Remembrance
A Halo fanfic
Summary: Chief looks back after a long day of battle, and ponders on the passage of his fellows.
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The hydraulic door hissed open, revealing the battered and world-weary form of the Master Chief.
He leaned heavily in the doorframe a moment, the metal groaning at the strain, as if needing to catch his breath. Though, one could never tell, with that impassive helmet a near constant. Slowly, he strode into the room, allowing the door to whoosh closed behind him.
It wasn't much, a bunk installed on one wall, a computer terminal set up just inside the door, but it was enough for his purposes. The lone Spartan put one hand out, dragging it along the wall as he made his way over to the bunk. It was larger than regulation, due to his massive stature, but it still groaned in protest when he eased his full armored weight onto the metal slab. He winced at the sound, a barely perceptible twitch of one shoulder, and sat himself on the floor instead. The ship's metal decking was made to support several tons, thus it held him up without protest. Few realized just how heavy he was when fully armored. Last weigh in, if he remembered correctly, the number had been just shy of a half-ton. With a sigh, the super-soldier reached up to his jaw, depressing a hidden switch.
There was a hiss as his helmet depressurized, equating itself to the surrounding atmosphere, and he removed the expressionless helm. He cradled the now-hollow object in his gauntleted hands, turning it to view the reflective surface of his golden visor. The face that stared back at him was young, maybe late-thirties, with a strong jaw and a straight Roman nose. His dark brown hair was just over regulation length, there not having been a barber available on Halo. Scars marred his abnormally pale skin, earned from countless missions and battles, among other things. But it was his storm-gray eyes that told the stories behind those scars, shadowed beneath his heavy brow. Forever narrowed from squinting through flash bangs and flying debris on a daily basis, dark purple underneath, like a bruise, from lack of proper rest. Hurt, loss, and determination could be witnessed churning in their misty depths, but foremost among the emotions fluttering there was exhaustion.
The Spartan was tired. So many allies lost to enemy firepower, young and old alike, while he fought on through the trials that had taken their last breaths. He hated to see them die, and every time one of his fellow soldiers fell in battle, it was another needle digging in his conscience. At the end of the day, it wore on him so badly he couldn't even sleep. But what could he do? Many situations in this war had almost killed him, and he was practically built for it!
Chief sighed, leaning back and resting his head on the bunk to stare up at the tiled ceiling. Master Chief, Spartan 117. That's all anyone knew him by nowadays. No time to try learning his real name, not that he really gave anyone the chance. He was always fighting, or getting assigned to missions, or something else that left him by his lonesome taking on a horde of enemy forces. A slight smirk lifted a corner of his mouth. Well, not entirely on his lonesome.
Cortana was always there, pointing out things he missed on the battle field and calculating the chances of reaching the objective, yet somehow managing to make some snarky comment on something or other to keep the atmosphere from getting too tense. The miniscule shadow of a smile dropped from his face. She was gone now too, left to detonate the reactor back on Halo. He had wanted to take her with him, to keep her safe, but she had insisted, and there wasn't enough time to argue. Why was it that whenever he started to get close to someone, they slipped away from him in one way or another? He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut with a grimace as he remembered. The Spartans, Dr. Halsey, Captain Keyes, and now Cortana. All of them gone, some of them dead. It hurt to think of them like that, but it was hard not to when it was the truth, whether he liked it or not.
With a sigh, he reached behind him, grabbing the bedding off the bunk. After a moment of fussing, he lay down on the thin mattress he had pushed under the bunk, not even bothering to pull off his MJOLNIR armor as he pulled the blanket up over his head. The enclosed space would have made any other person claustrophobic, but after having to sleep in countless foxholes and other cramped spaces that provided the only cover available, it felt safer than lying out in the open. One last look at the battered helmet pushed up against the support post closest to his head, and the lone Spartan let his tired eyes fall closed, succumbing to the siren song of slumber.