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Let This Be Your Last Battlefield: Survivor's Guilt
Date: 6 December 2010, 10:40 am

Survivor's Guilt
Planet designated P7H-910, Alpha Sirius System
January 5th, 2549

The jungle floor was uneven, covered with thick undergrowth, rotting logs and assorted types of native fungi. High above the jungle canopy provided only the smallest pinpoints of sunlight to pierce through the thick umbrella of leaves and down to the jungle floor. Creepers snaked their way up moss-covered tree trunks while native insects, ranging from small mosquito-like bugs to large, foot-long centipedes flew around or crawled into the smallest nooks within the tree trunks. The heat and humidity was more than the harshest jungle environment on Earth, so much so that Spartan Leon-A091 had begun to sweat under his bulky MJOLNIR armour. The armour suit's climate control systems were struggling to keep him cool, something that further indicated that this jungle was not the sort one would want to spend a great deal of their time in.

Leon was a First Lieutenant, part of a five-man team of Spartans: Spartan-III's to be exact. They had raided Covenant installations on several planets in surrounding systems in the last month or so, causing chaos to their alien enemies, delaying what many in the highest echelons of the UNSC saw as an inevitable attack on a set of human colonies in a relatively close-by sector of space. Leon had seen first hand the gathering Covenant war machine when he and his team had infiltrated and destroyed a Covenant ship yard in orbit around a gas giant: about fifty Covenant ships, many of them cruisers or frigates, had gathered there to undergo last minute maintenance before being sent off to attack the nearby human colonies. It had been by the actions of him and his team that they had crippled twelve of these vessels and completely destroyed the shipyard, escaping in the nick of time (unsurprisingly) and returning to the UNSC stealth-class vessel that had been flying them to and from the locations of these raids. Leon was somewhat surprised that they had survived such an endeavour but he supposed that they were either damn good at their job or damn lucky. He figured it was both.

Today had proven to be a fairly interesting day: they had successfully infiltrated and destroyed a Covenant weapons factory about twenty kilometres away. Being a weapons factory, it had gone up beautifully when the explosive charges they had placed within the factory had been detonated. Plasma was extremely volatile and the blue-white column of fire that had taken the place of the factory had been perhaps more blinding than this star system's sun, forcing the visor on Leon's armour to polarize to its fullest extent as he and his team watched the spectacular light-show. It felt satisfying to know that countless hundreds of Covenant soldiers of a variety of species had died in that explosion. For every Covenant soldier killed, several innocent human lives were saved. Leon supposed that this was how he justified slaughtering the enemy and he had never felt a pang of guilt about it. Their enemy had killed billions during their relentless push through human controlled space, "glassing" entire planets and ploughing through UNSC ships as if they were nothing but a fly on a car windshield. At least Leon and his team were having some effect on the Covenant war machine, although due to the size of the Covenant forces they had far more work ahead of them to finish the war. Countless more Covenant ships and perhaps hundreds of thousands of foot soldiers were still out there, plotting their next move against humanity.

Leon had only received about three hours sleep in the last few days. Being a Spartan, he could get by on minimal sleep but after all that had happened during the week he could feel the tiredness beginning to take its toll. His legs ached from all of the walking and running, having needed to traverse uneven jungle terrain for the last twenty kilometres. He had marched farther than that but added onto everything else he was really beginning to feel the need to sit down and rest. Naturally his squad leader would disallow it, especially since they were required to be at the extraction zone in the nest half an hour. Their pickup would not stay for long for fear of being detected by Covenant forces in the region, despite all necessary precautions made to prevent such a thing from occurring. One could never be too careful when it came to the Covenant, something that was certainly understandable. A single Pelican drop-ship would be no match for a squadron of Banshee scout-craft.

Leon stopped briefly against a large tree trunk, flicking off a nasty looking centipede which had started to crawl across his shoulder. He pulled off his Operator-class helmet, running his free hand through his short-cut brown hair. He was sweating across the forehead and the brief moment of cool air he felt as he removed his helmet was well worth the effort. It was so hot and humid that every centimetre of his skin felt sticky, getting stuck to his armour's under-layer and making movement somewhat more uncomfortable than it should have been. He looked around, watching as the other four members of his team emerged from the undergrowth behind him. They were scattered in a typical staggered formation, with Leon taking point. They had taken turns leading the group and it seemed about time for someone else to take the lead. Captain Thomas A-055, the no-nonsense leader of the squad, emerged from the undergrowth on Leon's right. Leon slipped his helmet back on, his HUD highlighting the Captain with a helpful blue arrow. From a little to Leon's left emerged the nimble but armoured form of 2nd Lieutenant Livia B-121 and a short distance from her both Warrant Officer Francis A-133 and Sergeant Brad A-059 came through the thick jungle undergrowth. They were all outfitted in similar suits of armour, although each member of the team had taken the time to add their own colours and emblems. Leon's armour was a distinct golden-yellow colour mingled with a matching light brown. The Captain's armour was mostly black, with extra ammunition pouches scattered across his front and waist.

"Lieutenant, I think it's about time you went to the rear of the group," the Captain said, his gruff voice sounding almost normal through his helmet.

"I was about to ask about that, sir," Leon said. He hefted himself up from against the tree trunk, watching as the others scattered through the immediate area, carefully checking all directions with weapons drawn. Leon pulled his MA37 assault rifle from the magnetic strip on his back, flicking the safety off and starting over a fallen tree that had since begun to decay on the jungle floor. It was very unlikely that they would be attacked, as most of the Covenant forces in the region would be busy trying to contain the mess the Spartans had made back at the weapons factory. All the group had to do was press on through the jungle to a clearing where a Pelican drop-ship would be waiting to pick them up. It was a simple enough extraction. They would be taken back to the UNSC stealth-class ship currently hiding in the shadow of one of the planet's moons and they would be debriefed, probably congratulated and hopefully given some time to rest. Hopefully, Leon thought absently. He had not had a decent meal in a week. MREs did not count as "decent meals", especially when most of the military rations they were given tasted like cardboard or plastic, depending on what the food was packaged in.

"Brad," the Captain announced, getting A-059's attention, "You're on point."

"Got it, sir," Brad replied, his usually chirpy voice resounding through both the jungle and the radio within Leon's helmet.

Brad started up ahead, pushing through some jungle ferns. The rest of the team followed, with Leon tagging along a few metres behind the Captain. Around him he could hears birds calling and bugs chirruping, although most would fall silent as the Spartans went by. A small green lizard had perched itself on a fallen tree, watching the group walk by with a pair of piercing yellow eyes. As Leon walked by it flicked out its tongue, tasting the air before speeding away on its four nimble legs.

It was about ten minutes later that the group found a somewhat large clear area in the jungle, where the canopy was less dense and where the undergrowth had thrived. Brad held up one hand, signalling the group to stop. The Captain marched forward, assault rifle raised as he went to investigate whatever it is that Brad had noticed. Leon crept forward, standing to Livia's right. She looked at him, her expression impossible to determine through her Scout-class helmet.

"Lieutenant," she said, acknowledging him. Leon simply nodded in response: he had always noticed that Livia seemed to pay more attention to him than anyone else, something he had taken as a sort of respect…but Leon had always thought he might have been missing the point, feeling that it was some other reason that Livia took more notice of him than anyone else she knew.

The Captain knelt by a short ditch, one filled with thick jungle vegetation. Carefully, he pulled some of it away and gazed in an examining manner at what he found underneath. The other members of the squad stepped forward, peering into the ditch. Two bloodied, dirtied and quite dead marines lay in the ditch while spent bullet casings, most likely from their assault rifles, lay scattered around them in the dirt. With a careful hand the Captain snatched the dog-tags from both dead marines and rubbed away the dirt that had caked upon them, reading out the names.

"Sergeant Vincent Matheson and Corporal Carl Davis," the Captain announced, "Both from the 3rd Infantry regiment, 2nd battalion."

"What the hell are they doing out here, sir?" Francis asked from behind, "We're the only humans on this planet…"

"That's obviously wrong if those two are lying dead in a ditch on this planet," Livia replied, her tone piercing and decisive. She had never gotten along too well with Francis, probably because the pair were direct opposites. Livia tended to approach things in a methodical and rational manner, whereas Francis was considerably more reckless and hot-headed. Regardless, whatever dislike they had for each other would disappear in the heat of a firefight. They knew better than to let their petty squabbles impair the rest of the squad's ability to work together. They had known each other for years, right from the very beginning when they were inducted into the Spartan-III program. Obviously their superiors had noticed their capacity to work well together since they had ended up in the same team and had remained that way for years.

"The 3rd Infantry regiment was in charge of defending a UNSC shipyard that got destroyed in a Covenant attack a month ago," the Captain said, standing up. He turned to face the others. "If that's the case, then I'm confused as to why they're here."

"Maybe they were captured, sir?" Brad suggested, "They were brought here and escaped into the jungle, only to get cut down in what looks like an ambush. Those casings are all around, as if they were shooting in all directions. There's no evidence of an organized firing pattern. And they're covered in plasma burns, which makes the identity of the culprits kind of obvious."

