Captain Thomas Lasky stood on the bridge of Infinity as the many members of his bridge crew buzzed and sped around him in all directions. Though it was his ship, and his recent promotion to Captain, he still worried. He worried about his new responsibility as captain of a ship the size of a city, his responsibility for over 10,000 souls, and the hope of the fleet. The eyes of the navy, and indeed the citizens of the UNSC would be looking to Infinity to protect them, and to lead the fleet to victory. Lasky was definitely under pressure. Sometimes he doubted his own ability as an officer of the UNSC navy.

But Parangosky believed in me.

Thomas reached into his pocket for comfort, and found it. He withdrew his hand, clutching his totems.

A black stone, and a pair of dog tags.

He'd kept them all these years, nearly thirty, since the war started. Since his war started.

The dog tags hung from the canopy in his days as a fighter pilot, like a picture of a man's wife. And he always kept the stone. He kept them to remember. How could he ever forget? How could he ever allow himself to forget?

I've been an officer long enough to know how to be a captain. Hell, I went to CAMS.

That was where his war started: Corbulo Academy of Military Science. That was where he lost her. Where he lost them all in a single night. Where he first laid eyes on a Spartan.

He held the stone in one hand, black like obsidian. It was smooth like any stone taken from a river bed, but turn it over and it was rough and porous. The other side of the stone was jagged, dotted with holes like a lunar landscape. In truth, it wasn't really a stone at all, but a piece of alien armor. Lasky had taken it the same night he took the dog tags. A night he'd promised he would never forget.

That was one of the reasons he had kept the totems. Not just for good luck, but to remind him what he was fighting for. What they were all fighting for. What so many of Thomas' friends had died for.

But I'm here now. I made it longer than Del Ro. I made it longer than all of them. I'm alive, I'm here now, and I can do this. I can. I know I can…

"Captain?"

Thomas was unexpectedly ripped from his thoughts, back onto the bridge of Infinity. He'd almost forgotten that Commander Palmer was standing next to him. He'd forgotten that his lieutenants needed his direction.

Thomas recognized the new and unfamiliar voice. A man's voice. The voice of a stranger, and yet somehow so easily recognizable that Thomas already knew whose it was, just from that one word. "What is it, Cruz?" He asked, and turned to the closest corner of the holotable, where a misty, ghostly apparition stood patiently on the surface of the projector.

Cruz, placeholder AI to the Infinity. He took the form of a ghost, the silhouette of a man, but faceless, entirely featureless and colorless. He chose the color grey, though not pure grey, the projector couldn't do that, there was a slight, almost imperceptible bluish tinge to it. The color of the sky on an overcast day. Sometimes he appeared to them as nothing more than a wisp of smoke, sometimes he took the outline of a man, light grey around the edges, slightly darker, more concentrated on the inside. He always appeared to roil and warp like steam or smoke, as if he was just a cloud of fog being held together in the shape of a man.

Thomas was onboard when Infinity had crashed onto the "surface" of Requiem, killing their previous onboard AI, instantaneously. Thomas was only the executive officer to Del Rio then, but he had seen that happen with other, human pilots before. It was definitely not a good way to go. Thomas didn't know the other AI well, an unspoken, self-contained stranger to him and the others, but he still felt a loss for the poor soul. Cruz, though, Captain Lasky appreciated him a lot. He was polite, respectful, and a hard worker. He didn't talk much, and when he did he was very soft-spoken and quiet, and he always kept it short. He was more concerned with is job, and he never rested until the job was done. His focus and silent determination was unmatched by any of Captain Lasky's bridge crew.

Of course, Cruz seemed like a pushover, but he had experience on his side. He may have been on the wrong side of 5, and AIs only lived to 7 anyways, but he was still an invaluable asset. He'd served on the Earth's orbital defense grid in 2552. He'd never abandoned ship.

"The new guy's on his way, looks ready for his tour." Cruz informed them both. "I've sent the route to your datapads. You can access the camera feeds any time you want."

"Thank you, Cruz." Thomas said, and picked up his tablet from the table edge. The Commander didn't say anything, just furiously tapped at the touch screen, writing something. Thomas expected the vaporous, spectral avatar to disappear from the holotable, but he persisted.

"Um, sir?"

"What?" He asked, knowing that this had to have been important. He'd gotten to understand Cruz's manner well enough by now. He was always quietly polite and formal, a good guy all around, and he only spent extra time on items that were of any real importance. Commander Palmer knew it too, she stopped and looked up from her mobile.

When he was sure he had both their attention, Cruz continued. "When he comes in here, I think you better take a look at his right leg. He seems to be limping."

"Understood Cruz, dismissed." This time, Cruz's avatar really did disappear, dissipating in a smoky end, with the almost inaudible sound of wind blowing through a window. The signature sign of his withdrawal from whatever station he'd formally been at, a bit like a candle being blown out.

"A limp? I thought he was ready." Thomas asked Commander Palmer. To him she was "Sarah." After all they had been through together; the raid on Infinity, the Halo installations, Requiem, Del Rio, they called each other by their first names. Of course, every now and then they remembered the formalities.

"So did I." She replied, turning to him just as the door to the bridge opened.

New guy's here.

Captain Lasky hadn't had a chance to get to know their new arrival after he was taken out of cryo-stasis, and began uncontrollably hemorrhaging to death. This was his first chance to connect with the man on a personal level. Of course, ONI had sent him their report: his history, military record, psyche evaluation, even Admiral Parangosky's write-up. Much of it was classified, very much so. Lines upon lines of black ink covered the papers - a rare commodity – taking up most of what scarce records the ONI censors allowed Tom to see at all. Other files were stored on a digital platform, but again, the majority was withheld from him. What little detail ONI had gracefully allowed Tom to know was enough for him to feel familiar enough with Micky that he wouldn't feel estranged in person, but he wasn't expecting the new guy to look like… This.

The first thing Thomas noticed about the man was how tall he was. Not so tall as to be intimidating, but he was still pretty tall. He was one of the few men tall enough to look Commander Palmer in the eyes. Tom was beginning to feel overshadowed on his own bridge.

The man looked like he was much younger than Tom, like he was either in his late twenties or early thirties. To Captain Lasky it seemed impossible that someone with a reputation like his could possibly be so young. But upon closer inspection, Tom saw he did seem to have some grey streaks along the front of his hair line…

No, not grey, white… Interesting.

