1: THE SMALLEST OF US

Stars spun fast past the canopy, from right to left. Damage warning lights twinkled against the observation plates, the whole front control console alight with meters, gauges, dialogue and imprinted graphics.

I have been here before.

The squealing klaxon's sound had been dampened, but only somewhat. There remained some semblance of contemplation as the situation slowly deteriorated. The pilot of the Longsword was alone on the four-man craft for the simple reason that he'd stolen the thing, but obviously, at this point, to no avail. Getting as far as he had, he'd assumed incorrectly that the region of space was empty, and he'd cut the engines to run dark for several kilometers before choosing his next direction.

Someone had spotted him.

His trajectory had been punted onto a new heading, and he'd acquired a rear axis spin. Whoever had shot at him, though, apparently wanted him alive for some reason, because while there was no way he could fly his own ship anymore, he was not taking any more damage from outside sources.

The Longsword was peeling its own self apart, now. Enough systems had been interrupted, breached, and torn completely out that the damage was worsening all on its own. It was a lot like bleeding to death from an otherwise nonfatal wound.

I nose-dived into an old friend... crashed spectacularly, in fact.

Finally, something jagged happened to the power feeds, and the cockpit was plunged into darkness. All that remained were the spinning, streaking stars going across the canopy. The pilot tilted his head back and up, and looked at them for a moment before lifting out his sidearm and pointing it at the blast glass. The material was not designed to take punishment from the inside, after all...

I am a terrible excuse for a soldier. I had to be dragged halfway across the known galaxy, because I couldn't walk there on my own.

Thunder barked from the dangerous end of the magnum, as the UNSC-minted bullet tore out of captivity at hyper velocity. The round cracked against the blast glass, and ricocheted once before embedding in the floor grating. The second round did the trick, though, and the interior atmospheric pressure would finish the job. As the cracks snaked across the canopy, the magnum found its way back into the thigh holster from which it had come.

Just a moment, now, and then...

Those who carried me, those who sought to drop me, those I felled and those who watched me die, all are gathered here today... hammering me in the back of my goddamn head like a parade drummer.

The glass shattered outward explosively when the first actual leak broke through, and the standing pilot was sucked right out with the glass. He flipped end for end once, before the Longsword turned out of view. The port side spun up and he hit hard against that wing, the impact punting him hard away from the dying ship. A grunt escaped him, and for it, a light fog creeped up his sharp golden visor.

John... I want my lucky back, man. The stars were spinning left to right, now, and once every six seconds, he could focus on the center of that rotation, where nothing moved. Seriously... I really need it.

SPARTAN Flint 094 had a new stripe on his equally as new Mjolnir suit today, but his haunted, dove-gray eyes were unfocused. It was no affliction, but rather a lack of need to see out at the moment. Like most soldiers who spent time on duty, he would crash whenever he couldn't fight, and he was close to nodding off already.

Without thrusters, he was going nowhere he wasn't pushed to. Absently he wondered if he could catch the hull of a passing vessel before his air ran out, but in the end, he could muse all he wanted and still not conjure anything useful. This was the point where anyone else would put their head between their knees and kiss themselves goodbye.

Wearing Mjolnir prevented him from bending quite that far over.

Come on, come and get me. I know you're out there. Don't make me wait... I hate waiting. He ran his eyes over the world with the glittery rings as it rotated past his visor, wondering what the lifeless thing was called, if anyone had ever bothered to name it. The sun here was a blue dwarf, and it only had three orbital planetary bodies. This one had an orbit of its own, apparently.

An amused smirk crossed the Spartan's features as a whale-shaped violet ship nosed out of a slipspace rupture to his right. It was a standard cruiser, nothing huge, but it was quite big compared to the free-floating Spartan. His pale blonde brows met in worry when he realized the impossible odds had planted him squarely in the thing's fast-moving path. He'd either be punted away or scraped right out of the sky, but neither sounded nice. Concussive forces still held sway even in vacuum, after all. It was why planets orbited suns.

Sick joke.

The thought echoed through his mind as if his brain were a cathedral, but there was nothing he could do about any of it. He could only wait and watch, and hope that when it happened, it wouldn't hurt too much.

