The sky was choked with smog. The once pristine landscape of Alfold province was forever marred by the apocalyptic damages caused by Covenant glassing beams. Reach was lost. The valiant defense of humanity's fortress among the stars had been for naught. The way to the homeworld, to Earth, was open now. The massive shipyards that once filled the orbit of Reach were little more than expanding debris fields, and the vast cities that dotted its surface were husks of mangled glass. Every one of them a tomb.
Millions of people had died on Reach, thousands more in orbit as the UNSC tried in vain to hold off the endless waves of Covenant ships. Those among the UNSC Navy that sacrificed their lives to allow even one evacuation ship to escape were heroes all. Perhaps, if some remnant of mankind would survive the hellish war that had been forced upon them, they would be remembered for their deeds over Reach.
Perhaps.
In the burned-out remnants of a UNSC firebase, a lone Spartan-III stalked the ruins. It had been days since his final mission. The Pillar of Autumn had long since left the ship-breaking yards of Aszod, along with the package that Dr. Halsey swore was the key to the survival of Humanity.
The Spartan could only snort.
Survival.
It was a word with a simple definition. It meant to live on despite the challenges of one's life. To overcome the elements and live on.
Humanity had been fighting for survival for almost thirty years, and they were losing. What was one AI going to do to change that?
The Spartan had been a cog in the war effort for more than half of his life. Ever since his family was massacred in the fires that had long since consumed his hometown in the moons of Atlas.
Those halcyon days of innocence were nothing more than a faded memory now. He could remember a mother, a father, and a sister. He could remember a few shared features. The brown hair of his father and the piercing gray eyes of his mother, always alight with warmth.
His eyes had been dull since the day she died.
Of his sister, the Spartan remembered little, only a laugh. He saw glimpses sometimes, in the rare moments he was able to rest. In his dreams.
It mattered little now. He was a dead man walking.
There was no way off of Reach. All UNSC assets left planetside had been destroyed by Covenant glassing. Some small part of his mind suggested making his way to CASTLE-Base, but he discarded that idea. Even if, by some miracle, there were survivors there they would be just as doomed as he was now.
No. He would not allow himself even that minuscule hope.
What little hope he had died with NOBLE.
He had not known them long, but the bonds of camaraderie he had built with them were among his most cherished.
He had been taken from his brothers and sisters in Beta Company almost immediately after training. He had been used as ONI's pet Grim Reaper. The Spartan had made entire Insurrectionist movements disappear. Whoever his handlers sent him after died at his hands. Witnesses were eliminated, no matter who they were. He had been a Lone Wolf, a shadow even among the secretive Spartan III program.
He was not supposed to feel anything, his handlers had preferred their killers be the emotionless kind. Unfortunately for them, and indeed for himself, he felt emotions far more keenly than most. Glimpses of shattered families, families he had broken, left him cold in the scorching air of Reach.
The Spartan known as Noble Six crept slowly into the command center of the Firebase. Shattered consoles and burnt data modules showed the dedication of the UNSC to operational security. The Cole Protocol had been carried out before whatever fight had killed those present.
He could see the men and women who had once manned this position. Their mangled corpses littered the grounds. Brother and Sister Spartans in their MJOLNIR armor mingled in death with the brave soldiers of the UNSC Army. Here and there he could even make out the bodies of ODSTs, their animosity toward the Spartans taking a back seat to the true enemy.
The ghost of a smile spread across Six's face. They had died shoulder-to-shoulder against the enemies of humanity.
It was a more noble death than most would get in this war.
Better than he would get, at this rate.
The Covenant were taking their time to scour the planet of life. Undoubtedly, they were scouring the planet for the artifacts of their so-called Gods.
Their obsession with a long-dead race was all that was keeping them from finishing what they started, and stripping the very atmosphere from the world.
If he wasn't killed by the roving bands of alien warriors, he would eventually meet his death from the violent death of Reach itself.
