Chapter Text
UNSC Infinity, Day 1, 6 Hours Before Contact
“Dak, tell me I’m headin’ in the right direction.“ Gilberto Vargas asked the datapad in his hand as he walked the halls of Infinity ’s Spartan Barracks, olive drab duffel bag slung over his other shoulder. An icon at the top of the pad winked as his AI processed the query faster than he could’ve hoped to perceive before projecting a hologram of itself out from the corner of the device. A blue hexagon with two black circles for eyes and a thin rectangle for a mouth started up at him with a look that Vargas swore was frustration in spite of the impossibility of it.
“Spartan Vargas, unfortunately, it seems the route to Fireteam Anchor’s quarters required you to take the last right. Do you need me to provide active guidance?” The AI questioned with the slightest hint of a Hispanic accent. It reminded him of his uncle, though that man’s efforts to keep Vargas in check had been about as effective as Dak’s.
“I’m alright, thanks Dee.” The AI winked away, and Vargas was sure its code was bristling at his use of an unapproved nickname. The little bot would come around, he was sure. Pivoting on his heel Vargas backtracked and rounded the corner to put himself back on track. It was a hell of a time to be a replacement, but he counted himself lucky that he at least wouldn’t be the only new face on Anchor’s roster.
The halls of the barracks weren’t empty, but for every face he recognized he could recall two more that were missing. This fight with Cortana had been eating away at their ranks, and not even just through outright casualties, there had been scores of people they’d had to leave behind when a Guardian emerged in-system. Vargas told himself that was better, it at least meant there was a chance they’d find their way home.
The Spartan caught sight of a familiar face heading his way, too engrossed with something on his own datapad to take notice of Vargas. “Shouldn’t you be catchin’ some sleep flyboy? Need you sharp.” He called out to Henri Malik, Fireteam Windfall’s number four looking up and meeting his gaze with an easy smile. The blonde-haired and gray-eyed Spartan was always in a good mood it seemed, even when things seemed dire.
“We’re t-minus six hours Gil, I’ve already got all the sleep I need to bail you out when you get yourself in too deep.” The Spartan Aviator jabbed back, grinning as he tucked his pad away and crossed the hallway to Vargas, and offered out a hand. He took it and shook it, and the two Spartans laughed.
“Requiem was three years ago Herni, I think you can let that one go,” Vargas said with a tilt of his head.
“Oh not a chance,” Malik answered. “Not until you get me that steak dinner you promised.”
Fireteam Windfall had saved his and the rest of Fireteam Lightning’s collective asses in 2557 after the Infinity had crash-landed inside the massive Shield World called Requiem. Amidst the chaos of the battle with the Storm Covenant, the Promethean’s debut, and the calamity of the Master Chief and Cortana’s return from the dead, Lighting had been cut off in a bad way.
They’d been trying to rescue the survivors of a marine company that’d set out on recon, but none of them had accounted for enemies that could teleport and suddenly surround you, or that the metal freaks would’ve been working with the Storm Covenant. When alien aircraft and armor fell in to support the Promethean Knights that’d fallen upon them Vargas had been sure they were done for.
Then Windfall had cut through the clouds in their F-41 Broadswords, and the rest was history. Vargas might’ve made a few promises he didn’t end up being able to keep, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried.
“When I find steak you’ll be the first to know. Where’re you heading?” Vargas noticed Malik was in his techsuit rather than something a little more breathable. They were approaching Zeta Halo fast to be sure, but Malik and the other aviators typically didn’t suit up until t-minus three hours.
“Gonna run some sims, can’t ever be too prepared for Phaetons. What about you, they got you assigned to a new team?” The question had been expected, but it was still unpleasant when he heard it outbound. It was barely even an assignment, he was just filling a slot temporarily, the Lightning was missing, not dead.
“Yeah, Palmer put me with Anchor for this rodeo.” He gave a small shrug.
“Oh, Samara’s team? They’re good people, good Spartans too.” Malik assured him with a quick nod.
“So I’ve heard, I know Colombo, we both jumped with the 11th Shock back in the war so I knew she had to run a good crew.” It was strange that even with the galaxy ripped apart by the Created’s AI uprising that the conflict that ended almost eight years prior was still ‘the war’. At the same time, Vargas didn’t find it strange at all, Cortana had a lot more work to do before she could rival the Human-Covenant War for impact and significance.
