep Claire you're dead I'm sorry I'm dead to just like Volkov said said just like Volkov ...
He didn't know how much time passed, him alone with his thoughts and with Volkov's ghost. He just knew that the only change came when the guards outside started screaming. He didn't move, didn't even make an attempt to listen better. He simply lay there, infinitely interested in the pattern of the alien metal inches from his face.
Suddenly gunfire rang out, the whine of plasma being met with the dull cough of suppressed Human weapons. An Elite roared, then gurgled, and was finally silent, and Grunts squealed as an explosion rocked the holding cells. Then silence.
Boots clattered outside his cell, a low growl as the plasma holding field was deactivated, and suddenly a rough hand was turning him on his back. Peering into his face was a shiny, evil looking smiley face. A pair of sharp brown eyes peeked out from a boomerang shaped visor.
"We have a live one here! Sergeant…" there was a pause as the smiley face read the tag on his tattered jumpsuit. "…Keller! He needs immediate attention!" The face flashed back again. "Don't worry Sergeant, we're getting you out of here."
Keller barely noticed as he was raised and lowered to a collapsible stretcher, barely noticed as they hurtled through the corridors of the Covenant ship, down to the docking bay, onto a waiting Pelican, and hurtled out of the hold and into space.
He only kept thinking about the soldiers words.
We have a live one here!
How could any soldier mistake him as alive?
Three months later…
Keller was fully conscious. He knew that much. For weeks he had been treated for severe malnutrition, undressed torture wounds that settled into white, shiny scars, and shock.
Now he was conscious.
The only problem was that Volkov wouldn't go away. He had shown up about a week ago, this time looking a little worse for wear. His corpse must have gotten caught in a ships exhaust trail, because his pale blue skin looked a bit seared, particularly on his arms and chest. That wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that Volkov never quit talking.
"How do you feel, Sergeant?"
Matt didn't answer. He was trying to pretend Volkov wasn't there.
"You think you're going insane, don't you? You need not fear, you're already insane."
Ignoring you ignoring you ignoring you ignoring you
"You can ignore me all you want, but that does not change fact that you are dead man talking to ghost."
Ignoring you ignoring you ignoring you ignoring you
"Fine, I quit. I won't bother you again. Just one thing? I am proud of you."
…
"You surprised? Well, I am proud. Proud that you lived. You killed your only friend to endure more torture and starvation, and for what? For what's coming next?"
What?
A man sat down next to Matt's cot. A real, tangible man, not a ghost; although, he did look a bit like a ghost. The man smiled, although his gray eyes were emotionless and cold.
"Sergeant Matthew Keller. A pleasure to meet you in person."
Matt shifted in his bunk, rubbed the side of his head. His hair had grown longer.
My 2nd grade teacher called me Matthew. My friends called my Matt. Far as I know, you're neither.
"And as far as I know, Sergeant, you are a dead man." The old man began leafing through a file. "Listed MIA eight months ago, listed KIA four months ago, found and recovered during sting operation aboard disabled Covenant frigate three months ago. Only known survivor of ONI Operational Detachment-Gamma 2-7." The man favored Matt with a pseudo-kindly expression. "And survive you did. Almost five whole months tortured by the Covenant, and you lived to tell the tale."
I lived?
"Obviously, or otherwise you wouldn't be resting comfortably in this hospital. You, Sergeant Keller, showed a remarkable will to live- a particularly useful talent. And I pride myself for having an eye for that kind of talent."
…Who are you?
"Admiral Gordon Bristow, Director of ONI's Asymmetric Warfare department. And I am offering you, Matthew Keller, a job."
Matt looked towards Volkov. The dead man nodded encouragingly. "I was the first step, Sergeant. This, this is the second."
What are you offering?
"I'm offering you a chance for retribution. You didn't yield to the Covenant when you had nothing, now I want to give you everything. The training, the tools, the information; you already have the motivation for the fight. I am offering you a chance to become the Covenant's worst nightmare, to take the fight to the enemy and actually see results, to know that you are making a difference with every action you take."
You'd give me all that?
"Without hesitation. But quite frankly Matthew, all that means nothing without you. All the equipment and training in the galaxy means nothing without the heart of a soldier to back it up. You have heart Matthew. You would not have survived your trying ordeal otherwise."
"You were never given a choice before Matthew. Now you have one. You can take my offer or leave it, whichever suits you. It all matters on what you want."
Bristow settled back in his chair, hands clasped across his knees.
"So Matthew, what do you want?"
Matthew considered only a few moments before smiling horribly.
I want to do my part.
"And, pray tell, what do you need to do your part?"
Fire. Gasoline. Explosives. Opportunity.
A note of hesitation in Bristow's voice. "That's your plan?"
Matt's smile grew wider.
Who said anything about a plan? He cackles
I'm just going to toss everything into a fire, and watch it all burn.
Behind Bristow, Volkov laughed insanely.
In his mind, Matt could hear that laugh span eternity.