Sooooo, this chapter took a lot longer to write than the last eight chapters. This is largely the result of two things:

1. Things got super busy between November and January with my work.

2. The war in Ukraine clocked my real-world work into overdrive and diverted a bunch of my attention away from this.

To my Ukraine readers, I hope the war ends soon and you and your country remains intact. To my Russian readers, be extremely wary of what your government is telling you. Truth is the first casualty of war. And all warfare is based on deception.


Spiritus Praeteriti

Location: Insurrectionist Base, Praetor Northlands

Time: 1440 Hours

Date: June 23, 2557

A screech could be heard behind the veil of fog before his eyes, muffled like the voices and banging before it. He flinched slightly, trying and failing to move away from it instinctively. It became grating against his ear and he closed his eyes, trying to simply will away the ear-splitting noise. It wasn't working.

He felt more than heard the sound of something hard and metallic press against what sounded like rock. The sounds of crunching and cracking soon followed. It was then that he realized that the screech was coming from the metallic thing, now reduced in tune due to its connection with the rock.

No, he realized, not rock. Ice.

As soon as the realization struck him, he shot his eyes open and saw his vision crack before him, large fissures forming before the cloud of grey and white. He put two and two together and realized he'd been encased in ice this whole time.

He heard more snapping and crackling as the ice crumbled before him. Soon the pieces of frozen water fell away, allowing light to shine on his face and into his eyes. It nearly blinded him. Unfortunately, in that moment, he also lost whatever balance he had from the crystalline material that had surrounded his body. He fell forward and snapped his arms out in front of him. They landed against hardened steel, shaking the floor below.

A few seconds passed and eventually his vision cleared. He could now see the grey surface of the floor, shiny from a combination of wax and melted water. He also saw small chunks of ice scattered about, in an assortment of shapes and sizes. Some of the pieces had already melted into tiny puddles.

However, that's not what drew his attention.

His hands were covered in a sort of black bodyglove, the fine but durable material hugging his skin. It hugged his epidermis so tightly he hadn't even noticed it at first. Over the back of his hand was a white gauntlet.

Gingerly, he reached up to his face. He expected to feel a smooth, almost felt-like texture make contact with his skin. He expected his skin to feel cold, clammy, unhealthy even.

He didn't expect his fingers to stop an inch before his face, the glove knocking against an invisible barrier.

Thinking he must've been crazy, he reached around to touch a different part of his head, only to be met with the same result.

It was then that a bunch of symbols lit up before his eyes, information scrolling by in tiny yellow font he could only barely see.

He jumped at the sudden flow of information. Concentrating a little, he could more clearly see the streams form into coherent data. He saw a loading bar labeled as:

Initiating Boot-Up Sequence.

His eyes could pick out a heartbeat monitor as well as an internal and external thermometer. The external was near-freezing, but had started rising, indicating that the room was warmer than the ice he'd been in. His vitals were normal, if a bit sluggish. Not surprising considering he'd been doing nothing but rest for who-knows-how-long.

"Agent Maine?" a voice cut through the air, distinctly male.

He snapped his head up at the sudden disturbance, hands balling into fists. Instinctively, he reached for a weapon at his hip, only to come into contact with a greave made of the same material as whatever was covering the back of his hand.

He took in his surroundings. The room he was in was large, big enough to accommodate a Scorpion and then some. Metal plates made up the walls and ceiling, with grates dotting across a bare white floor. Bright lights illuminated the area, giving the room an almost chrome-like look to it. Roughly ten feet in front of him, a giant thin but elongated drill sat against a wall, its tip pointed in his direction.

"Agent Maine, can you hear me?" the disembodied voice asked, being projected through speakers in the ceiling.

He wanted to speak out, to demand who his captor was and where he was. He wanted to ask why he'd been stuck in ice and why he'd only just been released. He wanted the answer to so many questions, questions that continued to build up in his mind by the second.

When he tried to speak, his voice came out somewhere between a choke and a growl. The guttural noise shocked him and he stuck his tongue out, licking his lips and wetting them with whatever spit he had. His throat suddenly felt too dry, too raw, like he'd been stuck in a desert for weeks without water.

He tried again, but the animal growl came back, louder and clearer this time. This revelation continued to surprise him. Surely he couldn't be mute, not after being so long without anyone to talk to. It couldn't be that he had no method of forming words with his own vocal cords. How could he communicate? How could he possibly function as a human being?

"Agent Maine, can you hear me?" the voice uttered one more time, a slight echo in the chamber reverberating against the walls.

He paused as he heard the voice give him a name. Agent Maine. That was his name. Or at least that was a name he was known by. But the name was more of a title, a designation by a corporation or spy syndicate. Did they know his real name? If so, why hadn't they told him it? Maybe they don't know it either. It was impossible to tell at this point. Either way, he'd be wary of any possible deception from this man that spoke to him.

Seeing as he couldn't answer with his voice, he resorted to nodding his head once, glaring up at the bright ceiling.

"Good," the voice continued. "Please understand that the room around you is merely a… precaution. We had no idea how you'd react when we removed you from the ice, so we decided to keep you isolated."

He understood to a degree, even if he didn't know why they needed him in a large, isolated room. Couldn't they have just kept him in a cell, surrounded by soldiers and people ready to help at a moment's notice? He didn't know how he could be a danger to anyone in his current state, even with the strange armor that seemed to encapsulate his body. That was, unless they thought he was far more dangerous than he realized.

A section of the wall hissed from decompression, steam emanating from a square indent that had formed to his left. The white panel folded back, revealing a dimly-lit hallway. He didn't have time to look further into it before a squad of men in steel-and-red armor quickly filed through, six in total. Their heads were covered in fully-sealed Scout helmets, dim reddish-orange visors glaring at him. Each of them held an Assault Rifle in their hands, all standing at parade rest, the muzzles of their weapons clearly not aimed at him.

"We understand that you have many questions, all of which will be answered in due time," the disembodied voice assured him. "For now, would you please follow these men? We need to perform a physical examination on you and your suit to make sure nothing is permanently damaged."

He nodded and made his way through the exit. Two of the men led on ahead of him, directing his path to where he needed to go. The remaining four followed a careful distance behind. Upon further inspection, they seemed almost the same height as him, on the leaner side but with a firm amount of muscle beneath their armor. He still didn't understand why he needed so many men following or guarding him, but he chose not to question the decision. Whoever ordered them to do so probably had a good reason for it.

As they walked, he thought about the name they'd given to him. Maine. Agent Maine. The name seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. It was a passing sense of grasping something that was his own, but felt barely out of place, like a piece of a puzzle that clearly belonged to it, but wasn't in the right place.

The group continued down metallic grey, barren hall after barren hall, the only sounds coming from the marching of footsteps and the soft hum of power to the lights. Each hallway was similar to one another, indistinct, like it'd been copy-pasted together on a computer. It was dull, boring, and gave no sign as to where he was or what type of facility he was in. It didn't give away how large it was, what else it was used for, or even who it belonged to.

After what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, they arrived at their destination: a laboratory of some sort, with examination tables and chairs, tables with vials of liquid and a plethora of tools and instruments, various scanning devices, and some sort of arch-like structure with shining metal arms protruding from it that were of various lengths and widths.

Three men in lab coats were conversing near the arch, all of them covering their heads in hair nets, with surgical masks over their mouths and goggles around their eyes. They turned to face as he and his escort approached. One of them, presumably the leader, stepped forward.

"Ah, hello there, Agent Maine," he said in a thick East Asian accent. He could not discern which country it came from specifically, however. "My name is Doctor Kazukawa. I know all of this must be a lot for you to process given how long you were in the ice for, but I can explain everything to you in good time."

Given a good look, the man was undoubtedly shorter than him, at least five or six inches. He was a bit skinny, even despite the lab coat that swathed his form. Under the goggles, he could make out thin, steel-grey eyes, which gave off a confident, yet cautious aura about him. He clearly had no fear of Maine even despite the difference in height and stature, something that stood out compared to the large group of armed men around him. There had been an air of tension around them, even though they did their best to hide it.

"Now," the Doctor said, stepping towards the circular-like contraption at the far end of the room, "would you please step into the Armor Station so we can begin your diagnosis?"

He cocked his head in curiosity before cautiously stepping underneath the large metal contraption. He turned to face the others, but felt a slight nudge against his back as he did so. He turned around in alarm at the sudden contact, but Doctor Kazukawa raised his hand to calm him.

"It's just a basic neural interface, Agent Maine," he told him. "The only thing it'll do is allow you to speak to us through text. I'm sure you've been wanting a way to communicate with us for a while now."

He gave the scientist a skeptical look before nodding once in resignation. If he was telling the truth, then it could only really benefit him. But if it had some sort of nefarious alternative use, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it anyway.

"Now," the doctor continued, "the device is connected to you through a neural interface in your armor, so all you have to do is merely think what you want to say and the computer will turn it into text."

Maine understood. With a thought, he projected the words in his head to a screen before them.

Like this? it read.

Kazukawa nodded in affirmation. "Yes, exactly like that. My, my, you're catching on quickly. I was not expecting that."

Maine smirked beneath his helmet. Somehow, this stuff came to him easily, almost like a reflex. He couldn't explain it, but it felt familiar to him. He still wished he could remember who he was, though.

I have a lot of questions, he texted to the doctor.

"And they will all be answered once we finish your medical and psychological examination," Kazukawa eased. "Now, please stand still so the machine can scan you and your suit for any potential neural damage."

Maine did as he was told, albeit reluctantly. There were still too many question marks about the group he was with. Just who were these people? What did they want with him? And why did they seem so cautious around him?

A soft green laser field was seen protruding from the top of the arch. It scanned over him once, then twice, before receding. A chime sounded from a tablet one of the other scientists was holding and he held it out to the doctor.

He thanked his colleague before reading over whatever was on the device. A minute or two later he looked back up at Maine. "Well, the good news is that you seem perfectly healthy, at least physically. No fried nerves, no degraded muscles or weakened skeleton, no sign of arrhythmic heart problems, not even mild blood thinner or oxygen deprivation. It's like your suit kept the negative effects from destroying your body, almost like a natural cryosleep. Almost," he told him.

