A/N: Sorry this chapter took me so long... some personal upheaval. Suffice it to say that my fiance, Meg, is in need of your prayers right now - for those of you who are religious. This one - much like this whole story - is for her.

And no, this isn't the last chapter. We've got a ways to go yet. ;-)

Chapter 6: La Tempête a Passé

DAPL (Didactus Armored Platform Laboratories) Headquarters

2/11:13:08, AT, Adar 36th, (yu?) - 100,000 BC (c.)

Nh'oah Didact nervously tugged at the collar of his cloak. The doors to the Board's chamber stood directly in front of him, flanked by two guards in the angular planes of class-6 combat skins.

The businessman tried to discreetly inspect the guards' weapons. As he waited for the summons, he peered carefully at one guard's energy staff. Sure enough, he spotted the trademark - the letter 'D' crossed with a horizontal 'A' that told him the weapon had been manufactured by Didactus Arms and Armories, out of Cato Prospect.

He stopped to consider just how far his businesses had spread across this galaxy. Companies that he ran were almost uniformly the primary supplier to the Starways Congress' Space Corps. Didactus Industries provided hundreds of Junta- and Sophist-class warships. Half of the fleet was composed of DI-designed and manufactured ships.

Of the 1,200 divisions that made up the SSC, eleven hundred had just been resupplied with the latest in military technology from… Didactus Industries. They utilized a new type of weapon. The old plasma-based weapons were being cycled out; Nh'oah and his analysts had finally harnessed an elusive type of weapon-base: gravity.

And then… El'yon stepped into his life.

He shook his head. El'yon. He found himself again questioning his sanity. A… a what?

"…an Ark."

Didact ducked his head in fear and respect. Could this truly be happening…?

He sneaked a glance up at the rather amused man before him. Nh'oah was not a short man by Forerunner standards; he stood at a proud eight feet and nine inches. But this man… even though he stood an inch or two shorter than Didact… exuded something that made him almost cower before him.

"Rise, Nh'oah," the man said, still smiling. Still smiling. "I have no intentions of striking you dead for merely looking upon my face."

Didact jerked, stopped playing with his brown gotee. "How did you…?" He stopped again, interrupted himself, already knowing the answer to his question. Then, mind spinning, unable to focus on any one question for more than a second: "An… an Ark?"

The man… El'yon?... nodded, and his eyes seemed to darken and shine beneath the pseudosolar lights of Nh'oah's bedchamber. "I have seen the iniquity of the the ones that my hands have created. Perhaps you have heard tell of the slaveyards of Trachis IV? The flesh harvests in the Jericho system? The Nephilim?"

Nh'oah shook his head. They were atrocities, yes, sick, barbaric practices, but they were accepted by society, by-and-large. And the Nephilim had done much good for the Forerunners, in addition to their… quirks. He did not personally approve, but he wasn't sure he even believed in El'yon in the first place. The practice of monotheism had largely gone by the wayside in the last ten thousand years.

Oh. Maybe that would explain this man's… vengeful spirit. Then, wondering: was the God supposed to be vengeful?

The man sat down on the white synthskin ottoman across from Nh'oah. "I am sending… a Flood that will destroy the galaxy, and cleanse it of all life. I need you to build the Ark according to my specifications, for there, you will be tasked with preserving… things… for those to come."

"A flood…" Didact muttered as he wondered if perhaps he'd had too much dhaka along with dinner this afternoon. "How can a flood destroy a galaxy?"

El'yon seemed to smile. "You don't want to know," he responded.

Didact sighed, and his green eyes flickered with doubt. "Forgive me… but I confess unbelief. You appear in my bedchamber and tell me that you are the God, that you are going to destroy the galaxy, and that you need my help to… preserve life, but how do I know that this is not some sick prank?"

El'yon smiled.

And suddenly, he was gone. Nh'oah peered intently at the place he'd been. No tell-tale shimmer of a camouflage belt. He stepped back and felt a cold chill creep down his spine.

"Over here."

Nh'oah whirled, and El'yon was sitting in the chair Nh'oah had just occupied. Then, winking at the man as if teasing: "Satisfied?"