John, I swear I'm going to choke it out of you when I next find your ass, if I have to... I really need my share of the luck back. This is getting old. He laughed aloud to himself before adding, Actually, it got old sometime back around the demise of my first Mjolnir suit. Maybe a few days prior to that.

He spread his arms out, and let them hang as the vacuum would hold them when he discovered his spin would carry him around to face his fate right as it met him. Deep violet hull swallowed fully half of the sky before him before he realized grimly that the ship's shielding was not online. They were told not expect a fight, or they were too stupid to expect one?

He cocked a brow in contemplation and curiosity when he realized he was aimed almost perfectly for a forward bay across the bottom half of the starboard side of the ship's nose. Just behind this spot was the reaching hook where the forward plasma cannons rested, but he couldn't see them. Again... at rest. Unsuspecting.

Just as he was about to impact the glistening shield door, it crackled, and winked out of existence. Flint swore colorfully right before he slammed hard into the back wall of the bay, the speed of his own drift added to the counter-speed of the vessel combining for a particularly crushing impact. His breath was knocked out of him, but a moment later, he got another hard knock when the bay door sizzled back into place, and the gravity of the ship took command now his impact speed was done with him.

Flint slammed into the floor on his other shoulder, but from there he pushed himself over onto his back. First he moved his fingers and toes, to make sure everything still worked. Satisfied but not unhurt, he spared his new location a look. The place was empty, probably because they sucked up jetsam like himself quite often with this one. But otherwise everything was clean and orderly, and when he pulled himself to a knee to stand up, the lights on the exit door flashed twice to signal someone had keyed them to open.

The doors slid up and out into the walls on either side of the barrier, revealing a single Elite standing in the purple corridor beyond. He ran his beady black eyes over the bay once before focusing on where Flint was, watching him stand up from his kneeling position.

At first, the Spartan had no idea who he was looking at, but the notion was amended when the Elite made a particularly human gesture towards him; the warrior waved.

Struck by the gesture, Flint could only wave back, feeling a little speechless. Obviously, he knew this one... which one was he? Was he one of the ones he'd known the name of? The questions jumbled in his mind at first, before he got them untangled again.

Before he could ask any of them, though, the Elite spoke, his deep bass tenor voice sounding annoyingly alike to every other Elite Flint had ever met. "Fancy finding you out here, 'Zelisee."

"I get around." Flint responded, dryly. "What brings you guys to this place?"

If there was one thing he'd learned, though, it was how to recognize Sangheilian facial expressions; the question made the warrior smirk at him. "I received intel you were in this quadrant, and I supposed myself free enough to investigate, and if I caught you, perhaps an exchange of greetings was in order. It has been a long time."

Flint huffed, and wiped at the golden visor in front of his face, before remembering the condensation blurring part of it was on the inside, and he couldn't wipe it away from the outside. "Visit. Huh. You must have known I was working." Before the comment could be met with a rebuke or an excuse, he added, "And how'd you get ahold of that kind of intel anyway? I was told this op was blacked."

The Elite laughed lightly, as if only mildly amused. "I lifted the information from a destroyed human frigate I found outside the sector. Honestly, 'Zelisee, I was surprised indeed to learn you were still entrusted with a weapon on your own."

Flint grumbled under his breath.

The as-yet unnamed Elite waved him down, still appearing quite amused. "There now, it was just a playful jibe. I am, however, amused to learn I was quite well-timed in coming to this place... or did you mean to be floating in little more than your armor out in the dead of space?"

He sighed; defeated, Flint shook his head. "No, someone holed my Longsword and I had to bail before it decided to pop spectacularly on me."

The Elite cocked his long head. "It would seem you ought to have learned by now to stay far from such craft, being as your relations with them are not precisely jointly healthy."

"One would think."

"I am not going to ask you what you were doing out there, where you stole that Longsword or why it required a Spartan to amend whatever ill was wrought, but I had wanted to ask you something else."

Flint held up a hand, palm-out. "Just a moment. Do I know you? I don't mean to be terribly rude but I had trouble telling you people from one another back when I was still running in your pack, so... after five years you kind of all blur into the same guy to me."

That spawned an incredulous look. "Why Flint." But he was still smirking. "I am 'Taramee, the 'oaf' you chose as first sword on your strike team on the Halo."

