Semper Vigiles

Chapter One

…Initiating protocol MJLNR/REBOOT…

…AI Status Check…

…Verifying AI Functionality of UNSC Smart AI CHM-1692-1, Codenamed "Chamber"…

…Pending…

…AI Functionality Confirmed…

…Spartan Vital Signs…

…Assessing Spartan B-259 Cyrus…

…Pending…

…Vital Signs: Stable…

…Link Est. with Neural Interface…

…Pending…

…Link On-Line…

…MJOLNIR System Reboot…

…Pending…

…Reboot Successful…

Like a thunderclap, Cyrus jolts back to consciousness as a sudden sharp inhale echoes inside his helmet. His large, augmented arms feel rigid, clamped within an iron grasp set askew.

He attempts to wriggle them free for a few seconds but to no avail. The compression sends pinpricks skittering up his nerves, and a sensation of dense suffocation builds in his chest, contracting his lungs and prompting a desperate gasp for air.

His eyes flutter open, rapidly blinking as he tries to clear away the cottony haze of enforced sleep.

Luminescent colors begin to animate on his helmet's sullen, dark visor, projected by the brains of his Mjolnir Power suit: Heads-Up-Display.

Shadows morph into legible, multiplexed readouts. Vital signs. Shields Status.

And amid it all, a minute icon representing Chamber, his assigned artificial intelligence, flickers to life.

"Take slow, deep breaths, Cyrus," Chamber's voice filters through, a calming sibilance amidst the rapid throb of his beating heart. "You're just barely waking up from a coma."

Cyrus clings to Chamber's instructions, sucking in a deep lungful of air. The constriction in his chest begins to ease, his body accustoming to the low oxygen environment.

"What happened?" he finally manages, his voice a hoarse whisper amplified within the snug confines of the helmet.

"More like, what didn't?" Chamber fires back in her typical witty response. He can almost envision her if she were a humanoid, a frown creasing her translucent blue brows. "I've been trying to wake you up for the last three days."

"We should be-." He begins, interrupted as Chamber interjects swiftly.

"Dead." She completes. Her tone altered away from its previous frivolous banter to a monotone seriousness. "Given the stunt you and Eliza pulled, it's practically divine intervention that we're still alive."

"We shouldn't be," Cyrus mutters contemplatively, dread simmering down, sinking deep into his guts. He pictures the last thing he remembers -Eliza, fast and bold, the wreckage, and the impending doom.

"I am cognizant of that fact, thank you," Chamber replies, and there's a hint of remorse in the static-filled utterance.

Chamber emits an audibly frustrated growl, the technical swearing of an artificial intelligence running a diagnostic on an advanced piece of lethal art - the MJOLNIR-powered armor that enclosed the Spartan warrior. Unspoken pleas echoed between their linked cores for the suit to hold together, to be the life support springing her Spartan back to his full, formidable prowess.

Cyrus's eyes flit around, testing the limit of his field of vision within the snug confines of his helmet's visor. The room he finds himself in is a grand labyrinth of stark white walls and future-tech consoles gleaming under the relentless wash of overhead clinical lighting. The overall sophisticated aesthetic and utilitarian ambiance give away the room - a high-end research facility financed by seemingly inexhaustible resources.

Shadows of personnel flit about the corner of his eye; a confluence of intelligent minds absorbed in groundbreaking works, their strides purposeful, their white coats fluttering quietly against the sterile ventilation. His gaze reflected eerily in the visor, bounced from one scientist to another - each involved, detached, and engaged in individual experiments humming and buzzing in disparate corners of the lab.

His attention is eventually drawn back to the brutal immediacy of his restrained situation. Steel cuffs, cold against his armored skin, bind his arms and legs to the restraining bench beneath him. Flexing his muscles, he tests the strength of the restraints and receives interesting feedback - they're strong but not strong enough. The rigidity mewls and squeaks under his growing insistence. He could break free with little effort.

Before he can follow the instinct to do so, Chamber's voice flits through once more, arresting his movements. "I suggest you think twice before doing that."

Cyrus halts abruptly, his gaze penetrating the helmet's visor to fix with the blueish glow of Chamber's icon on his HUD.

"Why?" he queries, already trying to dredge up his last memories, the why and where of his current circumstance.

"Because we're not in the custody of ONI." She offers the admission drawn out as if spoken with reluctance.

His heartbeat thrums louder in his ears.

