AN: All characters belong to 343 and Microsoft.
Don't make a girl a promise, if you know you cant keep it.
He jolts awake, finger already curled around the trigger of his assault rifle, checking his HUD for any pings nearby. His feet are on he ground, and he's alert in a fraction of a second. He scans; scans; scans. Nothing. He relaxes his grip on the rifle, but doesn't drop it completely.
He listens to the wind flap furiously around the tent entrance, sand swirling just outside. UNSC might have been understaffed and poorly managed, but they knew how to make one hell of a sturdy tent. Finally, he drops the rifle. He shifts his weight on his feet. It's a few hours before dawn. Too early to start packing up, but too late to go back to sleep.
He drops onto his cot, a rush of exhaustion trying desperately to claw its way to the surface. He can't remember the last time he had an honest-to-God cup of coffee. He gets by with whatever food he can scrounge up, but he's been so long without a proper meal that even the food issued in ship mess halls would be a delicacy. What he needs in a good, long, hyperbolic sleep. One where he can't dream. Where he doesn't wake up 10 times a night in a cold sweat. Where he can turn off his HUD; power down; rest.
He does another quick scan of the area. His heartbeat is the only thing alive for over 50 miles. He shouldn't; he really shouldn't; but he reaches up and tugs his helmet off.
Air. Oxygen. It has been weeks since he's breathed this deeply. He rolls his head, giving each one of his vertebrae a chance to stretch out, enjoying the pops and clicks as they settle back in place. The injections they got as kids caused his body to grow and grow. Far above and beyond what his frail skeleton could support at the time. He's had joint problems for as long as he can remember. He had heard that they fixed the formula, and the newer soldiers had greater range of motion and flexibility than he did. But it didn't make a difference. What's done is done.
He rakes his fingers through his growing hair. He's missed exactly 73 weekly protocol haircuts, and the hack job he does with scissors isn't nearly as effective as the ship's barber. He feels sand in his hair and wonders how the hell it got there, since his suit is completely impenetrable. He tugs gently at the uneven ends, flexing and unflexing his fingers.
He swears he can still hear her. Hear her whisper in his ear.
She had been so bright at the end. A rush of blues and reds. So brilliant that he could only look away. Like looking into the sun. He wonders what she would say if she could see him now. No doubt something snarky about needing a shower as she loaded up their next target on his HUD. Quips between headshot. As he took out targets, she would offer scathing advice about how to conserve their dwindling supply of ammunition, while knowing full-well that he rarely missed his mark.
Fortunately for both of us, I like crazy.
Maybe "scathing" was too strong. But she certainly had a tone. Sometimes she sounded so much like his old mentor that he could barely concentrate through the rush of nostalgia.
Memories like shards of glass, so sharp and clear. He knew that people "tsked" disapprovingly over the way he and his comrades were raised. But, what other way was there? Halsey's disapproving tone as he failed to make the course in adequate time; her gentle touch on his shoulder when he mastered the use of the sniper rifle; the way she said his name: guarded, distanced, but still the closest thing to a mother that he had ever know.
And when she shattered into pieces, she took Halsey with her. The only link he had to his past and his present.
He couldn't tell if it was because he was so atrociously bad at reading people, or if it was because she was so purposefully obtuse, but sometimes he could not tell if she was pleased or disappointed in him. It was like she expected the best, but planned for the worse. How many times had he proved himself? How much more had she needed? If she had only trusted him enough, then maybe he could have gotten them both out of there.
How long can you keep someone else alive in your head before they become a part of you? So deeply engrained that you can't tell one from another. Like a cut on a tree that oozes sap for years to cover the gash, but will never truly heal.
He rubs his hands over his unshaved face, feeling the rasp of his stubble. So much had changed so quickly.
In the beginning, whenever she was yanked, it felt like there was too much space in his helmet. He found himself constantly checking his peripherals, trying to fill the blank space. He always thought he would cherish the silence. But it grew too loud, and he would request she be put back in. And even though she could have made jokes about him becoming too dependent on her, she never would. She would slip back in like she had never been gone, and his brain would relish the intrusion.
And then the years went by. All the time spent in sleep while she calculated, thought, drove herself damn near insane by just existing. While he slept.
He rapped his knuckles against his forehead. These were bad thoughts. He needed to stay out of this territory.
But how can you be so close to someone? So mentally and physically close to someone without ever touching them? How long can two people live in the same mind before they become one? One machine and one human, but which was which? Because every day he was out here, every day he trudged through the sand and debris, trying to find something, anything. He was going through the motions. He was placing one foot in front of another, just like the good soldier he had been raised to be. He was born for this. Created and sculpted and shaped. But never had he felt so inhuman as he did now.
He nursed her absence like a canker sore. Running over and over it again until it was sore and tender and scarred. This is why he turned it off; this was why he spent 16 hour a day trekking through sand; this was why he couldn't sleep.
Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could see her splitting all over again. You could unscrew his skull and pour bleach in his brain, and it would still never be able to forget that.
Rampancy. It was something they had touched on in Basic, but it wasn't anything he ever thought he would see in his life. It was horrifying. When someone is so close to being real that you could almost touch them; you can feel the ghost of them under your skin.
And then they rip themselves apart, piece by piece and all at once.
But you had something they didn't.
He shakes his head. He wants her voice back, but not in these shallow memories. He needs so many things right now: a haircut; some uninterrupted sleep; a shower and shave; a good meal; his friend.
He places his helmet back on and lays back in bed.
It couldn't hurt to try to get a few more hours of rest. At least until the sun comes up.