He had a normal civilian hairstyle, not the standard military buzz cut, but he was clean-cut. No tattoos or piercings either. At least that was something. Not only was he young, he was also very slim. Not scrawny or sickly thin, but he had a lean athletic profile. Arms and legs that were only slightly longer than usual. Tom noticed he really did walk with a hitch in his right.

"Good morning, Micky, I'm Captain Lasky, you've already met Commander Palmer. Welcome aboard Infinity." Tom greeted him, not exactly sure what time it was, but he wanted to be the one to make the introduction. Micky and Commander Palmer exchanged an awkward nod of the head. He self-consciously ran a finger under his left eye. "Are you coming from the infirmary?"

"Yeah." The man replied, and saluted. His voice was deep and low, and his salute was with perfect form. He wore the black uniform of an intelligence officer, matched by his sleek, jet-black hair. Tom and Sarah returned their salutes, giving him their permission to stand at ease.

As he did so, Tom spoke up. "Is there something wrong with your leg, Micky? You sure you don't need to go back?"

"It happens from… temperature change. Just… temperature change, that's all… It's nothing, it won't be a problem… Sir." The man said. His speech sounded extremely labored, as if the words themselves were hard to say. Tom couldn't exactly say, not for sure, but it was as if the man was ashamed to admit he walked with a limp.

It wasn't until the man addressed him as "sir" that Tom realized that he hadn't before. He didn't exactly look like the type to be insubordinate, but something about him just looked… Heavy.

"I hope not." Tom replied, forging ahead. "If you're ready, we can go ahead with the orientation."

"Yeah." Said Micky, his expression utterly blank.

There it was again. Yeah. Something you just didn't say to an officer. It was informal, unacceptable, and just plain rude. In the military you said yes sir, yes ma'am, or just aye aye, Captain.

"Don't you remember how to address your commanding officers?" Commander Palmer spoke up. She'd noticed too, now she planned to grill him. She looked cross, Tom almost felt sorry for anyone who had to take a shelling from the Spartan… Almost.

But Micky didn't move, he didn't speak, he didn't react at all. His expression didn't change from the dark, serious, brooding look he always seemed to wear, like the miseryguts Tom had heard he was. Instead, he simply stood there, staring. At what, neither Tom nor Sarah could tell. In a heartbeat, he went from his at ease stance, to leaning on the holotable with both hands. The light from the projection cast him in a ghostly blue tint. His already dark brown eyes seemed to darken further, along with the rest of his expression.

In the light of the hologram, he suddenly didn't look so young any more. He had scars. Many, many scars on his face. Long scars on his jaw line left from helmet straps, and a large checkmark-shaped scar on the left side. A long, thin scar ran down the center of his lips, dividing his facial features. On his left: ragged, angular rips and cuts covered most of his bottom lip. On his right: a thin, pale scar forked and curved from a section of his lower lip, down and to the right. On the right side of his chin he had yet another curved scar. He didn't look too gruesome, but in truth he did look a little bit menacing.

"No disrespect to either of you, but I thought I outranked you both." He said, completely serious. Tom could swear his accent changed. Before, he had spoken with the United States midwestern nonaccent. But for that disrespectful little bout, he went somewhere between Boston and New York. Before that, even, Tom could swear he almost sounded like a Texan trying to suppress his drawl.

"I'm sorry, there's clearly been a misunderstanding." Tom intervened before the situation escalated any further. He knew Sarah had her sidearm on her. In truth, he had half expected Micky to say something like that after he read the report sent from Admiral Osman. ONI had warned him that Micky's could sometimes fly off the handle. Parangosky knew, she knew him exceptionally well, better than anyone else. Her write-up had said that he could act up at times, but that he was also an invaluable asset to the UNSC, and established that some leniencies would have to be taken with him. "Reasonable, but generous," she had said. She spoke of him almost like he was an old friend of hers. His rank and experience made him indispensable to ONI, and that meant they were stuck with him for now, whether any of them liked it or not. ONI had spoken.

"You know what else I think? I don't think either of you know what or who you're dealing with. I don't think you're capable, or even ready to requisition my services."

If she didn't before, Sarah definitely had her hand on her holster now. Tom knew he had to calm things down before they got out of control. Of the two of them, she definitely played the bad cop.

"I know you have a lot of catching up to, and we're going to get this cleared up, but we expect your full cooperation for as long as you're going to be with us. Admiral Osman sent you here, along with recommendations from Admiral Parangosky, and we're all expecting you to perform loyally. Otherwise, you'll have to explain yourself directly to Admiral Osman, understand?"

Micky became deathly silent for a change. He was almost impossible to read, his scarred facial features completely cold and expressionless. But after what seemed to be much internal bargaining, he straightened up, and replied. "Yes sir. Sorry Captain. Sorry Commander."

Tom turned to Sarah as a very smug grin almost cracked over their faces, before he returned his attention to Micky. "Very well, I suppose now we can get along with the orientation." He said, and began running a program on the holotable.

ONI had informed Captain Lasky that he would need to go through this process if they were to be in command of Micky's service. For ONI operatives who spent as much time in cryo-stasis as he did, whenever they were brought into service they required an orientation. Time apparently meant very little to them. Thomas had heard that some of them were preserved for decades until they were needed. Micky truly was a man out of time, cryogenically preserved to keep him young and sharp until ONI decided to deploy him.

Naturally, Micky was put through a very basic test before he came to the bridge. Simple questions everyone involved knew he could answer: What's your name? When were you born? What color is your hair? Your eyes? How many scars do you have?

Micky had answered the questions easily, proving his mental health satisfactory to the ONI handlers that had come with him, who then rewarded him with the basic information he needed. But the more detailed orientation that he needed was due next, and ONI had granted the honors to Captain Lasky and Commander Palmer. The guy had a lot of catching up to do if the last time he was awake was 2552.

"Let's get this over with." Commander Palmer said to Tom. He could tell she was unhappy.

"Alright," Tom agreed, and brought up the first part of the presentation: a 3D holographic projection of Infinity, "first thing's first; the year is 2557, and the war with The Covenant is officially over. We've rebuilt some of the inner colonies, but there have still been reports of violent uprisings among the civilian population. You've fought the insurrection before, correct?"

