Halo: Restitution/Prologue

PROLOGUE
ZERO-SUM
DATE STAMP ANOMALY
LOCATION UNKNOWN
ASCERTAINING NECESSARY INFORMATION
He tossed, deep in sleep, unable to escape the images that flooded his head, random, unordered, chaotic, reviling, lurid. The flash of a suppressed weapon here, the snap of a cracking vertebra there; a flash of an upturned face, eyes filled with tears, mouth silently pleading to be spared, for mercy. Mercy withheld, the widening of the eyes as the victim realized where they were, the smooth and greased precision of the hair trigger's path, the familiar kick of the rifle butt into the shoulder plates, the crimson flash of bright life blood ejected from its broken domicile, splashed on the white of the snow, the grey of the cinder block wall. It hit him like one thousand spiky fists of cold realization, burning and twisting and laughing at his remorse, mocking his attempts to shut it out, to close it down with the technique of apathy, so calloused now from repeated use. The parade of faces came next, one after the other, cold dead eyes in various shades of accusation, regret, shocked surprise, and bitter acceptance, staring, staring, deep into his eyes, past him, through him, into him. Reading his thoughts, relentless in their dark march across the plains of the mind, accompanied by the percussive sounds of shots, ringing out from different calibers, different guns, different atmospheres. Every place he'd been, every face he'd destroyed, everything always came back to him in the end. The faces drew closer, and he could recognize them, or at least the shades of who they may have been. The evil one smiled calmly and said, lips drawn back over a predatory smirk, as it had been so many times before, "Got another one for you, Operative. Another one. Another one..." 
The next face took its turn to speak, raising its bored and unfocused eyes to an audience of none, reading as if from a script, "We here at the Medical Review Board find nothing wrong with the physical or mental condition of the operative in question that could not be solved by a few days rest. We also prescribed this medication..." 
"...Another one for you..." 
"...To reduce symptoms in the case of..."
A new face arose, its eyes filled with tears of disappointment, attempting to understand, but finding no reason which they could cling to, no explanation.
"How? Tell me how you can do it. I don't... don't understand..."
"Another..."
"Pills for the patient"
"Task for you today, little errand I need you to run"
"Why? Why would you do something like that?"
"How did the last--"
"Strange that he's not..."
"Respond, Empire Two-One."
"Package delivered..."
"Extract, extract, extract"
"Why? Why? Why?"
"Respond. Respond. Empire Two-One."
"You'll do it. I don't care how, I don't care about your reasons, you'll damn well do it. Because I told you to."
"Wake up."
"Respond, respond, respond, respond..."
"Wake up!"
He jolted up from the place he had been lying, vision quickly adjusting to the darkness of his surroundings. The holoprojector next to his bunk glowed indigo, then cyan, as a form gradually appeared atop its dusty dais, flickering as miniscule flakes of dirt and grime filtered across the surface. The woman that appeared was familiar, but it took him a second to realize she was saying something to him. Translucent lips formed soundless syllables and the face lifted and contracted in upset concern. The figure waved her arms emphatically, as if trying to draw more attention to herself.
"What?" he finally managed to say.
"Thank God," the construct said, reprovingly reassured. "You were in a pretty bad nightmare from what my sleep-cycle analyzer could tell. You do realize that if you'd been in armor I could have stopped that before it started? We got those meds for a reason, you know. I could tell them that you haven't been taking them..."
"No. Don't do that. It's... well, I guess I've just gotten used to it. Reminds me what I am."
"I don't like to see you like that. I really don't. Next time promise me you'll let me intervene."
"You do what you think is best. What did you wake me for?" He got to his feet, dragging down the rumpled service undershirt that had ridden up during his tossing and turning. He headed for the meager facilities that could loosely be called the head, dragging his hand across the holoprojector and feeling the warm rush of wintergreen venting through his head. He was lucky to even have a room onboard. The rest of the crew had to make do with their barracks and communal showers, something that even now, after years of service, still made him squeamish.
"Well, we made the cruise from the Slipspace ingress point to orbit, so the Captain asked me to make sure you were ready to go within the hour. They need to be moving soon, before the magnetic field comes around for another wave."
"Right. I suppose I'm the only one with adequate armor to withstand that?" He snatched the toothbrush up from the grasper pad mounted on the wall and tapped the water dispenser to squirt a brief jet of water onto it.
"You guessed it. Plus, with your mods, you can take the increased burden better than any other team they could send in there."
"Figures," he said in a flat tone, spitting the remnants of toothpaste into the tiny bowl of the sink. "Always ends up being that way."
"Oh, stop whining," she scolded, "it gets kind of old after awhile."
