The dust had settled on the Human-Covenant War, and Humanity had moved back into a sense of normalcy that had been stolen from them for nearly 30 years. People were able to go outside and enjoy the sun, to work and come home to families, to watch their children grow strong and tall under the banner of peace. They still worried, old habits dying hard, but the risk of going to work one day and suddenly their planet coming down around their heads as Covenant forces invaded was diminished.
They had all disappeared into the darkness, Prophets hunted down nearly to the last by enraged, dishonored Sangheilli. The Brutes had been relegated to their homeworld, Doisac, their space forces nearly annihilated save for the scattered packs that had escaped with their former Covenant vessels, becoming warlords that would be destroyed when found, either by UNSC or Sangheilli forces. Those left on their world had already fallen to civil war, the different leadership fighting for dominance, but a constant Sangheilli presence in orbit over Doisac meant that the Brutes weren't getting on or off the world without being seen and dealt with.
The rest of the former Covenant Empire had shattered, the different races either siding with the Humans and Sangheilli, or disappearing into the void like the Jackals and Drones had done. From time to time, Jackals could be seen in pirate raids at the helm of smaller corvettes and picket ships, but the Drones almost ceased to exist, as if they all were killed off at the end of the war.
But that was all far away now, reminiscent of days gone by, where those small conflicts at the edge of Human space were little more than events on news streams and social media posts. It was still at the edge of the population's mind, but nowhere near as important to the average person as it had been when Humans were dying by the millions.
Military draw downs were in effect, people leaving the services in droves, free to work and to grow in ways that didn't involve carrying a gun into the mouth of Hell, or being cut down by the platoon when aliens came howling out of dropships to end your life and the lives of everyone you've ever cared for. Shipbuilding was still in full swing, though. Sailors and engineers were more than happy to extend tours for education and training that was put into effect in mobile shipyards that had been consolidated in Sol. The battered Home Fleet was all that had been left, and with extinction still firmly in the rear view mirror, Admirals at HIGHCOM had been more than happy to green light massive spending bills in an attempt to revitalize a ruined economy and reinforce their navy might just in case a fight ever came knocking on their door step again.
Therapy clinics and hospitals were packed more often than not, even with the war over. Service personnel and civilians alike were in and out, missing limbs or their sanity alike. PTSD had never truly been figured out, and while advancements had been made in the past three decades, it was still the silent killer that had plagued soldiers since the term Shell Shock had been used during the first Great War. People were coming home to nothing, friends and family all killed in glassings or the meat grinder that attrition warfare against an unstoppable enemy had turned into. Marines walked into new homes on other worlds, sitting in empty rooms, struggling to find purpose in a life where they had no fight after being conditioned solely to do nothing but that. Plenty of those that left the service, voluntary or otherwise, went home and ate their service weapon.
Buildups of suicide rates and prescription of anti-depressants skyrocketed, causing a new crisis to deal with, tens of millions seeing nothing but ghosts in the darkness, of friend and foe alike. The world had been saved, but those that had saved it were thrust right back into another battle that was far harder to win: A battle against themselves.
It would be some time for things to stabilize and truly return to normalcy for the vast majority, and all that was going on for the time being was that bandaids were being put on sucking chest wounds and amputations.
But for some, they had found a measure of peace, eking out an existence that had never been accounted for. Scars littered their bodies and minds, but they had learned to smile, molding their own purpose out of the simplest things with calloused hands and weary hearts. A new adventure awaited those survivors with every new day, unrestricted by the military's constant orders and deployments, without the thought of being killed with every new foot step. For them, the storm had never fully passed, but they could see the first rays of sunlight through the gray skies, and they witnessed the warmth on their face, unobscured by golden visors and heavy armor.
Date: August 28, 2555
Location: New York City, United Republic of North America
The mid-morning sun hung in the sky, not a single cloud in sight. The contrails of several passenger liners could be seen in the distance, streaking through the deep, dark blue with nothing to get in the way of them. The Manhattan Space Elevator climbed into the heavens, disappearing as it reached the darkness, but several lights lined the entirety of its skeletal structure, ready to light a path into space when the sun had set once more. Starscrapers filled the sky line of the New York Metropolitan Expanse, encompassing the vast majority of the former state of New Jersey and spanning multiple areas further into the region.