"Yes sir," Micky replied, sensing Tom's opening to starting some small talk. "I remember fighting the insurrectionists. I've been around for a while, sir, and I can do it again."

Tom remembered too. "Don't worry, they're not your concern." He continued with the presentation, changing the holographic projection to a collection of images of varying Covenant soldiers, taken in a variety of different locations, each from a different angle. Unggoy, Kig-Yar, Sangheili, even one of a brute.

Tom remembered his time on the bridge when Infinity bombarded the planet Sanghelios. That was something to remember. It had been a good display of what Infinity was capable of, as well as her enormous strength, size, and daring courage. But above all: They had sent a message, and that was what really mattered. Infinity was change, a sign of the UNSC's power. Forgive your enemies, but never, ever, forget their names.

"The Covenant has broken up since you were last around. As far as we know; their hierarchal society has dissolved since their prophets went into hiding. The only fighting forces that are still giving us trouble are the scattered remnants of their military, though their combat structure and tactics are still largely the same. It's mostly former Sangheili officers that are in command now."

"Uh, Sangheili? Do you mean-" Micky began to ask.

"The Hinge-heads." Commander Palmer cut him off. Tom had never known or thought much about the enemy, he'd only ever referred to them as "elites". Now, since the human race was no longer officially at war with them, the proper term to use was "Sangheili." A strange new development for both sides, after nearly 30 years of being at each other's throats, but time moved on.

Tom noticed Micky had a strange look on his face, yet another unidentifiable expression that almost looked like confusion. Tom dismissed it, and continued on the subject of The Covenant.

"The largest and most problematic of the known Covenant remnants is the one you've been brought on to help with. Intel is pretty rough, but you'll be given what we know so far…"

Commander Palmer handed Micky a small mobile device the size of a civilian chatter, smaller than the tablets she and Tom had. "You can get everything you need to know on this." She said, and he slipped the device into his pocket. She still looked cross with him.

Tom continued with the next part. "As you may already know, the threat of the Halo array was eliminated years ago, soon after you went into cryo, but it seems the Forerunners still have some tricks up their sleeve. Our mission since Infinity was completed has been to find and decommission the other ringworlds, until we dug up a lead on this place…"

Tom changed the display to an image of a large, pale blue sphere.

"Requiem." Tom declared. "We knew the Forerunners were able to create entire worlds, like the Halos, but this is different. It's more like an inside-out planet, instead of a ring. A Dyson sphere. On Requiem, we encountered a new type of enemy, one we've never seen before. They're Forerunner constructs, but we'll explain that to you another time."

"I've fought Forerunner constructs before. I know how to kill them."

"Good to know, but that's not what's important right now."

Commander Palmer shifted posture beside Tom. From what they'd read about Micky from Parangosky, he was not going to like this part. Tom and Sarah hadn't liked Micky before, but it he was about to get much, much worse.

"Which brings us to the matter at hand..." Tom started. "As you're already aware, you're onboard the UNSC Infinity, the largest starship in human history." Micky nodded, following along with Tom as he spoke. He'd seemed to have lightened up a bit, though that would quickly change. "You'll get a briefing on all that too, but it ties in-"

"You sound like you've been avoiding something, I can tell. Just come on and say it already." He cut Tom off. Impatient and short-tempered, just as Tom had imagined him. Predictable. No one bothered getting angry at Micky this time.

"While you were away, the Spartan program has advanced with the latest advancements in technology. The fourth generation is now in full swing, as its own branch in the UNSC. However, what sets this program apart from the previous generations is that the subjects are experienced UNSC personnel selected from other military branches."

With Micky being ONI, he already knew all the horrible, classified details of the Spartan – II program. A long serving agent, Parangosky had said that Micky had been in on it when it happened. The chemical enhancements, the risky surgeries, the deadly injections Doctor Catherine Halsey had implemented. She didn't reveal much, but Tom suspected that he may have even participated in a deniable part of the scandal.

"Only the most skilled and adept soldiers can become Spartans, but those that make it become the very best the UNSC has. ONI has seen fit to deploy you under our command, but not only that, Admiral Osman herself has given you the opportunity of a lifetime. You've been chosen to become a Spartan four."

There was a pause. Another very long, awkward silence where Micky didn't say anything. His eyes seemed to grow with shock or anger, though he didn't speak. After that, he seemed to grow either suspicious, resentful, or furious.

"Come again?" He asked, either outraged or confused. "You want to make me a Spartan?"

"Not us, ONI." Commander Palmer corrected him. "You're cutting the line, you should to be grateful. They don't let just anyone become a Spartan, you know. You have to earn it."

"Well, I'm just fine the way I am, thanks." Micky protested. "You don't need to try making me into a Spartan, thank you very much, I'm just fine."

"It's not us, it's Admiral Osman who gave you this assignment." Tom corrected him with a sense of finality. "If you want someone to talk to about this, I'm sure you won't hesitate to contact her."

Tom paced around to the other side of the table, and gestured towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we're on a bit of a time schedule here. Commander Palmer has generously volunteered to give you a tour of Infinity. I suggest you get to know each other, she's going to be your commanding officer. Your assignment starts immediately after your tour."

"Fine, let's get this over with." Micky grumbled to himself almost inaudibly.

Commander Palmer swiftly grabbed her datapad from the table, and walked off the bridge with an impatient "follow me." Tom saw her shoot him a very resentful look as she passed him on the way out. Micky trailed after her, still slightly limping, before they both disappeared into the halls.

Tom was once again left alone with his thoughts.

"Wow." Commented Cruz's ghost, uncharacteristically opinionated, a sign of just how unbelievable Micky was. His avatar returned to his usual spot on the holo-table. "He's a real piece of work, huh?"

Tom definitely agreed. This was the agent ONI had blessed them with? The one Admiral Parangosky thought of as her personal angel of death? Tom had never cared much for formality, and he could admit to himself that most folks who'd served under him thought of him as a very down – to – Earth kind of guy… But Micky was just plain rude. Reading about him was one thing, but he was even worse in person.

And they were putting Tom in charge of this guy?

"Cruz?" He called, with renewed purpose. "Get Admiral Osman on the line. We need to talk."

We got the blood cleaned up a while ago, though the taste of copper still lingers in the back of my mouth. My limp is acting up again, too. The muscles on the back of my knee pull every now and then, but I'm well used to it by now. I've had this damn limp for a while now, years in fact. It gets a little frustrating at times, but it's a good reminder of how damn careless I was. I was too damn young, and too damn careless.

