"I am calling on an open channel. Can anyone hear me?" I droned into the helmet radio, already knowing the response. Lack of response anyways. It has been a day since the warthog letdown and my feet dragged in the dirt.

This is pointless; I'm just going to die on this barren planet with no one to remember me. I'll just be the Spartan that was wasted, put into cyro for a time of "special need" that would never come. I'll bet that ONI just doesn't like me in particular. I mean, there was that one time when I called someone from there a douche... then another time when I broke someone's hand after the argumentation... but that time it was an accident! I was still getting used to my upgraded body! Although the next time I had broke their hand... they had it coming alright?

Okay, so even if there is a SLIGHT chance of the ONI shitheads not holding a grudge against me... then I'm sure whatever god that's up there, ha, I'm sure I did SOMETHING to piss that guy off.

My foot caught on something and I looked down, grimacing before hopping over to a wall and scraping my boot on it, leaving a nice purple trail of human brains behind.

I continued on my way, taking care of not stepping in anymore corpses as I trekked through the old battle grounds. Er, massacure grounds. Still no sign of enemy bodies. But the blue and purple blood… different story.

I must be halfway across the world, traveling for nearly two years now. I knew that wasn't the case, the road I chose to follow had so many twists and turns, I wouldn't be surprised and none too happy to find out I just went in one big giant circle. I sighed and a button clicked again.

"Hey, can anyone here me? My feet hurt, I'm sleep deprived, and alone out here. As much as I'd hate to admit it, I need help. If anyone can hear me, even if you're damned Covenant scum, I'm on highway 21 and I just passed Holihala the other day, heading... north I think. I dunno... this shifty road has taken me up and down, east and west, so many fucking times it's hard to te... never mind, I'm heading east. just remembered my helmet has a compass. Anyways- CAN ANYONE FUCKING HEAR ME?" I ground my teeth together and unclicked the button, ending my transmission. Again, no one responded.

I had long ago let down my emotionless walls, seeing how no one was around for miles. I was back to my old self for a few days, the old me that always acted how I felt when I was just with my family, before becoming grouchy and annoyed.

Fuck, I wish I was out of here. Even if I was stuck on some boring mission it'd be better than this.

I clicked the transmitter back on again, making it a repeating message, and started to whistle. Only three seconds before the tune ended and I stopped the message. It only took that long for someone to track you. Even if it was a deadly enemy I'd burst with joy at being found, even if it meant having my head blown off the next minute.

Yup, I must have a death wish if I want it that much.

Every other day I wonder why I'm doing this. Maybe there's still a small hope in me that I'll be found. That explains the constant open channel radio transmissions I send out every hour. Or it could be the fact that I enjoy life too much.

Pfft.

Yeah, that's it.

Or it could be the fact that I'm afraid of capping myself. There's a possibility. But most likely not. Hey, don't get me wrong, I fear death just as much as anyone does, but at least I accept it. If I die, fine; accepted. If someone I know, dies; mourned but accepted. If I pull the plug on my life; unacceptable. I will NOT give into so easily. So what if I travel endlessly, clinging on to the last thread of hope that someone will find me? So what if I end up wasting my time on a hopeless deal? So what if even the tiniest, most harmless and least dangerous enemy kills me? I won't cap myself.

I sighed and began entertaining myself for the millionth time.

After singing 'Life is a Highway,' (just to be ironic), and a few Breaking Benjamin songs, I gave up on singing. It's not that I hate singing, I enjoy it a lot actually; I'm just not in the mood. Some of my siblings used to tease me about liking bands from, oh, over five hundred years ago, but I still like them anyways.

Instead, I pulled my bag off my shoulder and kneeled next to it. Unzipping the front pocket, I randomly grabbed a few of the hundreds of little chips. Zipping it back up and resuming on my way, I put one in the back of my helmet. Before it started playing, I made sure I wouldn't run into anything within the next ten minutes.

My HUD went black, the radio static fading away as the sounds of running filled my head. I watched as the video blinked on, showing the jumpy screen. This guy was running, obviously, but from what?

Do I really have to ask?

This was one of the many chips I swiped from the military men I've come across within the years. I felt guilty about it, but I needed to figure out what had happened before I got thawed out, somehow.

Plasma was seen flying by the person, him crying out when one sizzled near his head.

The camera suddenly met the ground before the man staggered to get up, leaving the helmet behind. I watched as he ran away, only to have large feet obscure the lens. They trampled away towards him, firing their deadly guns. I made out the forms of some kind of big human-like forms running after a group of people before gunning them down mercilessly.

Their screams were last thing I heard before a crunch ended the transmission; someone must've stepped on the helmet and shattered it.

I sighed and took the chip out; putting it along with the few others I had taken out into an outside pocket on my suit.

I just wasn't in the mood. Wasn't in the mood to watch people die when I can tell their stories as I walk by their still bodies. Melted skin and bones tell of plasma bullets, crushed bones meant they were either beaten or trampled to death. Limbs torn off meant a larger enemy used them as a stress relief. No wounds meant they had survived the attack, only to die by mother nature's hand. People who had giant footprints on their bodies told that something huge was present at their death.

I sighed again. What's with all the damn sighing?

I looked up at where my feet had brought me this time, perking up slightly before making my way towards the run down bar. I searched through the remains, fortunate that no bodies were in here, and stole some of the expired packaged food. I stuffed them into my pack, then grabbed a bottle of alcohol and continued on my way. After about ten minutes I entered an abandoned grocery store. Ignoring the scattered bodies and blood on the walls and floor, I made my way over to the freezer section. Oddly enough, those still worked. I came across a fogged up door and wiped my hand on it, jumping back when I came face to face with a freezer burned corpse with its mouth wide open, dead eyes screaming. I avoided that one, and the other fogged up glass before opening up a door and grabbing a few things. I took off my helmet before putting the bag of ice on top of my head. I sighed in relief, the sweat on my face drying up after a while. I tilted my head back and opened my eyes.

Holy shit, they even got blood and guts on the ceiling!

I sidestepped out from underneath the dried entrails and focused on the chilly ice that's cooling me down.

It had to be well over 80 degrees out. Even if the sun isn't shining, the clouds lock in the heat. I don't take to the heat very well; I'm more of a cold person.

"Testing testing 1 2 3. Can anybody read me?" Still no answer.

I made sure my beacon was still working before moving on taking the bag of ice with me. I stored the ice in my chest compartment, keeping the water stored there nice and cool.

I pressed onwards, walking through the deserted town, before going back on the deserted highway, on this damned deserted planet, whistling that small tune over and over as it brought back memories of the past.