Halo: Ultimatum

HPA is one of the many secretive projects created by the Office of Naval Intelligence. Utilizing candidates originally planned for the SPARTAN-III Project, they carry out assassinations and other covert ops under total secrecy and with no remorse. They are killers to the bone, with no limitations on how to conduct their business. However, when one of those missions intercepts an operation conducted by the UNSCDF-MC SPARTAN-141, sparks fly as the lead agent and the enigmatic SPARTAN-II clash.
==Characters==
*SPARTAN-141 - UNSCDF-MC SPARTAN-II/Senior Operations Specialist
*Agent 2994 - HPA Agent
*Captain Colton Jackson - UNSCDF-MC CO of Lima Company, 49th Division, 3rd Marine Expeditionary Force
*Frank Dubar - ONI Covert Intelligence Division
*Lieutenant Wieese Oroman - ONI SEC3 Public Relations Manager
*Director Cole Whitman - ONI Director of Operations
*Deputy Director Aaron Montana - ONI Assistant Director of Operations
*Ganaust Easy - SgtMaj. of the Marine Corps
*Stephen Griffon - Insurgent Leader
*Lieutenant Charles Goodwin - Police Officer, de facto commander of Rager City Police Department
Historian's Note: The following takes place between Feburary 2556 to Mid-April 2556. Flashbacks take place between May 2554 to August 2555.
== Prologue ==
He wrenched open the man's jaw and with a passion bourne only of near-death, screamed as loud as his lungs could expand. His own ears were deafened by the cry, coming from the bottom of his hate-drenched soul and his words expressed a meaning beyond that of human capasity.
"YOU! WILL! NOT! USE! MEEE!!! I AM NOT YOURS TO MANUPILATE LIKE A TOOL OR A WRENCH! I AM A MAN! I WILL GO ON BEING A MAN! AND NOTHING YOU, YOUR REGIME, OR THE UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!"
He forced his arms into a scissor cut about his captive's head and pushed with all his might. He was rewarded with a mighty SNAP and Jared Kelmond's days were no more. He exhaled a long, whisiling sigh before his life force drained completely. The massive SPARTAN breathed heavily, standing there, in the pouring rain, holding the man who had almost made him a slave to his maniacal intentions, another weapon in his stash. No more. 141 was done being ONI's runner, tired of doing their dirty work wheil they sipped merlot and nibbled on fresh pita bread sandwithces. Here, SPARTAN-141 was reborn. No longer the man everyone turned to but now from. He released the pressure his arms were building upon Kelmond's dead chest and his limp cadaver dropped to the muck-covered ground. 141's atmosphereic recyclers cleared out most of the arcid, tacky air, but he nontheless smelt the stained air he breathed, covered in his and Kelmond's death throwes.
All of a sudden, 141's senses returned to here and now. Here was aboard his personal craft, the Ultimatum. He had been loaned it by ONI for the Kelmond mission, while he was one of their Biological Assets, but had refused to part with is afterwards. Now was 12 Feburary 2556, six long months since that damned incident. ONI had, thankfully, written him off the MIA list after they were through with him, but 126, with whom he was still unable to talk to about the entire sorry mission, was suspicious of his sudden return. ONI had pulled him aside one day after he had been caught sifting through their files and told him simply that if he wanted to know more, he would have to wait the required 50 year declassification prosses. 126 then cut all ties to ONI as well and was assigned as a UNSCDF-MC Senior Combat Specialist, with 3 months training, 1 of which was still to go. 141 missed his old friend, but had to admit that the last year had been difficult for their friendship, especially after the Second Battle of Thermopylae Colony. 141 hoped that the two of them might get the chance to fight together again before 141 was too caught up in his new job as a Senior Operations Specialist.
A blinking light caught his attention as his common soujourns into the road already traveled faded like a mist pushed away by a heat front. He identified the light as the alert systenm for ship-to-ship transmissions. He activated his scanning equipment and found that he was being hailed by the UNSC cruiser Harry I. Lieberman, or more commonly known as the "Lieberman". Keyeing his intercom, he responed to the hail in the typical MIL-STD response;
"UNSCDF-N Harry I. Lieberman, this is UNSCDF-MC Ultimatum. State your intentions, over."
He waited several seconds for the acknolegment signal to reach the Lieberman's post 7 light-years away.
"UNSCDF-MC Ultimatum, you are hearby ordered, by direct authorisation of UNSCDF-N Admiral Condowr, to report to our port A-S-A-P", the COM officer replied, taking the STD notation as to spell out the "As-Soon-As-Possible" acronym. He continued, "Mission detail packet sent on encrypted channel Alfa-Hotel-Lima-Golf-Four-Two-Five. Encryption scheme is "House Special", over."
141 never could understand the ideas behind these silly encryption scheme names. Sure, they confused the enemy, but did they really need to be as stupid as "House Special" and "A Christmas Charol"?
But, 141 did as instructed and when he opened the mission brief, his jaw fell slack.
This job still amazes me with all the damned twists these missions take. he though sourly.
----
Agent 2994 strode down the hallway, ignoring the screams and sirens from outside the office building. He'd wanted a distraction, and so he'd rigged several of the cars in the lot to explode all at once. Of course, not all of the building's private guards had gone running to the scene, but since when had amateurs like them ever given him any trouble? Come to think of it, the only human enemies who'd ever caused him trouble were the Snakehead insurgents, who had at least fought and acted like true soldiers. He almost found it insulting that just about all of the alien mercenaries and rebels he'd fought seemed to provide some sort of combat challenge, but every human of the same profession practically shot themselves for him. Hell, the guards at the doors and in the lobby had only been armed with sidearms. Sidearms.
The current person dumb enough to challenge the UNSC's long arm was a criminal boss called James Visher. He'd attracted ONI's attention when a heist of his had gotten violent and about thirty civilians had been killed or wounded. Visher had proceeded to dig himself even deeper by resisting arrest when the police arrived at his hideout. While most of his men were killed holding off the detectives, Visher and three others had slipped away and sought refuge in this building, which was owned by one of his friends. It would have looked bad if the UNSC had publicly stormed privately-owned property, and so the HPA was contacted and the closest agent was sent in. This had happened to be Agent 2994. He wondered if his superiors would complain about the explosion. It wasn't like they'd said to do the job quietly. 2994 could have handled every guard the building had to offer and then some, but he hadn't blown something up in a while and it had made for a change of pace in just one mission of many that promised to be a bore.
I liked those times they used me for infantry, he thought. No two-bit cowards to kill, just an objective to complete and a bunch of soldiers between it and me. He was starting to associate the word soldiers with worthy opponents these days.
He'd taken the stairs up to the top floor, blowing out security cameras as he went. A few guards had burst into the stairwell to stop him, and now their bodies were slumped like waypoints along his path upwards. Visher would be on the top floor, probably behind a thick metal door and a bunch of armed men. It was a pathetic defense once you took 2994 into account. They trained me to kill the best fighters in the universe, he thought. And here these guys are, trying to take me down with hired thugs. As far as he knew, he was the best fighter in the universe, barring only Agent 2995 and the Master Chief. 2994 had always been contemptuous of the SPARTANs, but the Master Chief was something special, an exception to his usually all-inclusive rules.
He reached the top, and sure enough, the door was locked. With a snort of disgust he kicked it in with a single armored foot and strode inside. The two guards standing behind it were caught by its fall and sent tumbling to the ground, their SMGs clattering from their hands. 2994 fired two bursts from his Battle Rifle and strode on.
He finally reached a metal door, complete with a peep-hole. He punched said hole in with his MJOLNIR aided fist and ducked as the bullets poured out. Once they had stopped he turned up the volume from his helmet so that his voice permeated throughout the sealed off room.
"Alright, listen up because I'm giving you a chance," 2994 announced. It wasn't often he did this, but it was always interesting to gage the reactions it received. "All I want is Visher. the rest of you only have to die if you keep protecting him. If you want to live, open this door and come out with your hands up. If you don't, be advised that in about ten seconds I'm gonna storm this room and kill everyone inside of it." He paused. "Any takers?"
There was no response. Maybe they thought he was lying, or maybe they were afraid that the others would shoot them if they tried to leave. As he planted a small breaching charge on the door, he marveled at how people threw away the chances they were given. And then the charge exploded and he was in the room, amidst the screams and death and explosions that was his line of work.
Actene 13:10, 8 November 2008 (UTC)
== Chapter 1 ==
"The Commandant wants you to take this assignment with as least amount of salt as possible, SPARTAN. We don't want this to upset the delicate balance of government we have on Rager XII." Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps Ganaust Easy looked perpetualy tired on the Ultimatums small viewscreen. 141 had called him directly at his office a few minutes after arriving in the UNSC Lieberman's docking bay.
"Why don't you have someone else to do this?" 141 queried, "There must be a CovertOps team you can spend on this."
"Unfortunatly, ONI is currently borrowing most of our...competant...teams right now for some sting they're having. You're the closest and the best. Besides, what else would we have our Senior Operations Specialist do in a crisis like this?" The SgtMaj. smiled mischeviously.
"Sit back, relax and share a tall cold one I suppose?" 141 asked politely
The Marine laughed, but shook his head "Sorry 141, duty calls. After, i'll take you up on that."
141 smiled gently. "I'll hold you to it, Gan." He moved to colse the channel when he remembered something. "Oh, and give my best to the Deupty Director of ONI. I hear he's healing quite well."
"No thanks to you, Captain."
"Well, somethings can't be helped. See ya around, Gan."
141 deactivated the screen com and raised himself up off the floor, where he had lain to see Easy from his fallen monitor. He opened up the mission brief he had recieved from the captain of the Lieberman, which had ben given to him from Gan. It entailed his new mission, which 141 had read about 30 times, give or take a few.
United Nations Space Command
Official Mission Briefing Document
Classification: ORANGE
Operative: SPARTAN-141
Rank: Captain
Specialty: Senior Operations Specialist
Background Information: Rager XII is the UNSC's first colony settled after the end of the Human-Covenant war, but in late months, has suffered a failing economy, lack of viable public officials and no police force. 9 days ago, a coup erupted in the colony's capital, in which a rebel force, lead by Stephen Griffon [see pic insert], has overtaken the governement, leading to an uprising of many different rebel factions and gangs.
UNSCDF-MC is sending a colony ship with an entire division of Marines and ODSTs to increase UNSC response should things turn violent.
Mission Directives:
1. Protect the colony ship, UNSC Hawaii, at all costs
2. Protect the Marines aboard at all costs
3. Secure any information regarding Stephen Griffon, his affiliates and his regime
4. Set up a direct COM link between the Marine garrison and UNSCDF-MC HQ
Moderate prejudice is authorised.
If neseccary, you are allowed to eliminate Stephen Griffon yourself.
If neseccary, you are allowed to destroy any industrial components supplying Stephen Griffon's regime or any other regime.
Press Y if you understand these orders
141 hit Y and the document was saved to his personal hard drive, after clearing the self-encryption software. he turned and opened a COM channel to Captain Richardson.
----
2789 sprang at him, blasting both of his bodyguards with his assault rifle. 2994 stumbled back, and more of his troops surged between him and the attacking operative, their bullets pinging off of his shields. They failed, and suddenly he was falling, blood spurting from wounds that appeared in his chest and arms. "Forget him!" 2994 screamed. "Kill the other one!"
As the guards tracked the other agent, who had dived to cover, 2994 looked down at the wounded man at his feet. Remarkably, he was still breathing despite his wounds. With a snort of contempt, 2994 pressed his sidearm to the agent's visor and fired once. He heard the second agent's scream of rage and loss as 2789 crumpled to the floor and died.
And then he was finishing off the last of the rebellious agents, putting a BR burst through Agent 2438's head. As he fell, 2438's visor cracked open, and 2994 gasped in horror as 2789's vacant expression gazed up at him through a stream of blood. Moving numbly to the other agents, he removed their helmets, finding 2789 behind each visor. He noticed something odd in the reflection of a helmet and peered into it. His eyes widened and terror clogged his voice. He beheld not his own face, or the image of his helmet peering back at him, but the hard, cold face of Herman Richelieu.
2994 sat bolt upright in the bed, his face and chest covered in sweat. Gasping for breath, he checked the time a/; cfdevnm{
|e'd only been asleep for three hours. With a growl of frustration, he got up from the bunk and turned on te lights, blinking in the glare they created.
It wasn't the first time he'd relived the battle on the Sparta orbital station through the eyes of the terrorist leader Herman Richelieu. He'd also had nightmares about the revolt at Fort Mendez, but never had he seen his own reflection as that of Richelieu. Just ghosts from the past, he chastised himself. He'd killed Richelieu there on the Sparta, just as he'd killed so many before him. But with Richelieu, it hadn't been because ONI had told him to. It had been personal. The general had stolen the only friend he'd ever known from him, a friend he'd made only a few hours previously. 2789 had given him the idea that there might be more to what he did than rankings or statistics. He'd reminded him of the people they saved with every kill, the good that they accomplished through violence and death. But 2789 was dead now, and nothing could change that, nor could anything tear down the wall he had built between himself and the rest of the world.
The intercom in his quarters aboard the Point of No Return crackled. "Agent 2994? Are you awake?"
"Yes," sighed 2994. "I'm awake."
"Good." The voice paused before continuing. "Get yourself dressed and then report to briefing room B-12 by 0500. We have a mission for you."
Half an hour later, 2994 sat in the briefing room, staring at the image of a clean-shaven, middle aged man. "This," said the room's only other occupant, his face shrouded by darkness, "is Stephen Griffon. He's a citizen on Rager XII, but he's also the head of a group of insurgents who pretty much control the entire planet through force and fear. Our sources say he's looking to take over some other small dissentist groups in the surrounding sectors, but in order to do that he needs to get offplanet, and the planet's in a state of lockdown."
"If you know who he is, why can't the local authorities arrest him?" asked 2994 wearily. He sensed another pointless mission coming up.
"Didn't you hear me? He's got people everywhere. As soon as we sent the transmission to bring him in down, he'd know and be in hiding before the detectives could strap on their sidearms. We can't use military force either. The civilians down there are convinced that the UNSC will just bring more trouble, and if we showed any signs of subverting Rager XII's sovereignty in any way, Griffon's people will just get stronger. However, it's Griffon who keeps them together. Take out him and we can have the entire planet back under proper authority within a month."
2994 sighed. "What's my time window?"
"One week," came the curt reply. "Things have just gotten more complicated. The sector commander has decided to increase the garrison on Rager XII. He's got a shipful of marines headed to the planet, and if Griffon's men can capture it, they've gotten themselves a ticket offplanet. 2994, if this man escapes and carries out his plans, we could have another Snakehead to deal with in a few years."
Whoever this briefer was, he sure knew which buttons to push. "Any special rules of engagement?"
