(A/N) Hey all, time for another update in Phase Two: Betrayal, and this one is a doozy! But hey, what else would you expect from BrambleStar14 and Lieutenant Ian Harper?! And guess what? This is the first part of a two part chapter, so more is on the way! Might be a little delay, but we're hoping for the next chapter to go up on Monday, so keep your eyes out for it!

Guest: That's great to hear, always glad to hear that people are enjoying our work!

DarkAssassin12: Well, I wouldn't quite agree with that, but twists and turns happen all the time, and you may be on to something! I definitely think you're going to enjoy this chapter, anyway. In fact, I feel like I can guarantee it!

LonelyLampost: Yep, 'Rado certainly doesn't do anything by halves, does she? I love to hear speculation! Who knows, maybe I'll steal your idea! ;) You'll just have to wait and find out, though!

Now, after setting that up, enjoy!

Chapter Seventy-Seven – Ahead of the Curve

Lt Ian Harper

Written by BrambleStar14

"Enough madness? Enough? And how do you measure madness?"

– The Joker, Batman: Arkham Asylum

Upon reflection, Harper mused, as he was pulled away from his latest, ahem, victim, and into the cold, furious gaze of former Agent Arkansas, perhaps engaging in his favourite pastime behind severed head hockey when he had been explicitly ordered against following such an action was not the best idea he'd ever had. But then he looked at the bleeding ball of shrieking rage that was Agent Colorado, and any lingering doubts vanished. Nah, sod it, still totally worth it! He shouted as much, as he was firmly vacated from the premises by Penn, raising his arms high and cheering at the two nervous looking guards nearby.

"Totally worth it!" His shout echoed across the halls, and judging by the increased frenzy of Colorado's cries, which seemed to consist of several "fuckhead," "rip," and "kill the bastard," he guessed that he might have slightly upset her. Well, that or the fact that she had just seen someone she had thought a friend walk by, he thought, winking at Nevada as he walked by. What a shame. After several long moments, not helped by their lovely Freelancer turncoat showing up and perhaps making Colorado a bit too catatonic, Ark sighed and gestured to the nearby medic. With Goliath's rather rough assistance in pinning the storm of fury to the floor, a quick jab of a needle sent Colorado spinning away into unconsciousness. It's a shame she hadn't screamed more, he reflected absently, drops of blood still dripping from his armour, from between his fingers, in all of the places he couldn't quite get to with soap. Just a bit more blood under the nails. Excellent.

His short attention span was eventually directed onto a target when Arkansas gave an impatient cough, turning his head to realise that the dark skinned man was stood directly facing him, arms folded and the atmosphere around him cold enough to freeze a rather violent supernova. Now there was a thought, Harper mused, unfocusing again. How does one blow up a star, precisely… He was cut from these lovely thoughts of destruction and horrific melting of many faces by Ark's repeated cough.

"May I offer you a cough drop, Ark?" he grinned disarmingly at his sort-of boss, who's face did not crack into a smile. Unfortunate. It seemed like they were going with that approach to this conversation. Ah well, might as well get it over with now. He waited for a second. When Arkansas finally spoke, it was filled with neither obvious anger, nor disappointment; instead, it was weary, as though resigned to the situation Ark was now faced with.

"I had hoped that you would exercise some measure of control, Ian, some degree of restraint. I see now that it was a mistake hoping for such a thing." He glanced at Penn briefly, who stood beside them, impassive as his gaze was fixed on the limp form of Colorado, eyes following the medic's movements around her body, perhaps memorising those weaknesses inner body, the places that could be exploited, the injuries that could be used to cripple the smaller Freelancer. Not that Penn would need much to cripple such a… weak specimen. Harper stared evenly at Arkansas, amusement dancing within his eyes and a smirk gracing his mouth.

"Please. You lined them up in a row of locked cells. You even left the tool cupboard unlocked. I have no doubt you expected this; you don't act without reason, Erik. So let's cut to the chase, shall we?" He tilted his head, falling back to his unconscious habit of running his tongue over his lips very rapidly. "I've done it now, so what's daddy's punishment? Will little old me go to the naughty bin?" There was a pause, a silent staring contest between the two, until Ark shrugged, looking thoughtful. Finally, he nodded at Penn, whose gaze finally found his fellow defector.

