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The alarm clock cut violently into the silent night with shrill methodical beeps well before the sun's first rays spilled over the horizon. Paul Jensen sleepily reached a hand through the inky darkness and fumbled for the off switch, there would be no snooze button today. Slipping from under the warm covers, Paul quickly rushed through his morning routine of showering, shaving, and downing the first cup of black coffee, all the while one thought occupied his mind. The bug. The defect in the Spartan program that every ONI geneticist had overlooked.

Now fully awake and dressed, Paul tucked his ONI ID in the vest pocket of his blue suit and grabbed the black leather briefcase waiting patiently on the kitchen table. A quick glance in the mirror showed his hair was impeccable, no need for a barber just yet. It was short enough not to need a comb but long enough that a few wisps of natural brown still managed to infiltrate the dominant gray. He didn't really mind the gray, to him it was just a sign that he was getting wiser. His father often told him to wear gray with pride, no matter what the media said it would always come back into style.

Satisfied everything was in place, Paul moved through the entryway and stepped into a brisk Hawking morning. The sun was just beginning to make its dutiful ascent through the sky and had commenced battle with an early morning fog. Jensen walked three short blocks north and descended a flight of concrete steps into the subway station. It always surprised him that the subway lobbies were kept so clean. It seemed that every night there was a report of theft or violent crime in the subways, yet for all the traveling he did beneath the city the geneticist never saw any evidence that he was in a high crime area. No graffiti adorned the concrete supports in bright colors, no broken teller windows gave silent testament to shady deeds, and not a single piece of wayward trash could be found blemishing the cement floor.

Appearances can be deceiving, he reminded himself as he handed a few dollars to an overweight man too large for the small teller booth he occupied. The city of Hawking garnered a small fortune in tourism and an unkempt subway station was a surefire way to impact that income. At any rate, Jensen was never here early enough, or late enough, to warrant more than a passing concern for the items in his pockets. Marine-bred confidence seeped out of every pore in Jensen's body and confidence repels a thief the way light repels a bat. The smart pick pockets shied away from marks like Jensen.

Yet, despite the hour, Paul still kept a wary eye on the fellow subway users as he waited patiently for the next train. They were nothing he couldn't handle, two small woman and a short bald man, but he'd rather not have to handle anything this morning. He'd had enough of that in the last week to last well into retirement and beyond. He was a regular in this station anyway and wouldn't be bothered by anyone looking for an easy mark.

Finally the telltale clinking of steel wheels turning on an iron track signaled that his train had arrived. The quartet of riders filed into the car without a word and sat. The bald man procured a newspaper while the two women moved aft and eagerly took out a book each. Though the titles of the novels were unreadable, it was easy to see by the bare chested man and the helpless damsel on the cover that they were romance novels. Paul slipped into a cushioned seat opposite the bald man wondering what women saw in those books.

Clicking the leather briefcase open, the geneticist rifled quickly through papers containing a plethora of statistics and million dollar words to procure the documents he had obtained the night before. The plan was all there in black and white but the clarity of the words didn't make it any easier to believe. In truth, an oversight of this magnitude was inevitable, the fact that Spartans were genetically altered didn't get a second thought when researching new weapons for fighting the covenant. To the scientists doing the research, there were only human genes and covenant genes and they tailored the biological weapons accordingly. Added to their ignorance was the fact that a Spartan's MJOLNIR armor was specifically designed to withstand the fallout from biological weapons. When all was said and done there were serious consequences oft overlooked in the ONI weapons development labs.

According to the documents, the new covenant-specific bio weapon being researched and built on the planet Ajax would kill a normal human but alter a Spartan's amygdale due to their unique genetic makeup, causing them to be more aggressive. In addition, it would stimulate the gene regulating quickness and strength, a deadly combination when combined with unchecked aggression. It was all theoretical, of course, and Paul tried to find solace in that solitary fact.