"You know what?" Leon interjected, "I think this doesn't add up whatsoever. Two soldiers, both of whom were MIA, show up on some backwater alien controlled planet and just happen to get killed in a place we stumble across? That's a one in a million chance…maybe even more than that. One in five million."

There was a brief silence amongst the team. They all weighed the consequences of this discovery in their minds, trying to work out if there was indeed a much darker reason behind it all. The Captain took a careful gaze at their surroundings, stepping past Leon as he stepped up on a fallen tree and tried his helmet radio. The Pelican drop-ship that was supposed to be waiting for them did not respond, either because it had not actually arrived yet or…

"No response from our intended extraction drop-ship," the Captain stated, "And there's no way we'll be able to get in touch with the stealth ship."

"We wait," Livia replied, "The Pelican probably hasn't arrived yet."

Leon could tell that the others had gone on edge. It was quite noticeable, the tension in their voices. Leon could not help but feel the same himself, but being a Spartan he knew how to control his nerves as did everyone else. They were still human, they still felt fear and anxiety. They were just better at putting it under control. The words of one of Leon's many trainers and superior officers wandered into his mind at that moment: You must learn to control fear and not let it control you.

"Sir, I suggest we get moving," Leon said, looking towards the Captain, "Staying here isn't safe."

"We should never have stopped in the first place," the Captain said, shaking his head as he realized his mistake. He paused for a moment, before continuing: "I can understand why we're making mistakes, though. We're all tired, we're all feeling the strain of our actions in the last few weeks take their toll…"

"You know what I'm thinking, sir?" Francis asked, interrupting the Captain. He nodded towards the two dead soldiers. "Those two dead army boys lying dead over there…they were captured and then they were let out, hunted for sport. I wouldn't be surprised if Elites were into that sort of thing."

"Damn it Francis," the Captain snapped suddenly, "Do you have to interrupt me?"

Leon was perhaps the only one who noticed the ripple in the air behind the Captain as he started having a go at Francis. The Captain was tired and on edge, as they all were so his anger was not unfounded.

"I think we should just get moving and forget about what we found here," the Captain said, "And that—"

The dark armoured stealth Elite, eight feet tall and massive in its muscular frame, shimmered into being from behind the Captain and plunged the two-pronged blade of its glowing energy sword through the back of the Captain's head. His helmet did little to stop the searing razor-sharp blade, with both prongs going straight through his skull and smashing out the front of his visor. The Elite pulled the sword free and let the Captain's lifeless corpse tumble onto the ground below.

At that moment chaos erupted around the four remaining Spartans as several more camouflaged Elites shimmered into view, surrounding the group whilst hiding in the undergrowth and the tree-line. Leon stared at the Captain's body for a moment, almost dumbfounded by the fact that he had died. He had known the man for so long, had developed a close friendship with him…and yet he now lay dead in the undergrowth, his visor smashed while blood trickled down his face. His blue eyes were wide open, as if he had not expected death at that moment. No one in the squad had expected it. Death could come so quickly and without mercy…

Some said Spartans never died. That was just typical public relations stuff. Ever since the Spartan Program had gone public the UNSC had been billing them as indestructible super soldiers. They could not be further from the truth. Spartans could die just like any ordinary human could.

Leon raised his assault rifle and squeezed the trigger. The weapon buckled in his grip, hammering each round home in the front of the Elite that had killed the Captain. The active camouflage the alien used limited the strength of its shields, something that benefited Leon greatly since the alien's shields failed after a few direct hits. The assault rifle rounds ripped through the alien's armour, cutting it down. The Elite fell backwards, slumping against a tree trunk and smearing dark purple blood as it fell against it.

Leon became aware of the several other stealth Elites surrounding them, all of which had opened fire with plasma rifles and plasma repeaters. Leon shifted his fire to one of the Elites up ahead, just to his left. His assault rifle's magazine clicked on empty at that moment and Leon hurriedly began to reload. He rolled into cover behind a thick tree trunk, plasma bolts slamming into the front of it and burning holes into the wood.

He looked towards the others, watching as Livia and Brad went running into cover, weapons firing. Francis went to follow but the glowing blue orb that was a plasma grenade came flying from the tree-line ahead, sticking itself to the Spartan's left leg. Francis only realized this at the last moment, about to reach down and attempt to pluck the glowing grenade off of his leg when it detonated. The blue-white flare of flame enveloped the Spartan and scorched the nearby undergrowth, leaving a smoke black crater. Scorched pieces of what had formerly been Francis rained down all around, with one bloodied and scorched severed arm landing only a short distance from where Leon was crouched. Leon saw it and for a moment felt a bout of nausea: Francis had always spoken of going down in a blaze of glory when his time came. He probably had not envisioned the death he had received, though.

There were Elites everywhere it seemed, with plasma fire coming from nearly all directions. Leon slammed a fresh magazine into his assault rifle, fully aware that it was his last one. He spotted another one of the Elites further ahead and opened fire, blasting away its personal shield before several of the rounds pounded into its stomach and sent it falling down, emitting a pained groan as it went.

Brad came racing up from behind, holding his M90 shotgun. He hit the ground at a run and slid a short distance, coming up beside Leon. He fired a few shots at a pair of advancing Elites before hurrying to reload, doing it was finesse even in the heat of a firefight.

"They're everywhere, Lieutenant!" He shouted above the noise, "This whole thing was just one big setup!"

"You think they were actually after us?" Leon asked. It seemed probable, but he had never considered it. It might explain why they were only being attacked by Elites, as they were probably the ones who had organized the ambush.

A golden armoured Elite emerged from the tree-line up ahead, adorned in regal armour and sporting a scar down one side of its set of four mandibles. Leon had little time to react as the golden armoured Elite raised and fired a Needle rifle, sending a razor sharp shard of pink crystal straight into the side of Brad's head. The helmet the Spartan wore did little to stop it penetrating. Brad fell backwards in a heap and Leon was about to reach over and check if the Spartan was still alive when the needle rifle shard embedded in Brad's skull exploded, spraying blood and bits of brain as it took out a large chunk of his head.

Leon watched and turned away, disgusted and dismayed at the sight. With a sudden bout of rage he stood up, firing away the last magazine in his assault rifle towards the golden armoured Elite. The Elite rolled out of the incoming fire, disappearing into the thick undergrowth. Leon's assault rifle hit empty again and without any spare magazines the Spartan dropped the weapon, pulling his M6G pistol from its holster and firing away at the few stealth Elites up ahead. Two of them were brought down with carefully placed shots, with one Elite having its brains blasted out the back of its head. There seemed to be a few more of the stealth Elites left, firing from the undergrowth, sending blue and pink plasma bolts zipping by Leon, some slamming into the ground near his feet. Leon went to reload his pistol just as a plasma bolt hit him in the right leg, the pain tremendous as it burned through his armour and scorched his skin.

Leon stumbled, trying to gather his bearings. An Elite lay dead nearby, riddled with assault rifle bullet holes. The Spartan started for its dropped plasma repeater, seconds before the sound of an assault rifle firing caught his attention. Leon grabbed the plasma repeater and opened fire at the nearest Elite, hammering the alien with pink plasma bolts and cutting it down with the powerful weapon. Leon looked back and saw Livia running up to help him. She stopped behind a set of rocks and fired her assault rifle at the few Elites up ahead.

Leon slowly raised himself to his feet, his wounded leg burning as he put weight on it. He heard movement in the tree's behind him and saw a flash of the golden armoured Elite, this time moving swiftly through the undergrowth. Leon was about to raise his weapon when the powerful alien lunged forth from the bushes and plunged an energy sword through Leon's stomach.

The pain was intense, burning the Spartan from the inside. Leon screamed, able to see the Elite up close: it had an amber coloured eye, its other eye on its right side closed up because of a nasty looking scar that ran down that side of its face. Leon could feel his strength leaving him as he struggled to push the Elite off of him, able to smell the alien since it was so close to him. Blood was welling up in Leon's mouth, some of which he spat out and splattered on the visor inside his helmet. The pain seemed to be easing and Leon was suddenly aware of a numbness he could feel at his legs. He stumbled but the Elite held him up, savouring the worthy kill as it eased the energy sword out of Leon's gut. Leon struggled to stand up by himself when the Elite let him go, unable to control or feel his legs as he fell at the Elite's feet. The alien looked down at him briefly but was distracted when Livia opened fire, bullets pounding against the alien's shield. The Elite was about to start for Livia when the alien's shield failed. Several rounds caught him in the chest and he fell to the ground, merely a few feet from where Leon lay. The Elite began to crawl away, pulling free a plasma pistol and firing a few shots at Livia, who ducked to avoid being hit.

Leon eased himself against a tree trunk, trying his best to stop the bleeding at his stomach. So many thoughts were racing through his mind, whether he would live or die and if he lived, what would he do? He tried to move his legs but the messages his brain were sending them did not reach them, as if some rather important connections had been severed. Leon put a hand to his gut, using his free hand to pull his helmet off. It was almost stifling inside that thing and if he was going to die he didn't want to die cooped up in a full suit of armour.

