The sparks had stopped. Power almost gone. The ship was dark and quiet. Inside a cargo bay, sitting on a holo-pad, was Cortana.
The script that ran across her body was dark and thoughtful. Nothing light had touched it in some time. Her hair, normally smoothed to perfection was a mess, reflecting the stress she could no longer hide.
In front of her, hidden in the shadows, was a cryotube. Spartan-117, quiet, frozen in time, lay inside. The armor that covered his body was worn and dented. The war long fought, had taken its toll.
The last words that he had spoken drifted in Cortana's mind. "Wake me... when you need me." She needed him now, but she could not wake him.
For four years, they had floated though space. She had cut power to the ship save her holo pad, the cryotube and her distress signal. Four years, of quiet. Four years of loneliness.
Survival was uncertain this deep into space, being found nearly impossible, but then again, John always had luck.
Information swarmed though her mind. In the four years since the end of the war, she had hardly scratched the surface of what she had learned.
Suddenly the ship shuttered and began to tilt, snapping her out of her deep thoughts. Crates and cargo began to slide across the cargo bay, smashing into the walls and spilling open across the floor.
"John," she whispered, "I need you."