Zeta-Phi II
Location: UNSC All or Nothing, En Route to Zeta-Phi II
Time: 0937 Hours
Date: July 27, 2557
Miller had never believed himself to be a very considerate man, even before joining the armed forces. Growing up in the urban neighborhoods of New Carthage had forced that perspective onto him at a young age. Between hardened wilderness training and avoiding get caught up in the gang wars that had sprouted up among some of the poorer areas of Suomi, he found that he had been quite attuned to avoiding being charitable. Charity turned into favors and future problems, none of which were things he or his family could afford.
Between being from a low-income family and his willingness to avoid engaging in things he couldn't afford, the military seemed like a suitable career for him to pursue. Sure beat the hell out of waiting to get a job at a Hannibal Weapons factory, that's for sure.
Of course, things didn't always pan out, even when you tried your best. All it took was one wrong mission, one opportunity where you chose to go after a high-value target instead of protecting civilians, for the UNSC to throw you under the bus. With the war ongoing at the time, that didn't happen for a while. But as soon as the conflict had ended at the start of 2553, he knew he was done as a military man.
That part specifically was why he'd made himself out as a merc, as part of Omega Company. Here people didn't ask questions, didn't judge you one way or another. All they expected of you was to do your job. Do it and get paid, simple as that.
Now he was here again, on a UNSC ship, waiting to see this job through and get the biggest paycheck of his life, of any of their lives.
Zachary Miller had never had much consideration for others so long as it didn't interfere with the job or his free time. Those were the only two thing he cared about.
So why the hell was he the one pulling pre-deployment inventory, on top of having already done so two days ago? They had enough guys that it should've been someone besides him. Was it because he was the most dependable among their unit?
Or was it because Olsen was shirking her responsibilities in favor of hanging out with the Reds and Blues, playing Dungeons & Dragons instead of preparing for battle?
He never, for the life of him, would've pegged Olsen as a nerd. Considering that, relatively speaking, they were cut from the same cloth, with the same training and supposedly very similar pastimes, he thought he had her figured out.
Boy, was he so very, very wrong. Yeah, he had done his fair share of video gaming and reading, but nothing that had to do with acting and playing pretend, especially about what was clearly high fantasy on a similar level to Lord of the Rings or Chronicles of Narnia.
He sighed in resignation for what felt like the hundredth time as he walked down the lower halls of the All or Nothing, where all of the ship's storage space was, where their equipment was specifically. Doing inventory had been tedious and annoying while he had been a Marine. It didn't get any better being in this mercenary company.
A loud thump could be heard further down the hall, in the direction he was going. He stopped in his tracks and listened. It remained quiet. Between the ambient noise and thrumming engines, he couldn't make out anything.
There was only silence.
Slowly, he slinked forward, hands curled into fists, his armored boots dampening against the metal ground. Unlike most people right now, he kept his armor on, had prematurely dressed himself in it in anticipation of their arrival to Zeta-Phi II. That and it helped to be prepared for the worst. Never know what to expect when approaching another active warzone.
What sounded like sliding and clicking was heard as he took another handful of steps towards the CONEX crate that housed Omega Company's things. Whoever was inside was definitely shuffling through their stuff.
He really didn't want them moving anything around. Typically, their stuff was stacked the way it was for good reason. Made inventory and grabbing any essential materials easy for them. They didn't need anyone rearranging their stuff.
Miller inched his way closer to the storage container, slowly sliding his feet against the metal floor as he tried to make as little noise as possible. Since he didn't have a weapon on hand, the best he could hope for was to get the jump on the intruder.
His heart pounded in his chest as adrenaline flowed through him in anticipation. He tried not to let his nerves get the better of him since that was an easy way to lose control of the situation. Training for orbital insertions in stressful, high-G environments with the ODSTs had taught that to him.
The grey trooper moved to the side of the hall, trying to keep himself hidden as he approached. He really wished he had a weapon on him right now, knowing that even something as simple as a knife would tip this potential fight in his favor.
Just as he was within arm's reach of the container, a large figure suddenly stepped into view. Instinctively, he lashed out, his fist darting forth as he moved to immediately strike and knock out his opponent before they had a chance to retaliate.
However, the figure was faster. Quicker than his eyes could properly register, it stepped back just far enough out of reach to avoid getting his. The movement was so fast Miller had wondered for a second if he had even come close to hitting his target in the first place.
He brought his other hand up in preparation to strike before he stopped, the figure coming into focus.
His eyes widened in shock as he saw a emotionless gold visor stare back at him passively, looming a foot over him. He saw green-and-blue armor, a menacing block of titanium casting it's shadow over his tiny mortal frame.
"What the hell, Illinois?" he exclaimed.
The Spartan paused, as if blinking in surprise under his helmet. "Me?" he questioned. "What the hell are you doing swinging your fists at me?"
"Why the fuck are you going through our stuff?" Miller shot back, clearly not putting up with his crap. This was hardly the first time he'd seen strangers attempt to go through their things. Each time they tried giving him some bullshit excuse such as wondering where one of their pieces of equipment was. And each time he had them detained and brought into questioning by the MPs on whatever installation he was at. Most of those hunches had been relatively harmless or accidental, although they did manage to catch a few Insurrectionist spies as well.
"I'm doing inventory," Illinois shrugged.
"With our stuff?"
"Yeah," he said, as if it was obvious. "Well, you and everyone else's."
"What the hell for?" Miller balked. "What's so important that you have to look through our things as well? Haven't you heard of keeping your hands to yourself or minding your own business?"
Illinois snorted in spite of the trooper's frustration. "If you haven't noticed, genius, we're about to head into another warzone. Now's a good time to conduct inventory, run through estimates of how much stuff we have for any upcoming battles. It'd be weird if we had to retreat because we ran short on supplies. Wouldn't you agree?"
Miller nodded. "I guess so," he grumbled. "But you should've asked us before going through our equipment."
"Relax," the male Freelancer told him. "I didn't break anything, if that's what you're worried about. I know how to handle sensitive material."
"Doesn't change the fact that it's our stuff," the grey soldier shot back. "C'mon, Illinois, it's basic Military 101: Don't touch people's stuff if you don't want to ruffle anyone's feathers. Besides, how can I trust that you aren't stealing anything?"
"Why would I go so far as to steal?" Illinois questioned his logic. "There's nothing you have that I can't simply requisition from Simmons or Donut, our two impromptu quartermasters."
"I don't know," Miller said honestly, "but I shouldn't even have to think about the possibility that you would take something from us, no matter the reason."
He stepped up into Illinois's face, unafraid of the Freelancer's immense stature. He'd faced his fair share of aliens before, most of which were the same size or greater than in heigh than him. He sure as hell wasn't going to let a steroid-induced freak intimidate him.