"No witnesses, including civilians. You may not be a SPARTAN, but you wear MJOLNIR armor, and that alone is enough to start riots throughout the planet. Murder's fairly common there, so so long as you don't go into crowded areas in your armor, you should be able to dispatch any unlucky bystanders without trouble. This directive extends to other servicemen who see you as well. There's no telling who they might blab to."
"You're damn right I'm not a SPARTAN," 2994 growled, standing up. "When do I leave?"
"Lieutenant Williams is waiting for you in the hangar. Be ready to leave in one hour."
"Understood," said 2994 as he left the darkened room.
----
141 stepped past the threshold of the automatci door into the captain's personal office, adjacent to the bridge of the Lieberman. Captain Richardson looked up from behind his small desk and greeted 141 with a quick smile that 141 recognised as one of a feint, born from training in the UNSC Diplomatic Corps, used to impress people that the gretter themselves usually didn't per se like being around.
"Please, have a seat." The captain indicated a chair across from him.
"If you don't mind, Sir, i prefer to stand. My MJOLNIR armor sometimes makes sitting...uncomfortable."
Another feint smile. "Of course." The captain set down the data tablet he had been working on and folded his hands on the desk before him, now showing his impenatrable stare into 141's reflective visor. "So, what can I do for you?"
141 manipulated his HUD and transmitted an endited version of his mission brief to the captain via his neural implant. "I'd like the Lieberman to stand by at the edge of the Rager system. I may require your ship to come in, guns blazing, if you will."
The captain thought for a long while before speaking again. "I'm going to be honest with you, SPARTAN. I don't relish the special influence your kind has on Navy men like myself, but because you have the majority of the Cheifs of Staff's backing, i'll allow it." His tone dropped to almost a whisper. "However, if any of my crew suffer injury because he had to come in "guns blazing" because you went half-assed and didn't correctly ases your situation, all for some errand of the Corps, I will hold you responsible."
141's anger, while riseing inside, was calmed by his decades of practice. "By order of the UNSCDF-MC, Captain, you and your crew, which I am permitted to comandeer in any way I see fit, are expendable, in every sense of the word, for the duration of my mission. However, i promise to only call you in if my ass is about to die." He leaned closer to the Navy man, who slightly recoiled from his hulking build. "I don't "half-ass" my stuff, Captain. I either do it perfectly, or I die. So the next time you want to piss me off, don't insult my expertice in this. Because, I swear to you, I will prove you wrong." He rose and, without another word, keyed the door and stepped back onto the bridge. He briskly paced the room and entered a turbo elevator car. Entering the code for his quarters, the car zoomed on it's way, with no disernable change in inertia. Arriving at his quarters, he opened every locker, drawer and crevase he could find and retrieved his tools of war. Packing them in presise miliatry style, he hauled them off to the cargo bay and ordered the quartermaster to load them onto the Ultimatum. In a short while, 141 would dock with the Hawaii and ensure that they arrived at the garrison on time and intact. Should this Stephen Griffon character interfere with this mission, he would be at the mercy of 141.
Unfortunatly for Griffon, 141 had had just about enough with mercy. It was time for a little payback to ONI.
He would take out Stephen Griffon. Whether they liked it or not.
----
23 years ago
He stood, waiting in the sunlight. The figure approaching raised it's hand to block the blinding light, but Jackson thought naught of it. He welcomed the harsh light upon his body, racking in the warmth it provided. Out here, in the boondocks, the cold was unbearable, especially at this time of day. The figure resolved into his father, Harlem, and he stood beside his son, gazing out to the ocean beyond, where many fishing boats puttered around, stealing and waiting for their ripe payments of flesh and meat.
"I've just talked to your mom." He looked downwards at his feet, as if they would give him the strength to speak his unwanted words. "She...hopes that you'll...reconsider this...course of action your taking." His speech was slow, maybe because of the tensious nature of his words or because of the Ridgar's Syndrome, Jackson didn't know. He didn't really care either.
"What about you, Pop? Do you want me to "reconcider my actions" as well?" Colton asked accusingly, instantly regreting his harsh tone.
His father turned to him, with a look of pure affection on his face. The scars seemed to melt away as he spoke. "Colton, nothing would make me happier to see you, my son, go on to become something more that what you are now." He took Jackson's shoulders and he faced his father. "I'd drive you over there myself, if i could." His dad, who had his legs atrophy from the results of a 23-year battle with Ridgar's Syndrome, a deadly flesh-eating virus that attacked skin, internal tissue and brain neurons all at once, smiled at their little joke.
Colton looked out across the beautiful vista one last time before he looked into his dad's eyes with a longing. "Then i guess i'd better go." As he turned to go, his dad placed a hand on his shoulder and Colton paused. His father embraced him and held him tight, as if will alone would stop his son from becoming a man, a Marine.
The tender moment passed and Colton got into his car, and drove off. He never saw his father again.
== Chapter 2 ==
Police Lieutenant Charles Goodwin hated his job. For two years now he'd kissed his wife and three-year old son every morning before leaving their apartment before heading down to to Rager City's police station, passing all of the filth and corruption that went hand in hand with the poverty that had run rampant on Rager XII for the past decade. And then he arrived at the station and descended into another kind of filth and corruption.
Even before Stephen Griffon and his followers had seized power a week ago, they'd had just about every public employee on the planet firmly in their collective pocket. Police officers had been their priority target, since controlling them meant controlling most public affairs. Ever since Griffon had set his plans in motion, bribes had been offered for cooperation and those too noble enough to accept them began having sudden, fatal, and entirely unrelated accidents. And so if one of Griffon's thugs was hauled in for anything, money exchanged hands and the man was let go, and would be back on the street in a matter of hours.
Charles liked to think of himself as a straight and honest cop, but he also knew what would happen to his family if he too had an accident, and so he took the money and let the rapists and murderers back on the streets just like all of his fellows. It is good money, he thought to himself, feeling lower than dirt. And it was only because of the bribe money that he was able to support Jenny and their kid: Griffon had arranged for the salaries of police officers to be dropped to almost nothing as an added incentive to accept the bribes.
Charles lowered his hand into his pocket and fondled the datachip within. That little chip was the only way he could look into a mirror these days without throwing up. Within its memory banks he'd recorded enough information to bring down just about every corrupt official on the planet. He'd been collecting the data for well over a year now, and it was rather easy from where he was positioned. If officials thought that they shared a boss they tended to be a little more chatty than normal. One day he'd find some way to get it to the UNSC and could atone for all of the murders and other crimes he was sure his bribe-taking had caused.
He passed a freshly looted store front as he neared the station, its windows smashed and its walls riddled with bullet holes. Charles briefly wondered if the store's owner had died during the looting before pushing the thought away. He might have been the officer to let whoever had done the deed go.
As he turned to enter the station, he offered a brief prayer for God to send someone, anyone, to save Rager XII from the chaos Griffon had brought to it. And then he was inside and back to allowing the chaos to go on.
----
Across the street from where Lieutenant Goodwin worked sat 2994. His MJOLNIR armor had been temporarily been replaced by a light brown overcoat and a pair of jeans. He hadn't had to apply any makeup to disguise his face or change his hair color. His face didn't matter. His armor did.
It was the fact that he'd needed to don the civilian outfit that was causing the scowl that had affixed itself on the agent's face. His original plan had been to storm wherever Griffon had stashed himself and kill everyone who got in the way mere hours after being set down on Rager XII. It was a plan that had served him well for every other mission he'd run in the past, so why not now?
Unfortunately, Griffon was smarter than any of 2994's previous targets. While all of the gang bosses and insurgents he'd traced had tried to avoid detection, they'd all trusted too much in their hired bodyguards and mercenaries to protect them rather than in the secrecy of their location. But Griffon, despite being the leading politician on the planet, was an enigma. His name was all over the news, but he made absolutely no public appearances. Any speeches he made were recorded and displayed on public holotanks. 2994 had tried to trace the holotapes, but they went through literally dozens of small safehouses before being released to the public. For all 2994 knew, Griffon could be in any one of these places, his speeches being recorded from any number of locations. And so 2994 had spent the last two days scouring Rager City for any clues that might lead him to the target. And he'd settled on a living, breathing clue.
Police Commissioner Nerval was receiving quite a lot of money through bank transfers. 2994 had investigated the Commissioners from other major cities and had discovered that they too were making a tidy sum, but not as much as Nerval. And so Nerval was first on the list of leads that might help him take out Griffon. 2994 eyed the police station across from the cafe he was sitting in. It was full of crooked police officers, men payed off by Griffon's flunkies to help the insurgents maintain control. And so 2994 had no regrets over what he was about to do.
No witnesses, he thought, feeling for the pistol in his jacket.
----
SPARTAN-141 stepped out of the Ultimatum's loading bay and into the sunlight of the Udepand Terminal. He had landed here, with the express insitence of ONI to back him up, and would soon have the entire Terminal cleared of civilians and workers for his use alone. He spotted someone briksily striding towards his landing pad. His hands instinctivly went to the M6D holstered on his thigh, but he checked the motion before the person spotted him.
The figure resolved into a man clothed in the summer blues of a Naval officer, but bore the insigni and patches of an ONI agent. "Lieutenant Wieese Oroman, ONI Section 3 Public Relations Manager, reporting as ordered, Sir." The Lieutenant snapped to, throwing up a sharp salute, to which 141 returned nonchalantly.
"Has the terminal been cleared yet, Lieutenant?" 141 asked while gazing at the lazy clouds above, totaly aware that some sharp-eyed civilians saw him and his shining MJOLNIR Mk. VI MOD II armor. 
"Not yet Sir, but we've got it down to about only essencial personnel now. Sir," He seemed nervous, odd for an ONI agent. Must be new to the force here on Rager 141 thought. "I know yo're here to deal with the new garrison, but do you have any insight on Griffon's actions and motives?" The Lt. asked cautiously.
141 looked into the man's eyes and saw, not fear, as he had expetced, but boiling emotions ready to breach whatever walls Oroman had put up. "How many killed?" he asked.
The agent withdrew and spoke slowly. "12, Sir." Too many for this shitty rock to have ended on short notice. This guy is skilled enought to kill 12 ONI operatives, then i'm cut out for mt work. 141 assesed in his mind.
"I feel for you, Lieutenant. But we have a job to do, let's do it before we think about revenge." 41 said, even though he planned on getting this bastard long before then.
The next 50 minutes consisted of unloading and setting up his equipment as the Terminal was finally cleared of all persons. 141 activated the custom cloacking on the Ultimatum and it liquified into transparancy. 141 then decided to get a taste of the local color, so he removed his armor, but put it into SAFE MODE so noe one but he could move or activate it. He donned a near-skintight shirt, large boot-cut jeans and a leather jacket with several concealed pockets for his pistol. Deciding to go with an M6B instead of his humongous M6D SpecOps issue, he tucked it into one of the pockets and placed several clips elsewhere. He also carried a hand scanner and lock-picking device. He thought about packing a single M9 grenade with him, but realied the futility of brining such a distracting item with him. He set it back in it's place on his newly set-up weapons rack and disengaged all power to the Terminal. Then, donning a pair of AHUDS Mk. VIII Visors, he left and hailed a public transport vehicle to take him to Rager City.
----
2994 had tied a bandana over his face and had changed clothes. There was no need for him to lose the ability to work in plainclothes this early in the mission due to a police task force being after him. In the alley beside the police station, he attached a silencer to his pistol and hefted his silenced SMG. The latter weapon he'd taken off the corpse of a man who'd tried to mug him when he'd stepped into the alley. 2994 practiced aiming it one handed and was surprised at how light it was. The criminals here could certainly afford to treat themselves.
He took one last look at a photograph of Commissioner Nerval. It would be a shame to mistakenly kill him out of hand.
----
Charles Goodwin sighed and patted his rumbling stomach. I knew I should have eaten more breakfast.
Standing up from a stack of paperwork, he nodded to his office mate, Ben. "I'm going for a bite to eat," he told him. "Want anything?"
Ben shook his head. "I've been trying to diet," he said sadly. "But could you grab me a water or something?"
Nodding, Charles left the office. He and Ben had been working together for both of the two years he'd been working in Rager City. While Ben took bribes like any other cop, he managed to take as little as possible without being too noticeable. It was obvious that Ben hated the bribes as much as Charles did, but they both needed the money to support their families.
Charles told the receptionist in the station's main entrance where he was going and stepped outside. 
----
2994 watched the young man leave the station. He wasn't Nerval, and therefore was of no concern of his. Lucky bastard.
He pulled a hood over his masked face and strode through the station doors. He instantly noticed the two security cameras and his hand tightened on the pistol in his jacket. The blonde receptionist looked up from a magazine. "Can I help you?" she asked, clearly startled by his outlandish appearance.
"I have an appointment," 2994 told her, and as she looked down to check for his name, he whipped out his pistol and shot out both security cameras. As the receptionist's head shot up, 2994 brought the gun around and fired twice into her chest.
2994 strolled down the corridor, towards the Commissioner's office would be. As he did so, a pudgy man stepped out into the hallway. Without even breaking stride, 2994 dropped him with an SMG burst. The sound of the body falling brought more people to the hall, where they met similar fates. 30 seconds after the first man had died, 2994 stepped over the corpses and kicked down the Commissioner's door.
The Commissioner cowered behind his desk, his rounded face a study in terror. "What have I done?" he gasped. "I let them all go, just like you told me to!" He obviously thought that 2994 was one of Griffon's men, here to execute him for not behaving as they wanted.
Nerval pulled a gun, but 2994 was already beside him, breaking the Commissioner's wrist and slamming his body into the wall. "The two of us need to have a little chat," he told the struggling man, and slammed his head into the wall.
----
141 was walking the streets of the local Rager City ghetto, only 3 blocks from the RCPD Building. He observed what appeared to be a group of young men talking in hused tones, but 141 noticed that their body language indicated agitation, and figured that a fight must be about to break out. He ignored their petrifed stares and continued to walk when his augmented hearing picked up the sound of footfalls coming towards him from the general direction of the boys. he quickened his pace a little, attempting to lead them off, but they continued to follow in step, roughly 3 meters behind him. He didn't dare a glance back, for they might see it as a sign of weakness. Me, weak, in front of a group of drugheads and vandals and all around gang-types. As if that scares me.
He continued walking untill one of them, in an old Earth accent known as Spanish, said, "Hey, papi, how 'bout you come over here and talk with us, eh?"
141 muttered "No papis here, pal."
The boy went on, "'Ey, man, I said, come talk with us. What, you no understand Inglies, dude, is that it?"
141 said loud and clear, even as he continued to walk, "Not interested, boy."
This obviously angered the young man, as he suddenly said "Hey, bitch! Get your skinny cracker ass over here!"
141 turned around and started to draw his concealed sidearm when he saw that almost all of the gangbangers had their own firearms, aimed sqaurely at him.
