A/N: Seemed particularly apt for the US holiday Memorial Day, even if the theme is a more encompassing remembering and honouring of veterans, both living and dead.

Please note that according to official canon, all of these events are possible, if not entirely plausible. Of course, neither is an ancient race that built seven superweapons designed to eliminate all life in the galaxy so that they could reseed it. Happy Memorial Day.

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Microsoft, Bungie, or 343 Industries. This is for my enjoyment and, hopefully, the enjoyment of others. I do not receive a profit.

As I Lay Dying

11 December 2552 21:47:33

Control Room, Installation 00, 2^18 light years from centre of Milky Way galaxy

There never was any woman after Jilian. So thought Sergeant Major Avery Junior Johnson as he filled his last breaths with memories of her face. She was special. Not perfect, but wonderful all the same.

He didn't know what about her it was, but Johnson suspected that part of it was her refusal to yield. She had refused to give up Harvest until Harvest was already lost, and then she'd been one of the first to try and take it back, even if it was naught but a burnt husk of a world. She'd refused to give up her name, claiming that al-Cygni was far better than Johnson. She had consented to marry him, though.

But that was a torture all on its own. He'd been ordered to assist in the defence of the Omega Tauri system while she went back to Harvest. The last he heard from her before departure was a simple, "Goodbye." Johnson didn't know if it was prophetic or merely the cruelties of a universe, but Jilian had fully expected to die in defence of Earth and all her colonies. And her goodbye was final. Johnson had received an empty flag several weeks later.

And so Sergeant Major Avery Junior Johnson took a final breath, satisfied that he had seen the war that took his love ended. Truth, the voice of the Covenant had been silenced, and Jilian was avenged. Johnson was ready to see her with a clear conscience. The pain in his chest began to fade and his vision dimmed.

Johson was drifting in a sea of colour, awash in an ocean of memory, being carried on a tide of life. The walls of his tunnel were black fading to grey. And far off, they turned to white. Avery thought he could hear his grandmother laughing just on the other side. He was ready, for death was no terminus, nor any genesis. Just a waystation on the train to paradise.

In a way, Thruth's words were not lies. Death was a form of Transcendence, for Avery would once again see the face of God. A Christian, Avery knew the Bible said that no man could look on the face of God and live. But that was one of the times Avery knew the Bible was wrong. He'd seen the face of God every time he woke up to Jilian. But maybe that was why he was dying now.

Except . . . he wasn't. The tide had begun drifting the other way, a Flood as strong as Noah's pushing Avery into the darkness. And this Flood took a definite shape. Creatures crawling over each other as an unstoppable wave. Not infecting him, just pushing him. Johnson remembered a feeling very like this one back on Alpha Halo. Whatever the Flood there had done to him, whatever regenerative properties they had given him, these demons had demanded he live. And only the Master Chief could possibly defy these demons that gave life to the dead.

Sergeant Major Avery Junior Johnson sat up, the pain in his chest nearly debilitating. But he was a SPARTAN-I, a survivor of the ORION project. What's more, the Flood too claimed him alive. So he got up and looked for a weapon. His spartan laser, a weapon only men far stronger than average could carry, had been given to the Master Chief. Johnson was weaponless.

So he ran toward the door armed with nothing but his Sweet Williams cigar. The door was shut until Johnson slapped the hard light panel with his hand. Johnson slipped through the opening and turned the corner, ignoring the groans as the Halo built itself up to a premature firing. Johnson stepped into the cold and surveyed the frozen waste.

Johnson had no clue how long he had to escape, but he had to try something. He'd been unconscious for some time, and his Warthog must have been taken by the Master Chief and Arbiter. Johnson knew that the Warthog could get to Forward Unto Dawn, and the ship could get to the portal. But how would he get to the portal?

Johnson wasn't sure until he saw a Sentinel float by and ready its beam. Acting on pure instinct, he rolled left, dodging the Sentinel's deadly beam. The machine drifted closer and rearmed its laser.

This time, Johnson ducked under the beam as he dashed toward the Sentinel. He stretched his arms, trying to grab onto one of the metal booms, but the Sentinel's energy shields were just too slick. His hands simply slid off like they were coated in oil or grease.

Johnson checked his momentum and turned. He grabbed onto the forward laser, which, because it fired compressed energy, went unshielded. The sergeant proceeded to climb until both arms were hanging over the edge of the gun. Still, the Sentinel didn't seem to notice.

Johnson proceeded to strike the shields twice in an effort to break them. Once broken, he shifted so that he was resting on top of the Sentinel. Although Johnson had no clue how to actually control the Sentinel, he did manage to locate the Sentinel's CPU fairly quickly.

Johnson leant down to the Sentinel and growled, "Now listen here, you Skynet freak, my name is Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson, and I am a reclaimer. The lightbulb you call Guilty Spark is dead, so listen to me or I will rip your demented robot mind right out of your demented robot body. Get me to that portal. That's an order."

The Sentinel complied. Johnson didn't care if it was because he was a human, Guilty Spark was dead, the Sentinel had a sense of self-preservation, or something else entirely. Johnson was just glad that the machine would get him to the portal. Now his only worry was that the Ark's atmosphere might not extended that far.

But his fears were groundless. The portal was situated in-atmosphere. He saw the Dawn rise out of its resting place as he continued to ascend. The Arbiter and Master Chief were both too heavy to ride a Sentinel, so Johnson was happy that they would make it.

