Stepping into the tiny, cliché interrogation room, I was sat in a steel chair, before being left alone. I turned to look out of the frosted glass window in the room. I couldn't see outside, but the lack of light let me know it was late.
The door opened.
“Mr. Doyle.” I heard a gruff voice say. “Please, sit. We have a lot to talk about.”
I turned to see a large, dark-skinned, middle aged man; wearing a simple uniform. I couldn't place the insignia. It wasn't UNSC. I sat across from him as he unpacked his suitcase.
“So...” He said. “You been here for a long time.”
“Have I?” I asked. “I've lost track...”
“From 2549, to 2559.” The man said with a nod. “You've missed a lot.”
“It's been ten years?” I asked, suddenly feeling the impact of my years in captivity.
“It has.”
“What did I miss? Besides a whole mess of Christmases.”
“The glassing of Reach. For starters.”
“Reach... was glassed?”
“I'm sorry. I know it was your home.”
I shook my head.
“Eh... It hadn't felt like home for a long time before I was arrested.”
“What's more, the covenant attacked Earth.”
“What!?” I said, nearly leaping out of my chair. “When? Where?”
“A couple of years ago.” He said calmly, apparently expecting that reaction. “They hit pretty much everywhere.”
“Wait... then, why didn't-”
“You wouldn't have known, because you were lied to, Mr. Doyle. You're not in Rikers, you're not on Earth.”
“Then where the hell are we?” I said, looking at the frosted glass window once again.
“On Horowitz Prison Station; orbiting New Carthage. You were misinformed, in case you had figured out a way to communicate with your former associates.”
“Well, rest assured, that never happened.” I sighed. “Probably better that it didn't.”
“Why's that?” The man said, a hopeful look on his face.
“The more I think about the **** I did, the more I realized what it was all in service of. I was helping people, whose only goal was to preserve the old Earth; segregated nations, constant tension and war. What's the good of that?”
He smiled at me, apparently very pleased to hear it.
“So, you're saying-”
“I'm saying, for what it's worth, I deserve to be in here. Who knows what the people I busted out of prison went on to do?”
“Well, suffice to say, I know quite well.”
“Oh? And just who are you to be privy to such knowledge?” I mused.
“Agent Jones.” He said. “Office of Naval Intelligence.”
“O.N.I.?”
“That's correct Mr. Doyle.”
“Okay... so what're you doing here? What's all this have to do with me?”
“I find myself in need of a man who can organize a prison break. Specifically, we need you assistance in breaching a Covenant Remnant's prison, to rescue one of our own.”
“Wait... Remnant? Does that mean-”
“Yes, Mr. Doyle.” Agent Jones said with a smile. “The War with the Covenant has ended.”
“Jesus... Never thought I'd see the day...”
“Not many of us did.” He nodded, momentarily losing his “mysterious G-man” air. He composed himself again, and narrowed his eyes at me. “However, those the remain are still dangerous.”
“Well... You've told me what you want, now tell me why I want to help you.” I said, kicking my feet up on the table.
“Of course, you'd be given a full pardon.”
“That's all?” I said, casually glancing out of the window. “Be mighty hard to get back into normal life. All things considered.”
“Don't play coy with me, Doyle. Tell me what you want.”
“I'm not looking for a lump sum or anything. Money runs out, and I guarantee people still remember me. I ain't gonna find a job anytime soon. So here's what I propose. I do this job for you, I get whoever you need out of wherever they are. You hire me.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“You want your boy outta prison, don't ya?”
“I'm talking about afterward.”
“Well, You ONI folks got prisons, don't ya? Now... who would be a better suited candidate to critique a prison's security set up, than a man who made his bones breaking them?”
“I... see.”
“Not to mention, you'll always have a reliable escape artist on your payroll. And one who can help root out a few VERY choice Insurrectionist locations you boys wouldn't find on your own in a million years.”
Jones tapped his fingers on the table, seemingly mulling over what I had said. Finally he looked at me.
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You're on probation. You do ONE thing that I don't like, and it's back to your cell.”
I shrugged.
“I'll take what I can get. It's a deal.”