[centre][b][h3]>Location: UNSC Outpost Theta, Arcadia[/h3] >Involvement file: United Rebel Frontier >Two Months ago...[/b][/centre][hr] The group moved in synchronisation, one behind the other like a conga-line...If a conga line was armed with heavily loaded weaponry and explosives. One by one, they moved to their destination, a doorway locked between the inside and the downpour that spread on the outside. Yet, Grant wasn't among their ranks, as for one. He was placed elsewhere, with a view quite remarkable. Masked mostly by the rainfall and the darkness of the night, he gripped his Designated Marksman Rifle, blankly keeping a straight face when staring at the sights of both his and his comrades' successful takedowns. A pitter-patter of downpour tricked and mixed between a blood-stained concrete floor, creating a red, oozing solution against the walls. Once they were inside, Grant would have to depart, having no use inside with his weapon. He could see them, moving step by step and rippling the puddles with each additional pace. Remarkable to see how they'd come so far, his brothers, sisters and comrades. When he grew up within the Insurgents, they were little-more than small time fighters, barely surviving the encounters they got into. But now, they were trained, armed and fitted out with appropriate weapons to even kill a Spartan if used correctly. They were growing in size, becoming an issue for the UNSC and other insurgent groups. That was their goal, to cause themselves to be noticed. It was so they could shift the focus of the UNSC occupation forces to those civilians in need, which were receiving little to none. And now the- A sound fractured his thoughts. It sounded like heavy boots, from directly behind him. Grant was already laying down on his front, soaking up his combat vest into the watery walls of the UNSC FOB. He could hear boots coming closer, as he rolled onto his back quickly, DMR facing towards the sound. Yet, before he could react and pull the trigger, a sight of shock came to him...In the form of a Shock Trooper...A Orbital Drop Shock Trooper...A squad of or-...You get the fucking point. Four of them, encircled around him, all with guns aimed at his chest. Now, everything seemed to stand still. The rain continued to splatter against the helmets of the ODST specialists, as well as the Rebel attire of Grant, but not one uttered a word. At least for the moment in time. They all stared at each other, blankly through visors and heads up displays, before eventually Grant broke the moment of silence and awkwardness. "Hey guys...I think I saw the Rebels go that way." He couldn't help but grin underneath his own visor, but the ODST didn't see the funny side of it, one of the central soldiers placing their heavy boot against his chest to keep him on the floor, the other leg kicking away the DMR in his hand. The silence retained for a small while longer, and yet it remained awkward and painful for the rebel on the floor. His voice coughed and gargled under the weight of the ODST specialist. Grant's hand slowly made way for his boot-knife, ironically not located in his boot. No one would suspect it, would they? "Hey...Hey...I can get you court-marshalled for that...Or I could..." Without warning, he brought his blade up quickly, injecting it into a gap between the ODST specialist's armour, on the leg that was pressed against his chest. The man, as identifiable by his voice, stumbled backwards limping away before Grant had a chance to regain control of his knife. Before he could react, putting on an action-hero style beat-down on the ODST soldiers, the butt of a firearm smacked into his face, driving him into a cold and dark abyss known as being unconscious... [hr][centre][h3]>Location: UNSC Chain, Mobile/Orbital Detention Centre[/h3] >One month ago...[/centre][hr] "Ahh...Bloody porridge inside the prison? Can we please hire someone who didn't drop out of cooking school to make us meals?" Grant called from his cell. The charred bowl he held in his hands reeked of disappointment and failure whilst a gloopy substance someone categorised with food begged to be indulged. It was a sad time. Here, he could be, roaming free in a field with butterflies and rainbows, when instead he was sitting in what was the equivalent to the testicle-sweat of the UNSC Fleet. There used to be a room-mate for Grant, but he was either released or moved to another cell for the rebel apparently making jokes about rape...Who knew that his jokes sounded like legitimate threats to other prisoners? Grant wasn't the strongest lad in the block, nor the prison at all. He was like the scrawny guy who gets by slipping between the big lads and hitting them from behind. But in all honesty, Grant did not like fighting in the prison at all. It felt wrong, much like what half of his insurgent actions were like to himself. And now, he was sitting in an orbital prison, without even a window view of the world outside. Could you really call it outside? It was more of an emptiness right? The vacuum of space being some sort of...Y'know what, this was getting far too deep and annoying for someone of the likes of Grant. Sure, he was an extremely intelligent lad, but Grant wasn't known for sitting on his arse and thinking too much. He was more of a reactions-kinda guy? Or something like that. Usually distance was his ally in combat, but he wasn't going to be seeing anymore of that in a while. Until the gate to his own cell opened, and two guards, accompanying a smartly dressed man, looked at him. They were silent at first, staring at the peculiar man. He did not look anything like the other people in the prison cells. He was tall, skinnier, though not lean, and very well presented, save for a small stubble and ruffled hair. The two met eyes, in a non-romantic way, and shared thoughts, both questioning one another inside another. [centre][i]"Hello, Grant...I'd like to share a proposition for you..." [/i] [hr][h3]>Location: Freelancer Facility[/h3] >Present day...