It had become the most populous single location on Earth, reaching a population nearing 50 million, and had escaped the majority of the effects of the Covenant invasion several years prior, due to an advanced and increasingly dense defense network that had shot down more than one Cruiser that had gotten close. Railgun complexes and anti-ship missile silos sat ready to defend the city if anything attempted incursion again. Even now, almost three years after the invasion, one downed CCS-class battlecruiser sat submerged in the water two miles to the east of the former site of the Statue of Liberty, a hole punched clean through it in the rear quarter. It had become a reminder of the sheer will exhibited by Humanity with their backs against the last wall.
A section of the city had been renovated, cleared of the few buildings that had been hit by the early stages of long range plasma bombardment. They left a large area open, and something had went up quickly in its footprint, a building made of stark white marble that stood out against the towering starscrapers made of steel and titanium that stood around it. It had opened the year prior, dubbed the "Museum of Humanity", and quickly filled up with exhibits of technology gathered from the years of the war, or scale models of vehicles and events trapped in time by the talented hands of artisans and craftsmen pouring their hearts into work that would immortalize those that had given everything.
Another event was opening on this particular day, scheduled for noon, only an hour away. Plenty were excited to see it, but it would be reserved for a time, left to those that had served first, and opened to the public after. For most, it was just another exhibit, one of many that had appeared almost daily at the museum, but for some, it was something more.
A nondescript white car pulled to a stop in front of the museum, idling for a few moments as a card was scanned and money switched hands inside, before the back right door opened and a woman stepped out. A slight breeze blew through the buildings, catching the bottom of the sapphire blue sundress that coated a tanned, scarred body. Long, toned legs moved for the side walk, and hands covered in the faint, white surgical scars done a decade ago kept the sundress from lifting. Black hair covered by a small brimmed sun hat, nearly shoulder length, hung down to shoulders that were covered by thin straps holding the dress up. Strands of hair attempted to fly away, blowing in the wind slightly, but she paid it no mind. Emerald green eyes scanned the building, and despite years of muscle memory and actions almost ingrained as an instinct, they weren't searching for enemy combatants. Instead, they admired the building, simplistic in design but beautiful all the same, the pure white coloring seeming almost fitting in her mind. High cheek bones were colored by the faintest amount of make up, and thin lips wore a conservative pink lipstick. Years living among civilians and learning how to be one had led to at least a bit of importance being attributed to appearance.
The woman made her way up the stairs to the doors, pushing them open and stepping into the air conditioned climate, goose bumps prickling along arms that still showed muscle definition that would make a Marine proud. The front desk sat staffed with people, attending to the various families, pairs, or even single visitors that rotated through the building every day. A line was waiting, and she stepped to the end of it, more than fine with waiting. She had waited long enough, what was a little longer?
It was a minute or two before it was her turn to be attended to, and she pulled a purse from her shoulder, covered in faux-velvet colored in royal blue, pulling a payment card and an identification card from it before handing it across the counter with a smile at the man staffed there.
He looked to be just under thirty, and had a prosthetic arm that started just below his right elbow. A nametag on his chest read 'Randal'. Stress lines covered his face, but he looked happy. Greeting her with his own smile, he took the cards and looked them over. "Are you here for the new exhibit, Miss…" Glancing down, he peeked over the ID again. "...Bailey?"
A nod, and the ID was handed back, the flash of a silver oak leaf cluster being seen on the ID that revealed her to be a prior service member. Flashing the payment card, the man automatically attributed the military discount for that day, and returned it to her. Another smile, and the man recognized something in the woman, something that he couldn't quite place, but it brought him back to the fighting around Voi.
As she placed the cards back in her purse and moved into the facility proper, he had a momentary flash, of watching a woman just as big, and likely just as scarred up, dancing through the downpour that had come down during the last hours of the fight before the Portal opened, engaging Hunters in close combat before melting away and moving to support other forces. But then it was gone, snatched up by the next patron and attending to them took up his thoughts.