"Why not? Take him to one of the cells, I'll deal with him later. Right now I need to attend to the rest of this mess." Penn gave a curt nod and hauled Harper away, shoving him harshly down the corridor. Harper giggled, leering at the taller man as he pulled himself away from his grip.

"I know the way, big fellow. Christ, he does have you whipped, doesn't he?" There was a snort of barely contained sarcastic laughter from Penn, the kind of rumble you hear from a volcano shortly before it buries you. He pressed on, unconcerned. "See, Penn, this is the way I see things. You've traded one Number Two position for another. Story of your life, wouldn't you say?" He gave another cackle as a hand on his shoulder turned him around and pressed him against the wall, lifting him up to face the smooth, expressionless red visor. Penn's voice was half amused, half threatening. It did make for an interesting combination when one couldn't see one's face. If Harper could be intimidated, he would have quailed.

"Let's get something straight now, Ian," Oh yeah, he'd definitely struck a nerve. "There's no 'Number Two' here. The Director made his mistakes, and that was one of them. He'll pay for that soon enough, believe me. But you," another harsh laugh and he shook Harper slightly, who tilted his head, "you're going to pay much, much sooner. You see. I'll cross you off eventually." With that, Harper was unceremoniously dropped, landing on the balls of his feet. Stretching and rolling his shoulders, Harper smirked and gave a little salute.

"I anticipate it, Penn. I really, really do." And he did. Sooner or later, the tension between himself and the two defectors would snap. Sure, Arkansas was in charge, but there were surely those in the Crimson Sun who weren't the biggest fans with his approach. Oh, it was fine to punish the guilty, but only those deemed guilty by Arkansas himself? He'd make himself one of his own targets soon enough. Who watches the watchmen, and all that. Pennsylvania, however, was much, much simpler to understand and therefore manipulate. So obsessed with being the best, so eager to please some sort of authority figure. Once, it had been the man who taught him everything; Harper simply hoped it hadn't shifted focus to Arkansas himself.

He continued to lope erratically down the corridor in front of Penn, no rhythm or pattern to his steps as he almost staggered along, humming a slow, mournful tune to himself, tongue darting out to lick his lips for a second time. He had absently shambled past the open cell door when a hand closed firmly on his shoulder, catching him mid-step. Pausing, he slowly turned his head to meet Penn's gaze. Penn gestured at the cell without care, fists clenched, obviously expecting a fight. Instead, Harper simply waited. Eventually, he spoke softly, taking deliberate care and time with his words.

"For me, Pennsylvania?" Penn didn't respond, leaving Harper to give a short bark as he stepped cautiously into the small room, taking in the blank surroundings. The small table sat in the centre of the room, a strange semblance of normality, chairs next to the small bunk welded to the door. Even a small window near the crack between wall and ceiling, the same darkened stone as the rest of his new abode. It was so…. Boring. So dull. Trust Agent Arkansas to design such a prison for one such as himself.

He slowly paced around the perimeter of the cell, not even hearing the clang of the door behind him grinding shut, sealing him alone with the darkness and the comforting silence that the cell brought him. The only light was from that small window, that tiny little breath of fresh air to the world outside. The smallest little glimpse of something that wasn't grey, or boring, or simply maddening to be within the confines of. His feet kicked at the edges of the room, catching on the unburnished rock, deflected without a moment's notice. Christ, he'd been in here for a handful of minutes and he was already bored! He needed something to do, already!