Livia raced to his side, looking over his wounds. She seemed shaky, something that was understandable since everyone else on their team lay dead. There were still Elites nearby, searching for the remaining Spartans while the golden armoured one had since disappeared from sight.

Livia took off her helmet, revealing her somewhat gentle face that hid a very tough, no-nonsense woman. Her hair was closely cut to about neck length and was auburn in colour, her eyes in a matching colour. She removed a canister of bio-foam from one pouch on her armour, sticking it into the dispenser tube on Leon's armour.

Leon was already beginning to feel a bit light-headed and was reminded of it when Livia grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him.

"Damn it Lieutenant, look at me!" She exclaimed, making him meet her gaze. The bio-foam dispenser sent a wave of the cold, stinging stuff straight into the worst of Leon's wounds. He emitted a pain grunt as his stomach wound stung profoundly.

"Can you walk?" She asked. Leon took a moment to answer, unable to concentrate on her. She shook his again, trying to get him to listen. Leon could not shake the sight of Brad lying with a needle shard in his head, one that exploded and sent bits of his skull flying all over the other Spartan. It was something that Leon would never be able to forget.

"No…" Leon spat, tasting blood in his mouth.

"Then I'll carry you to the extraction point," Livia said. Leon shook his head. That would be hard to do and even more difficult with the Elites scouring the jungle for them.

"Leave me here," Leon said. Livia seemed to contemplate this for a moment and then shook her head.

"Damn it, just leave!" Leon shouted, "That's an order! Leave me here! There's no use in you dying as well!" It was perhaps a fool's courage, he thought, giving such an order. He did not want to die, neither did anyone else he knew. But if he saw Livia die…he could not live with himself if that happened.

Livia seemed conflicted for a moment. Slowly, she stood up, taking up the shotgun that lay near Brad's body.

"I'm going to lead the rest of those Elite bastards away," she said, a determined gleam in her eyes, "And then I'm going to come back for you."

"No…just go…get to the extraction…"

"I'm going to come back for you, Leon," Livia said, seconds before she turned and ran away, firing a few shots in the general direction of the Elites in order to get their attention. Leon watched her run away, plasma bolts flying after her. He did not want to see her die as well, not after everyone else in their team had. And there he suddenly found himself alone in the jungle, wounded and immobile, with nothing left to do but wait...and hope.

October 12th 2552
On board the UNSC cruiser Last Light of Dawn, in orbit around Earth

Spartan Leon A-091 woke up drenched in sweat and breathing quickly. His living quarters were dark and he fumbled briefly for the readout on the wall, pressing a key that brought up the current time: 2345 Hours. He had only fallen asleep two hours earlier, further hinting at another night of dreams and nightmares. He pressed another key that switched on the lights in the room, revealing a modestly sized set of living quarters that came with only the bare essentials.

Another night of the same old dreams, most to do with watching the people he had fought alongside for so long die in such horrific manners. Leon ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, trying to shake the images out of his mind. The images of all the people he held dear, his fellow Spartans, dying in an ambush before his very eyes. To him they had been brothers and sisters, comrades in arms. It was like losing family and they had been the only family he had ever known. His real family, from what he had been told, had died when the Covenant had glassed a UNSC colony world. They were nothing but a footnote in his own personal history.

Leon could remember the weeks that had followed the ambush, where he had spent a whole week living in the jungle, unable to walk and drifting in between conscious and unconscious states. He had never seen any trace of Livia again, something that ate away at his conscience every day and night. There was no closure, despite all the effort he had taken to find out her fate. To not know her true fate was worse than seeing her die. If she was still alive no one, not even the people in the highest echelons of the UNSC or the spooks at ONI, had found any trace of her. She was most likely dead, just like the rest of the squad. And Leon had been the sole survivor, getting picked up by a UNSC patrol a week later and taken to Reach for debriefing.

The last two years had been spent on Reach where he had undergone tremendous amounts of physical therapy. His spinal column had been severed towards the bottom, explaining why he had lost feeling in his legs. Fortunately, medical technology had come far enough to repair the spine and the nerves that ran along it. Such procedures required months and months of physical therapy where Leon had needed to learn to walk again. Even the professional doctors who had seen over his case had doubted he would ever get full movement back in his legs again, something he had been determined to prove them wrong about. He had struggled, stumbled and eventually walked his way back to being able to move his legs properly again, without help from a nurse or crutches or even a wheelchair.

The psychologists who had met with him had determined that Leon suffered from a typical condition known as "survivor's guilt": being the sole surviving member of his squad had scarred him mentally. The fact that he never knew Livia's fate had also left an indelible mark in his psyche, something that tormented him just as much as seeing his squad die had. And finally, the crippling blow had been one of the psychologist's statements: after Leon had talked about Livia for hours, the way she was always kind to him, always friendly and seemingly more interested in him than anyone else…Though Leon had missed the point entirely, the psychologist had determined that Livia had indeed been attracted to Leon. A missed opportunity like that had further hurt Leon mentally, coupled with the fact that he did not know her true fate.

Now Leon had been deemed fit enough to return to active duty, something that Colonel Ackerson, the effective "father" of the Spartan-III program, had been apparently pleased to hear. It might have explained why the Colonel wanted to meet in person with Leon. Apparently Leon had been out of the loop for quite a while, having left Reach in early August, narrowly missing a Covenant invasion on that planet. Colonel Ackerson had a few things to tell the Spartan, especially with recent events.

Leon was about to lie back down in the bed when the computer set into the wall nearby beeped loudly. Someone was trying to contact him so slowly, noticing that his right hand had begun its usual involuntary shaking (something that had only started happening shortly after being found by the UNSC after the ambush), Leon pressed a button and heard the voice of Commander Noland filter through the internal communications system. He seemed like a nice enough man and had made it his personal job to see to it that the Spartan fitted in well with life on the ship during the trip to Earth.

"Lieutenant, it's the Commander. We've received word that the folks down in Sydney have organized a time for you to come down. The shuttle will be ready in about half an hour, so I suggest you start packing your things. I'm sorry if I disturbed your sleep…"

"Don't apologize, sir," Leon said, holding his shaking right hand with his left in an effort to halt its movements, "I was already awake."

"Right then. The shuttle will be leaving from hangar seven and I'll send a man up if you need help packing anything…"

"There's no need for that, sir," Leon replied, "I haven't got much to pack."

"Understood. I'll see you at the hangar in half an hour, then."

"See you there, Commander." Leon flicked a button and ended the communication. Carefully he slipped out of bed, slipping into a casual uniform while he began to pack what little he had. One item, the largest of all that he had, was the case containing his MJOLNIR armour. He hadn't worn it since he had been returned to the UNSC after the fateful ambush almost three years ago. Whether he would wear it again was anyone's guess. It was no secret to him that most of the higher-ups in the UNSC considered him "damaged goods". Whether Colonel Ackerson thought the same thing was yet to be determined.

With the organization that only came from being in the military for as long as Leon had, he carefully packed his things and departed the living quarters. He had never been to Earth before, oddly enough, having spent most of his days on Reach. With Reach gone he supposed that Earth would become his new home.

Let This Be Your Last Battlefield: The Colonel
Date: 16 December 2010, 8:18 am

The Colonel
October 13th, 2552
UNSC High Command Facility Bravo-6, Sydney, Australia

The vista that was Sydney harbour was well improved by the bright sunshine that shone across the entirety of the city. A few thin, wispy clouds hung up at high altitudes while a passenger jet trailed along even further up, leaving behind a thin white contrail. Seagulls cawed and some pecked at the scraps of food left on the tables on the balcony, fighting each other for some of the larger pieces. The facility was a large, circular shaped building that sat on the harbour and went miles underground. It had been nicknamed "the Hive" by the people who worked within, for the interior was taken up by massive multiple-floored rooms with walkways crisscrossing and personnel, visitors and workers alike, wandering along as they went about their own business. There were plenty of sealed and restricted areas, including the ONI offices that were several floors underground. Armed guards stood or sat at desks by some of the bulkhead doors while surveillance cameras watched the interiors of the facility from every corner. It was one of the most secure facilities on the planet, complete with all the latest in security systems and even multiple AIs that ran assorted functions.

The landing pad on one of the larger balconies that overlooked the harbour was also home to one of the many eating areas for the people who worked at the facility, providing one with a view of coming and going airborne traffic as well as exposing people there to the fresh sea air. At this time of the morning the place was fairly quiet and empty with a few low-level technicians seated outside the food stall, talking amongst themselves as they had breakfast. Some did manage to provide a passing glance to the new arrivals on the nearby landing pad, most of which were ordinary soldiers and officers. One stood out from the rest, being somewhat taller and certainly more muscular than those around him.

First Lieutenant Leon-A091 walked up to the security checkpoint that lead into the facility from the landing pad, being greeted by a rather uninterested gaze by the burly security officer standing guard. Leon placed a finger on a scanner at the checkpoint, watching as the computer monitor above flicked through countless files before finding his own and indentifying him. The security officer ushered him through the metal detector and into the facility within.