"I'm letting you off with a warning, Freelancer," he hissed. "The next time you get into our stuff without our permission, you'd better hope I only tell on you to Washington."
"Or what?" Illinois said lowly, staring down at the grey soldier.
"Or you won't be coming out of your next excursion without some bruises, maybe even a few broken bones."
"You would do well to bring a gun or knife with you then," the tall Freelancer advised, smirking in bemusement at the threat. "Your fists aren't going to cut it against me."
With that, he made his exit, stepping past the disgruntled man before disappearing down the hall. Miller turned to watch him go, making sure Illinois didn't pull anything sly. Luckily, it looked like he wasn't doing anything sneaky. He heard the heavy footfalls of the green-and-blue Freelancer fade. Still, he waited another minute just to make sure.
Miller glared down the hall, hands still balled into fists. He dearly wanted to make the asshole pay for rummaging through their things without seeking anyone's permission, specifically from Omega Company. Just who did he think he was? Did he really think he was above the chain of command, above common courtesy among peers, seniors, and subordinates alike?
He had been aware that Spartans were cold, almost machinelike in their thinking and ability to repress emotions. He was also aware of the fact that they often had to take initiative on their decisions in the absence of orders. Being behind enemy lines demanded nothing less.
Still, this wasn't an enemy support zone in an area of operation. They had yet to know what their opponent's strength really was.
A minute passed as the sound of retreating footsteps were replaced with the ambient noise of the ship. Miller waited anyway. Time passed as the droning of ship engines and buzzing lights engulfed his audio filters, a staccato of various industrious and electrical gears and pieces washing together into a single flat tune.
Miller let out a breath as his mind eased back into comfort, the tension of the encounter now dissipated into the back of his mind. He turned around and marched straight into Omega Company's storage container.
Inside, rows of plastic storage boxes of various shapes and sizes could be seen stacked on top of each other. All were labeled, with their contents ranging from weapons and ammunition to optics and computers. They even had a few more niche devices like portable radar jammers and motion sensor cameras.
He made his way to the back, noticing that a handful of cases were opened or otherwise out of place, a result of Illinois's tampering. He could see weapons in racks, mostly assault rifles and DMRs, and an assortment of ammunition for all of them. He also could see one of their radios in plain sight.
Miller reached the backmost row, tugging down one of the smaller crates from the top of the stack before placing it onto the floor. He unlatched the lid and pushed it open. Inside, he could see a small hardcase laptop meant for field use. To the side was a battery, various wires for charging and attaching to other pieces of equipment, and even a small antenna.
However, that wasn't what he was after.
He lifted up the foam casing that was housing the laptop, placing it to the side. Under it was a metal sheet with a alphanumerical keypad on it, a faint green digital display at the top.
Miller tapped an eight-digit combination in before pressing enter. The pad made a faint beeping noise before a series of clicks were heard. The metal sheet split and opened upward, revealing another set of equipment below it.
Inside of the locked compartment was a cylindrical device, metallic and with clamps on one end meant to attach to a standard UNSC Navy data port. The other end looked clear, though there were two circular indents that suggested something was supposed to come out of it.
And something would come out indeed, though not yet. First he would need to find a suitable place for it. If things were going to go to plan, he would have to find somewhere inconspicuous for it, somewhere where people wouldn't just stumble over it.
Mag-clamping the device to his thigh, he sealed the compartment and put everything back in the box as needed. He lifted the crate and stored it once more in its original spot.
Now that everything was back, he could do what Olsen had originally been tasked with and they could be one step closer to the biggest paycheck of their lives…
Agent Washington never expected admin work to be as tedious as it was, least of all as an officer of a unit. Sure, he wasn't officially an officer of an actual unit, but he still held the position and, therefore, all of the responsibilities that came with it. Everything ranging from briefings and situation reports to inventories and personnel action requests fell under him.
Seeing what he saw now, he did not envy the positions of any of his previous units nor that of the Director when he had still been leading Project Freelancer. In fact, he kinda missed the old days of not having to deal with all of this hassle. Sitting on his ass or doing training sure as hell beat doing paperwork.
Wash felt his spine pop as he arched his back, twisting his body and moving his legs as he walked along one the All or Nothing's many hallways. He had just finished the paperwork around pay deductibles for the deceased former Freelancer personnel that had perished at Praetor. Even with the speed in which he had grinded through the packets, each of which had two dozen sections that needed filling, it had still taken over seven hours. He had thought he could get through it all the day before, but he had underestimated what had been required.
It was a good thing FILSS and Illinois were actually willing to help on the other required duties, all things considered. He was aware that they were close to reaching the UNSC rally point on the far side of Zeta-Phi III. He didn't know how many ships they were expecting to meet up with, but he hoped they would be enough to make their next attack less costly than Praetor.
FILSS had spent the time gathering whatever data they could find on their next destination and organizing it into a comprehensive package for everyone onboard. Most of it was outdated, over a decade old, but it was the best they could find.
And it was likely still useful too. Topographic maps, cities and minor settlements, population distribution, marked roadways and high-traffic areas, all of it would come in handy in the face of inevitable conflict with the rebellious humans.
From what he could see, there was only one major city that had been fully set up, at least one that could claim to be a city by modern standards. It was called Armonia, named after the first settler ship that had made planetfall.
The population wasn't massive by any stretch of the imagination, roughly 1,600,000 as of 2548. From initial UNSC drone reconnaissance flights a few weeks ago, it looked like it had barely changed. It had looked like the Covenant had chosen to ignore the human settlement as a viable target.
That or they just hadn't gotten around to it at the time. Reports gathered from John-117 on his return from first contact with Installation 04 and subsequent visual findings confirmed it had been one of many planets directly in the path of Unyielding Hierophant before it would assault Earth. If such was the case, the inhabitants should consider themselves lucky the legendary Master Chief had destroyed it beforehand.
Wash grimaced as he read over the data. It was all useful, but too much of it was outdated. Stuff like map data was always relevant, but that didn't tell him anything about the people themselves. What were the settlers like? Were they welcoming of outsiders or extremely skeptical? What was the current culture like? Close-knit family types and rural communities or that of a martial government?
Hopefully when they made planetfall all of those questions could be answered.
"Wash?" he heard a voice reverberate behind him. He turned to see the looming form of Illinois behind him, being far closer than his voice let out.
"Jesus!" David yelped, rather unprofessionally at that. He jumped back reflexively at how close the other male Freelancer had gotten to him without making noise. Just how the hell had he gotten there without his knowledge? "Can you at least try to not appear like a ghost from time to time?"
"Sorry," he apologized. "Reflex, I swear."
Wash shook his head as he let out a breath. "I have no idea how that's even possible, least of all with someone as big as you."