The woman kept moving through the crowd that was slowly filtering into the museum proper, following signs that pointed to the new event, but she took her time. She had plenty of it. Exhibits showed replicas and demilitarized versions of all manner of Covenant weapons, even a decommissioned Wraith sat quietly in the corner on a pedestal, all the familiar curves provoking a moment of thought from the woman. She hummed as it remained quiet, unable to fight against her with no crew and the plasma reactor removed.
Others showed UNSC vehicles, a Scorpion showing battle damage across the hull and the tread pods, the gun barrel coated in the carbon scoring that came from burning propellant ejected out of the barrel so many times. It could have been restored, made to look brand new, but the facility had rightfully decided to leave it as is. It was even close enough to touch, and she reached out to run her hand across the front right tread pod, feeling the gritty steel of the armor and the wear on it. From where she stood, she could make out a faint armadillo shape on the right slope of the hull, covered in the blackness of a glancing hit that had nearly burned it away.
Scale models of UNSC ships that had done much to alter the course of the war were on display in a large room filled with events and artistic depictions of those very same events. The UNSC Forward Unto Dawn sat in a spotlight, 1/200th of its normal size, and sculpted in immaculate detail, even down to the kill marks painted along the barrel of the MAC gun. Next to it, another model sat, depicting it as it had fallen on Earth at the end of the war, and it brought pain to the woman, who looked it over sadly before turning away.
She wasn't here for that either. Another room opened ahead of her, and from here, she could see a curtain hanging across another opening, reserved for military personnel only. She still had a half hour to wait, though. The next room was dedicated to the Fall of Reach, and her heartbeat went up as she entered and saw pictures of the world before it had been burned by Covenant glassing beams, before it had been turned into a dead world. Others showed a model of the city of New Alexandria, the Battle of Szurdok Ridge, one of the orbital defense grid's Super MAC platforms, and more things she had never seen personally.
Time got away from her as she looked over the planetary model that encompassed the planet in its prime, green eyes taking in every detail, and before she knew it, staff had come out from the other side of the curtain, one of them wearing different attire from the rest of the uniformed staff. He looked around, seeing several others had come into the room as well, one of them rolling around in a wheelchair, before he finally met the woman's eyes. Swallowing under the piercing gaze, he gave her a smile.
Clearing his throat, he called out to them. "Hello, thank you all for coming to the Museum of Humanity today. I'm the museum's curator. If any of you are military personnel, our new exhibit is now opening. There will be a presentation of some of the greater aspects of it, and then you'll be free to look over it for the next two hours, when it will be opened to the public."
The woman moved to the front, being the closest, but the others followed behind her, some muttering to each other, one of them looking excited, and satisfied that all of them were ready, he pulled the curtain aside to allow them in, before shutting it once all of them had entered, a staff member waiting outside.
All in all, only a dozen or so people had come as of yet, and more would likely trickle in before the public unveiling. They took in the sights of the room, seeing something that had been made mythical throughout the years, suits of armor standing tall, ready to defend Humanity when it called. For many of them, it wasn't the first time they had laid eyes on Mjolnir armor, the large suit standing in a thick plexiglass style case being the olive drab Mark VI armor setup that had been seen in the last days of the war. Its reactor was gone, and the undersuit was far from the advanced tech suit that was required, but the image was powerful nonetheless.
Pictures of Spartans from multiple images throughout the war's course were seen hosted along the walls, weapons alight with fire, or Marines in hand. Some could be seen with heavily damaged armor, plasma scoring and jagged edges showing what should have killed any other Human, but the Spartans in question were still moving, still fighting.
The Curator had a remote control in hand, subtly pressing a button and turning on one of the screens in the room, pressing play once it had activated. The sound of a weapon's bolt racking was loud and distinct, before a voice filled the room, the lights dimming slightly as those present gathered around.
"This is Sierra-B312, you've got a Spartan on the ground, sir. We'll break that gun in half."