Dammit, I knew I should have brought that grenade. That would make killing thse guys so much easier.
----
As 2994 hustled down the alleyway with the unconscious commissioner slung over his back, attempting to put as much distance between himself and the police station as possible. Behind him, he could hear sirens and the sound of distant yelling as more police converged on the corpse-strewn station. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on the operative, but there was no time to enjoy it as he raced away from the scene. The sooner he got well away, the sooner he could interrogate Nerval.
He felt uncommonly guilty about what he had just done. True, the men he had just killed had been corrupt, but what choice had they really had? It wasn't often that 2994 felt anything for those he killed in the line of duty, but he'd had more of these same feelings since 2789 had died. With an annoyed grunt, 2994 attempted to shrug off the guilt as he continued to run.
As he passed the entrance to another alley, he heard someone yell, "Hey, bitch! Get your skinny cracker ass over here!"
2994 whirled to face the sound, his free hand bringing up his SMG. But the challenge did not seem to be directed towards him, and he couldn't see who had yelled it. Putting the yell down to a local gang scuffle, 2994 ran on, and wasn't surprised when he heard muffled gunfire ringing behind him. Since it still did not seem to be targeting him, he ignored it.
----
141 dived right before the triggers of the gangster's guns were pressed. His SPARTAN reflexes enabled him to dodge the majority of the bursts they fired, and he rolled to the other side of the street, his pistol now fully out of it's holster. Bringing it up to bear, he fired 5 shots. Time seemed to slow as the .45ACP caliber bullets struck their targets and knocked them down. The 4 remaining gangbangers returned fire, their shots bouncing off his body armor. 141 grunted as the shots forced him back and he found cover behind a large mailbox construction. He dropped his M6B's empty magazine and fished a new one out of his jacket.
"You scared, bitch? Huh?" The leader called out. 141 answereed with 3 blind-fire shots. He heard one of them scream as a shot connected, but that shot's report was drouned out be the retuning automatic fire he recieved.
141 stuffed his half-empty clip back in his jacket and slid a full one, his last, home. He turned and fired 4 precision shots that dropped them all-only one of them, however, was still alive. 141 came out of his cover and briskly strided towards his final target. The young man attempted to raise his weapon, but 141 shot his hand, which then became a bloody mess of flesh, tendons and blood. he picked up the SMG the boy was about to shoot him with and inspected it.
"A GP6. That's a little pricey for a gangbanger." 141 comented as he turned it over in his hands. He lashed a piece of string to it's sling mounts and slid it over his shoulder. He kneeled down and stared straight in the boy's face.
"Where'd you get the funding for it?" His gaze petrified the boy, who trembled as his blood ran out of his wounds. "I figure you've got maybe, 2 minutes to live, all that blood your drawing, so i'd talk before i make it worse." He punctuated his threat by pointing his pistol right at the boy's groin.
He wimpered and answered "The cops! The fucking cops!"
141 was puzzled. Could the corruption of this rock's government extend all the way to LEO?
141 nodded and looked satisfied. "Who you runnin' with?"
The boy wheezed "19th...street...Hard...ballers..."
141 had gotten his information. He could just leave and leave the boy to suffer. But, cold-hearted as 141 appeared sometimes, he had a slight inclination to mercy this time. He raised his pistol and fired one round into the boy's skull. Pink brain matter and ruby blood exploded out of the back of his head onto the pavement. 141 stood up and glanced around. He collected magazines fro the SMG he had captured and walked off, leaving the carnage behind.
Still got 19 hours before the Hawaii arrives. Time to see how deep this rabbit hole runs.
== Chapter 3 ==
Standing in front of the police station, Charles Goodwin idled in stunned silence as his fellow officers brought out the bodies for identification. If I hadn't gone for food...
Charles leaned over and peered into the shocked, gaping face that had once belonged to Ben. At least four bullets had torn into his friend's chest, leaving it a shredded mess. Feeling sick, Charles looked away, only to see more bodies being carried out. Whoever had carried out the raid had been brutally thorough. Everyone with an office on the hallway leading to Commissioner Nerval's office had been killed, as had the receptionist and a few officers who had just been it the hallway at the time. The body count included all lieutenants besides Charles and Nerval was missing, so Charles was now in charge by default. Lucky me, he thought numbly.
With a shaking hand, Charles pulled out his message pad and texted a note to Laura. It was clear that he'd be working well into the night, if not the morning as well. If anything, the text was to assure his wife that he was alright. By this time, word would have spread throughout the city that someone had stormed the police station and butchered almost everyone there.
What Charles just couldn't figure out was who could have done it. The only people on the planet with the kind of weapons the attacker had used were either Griffon's men or the various gangsters that roamed the city (and it was getting harder and harder to discern between the two all the time). Gangsters wouldn't want to risk a police crackdown, and Griffon had no reason to want any police dead. Maybe a local had gotten his hands on some good weaponry and decided to be a hero, although Charles wasn't ruling out the possibility of multiple gunmen.
A constable rushed up to him, shaking Charles out of his reverie.
"Sir," the man reported. "We've got out all the bodies. All the cameras in the hallway have been blown out by gunfire, so there's no chance of us getting a recording of the attack."
Charles nodded. "Get all the officers you can down here ASAP," he told the man. "I want every street and alley within 5 blocks of the station blocked off by some kind of patrol. Break out the heavy ordinance from the armory before you set up the checkpoints, and if anyone asks you about this take them into custody so I can question them." The "heavy ordinance" Charles was referring to were some military-grade shotguns, SMGs, and a few assault rifles. They would have to do.
As the constable headed off to follow his orders, Charles braced himself for what promised to be a very long night.
----
The room was dank, the walls coated in condensation. The man hog-tied to the chair in the middle of the room was breathing heavily, his face bruised and crushed. A door on the right side of the room swished open, and a shadowed figure entered. The bound man started whimpering, muttering unintelligable words. Fear grabbed his heart and refused to let go as the figure drew nearer. It seemed to melt to a kneeling position next to him and a single lamp above the man flickered to life.
The figure resolved into a face of smooth, handsome complextion. His eyes alight with an unknown force, their silver depths churning. His voice was a level, monotonus with an aura of exitement barely contained beneath it.
"My name is Frank Dubar. I'm the man that's going to tear you apart. You, Quinten Griffon, are going to tell me everything you know about your brother."
----
2994 hurled Nerval to the ground. The police commissioner was wide awake now, and he scrambled to a corner of the soundproofed room, trying to get as far away from 2994 as possible. 
"Who are you?" Nerval gasped in a terrified whisper.
"I'll give you a hint," said 2994, moving towards his captive. "I'm with the UNSC."
And with that he grabbed Nerval by the throat, lifted him up, and smashed him bodily into the wall. Before the man could even begin to cry out, 2994 had flung him back onto the ground, where he writhed in pain.
"This is going to go on," hissed 2994, "until you tell me where I can find Stephen Griffon."
Nerval made no response, and instead scrabbled to get away from his tormentor. With a sigh, 2994 stepped forward and seized him again. 
----
Quinten bellowed as the electricity flowed freely through his body, igniting every nerve ending, and sending shockwaves of adrenaline through his body at breakneck speeds. His eyes were blotched, tears rushing out and spittle given flight by the force of his screams.
The machine was shut off and Dubar walked back towards Quinten, facing him. The bright lamp above served to put his face into absolute shadow as his voice spoke again, rumbling through the hollow room.
"Once more, Quinten, and you may suffer severe brain damage. I don't want to, but my superiors are impatient people, and if they don't like me exersising mercy, they'll send in someone with out it." He kneeled again, getting close to Quinetn's tingling face. "Do you want that, Quinten?"
The scarred man grimaced as Dubar breathed on his roasted flesh and slowly shook his head.
Dubar rose, and asked once again. "How did Stephen Griffon seize control of Rager XII's goverment and what is he planning on doing?"
Quinten squealed as Dubar neared the electrolisis machine and rasped, "OKAY! Okay..." ragged breaths folloed, then, "He...he wants...to...show the-the...UNSC, that their....their-they-" He faltered, trying to figure out a way to not incriminate his dear brother in his answer.
Dubar shook his head and reactivated the machine. Quinten Griffon screamed again untill the machine went off, 5 eternity-filled seconds later.
Dubar again waked in front of him, resuming his shadowy posture. "He wanted to show that they...?"
Quinten took the promt and resumed. "That they couldn't...control...everything, even...even..after they-they...they won against....the Covies. He...he just wants pow-power. He's always been...the-the...alpha...guy-thing. He wants...power..."
Dubar nodded and moved onto what was going to be the tougher part of the interrigation; getting to know Griffion from his own brother. And figuring how to get that information to HPA Agent 2994.
----
Nerval's face was covered with his own blood as he once again collapsed against a wall. 2994 sighed again and rubbed his aching knuckles. Brute strength had never been his forte; he was more in favor of speed and precision. But he had found that weak men like Nerval responded the quickest to extreme physical pain, and so he had given Nerval a rather large dose of it.
But Nerval was holding out far better than 2994 had predicted. Something was keeping him from talking, something that scared him more than the pain 2994 could inflict. It was time to see which ended up being more unbearable.
"This is the last time we stop," he warned his victim. "After this, I keep hitting until you give me some answers."
Apart from his strangled sobbing, Nerval did not respond.
2994 lashed out with his foot, catching Nerval in the ribs. He heard them crack mere milliseconds before he heard Nerval's howl of agony. Not stopping for a moment, 2994 reached down and grasped the man's left hand and broke two of his fingers. Throwing the twitching hand to the floor, 2994 brought his foot down on it hard, breaking the rest of its bones. As Nerval's screams reverberated around the walls, 2994 backhanded him across the face and flung him to the other side of the room. He was about to resume the torture when he heard Nerval's strangled plea: "Please, please! I'll tell you everything, just stop, oh please God,stop..."
2994 walked over to Nerval's prone form and leaned over it. "I'm listening," he told Nerval.
----
Stephen Griffon, as Quinten described him, was an overbearing, overachiving young man with a superiority complex to boot. Throughout his elementary school years, he had been reprimanded several times for attacking younger, sometimes even older, students when they crossed him. Sometimes the arguments of his parents and witnesses to the fights went in his favor, sometimes they didn't.
Regardless, Stephen was a proud boy when he entered his teenage years.
Then, the sheltered world his parent's had brought him up in shattered competely.
His first day in middle school, Stephen was beaten badly by a group of teens, no older than he, but who had taken an instant disliking to Griffon's attitude and had decided to teach him a lesson. They had brutaly beaten him, and it took a bum walking by where he had been left to rot by the fighters to alert authorities to his condition.
From then, Griffion was a quiet, unobtrusive boy. He seemed to be able to vanish into this air at will and always seemes to show up unexpectedly and unannounced. He was a ghost, but not in his academic studies. Day and night, he worked as hard as possible, getting perfect scores on everything. He learned Judo, Tai Quon Do, Karate and street fighting on the side, whenever he wasn't studying. Building himself up to be the perfect student and the perfect fighter, on the last day of Middle school for him, he enacted his revenge on those who had taught him a painful lesson in reality. That day, Griffion taught them that payback really was a bitch.
High school and the evolution of his social status and complex came around and even as a freshman, no one would, or could touch him. His superiority complex grew larger each time he exelled, and he wanted more and more of the ecstasy that came from winning, succeding, achieveing.
as Senior year drew around, so did the Covenant. Times got tough, and Griffon suddenly hit the proverbial glass ceiling as jobs were cut, the economy fell apart, and world after world fell to the relentlesness of the Hegemonic Covenant. Griffon found their continuing success in the campagn against humanity both sickening and intruiging. He wanted to once again feel successful, to know victory over all.
In this, his want of power became great. And Stephen Griffon changed.
He robbed serupticiously, utilising his dissapering acts found in Middle school as an easy way out. He fought for money, and sometimes for kicks. He started a corperation which was eventually bought. Griffon drove the company into the ground, they got his superior's job as a result. Victory after victory, griffon wanted more.
Then, the Battle of Installation 00. The last major battle of the Human-Covenant War. May 2553 rolled around and the war finally ended. The ceiling removed, Griffon began planning his greatest victory; A coup d’état.
He had no idea which governemtn to overthrow, though. He had gotten supplies, men, and a couple Army soldier along. Hell, even a ship, the SS Periguine.
Rager XII was settled in November 2553, and Griffon saw his chance.
He led the revolt only 3 weeks after getting his materials there, and the still-assembling democratic body was unable to stop him.
Unfortunatly, Dubar was only able to get that much out of Quinten Griffon, as that was the extent of his knowledge. ONI had sacrificed 12 agents to capture Quinten, and they had no gotten what they wanted.
Dubar stepped outside the room to speak with a fello Covert Ops operative, then came back in. Something had changed about Dubar's demeanor. It was satisifed. He was happy, for some reason. Quinten had no time to ponder it, though. Dubar took 5 steps back into the room, raised the handgun given to him by his fellow agent and fired. Quinetn's brain matter made it as far as the electrolosis machine used to torture him before gravity took it for itself. Dubar promptly dropped the handgun as if it were diseased and walked out of the room.
He locked the door behind him, and no one ever entered that room again.
----
In a hidden, soundproofed room somewhere in Rager City, Police Commissioner Nerval attempted to choke out the answers his pitiless captor wanted.
"The-the-the place where Griffon gives his speeches," he gasped through a mouth of broken teeth and bloodied gums, "its a small warehouse in the financial district. He goes there every Thursday night to give a speech.
"Please," Nerval cried, "it's all I know about him! I swear! Please! N-no more, no more!"
2994 checked his watch. "And when does he give these speeches?" he asked calmly.
"10 o'clock, every time! Please..."
But the agent wasn't listening to Nerval's pleas. Checking the mission clock on his watch, he saw that it was almost nine. "Give me the address," he demanded.
Nerval gave it to him, and 2994 stepped over to the large duffel that contained his weapons and MJOLNIR armor. Withdrawing his sidearm from the bag, he took aim at Nerval, who was too battered to even notice. His finger began to squeeze the trigger, but stopped mid-squeeze. For the briefest of moments, something stirred in 2994's eyes and made him go against years of training to kill and kill and kill.
With a growl of irritation, 2994 shook his head and pulled the trigger. He then retrieved his duffel and left the room. He now had nineteen hours to kill Griffon before the Hawaii arrived. No one would find the site of the interrogation in a week, much less a day. 2994 didn't look back as he left the building and stepped into an alley, where he began to strap on his armor. It would feel good to wear it again after having to fight without it for the beginning of the op.
== Chapter 4 ==
18.3 hours untill UNSC Hawaii arrives
SPARTAN-141 fell into the chair below him with a thundering crash. He grunted harshly and fumbeld for the release straps of the body armor plates he was wearing. His rough fingers disengaged the clips and the titanium-A plates fell to the ground. His jacket and shirt were tossed off onto a metal detector station and he was bare-chested. His pecks alone were covered in scars, holes and burn marks. Several welts had formed where the 9x19mm rounds the gangbanger's GP-6's had nearly penetrated his armor plates.