Humming a random tune under his breath, he made his slow, lolloping way over to the far wall, that which faced away from the door, away from his captors and those who were likely to be watching on whatever hidden camera system Arkansas likely had set up. Why should he directly face his accusers? He had no need of them within his box. He liked his box. It was his box. He felt around the clothes he had been allowed to remain in, his armour having been taken away from him, with considerable protest on his end, muttering under his breath before he found what he was looking for: a small knife, concealed in the one place where he knew the guards wouldn't check. And just the right size for burying into a neck or carving an unfortunate victim open. Maybe when Arkansas inevitably visited him…

He pushed those loose bloodthirsty thoughts aside. No good they would do him in here, after all. Turning the small stone over in between his fingertips carefully, he considered the walls around him with a wide smile, lips pulling back ferally from his teeth; a hyena would be proud of him. Shambling back to his original position near the window, he crouched down on the balls of his feet, digging the small blade carefully into his stretch of wall and beginning to carve. He could draw reasonably well, he had thought, before his attention span broke and he was unable to fully concentrate on a task at hand. It wasn't difficult to etch into the rock; for a prison, it was surprisingly malleable to pressure.

Slowly, but surely, the shapes began to form before his crazed eyes, the limbs taking form and the smaller details painstakingly carved into the rock through numb fingers as they gripped that small shard of freedom, that one thing keeping him from the horrors of complete and utter boredom. Descending to that level was never a fun experience, for those around him. He continued to etch, not paying attention to the familiar jabs from his fingertips, ignoring the small drops of blood that forced their way between his fingers, focusing his entire mind to this one task. He wasn't sure how long he was crouched there, cutting as his prison wall, but it was certainly far more entertaining than the cells at Freelancer had been. Well, he mused, correcting himself, mostof the time…

He sat up suddenly, back straightening out like a lightning rod, ears perked and hands freezing, the knife falling between numb fingers, coated in a sticky, sheen of red that glistened in the low light of the room. He hardly noticed the clatter as it struck the floor with a muted noise, the way that blood was now dripping freely between ruined fingers or even the way that his eyes had narrowed to slits. He was waiting, listening intently, trying to discern the noise that he had heard, that oh-so-hated sound-

And there it was again, from right outside his window, and he was standing upright in a flash, casting his eyes to the window, peering out at the sky beyond. There was certainly no questioning it, the sky outside was seething, dark and livid, rain lashing down upon the base and surrounding landscape, furious and unrelenting. Harper watched in half fascination, and half unease, anticipating what came next. The flash of light searing itself across his eyes and the low rumble that echoed across his eardrums mere seconds later were not surprising, but he still flinched instinctively away from them, breathing slightly faster than normal as he stared outside, mild panic worming its way into his skull yet again, clawing at him endlessly, the flashes of light burning themselves into his brain-

His thought process, scattered as it was, cut off abruptly when he heard a sound behind him. Not loud, but not quiet, the noise echoing off of the walls of his cell, hammering into him as he peered curiously into the dark. It wasn't hard to discern where the sound was coming from. Even as the thunder pounded outside and the lightning continued to sear viciously, jaggedly into the room, Harper could easily see the small child huddled in a corner, hiding his face, his body wracked with sobs. His lip curled, why had Arkansas let a child in here, why did its pitiful wails have to disturb him?! It was just weak, displaying any fear so openly.

He stalked closer to the infant, who looked roughly six or seven, tongue darting out to lick his lips yet again, ready to show this child exactly what fear really was; he would certainly teach him that the light outside was just meaningless destruction, heon the other hand, was death personified! He would-

And the child looked up, with blonde hair, and through tears, hauntingly familiar green eyes, piercing right into Harper, who reeled in shock, staring down at the scared kid and there was a flash of lightning yet again-

And the child was gone.

He blinked a few times, whirling around the room, but no-one was there. No signs that a child had ever sat in this room, had ever cried or looked into the occupant's eyes accusingly, daring him to protest. His breathing had levelled out somewhat as he turned back to the window slowly, the flashing and pounding sending him into memories and experiences that he had thought he had burned out of himself, had erased himself of, had cleansed himself.

Tornado Valley was probably one of the most erratic places to grow up in on Earth, but somehow, an entire town had been built there, nearing a city in size. Even then, on the hilltops, it was still dangerous, even during times of relative safety. A school trip had sounded so fun at the time. All they were doing was going to sketch the Valley from the highest peak for miles. Mrs Daniels, their teacher, had been helping Gary out with one of his own drawings when the sky went dark. Instantly, water began to cascade onto their heads, drenching them in seconds as it continued to pour down upon them from the heavens.