[hr] [/centre] The fighting had commenced, and immediately, Grant dove for cover at the furthest distance he could gain. It was time for a little surveying. He brandished his new armour, with his new alias, and his shiny new weaponry. Holstered onto his back, a M6C and M6MP, both kitted with custom wrist grips, remained on guard for use. His hands held a very modified DMR, with the ability to praise attachment modification and ammo types. He scanned the battlefield ahead, despite it being a scenario. It was littered with moving bodies. Both attacking the bots and being thrown about like children's toys. It was humorous, to say the least, but he knew that he'd be in the same situation if he did not think this through. He noticed the bots all fighting differently, depending on who they fought. Turns out they had similar thoughts, or programming in this case, as to Iowa. He knew what they were doing, though. Adapting to the similar military or brute force tactics. Well, to combat someone who learns your strategies, you'd have to keep changing your own one. Iowa was blessed to know he could deal some damage with this in mind. Before he began to raise up to new heights, a voice called out in his helmet, causing him to jump and almost lose his balance from where he stood statically. It came as a surprise to him, definitely. [color=Orange]"Agent Iowa, that location is already occupied. However, there are many other points to gain a marksmanship position from."[/color] He looked around him, checking it wasn't just another voice near him. But Iowa knew this sounded differently, much like the...It was the artificial intelligence that he was promised back at the Prison and through his beginning days as a Freelancer. And now, he was fighting alongside all of these other individuals, all with their own additions and AIs to put to use. [color=Orange]"Your silence is not comforting, Agent Iowa. Allow me to stimulate your senses, perhaps now you won't be so hesitant."[/color] "Bah, I am not prepared for a voice in my head..." Iowa called to himself. He had to admit, the UNSC had some really interesting gear to play around with. He wished he stuck around stealing their stuff more often to get this for his friends of the past. "Alright...Alright...So I just got...A weird feeling...But I guess I know what you mean...Lemme just study them for a sec'." Iowa's eyes darted between the areas of the training zone, looking between the robots to see weaknesses. It seemed that they were vulnerable to heavy, continuous punishment, as well as single, hard-hitting rounds from large weapons. But he didn't have large weaponry. However, the first, he did have access to rapid fire. He upholstered his M6MP, and quickly snapped on the wrist guard. It tightened itself around his armour, remaining in his hands. Wonderful fit, and wonderful trigger size. It fitted like a glove...A glove that was filled with dangerous projectiles... He threw himself over the wall he hid behind, moving around carefully to find a singled out robot. It was easy to start from the rim and make his way inside where the heavy resistance would be. And just as his luck, the AI in his mind spotted it. [color=Orange]"I forgot to add...My name is Sigma, your advanced AI assigned to you specifically by the Director. I like long walks on the beach and country music..."[/color] "Woah woah woah...Introductions later, blippy...And please tell me you were joking about the last one..." His AI responded quickly, as Sigma gave him a gentle shock. [color=Orange]"I was programmed to understand humour, quite significantly. Apparently it would suit your level of socialising, if your reports show up clear enough."[/color] "Great...You have access to my reports..." He began to take strides forward, running towards the larger bot ahead of him. It had a small gap underneath its raised legs, as he slid down onto his knees, holding down the trigger on his weapon as he aimed it skywards. The bullets sprayed into the underside, before he halted on the opposite side of the bot. From here, he began unloading at the head of the bot, providing heavy and repetitive punishment until both he had to reload and the bot gave in to the pressure. Luckily, both happened at the same time. "Aha! Looks like your programme was just...Delete-" Before he could finish his terrible excuse for a joke, a fist smacked him in the side, sending him sliding along the floor towards a group of other Freelancers. During his epiphany of sliding amongst the unclear floor of nuts and bolts, he came to realise that this was instant karma for the crimes he had made for the laws of humour and decent comedy...Eventually, he came to a stop when he swiped one of the Freelancer's off of their feet in a collision.