Chapter 1

UNSC Honor Inbound, in orbit over Alloy, 2560. Three years after conclusion of Halo: 4

"Master Chief, on your last mission, Artificial Intelligence CTN-0452-9, AKA Cortana, went missing in action, correct?" Captain James Stanson looked at the heavily armored man before him.

"That is correct sir."

"Good, because you and that gagglefuck of assholes downstairs are not coming back up here until you locate her!" Stanson turned back to the holoraphic display. "Dismissed."

The Master Chief stepped into the elevator without a word. The death of Cortana had hurt him deeply. She had been his best friend in the world. Better than the SPARTANs that he had grown up with. She had helped him realize who he was. And then she died.

2557, three years ago.

Chief looked around the hard-light bubble he was in. "Cortana?"

She materialized out of the shield. They walked up to each other. "Cortana."

Cortana appeared to be solid. Less transucent. She touched his chest. "I've always wanted to do that."

Chief stared at her. "It was my job to take care of you."

She shook her head. "We were supposed to take care of each other."

"Cortana, please...wait."

She walked backwards into the shield. "Welcome home, John."

The Didact's ship exploded. Chief was protected by the hardlight shield. He stared at where Cortana had disappeared.

The Master Chief had made a pledge that would not be John anymore. The idea of being able to recover an AI that had been blown to pieces was immpossible. Less probable than taking back Harvest. And that had been done.

Dropship Bay

Coporal Taylor H. Miles or Dutch to his friends and Lance Corporal JD "Rookie" stood waiting for their friend to arrive.

Their buddy, Private First Class Michael "Mickey" Crespo, had been with them in New Mombasa during an almost pointless op led by Captain Veronica Dare. Their squad leader, Gunnery Sergeant Edward Buck had also been on that mission. Dare was retired by now and Buck was married to her. A career marine, he had been placed in the Bad Company to prevent military secrets from getting out.

The Bad Company was an ONI-intervention-free unit for misfits, ex-cons, PTSD plagued veterans and newbies. Neither Dutch nor Rookie were green. Neither were the 250 Marines, ODSTs, Jackals, Hunters, Elites and SPARTANs that made up the company.

The Pelican docked and opened it's ramp. Mickey stepped out. "Dutch, Rookie!"

The friends embraced. "Good to see you guys."

Dutch slapped Mickey's shoulder. "Long time no see. Whaddya been doin' partner?"

Mickey smiled. "Stayed with the boys in the 105th for a while. Got bored. Requested a transfer. Heard Romeo went Defense Force."

Rookie smiled behind his polarized visor. His silent demeanor often alienated him from other soldiers. He didn't often interact with anyone but Dutch and Buck. Sometimes he found life with Emile, a SPARTAN who had survived Reach. That's what most of them were. Those who survived the unsurvivable.

Buck walked up to them. His helmet was removed to reveal his black hair and a small bit of shading on his upper lip. "Mickey."

Mickey saluted. "Sir." He looked at the dress of the men around him. "What's going on?"

"Throw your body-suit on and grab your weapons. We're going on a mission." Buck slapped his helmet on. "Now move, soldiers."

Sergeant-Major Avery J. Johnson stepped out onto the platform holding the Pelicans. "Once again, it is our job to finish what the flyboys started. We are leaving this ship, platoon and engaging the enemy on solid ground. When we meet them, we will rip their skulls from their spines and toss 'em away laughin'!" He turned around to face them. "Am I right marines?"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

"Mmhmm, damn right I am. Now move it out, double time!" Johnson walked up to the clearly agitated commander, Major Nadya Molotov. "Johnson, where is he?"

"Look ma'am, if I know Chief, and I do, he'll be here."

"We'll see." Molotov's heavy Russian accent puncuated her speech. "He's a SPARTAN, Johnson."

The black sergeant lit a cigar. "I know. But he's the best damn SPARTAN there is."

Molotov pulled the ODST helmet over her head, completing her red armor. "Maybe."

The elevator doors opened. Chief stepped out. "Johnson? How-?"

Johnson smirked. "I know it's surprisin' Chief. But just go with it."

Chief put an MA5C assault rifle on his back. "This mission is impossible."

"Impossible?" Molotov sounded disgusted. "My ODSTs are still here, so, it ain't impossible." She walked away.

Chief stared. "What's wrong with her?"

"Ah, just a hardass." Johnson led the towering SPARTAN to his Pelican. "But don't worry, I know what she likes."

Chief stepped onboard. Several marines and a SPARTAN sat inside the 'Blood Tray'. The SPARTAN had a skull carved into an orange polarized EVA style helmet. He sharpened a curved knife against his wrist.

Johnson saw them watching each other. "Chief, Emile. Emile, Chief."

Emile gave a half-nod. "Replacement?"

"No, asset." Johnson slapped the roof of the Blood Tray. The ramp closed. "Take 'er down, Ferro."

The clamps holding the dropship let go. It fell into space. Chief's heart went to his throat. He hadn't experienced a drop like this before.

The engines fired up and stabilized the ship. Johnson sat down. "Ferro, what's the status on those Helljumpers?"

A female voice came over the intercom. "ODSTs have dropped, sir."

Buck felt the wind rush past his HEV. His MA5C was held next to him. The heat was already getting intense. He was second-in-command of the ODST platoons so he had to set an example. Guys he knew, Dutch, Mickey and Rookie weren't really concerned. They were veterans. Unflinching, even though Dutch had a wife and kids. Nobody here really cared if they died. Their concern was the other guy.

Molotov looked at the screen showing Buck's face. "Buck, you holding up?"

"Just about ma'am."

"Good." Molotov looked at her M7(S). Hopefully it would kill whatever they would be facing. The M7 was good for short-range, soft bodied targets. If these had armor, then she was fucked.

Meanwhile, in the Pelican, Johnson had turned on some of his 'flip' music-ancient pop from the 1980s and 90s. Gorovich, a scarfaced marine with one blank eye white hair, who was twirling a huge combat knife spat. "Sarge, we gotta listen to this old crap?"

Johnson glared at him. "Watch your mouth boy. This is your history. It should remind you of what you're fighting for."

Another marine, wearing a balaclava by the name of Sergei, responded. "Sarge, it's the Spice Girls. We use them for psychological warfare." (Aliens: Escalation Easter Egg)

The end of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 coming soon.