The children scattered, Ian being no exception. Despite confidently claiming his lack of fear to his classmates, something about this unnatural, and yet perfectly natural destruction sent him into a fit of terror. As he stumbled to escape the rush of water, the deluge of fury from the sky above, he caught his leg on a tree root, the cracking noise sending the six year old tumbling down the hill. Out of control, his sense of the world faded in and out as he rolled over and over, the roaring from above sending shivers of pure, unadulterated horror down his spine.

Eventually, his downwards momentum was halted as he crashed into a log, earning a cry of surprise as he tried to haul himself to his feet, green eyes turned to the sky in panic and terror. Suddenly, a flash of pure fury, a bolt of hatred, flew from the sky in a white flash, striking a nearby tree and sending it into a burst of flames, consuming it in seconds. With a shriek, the small child threw himself beneath the log, shaking as the wrath of fire continued to flay the sky, accompanied by the roaring of thunder. It was six hours after the storm had passed that the search parties had finally found the child, still shaking under the log.

Snapping his head from side to side, Harper shook himself from the unexpected visions of his past as he glared at the window. Those days were done! He snarled at the sky beyond his cell, which almost seemed to darken further; he took that as a sign that he was clearly the victor here. Behind him, a lock clicked into place, and with a grating screech, the door was slowly pulled open.

Spinning on the spot, his face split into a much needed smirk as he spotted Arkansas standing in the doorway, arms crossed behind his back as he made his way to the centre of the room, the hulking mass of Pennsylvania following in his wake. Pulling a chair from the side, Ark sat on one side of the table calmly, not saying a word or responding in any way to any stimuli within the room. Penn simply moved to the side, glaring as Harper cautiously took his own place opposite Ark, who finally took it upon himself to speak.

"Nice weather out there, isn't it?" he asked softly, his eyes giving away no hints as to his emotions, thoughts or even intentions. Harper raised a curious eyebrow, smirk receding somewhat as he turned around to consider the window. Light briefly illuminated the room, casting the three Insurrectionists into shadowed relief. Harper turned back to his erstwhile boss slowly, who shrugged at the lack of response and merely continued after a brief pause.

"So, Harper. Pray tell, what did you do to the other prisoners?"

There was another pause, as Harper's gaze flicked between Ark and Penn, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly parting, the picture of complete innocence. "Me?" he asked, voice raising a pitch as he gestured at himself with his thumbs. "But- I was right here!" He paused, licking his lips again as he leaned forwards. "What did youdo to them?" His face split into a grin as Ark merely frowned, Penn taking a step forwards, bristling. Ark raised a hand and Penn's movements froze, though he looked reluctant to do so.

"You realise that I cannot hold Pennsylvania back forever, Ian," he stated slowly, levelling his gaze with Harper's carefully. "Even you can feel pain if enough is administered, I am certain." Harper leaned back and let out a harsh cackle, causing Penn to tense even further. For a few seconds, he continued to laugh, before he looked at Ark expectantly, as though waiting for him to acknowledge some hilarious joke. When none came, he spoke in an obvious tone.

"Everyone feels pain, Ark." With a flash, he had stood up, slamming his fists into the table, his face suddenly inches from Ark's as he roared, "BUT YOU DON'T. HAVE. TO. FEAR. IT!" Even as Penn grabbed him and bodily threw him back into the chair, he let out another burst of maniacal laughter, continuing to giggle as he stared at Ark. "I don't know what's funnier with this situation. The fact that you think your pet second intimidates me, or the fact that you think I'd let you see if he did!"

Penn quickly wrapped his finger around Harper's throat, lifting him slightly. "Let's find out just how much of a 'pet' I am, Harper!" he snarled, eyes dark. "I'm certain there's no leash holding me now!" Ark looked ready to deliver some sort of verbal warning, which was proved unnecessary as Penn dropped Harper back into his seat with a sneer of disgust. Harper mimed brushing a suit as he turned back to his boss with a smirk, which became more and more like a snarl as Ark' silence went on and on.