Six turned his attention back to the command center, and the small cache of ration bars and canteens he had found there. Meticulously, he checked over his motion tracker and swept the area with his Operator helmet's IR and EM band sensors. There was nothing. No one.
The spartan grabbed an armful of rations and water before slumping down against the prefabs wall. With a heavy sigh, he disengaged the seal on his helmet and removed it with a hiss of air. Gray eyes took in the room without the benefits of his VISR. The ammo crates haphazardly spread throughout the room, the rations stacked in place, and the garbage accumulated from the passing of hundreds to what was the last evacuation site on Reach filled his vision.
Looking down at the foil-wrapped bar of nutrient-dense hard-tac in his gauntleted hands, the super soldier let out another sigh. He wasn't about to complain about the quality of his meal, such as it was, but he wished he could be in a UNSC mess tent nonetheless.
The slop they served there could at least be seasoned.
Six choked down three bars and followed them up with what had to have been at least two liters of water.
He hadn't eaten in days. Not since…
Not since New Alexandria.
Six winced at the memory.
—
Six ran with the other members of Noble team to the open doors of the waiting elevators.
None of them had ever been this close to a glassing before.
Even as the doors shut behind him, he could not help but brace for the worst. Six was quick to glance over at Kat, his head cocked in a silent question. He nodded when she gave him a quick thumbs-up with her mechanical hand.
She was talking to Carter. They were trying their best to come up with some kind of plan of action, anything beyond waiting in a fallout shelter to die.
He could appreciate that about them, as used to working alone as he was, he had never been the one to plan out the big-picture operations. That was the duty of his handlers.
"You good Six?" Kat's voice rang out in the tight confines of the elevator. Her accent was pleasant to his ears. Perhaps an unbecoming thought to have in a situation like this, but it was one he had nonetheless. It was an annoying habit of his, for his thoughts to not match his surroundings.
"Yes ma'am. Shields are still out, HUD's frazzled too. Otherwise ready to go," he replied. His voice sounded more robotic in his ears than it usually did.
It probably had something to do with the uneasy feeling he had. He felt tight coiling in his gut. Something about the air told him things were bound to get worse.
It was another annoying quirk of his, but this was one that had saved his life countless times.
Busy with his own ruminations, he did not see the worried glance Kat gave him behind her Air Assault helmet. When the doors opened, the Spartans broke into a jog.
A jog that would break any Olympic record you care to name for speed, but a jog nonetheless.
So busy with his own thoughts, on the mission, and his teammate, he did not hear the telltale whine of a Phantom approaching at their eight o'clock.
So busy reflecting on his current inability to stop the annoying thoughts that plagued him, he only just made out the Zealot with the needle rifle leaning out of the Phantom's troop bay.
Maybe if he had been just a second faster, if his mind had cooperated for once that day, he would have been able to push Kat out of the way.
Maybe if he had been faster pulling out his sidearm, he could have thrown off the aliens' aim.
Maybe then he would not have heard her voice, which he had just come to realize he so enjoyed the sound of, cut off in a pained gurgle as a needle round pierced her helmet.
His magnum barked as armor-piercing rounds exploded against the Zealot's shield.
Too little, too late.
His mind, which for a moment had managed to drift to think about what could be after the war, was devoid of anything but rage.
It was all Carter and the others could do to prevent him from throwing himself into the open troop bay and tearing the alien's inside apart. He might even have been able to survive such a feat.
Crazier things had happened.
Instead, as the Phantom retreated, he had to content himself with hefting his squadmate's body into his arms and into the fallout shelter.
They had been no more than ten meters away.
If their shields had been active… if he had been just a second faster…
If… if… if…
He felt silent tears roll down his cheek as he held her body, as the cries of panicked civilians echoed around him.
—
Six snorted in derision at the memory. Not so much at the emotion he showed, not even at the Covenant, but instead at his own actions.
His mind had wandered and it cost him one of his squad.