However, it would be a close thing. Johnson could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise in anticipation as the Halo got ready to fire. He turned to watch as Miranda's ship began to cross the event horizon. Johnson's own modified escape ship followed suit even as he watched a blue pulse of cleansing light begin to wash over the area.

And then he was through. It was darkness; it was light. Without a proper ship between him and eleven dimensions of madness, Johnson should have died. Hell, in a human or Covenant slipspace rupture, he would have died. But whether it was the near instantaneous transfer from the Ark to Earth or the energy shields the Sentinel had cast about the both of them or the fact that the portal was of Forerunner construction or something else entirely, Johnson didn't die and he didn't go insane.

But he couldn't sort through his memories for the next while. All he could remember was falling and stopping and falling and falling and stopping and stopping and sweaty palms and a sea breeze and cool water and falling and Forerunner metal and sinking and drowning and swimming and . . . emerging.

Johnson's head broke the surface if the Indian Ocean. The Sentinel he'd used to escape was nowhere to be seen; it was likely at the bottom of some deep abyss in the ocean. Johnson's gear was sopping wet and his comm. unit was trashed, waterlogged beyond recognition.

So instead he scanned the horizon, hoping for land, a ship, or some other lucky break. Although the ocean extended for miles free of land, Johnson did find an object sitting nose up like a scuttled ship. Facing the great grey mass put his back to Sol, so Johnson swam a modified breast stroke toward the object, resting often. He was tired and the water was warm, but to fall asleep would mean sinking . . . would mean drowning . . . would mean dying. And clearly, the Universe hadn't given up on Sergeant Major Avery Junior Johnson. So he couldn't give up on himself either. Johnson swam.

After several hours, the object resolved itself into the UNSC Forward Unto Dawn. His spirits risen, Sergeant Johnson swam toward his salvation with renewed vigour.

Once close enough, Johnson grabbed onto one of the ladders running along the side. He hauled himself over the edge of one of the escape pod bays, expecting to find someone. But a flaming ship entering Earth's atmosphere was hard to miss; the crew had already been evacuated, probably while Johnson's much less grand entrance knocked him unconscious. So Johnson began walking around the part of the ship that wasn't submerged, looking for something, anything.

He found it when a burst of static brought a radio to Johnson's attention. He hit the broadcast button. "This is Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson, service number 48789-20114-AJ. I am aboard the Forward Unto Dawn and it is floating in some ocean somewhere. Requesting extraction."

A voice on the other end crackled to life. "Sir. This is PFC Chips Dubbo. We already rescued the Arbiter from the Dawn. How did we miss you?"

"That's classified. Just send a rescue squad, would ya? That's a good private." Johnson terminated the conversation and started hunting for MREs or granola. He was hungry.

After ten minutes of fruitless searching, Johnson exited the interior of the ship via his escape pod bay. He found a relatively flat place to sit and wait for extraction.

A few days later, after he'd been given a clean bill of health by the absolutely baffled doctors, Sergeant Major Avery Junior Johnson found himself approaching a broken Pelican wing. Lord Hood had said to visit, and so Johnson had.

Respectfully, Johnson took off his dress blues hat and laid it on the ground next to a bouquet of poppies he'd brought. And then he knelt. Rather than clasp hands and pray for those already in a better place, Johnson merely let his fingers wander aimlessly. They traced the words painted on the side and framed the picture of Miranda Keyes. Then the one of Captain Keyes.

At last, Sergeant Johnson's fingers found his own photo. With shaking hands, he gently took the picture down and folded it up. Johnson put it into one pocket. His other hand extricated a separate photo from another pocket. This one crisp and new, Johnson began looking for a place to put the photograph he'd brought.

His eyes caught the carved "117". Johnson lifted up the photograph of Jilian al-Cygni on their wedding night and carefully covered up the Master Chief's call sign, muttering, "In the words of the Arbiter, 'Were it so easy,' the Covenant would have killed him long before." Avery knew that even if the SPARTAN had truly died, that would be what he would have wanted.

The Master Chief wouldn't want to be remembered. He was modest, fighting only because it was what he knew how to do the best, and because it was the right thing to do. It was that which must be done.

And besides, SPARTANs never die. The Master Chief would be back, even if only remembered as a legend, an impossible man who'd sacrificed everything for humanity.

Johnson looked up at Jilian again and remembered that night. Not the wedding. The truly important part.

She was radiant in her white dress. Her smile was a bright light in the deepest darkness. The best part was that she was smiling because of him. They were married.

But they were married in a wartime. So when the party was over, she'd sat him down to have a chat. "People die." Her tone of voice was simple. She was stating a fact. Johnson could see the sadness in her eyes anyway. "Especially in a war. So remember this poem from the twentieth century. Titled In Flanders Fields, it was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae." She began a slow chant, creating an eerie effect.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields."

Jilian paused for a long moment after that before she continued. "Remember that death is no terminus, nor any genesis. Just a waystation on the train to paradise. So promise me that you won't weep if I die. Just give me some poppies, or perhaps the goodbye flower, forget-me-not.

"It will be sad, yes, but only because I am leaving you. But only temporarily. Parting is such sweet sorrow because it means that we will see each other again. If not in this frame of reference, this life, then the next."

Avery smiled at her and responded, "Only if you promise the same." He patted her hand.

Her voice came easily, surprisingly easily for a member of O.N.I. "I promise."

Then it was his turn. "I promise."

A/N: I think Johnson married al-Cygni, considering that he references his mother-in-law.

As always, please review so that I can improve my writing, even if you do just point out grammatic and syntactical errors. I'm not afraid to admit and recognise that I make mistakes.