"…You're not doing it," he said eventually, half disappointed, his tone that of a child. "The whole, psychoanalysis thing. You're not doing that." Ark raised an eyebrow, watching Harper analytically.

"Would you like me to?" he asked dryly, his tone almost amused. "Would you appreciate being called a monster-?" His voice was cut off by Harper, who leaned forwards in disgust.

"Don't talk like one of them! One of those… 'civilised' people. One of the 'good' people. There are no 'good people' Ark, only those who play the game, and those who don't. You do not talk like a 'good person', because you're not. You're like me. No matter how much you don't want to be."

Ark sat back slightly, a frown crossing his eyes. "Go on," he eventually said evenly, his voice betraying no emotion but blank curiosity. "Please explain how similar we are." Harper smirked, glancing at Penn and sniggering at the anger he saw there.

"Please, Arkansas. These 'civilised people'? The so called 'Best of humanity'? When push comes to shove, these 'best'? They'll devour each other, alive if they have to. They all abandon these principles and these choices of morality. Black and white, for them it all blurs into grey and that's all ok for them, because there is no consequences for them," his voice went light, as though reading a story to a child. "But you and I know differently. You, you've changed all of this. Things are different now. Forever. There are consequences. You and I, we're what they force themselves to be just to stay alive, but we do it out of choice. We're killers."

Ark scoffed impatiently, waving a hand. "I do what is right, Harper. What is just. You killed for fun. You never cared about justice, did you? I wonder, did you ever care about anything except yourself?" His tone was cold, his eyes hard now. Harper's lips pulled away from his teeth as he gave an eager grin.

"Arkansas, please. We both know this little vendetta crusade would never have happened if you hadn't discovered the truth about your little village being burned. If you truly believed that the UNSC were your saviours, then you were willing to overlook every single war crime committed. Even the Director, who's on your little hit list, is that because he'd committed a war crime, or simply committed the crime of lying to you? You want to kill him out of personal revenge, just admit it!" He licked his lips again as Ark sat forwards, something fliting behind his eyes.

"You called me a monster? I'm not a monster, Ark. I'm a small glimpse of the future. We aren't the monsters. We merely make the monsters. How many monsters like me have your own actions made? Perhaps soon you'll find out. But you and me? We're killers. Stone cold. How did you learn?" Ark stared coldly back at him, before speaking in a tone of complete control. Harper had to admire the guy. Though, on second thoughts, perhaps not.

"I learned to kill because my family were taken away from. My village. Gone in a second. Killing became necessary to right a wrong. I am justified in my own actions, can the same be said of you?"

Harper's smirk faded away. "More than you can ever hope to know, Arkansas," he murmured. "More than you can ever know."

Ian had a slight reputation as an odd child. He never quite knew where the rumours came from. Perhaps it was his slight tendency to come on a bit strong, to be too intense during his conversations with people and then walk away, unabashed. He had long since learned to spend more time around the dead things then the living. Take the biology wing of school, for example. Ian had always like Biology, and Mr Chalmers certainly helped. He had never had the mental focus for many other lessons, but something about the teacher's own enthusiasm for the subject fascinated him.

Mr Chalmers always let Ian stay in the Biology Wing during lunch, or break. He never complained about the odd child who paid so much attention to his dissections, who soon learned to replicate and parody the movements of the scalpel he expertly made. He eventually grew quite fond of the small child who had learned so quickly what it was like to use a blade. Perhaps one day he would be a doctor, he had mused, or maybe a surgeon. With precision like that, he would surely go on to save lives.

It hadn't been long after Ian's eighth birthday that his mother had needed to visit the hospital. Ian hadn't known why at first, but shortly afterwards, when his new baby brother, Isaac, had been handed to their crying father, his eyes alight with joy, that Ian's mother had grabbed his hand, pulling him closer. It had only just occurred to him how sick she actually looked, how feeble her grip was on his arm.

"Keep Isaac safe," she had whispered in his ear. "Look after him." He had nodded, not sure why she had been asking him this, whispering in return.