Gotta be more careful around those kinds of tech, he thought. Those Russkie arms manufacturers make their stuff hurt. He rubbed his face and walked over to his MJOLNIR Mk. VI MOD II and took it off SAFE MODE. Reassembling it's plates on his own, he placed the captured GP-6 on a desk and sat down behind it, intening to figure out what make this SMG so powerful.
After several minutes of exploring it's guts, he eventually cleaned it, lubed it up, and fired off some rounds to get an idea of it's damage. It's 9x19mm HP rounds put clean holes through a 6mm-thick plate of titanium-A. 141 was impressed; had he gone with the high-mobility armor he'd gotten form Oroman, he would have been killed.
141 decided against using the gun, but stored it in his supplies, just in case. Now, however, with a little over 18 hours till the UNSC Hawaii and it's Marine complement arrived, 141 had a mission to pursue. How had those gangsters gotten such powerful and expensive weapons, and what was the Rager City's Police Department's involvement in this?
141 intended to get to the bottom of those questions when a new update flashed across a news feed he was observing. It detailed a massacure at the RCPD building, and showed several police officers dead. 141 was intruiged by this. The 19th street Hardballers couldn't have pulled something like that off, most of those officers had been killed, as the reporter said, by precision shots. And ig griffon was responsible, why would he want to kill a bunch of police officers that were already at his mercy? For the hell of it?
141 doubted that very much. He happened to catch a glimpse of a Lieutenant who the reporter said was now the de facto leader of the RCPD.
Maybe he's the one who I should talk to.
141 turned off the feed, slung his BR55HB-AR and strapped an XMR-8/C to his thigh, and took more than enough magazines for the two of them. Lieutenant Goodwin was about to play a game of 20 questions, with a SPARTAN backed by the UNSCDF-MC.
----
2994 had five hours to kill before Griffon made his speech. He'd rented a small, filthy hotel room while his armor was hidden in his duffel, and now he returned there to catch some sleep. Setting his alarm to wake him in four hours, he crawled into the bed, which felt like it hadn't been cleaned for years, and closed his eyes. After spending a few minutes tossing and turning, the fatigue of the past day kicked in and he passed into a deep sleep.
He was standing at a doorway on a small commercial vessel, the bodies of a dozen dead mercenaries behind him. Behind the door was yet another colonial official who had thought he could get away with selling a few arms here and there to rebels. With practiced ease he hotwired the door and it slid open, revealing the terrified man within.
As 2994 stepped through the door and uttered a now-forgotten witticism, he realized with horror that the face of the man was identical to that of 2789's. He screamed at his body to stop, to lower the rifle, to spare the only friend he'd ever truly had, but in the real memory he had not stopped or put down the weapon, had not shown the man any mercy at all as he turned a deaf ear to his victim's pleas to be spared. And so his rifle discharged once, sending three bullets through 2789's skull, and he watched in silent grief and horror as his friend fell, leaving a red and gray smear on the wall behind him.
And now he was no longer in his own body, but that of an ONI trainer as he raced through a darkened hallway to reach another locked door. Behind it someone was screaming, and he had to be sure that one of the new trainees wasn't dying. He reached the door and quickly punched in the code to unlock it. Hearing the lock click he flung the door open and gazed upon a small, military issue bunk. On the bunk was a boy, only six or so, sitting up and screaming with a voice worn hoarse by days of crying and screaming. Tears streamed down the child's face as his damp eyes frantically searched the lightless room for something. Noticing 2994 at last, he fixed his eyes, now filled with a sort of animal plea, upon him.
"Who am I?" the boy screamed with a voice devoid of hope. "WHO AM I?"
2994 stood helpless in the doorway, watching his earliest memory from the outside, watching himself as he had been when he had realized that the brutal training had stripped him of everything. His memories of family or friends or happiness had all vanished into a dark and merciless void. He had clung to one last thing until the end, when the trainers had finally succeeded and he had been left with nothing. 2994 knew he was watching the point at which he had become nothing more than a number assigned by those who would make him their tool, their weapon. He was watching the point at which he had forgotten his own name.
With a cry of terror, 2994 awoke again to find himself drenched in sweat. He tried to close his eyes, to forget, but the images of 2789 collapsing with a hole in his forehead and the boy sobbing in the dark refused to leave him. 2994 placed his head in his hands and remained in that position until his alarm sounded.
----
Goodwin had refused to move into Commissioner Nerval's office and was instead operating from his old one. Although he was certain that Nerval was dead (no one who went missing on Rager XII was found amongst the living ever again) he didn't want to appear presumptive or opportunistic by assuming that he would actually be promoted. And at the moment, promotion was the last thing on his mind.
The attacker had failed to shoot a single camera that had been hidden in the main hall. Goodwin had always argued against the necessity of the camera, feeling that it was inviting bad luck, but it now seemed that he had been both right and wrong. While there had been an attack on the police station, the camera was giving him a good look at the attacker. It made Goodwin sick to watch the massacre over and over again, but the attacker's face was hidden by a hood and mask. The only clues to his identity were his profile. The attacker had little in the way of muscles, but his arms and legs were sinewy and the speed at which he moved was simply frightening.
Goodwin sighed and leaned back in his chair. This is what this planet has been reduced to, he thought coldly. Every damn cop is in a power hungry bastard's pocket and some psycho with a gun thinks he can get away with shooting up a goddamned police station! If only he could find someone, anyone, who could use his collection of evidence. The disks had lists of Griffon's top politicians and enforcers, the amounts paid to keep police officers in line, a list of all the police officer's who'd had "accidents" and how they had died, and most importantly a list of Griffon's safehouses. But there was no one on this planet who could get over their fear and help Goodwin save Rager XII from drowning in its own greed and corruption.
The intercom buzzed. "Sir," said Constable Vincent's voice, "you're about to have a... visitor."
The man sounded absolutely terrified and Goodwin's blood froze. Perhaps Griffon had learned of his evidence stash, or maybe the attacker had returned to kidnap the acting Commissioner as well. Steadying his breathing, Goodwin stood and pulled his sidearm from its holster. Whoever had come for him wouldn't take him without a fight.
There was a knock on the door, one full of power and authority. Goodwin walked silently to the side of the door, steadied his aim, and pulled the door open.
The lieutenant was not a coward and full well intended to go down fighting. But the sight of an armed man in MJOLNIR armor tends to take the fight out of most people. 
----
SPARTAN-141 saw the door open and the weary Lieutenant Goodwin come into view, lowering a handgun he obviously had a white-knuckle grip on. The Lieutenant swallowed deeply and 141 took a small amount of joy at being back in his MJOLNIR armor. He walked calmly into Goodwin's office, not even bothering to say anything. Goodwin hesitated, then closed the door.
"You'll want to lock it." 141 said.
Goodwin, even though he was the de facto commander of the RCPD and had a fully loaded and cocked pistol in his hand, submitted to the SPARTAN's orders and shut the magnetic lock.
141 grunted and indicated the switch on his desk that activated his sound-dampening device. Goodwin moved to trigger it. "Sit down." 141's voice resonated in the now silent room.
Goodwin sat.
141 paced a little and just as Goodwin opened his mouth, he spoke first. "19th Street Hardballers. Who are they?"
"A local gang. They don't really do anything but make outrageous claims." Goodwin answered.
141 pulled out the GP-6 he had taken from one of the gang's members. He threw it on the desk before Goodwin and leaned into his face. "What is this?" He indicated the SMG.
Goodwin looked at it. "A...a GP-6."
141 nodded. "Good piece for a 'local gang'," 141 said. "A little too good. Usually priced around 6545 cR. That's a little much for a gang-banger's pay."
Goodwin realised where the SPARTAN was getting at. "You think we got this to them? Shit, with Griffon's backers draining the money out of this place, we can't even afford standard fucking plumbing!" He surprised himself with his anger. And only after that thought did he realise he had just spilled the beans on how Griffon was suppling the cops and the robbers.
141 prossesed this and withdrew from spitting distance of Goodwin. "Is Griffon backing the Hardballers?"
Goodwin had figured that his slip-up might cost him his life if this was some trick of Griffons, but this SPARTAN seemed to be asking the right questions. Maybe he could afford to give the man some leeway.
"Shit, man, he funds us, the Hardballers, the 26ers, and pretty much every regulatory option on this colony." He was about to cross a line, he knew he could never retreat back over if things got dicey. Hell with it.
----
Griffon, as Goodwin explained, had easily knocked over the small government Rager XII had in it's early days. However, he hadn't really thought out the logistics of running a colony's government. So, he reinstated the government and let them be. However, he and his helpers had withdrawn into a black mist, not to be seen again for nearly 3 years.
However, once he did show, he not only knocked the presiding government out, he killed all of them. Citizens were in fear; what would this madman do next?
Simple. Release all the gang members that had been locked up and reinstate their power over their "turf". Once that was done, he made several deals with them to terrorize and disrupt the public.
With the police now scrambling to contain the new gangs, Griffon sent his cronies out to threaten several officer's families ikn order to strike deals with them. Many people on the force had checkered histories before rager XII's settlement. Some of them had fought on border worlds in the Great War, some on more direct lines, such as Earth, and some had just wanted to get away from the horrors of it all.
Regardless, his cronies gave them a choice: Fight the gangs, but not lock them up, or have their entire family killed. So, the police went on fighting a gang war, but never making any publicable progress. The police funded the gangs, Griffon funded the cops, and above all, and most important to Griffon, the public funded him. He was raping the colony for its worth and his paycheck grew larger every time a skirmish broke out.
However, Griffon had overlooked one important detail: some of Rager's police had kept tabs on him since his first appearance. As such, one of these officers was Goodwin. He had a log of all the money lost and found in the Rager market, all the transactions between himself and his fellow police, the number of gangs and people Griffon had with him, or under his employ, and, best of all, records of Griffon's accounts, fees and his entire monotary history. If he handed it over to a lawyer, Griffon would be so far under criminal charges, he would be crushed into a diamond, and way before he even knew who had done it.
The biggest problem with Goodwin's plan, however, was that he had no one to trust on Rager XII. Everyone was in Griffon's pocket, and the minute he heard of a charge on him, he was gone. His history erased, all his accounts and employees under new names, files and identities. The RCPD, even if it wasn't unbeknowest owned by Griffon, could never mount up fast enought to catch Griffon.
"...But, if the UNSC came, then we could catch him with his junk out." Goodwin finished.
SPARTAN-141, sitting across from Goodwin, contemplated this. His mission was to make sure the UNSC Hawaii made it to Rager XII on time and without harm. he could, however, kill Griffon if the possibility arrived. It had been impossible to track the man before, but, with Goodwin's evidence, he could catch Griffon and claim it before ONI had the chance. It might destabilize Rager XII's entire government, but the chance to eliminate a man that was plauging the UNSC's outward look on expansion after the deadly war it had just survived. 141, even with his lack of love for ONI, would not let the race he had nearly died for get buried under a dictatorship because someone with a superiority complex decided to play President.
141 nodded. "I'll get it to the UNSC after the Hawaii arrives and reinforces the garrison. With those Marines, and a fleet of UNSC above him, Griffon will have nowhere to go."
Goodwin looked as if a massive weight had been lifted from him. He sighed heavily and reached out to shake 141's hand. After a cold stare from the visored man, Goodwin retracted his hand, sobered up and opened a locked drawer in his desk. Retriving a data chip, he handed it to 141. "This is all of it. It's encoded." Goodwin retrieved another chip and gave it too to 141. "The enroyption scheme. Without this, it's impossible to decipher the encryption. Keep them safe and keep them apart."
141 nodded and stood. "You, my friend, may have just signed Griffon's arrest warrant for the UNSC JAG." He comented.
Let's hope so, Goodwin thought to himself as 141 left his office without another word. Cause no one else would have.
----
141 walked down the street, the data chips secured in his armor. He had to get back to the Airport terminal and look at what the one courageous officer of the RCPD may have just done.
== Chapter 5 ==
After yet another miserable night, 2994 stirred at the sound of his alarm. He now had an hour to reach Griffon's safehouse.
Carefully strapping on his armor, he disassembled and reassembled both his BR and sidearm and ran a quick inventory on grenades, knives, field stims, and any other equipment of note. Finally, he made sure that his armor's adjustable settings were configured to his tastes from inside the helmet.
He administered a single dose of stimulant to compensate for his lack of sleep and then wolfed down a ration bar. There was no need to go after his target tired and on an empty stomach any more than there was to go with faulty equipment.
2994 left the apartment by leaping from a window, falling twenty feet and landing in an alley below. He barely felt the impact as his armor's kinetic dampers softened it and his augmented body ignored it. If the expression on his face could have been viewed without a helmet in the way, one would have seen a look of grim determination.
It was time to finish this mission.
----
The machine warehouse where Griffon would be making his broadcast from cut across a path to the Rager City Airport. As 2994 crept through the shadows, following the waypoint indicator on his HUD, he kept his Battle Rifle at the ready. "No Witnesses" meant "no witnesses" after all.
He paused briefly to let a young couple pass before hurrying on. Why the hell had ONI felt the need to give him a no witnesses directive anyway? It wasn't as if the UNSC was keeping its nose out of Rager XII's business, what with the company of marines inbound on the Hawaii. Maybe they'd sensed his need for a challenge and decided to make the mission that much more complicated.
But this isn't the challenge I want, he thought grimly. Blowing away cops who get in the way isn't what I want or what I like. What I want is some opponents who actually can give me a good fight. 2994 sighed. Sometimes he missed the Covenant. Taking down a high ranking Chieftain and his bodyguards or having to fight through dozens of Brutes to take out a Prophet, now that was a fight he relished. It was the few times that he'd gone toe-to-toe with a Chieftain that had made him feel truly alive, not random firefights with some hired mooks who could barely load and fire a gun.
As he mulled this over, 2994 continued his advance. It was almost midnight now and the streets were empty. Anyone who chanced to glimpse the swift-moving agent out a window would think he was a stray dog or a thug out on Griffon's business as his black MJOLNIR armor blended in with the shadows.
2994 was about halfway to his destination when he saw the movement. He froze and brought the Battle Rifle to bear, switching its setting from single shot to burst. As he focused on the movement with his HUD, he saw a glint of metal and then enough metal to cover an entire body-
2994 froze. It was a man in MJOLNIR armor.
There were only two kinds of people that 2994 knew of that wore any MJOLNIR variant. The first kind was, of course, the HPA agents. And since he would know if any agents besides himself were on planet, that meant the figure in his sights now could only belong to the other kind: the SPARTANs.
2994's blood boiled. He'd held the SPARTANs in contempt for most of his life and now, to find one muscling in on his mission...
