Location: Colonial Administration Complex, Avenport, Virek
Date and Time: December 16, 2552 – 2000 Hours
The lights overhead are too bright, casting sharp reflections on the metallic floor of the Colonial Administration Complex. I'm sitting on a bench, my head resting in my hands, trying to stop the spinning in my mind. Everything feels like it's slowed down, like the world's running in slow motion while I'm stuck speeding ahead.
My hands still feel shaky from earlier. I keep rubbing my fingers together, half-expecting to feel the cold metal of the grenade again. But there's nothing. Just the slight tremor that won't go away.
Across from me, Santiago leans back against the wall, arms crossed, his M247H resting against his knee. He glances at me, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. "You alright, Kowalski?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet. I can feel the weight of the explosion still sitting in my chest, like I'm waiting for something else to go wrong.
"Hey, look at me," Santiago says, his voice a little softer than usual. "You did good out there. That grenade would've torn through half of us if you hadn't thrown it back."
I give him another nod, though my stomach feels like it's in knots. "I don't know if it was good or just luck."
"Doesn't matter," he replies. "You're still here. That's all that counts."
Grayson steps into the room, his face grim. He doesn't say much—he rarely does after a mission goes sideways—but his presence alone is enough to make the air feel heavier.
"We've got confirmation from First Squad," he says, eyes scanning the group. "We lost a couple of civilians. More injured. Locals are pissed, and tensions are through the roof. Command's not happy with how this went down."
I glance at Doc Alvarez as she bandages a gash on Dash Hayes's arm. He took a hit from a flying piece of debris during the explosion—nothing serious, but enough to remind us how close we came to losing more than just civilians.
Doc meets my eyes, and I see the same thing I saw in her before: exhaustion. Not physical, but mental. The kind that doesn't go away with a few hours' rest.
"We need to stay sharp," Grayson continues. "The Colonial Administration's breathing down our necks, and the locals are getting restless. We're on edge, and they know it. We can't afford to slip up again."
His words hang in the air, heavy and full of meaning. I shift on the bench, my mind still replaying the events of the day. It feels like we're walking on glass, and one wrong step could send us crashing through.
We're dismissed for the night, but the tension follows us back to our barracks. Bravo Fireteam settles into the cramped space, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. O'Neill drops onto his bunk, rubbing his eyes, while Frost methodically cleans his gear, as calm and detached as ever.
I sit down, my muscles aching, but I can't seem to relax. The weight of today's events clings to me, and I feel like I'm holding my breath, waiting for something else to go wrong.
Doc Alvarez sits across from me, patching up her med kit with a practiced efficiency that tells me she's done this a hundred times before. She's quiet, but I can tell there's something on her mind.
"Long day," I say, my voice low.
She glances up at me, her eyes tired. "That's one way to put it."
"You think we could've done something different?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. I'm not even sure what I'm asking—maybe just looking for reassurance that this wasn't all for nothing.
Alvarez lets out a long breath, her hands pausing for a moment before she answers. "There's always something different we could've done. But we're not in the business of hindsight. We did what we had to."
I nod, though her words don't make me feel any better. I can't stop thinking about the civilians we lost, about the faces in the crowd just before everything went to hell.
Later that night, I'm lying on my bunk, staring at the ceiling. The room is dark, and the only sound is the soft breathing of the rest of the squad as they sleep. But I can't. My mind is racing, thoughts tumbling over each other in an endless loop.
I keep seeing that man's face. The one who threw the grenade. His eyes. The anger, the desperation. He wasn't an enemy. Not like the Covenant. He was just… someone who'd had enough.
But he almost killed us. And I almost killed him.
The next morning, I'm still tired, but there's no time to dwell on it. Grayson pulls us together for a briefing.
"We've got new orders," he says, his voice steady. "Command wants us to check out a possible URF presence in one of the abandoned districts outside the city. Intel says there's been increased activity, and they want us to get eyes on it."
United Rebel Front. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. They've been a ghost story for years now, whispered rumors of Insurrectionists rising from the ashes of the Human-Covenant War. But out here, on Virek, they're more than just rumors.
"We move out at 0800. Be ready," Grayson says before dismissing us.
The ride out to the abandoned district is long and quiet. The tension is back, thick in the air. We don't know what we're walking into, but it feels like the calm before a storm.
I sit in the transport, my rifle resting on my lap, watching the landscape blur past the small window. The city falls away, replaced by crumbling buildings and overgrown streets. The abandoned district feels like a graveyard—empty, forgotten, but still full of memories.
When we finally stop, the air is thick with dust, and the silence is deafening.
Grayson motions for us to disembark, and we move out, weapons at the ready. The district is quiet, too quiet. Even the wind seems to have died down, leaving an oppressive stillness hanging over everything.
I take point with Santiago as we move through the empty streets, our footsteps the only sound. The buildings around us are decaying, their windows shattered and their walls crumbling. It feels like a ghost town, but I know better than to think we're alone.
We come to a halt in front of an old warehouse, its doors hanging off their hinges. Grayson motions for Bravo Fireteam to move in, and we fan out, covering each other as we approach the entrance.
The inside is dark, filled with dust and the smell of rusting metal. My heart pounds in my chest as we move through the building, sweeping each corner, every shadow. There's something here—I can feel it.
We push deeper into the warehouse, the tension growing with every step. And then, we find it.
A stockpile. Weapons, ammo, and supplies—enough to arm a small army. My gut tightens as I realize what this means. The URF isn't just a rumor anymore. They're here. And they're planning something big.
Grayson moves forward, his eyes scanning the cache. "We need to report this."
Before he can finish, there's a sound from behind us. A creak of metal. A shadow moves in the corner of my eye.
"Contact!" I shout, raising my rifle.
The next few moments are a blur. Gunfire erupts, the sharp crack of bullets bouncing off the walls. I dive behind a stack of crates, my heart hammering in my chest.
I see Frost take a hit, the impact knocking him off his feet. He's down, but he's still moving, clutching his side as Doc Alvarez rushes to him, already pulling out her med kit.
"Cover fire!" Grayson shouts, and we open up, spraying the area with suppressive fire as more shadows move in the darkness.
I can't see them, but I know they're out there—URF rebels, armed and dangerous. We're pinned down, caught in a firefight in the middle of nowhere, and the odds aren't in our favor.
Santiago moves up beside me, laying down suppressive fire with his heavy weapon, giving us enough time to regroup. I grab Frost by the arm, pulling him back to cover as Doc works on his wound.
"Stay with us, Frost," I say, my voice tight with panic.
He grunts, blood seeping through his fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."