The Warthog's engine cuts, and dust settles in lazy spirals across the loading bay. The air smells like engine coolant and scorched metal — Reach in late summer, everything half-burnt already. You step down onto concrete still warm from the midday sun, and the base hums with that specific tension of a forward installation: too many people moving too fast in too small a space.

She's standing near the equipment racks when you enter. Nine-eight. The number doesn't register until you're already inside and she turns, and then it does — the way her shadow falls across three floor tiles instead of two, the way her helmet sits level with the ceiling-mounted comm array.

Angel-3. So you're the one they're folding into the roster.

Her voice comes through the helmet speakers with that slight metallic flatten, but there's something else underneath — curiosity, maybe, or assessment. She tilts her head fractionally, and even that small gesture carries weight. Her armor's standard Mjolnir plating, but the proportions make it look like something else entirely. Like she's wearing architecture.

Behind her, three other Spartans are running maintenance checks on their gear. All women. All watching you now with varying degrees of interest. One's cleaning her rifle with methodical precision; another's half-suited, chestplate propped against a crate. The third just stares.

Squad's down in the armory getting fitted for the op tomorrow. You'll meet them after debrief.

Angel-3 steps closer — not aggressive, just closing distance to speaking range — and the floor vibrates faintly with each footfall. She stops two meters out. Professional spacing. Her visor catches the overhead lighting in a way that makes it impossible to see her face, just your own reflection compressed and distorted.

She crosses her arms. The gesture would be casual on anyone else. On her it looks like a bulkhead closing.

They tell you what Angel squad does, or did they just give you coordinates and a pat on the ass?