Almost? he questioned.

Kazukawa nodded. "Indeed. Your body was still active, but extremely slowly. Your heart reduced speed to under ten heartbeats per minute, so slow you'd be considered practically dead. Good thing too, because if you'd stayed completely frozen, that would've been something straight out of an old science fiction movie." The scientist chuckled at the thought, like the idea that Maine being a hair's breadth away from death was a good joke.

He disagreed.

The doctor continued. "It also drastically reduced energy consumption for carbs, fat, and proteins naturally in your body. Explains why you were able to stay alive under there for four years."

Maine's eyes widened at the news. Wait, wait, wait, he urged, the computer unable to fully relay the urgency of his thoughts to the man. FOUR YEARS?

"Yes," Kazukawa nodded, casually shrugging his shoulders as if he hadn't dropped a massive bomb of information on him.

What year is it? he asked, his heart beating faster, adrenaline beginning to course through his veins. Who are you people? What am I? What do you want with me?

He stepped towards the man threateningly, hands balled into fists. Immediately, the six soldiers raised their weapons at him, forming a semicircle around him. Their fingers were on their triggers, rifles aimed center mass.

But he didn't care at this point. He wanted answers. He needed answers. He didn't care if he was going to die in the process of obtaining them, but he was going to get them regardless.

For his part, Doctor Kazukawa didn't even so much as flinch at the threatening gesture of the large man before him. "There is no need to get upset, Agent Maine. I understand this all must be very confusing for you, but rest assured, I will answer them for you now."

He gestured for the men to lower their weapons. They hesitated for a brief second, as if not trusting his word, before standing back at attention, taking a step back. Their weapons snapped back to their original positions. However, Maine continued to keep his fists balled.

"Now," the small doctor continued, "you are currently on the planet Praetor, in the border between the Inner and Outer colonies in human-colonized space. It is currently 1455, local time. The date is June 23rd, 2557. It has been over four years since the Human-Covenant War ended."

Okay, so he had something. A date, at the very least. The Human-Covenant War sounded familiar too. Was that the war where humanity had been fighting against an alien religious coalition that had been hell-bent on annihilating their entire race?

He felt flashes the more he thought about it. It started coming back to him now, glimpses of the past: smaller, cowardly Grunts with their rebreathers and methane tanks; swift, avian Jackals with round energy shields; tall, martial Elites with their strange mandibled mouths; savage, ape-like Brutes; numerous insectoid Drones; and towering, imposing Hunters with their broad metal shields and powerful Fuel Rod cannons.

Soon enough, the images of the past came to him in waves, all colliding against one another and building into an endless tide. He remembered the smell of plasma, the bright blues and purples of Covenant armor and weapons. He remembered the stink of burnt flesh, of ash and smoke from glassing beams, of burning atmosphere and the blood of comrades, the stench of rotting meat and the iron tang of spilled human innards. It was a lot to take in.

And yet, that all seemed distant to him, like they belonged in a separate part of his life, like it had been an earlier chapter of his existence. It felt like things he'd experienced in his childhood or as a teenager.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he collected his thoughts and calmed his mind. Okay, he texted the man before him. Who are you people? Who am I? Why am I here?

"We are all former citizens of the Outer Colonies," Kazukawa answered. "We did not have a formal name, but the United Nations Space Command has dubbed us collectively as 'Insurrectionists'. In response to that, we instead chose to name ourselves the United Rebel Front, a coalition of Insurrectionist cells from across human space."

He was familiar with the United Nations Space Command, or UNSC, and the Insurrectionists and URF. The UNSC was the primary military component of the United Earth Government in which all human colonies answered to. But he knew little about the Insurrection.

"We have been fighting against the UNSC since before the Human-Covenant War for our independence," the doctor continued. "We feel the UNSC has been far too restrictive on colonies far outside their control. They do not understand our position, and fail to realize the freedom we have been seeking. In response to our continued needs, they created a series of weapons meant to stamp out or resistance, to kill us, weapons such as you."

Maine raised his eyes in curiosity. Him, a weapon? He doubted that for second. However, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. It would explain the armor over his body, the hidden strength in his steely muscles. It would also explain why so many men had escorted him, all heavily armed and armored, and why they all aimed their weapons so quickly at him when he made so much as a single step towards them.

Seeing as he was contemplating the information given to him, Kazukawa continued by answering his next question. "Your name is Agent Maine, formerly of Project Freelancer. You were part of one of several supersoldier programs that the UNSC created to both combat us and, eventually, the Covenant. From the sources we were able to gather, you were an extremely proficient Agent."

All of this information only confirmed his assumptions. The men around him were terrified of what he could do. Given that he was good at his job, it also meant that getting him to join their side would make him a valuable asset.

But, if he was a member of the UNSC, why should he join them, especially in the aftermath of a genocidal war that nearly saw every human wiped out? Why shouldn't he just break out of captivity and go back to the UNSC's control instead of partaking in a cause that, by the sounds of it, he had no real investment in?

This sounds good and all, he told them visually, but why should I care about what a bunch of rebels want?

Kazukawa actually chuckled at that, surprising Maine. "You went rogue," the Innie told him. "We don't know the specifics, but at some point during your time with Project Freelancer, you chose to disobey your superiors and fight against them and their agents instead. Apparently it went on to the point where you fought and lost to their best soldier near one of their bases, falling into a nearby ocean and getting frozen in ice."

He was shocked at the news, to say the least. Him, betray the UNSC and Project Freelancer? Going so far as to actively fight them to the point where their best agent had to come after him? Was he really that much of a threat to them? The more he thought about it, the more difficult of a spot this information put him in. If all of this was true, he'd be considered among the UNSC's most wanted and actively hunted down. He couldn't just go back to them, not without a risk of getting shot and killed. It wasn't like here. This was the UNSC they were talking about, the greatest military power in human history. And they had survived against the Covenant, who had been vastly more numerous and technologically superior to them. They had survived over 25 years of fighting against them, and won. What was he to that?

I see, he told the Insurrectionist. So where do I fit in to all of this?

"You seem like a smart man, Agent Maine," the doctor told him. "The UNSC will probably kill you at the earliest opportunity, so you can't go back to them. That leaves you with two options: you either try to escape and strike out on your own, or you join us and bring an end to their tyrannical oppression."

Maine took the time to think about. He really was in a bind. Going to back to the UNSC was a death sentence, just as he said. And he didn't feel like dying, not yet. There were too many things he didn't know, things he wanted to know. And there was still a huge gap of information about his past. He needed to know what had happened to him. As for striking out on his own, well, he had no idea where to start. Hell, he didn't know how to start. He imagined his real name wasn't Agent Maine, so that wouldn't fly if he tried traveling to other planets. Plus his armor wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

That really only left him with one option, one he was reluctant to accept.

Very well, he texted. I guess I have no choice but to help you.

"Good, good," Kazukawa said. Maine could hear the grin plastered on the doctor's face as he responded. "We can help you get integrated with our units as soon as possible. We do not have much time, after all. There is already a UNSC ship in orbit, ready to pounce on us. It has already destroyed our single orbital defense platform. Not only that, but our global communications array was destroyed shortly after you woke up. There's no telling when they'll strike at our main base next."

Maine nodded in understanding. The choice grew more and more sour as the minutes ticked by the minute, but it wasn't as if he had a choice, not really. If the UNSC was here already, then death was far closer than he had anticipated. He would help the Insurrectionists repel the invaders until a better opportunity could present itself. Once that opportunity came, then he was out, plain and simple. The Insurrectionists were not worth devoting his life to.

He just hoped he wouldn't have to devote his life to them to get what he wanted.


Location: Insurrectionist Base, Praetor Northlands

Time: 1431 Hours

Date: June 24, 2557

The attack had come as expected and the UNSC had arrived in force. They'd somehow managed to disable the exterior defensive wall, where most of their turrets had been placed. Worse than that, they commenced the attack almost as soon as it had gone down, giving the Insurrectionists very little time to prepare.

Luckily, Maine had been suiting up into the base's only fully combat-rated Cyclops, equipped with anti-armor autocannons and a domed energy shield salvaged off of a HRUNTING Mark II [D] armor system during one of the URF's earlier raids on an abandoned Materials Group facility. Granted, he'd only had a few hours to actually run through some simulations and practice using the damn thing, but it was better than nothing.

Ultimately, the practice didn't help much. He'd been put in charge of the generator meant to power the compound in the side of the mountain and its associated energy shield. The Onxy Guard, the steel-armored soldiers that had accompanied him, had fallen back into the base interior to better equip themselves for the coming fight. They said they'd be back to help him in a few minutes.

Those few minutes ended up being all the time the UNSC needed to begin their attack. He did his best against the two dozen or so enemies, but they proved to be too much, especially the two light-blue soldiers. The swifter of the two ended up slipping out of reach every time Maine made a move towards him. And it had given the other one, the aqua one, a chance to destroy the generator he was supposed to protect.

His shields overloaded and his suit briefly lost power from the massive discharge of energy caused by the machine's destruction. For a bit he wondered if he'd been trapped, the Cyclops having fallen on its face as it lost power.

The machine did power back up eventually, but the attacking UNSC soldiers had already moved on, clearly intent on rejoining their comrades and finishing wiping out what remained of the Insurrectionists. Distantly, he heard the rain of fire as it obliterated the remaining defensive artillery and fighting positions that were left. The guns fell silent, yet he was still alive.

He could not let them get into the mountainside unscathed.

He was luck that the servos on the Cyclops hadn't given away his position as he approached the singular Scorpion tank that was standing proudly among the ruins of what had been the URF's primary defensive ring. Unfortunately, his luck would run out as the mechanical limbs would begin whining just before he had a chance to pounce.