Leon was dressed in a grey casual uniform. His luggage had been left on the transport that had taken him to the facility, awaiting his return. Whatever Colonel Ackerson had in mind for him would probably mean being shipped off somewhere since it was very unlikely Leon would be staying here at the Hive. He supposed his next assignment would not be a very exciting one as even he knew that most of the higher-ups in the UNSC still saw him as unfit for service. If what he had heard was true, then Ackerson and his lackeys had been pulling strings in order to get this Spartan-III back in the action. Colonel James Ackerson had always been a master manipulator, known to put even his closest associates at each other's throats if it meant that he would get what he wanted. He had been the so-called "father" of the Spartan-III program, aiming to create a much more efficient means of making super soldiers than the Spartan-II program had provided. In all ways he had succeeded, Leon was proof of this. He was also partly to thank for Leon's survival over the last several years: Ackerson had singled out Leon's squad, excluding them from Operation PROMETHEUS which had resulted in the deaths of nearly all of the Spartan-IIIs. Instead, Leon and his squad had been sent on some other, somewhat smaller but still quite important operations. Those had continued up until the fateful day on P7H-910.

Leon had only met Ackerson in person a few times in the past. The Colonel had always thought somewhat highly of Leon, oddly enough. It probably had something to do with the Spartan's amazing results during the first years of his training that outmatched a good portion of his peers. Even so, Leon had proved to be a bit reckless…and as such had not made team leader, instead Thomas-A055 had become team leader. Leon had Ackerson to thank for fixing up the costs of the surgical procedures and physical rehabilitation he had endured in the last few years, the very procedures that had enabled him to walk again. There was still some pain at his lower back on occasion, a mere side effect of all the surgery as his doctors had assured him. Leon knew he was lucky to be walking again, even luckier to be just plain alive. If anything, he owed a lot to Colonel Ackerson even if he had barely seen much of him. The last time they had met was on Reach, right before Leon had gone into the first surgery to have his lower spine repaired. Ackerson had visited him in the hospital, delivering a rather typical "hope you pull through" speech that was standard fair for officers visiting wounded soldiers in hospitals. If anything the Colonel was probably hoping that Leon would be up and walking again as soon as possible, in order to carry out whatever operation the Colonel had planned.

Leon wandered into one of the larger, multiple-floored interiors of the High Command facility. The signs on the walls and directional arrows took him to a reception where a bored looking and young female Chief Petty Officer sat, typing away at a computer terminal. Her blonde hair was tied back and she seemed to only just notice Leon's presence about thirty seconds after he stopped at the reception desk. She looked up, eyed him carefully and turned her attention from the computer terminal towards the Spartan.

"Lieutenant," she said, "You must be the one the Colonel's expecting."

"Does he know I'm here?" Leon asked. He looked down, noticing that his right hand was shaking again. It was beginning to happen more frequently, something that annoyed him but kept reminding him of just how lucky he was to be alive. The psychologists he had seen in the past few years said it was just another effect of his "survivor's guilt" or "post traumatic stress disorder". Whatever was causing it did not last too long as the shaking subsided after about half a minute.

"I'll tell him you've arrived," the Chief Petty Officer replied. She thumbed a button on the intercom terminal on the desk, speaking into it: "Colonel? Lieutenant Leon is here. Should I send him in?"

"Tell him to wait a few minutes. I'm in the middle of an important call." The Colonel's voice was stern and typically authoritative for a man in his position. He did not sound too pleased at the interruption either judging from his flustered sounding tone.

The Chief Petty Officer looked up at Leon, providing a typical friendly customer service smile. From the look in her eyes, Leon could tell that she did not like the Colonel very much. Then again, not too many liked Colonel James Ackerson.

"Take a seat, Lieutenant," she said, "I'm sure the Colonel won't keep you waiting for too long."

Leon nodded and for a moment was unsure on what to do, eyeing a few vacant seats nearby before heading over. There were a few other offices nearby, each home to some sort of high-ranking officer and each in charge of something different. There was an obvious ONI liaison officer in one office, the door leading inside being marked with the eagle's wings insignia of the organization. Leon had a feeling he could be waiting a fair while so he sat back, trying to relax but finding this more difficult than it should have been. There were too many things on his mind: What did Ackerson have in mind for him? Would it be some lousy assignment until he was deemed fit enough for proper duty or would he be thrown straight back into the fire again, so soon after getting fully recovered.

Leon felt a dull ache at his lower back and shifted in his seat, rubbing the hurt area with one hand. The pain subsided almost immediately but he was sure that it would return.

A minute or so passed and Leon's mind had begun to wander, unsurprising for someone waiting in a relatively dull waiting area. There were a few potted ferns around while sunlight streamed in through a large window on the far wall. The harbour outside looked blue and pristine, thanks to the numerous pollution filters in the water. The Sydney Opera House, which had been rebuilt at least seven times during its long lifespan, sat on the far edge of the harbour and had since been overshadowed by countless tall, monolithic skyscrapers that had sprung up over the years of the city's existence. Australia, as a whole, was one of the few countries that had been left untouched by the civil wars and rebellions that had occurred across the world since the twenty-first century and as such had grown almost unhindered.

"Fancy seeing a Spartan here," a gruff, German-accented voice said from behind. Leon turned around, meeting gazes with a tall, greying haired man of about forty-five who stood in the casual uniform of an army Sergeant. He had only one arm and even that one was prosthetic, grasping a cigarette which he took a lengthy drag on as he looked down at the Lieutenant.


"I don't believe we've met…" Leon began but the Sergeant interrupted.

"No, we haven't," the Sergeant said, "But I'd know one of you Spartans anywhere. You're all big, tall and somewhat out of place. Hell, you look like a damned fish out of water in a place like this."

Leon did not know what to think of this comment, but he supposed his lack of social interaction did show. He had never been much of a people person, confiding in only the Spartans he fought alongside while keeping professional relationships with his superiors. He found crowds of civilians uncomfortable, which might have explained his anxiety now. In his training he had been taught to fire a weapon, treat wounds and everything else a soldier needed to know. He just had not been taught how to socialize with civilians or even regular army people like the Sergeant standing near him.

The one-armed Sergeant sat down on the vacant seat next to him, dabbing out the end of his cigarette in the ashtray on the glass table in front of them. With the cigarette out of the way the Sergeant snatched up one of the news computer pads that were lying on the table, using the thumb of his robotic arm to flick through the displays as he sifted through the latest news.

"If you don't mind me asking," Leon said, getting the Sergeant's attention, "But you've only got…"

"One prosthetic arm when I should have two?" The Sergeant smiled at Leon's off-guard expression. "I get asked that a lot. Simple enough answer: I lost both arms in a grenade explosion and my soldier's salary could only get me one replacement. I'm saving up for another and until then I'm stuck doing clerical work." There was a pause before the Sergeant spoke again:

"I'm Sergeant Steiner, by the way," the Sergeant said.

"Lieutenant Leon-A091," Leon replied.

"You should get yourself a proper last name," Steiner said, "Serial numbers lack personality. I've encountered you Spartan types before: you're damn good at your jobs but you're all a bit…too into the work."

"I'm not sure what you mean…"

"You live and breathe the military," Steiner continued, "You haven't anytime for anything else. That's what I feel is the biggest flaw with you Spartans: you're missing out on things that make you human. For all the augmentations you have, you're still flesh and blood humans." He paused, shaking his head. "Sorry if I'm offending you…"

"You're not…"

"I can ramble on a bit," Steiner said, sitting back in the seat. Leon could tell that Steiner had seen a lot during his time in the army. There was a weary look in his eyes, as if he was tired of war yet had little else to do but to continue fighting.

"What do you mean, about us missing out on what makes us human?" Leon asked, curious. He had never had many conversations with ordinary soldiers like the Sergeant as his team had hardly ever worked with any other branch of the military. It had always just been him and his team, heading off to blow up a Covenant factory or something similar.

"I'm sure you have friends, comrades in arms," the Sergeant continued, "But have you ever loved someone, Lieutenant?"

"What do you mean?"

The Sergeant sighed.

"You've never genuinely loved someone, have you? I have a wife and daughter and I love them more than anything else. Now, I'm wondering: what about you? Anyone who's genuinely close to you?"

Leon had no idea on what to say as a response. Being brought up solely by the military, with superior officers coming and going had never really left any room for genuine feelings of love for anyone else, at least for Leon.

"Well, if you ever do get out of the military," the Sergeant continued, "And you find someone who's right for you, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. I can't really explain it, though."

The Sergeant returned his gaze to the news computer pad in his hand, flicking through the various articles with startling speed and coordination, his robotic arm obviously an improvement over an ordinary organic one.

