The fortress had never felt fuller. Nineteen Spartans under one roof made the place hum—weights clanging in the basement, the range popping below that, bootfalls marching through every stairwell like a heartbeat. I lounged on the top floor with a soda while talking heads melted down about the "mysterious, coordinated attacks" on Fisk's empire.
"Guess we made an impression," I said, raising my can.
Alpha01 watched the street from the window. 02 held up the far wall. 03 and 04 were downstairs drilling rookies, 05 ran the weight circuit. The machine ran itself now.
"If Fisk had any brains," I added, "he'd lay low."
The wall jumped. An explosion rattled the windows, dust drifting off the ceiling. The TV flickered out. I stood, grin spreading.
"Well. Speak of the devil."
"Hostile contact," 01 said, calm as always.
"No kidding." A second blast thumped the alley. Shouting rose from below. I leaned out. "Oh, wow—he brought the whole neighborhood."
Trucks blocked the street. A small group of about a hundred men emerged—some armed with rifles, shotguns, batons, and a few wearing armor, though most displayed bravado.
"Call everyone up," I told 01. "Time to show Fisk what happens when you knock."
Boots thundered. In under a minute, nineteen Spartans lined the lounge. Rookies tight. Veterans unshakeable.
"Fisk thinks numbers beat spine," I told them. "We don't break. We don't run. We clean up."
Silence. Perfect.
"Squads One through Three—front entrance. Four and Five flank the alleys. Go."
The door blew open under 01's shoulder. He hit the street with 11 and 15 flanking him. Bullets sparked off armor. 01's fist folded the first man.. 11 stripped a rifle in one motion. 15—still stiff—shoulder-tackled a guy into a hood and left a crater.
I strolled out after them, hands in pockets. "Thanks for the delivery, Willy. Saves me the bus fare."
Squad Two punched into the crowd—02, 07, 13. 02 broke a gun across a knee, 07 drilled clean head-snaps, 13 swung heavy and sloppy, but the bodies still dropped.
"Write it down," I called. "07's aim exists."
Squad Three carved through a truckload—03, 08, 14. 03's rifle cracked in precise bursts. 08 copied, still jagged but landing more than missing. Fourteen ripped a door off and flung the gunner into his friends.
"Easy with the paint job, 14. We want Fisk to recognize his trucks."
The flanks erupted. 04 and 09 came out of the left alley like a guillotine, each strike ending an argument. On the right, 05, 10, 12, 16, 19 hit so hard the alley coughed up thugs like a clogged drain. Pipes and bats broke themselves on Spartan armor.
Then the second wave arrived—heavier trucks, heavier guns, somebody with a tube on his shoulder who'd heard of fun. A round smacked the fortress wall and made the street groan.
"All right. Enough play."
01 and 07 ripped open the first cab before its gunner could blink. 02 and 13 split the second. 03 stitched the grenadier before he chambered a new surprise. 04 turned one guy into a projectile and solved two problems at once.
Bullets stitched the air around me. I ducked behind a car. "Rude! I'm the only one without armor."
05 yanked a shooter by the collar and rang his bell off a fender. "Commander—secure."
"Damn right."
An hour of waves—push, break, repeat—left the block quiet but for groaning men and ticking engines. Nineteen Spartans stood in formation. None down.
Ding.
Points earned: 7,000.
Reason: Defense of stronghold; multiple captures; neutralization of organized assault.
I whistled. "Generous tip, Willy."
"Not a bad night, boys," I said, raising a fresh soda. "Let's eat."