"Insurrectionists?" he proffers trenchantly, a certain hopelessness seeping into the interwoven fabrics of his voice.

Chamber's response is immediate. "No, not them."

The sigh that breaks from Cyrus's lips echoes in the amplification of his helmet.

"Then who?"

Chamber pauses before responding, allowing a brief silence to fill the space between them before replying. "That... is a difficult answer, Spartan."

Cyrus's anomaly of an expression portrays determination beneath his high-tech visor. "And yet, it's the one I want to hear." His voice is quiet, prompting his AI to seek the answer to their predicament in earnest.

Her voice seems to fade into the intangible silence, leaving Cyrus dangling on the precipice of alarming ignorance.

Then, after what feels like several agonizing minutes of silent contemplation, Chamber finally speaks again, her voice outspreading like ripples on a calm pond.

"What is the last thing you remember, Cyrus?" Her voice seeks gently amidst his sea of troubled thoughts.

His mind quickly falls back upon a jumbled montage of vivid memories, appearing and vanishing like fleeting cameos against the harsh light of his analytic mind.

The intricate geometry of Forerunner Line Installation 2-4.

The monstrous perversion of civilization called the Covenant.

The slumbering colossus, a dormant Forerunner Fleet.

And then...their last-ditch attempt, a Havok nuke.

"Eliza... Do you know-" His voice cracks, fracturing under the unbidden surge of fear. The concern surrounding her fate distorts the sonorous resonance of his baritone.

The response he receives is far from comforting.

"I don't. I lost contact the instant the Havok detonated." She conveys with an empathetic inflection, a characteristic that would be delicate to find in an artificial intelligence. "I'm sure you'd like to know that it functioned as anticipated. However, I assume that upon detonation, something within that facility triggered, initiating a consequential chain reaction... A reaction I'm still trying to find answers to."

As Chamber's revelation sinks in, Cyrus averts his gaze to a pair of scientists standing feet away from his constrained form, engrossed in what appears to be a heated argument. He locks onto the taller of the two - a man with glasses perched atop his forehead and assertive mannerisms.

"That's Dr. Jeremiah Kingston," Chamber breaks in before Cyrus can make a query, "He is the head of Arasaka's advanced research division."

"Arasaka?" At this, Cyrus's brows furrow beneath his helmet, his theatrical incredulity bleeding into his hollow voice.

Chamber conjures a small, disbelieving chuckle.

"Let me start from the beginning."

I==I

Cyrus's world seems to halt, his mind reeling from an unwitting existential crisis.

He... no, they had enlisted everything - their time, their lives, their very existence - into the service of mankind. They battled valiantly and relentlessly in an unending war for their species' survival.

They should have met their end on that godforsaken, remote planet, but here he was, being revitalized by the familiar, yet alien, richness of old Earth's air, swallowed by a civilization running on the fuel of corporate avarice.

His voice is a distant murmur when it finally. "What do we do now?" Cyrus exhales, his gaze fixated on the sterile white tiles of the room.

His words have a stark clarity, a layer insinuating he isn't seeking a prescriptive plan for the immediate future.

Coming face to face with the unforgiving reality of their situation and her lack of answers renders her unable to supply him the solace he seeks.

So, Chamber flips the question onto him instead.

"What do you want to do?" She prods, her tone steady and her rigidly straightforward personality surprisingly hidden under the compassionate cloak.

It doesn't escape her notice that this is the first time neither is bound by the stringent codes of the Office of Naval Intelligence or subservient to UNSC doctrine. Because in this reality, none of that mattered. None of that existed.

The quiet that lingers after her question is deafening.

For the first time in Cyrus's life, he is awash in a sea of uncertainty. He was a man who had always found his purpose etched in the starlight between death and duty.

Now, he has found himself squinting through the storm of unrestrained freedom.

Freedom of movement.

Freedom of thought.

Freedom from the weighted shackles of duty.

A duty that he has lived his entire life living up to.

Cyrus stares down at his shackles, the metal cold against his armor.

He may not have an immediate answer to Chamber's, but he wouldn't find it here.

"When can we leave?" he asks, staring at Chamber's holographic form beneath his helmet.

A moment of silence hangs heavy in the cold, sterile air between them before Chamber finally breaks it. "Depends on whether you want to do it quietly or with a bang," she quips, her tone serene amidst the turbulent mire of Cyrus's contemplations.

He responds with a half-grin hiding under his helmet, his voice void of humor, "You know how I work." The declaration holds no arrogance, only a knowing acceptance.