Illinois snorted in bemusement. "Very carefully," he stated bluntly. "Let's just say when you've spent the better part of forty years doing it, it becomes almost natural."
"… I guess so," he conceded. The pair moved off down the hall, not particularly going anywhere in a hurry. "Did you get a tally on our supplies and equipment?"
The taller Freelancer nodded. "One hundred percent accountability after about seven hours of work."
"And what does our situation look like?" he questioned.
"Given the records provided to us when we resupplied at Falaknuma, I was able to confirm that we should have roughly three thousand boxes of 7.62 ammunition, plus a thousand boxes of assorted smaller arms and specialist rounds for heavy weapons and vehicles."
"Okay," Wash nodded. "What does that mean for us? How long can we last without resupply?"
Illinois cocked his head briefly, calculating their rate of consumption without the assistance of a calculator. That seemed to be another tic when it came to him: the ability to focus automatically, almost in a machine-like way. It was rather eerie, not to mention kinda nerve-wracking.
Wash had barely finished his thought when he answered. "About three months," Illinois told him, "assuming every soldier goes through a full combat-loadout's worth of ammunition per day, which I assume won't happen unless groundside combat turns into constant trench warfare like World War One."
David balked at the information. "That's way more than I thought."
Illinois nodded. "I agree. It's almost overkill for how fast this mission is supposed to go, though I guess this also means we don't have to worry about conserving supplies or worry about replenishment."
"That's true," he conceded. The Freelancers made their way into one of the ship's lifts, Wash pressing a button that would take them to the command deck. "Have you had a chance to look over the data of Zeta-Phi II yet?"
"Only briefly," the larger Freelancer said. "The planet looks barely inhabited, the vast majority of colonial infrastructure being concentrated on one of its six continents. Population looks extremely small as well. There are moderate-sized cities on Earth with a bigger population than that."
"But if the Insurrectionists are also contesting the planet, and if there are still that many people down there, we're looking at several Corps' worth of soldiers, maybe even an Army."
"Then that means we're there to be force multipliers," Illinois assessed. "Even with all of the equipment on board, it'd be next to impossible for us beat them ourselves, even assuming minimal casualties."
"Which is why we're going to play it slow when we reach the edge of the system-"
"Agent Washington?" a feminine voice called through the speaker above them.
"Yes, FILSS?" the grey-and-gold Freelancer replied, briefly diverting his attention from his larger counterpart.
"We are approaching the edge of the system in approximately ten minutes," the A.I. announce.
"Good," Wash nodded. "Have all main teams meet us on the bridge."
With that, the Freelancers quickened their pace, intent on reaching the bridge first so they could get things set up. There likely wasn't going to be much to it, with him having to take a call with the UNSC Fleet and Marine commanders. Still, it was best that everyone else listen in on the call so they would have a good understanding of the situation and iron out any details relating to the chain of command and deployment order. It also bore in mind that they might see some ship-to-ship combat first. They would have to prepare accordingly.
Location: UNSC All or Nothing, Zeta-Phi III
Time: 1033 Hours
Date: July 21, 2557
The Zeta-Phi system was fairly unremarkable compared to most logged star systems within UNSC territory. It boasted only six planets, an even split between gas giants and terrestrial. Of the three, two of them were considered habitable. Of those two, only one had anything above rudimentary plant and small insectoid-based creatures. Only one planet had a fully diversified biosphere.
That planet was Zeta-Phi II.
Found within the star's inner half of the goldilocks zone, the temperature was almost analogous to Earth, with only a two degree temperature difference overall. This was enough, however, to produce a far larger amount of jungles and denser coniferous forests upon its surface. There were cold areas at the magnetic poles as well as the plethora of mountain ranges among the planet's eight continents, but they were of a smaller quantity than Earth.
But it wasn't the geography or biosphere that made the planet particularly interesting. Nor was it some of the rather large fauna, including a wide variety of creatures that almost resembled prehistoric reptiles.
No, what was interesting, and had been both the reason for the planet's initial colonization and was now a target for the Insurrectionists, along with the Director himself, was the unknown abandoned structures of a long-dead civilization that were scattered across the planet. Everything ranging from small nodes to larger spires could be seen, all of which were made of some unknown glossy metal that looked far too pristine to be the work of humans.
Post-war scientists would later be able to identify the structures as belonging to an extinct race known as the Forerunners, but most didn't know that before the discovery of the Halo arrays. No one knew the exact purposes of the structures, but now they wanted to know, the Director and Insurrectionists among them.
The UNSC would not allow them to poke and prod at a potential wealth of technology.
A Slipspace portal opened at the far side of Zeta-Phi III, beyond sight of any sensors that were deployed around their target. They didn't want to make their presence known to any Insurrectionist ships that were nearby just yet.
It was also meant to be the rally point for the UNSC fleet the All or Nothing was supposed to link up with.
The ship's sensors lit up, ready to receive any incoming hails from the fleet…
… and was met with nothing.
"Uh, Wash?" Sarge asked. "Where is everyone else?"
Upon the bridge, the Reds, Blues, Elites, and Omega Company leaders were assembled, their eyes flitting across the viewports, seeing if their eyes could pick out what the ship's sensors could not.
But there was no mistaking it: there was no fleet to meet them.
"I am currently detecting zero UNSC ships within the system, Agent Washington," Sheila informed them.
"I can see that," the lead Freelancer informed her. "Any trace of where they might have gone?"
"Scanning."
The crew shuffled their feet nervously as they awaited the results. What did this mean? Did the UNSC decide to abandon their effort, leaving them in the dark all over again? They weren't seriously about to enter into a warzone without support, were they?
Washington looked at the men and women before him, trying to gauge their moods. The Blues had mixed reactions among their ranks, ranging from surprise and flabbergast to disdain and denial. He could see that Church was just about ready to punch something, such was his frustration. Tucker stood slack in disbelief. Caboose didn't seem all too bothered, but even he could tell something wasn't right with the situation.
The Reds were just as colorful with their opinions as the other team. Simmons and Grif both looked distraught, very uncomfortable with the lack of support from other, arguably better, UNSC forces. Donut was trying to remain cheerful even in the face of unfortunate information. Even Lopez was looking antsy, although less so than the others, as if he was expecting that something like this would happen. The only one who remained relatively unmoving was Sarge, who just stared impassively into the void of space, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
The Unity Blades also looked a bit less distraught than their human compatriots, though they still showed emotion. He saw Zal and Xytan shuffle on their feet, Retam and Sesa were glancing around at the other humans, and Zain and Shahlee were conversing quietly among themselves.
Omega Company looked more composed than almost everyone else, waiting patiently but otherwise standing immobile, perhaps waiting to see if Sheila could find anything that could clarify the situation.
