7:17 AM
Northeast Perimeter - Vehicle Position
Jesse and Atlas moved through the hangar's exterior like predators hunting in tandem. The viridian armor made Jesse impossibly fast; the amber armor made Atlas an unstoppable force.
"There," Atlas said, pointing at two armored transports idling fifty meters ahead. Four guards posted. Professional spacing. "We disable vehicles, trap them here. No escape."
Jesse nodded. His heart was hammering but his hands were steady. Seven kills today. The number sat in his head like a stone. But Atlas was right—grief later, survive now.
They split up. Atlas went loud—charging the first transport head-on, drawing fire. Jesse went silent—viridian armor blurring as he flanked around.
The guards never had a chance.
Atlas hit the first transport like a wrecking ball. The vehicle's armor crumpled. Flipped. The amber integration gave him terrifying strength—not just enhanced muscle, but actual mass manipulation. When Atlas moved, physics bent around him.
Jesse planted charges on the second transport's engine block. Stepped back. Detonated.
The explosion lit the morning sky orange.
"Vehicles neutralized," Jesse reported. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Guards down. They're trapped here with us."
"Good," Atlas rumbled. "Is what we want. Now they cannot run. Must fight or surrender."
A Covenant soldier stumbled from the wreckage of the first transport. Injured. Disoriented. Weapon gone.
He saw them. Raised his hands.
"I surrender," he said. Blood running from a cut on his forehead. "I surrender, don't—"
Jesse's viridian armor had already moved. Muscle memory. Threat response. The integration calculating that wounded enemy could still be dangerous, still had a sidearm, still—
His hand was around the man's throat before he consciously decided to move.
"JESSE!" Atlas's voice, sharp as a gunshot. "STOP!"
Jesse froze. The soldier was choking, eyes bulging, hands scrabbling uselessly at the viridian gauntlet.
"He surrendered," Atlas said. Voice hard. "You do not kill surrendered enemy. This is line. You cross this, you do not come back."
Jesse let go. The soldier collapsed, gasping.
"I—" Jesse's voice shook. "I didn't mean to. The armor just—it reacted and I—"
"I know." Atlas stepped closer. "Integration makes you fast. Makes instinct faster than thought. But you must control it. You are in command. Not armor. You. Understand?"
Jesse nodded. Looked at the soldier on the ground. Saw the fear in his eyes. Realized the man was maybe thirty years old. Had probably joined the Covenant believing he was fighting evil. Had surrendered when he realized he was outmatched.
Was human.
"I understand," Jesse said quietly.
Atlas zip-tied the soldier's hands. "You stay here. Do not move. Do not fight. Battle is over for you. You chose to surrender. You get to live. This is good choice."
The soldier nodded frantically.
Atlas turned to Jesse. "You did good today. Killed enemy combatants in battle. This is war. But surrendered enemy is prisoner. Not threat. You remember difference, da?"
"Yeah," Jesse said. "I'll remember."
His comm crackled. Marcus's voice: "All teams, converge on my position. Covenant forces are breaking. We've won."
Jesse looked at the burning vehicles. At the bodies. At the one survivor who'd chosen surrender over death.
Won. Right.
It didn't feel like winning.
Mortar Position - 7:19 AM
Marcus stood over four dead Covenant soldiers and tried to remember when he'd killed them.
The crimson integration had taken over somewhere in the middle of the fight. He remembered charging the mortar position. Remembered the first soldier turning toward him. Remembered the satisfying crunch of impact.
Then... red haze. Violence that felt good. Targets falling. Blood.
Now he was here. Four bodies. His knuckles hurt. His armor was spattered with blood.
Mara was watching him carefully. Silas had his tablet out, probably recording biometric data.
"How many did I kill?" Marcus asked.
"Four," Mara said. Clinical. "All valid targets. Active combatants. You didn't cross any lines."
"Did I come close?"
She didn't answer immediately. "The last one tried to surrender. You hesitated. Backed off. The integration wanted you to continue but you regained control. So... yes. You came close. But you stopped."
Marcus felt cold. "I almost killed a surrendered enemy."
"Almost. Didn't." Mara stepped closer. "Marcus, the crimson integration amplifies aggression. You know this. Command knew this when they chose you. You'll need to learn to manage it."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you'll become a liability and Cross will remove you from the field." She said it like she was discussing equipment failure. No judgment. No emotion.