"Quietly it is," Chamber doesn't miss a beat, her nonphysical smile felt more than seen. "These scientists work on strict timetables, and overtime isn't one of them," she explains, "Our window of opportunity will open up momentarily."

"Good." Cyrus concurs, the stiffness in his muscles dissipating. "Until then, I'm going to need an education."

"An education?" Chamber echoes, her tone rising with amusement. "On what?"

"Everything I need to know." Cyrus elaborates.

"Everything?" The word forms again on Chamber's non-existent lips.

"Everything," Cyrus repeats solidly - absolute in his conviction.

Chamber pauses.

The silence is enough to pique Cyrus's attention, where he's half-sitting and half-reclining on the table.

"Suppose we could start with politics," Chamber muses finally, her tone deliberate and measured.

He can't help the snort of amusement escaping through his lips.

She would pick his least favorite subject.

I==I

Cyrus watched with a discerning eye as the last scientist exited the room, his clinical lab coat disappearing behind the crisp, sliding doors of the laboratory.

The hum of machinery filled the silence left behind, punctuated by the ferocious echo of his solitary heartbeat—which crawled with the rhythm of a ruthless hunter preparing for the imminent chase.

Chamber's affirmation rang within his helmet as the doors softly slid shut, "All clear, Cyrus."

The Spartan flexed his muscles, powerful and dormant from their prolonged state of restraint. The strain sent a cascade of satisfying cricks up his spine as his skeletal system came to life. Simultaneously, the enzymatic whir of his powered exoskeleton synched harmoniously with his biological functions, every gear, every piston roaring into motion as he rose from the cold table.

Cyrus spared one last scanning glance over the room around him. The place bore an eerie yet technologically advanced semblance to the labs back on Reach.

Stark, coldly lit and oddly silent, it was a testament to human accomplishments within the realms of the unthinkable.

But instead of war machinery and bio-augmentation procedures, it housed tech beyond his realm of expertise.

As Cyrus sauntered the length of the room, Chamber's holographic form flickered in his peripheral vision, interacting within the confines of the room's technology through the circuits of his armor. He watched her form waver, lights pulsating as she worked on manipulating Arasaka Corporation's secure internal grid.

"Accessing security systems," she informed nonchalantly, her voice resonating within the confines of his helmet, as though she were right next to Cyrus rather than living within his neural interface.

Methodically, Cyrus moved, surveying elements of the laboratory as he maintained seamless contact with his embedded AI. His armored form moved with a dancer's grace despite the bulk of the powered assault armor, the Spartan's natural rhythm evoked through every towering stride.

His movements are deliberate, resonating with a standard honed by years of combat training and experiences. Secure a weapon, any weapon.

His focus, distracted momentarily by Chamber's constant chatter of precise yet highly unsettling information about the Arasaka Corporation, refocuses as a gleaming object catches his attention.

It's perched upon a desk littered with a scatter of datapads and notes - an anomaly among sterile clinical tools and universal signifiers of intellectual application.

He instantly recognizes the wrist-mounted device laid atop a blank table. An energy dagger - a deadly, close-quarter weapon favored by the Covenant generals he had slain.

Strange, he muses, how a weapon of such menace could exude an eerie beauty within the sterile confines of this high-tech room. Its solar flare brilliance is outmatched only by its engineered lethality. A masterpiece of form and function undoubtedly used for human dissection at one point in life.

A familiar glow emanated from the device, the translucent, shimmering blade of hard light emerging in full form. The sight prompts a sour taste to scorch Cyrus's tongue, time seemingly compressing as he grimly replayed past encounters with the weapon.

"I must admit, seeing Covenant tech here is strange." Chamber's voice cracks through his comms.

"Not any stranger than us being here," Cyrus replied, his gut churning unpleasantly.

In another scenario, another timeline, he might be content leaving it for the benefit of humanity. But with what he had recently discovered about Arasaka Corporation, his desire diminished.

With a swift, measured movement, Cyrus snatches the weapon, strapping it onto his wrist.

A sudden, blinding flash engraves the sharpened arc into his mind. The energy blade hummed with jarring tranquility, casting violet-tinted shadows on his helm.

The less he left in the hands of Arasaka, the better.

Days of training and scenarios of infinite permutations had honed Cyrus to react instinctively to his settings.

