March 15, 2539:
Johnson was across the river ten seconds after the first rocket explosion. His battle rifle shouldered, he made his way through the woods towards the base of some cliffs. The contrails of the rockets made it abundantly clear where his attacker was positioned. It was convenient; he was being invited to a fight. His quarry was further up the hill beyond the cliffs, taking a higher position. It was time to face the last ghost. Johnson was sure he would come out on top one last time.
or just let him kill you out no one will know
His problem was that he was too sure of himself. He craved the fight. He needed to hunt the ghosts. After Harvest, it was all he had left in his life. It was his life. And he was good at it.
But when had he become so good at it? Why? Why was he fighting these people, with the Insurrection?
he tricked you he played you how can you be so stupid
It spoke again, catching his attention. That nagging in his brain. Words too quiet to hear. Nearly a voice. Like listening to a radio turned down too low, or overhearing whispers in another room.
But he knew what it was saying.
Johnson had felt it creep up in him, slowly, after Boss had really started training him. For years he told himself that his strength, his agility, his reflexes were the result of this training and his sobriety. But someone else had an opinion on the matter. A man that had been through this process before; a man he once believed had died on Harvest, drunk and alone. Apparently he had survived. And Johnson couldn't shut him up.
He reached the base of the cliff and clamped his battle rifle onto his back. The face was 20 meters high. Johnson crouched low and leaped 15 meters. He grabbed a small outcropping with armored fingertips and propelled himself to the top. He was re-armed and gone without a sound.
Deep down he knew he'd been fucked over. Taken advantage of. He wasn't stupid. It was the truth.
of course it is it has been from the day they took you
But only deep down. He knew other truths. One of them was that the UNSC had created monsters out of children and turned them loose on the Insurrection. Johnson had freed those children, one by one, and saved thousands in the process. The war would end soon.
you're one of the monsters
He heard his foe. The king ghost was doubling back, finally, for the fight. Johnson knew he would.
The two had fought before. Twice. Both times Johnson had claimed a ghost. Once, he'd almost died himself. He knew this man was more dangerous than himself. It would be an interesting battle.
Johnson found himself at the top of the hill, in a large grove of thin, tall trees. He had the illusion of being able to see for quite a distance around him. It made him feel naked and exposed. He listened.
just sit down and end this for us
Reaching down with his left arm, Johnson plucked a grenade from his thigh. His thumb hovered over the button. Behind him a half-ton man took a loud step.
He turned, armed the grenade and threw it. As his arm released the explosive he caught three rounds hard in his chest plate. A fourth glanced off the side of his helmet.
Bells rung in his head even as he rolled out of the line of fire. His heart hurt. Someone had pissed in his suit.
He was up.
stay down
30 meters away the grenade exploded and Johnson took off toward the falling debris. The ghost was scrambled to his feet and turned his weapon toward Johnson. He had to close the gap. He leaped.
Another round punched him, this time in the shoulder. He kept flying through the air and hit the ghost hard in a full-body tackle. The intertwined pair rolled down the hill back toward the river, snapping the thin trees like match sticks. They separated. Johnson crashed onto a log and bounced up, skipping down the hill. He tucked, twisted, kicked, and planted.
Johnson had fallen all the way back to the cliffs. He was facing the hill, scanning it. He didn't see the ghost. Few ever did.
He turned around in time to catch the ghost's right arm with his left. The blade was practically leaping at Johnson's throat, but now he had the ghost's right wrist. He pulled hard on it, taking the ghost off his balance long enough for Johnson to push away. He was grabbed a blade from his armor and pounced. The two rolled along the edge of the cliff, each struggling to gain an edge over the other. Johnson maneuvered on top of his foe, stabbed his right arm toward the ghost's throat, caught a knee to the groin, flipped over the ghost and onto his back. He rolled out of the way just as a fusion-powered boot slammed into the dirt. He pivoted, still on the ground, and swept out the ghost, but his leg hit nothing.
They stood facing each other, five meters apart. Johnson unsheathed a second blade. No one moved.
In that instant Johnson knew the truth, like he once had back on Harvest a lifetime ago. His own reflection faced him, and he hated it. He wanted to kill it, he wanted to choke the life from the ghost's augmented body until it was still.
He had become his worst enemy.
But that was nothing new; Johnson had always been his own greatest foe. From the day he joined the Corps. The day he volunteered for ORION. The day at the Jim Dandy. The day he agreed to work for Boss. The day he put on this filthy shell and completed the hypocrisy he'd been trying to deny since Boss picked him up as a pet project, built for revenge.
Most of his life had been spent fighting for others instead of himself. He'd been broken on Harvest, destroyed, but at least he'd been honest. Boss told him it was part of the plan, that he had a purpose. But it was a lie. He'd been used.
Boss didn't feel bad for the ghosts. He hated them. Hated their perfection, their lethality. He hated their mother, too. Perhaps most of all. So he had taken a broken man and, from the remains, built his own monster. He turned Johnson into an abomination, a twisted, vengeful simulacrum of the people he was built to kill. He was the distorted reflection of the perfect soldier. He was a response, a reaction, a big "fuck you" to people he didn't even know. He was done with it.
It was time to retire.
Johnson smiled. It had been years since he'd smiled. He almost laughed.
He dove forward and made it look good. Made it look close. But he knew, and the ghost knew. They'd both done the dance too many times before; it was easy now to spot a faker.
Johnson didn't care. His throat felt warm, his lips were wet, and then, he finally slept.