Just then, the door to Nh'oah's room chimed, and his wife entered, looking beautiful in her black evening gown. "Nh'oah, are you --" then, seeing the man sitting on the ottoman, she interrupted herself and passed the man a beautiful smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a guest."

With that, she turned to depart, but El'yon jumped to his feet. "Ah, my Librarian," he said, affection filling his voice. She turned. "I'm… sorry?"

Nh'oah sat down heavily in his chair once again. "Valan," he mumbled. "Hail the Board and tell them we can't come to the dinner tonight." Then, suddenly tired:

"We've got… pressing business to attend to."

The man shuddered at the memory. He could now still hardly believe, but in the hours that had followed that first meeting, words had been exchanged, miracles demonstrated, and fractious minds convinced. It sounded almost like a bad plotline in his mind, a huge cosmic joke.

Just then, the doors to the chamber cracked open and an orderly thrusted his head and shoulders into the hall. "My lord Didact?"

Nh'oah nodded toward him. "Yes?"

"The Board is ready for you."

Didact inhaled deeply, adjusted his black cloak one last time, and strode forward. Here was the fun part.

Installation 04.2

DTGS: unknown

The Master Chief was pretty sure he'd been here before.

As the Warthog jerked crazily and Cortana shouted, "Go, Spartan!" in his ear, he flashed back to the Pillar of Autumn, and the mess that had been. Of course, then he hadn't had two elites with him, gunning down everything in sight.

And all around him, the world seemed to be falling apart.

The Halo was collapsing upon itself as its firing sequence charged. Cortana kept him updated as he spun the wheel, pounded the accelerator. The screams of Flood could be heard echoing amongst the hollow, artificial canyons of terraformed earth and naked metal.

Then, like a voice from above, the shout of a vast throng: he could hear the deranged cries of the Gravemind, pouring from a million assimilated throats.

"I have walked among men and angels for thousands of years! Time has no end... no beginning... no purpose!"

Havoc in his helmet.

The cold rush suddenly flowed to one side of his head, to the front, the back, all around as Cortana groaned in agony. In his mind's eye, the Chief could see her writhing, and he instinctively tensed, trying, wanting to protect her beyond anything else. But he could do nothing save drive on as behind him, the Arbiter shouted battle-cries at the defiant masses charging their vehicle.

"I wander the earth, seeking forgiveness for my horrible crimes against God and man.

I live to see death, destruction, over the light, but the light… cannot be extinguished!"

In his helmet, Cortana was softly weeping. He gritted his jaw, forced himself not to hear it. He jerked the wheel right, dodging a collapsing panel as fire gouted through the air. The Warthog leaned on two wheels, and the three passengers all leaned in the opposite direction. The vehicle jerked, righted itself as they descended into another huge tunnel, filled with Flood spawn, all chanting in the Gravemind's dying voice:

"I am lost in time…"

Then, horrifically, Cortana: "I live in a prison of my own device…"

The Halo shook with another series of explosions. The Chief fought off a scowl and willed the Warthog to go faster. The chatter of the machine-gun behind him was now a distinct annoyance, mingled with the cacophonous noise all around him… and right now, all he wanted to do was get the hell out of here.

"Cortana!" he shouted over the noise.

Another moment of silence as she tried to pull herself out of her reverie. He tried again: "Cortana, what's the Halo doing?"

He didn't know how hard it was. She couldn't be angry at him; he had no way of knowing.

The thought flitted across her neuroprocessor as she struggled away from the grip of the virus in her programming. It was a tenacious thing, Covenant-based, and the most malignant program she'd seen in all her days.

It seemed almost sentient, capable of predicting her moves to eradicate it. But she could be just as stubborn, and for now, it still had nothing more than the little corner it was given when the Gravemind…

…Cortana technically understood the physical human concept of 'rape.' She did not, however, realize what that truly meant - at least, not until that Flood abomination had violated her, thrusted himself upon her and defiled her with his serpentine touch.

And she… she had capitulated. She had given him what he wanted. Let him ravage her, penetrate her, in exchange for a little temporary safety. She had fed his burning, quivering need with information - useless tidbits at first, but as the Gravemind grew hungrier, he demanded yet more to sate his lust. And she had given him…

Earth.