The peace he grasped for eluded him though, he knew the Spartan genes front and back and with the document staring back at him with cold indifference he knew it was true. He was, however, able to find a thread of comfort in the fact that some questions remained unanswered. Though whether this was actually good was debatable, Paul needed to find some silver lining to this abomination of a rain cloud. The document didn't mention how they would get the four Spartans stationed on Ajax out of their armor, nor did it explain how they planned on fighting through security to get to the storage unit housing the biological agent. For now, it seemed, ONI still had time to correct this mistake.

Jensen looked up as the train slowed to a stop, complete with screeching brakes and lurching passengers. The steel doors slid open and Paul exited, not surprised that no one else was here at this hour. Normally he was the only passenger to disembark at this stop but today the bald man and his newspaper also had business to take care of in the middle of downtown Hawking.

With deliberate yet unhurried steps the former marine made his way through the clean, concrete lobby. He didn't like to be rushed; stopping to smell the proverbial flowers was the difference between really living and merely existing. It was another thing his father had told him on a regular basis, and he embraced that piece of advice. Some people were always in a hurry though, like the bald man behind him. Why is he walking so close? There's plenty of room to go around me. Paul got his answer half a second later when an unseen elbow slammed into the back of his head and the surroundings faded into the abyss.

Paul's head throbbed as he came to. The first feeling to work its way through the pain was that of a scratchy burlap sack over his head and tied tightly around his neck. Jenson tried to reach up to feel the sack but his hands were securely tied behind the chair he was sitting on. The rope tied tightly around his ankles was already rubbing them raw and even the slightest movement sent burning pain up his legs.

The former marine wasn't afraid of dieing, he had brushed elbows with The Reaper plenty of times while fighting the covenant and he was a devout Christian, but the thought of being executed didn't sit well with him here. It was not a noble execution, he would not be a martyr, and he wouldn't die trying to save someone. In movies the hero dies with glory and honor, not covered with a bag and stomach doing cartwheels.

A door opened and then shut again, Jensen's stomach did backflips.

"Ah, Mr. Jensen, you're awake. I hate to execute people when they are sleeping. It seems a bit… unruly." The voice spoke as if exchanging casual banter with an old friend, yet it contained an unnerving coolness considering the circumstances.

It had to be Kazlov.

The disembodied voice continued, "You took something from my apartment yesterday, I would hate for that to fall into the wrong hands."

There were no last words from Paul Jensen, no dramatic chambering of a round from his assailant, just the quiet whisper of a silenced pistol and the release of a soul.

Chris Fisher exited the brick housing complex and walked casually down a well-trodden dirt path to the Ajax research complex. The entire planet was blanketed in a thick forest except where ONI had built its gray lifeless buildings that sat in stark contrast to the greenery of the terrain. The star that gave life to the planet rarely broke through the canopy of leaves overhead, and where it did it was often only a single ethereal beam. There was an underground hallway that led to the research facility from the apartments but Chris rarely used it, not many scientists did in the warm summer months

Fisher enjoyed the daily half-mile walks to the complex, the dense foliage was reminiscent of home where he would hunt in the thick forest that flanked his house on three sides. But unlike most hunters, his rifle was a camera and his prey rarely knew they were being shot. After arriving on Ajax over three years ago he was quickly tagged as a geek for his hunting habits around the housing complex. The fact that he had a penchant for white button-down shirts complete with pens in the pocket and black pants didn't help his image any. He tried to keep his black hair neatly combed but by the end of the day it was a disheveled mess and jutted out at odd angles.

Most of his fellow scientists ignored him, Tom Sanchez and his wife Melissa were the only ones that acknowledged his presence even when it wasn't necessary. Sure, all the scientists on Ajax had talked to him at one time or another, but it was always strictly business. Tom, however, would often tell Chris about a new animal he had seen that might make a decent photo and Melissa always seemed willing to look at any new pictures he happened to be carrying.

Chris finally arrived at the research building though he thought it looked more like a military installation with its high outer wall and square holes cut into it for defensive purposes. The first stop after entering was the exterior security checkpoint and everyday it was a new hassle for the young scientist. The security guards had an easy job and got bored quickly, they often eased their boredom at the expense of Fisher. Today, surprisingly, the guard merely nodded and sent him through. Chris quickly covered the thirty meters to the main entrance and happily opened the door, maybe today wouldn't be so bad. The interior security checkpoint was a small brick room with a long polished desk off to the right. Straight ahead was the steel door that led to the elevator that brought the scientists to the underground research labs. Chris' heart sunk, sitting behind the security desk was Gary Keller, the cruelest of the security guards.