His body moved freely when the overhead lights suddenly transitioned into an eerie darkness, plunging the room into an engulfing void. He swiftly deactivated the plasma dagger, allowing his helmet's night vision to kick in, piercing the abyss.

"Was that you?" His voice reverberated off the combined helmet communicator and the room's silence, eventually quieting to an eerie whisper.

The building foundation launched into violent shakes before Chamber's response could placate his curiosity.

Even with the seismic dampeners in his exoskeleton, Cyrus could feel the roiling vibrations traveling from the ground under his feet. An explosion inferred his tactical analysis, and in the far-off distance, the sporadic staccato of faint gunfire trailed after its wake.

"That can't be good." Chamber's words cut through the relative tranquility within the room. The glow from the plasma maze reflected like a miniature nebula in his visor.

"Do you have eyes?" He questioned, directing his request to the oracle embedded within his neural interface.

"No," Chamber admitted, her voice rippling with calculated concern. "The auxiliary power is still booting up."

His grimace remained hidden beneath the helmet as he voiced his thoughts aloud with an arid chuckle, "Nothing's ever easy."

Without further delay, Cyrus promptly edged toward the exit. The emergency latch didn't even slow him down, the door giving under the force of his armored weight. It ended with an injured squeal, revealing a shadowy, deserted hallway beyond.

"Please find out who started shooting. I'd hate to get caught in a crossfire."

"Will do," Chamber responded promptly, her synthesized voice akin to the calming eye of a brewing hurricane.

As Cyrus meticulously navigated the white maze of hallways, the dangerous melody of gunfire and explosions continued. Each sporadic burst sent a thump down the building's spine, passing through his armored feet like tremors ricocheting over Earth's tectonic plates.

A swift glance at his Heads-Up Display indicated a malfunctioning piece of his Mjolnir suit - the active camouflage module, a key component that has saved his life several times. All it displayed was a distinctive red disabled icon – flickering akin to a taunting neon sign.

"Can you repair the camo module?"

"Not here," came Chamber's response, laced with undeniable urgency. "We need to find a safe spot and work out some of the kinks ourselves."

A half-chuckle rumbled from his chest, a contour of humor drawn on his focused countenance. "What exactly are you here for?" He teased, his baritone voice echoing within his armored skull.

"My amazing sense of humor and stellar personality," Chamber teased, her voice only bearing the hint of a rogue AI showcasing her uniquely synthesized humor- a byproduct of her unique neural algorithm.

"One of those is true."

"Which one?" Billowed Chamber's query, a whisper of curiosity echoed through his helmet.

He does not respond.

"Cyrus, which oneeeee?"

She was such a child sometimes.

An unexpected blip from within his helmet breaks their rhythm. "Proximity?" Cyrus diverts his attention to tactical analysis, his focus sharpening.

"Twenty meters," Chamber responds swiftly, the hurried rush of her words cutting through their growing tension. "And closing."

An abrupt crack of ferocious gunfire echoed through the corridor. The vibrating concussive sound was soon accompanied by the cacophonous choir of excessively large boots pounding against the steel-reinforced floors.

A sudden flurry of movement at the corner of Cyrus' field of vision pulls his focus.

A man dressed in the distinct apparel of an Arasaka researcher tumbled across the corridor. The man's pale, fear-stricken face lit up momentarily under the dim light as he streaked by, echoing a singular word that shrieked of terror, "Run!"

Brief, random acoustics broke the eerie silence of desperate footsteps followed by the gut-wrenching staccato of gunfire. More scientists darted by their terrified screams punctuating the cold, sterile air as they fled in panic-stricken droves.

Two researchers, woefully late in their attempts to escape, collapsed under the destructive hail of bullets, their bodies spasming before lying still amidst the lingering echoes of gunfire.

A bustle from within Cyrus' helmet indicated an active scan. Chamber had picked up on nearby radio signals with wavelengths not indicative of anything in her databanks.

"Cyrus, I'm picking some unusual signal interference," she cautioned. Her voice creased with a grim tint Cyrus rarely heard. "I think it's comm chatter, but give me a moment to decipher."

As her words faded, Cyrus's attention was piqued by the severely distorted yet recognizable voices clamoring at the other end of the hallway.

Faint, distorted voices began to permeate through the absolute stillness of the surroundings, buzzing like a swarm of unseen insects. Underneath the foreign hum, the voices increasingly grew distinguishable, revealing snippets of exchange centered around the fallen scientists.

An urgent, strangled exclamation cuts through the tense silence, "Please tell me those two weren't on the priority list?"