"You think I don't know that?" he asked, the flash of a smile disappearing from as lips within the brief moment of its conception. He stared into the mirror, dark gray eyes dull and hard, like the old stone of a burnt-out building. Stubble grazed the line of his jaw and dusted his chin, parting itself to admit the several minute scars that ran across his face. Running his hand across his cheek, he turned his head to see if the newest injury was healing properly. The angry red line clashed with the paleness of his skin, a stark reminder of how little actual sun he had seen in his days in the field.
"You alright there, sport?" Juliet piped up.
"Yeah," he said hesitantly, looking into the mirror one last time before re-entering his quarters. The eyes and faces flashed behind his vision for a split second, startling him into awareness. And that was all the time it took for him to wipe it all away and hide it behind the impenetrable wall of his will, apathy settling in like a familiar blanket. "Just thinking."
----
MARCH 27, 2569
UNSC LONG AND DARK DECEMBER
IN ORBIT, ANOMALOUS READING ALPHA-ONE, PELAGIAD-3 DEBRIS FIELD
Captain Marcus Verkarian studied the pattern of the stars from his observation deck. This had become something of a habit in his later years of duty. In his youth, he had been caught up to much in the pursuit of action and excitement, and had missed the natural beauty that surrounded him and the ships he commanded. December was the first ship he had commanded in his "mature" years, and he had promised himself he'd do things differently with this charge. She was the first in the new batch of frigates that the UNSC had ordered from the shipyards around Mars, and she was indeed an improvement to the ships of the Great War, adding comfort and style to the rather warehouse-like interiors.
Resting his hands on the cool chromium-plated rail, he leaned closer to the heavy-duty glass that separated him from the expanse, picking out individual constellations that he had learned over the years. Few were similar from system to system, but there were always a few old friends out there waiting for him to find. There was Orion, and there was... ah, he had forgotten. The chime at the door woke him from his reverie.
"Martin, lights please. Come in!" The ship's AI undimmed the lights, bringing them up to a comfortable red-yellow glow as the Spartan stepped in through the open hatch, illuminating the tall man's solid facial features and reflecting brightly off of the flashing ribbons and rank insignia on his space-black dress uniform.
"You wanted to see me, Captain?" the Spartan asked, posture rigid, eye sockets darkened by the shadow of his low brow. He looked impressive to Verkarian's mind, but then again, that was probably what most people thought when they first met the supersoldiers.
"Son, we're of equal rank. You don't need to be all formal with me. Relax."
"Aye aye, Captain," he said, and shifted his stance slightly. Verkarian sighed. That was likely the best he was going to get.
"At any rate, I was told to inform you of any and all changes to the mission by the brass. So, here's the situation. Martin, diagram to primary projector, please."
A faintly-blue holographic imaging scan took shape in front of the viewport, rotating itself slowly. The structure itself looked like an asteroid, yes, but it was more than mere space debris. Some sort of anomalous magnetic field was pulling in and containing nearby chunks of rock, metal, and wreckage, and it centered primarily on this focal point. Rainbow-colored waves indication magnetic wave polarity, pulsing and shifting slowly around the composite asteroid.
"We are here," Verkarian said, indicating the yellow blip closing slowly on the core. "The next magnetic pulse, while relatively ineffectual against something of your suit's size, could easily cause problems for something as big as the December; screw with our electronics, mess with the hull, you know the deal. Long story short, we've got a half-hour window to insert you, then we have to bug out until..." He checked his watch, an antiquated analog-digital display framed in a shiny gold composite alloy. "Two hours from now, 1914 Hours UNSC Universal."
"Mission parameters remain the same, though, correct?" the Spartan asked, steely eyes fixed on the holoprojection.
"That's correct, son. You're dismissed, unless you have any further questions."
"Aye sir." The gaunt giant of a man executed a slow but precise about face and proceed to walk towards the door when Vakarian called out to him.
"Son," he paused for a moment, unsure of what to say, but wanting to relay his sadness that the soldier had to be used in this way, had to experience a life of nothing but pure war and horror and stress and fear, had to stand in for the rest of humanity, that could not stand on its own. The man was a walking zero-sum game, taking loss after loss so that humanity as a whole could survive, thrive, and profit. He wanted to elaborate on all of these points, to say how sorry he was, to tell him how much his service and the sacrifices of his brothers and sisters meant.
Captain Jared-091 turned his head to glance at Verkarian, the tendons in his neck and shoulders rippling with restrained power.
"Good luck," was all that the senior officer could manage to say, nodding his head once, as if to emphasize his statement and harden the Spartan's resolve. As if that was possible.
"Thank you, Captain," Jared said, and exited the room, accompanied by the hiss of the blast-door's pneumatics. Verkarian sighed and turned again to the stars.
"Martin," he said, "Some music, if you will."