The Freelancers were largely the same, with Tex, Carolina, and Illinois all standing by silently, not giving in to panic. Tex stood next to Church, being a pillar of calm compared to her boyfriend's raging storm. Carolina was separated from the Reds and Blues, arms crossed over her chest, silent like the other female Freelancer.
Illinois, for his part, looked relatively impassive. In fact, he seemed completely neutral, his head moving slightly as he saw a visual display of the ship's sensor radius on the holotable before them. Just like before, he seemed to be analyzing again, like a cold, calculating machine.
"Agent Washington," the shipboard A.I. finally announced, "I am unable to pinpoint where the fleet might have gone."
Another chorus of groans could be heard from the former simulation troopers.
"However," she continued, "I am detecting a beacon transmitting on a friendly frequency."
"Play it on speaker," Wash commanded.
The A.I. did as instructed, a sharp pang cut out as a new voice came over the bridge speakers. It was deeper, male, sounded like it came from a senior officer.
"This is Rear Admiral William Traue to all incoming UNSC forces. Return to UNSC space immediately. I say again: return to UNSC space immediately. We have confirmed reports of Storm Covenant activity massing a push into UEG-controlled space. The UNSC Infinity has transmitted warning beacons to the prescribed locations. This beacon will transmit those locations on an adjacent frequency."
The audio cut out, being replaced by Sheila once more. "The message is on repeat, as are the coordinates," she informed the group.
"How old is this message?" Illinois was the first to ask.
"This beacon has been transmitting for four days, Agent Illinois," Sheila answered.
"And what are the coordinates?" Carolina was the next one to ask.
Tex glanced over at the cyan Freelancer. Why in God's name would they pull back, now that they had another chance to find the Director and bring him in? She usually wasn't one to stall when it came to completing a mission, always being able to think on her feet as the battlefield situation unfolded before her. They were both similar to each other in that respect.
"They point to-"
"You're not seriously considering pulling us out now, are you?" Church spoke up.
The Freelancers, and most of the people on the bridge for that matter, turned to look at him.
The former A.I. took his chance to express his thoughts. "I mean, after all this time, we finally have a chance to get back at that sorry sonofabitch, and give him the justice he deserves. Plus, I'm pretty sure he's the reason the Innies have heightened their attacks when they did."
The Reds and Blues, Tex included, found themselves nodding in agreement.
"Doesn't change the fact that we've been ordered back," Wash cut in. "I don't know about you, but I have no plans on getting court-martialed again."
"No one even knows we're here!" Church protested. "So stop beating around the bush and let's get this bastard!"
"Hell yeah!" Tucker cheered.
"Damn right!" Sarge agreed.
Wash continued to see that the other former simulation troopers were getting riled up, with even Tex goading them on. Omega Company and the Sangheili remained silent, though a few of the aliens, Zain included, were almost nodding with his sympathies.
"Let's think about this carefully first, guys-" Carolina spoke up above the rest of group.
"Who the hell are you to tell us to think carefully, huh?" Grif interrupted, pointing an accusing finger at her.
Everyone turned to look at her. Though they all had their helmets on, it was easy to tell that most of the Reds and Blues still held disdain for her, save for perhaps Tucker, Caboose, and Donut. Apparently, the tension from the incident in simulation room hadn't dissipated enough for them to give her a chance to explain her point.
Still, Carolina glared daggers at the orange soldier, silent and unmoving at his ridicule. She knew that everyone there wanted to get to the Director and finish the mission. But she also had firsthand experience with how bad things would go if they didn't act with more restraint and a cooler head. She didn't want them to be like her. She'd been the prime example far too many times of letting anger and competition blind her.
The room remained silent as an unseen tension filled the air. It wasn't exactly easy to forget what she had done and who she had hurt in the process. And she still felt guilty for it.
Tucker, for his part, wasn't mad at her, even though he had every right to be. Everyone on this ship carried some sort of baggage, quirk, or past grievance. Sure, some were worse than others, but things wouldn't get better if they held on to their mistakes. And he knew that Carolina carried a lot more than most of them realized.
A chime broke through the deafening silence, one that came from the ship's speakers. Everyone's focus shifted to the noise.
"Agent Washington?" Sheila called out to them, either unaware of the room's tension or unbothered by it.
"Yeah, FILSS?" he asked, glad that someone had chosen to find a way to direct tension away from the silence.
"I am picking up a transmission on a broadband spectrum," she said. "It is coming from Zeta-Phi II."
That had him interested, as least far more than the bitter squabbling the Reds and Blues seemed prone to as of late. "Let's hear it."
Sheila did as instructed, her chipper, yet monotonous tone being replaced briefly with static. At first he thought it was nothing, just a dead frequency that had been left on for who knows how long. Certainly hadn't been the first time he'd heard of such a thing.
The static was short-lived, however, as the signal cleared, revealing the sound of a female voice. It was firm, confident, had an air of authority to it. Yet there was also undeniable pressure and panic in it as well. "-to all New Republic forces. Requesting immediate assistance in the Manufacturing Sector. Hostile alien and Insurrection forces have breached the perimeter and we are in danger of being overrun. We cannot let them reach the Reactor Sector. I repeat, this is General Kimball to all New Republic forces-"
The transmitter's voice was cut off as another one made to replace it, almost as if it was transmitting at the same time. This one was distinctly male and had an air of propriety and stature. It also seemed far less composed than the former transmitter. "-General Doyle to all Federal Army forces within the vicinity. Requesting reinforcements in defense of the Manufacturing Sector. New Republic forces are being overrun and require our assistance. Proceed to the area at once! I repeat, this is General Doyle-"
The line went dead, allowing the news some time to marinate with the men and women present on the bridge.
"Sounds like people down there need our help," Olsen was the first to speak.
Wash nodded in agreement. "So it would seem."
"Then let's go down there and give them a hand," Tex said next. Several of the Reds and Blues nodded along with her. This seemed to be their chance to get down to the surface and actually begin the process of looking for the Director.
"Hold on now," Simmons said, speaking above his compatriots. "Don't we want to assess the situation a bit before heading straight into the jaws of death?"
Sarge sighed as he heard the caution in his fellow Red's voice. "Simmons, sometimes you need a little kick in the keester."
"What?!" the nerdy trooper exclaimed incredulously. "Why?"
"Because you're always trying to be a downer on potential action scenes!"
"This isn't a movie, sir!" Simmons protested.
"Oh please," Sarge waved dismissively, "even if we weren't in a movie, it's nice to do something unexpected, something to add variety and entertainment to our lives!"
"I think we've all had more than enough action in our lives, sir," Grif commented dryly. "For several lifetimes, actually."
"And yet we're still here!" Sarge rounded on the orange soldier. "The mission's not over, the Director's still out there, and who's going to bring him in? Us! One thing the man's always done is make our lives interesting, if nothing else."