The response comes back sharply, perturbed, and laced with a harsh apathy, "How the fuck should I know? I'm not the gonk who started shooting up the place."

An audibly charged retaliation pierces through next. "That would indeed be Danforth."

"Fuck you guys," Danforth's retort is immediate. "I ain't taking the fall for Marik's trigger finger."

Cyrus's attention strays from the unbroken threads of the escalating argument, redirecting his focus toward his motion tracker.

The tracker showcased six contacts, hustling spots of red against the opaque green backdrop. Being familiar with the Arasaka personnel he'd encountered earlier, the diligently moving blips spoke of a different breed of Arasaka employees- the ones who were anything but friendly.

Just as MJOLNIR allowed a Spartan to be a wall of steel on the battlefield, so did it enable them to be privy to the best intelligence. Barreling through the sea of unfamiliar signals that flooded most frequencies, Chamber deciphered a unique strain of comm signal.

Cyrus's focus intensified as the rhythmic hum of military comm chatter seamlessly merged with the low thrum of his MJOLNIR suit. His internal recognition algorithms, fine-tuned to prioritize military-grade communication streams, promptly picked it up.

"Cobalt 2-1, this is Cobalt 2, check in over." The initial sequence clearly conveyed authority.

"2-1 here," the response buzzed, "we're sweeping the fourth-floor encountering light resistance."

"Understood," Cobalt 2's voice was stable, a clear calm lingering in the nonphysical spaces between the words, "All squads be advised the main lobby is secured and ready to transit HVTs."

Cyrus's grip tightened on the energy dagger's hilt as he waited for the footsteps to draw nearer.

The only question remaining was whether or not these guys were friendly.

Cyrus stared at the unarmed researchers dead before him.

He didn't think so.

"Chamber," he prompted, "You figure out who these guys are yet?"

Chamber's holographic blue figure flickered to life again, her digital countenance a silhouette of critical concentration.

"The chatter I'm eavesdropping on is sporadic and confused." Chamber relayed, her ethereal voice devoid of the usual banter. "Our local gunmen belong to a Private Military Corp called Black Element. From what I'm gathering, Arasaka contracts them quite a bit."

"So why are they shooting their way through Arasaka HQ?" Cyrus said, his voice holding an edge of sardonic amusement.

"Maybe they missed a monthly payment."

"Regardless of who forgot to cut their checks," he muttered, the energy dagger pulsating rhythmically in his grip, "I'd prefer to keep our introductions on hold. ROE?"

"You're asking me?" A note of surprise crept into her voice. It was a foreign sound, the sheer incredulity cutting through the usual layer of professionalism.

He nodded, "Not much of a fan of self-counsel."

"Can't argue with that logic," she mused before turning serious, "Given their flagrant disregard for collateral damage, I think it's safe to assume they aren't the friendliest bunch. My recommendation? Weapons free."

A shout startled them back to attention as if to verify Chamber's words.

"Hey, I think that one's still moving." The shout carried into the dimly lit hallway, the gruff echo rough around the edges.

A crescendo of gunfire pounded through the corridor soon after. The sharp sound of bullets striking the lifeless body of a scientist ricocheted off the metal walls, resonating through Cyrus's senses.

"Marik."

"Yeah?"

"I fucking hate you."

Cyrus exchanged a look with Chamber.

"Weapons free it is."

I==I

Cyrus acted quickly.

His powerful gauntlets drove into the polished metal wall adjacent to him. The reinforced wall paneling buckled under the Spartan's raw strength, surrendering to the brutal force and dislodging a slab of sizeable metal.

With a final, primal heave, Cyrus extricated the hunk of angular steel material. His gaze studied it briefly, acknowledging the budding potential wrapped within the mock obtuse shape.

Through the audible shambles, the gruff voice of an apparent sergeant rose above the chaos. "Felix, go check it out!"

Cyrus's grip upon the metal slab turned vise-like, veins etched deeply against his armored gloves.

As one of the mercenaries finally rounded the corner, his rifle raised in a defensive posture, he was greeted by an unexpected sight.

A hulking figure encased in advanced military-grade armor, his form imposingly apparent even in the dim lighting. With heart-stopping speed, Cyrus sent the metal slab hurtling through the air. The edge of the makeshift frisbee cut through the claustrophobic hallway.

The mercenary hadn't enough time to process the sudden assault. The slab slammed into his face guard, crumpling the high-density shielding as if it were origami, the blunt force of the projectile throwing him back.