Footage from a camera drone was playing on the screen, and on it could be seen a Spartan standing in blue armor, massive shoulder pauldrons protecting their head from the side. A golden visor could be seen, marred by dust that had covered it and the rest of the armor, a shotgun shell rack welded to the chest plate and a knife hanging threateningly from the waist, ready to be used. The Spartan moved for a nearby Warthog, climbing onto the gun and readying it.
The footage wobbled before cutting, segueing into another that had been taken from a Marine helmet cam, identifying information cut out from the bottom left corner. Heavy breathing and the sound of gunfire went up, causing more than one jaw in the room to clench as it came back to them like a sound from a nightmare. Rain was coming down in sheets, the pattering of the droplets on the helmet audible through the speakers, and several other Marines were running forward, towards the interior lighting of the Voi Industrial Complex's main facility. Screams and the sound of fuel rod guns pulsing could be heard over the downpour. Two Marines were already on either side of the door, firing into the interior with civilians in factory garb running out. One of them ordered covering fire, and as the Marine with the helmet cam followed the order, they caught sight of something few had seen.
The same Spartan from before was engaging Hunters in hand to hand combat, a shotgun flipping through the air before it was broken in half, hitting the Hunter hard enough that the ripping sound of the stock snapping sounded like a thunderclap. Immediately, the Spartan grabbed at a worker on the ground, sprinting out of combat. Marines covering were attacked, one nearly being smashed to death before the Spartan had stopped the Hunter's fuel rod gun. The footage cut again, not showing the Spartan being knocked away after.
Another shot, this one a still image that showed two Spartans together. One was the same, clad in blue armor, and the other was clad in olive drab, looking far sleeker and standardized than the heavy modifications done to the blue set. The two were coming off of a Pelican on the inside of a UNSC frigate. The blue armor had been damaged, the chest plate cracked and looking as if it had been hit by a truck, but still functional. Yet another piece showing how powerful the super soldiers were.
Several more images went through, showing other olive drab armored Spartans working together, others revealing a multicolored array with different armor sets that were shown dancing through Covenant squads with impunity, the embodiment of lethality.
Finally, footage from the Spartan Monument that had been unveiled the year before in Sydney, Australia, at the UNSC HIGHCOM complex was shown. Admiral Hood had given a speech, dedicated to the Spartans and asking forgiveness for all that had been done to them. It had never been announced by any of the Spartans if it was given. They had been given a designation and number to memorialize them, and only the dead had been truly named as the protocol of Spartans being listed MIA was done away with for those killed during the war. The Office of Naval Intelligence had been superseded in this area as a new class of Spartans came online, declassifications being given to the older generations bit by bit. Nobody knew where these living Spartans were, or if they were still serving or not. At the end of the dedication, it was revealed that some had gone on to live normal lives, and would not be named until their deaths, in order to give them a semblance of the lives that had been taken when they were inducted into the military.
None of the Spartans had attended the ceremony, at least not in armor. There was at least one there, though, but they had been in the audience, out of uniform and away from the uniformed personnel that had been attending.
With the end of the clip, the screen faded to black, and the Curator gave a few moments of silence before speaking, reading from a memorized speech that had been prepared in advance. "The Spartan programs were morally and ethically wrong in all manner of ways, but they were the bulwark against which the tide of Covenant soldiers broke again and again. Information provided by the Swords of Sangheillios, the primary diplomatic and defensive instrument operated by our Sangheilli allies, points out that these Humans were given titles. They were known as Demons, and feared by many of the Covenant's warriors. This new exhibit is dedicated to them, in order to memorialize their sacrifices after recent declassifications by the Office of Naval Intelligence."
Turning back to a large structure covered by a fabric cloth, he gestured to it. "Spartans were known only as Spartans by all that saw them, but there were multiple generations, Spartan IIs clad in standardized armor sets, the first to truly be named such, were originally intended to fight against rebellions in Human space before the Great War."
