章 2: Hearts and Minds
Location: Colonial Administration Complex, Avenport, Virek
Date and Time: December 14, 2552 – 1430 Hours
Footfalls echo down the sterile hall. It's been hours since we posted up in the Colonial Administration Complex, and I'm starting to get used to the rhythm. Officials in suits glide past us, their shoes clicking against the polished floor. They're treating us like we're invisible, like a squad of Marines in gear is just part of the furniture.
Santiago cracks his neck and shifts his weight, leaning the stock of his M247H against the wall. His eyes scan the hall lazily, but I know him well enough to realize he's not just looking for something to pass the time. He's always watching, always waiting for what's gonna pop out from behind the next corner.
"Looks like we got the cushy detail," he says, speaking low.
I grunt in response, not wanting my body to seize up. A few feet over, Grayson speaks in soft tones into the comm, passing on information to 1st Squad. Jankowski, never one to slack, stands stock-still at attention. It's surreal how still he can remain—like a statue waiting for permission to spring to life.
Across the room, Doc Alvarez stands leaning against the wall, her arms across her chest. She catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. Yeah, this is it. I give her a half-nod, not acknowledging that I do, too.
Suddenly, there's a clatter from behind—a file case hitting the ground. My reflexes kick in, my grip on my rifle tightening as I spin around, only to see a Colonial Admin worker fumbling with scattered documents. I force myself to breathe and relax as the wave of adrenaline surges before dissipating. It's nothing. Just nerves.
"Easy, Kowalski," O'Neill says with a chuckle from beside me. "Save it for when something actually happens."
I glance sideways at him. Bricks O'Neill has that cocky smile smeared on his face, like nothing in the world could ever ruffle him.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, trying to brush off the sudden jolt of tension in my gut. O'Neill's one of those guys who thrives in the silence. Me? Not so much.
Blinking, I settle back into my post, eyes tracking the room again—feeling the minutes drag. It's only been a matter of months since I shipped out, but it feels like I've been waiting my whole life for something to happen. Something big. Maybe that's what drives me crazy about this place—Virek feels like it's just on the edge of something, but nobody knows what.
Grayson steps backward toward us, his voice calm and measured. "New orders. Platoon Leader wants us to investigate a disturbance in one of the lower districts. Possible civil unrest."
That gets my attention. Civil unrest? Out here, I thought the colonies were supposed to be rebuilding, not tearing themselves apart. But I have heard the whispers—the grumblings of the locals. Some folks feel like the UNSC's presence reminds them of all that they have lost, not what they have been saved from.
Santi gives a half-smile as he looks at me. "Things just got interesting, apparently."
We fall out of the complex, moving in formation, Grayson on point. The streets outside are much quieter than I thought they would be for the middle of the afternoon in the heart of the city. We thread through the scattered crowds as we make our way toward the Lower Market District where the disturbance was reported. It doesn't take long to feel the difference. People here move on quicker, heads down, almost as if not to be noticed. Buildings change too—less shiny, more worn out. Graffiti covers some of the walls with messages in faded spray paint. One catches my eye: FREEDOM IS NOT GIVEN. I try not to think about it, but it lingers in my head.
"Looks like this part of town's seen better days," O'Neill mutters, his voice low.
"No kidding," Dash Hayes returns. He's up ahead, rifle held tight across his chest as he keeps an eye on the alleyways. Hayes doesn't miss much.
Grayson stops us just before we reach the center of the district. "Alright, we're splitting up. Bravo Fireteam, we'll sweep the west end of the market. Alpha's already across. Heads up. Anything seems even a little off—we've had some heightened agitation among the locals of late. Last thing we need is surprises."
I tighten my grip on my rifle as we press forward, eyes scanning tight alleys and shuttered stalls. The air's heavier in here, somehow, like it's weighing me down and making me drag my feet. This was not exactly what I signed up for with the Marines. Alien threats were what I was supposed to fight, not keep peace for a city full of civilians that apparently don't want us here.
Turning the corner did it, though. That's when I saw them: a small cluster of locals standing in front of one of the market stalls, their eyes fixed on us as we approached. Their faces are not easy to read—somewhere between fear and defiance. A few of them cross their arms, a gesture that says, Hey, we're making a statement here.
Grayson raises a hand, a signal to freeze. "Stay cool," he says in an almost-whisper, then takes another step ahead, his tone professional once more. "We're here to ensure everything's safe. Is there a problem?"
One of them—a man in his thirties with a shaved head—steps forward. "Yeah, there's a problem. Problem is you people being here in the first place."
Tension starts to rise. Grayson keeps his cool, but his eyes narrow slightly. "We're here to maintain order. You have a complaint, take it up with the local administration."
The man spits on the ground, his jaw clenched. "Order? You call this order? You stroll in town like you own it. Without so much as a by-your-leave. This is our home, not some outpost for the UNSC."
I feel the weight of Santiago's shift beside me, his grip on his weapon a fraction tighter. For once, there is no joke. The air is thick now with the sort of tension that happens just before things blow.
Grayson steps a pace forward, dropping his tone. "We're not looking for trouble. We're just doing our job."
"Yeah? Well, maybe we're tired of your job."
For a moment, it feels like everything could go sideways. I can see it in their faces—the anger, the resentment. It's the kind of look I've only ever seen in old war vids, the ones my dad used to watch. Before everything. I'm not sure what's going to happen next, but my hand tightens on my rifle, my heart suddenly thumping a mile a minute.
And then it's over. The man backs off, steps back into the small group, shaking his head. "You're wasting your time here."
Grayson watches him a moment before nodding to us. "Move out."
We fall back into formation, the tension bleeding away but leaving something darker in its place. As we leave the market district behind, I have this nagging sense we just dodged a bullet. But for how long? Something's brewing here. You can feel it in the air.
Santiago lets out a low breath beside me. "Well, that was fun."
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