"I promise," he had said, and she gave him one of the happiest, and saddest smiles he had ever seen on her face. And then she had closed he eyes, and a loud beeping had pierced the room and a lot of doctors had gathered around her. Ian's father had let out a cry of anguish and pain, staring at his wife in disbelief as her body gave up mere minutes after delivering life.

Ian hadn't quite understood at the time, but he knew something. His mother was just like Mr Chalmers's animals, not alive anymore. He had made a promise to protect his brother. And he needed to understand death, and how to defeat it.

"Foul, evil, disgusting vermin!" Ian's father roared at him, swinging the bottle around like some kind of cane as he spat in disgust at his seventeen year old son. Ian was not having any of his father's shit today; ever since his mother had died, his father had taken more and more to the bottle, taking more and more time off of work. And now that he drank so much, it was inevitable that his anger would flare to the point of threatening his children. And when nine year old Isaac had opened a door that Ian had thought was locked and caught him in a somewhat uncomfortable position with one of his fellow classmates, their father had inevitably heard of it from the innocent child.

He hadn't taken the news well at all. In fact, as he loomed over Harper, fists clenched, Ian decided to put a firm stop to this before it even started.

"You lay a hand on me, or on Isaac," he said, voice reaching a menacing growl as his teeth were bared ferally, "and you'll never manage it again." Bloodshot blue eyes met manic green ones, and his father slouched off into another room, furious with his eldest son.

Ian's father had kept true to his word, never raising his fist at his children again beyond that moment. Almost a year had passed by that point and Isaac was ten years old to the day. Ian had made his way home, carrying a present that he had bought for his younger brother and opened the door with a smile. Their father had sorted his drinking habits out and seemed to the world to be on the road to recovery.

Unless, of course, he had started drinking on his son's tenth birthday, the tenth anniversary of his wife's death.

Ian knew something was wrong the second he entered the modest two storey house and saw blood trailing down the stairs. Cursing, the present falling to the floor with a clatter, he raced into the kitchen, where terrified shrieks were emanating from. He didn't need long to assess the situation. Isaac was crouched in the corner, blood pouring from a gash on his arm, while their father staggered about the kitchen, brandishing a bloody knife procured from one of the pulled out drawers.

Slowly reaching down to pick up another of the blades, Ian made his way closer to his two remaining family members, trying to figure out a way to put a close end to this. He winced as his foot made contact with something that crunched underfoot. He looked down and noticed a plate, which had shattered beneath his tread. His father whirled around, dazed and unfocused.

"Ian?" he slurred, taking a step closer. Ian had seconds to react. This was his father, the man who had raised him all his life, who was funny and kind, who had loved their mother dearly, their mother who had made him promise to protect Isaac-

And Ian stepped forwards and stabbed his father in the chest. His feet lurched and he made a gasping, choking sound, blood erupting from his mouth to cover his son, to drip from his hair and face and coat his clothes. Ian gave a sharp tug on the blade, removing it with precision as he forced it again into his father's chest.

There was a terrible choking noise and all that Ian could see were his father's blue eyes, boring into his own, not accusatory, but more thankful, in a sick, twisted way. He appreciated this somehow. And then the lights went out from them, and his body crumpled to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut.

There were a few moments of silence as Ian looked down at the dead body of his father, the man he had just killed. No, not killed. Murdered. He had murdered him in cold blood. He examined the dripping knife in his shaking hands carefully, before dropping it and glancing at his brother. He tried to compose his face, which was difficult to do when he was shaking andoh god he had just killed someone!

"We need to go, right now."

Harper stared into Arkansas's face, which might as well have been carved from marble. "Killing is easy. Just takes a little push to send someone over the edge, Erik. You should know. Death is the only constant in this world. That's the lesson you still haven't learned; you think your own dispensation of justice will save them all. I wonder how much longer until you end up on your own list. When you learn the truth, you can play the game. That's what I'm doing, Ark. I'm playing a game with you. Why else am I always smiling?!" With a fresh burst of laughter, Penn's fist crashed into the side of his head, sending him to the floor. He could still see the etchings he had made into the stone wall, gruesome pictures of tortures, of death and flames, or various words, like "kill," "rip," and "tear," but one, single, overriding noun, "Isaac." The name had been endlessly repeated over and over, like a mantra.