Leon sat quietly, unable to help but think about what the Sergeant had said. For all the biological augmentations he had undergone he was still human, the Sergeant was right about that. The people that Leon had been closest to had been those in his squad and they were all gone, although Livia's fate still ate away at his mind like a parasite. He had never found out what had happened to her, whether she was dead or the Covenant had taken her alive for whatever reason. And maybe the connection Leon had felt towards her had been more than just as a comrade and a friend…even the psychologists had suggested the possibility of attraction between the two of them from what Leon had told them and from the superior officers who had known his squad well. Nothing had ever come of whatever connection had been between the two of them, inciting the feeling of a definite missed opportunity. It would haunt Leon for the rest of his life, this much he knew. Just like he had learned to live with the pain that came and went in his lower back and the vivid recollections of the death of all those on his squad, he would have to learn to live with not knowing Livia's fate. And this hurt more than anything else, physical or mental.

"They're building a massive memorial in Oregon State National Park, over in the US," Steiner said, breaking Leon out of his thoughts. He had found a news article on the computer pad held in his robotic hand concerning the memorial: "It's to remember those who fell at Reach, civilian and military. All the millions killed are going to have their names listed on a computer terminal at the base of the structure."

"I don't think they'll list everyone," Leon said, somewhat sullenly.

"What do you mean?"

"A lot of Spartans died on Reach but they're always going to be counted as 'missing in action'."

"If you ask me, it's a damned waste," Steiner said, "This whole war is one damned waste. Then again, we're fighting in it. Maybe we could be counted as those causing some of the wasting."

Leon frowned but decided to say nothing. Steiner's cynical view on the war could have offended some of the more military-minded people. Leon's squad dying had not been a "waste", at least in his eyes. They had died like any Spartan should, as much as it hurt to think about. Obviously Steiner saw things a bit differently. Still, he did have a good point. And that very viewpoint would soon be accepted by Leon, even if he did not think so at this point in time.

Colonel Ackerson's office was impeccably maintained, with dust almost non-existent on every surface except the pristine clean blue-grey carpet. The desk was an expensive looking wooden one, made from the signature timber that came from a rare tree that could only be found on one planet in the Outer Colonies…a planet that had since been completely glassed by the Covenant and as a result the desk was probably worth a fortune. The UNSC emblem was on a flag draped across the back wall of the office, above the window behind Ackerson's desk. Some boxes were lying around in the corners of the room, spoiling the near perfect tidiness. It appeared that Ackerson was packing away his personal effects, most likely in preparation for a transfer.

Leon A-091 snapped to attention as he entered and saw the Colonel. Ackerson was dressed in a typical white dress uniform and was seated at his desk, speaking in a frustrated tone into the video phone on his desk. Leon could not see who it was he was talking to from where he stood and knew it was none of his business. As far as Leon could tell, Ackerson was still in the middle of the "important call" the Chief Petty Officer outside the office had mentioned. It did sound like Ackerson was nearing the end of it, though.

"…damn it, just tell him that things will be fine! That I've got everything under control!" Ackerson certainly sounded annoyed. Leon did not hear the response from the person on the other end of the video phone as the Colonel had the audio coming through an earpiece he wore at one ear.

"Look, Halsey's as good as dead. We don't need to worry about interference from her." Ackerson paused for a moment, having barely noticed Leon's presence. "I don't know about you, but if I was on a planet that got glassed I don't think I'd be looking too good, what do you think?" Another pause as the recipient spoke. Ackerson seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Finally, you're seeing things my way," the Colonel replied, almost smiling (not that Ackerson ever really smiled), "Get things ready and I'll be right over. I've just got a few things to take care of. I'll see you on Mars."

Ackerson put down the earpiece and flicked off the video phone, effectively ending the call. He looked up, seeing Leon and his gaze appropriately brightened. Whatever frustration he had felt while talking over the phone had suddenly vanished.

"Please, sit down Lieutenant," Ackerson said in a friendly manner, gesturing to one of the chairs before his desk, "I'm glad to see you back on your feet again…" He trailed off, realizing the double meaning behind his words. Leon relaxed and sat down.

Colonel Ackerson was middle-aged with greying hair and weary, weather-beaten features. His reputation preceded him although Leon had done his best to try and ignore the rumours that circulated concerning the Colonel, if only to keep the perception Leon had of him clear of any third party interference. Ackerson had done a lot for him and the Spartan-IIIs, even if the man was a master manipulator and ruthless military man. His rivalry with Dr. Catherine Halsey was almost legendary, although Leon had steered clear of the main extent of the stories behind it. Hearsay was something he did not want clouding his perception of the man who had funded his recovery.

"It's been a while since we last met," Ackerson said, "I'm glad to see my favourite Spartan is up and moving again as he should be."

"Uh, sir…"

"Yes?"

"Last time we talked, you said I was your second favourite Spartan."

"Yes, but my favourite Spartan died on Reach," Ackerson replied rather bluntly, "And there's hardly any of you left anymore. There are plenty of new ones training on Onyx but they're not quite ready to get in on the real action. As you should understand, Reach was a disaster. You were lucky you left when you did."

"Two weeks before the attack, sir." Leon briefly wondered what might have happened if he had stayed on the doomed planet. Chances are he would have died with everybody else who did not make it off the planet before the main bombardment from the Covenant fleet began.

"We're trying our best to keep it quiet, to keep the illusion up that we're holding out against the Covenant," Ackerson continued, "But it's not going to last. Rumours are spreading and the media's already started launching investigations." He held up his right hand in front of his face spacing his thumb and forefinger a mere centimetre or two apart. "We're this close to losing the war, Lieutenant. This fucking close. We need all the assets we can get and that's why I pulled enough strings to get you back on duty." Ackerson lowered his right hand, taking a breath. Leon could tell that he was passionate on the subject, understandably so since the loss of Reach meant that nothing stood in the way of the Covenant and Earth. The Cole Protocol had done a good job of keeping the Covenant from finding Earth but there were numerous instances where ships did not adhere to it, an act that was considered treason but the culprits were always too important to get arrested. Who could really blame the Captain of a civilian ship that jumped right into Slipspace and to Earth when an entire Covenant fleet showed up?

"Thing is, and there's always a catch," Ackerson continued, "Is that hardly any of the other higher-ups think you're fit enough to be sent back into the action. The military psychiatrists and psychologists…they've provided reports that more or less say you've got problems. Serious problems, such as post-traumatic stress disorder."
Leon simply nodded. He was unsure on what to say or if he could really say anything at all in response.

"And there's not a hell of a lot going on at the moment in the form of 'real action'," Ackerson said, "The last big thing was the fall of Reach. Now, it seems, all we can do is sit and wait for the Covenant to show up here on Earth. It'll happen eventually unless, by some act of divine intervention, the Covenant either miss us completely or get held up."

"That sounds uncharacteristically pessimistic coming from you, sir," Leon said.

"I'm not a pessimist, Lieutenant," Ackerson replied, "I'm a realist. And the reality is we can't do anything to halt the Covenant onslaught. The orbital defence grid around Earth is as yet barely functional, with only a third of the three hundred MAC platforms in proper working order. There's nothing between here and Reach save for vacuum. And the vacuum of space isn't much."

Leon was silent as Ackerson spoke, digesting all of this information. He had only just heard of the destruction of Reach by the Covenant. It had been somewhat painful to hear that the planet he had called home for most of his life had quite literally gone up in flames. Even so, he considered himself lucky to have left the planet when he did. It seemed that he had been blessed with good luck from the very beginning, as some of his trainers had said during his early years.

"You've been out of the loop for a few years, Lieutenant," Ackerson continued, "My aim here is to get you up to date. Reach is gone, Earth is vulnerable and the few Spartans left in active service are effectively useless. They're scattered and they're weak. Now, I've never been a big fan of bio-augmenting soldiers, such as yourself for example, but you can get the job done. That's all that really matters in the end: getting the job done. And your service record is near impeccable, save for the anger you stir up when you do something reckless. To top things off, a lot of people think you're mentally unstable. As such, I've been put into a bit of an awkward position." He paused for a moment, eyeing Leon carefully.

"Some want you sent to a rehabilitation centre, just so you can endure yet more sessions with an army shrink until they're absolutely certain you're in peak mental condition," Ackerson said, "But I know that'll be a horrible waste of talent. I've made a few calls, met a few people and I've come up with something a bit better, but it's not the best. For starters, you better get used to living on Earth. It's going to be your new home."

Leon nodded. Earth did not seem all bad, especially since efforts had gone into returning the planet to its former, unpolluted glory. Cities such as Sydney were prime examples of this.

"Earth has its flaws but some places are considerably better than others," Ackerson added, "Sydney's a nice city. Unfortunately, you're not going to be staying in Sydney. You're going to North Africa."

Leon did not know much about the different regions of Earth and as such did not know how to take the news.

"North Africa?" He asked, "What's it like in North Africa, sir?"

"Well, for starters it's a desert. And it's hot. It's dry. You can expect to sweat a hell of a lot while you're there." He paused for a moment, his expression neutral. Leon frowned, if only slightly. He was being sent to North Africa? That's the best place Ackerson was allowed to send him?