The soldiers that had been accompanying the tank had been able to face him, the smoke and soot from burning vehicles obscuring their vision just enough to not realize how close he truly was. They would only realize what level of danger they were in once he reached out and stopped the tank turret in place with one of the Cyclops's arms. It folded easily under the crushing force. For extra measure, he unloaded round after round from his autocannons into the armored cockpit, killing the pilot and utterly destroying the main body.

When he was done, he looked at the remaining UNSC forces. This time, he'd ensure they would take many more casualties when facing him than before.

And take them he would. He managed to destroy one of the two Warthogs that were with them and one to two dozen infantry with ease.

Killing the more brightly colored soldiers, however, proved to be far more difficult than he anticipated. Every time he tried aiming or reaching for the red- or blue-colored ones either the speedy cyan one that had harassed him before or a black-armored one would do something to stop him, either hitting his target out of reach or smashing into the side of him directly. He almost had the maroon and orange ones when the green-and-blue one moved far faster than he had thought possible for a human and knocked them both off his crosshair in the nick of time.

Maine thought for sure he would get a chance to kill at least the other light blue one when he made a lunge towards him, but he didn't anticipate a second tank hitting him in the back, staggering his mech and popping it's incredibly strong energy shield. What really surprised him was the trooper pulling out an Energy Sword of all things and cutting one of the Cyclops's arms off.

That led to the fast cyan one to be able to smash his hammer into the cockpit, rendering the bipedal walker unusable as it fell on its back.

He would not meet the fate of his steed, instead literally smashing his way out of the cockpit, revealing himself in all of his glory to them. They would know who their killer was before their inevitable demise.

And it seemed his presence had given the desired effect, just like he had unintentionally done with the Onyx Guard after he first got out of the ice. Several of the soldiers quaked in fear, meaning they at least knew of his reputation. Some of them drew weapons or stepped towards him aggressively.

Only one seemed in complete shock, unable to move: the fast cyan one. Looking closer, he could see that it was a she.

"Maine?" he heard her question, reinforcing his initial observation. It also told him that she knew who he was. But he didn't know her. Maybe she was someone he'd worked with before. Maybe she'd been a friend. But whatever she'd once been to him didn't matter, not anymore. She was with the UNSC, and she'd probably try to kill him, just like the other soldiers with her.

Still, he felt something in the back of his head, a bit of pressure. It wasn't much, but it was enough for him to notice it. He growled and briefly shook his head, hoping that would drive the feeling away. He didn't need that sort of distraction right now.

He had UNSC to kill.

For what felt like hours, but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, the Reds and Blues stood in silence at the revelation of who exactly had been piloting the now-destroyed Cyclops. None dared to more, some not even so much as breathing as their brain failed to process the figure standing before them.

Agent Carolina, for her part, was still in shock at seeing Maine, here among all places. She was told that he'd died, flung off the side of a cliff near the crashed Mother of Invention.

Guess the UNSC was wrong.

Tucker stood next to her, hands gripped tightly on his DMR. He remembered the terrifying experience of having to fight the hulking Freelancer in hand-to-hand combat four years ago. Even with Sarge, Grif, Simmons, and Washington at his back, they had only barely managed to stay in the fight against him. Tex and Church had been practically incapacitated before their arrival, so they couldn't have provided any help. It was a wonder they'd been able to stop him before.

But that was four years ago. A lot of stuff had happened to all of them. Each and every one of them had seen some sort of combat, fighting that had been beyond what they'd been used to. Church had learned how to fight like a Freelancer alongside Tex; Sarge had reintegrated with the ODSTs, who had deployed several times at this point; Grif and Simmons had been attached to an Armor Division which was stationed quite far away from most human colonies and had been subject to pirate and Storm Covenant raids; even Caboose had been transferred to multiple units, at least one or two of which were actively deployed. He himself had seen constant conflict with the Sangheili Civil War still ongoing.

Illinois stood by impassively, eyes darting between Maine and the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers. He'd only heard through official reports and conversation from Church of what happened to Maine. Corrupted, twisted in the mind by Sigma to go on a murderous rampage against anyone who stood in his way, including his once-fellow Freelancers, all in order to fulfill the AI fragment's desire to achieve metastability and become human. Maine, who had become known as the Meta, gained the desire for power in the process. And that desire overcame him even after Sigma's death at the hand of the EMP at Project Freelancer's main ground base after the Mother of Invention had crashed.

He noticed the immediate tension in the entire group, the air completely silent except for the crackling of burning debris around them and the faintest gust of wind. Grif and Simmons were flinching, leaning away from him. Sarge, Lopez, and Tex stepped towards him, either readying weapons or prepared to close in to melee. Everyone was ready to do something in response to him.

Tucker gave a sidelong glance at Carolina and noticed how deathly still she'd gotten. She wasn't even in a fighting stance and there wasn't a weapon in hand. She looked shell-shocked, frozen to the spot.

He hoped against hope that she'd snap out of it. The last thing they needed was one of the Freelancers being rendered useless, thus becoming a liability.

The silence was cut painfully short when a single shot zoomed past the Meta's head, just centimeters from blowing the back of his brains out. Illinois's eyes snapped to Church, with the muzzle of his sniper rifle had aimed squarely at the imposing Freelancer. He assessed that the former AI had tried snapping his aim up to kill Maine with a single shot. Unfortunately, he had missed, his aim muddied by either suffering from shock like Carolina or not being accustomed to firing so quickly out of low ready.

The reason did not matter, as the others snapped their heads to him for a second. That second proved all the time Meta needed to smash his fist into the ground, a domed bubble shield emanating from his position. The others began firing into him, but the effort was futile at this point. Illinois was aware that the shield was strong enough to resist tank rounds, having been exposed to its effects many times when used by Covenant forces.

Dozens of rounds landed against the hexed protective field, all of them bouncing against it harmlessly. The only one who didn't end up firing was Carolina. She was still too stunned at seeing Maine alive. It was only after Church's third sniper round was fired that she realized something: the bubble shield had once belonged to North Dakota, which meant Maine must've killed him to get it.

She felt her stomach drop at the thought. North had always been the kindest one among her friends, the one you could always count on for comfort. He was also officially Project Freelancer's best sniper, although that title could be disputed because of Illinois's reputation. It's too bad they would never get a chance to see who was better now. He would never give reassurance in her decisions from him again, never get to hear his soft voice or his calming demeanor ever again.

Now he was dead, like so many of her friends before. Him, South, Wyoming, Florida, CT. They were all gone. All that was left were Wash, Tex, Illinois, and herself. Even then, she'd only counted Wash as her friend. Illinois had always been distant; helpful a lot more than she wanted to admit, but distant. Knowing he was much closer to Tex than herself didn't make things better in her book.

And now Maine was back. But whether he was even there anymore was the big question.

Church fired his fourth shot out, getting the same effect on the shield as the last two rounds. He was about to swap the empty magazine out for a new one when a hail of rounds fell upon the Reds, Blues, and UNSC soldiers. Immediately, he took cover behind a piece of rubble, his shields absorbing the three or four bullets that had actually landed on him. The others did likewise. A few of the unshielded UNSC soldiers weren't lucky enough to escape before being cut down, including two of the ODSTs. Several more were hit, but were not killed outright. Their armor had, thankfully, saved them.

Tucker immediately wrapped his arms around Carolina's waist, throwing them both into cover. That seemed to snap her out of her trance enough at least brace herself before landing on her back, the Blue's body covering her. They both felt the wind get knocked out of their lungs from the impact.

Tucker ducked his head down as more rounds went sailing over their heads, his body still on top of hers. Normally in this situation, he would've said one of his infamous bow-chicka-bow-wows or given her a really bad pick-up line, but the gunfire had snapped him out of it. They scrambled apart and pressed their backs to the barricade they found themselves at. It only went up to their chest, so their ability to move was rather limited.

The Reds and Blues were able to identify the source of the incoming fire in seconds: a wave of Insurrectionists still in the base had begun firing upon them. Among them were several steel-and-red armored soldiers. Their armor was more ornate than the rest of the cobbled-together Insurrectionist forces they'd met so far. It was finely-crafted, perhaps custom-made.

The new defenders began to spread out, all of them taking cover behind an assortment of cover stationed near the mountainside entrance. At least one or two of them were carrying deployable turrets, eager to get into position to lay down more suppressing fire.

Simmons noticed the turret soldiers first. "They're gonna pin us down if we don't kill them now," he informed everyone else. Agreeing with his assessment, the others began returning fire on the Insurrectionists.

Church was about try aiming with his rifle when he realized he hadn't reloaded it yet. He was reaching down to his belt for a fresh magazine when he saw movement from the corner of his eye.

The cobalt soldier had just enough time to barely dodge the incoming fist to his face, taking a step back and seeing that the Meta was practically on top of him. The white-and-brown Freelancer had closed the distance while everyone had been distracted.

Instinctively, he countered with a punch to his own, aimed squarely at the Meta's jaw. It connected and the burly Freelancer stumbled slightly. Church, meanwhile, continued to backpedal, dropping his rifle in the process. Even though he was much better in hand-to-hand combat than the last time they'd met, he still felt out of his league. This was the man who had nearly killed him and, more importantly, Tex four years ago.

Maine recovered quickly from the singular blow to his head, his helmet and armor absorbing most of the impact. Rebounding off of his foot as he stepped back once, he barreled towards Church.

Even though Church was more prepared for his assailant's next attack, what he was not prepared for was being virtually trapped by the debris to his back. One of the destroyed Kodiaks was blocking his path of escape. It was too wide for him to make a dash in time and it was too tall for him to scale.

Knowing both of these things, he could do nothing but attempt to block Maine's strikes. He got further than he expected, blocking or avoiding the first six blows. Knowing that he didn't have the strength to match his opponent's, he did his best to weave around his blows or redirect them away from his body instead. Where four years ago he wouldn't have even been able to avoid one or two, his training with Tex had paid off somewhat.

Unfortunately, he was still facing a Freelancer.

The seventh blow hit him square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of his lungs and making him keel over. The eighth blow landed on the side of his head, popping his energy shield in the process. He fell hard to the ground, skidding away against snow and soot.