They told me what I should avoid while I'm on the mend; heavy lifting and drinking, mostly. I told them I know how it works. This wasn't the first time they cut open. I didn't really listen, it's nothing I can't handle. Didn't even bother remembering that AI's name.

I have no fucking idea when I'm going to be at 100% again. My head still hurts, like a mild headache a times, sometimes I get a migraine, and sometimes it's a full-on episode. Sometimes I bleed, sometimes I don't. They told me I should be better soon, and that I'll feel better with time, but I'm not a very patient man. I can't remember a time when my ears haven't been ringing. It doesn't bother me anymore, but I'd appreciate some real silence for once in my life.

"So… What's with the hair?" Commander Palmer asks, finally breaking from her silence. She absolutely fucking loathes me, I can tell from the look on her face. Her tone isn't too happy, either. Stone cold and resentful, every word she says is pointed, sharpened like a weapon aimed at me. I catch her glaring at me out of the corner of my eye to my right as I walk beside her. It's a long way to walk, this damn ship is as big as a city, or so they say. This tour is going to take a while.

"Genetic throwback," I explain, looking up self-consciously at the white streaks at the front of my hairline, "it kind of just… happened. I guess it's in my genes."

I'm a little surprised she didn't notice the hair before. It's not something people usually miss when they meet me. Though on second thought, it was probably because the first time she saw me, I looked like I'd been in a car accident. Thank god that's over. They told me I had surgery, whatever the hell kind of surgery it could have been, no one's told me anything about it. All I know is that when I woke up, I was surrounded by ONI agents, and I had to listen to some oversized prick in a black uniform bossing me around like he owned me. Not to mention that after I was done talking to the AI, I was basically on a leash from then, until I got to the bridge. I don't know much, but I do know that they're ONI enforcers, they all carry humblers on them at all times, and they made it perfectly clear they they'll hit me with them if they think I'm getting out of line.

There used to be a time when I'd have been their boss. But not today.

I risk a glance over my shoulder. "Hey, don't look now but I think we're being followed." I say jokingly. I'm not completely sure how many, but somewhere between 6 and 9 of the two dozen ONI enforcers onboard are following behind us from a safe distance. They probably thought they were being discreet, though they were obviously wrong. They all look at me like they hate my guts, all scowling and trying to look tough. That prick from the infirmary is still following me too, doing that thing that men do to try to make themselves look bigger than they are by puffing up his chest and holding his arms out. A generic looking white guy in his forties with black hair, looks like he's getting a little doughier than he'd like to admit, and gives me the impression he's the top agent. He thinks he looks tough, but he couldn't take me. All twenty of them mobbing me at once, though, that would be a different story.

"I thought they were with you." She replies.

"I have no idea who they are…" I keep talking. I decide it's best to try and keep a natural conversation. I'm not exactly sure what might make my shadows descend on me, but I'll try to tread lightly. "So it looks like you Spartans are officially a thing now, huh?"

"You bet."

I follow beside Commander Palmer as we walk down the metal hall. I have to admit, I'm a naturally tall guy, that's what makes my limbs as long as they are. I normally outpace people, but Palmer and I walk side by side. We're about the same height, too.

"So, what does it take to be a Spartan?" I ask sarcastically. I have to admit to myself, I'm being a bit of an ass.

"You have to be the best of the best. Then they take you and make you better. If you're going to be one of us, you've got your work cut out for you. I can tell you that right now."

"You haven't seen my record."

"What? Feeling inadequate already?" She challenges.

"Yeah, there's that Spartan pride." I fire back. Bloody Spartans, they always think they're better than us ODSTs. I used to close myself in a metal coffin and crash into planets for a living. "Glad to know we can always count on you Spartans to blow your own horns. I feel safer already."

She doesn't dignify that with a response. We keep walking in silence for a while, past dozens and dozens of crew members, like a busy sidewalk. Damn, it really is like a city. It's almost perplexing why they made the hallways so damn big and tall, but I guess it was to make room for men's egos. Things always have to be big. Always always always. Size definitely matters. Everything has to be big.

"So, hang on a minute... If you Spartan-Fours are serious about this... Does that mean you have augmentations?" I ask curiously.

"Yep. And if you're gonna be a Spartan, you're gonna have to go through the implantation process."

"What? You think I need them?" I ask, looking down at myself.

"All Spartans-Fours have enhancements. If it makes you better, you take what you can get." She says.

"Yeah, well, you don't have to worry about me."

"I'm sorry, I forgot to mention that this is non-negotiable." She states. "If you're going to be a Spartan, you're going to need augmentations."

"I already have augmentations. I've been around for a long time, you know."

"Oh yeah? Like what?" She asks.

"Well, I had laser eye surgery a while ago. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"Is that all?"

"No." I stop and impatiently turn to face her on my right, as she stops as well. Our followers keep their distance as we let the constant traffic pass us by. "I've got a cybernetic implant in my left hip. Right in the socket. It works so good I forget I even have it."

I point to my side. "The left side of my ribcage is replaced with metal replicates; the other side has reinforced metal plating, all titanium. I've got a pacemaker and a whole bunch of other small machines in my chest I either can't tell you about, or I don't understand myself. It's not that I need them, they just help"

I raise my curled left arm, and point to my elbow. "I've got a cybernetic implant in this elbow, and this shoulder." I say, pointing to my right shoulder. I've also got something in my back and neck, between the shoulder blades, along the spine, but I never really understood it too well. Apparently it's for all the rocks and shocks I've taken over the years; combat drops, rough rides in warthogs, just a lot of strain I've been put through in general. I don't pay much attention to the parts of me that are synthetic. I may be enhanced, but I'm still me. I suppose I'm lucky I haven't been crippled, or had my good looks ruined by now. I've taken quite a beating over the years.

I lift my left foot, and grab my ankle. "I lost my left Achilles tendon to a claymore. Thank god it was defective, or I'd have lost the whole foot. They gave me a synthetic implant as a replacement, but luckily they kept it all under the skin. You can't even tell I had surgery."

Speaking of scars, I straighten up and hold the left side of my face with my right hand, and turn my head to show her the scar on the left side of my jaw. "I have a titanium bar in my jaw. They put it there when I broke the mandible. It's still in there. I think it's kind of holding my jaw together."