Flint nodded. "I remember the oaf, yes. But I don't remember calling you that."

'Taramee chuckled, sidestepping to invite the Spartan deeper into the ship. "It was a word I picked up from the humans who came to claim you at the end of our time together. Apparently they thought equal of me that you did... but for different reasons."

Flint approached the door, working his bum shoulder as he walked. 'Taramee turned and paced him as they made their way up the corridor. "I remember thinking you were the biggest damn split-lip I ever saw, but I don't recall attaching any terminology to that thought. You looked like you might be useful."

'Taramee barked a laugh. "Useful! We are all useful, human, do not doubt us. It is only what our individual uses are that define us and our value."

"What ship is this?" Flint asked, suddenly.

"She is the Unhindered Immolation. Not new, and she has her battle scars, but she is functional and she's fast. Under ideal conditions, she can even pass as stealthy. I was given charge of her a year ago."

"Crew any good?"

'Taramee shrugged. "They are warriors. Some complain, others laugh. We are not unlike yourself, you know. There is a comns unit operations manager I would much enjoy to slide my blade through, but I must restrain myself for much the same reasons as one of your Captains might."

"Know the feeling." Flint answered, gruffly. "How'd you guys get bored enough to want to come bother me, anyway? I thought the schism left a lot of cleanup to do."

"My command sector is clear... for the moment. Myself and crew are not the only 'bored' craft, but we mustn't thin our inner ranks. There are still small battles being fought, still the occasional massing of fleets and great wars between them, but we drove out the Covenant where we are stationed, and that left us quite idle for a time."

"Aren't you a bit far from... wherever you're supposed to be?" Flint cast him a glance.

'Taramee shook his head, the nictating membranes over his eyes snapping a blink before his exterior lids imitated, slower. His gaze seemed to stitch the corridor ahead, as if noting counter markers that Flint couldn't see. "Not especially. It is within a jump of here. We could be returned inside of two hours, if anything were to happen."

"Two hours is long enough for everything to get glassed." Flint reminded him.

"You forget... there are other ships in the area, moments from any opposing location inside our patrol lines. The location is not unguarded." The Elite spread his two-fingered hands, the opposing thumb sets spreading slightly with the gesture. "We trade out who gets to pop away for something to do."

"Oh." Flint nodded. "I guess that could work."

'Taramee looked a little too smug following Flint's admission of agreement for the Spartan to be comfortable with the silence, so he broke it again with a new question.

"I take it you're feeling pretty good about yourself, getting your sector all clean and stuff."

'Taramee cast him a strange look. "What a peculiar thing to say. Of course we would concentrate on the area. Why do you suppose it was so important? Our people have a colony world in the sector and it had to be protected."

Flint contemplated that. "Colony."

'Taramee's expression changed yet again. "Indeed. It is where my mate is."

The Spartan looked at him suddenly, as if startled that the Elite could have gotten one of those. "Really." He croaked, feeling flatfooted yet again. "Must be nice to know she's safe now."

"Yes." The smug look returned. "A perfect gift to celebrate the life of our new son."

Flint felt his tongue get fat in his mouth, and he stared bugeyed at the approaching juncture in the corridor for several moments as he tried to conjure that image. Big, overgrown 'Taramee, a dad? Somehow, it just didn't fit... and seeing the guy all twitterpated like this was downright creepy. "Son." He managed. "Uh. How... how old is he, now?"

'Taramee crooked his mandibles in a truly jovial smile. "Three days when I left." Then he looked as if he were counting something in his head. When he was done, he added, "He would be about two weeks old now."

"My my." Flint rasped. "Little thing."

"Oh, yes. Quite." 'Taramee agreed, seemingly gushing to talk about the boy. He'd probably talked about him to everyone aboard who would listen until their collective lizard ears fell off. Now he had a new victim, he was at it all over again. "He was so small when I first held him. I was so frightened, for the first time in my life, I was convinced that I would harm the innocent thing without knowing it." He shrugged, as if in explanation, "I've spent so much of my life damaging everything I touch, it was a rational worry, you see. Being a fairly active warrior throughout the human war, then the schism."