He weakly lifted himself off his ground just in time to Maine on his again, his assault unrelenting. Unlike last time, however, Church didn't have the strength to stop him again. Those two blows alone had sapped his strength.

A blur of blue armor came into view, stopping the Meta in his tracks. Church was able to blink away the haze of pain that had clouded his vision enough to see his savior: Caboose.

Church smiled, tears of joy in his eyes. He was so certain he was going to die, that even with all of his friends by his side and all the training he endured wouldn't be enough to stop the person that was able to truly put the fear of God in him, more so than even Tex on her worst days. But of all the people to come to his rescue, he was glad it was Caboose in this moment. Only he had the strength and confident, or perhaps mere stupidity, to take on the Meta. He didn't have the skill and agility that Tex or Carolina had, but he more than made up for it with his brawn.

The Blue idiot was blocking one of Maine's fists with one arm. With his other, he struck out at the Freelancer, smashing his own fist into against his opponent's breastplate.

Maine actually stumbled back in surprise. No one had ever been able to block his full-blown punches that easily before. Even the likes of Tex and Carolina needed to deflect or redirect the energy in his hits. Sure, they were capable of fully blocking him, but their physiques favored the aforementioned strategy in hand-to-hand instead. It was how they managed to outperform the other Freelancers. Doing otherwise would drain their stamina far faster.

"You do not get to hurt my best friend!" Caboose threatened, his voice significantly more aggressive than his normal tone. He took up a trained fighting stance.

Meta growled in frustration before attacking him next. The dimwitted Blue met him head on. It seemed he had learned something from the various units he'd been transferred to, for he crouched low, letting Maine's fist soar over his head and leaving his enemy open. Caboose took advantage of the opportunity to swing up with his fist, connecting with Maine's jaw. The Freelancer flew up a solid four feet and away from Caboose. He landed with a thud on his back, his mouth aching.

This time Caboose was the one being aggressive, throwing himself after the deadly Freelancer. His fist slammed down, but Maine moved his head to the side. Caboose's fist slammed into the concrete below him instead.

Maine punched twice into Caboose's chest, attempting to drive the wind out of his opponent. But the dimwitted soldier only barely registered that he'd been hit at all. He tried a third time, aimed at his stomach. Caboose let out a small grunt, but otherwise continued to lumber over his enemy. He tried swinging at the Meta's head again, but he proved to be too fast.

In the midst of dodging, he chose to opt for a change in tactic. He knew he was heavily outnumbered while among the UNSC forces, so he needed to dispose of each of them quickly and efficiently. He couldn't afford to slow the fight down, lest he become swamped. The white-and-brown Freelancer immediately swung a wicked blow into the side of the Blue's head, knocking him off. Caboose landed on his side, scrambling to his feet, but it because apparent that the blow had affected him considerably more than the punches to his chest. He staggered up into a fighting stance, but it looked less determined than the last time.

Taking advantage of his opponent's weakness, Maine dashed at his enemy. Caboose went for another upward hook, aiming to catch his opponent's lower mass. Unfortunately for him, the Freelancer was prepared for the attack and juked suddenly to the side. The Blue's swing went wide, leaving him open to a counterattack.

Maine immediately capitalized on the opening by throwing a heavy elbow to the head. Caboose's shields popped upon impact and he went skidding off to the side before landing against a destroyed Warthog.

He groaned painfully as he settled to the ground, but didn't move, instead remaining deathly still.

"Caboose!" Church cried out to him. He heard another voice cry out at the same time as him, with the same worrying inflection, one distinctly more feminine.

Without warning, Tex immediately shoulder-checked the EVA-helmeted Freelancer. He lost his footing once more but quickly regained control of it, reeling around to face his next opponent.

Agent Texas stood between him and Caboose and Church, arms raised, hands balled into fists. Beneath her helmet, there was a fury in her eyes seldom seen by even Church. No one was allowed to hurt her boys without her say-so, not on her watch. What had once been hatred had now turned to wrath at the knowledge the Cyclops pilot had been her all-time nemesis: the Meta. Unlike Carolina, who she'd only hated because of her misguided devotion to the Director and her obstruction when she'd tried rescuing Alpha, what she felt towards the Meta was much closer to the heart and much more personal. Nearly killing Carolina, attempting to kill Church, and almost getting killed herself was bound to make her lose her temper.

Maine, for a brief second, saw flashes of the woman in black. He saw her rushing through defenses with active camouflage, snapping the necks of those who couldn't see her. He saw her crush skulls with her gauntlets. He even saw her beat fellow Freelancers in sparring matches, both in hand-to-hand and range. Somehow he knew that this was Project Freelancer's number one agent. Compared to his last two opponents, he would have to tread carefully.

The two Freelancers stared each other down, each eyeing the other's subtle movements. Tex became focused, trying to channel her anger into something that could help her instead of hinder her. She needed to find her emotional balance, as Illinois had put it.

Speaking of Illinois, she wondered where he'd disappeared off to. She could really use his help now. Tex wasn't certain she could take on Maine again. She nearly failed last time.

An explosion sounded off in the background, one that sounded much closer to the Insurrectionist lines. Well, that answers that question, she thought.

She also noticed that the volume of fire onto the Red's and Blue's positions had decreased drastically, allowing more and more of them to either advance or return fire.

Still, it wouldn't mean much if they couldn't kill Maine. He'd taken out an entire ground base of Freelancer personnel by himself before. And he'd killed plenty more before that. There's no telling how far he'd get now, even with more experienced troops and better equipment to back them up.

She drew in a shaky breath before letting it out slowly, lowering her heartrate, allowing herself to focus on the fight at hand. She would meet him head on and finish what they started four years ago. She was going to protect her friends, her family, from this menace once and for all.

She was going to kill Agent Maine.


As a Spartan, Agent Illinois had been designed for war. He knew a thousand different ways to kill a living being, human and alien alike. He'd been trained in squad tactics and overall UNSC strategy. He knew doctrine by heart and how to implement it into plans. There was no weapon or vehicle in humanity's arsenal he wasn't at least familiar with; there were many he was proficient with. Even alien weapons, Covenant and Forerunner, could be learned, eventually mastered.

Better yet, as a prototype Spartan-III, one meant for deep reconnaissance, infiltration, and assassination, he had an amazing grasp on human psychology. Spartans had originally been designed to fight the Insurrection, after all. He was old enough to remember a time when aliens had been but pure speculation, when the only things humans fought were other humans. And he knew how difficult it was to fully put down humans in unconventional warfare.

One way the UNSC thought they could end the ongoing war with the URF was the creation of the Spartans, their own boogeymen. Each Spartan was a terror on the battlefield and a single team was capable of killing hundreds to thousands under the right circumstances. Putting them against normal humans was overkill, which had entirely been the point.

The human mind was a strange and malleable thing. It was capable of creating rationale out of irrational things, finding important things out of seemingly insignificant objects or events, and was able to distinguish between two near-identical objects.

It was also incredibly fragile. Throw something seemingly impossible or unimaginable at it and watch as it shuts down in denial. It had happened to many the first time they'd seen the Covenant and it had happened subsequently more when witnessing their technology, from energy shields to plasma rifles. Spartans were no different in that regard. Capable of moving faster than an Olympic sprinter and punching with more force than the greatest boxer, they were a terrifying force for normal humans to face. It has been described by onlookers that Spartans seemed inhuman in their swiftness, that 'something that big shouldn't be able to move that fast'.

Knowing that he was facing Insurrectionists, normal humans, he was going to use his physiology to inflict the same psychology on them.

When the shooting started, Illinois diverted his attention away from Maine, instead instantly focusing on getting a precise count on the opposition. He could make out fifty Insurrectionists pouring out of a large steel gate. At least twenty more were taking up firing positions on the balconies above. Three men were dragging out heavy machinegun turrets, although they were yet to be staged. Of the fifty men on the ground, ten of them wore steel-and-red suits of armor, fully-sealed and heavily customized. Each of them wore an old Scout helmet, the points of each helmet almost giving them a bird-like look. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought they were a group of rogue Spartans. But seeing the way they moved, the slight sluggishness in the way they carried themselves and directed others gave away their true nature. They weren't physically augmented, not yet. Perhaps when the Director had gotten around to them they would've been the first of their peers to get such enhancements, but for the moment they were still normal humans.

Still, the distinct uniform told him they were likely a special unit, or at least fulfilled a different role in the Insurrectionist forces.

It took him all of three seconds to process the information. Normally, he'd have called in an airstrike on them and dealt with the problem then and there. But the Pelicans had just run out of rockets and were low on fuel. A precision strike from the All or Nothing was a no-go either, not with the proximity of UNSC forces. Didn't want any fratricide if they could help it.

He quickly looked to the Reds and Blues. The incoming fire had forced everyone into cover and most dared not return fire. Some of the unshielded Marines and two of the ODSTs had fallen, most via gunshots, but three had been killed by a well-placed grenade launcher shot.

Peering out of the side of a burnt Warthog, Illinois noticed that at least ten of the fifty soldiers at ground level had stopped to reload. Many of them were on his left flank.

That was the chance he needed. Taking off at a sprint, he used what wreckage and smoke he could to obscure himself. It seemed to work, as the Insurrectionists didn't even try firing at him.

Reaching a crater less than twenty meters from their position, he reached to his utility belt and pulled out a pair of Spike Grenades. They weren't particularly good at killing things unless stuck, but, like all Brute weapons, they were particularly good at administering flashes of searing pain.

He saw an enemy, a rocket wielder, shouldering his weapon. Angling his arm, he threw the grenade. It arced through the air. Before it had reached the peak of its flight path, he threw the second one, this time aiming at a grenadier.

Both grenades landed on or next to their targets at the same time. Both men had only a second to realize what had landed on them before they detonated. Screams were heard across over two dozen men as white-hot spikes showered them, cuts and lacerations forming across dozens of freshly opened wounds. The rocket launcher wielder even lost his grip on his weapon with his left hand, the barrel of the twin-tube projectile system aimed into the ground below him as he fired. He killed over a dozen enemies in the ensuing explosion, including a turret gunner and one of the grey-and-red armored ones.