Pulling the curtain back on the left side of the structure, one Spartan was seen, clad in heavy Mjolnir Mark VI, flaking white paint on the left breast plate reading 117 in bold military stencil. The gold visor was perfectly mirrored, looking out over the crowd from a kneeling stance with a pair of SMGs in hand and the stock of an MA5C sticking out over their shoulder. "Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy Spartan 117 is one of those known by almost all of Humanity, seen on dozens of battlefields throughout the entirety of the war. His name has not been declassified by the Office of Naval Intelligence, leading some to assume he remains active in the military, but none have reported seeing him at any point. Regardless, he is the only soldier in the UNSC to earn every single medal except for the prisoner of war medal."
The rest of the fabric was pulled aside, revealing half a dozen more cloths covering individual statues. Five of them stood on a platform at floor height, but one stood behind the rest, on another platform that was raised three feet above the others. "These next Spartans played a role just as pivotal as the Master Chief. They served during the Fall of Reach, dying nearly to the last as they sacrificed themselves to buy even one more day, fighting against insurmountable odds. These are the Spartan IIIs of Noble Team, taken from worlds that had been glassed as children and given the opportunity to fight the Covenant. Many more Spartan IIIs were made, but they were..." He trailed off, seeming disheartened. "They were suicide soldiers, dedicated to trading their lives for time with equipment cheaper and easier to make than those of the IIs. But some, for a number of reasons, were armed and armored just as their predecessors. Our only known team of Spartan IIIs in this sense is Noble."
The woman in the front of the group pursed her lips, crossing her arms, the motion going unnoticed by the rest, save for one, the man in the wheelchair.
The Curator went on, pulling the first down from the left side, revealing a Spartan that, while possibly exaggerated, was a mountain compared even to the Master Chief. A large machine gun hung in a hand that led to an arm the size of a tree trunk, an orange visor and an extra bit of armor on the helmet scanning the room wordlessly. A slot at his feet was waiting, empty, and another staffer came in with several slabs of metal in hand. The first slab was given to the Curator, who read off the name on it, and an epitaph that had been given. The Curator read the words for those in attendance.
"Chief Warrant Officer Jorge-052, a Spartan II attached to Noble. Adorned with battle scars of wars past, his armor told the story of a true Spartan. A testament to the conflicts waged over decades, he inspired Noble in their darkest hour. With his hardened voice ringing louder with each Covenant salvo on his homeworld of Reach, the destiny of Noble Team was realized, and the survival of Humanity secured. In recognition of this, his endless courage, we honor him as the fighting spirit of Noble." Slotting the first plaque into place, it was a perfect fit that would be altered later to make it more permanent, and a voice accompanied it's final resting place. Tell 'em to make it count. Only one person heard it.
A hand clutched at a chain in a grip stronger than most, the woman at the front holding a set of three dog tags in her hand wordlessly, her eyes starting to burn as a knot formed in her throat.
The next tarp came off, revealing a blue armored Spartan with a silver visor and a prosthetic arm. The Spartan had the curves of a woman, but even the visor looked like it had an air of mischief behind it, just like the woman that had worn it in life. Every detail was faithful, taken from helmet recordings when a set of Mark V armor had been exchanged for Mark VI.
"Lieutenant Commander Catherine-B320, the second in command of Noble. Strong both in mind and spirit, key to the success on Reach. Her cryptanalytic genius cleared Noble's path. A true Spartan, armed with an intellect more dangerous than any weapon. She deciphered the unknown to change the course of an entire war. In recognition of this, her unparalleled brilliance, we honor her as the true genius of Noble." The next plaque was slotted in its spot, and the burning in the woman's eyes grew, looking over the blue Spartan as if seeing a ghost inside the armor. The Slavic voice rang loudly in her mind, for once not toying with the woman's thoughts. What's the matter, Morgan? Need something?