Marcus looked at her. Really looked. Saw the magenta armor covered in blood—not hers. Saw her posture—relaxed, steady. Saw her eyes—empty.
"Mara," he said carefully. "How many did you kill today?"
"Seventeen confirmed. Three probable but unconfirmed due to obscured sight lines."
"How do you feel about that?"
She tilted her head. Analytical. "I don't. The magenta integration suppresses emotional responses during combat operations. Improves efficiency. Reduces hesitation. I'm aware this is happening. I'm aware I should probably be concerned. But the concern itself is suppressed, so..." She shrugged. "I'm functional. That's what matters."
"Jesus, Mara."
"My psychological state is not optimal," she agreed. "But we won. We completed the mission. We survived. By military standards, this is success."
Marcus wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her that success measured in bodies and emotional death wasn't success at all.
But his hands were covered in blood too. His integration had made him want to kill. Who was he to judge?
"Silas," he said instead. "Status?"
The azure-armored analyst looked up from his tablet. "I crashed their communications network four times. Disrupted their tactical coordination. Prevented them from calling for reinforcements. Zero kills on my part—I was pure support." He paused. "I also hacked their personal devices and watched three of them die through their own helmet cameras while I disrupted their HUDs. So... indirect kills? Maybe? I don't know how to categorize that."
"You saved lives," Marcus said. "Our lives. That's how you categorize it."
"Did I?" Silas's voice cracked. "Or did I just make it easier for you and Mara to kill them? Am I support or accomplice?"
Marcus didn't have an answer.
His comm crackled. Atlas's voice: "All hostiles neutralized. We have one prisoner. Vehicles destroyed. North sector secure."
"Copy," Marcus replied. "Everyone converge on the hangar. Let's... let's regroup."
The Wraith - Hangar Bay - 7:35 AM
Director Cross surveyed the battlefield as the Spectrum team returned.
Thirty Covenant soldiers. All dead except one prisoner.
Five test subjects in experimental armor. All alive. All walking. Some limping, some favoring injuries, but alive.
The math was undeniable. The Spectrum Initiative worked.
"Casualties?" he asked as they approached.
"None," Marcus reported. He'd removed his helmet. Looked exhausted. Haunted.
"Injuries, yes. Atlas took a rocket—cracked ribs, some internal bruising. Jesse's got a concussion. I've got... probably a dozen things wrong that the armor's compensating for. But we're all functional."
"The armor's regeneration systems are working?"
"Yes. Slowly. Painfully. But yes." Marcus gestured at the carnage behind them.
"Thirty Covenant operatives dead. One captured. Mission accomplished."
"Good." Cross nodded to Lieutenant Vega. "Get them to medical. Full scans. I want baseline data on integration effects and combat damage."
"Sir," Vega acknowledged.
Atlas limped forward, amber armor scorched and dented. "Prisoner is secure. Covenant soldier, mid-level operative. May have intelligence value."
"We'll debrief him," Cross said. Then, studying Atlas: "How bad?"
"Rocket hit center mass. Armor absorbed most of blast. Ribs cracked, internal bruising, possibly minor internal bleeding. Armor's medical systems stopped the worst of it." Atlas touched his chest gingerly. "Will be fine in few days. Am tough."
"You're lucky," Cross corrected. "Another few centimeters and that rocket would have overwhelmed the armor's capacity. You'd be dead."
"Da." Atlas smiled grimly. "But am not dead. This is good day."
Jesse was quiet, standing apart from the group. Mara noticed.
"Jesse took seven confirmed kills," she reported. "Performed admirably. Maintained tactical discipline. Nearly violated rules of engagement once but corrected before crossing the line. Recommend commendation."
Jesse looked at her like she'd spoken a foreign language. "Commendation? I almost killed a surrendered—"
"Almost. Didn't." Mara's voice was flat. "You maintained control. That's what matters."
"Mara's right," Atlas said. "You did good, malchik. Was hard fight. You survived. You learned. This is victory."
Jesse didn't respond. Just stared at his hands.
Marcus recognized that look. The thousand-yard stare. The shock setting in after adrenaline faded.
"Get him to medical," he told Atlas quietly. "Make sure they check for shock. PTSD symptoms. The integration might be suppressing his trauma response but it'll hit him later."
"I'm fine," Jesse said. Automatic. Empty.
"No you're not," Marcus said. Not unkindly. "None of us are. But we will be. Eventually. Maybe. Medical. Now."