"There's always been a lot of public backlash against the UNSC, but it's peaked recently," Ackerson continued, "Especially with taxpayer money being used to build ships and orbital defences, rather than going to things like education and health. People are angry, they're bitter about the war. Most don't know how close we're coming to extinction but even so there are groups causing trouble. The Tunisian Secessionist Forces, or TSF for short, are just one of many groups. As you've probably gathered, they operate in Tunisia, which is in North Africa. They're completely anti-UNSC and they've so far managed to bomb some UNSC installations in the country. They're enough of a threat to warrant an increased military presence in the country, especially since they're getting funded by wealthy people who think too much about politics. To them, we're just right-wing oppressors, fascists. And they've probably got the ultimate, if somewhat unachievable goal of making Tunisia independent of the UN. Naturally, we can't let that happen."

Leon listened carefully. He knew immediately that he was going to be relegated from fighting alien to fighting rebels. He was just surprised to hear that there were rebels on Earth, right at the heart of the UNSC. He supposed that dissent could turn up anywhere, as it had done so in the Outer Colonies years before. Since most of the Outer Colonies had been destroyed it seemed likely that most of the dissent would turn up elsewhere.

"You're going to get sent to the main military base in Tunisia, Fort Oasis it's called. And you're going to be responsible for training the new soldiers that are at that base." He paused, noticing Leon's confused expression. "I know, it's probably below you but it's the best position I could get for you. And look at it this way: you'll be helping plenty of people by getting rid of rebels. All the rebels do is cause trouble. If they can't get what they want they blow things up."

"Rebels on Earth, sir? That seems a bit…"

"Unlikely? It isn't. A lot of people don't like the war, even if it is for humanity's survival. And a lot of people seem to think the UN is fascist. I, personally, would prefer right wing over the left wing bullshit the TSF is proposing. But my political beliefs are beside the point. The point is, you're back in active service even if your new position is going to be a bit below you. And I can guarantee that once those rebels realize that a Spartan is on their tail they'll quite literally crap their pants."

"So, that's what this is, sir? A scare campaign?" Leon was beginning to dislike the whole idea. He knew that he was probably in no position to complain, seeing as Ackerson had obviously tried to get something better for him, but Leon could not stop himself. "And I'm going to be doing the scaring?"

"I just said that it's probably below you," Ackerson replied, "That you would probably be better off fighting the Covenant but the people above me, the ones that run this show…They don't think you're mentally fit for that. I can guarantee that if you help with this rebel problem you'll get sent on a much worthier assignment. Until then, you're stuck in North Africa. There's nothing either of us can do about it."

Leon simply nodded. Ackerson was right: neither of them were in a position to change it.

"I've taken the courtesy of having your MJOLNIR armour sent down to the workshops on the lower floor," Ackerson said. Leon was about to ask why but Ackerson answered the question before the Spartan could ask it: "You've been out of the loop for a while, Leon. Personal shield technology is standard-issue for all Spartan soldiers on active duty. It's only prototype stuff but it works. And if you get into a firefight with some rebels it'll probably save your life…or at least stop you from getting hurt."

Leon nodded again. Personal shield technology had only ever been hinted at until he had been put out of commission by his wounds received on that fateful day a few years ago. It did seem likely that the scientists had perfected it and had installed it on MJOLNIR armour for Spartans, who deserved such extra protection because of all the high risk operations they carried out.

"I think I've just about said all I wanted to," Ackerson said after a moment's pause, "Have you got any questions, Lieutenant?"

Leon shook his head. He had no questions, no complaints. Ackerson had made things pretty clear. Reach was gone, Earth was vulnerable and Leon was to have his talent wasted training new recruits in a far flung country. He supposed he should be grateful at being able to get back into proper work. And he supposed he should thank Ackerson for all the man had done to help him through his recovery. Instead, Leon simply gave a simple farewell to the Colonel and departed the office. The Spartan was suddenly not in the mood for talking anymore.

Let This Be Your Last Battlefield: Oasis
Date: 24 December 2010, 10:31 pm

Oasis
October 15th, 2552
Fort Oasis UNSCDF Base, Tunisia

The heat was the most noticeable thing about Fort Oasis. Located in the middle of a desert, miles outside the city of Tunis, Fort Oasis was in fact far from any sort of Oasis. It had received its name from the fact that it was the only point of interest for miles, as an oasis would often be similar in that it would be the only thing in a seemingly endless desert that was worth noting. Fort Oasis was somewhat large, complete with an airstrip and several buildings worth of barracks and offices. The base itself was situated upon a hill, an obvious means of defence if it were ever attacked. An enemy that would have to fight uphill would be at a significant disadvantage compared to the defenders who would have the high ground.

In the years of its existence, Fort Oasis had seen little action. To many it was simply a backwards posting, reserved for those who were either unlucky enough to be sent there or were deemed unfit for anywhere else. Even at a time like this, when terrorist organizations were actually proving themselves to be quite a threat, Fort Oasis was still home to perhaps the most misfit soldiers in North Africa. A lot of new recruits from nearby towns and cities were sent to the base, especially in recent months because of the influx of terrorist activity. Fort Oasis was home to a mixed bunch of soldier types, having originally been home to the 39th Infantry Division. It had since taken on board a few platoons worth of marines, some pilots and their Shortsword aircraft as well as a squad of ODSTs. It was a mixed bunch of soldiers with an even more mixed up bunch of nationalities. In this day and age nationalities did not mean much anymore, as different cultures were so spread out across the world and the remaining colonies that it seemed no single country was home to any single race of people. Everything was mixed nowadays, regardless of where it was located.

Tunisia was one of a few countries to be part of the North African Protectorate (NAP) but still retained an independent status when it came to its own local affairs. It was also one of the few countries to have changed very little since the twentieth century, save for its main capital, Tunis. That city was a gleaming coastal metropolis, with towering monolithic structures that dominated the skyline. A lot of the smaller towns throughout the country were mostly old fashioned, with stone and brick buildings as well as new technology existing with old: old fashioned manual doors kept locked with computerized locks, market stalls secured by cheap AIs…Tunisia was one of the few countries where some of the most advanced technology was only being fundamentally used, otherwise it kept to its old ways. Even Fort Oasis was a mix of old and new, having existed for years but having changed hands many times. There were still old military installations scattered around, some dating from World War Two (which were in a crumbling state) while others were only slightly more recent, with bunker complexes dating from the twenty-third century able to be found tucked away in valleys and within mountains. It was these obsolete military installations that many believed were being used by terrorist organizations to operate from, moving from one place to another using the underground network of tunnels and bunkers that crisscrossed the desert. It made trying to find any one terrorist cell a near impossible task, especially since the UNSC had done little to help the forces at Fort Oasis. They were too busy trying to organize a fleet strong enough to take on the Covenant in the wake of the fall of Reach. Ground forces were scattered at best and the only real defence Earth had were the three hundred orbital defence platforms, the result of years of research and construction as well as billions in taxpayer money. Perhaps the sheer amount of money spent on such an enterprise was one of the reasons why many believed that the orbital defences would be a waste of time. If a whole fleet had not stopped the Covenant at Reach, what hope did some orbital guns have?

At this time in the morning it was already heating up. The sky was practically cloudless and the sun was baking the desert with its harsh rays. The usual routine had begun at the base and a new truckload of recent recruits had arrived, "greener than grass" as some might have called them.

Corporal Marinus Calderwell was one of the luckier people on the base, primarily because he was not a proper soldier per se. Rather, he was in charge of clerical work and acted as an interpreter for a few of the different languages spoken on the base, ranging from English, Arabic, French and Nubian. It really was a diverse bunch here on the base, with Marinus himself being descended from French ancestors in Algeria. He was about thirty, average build and with blue eyes and short dark blonde hair. He was dressed in typical desert coloured uniform, complete with a cap that was doing little to stop the sun from burning his face and neck. Even so, it mattered very little as he spent most of his day inside an air conditioned office well out of the desert heat.

Breakfast over in the mess hall had been unremarkable, as was to be expected from an army kitchen. Things had since become worse with the recent arrival of the rowdy ODST squad, stuck on the base due to a military shuttle accident over in Tunis. As a result all flights had been delayed for a few days, leaving the squad of ODSTs with little else to do but stay on the base. They were loud, brash and arrogant. They also had the habit of hurling insults at anyone who so much as looked at them funny, Corporal Calderwell included. He would be relieved once they were gone to wherever it was they had supposed to have gone by now. The ODST squad spent much of their time sitting at table in the corner of the mess hall, speaking loudly and swearing even louder. It was a wonder no fights had broken out because of them. One would happen eventually, Calderwell was quite sure of it.

There was a fair amount on the agenda today and the Corporal was thinking through what he had to do as he traversed the grounds of the base. At the main administration building where he worked, the UNSC flag as well as the Tunisian flag flew up high, rippling in the warm desert breeze. There was some vegetation on the path up to the building but mostly there was sand and plenty of it. That sand got everywhere, even indoors. It could get annoying, finding sand all over the carpet in the office.

Calderwell was walking along when up ahead he saw the no-nonsense Sergeant Major Derek Plummer heading his way. Plummer was in his forties with stern features and dull blue eyes. He was in a similar uniform to Calderwell, save for the Sergeant Major rank insignia on the sleeves. He was tall and broad-shouldered, walking with an air of authority. Calderwell managed a friendly smile as the Sergeant Major walked by.