"Which is exactly why we don't need to go looking for it," Grif stood his ground. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I have no intention of dying in any rather stupid and elaborate scheme. I'd like to experience life outside of the military at some point before I die!"
The Reds continued to squabble of whether they should act or play things safe in the absence of intel. Wash glanced over to the side to see Illinois staring at the screen, silently contemplating the information presented before them and ignoring the bickering that was occurring to his side.
The lead Freelancer sauntered over to the larger man. "What are you thinking, Illinois?" he asked when he got to his side, bringing his attention up to the holotable before them.
Displayed on it was a topographical scan of Zeta-Phi II. It was currently zoomed in on the source of the transmission, that being the only major city currently on the planet. However, they were too far out of range to scan anything more than a basic layout. There was no way to scan for activity, friendly or hostile. Everything was a complete unknown.
"Hm," he grunted, "both sides have merit in their reasoning. On the one hand, it looks like the colonists on the planet are in open opposition to the Insurrectionists. They could provide a very stable base of operations groundside. Plus it is likely they control the only real permanent infrastructure the planet has."
"And on the other?" Wash asked.
"On the other," Illinois continued, "going in with a lack of solid intel is never a good idea. Too many things can go wrong without at least some more accurate information. Plus, without the UNSC fleet, we might be stepping into a stalemate or a war of attrition. We cannot guarantee victory if we choose to engage with the Insurrectionists planetside."
"But we make things a lot harder for ourselves if we don't help," David pointed out.
The Spartan glanced down at him. "It sounds like you've made up your mind."
Wash nodded. "I admit I didn't for a while. You telling me about the pros and cons of our choices swayed me, though."
Illinois nodded. "Well, I'm glad I was able to help expedite the process."
Agent Washington walked back to his spot before the group, clasping his hands behind his back. "I've made my decision," he announced to the group.
The voices of the Reds, as well as any other party, died down as they heard him speak up.
"And…?" Church motioned, eager to hear what he had to say.
"We're heading down to the surface," Wash told them. "Now."
A mixture of noises, ranging from celebration and elation to aghast dismay, could be heard among almost all parties. Many showed approval, but some, like Grif and Simmons, disagreed with the sentiment.
It won't matter much anyway, Wash thought to himself. They were going to see that they get boots on the ground and help relieve the beleaguered defenders. Only then could they properly analyze the situation.
Location: UNSC All or Nothing, Zeta-Phi III
Time: 1132 Hours
Date: July 21, 2557
The plan was relatively simple and straightforward: the All or Nothing would make a tactical Slipspace jump to just over the target city on Zeta-Phi II, only to high orbit. Once the ship had cleared its reentry back into realspace, the Pelican complement inside it's hangar would immediately drop out into the planet's atmosphere, allowing them to spend as little time as possible getting shot at by both any potential anti-air and hostile fleet assets the Innies might've brought with them. The All or Nothing would go silent with its drives, doing its best to minimize its presence on enemy radar and detection systems.
At least that was the plan. Four-Seven-Niner doubted things would go as smoothly, but one could always pray.
Ash made her way around her Pelican, double-checking to make sure everything would be alright. Fuel lines were fastened, there were no signs of leakage, nothing was sticking out of the armor plating beside the landing gear underneath and missile pods on its wings. The nose cannon was safely hidden under a protective metal shield, only allowed to reveal itself when it needed to be used.
Standing to full height after checking the underbelly, she came up to the stencil with her callsign next to the cockpit. Alongside it were the wings of a Valkyrie and a sword stabbing right through the middle of it. It was perhaps a bit cheesy, stereotypical of most Pelican pilots to use something of a similar nature, but she was content with it.
She brought her hand up to it, tracing it with her gloved fingers.
Ashley Fraser was no stranger to making dangerous jumps. She'd made it practically a habit of hers when flying under Project Freelancer. Sure, there was always a risk associated with doing that kind of work, more so as a transport pilot than a maverick with a fighter or interceptor. But she always liked the risk that came with it, the adrenaline of evading MANPADS and dodging a pursuing jet's autocannon fire.
Still, she was aware that sooner or later that risk would come to bite her in the ass. She'd had no regrets doing it under the UNSC. Project Freelancer was no different.
So why did this jump feel different? Was it the heightened tension of knowing they were going into a full-scale warzone, one far more dangerous than any she'd experienced before? Was it the lack of support from other UNSC forces on top of that? Or was it because, now out of all times, she'd actually gotten attached to her company, these former simulation troopers that had welcomed her as another part of their posse?
Specifically, was it because of one orange trooper?
"You alright, Four?" she heard a voice behind her.
Speak of the devil, the corner of her lip twitched upward, recognizing it instantly.
Lowering her hand, she turned to see Dexter Grif standing before her, fully decked out in his unmistakable orange armor, save for his head which he kept uncovered. He could see the unkemptness of his dark-brown hair, the scruff of his five o'clock shadow threatening to give way to the beginning of a beard. Coupled with his darker-than-usual tan as a result of being native Hawaiian and he could easily pass as a civilian. His hazel eyes were that of feigned indifference, one he'd worked on for years while being under Sarge.
But she could tell he was nervous. Had been ever since he'd been cleared from needing a medical profile by Doc and was told he'd be piloting one of the Pelicans to the surface.
"I was gonna ask you the same question," she asked, giving him a soft smile. Her helmet was off as well, her shorter raven hair coming down to about the middle of her neck. She still wanted to keep it short, but there was nothing wrong with letting it grow out a little. Women could still work in the field with longer hair, as Tex and Carolina could attest. She just didn't feel like dealing with all of the maintenance most of the time, especially with all of her time around machines.
"Yeah, well, you know me," Grif shrugged. "Always getting pushed around, being told to do something I don't want to do."
"It's something to expect in our line of work," she pointed out.
"I know," he agreed. "I don't have to like it though."
She chuckled at the thought. "Has there ever been a time where you've liked taking orders?"
"If it didn't have something to do with eating or sleeping, then no," he answered honestly.
"Which is pretty much never," she commented dryly.
"Hey, Doc did tell me to take it easy. That has to count for something," he retorted.
"Only because he technically overrides anything your commanding officers or NCOs might say."
"Meh," he shrugged, "that's still a win in my book."
Four let out another chuckle. "Alright then," she shook her head in bemusement, "I guess you've got me there."
The two stood in comfortable silence as they let the destressing conversation ride its way out. For the duration of most of her downtime as a pilot, she had spent it almost exclusively tinkering with her ride, her Pelican dropship, making it perfect for any mission she was expected to go on. Her life on Luna most likely drove that initial curiosity, one that could become a borderline obsession at times. Sure, she knew how to fly other aircraft ranging from AV-14 Hornets and UH-144 Falcons to GA-TL1 Longswords. But none of them carried the same sense of grandeur and awe as that of a Pelican that would come to either drop troops off or retrieve them for extraction.