A crunch echoed through the confined space as his body made sharp, unforgiving contact with the wall behind him. The spine-chilling sound ricocheted off the metallic boundaries and bounced around the corridor, narrating a tale of brutal, efficient strength.

Without wasting a moment, Cyrus closed the distance between them. His large hand firmly seized the dazed merc's armor, effortlessly hoisting him off the floor as if his weight was no more than a feather.

With a swift pivot, Cyrus hurled the hapless figure down the corridor. He careened through the air, colliding heavily into one of his comrades who had just rallied to his aid. The pair crumpled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and discarded weaponry, groans of pain echoing through the hallway.

"CONTACT!" The poignant cry echoed through the hallway, shattering the lingering silence. It was more of an animalistic shriek than an actual battle cry, raw panic infusing the single word with an edge of feral desperation.

Responding to the heightened alarm, the mercenaries released a torrential onslaught of gunfire. The cacophony of piercing bullets filled the narrow hallway, ricocheting off the cold metallic walls and iridescent floorings in a deadly dance of fiery sparks. The space was alive with the staccato symphony of death.

Cyrus moved with practiced agility and lethal speed, seizing the discarded rifle of the incapacitated guard nearby.

Cyrus slid fluidly into cover around the corner, his armored form blended into the Pathfinder-grey shadow, the smooth and swift transition well-rehearsed over years of brutal engagements.

The rifle felt familiar yet foreign within his grip. He ran his gloved fingers over it, his touch like a memory etching every minute detail. His HUD interwoven seamlessly synced with the assault rifle's electronic system.

As the information processed, a new readout flickered into life - the rifle was from Arasaka's military-grade arsenal, a model known as 'Nowaki.'

"What... What the hell is that thing!?" The mercenary's voice ricocheted off the hard metallic walls, raw shock disrupting the confident facade he attempted to uphold. The words hung in the air like a tangible code of alarm, the zealous surprise infusing the statement with a chilling undertone.

A barked laughter answered the questionable bewilderment, laced with sardonic amusement. "And here I thought no one else could afford Arasaka's Halloween line costumes. Seems we were wrong, boys."

"Shut up, Marik!" A different voice chimed in, the irritation evident in his curt tone. "This ain't the time for your dumb jokes."

"Well, he ain't on our side. That's pretty clear," a mellower, deeper voice interjected.

"Yeah, and I ain't sticking around to find out what it is," another voice said. The shaky undertone suggested a barely concealed panic.

The initial voice, presumably the leader, cut through their chatter with a growled, "Enough! Not a fucking clue what it is, but it's not friendly. Move up and waste the fucker!"

"Roger that, Sergeant!" Chorused the voices, their agreement cutting through the lingering tension like a hot knife through butter.

Cyrus remained steadfast within the shelter of the corner, his audial receptors registering the subtle creeping footsteps of the mercenaries. His fingers gripped the rifle's safety, toggling it off with a soft, almost inaudible click.

Feeling the adrenaline course through his veins, Cyrus made a split-second decision.

Pop. Kill. Repeat.

He jumped into action, lightning-quick reflexes propelling him out of the corner. His heart pounded rhythmically in his chest, syncing with the mechanical whirr of his Mjolnir suit. He homed onto his primary target, the Nowaki rifle's aim unerring, his sightline as steady and impassive as a predatory beast zeroing in on its prey.

The focus of his attack was on a mercenary wielding a sizeable shotgun. With a swift pull of his trigger, a thunderous three-round burst exploded from the Nowaki, cutting through the atmosphere like molten shrapnel.

The rounds hurtled toward the shotgun-wielding mercenary at breakneck speed. The first projectile shattered his knee armor, a spray of crimson spattering outwards to stain his already intimidating dark attire. His agonized shriek echoed along the hallway before the second bullet tore into his chest, blasting apart critical body armor components and causing an explosion of scarlet against the cold sterility of the hallway. The third and final round slammed into his helmet, crumpling the advanced armor like a paper target.

The mercenary's robust form dropped lifelessly to the floor, announcing a grim end to his reign of terror.

"Zena is down!" The cry was desperate, a raw scream reverberating through the metallic hallway.

A swift command cut through the horrified acknowledgment. "Suppressing fire! Don't let it advance further!"

"Rhodes," another mercenary piped up, his tone unyielding and authoritative, "Get a grenade in there. Make it an incendiary."