I sigh and shrug very innocently before I continue. "And then there's all the stims I took, and stuff they did to my organs that I'm not allowed to tell you about. Not to mention the lobotomy. Christ." I roll my eyes and trail off.

"Anything else?" Palmer asks, looking very unimpressed.

"I don't know. I don't have a very good memory." I admit. I know full well I'm omitting some things, some of which I either don't remember, or I just don't want to talk about.

"This is important if you're going to be a Spartan." She tells me, sensing that I'm holding out on her. "So think."

"Tell you what, I'll have my people give your people the list. How about that?"

"Fine by me." She says.

"Okay, but I'll tell you right now, it's a pretty long list."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, you would not believe the time I have trying to go through airports." I laugh. I'm rudely interrupted by that prick from the medbay, when he walks up behind me and not so gently shoves me from behind. I regain my balance, but I feel my temper flare a little. He has no idea who he's dealing with. "Keep it moving." He orders me.

We start walking again. Palmer's expression hasn't changed this whole time. She either doesn't care about me and ONI, or she just hates me.

"I don't think he likes me very much." I whisper.

"Must be your winning personality." She replies.

I follow Commander Palmer down a few turns where the corridor thins out to a more reasonable size. She pulls out her mobile when we get to a digital sign that proudly boasts "OFFICER'S BLOCK" from the ceiling in big golden letters. There's not much traffic around here. My shadows don't follow us.

"So, since you apparently have some sortof rank, your quarters will be here." She tells me, flatly. "Typically, Spartans don't keep their rank."

"Oh yeah? What's the ranking system for the Spartan program?" I ask curiously.

"As a Spartan, your rank is Spartan."

"If you keep throwing that word around, it's gonna lose all meaning." I warn her jokingly. I read about that on my datapad, how apparently just being a Spartan is the absolute apex of human existence. What a load of bullshit. I'd take being an ODST over a faceless oversized wind up toy soldier any day. But apparently what I want doesn't matter. She doesn't reply, but focuses on her data pad.

We come to a stop outside a locked door. Palmer holds her hand flat against the digital scanner to the left. The door opens and she ushers me in. "This is your room. Your prints have been enrolled." She hands me a digital device the size of a playing card with a bunch of numbers and an address on it. "Here's the key to your office."

Inside the room is something I didn't expect. It's a typical naval quarters, which is to say it's a little lack-luster. A rectangular room, the walls, deck and ceiling are the same metal-grey color. Soul-sucking would be a good way to describe it. It would be completely devoid of color if it weren't for the army green on the bed and closet. The bed is a single sized rickety metal skeleton with metal springs stabbing through the foam mattress. To the left there's a small bathroom, sectioned off by the metal walls, clean, but too small. I find an electric shaver on the counter. Along the unbroken left wall is a small kitchenette with a stove, a sink, a dishwasher, and a mini fridge. A couple of cabinets hang above the kitchen counter, though there aren't any plates, and the fridge it empty. There's no washing machine or clothes dryer, either. Christ, what a bachelor pad.

"What?" Palmer asks, noticing me walking around the room like an unhappy cat.

"It's a little barebones." I comment. I'll have to redecorate it later. It'll be just fabulous, I'm sure.

"This is what you get with Spartan privileges." She states.

"Well Spartan isn't the word I'd use." I inform her. "The Spartans didn't sleep in beds."

"Is that so?" She still sound disinterested.

"Yeah. That's something about the Spartans that everyone likes to conveniently forget. That they were elitist, egotistical psychopaths, who put more emphasis on being a man than trying to be a human being."

"Oh really?" She says, challenging. "You think the Spartans are elitist?"

"You know what they did? Every Spartan male was in inspected from birth by their village elders, to see if they were worth the time to train. And you know what they did if the child was sick? Throw 'em off a cliff. It's nice to see the Spartan program wants to continue the tradition."

"The best of the best." She reiterates.

"I was born sick." I point to myself. "The Spartan-Two program, the one you're trying to be, judged people off of their genes."

Palmer crosses her arms. "The Spartan program judges people by their skill and experience. If you're not confident you can meet our standards, you can resign."

"I wouldn't be that lucky." I mutter, and make for the door. I stop mid-stride when something on the bed catches my eye. I turn and pace towards it with interest. It looks like a small, black rectangular box next to the pillow. I grab it and hold it up to my face to read the gold lettering on the cover.

"What is it?" Palmer asks.

"A bad joke." I mutter, disappointed. It's a Bible. I was hoping it would be my sidearm but yet again, I am let down. I find the cold steel of a gun more comforting than a bible. I toss it back on the bed and leave, closing and locking the door behind us. Back out in the halls, we begin walking again. Palmer shoots me an inquisitive look.

"You know about the Spartan-Two program?" She asks me.

"What? Those the giant faceless things that go around the battlefield, kicking everything over? Yeah, I was with ONI at the time. I knew all about it." I tell her. I half expect her to jump me for being a soulless goon, but she doesn't.

"How old are you?"

"Wow." I joke. "That's a bit rude."

"Seriously, you look like you're thirty. How the hell could you have been around that long?" She sounds like she's accusing me of lying. "The Spartan program has been around since before the war with the Covenant. Shouldn't you be at least fifty or something?"

"Well I'm flattered." I joke. "But if I told you my real age, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me." She challenges. I'm a bit frustrated, but I don't stop walking.

"Well, it depends on what you mean by age." I tell her. "People tell me I look like I'm about twenty nine. Biologically, they tell me I'm about thirty years. If you're only counting the time I spent out of cryo, I'm thirty two. But you want to know my real age?" And here's the kicker. "I'm over a hundred."

She doesn't believe me. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. All that time I spent in cryo as part of my job. Hell, even before that, when I was a kid."

She still looks like she doesn't believe me. "Sure."

"Can we not talk about it?" I ask politely. I never want to talk about this. I may look younger than I am, and I can take a compliment, but I wasn't lying. Palmer will probably write off my knowledge of the Spartan-II program as a special privilege for being ONI. I'm fine with that, but my own age isn't something I carry lightly. I don't think of myself as someone who's actually over 100, obviously. I think of my unique situation like something I can't remember after spending a long time in a coma, or something like that. Like a lot of things happened, and I just wasn't around for it. I resolved to not let it change me a long time ago, and it still hasn't, but sometimes I just feel like a machine. It's not easy outliving most of my friends.