When he worked alone, he could handle his mind. It would badger him with plans, errant thoughts, and sometimes guilt, but he could tune it out or channel it.
When he was around those he built bonds with, that he had come to cherish in some way he couldn't fully understand, those same thoughts got harder to manage.
He had not known her long. Though he did remember her from their days on Onyx, he had been something of a loner even then. The month he had spent on Reach, in between the missions and the death, he had come to appreciate her acerbic wit and sharp mind. He would be lying if he ignored the appreciation he had for her eyes. The icy blue captivated him in a way he still could not fully process.
It was silly. He was a Spartan. A Gen III. Expendable, not expected to live through the war.
Still, he had thought of a small cafe in New Carthage that he had found on a day of leave. He was not afforded much in the way of leave time, no Spartan was, and he was one of even fewer to actually use it.
He had toyed with the idea of asking her to accompany him to that place if they were ever able to go.
A bitter chuckle echoed in the glasslands. What a damn fool he was. He supposed Jorge had been right about him. He was human after all, under the damn armor.
The thought of the Spartan-II brought his dour mood down even further.
The big guy had died thinking he saved Reach. That his death would mean something.
When he closed his eyes, he could see the shattered remnants of the Long Night of Solace drifting into Reach's atmosphere. He could still hear Auntie DOT's voice…
'Slipspace Rupture Detected…
Slipspace Rupture Detected…
Slipspace Rupture Detected…
Slipspace Rupture Detected…
Slipspace Rupture Detected…'
Six shook his head. He couldn't dwell on that. Jorge wouldn't want that. The softie that he was.
The spartan could only hope Jun made it off planet with Dr. Halsey. He was the only member of NOBLE with a shadow of a chance at survival.
His hand drifted to the hard case on his thigh. It opened with a hiss, and the jingling and clanking of NOBLE teams dog tags greeted him as he pulled them out. It had only been days since they died.
His thoughts turned to Carter, the team's stalwart leader. The man's sacrifice had been the only thing that allowed Six and Emile to make it to the Autumn in the first place. The scarab he rammed would have turned them and the package they carried into so much glass.
Finally, Six thought of Emile. The CQC specialist of NOBLE, Emile could not be called the most welcoming of individuals. He was abrasive, callous, more than a little sadistic, and one hell of a bastard.
Still, the man was a Spartan and a damn good one. His macabre humor had endeared him to Six in its own way.
He was just not the kind of guy to grab drinks with during downtime. Not that they were afforded much. Nor could they really get drunk.
The Spartan heaved out a sigh as he looked at the tags. They were all in immaculate shape. So at odds with the fate of their owners. His eyes lingered on Kat's tag for a moment longer before he stuffed them all into the case.
He was getting sentimental. It was almost funny. For how tired he felt, he was only twenty-two. Here he was reminiscing about fallen comrades like an old veteran of bygone wars. He let out a humorless chuckle. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
Finally, the Spartan affixed his helmet back to his head, turned the sensitivity of his motion tracker to full, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.
—
Sleeping in MJOLNIR was never a particularly comfortable experience. Sleeping in the armor almost a month since its last maintenance? Even worse.
Six stood up and felt his back pop in an almost alarming number of places. It was time to move on. He shouldered his DMR and took stock of the ammo left over in this base. It was not great. The last stand of the Firebase's defenders had depleted most of their stocks, but Six was able to scavenge a few more magazines for the rifle nonetheless.
A massive ping on the Spartan's motion tracker stopped him from leaving the small bunker. The audio receptors in his helmet brought the distinctive whine of Covenant Phantoms to the forefront of his mind.
Somehow, someway, the Covenant had found him. One man among the ashes of a dying world, and they found him.
It was just his luck, he supposed. It had never been very good, after all.
Six took a mental count of his ordnance. He had three frag grenades, a plasma grenade, ten magazines for the DMR, and three for his magnum.
Blessedly, they were all armor-piercing.
