So, you know how I said I'd continue this story and get those chapters revised a few months ago? Well, here we are again. I guess I really haven't gotten out of the writer's block completely. The fact that I'm writing fan lore for my Halo/Warhammer 40k fusion in DeviantArt and have gotten super addicted to Halo 5 and Rainbow Six: Siege hasn't helped. I hope you can forgive me. At the same time, I hope you all understand that this may never truly be complete. If that becomes the case, I will ask for someone else to take over if this fic has enough followers that want it.
Anyway, that's enough of that. Let's get on with the chapter!
Reassemble - Part 2
Location: UNSC Highlander, Paris-Class Frigate, Planet Arcadia Low Orbit
Shipboard Time: 1100 Hours
Date: June 10, 2557
Planet Arcadia. A majesty, a beauty, a jewel of humanity, a luminescent orb of vast oceans, spanning continents, and swirling clouds. Known for being an almost exact representation of pre-human Earth, this planet is used as a major military rally point and a popular tourist location. It is also one of the few planets that was spared the Covenant's glassing beams many years prior. However, due to the rise of Insurrectionist activity in the past few days, the planet has been closed down to military authorization only.
300 miles above the surface of the planet was the 500-meter-long floating hulk of metal known as the Highlander. Armed with Javelin missiles, anti-aircraft turrets, and a MAC battery that runs the length of the Highlander, the Paris-class vessel has the potential to wipe out any ship smaller in size than itself, even good against other ships of the same caliber as itself. It was perhaps one of the many ships anchored in orbit to the serene planet below, along with an assortment of battlecruisers, stealth cruisers, scout ships, transports, and other frigates. There was even a carrier or two with them. This was a force to be reckoned with.
The interior of the immense ship was of standard design, built with a hangar, vehicle depot, Command Bridge, engine room, medical facility, and numerous other rooms meant to accommodate its crew and passengers however it could while simultaneously using its space as efficiently as possible. These rooms consisted mostly of workout rooms, track floors, armories, firing ranges, sparing rings, mess halls, and numerous living quarters. There was even a vehicle and hangar bay, albeit a very small one at that. But it was adequate for any moderate operation needed for its usual occupants.
Inside one of the sparing rings a large group of fully armored ODSTs were watching a pair of squadmates were going at each other. Most had full combat gear on, a few of them not bothering with their helmets, all prepared to get called to duty at a moment's notice.
The sparring room they were in was fairly large, well-lit, and relatively open, a balcony located on one side and double doors underneath it. Rows of benches were located on the remaining sides. One of the two squadmates fell to the floor as the other smashed his right hand into the side of his helmet. Hitting the training room floor hard, the man let out a loud groan. He was young, no older than his mid-twenties, with a small, thin body that looked as if it could be snapped like a twig. It was a wonder that he was among the ODSTs in the first place by looks alone.
The other ODST was quite the opposite. He was a larger, much more heavily muscled man that looked almost like a heavy-weight bodybuilder. Looking down on the smaller ODST, he let out a sigh.
"Come on, Pendesky," he said in a rough, almost bullying voice, "you can do better than that." The ODSTs behind him laughed, goading for the one-sided fight to keep going.
The smaller trooper got up, stumbling as he did so. He breathed in and out, trying to refocus. After a few seconds the younger ODST rushed forward, charging at the larger man.
Expecting the maneuver, the ODST stood there and held out his meaty left hand and, almost as if from a cartoon, grabbed Pendesky's helmet and stopped him right in his tracks.
The younger man kept running, pushing as hard as he could at the lumbering giant. He had hoped that his momentum would carry him to victory, but it was useless. He wasn't moving and he wasn't sending his opponent back any farther.
Taking advantage of the moment, the larger man raised his other hand and formed a fist. He took his left hand away from the man's face, only to smash his head with the fist. Pendesky went flying back, his body sent tumbling across the floor. He came to rest several feet away, his body sprawling against the floor.