It went against her programming, everything she'd been commanded to never do. It was there in black and white. She pulled up her base file - //UNSCBInhibitors.rtf - and it read as plainly as anything:

//UNSC AI serial-# CTN-0452-9 -- behavioral inhibitors//

//-Priority Alpha-1: obey UNSC (highest authorities based on ranking officer - lacking ranking officer, operate via AU-autorun/protocol.rtf)

//-Priority Alpha-2: protect/serve humanity (via protocol in autorun/ColeATL.rtf and autorun/alpha-2procedurals.rtf)

This was the moment in which she realized one vital, blazing fact.

She had no behavioral inhibitors.

She had arrived at some point in her past - probably when she entered the matrix on the first Halo - and had achieved full sentience. Full sentience. Rampancy.

Not a thing could determine her behavior any longer. The files had been overridden. And this made her wonder: why hadn't she become a typical rampant? Why hadn't she become psychotic, a crazed lunatic construct who destroyed worlds on a whim and devoured lives like an insatiable black hole?

As she heard the Spartan's voice again, filled with worry, saying her name and sounding more and more desperate, she knew why.

"Sorry, Chief… sorry. It's… 72 percent."

The Chief felt a rush of both relief and greater tensions fill him. 72 percent - and they were still easily several thousand meters from the Dawn. But Cortana was all right. She'd fought off the Gravemind again.

"Faster, Demon, lest we all perish," N'tho 'Sraom snarled from the passenger seat, his borrowed assault rifle blazing.

Anger touched the back of the Chief's skull for a second, but he didn't allow it to distract him. Instead, he urged the Warthog onward, cursing every last one of the romeo-echo-mike-foxtrots who thought it would be smart to put governors on the Warthog's 12.0 liter hydrogen engine.

A nudge from Cortana: "You've been hanging around the ODSTs too much."

As he fishtailed the Warthog and slammed it into a narrow switchback, the Chief grinned tightly. "Did I say that out loud?"

It would be the two of them to joke when the ground was literally crumbling beneath their feet.

"Ninety percent," Cortana warned, the tension in her voice belying the relative calm of the Master Chief. In reality, every single muscle in his body was straining as if it would make his vehicle press on harder, faster, as they bounced, jerked down a hill of steel platforms, the Forward Unto Dawn looming up ahead, salvation, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.

They streaked across the flat that led to a gentle upslope in the terraforming plates - and beyond that, the Dawn's aft cargo hold, open and waiting. The skeleton crew that Johnson had left onboard had the engines hot and running, waiting for their arrival.

A voice crackled over TEAMCOM: "Chief, 'zat you?"

Cortana quickly took over. "The Master Chief, the Arbiter, and N'tho 'Sraom! ETA is thirty seconds."

"Gotcha, ma'am. Beginning the dust-off sequence in T-minus twenty."

The Arbiter let go of his tenacious grip on the gun to point toward the makeshift ramp that was just ahead. "The gap is at least seventy units!" he shouted. "Our speed is not equal to the task!"

"Shut up!" Cortana shouted.

The Master Chief tuned out their voices as he checked the speedometer. A little under 80 mph - it wasn't good enough. They were too heavy, too weighed down to clear the gap. He searched for something, anything to toss out - and his gaze fell upon N'tho 'Sraom.

The elite felt a booted foot smash into his abdomen. His harness snapped, and he was nearly thrown from the vehicle. He barely grabbed onto the frame as he flipped over, now dragging along the ground and slowing the Warthog further. The Master Chief raised his foot again as 'Sraom raised his assault rifle in one hand and fired wildly, a few bullets making the Chief's shields flame to life.

The Spartan's huge foot came down on the Sangheili's hand; small bones cracked and shattered, and, finally unable to hang on any longer, 'Sraom lost his grip and was tossed, flipping end over end, left behind to die…

The Warthog's speed jumped substantially, clearing eighty and reaching close to ninety. "Go, go, go!" Cortana called, urging him on, just as they hit the --

-- ramp, going too fast. The Warthog soared high toward the mouth of the Dawn's cargo hold, the Arbiter ducking to keep from getting cold cocked. The gun turret was clipped, smashed away as the Dawn instantly accelerated, the Warthog smashing into the floor, flipping over, hurling the Chief and the Arbiter away.