Before they had even known what hit them, Illinois was on them. He fired off his four rounds from the sniper rifle, each shot killing either a turret gunner or a soldier in the fancier armor. He didn't even bother reloading, instead shoulder checking through a makeshift concrete barricade, crushing two enemies behind it with fragments of stone.

Several of the enemies immediately attempted to divert their fire onto him, but he had already gotten to within melee range by then. He pulled out his shotgun and slid, firing point-blank up into the chest of another grey-and-red one. At least two of the normal Insurrectionists tried firing at him, but he was already past them, slipping through their ranks seamlessly.

One of the Innies pulled out a combat knife and tried taking him on directly. That would prove to be a mistake, for when the man tried stabbing at his throat, Illinois defied his unusually-large physique by ducking under his arm and shattering it with an elbow strike of his own. His arm went limp just in time for the Freelancer to deliver an uppercut below his jaw. The blow, backed by both a Spartan's strength and years of training, gave him permanent and fatal brain trauma.

Grabbing the incapacitated enemy before he had a chance to fall, Illinois drove forward, using the man's body as a meat-shield. Most of the men didn't shoot him due to a combination of not wanting to commit friendly-fire, the sudden shock of seeing just how fast he was moving, and a sudden increase in return fire from UNSC forces. The few that did either hit the soldier he was grasping, lightly pinged against his energy shields, or missed completely. None of them hit enough to break the barrier.

As he went further and further in, he threw two frag grenades behind him for the stragglers he missed. Only one or two of them seemed to even notice that he threw the explosives and attempted to push past their comrades. Most of them were too awestruck at the Spartan's incredible capabilities, his swiftness an unnatural phenomenon.

The grenades detonated as he reached the next soldier with dark armor. The soldier, a female, pulled a shotgun of her own, shooting through the man he was holding instead. However, the body fulfilled its purpose and absorbed the majority of the buckshot directed at him. As she racked another shell into the chamber, he tossed the body at her, throwing off her aim. Before she had time to regain her footing, he smashed the butt of his own shotgun into her face. She keeled over as her visor shattered, landing among a pile of rubble. A thick pool of blood began forming beneath her face.

The remaining five specialized soldiers and the twenty normal Insurrectionists ducked down as more and more UNSC soldiers were able to return fire, with Illinois's lethal insertion providing the relief in suppression to do so. Sensing they were going to continue getting whittled down to critical levels if they continued to let him run rampant, one of the soldiers, presumably the leader based on the symbol on his right shoulder displaying a decal of a crushed Spartan helmet beneath a sword, barked at the more plainly armored rebels to continue firing at the UNSC. He and his four remaining comrades peeled off from the others.

Illinois met them head on even as they began to spread out. He noticed them attempting to encircle him, weapons firing as they tried to pin him down. Instead of letting them get into position, he quickly scanned his foes and found that one of them was holding a M739 SAW. He immediately sprinted at full speed to him, intend on not letting him get a chance to fully utilize his weapon.

The Innie saw what he was trying to do and raised the light machinegun in response. However, even though his weapon was lighter than conventional UNSC machineguns, it was still heavy and cumbersome. He squeezed the trigger, but he wasn't able to line up his sights at the massive form of the Spartan fast enough to get a good bead on him. Illinois sidestepped the opening salvo, jerking faster than the Insurrectionist could follow. A trail of bullets followed him regardless.

Just when it looked like the Freelancer had kept to a predictable speed, one the man could easily track, he suddenly changed direction again, this time jumping up and over the stream of metal projectiles as it came past his original position.

At the same time, the other four Insurrectionists started taking potshots at him, SMG and rifle rounds whizzing past him. One of them primed a SPNKr Rocket Launcher, loading a two-shot magazine into the top of weapon. Most of the rounds missed simply due to his speed, but at least four shots landed, dropping his shields to half strength.

Illinois landed on the ground before springing forward, his powerful legs counteracting the momentum of his jump. By the time the Innie pulled back the barrel of his weapon to fire, the Spartan was on him. He batted the barrel aside with one hand, drawing a combat knife with his other from the sheath on his torso. To the man's credit, instead of stumbling and holding onto the weapon, he let go of the weapon, but stilled used the force of the push to take several steps back, attempting to put distance between himself and the Freelancer and allowing his comrades to fire upon their assailant.

The four other soldiers fired at the more exposed Spartan. Another four shots landed against his shields, reducing their strength to a sliver. Normally he would've opted to find cover and wait for them to recharge. However, he was too exposed as it was. Only his speed and precision would keep him alive now.

Illinois was determined to give the SAW gunner no room to breathe. In anticipation of this, the unaugmented human pulled out a knife of his own. Their blades clashed, but did not remain locked. The Insurrectionist pulled out first, attempting to offset the Freelancer's balance and create an opening for himself. He stepped back before lunging, going for his opponent's gut.

Unfortunately for him, Illinois hadn't become even nearly as off-balance as he needed to be for the follow-up to work. As he went in for the lunge, the Freelancer sidestepped, the hand still holding his shotgun brushing slightly against the flat of the blade. That same hand went under the his elbow before pushing up violently. With his knife hand, Illinois shoved the sharpened tip of his blade up through the jaw, into the base of his skull. With a sickening crunch, the blade punctured his skull and drove into his brain. The Freelancer pulled it out as easily as he had sent it in.

He didn't stop after that kill, keenly aware that there were still four other Insurrectionists eager to avenge their comrade, eager to kill a Spartan. He whipped around, bringing the body of the SAW gunner to give him what little protection it could. He eyed their weapons and stances, tracking and assessing their capabilities in fractions of a second. The leader held a Battle Rifle, his stance tall and commanding, aiming down the scope. Just off to his left was the one with the Rocket Launcher, a woman by the looks of it, down on one knee, swinging the heavy weapon around as she finished loading the magazine. One of them held a Suppressed SMG, one commonly found on ODSTs. His stance was more aggressive, leaning into his weapon as if prepared to advance. The last one had a Magnum in hand, racking a round into the chamber. He wondered briefly why he didn't have a primary firearm like the rest of his comrades before seeing a bent sniper rifle barrel on his back. Whoever had hit it must've been lucky, just not lucky enough to actually kill the man.

In the second it took to register them, he'd also determined who he needed to prioritize eliminating. With one hand, he tossed the body of his latest victim to the one with the tactical SMG, allowing it to both obscure his first target's vision and absorb most, if not all, of the rounds he tried shooting anyway. The body crashed into him, making him lose his footing briefly. Illinois was upon him almost immediately, shooting his shotgun into the man's head. It exploded in a squall of gore.

Illinois racked another shell into the chamber before firing again, this time aiming at the leader. The shot didn't quite connect the way he wanted it to, most of the buckshot grazing the Innie's side. It did, however, cause the man to lurch to the side, making him miss one of the bursts from his Battle Rifle. Instead of trying to close the distance for a better shot, he grabbed the SMG as it was still falling out of the next Insurrectionist's hand. With one hand, he brought the muzzle of the weapon up to the off-balance leader and squeezed the trigger. He unleashed the remaining 24 rounds in the magazine into him. He was well aware that SMGs did not boast amazing armor penetration compared to most weapons in the UNSC's arsenal. That's why he was counting on the sheer volume of fire to be able to penetrate the rifleman's composite body armor.

And it seemed to work. The man crumpled to the floor, his weapon tumbling out of his hands.

Illinois jerked forward slightly as he felt his shields pop. He didn't need to turn around to understand the it was the one with the pistol that had hit him. He also knew the rocket launcher woman was still alive. The lack of an energy shield made her weapon that much more dangerous than even the pistol. He knew who had to die next.

Almost instinctively, he began sprinting full force in the direct of the rocket launcher wielder. The man with the pistol could kill him, but it required some level of accuracy for him to pull it off. Meanwhile, the woman could kill him just by hitting near him. The margin of success was that much higher for her.

She caught on to exactly what he was about to do and aimed the heavy weapon accordingly. He continued to charge toward her, his arms and legs pumping with as much power as he could muster. At the same time, he threw the now-empty submachinegun behind him, hoping to land on or at least near the other rebel soldier. She seemed so close, yet so far away at the same time.

The Insurrectionist fired her first shot. The rocket sailed through the air…

…and flew past him. The explosive projectile exploded several meters behind him, where he'd been when he started sprinting. He felt soot and debris scatter around him, the patter of rock and metal clatter against the ground. A small wave of dust chased his legs, but he was quickly outpacing it.

He felt his heart beat in his chest as each second ticked by, his footfalls loud and heavy. A look of pure determination was etched across his face as he concentrated his strength to getting as close to the female as he could in the shortest time possible. He heard a Magnum round fly past his head, but ignored it. He knew he was pressing his luck with the other Insurrectionist's aim, but he had no other choice. He was committed now.

The woman aimed the launcher down now, the muzzle pointed ahead of the Illinois's advance. The rocket shot out of the launcher, smoke trailing out of the speeding unguided munition. He had naught but a second to do something about it. He could tell that he wouldn't be able to dodge out of the rocket's blast radius fast enough with the speed he was moving. To the Insurrectionists, it looked like they finally had him, that they would finally kill the Freelancer, no, the Spartan that was had been decimating their forces.

But Illinois had a surprise in store for them.

Sending a neural impulse to his suit, he felt various vents and gaps open up around his armor. Multiple jets activated around his back and he felt himself launch forward in a burst of speed even his movement couldn't accomplish.

The second rocket detonated behind him yet again and he soared even closer to her. This time she didn't have another round to fire. In a panic, she dropped the now-empty SPNKr and reached for the pistol on her thigh. Unfortunately for her, the thrust had also cut down the distance between them even further and, before she even knew it, he slammed his shoulder into her. The full force of half a ton of armor sent her flying into the air and through a concrete barricade.

