"Where is she?"

It was more of an angry demand than a frail request, and the doctors knew it, because their fear showed in their eyes. They were used to patients having emotional trauma, pitching fits, but this was on a whole new level entirely, and Patient C1679 was a special case altogether.

John felt a spike of adrenaline as the men and women in white coats flocked around him, not answering his question. He felt like a cornered, crippled animal, confined to his wheelchair, but the urge to fight and flee was stronger than ever, and it pounded in his ears like some primal drumbeat. He was anxious, he was upset, and he wanted out. Not only did he want out, he wanted answers. Never mind that he'd probably heard them before and simply forgotten a few weeks later...

One of them- petite, dark-haired, Oriental in the face- readied a syringe, most likely a sedative, and John desperately asked his question again, before the drugs could confound his tongue and fog his mind. "You have to tell me where she is. I can't findher. If I don't find her the Gravemind will-"

"Shhhh. It's gonna be okay," one of the nurses assured him, and he wanted to punch her in the face because things were definitely not okay and he was not going to "shhhh" for anyone. "Now John, I want you to listen to me. There is no Gravemind..."

No Gravemind... no. No, that's not right. She's gone. I left her. I have to find her...

"Cortana stayed behind," he shot back, shying away from the nurse who swabbed his arm with an alcohol-soaked cottonball. "You don't get it. I have to go back..."

Their faces swam in his vision, all false smiles and cold, professional eyes, and the way they looked at him made him feel sick, because he wasn't made to be pitied and scorned like a doddering senile nut job. "Just calm down," the Oriental nurse soothed, and the needle slid under his skin with a cold pricking sensation. "Everything will be all right..."

Needles. They entered his veins and pumped in something that felt like a cross between broken glass and napalm. He wanted to scream but the morphine made that impossible, so he just strained against the straps that bound him to the operating table, confused and in more pain than he'd ever felt in all his fourteen years. He could see them hovering over him, the surgeons, his blood on their scalpels. Their eyes held no mercy for him, and the procedures continued, each more painful than the last...

Suddenly he wasn't in the present, he was in the past, and the overwhelming pain of the memory forced a yell out of him and he struggled against the straps, only there were no straps and it was surprisingly easy to lash out and hit the nearest whitecoat. The blow sent the man flying back, and when the others tried to move in and hold him down he fought them, fragments of thought warning him that this wasn't 2525 and he wasn't enduring augmentations, but hysteria won out and he kept fighting, driven by a mixture of rage and fear and wounded pride.

Their hands pawed at him, tendrils and claws and protrusions raking against his armor's shields, and he struggled to break free from the clamoring throng, inwardly wincing as their misshapen faces contorted when they screamed. The Flood was relentless, and all it wanted was to consume the Spartan, and each controlled burst from his assault rifle sent another combat form toppling lifeless to the ground...

They weren't doctors, they were infected, because they were howling and thronging around him and trying to hold him down. Only now there was no MJOLNIR armor to shield him from the disease, and full panic took hold as he tried to get away, but they just kept coming, moaning and barking and... and...

Something pierced the back of his neck, but when he reached back he didn't find an infection form but instead a fat syringe. His arm dropped as suddenly the world became blurred and unfocused, and he realized with a guilty pang that these weren't Flood or ONI surgeons, they were doctors and nurses who were only trying to help and didn't understand that he didn't belong here. The pretty Oriental doctor was crying because her smooth face was now covered in bruises and blood, and he struggled to say something as blackness tugged at the edges of his vision, but his mouth was too dry and his tongue felt too heavy. He slumped over, bewildered, and shame overwhelmed him in a brief moment of clarity before he went unconscious.

He came to what felt like hours later, and sure enough, his arms were stuck in metal-laced restraints. John blinked, tried to raise his head, and dizziness washed over him. He looked at his left arm and spotted the source of his disorientation: an IV. Well then. Not only were they going to tie him down, they were going to drug him too.

He wasn't in his old room either. This room had no windows and smelled more stale than any of the others he'd been in. The only light source was a dim panel running along the middle of the ceiling, more of a nightlight than anything. He couldn't tell whether it was day or night because of the lack of an outside view and the fact that his internal clock had been on the fritz for years now.