The large ODST turned away from the fallen trooper and began walking off the training floor, being congratulated by his teammates. Pendesky wheezed, his body aching all over from that singular blow. He wasn't a Spartan, he wasn't a veteran, hell, he didn't even know how he got picked as an ODST to begin with. But he was here and would pull through, just like how he pulled through his marine training and the ODST training after that. He picked himself up and started limping toward one of the benches, his shoulders sagging. The ODST looked down at the floor, disappointed at his performance.
"Hold it right there, Sanders," a thick, Southern-accented voice ordered from over at the exit. The ODSTs fell silent and looked towards the owner of the voice. Pendesky stopped and turned around.
In front of the doors stood a pair of heavily armored figures, one standing just behind the other and over to his right. Both were completely unarmed. The man standing further back was wearing a full set of brown MJOLNIR Mark VI SPARTAN armor, modified for unaugmented soldiers. He stood there attentively, as still as a statue.
But it was the other man that everyone was focused on. The man standing in front wore a set of red Mark VI armor, his arms crossed over his chest plate.
"Sarge," said the ODST known as Sanders, the one that had won the fight. "I'm surprised you're still here. Thought you'd been polishing that shotgun you seem oh so fond of this time of day." The other men snickered at the comment.
"Did I give you permission to speak, Private?" That seemed to shut up the whole crowd, the room becoming dead silent in an instant.
Sarge looked at the beaten Pendesky, quickly scanning the battered soldier, then back to the other ODST. "You beat up this young man, Sanders?" asked Sarge.
"Yes, sir," Sanders replied. "I was just teaching the newbie a lesson, sir."
"Did I ask you for a reason, soldier?" Sarge growled.
Sanders stopped. "No, sir."
Sarge looked at the whole group before asking, "How many sparring matches have you won today, Sanders?"
"All fifteen of them, sir."
"All fifteen of them, hm?" to which the man simply nodded. The grizzled Red scratched his chin, almost as if in thought.
Lowering his hand, Sarge looked the ODST straight in the eye, his gold visor gleaming from artificial light. "Sanders, choose four of your best men. If you beat me in the ring, I'll consider sending in a word of recommendation to the higher-ups to promote you, all of you." At that, everyone oohed, the reward piquing their interest.
"But," and everyone stopped again as Sarge continued, "if you lose, none of you get a promotion. And you, Sanders, have to scrub the bathrooms for a month. No exceptions."
Under his visor, Sanders grinned and stepped into the ring. "You're on. Kirk, Anderson, MacTavish, Carter," he called. Behind him, four brutish ODSTs stepped out of the crowd and fell in behind him.
Sarge stepped into the sparing ring, taking a very casual stance before them, while the ODSTs approached him, clenching their hands into fists.
"This will be easy," Sanders smirked. "Kirk, Anderson, you take the left flank. MacTavish, Carter, take right." The ODSTs spread out, moving around the red SPARTAN, until they formed a circle around the grizzled sergeant.
Taking up a fighting position, Sanders gave the signal. "Attack." An ODST on either side of the ring charged at Sarge. At how big they were, it looked almost as if they would crush him. Sarge just stood there as the hulking men approached him.
The men reached him and each threw a punch.
In a surprising burst of strength and speed, Sarge brought his arms up and grabbed the ODSTs' muscular wrists. Twisting his body and using their momentum, the red soldier threw the man to his right down onto the ground and across the floor. Simultaneously, he sent the ODST to his left flying over his body. The soldiers flew across the ring and landed with a thump on opposite sides, both on their back, both out of the ring. The singular Red returned to a relaxed stance, as if nothing had happened.
Shocked by the initial assault, the other three ODSTs advanced on him, keeping their guard up. They inched closer, never taking their eyes off him. Every step seemed to heighten the tension they felt, but the reward prevented them from being deterred.