"Any family?" She asks.

"No. I'd outlive them all, anyways. No wife or kids, either. I'd outlive them too." I can tell from her expression that she didn't think I was much of a family man to start with. I look way too young for that anyways. I look like a bachelor. "Not like I had much of a choice, though. All that radiation…" I start to trail off, self-consciously. "Kind of ironic when you think about it. We were so worried about the Covenant wiping us out with their plasma weapons. Never thought about all the radiation those things gave off. I know a lot of marines with the same problem… Aw, who cares…? Where are we going now?" I ask, eager to change the subject.

"Science wing." She answers. "Come on, I'll introduce you to someone important."

Palmer keeps walking, and I follow right beside her. We exit the officer's block back into the larger halls. Hoss and the ONI goons start following us after a while, but from farther away this time. They're doing a better job of trying to be discreet, but I have eyes in the back of my head. Someone in what looks like a golf cart drives past us on the left, probably necessary for getting around if this ship really is as big as they say it is. Christ. I might not want to admit it, but all the walking reminds me I'm not as fit as I used to be.

Eventually, we get to another deck where the hallway thins out, and the ONI shadows disappear again. The metal walls, deck, and ceiling look like they're a different metal, more like polished silver or chrome than steel and brass, like it is everywhere else. The place is almost an icy blue from the bright lights installed in the ceiling, like those really annoying headlights some cars have. There's no one around, the halls are completely empty, creating a very eerie effect. I'm about to ask where we are, when I notice a digital sign on the ceiling that says "INFINITY SCIENCE." We take a left, then a right, and then a bunch of other turns I don't bother memorizing, until we come to a polished sign on the wall that says "Physics Department."

"I'll introduce you to Doctor Glassman. He's our lead expert on slipspace physics. He's also a bit clumsy, so don't hand him any sharp or pointy objects."

"Glassman, huh? That's some name."

At the end of the long hallway I find myself in, there's a daunting set of black padded double doors. They slide open when we get to them, Palmer taking the lead, into a large circular room. I step into what looks like some kind of lab, there's all sorts of computers and screens with readouts scrolling across them, and a whole bunch of other machines with functions I don't have the IQ to guess. It's like a forest of metal and plastic machines, with what looks like a giant fluid tank in the center. If Palmer wasn't here for me to follow, I'd probably get lost.

"Doctor Glassman, we have a visitor." Palmer announces to the room. Her voice carries.

The only other person in the room looks up from their station cluttered with small metal bits, paper, sketches, diagrams, blueprints, and a whole lot more paperwork. From the side I can see it's a man. He straightens up from his workstation, dinging himself on the back of his head on a work light that clamps onto the side of his desk.

"Oh… Hello there." He says softly, reflexively rubbing the back of his head.

He looks to be in his fifties, with light brown hair that's losing some of its color, going grey around his temples. Hell, he looks older than I do. He's got some lines and creases on his face, around his eyes and on his forehead. He doesn't look too old though, so there's not that much grey. Just from the first looks of him, he looks like someone who got into a lot of trouble when he was a kid. He wears a lab coat, and either some thick rimmed glasses, or prescription goggles. He's got a band-aid on his left temple.

"Doctor Glassman, this is our new member, Micky. Micky, Doctor Henry Glassman, Ph.D." Palmer introduces me. She's probably heard that my last name is somewhat of a trigger word for me. The doc just goes with it. She gestures with an open hand.

"Hey there, doc." I shake his hand. His grip is weak.

"Hello." He says, before he turns to Palmer. "Another Spartan?"

"That's the plan."

"Oh, that's good. We'll need all the Spartans we can get if we're going to Requiem."

"Uh yeah, that reminds me." I voice something that's been puzzling me. "What exactly is the purpose of going to this Forerunner world? What are we doing?"

"Research," Glassman answers, "Requiem is full of Forerunner technology I just can't wait to discover. As advanced as we are, what we find could propel our technology decades, even centuries into the future. I'm quite looking forward to what you Spartans bring back from your missions."

"What good is Forerunner technology to us, doctor?" I ask, though I'm not about to forget that comment. Like anyone who's not a Spartan isn't good enough to hold a rifle anymore. I've done some recovery missions in my time, and sometimes we found what we later learned were Forerunner ruins. Of course, all those planets are glasses now, but before the Battle of Earth, we learned that the Forerunners refer to us humans as "Reclaimers." All I know is that apparently, when they all disappeared after they fired the halos, they intended for us to inherit all their stuff.

"Well for one thing, Infinity's engines are Forerunner." He answers me.

"Really?" I turn to Palmer in surprise, but her expression is one of disinterest. We make eye contact, but she doesn't answer me. Instead, she lets Glassman take this one.

"Oh yes." He explains eagerly. "They're the most advanced we've ever seen, far more advanced than anything our top physicists could design. They're so good, in fact, you can't even feel the deck beneath your feet when we jump into slipspace."

"Oh really?" I got used to making jumps over the years. It wasn't fast or easy, but if I'm in a firefight when it happens, I don't skip a beat. I've known some people who get sick from it, like they feel like they're upside down, or they get dizzy, or stuff like that. Personally, I always got light-headed, like I stood up too fast. Once, I blacked out and almost cracked my skull open on the deck.

"Well, you can, but it should be nothing for a trained ODST." Palmer corrects him.

"Right. Well anyway, my job is to study whatever Forerunner artifacts or technology we recover on Requiem, and hopefully we'll learn some of their secrets."

Palmer nudges my arm to the right. "We'll talk about that later." She tells me quietly. I don't think Dr. Glassman hears her.

"Right, anyways, what kind of science are we talking about here, doc? Physics? I'd hate to disappoint you doctor, but I'm kinda dumb." I confess. "I'm into biology, though. That's kinda cool, I guess."

"Oh, no, no I'm not a biologist." He says innocently. "But bring me back a Forerunner artifact, and I can teach you all about it." Somewhere in his eyes, I see him looking down on me. Not literally, I'm about half a foot taller than he is, but he looks at me differently, an imperceptible spark in his eyes. Deep in there, there's a small flicker, there always is. Because he knows he's smarter than me. Scientists.

"We'll talk about that too." Palmer interjects, before shifting her posture and separating me from Glassman. "Anyways, thanks doc, we'll catch you later."