Sleep came and went, punctuated by periods when someone would enter and check his drip, and hallucinations abounded. Sometimes he would find himself talking to Sam or Kelly or Cortana, even Dr. Halsey on one occasion. They were quiet, didn't talk back, but it was like he couldn't stop the words from coming, because he missed them so badly it almost hurt physically.

Days merged into weeks and nothing changed. They had put him in this cell and forgotten about him. Why they were bothering to keep him alive, he didn't know, and when he tried to think about it the drugs kicked in and his thoughts trickled away. The old Spartan tugged at his bonds, strained to break free, spouted every curse he knew and prayed in the same breath, passed out and woke to begin again. What was left of his sanity remained grim and stoic, holding fast between periods of confusion, keeping him rock-solid so he wouldn't slide away so easily. He ordered the nurse to free him, and when she ignored him he broke down and begged, and she left without a word. No one cared that he was Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN John-117, hero of humanity, the man who had saved the galaxy. No one gave a damn. He was a product to be used then put away, a manufactured good, expensive but with an expiration date all the same. It hurt to be that expendable.

It hurt to be forgotten.

"John?"

Ah. You again.

"John, can you hear me?"

Of course I can hear you. You're inside my head, remember?

"Is something wrong...?"

Wait. Where are you going? Who are you talking to?

"Check his stats. If you've done anything to him, I swear, I will have you arrested..."

Please, Cortana, talk to me. Please.

"Wait... wait, I think he's awake... John?"

I have to wake up. I have to WAKE UP. Come on, 117. Open your eyes.

He opened them.

Everything came into focus slowly, shapes materializing out of hazy blurs. There was someone standing over him, a woman, and there were two doctors behind her. The woman had dark hair, so black it almost looked blue, and a smile spread across her face as their eyes met. Her eyes... her eyes weren't human. Not quite. They were violet and they glowed softly, set in flawless pale skin. He wanted to believe he had seen her before somewhere, but couldn't muster a memory.

Then she spoke.

"Wake me when you need me, huh," she said, in a tone that was laden with regret and affection.

It was Cortana's voice after all.

John was suddenly aware of his heartbeat increasing, his mind racing, and all he could do was blink and stare like a stunned idiot, while logic and hope battled, arguing that maybe this was for real and that maybe it was just another illusion, another trick. He tried to sit up and did so clumsily, uncoordinated and groggy. The woman with Cortana's voice sat down on the side of his bed and it was only then that he noticed her black outfit and the lapel pin that adorned one side of her chest. C. Ashley.

"It's an anagram," the woman said calmly, glancing down at the tab. "In honor of my mother, of course."

Ashley. Halsey. Same letters, different arrangement. Was it real? Was this really happening?

"No," John rasped, voice rusty from drugs and sleep. "Not... possible. They told me... told me you died... went rampant..."

"I was rampant when they rescued you," she said softly. She leaned in closer, and she looked so perfect it was almost artificial. Artificial. Like artificial intelligence..."But then something wonderful happened. I became metastable. A real person. Not just a collection of thoughts and memories. A real being. And I missed you, John. I missed you so much." Fingers ghosted down the side of his face, over silvery stubble and old scars. "They told me you were dead."

John supposed that he was so used to going out of his mind by now that this wasn't enough to shock him into insanity. "I... I got hurt," he said, the words stumbling out. "My legs..." He glanced at his inert lower half, covered by bedding, and felt ashamed. Ashamed that she had to see him like this, all broken down and decrepit and useless. "How did you find me?" he asked, distracted from his self-loathing by curiosity.

"ONI needed someone to decipher Forerunner tech recovered from dig sites all across the galaxy," Cortana said, almost angrily. "After it had been determined that I was metastable, they decided it wasn't enough to simply carry me around in a data chit. So they made me a... a mobile platform, as they called it." She gestured at herself. "It's my body."

John absorbed this as best he could, trying to wrap his fractured mind around what she was saying, and all he could do was nod and hope it wouldn't overload his brain.