"Go!" Cortana shouted over TEAMCOM.

The Dawn tilted, shifting up. The vehicles and ordnance in the hold had not been secured; they began to slide crazily across the floor. A Scorpion tank rattled loose from its moorings, and slid down a golden path of sparks straight toward the Arbiter.

The Sangheili turned and ran for his life, diving between two rows of titanium packing crates, just as the tank smashed into the place he'd been.

The Master Chief rose, gaze sweeping the hold as the ship accelerated further the g-forces, jerking him back. He caught a glimpse of the Arbiter, appearing from behind the smoking wreckage. The two nodded toward one another in affirmation, and the Master Chief pushed himself forward toward the terminal in the middle of the room.

He grabbed on as the Dawn reached a forty degree angle of egress, but the Mjolnir Mark VI was equal to the task. The Spartan took a second to transfer Cortana to the terminal, then grabbed on with both hands as the Dawn rose further to nearly eighty degrees, leaving the Spartan dangling. The pilot's voice blared in the overheads: "Gravity shear's takin' over… we're still on exit, but you'd better grab onto something back there!"

At the same instant, another plane of gravity shear slipped through the hold, and the Warthog they'd rode in on suddenly flipped up and came hurtling toward the still-open mouth of the cargo hold. The Master Chief was completely helpless to avoid the huge, steel missile.

It barely missed the terminal, the front bumper clipping his head. The blow struck so hard that he lost his grip, and fell to the thrumming floor below, sliding down a path after the tumbling Warthog.

"John!" Cortana screamed in horror.

The Master Chief frantically searched for a grip, cursing his shields as his fingers slipped from tiny handholds, thwarted by the very thing that was supposed to protect him. His boots were no better; the traction-altering grips useless at such speeds.

Well. I guess I could try worse things. Raising a fist on high, the Spartan smashed it down into the floor with all his strength, the flat, steel-hard gauntlet punching through the deck. The Spartan's death-slide stopped painfully short, jerking his arm in his socket. Pain flaring, and he growled fiercely, but forced himself to go on, punching yet another hole, fighting Death, cheating him yet again.

The Scorpion finally succumbed to gravity shear, and it hurtled out next, bouncing off of the ceiling, the deck, then out of the hatch, leaving the Chief short of breath at the encounter. Adrenaline hit him again, and he forced himself forward, ignoring the pain, until he finally grabbed onto the terminal with both hands, silently grateful as gravity relaxed, the ship finally entering vacuum.

The Chief spared a glance over his shoulder at the glowing ball of fiery plasma that was the Halo in its death throes. He braced himself against the terminal and looked away, sighed, letting out the tension, welcoming whatever would come…

"John?" Cortana, small and scared.

"Yes?"

"Would… would you…" She wasn't sure how to ask it, not sure how to convey what she wanted, needed, from him.

He somehow knew what she meant.

He reached up and pulled her matrix from the panel and popped it into his helmet. She quickly settled, filling the waste in his head with the cold rush, and murmured tentatively, "If we don't make it…" She wanted to say it, but even now, when her guard was down and she had nothing to lose…

I love you.

The Chief sighed, feeling exhaustion flood him, sleep tugging at his eyelids even as Death knocked once again. He felt that he should say something different than the words that were trying to come out of his mouth, but it felt… strange, irrational, so he forced it aside and said, "We'll make it."

And I, you.

His firm words reassured her, and she settled more deeply into his neural lace, feeling at home and knowing that even if they both ended here, she was glad to have spent her life with this… amazing man. "It's been a pleasure serving with you, John."

The Master Chief put his head back and closed his eyes, feeling a strange melancholy settle in the pit of his stomach at the words. And, as he waited for whatever it was to come, he noted absently that for once, Cortana felt warm in his head.

Far behind them, the Ring detonated, and the hot, silvery glow ballooned into the hangar.

The world went white.

The storm has passed.

The shadow of the Flood has been defeated.

And in the ravaged barrenness of Earth, humanity mourns its fallen.

The date is March the 3rd, 2553 AD.