Another tarp fell to the ground, and revealed another blue armored Spartan, a DMR hanging down by his side with their free hand up, two fingers extended as they glanced over their shoulder to the right, ordering Noble on to the next objective even in death. "Commander Carter-A259, the leader of Noble team. If not for his leadership on Reach, all would have been lost. An everlasting testament to fortitude, defiant in the face of adversity, born of unbreakable will, it was he who led Noble in its finest hour. Courageously he guided them to victory, no matter how high the cost. In recognition of this, his steadfast resolution, we honor him as the commander of Noble."
A tear slipped loose, trailing down the woman's face as she suffered the memories in silence, her makeup distorting slightly as the tear broke it down and ruined it. The next plaque settled into place with a heavy thunk, and the words that followed were heavy on her thoughts. It's good to have you back, make him proud.
The fourth figure was revealed next, showing the eerie image of a dark armored Spartan, helmet showing a hand carved skull that was grinning at the spectators. A massive, curved blade hung from equally massive pauldrons, and one of the Spartan's hands rested on its hilt, ready to draw at a moment's notice. "Warrant Officer Emile-A239, Noble's demolitions expert and breacher. Striking fear into all he encountered while wielding the wrath of a crumbling planet, equally vicious and strong, his blade sharpened by battle, he fearlessly cut through enemy forces, instilling hope in an entire race. Marked by the skull scratched into his helmet, he was the last his enemies ever saw of this world. In recognition of this, his warrior's spirit, we honor him as the merciless wrath of Noble."
Another voice filled the woman's mind as she saw that grinning skull, the plaque slotting into place like a final representation of Emile's life. I'm ready! How 'bout you!? The last words uttered by the Spartan brought more tears to the fray, and her face crumpled as she fought to keep from making a sound. The Curator glanced at her, but said nothing, not wanting to intrude on what was obviously personal to her in some way or another. Plenty had been saved by Spartans. She must have met Noble personally at some point, been saved by them, something.
Still, he went on, and the next figure was revealed, a green armored Spartan hefting a sniper rifle, crouched down and ready to take the hat off a Covenant trooper at two thousand yards. "Warrant Officer Spartan-A266, Noble's scout and sniper. Blessed with the talent of a steady hand, he stood guard over the path ahead. Patiently combing the surface of Reach, marking the location of each target, holding his breath before taking that of his enemies, his rifle echoed with the loud crack of defiance. Hidden in the shadows, his was the first shot in our fight for survival. In recognition of this, his tireless diligence, we honor him as the vigilant eye of Noble. Spartan-A266 continues to serve today, although the mission and location are classified."
Her throat tightened further, but knowing that Jun was still alive somewhere meant that she could take some solace in knowing that he had avoided meeting the same fate as the rest of Noble. More tears fell from her eyes, taking the sorrow and loss that had filled her heart ever since Noble had fallen one by one on the planet of Reach. Years of therapy and living among new friends had helped her to come to terms with it all, but this was the final bookend that gave closure to Morgan Bailey, formerly Morgan-B312.
The final statue was uncovered, revealing the Spartan that they had seen in the footage shown first. The same blue armored Spartan that had been present at the end of it all stood ready, aloof among her peers with a shotgun in hand, gold visor confident. Every detail was picture perfect, even down to wearing the old Mark V helmet that had been used during the Fall. She stood over the rest of Noble, looking out at those who were listening rather than down at her team, ready to watch over them, whether they were Spartan or not. Taking the last plaque, the Curator read it off. "Commander Spartan-B312, the other surviving member of Noble. As sharp as a knife in mind, and as brutal as any club in body, with finesse to rival a figure skater, she continued to push Noble when even their luck had run out. With an endless drive and a spirit that burned brighter than any fire ignited on a falling world, she was Humanity's guiding light even to the end. In honor of this, her unending journey, we honor her as the eternal flame of Noble. She was present during the final hours of the war, and personally led the charge alongside the Master Chief in bringing down the last remnants of the Covenant's leadership. Information regarding her otherwise remains classified, and heavily confidential. It is unknown if she still serves or not, as well as what her current mission may be."
Her own plaque slid into place at her feet, bringing to a close the story of Noble team. They were all there again, all together, looking as powerful and as real as the last time she had saw any of them alive. It hurt to look upon them, to see just what she had lost now that nothing was around to distract her. It was almost like losing them all over again.