The reasons behind 2994's prejudice were simple: the SPARTAN trainees had gone through the first circle of hell during training while the HPA agents had gone through the seventh. He was certain that any HPA agent could take on any SPARTAN (besides his idol, the Master Chief) and win, but because of the veil of secrecy surrounding the HPA program, they would never be recognized for their skills. Instead, the glory and fame went to the SPARTANs who had, in 2994's opinion, had it easy.
Despite 2994's personal feelings, he knew that a SPARTAN would throw a very large wrench into the works.He glanced away from the SPARTAN's retreating back and at the waypoint indicator before turning back. For all he knew the SPARTAN could be taking a less direct route to Griffon's location. And if a SPARTAN beat him on a mission, if a SPARTAN spoiled his perfect mission record...
I'll never hear the end of it, he thought as a very unprofessional chill ran down his spine. And once Artemis finds out I can say good-bye to any self respect I've ever had.
The SPARTAN needed to be dealt with, and fast. Griffon could wait. 2994 wondered if killing a SPARTAN would get him into trouble with his superiors.
Not if I'm discreet, he thought with a mental shrug. Besides, the directive is no witnesses. A predatory grin spread across his face. No matter how inferior the SPARTAN was to him, taking him out would certainly require more of an effort than anything he'd dealt with in the past months.
Still maintaining his stealthy gait, 2994 hurried after the SPARTAN.
----
141 sat, alone, in the Rager City Airport Terminal, pouring over the data that Goodwin had obtained in his 5-year long investigation into Stephen Griffon. It was truly amazing, the amount this man had on Griffon. If JAG got ahold of this, the UNSC would be on top of him before he knew it.
But, of course, there had been those riots during the '40s that called for the UNSC to return popular sovereignty to the colonies not glassed yet. They had claimed that the UNSC, while acting under the banner of "for the good of the masses, we must control 
you all", was dealing away the colonies rights to their own people, to be disregarded as they saw fit.
How wrong they had been.
Still, echoes of those protests had resurfaced lately after Rager XII's incident and the UNSC would make a hard case to the citizens that persuaded them to not allow Griffon's regime to continue. Goodwin was now an integral part of that case. As he would be at Griffon's trial.
141 began to realize that his attitude of assuming that he could simply kill Griffon and best ONI was arrogant, childish and plain stupid. It wasn't about the personal glory; ti was about the continuation of the UNSC, and Humanity, that mattered, whether the UNSC's components had differing ways of how or not.
Rager XII may be the birthplace of a new version of Humanity. A Humanity not havng to constantly look over their shoulder for the last 28 years, a humanity ready to go out, explore, expand, and learn and experience the wonders of the Universe, as a whole, united.
While war-time necessities like himself, a relic of a rapidly-aging era of death, pain and unburdened measures, would be thrown by the wayside, no longer needed to save a Humanity that had finally learned to stand on it's own.
141 realized that he had, during his contemplation, allowed Goodwin's data to flow freely in front of him. He quickly snapped back and rewinded.
Something changed. It was minuscule, so much that 141 almost missed it, but there it was. a faint change in atmospheric pressure around him. A slight magnetic pull, coming from his seven o'clock. A twinge of premonition, almost as if someone was about to...
141 whipped around, grabbing the chair beneath him and snapping it about his person. A flury of bullets bounced off his shields and a black mass hit the floor, it's sheilds also struck. It recovered almost instantly, sideswiping 141 with it's armored boot. 141 felt gravity pull him towards the deck, but his armor accelerated and compensated. He took the trip in stride and used it to somersault himself in midair, coming to his feet. His M6D was in his hand, instantly, and he brought the tritium-insert sights upon the foe. It clasped his wrist and turned, wrapping him in a half-nelson. 141's boot was brought up, and smashed down on the foe's foot. It grunted and swung him into a wall, face first. His pistol fell to the floor, but 141 was already ready, mule-kicking to his rear. His foot connected and his foe was sent flying through the air, into another wall. 141 unslung his BR55HB-AR and brought it's stock to his shoulder, the scope centered on his adversaries head.
His opponent mirrored him, encased in black MJOLNIR Assault Armor, exact stance and gun, as well.
So much for that united part of the future.
----
The SPARTAN was good, 2994 had to give him that.
He had approached low and slow so as to avoid being detected on the motion sensor, and he was sure that he hadn't made a sound as he approached his distracted target. But something had alerted the SPARTAN, had given away his ambush...
No matter. This battle was a close quarters one, which meant that he'd be able to make use of the various knives he carried about his person. Drawing his sidearm with his left hand he squeezed his right in such a manner that he triggered the spring-loaded blade that he'd personally added to both of his gauntlets. While enhanced speed and strength were fine, he'd always felt that it paid to always have some method of killing other than one's bare hands.
The SPARTAN fired a burst that pinged his shield meter down a notch. 2994 sprang, closing the distance, and brought the knife down towards the SPARTAN's throat. As it impacted and slid along the enemy's shields, he whipped his M6D around and fired a single round point blank into the SPARTAN's head. Miraculously his shields were still able to deflect the bullet, allowing 2994's opponent to strike at the sidearm and tear it from his grasp. As the pistol spun away the two combatants grappled with each other, their strength evened by the same augmentations and armor.
Yes, this SPARTAN was good, and 2994 didn't know whether or not to be relieved or annoyed. At least this one would give him a challenge.
2994 disengaged and punched the SPARTAN in the gut, finally taking down his shields. As the man reeled from the blow, 2994 brought his right arm down underneath the armpit in an attempt to slash the SPARTAN's artery, but the knife arm was turned aside by a last-second parry. A sudden kick sent 2994 tumbling away to land on the floor.
As he rolled and came up in a crouch, 2994 noticed his BR lying not two feet away. He grabbed it and brought it up to point at the SPARTAN. No doubt about it now, this guy's skills were a match for his own.
2994 opened fire.
----
141 kicked the black armor-clad man away, and reached for his sidearm, stil lying on the floor where it had been knocked away when the foe first appeared to 141. Just as he had grabbed it and brought it up to the man's head, he felt the knifing pain in his middle, just below his abdomen armor plates.
You have so got to be kidding me. I did not just let this guy shoot me.
141 ignored the pain and fired his own weapon, striking the armor-clad man in his shoulder. 2 shots connected with the black under suit, downing his shields, but the third struck his pauldron as the man dodged behind a metal-detector station.
141 took the second-long reprive to reload his sidearm and run towards the station at full speed. Just as he was about to connect with the man, he sidestepped and fired.
The man, having been expecting 141 to come from the front, was struck in the shoulder again. He brought his wrist-knife out to 141's stomach, but 141 grabbed it at the last second and pulled--hard. The man's injured shoulder popped and 141 thought he heard an angry growl emit from the man. He used his momentum to pull his foe towards him and smash his other hand into his face. His hands momentum forced the man to the floor, where 141 brought his fist down to knock in the foe's face. The man grabbed his fist and struggled to keep it from connecting with his face. 141 pushed with all his might, but his foe was just as strong and determined as he. 141's armor servos whined in protest to the continued stalemate, but 141 ignored it and kept pushing.
A sudden spike of pain in his stomach forced 141 to falter for a milisecond, but his adversary took the opportunity the instant it happened and kicked 141, knocking him off of him. 141 rolled and landed in a heap 5 feet away. The man dived towards his sidearm, but 141 already had his. Bringing it up, he shot the man. The foe was just as fast, though, and had fired at the exact same time. 
It is sometimes the tricks of the universe that lead us to believe that it is chance or pre-determined that things happen. Sometimes, things happen in such a random and unexpected way, that neither party can understand it.
So, when both SPARTAN-141 and Agent 2994's bullets connected and canceled eath other out, both Pre-Destination and Chance looked at each other and shrugged.
As it was, as well, 141 and 2994 mentally cringed as they fired as one. However, when no instant blackout, no searing pain of a mortal blow came, they looked at each other's polarized visors and mentally shrugged. They stayed as they were, 141 standing, bleeding profusely from 3 bullet wounds to the stomach, 2994, laying on the ground, his shoulder disconnected and bleeding as well.
----
2994 hadn't been in real physical pain like this since he had been injured when putting down the HPA revolt, and he couldn't remember having come this close to death since the Snakehead incident. Although his entire being was now coursing with adrenaline and determination, an involuntary and animal sense of fear began to claw at his belly.
Why the hell wasn't the SPARTAN dead? And why the hell wasn't he? There was no way two bullets fired at close range could have missed, so what could have caused their joint survival?
The SPARTAN was in no condition to stop him from getting up, but once 2994 had done that he realized that to continue the fight now was risky. The SPARTAN had denied him the chance to dictate the course of the fight and now they were on semi-equal terms. All his thoughts and beliefs of superiority over SPARTANs was gone from him now, or at least an exception to these beliefs had to be made for this man.
If 2994 continued fighting there was a good chance that he might win, but there was an equal chance that the SPARTAN might beat him. His left arm-his shooting arm-was useless to him until he could re-locate it and patch up the bleeding. This was an opponent he could only beat if he had as many advantages as possible, and at the moment he might be in an even worse situation than the SPARTAN.
And so 2994 swallowed his pride and made a tactical withdrawal, retrieving his BR as he did so. Any chance at killing Griffon tonight was gone anyway. The battle had worn at him and for now he had to get back up to peak capacity as soon as possible... and that meant staying away from any fighting for a few hours.
Let Griffon wait. 2994 had a new and far more worthy opponent now. Next time, he thought at the SPARTAN, next time I'll kill you and use your armor for spare parts!
Their paths would cross again, 2994 was sure of that. He and the SPARTAN were definitely after the same man, which meant that they'd inevitably strike at the same time. It was something he'd gotten from reading so many books. Sometimes the universe just worked in certain ways.
==Chapter 6==
Two hours later, 2994 had slipped back into his apartment and was applying biofoam to his bleeding shoulder. Popping it back in had been just a simple matter of gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain. But that was what he'd been trained to do since he was six years old.
In front of him now was his helmet, which he had rigged to a portable computer in order to boost the transmission, It was time to get some answers from ONI, regardless of how many toes he had to step on to get them.
He keyed in multiple passwords that granted him access to a secure ONI communications frequency that was piggybacking on one of Rager XII's satellites. Clearing his throat, eh began.
"This is HPA Agent 2994. I am on a high-priority mission at the moment and I need someone to clarify a few things for me. Someone who can give me some answers."
The voice of a standard ONI communications officer piped through an earpiece 2994 had connected to the computer. "Uh, Agent 2994 this call is unexpected. You must understand that the people you seem to be requesting are in all likelihood extremely busy and unable to-"
"I just need a few things made clear for me," 2994 said as his voice dropped to a threatening hiss. "I have just disengaged from a firefight with a SPARTAN operative. We both wounded each other rather severely and I am not in a very good mood right now. So I suggest, crewman, that you patch me through to whoever can answer my questions before I get even angrier than I am now. Got it?"
There was silence on the other end of the line for several moments, and 2994 began to wonder if he'd been hung up on. But then a new voice sounded in his ear, one full of authority and sternness. "This is Cole Whitman, current director of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Agent 2994, you are getting dangerously close to sounding unstable, so I suggest that you calm down before you state your inquiries."
Normally 2994 would have immediately shut up and followed order, but these were extenuating circumstances. "Sir, do you mind telling me what the hell a SPARTAN is doing on Rager XII? I'm sure you know that when people like us have conflicting mission goals things turn sour for everyone involved."
Whitman's voice sounded strained. "The SPARTAN's mission is completely different from yours, and that's all you need to know about the matter. SPARTAN-141 is a special operative from the Marine Special Operations Command and has no affiliations to ONI besides his shared services to the UNSC."
2994 immediately processed the "name" 141 and committed it to memory. "If he's got a completely different objective, does that mean that there's more on Rager XII that you're not telling me about? Because like I told the good communications officer a minute ago, I'm not feeling all that full of peace and goodwill at the moment."
This time Whitman's response was a harsh bark. "Get back in line, soldier! What your superiors choose to disclose to you is not for you to decide or demand. While your troubles with 141 are unfortunate and the result of a last minute decision on the part of the Marines, you had better clean up you're attitude before I haul you off that mission and send in Agent 2995 instead! Have I made myself clear?"
2994 closed his eyes and counted to three. No, he most definitely did not want Artemis stealing his mission. "Yes sir," he growled. Instead of responding, the Director closed the link.
Feeling cold inside, 2994 rubbed his still throbbing shoulder. Yes, the exchange with Whitman had not been pleasant. But at least he hadn't ordered him to leave 141 alone. As far as 2994 was concerned, there was only one person in the galaxy who was allowed to be better or equal to him: Agent 2995, or Artemis. This meant that SPARTAN-141 was a threat to 2994's entire world, and that meant that he was a dead man walking.
----
Cole Whitman ended the COM channel conversation and 2994's ragged face was replaced with the Eagle, Globe and Banner, the Office of Naval Intelligence's seal. He pressed several keys on the keyboard before him and activated encryption algorithms that erased the call from all records. He sighed and leaned back into the padded chair in which he sat. The HPA was one of ONI's more...difficult "black" programs, due to the usually destructive methods in which they operated. Not unlike Section 3's SPARTANs, but the majority of them were either k,illed or missing.
Gray Team. The infamous SPARTAN team that ONI had felt was better separated from the rest of NAVSPECWARs SPARTAN-IIs and had sent then on ad hoc missions behind Covenant lines for years now. The last time they had reported in was...
Whitman stopped and wondered. When was the last time Gray Team had checked in?
He shook his head, clearing that errant thought and a new one replaced it; HPA. Again.
They tended to bullshit Whitman with the excuse that they were only called in if they were really needed to take someone out. Never in Whitman's career as Director of ONI, save for that business with David Felt, had either a person or agency under him caused so much godammed paperwork. Back during tjhe '30s, he had been constantly writing excuses, filing fake reports and deleting real ones that were TOP SECRET--not even Eyes Only--for those damned people. But, when they were tasked with doing something, they did get it done.
Which was the only real reason why Whitman hadn't ordered the agency shut down--so far.
A knock sounded at the door and his Deputy Director, Aaron Montana, walked in, a bottle containing amber liquid in one hand and two shot glasses in the other.
"Coffee break, boss." Montana's grumbling tone said.
"Thank God." He accepted a glass from Aaron and held it up as he poured the amber concoction into it. He downed it immediately, and a wave of dizyness came, then passed, endorphions in his brain creating pleasure as the alcohol found refuge in his stomach.
Aaron drank too and they sat in silence, across from each other.
"HPA has something on their hands that's gotten them tangled with MARSOC."
Aaron grimaced and spoke, "Is General Harrok still our liaison?"