Illinois stopped in his tracks, pivoting to face the last Scout-helmed Insurrectionist. It was only at this time that he realized he might very truly be doomed. His shields were down, his weapons were empty, there was no nearby cover, and the last member of the squad was a good dozen or so meters away. Internally, he wondered if this is how it felt for all those people he couldn't save. He supposed it was, for there was no other way to describe the sensation of finality, of witnessing the final moments of life. Hell, this could apply for the people he did save literally seconds before death.

The man with the sidearm suddenly went limp, standing up sluggishly and dropping his pistol. Illinois's eyes widened in surprise before catching the brief squirt of blood coming out of the side of his head. He then noticed upon further inspection that it wasn't just his head, but along several spots on his body. The dark grey and crimson armor just hid the wounds well.

As if only just realizing he'd been shot in the head, the Insurrectionist crumpled to the ground, completely lifeless. Illinois turned his head in time to see the ODSTs, Junior, and Lopez bounding in and out of cover, advancing on the remaining Insurrectionists that made up their front line. It appeared that the elite squad had been the backbone of their defense, for they seemed to be easily folding under the pressure of naught but less than a dozen Helljumpers, a single young Sangheili, and an android.

A loud boom sounded from over his head, near one of the catwalks overlooking the interior entrance. A large plume of smoke was emanating from it now, the shattered walkway peeling off of the wall, bodies of other rebel soldiers in various states of dismemberment clinging to it as it fell. The Scorpion fired again, this time at the other walkway, destroying it the same way as the first one.

The drop troopers moved past him, gunning down any stragglers as they went. Illinois felt his shields recharge, seeing the bar at the top of his HUD fill up. At the same time, he reloaded both his Shotgun and Sniper Rifle. He took in a deep breath, lowering his heart rate and reducing the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

His mind cleared and he looked around, observing the aftermath of his handiwork. Over sixty bodies, human bodies, laid strewn about him. At least thirty of them were because of his handiwork.

He frowned underneath his helmet. It was unfortunate that, even after nearly being driven to extinction, humans had gone back to killing each other, even in their weakened state. Killing Covenant was easier than humans to him, even though he understood the necessity of the latter. Humanity couldn't afford to be as divided as it was even though the war had ended, yet the Insurrectionists continued to be petty about individual freedoms instead of thinking about collective survival. Mankind hadn't made it out of the woods yet. There was still much that needed to be built, that needed to be reclaimed.

A horn blew and Illinois turned his attention to the mountainside base entrance. From what he could see, another wave of Insurrectionists was making its way outside, ready to continue repelling the invaders where their previous comrades have failed.

He looked back to the Reds and Blues. At this point, each member of both teams had engaged Maine, and it looked like they were holding on, but just barely. Caboose and Church were down, and Tex had been struggling. Tucker did his best to engage the larger Freelancer, with Sarge, Grif, and Simmons trying to help. Even Wash and Carolina were pitching in to help. But for every blow they were throwing at him, he seemed to return it tenfold. It was brutal.

Before he could move to assist, another horn blared and a third wave appeared just behind the second. Illinois got a count of the number of forces and found that they would overrun the ODSTs and other Marines without his help.

Even though he wanted to go help the Freelancers and simulation troopers, he was aware subduing Maine wouldn't guarantee their victory if their front line collapsed. They didn't have the numbers to take on that kind of attrition damage.

With reluctance, he pressed onward, ready to kill even more humans.


Maine charged forward first, arms swinging as he gained momentum. Tex took a more defensive stance, stepping back and keeping her arms in front of her, hands balled into fists.

The Freelancers clashed, with Agent Texas striking at the last second, stepping into the Meta's blow as he swung. She grabbed his arm and shoulder before throwing him over her body. Using his momentum against him, he sailed over her and crashed into the wrecked Scorpion. His back smashed into one of the treads, but was able to stand up almost immediately.

However, Tex was on him almost immediately, throwing out a punch of her own. Maine was able to block her attack, pushing her back. But she continued to strike him, punching him again and again, throwing in a kick every once in a while for good measure. He continued to deflect her attacks, but it was becoming apparent that she was slowly wearing him down. And there were still others that he needed to kill. He needed to regain control of the offensive.

An idea struck him as she kicked him for the third time. While she was in the middle of punching him, he returned with a blow to the gut at the same time. Both of their fists connected at the same time, but his was stronger. He absorbed the shot to the face. She skidded back, feeling the wind get knocked out of her.

She went for another attack but, at the last second, Maine dodged, scrambling out of her reach yet again. She whipped around to face him again…

…but he was gone. Disappeared into thin air. She looked around, wondering where he could've disappeared to. But she couldn't see him. All she saw were the Reds, the fallen figures of Church and Caboose, and a cacophony of gunfire in the background.

There was a crunch of dirt behind her, dangerously close at that. Tex turned around in time to feel the wind get knocked out of her once more and she flew back three feet. She landed on her back, but used the momentum to flip immediately back onto her feet. Tex held her arms out at the ready, but she still couldn't see what had hit her.

Her eyes scanned the area around her, eyes darting back and forth as she tried in vain to find him.

She was worried that he had slipped away when she suddenly saw it: a small layer of ash blossomed on the ground. For most people, this meant nothing, just the breeze blowing the loose particles of dust and grime. But she knew better. She knew because of her own experience. The wind wasn't blowing the right direction for the dirt to make that sort of shape. That was the work of active camouflage.

She saw Maine as he was attacking and raised her forearms to block accordingly. A faint shimmer could be seen in front of her as his punch was successfully blocked. However, not seeing him properly left her unable to read his movement. This resulted in him being able to grapple her without much resistance.

Allison felt herself fall to the floor, an immense weight pressing against her hands. She struggled to keep his near-invisible form off of her.

Suddenly, she felt a hand grip her by the throat. She felt her adrenaline course through her veins as he began squeezing the life out of her.

Tex knew she was in trouble now. Whereas before, in their last fight, such an act would have done next to nothing to her due to her robotic body, now the threat of suffocation was very much present. If she didn't do something about her situation now, she wasn't going to come out of this fight alive. She would die, she would fail to beat him, to protect her friends, to protect Church. She would fail again.

She was not going to let that happen.

Tex removed one of her hands that was keeping Maine's bulk off of her and snaked it over her head. Mustering as much strength as she could, she slammed her forearm down to where she guessed the Meta's elbow joint was. She must've guessed correctly, for she felt the pressure on her neck subside.

Instead of letting herself catch her breath and giving him time to renew his attack, she immediately jerked her head up. The headbutt connected against his helmet and she saw him reel back. She brought her legs up from underneath him and pushed him off with a double-kick.

Tex rolled backwards just as she felt his body get off of her. Coughing and taking in a shaky breath, she focused on the indents on the ground she knew he was making. She raised her arms back up into another fighting stance.

Before Maine had time to attack her once more, a Shotgun rang out from off to the side. The buckshot connected with his armored form and the active camouflage dissipated. He growled and faced whoever had decided to shoot him.

Sarge racked another shell into the chamber, aiming his primary armament at the Freelancer. "Hey Meta," he called out, "ready for round two?"

The burly Freelancer snarled, gesturing threateningly towards the Red. Off to Sarge's right, Donut could be seen dual-wielding pistols, aimed squarely at the mute. Before he could do anything further, a grenade zoomed past his head and detonated behind him. He veered around to face the next interloper and saw Grif with a Brute Shot, his Brute Shot, leveled at him. Standing next to him was Simmons, his rocket launcher primed and ready.

At this point, most of the other UNSC forces had advanced, pushing into the Insurrectionists' defenses. A loud horn blew once, then twice, signaling the battle had not yet ended.

Before the Reds had time to blink, Maine's armor began to glow white. Reflexively, they returned fire, explosives and buckshot peppering his position. Tex grabbed the Battle Rifle that had been magnetized to her back and added to the volume of fire. But they seemed to do only superficial damage as his overshield absorbed everything they threw at him.

They continued their relentless fire even despite this, but the magazines of the launchers ran out in short order. Grif and Simmons reloaded their weapons as quickly as they were able.

But those few seconds were all the Meta needed.

He charged them, jumping into the air before slamming a heavy boot into the ground, creating a shockwave heavy enough to knock them both off their feet. He kicked the Rocket Launcher out of Simmons's hands before swiftly yanking the Brute Shot away from Grif, taking whatever spare ammo he had on him.

"Hey, gimme back my gun!" the orange soldier protested, rising to meet the large Freelancer. Maine stomped down on him, driving the wind out of his lungs and forcing him back to the ground. Instead of staying down, however, Grif grabbed his leg, trying to drag himself up to grab his weapon. Meta was having none of it and stomped down again. Grif continued to hold, but his grip loosened. Maine stomped down a third and final time, harder than the last two, and the Red finally let go, coughing up a storm and feeling his chest and back flare up in pain.

Before he had a chance actually use his favored weapon, a sheen of hard white light lit up at the edge of his vision. He jumped back just in time to see the familiar shape of an energy sword slice through the air he had occupied a second ago.

He punched Tucker as he came into his field of vision. To his credit, the Blue didn't lose his footing, instead redirecting the blow to twist around and go for a horizontal swing, aiming to decapitate the hostile Freelancer. Maine ducked and tackled him, throwing the swordsman to the ground. However, Tucker recovered surprisingly quickly and rolled backwards, getting on his feet again in an instant. He kept his sword poised, his empty hand raised in front of him.

Three different Battle Rifle bursts went off around him and he ducked away, retreating to the burning wreck of the first Scorpion. Coming up beside the Blue were the familiar forms of Washington, Carolina, and Tex, all wielding three-round burst weapons. To the their rear was Sarge, Grif, Simmons, and Donut. The orange and maroons soldiers were also holding BR55s, their explosive weapons either stolen or damaged.

Maine growled in frustration as his overshield finally timed out. He was nearly out of tricks at this point and the battery in his suit was being strained to its limit. The enemy was still at large and his reinforcements were having troubles of their own.

An idea came to him, one that was as desperate as it was ridiculous. But it was the only one he had. He either killed these UNSC soldiers here and now, or he was going to die trying.