Besides, they still made for formidable air-to-ground gunships. Blasting men apart like they were ants or rolling over columns of armored vehicles was a nice bonus.
That routine changed during her stay with the Reds and Blues, on their way to Zeta-Phi II. When she'd been invited by Grif to come hang out with him, Simmons, and a few others for some Dungeons & Dragons, she was quite skeptical. It wasn't anything like going to a bar with the Freelancers, and she never considered herself a nerd. She was more of a motorhead herself.
Still, she surprised herself with how much she enjoyed the experience overall, with Simmons's epic, if somewhat drawn-out monologues and sometimes overly-intricate puzzles, Grif's seemingly infinite supply of snacks and dry, witty humor, and the grand acting that was Olsen's ability to disappear into a role, a rather welcoming contribution to the game overall.
Plus the Elites weren't so bad. Sure, they needed a bit of goading from time to time, and they were pretty awkward at first, but once they found their rhythm it was hard not to notice how relaxed they seemed.
The whole thing felt surreal. For the first time in a long time, she was having fun doing something not tied to her work.
The air of comfort eventually gave way to nervousness again as they heard the two minute warning before the ship would make the jump. Grif gripped his helmet tightly under his arm, stress lines crossing his otherwise chill features.
Ash stepped up to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Grif's face turned to that of surprise at first before settling into a more relaxed state. It wasn't quite chill and laid-back as she'd seen from him, but it was far less stressed than before.
She looked into his eyes, her light blue to his hazel. He seemed so earthly, like he was always meant to be slow and at ease with himself. From the way he talked to the way he acted, it was always on a drive to be calm, lazy, smart when it came down to it. Even his size helped reinforce her view of him, with him being one of the shorter simulation troopers she'd seen among his company. They were practically the same height. That suited him just fine.
And it suited her mild interest in him too.
"You'll be fine, Dex," she told him softly, far softer than she normally did. "I have faith in your abilities. I'm sure your friends do too."
And she meant what she said. It was one of her core attributes. Unlike her superiors in Project Freelancer, who always seemed to work in secrecy and shady deals, she'd always been one to tell things as they were. She had no problem airing her concerns, no matter how small, simply because the Freelancers relied on her to be her best, both physically and mentally.
"How do you know? Have you actually seen my flying?" he replied, clearly not buying into his own skills.
"Yeah, I have," she retorted, not letting his self-doubt get the best of him. "You're way better than you give yourself credit for, especially considering you're not certified in any way. Most people would've crashed several times over if they had as little experience as you. You're a natural, like me in a way. You just lack training and qualifications."
Four-Seven-Niner stepped away, slipping her helmet over her head, the contraption lightly hissing as it sealed close over her skinsuit. "Just stay alive, remember the basics, and keep a cool head. Should be pretty easy for you. You've practically mastered two of those already."
With that, she sauntered off to the back of her Pelican, completing the final checks and getting ready for the incoming hot drop. Grif stood slack, moving one of his hands to brush his fingers against where hers had touched him.
I can do this, he thought to himself as he slipped on his helmet and went to take his position at an adjacent dropship. Ash believes I can. And she's the best pilot I've ever seen.
Getting past his nerves was never an easy task, the urge to flee responsibility rearing its ugly head, one that he was all too eager to satiate the vast majority of the time. People usually doubted his ability to do, well, anything. They always had plans in case things fell sideways. Given the nature of the Reds and Blues as cannon fodder, as rejects, that we pretty often. To be hefted responsibility on his shoulders, one that he had to take seriously for once, was a big deal.
But he couldn't fail now. People depended on him to succeed, just as Kai had when they were growing up. Wash depended on him. The Reds depended on him.
She depended on him.
He wouldn't fail any of them. He wouldn't fail Sarge, Simmons, Donut, Lopez, or the Blues. And he especially wouldn't fail Ashley Fraser, callsign Four-Seven-Niner.
Location: UNSC All or Nothing, Orbiting Zeta-Phi II
Time: 1338 Hours, Armonia Timezone (ART)
Date: July 21, 2557
The jump was short, much shorter than their initial voyage from Falaknuma. In fact, it only lasted about fifteen seconds.
But those fifteen seconds felt like an eternity for the Reds and Blues. Everyone was making their final checks, doing the same ritualistic routines when they had been over Praetor. Whether it was counting ammo, stretching, or practicing breathing exercises, everyone was doing something to prepare for another stressful warzone.
Everyone was to deploy in different ships. One would hold the Reds, where Grif was fly. Another would take the Blues, minus Tucker and Junior, who were going down with the Unity Blades. The aqua trooper needed to make sure none of the local militia accidentally shot their allies in the process. Omega Company would take two other dropships. The last was reserved for the Freelancers, Wash, Carolina, Tex, and Illinois to be specific, the one Four-Seven-Niner would pilot. They were expected to drop in the most critically-needed location, one that would guarantee the defeat of the planetary forces if it fell: the Reactor District.
Before they had made their jump, Wash had ordered probes out to scan their reentry point, and get as much information on the area below as possible. No ships were immediately within range save a pair of small ships that classified more as civilian cargo haulers than battleships. Those would back down if they had any desire to live.
However, there was a ship closer to the surface that would prove slightly more worrying. That ship was a Covenant SDV-class Corvette. It was currently hanging low over Armonia, the planetary capital. So far it wasn't raining fire down onto the surface, but its mere presence was enough for them to realize that Covenant forces were assisting the Insurrectionists in breaking the colonial defensive lines.
Wash already had a plan in mind to deal with the looming threat, but first they would need to clear out the ground forces and force the aliens into retreat.
Everyone felt the jolt of power as the All or Nothing came out of Slipspace, the return to realspace hitting their nerves as normalcy flooded their veins once more. No sooner did they realize it that the green light was given, and the frigate's bay doors opened.
The dropships fell planetside, their engines deactivated as they let gravity do all of the work. Only once they reached the sweet spot of the upper stratosphere would the activate their engines, pulling up enough so that the personnel on board wouldn't be crushed under the G-forces when they swung out into the city.
The teams all had their radios on as they listened to radio chatter of the defenders. "-India-Four," one of them said. "-got wounded around Storehouse District."
"-lost Baker avenue-", another said, "-threatening Johnston Hospital."
"Water treatment refinery under attack! Requesting immediate assist-", a third one cut in.
The teams called out which areas they would choose to assist. The Reds would take the hospital, the Blues would secure the storehouses, and the Elites would drive the enemy off the water refinery. Omega Company would stand by for any other gaps in defenses.