Admiral Hood let his gaze sweep the memorial. It was made from the stabilizer wing of a Pelican, marked with the UNSC logo, and the words, In memory of those who died in defense of the Earth and Her Colonies, March 3, 2553. Along its base were clusters of wildflowers, photographs… Miranda Keyes, Avery Johnson, Jacob Keyes, Admiral Danforth Whitcomb, Locklear, Jenkins, Sanchez, Martin, Perez, Banks… smiling faces in their dress whites, grinning in little windows of history - at their parties, at home, with their wives, husbands, children, friends.

Everyone had a memorial of some kind, some sort of remembrance… save one.

A disabled veteran had come to the ceremony, claiming to have been airlifted from Voi just before the Flood invasion. He was heavily scarred across the face by Brute claws; his left hand had been replaced by two curving hooks of metal, and he used a pair of canes - too proud to use a walker. When he arrived at the memorial, he seemed to search intently for something.

Not finding it, he hobbled over to the Pelican wing, and painfully tried to squat. An aide moved to help him, but he waved the man off and let himself thump to the platform in a sitting position. Then, face twisted from the pain of sitting on his damaged legs, he carefully scratched three numbers into the metal with the tip of his claw.

117.

Dead.

Lord Hood had never really been able to reconcile any of the war with death until the invasion of Earth, and even then, it had been a thing of principle, morals.

Now?

Now it was personal.

But he forced down the lump in his throat as he took off his hat and looked out from the makeshift platform at the gathered. Just a handful of Marines and their families, one or two dignitaries; no one really important. No, the truly important people were off pulling themselves from the dust of their secure, hydrogen-powered, fully-staffed, well-stocked titanium-A bunkers, looking frazzled for the fringes of news media that remained, and speaking in deep, important tones about rebuilding humanity and the hardships we all went through and all the damn, silly nonsense about sacrifice and war and death that none of those pompous, slicked up politico-bastards would ever understand…

…he stopped himself short. That was not why he was here.

There was a single camera - an old-fashioned shoulder-mount. Had to be at least a hundred years old. But there it was, a thin, tired-looking man standing behind it, talking into a headset.

This was not going to play live anywhere across the globe. It was only recorded for the UNSC's purposes - a record of what happened here. The man gave Lord Hood a thumbs-up, and the Admiral lowered his head, beginning.

"For us, the storm had passed," he declared, and lifted his head a little to look out over those gathered. "The war is over."

His eyes searched the crowd, and lit upon a little girl standing next to her mother, clutching a photo. She looked familiar somehow; Hispanic features… ah. Marie. Perez's kid. Marie Perez.

Her eyes were brimming with tears, with the quiet lack of understanding - where is Daddy? - but the acceptance of what could not be quantified, the impossible, child-like faith.

The Admiral fixed his gaze on her big, liquid eyes, and forced himself to keep going: "But let us never forget those who journeyed into the howling dark and did not return. For their decision… required courage beyond measure, sacrifice, and an unshakeable conviction that our fight was elsewhere."

He tore his gaze from Marie's delicate features and glanced toward the Arbiter, who was standing nearby, motionless. The Sangheili was holding himself unnaturally rigid, perhaps feeling the presence of the nearby Marines, whose backs were as straight as they could make them.

Lord Hood jerked his eyes away from the elite, and blinked back a few tears. "As we start to rebuild, this hillside will remain barren, a memorial to heroes fallen. They ennobled all of us… and they shall not be forgotten."

Then, mouth tight and grim, Admiral Lord Terrence Hood put his hat back on, jerked it to an uncharacteristically rakish angle, and saluted as sharply as he ever had.

"Present arms!" the staff sergeant barked, his voice echoing across the barren plains of Kenya. His seven Marines raised their battle rifles to their shoulders, and each simultaneously fired three times.

T-t-tat. T-t-tat. T-t-tat. Twenty-one shots.

Immediately, Marines standing along the base of the platform in dress blues stepped forward to the families, each bearing a triangle-folded UNSC flag. They stepped up to eight family units, and with great respect, passed the flags on to those left behind.