“Good, she might know how to handle you if she’s had time with your type.” Malik and Vargas both chuckled, and shook their heads before giving a pair of exasperated sighs. Vargas was worried about Anchor’s two remaining members more than anything, where Lightning had hope, there was no mistaking what had become of Spartan Chuol and Baker.
“Who else is taking a slot?” Malik followed up with the question of the hour. Vargas had a name for the other replacement but not much else, most of her file beyond her name, and a few after-action reports were redacted way beyond his clearance level.
“A Spartan Kazlow apparently, know her?” Vargas asked with a raised brow, sighing defeatedly when Malik shook his head no. “Spartan-G189?” He tried again, wondering if the change in designation might stir the aviator’s memory, but again to no avail.
“They’re sticking a Three with you?” Malik seemed as surprised as Vargas had been, command typically kept the generations to themselves, it wasn’t unheard of to have a mixed unit but it wasn’t common either. Vargas just shrugged, if the kid was half as capable as her file made her out to be then they’d get along just fine.
“Gil, I-uh, I never got to say sorry.” Malik began down the apologetic road, and Vargas had to stomach the frustrations in the name of being polite. They weren’t dead. There was every chance that Gael, Balodis, and Shamir were still fighting tooth and nail on the surface of Terceria, or at worst were stuck in some Created re-education camp. If they were, he’d get them out when this was all done. He owed them that much for leaving them behind.
It wasn’t like that according to just about everyone else, Vargas had been wounded, medevac’d well before the firefight that dragged on too long and forced Infinity to leave the rest of Lightning behind. That didn’t change how he saw it though, didn’t change that he should’ve been there by their sides.
“Thanks Henri.” Vargas remembered his manners and nodded to assure his fellow Spartan he could still hack it. Malik clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a nod before continuing on down the hall.
“When this is all over, swing by our place, Mako’s got a bottle of vintage Arcadian that’s just been waiting for the right occasion to be opened up.” The pilot called back, and Vargas looked back at him and flashed a thumbs up.
“Mean it?” Vargas asked.
“Sure, just don’t forget the steak you cheap bastard.” Malik laughed and Vargas shook his head with a smile, waving the other Spartan away and trudging along through the long, gray hall. He eyed the doors he passed by, looked over the names plastered above them, and felt a twinge each time he passed a room he knew was empty. Avalanche, Ox, Comet, Hurricane, Stallion, it went on and on and on. They weren’t all dead he knew, so had been reassigned, others stranded, but too many were. Then there was Anchor, and he wasn’t the first one to make it to the door.
She was short for a Spartan, her black hair tied back in a bun while her deep blue eyes stared aimlessly down the hall. She was keeping her weight on her right leg, which at some point underneath the gray utility pants ceased being flesh and bone and became metal, the gray prosthetic leg largely unremarkable when compared to her left hand. Prothetic as well, it was a beaten crimson in contrast to her leg’s gray.
She looked so young, too damned young.
“Spartan Kazlow?” Vargas offered a kind smile. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to call her, but assuming she’d want to be on a first-name basis felt nearly as risky as addressing her by a number.
She stared at him blankly for a moment longer than was comfortable, and Vargas wondered if he would’ve been better off not saying anything at all. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to process it, trying to think of what to say. She was so damned young, too damned young, by the time she began to speak Vargas had already decided there was no way in hell she was only a few years his junior at 26.
“Bless is my na,-uh, just Bless is fine.” Even as she stammered the words they came out cold, so matter-of-fact that she might’ve been offended he hadn’t gotten it right on the first try. Vargas rolled with the punches like always.
“Well then ‘just Bless’, I’m Gil. Looks like we’re the replacements.” He tried breaking the awkwardness and offered out a hand, that the SPARTAN-III looked down at with suspicion before taking it, metal clasping over skin. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t scowl. It’d work. They shook and her hand fell away, leaving the two to stand in silence.
“Shall we?” He inclined his head towards the sealed door that separated them from Fireteam Anchor’s living quarters, and the other Spartan simply gave a nod of her head. Vargas didn’t expect he’d be getting much more and pressed mashed the access button, the metal alloy door sliding sideways and granting them entrance.
“About time, I was beginning to think I’d need to come and pull you both in.” Spoke a woman’s familiar voice, one he’d not expected to find in Anchor’s quarters. Clad in full Mark VII MJOLNIR that sported the same gray and orange color scheme their RECRUIT-pattern armor once had that Spartan mission handlers had adopted as uniform, was Gerlind Wetzel. She stared down at Bless and Vargas both as they crossed the threshold into the room and shut the door behind them.