Whitman nodded. "However, I want to talk to Sergeant Major Easy about this. He's recorded as knowing the SPARTAN walking in on HPA's party, and he probably issued the man MARSOC's orders."
Montana nodded and said "I'll get 'im on the horn."
----
Ganust Easy wasn't happy. Every time he spoke with someone from ONI, he always had the feeling that they were trying to bring him down. His appointment to SgtMaj of the Marine Corps had been controversial, yes, but the last time ONI had talked with him, he felt violated, exposed. As if he had forgotten his skin one morning.
So when the Director of ONI, Whitman, appeared on his COM screen, easy was even more unhappy.
"Mr. Whitman, what can I do for you?"
Whitman was so direct to the point that he could hit a target before a Scout Sniper could.
"SPARTAN-141. Why is he on Rager XII?"
What is their damned fascination with our SPARTAN-IIs? Just cause they can't have them, they want to know every little thing about them?
"SPARTAN-141 is currently making preparations for the UNSC Hawaii, which, i'm sure you know, is delivering a Division on Marines to the understaffed garrison we have on Rager XII."
"Bullshit. You ordered him to kill Griffon, didn't you?"
Target Missed, bitch.
"AS I said, SPARTAN-141 is-"
Whitman cut him off. "If he interferes with HPA's mission, I will have him court-martialed, you understand, Sergeant?"
Easy's faux umbrage was almost too easy to pull off.
"The correct addresment is Sergeant Major, Sir. And i'm sorry, I don't know who or what this HPA is."
Whitman paused the COM channel, which gave Easy enough time to bring up the MARSOC Intelligence Division officer-of-the-deck Major Allen. "Allen, I need all you can get from ONI about, keyword, initials, Hotel, Papa, Alfa."
Allen nodded and signed off.
Just as he closed that window, Whitman unpaused their COM channel and spoke again, obviously angry at something or someone.
"I apoligise for my...uncalled for...actions earlier. We will be speaking again, soon, Sergeant Major." And with that, the screen went back to the UNSCDF logo.
Easy reopened the channel to Major Allen. "Major, you'd better have something good, cause untill the Hawaii arrives, 141's in big trouble."
An fair-skinned man, with close cropped hair, sharp brown eyes and a pair of silver bars on his lapels answered for the Major. "Sergeant major, this is Captain Jacobs. You're gonna love this." The sarcasm in the Captain's voice was not lost on Easy as the man he would later learn effectively started the Marine Corps' SPARTAN program detailed another of ONI's mischievous agencies, one that was about to cause SPARTAN-141 a world of hurt soon.
----
SPARTAN-141 stood there, blood pooling from his stomach, his M6D still raised, aimed at the last place he had seen the foe. As soon as he was certain no sounds were made, he dropped the handgun and fell to his hands and knees. He tried to banish the pain from his awareness, but he had gone so long doing it, that he mental power was waning.
He crawled over the the first-aid station he had erected and began pulling off parts of his armor. Once he had the minimum amount off, he tore open the damaged undersuit if his armor and found the three holes that the man's BR55HB-AR, which was the exact same gun 141 always used, had caused. He carefully pulled out each of the three bullets with medical pliers and placed them in a pan beside him. He grabbed the biofoam can and injected generous amounts of the liquid cast material in each hole.
He breathed deeply and allowed the foam to seal the holes. He stood and activated a portable blood transfusion device. he had lost a lot of blood and didn't intend of being out of commission for long. He injetced himself with the large needle and sat beside it, waiting for it to finish it's job. Shortly after, he nodded off to sleep, from both narcotics from the transfusion and his own personal clock.
----
3 hours later, the sun was up and the Terminal was bathed in bight light. 141's eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly. He glanced around and disengaged himself from the transfusion device. After a through search of the complex to make sure no one else would sneak up on him, he opened a, locker and found a brand-new undersuit. Disrobing, he suited up with the new one and reassembled his armor about him.
An alarm began sounding, and 141 was instantly ready, BR in hand, scanning his surroundings. When he realized it was just a COM channel alert, he slung his rifle and activated the channel.
He wasn't surprised to see Ganaust Easy's face in the window. Though, he was surprised to see the Asian man standing next to him.
"Captain Jacobs!?" 141 was astounded. The man was practically a legend among Black Team.
Jacobs nodded. "It's good to see you, SPARTAN-141. How's the mission coming?"
141 looked away, then back. "There's been a certain...complication...that I have yet to understand."
"Yes, we know. Seems you stepped on someone's toes in ONI. Again." He added playfully.
"So that man was..."
"Yeah, he's ONI. Part of some heavily blacked out program called High-Priority Assainations, or HPA. he's an agent of theirs."
141 nodded when he heard this. It cleared up some things. "Let me guess, he's out here to kill Stephen Griffon."
"Right. Seems he's been on Rager XII as long as you have. And he's been busy." An offset window appeared on the screen, detailing a raid on the RCPD building, in which a large man with a hoodie on shot up several officers and dragged a man out.
"We've identified the agent as 2994, the numerical designation he goes by. the man he's dragging is Commissioner Nerval, head of the RCPD. He's been missing ever since."
With the man's organization called High-Priority Assainations, 141 had no doubt that he had killed the Commissioner after he had gotten what he wanted out of him.
Jacobs continued, "We're obviously budging in on ONI's party here, so whatever you do, tread lightly. We don't need this HPA and MARSOC at each other's throats all because we happened to be deploying ops on the same planet at the same time."
"Captain, with all the activity on Rager XII by now, Griffon's got to have noticed something. I think it's a safe bet to say that he'll attempt to grab the Hawaii as she's offloading her Marines, to make a getaway off the planet. We outfitted her engines so they could go much faster than a normal Colony Ship, and if he gets access to those, he could be 100 AUs away before we can even catch him." 141 stated. "I have a very bad feeling i'll be running into this...Agent 2994, again when he does."
Easy leaned in and stared directly into 141's eyes. "SPARTAN-141, if 2994 or Griffon do anything to jepodise the UNSC Hawaii and/or her crew, you have authorization from the Commandant himself to eliminate them. Do you understand?"
141's reply was short and full of authority. "Yes, sir."
== Chapter 7 ==
141 had just closed the COM channel to Easy and Jacobs when another, marked PRIORITY ALFA appeared. He keyed it and he was rewarded with what could have only been a distress call.
"This is the UNSC Colony Ship Hawaii. Due to unforeseen anomalies with our Slipspace drive matrix, we had dropped out about 120,000 kilometers from Rager X. We are requesting aid from any and all UNSC assets in the system. Does anyone out there copy?"
141 linked the COM channel to his helmet and answered, "UNSC Hawaii, this is UNSCDF-MC SPARTAN-141. I am currently planetside on Rager XII, will be at your position ASAP. Set course for Rager XII orbit, High Altitude. Be advised, Hawaii, there are many hostile elements planetside with me, and it's heavily suspected that they may try to take advantage of your situation. Recommend you destroy any vessel approaching you without my Clearance Code." He sent his code to the ship on a heavily encrypted Private COM.
"Roger that, SPARTAN. Over and out."
Despite what he had advised, he knew that at least one of Griffon's ships would get close enough to board the Hawaii. depending on the amount of ships that he had at his disposal, this would either be extremely easy, or extremely horrid. He engaged a magnetic locking program that shut and locked every access point to the Terminal. Grabbing his BR55HB-AR, M6D, XMR-8/C and an extra 5 magazines for each one, he trotted out and entered the Ultimatum. 
It was time to give Griffon his own Ultimatum: Challenge the UNSC to a firefight, or stay to die by Agent 2994's hands.
----
"This is it, ladies and gents," Stephen Griffon declared, waving his rifle around. "This is our chance to make the escape from this hellhole, and use all that cash we've got for make very, very comfortable lives for us."
A chorus of cheers and wolf whistles responded and he grinned widely.
However, one man stepped up to him and asked "Griffon, what makes you think we can take on a UNSC ship, plus a whole division of Marines?"
The room was suddenly surrounded by a hush. No one but Griffon and his challenger blinked.
Griffon raised his rifle and shot the man in the stomach. As he died, Griffon responded, "We'll give 'em a taste of Hell, seeing as they like the nickname 'Devil dogs'. Then, we'll see who's superior."
Another round of cheers surrounded him. Nothing, not even the heavy might of the UNSC, would stop him today. Soon, Pelicans packed with his men and women would lift off and chase down the colony ship. Later, they would be free. And he would have his success.
----
2994 had tapped his computer into the public communications system and so heard about the development mere minutes after the Hawaii slipped in system. Normally such a problem would have upset him, but today it was actually a blessing. Griffon would certainly want to get on that ship, and when he did he'd find one HPA agent waiting for him. Now 2994 just needed a way off-planet...
He remembered that there were hundreds of Pelican dropships secured in public airfields throughout the city, meaning that Griffon and his troops had free access to them. They'd overwhelm the Hawaii's point defense systems, possibly even destroying them, and then engage the marines onboard. The battle would be over within an hour and Griffon would accomplish what ONI feared: get out of the system and possibly begin his own rebel network.
Well, if Griffon could get to the Pelicans then so could he. 2994 re-donned his helmet and seized his weapons. The wound in his shoulder was bandaged now and although it stung a little it wouldn't hamper him at all. 2994 leapt from the window once more and ran as fast as he could through the back alleys towards the nearest airfield. He would kill Griffon and perhaps suffer some equipment malfunction along the way. After all, he'd need some time after the mission to deal with SPARTAN 141.
----
This is why I never became a bona fide pilot, 141 thought as he weaved in and out of lancing fire, streaking missles, white-hot 20mm shells and charred, twisting debris. The shit they go through is more confusing than trying to speak to a Jiralhanae.
He had launched less than 10 minutes ago and was about to rendezvous with the Hawaii when a pack of Pelicans, obviously Griffon's men, and 3 small civilian ships illegally fitted with MIL-STD Heavy Archer missile launchers and M162 Vulcan 10mm AA cannons appeared, unleashing their fire on both the Ultimatum and the Hawaii's Point-defense weapons. 141 was luckier, due to both facts that he knew the Ultimatum well and how to control her, and that he was more maneuverable than the huge Hawaii.
But, huge as she was, her captain knew his tactical planning well, and had opened fire the moment Griffon's ships had entered the Absolute-Kill Zone, or the area around the ship in which her defense could knock out 95% of a 360 degree attack. Unfortunatly, Girffon had anticipated this, and had sent his Pelicans first, swarming the Hawaii's weapons with HEAT missles, and had his larger ships hold back, focusing on 141.
Another oversized Archer missile streaked past, probably intending to trick him into thinking they'd overshot him, then come back for a surprise kill, but 141 knew the limits of Archer missile's available programming. He let lose with the Ultimatum's .50 caliber MGs and the missile exploded, pelting the Ultimatum as she plowed through it's debris. 141 was still attempting to get a good lock on one of the ships, a small cargo freighter that had it's bay replaced with 3 Archer racks, plus what looked like a M6 Non-liner Rifle strapped on top of the racks. He'd seen one of those rip through a Phantom dropship with ease, and had no intention of testing it's functionality against his ship's armor.
He heard the ship's computer inform him of a lock on, and dived the ship straight "down". Hitting the brakes, he watched the ship overshoot him, then he continued his "downward spiral". The ship whipped back and attempted to follow his zigzag course, but then chose to sit back and wait for him to stop. Instead, 141 stalled again and hit the vertical thrusters at full burn, flipping the ship. Just as his crosshairs located the ship's belly, he fired 3 missiles, and they streaked away, catching the ship unawares as he still spun in place. He fired up and continued towards this ship as it attempted to counter his missile's courses. He let loose his MGs and destroyed the thing's Spartan Laser, then the missiles caught up with it. It exploded in a shower of shrapnel and Archer pods cooking off their payload.
He soared back and this time, made a beeline for the Hawaii's docking bay. He was almost within the AKZ when the Ultimatum was struck by something. he lurched over the Command console and fell to the small maintanince catwalk below, just before a harsh red laser blasted through the CnC's door. SHIT! he thought vividly. I thought i just got rid of that thing!
He clambered back int his seat, but all the displays before him said the same thing:
CRITICAL ERROR: PRIMARY REACTOR CORE CASE DISABLED!
:::::PRIMARY REACTOR CORE OVERLOAD: WILDCAT DESTABILIZATION IMMINENT!
:::::WEAPONS SYSTEM DISABLED - POD 3/C, POD 5/A, POD 5/B, POD 6/E CRACKED
RECOMMEND ABANDONING SHIP - IMMEDIATE ACTION!
141 looked up just in time to see the hull of the Hawaii getting very close to his viewport.
Another reason why I never became a real pilot, is the really shitty ways they end up dying...
----
Chief Warrant Officer Brandon Liam was racing to Docking Bay 2, his booted feet pounding the hard titanium-B deck. This day couldn't get any worse. No day, since today, has been as bad as when Lisa left. he thought, as he shouted at the enlisted men clogging the corridor to get out of his way. Just as he jumped through the door, missing an E-4's black boot, a cascade of steel, fire and melted battleplate crashed through the bay wall. It came to a screeching halt less than 3 meters from him. 
For a few seconds, no one moved. 
Then, a heavily armored man, who one could only recognise as a SPARTAN-II clambered out of the ruin and shouted at all the personnel dumbstruck in the bay.
"This ship is less than 3 minutes away from a Wildcat reactor destabilization! Unless you have a death wish, help me get it outta here!"
Liam sighed. Okay, I amend that last thought.
----
The men's Pelican had needed to be refueled before it could take off to join the battle, but now it was fully armed and fueled. One of the guards was taking a quick smoking break when he thought he heard a noise coming from behind some crates. Wary of any civilian do-gooders who might be hoping to sabotage the dropship, the man unslung his shotgun and approached the crates with his weapon at the ready. He had just reached the edge of the first crate and begun to peer around it when an armored hand clamped down on the end of his gun's barrel. The guard barely had time to whimper before 2994 wrenched the shotgun from his grasp and struck him twice in the skull with enough force to cave in his skull. As the corpse fell, the agent spun the shotgun around into a firing position and killed the other two guards standing in front of the Pelican's troop bay.
Casting the captured weapon aside, 2994 pulled his BR from its magnetic clamps on his back and fired it on full automatic, dropping the men that rushed into view to investigate the noise. The entire encounter took about fifteen seconds
Confident that he had eliminated all presences within the area., 2994 stepped over the corpses and entered the Pelican's cockpit. Some obliging dead pilot had already run the preflight checks, allowing him to simply seal the troop bay and lift into the sky.
----
As the Hawaii came into view it was apparent that Griffon's forces were already a good ways into the attack, and from the scattered and seemingly random explosions appearing on the colony ship's hull 2994 could infer that some bright spark in engineering had decided that now was a good time to experiment with the reactor. Sometimes it seemed the universe was bound and determined to invent nail-biting situations such as this one merely in an attempt to make him suffer. 2994 tisked to himself as he approached the ship.