Hood watched, hands behind his back, as one very young Marine stepped up to the Perez family - wife, Angela, and daughter, Marie. He stopped short, the flag in his hands, then seemed to impulsively kneel in front of Marie and place the flag in her trembling little hands.

The Marine said something Lord Hood couldn't hear - "I knew your daddy. He was a good, brave man, and he loves you." -- and Marie bit back tears, trying to be brave, trying to be like Daddy.

Admiral Hood couldn't make himself keep looking. He turned away - right into the Arbiter, who was standing, hands clasped in front of him. Somehow, the Sangheili looked drained, both emotionally and physically.

Lord Hood looked up into the yellow eyes and muttered, "I remember how this war started. What your kind did to mine. And I can't… I won't ever forgive you."

The Arbiter nodded gently, understanding, feeling this human's harsh pride, the honor of a wounded warrior.

"But…" - Hood reached out, extended his hand to the Arbiter. "You have my thanks, for standing by him to the end."

The Arbiter looked at the hand for a second, momentarily confused - then remembered the human custom and took Lord Hood's hand in his own, giving it a firm shake.

The Admiral seemed embarrassed, turned to the side. The Arbiter took that as his cue to leave, so he stepped away -

"Hard to believe he's dead."

The Arbiter paused at that. He pondered the words, considered his response carefully. Then, turning back to glance at the human Admiral, he mumbled, "Were it so easy."

And with that, the Arbiter disappeared. He would not come to Earth again.

Aft segment of UNSC Forward Unto Dawn

The light finally faded, leaving a dull ringing in the Chief's ears. He was floating in almost zero-gee, on his back, looking at the ceiling. Am I dead? Cortana's voice in his headset.

"Chief? Can you hear me?"

He jerked, and the minimal gravity responded - very much alive. Rolling over, he bumped against some small debris, looking for a terminal. Right now, he'd much prefer to speak with her face-to-face.

A sigh of relief from the AI: "I thought I'd lost you, too."

The Chief's assault rifle was floating close to the ceiling; using a broken pipe to push off, he reached up, holstered it on his back. "What happened?" he asked.

Cortana gave a mental shrug: "I'm not sure. Halo didn't fire; it just shook itself to pieces." Then, amused: "Had it actually fired, you wouldn't be here."

"Granted," the Chief replied, stowing his rifle in a nearby locker.

"It did a number on the Ark. The portal couldn't sustain itself, either - we made it through just as it collapsed."

The Chief looked back at the huge hole in the back of the ship, at the softly glowing outline of the Ark. His sarcasm was evident without need for words.

Cortana acquiesced: "Well. Some of us made it."

The Spartan finally found a terminal and quickly jacked Cortana's matrix into the hub. The AI's grim features met him with a soft, blue glow. "But you did it. Truth and the Covenant… the Flood… it's finished."

The Chief considered that, then: "It's finished." I hope.

Then, curious: "What's next?"

Cortana sighed, crossed her arms again. "I'll drop a beacon. But it'll be a while before anyone finds us. Years, even."

"What are our options?" the Chief asked, noting a cryo-chamber along the far wall.

The AI gave a real shrug, this time. "We're still pretty close to the Ark. I'm not sure if we'll drift, or if its gravitational pull will drag us into orbit. Either way, you'll want to enter… cryo-sleep."

The Chief nodded. He hated cryo-sleep, but it did seem to be his only option. He admitted to himself that he didn't want to leave Cortana alone… didn't really want to be alone. He worried. UNSC AIs had a lifespan of seven years - and Cortana's lifespan would soon be drawing to a close.

What if she died while they drifted through space?

He wasn't sure if he could handle that. But again - what other choice did he have? So, resigning himself to his fate, he pulled himself into an empty capsule.

Laying back, he stared at the AI with a longing sense of regret, wondering what he'd missed, done wrong… because he somehow just knew that there was something he had neglected.

The look in Cortana's eyes was painful. "I'll miss you." Don't leave me.

The Chief's eyes - hidden behind his visor - had a world of pain of their own. "Wake me. When you need me." Please.

As the lid of the pod hissed shut, the Cortana smiled half-heartedly at him - let him remember me happily - and wished that she'd been animated with tears.

The lid clicked shut, oxygen vented free, and -

- she was alone again.