"Ha. Beat that."

The man paused for a millisecond before moving his next piece, brow furrowed as he contemplated his newest strategy. The holographic chess set flickered as he tapped a black square and his knight moved there, then he withdrew his hand and folded his arms, daring his opponent to make her move.

Cortana's "eyes" narrowed and she gave a little huff, moving a castle to counter her adversary's advance. "That was just luck and you know it," she declared, a hint of frustration in her smooth voice. The AI, only a few inches tall on the board, rested a "hand" on the nearest bishop and cocked her head. "I'd love to see the gears turning inside that thick skull of yours, but sadly I don't have X-ray vision. What's your plan?"

"Winning," the old man muttered, then moved a pawn.

Cortana snorted and promptly captured the pawn with a pawn of her own. "Right. You are predictable if anything," she sighed. "But you know you can't beat the best mind around, right?"

"I can try."

"Laconic as you are stubborn," Cortana sighed. "Go ahead. Make my day."

"I intend to."

The next ten minutes were filled with intense silence. The man sat rigidly still, dark eyes fixated on the board before him. Cortana was getting impatient and strolled across the board, weaving in and out among the chess pieces. "Any century now," she said dryly, yawning.

"You know me, Cortana. I don't give up easily," the man grunted. "I'll take my sweet time."

"You take your sweet time doing just about anything these days," Cortana shot back.

"Can't help getting old." There was a trace of sadness in the man's voice, but it was well-disguised.

Cortana looked a little guilty, taking a step backward. "You know you're still my knight in shining armor, right?" she asked, hoping to make him feel better. "Maybe not encased in a glorified tin can anymore, but still…"

"Hey, my MJOLNIR got completely wrecked in '86. Not my fault ONI quit making the stuff." To punctuate his declaration, he shoved a bishop at Cortana's defenses, then sat back in his chair with a somewhat haughty expression.

A grin spread across the slim blue AI's face and she clapped her hands in glee. "Ah, the fatal mistake," she purred, then moved a castle directly across the board. "Checkmate!" she proclaimed, defiant even in victory.

The man stared, then blinked once, comprehending the utterly incomprehensible strategy she had used. He deactivated the chess board and all the pieces vanished, leaving Cortana by herself. "Aw, a sore loser," she smirked.

"Me, a sore loser? You're the one who shut down an entire chat room because I beat you at twenty questions."

"That website was rigged, I tell you. There was corrupted code…"

Cortana's voice trailed off as someone else entered the room. It was a man in a white coat and scrubs, and he approached the seated man warily, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder. "Is everything all right, sir?" the man asked in a gentle, non-threatening voice.

"Everything's fine. I was just playing chess."

"I thought I heard you talking to someone," the whitecoat said. He took out a clipboard and a pen. "Who were you talking to, John?"

"Cortana." The word was blunt and forceful and had an obvious duh attached to the end of it.

"Now, now, we've been through this before. Cortana went rampant and was deactivated in 2580, shortly after the UNSC found you. Do you remember that, John?"

John resisted the urge to glower. He hated this man, this doctor, the way he treated him like a patient, kept repeating his name like he was only five years old. He could still break this man's neck with his pinky, but that wouldn't solve anything. Just get him thrown in with the "dangerous" patients.

"Yes." A long pause, then he cleared his throat, staring at the blank chessboard. There was no little blue AI there. No familiar presence. Just the stark black and white squares.

"That's very good, John," the doctor said soothingly. "Now, why don't we take you to get your meds—"

"I'm fine." John reached down and wheeled himself backward, away from the table. He detected fear in the doctor—fear that someone who was supposed to be old and decrepit was wheeling all 270 pounds of themselves without electronic aid. The years might have stolen the color from his hair and some of the spark from his vitality, but they hadn't taken the brute strength from his arms yet. And the doctor knew it.

"Uh, well, that's good, then." The doctor retreated toward the door, nodding as he went. "Take care, John. And remember. Anymore hallucinations, and you get more meds. Okay?"

John didn't respond, just set his jaw and wished he had an assault rifle available so he could throw it.

He wheeled himself out of the recreation room, past other residents of the UNSC-run "retirement facility." The same accident that had ruined his Mk VI MJOLNIR armor had also taken the use of his legs… and landed him in this sterilized hell. Thirty years and he still hadn't been able to get out of here. He wanted to go outside, see what had become of the world, but ONI wouldn't let him. The doctors at this place were under strict orders to keep Sierra 117 from escaping confinement. Having a Spartan-II living among the civilian population was something that apparently most ONI officials frowned upon.

What year is it? 2617? Or maybe 2618? I keep losing track, he thought bitterly. 107 years old, ninety-eight if you discounted the years spent in cryo, and he didn't look a year over seventy. Apparently one of the many benefits of Spartan augmentations was incredible longevity and delayed aging. He worked out as much as possible, keeping his upper body trim, and was still strong enough to bench-press slightly more than twice his own weight. He still had all hair, but it was silver, now approaching white. The scars etched across his face intimidated people, as did his quiet mannerisms. He didn't fit in here, not among the aged and the weak and the sick.

He got to his room—designation C1679—and managed to shut the door behind him before wheeling over to the window. The blinds were open, letting sunlight stream in. He was thankful for it—it was warm and reminded him of Reach. He sat there with eyes shut, imagining himself standing in a grassy field, dressed in comfortable fatigues. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he sighed wistfully.

"John?"

He opened his eyes.

Cortana tsked and crossed her arms. "You shouldn't be angry with him. He was just doing his job."

"I know."

The blue AI hopped down from his bed and landed on the arm of his wheelchair, then sat down, kicking her legs and giving him a sideways, sad look. "Am I really dead and gone, John? Like he said?"

"No." John tapped his right temple with his forefinger. "You'll always be in here. Always. Sometimes… I reach back there and expect to find you in your slot, like it used to be…"

"You're being sentimental." Cortana shook her head. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"I promised I wouldn't leave you behind again," John whispered, suddenly solemn. "And when I make a promise…"

"… you keep it," Cortana—the memory of Cortana, the Cortana he had lost and found and lost again—said softly.

John closed his eyes again. "Yeah," he muttered, emitting a powerful, weary sigh. "I keep it."

Cortana didn't say anything else, and he willed himself to sleep. It was quite easy to do; his Spartan training enabled him to virtually shut himself down when needed. The warmth brought in by the sunlight was comfortable and he wanted to escape from the smell of disinfectant and the drudgery of living in a hospital room.

"Chief?"

His eyes snapped open and he felt the familiar whiff of air scrubbers against his face. It was a clean, metallic smell, one he'd been missing for far too long. The lights and radar of his HUD were a welcome sight, as was the familiar bay of a Pelican dropship. He reached down and curled his armored hands around the glorious, irreplaceable contour of an MA5B assault rifle.

A familiar cold sensation washed over his mind and he heard a feminine sigh in the speakers of his helmet. "Chief, wake up. You're needed on this mission," Cortana urged him.

"I'm awake." The Master Chief rose and stood, watching as alien terrain flashed by. The Pelican was descending fast, and though he was the only one present in the blood tray, he had never felt so alive. So at home. "What's our situation?"

"Did you really have to ask?" Cortana groused, as they passed over gleaming, purple Covenant vehicles that spat plasma mortars at the Pelican. "It's business as usual, and our customers are pissed."

"Just the way I like it," the Chief muttered, resisting the urge to grin from ear to ear. "Lucky me."

It was just a dream, of course… but it was his dream, and that was all that mattered.