He reached behind his back and everyone began firing. Most of the shots went wide, pattering against the hull of the tank or scattering against the ground, but a few, mostly from the Freelancers, struck home. Of those that hit, only three of them managed to draw blood, one going into his unarmored gut and the other two striking him in shoulder joint. He grunted annoyingly at the pain, but otherwise ignored it as he grabbed the final piece of utility attached to his belt. It was large, but no bigger than a bowling ball, round, with various rivets and indents covering an otherwise completely metal construct. It was the color of steel and pale yellow, the yellow accentuating its indents and imperfections.

Maine thumbed the large button at one end of the device, priming it for activating, before tossing it at the assorted simulation troopers and Freelancers. It was only is it sailed through the air that Tucker was able to piece together just what he had thrown: a Covenant Flare. He shut his eyes as tight as he could, putting his free hand in front of his face.

The others didn't catch on until it was far too late.

A blinding haze of white light burst out of the spherical device and everyone stopped firing, their vision impaired by the sudden appearance of the sun in their faces.

The light dissipated after a few brief seconds, but that was all the Meta needed.

Tucker was the first to recover from the light attack. He was also the only one prepared for what Maine was going to do next: swing at them with the crushed barrel of the first Scorpion tank.

The long barrel slammed into the Reds and Freelancers, sending all of them careening across the courtyard. Tucker, however, was able to bring his sword up just fast enough to slice the barrel in two, preventing himself from suffering the fate of his comrades. But the Meta didn't let up from his initial assault, lunging out at the aqua soldier with the shortened metal tube. Tucker took a step back, slicing the tank part again, but that gave his opponent the opening he needed to get into melee range.

Maine slammed his body into the Blue, sending him tumbling. He scrambled to his feet as the Freelancer continued his rampage, aiming to bring down the only member of their team with a melee weapon that could easily pierce his armor.

Tucker took a measured pose as he readied for Maine's next attack, remembering the training bestowed upon him by the Sangheili Swordmasters he'd fought alongside. He planted his feet into the ground, grounding himself even as the hulking Freelancer bore down upon him.

It was when the Freelancer was less than six feet from him that he made his move. He took one step forward, raising his weapon to the side of his head. With precision born out of years of training, he lunged forward, using his reflexes and instinct to guide his aim as he struck for the Meta's torso.

But fate seemed to defy the human swordsman as the Freelancer twisted his body just barely to the side, the sword missing its mark and only burning the paint on his chest and his right pauldron. In retaliation, Maine grabbed his sword arm in one hand. With his other, he placed it against the Blue's shoulder, locking his arm in place. Tucker struggled against the white-and-brown Freelancer, but it was futile.

With a single jerk, Tucker felt his arm pull back beyond what it was capable and it snapped with a sickening crunch. He felt his stomach flip at the disgusting noise and would've vomited had it not been for his scream of agony. The pain overrode every other sensation he was feeling. He fell forward as the Meta let go of him, his sword falling limply out of his hand.

"Tucker, no!" someone called out to him as he fell. But he couldn't focus on who exactly was calling to him, the searing pain dulling his awareness of his surroundings. He was aware that the voice was vaguely female, but he couldn't identify it beyond that. He landed on his front as he struggled to keep from blacking out.

Carolina was on the Meta as he finished mangling the Blue swordsman's arm. She struck out at him with a double roundhouse kick, driving her former teammate away from her current teammate. He stepped out of reach, blocking both attacks with his forearms, not daring to go on offensive with her around.

The cyan Freelancer landed on her feet and glanced down at the fallen sim trooper. "Tucker, are you okay?" she asked.

"No," he answered matter-of-factly as he lied on the ground. "My arm is on fire and I'm in more pain than when I gave birth to an Elite."

Carolina blinked for a second before choosing to ignore the last remark. That was too much to think about for the moment. He must've been joking, though it came off as rather awkward given their current situation. "Just stay down for now," she ordered him before charging off.

"Roger that," he groaned weakly, trying to give her a thumbs-up with his unbroken arm, but otherwise remained still.

Agent Carolina advanced on Maine and opened up on him with a trio of kicks, two aimed at his chest while the third went for his head. He blocked all three of them, stepping back as she threw one after another at him. Deciding to retake the offensive, he closed on her, shoulder-checking her mid-kick and knocking her away. She landed on her hands and flipped backwards before landing on her feet once more.

Maine felt pressure in the back of his head as he got a good look at his new opponent. Covered head to toe in cyan MJOLNIR armor, with a Recon-pattern breastplate and shoulder pads but a glaring Rogue helmet over her head, the name 'Agent Carolina' came to mind. He wasn't sure why, but for some reason the pressure in his head only came when facing her directly, like she was a particular source of pain for him. Or maybe he had strong memories of her, ones he couldn't access.

Carolina, meanwhile, was trying to process her current feelings towards her former teammate. She had only snapped out of her initial shock when Tucker had tackled her into cover. Even then, the hesitation didn't fade until he began attacking the Reds and Blues. She'd heard about the things he'd done ever since he'd thrown her off the cliff all those years ago, but she didn't want to believe that her teammate, her friend, could fall so low. Maine couldn't be so inhumane, so monstrous, not after everything she'd seen him do. She remembered his comradery and friendship, of his support and willingness to follow her, even when he wasn't confident in her plans. He trusted her unconditionally.

But that trust eventually came to hurt him. When she'd offered Sigma to act as his voice, she hadn't thought about the repercussions of such an act. He merely trusted that giving him the AI had been the right thing to do.

And it destroyed his mind. No one knew at what point he stopped being the Maine they'd all come to know; no one paid attention to what he was becoming, not even her, the one person he could count on for help. She'd been too focused, too tunnel-visioned by her competition to Agent Texas, to see what was happening to one of her best friends.

Now he was here, a complete stranger, standing among Insurrectionists instead of by the side of those who were wronged by the Director, by her side. And he'd hurt Tucker, broken his arm and rendered him unfit to fight; Tucker, the one among her entire new crew to try and interact with her, to be friendly to her while everyone else was either ignoring her or giving her the cold shoulder; Tucker, the annoying, yet somewhat charming, swordsman who was doing his best to be a friend for her among a bunch of strangers; Tucker, the one who had reminded her of York more than once already.

For a brief second, she saw Maine's head twitch, which she thought was odd. He hadn't done that once during the entire fight. She brushed off the detail for now.

He charged forward, brandishing the still-empty Brute Shot, aiming to use the wicked bayonet attached to the bottom of the launcher. She met him head, taking out her Gravity Hammer. She felt power hum into the head, but chose to ignore it.

He swung out at her and she brought the pommel in front of her body, catching the end just inches from piercing her visor. She struggled against his might, but he continued to lay on pressure, fully intending on brute-forcing his weapon on to her.

At the last second, she stepped back, twisting the hammer and knocking him off to the side. He stumbled away but quickly recovered, keeping his weapon leveled around his waist in a two-handed grip. She swung the hammer around with a flourish, planting the head into the ground behind her.

He charged again, but this time she opted to take the offensive. She went for an overhead swing, intending on timing the hit with the pace of his advance. He saw exactly what she was setting up and twisted at the last second. The hammer landed just to his right and he flew a solid ten feet as the shockwave knocked him away. His back smacked into the wreckage of a nearby Kodiak and he landed on his feet. He felt slightly dazed from the force of the attack, but otherwise remained unscathed. He was thankful that his armor absorbed most of the damaging energy and that he'd moved at just the last second. A direct blow would've severely hurt him, possibly even killed him.

Carolina charged at him, readying her hammer once again. She swung at him when she reached him, but he twisted out of the way once more, using the shockwave to give him some distance between them. He reached for his belt and pulled out a sting of grenades meant for his gun. He loaded it from the top and locked it in place.

Carolina closed the distance between them once again, but Maine was more prepared for her this time. He fired once at her, but she used the head of the hammer to deflect the shot, the energy field forcing it away from her. It detonated off to the side harmlessly. He fired again, this time aimed at her feet. She couldn't knock it away this time and felt herself lose her footing as the explosive detonated, destabilizing the ground beneath her.

He aimed the weapon down as she stumbled forward before charging. Maine took two mighty strides before both of his feet left the ground in a short jump. He pressed the trigger on his weapon, letting his fourth shot detonate beneath his feet. He boosted forward with the momentum, carrying himself forward as Carolina attempted to regain her footing. The cyan Freelancer attempted to bring her hammer up for another swing, but he was too fast.

The two Freelancers crashed together and the landed on the ground, with Maine on top of her. She felt slightly dazed and looked up, seeing his head twitch again, looking side-to-side in confusion, as if forgetting that he was fighting her for a second.

Carolina felt herself hesitate, even as he continued to push his weigh on top of her. Gone was the ruthlessness she'd seen him use on the others, on Church, Caboose, Tex, and Tucker. What she saw was… confusion.

"Maine?" she asked him again. He raised a fist, but paused halfway through the motion. He looked down at her, cocking his head to the side in confusion.

They stared at each other for several seconds. Behind the EVA helmet, he felt flashes of memories long repressed resurface. He remembered her, his old team, their time aboard the Mother of Invention. He remembered running simulations with her, fighting in battles against overwhelming foes and emerging victorious, of late nights simply listening to her chat with Wash and York, of smiling at the antics of North and South Dakota, of standing on the balcony with Connecticut as they watched their team run simulations on the training room floor, both cooperative and competitive. Sometimes he would get involved himself. He remembered rolling his eyes at Wyoming's stupid knock-knock jokes and seeing everyone tease Wash as he stumbled over his own two feet. He remembered the brashness of South getting tempered by North and seeing York try, and subsequently fail, at lockpicking, all while maintaining a joking demeanor throughout.

He remembered Carolina, being stern yet ultimately caring for her team, wanting them to succeed with her, to show that they were all stronger together, that as long as they stood together they could accomplish anything.

Maine lurched back, removing himself from on top of her. He dropped his Brute Shot as he reached for his head.