His brevity was cut short when a series of alarms chimed in the cockpit. Of course, he thought to himself. This ship's point defense systems have been reduced to nothing, so of course I fly right into the firing angle of the one Griffon forgot to blow up. He juked and weaved the Pelican through a hail of fire that would tear the dropship apart in a matter of milliseconds. A few rounds slashed through the troop bay, exposing the Pelican to the vacuum of space.
Now relying on his armor's oxygen reserves to keep him alive, 2994 pushed the Pelican's already failing engines to the breaking point. He angled towards an open hangar as the cockpit filled with even more alarms and warnings. As one of the wings burst into flame, 2994 gritted his teeth and pushed the throttle forward for all he was worth. The engines failed completely just as the dropship slipped through the hangar's weakened shielding and the Pelican skidded across a rubble strewn deck, disintegrating as it did so. By the time the bird had made a full stop it had torn itself in half and lost enough plating to expose almost all of its inner workings. 2994 was unfazed by the less than happy landing and hurried out of the destroyed Pelican.
The hangar had certainly seen better days. Marine and terrorist corpses alike littered the floor like so much trash, with carbon scoring and bullet holes indicating the enormous firefight that had occurred there. A few Pelicans-all in much better shape than 2994's-were parked in the hangar, but none of Griffon's men had wanted to miss out on the fight against the outnumbered UNSC troops.
Well now I nearly got my ass shot off landing on a ship that could be nothing more than a happy memory in a few minutes. Griffon had better let me be quick about killing him.
== Chapter 8 ==
SPARTAN-141 pushed upon the Ultimatum's wrecked hull with all he had. The Navy engineers in EVA suits beside him did little more than bang on the slagged and shattered titanium body armor. A small counter in 141's HUD indicated 1:53. He pushed harder, until the ship's plates dislodged from the Hawaii's warped docking bay wall.
It slowly angled away from the ship.
Shit. It's going too slow. he thought. He quickly calculated the force needed to send his broken ship farther from the hull. Surprising the EVA crewmen, he backpedaled, then ran full speed, rocketing through the hole in the hanger. As he neared his ship in zero gravity, he angled his body to twist away from the ship, so his feet slammed into it. As soon as he did, before the ship began spinning out of control, he relaunched himself towards the hole.
Weak gravity pulled him into the bay, just as the Ultimatum exploded into red-hot metal and fire. The latter died quickly in empty space, and the former spread out quickly, pelting the Hawaii's already battered hull plates.
141 breathed a small sigh of relief. The majority of his equipment had been on that ship, but he had strapped enough to himself before even powering up the ship, so he was operationally armed. He unslung his BR55HB-AR and stepped into the decon chamber just inside the docking bay's door. It cycled through fresh O2 for him to breathe, then the door to the rest of the ship opened. He was about to march up to the captain's ready room when an alert over the ship's PA spoke.
"INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT! Non-UNSC persons detected in Deck 14, Section 3! Security personnel to Deck 14, ASAP!"
"That seems like a good place to go first." 141 said to himself.
----
Agent 2994 stepped over the cooling bodies of the terrorists he had just killed and tried to access a nearby control terminal. One of his override codes managed to grant him access to ship security and he quickly began jumping from camera to camera, looking for any sign of Griffon. There were fire fights galore as the marines were steadily pushed back by the onslaught of Griffon's men, but no sign of the target. 2994 was almost about to give up hope when something in the corner of one camera caught his eye just as he was skipping to another. 2994 immediately switched back just in time to see a figure in battered MJOLNIR armor dash out of view. A smile curled onto 2994's face even as his eyes narrowed. So he does have the same target.
2994 did not like being lied to, but that was an issue he could take up with his superiors later. For now, he had some unfinished business to resolve with 141. Griffon could wait once more.
2994 noted the location of the camera and began to make his way towards it, being sure to strip corpses for ammo as he went.
----
141 dashed up the stairs, and eyed his prey. The rouge was one of Griffon's men, armed with a GP-6. 141 remembered it's power well, but this time, he had MJOLNIR armor on, and it's AP rounds bounced harmlessly off his shields. He rammed his BR55HB-AR's butt into th man's face and heard the sick crack as his skull broke inwards. He left the man to his death as he rushed down a hallway. Skidding around a corner, he instantly noted the firefight between a fire team of Marines and more of Griffon's rouges.
141 scoped in and fired 3 bursts. Three heads exploded in red mist. He continued his dash, pasuing only to pull a fallen marine's sidearm from his leg holster and straping it to his utility belt.
Passing bodies, pockmarked corridors, he dashed through the ship, in search of his biggest target; Stephen Griffon.
After a few more scuffles, he ended up stuck behind a fallen pressure door, 5 of the Rouge's putting heavy Machine gun fire on him. His shields were draining with every hit, and the pressure door wouldn't last much longer. He sighed in his head. This would be much easier if i could just throw it at them, but no, the Marine Fire team keeping them from chewing my ass into swiss cheese is in the way.
He dropped the door and rolled into a crevice between two wall panels just big enough for his armor. His shields slowly ran across their recharge bar, then registered as FULL. He let his BR sag on it's sling around him and withdrew the two M6C's he had recovered from dead marines. He fired them both at the Rouges, dropping them just as their slides locked back at the same time. He dropped them and helped the Marines that svaed his ass up, then continued his dash.
Cargo Bay 2...Cargo Bay 2...Cargo Bay...HERE!
He palmed the access pad and the massive titanium-A reinforced doors slid open. 141 heard rustling on the other side of the cavernous and raised his BR. He carefully searched the side closest to the door. 
Nothing.
A shape formed across from him. He fired at it, but it dissapeared.
More rustling, to his right. He pivoted, and a man encased in MJOLNIR armor stared back at him.
Fuck! He fired on Full Auto, peppering his opponent with rounds. He shrunk back.
141 growled and dashed after him. Stack after stack of crates, boxes, barrels, and other obstacles he searched. Nothing.
A lighning bolt of bullets slammed into 141 and he tumbed to the ground. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot! HE rounds! he recovered his dive and sprang up, spotted a polarized faceplate and fired of a burst, striking dead on. His opponent dissappeared again.
141 knew who it was. Agent 2994, he though, prepare to understand what a Marine is all about.
----
The path 141 had seemed to be taking had seemed to lead through the cargo bay, and so 2994 had sprinted through the ship, dispatching any of Griffon's men he came across. The only signs he could see of marines were blood spattered bodies, meaning that Griffon was close to controlling the ship. By the time he reached the doors of Cargo Bay 2, he was pumped full of adrenaline and ready to fight an army.
The Cargo Bay was filled with crates and barrels, undoubtedly filled with ammunition. And there, standing in an open doorway across the bay, was the figure of SPARTAN-141, unmistakable even at this distance. Ducking down, 2994 decided from the lack of guns firing meant that the SPARTAN had failed to notice him. Creeping through the barrels, he saw his chance at a clear shot and brought his bR to bear, only to curse as he brushed a container and made a noise loud enough for 141 to hear.
The SPARTAN was fast, bringing his own weapon up and spraying 2994 with bullets. The advantage lost, the HPA agent retreated through a maze of crates. He'd have to strike when a better chance presented itself.
That chance came quickly, as 141 appeared around a distant corner. 2994's shot knocked him to the ground, but the SPARTAN still managed to get a shot off and force him back ito cover.
As 2994 reloaded, he growled, "You're good, I'll give you that. But I'm better." He didn't care if the SPARTAN heard the sentiment or not, it just felt good to get out.
----
141 had, in fact, heard the man's statement, and responded in kind. "Oh, really? I beg to differ," He continued to search amongst the many boxes and crates that littered the Cargo Bay. "The fact that I am both a SPARTAN-II and a Marine means I can easily kick your ass."
There it was again. The same feeling as when he'd encountered this...Agent, before. The slight rise in atmospheric pressure, a magnetic twang.
141 wheeled around, his BR pouring hot lead onto his opponent's shields. The Agent fired as well, rounds smashing into the SPARTANs armor. He ducked away and tossed a knife blindly around the corner. He heard a metallic tang, then burst around the corner, rifle raised. 
No one. The man had disappeared.
141 quickly secured his position, then glanced at his HUD's ammo counter.
25
He scowled at reloading with that many rounds still in the magazine, but he had no choice. He set the almost half-empty mag atop a nearby crate, then happened to observe it' markings as he withdrew a full mag from his person.
MODEL: PHADE TECHNOLOGY INDUSTRY - CRATE 57-G
BR55HB-AR WEAPON - MAGAZINE - AMMUNITION: CALIBER 5.3X44MM M725 XHPAP
LOAD: 487 KG
REG. CODE: 5736-43-64264-UNSCOPCM
Just my luck.
141 quickly cracked open the crate, dug in and retrieved several loaded magazines. He strapped them to himself, then slammed another into his weapon.
He heard shots firing at his position, and he turned, escaping most of them.
"So much for the 'better than you' trait. Are you sure you want to retract that statement...HPA Agent 2994?"
----
Oh my... thought 2994 as he reloaded again. This nasty SPARTAN seems to have gotten hold of classified data. He was actually relieved by the sudden turn of events: he now had another excuse to take the SPARTAN out.
His strategy wasn't working. 141 was too fast, he could detect his movements and take steps to evade or counter them before 2994 was able to get his shields down. Frowning, 2994 slid a small electronic wire-cam from one of his utility pouches and slid it around the corner of his box. The grainy video feed the cam sent his helmet showed 141 ripping magazines out of a supply crate.
An idea struck him. Turning to the box before him he punched a hole in the side, revealing row after row of pistols. While they were not what he had been seeking, he withdrew one anyway and clamped it to his open leg magnet. Having two pistols was always good.
He moved to another box, and this time his luck held. Within the box were dozens upon dozens of grenades. Taking six, he slid three in each hand and inserted his fingers in the pins. Just before he threw them, he realized that he'd forgotten to make a witty retort to the SPARTAN's latest taunt.
"No, I don't," he said out loud. "Die SPARTAN scum!" It wasn't the most interesting or original thing to say, but it was the first that popped into his head. He lobbed all six of the grenades in a wide spread and readied his Battle Rifle.
Next time he'd make sure he was ready with a verbal response. Coming up with them on the fly wasn't his strong suite.
== Chapter 9 ==
141 ducked behind a large crate as he heard the sound of pins being pulled from M9 grenades. Oh, hell. He ditched his cover and ran straight into an open section of the cavernous bay as the grenades plinked on his vacated position. He pumped his leg muscles as hard as he could, with only 3 seconds left. 5.3mm bullets shot near him, but fell shot of an impact; 141 realized he'd never run this fast before. Before he knew it, the wall of the bay was in his face and he slammed into it, just as the grenades detonated, cooking off boxes of ammo nearby and sending a hail of shrapnel into the air before descending upon the two rival supersoliders. 141's field of sight was hazy, and blackness accented his vision. He felt weightless for a second, but a sharp pain at his back brought reality rushing back into him and he quickly about faced, sweeping his arm out concurrently. 
His arm connected with a form and it fell back, only to reassert itself and rush him again. 141 pulled his XMR-8/C and raised it to center on 2994's abdomen and pumped the entire 50 round magazine into him.
The first 20 rounds pounded his shields. The next 20 dented his MJOLNIR armor. The final 10 seeped into his stomach. Luckily for 2994, though, they were small, 5x23mm rounds and did little damage individually. 2994 just stood there, astonished at his failure to catch 141 before he fired. 141 finally let off the trigger and 2994, now filled with pure rage and hatred, grabbed the SPARTAN's weapon and snapped it in half. 
The internals spilled like water before the two of them, but before they hit the ground, and before 141 could throw away his ruined weapon, 2994 grabbed his throat and threw him straight up. He then pounced after him and rammed his BR into 141's groin with such a force that his shields were rendered useless immediately, and the inertia of the hit forced 141 to double over, while in mid air, as 2994 grabbed him again and threw him back to the deck. 141, his lower abdomen numb, banished the intense fire and brought his knees to his chest, and cushioned his fall. He discarded his broken gun and pulled a grenade of his own, a captured Type-1 APG and keyed it. The blue ball hissed vehemently and threw off a mild mist as 141 prepped to stick it to 2994, literally. 
2994 saw it and landed similar to 141, but rolled to the side immediately after hitting the deckplates. 141 expected this and quickly calculated the power his throw needed to be to successfully hit the agent. He tossed it and 2994 saw in slow motion the ball and it's mist. Quickly assessing the value of various parts of his armor and the trajectory of the sricky explosive. He snapped off his shoulder pauldron and flung it at the grenade. It stuck immediately and detonated, blue-white plasma and electric sparks colored both supersolider's vision.
141 ducked as a particularly fast electric spark dented the bulkhead behind him. He dove forward and knocked 2994 off his feet. 2994 lost his balance and hit the ground. 141raised his iron fist and punched 2994 in the gut, and was rewarded with an audible grunt of pain. Not stopping, 141 brought both fists up and slammed them into the HPA agent's chest, temporarily numbing both arms. 141 unholstered his last pistol and fired several times at 2994's face, but by this time, his shields had recovered and the pinged off with gold swirls. 
2994 snatched the pistol from his hand and clenched his other gauntleted hand on 141's throat, again. He squeezed and felt blood and air attempting to rush through. 141 coughed softly as 2994 felt his pulse slow. 141's hands shook, but were getting closer to his captured pistol. 2994 saw this and quickly kicked-pushed 141 away from him, releasing his clogged airway. 
The HPA agent threw the M6 at 141's face and it connected with a solid chunk. A the inertia of the throw transfered through 141's still-recovering shields and a slight crack appeared in his mirrored faceplate. 2994 bellowed as he rushed 141 again, and his fists connected in several strings of his. 141, who just now remembered his BR55HB-AR swinging from it's sling around him, grabbed it and slammed it's butt into 2994's face in the middle of the punching barrage. 2994 was deterred slightly, and 141 saw his chance. He grabbed 2994's other shoulder pauldron and ripped it off, his shields nothing but air. 2994's exposed shoulders were prime targets and 141 took advantage of it. 
He withdrew the antique KA-BAR from his chest sheath and stabbed it into 2994's left shoulder. that shoulder, already beaten and shot badly from 141 and 2994's Terminal battle, was filled with searing pain and 2994 audibly screamed as all feeling, other than the pain, was lost from it. 
Rage, Pain, Embarrassment and Envy ran though 2994's body at light-speed. He took his last available option in his position and head butted 141. Both of their helmets were damaged by the sheer brute force of 2994's attack; 141's faceplate shattered and several pieces scratched and embedded themselves in his face, and 2994's visor's overhang was crushed, his own visor cracked. His modified HUD flickered off and 2994 was now left with a visible chord in his field of sight.
