1240 HOURS, OCTOBER 15, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDER) / ENROUTE TO SOL SYSTEM, PLANET EARTH, VIA SLIPSPACE TRANSITION, ABOARD UNSC FRIGATE GETTYSBURG.

"SPARTAN-147 reporting as ordered, Master Chief." Saluting smartly, the SPARTAN stood stiff at attention, staring straight ahead as the Master Chief returned his salute.

"At ease." SPARTAN-117's baritone voice issued from his suit speakers, it was both as familiar and reassuring as it was commanding. Even naval officers listened when the Chief spoke, and with good reason. Standing nearly seven feet tall, Master Chief Petty Officer John was a half ton of iron dense muscle, and enhanced armor. He looked part tank, part greek warrior, and all business.

Nodding, 147 relaxed his stance and held his arms behind his back, clasping one hand around the wrist of the other. "Permission to speak freely sir?"

"Granted."

"It's good to see you again, sir."

"Likewise, Garth."

Satisfied, Garth nodded and resumed staring straight ahead, noting the many scuffs and dents in the Chief's armor. He looked like he had been through literal hell, and back, just to bring back a precious few from Reach. Not that his own armor looked any better, he had been out of direct contact with the UNSC for some time.

The virtually indestructible iridescent green armor Garth wore sported numerous abrasions on one side, a reminder to never leap out of a Warthog going in excess of a hundred kilometers an hour, unless a Wraith's energy mortar was bearing down on you. He had slid down a rocky cliff face on his side, banged off of some rocks, and free fell for a dozen meters before hitting the ground. His shield had failed midway down, and did nothing to blunt the impact when he landed.

Had he not possessed enough sense to scramble to safety against the base of the cliff, the mere quarter charge his shield had built up wouldn't have done a thing against the Warthog when it landed where he hit earth, before exploding a second time. It had barely held against the fireball that slammed him against the wall of solid granite he had taken shelter against.

Pushing aside reflections on the past for the moment, Garth's eyes drifted over the interior of the bridge he stood on, and it's other occupants.

Off to the side, Cortana's minute figure stood atop a holographic projection pad, dozens of encoded sigils streamed along the length of her insubstantial violet and ebony body. She, along with SPARTAN-104 Frederic, was co-ordinating the unloading of a few crates of ordinance from the single Pelican currently aboard the Gettysburg. The UNSC frigate had been battered, scorched, melted and gutted, it was barely holding together, despite the hasty repairs performed in the Eridanus system.

Titanium A hull armor was welded over the front viewing windows, and a trio of monitors had been bolted over the plating. Freeze dried blood was encrusted in various places, some of which had been stained a rusty red from half hearted attempts to scrub it off.

Returning his focus to the Master Chief, Garth noted the slight incline of his head. John always had a tendency to do that when he was awaiting a report, though it was so slight that unaugmented humans had trouble noticing it. But then, he could hardly be called 'unaugmented', not without lying at least.

"Sir, mission accomplished, all readily available ordinance has been loaded onto the Gettysburg, as per your orders. Unfortunately, it's mostly MA5B ammo, the last of the shredder rounds were expended repelling the Covenant from the outpost before your arrival. We have managed to scrape together a half crate of shotgun shells, as well as rounds for the S2 AM's. Several of the MA5B's are in working order, some require maintenance, but with the Gettysburg's machine shop, that shouldn't be a problem." In truth, they were lucky to have had those meager supplies at all. Garth and the rest of Grey team had resorted to skipping every second meal, trying to stretch their dwindling rations as far as they could go.

The Master Chief nodded, turning to a console, he typed in a command, bringing up their current course on one of the main screens. He struck Garth as a little distracted, and that wasn't like him. Not the John he remembered. "Explosives?"

"Plenty sir. Antlion anti-tank mines, C7 foaming explosive, and a party mix of grenades. What we don't have is pistol ammo, the M6D's are down to a handful of clips. Before you ask sir, yes, we did receive the last of the SEAP rounds from Reach, I doubt we would have lasted long enough for you to pick up our distress beacon otherwise." They had blown through the pistol ammo like a hurricane force wind when the Hunters had started coming in packs. SEAP rounds did incredible amounts of damage to exposed flesh in an instant, if your aim was good enough to avoid the starship grade battle plate all Hunters wore.

SEAP, or Semi Explosive Armor Piercing rounds were specially issued to the SPARTAN II's and the Pillar of Autumn in particular for it's original mission to capture a Covenant Prophet. That mission had been scrapped what felt like years ago, once the attack on Reach had begun. True, Garth had never been there for the doomed mission briefing, but he had received a long range communique informing him of the general outline. It had been a suicide mission, perfect for SPARTANS.

The Master Chief nodded again, seemingly focused on the heading the Gettysburg was following.

"We also expended the few M19 SSM rockets we were issued weeks ago. We have, quite frankly, an over abundance of Covie tech sir, plasma pistols, plasma rifles, needlers, we even managed to capture a few fuel rod cannons to make up for the rocket shortage, but they've been all but expended." All SPARTANS shared the same disdain for Covenant technology, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The was had been unofficially classified as 'desperate' shortly after the battle for Harvest.