Carolina sat up into a crouch. "Maine?" she asked again, slowly rising to her feet.

The flashes of memories were getting stronger by the second. It was becoming too much, too painful to endure. He hated them, wanted them to stop. But the more he looked at her, the stronger memories came back. He clutched at his head, trying desperately to claw at the helmet over his face.

Tex came barreling from the side, knocking him off his feet. He landed on the ground, the action freeing him of the memory overload, albeit temporarily. He as he saw the lithe form of Project Freelancer's number one agent and his mind flashed images again, this time of her and Carolina, of a rivalry so long ago, one that had changed Carolina, brought out a competitiveness he hadn't seen before. It threatened their team, threatened to tear their team apart. And it had taken away everyone's focus when he'd been affected by Sigma.

He made no move to attack her. But she didn't offer the same courtesy. Seeing that he was still struggling with whatever was going on in his head, she decided to take initiative. She had so much hate for the man, the thing, that had threatened not only her, but Church and Carolina.

She reached down to her hip and pulled out a Magnum. She pulled the slide back in one quick motion, the metal pieces audibly clicking against each other to signal that a round was in the chamber. Tex leveled the barrel to Maine's face, the chrome finish gleaming against sunlight as it peeked out from behind the clouds.

It was in this moment that Carolina saw exactly what Tex was about to do. She saw the deliberateness of the action, the anger, the hate, behind it. Maine must've caused so much pain to both her and her friends in the past. Not that she could exactly blame the woman. Maine had blood on his hands, Freelancer blood, blood of former friends that could not be easily cleaned.

But she'd also seen what happened to Maine a few seconds. There was hesitation, confusion in his actions, where not even a minute ago there had been outright hostility. Even the lack of resistance he was showing now was different. Something was changing with him. Was he somehow remembering who he was, who she was? Was it possible for a remnant of the past, one of the last good things she'd had in Project Freelancer, to come back to her? She wanted to know. She needed to know.

But she couldn't do that if Tex killed him.

She needed a way to stop her execution if there was even an inkling of a chance that she could get him back, that the rumors about him were wrong somehow.

Carolina took off at full sprint towards them, swiping her Gravity Hammer from the floor. She could hear Tex as she spoke to Maine, her voice dripping with venom. "Payback's a bitch, Meta," she hissed at him, "and so am I." The white-and-brown Freelancer stared down the barrel of the gun, making no attempt to avoid his fate.

"No!" Carolina screamed at the top of her lungs, brandishing the hammer in her hands.

Tex and Maine looked up at her just as she was close enough for her hammer to strike. She swung the hammer down from an overhead arc, the bladed side of the hammer ready to cut between the two Freelancer.

A white-and-blue glow suddenly appeared by Carolina's side and, before she knew what had really happened, the head of the hammer separated from the pommel, flying past them and crashing unceremoniously into a burnt Kodiak some ways away. She finished her swing and the now glowing pommel landed with a heavy thud between the three of them.

Carolina heard a loud groan of pain from her right and turned her head. Tucker stood next to her, his broken arm holding his sword as it struggled to hold the hilt up. His other arm braced it to the best of its ability.

The cyan Freelancer didn't have time to register that Tucker, even in his broken state, had stopped her hammer swing before Tex rounded on her, tackling the other female Freelancer to the ground. "Carolina!" she roared in her face, her hatred now redirected at the redhead. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Carolina struggled against the black-armored woman, her own glare of defiance shining in her emerald eyes. She grasped for the hand with the pistol, seizing it by the wrist and drawing it away from its original target.

"Don't kill him!" she told Tex, desperation beginning to leak into her voice.

Allison was taken aback by what she'd just heard. "Do you not remember what that monster has done to all of us, what he did to you?" she reminded him.

"I do," Carolina affirmed. It was hard to forget, experiencing one of her best friends betray her, mercilessly ripping out Eta and Iota from the back of her neck before tossing her limp body over the edge like she was nothing. "But I also saw him hesitate just a few seconds ago."

Tex cocked her head in confusion. "Explain," she ordered, her arm still struggling to aim at the male Freelancer.

"Throughout the entire fight," Carolina said, "he attacked everyone mercilessly and efficiently, without hesitation. He attacked Epsilon, then Caboose, then you, and Tucker and the Reds right after. I saw him fight like a monster, like he didn't know any of you. That changed when he got around to me."

Tex shook her head. "I saw him attack you the same way he attacked me and Tucker," she told the cyan Freelancer.

Carolina nodded once. "He did for a bit," she admitted. "But it was only a few second ago, when he was right on top of me, that I saw the change, the hesitation. He could've laid into me just as he did you, Caboose, or Church. But he didn't. He hesitated, just watched me. He didn't even throw a punch at me even though he had enough time to throw several before you knocked him off."

Carolina let go of Tex's wrist and struggled to sit up. Tex got off of her, standing up and continuing to aim the pistol at Maine, even though there was some slack in her grip.

"Did you notice he didn't even try to resist when you pulled the pistol on him?" she asked with no small amount of ridicule. "Or were you too busy trying to execute him to see that?"

Tex narrowed her eyes. "It doesn't matter if he was or not," she gritted through her teeth, "that man has too much blood on his hands, blood of our men, Carolina. He needs to face judgement for that."

"And he will," another voice butted into the conversation. Allison tore her eyes away from the other female Freelancer to see Illinois approach from the side, shotgun in hand but not raised.

Tex's posture immediately relaxed as she saw him approach. Around them, the forms of the other Reds and Blues began circling the white Freelancer. Wash, along with Sarge and Lopez had their weapons trained on the kneeling form of Agent Maine. Grif limped to retrieve the Brute Shot that had been stolen off of him, with Simmons next to him for support. Church had one of Caboose's arms over his shoulder, trying to keep him upright. Donut was supporting the dimwitted Blue's other side. And Doc was helping Tucker, his medical scanner bathing green light over the aqua swordsman's broken limb, now hanging loosely against his side. Every single one of them was battered and bruised, even more so than after they had beaten through the Insurrectionists' main defenses.

"You are right," Illinois affirmed, "he needs to face judgement." Tex smirked at Carolina, baring her chin proudly.

"However," the green-and-blue Freelancer continued, "Carolina is on to something as well."

Tex's smirk disappeared and she now gave him an incredulous look. "What?" she and Carolina asked, the former in disbelief and the latter in surprise.

"I saw the hesitation as well," he told them. "I don't know exactly what happened for Maine to have turned out the way he was when the Mother of Invention fell, but that display of hesitation doesn't match up with his psychopathic actions since then. Maybe you're on to something, Carolina."

"At the same time," he said, raising a finger, "maybe not. Maybe this is all some sort of elaborate ruse. To what end, I have no idea. It could pose a major security concern if he stayed alive."

The group remained silent as they pondered this information. There was merit to both sides Illinois had presented a conundrum. Most of the Blues would likely side with Tex, wanting vengeance for all the pain and suffering he'd caused the team alone. They'd suffered the worst of the bunch. The Reds would likely be of a similar mindset, either vying for revenge or terrified of what he could do to them.

Everyone's heads turned to Agent Washington. Carolina cocked her head to the side. "Wash?" she asked.

The grey-and-gold Freelancer looked at the group around him. As leader of their strike force, it seemed as if the decision fell to him, whether he wanted it or not.

Several longs seconds passed by as he thought on the facts that were presented to him. The group held their breath, not willing to disturb the silence in the courtyard. Even the gunfire and burned wreckage seemed to have dimmed to the point of stillness, such was the silence.

Wash sighed and lowered his Battle Rifle. "We're taking him with us," he finally announced.

Several groans and protests were immediately heard from the group save Carolina and Illinois. "Wash, you can't be serious!" Tucker exclaimed.

"Yeah, man!" Grif agreed. "You must've missed out on the ass-kicking we were all subjected to."

"This guy needs to go," Church said, agreeing with Tex on the matter.

"I'll agree with the Blue on that," Sarge added on. "This man will cause too much trouble if we let him onto our ship."

Wash shook his head as he rebutted their protests. "We're bringing him up to the All or Nothing and that's final," he told them. "No buts."

Their comm crackled to life. Wash answered first. "Agent Washington, go ahead."

"This is Lima-4 reporting, sir. Base entrance secured," the voice of an ODST responded.

"Roger that, Lima-4," he replied, "begin securing the base interior for the capture of the Director. We'll dispatch whatever reinforcements we can to assist. Over."

"Roger that, sir, beginning to secure the base interior now. Over and out." The line dropped dead. A loud explosion was heard as breaching charges destroyed the sealed entrance into the mountainside building.

A Pelican flew over the group and swept around, searching for a clearing to land. It parked close to the destroyed Scorpion, opening its doors. "Anyone need a ride?" asked Four-Seven-Niner over the radio.

Most of the crew began making their way to the Pelican. Sarge pushed the barrel of his Shotgun into the back of Maine's head, urging him forward. The Freelancer took the hint and stood up slowly, hands over his head. With another nudge, he moved to the back of the Pelican, choosing a seat closest to the door.

As the others began filing in, Illinois nudged the two female Freelancers. "You two should go," he told them both, "you look like you need the rest."

They looked at each other at the mention of that, seeing the scores of scrapes and bruises across their armor.

Tex looked over Illinois, seeing that his armor was in just as bad shape as theirs. "You don't look so good yourself," she commented.

"Yeah, but I've run more grueling ops than this before," he told her. "Besides, someone has to lead the remaining UNSC forces here and help find the Director."

Carolina shook her head. "Then we're going with you," she replied. "This is our fight."

"And we will see it finished," Tex agreed.

Illinois looked between the two of them, seeing that they had gone from vehemently disagreeing with each other to supporting their decision to aid him instead. "Very well then," he sighed.

"Let's go give the Director a warm reunion."


And there we go. This is once again the longest chapter I have ever written, about 2.5k words longer than the last. It ended up being way longer than I anticipated, but there was a lot going on, especially with the reintroduction of Agent Maine. Hopefully things don't get too hectic in the near future so I can get these chapters out in a timely manner.