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Fallout - Part II: Defects
Posted By: Radont<radont84@gmail.com>
Date: 24 February 2006, 2:50 am
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Author's note: I am aware that there is a Gray Fox in the Metal Gear universe. My brother also uses the name Gray Fox when he plays Halo, that's why I use the name in this fic; I'm not doing a Halo/Metal Gear crossover.
Rain fell in grey ribbons from a starless night sky; splashing without prejudice on paved roads, sidewalks, and soldiers. The UNSC marines, crouched with their backs to a five-foot high stone wall, shivered. Opposite the grey stone barrier and across a seventy-five meter courtyard stood a large house; proudly defying the disarray that had ravaged the rest of the city. The rain wasn't so bad if the soldiers were tactically advancing through the bombed out ruins and exchanging fire with rebels down narrow streets. Keeping track of snipers in destroyed houses would keep any soldier warm. Standing in a torrential downpour at 0200 hours would make the devil himself long for the warmth of his domain.
Not all of the soldiers were cold, Radont's MJOLNIR armor regulated the environment inside his suit, and he found himself pitying the shivering marines. All but one, anyway. Sergeant Abraham Winfield could freeze for all he cared. The sergeant knew tactics as well as anyone else. It was his disregard for life, including his own, that made him hated by the men under his command. They were all expendable, just more assets to move around.
The op had started successfully enough. The landing zone just outside the city of Krenz was void of hostiles and the small squad of UNSC soldiers penetrated two kilometers into the city before engaging any rebel forces. If the rebels tried to take cover in one of the many long abandoned buildings, Sergeant Winfield wouldn't bother hunting them down. He let rockets do the talking, and there is no way to negotiate with a 102mm High-Exposive round. Sometimes they found the mangled bodies of woman and children mixed with the appendages of the rebels. Winfield called it a part of war. Radont called it murder.
"Spartan, on my mark I want you to empty your rockets into that house."
I have a name, sir. "Yes sir," was the reply from behind the mirrored visor.
"Mark!"
Radont stood and shouldered the rocket launcher. The house was old, Victorian style, with black shingles effortlessly shedding the rain. A house that size probably belonged to some rich entrepreneur before the war, now the red bricks housed rebels—or so Sergeant Winfield thought. Radont squeezed the trigger gently but froze before releasing the rockets. Something moved in an upstairs room. Through the sheets of rain the Spartan's enhanced vision could clearly make out a dark haired woman comforting a small child. Fear was etched on each face. This wasn't a rebel hideout; it was the last stronghold for civilians in a war-torn city. He eased his finger off the trigger and crouched behind the wall.
"What do you think you're doing, Spartan?" Winfield fumed.
"Sir," Radont replied calmly, "there are civilians in that house, not rebels."
The sergeant narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His voice started low pitched and quiet but grew louder with each word.
"I don't care if your own mother is in that house, when I give an order I expect it to be followed. Is that clear Spartan?"
Radont threw the heavy weapon at Winfield's feet. "You do it."
An uneasy silence followed broken only by the soft, methodical slapping of rain hitting wet pavement. The marines shuffled nervously and checked their assault rifles. No one talked to Sergeant Abraham Winfield like that, let alone refuse a direct order and then throw down a weapon.
"Fine," Winfield said as he picked up the rocket launcher, "I'll show you how a real soldier takes care of rebels, then I'll make sure this is the last op you're ever a part of."
The sergeant hoisted the weapon to his shoulder and peered through the scope. His hand went to the trigger but paused when he heard an M225 semi-armor piercing round being chambered with cold indifference. He glanced to his left, what stared back was an M6D pistol held in steady, gauntleted Spartan hands.
"I can't let you do that," Radont said with an uncanny coolness.
An arrogant smile crept across Abraham's lips. "It takes guts to pull a weapon on your CO, I like that." Winfield returned his attention to the scope. "Unfortunately you're gonna have to shoot me becau—."
His ears didn't even have time to register the telltale crack of the pistol firing.