"But I heard whispers. Rumors, strands of data buried under layers of encryption. I chased after them, and they led me here, after all this time," Cortana whispered, real pain entering her voice. "I'm sorry I wasn't faster... wasn't good enough to get you out of this place before now. I'm so, so sorry, John." Her voice broke and she looked away. She couldn't cry tears, but she didn't have to. He knew. "That ONI did this to you... oh, you have no idea what it makes me want to do..." She clenched her fists, fists made of metal and synthetic flesh, and seeing her this upset made John feel uncomfortable. He had seen her nearly break under the Gravemind's torture. To put her through any more agony...

"Cortana," John said, addressing her directly for the first time in nearly forty years, trying to sound like his old self but failing miserably, "It's not your fault. I..." He reached up, almost hesitantly, as if afraid his hand would pass through her, like she was a ghost or a hallucination. But it didn't, and it struck him how warm her face felt, and he wondered what magic ONI had worked to make her this wonderful. "I'm the one who wasn't strong enough."

"Shut up. You've always been strong," Cortana protested, and she tilted her head into his palm, running one hand along the sinews and cords of his arms that were still powerful. "You've always been a hero, John. Myhero. And I let you down."

"Ma'am..." one of the doctors ventured, clinging to his clipboard.

Cortana's head turned abruptly and she gave said doctor the glare of death. John had seen Dr. Halsey give it only once, and it looked even more ominous on Cortana. "Get out," she ordered, and the two onlookers scuttled out the door, shutting it behind them.

John suddenly felt tired, and he grunted as he had the sudden urge to fall over. He tried to ease back onto his pillow, but for once his arm wasn't steady enough, and he would have fallen if Cortana hadn't wrapped one arm around him and steered him down, and as the back of his head made contact with the pillow he sighed, and gave a bitter snort. "Some hero," he muttered, shame creeping up on him again. "You might as well leave me here. I'm done. I'm not Chiefanymore; I'm not even a Spartan, dammit. I'm broken. Spent. Just look at me. There isn't anything left."

"Don't talk like that," Cortana scolded, and she played with his hair, though it was short and considerably thinner than it had been in bygone times. She smiled briefly and cocked her head. "You're right here in front of me, John. I can see you. Touch you. I'm not a voice in your helmet anymore. Not an avatar. We can be human, just us, together. Somewhere safe, where they can't find us. Somewhere far away."

John listened to her words and the prospect was tantalizing. Thirty years in this place had made him homesick for the outside world, for distant suns and constellations he'd never seen. But it all seemed so vast and huge when he thought about it, and he felt so old, that his excitement died and was replaced with resignation. She was young, perhaps eternally so, and his life was so close to its end, that the situation was almost laughable.

"What if there's no time?" he asked, and his voice faded to a whisper as every ounce of despair and depression and loneliness he had ever felt weighed down on him, crushing his spirit. The ghosts of his dead Spartan-II brothers and sisters stared at him with dead eyes, the Gravemind taunted him over his human mortality, his own conscience hissed at him like a coiled serpent.

Cortana blinked, her luminous eyes boring into his own, and she leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on John's pale forehead. She sat back up and placed a finger on his mouth when he tried to say something else. "When I was with the Gravemind, I learned the true value of time," she said quietly. "I realized how short my lifespan would be... should have been. And I came to the conclusion that I would rather spend a brief seven years with the people I cared about than an eternity alone. I care about you, John. Whether it's ten years, five, or even one, I don't give a hoot. I'll have spent it with you. That's all that matters."

She took his big hand in hers and twined their fingers together. John didn't know what to say, couldn't process what he felt and turn it into words, so he just squeezed her hand carefully and relaxed as she kept watch over him. He was drowsy already and sleep beckoned, and as his eyes began to drift shut Cortana smiled, and he gave her a wavering, dopey smile in return. "Wake me," he grunted, in a voice that almost sounded like the Master Chief's.

"When I need you. Got it," Cortana replied, shaking her head. "You can count on it."

"I know." John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then sighed. Never mind that he was crippled and ailing and gradually losing his mind. Never mind that what had to be the biggest injustice of his life had just been revealed to him. Cortana was back- back to stay- and for the first time in decades, he wasn't by himself.

That fact alone was enough to chase his demons away and send him into fair dreams.