141 stepped back as he attempted to pull off his useless helmet, but 2994, whose previous condition of rage was nothing compared to what he now felt, grabbed his entire head and began trying to rip it from his neck.
"I'M GONNA TAKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF AND SHOVE YOUR DAMNED KNIFE DOWN-YOUR-NECK!!" he bellowed into 141's open faceplate. He would not be stopped now.
----
My name... don't really have one, at least not one besides the number. Guess I did at one point, but that was a time that is beyond dead. It has been erased. Wiped out. Obliterated.
What does matter is that I'm one of the best operatives the UNSC can field. I've proved it time and time again by completing countless missions for my superiors. Hardly ever asked the why bit, just the who and the how. It was never my place to get to know the target, nothing besides the bare bones basics. Sure, I knew his crimes knew why they sent me after him; or her, I guess. Always was a believer in the equality of the sexes. Means I can kill either one, seeing as they're both equal and all. I suppose having Artemis around to show us all up pretty much eliminates the possibility of sexism within our small HPA minds.
But no matter how many people I killed, no matter how many missions I completed, I never once felt much in the way of animosity towards my opponents. Hatred is born of fear, and no one I've ever fought has scared me to the point where I find myself hating them.
Until now.
This SPARTAN has interfered with the mission more than once. That isn't supposed to be possible. Someone can only interfere with the mission once, and then there's no more times after that. It's not possible for there to be because the interfering party is dead. An HPA agent leaves no witnesses, no one to boast about standing in the way of the UNSC's assassin. We kill them and then move on to complete the mission and report back to our superiors.
I've been trying my hardest to do the job, I really have. It shouldn't require all this effort. SPARTANs are softer than us. Their minds weren't wiped clean back in training, their trainers didn't use live rounds during training, they didn't take any casualties before the augmentations began, and they certainly weren't pitted against each other, forced to scrabble amongst themselves for a place at the top. All of those things were reserved for us. We knew the meaning of true suffering and solitude before we were even deployed, and that makes us all the more better than they are.
But guess who gets all the glory?
The SPARTANs are the ones with the monuments and the movies and the documentaries made in their honor. You'll never see a single monument to the HPA's achievements because we don't exist. Our work is done in the shadows, a place far more trying than any battlefield in the galaxy. We do the real work now, but the citizens of the UNSC will never know about it.
I knew this resentment, this bitterness, was unprofessional from the moment it started to fester within me. But I ignored it, allowed it to remain where it was because it kept me going. More than any rivalry I could share with another agent, more than any amount of loyalty to the UNSC, this has kept me striving to excel, to create a definite, living proof that we were better than them. And so far it's worked.
I've never once failed a mission. But now...
This SPARTAN isn't the target. Hell, if our superiors knew we were carrying on like this they'd probably send in everything they had on hand to put an end to it. But he is a threat to my entire universe. Yes, he can kill me, but he can also prove me wrong. He can shatter my record, my superiority, and that cannot be allowed. If I lose that, I may as well just lay down and let him kill me.
I went into this battle with the smug confidence that I would win. But now I'm bleeding and he isn't, I've lost my cool and he hasn't. Everything that is me, everything that defines me, is being burnt away by my own fear and hatred. I'm no longer even Agent 2994 now. I'm a force outside of nature, a force that is locked in a battle for its very survival. There can be no planning in this battle, so I rely on my training and my instincts to take it's place.
I have to win this battle. Failure is, as it's been my entire life, not an option.
----
2994 could see the fear in his opponent's exposed eyes as he pulled with all his might at the SPARTAN's head. His left arm was on fire, but he had long ago learned to deal with such pain, to shove it to one side and slowly forget about it as time wore on. Yes, the fear was definitely there in 141's eyes, but 2994 wanted something more than that before this battle was over. He wanted to see that same blank stillness that he'd seen in the eyes of so many victims in the past.
You're a dead man, you son of a bitch. Dead, dead dead!
With a sudden exertion of strength, 141 managed to knock 2994's arms away. A small fountain of blood arced upwards from the agent's damaged shoulder, but 2994 was beyond caring about that. Diving forwards, he collided with 141 and sent them both sprawling to the floor. The SPARTAN's right hand strained for an abandoned pistol - 2994 did not know whose it was - while the left hammered against 2994's shoulder wound.
Perhaps he was screaming. Perhaps 141 was screaming. Maybe they were both screaming. 2994 was deaf to such pointless ambient noise as his mind tuned out the useless information and focused on the important things. Namely locating the knife that had caused its body so much pain.
As one of 2994's legs lashed out to knock the pistol away, 141's free arm ceased its assault upon the shoulder and fell to the floor. Moments later it came back up holding the blood spattered knife. This time, however, the HPA agent was ready for it. Ignoring the disabling pain in his shoulder, he batted the blade away and made to wrap both of his armored hands around 141's exposed throat. But the SPARTAN managed to get his legs together and rolled over, turning the tables and locking 2994 in a stranglehold of his own.
He could feel the air slowly being driven from his lungs. He gagged into his battered helmet, but there was no way to breathe properly. Around him, the light was fading...
His right arm dropped and slid, almost of its own accord, down to his leg. Tugging a knife from where it was sheathed there, he carefully brought it up and took unsteady aim at the already-fuzzy 141. A thought appeared in his head, sounding as though it came from a long ways off.
Stupid SPARTAN. You stab the armpit, not the shoulder. Shoulder's too tough, too much bone up there. If you really want to take out an arm, go for the soft underbelly...
A weak smile flickered across 2994's pale face. With a sudden energy he brought the knife up, up into the SPARTAN's right armpit. It tore through the unshielded body glove and cut its way deep into the arm. Suddenly the grip on the agent's throat vanished as 141 tumbled backwards, the knife still embedded in his arm. Strength appeared once again in 2994's limbs, and he rose to do battle once again. Time to die, bastard!
There were no weapons on hand, but that was alright. He paused for a moment to tear his useless, stifling helmet from his head. As the cool shipboard air bathed his face in a pleasant breeze, he discarded the helmet and lunged for 141. It no longer mattered if the SPARTAN saw his face or not. He was going to die right here, by 2994's hand.
His first blow struck 141's armored jaw, denting it and crumpling it inwards. The second, weaker because it came from the wounded left arm, attempted to gouge the exposed eyes. 141 twisted to the side to evade that strike, but was sent stumbling into some crates by a swift kick to the chest. 2994 was on him then, striking wildly at any spot he could reach.
"Come on!" he heard his own voice snarling. "That all? Is that really all you can do?"
There was no reply, but there was no need for one. Victory, so far away a few moments ago, was so close at hand now.
"Now you die!"
== Chapter 10 ==
141 was caught off guard by the sudden force at which 2994 explained his fury to 141 with his fist. He felt his jaw crack, probably a hairline fracture. Blood pooled in his mouth, but before he could spit it out and spend more of this black ops agent's own blood, he saw 2994's arm snatching for his eyes. He twisted out of the way of the arm, but didn't expect to find 2994's foot suddenly kicking him into a stack of ammo crates over 5 feet away. 
141 could tell, he'd pissed this guy off. He was throwing everything he had into his moves, and, as much as 141 knew and had experienced in CQB training and fighting, be it Jericho VII, Thermopylae Colony, Spectre Prime, Reach, Earth-Hell, even Kelmond was good,-this man was running on the bare evil that ran deep in the human psyche. He was pulling this immense strength from the bottom of his soul, his physicality, his very human nature.
2994 was on top of him before he had a chance to even think about getting back up from the crates, and gauntlet after gauntlet impacted every part of his body, no part was unbruised by this man's hatred for 141. 
I'm a threat to everything he is, 141 suddenly dawned on the fact that, even as he was being beaten. My existence as a SPARTAN-II, even as a Marine, is a stigma upon his training, his operations. He either hates me for what I represent, the Navy SPARTANs, or he resents me for what I've done, what I've suffered through for humanity. 
Even as 2994 screamed, "Now you die!" in his face, 141 felt pity. Pity upon this little soul, this tormented man, who had never had the chance to show the world, show himself what he could be. Because his operations, his way of life was so blacked out and so revolting to the rest of the world, he had never been able to express any joy, any real happiness at doing his job. 
Sure, he may have taken pleasure in the success of an operation, the completion of a mission, but never real joy at doing his job.
141 then accepted he could win this fight. He could stop this right now, with all the resources and brute force his life had forged to him. He could literally reduce this child to pulp, in seconds. But then, that wouldn't be what this man needed. 
141, in a moment of clarity, grabbed 2994's wrists, and held them. 2994's fury pushed with all it's might, but 141 had a greater power. A power born from a path, not of death and killing, but of compassion, and self-sacrifice. His eyes glared at 2994's, their depths revealing everything 141 wanted, anything he needed to see of 2994's past was at his fingertips.
And 141 said the most appropriate thing he could.
"You, boy, are one fucked up individual."
2994 glared at him, his eyes laser beams that would have melted 141 if they could. 
"Me? You look in a mirror!" With that, he rose up, and, using 141's clenched hands against him, twirled him about and pulled his hands straight down at the apex of 141's circle, and he sailed through the air, landing in a heap on the other side of the cargo bay.
Okay, so much for the compassion. If he wants to fight to the death, a death he'll get.
141 spotted a discarded knife, probably one of 2994's and grabbed it. 2994 was leaping at him, bellowing a war cry. 141 dodged the lunge and tried to stab 2994 in the back. He rolled away as the blade hit the deck. 2994 grabbed it and wrenched it out of 141's grip. He formed his other hand into a shovel and directed it right into 141's injured armpit. He screamed at the sudden influx of pain and he arm went numb again. 2994 backwards-mule kicked 141 into the nearby bulkhead and he left a man-shaped dent in the titanium. 2994 ran up on him, and smashed his elbow into 141's abdomen. 141 coughed, the air flashed from his lungs. 
Now was his chance. He could kill this fucking SPARTAN and be done with him. His fury, he hatred of the immortal enemy before him compelled his hand, DO IT! is screamed in his head.
But 2994 was full of pain. Even with the fist beating 141 had just gotten, he held himself up high, the proud and naive soldier he was, representing the essence of the Corps. Oh, if there was a flag behind him, men and women alike would have felt awe in his presence!
HE MUST DIE!
No.
He will feel pain, nowhere near the amount of pain 2994 had felt. Not the pain of losing 2789, the pain of losing to Artemis, the pain of HPA training. But as close as he could get him to feel.
He faux parried to the left, right, left, left again, then the blade found it's way into 141's stomach, between the vivid steel-colored plates of armor 141 wore, and he twisted every which way, and sliced out a good chunk of the man's abdomen. Blood was thick, running along his arms as 141 screamed in his ears, but it was only a deaf tone. He withdrew the knife and tossed it. With both hands, he punched 141 in the face and armpit, and yanked the useless meat chunk that was once a part of 141. 141 bellowed with an intensity that could only be born of animal upbringing. 
Even though the hate, the calculating coldness of 2994's head, in a small, unused section of his logic center, a voice spoke of the irreversiblity of his actions now.
141 would not stand any longer. This had to end, or neither of them would live long. The automatic biofoam injectors in his armor were disabled now, and 141 had just lost a large amount of mass and blood. He felt his left side slowly slip from his mental grasp.
Before he slipped past the edge of reason, SPARTAN-141 made one final decision:
If he was to die here, aboard the UNSC Hawaii, as she slowly made her way towards a planet so corrupted by greed and desperation that it could no longer sustain itself, her inhabitants fighting a battle with an enemy that would never give up because of a united Holier Than Thou belief, to a black ops agent that had caused and felt so much pain and destruction that he was eternally sheltered and bombarded by a cold cocoon of unforgiving reality, then he would bring this cold-hearted son of a whore to death with him.
== Chapter 11 ==
141 gathered his remaining strength and, before 2994 could get off another punch, 141 brought his left foot straight up and kicked 2994 off if him. Not waiting for the agent to his the ground, 141 dived for the discarded knife, grabbed it, and threw it at 2994's head. 2994 slammed into a steel crate and saw the knife heading for home between his eyes. He raised his left hand up to stop it, not wanting to sacrifice his right hand's waning abilities. 
The knife dug itself through 2994's outstretched palm. He ignored the pain and quickly pulled it out, blood seeping through his undersuit. He tossed it and spied an M9 grenade lying next to him. He grabbed it and pulled the pin, automatically activating the internal detonator. 141 saw this and assessed what could happen next. He dove for cover behind a broken crate, but 2994 was already ahead of him. He tossed the grenade at the bulkhead 141 had vacated and it bounced back at him. 2994 grabbed it again and threw it at the broken crate 141 was behind. It rebounded again and 2994 palmed it towards a crate next to 141. 
Without warning, a squad of Marines appeared at one of the cargo bay's doors-right next to the crate he had just thrown the grenade at.
141 saw it too. Now you've made it personal, you bastard. He ran for the grenade just as the squad leader took in the small black ball of explosives hurtling towards his squad.
He caught it, and with only 2 seconds left on the detonator, shoved the Marines into the bay and tossed the grenade down the corridor around him. It hit the floor 6 feet from him and detonated. The fire and shrapnel quickly bounded for 141 and hit him full in the front. Shrapnel pinged of his armor plates, but lucky shards found his soft face and stomach flesh. Fire singed his undersuit and raised his internal temperature beyond critical.
The last time 141 had had this much damage done to his body was when a Brute Chieftain nearly cut his left arm off with an Sangheili Energy sword. Darkness quickly descended upon his vision, but he held it back. He forced his brain, which was struggling to register the damage and regulation of his bodily functions, to banish all emotions, every last one, to the darkest part of his mind. He became an unemotional machine then, running on pure adrenaline. 
2994 finished off the last round in his pistol's magazine as the final Marine dropped to the ground, minus a chunk of his skull. He dropped the magazine and slid a new one into the reservoir. He heard boot-steps, and saw 141 limp into view from the corridor. He had something in his hand. 
What is that?
141 raised it and several bangs escaped the thing, which turned out to be 141's BR55HB-AR, which, miraculously, had survived all the fighting the two supersoliders had gone though and was still sling around his body. Scuffed, scratched and it's black-gray parkerizing worn off in large blotches, it nevertheless fired it's last magazine of 5.3x44mm bullets at 2994. 
Several struck and 2994's left arm went entirely dead. His chest received several new holes and his breastplate became swiss cheese to the tungsten-cored armor piercing bullets. 
2994 stood there, bleeding and surprised, as the battle rifle clicked empty, amazed that he hadn't anticipated 141's rifle. He hadn't even expected 141 to be alive after taking a grenade face on. Indeed, 141's face and entire body were charred and bruised. But, even with all the beating he'd received, even with the impossibility of his situation, even with the hell raging around the ship as they stood there, 141's eyes still said "I am a Marine, and I will not stop until there is no enemy."
Category:Black Team
Category:Universe I