The lead bullet penetrated his skull half an inch above his ear. The high explosive round detonated, exploding the sergeants head like a can of tomato soup. Skull fragments and grey matter assaulted the stone wall as the body slumped to the ground. The resulting puddle of crimson blood mixed with rain and formed a long red river that snaked it's way down the rough paved road.
Nobody moved.
After a few moments that felt like hours, the marines put aside their shock and surrounded the steel colored super soldier. Radont let his gun slip from his hand, arms raised in submission. Someone walked close behind him, the Spartan knew what was coming and he offered no resistance.
"I'm sorry, Radont." The soldier said.
"I'm not," was the reply.
Half a second later the solid stock of an assault rifle smacked the back of his head. The ground rushed up to meet him as the world faded into blackness.
Paul Jensen sat back in his plush office chair. He stretched his hands up and released a deep yawn. A glance at the tall grandfather clock in the corner let him know he'd been in the office too long. Seven hours already? Paul stood and stretched his legs, it felt good to stand and work his joints on the soft office carpet. A walk outside wouldn't hurt either. Seven hours of staring at genetic codes and DNA strands would make even a hermit want to take a walk. The ONI genetisist removed his white lab coat and hung it over the black chair.
He felt his pocket to make sure his wallet was secure. A quick glance down revealed his I.D. badge was still hanging from his neck. One last sweep of the office and he exited through the translucent glass door, locking it behind him. The head of ONI genetic research should have security on his mind twenty-four-seven, or so his dad—and predecessor—told him. Yeah, thanks for the tip dad. As a former UNSC marine, Paul knew all about security but his dad felt the need to remind him on a monthly basis. Thomas Jensen was like that, always worrying about his son.
Jensen's office exited into a white lab area. Long steel tables reflected beakers and test tubes in a polished sheen. Computers hummed quietly as they processed data from all manner of tests and experiments. He walked briskly past fellow genetisists pouring intently over microscopes and lab result sheets.
Once outside, Paul took an immediate left and headed down the sidewalk. Maaz, the star that kept the planet lit, was making it's descent behind him. Shadows stretched long in the waning orange glow as the city settled in for another warm summer night.
Something didn't feel right though. The hair on Paul's arms stood at attention, his heart beat faster as adrenaline began to enhance his senses. It was the natural 'fight or flight' response, something he hadn't felt since being ambushed by rebel forces during his tour of duty with the UNSC.
The former marine stopped and inspected a display window showcasing pin stripe suits. He shot a glance down the sidewalk. Big guy, black shirt and jacket, bald, jeans and white running shoes. The jacket was a giveaway; nobody wore more than a t-shirt in this weather unless they had something to hide. Paul assumed, correctly, that he hid a silenced pistol under the coat. The assassin quickly diverted his attention to a newspaper stand, but not before Paul had all the information he needed. Well, almost all. He didn't know why the lone merc was after him. Not a big deal really, he'd find out soon enough.
Jensen continued down the sidewalk to an intersection. The light blinked a white 'walk' symbol; Paul proceeded across the street, being carefully to maintain a casual gait. A block to his left another black clad citizen did the same. This one was donned in the same style jacket as the first, but he was far younger and fifty pounds lighter. Two of them? I didn't realize I was that popular. The geneticist decided to test them; he turned left after crossing the street and headed straight for the smaller assassin.
The young merc didn't skip a beat; he turned and headed in the same direction as Paul. After a block he entered a small Chinese restaurant. He'd be back; most of these buildings had exits into adjacent alleys. Jensen continued casually down the sidewalk. A third assassin turned the corner and instantly spotted his prey coming toward him not ten feet away. Paul saw the slight pause followed by a spark of recognition in the merc's dark eyes. It was imperceptible to a civilian, but the trained eye of a marine knew what to look for. The assassin might as well hold up a sign announcing he was there.
It was time to show the mercs who they were dealing with.