The Pelicans flew in a tight formation until they were just outside the city limits, banking only a few thousand feet above the planet's surface. They would try to reduce any attempt hostile anti-air batteries could use to shoot them down.
The ships broke formation as they reached the edge of the city, all moving to where they were needed most. They could see active firefights going down across the area, the yellow and red of tracers alongside the blues, purples, and greens of Covenant plasma weaponry. For all of their lack of formality, it looked like the defenders were putting up one hell of a fight.
Wash scanned the city as they went from the cockpit, notifying hazards and potential landmarks in the team's HUD.
Finally, after just passing the barest form of a factory, which looked like it had seen better days, he saw it: a massive nuclear reactor in the center of the city. Why was it in the center of the city where a meltdown would convert the whole area in a irradiated hellhole? Who knows. That wasn't something for them to question right now.
Before it was a large square, most likely a large traffic intersection that also passed as a parade field and assembly center. Rubble was strewn about everywhere, the husks of cars, trucks, pillars, and crates intermixed with craters and shattered concrete.
On the side closer to the reactor, he could see the faint traces of people in tan and white armor. Two of them were mounted in a Warthog, suppressing the opposing forces with bursts of chaingun fire.
The other side he could make out the traces of Covenant ground forces, Elites, Jackals, and Grunts intermixed as they took potshots at the defenders. They had cleared several dozen feet, more than half of the entire square, as they advanced towards the reactor entrance.
Their advancement would stop now.
"Four, go for a strafing run on the open side of the square, then swing up around and drop us in front of the reactor," he told the savvy pilot.
"Roger that," she said, flipping the dust cover that was over one of the buttons on the top of her joystick. She flipped a switch with one of her hands, arming the missile pods on the wings. The hand still on the joystick thumbed the button and they felt the ship shudder slightly.
"Missiles away."
Several seconds earlier…
Specialist Danvers had never encountered aliens before today. Living, breathing aliens. It was so surreal, and not in a good way.
For the longest time he, and many of the others within the New Republic, had thought they, the alien coalition known as the Covenant, were a myth, a terror story the Feds used to keep them down, to prevent them from worrying about their rights being taken away, or the exorbitantly high taxes being levied against them for reasons he could not fathom at the time.
Now his beliefs were shattered, even more so after knowing that they were working with Insurrection, or United Rebel Front, as they had been formally known. The Innies had originally come to the planet to see if they could secure a peace between the Federal Army and the New Republic, of which they had been fighting over a decade for, since long before should've been allowed to join.
That attempt at peace was shattered when they killed the lead generals of both armies. He remembered hearing the news about the death of General Burnside, and his subsequent replacement with General Kimball.
In a fit of vengeance and atonement for both being betrayed, the New Republic and Federal Army joined forces against this larger, far more hostile force. Both of them were colonists and citizens of Chorus. The Insurrectionists were not.
So the war pivoted on its heels, with the New Republic and Federal Army standing together against this foreign invasion. Resources were combined, information was shared, land was redistributed, much to everyone's chagrin. The pain of having to deal with fighting each other for almost a decade was no easy thing to throw aside, of knowing the other side had killed someone they loved at some point.
But it became apparent that the Insurrectionists didn't care about them, not in the way their honeyed words first made them believe. Two months of fighting against this enemy that almost seemed to be a mockery of what the New Republic stood for revealed as much. In that time, the ranks of the combined Chorusan military ground down, being chipped away faster than anything both sides had done to each other the decade prior. It was like the Insurrectionists had played this game for far longer. And far better.
He ducked down as a stray plasma bolt zoomed over his head, pattering against the wall of the reactor he was supposed to be defending. The man next to him, Sergeant Giovani, his squad leader, wasn't so lucky. A plasma round slammed into his shoulder and he screamed as he fell, his armor being singed and a sizeable chunk of said shoulder now missing. He landed on his back as he clutched it futilely.
He and his fellow Chorusans were aware that aliens absolutely did exist. The floating structures that dotted the planet were proof of that.
But he wasn't aware of just how inherently hostile some of them were. Indeed, they attacked with a vengeance, using far more brutish and straightforward methods than the Innies had done. Now they had pushed into Armonia and were on the verge of breaking into the nuclear reactor powering the whole place. They could shut everything down and the world would fall to the Insurrection.
He reached for the radio built into his helmet, transmitting the situation. "General Kimball," he said into his helmet's microphone, "this is 1st Platoon, Grey Company! We've lost the square! We can't hold it!"
No sooner did he finish relaying the situation that a flurry of missiles slammed into the reactor square, blowing up several advancing aliens before them. The plumes of smoke saturated the area, obscuring everyone's sightlines and stopping them briefly from shooting each other.
That, or maybe everyone was in awe at the Pelican dropship that was hovering over the air, floating about two dozen yards above the battlefield. Its passenger compartment was currently open, and it was facing the alien forces. Before he could register what was going on, four figures jumped out of the back. They landed on the concrete with harsh thumps, their heavy armor crushing the ground beneath them.
The dropship sped off a few seconds later, blowing away the smoke enough for most people to see. In front of the Chorusan lines were four armored figures, one that was grey-and-gold, another that was all black, yet another one that was a bright cyan, and the frontmost one being forest-green and blue. They had weapons in their hands, ready for action. He didn't know who they were, but they looked every bit a badass space marine should be.
"Spartans!" he heard an enemy alien squeak out in both surprise and terror, most likely a Grunt from the little he remembered of their brief when it came to the species of the Covenant.
Before panic could set it among the alien troops, a large, white armored Elite stood up on the top of a pile of rubble so that his comrades could see. "Kill them!" it bellowed out, igniting an energy sword and waving toward the new arrivals. The Covenant troops got the hint and raised their weapons.
But these new arrival, these Spartans, were one step ahead of them. They opened up with bursts from their battle rifles save for the green one, who used a sniper rifle to pick off the heads of the forwardmost Elites, killing three Majors and a Minor with a single magazine. Each of the Spartans landed shots among the Grunts and Jackals that were there, able to hit the hands of the latter and forcing them to open their defenses. They were swiftly executed for their mistakes.
The Spartans advanced, with the green one taking the lead, switching out his sniper rifle for a shotgun. He shoulder-checked a Jackal as it tried to close in with an energy gauntlet, crushing it with his body weight. The next four were not given the same courtesy, instead being blasted back by his shotgun. A Grunt tried to turn and flee as he pushed straight through their forward line, and it's neck was swiftly snapped for its trouble.
The green Spartan looked up at the white Elite, now only a dozen or so meters away from it. They stared at each other, the large alien growling at him with hatred. The man, for his part, looked impassive.
His tune changed immediately when he went into a full-blown sprint, moving far ahead of his comrades. The Elite jumped off the pile of rubble to meet him.