He turned back to Penn with a laugh, raising his arms wide. "Come on then, you dog! Beat me until your knuckles bleed! Tear me apart, I'm right here! DO IT!" As his voice rose in intensity, Penn lashed out again, sending Harper crunching into the wall, still laughing as his vision blurred and he tasted the familiar, delicious metallic tang of blood on his tongue. He turned to face the oncoming behemoth, arms still raised, as though inviting him to a party.

"Does it intimidate you, Penn? Ark? Knowing that you have nothing! Nothing to threaten me with, nothing to do, with all of your strength, with all of your genius?!" His resulting laugh was cut off by a solid punch, before Penn's hands clasped on his throat and he was raised to the giant's level.

"I could snap your neck," Penn murmured conversationally. "Cross you off, right now." Harper leaned slightly closer.

"Then do it, big guy. For me?" He paused, before a childish grin split his face. "Pleeeeeeeeaaaaase?" Ark's hand suddenly closed on Penn's shoulder, and the giant turned to see the dark skinned man shaking his head slowly. The meaning was clear: don't even try it. With a snarl, Penn released Harper's throat, turning and storming out of the room, his fist denting the opposite wall as he left, venting his frustrations elsewhere.

Ark stared at Harper, unreadable, before he too turned to leave. Harper sent another wave of laughter after him as Ark paused in the doorway, turning to look at him thoughtfully, though he didn't say a word. Memories buzzed around inside Harper's head, as though Penn's violent assault had dislodged them.

"We know you killed your father." The man in the suit and sunglasses said. It was a warm day, and they were in the park. As he watched his twelve year old brother, the twenty year old Harper turned to the man, scowling as he continued. "We can protect him until you are able to. Just say yes." He held out his hand slowly. Harper considered the matter, before smiling.

"Working for ONI until my brother is old enough to help out? Sure. What could go wrong with this arrangement?"

They shook hands.

It had been a relatively difficult mission, but nothing that he wasn't able to handle. Six years had passed since Harper had taken ONI up on their offer of working in special operations, strictly off the books, as long as they protected Isaac until then. He had done everything they asked of him, sat through all of their conditioning, as they shaped him into the weapon that they needed. He had never imagined that Isaac would decide when he was seventeen that he wanted to join Harper's little crew of misfits. He could list them all now. There was Phillip, arguably his closest friend, if he actually had friends and not just colleagues in this business. Arron had an odd obsession with fire, not that Harper could blame him. Fire was awesome, as destructive as it was, and the Australian sure knew how to start one. Michael was quiet, good at mental equations and liked sniping things. What else could be said about a guy like Mike? Lucas, only a year older than Isaac, was a whizz with technology, not quite as good with shooting, which irritated the Scotsman to no end. And of course, Geist. Who didn't say a lot about himself. Cocky bastard.

Track down and kill a Covenant Ultra and steal some classified data core, that was what they had been asked to do. Their orders were simple and had never explained any sort of resistance in their pre-mission briefing. They certainly weren't expecting a bloody army. Badly wounded, the group had been hauled back onto some Covenant ship hanging in low orbit, where they had been strung up and tortured like animals. Like the animals that these alien bastards were. And when Harper had finally manipulated his cuffs around the Sangheili's neck, when he had snapped it like so much dry plaster, and when he had reintroduced communication with Colonel Henderson, the man who had recruited him so long ago, he had received the following message:

"I am sorry, Agent Maverick, but we cannot send any rescue mission for you at this time. Your sacrifice is a necessary one. We will be sure to present a monument to your squad in the wreckage of the frigate. A bomber armed with a HAVOK is already enroute. I am sorry, Ian."

And the transmission had cut out. And Harper realised that he had been played. Of course he had. Their squad had been the most successful of its kind, performed the most missions and most importantly, had known the most dirty secrets. And now ONI wanted their secrets protected at all costs. So they had sent them into a trap and destroyed a Covenant ship, killing two birds with one stone.