"Good morning, Sergeant Major," Calderwell said as he walked past.

"How do you know what kind of goddamn day it is?" The Sergeant Major asked, walking by. Calderwell stopped, frowned and tried to work out just what the Sergeant Major's problem was. Some might say that the Sergeant Major had trouble "working the stick out of his ass" although Calderwell was unsure of what this meant.

Entering the main administration building, home to several offices save for the commanding officer who had taken up residence in a private cabin nearby, Calderwell scraped the soles of his boots on the mat at the door, getting rid of the sand that clung to them. He looked at the receptionist, a young blonde haired female, Sally her name was. She barely acknowledged his presence, instead she took a datapad off of the desk and slid it across to the Corporal.

"More forms for you to fill out," she said, not even looking up.

"Oh…uh, thanks." Calderwell took the datapad, unsure on how to react. Then again, Sally was always like this.

"Anything I should know?" He asked her, trying to strike up some semblance of conversation with the woman. Sally looked up this time, having had her eyes glued to the computer screen in front of her.

"Nothing's changed since yesterday," she replied, "Why?"

"Just curious..."

Calderwell leaned forwards a little, trying catch a glimpse at her computer screen. She frowned and flicked a switch, turning it off.

"What…What are you doing?" Calderwell asked.

"Nothing. Why?"

"Oh…ah…no reason."

There was an awkward silence. Calderwell looked around at the empty room, unsure on whether he should actually leave or not.

"Are you going to go?" Sally asked, sounding rather insistent.

"Yeah…I'll go now."

As Calderwell was about to leave, Sally looked his way and seemed to remember something important.

"Corporal!" She called out after him. Calderwell stopped and turned around.

"Yes?"

"I almost forgot." She picked up another datapad from the desk and handed it to him. "There's some important guy coming in today. The Major wants you to help him with some of the paperwork."

"Important guy?" Calderwell asked, frowning as he took the datapad.

"Yeah. He's going to be staying for a while, apparently. That's all I've been told."

"Right…" Calderwell said, flicking through the information on the datapad. A few phrases caught his eye, such as "weekly reports required" and "nominate someone to keep an eye on him." Calderwell began to read all of this as he started towards his workspace down the hall, almost bumping into the doorway as he kept his eyes on the datapad and nowhere else.

It was surprising to discover that a Spartan-III was on his way to the base. Apparently he was going to be here at Fort Oasis for a while and that the higher-ups wanted him carefully observed. Calderwell had only heard a bit about the Spartans, how they had an almost mythical status as super soldiers. It surprised him to find that Major George Golding, the commanding officer for the entire base, had assigned the Corporal to be the one keeping an eye on the Spartan. The higher-ups wanted weekly reports and Calderwell would be the one to write those reports. He saw this and shook his head, knowing just how awkward it would be to have to constantly watch this Spartan and report his actions to High Command. It was an odd task but Calderwell knew better than to complain. He liked it here, at Fort Oasis, with his comfortable office job. He didn't want to get transferred, something that had happened to him a few too many times in the past at other places for a variety of reasons. If he had to report on this Spartan weekly then he supposed he could manage it. How hard could it possibly be?

A small, rather cosy subsidiary building sat a short distance from the main administration building. Behind it was Fort Oasis' runway, lined by a few hangars that were populated by Shortsword fighters. There were about five in total, all five of which had seen very little action in their time here. A few Falcons and Pelicans were parked under shelter from the desert sun near the airstrip. Major George Golding's office took up the small subsidiary building and he had a window that allowed him to watch the activity on the runway as the Shortsword pilots would often go on practice flights and occasionally do some actual reconnaissance. The Major's office was certainly large, with his desk at one end by the window, being an expensive wooden one shipped from someplace off-world. A few chairs of differing sorts were ahead of it as well as a table in the middle, often used for gatherings of sorts during the evenings. Poker games with the other officers often took place here, as did other assorted card games.

Major George Golding was a forty-six year old man with brown hair, complete with shades of grey seeping through the colour. His eyes were blue and he had a thick, somewhat bushy moustache just below his nose. His favourite hat, a beige cowboy-style one, sat on one part of his desk. He wore it wherever he went whenever he was outside and he did quite often wear it indoors as well, save for when he was alone in his office filing paperwork. His brown desert coloured uniform was well-decorated. George had always envisioned himself as having a career in the military and had signed up as soon as he had been old enough, spending time on a few different colony worlds. He had ended up in the ODSTs and had spent several years with them before being relegated to a backwards posting here in Tunisia. As far as things went, his career had most certainly gone downhill. He could not quite work out why, he supposed it had something to do with his dislike of one of the higher-ups. As far as what part of the military he was in now, he had been taken out of the ODSTs and had missed a potentially lucrative posting on a ship called the Pillar of Autumn. Now he was more or less regular army, stuck to run a military base in the middle of nowhere. He briefly pondered what could have been and realized one rather important thing: the officer he had a dislike for had had a nephew, one who had been in the ODSTs as well. Major Silva had been this nephew's name, although George could not be sure. He supposed it did not matter much now. What mattered was that he had a fairly comfortable but unexciting job here in Tunisia. All the talk of rebel activity here had been vastly overestimated as no sort of engagement with any sort of rebel group had occurred for at least a month.

George had been mulling over some files for the past half hour, having finished breakfast beforehand. It seemed that today could very well turn into a rather unusual day for there was apparently a Spartan, of all things, on his way here. It seemed that High Command did not want him out in the field for a variety of reasons, most of which had something to do with the Spartan's mental state of mind. Regardless, George was grateful for the help such a brilliant soldier would bring. Those Spartans could get things done and he would be great to train the new recruits here. There were never too many recruits showing up here anyway but when there were they were always so "green", as the terminology went, it seemed unlikely that any of them would ever become professional soldiers.

Putting aside the datapad he had been reading, George sat back in his seat and, after a moment of thought, reached into a pocket in his uniform's shirt and pulled out a fresh cigar. Smoking was one of those things that came and went in and out of fashion, with its once negative side effects easily cured by today's medical advancements. George stuck the end of the cigar into his mouth, lit the far end with a lighter he retrieved from a pocket in his pants and took a long drag on. Smoke wafted from the tip and towards the ceiling and the smell of tobacco suddenly became quite pungent. George waved some of it away as he returned his attention to another datapad, this one being about recent requisition orders for the base.

There was a knock at the door and the resident AI, some irritating British accented one named Wellington, chimed in through the computer terminal on George's desk.

"Sergeant Major Plummer is at the door. Shall I permit him entry, Major?"

"Yeah, go ahead," the Major replied. He could have very well have gotten up and unlocked the door himself but he supposed that was unnecessary, seeing as the AI could do it for him.

The door clicked open and in stepped the Sergeant Major. He was a large man, the Sergeant Major, covered with muscle and with broad shoulders to match. He looked more like a body builder than a soldier and had probably seen far more combat than the Major ever had. A soldier as finely skilled as the Sergeant Major should be out on the battlefield doing some good. However, in Sergeant Major Plummer's case it seemed he had ticked off the wrong people a few years ago and had been sent to Fort Oasis as a result. He had apparently refused promotions several times, preferring to remain a Sergeant Major rather than get relegated to a desk job if he got too high in rank.

It was somewhat common for the Sergeant Major to come in and talk with the Major about whatever came to mind and this morning was no different.

"Well, Sergeant Major, it's another fine day in the middle of nowhere," George said, putting down his datapad.

"No different to the last one?" Sergeant Major Plummer asked.

"No different to the last one," George agreed, nodding his head. He paused for a moment, looking up at Plummer. "You care for a coffee, Sergeant Major?"

"I'm alright without one, sir."

"Good, because I was about to say that we're out of ground coffee anyway," the Major replied, "We're also running out of milk, biscuits and those air freshener things that get put up in the toilet blocks. In fact, it's a miracle we get any of the luxuries while we're out in the middle of nowhere. Those requisition officers over in Tunis who are supposed to ship in stuff for us are hopeless at their jobs."

As a whole, Fort Oasis was hopelessly understaffed and undersupplied. They may have had soldiers here but most had never seen any real action. They may have had Shortsword pilots but none were especially competent. And the base itself was never properly supplied. It was one of the most neglected military bases in North Africa and somehow the UN expected the personnel here to be able to fight a war against terrorist groups. George guessed that the whole understaffing thing was a direct result of the recent completion of the orbital defences, each orbital gun platform being home to a contingent of troops. The UNSC was preparing Earth for what they saw as an inevitable Covenant attack, leaving much of the ground forces on the actual planet horrible under-strength. It did have some logic behind it, though: if the Covenant did come they would most likely glass Earth completely rather than launch a ground invasion. That would explain the sheer importance of the orbital defence grid: it would stop even the largest of Covenant fleets in its tracks. That was the idea, anyway. George had seen the Covenant in action a few times before: it was hard to imagine them being stopped by a few hundred space cannons.