"Roger that," Rhodes acknowledged. The sharp sound of him flipping open his grenade pouch permeated through the tense silence. "Incendiary coming up!"

Cyrus hunched behind the relative safety of the corner, registered the callout. His mind raced, calculating scenarios with mechanical efficiency as he clenched the assault rifle tighter.

Cyrus' super soldier physiology kicked in as if functioning on its own algorithm. Chemicals flooded his nervous system, a biological cocktail of hormones engineered to augment his otherwise outstanding reflexes.

A term he was all too familiar with Spartan time.

At this moment, time seemed to slow around him. His surroundings became heightened, his senses focused. A deadly calm washed over him, pushing out the ambient noise and distractions.

His eyes zeroed in on Rhodes, the mercenary's hand reaching for the incendiary.

Rising from his cover like a specter emerged from the underworld, Cyrus raised his weapon. The holographic targeting reticle of the Nowaki rifle met with the center mass of the grenade-wielding mercenary.

A single burst of rounds ripped through the air with deadly intent, their trajectories adjusted for minimal deflection. The three bullets slammed into Rhodes, the impact knocking him backward.

A sudden, violent gout of fire drowned Rhodes's scream. The incendiary grenade, prematurely triggered by the kinetic force of the bullets, erupted in a spectacular display of flame and shrapnel that cut short the mercenary's life and severely wounded his immediate teammates.

As the searing flames danced in a volatile pirouette, three mercenaries were caught within its destructive radius, their bodies forging an obscene silhouette against the blossoming inferno.

The first, a burly figure with a grizzled, battle-hardened look about him, had been closest to Rhodes. The abrupt detonation thrust him off his feet, sending him crashing against the wall with an audible 'thud.' He slid down, an unwilling marionette to gravity's pull, leaving a garish smear of crimson. His armor, portions now molten and fused to his form from the intense heat, bore witness to the brutal fatality of the flames.

A second mercenary bore little better fate. Huddled against the edge of the hallway, he had been caught off guard, his face betraying the split-second realization before the firestorm claimed him. His agonizing shriek echoed hauntingly in the corridor; his writhing silhouette twisted grotesquely amidst the incandescent tendrils. His sprawled form, armor warped and smoldering, finally collapsed onto the floor, tendrils of acrid smoke hissing from the embers of his ruined state.

"Fall back!" One of the surviving mercenaries barked out, a sense of panic sharply edging his command. He bolted in the opposite direction with swift, unhesitant strides, his boots clattering against the metallic grating underfoot.

His command was met with immediate compliance. His squad mates, their countenances mirroring the stark terror reflected in his own, fell into action, their retreat scattering them like marbles on a slippery floor.

"Fuck this, we're out of here!" An anonymous voice echoed the sentiment, the raw terror evident in the terse declaration.

As one of the mercenaries dove for cover, he fumbled for a smoke grenade attached to his belt. With a swift yank, he pulled the pin, lobbing it back towards their aggressor. The cylinder arced through the space before it clattered onto the cold metal floor, a dull thud accompanying its touchdown. Immediately, a thick plume of dense smoke poured out, obscuring the hallway.

One straggler, displaying admirable courage despite the dwindling odds, jumped on his comms. His voice resounded with a hint of disciplined urgency. "Cobalt 2, this is 2-3. We've been engaged! We have multiple KIAs and are falling back. Request immediate-"

His plea was abruptly cut off. In the smoke-ridden haze, a chilling figure emerged - untouched, unscathed, and lethally calm. A burst of gunfire resounded in the confined corridor, piercing through the smoke screen and reaching its intended target.

The merc crumpled mid-sentence, a bullet finding its deadly mark in the back of his head.

"Cobalt 2-3, this is Cobalt 2. Do you copy? Over." A strained voice reverberated through the secure comm lines, the desperation thinly veiled beneath measured military formality.

The response was a stifling silence, the lack of communication echoing louder than any scream of distress. The frequency buzzed with anxious energy, but no voice broke the unsettling quietude.

A wave of dread crashed over the communication channel. "God damnit!" he spat, his voice trembling on the brink of desolation. "Red Crown, this is Cobalt 2. Cobalt 2-3 is down. Request immediate assistance at the R&D level. Over!"

Meanwhile, amidst the smoke and the residual ringing in his ears, Cyrus was far from idle. His sensors picked up the hasty retreat of surviving mercenaries, their distress evident in the wild scramble toward the end of the hallway.