At the next alley Paul turned right, hoping the Chinese restaurant had a back door leading here. It did, the door swung open and a jacket clad citizen stepped out. It had to be the young assassin but Jensen couldn't be sure. The towering buildings on either side of the alley blocked Maaz's waning light creating deep, dark shadows. A single streetlight protruding from the restaurant made a valiant effort to dispel the darkness. All it succeeded in doing was putting a small spotlight half way down the alley. If Paul timed it right he would meet the assassin directly under the light.
Perfect.
Jensen quickened his pace. Almost there. Just before stepping into the circle of light Paul sprinted at the assassin in a sudden explosion of speed. The merc's eyes went wide with surprise at the site of his quarry barreling towards him. Reaching inside his jacket, the assassin procured a silenced pistol and aimed it in one fluid motion. It was too late. Paul pushed the kid's gun arm aside as he fired; the bullet smacked into the adjacent brick building sending pieces of red brick tumbling to the pavement.
Jensen brought his knee to the merc's gut, the assassin doubled over. The former marine went to work on the gun arm. He grabbed the wrist firmly and twisted. Bones snapped, the merc yelled and dropped his weapon. Paul greedily scooped up the pistol and slipped his left arm around the assassin's neck. He held him tightly from behind as he stepped out of the light, the gun trained on the door to the restaurant.
The third assassin busted into the alley from the restaurant, gun raised ready to fire. He had heard the yell of his comrade in the radio attached to his ear. The silenced pistol in the marine's hand whispered twice. Two lead bullets returned wet smacking sounds as they entered the assassin's chest cavity. Paul squeezed his captive tighter; the merc struggled briefly then went limp. One dead assassin was enough for tonight, Jensen wasn't a murderer.
Two down, one to go.
The geneticist quickly crouched next to a rusting steel trash bin and waited for the bald assassin to find his partners. He didn't have to wait long, not two minutes later the soft patter of running shoes could be heard moving down the alley.
The merc slowed when he drew close to the spotlight. His gun was drawn and he took nervous, slow steps toward the bodies. The bald head swiveled from side to side searching every shadow, looking for any movement. Satisfied the area was clear, the merc knelt down and inspected the body of the younger hitman.
Like a viper rising to strike, Paul rose from his hiding spot and moved silently toward the assassin's back. Ten feet out he ran louder so the assassin would hear him. Stand and turn, that's all I ask. The merc obeyed, spinning on his heel with gun up. Jensen used the momentum to slam his foot into the assassin's knee, ripping muscles and tearing tendons. The assailant dropped the gun and clutched his knee in agony as he fell to the ground.
Paul kicked the gun away and spoke forcefully, "Who sent you?"
The merc shook his head, "I-I don't k-know," he said between deep breaths.
Jensen fired a round into the assassin's good knee. The merc howled. Paul knelt and pressed the silenced weapon to the writhing man's temple. The merc's eyes widened with fear.
"K-Kazlov. His name is Ivan Kazlov."
Paul allowed a slight grin to spread over his lips.
"Not so tough when you're on the other side of the gun, eh? Why did Mr. Kazlov want me dead?"
"I swear I don't know, he gives me a job and I do it. No questions."
Jensen frowned.
"You believe me, right?" The merc asked in a wavering voice.
Paul slammed the pistol into the side of the assassin's head knocking him out cold.
"Every word." The former Marine stood and disappeared into the night. He had a call to make.
Radont tested the shackles clasped firmly around his wrists and ankles, they held tight. Sitting in an interrogation room unable to move was not something he considered necessary. He was a soldier, not a criminal. The whispers and rumors started as soon as he got back from the op. A murderer some said, others were convinced he must have finally snapped. It was bound to happen with what they do to Spartans. In truth he was neither murderer or insane; just a regular person holding on to deep rooted convictions ONI hoped would leave with training.
The room was purposefully bland. A long rectangular steel table sat squarely in the middle, the walls were constructed with grey cinderblocks and the floor was a cold slab of concrete. A single dim light hung over the center of the table, it was meant to give the interrogator more options. He could move in and out of the light, distracting and disorienting the prisoner. But when the prisoner is an eight foot tall Spartan the roles are reversed. This time it was the interrogator that left shaking and distraught.
