"SPARTAN-A239." The young man known as Emile-A239 glanced up as a wave of furious pounding shook the door at the far end of his cell. A moment later it slid open, admitting two guards clad from head to toe in combat armor. Their sidearms were unholstered and aiming somewhere between the ground and his chest; from the expressions on their faces, Emile could tell they'd use them on him in a heartbeat if he gave them half a reason to. The intensity in their expressions brought a twisting smile to his lips. Were they trying to scare him, or were they that terrified of a manacled fifteen year old?