A flicker on his HUD drew his attention to their destination. An elevator's rapidly closing doors signaled their frantic bid to escape. The Spartan's gaze narrowed, a predator closing in on its prey. Unleashing a fear-inducing roar that echoed through the dimly lit corridor, he gave chase.

Unfazed by the thickening smoke, Cyrus lunged forward with an agility that defied his imposing stature. His relentless pursuit and the merciless gunfire discarded mercy for ruthless determination.

The desperate cries of the mercenaries amplified with growing dread as they desperately tried to close the lift doors.

"Close the fucking door!" The frantic shout, laced with raw, primal fear, split through their shared channel, slicing the trembling silence. The seething panic in the mercenary's voice whipped up a storm of terror-afflicted shudders in his comrades, escalating their frantic race for survival.

"Damn it! The door's jammed!" Another cry resonated from inside the elevator, the gruff alto unmistakably belonging to the burly figure known as Victor. There was a sharp, grating shriek of metal against metal as Victor threw his weight against the stubborn doors.

"I'll cover you! Hammer that console!" A different voice cut through the cacophonous echoes within the lift - steel-edged and dangerously focused.

A staccato of gunfire disrupted the tension, the rapid bursts echoing from the safety barricade hastily erected by the one called Sergeant.

"Sarge! It's not working!" Yelled the merc, his voice wavering over the relentless gunfire, his fist ramming the console.

Like a premonition of death, the Spartan's ghostly silhouette advancing through the smoky haze sent a shiver of abject terror down the mercenaries' spines. Hardened warriors they might be, they stood no chance against such a force.

Cyrus, the embodiment of a storm against a flimsy shelter, moved with a speed that belied his bulk. He was upon them before they could react. His armored shoulder collided with Victor with the force of a rhino, sending him smashing against the elevator wall.

Victor's gasping breath and stinging groan echoed off the cold metal surrounding them. He slid down the wall, unconsciousness seizing him as his body went limp, discarded by Cyrus like trash.

Even as Victor crumpled, Cyrus moved on to the next target. A flick of his wrist brought his energy dagger to life, its brilliant plasma sheen illuminating the confined space like a deadly star. His other arm shot out, fingers closing like a vise around the next merc's neck.

A strangled cry echoed, choked off as the Spartan's grip tightened. Cyrus pivoted, and the captive mercenary was bodily hurled into his comrade. The two collapsed in a heap, momentarily stunned.

The energy dagger came into play then, swift and precise. The mercenary pinned beneath his comrade hardly had time to scream before Cyrus's weapon plunged into his chest cavity. His gasping cry was cut short, his body rigid before slumping lifelessly.

With the immediate threats thoroughly neutralized, a brief hiatus of silence sank over the ransacked elevator.

"All clear," Chamber's voice rippled through his audio receptors, a touch of peppiness with the characteristic sarcasm.

"For now," Cyrus responded, his voice cool yet subtly echoing a weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion. "We're going to have company soon. I need a route out of here."

"Already on it." Her response was immediately followed by a brief stir of MJOLINIOR's HUD. Information streams overflowed his neural interface as a holographic readout blossomed, rendering a meticulously detailed miniaturized layout of the Arasaka Tower. "This place is a war zone right now. Arasaka security and Black Element Mercs are tearing it apart."

Cyrus analyzed the given route, noting the wide maneuverability it permitted, but his attention anchored at the tenth floor. A knot of red blips, indicative of hostiles, clustered not far from his tagged path.

"No better route?" He asked, a hint of optimism tainting his rhetoric.

"No," came her curt denial.

A sigh of resignation escaped Cyrus as he stooped to scavenge the fallen mercenaries. He sorted through their gear, pocketing ammunition, spare batteries, and other miscellaneous equipment with a practiced eye.

Nothing's ever easy.

Back to the beginning where it all started.

If you're new here than welcome. If you're an old hand from the 1,000 plus people who followed the old fic then the following is for you.

I know there were a decent chunk of people that liked the old version, but I needed a fresh start. I over stretched myself by delving into different genres and it ended up throwing me into writers block galore.

To that end Semper Vigiles will be a little different this time around but the overarching goal of world revolution against the corporations will be the same.

As for the stories I'm committing to in the long run, Semper Vigiles, Only In Death, and For all Mankind will be the only Fics I upload until completion.

Hope you guys enjoy this, see you on the next one.

Cypher out.