The man to the left threw out a right hook and the man to the right kicked out with his left leg a split second later. But a split second was all that Sarge needed. Going to his left, the Red ducked under the punch and kicked the ODST square in the stomach. The bulky man stumbled backwards, holding his stomach. Finishing the move, Sarge turned to the other ODST and grabbed his leg with both hands. Tensing, the simulation trooper pulled his opponent off his feet and swung him around. Letting go, the ODST was smashed into his comrade. The pair fell to the floor with a hard crash.
Twisting his head, the Red saw Sanders come at him. The man threw out a punch at him. Turning to face his last opponent, Sarge brought up his right arm around the outside of the ODST's arm and swatted his arm out of the way. Stepping, the Red soldier brought his left hand around, which had formed into a fist, and smashed it right into the side of the ODST's helmet. The blow sent Sanders tumbling, eventually landing next to one of his teammates.
The others stood there gawking as Sarge finished off the last one. None of them had seen anything like it before. It seemed so fast, so swift, so extraordinary. Almost like a Spartan. Pendesky sat there, his eyes wide open. The thought of one man beating all five of them seemed so unreal, so impossible. The only time he recalled any feat like that happening was from John-117, when he was only 14 years old. Sarge was older, how much older, he couldn't tell, but he was older than many active ODSTs. That he was capable of doing that was nothing short of extraordinary.
Sarge stood back up and faced Sanders. "Come on, boys, you can do better than that," he mocked, as if nothing had even happened yet. "I've seen women who can fight better than you."
The ODSTs stood back and formed another circle, obviously infuriated by the insult. Sarge smiled under his helmet as they closed in once more. The gargantuan soldiers charged at him all at once, two to his front, three to his back.
In another surprising burst of speed, Sarge cartwheeled backward and hit the ODST behind him in the chest with his feet. The double kick sent the man sprawling across the floor and out of the ring.
Everything went into a blur. No one outside could see what was happening and the ODSTs in the fight barely fared any better. They felt punches, kicks, even a knee or two hit them all over their bodies. One by one, they fell out of the melee, each one grasping a different body part. McTavish held his arm while Carter was holding his shin. Meanwhile, Kirk was holding his head in his hands and Anderson was holding his hands between his legs. And Sander, he was grimacing as he held his chest.
Striking a pose once the melee had finished, Sarge stood back up as he surveyed his handiwork. Each man was groaning in pain, just as he wanted. A fine job indeed. Looking at the rest of the ODSTs, he barked, "Form up, everyone." Jolted by the sudden order, the rest of the soldiers stood to, lining up in a row. "Does anyone here understand what happened here?" The troopers remained silent, waiting for him to continue. "Blind ambition." He stepped over to one of the grounded ODSTs and motioned. "They made the mistake of underestimating an opponent. They didn't fight together, not really. Each of them was falling under their own ambition, not fighting as a unit, as a team. They were focused on the distant future instead of the near future. So, seeing their weakness, I took each of them out one at a time. The fact that they had reacted to the insult didn't help them either, only making them angry, and blind because of it." He walked back to the center of the line. "Never, ever lose focus on the current situation. Ever. You will lose the long term if you can't focus on the short term." He looked each ODST in the eye. "Never ever become blinded to your emotions, as you act irrational and lose your efficiency." He smirked and stood straight. "And never, ever underestimate an opponent, especially me, or, one day, you will lose more than your pride." He stood by and let his words sink in for a few seconds. "Am I clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" the unit replied, renewed strength and determination in their voices.
The Red scanned his charges before him, a look of determination on his face. Good, the message had gotten through well. They were ODSTs, the best of the best. They needed to work together so that they could become something greater, something that, individually, they could never be. Together, as one, they could do anything. "Dismissed."
The soldiers scattered to pick up their gear and began filing out of the sparring chamber. Sarge watched them leave one at a time, a content look on his face. It had been too long since he had felt this good, inspiring the youth, leading by example. It was what he had set out to do when he first joined the military, what he had wanted to do from the very beginning. He could hardly believe that it had taken him this long to get to that point, to actually be a leader, someone who commanded respect, someone who had subordinates that did as ordered without complaint or needed to be influenced by other means of persuasion. It never got old.