But, in the end, it was better for her. As the last tears fell from her eyes and she forced her throat to open up once more, she took a breath of fresh air. It was the first one where their ghosts were at peace in her mind. The war had been won, partially because of their sacrifices. They wouldn't be forgotten. Not now, not ever. One day, she would join them, but that day was not today, or any time soon if she had any say in it. She finally felt like she had reached that same peace. The dream that she had had, when the Chieftain had nearly killed her on the Ark, came back to her, and she thought for a moment about it, about what it would be like to see them again.
It left her as quick as it had come on, and she swallowed, her throat slowly clearing as the tears stopped. The pain, the exhaustion, the weight on her soul, it all faded away, like water washing away the dirt and blood that had been the stain they left behind.
With the final words said, the Curator took a breath. "This concludes our very own Spartan Memorial, focusing on the exploits of the Master Chief and Noble Team, as well as their contributions to Humanity even at the cost of their lives. Feel free to continue looking around as long as you'd like. Thank you for coming, and I hope you've all enjoyed it. If you have any questions, staff will be on hand to answer them."
His job done, the Curator stepped away from them, returning to other duties as the crowd started to look around more freely. They all moved around, looking at the different pictures and models, the videos and texts on the Spartans in question. One of them remained at the monument, looking over the statues, committing every single detail to memory, and etching their faces into her mind. She would never forget them, never let time and age take their appearances from her, their final words, nothing.
The crowd filed out piece by piece, some coming, others going, but even an hour later she was still there, stock still. Another had remained, the man in the wheel chair, and he rolled up next to her. Without looking up, he kept his eyes on the statues, his voice coming out. "How are you feeling?"
She looked down at the man, seeing his features. A brown widows peak, grown out from the last time she had seen him, was still within regulations, but it wasn't shaved down. His legs ended just above the knee, and he looked up at her, the same tired features from before on his face. Captain Adam Greer, her former handler. She had lost him after he had deployed on the Ark with his team, and her last report on him had been a MASSCAS, an almost complete loss of his team through woundings or death.
"Captain, it's been a while," she started.
"It's actually Rear Admiral, now, Morgan."
She snorted, wiping away some of the streaks on her face, but just smudging the thin layer of makeup, a hint of a smile showing through. "Great, your head will get even bigger with a star on your collar."
The ONI agent chuckled at that, shaking his head. "They don't allow that in the black, you know that. New CINCONI keeps us all in line as well as Parangosky ever did." His voice was low, but she could hear the humor in it.
"I shouldn't be surprised. Not even an admiral gets a longer leash, huh?"
"Unfortunately, no."
She hummed, nodding slightly. They sat in silence for a bit, before he asked another question. "How has life been treating you since you got out?"
Her smile flickered, growing a little bit. "It's been… good."
"Good how?"
"I've learned how to be more than just a tool, I've learned how to create instead of destroy. I've made… friends." She held her hands out in front of her, as if inspecting them. Years of heavy use had made them worn and tough, far from the softness that one would expect from a woman like her at first glance. "I've got a nice little house, far from any big cities. It was empty when I got it and now I've filled it with things I like, things that make me feel good. I have a garden I tend to each day. It helps me… get my thoughts together, and I think I've gotten pretty good at it."
Greer looked up, amusement and even a bit of approval showing through. "Gardening is a nice hobby, I'm glad to hear you've found at least one that you enjoy. What about your friends?"
A shrug, her hands dropping down to her waist and clasping onto each other. "They're nice, they accepted me pretty quickly. It was hard to talk to them for a while, but they kept bringing me gifts from time to time, and they didn't mind that I stayed shut up in my house a lot. They would wave and say hello when they saw me, and it was hard to say it back. It was all too new."
Greer listened attentively, noticing they were alone for the time being as she went on. "I didn't sleep well in my bed, I kept all the lights on in case something happened, I slept with a magnum on my night stand. But after I started searching for things to do and got my garden started, they would give me advice on how best to do it, on what was in season, and even helped me find the best tools for it. Eventually, they helped me learn how to be more comfortable in my own home, helped me unwind."