The phantoms roared overhead. Their engines defied gravity even as they disgorged their hordes. He could hear the chittering of the Grunts, the warbling of the Jackals, and the harsh barks of the Elites.
It was time, he supposed. He had lingered long enough, among the ghosts.
With resolute steps, the Spartan marched out of the bunker.
With firm conviction, he lined up his first shot.
With steady hand, he killed jackals and grunts by the score.
Elites fell in droves.
It would be hours before the end came in truth.
Who else but a team of Zealots? Their armor, a sign of their rank and privilege, marked them as his greatest enemies.
Their leader was familiar. Six's mind flashed back to New Alexandria, and the familiar fire of rage burned within him.
His DMR barked and broke the shields of the first. A follow-up shot put the beast down. They came at him as one, and he was forced to drop the rifle. An energy sword jabbed forward, but the Spartan was too fast. With a tug, Six yanked the alien's arm forward and the blade found purchase in its comrade. Six lept above a plasma dagger and planted his foot on the sword wielder's head. Almost a thousand pounds of heavily armored spartan forced the zealot to the ground, its head reduced to paste
Six swept to the side to avoid a blast from an overcharged plasma pistol. On his way back to his feet, he grabbed the energy sword out of the dead elite's hand and primed it with a flick of his wrist. The sapphire blue blade showed like a beacon. He took stock of his opponents as his perception of time slowed to a crawl. The so-called "Spartan Time" allowed him to pick out the three Zealots that still remained a threat. Specifically, the one with a scar on its helmet, where a magnum round had scored a glancing hit as it retreated.
As time sped back up, he was already moving. Weaving his way through the cavalcade of plasma fire, the Spartan slashed at the first elite. Its warbling cry was short and silenced by a second slash through its throat.
The next zealot slipped on the thick blood of one of its fallen comrades, and Six stabbed deep into its side as a result. Finally, Six faced the last Zealot. The last target in his sight.
The very personification of his failure.
The elite drew its own sword and dropped its rifle. The two combatants sized each other up before they charged. Their blades flashed in the failing light of dusk. The rage and hatred of the Spartan against the calm detachment of the master swordsman.
It was not much of a contest, in the end. The Spartan, though undoubtedly skilled, was no match going blade for blade with an elite swordsman. With his emotions running so hot, with rage filling his veins, he was bound to make mistakes. In a battle like this, even a single mistake would cost him everything.
Searing pain in his midsection signaled his mistake. His arm was reared back for another slash, but the prongs of plasma that sprouted from his back ensured it was not to be. The sword fell from his hand.
Still. The Spartan was not done. That same hand found the alien's wrist as it tried to pull the blade free. He could see its eyes widen as he dragged himself closer along the blade. The pain was unbearable. He ignored it. He felt his organs boil and burn into cinders. He ignored it. His gray eyes, like hardened flint, bored into the alien's eyes from under his helmet.
With his left hand, he tore the helmet from his head and let the bastard see the pure hatred in his eyes. Still, it tried to get away. It jabbed his side with its wrist dagger. He ignored it.
The kukri, Emile's kukri, found its place in his hand. Holding the blade in a reverse grip, he drove it into the elite's neck. It gurgled and choked as it died, and Six smiled a bloody smile.
With the Zealot dead, Six slumped back, the sword sputtering out as it fell.
On his back, he could see the smoldering skies of Reach. Once, when he had first arrived, he had marveled at the beauty of this place, in his own way. Now, though, he could feel nothing but regret.
"I'm sorry… all of you," he said to the ghosts of Reach. To his friends and comrades who died to get him to Aszod. To the millions of innocent people he had failed to save.
He could almost feel them around him. His comrades, the people he failed. At the edge of his consciousness, he could all but hear their voices reassuring him.
The tears came unbidden. He could only hope they made it count. That Reach did not die in vain.
As Spartan William-B312, Noble Six, closed his eyes for the final time, he could hear a pleasantly accented voice call out to him.
'Maybe we could make it to New Carthage after all,' he thought with a smile.