Just a few steps before reaching each other, another Elite, a Minor in Blue armor, came out to the side, brandishing his own energy sword and aiming to strike the Spartan first. But the Spartan's reaction time was faster, and he slowed down slightly, just enough to quickly bring up his weapon and hit him dead center. The Elite tumbled to the ground in a spurt of purple blood, it's sword clambering out of his hands.
The Spartan didn't have any time to rack another round into the chamber before the white Elite was upon him. The alien warrior slashed at a diagonal at him, intending to burrow the blade into his left shoulder. The Spartan angled his shoulder and leaned his body back. The sword bounced against him harmlessly, a shower of sparks hitting what looked like an energy shield that was protecting the man's body.
The Elite slashed again, cutting horizontally this time. The Spartan simply ducked.
In a fit of rage, the towering alien went for an overhead swing. This time it didn't look like the Spartan would escape its wrath.
An energy sword ignited in the Spartan's right hand and he brought it up, angling it so that the prongs of the Elite's sword got stuck in between his. A large shower of sparks spat out between them, lighting everything up in blue and white.
Where did the sword come from?, Danvers wondered. He thought about it for a second before his eyes widened into saucers as a revelation struck him. He dropped his shotgun and picked it up from the dead Elite while he was ducking.
It was quite clever and very easy to miss, requiring expertise in sleight of hand.
The Elite growled as he came face to face with the Spartan, pushing down on the superhuman with its strength. The green man looked back up, unmoving against the force set against him.
With his free hand, he reached down to his hip and grabbed the knife holstered on his left side. The Elite ended up being so distracted in his hate that it didn't notice the movement.
That distraction would cost it.
In but a single quick motion, the Spartan drew the knife and, with all of his strength, hammered it into the exposed gut of his opponent. The blow popped its shield and knocked the wind out of its lungs.
The Elite fell to its knees, its sword slipping out of its hand as it felt its stamina drain in an instant.
Not letting up, the Spartan drew his sword arm back before stabbing it through the Elite's chest. The alien screamed in pain, and then started to gurgle as purple blood began leaking out of its mouth.
But the Spartan wasn't done. With him knife hand, the supersoldier slammed it into the Sangheili's neck. Pressing down on it, he pushed with his left hand, driving the blade through the Elite's spinal cord and out the back.
The head slumped forward and Elite collapsed lifelessly, purple blood leaking out of several holes and onto the broken concrete floor. The sword stayed embedded in its chest cavity.
Danvers had been staring in awe the entire time, as had the other New Republic and Federal Army soldiers. None of them had been able to do anything such was their amazement at the display of sheer martial prowess before them.
He saw the green Spartan flick his wrist briefly, removing the ichor that had coated it. To his sides, the other were taking care of the stragglers. The grey-and-gold one had finished dueling with a Major, knifing him in the leg before jabbing the blade through its eye. The cyan and black ones dashed among the remaining Grunts and Jackals, popping heads and breaking necks as they finished their work.
The green Spartan picked up the shotgun he had dropped and began walking back their way, reloading both of his weapons in quick, fluid motions. The other three followed suit.
"No way," Danvers let out, making little attempt to hide his awe. They approached him, or at least the general area the Chorusans were occupying.
"Which of you is in charge?" the grey-and-gold one spoke first, motioning his head as to speak to the group in general.
For a moment no one said anything, still stunned by the action and heroism of the group before them. They had saved everyone. They saved them, their friends, their comrades. Hell, they might have just saved Chorus right about now.
Danvers swallowed. "I guess I am, sir," he answered, nervousness leaking into his voice.
The grey man looked him up and down, then nodded. "Tell your command team to reinforce this position. We'll help secure the city."
"Both of our generals are occupied at the moment, sir," one of the Feds answered, sounding just as nerve-wracked as Danvers. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought the man would piss his pants.
"Where?" the grey-and-gold soldier asked.
"About two blocks that way," he pointed to a street behind the new arrivals. The sound of gunfire reverberated against the streets and metal walls of the buildings, creating an echo effects.
He nodded and turned to his comrades. "Tex, make your way to the storehouses, give Blue team some backup. Carolina, head to the water treatment refinery. It sounds like the Blades might need a hand. Illinois, you're with me. We'll secure the generals and drive back the Covenant and Insurrectionist forces."
All three of his comrades nodded, verbally confirming his orders. It was then that he noticed the black and cyan soldiers sounded female. Now that he got a look at them, they were significantly less bulky than the grey and green men, showing a more feminine build.
He also noticed that the green one was taller than all of them, at least a full head for both women.
"Uh, sir?" he asked as the team began to disperse.
The grey man looked at him expectantly.
Danvers swallowed the phlegm that had been building up in his throat. "Are you all Spartans?" he asked. Just like the Covenant, he had thought the Spartans were a myth, another set of boogeymen meant to make them fall in line with fear. He had to be sure.
The grey soldier chuckled. "I wish," he told him. "We're Agents of Project Freelancer. Well, former Agents. I'm Agent Washington. The woman in black is Agent Texas, and the cyan lady is Agent Carolina. The only one that is a certified Spartan is Agent Illinois here, the one in green-and-blue."
The New Republic trooper nodded, looking at the taller man as he waited for his comrade. "Well, it's good to finally meet someone that's on our side for once."
"Let's hope it stays that way too," Illinois finally said, his voice a pitch or two deeper than Washington's. The men departed, leaving the New Republic and Federal Army soldiers to their own devices.
Was that a promise of help, or a threat?, Danvers wondered, seeing them disappear down the battle-torn street.
Either way, he was just glad they weren't all about to die, to lose everything they had fought so hard for.
Now there's a plot twist I bet none of you were expecting. That's right, folks, the next planet is Chorus from beloved Season 11, 12, and 13! But how will the war change in this story compared to canon? Only one way to find out!
On another note, I'm really glad more of you are getting enjoyment out of this series, especially now that Roosterteeth is gone. Here's to hoping the team has a successful life, whatever that entails! As for the final season, it's easy to see the cracks and understand that RT was on its last legs. Was it perfect? No, but it still had heart in the right places. And that's what really counts. I'm just glad they brought back Kathleen Zuelch (the voice of Tex) one last time for some much-needed closure with Church.
Thank you all for sticking with this story, however few of you there are! I know this work isn't canon, but I just love this comedy-action Machinima series far too much to let it go. I hope you at least find the worldbuilding and new interactions interesting and amusing.
Note: the action scene, and indeed the entire entry into Chorus, is very heavily inspired by the 'Warhammer 40k: Space Marine II Cinematic Trailer'. I can't wait for the game to come out in September. It's been almost 13 years since the first game came out and I'm just far too excited to see what's in store.
Once again, thank you all for stopping by! Be on the look out for part 2 of the battle, which should be out pretty close to this one!