Their current heading was Earth. After several of the required random jumps, as per the Cole protocol, they were finally on their way home.

Home.

Reach had been his home, and now it was reduced to glass. There were several SPARTANS on Reach when it fell, siblings that he'd never see again. How much longer could the human race survive before the Covenant managed to glass Earth too?

"We're also down to a pair of sniper rifles, one sans-scope thanks to a close encounter with a plasma grenade. Most of our armor is still functioning aside from some jury-rigging, mostly the outer plating, and a few hydrostatic gel seals, nothing major." Nothing major, like the grenade that had nearly adhered to Nickolai's helmet. Only his super human reflexes had brought the rifle up in time to save his head. Those same reflexes saved both the desperately needed rifle, and the rest of his team when he snapped it off, and threw it at the cluster of Elites charging them, returning the present.

"Noted." The lift hummed quietly to a stop, and it's flat grey doors slid open with a barely perceptible sigh as Sergeant Avery Johnson stepped out onto the bridge. "Report to the docking bay with Sergeant Johnson and assist with the final unloading and stow the rest of the supplies. Then see to your gear in the machine shop. Dismissed." Opening his mouth to comment, the Sergeant snapped his jaw shut, and reversed his course, stepping back into the lift without complaint.

"Sir!" Saluting again, Garth turned to join the Sergeant in the lift, and hesitated. "Sir, begging your pardon, but what are you planning on doing?" Given all they had been through, the various SPARTANS could use a week of downtime, and two days stay in recovery. Any longer, and they'd wind up going AWOL just to get back on the frontlines. He had a feeling that wasn't what the Chief had planned.

The Master Chief's reply was immediate. "Winning this war."

-

The lift hummed softly as Petty Officer Garth and Sergeant Johnson descended towards the docking bay, filling the otherwise uncomfortable silence between the two men. Neither seemed willing to speak first, and that suited Garth. He hadn't had time to review the other SPARTAN's and the Sergeant's mission logs.

"I heard you boys had a rough time before we pulled your butts out of the fryer." Johnson slid the end of a stubbed out cigar into the corner of his mouth and stared at the armored soldier. Few UNSC troops were actually willing to stand within a dozen yards of a SPARTAN, let alone initiate conversation with them. As far as Johnson was concerned, if you bled for Earth, you were alright in his books.

That said a lot about the man.

Nodding, Garth pressed a hand over the butt of his M6D, reassuring himself that the sidearm was still there. It had become a trained response after his holster had become damaged during his extended recon op, specifically, the ride down the hill, and the explosion that had followed. He'd have to swap over for one of the M6C magnum pistols soon, there simply wasn't any more SEAP rounds to go around.

"Well we've been having ourselves a hell of a time, bouncing from one system to another, leaving a trail of Covenant behind us. Blowing up fleets, destroying superweapons, you know, regular duty." The corners of Sergeant Johnson's mouth turned upwards as he folded his arms over his chest. He looked over the other soldier as if measuring him, perhaps comparing him to the other SPARTAN's he had fought alongside. "None of that recon light duty stuff you've been stuck on." It took a lot of guts to tease a SPARTAN, especially pushing their buttons like that.

It wasn't known outside of a select few that SPARTANs hated light duty, frequently volunteering for the most dangerous missions available. At the state the war had progressed to, there was no shortage of those sorts of missions now.

Opening his team roster on his HUD display, Garth glanced over the updates highlighted in bright orange text. The list was longer than his solo file, much longer with the addition of the Chief's and Frederic's amendments. Not only were most of the SPARTANs listed, but also several marines and naval officers, including- "Vice Admiral Whitcomb is listed as KIA. Were there any other officers that survived Reach?" There was only going to be one answer coming from the Sergeant, but he had to hear it.

The Sergeant's smile died as if it had been switched off. "No, according to the Admiral, he was the only surviving officer of rank after the initial attack on HighCom." Frowning, Johnson leaned back against the side of the lift, gloomily chewing on the soggy end of his cigar stub.

Garth's reply was an icy silence. The longer the war drew on, the more it seemed humanity was doomed. Reach was supposed to be untouchable, the very foundation of humanity's military strength. The fact that it was now gone...

The lift hummed to a halt, and it's doors parted, cutting off Garth's dark train of thought as the expanse of the loading bay swept into view. There, the Pelican that had delivered him from a seemingly hopeless battle, outgunned, outmanned, and outmatched, it had carried him safely to the Gettysburg and to what he hoped would be a path to the salvation of humanity. His armor creaked softly as he strode across the bay, the rapid clomping of boots across deckplating followed in his wake as Sergeant Johnson tried to keep up with the SPARTAN's long stride, oblivious to the soldiers morbid thoughts.

Salvation. Such a grandiose term for what lay after hope, at the end of all battles, at the end of war. What fate would await him, when it was all over? A long and dreamless sleep, he hoped, free of the darkness that was looming over them. Garth had always been a brooder.