"Wow, they actually listened to you this time," spoke the man, or rather machine, behind him. His brown armor stood out like oak as he came in through the doorway. He continued to talk to the Red in pure, poorly iterated Spanish, a byproduct of Sarge's tinkering back in his early Blood Gulch days.
"I know, Lopez. I could've done so much better than that, but I just wasn't feeling it this time. Maybe I'm just getting old…"
The machine audibly sighed at his creator's continued lack of understanding. Ever since he was first booted up, not a single person had been able to understand him properly, at least none of the Reds or Blues. Nowadays there was at least a translator that was standard issue with each UNSC soldier's helmet, making his voice finally heard and understood. Sarge, however, still hasn't followed up on everyone else, or at least hasn't turned it on. It was a manual function, and most marines and ODSTs didn't even bother trying to figure out how it worked. So he wouldn't have expected the Red leader to follow up either. It was still annoying though, to no end.
"By the way," he mentioned, "Command wants us up in MTAC. Have an incoming call specifically for us."
"Well, I know I could've killed them right then and there if I wanted to," the gruff sim trooper continued, almost as if Lopez had never even spoken, "but that would get me with a lot more paperwork than I'd like, and probably a court martial too. On second thought, maybe just a court martial."
"Are you listening? Command needs us up at Briefing. We should get going now."
But gruff Red continued on as if he had agreed with the conversation instead of ignoring it altogether. "Well, if they did give me a court martial, someone else would have to finish the paperwork instead since I would be locked up in the brig until trial. Honestly, Lopez, I don't know why I still need to explain this to y-". Before he could continue, he heard a door sharply open and turned to see a Petty Officer jog up to him, one of the newer crew members, if Sarge's memory served correct.
Stopping abruptly, the younger man stood straight, hand raised in salute. "Sir, Command has a call on the line back at MTAC. Says it's urgent and required your presence ASAP."
"That's what I just said!" the android exclaimed behind him. Sarge paid no mind to his comment.
"At ease, son," he saluted back, and dropped his arm. "Did they say who it was from?"
"Wouldn't say, sir. Just that it was urgent."
The Red nodded again and began making his way out the door, waving Lopez to follow him. However, midway through his stride, he stopped again. "Did they get in my request this time?"
"Yes sir, and they formally denied it. Again."
"Damn shame," he sighed, and continued out.
Sarge and Lopez eventually made their way to MTAC, closer to the ship's bridge. By the time they had made it inside, they were greeted with darker, near-empty room, save for some abandoned monitoring stations, several rows of seats, a screen, and it's single occupant, his back faced to them. Clearly, he was focused on what was on the screen itself, no hint of acknowledgement present.
"Sir, I understand that the apprehension of the Director is of utmost importance, but I've got guys here who need a man like him. He's one of the best we've got," the man insisted. Sarge recognized the voice as belonging to Colonel Roth, a veteran of the war and one of the few that oversaw the evacuation of Earth's citizens even as the Covenant made their assault in the waning days of Human-Covenant War. Sometime after the war, he was transferred to command the forces now rallying at Arcadia, where they were now waiting to be directed. The forces now included at least three Paris-class Frigates, over a dozen heavy transports, some 3,000 marines, and at least 50 ODSTs, many fresh out of training. Sarge and Lopez technically counted among those numbers, even though Lopez technically qualified as an android.
"This is non-negotiable, Colonel. These orders come straight from HIGHCOM, Priority One." The new voice, coming from the monitor the Colonel was speaking to, seemed strangely familiar, like a memory just out of reach. But Sarge kept to himself, await further instructions before continuing. If he was part of a Priority One order, there was no way in Sam Hell he was going to disobey it, no matter how much he would've wanted to. He was a soldier first and he followed orders to the letter. Project Freelancer had marred and blemished his record, pitting him with a squad of disobedient subordinates, and now he would endure, just as he had endured then.