A lesser man would have crumbled, collapsed maybe. But not Harper. Blinded with rage, he had fought his way through the ship, slaughtering all in his path as his squadmates searched for a salvageable ship. They had minutes before the HAVOK arrived and blew them all to kingdom come. But he hadn't joined them as they prepared the Phantom. He had to find Isaac.

And he had found him, lying in a corridor, a plasma burn having scorched through his leg. The wound had been cauterized, so there was no blood, but it was obvious that he was not going to reach the pelican. He grimaced at his horrified brother.

"M'sorry," he muttered, dazed and unfocused. "I tried, Ian. Y-you have to go," he coughed up blood, and Harper realised that he was clutching his stomach andthere was the blood. Something inside of him was breaking as he stared at his brother as he stirred on the floor. "I'll stay here, Ian. I'll be fine." He muttered. Harper hesitated, before pulling Isaac into one last hug, his eyes clenching in white hot fury as the helplessness of the situation overcame him. He turned and ran.

"Where's Isaac!?" yelled Phillip as Harper stormed into the ship, pulling the lever and sending them hurtling into the upper atmosphere of this small backwater colony. "Where is he, Ian?!"

Harper's shoulders shook with rage as he stared out of the viewport at the shrinking ship. Eventually, he spoke quietly, his voice reaching every one of his squad. "He isn't coming."

"But-" Phillip was struggling for words. "But you can't just leave him!" Harper didn't say a word. "Take us back." Still no response. "Harper, take us BACK!" Harper scowled at him, fist slamming into the side of the ship in rage. His mind was fracturing, eyes alight with pure fury.

"Don't you think I've done enough, Blake? We got out and everyone else dies." His words were harsh, cold, breaking and everything was pain and why was he suddenly hurting he just wanted Isaac back could he please just have his brother back?!

Phillip's next words were even quieter, just as broken. Isaac had been somehow adopted by the group. They had all cared for him in some way or other. "It's not fair."

"No it's not." His voice was flat. Phillip turned to him, beseeching.

"But he's yourbrother. Ian, he's gonna burn!" And then Harper turned to them, and there was madness in his eyes and in his voice.

"But that's just it! Don't you see, all of you, that if I could go back right now and save him then I could, but I can't!" There was silence within the ship as he continued to snarl at them, expression feral and mad. "I can never go back. I just can't, I can't- I can't." He cut himself off as he started to repeat himself.

The explosion of the frigate lit up the sky like a second sun. They all watched it burn as, eventually, the ship dissolved, falling away into the atmosphere, carrying the atomised remains of Isaac somewhere on board. And as he gave in to his madness, Harper had one thought in his mind, one endless mantra that would push him to insanity.

I made a promise. Someone is going to burn for this.

Harper stared after Ark as he watched him flatly, the smile fading from his face, voice gone hard, telling the facts as they were. "When I said I was the future, I meant it, Arkansas. The 'good people', the ones you claim to protect, the ones who will turn on you and execute you the second you've done what they want, they would all become me if they learned the lesson. If they became death, they would all be like me." He paused to let that sink in, before finishing his sentence. "See, I'm not a monster, Ark."

"I'm just ahead of the curve."

Arkansas didn't say another word, but just left, closing the door behind him, leaving Harper alone.

It had been too long. Harper had said he always smiled, so why wasn't he smiling yet? He felt as though he'd won some kind of victory over Arkansas, the smug bastard, so why wasn't he smiling? He knew the truth, he played the game, he ran the board his way and Yet. He. Was. Not. Smiling!

He gripped the knife tighter. He would show them. He would teach them all what he meant, precisely what it meant to know the truth, to let go of what yourself human, to release those concepts of morality or of humanity.

Placing the blade into his mouth, facing the point towards his cheek, he gritted his teeth, closing his eyes.

"And here. We. Go!"

And he ripped the knife sideways. It was both agony, and pure bliss, as it sliced through his cheek, tearing the flesh and ripping the muscle as he carved his own face open.

He laughed and laughed, and he didn't stop smiling as blood poured down his face and as he threw the rock away. He turned to see his reflection in the mirror, to see his new scars.

Now he would always be smiling.