She ran ops for more teams now than she had ever been meant to, but as more and more handlers were cycled into combat teams, and as her successive requests to be rotated in such a fashion were denied, it was to be expected. In truth, Vargas should’ve known he’d be staying under Wetzel’s command in the end. She crossed her arms over her armored chest and stepped back so that the two replacements could get a better idea of the room.
It was no different from any other Spartan rack. Two neatly made heavy bunk beds, a few lockers, a pair of parallel overhead lights, and whatever items its inhabitants had left around to make a home of the place. Hadrian Colombo sat on the top of one of the bunks, the dark-skinned with shorty wiry hair giving Vargas a subtle nod as he entered, whilst Iliana Samaras stood next to Wetzel with her arms crossed. A pale woman with buzzed hair and a powerful frame, she wore a sleeveless white top that exposed the interwoven tattoos that began at her right wrist and ran up to her collarbone. She gave her two new Spartans a polite smile and nod.
“Bless, Vargas, good to have you.” Samaras gave them both a nod. “Wetzel was stopping by to give us our orders, apparently we’re on special assignment.”
“Yippee,” Colombo added dryly, and Vargas scoffed.
“Oh? Let’s hear it then.” He looked to the armored Spartan expectantly, watching Bless turn to her as well out of the corner of his eye. Wetzel met his gaze from behind the silver-blue of her faceplate, her body language shifting ever so slightly in a manner that suggested annoyance. She’d been waiting on the two of them to get there, rushing her might not have been his brightest idea.
“Fireteam Anchor, you will be inserted separately from the main force. Zeta Halo was home to three ONI research facilities prior to Cortana’s arrival. Two were auxiliaries and of little concern, the primary facility, however, is. Recon drones picked up what appears to have been an active signal from someone ground-side being routed through it.” From the start, it sounded like they were being sent into a trap, and with every word that followed Vargas felt more and more sure of it.
“This signal, upon decryption, seems to be stating that they have information of extreme importance, secure whatever this intel is, and if possible extract whatever survivors may still be present.” Wetzel didn’t ask if they had questions, but she must’ve known they were going to ask anyway.
“Wouldn’t Cortana have been able to decrypt whatever signal she sent? She had access to pretty much all of our encryptions and has been breaking new ones consistently.” Samaras struck first.
“Makes sense since she wrote half of them.” Colombo chimed in.
“This was a new encryption, entirely different from those in active use. Seems to have been written by whoever sent the signal.” Wetzel’s answer was about as unsatisfactory as it could’ve possibly been, and Vargas stopped just short of a full frown.
“So we don’t even know for sure if we’re reading it right?” Colombo put the question forward before he could.
“The analysts have 85% confidence in their decryption. Even if Cortana cracked it and got the same message, whatever action she’s taken to address may not be fast enough. She’ll be too busy getting erased to stop your efforts.” Bless scoffed quietly, and Vargas let out a small huff in agreement. Eighty-five percent was not enough to stake a Spartan team on, not in the midst of such a crucial operation. But no doubt the orders she was giving them now came from above Wetzel, and she was powerless to change them.
“You’ll be dropping with the first group too, best get to the armor deck now before it gets crowded.” Wetzel added as she moved past Bless and Vargas and stepped out of the room without another word, leaving no room for argument.
For a moment the four Spartans looked at one another, confusion and frustration written across their faces, but none of them said a word. Bless hid it the best he noticed, the young Spartan’s expression was at worst one of slight annoyance, rather than the outright exasperation that Colombo now wore. Vargas had been hoping for a chance to catch up with his old friend, to get acquainted with his new team leader, but those were luxuries they couldn’t afford now.
With a sigh he unslung his duffle, and tossed the bag onto the bed below Colombo, looking up at the other Spartan with a shrug. “You don’t snore anymore do you?” He asked with a grin, breaking the frustrated silence, and though Colombo scoffed and threw up his hands, Samaras let out a chuckle that told Vargas all he needed to know. He’d chosen the wrong bed.
“We’ll get familiar on the deck then. Let’s get moving.” Samaras put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Minimal intelligence, an almost too obvious trap, and an objective that’s value was only known to some spook several security clearances above them? It was a Spartan mission alright.