Gary was slightly overweight from a sedentary lifestyle and a sub-par diet. Not that there weren't any places to exercise, everyone making a living on the planet had access to a gym built into the living complex, and ONI encouraged their employees to stay healthy. But Gary's only exercise was lifting beer bottles to his lips and clicking through channels on his remote. His red hair looked unwashed and greasy, as usual, and a toothy grin split his face at the sight of Chris.

"Hey, my favorite scientist!" He was loud and boisterous.

Chris pushed thick glasses higher up on his nose nervously. "Hey there, uh, Gary, how are things?" He asked, unsuccessfully trying to sound nonchalant.

"Couldn't be better, man. Hey listen, I just got a call from the higher ups and they said you didn't need to come in today. They said there was something wrong with some kind of guidance system or something, I don't know. Anyway, they asked me to tell you to go home."

Chris stood silently under the gaze of the security guard. He knew Gary was lying but if he called him on it then it would only be worse tomorrow. One day he would stand up to the bully, but not today. He turned dejectedly and headed for the door, it was time to write up yet another complaint that would be completely ignored. As Gary moved to return to his post he casually knocked the files from under Chris' arm, the papers scattered over the dusty floor.

"Whoa, you should be more careful with those, aren't they top secret or something?" Gary chuckled at himself as he rounded the desk to return to his post.

With jaw clenched tight in anger, Chris scooped the papers up and walked out. The young scientist started down the path towards his apartment with head hung in shame, why couldn't he just stand up to them? He hadn't walked ten feet when a familiar voice stopped him.

"Something wrong Chris?"

Fisher looked up, Melissa Sanchez, seven months pregnant and glowing, stood in the path, a look of concern fixed on her angelic face.

"Just Gary. Again."

Melissa frowned, Chris almost grinned. He could walk right past Gary now, nobody messed with Melissa, especially not a pregnant Melissa. It didn't hurt that her husband was in the company gym every single day and was built like an NFL linebacker.

She grabbed Chris by the arm and stormed up to the security building, Gary jumped as she burst through the door with the scientist in tow. One poison filled look was all it took to get the security guard to cooperate.

"H-hey Mrs. Sanchez. Uh, let me get the door for you." Gary punched a button behind the counter and the steel door leading to the elevator unlocked with a metallic click. "Have a nice day ma'am." As the pair of scientists walked by Gary scowled, Chris flashed him a triumphant smile, it may be worse tomorrow but the young scientist would revel in victory today.

Inch by inch the immaculately carved box was lowered into the ground. The UNSC flag draped over the black polished coffin hid most of the intricate details, but even if it hadn't obscured the carvings no one would have remarked on the beauty of its craftsmanship. People rarely did at funerals, especially not with the mother weeping and the father trying his best to stand solemn and strong.

When at last the casket had been lowered to its final resting place, heads were bowed in quiet contemplation as a light breeze tried to comfort the black-clad mourners. Some wept openly, breaking the silence with sobs, while others let quiet tears slid down their cheeks. One man made a vow. Detective Brian Kramer, former UNSC marine, would not mourn until he saw his best friend's killer lying in a crimson pool. The detective turned and walked across the grass carpet of the cemetery to his waiting car, it had been three days since they had found Paul Jensen's body. The killer had been alive three days too long.

Jason Matthews was lost in deep thought despite the roar of the drop ship's engines. The information he had gleaned from Kazlov's computer was disappointing at best. Damning was a better term for it, though Matthew's soul wasn't the one in trouble this time. No, as usual he would be the curse-bringer, the arbiter of death willing to bring down the hammer of eternal condemnation on those that crossed him.

