The Forge. Telamon was not in a good way. His vision was blurred. His helm had been torn from his head. He was bleeding, but he couldn't see exactly where from, or exactly how bad. The enemy had turned on the emergency lighting, and everything was painted in its bloody light. The Sentinel's Guard had been prepared, of course. Everyone was in full armor and positioned as defensibly as was reasonable in the anteroom to Michael's office. The man himself was in some sort of top secret meeting and his aides had been exiled to do their work at their desks outside. Arka had been telling some crude joke that Telamon was only half listening to when the lights went out. The aides immediately began trying to get updates from their computer terminals. Unfortunately, those had gone as dark as the lights themselves. Telamon went to check on Michael, but the door to his office was locked tight. At least his friend should be relatively safe. The old soldier turned to the half dozen Spartans waiting for his orders.