"Excellent, I look forward to working with you."

Palmer ushers me out of the room, and the doors close behind us. Walking again, I just keep following her, turning where she turns. I don't know where we're going next, but I wish I had one of those golf carts. Before I have a chance to ask Palmer, she turns to me and gives me a funny look.

"You're 'kinda dumb?' What's that supposed to mean?" She almost laughs.

"Hey, I know I'm not the smartest, but at least I don't try to act smarter than I am. Not like some people. I may not be the brightest, but I'm not incompetent. I'm smart enough to know how stupid I am. But I'm good at my job, and I know what matters."

"Good." She approves.

"And it's not that I don't like science. I think science is pretty cool. I love biology. It's guys like that I don't like."

"Who, Glassman?"

"Yeah, that guy…" I grumble. "I know his type. Guy thinks he's a genius. They all do. They're always so fucking smug when they get to educate a dumbass like me, the didactic jerks."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Eggheads."

"They all think they're experts, they all think they're the smartest. If I'd choked down all the pills the experts told me to, I'd have overdosed four times over. Honestly, there's only two reasons why people become doctors, and contributing to society isn't either of them. It's because they have a desperate pathological need to prove they're smarter than everyone around them. That, or to impress girls."

That actually coaxes a laugh out of Palmer. Not much, but a laugh none the less. "Sure, Micky, I get you." She says, grinning.

"So, wait, I don't get it. What kind of ship is this? Is this a warship or a research vessel?" I ask. That's something that's been bothering me for a while now. I've known a few UNSC ships that had labs on them, resident doctors and physicists too. But I never focused much on that. Of course, I'd sometimes volunteered to hang out around with the science-types, see what I could learn, maybe educate myself on something interesting. But of course, I was just too stupid to even try to do that, and I shouldn't have wasted the experts' valuable time. What with all the important tenure checks they were busy collecting for doing fucking nothing.

"Infinity is a little bit of both." Palmer informs me. "She was commissioned during the war, supposed to be the largest warship ever constructed, but they only finished the project after the war ended. You were still on ice at the time. Now, our job is to provide military escorts for the eggheads to whatever shiny Forerunner places they want to see. We have the resources of an entire city at our disposal, so there's not much we can't do."

"Alright, where are we going now?"

"You'll see."

"Well, wherever it is, can we please take a golf cart? Or a taxi, or something? If this ship is seriously as big as a city, how are we supposed to get from place to place?" I ask. She doesn't reply, but I get the feeling I'm about to find out.

In the halls, we take turn after turn through the science wing, still as bright and icy blue as before. It's a long walk, most of which I zone out for, but eventually we come to a set of stairs. It looks like a subway station from the inside. I see a platform at the bottom, not a soul in sight, not even Hoss. What seems like an empty subway car waits for us on some kind of tracks, like a really big tin can on wheels. This must be Infinity's transit system.

"Oh, I see… that's pretty neat." I blurt out loud, before turning to Commander Palmer. "Oh, so, I've been meaning to ask you something."

"What's that?"

"The whole thing about the Covenant." I say to her, as we both enter the shuttle, and she enters something into a keypad next to the doors. "We beat them, right?"

"Were you even listening to Captain Lasky?" She asks impatiently.

"Yeah, but the thing with the Halos, the Forerunners, are they still going on about that? They're still motivated by their religion?"

"Well, not all of them. But the ones we're fighting now are still a bit overzealous about things. They believe Requiem is the home of one of their gods." She takes a seat next to the doors, and I sit across from her. The inside of this thing looks a lot like the metro.

"Oh yeah, right." I laugh and point a finger. "Remember what they used to call it? Their 'Great Journey,' remember that?"

"Yeah, I remember." She grins. "They're occupying Requiem for now, trying to dig up whatever relics they think are important. I guess that's the thing you've gotta love about the hinge-heads: predictable as clockwork."

The smile on my face quickly vanishes. "Okay, you said it again. I was gonna let it slide, but not anymore. What's the deal?"

"What?" She asks, her smile gone as well. She looks at me funny.

"Hinge-head. What's the deal?"

"That's what we call them."

"No it's not."

"Well, what do you call them?" She asks as if I'm crazy.

"Split-lip!" I demand. "We have always called them split-lips!" She just shrugs her shoulders, as if that's not suspicious at all. Christ, I must have been away for a long time. "If Spartan candidates get picked from people already in the military, what did you used to do before you were a Spartan?" I ask.

"I used to be an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, just like you." She answers.

"Wow. Some Helljumper you must have been." I say sarcastically. I don't believe her, and she can tell.

"It's true. I got picked because I did my job exceptionally well. Lots of ODSTs like you are Spartans now."

"I can guarantee you've never seen anyone like me." I think saying that made me throw up in my mouth a little.

"Sure." She says, as the shuttle comes to a stop. Palmer stands up, and I take her left side as the doors automatically hiss open.

"Ladies first." I wave a hand before the door.

"Age before beauty, time traveler." She mimics me.

"I don't look that old."

"Yeah, right."

Wherever we are, it looks like all the other oversized halls I've seen so far, but Palmer seems to treat this one differently, with a sort of respect I haven't seen. Her posture changes as we walk. She picks up the pace a little, getting a few paces ahead of me.

"Last stop: S-deck." She announces, holding out an open hand. I can tell she's very proud of this part. "This is the central hub for all Spartans onboard Infinity, and your new home away from home."

"Yeah, we'll see about that." I mutter. Hoss is following behind me now, and a couple other agents. I ignore them for now, and pay attention to Commander Palmer's speech.

"Infirmary, armor-bay, mess hall, personal quarters, training courses, everything you'll ever need while onboard Infinity. S-deck keeps three hundred Spartans ready to deploy around the clock."

"That's a little heavy-handed, don't you think?" I stab at her. I have no idea why people have this fascination with trying to be worthy of the original Spartan-Twos, like there's something so special just about the title. It's just a word. I've been an ODST for years, and I never wanted to be a Spartan. She doesn't reply, but she leads me to a part of the hall where there's a very, very large observational window. From the deck to the ceiling, she stops in front of it and gestures. On the other side…

"Holy…" I blurt, the words don't even get far.

"That's the armor bay." I hear her to my right, though her voice sounds oddly distant. All I can do is stare, hypnotized. It's a lot to take in at once.