At the top of the Pelican's ramp, a SPARTAN was dragging a quartet of crates from the craft, his back to the approaching pair. Wordlessly, Garth strode up the ramp and wrapped his armored fingers around the lashings that held the crates together. Turning his helmet to face the other, he swiped two fingers of his free hand across his polarized faceplate where his mouth would be. It was one of the SPARTAN's secret gestures, this was their sign for a smile. He enjoyed the minute tensing of the other's limbs, the closest a SPARTAN could get to being visibly startled. "Will." It had to be him, he always wound up drawing pack duty somehow, he never complained either.

All SPARTANs could tell each other apart simply by the way they moved and stood. It was a natural byproduct from training together for decades, since childhood, since long before anyone had ever heard of the SPARTAN project.

"Garth." SPARTAN-043 Will returned the smile gesture, and the two SPARTANs together hauled the crates down the ramp. Sergeant Johnson stood to the side and let out a low whistle, he could see the Pelican's ramp buckling under the combined weights of the two armored soldiers and the crates. "What's in those things anyways? Lead bricks? Depleted uranium?"

Garth leaned to the side, inspecting the straps to confirm they were tight and in good order. They were. "Titanium A plating to shore up the superstructure around the engines, the last few scraps we could salvage from the outpost before it fell." Once Grey team had received a reply to their distress beacon, they had begun tearing down the outpost bolt by bolt, grabbing everything of value they could carry, and rigging the rest to blow.

Once Cortana had apprised them on the condition of the Gettysburg, they had torn down most of the walls and removed the meager armored plating that remained on outer walls of the outpost. "Where's the rest of your team?" According to John and Fred's reports, there were still some surviving SPARTANs.

"Linda is catching a few hours sleep, she's still recovering from her... Operation." Will knelt down, checking the serial numbers on the crates against the manifest displayed on his HUD. He wasn't eager to explain what had happened to Linda.

Or Kelly.

"I read the report." Garth grabbed the straps with both hands, and began dragging the crates off to the side. Will was stalling and they both knew it. "She's lucky, the only one of us to get some decent rest for once." The lashings creaked beneath his fingers, he was squeezing them too hard. "Heard you had a rough time too." He eased up his grip a little, and continued to drag the crates over to the unloading zone.

Jumping to his feet, Will began pushing the crates along behind Garth, letting out a noncommittal grunt. His injuries had been minor compared to Kelly's, and nonexistent compared to Linda's. "I heard you had worse." Will spared a glance at his motion tracker, aware that the Sergeant was following them at a safe distance. "You were declared MIA after Command lost contact with your team."

It was Garth's turn to grunt. Turning, he hauled the crates into the designated loading area, and began untangling the lashings. "Why did the Doctor take Kelly like that?" He hadn't thought of Dr. Halsey in a long time. After reading the mission report, he wasn't picturing her in a very good light. It made him uncomfortable to think of the Doctor that way, but how else could he take it?

"I don't know." Will easily lifted one of the crates to the deck once Garth had freed it, normally a task that would have taken a dozen marines, or heavy lifting machinery. "She flashed a Code Three-Nine-Two on her way out though." Will paused to dust off the gunmetal green crate latches, they were covered in ash, and carbonized bits of bone.

Garth let out a low whistle as he gathered the lashings up and set them aside on the deck. "She actually blew the Admiral off." It wasn't entirely a surprise. If anyone were to ever pull a stunt like that, it would have been Dr. Halsey. "How'd he take it?" He eased the second crate down, and began scraping at the twisted latches with the back of his gauntlet. This crate had taken a secondary hit from an exploding Warthog refueling tank. It had almost been his head, so he silently worried the latch apart, and was thankful.

Will snorted, and unsnapped the latch, pulling off the crate's lid. Inside, were several centimeter thick sheets of titanium A battleplate. Will reached inside and pulled one out, checking for any flaws that Grey team could have missed in their haste.

Garth could only imagine the look on Admiral Whitcomb's face. Giving up the latch as ruined, he closed his armored fingers around the twisted metal and pulled. With a sharp squeal the latch pulled free and clattered to the deck. Tipping the lid off, he reached inside and hauled out a sheet of metal, giving it a once over with his visor set to HiRes mode. "Looks good to me." Resetting his optics, he turned to Will.

"I'll just leave you two to this then." Feeling uncomfortable being privy to such a private conversation, and standing uselessly about while others did all the work didn't sit well with Sergeant Johnson. "If you need me, I'll be unloading the weapons and ammo from the Pelican." Turning on his heel, Johnson strode across the empty deck, heading for the barely salvageable dropship sitting in the middle of the loading bay. He was worried about the remaining SPARTANs, but for a different reason. They weren't family to him, not like they were to each other, but they were soldiers, and he'd fight tooth and nail to keep the men and women serving with him alive.

Besides, people needed heroes. Needed them to give them hope. And that was something that was in short supply.

-

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