Her smile had grown during her story, and Greer's grew with it. They hadn't been close, per se, and neither had seen each other since the end of the war. He hadn't been at the awards ceremony, having lost his legs during that last mission, and was kept in a hospital facility not far from where her own recovery had happened. "It sounds like you've done well for yourself then, Commander. Plenty of people have trouble coming back from war, especially one like this." His tone sombered a bit, but he quickly went on. "If you can do it, find something to keep you going, then we all should be able to, don't you think?"
Glancing down at him out of the corner of her eye, she nodded, albeit barely. "I like to think so, but not everyone is so lucky. I wish they could have seen it," she responded, eyes going back to the statues in front of them.
"I wish they could have too. If anyone deserves it, I think they would." His eyes passed over the statue of the Master Chief, wondering where the Spartan was now, if he was alive or dead, but he wouldn't bring that up now.
A distant chiming recorded the opening of the exhibit, a voice over the intercomm announcing it to the museum. People were already starting to come in, and Morgan looked back down to Greer. "I think it's time I get going, Admiral."
Greer nodded, grunting as he adjusted his seat in the wheelchair. "I think it's time for me to go too. I'm glad we got to see each other again."
Morgan held her hand out, and Greer took it, his hand smaller than hers, much to his internal amusement. "Thank you for the invitation. I look forward to our next meeting, whenever it is."
He chuckled. "Hopefully it'll be soon, in a more relaxed setting. Take care of yourself, Morgan."
"You should do the same, Adam. Be safe, they might give you another star if you lose any more limbs."
Greer laughed, one that came from deep within, and brought a few eyes over to them. When he finally calmed down, he saw that Morgan was giving him a smirk, one that almost seemed… mischievous. It only made his own smile grow. "God help me if they do." Bringing a card from his pocket, he held it out to her. On it, there were a few details for him, including a personalized messaging address. "If you ever need anything..."
Trailing off, Morgan got the message, nodding and sliding it into her purse after making sure she had memorized the address just in case. "I'll know who to call." Waving to the man, she turned and left, Greer watching her go before he turned back to the statues. She hadn't come for anything but this, and he was happy that he had been able to track her down. She deserved the closure it had given her.
The woman in the blue sundress felt the smile on her face sticking, for once not immediately dropping to a more neutral expression or a frown. Her heart was lighter, and she felt like she had been reborn after today. Pulling her phone from her purse as she walked, she scheduled for another pickup to return her to the tram station. A bullet train would take her home.
Sliding it back into her purse, she took a deep breath, stepping back out into the afternoon sun. It warmed her face, contrasting with the air conditioning inside. Her ride would arrive in a few minutes, leaving her to her thoughts. People walked by on the sidewalk, chattering into electronics, talking with friends, some going into the museum or coming out, and for once, she was taking it all in at her own pace.
When her ride finally arrived, she got in the back seat once more, giving her destination before leaning against the door and peering out the window. Finally, she had gotten her peace, and she would make the most of it.
With the car accelerating out of its parking space, Morgan-B312 was put back into a box in the back of her mind, locked away until she was needed again, and Morgan Bailey looked forward to returning home, to her garden and to her friends, to a place that she had created for herself.
Her mission had finished, replaced by a life worth living.
Epilogue's all done! I hope you all enjoyed it. This concludes The Flame of Nobility and its predecessor. Plenty of you are asking about sequels, about whether or not Morgan will take to the battlefield again, find the Chief one way or another, and to be honest, I don't really know just yet. But that doesn't rule it out at all. As of right now, don't expect anything new any time soon aside from whatever pops into my head as an idea for a self contained single chapter story, or a collection of which. So long as there's nothing explicitly stated for a sequel to this, don't expect it, but who knows what'll happen down the line. Again, thanks for joining me, and for all the kinds words you've all given me. It means a lot to me, and I'm overjoyed that it's been a story you've fallen in love with.
Until next time, take care, and see you again.