The rebels had no bio-engineered soldiers; this was no 'test run' to measure results. The four Spartans on Ajax were all Kazlov ever had, which is why he wanted them alive. That was strike one against the rebel spy, lying was never a good way to gain trust, and lying to a hired gun was the best way to wind up with more holes than the human body is meant to have. Since he lied about the mission he surly lied about the payment, Matthews had that figured out the moment the offer left the deceitful spy's mouth. Strike two. Two strikes were enough to get anyone killed in this business, but three strikes added a layer of cement to the death warrant that would not easily be repealed. Kazlov's third mistake was assuming Matthews wouldn't come back alive; nothing will haste death's cold grip more than an assumption. Strike three.

So Matthews would do the job, surprise Kazlov by returning, and then execute him for lying. He may not get paid the full amount, or at all, but it was the way the game was played. At least, that's the way Jason played it and it had served him well thus far. It wasn't that he hated Kazlov, hate was too strong an emotion for the assassin to conjure, but he expected to get paid for services rendered, either by blood or by money.

The pilot announced over the COM that they would be landing in two minutes. A thousand other soldiers populating a fleet of drop ships heard the same message from their respective pilots. Jason shoved all erroneous thoughts from his mind and replayed the mission while making a final check of his gear. The lightweight suit he bore was custom made and contained electronics to make him invisible to a Spartan's motion tracker. Constructed from a breathable material, the dark green suit was like a second skin, allowing Matthews to move quickly and quietly from one location to another. It didn't offer much protection if he were to engage an enemy, but then, he wasn't planning on being seen until all four Spartans were taken care of.

To take care of them, he had another custom made item, a weapon he simple dubbed 'The Stick'. Strapped to his back now, the weapon was painted the same color as his suit and resembled the S2 AM Sniper Rifle. One barrel was loaded with projectiles similar to the Covenant needles, except instead of exploding into plasma, the needles in The Stick would deliver a dose of chemicals able to knock a Spartan unconscious. An added under slung barrel had capsules of pure plasma that, after striking a target, would have similar results of a plasma grenade without actually hurting the Spartan. In essence, The Stick would render MJOLNIR armor nearly useless by disabling the shields and then delivering a projectile that could pierce the thick plates.

Jason un-holstered the pistol strapped securely to his thigh and checked the magazine, he knew it was full before looking but he had a methodical routine before missions that always ended by checking the pistol's clip. The assassin slammed the magazine home with a satisfying click of metal and smoothly slipped the pistol back into the Kevlar holster. Scanning the drop ship's dark interior showed rebels checking their equipment as well or sitting silently in contemplation. Less than a minute to touchdown, Matthews was ready.

Xion peered intently through the scope of his sniper rifle waiting for one of many stationary target three hundred meters away to pop up. This was too easy, a child could hit a Covenant silhouette at this range. The thought gave the Spartan pause, fresh out of the ONI program, he wasn't much older than a child himself. The Ajax research facility is where ONI sent Spartans for additional training if they weren't quite "battle ready"; apparently their idea of training was babysitting a couple hundred scientists while shooting at inorganic paper.

A silhouette stood without a sound to the Spartan's left. Xion adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger, the rifle returned its signature crack as the round sped toward its target. The universe now had one less paper Elite to worry about. It could be worse, Xion thought, he at least had a competent trainer.

Wolveryne was a Spartan of legend; he had fought the Covenant on more planets than he cared to count and had battled the alien race across every conceivable terrain, including the vacuum of space. He wasn't one to boast though, and that made him a perfect candidate for this job. Some Spartans felt discouraged when sent for additional training on Ajax and it wouldn't help their attitudes if the one training them was arrogant. Instead, Wolveryne humbly corrected mistakes and praised even the smallest increment of improvement while downplaying his own accomplishments.

"Nice shot, your reaction times are improving," Wolveryne said, "maybe we can go hunt some live targets tomorrow, there are big, fast animals on this rock that would just as soon eat you as look at you."

"Sounds good," Xion stood and slung the rifle onto his armored back, "will Spudnik and Marauder join us?"

Wolveryne nodded, it would be good for the trainees to work as a unit for once, all three were ready for combat and would make fine Spartans. Behind the mirrored visor Wolveryne opened his mouth to speak but was cut short as a transmission came over the COM. Multiple rebel drop ships were inbound.

"Warthog, now!" Wolveryne commanded.