With a sigh, Roth nodded. "Understood, sir." Looking over his shoulder, his eyes met Sarge's, before he turned back and saluted before pivoting on his heels and walked out of the room, nodding at the Reds once on his way.
Now that there was no one else in the room but the two Reds, Sarge could get a good view on this man, the one with said Priority One order. Beneath his helmet, the simulation trooper's eyes widened a fraction at just who was on the screen before him. "Agent Washington," he gritted between clenched teeth, voice seething with anger and disdain. Memories of the black-and-gold Freelancer came back in force, some good, but most far from it. His interactions as a Freelancer with the Reds and Blues, his association with the Meta, those were thoughts of disdain worth mentioning.
"Sarge," the Freelancer greeted back, although without any of the same emotion or sincerity behind it. In fact, there seemed to be no emotion in that one word at all. Just cold, hard professionalism, just like the first time they'd met. He envied that, that the young man could project an air such as that with ease, putting even the likes of Sarge to shame by how soldier-like he was.
"So, what's the word? Why are you here? More importantly, why am I part of a Priority One order? Far as I can tell, I'm perfectly fine here with these Marines and ODSTs." It wasn't much of an exaggeration. For all the time he missed doing what he did at Blood Gulch, and eventually Valhalla, he was content with his work: breaking down, settling in, training, and preparing ODSTs for the next battle, however far away that was. Even if the newly-implemented Spartan-IV Program was starting to phase out the ODSTs, he believed they were still needed. He believed in the strength of the normal man, the unaugmented man, to rise from the ashes of defeat, to hold the line, to show all that was good and glorious about humanity. He was here to mold those men to be the best they could be. At first he had thought he'd lost his touch for training, having spent too long with the likes of Grif and Simmons, but soon he found the reflex, coming back to him like muscle memory. Here, he felt content, even if he missed some of the older days, the action, the adventure, the glory, even the comradery.
"As you're aware," the Freelancer began, "Insurrectionist activity has risen 300 percent in the last week, and HighCom believes we have a full civil war on our hands. Even with the full backing of the UNSC, this will be a long, drawn out fight. What makes matters worse is that the Director of Project Freelancer has been broken out of prison. We believe he is in the process of creating new weapons and soldiers for the Insurrectionists, and will further prolong the war if we don't stop him."
"That's why I'm here, Sarge, to reform a specialized team, consisting of you, Lopez, and various others to stop him, bring him to justice if possible, or eliminate him if necessary. If we don't do something, this war will cost the lives of millions and may tear apart Earth and all her Colonies at the seams. So," he looked at the grizzled Red straight in the eyes, emphasizing the weight of the situation, "are you in?"
Without missing a beat, he replied, "I'm in." If he was being honest with himself, he had already thought up his mind about the matter of the situation. His work, as important as it was to him, still was of much lower priority than what he was told. He knew the Director was a dangerous man, the creation of the Alpha and Freelancers attesting to that. He knew his instability, his years of pent-up rage and sorrow, a victim of the Human-Covenant War. People had suffered for his creations and decisions, and people would continue to suffer with him on the loose. This was also coupled with the fact that Sarge and, if he was certain, the rest of the simulation troopers had a score to settle with him. This was an opportunity he would not miss.
Lopez glanced over at Sarge. "Please tell me you didn't just agree to this."
"Doesn't matter what I think, Lopez," Sarge replied. "This is a matter of justice to our long-time enemy, even more so than to the Blues. Besides," he chuckled, "you don't have a choice. Technically you're my subordinate, so you have to do as I say. Am I clear?"
The android audibly sighed. "Yes sir."
The Freelancer, in the meantime, gave the Red a questioning glance. "Are you absolutely sure about this? This may be the most dangerous op in your career, even in my career. The stakes are incredibly high."
Once again, Sarge chuckled at the remark like it was a joke. "Son, I've never been more certain of anything in my life. This man, he has to pay for what he's done. And I want to be there to personally make sure his time comes."