"I heard that there's a new rifle being introduced," George said, remembering an important notice he had recently read, "It's going to replace the DMR. They're calling it the 'BR55'."

"I've seen it, sir. It looks like a big piece of plastic," Plummer answered, "I think I'll stick with my pistol."

The Major shrugged. Plummer could do what he wanted, it was not as if they would get into many firefights here in Tunisia. Whatever terrorist presence there was, it was nothing big. Just a bunch of pissed off civilians with guns and explosives. That sort of thing happened all the time.

"There's another thing," the Major continued, "Some Spartan soldier's due to show up soon…"

"A Spartan, sir?"

There was a pause. Plummer was frowning, unsure of what he should think. The Major shrugged again.

"I was just as surprised to hear about it as you are," George said, "But, it seems the higher-ups in the UNSC have decided to dump the poor bastard here with us. Apparently he's been through a lot…" He paused, remembering some of the things he had read up on the Spartan. "He's been through a hell of a lot, more than both of us put together. So, the big wigs think he's a bit too traumatised to be put back into fighting aliens so they're going to stick him with us for a while, help train some of the recruits. In all it's going to act as a sort of 'break' for him. I can imagine he hasn't had much time off, being a Spartan and all. You do know what I mean by 'Spartan', don't you?"

"Well, sir, there's the ancient Spartans with the swords and shields," Plummer replied in his stern Texan drawl, "And then there are the super soldiers that are a bit more recent. Don't assume I've been living under a rock for most of my life, Major."

"I didn't assume anything…" George frowned, trying to decipher the Plummer's typically neutral expression. Damn, he was hard to work out. Did he ever joke? Even when it sounded like he was it was impossible to be certain. The Sergeant Major had never cracked a smile in the years that George had known him.

"Anyway, he's bound to show up sooner or later," George continued, "And if anything, I want him treated nicely. Like I said, he's been through a lot. Apparently he lost his entire squad on one mission. It must have been pretty tough on him when that happened."

"I know the feeling, sir," Plummer replied.

George was about to reply when the AI, Wellington, chimed in again.

"Major, the Spartan has just arrived. Should I send him here?"

The Major sighed, annoyed at the interruption.

"Speak of the Devil," Plummer said.

"Send him up, Wellington," George ordered, "And try not to interrupt me like that. It scares the living hell out of me sometimes."

"I'm sorry sir; I'll take that into consideration."

"I don't like that AI," Plummer said evenly. The Major simply nodded in agreement. Neither of them had been a fan of talking, intelligent computers. They had the capacity to give even the toughest of soldiers the creeps.

It was a few minutes before the Spartan walked into the office, outfitted in a perfectly kept uniform bearing the insignia of a First Lieutenant. He looked to be in his mid twenties, perhaps slightly younger. His brown hair was cut short and his skin was somewhat pale, probably a side effect of being indoors for the last few years during his physical rehabilitation. The Sergeant Major stepped aside as the Lieutenant stepped forwards and stopped at the front of the Major's desk, snapping off a salute.

"Sir!" The Lieutenant stood rigidly to attention.

Christ he looks young, the Major thought upon seeing the Lieutenant. Faced with such a well disciplined soldier the Major was momentarily at a loss on what to do. People around here, especially officers, were not so…professional.

"Spartan Lieutenant Leon A-091 reporting for duty, sir!"

"Uh…" George took a moment to coordinate himself. What the hell were they going to do with a Spartan in such a backwards military base? "At ease, Lieutenant." The Lieutenant immediately relaxed, looking down at where the Major sat attentively.

"Tell me…Leon…" The Major looked up at the young but definitely experienced soldier carefully. "Have you got a last name? You know, a proper last name? Something that isn't a number?"

"No sir," Leon replied in a neutral tone.

"Well, you're going to have to get one," George said, "You have to understand, you're no longer in the real serious game anymore. I know you're probably not happy, being sent to this dump and I feel sorry for you. A good, certainly talented soldier such as yourself ought to be out there fighting the good fight. People around here aren't so professional. If you want, you can call me 'George' rather than 'sir' or 'Major' all of the time. The Sergeant Major here still insists on calling me 'sir' and 'Major' despite the fact I've told him he doesn't need to…"

"I prefer it, sir," the Sergeant Major interjected. He was a military man to the bone.

"Anyway, you're here now and I know I can rely on you." The Major took a careful puff on his cigar, watching the Spartan. Someone who had more or less grown up in the military, they understandably seemed to be lacking something…a certain spark, perhaps a genuine personality. From what the Major had read about the Spartans, the Spartan-III program that Leon was a result of had been pursued to create an army of expendable super soldiers. Leon was just one of the few who had survived.

"Have you read my file, sir…I mean, George?" Leon stumbled over his words for a moment, unused to referring to a superior officer by their first name.

"Well, I read what I could," George replied, "But most of it was covered with black ink, thanks to the ONI sensors. I do know you've been through a lot, that you lost your squad and that you've been recovering from a serious injury for the last couple of years. I also know that the UNSC High Command doesn't think you're fully fit to be sent back out into the real thing. That's why they've sent you here, to train recruits in the fight against terrorism. They've also ordered me to get one of my men to write weekly reports on you for their reading pleasure. Maybe they're just going to check your progress for a month or two, I don't know. I am certain that you will get sent back out into the good fight again. You're a Spartan, it's in your blood."

Leon simply nodded. It was hard to read what he was thinking as a soldier like him was a master at hiding emotions behind an emotionless facial expression. From his somewhat narrowed eyes it was obvious he was not looking forward to whatever awaited him here in Tunisia.
"It ain't so bad, Lieutenant," the Sergeant Major said, getting the Spartan's attention, "The food here's at least half decent."

"It'll be an honour to have one of the legendary Spartans here, if you don't mind me sounding a bit clichéd," The Major said, "It'll certainly bring some much needed life to this place."
"Sergeant Major," he continued, getting the man's attention, "It wouldn't trouble you too much if you were to show our new arrival around the place? Show him to his room, even?"

"I can do that, sir, no problem," the Sergeant Major replied.

"Make sure to introduce him to Corporal Calderwell," George added, "He's the one who's going to be writing up those weekly reports about you, Lieutenant. I'd expect he's not looking forward to the job…"

"With all due respect, sir," Plummer said, "Corporal Calderwell's a moron."

"Yeah, well…he's the best moron we have." The Major smiled in response. Sergeant Major Plummer, unsurprisingly, did not smile at all. George let his smile fade, especially when he noticed that the joke had been completely lost on the Spartan.

It seems Spartans lack a sense of humour, the Major thought absently. He took another puff on his cigar, watching the Spartan carefully. He seemed a bit out of place, something that did not surprise Major Golding at all. The poor bastard was being wasted here, in Tunisia. He would be better off fighting the Covenant…although it seemed unlikely that there were any real operations being launched against the alien menace. Reach had fallen, George had heard this much. With most of the UNSC fleet destroyed, just how did anyone expect them to be able to launch viable anti-Covenant operations?

"I'll have someone come along and take your luggage for you, Lieutenant," George said, "In the meantime, the Sergeant Major will take you on a bit of a tour around the place, get you acquainted with the people here."

"I understand sir," Leon replied.

"You can wait outside for now, Lieutenant," the Major said, "The Sergeant Major and I would like to talk in private for a minute or two."
Leon nodded, saluted again and then turned around and left. George exchanged glances with Sergeant Major Plummer once the Spartan had left.
"It's damn sad," the Major said, stubbing out the end of his cigar into the ashtray on his desk as he spoke.

"What is, Major?"

"That," the Major replied, nodding in the direction the Spartan had gone, "You know what they do? They get a six year old who meets their genetic requirements and send them to boot camp. Then they subject them to God only knows how many surgical enhancements."

"From the way you were talking to the Lieutenant, I thought you liked him, sir." Plummer sounded only a little confused as he could see George's point and it was a valid one.

"I don't have a problem with the Lieutenant," George said, "I have a problem with the Spartan program. You notice how much of a fish out of water he is? It's sad because he can't handle people. He can't socialize. He just takes orders and gives orders. He's just a cog in a much larger machine. Apparently all the Spartans are like that. What's even worse is that the UNSC originally considered Spartan-III's like him completely expendable. They've probably just sent him here because they got no suicide missions to send him on."

"Isn't that a bit harsh, sir?" Plummer asked, although he did not seem too concerned about the harshness of the Major's perspective.

"Like I said, I have no problem with the Lieutenant," George replied, "He just completely lacks personality. What is humane about forcing a six year old kid into the military? The end result may make a good soldier…but it doesn't make a proper human being." He paused for a moment, thinking. "If we keep that sort of thing up, we're going to lose our humanity in this war."

"He does lack personality, Major," Plummer replied, "That I agree on."
"Yeah…he seems less like a person, more like a…a…" George struggled to find a proper term to describe Leon.

"He seems more like a hyper lethal vector," Plummer said. The Major nodded in agreement.

"He probably is pretty damn lethal," the Major added, "All of those Spartan types are, apparently." He paused, before adding: "What last name do you think we should give him?"

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