A massive room lies on the other side of the glass, big, way bigger than an airplane hanger. The ceiling must be five stories high at least; you could fly a pelican through there. Absolutely stunning, even if things seem to be unnecessarily super-sized around here, this place is a real feat of engineering. Very clean and polished, there are a few crews of techs in scrubs milling around on the floor below. They look like ants from up here, and we're not even at the ceiling. Along the length of the bay, a long walk with what must be armor-fitting rigs takes up both sides, and another level above the main floor, a third one on the right side.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Palmer asks rhetorically.

"Yeah," I reply, still stunned, unable to look away, "welcome to the thunderdome."

I'm interrupted briefly by another voice from down the hall. "Commander Palmer, a word please?" I turn to my right, and see Hoss and the two ONI agents waiting impatiently, down the hall. I don't know what they'd want with her, I look to Commander Palmer for an answer, but she just shrugs and walks off.

Returning my gaze to the window, I watch for something, any hint of how the way things might work in this place. Someone who I guess must be a next-generation Spartan-Four comes along on the bottom level, wearing what must be the under-suit, kind of like Commander Palmer's. The Spartan stops, turns to his left, and walks down the lane towards the rig at the end, where a team of half a dozen technicians wait for him. It looks like a torture device, or one of the gyroscopes my grandfather gave to me as a kid, over a lifetime ago. The guy plants his feet in a pair of armored boots at the bottom, and grabs the handles at 2 and 10 o'clock, clamps armor onto the forearms, and then the machine clamps on the leg armor. Next, the rig lifts and pivots the Spartan on an angle, and the chest plate clamps on, followed by the shoulder pads. After that, the rig levels the Spartan, he steps out of the rig, grabs his helmet, and walks away.

All under 60 seconds.

"Wow, that sure is something." I say out loud. I turn to face Commander Palmer on my right… She looks like she really fucking hates me.

"What?"

"Move."

"Excuse me?"

"Tour's over, move."

I blame Hoss. "Hey, what's the big deal?" I demand, impatiently marching over to the three agents. "What's the problem?"

"You heard the lady. Move it." Hoss replies flatly. God, what an asshole.

"I don't take orders from you." I snap back, pointing an angry finger. Bad move. The agent on the left, a pouting, scowling tough girl in a black operator's cap, immediately pulls a humbler from her holster and thumbs it on. The sound of buzzing, crackling electricity is enough to get me motivated. I get the feeling she'd like to take me down with her little fly zapper, I don't doubt she would, since I'm not wearing any body armor. I turn about-face and walk at a rather brisk pace.

"That's it, tour's over." Palmer tells me. "Your assignment starts now."

"What starts now? You haven't told me, no one's told me what's going on! What am I doing here?" I demand, frustrated. I hate this, I hate not knowing. Things have really changed since I've been away. First there's a new generation of Spartans running around, who obviously think they're better than me, and we're fighting the covenant over some new forerunner planet we've just discovered. I remember when the Forerunners were just a myth, just a spot on the map ONI wanted me to recon. On top of it all, ONI is breathing down my neck, got me on a leash, and they're tightening the noose. Things used to be different. I used to outrank everyone on this boat. Now I'm getting tasered, and taking orders from someone I don't even know.

"Your new assignment is to assemble a team of Spartans-fours and lead them through the Requiem campaign. You've been relocated to Infinity for the duration, and your rank has been noted." Palmer tells me, walking again. "However, you will answer to me and Captain Lasky as long as you're here. I'll be your commanding officer, I lead your missions from the ops center, but it's your job to pick your Spartans and lead them in the field."

"That's fine by me."

"Captain Lasky and I will give you a list of candidates to choose from. Ultimately the decision who to accept and who to deny is in your hands, but CINCONI trusts your judgment."

"And you don't?" I can tell from her tone.

"What I think doesn't matter." She replies, resentfully.

"Hey, I'm a vet, I know what I'm doing."

"Sure you do."

"You may not know it this, but I was on Reach, and Harvest." I set the record straight. "You Spartans think you're something special? I'll show you what a real ODST is made of."

"Sure you will."

We eventually come to an incline leading up to set of titanic doors. I'm a pretty tall guy, but these things are massive, way taller than they need to be. There's a lot of loud noises coming from behind them, it sounds like machinery; engineering work, welding, cutting and grinding metal, someone hammering on something really loud. On the other side of the open door, we come to the top of a balcony that looks over a massive open area that must be one of Infinity's hangars. The place is huge, with plenty of warthogs and forklifts hauling cargo around on the deck. I notice the powerful luminous blue glow of Earth's oceans through the open bay door. I was an Earth kid, so it's nice to be home. While I'm taking in the many sights and sounds of the massive hangar from the top of the admin walk, my eyes glide over something I have to take a second look over.

"What the hell is that thing?" I ask, pointing.

"That's a pelican." Palmer replies, as if I'm the stupidest man in the world.

"Since when did pelicans look like that?" I know I'm not crazy. They've changed the look of pelicans now. The cockpit looks smaller, narrower, and the windshield is different, sort of bulging. Christ, it looks fucking stupid. How much can possibly change in only 4 fucking years?

Ignoring me, Palmer continues, arms akimbo. "You have twenty-four hours to get whatever it is you need to get done, if you want to head down to the planet."

"And how am I going to do that? I don't suppose you have any spare SOEIVs lying around, do you?" That would be great, actually.

"We're in orbit right now, currently getting restocked and resupplied before we head back to Requiem. There are plenty of shuttles heading to and from the surface. You should be able to hitch a ride easily enough."

"Actually, I have the perfect candidates in mind already." I can't help myself but smile, and I start heading down the ramp, towards one of the shuttles unloading its cargo at the top of a landing platform

"So where are you going?" Palmer shouts down from the top of the ramp. I turn around to answer her and walk backwards. I feel a mischievous grin crawl across my face.

"To dig up some graves!"

Hello again! And no I'm not dead, I was just really, really busy.

So after a while I decided it was about time I put some new chapters up. I'd like to genuinely thank everyone for reading so far, I even have some fans. As always, please rate, comment, ask questions, and of course feel free to point out any spelling or mistakes I've otherwise made. I'm sorry, I know it's no excuse for a writer, but I don't have an editor to work with me, although I do find mistakes sometimes. And be sure to read the author's note in the next chapter.