Flint nodded, feeling that even if he ran back to the bay and spaced himself again, he would still have to listen to this over the radio. 'Taramee was going to gloat over how proud he was of his new baby boy until someone cut the guy's throat, for sure. Flint had a feeling that if anything - so much as a surface scuff on the little one's skin - happened to said boy, 'Taramee's giddy mentality would melt right back down into rage at whoever had done it.

That was the definition, after all, of twitterpated.

"After a while, I was shaking so bad, I had to give him up, for fear I would drop him even if I didn't harm him otherwise." 'Taramee went on. It was obvious he thought the world of the boy, and it was likely the tyke hadn't even spoken his first word yet. Flint nodded just to pretend he was engrossed. He'd listen - he couldn't not, being as he'd been trained to take in everything about his environment. It was habit. But intel on a newborn baby alien was not exactly useful to a Spartan. "I didn't really want to put him down, though... I felt like a titan, compared to his tiny self. Like I was large enough to lean on a planet, and it would roll away from me for the pressure of my weight. Finally, I settled for allowing her to hold him, and I held her, so it was like I was holding both of them."

Flint swallowed, trying not to tell the gushing warrior he was making him uncomfortable. "Sounds like you had a hell of a shore leave."

'Taramee nodded. "It was short, but I managed to beg the right commander at the right time that I got to see the boy and his mother soon after the birthing." He turned his shining eyes at Flint, the expression likely akin to how he'd felt after greeting his newly expanded family. Buzzed. Drunk. Intoxicated. "When I first picked him up... he reached up, and he pulled on one of my mandibles."

Flint felt his brow might never un-knit. "Is that... special?"

"It was certainly adorable. The boy has spirit. He will make a fine warrior when he is grown! I have no doubts he will be strong and swift, like his forebears."

Flint cleared his throat. "You?"

That was about when the mood of the conversation changed. 'Taramee harrumphed. "Nay, not I. I'm about as clumsy as one can get without being permanently tangled in one's own legs. I've spoiled far too many a stealth mission just by knocking into things to claim that I am graceful under fire anylonger." He shrugged. "But his mother's bloodline is quite so - they might, if I am lucky, make up for all I lack."

"What if he takes on more daddy-genes than mom-genes, and winds up being your mirror image?" Flint asked, sounding contemplative. "Would you still be just as proud? The kid hasn't done anything yet!"

"He was born alive." 'Taramee protested, sounding as if he might pout. But what he said next caught the poor Spartan flatfooted yet again. "What's a daddy?"

He choked on a laugh as he got himself sorted, following the warrior around the first corner and proceeding with him up the next length of hall. "You are."

"I... don't fully understand." 'Taramee admitted.

"Oh, why me? I don't even remember my parents." Flint moaned. "A father is some random guy who did stud work on your mother. A dad, on the other hand, is the man who took the time to invest care and knowledge into the kid as he or she grows up. Dads got hard to come by, in the human-Covenant war. Most of the men were signed up and out fighting to protect kids they'd more often than not never met, and wives they hadn't seen in years."

"Dad." 'Taramee echoed, tasting the word. Half his face twitched into a suggestion of a possible expression, before it spread and he actually made the face. It turned out to be a goofy grin. "I like it."

Flint couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Really, really never would have pegged you for a dad, 'Tar."

"I suppose I can reflect that, Flint." 'Taramee expressed. "But then, you're not the one springing a surprise fact on me about the issue, are you?"

"I think I remember having this discussion with G'wi..." Flint began, sounding speculative. "No... no, it was with Anuna. He was being a goof. That was right before they gave me that ridiculous yellow outfit."

"Zealot armor is - " 'Taramee began, his tone scolding, but Flint cut him off.

"Had that discussion, too." He waved a green-clad hand to dismiss the topic. "Not interested in having it again. I wore it, didn't I?"

"You bitched."

"And complained." Flint agreed, almost laughing. "Glad I'm not still in yellow. It's not my color, you know."

"You've never looked in a mirror, have you?" The warrior asked, cocking his head to look at the Spartan. "Without the helmet, I mean."

Flint blew a big, obvious sigh at him for that. "I meant glossy, bright and obvious 'shoot me' yellow, you big oaf."

'Taramee just laughed.