Location: UNSC Forward Operating Base, Avenport, Virek
Date and Time: December 18, 2552 – 0700 Hours
The base feels different today. Maybe it's the weight of what we've been through, or maybe it's the fact that we know there's more coming. Either way, the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.
I sit on the edge of my bunk, my hands resting on my knees as I stare at the wall. It's early, and most of the squad is still asleep, but I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of the firefight. The sniper's body hitting the ground. The rebel's face, frozen in shock just before I pulled the trigger.
I shake my head, trying to push the images away. This is war. This is what we signed up for. But the longer we're out here, the more it feels like something's slipping—like the lines between us and them are starting to blur.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
I glance up to see Doc Alvarez standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks just as tired as I feel, dark circles under her eyes, but there's a strength in her that I've come to admire. She doesn't break. Not easily, anyway.
"Yeah," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Just… too much in my head."
Doc nods, stepping into the room and leaning against the wall. "That's how it goes. You keep replaying it in your head, trying to figure out if you could've done something different. But you can't change it. You just survive it."
Her words hang in the air for a moment, and I feel a sense of relief. She gets it. We all do. But that doesn't make it any easier.
The door to the barracks creaks open again, and Grayson steps in, his face set in the usual mask of calm focus. He gives us a nod, his eyes sharp as ever.
"Gear up," he says, his voice steady. "We've got new orders."
Doc glances at me, then back to Grayson. "Another sweep?"
"Not this time," Grayson replies, his tone dropping. "We've got intel on a large URF supply convoy moving through the outer districts. Command wants us to intercept. We're taking the fight to them this time."
My stomach tightens at his words. We've been on the defensive for so long—moving from one firefight to the next, always reacting. But now? Now we're on the attack.
By the time we're fully geared up and loaded into the transport, the sun has just started to rise over the horizon, casting long shadows across the base. The ride is quiet, tense. Santiago sits across from me, his usual smirk replaced with a more serious expression.
"You ready for this, Kowalski?" he asks, his voice low but steady.
I nod, though the truth is, I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if any of us are. But that's not something you say out loud. Not here. Not now.
"Yeah," I say, tightening my grip on my rifle. "Let's do it."
The transport rolls to a stop just outside the outer district, a sprawling network of rundown streets and crumbling buildings. It's quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.
We disembark, moving quickly to take up positions along the narrow streets. Grayson leads the way, his eyes scanning the area with the sharp precision that only comes with years of combat experience. I follow close behind, my heart pounding in my chest as we move toward the convoy's expected route.
The intel was clear: the URF is moving a significant amount of supplies through this area—enough to equip a small army. If we can intercept them, we'll deal a serious blow to their operations. But the risk? It's high. The URF won't give up those supplies without a fight.
We reach a narrow alleyway just off the main road, and Grayson signals for us to hold position. We crouch down behind a line of abandoned vehicles, using the rusted-out hulks for cover as we wait. The air is thick with tension, the kind that makes every second feel like an eternity.
"Eyes up," Grayson whispers. "Convoy should be here any minute."
I nod, my grip tightening on my rifle as I peer over the top of the vehicle. The road ahead is empty, but I can feel it—the tension, the anticipation. The URF is coming.
The first sign of the convoy is the rumble of engines in the distance, a low growl that grows louder with each passing second. My heart rate spikes as I lean out, catching sight of the lead vehicle—a heavily armored transport, followed by a string of cargo trucks and smaller vehicles. They're moving slow, cautious, like they know something's not right.
"On my mark," Grayson says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I count the seconds in my head, my pulse pounding in time with the rumble of the convoy. The moment stretches out, every nerve in my body screaming for action. And then—
"Mark!"
The world explodes into motion.
Santiago's heavy weapon roars to life, spraying the lead vehicle with a barrage of fire. The armored transport jerks to a halt, its tires shredding under the onslaught, smoke pouring from the engine. The convoy behind it scrambles to react, vehicles swerving and skidding to a stop as the URF rebels jump out, weapons drawn.
I pop up from behind cover, my rifle aimed and ready. The first rebel that comes into view barely has time to react before I squeeze the trigger. The shot is clean, precise, and he drops to the ground in a heap. But there's no time to think about it—there are more coming.
"Move! Move!" Grayson shouts, and we push forward, using the chaos to close the distance between us and the convoy. Bullets whip through the air, ricocheting off the rusted vehicles and cracked pavement. The rebels are scrambling, but they're not retreating. They're fighting back.
I slide into cover behind an overturned cargo crate, my heart racing as I reload. Across from me, O'Neill is pinned down, his rifle trained on a group of rebels taking cover behind one of the trucks. He's pale, still recovering from the wound he took during the last mission, but he's holding his ground.
"Cover me!" I shout, popping up to lay down fire as O'Neill moves to a better position. The rebels fire back, their shots kicking up dirt and debris all around me, but I hold steady, keeping them pinned.
Grayson's voice crackles through the comms. "Push up! We've got them on the ropes!"
I move forward, darting between the stalled vehicles as we close in on the remaining rebels. The firefight is brutal, fast-paced, with bullets flying in every direction. The rebels are outgunned, but they're not going down easy. They fight with desperation, their backs against the wall.
I round the corner of one of the cargo trucks, coming face-to-face with a URF rebel. His eyes widen in surprise, and for a split second, we just stare at each other—two soldiers on opposite sides of the same war. Then instinct takes over, and I fire.
The rebel drops, his weapon falling from his hands as he hits the ground. I exhale, the tension leaving my body in a rush. It's over. The convoy is ours.