Money Talks

Thud.
The crate landed upon the ground with a heavy, loud noise, signifying the entrance of its owners onto the hangar deck. Several other bags followed it down the open ramp door of the D-79 Condor gunship, as the infamous silhouette of MJOLNIR power armour stood in the opening. Behind it, several other demons were at work in the troop deck, stacking boxes and loading weapons. Clearly, they didn't trust whatever awaited for them outside the spacecraft.
Varus didn't blame them. He wouldn't trust himself either, if all he had been given for information was an abandoned landing pad in the midst of a glassed city, on what was officially considered a dead planet. Despite his intentions to honour the deal, he could not be sure of those around him - especially the Kig'Yar, the newest contractors under his watch. Technically not part of the Banished yet, only time would tell if they had been paid by one of Varus' faction rivals to ruin the deal - and by extension, his reputation.
The first Spartan - the one that stood in the Condor's hangar doorway - with one last throw, let down a duffel bag that landed with a loud clang. Varus pondered upon that. It seemed that there was something in the bag far heavier than the supersoldier had let on with its super-strength: even a Brute such as Varus had to appreciate raw strength when he saw it.
The Spartan, with one hand resting on a hip holster, walked down the Condor's ramp towards Varus, who in turn began to tread towards the armoured figure, his hands cradling a carbine upon his chest. Looking back to his coalition of jumpy Unggoy and mischievous Kig'Yar, he let out a simple bark that his troops knew well - stay back or die.
When the two were but five metres from each other, they stopped, staring at each other - Varus' brutish face portraying his apprehension, the Spartan's helmet giving nothing away but an air of calm and control. Despite this being Varus' home territory - and the home territory of the Banished itself, as well - it was clear who held the advantage in the showdown between the two leaders. Varus had the raw size, the figure of an unflinching, unrelenting beast who would rip apart his enemies if they so much as looked at him incorrectly. And yet the Spartan, standing almost two feet shorter than the Jiralhanae, was in command of the oncoming confrontation. The relaxed yet ready pose conveyed his assurance of who would win if things came to blows, his legs surrounded by crates and duffel bags - crates and duffel bags that, if all went well, would see Varus considerably richer than he was the day before.
The silence of the two behemoths continued for some time, as Varus' Unggoy bodyguards began to nervously double and triple-check their weapons. The Kig'Yar, for their part, showed no sign of anxiety or worry - although that could either be a good or bad sign. Behind the leader of the Spartans (Varus assumed it to be the leader - that was how it worked for the Jiralhanae, why would it not be for demons?) the other power-armoured soldiers milled about, waiting either for a successful deal, or the beginning of conflict.
The quiet was broken when the Spartan began to talk.
“You have the information we want?” asked the super-soldier, his voice spliced and augmented through his armour’s speakers. The tone was serious, yet Varus thought he heard a hint of apprehension in the voice. Varus knew that Spartans were, at the very least, part-human, however such a show of emotion told Varus two things about his conversational opponent:
-      He was inexperienced, unaware of how to mask his emotions in tone, or;
-      He was tired, worn down, exhausted after what could be years of constant operations and missions.
Varus knew the feeling of fatigue. He had fought for years against humans, conquering their planets and crushing their cities to dust. He had gained a healthy respect for their combat prowess, as they had proven many times that despite their size, they would fight as hard, and sometimes harder, than Varus and his clan. And when the Covenant tossed him out to die on an unnamed, exile human world, he had toiled and worked to survive, to thrive. Then he did the entire process all over again as he joined the Banished, earning his spot through trial by combat against others – Jiralhanae, Sangheili, and humans. And every time, the human opponent was the most dangerous one. Not the strongest, not the most powerful, but the most tenacious.
Returning to the present, Varus gave a gruff and curt nod to the Spartan. “I have what you want,” he said.
“Good,” said the Spartan. “We’ve got your payment. A mixture of UNSC credits, Innie thalers and gold bars, as per your request.”
Varus raised an eyebrow at the mention of gold. He had included it with no expectation of it actually being fulfilled, and yet here it was – most likely in that grey duffel bag. Varus desperately wanted to ask how they obtained it, but knew he would not receive an answer.
“Very well. What exactly do you wish to know about the Ghouls?”
“We want to know who they are,” responded the Spartan.
“They are former members of what you call Delta Company,” Varus asserted. At the mention of Delta Company, the Spartan visibly stiffened, his hand clutching his holster.
Varus was unperturbed. “I’ve worked with them before. I don’t know their names, but they do have numbers on their armour – unlike you.” The armour of the Spartan was clearly well-worn, however Varus could easily tell where the suit’s numbers used to be had been filed away – most likely on purpose.
“They were 075, and 236.”
The Spartan nodded, without saying a word. He then gestured to the bags. “The reward is all yours. Pleasure doing business. Be seeing you around, Varus.”
Varus grunted an acknowledgement, before moving towards the boxes and bags. As he did, he swear he heard the Spartan mutter something under his breath.
“Money talks.”
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