The two armor clad soldiers sprinted to the small vehicle without another word. Wolveryne slipped into the driver seat while Xion climbed into the back readying the M1100-Mk II by disengaging the safety and bracing as Wolveryne slammed down on the accelerator. The over sized tires spit out rocks as the duo tore down the dense forest path sliding through turns and scattering all manner of indigenous wildlife.

Thirty seconds later Wolveryne yanked the hand brake up and skidded to a stop, wedging the warthog in front of the gate to the research building. The pair of Spartans dismounted and double-timed it to the barracks on the east side of the complex. Inside was a whir of activity as marines donned their battle gear and checked their rifles, two additional Spartans stood like statues among scurrying ants.

Captain Craig Dawson, at a commanding six-foot-three and two hundred twenty pounds, entered the barracks, the ants snapped to attention.

"At ease men, this is not a drill."

He had the growl of an old western villain and dark eyes to match. Gray hair was covered under the standard issue UNSC helmet, it was a testament to his skills that he had survived long enough to warrant gray hair. The captain wasn't one for long speeches either, he expected the soldiers under his command to know their roles and carry them out with precision befitting his beloved corps.

"Wolveryne, get your sniper up in the nest for recon, have your other two Spartans flank the entrance but make sure they stay behind the wall for now, we don't know if they are using snipers of their own yet. As for you, I want you to support any squad that needs it. Marines, get on the fifty cals and give 'em hell, move out!"

He watched as twenty five marines sprinted into the sun-soaked day and took up positions. Three soldiers manned the trio of .50 caliber machine guns that were electronically controlled from behind the wall, view screens allowed them to see what they were aiming at without being exposed to enemy fire. The soldiers not manning one of the heavy weapons took up positions adjacent to one of the myriad of square holes cut into the wall and waited for the signal to commence firing.

The drop ships crashed heavily through the tree canopy in a cacophony of snapping branches as they descended to the surface of Ajax one mile north of the facility. With rocket launchers liberally distributed though the ranks, the rebels picked their way through the dense forest. They knew there were Spartans here and they nervously swung their heads from side to side checking every shadow for the legendary soldiers. Upon exiting the drop ship, Matthews immediately disappeared into the dense foliage, heading west towards the scientist's living quarters.

The squat brick buildings looked empty, which didn't surprise him, the alarm would have been raised by now and any non-combatants would have made their way to the fallout bunker underground. The assassin crouched just inside the thick forest scanning every window with cold blue eyes; once he committed to the open lawn there was no cover to hide in. Convinced it was clear, Matthews moved his limber girth from the shadows of the forest and ran in a crouch to the nearest green door.

The lock gave up easily to his picking and the green clad soldier slipped through the narrow opening closing the door gently behind him. The hallway was well lit by recessed overhead lighting, and red lights blinked dutifully signifying that the alarm had indeed been raised. Doors leading to individual apartments flanked the hallway at regular intervals. Directly in front of him was the door leading to the underground passage to the facility, this one was unlocked but he had other business to take care of first.

Matthews crept down the hallway and picked the first locked door he came to. Easing the door open, the assassin scanned the room cautiously. Nothing moved. It was a well-kept apartment with plenty of space for a single scientist; the living room was plain yet comfortable and the kitchen was well stocked. Jason ignored all of the sights and headed straight to the bedroom to find a suitable change of clothes; he wouldn't be able to get into the fallout shelter wearing his green suit. The assassin grabbed the first clean shirt he found and also pilfered a pair of jeans; they were a little big around the waist so he procured a belt from a nearby dresser. Satisfied with his newly acquired items, Jason headed for the hallway dropping the clothes on the floor just inside door. Once the Spartans were taken care of he could quickly change and get to the shelter.

Once in the hallway Matthews quickly made his way to the door leading down to the tunnel. After descending two flights of stairs and proceeding through another door the assassin emerged into a long hallway constructed of cement blocks. It was the kind of hallway that screamed out 'military' with its less than adequate lighting and drab, almost depressing, walls. Jason took no time to ponder the décor of military installations as he keyed the radio built into the suit's sleeve.

"I'm in, start the attack."

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