That had been over half an hour ago. The windowless door finally squeaked open. Radont sat straighter when his brother, and fellow Spartan, entered. The legendary Gray Fox grabbed an uncomfortable steel chair from the opposite end of the table and brought it closer to his brother. He sat without saying a word.
When it came to close quarters battle, Gray Fox's skills were unmatched. Radont would have been long dead if not for the quick wits, and even quicker trigger finger, of his younger brother. The Spartan was feared among rebel forces, his name never uttered any louder than a whisper if it was uttered at all.
After a brief silence Gray Fox spoke. "That wasn't very smart, Radont. You've created quite the mess for the powers that be."
Radont shrugged, the shackles rattled, "I did what I had to do."
How could he be so cold to the whole thing? Gray Fox raised his voice and leaned in, "You killed a father, did you know that? There are three kids and a wife that will never see their father and husband again. You did not do what you had to do, you did what you're convictions told you to do."
"You would have done the exact same thing," Radont replied calmly, "you had the same convictions drilled into you from the time you were born. Even ONI with all their power can't take those away."
"What I would have done doesn't matter." Gray fox replied
"So you would let a house full of civilians get turned into a pile of ruble because of a blood thirsty, over zealous Sergeant?"
Gray Fox's eyebrows came together in confusion, "What civilians are you talking about?"
Radont should have seen it coming; ONI knew how to control the media. To everyone outside of ONI he was just a Spartan that went crazy. Sergeant Winfield was a mourned hero just trying to make the universe a safer place. The talking heads from ONI would assure everyone that it was an isolated incident, no other Spartan was defective. They would use the word 'defective' because it turned Radont into nothing more than a broken piece of equipment. Nobody's conscience ever bothered him or her when disposing faulty machinery.
"Sergeant Winfield ordered me to fire on a house full of non-combatants. He had already butchered enough woman and children in his search for rebels. I threw down my weapon and refused. He picked it up with intent to fire on civilians. Like I said; I did what I had to do."
Gray Fox sat back in his chair, "So ONI twisted it all around. Figures."
An armed guard entered the drab room, "Five minutes is up."
Gray Fox stood, "I'll see if I can pull some strings, try and educate the right people."
"Be civil, bro." Radont replied only half seriously.
His brother smiled, "Always."
The steel door shut and Radont was alone again. His mind drifted back to the last words his father had said to him. Everyone is born with a purpose; they can't die until they've accomplished it. It sounded funny to a six year old, but he believed it now. He wouldn't be executed—yet.
Paul Jensen opened the door to his house with post-battle shakiness. He entered, closed and locked the oak door, then leaned against it. Deep breathes were drawn in through his nose then released slowly. Once his heart had settled he picked up the phone in the kitchen. Seven digits later he heard ringing.
"This is detective Brian Kramer, Homicide."
"Brian, its Paul."
"Paul!" The disembodied voice exclaimed, "haven't talked to you in a while, how's life?"
"It's ah, it's interesting. Listen, I have a favor to ask."
"Shoot, buddy."
"Do you have an Ivan Kazlov on file anywhere? I need any information you can give me."
"Sure thing, give me a sec."
Paul heard the fluttering of fingers dancing across a keyboard. Brain hummed while he worked.
"Okay, we have an address here. Looks like he lives on the top floor of Gains Apartments, the big ones downtown. He was charged several times with murder and extortion but nothing ever stuck. Are you in some sort of trouble?"
"Just the usual. Assassins trying to kill me and all that."
"Was one of them a big bald guy by chance?"
Paul paused, "Yes."
"Well you just saved me a lot of work. We got a call from a Chinese restaurant, said there was some kind of fight going on out in the ally. By the time our officer got there all he found was two unconscious guys and a corpse. You mind coming down and ID'ing them?"
"I'll be right there." He returned the phone to the cradle. The next few days would be busy ones.
He had an apartment to infiltrate.
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