Interlude 2: Foreign Correspondence

"…In other news, UNSC HIGHCOM reports today that a high level incursion sent to root out Covenant in the Hydra System has failed. While the details remain sketchy at this juncture, it appears that the joint task force assembled by Captain Jean Rousseau, commander of the UNSC Wolf's Sun, was badly defeated following a string of ill-planned attempts to deter Covenant forces away from the system's some twelve colonies. Exact casualties are unknown at this point, but point to figures in the thousands."

"The joint task force, which included the likes of a SPARTAN super soldier, is just another blow against the UNSC's war at home, as more and more people are beginning to doubt the Space Command's ability to effectively keep the Covenant forces away from human colonies."

"…the fact that their so-called 'super soldier' couldn't help anybody on this mis-be-guided attack, despite all his training and augmentation, to me, that proves that this military stratagem of grooming children to become super soldiers is a failure…"

"…a failure…"

With a snarl, he slaps aside the data archive pad he was reading, almost upsetting his glass of whiskey on the oak desk. His eyes search the room wildly, looking for something, anything to break, to maim, to transfer this agony he's feeling onto something else.

Then with a deep breath the anger flees, banished back to its hiding place where it will emerge later on, as to its hosts fancy. It's host, on his part, rose from his desk and ran shaking hands through lank black hair. It had grown longer in recent months, he should get it cut. He should also remember to shave and clean his room and be polite to non-Spartan's and everything else.

But he was a soldier and he was alone and these trivial things held little consequence to him.

He paced back and forth in the room, from the bed to the desk, hands limp at his sides. He stopped at the small bookcase, eyeing distastefully the rows of books. Knowledge, all powerful and all useless in this infernal hell he and everyone else was stuck in. He thought this with growing rage, rage that hissed through his teeth and forced his nails to dig into his palms until he could almost feel the blood starting to flow.

But even the most carefully stoked rage was banked and cooled. After five, ten minutes of pacing he was back at the desk, pen in hand and plain piece of paper before him. He stared at it, heart pounding, wondering, for the thousandth time, exactly what he was doing.

Finally he lowered the pen and began to write:

December 11, 2550

Dear Claire,

(he hated writing that, made him feel weak, but what else could he do?)

Just got back from another operation, out beyond normal space channels. I know you don't want to hear these ops, but that's the reason why I haven't written in three months. (God that sounded weak even for him).

How have you been? Yeah, I know, probably the same as ever. Same here, same here, except that I keep having those dreams. You remember, the ones I told you about? Bristow says that its my subconscious, admonishing me for what happened back in TORN VICTOR. He says its not my fault, that I did everything right, but that it still wasn't good enough. I wish I could believe him.

I know you don't hold much respect for Bristow, but he was my father when I had nobody. He isn't afraid to do the necessary things, the things that no one else would do (well, at least that's truth) for the greater good.

God, this letter sounds so pretentious right now. I just wanted to right, to check up on you, so-

Damn it! He crumpled up the paper and tossed it onto his bed. After a moment though, he picked the paper up, smoothed it out, and placed it in the bottom drawer, along with all the letters Claire had written back to him.

He paused now, and taking the whole stack, began sifting through them. He read briefly from each:

November 21, 2548

Hey David,

I know its only been a month since we parted ways, but we said we'd keep in touch, right? Well, keep in touch as best we can. I'll try to keep this letter as neutral as possible; God only knows if someone isn't checking your mail over there on Reach.

The squad is good. Katy says she's enclosing something with this letter. I'm not going to say what and ruin the surprise. As for me, well, its hard, but I think I'm finally getting used to the…

December 24, 2548

Hey David,

Thanks for the quick response. Merry Christmas from everybody at the Wolfs Sun! I know by the time you receive this it'll probably be March, but it still counts.

Katy was shocked- and thrilled crazy, I might add- that you enclosed a kiss at the end of your last response. I didn't know how you'd react to that mistletoe in my last letter, or more importantly, how you'd explain it to anybody checking your mail, but Katy was still happy. She misses you David. She knows that during the incursion, you were just doing what you had…

April 5, 2549

David,

We were worried when you didn't respond until last week. I really, really hate written mail, but the way things are looking, I don't think shore leave at Reach is on the horizon, so this is it.

I should have known you'd be on one of Bristow's operations. I know he's like a father to you David, but he's a Commanding Officer, a perfect one. The perfect commanding officer is the one who loves every one of his soldiers, but at the same time, is willing to sacrifice them all without batting an eye. I know you know that; you're bright enough, even if a little hardheaded sometimes.

Just don't get yourself killed. You're my friend, doesn't matter what else anybody calls you, and if you disappeared again, I don't know…

October 11, 2549

Dear David,

I really hate these letters. Make's me feel like some slut in some stupid romantic drama. Yeah, I said romantic. You said not to ask what you were doing, but I've gotten three letters from you in three months. That makes me wonder if you haven't stored letters at the mail center and jumped off the face of the galaxy doing Bristow's dirty work again.

I was on leave back on Earth recently. First time in at least three years. If you ever get the chance David, you should definitely visit New York. It's a big place, but I'm sure with your skills, you shouldn't have much trouble finding your way…

December 9, 2549

It was good to get a letter that was actually a response from you, instead of a P.O. Box gift you left. Yeah, we're all still alive and kicking out here on the Wolf's Sun. Captain Ross was moved up to command staff- against his wishes, of course- and he's now a Major. Lt. Girard is now B-Company's CO. All the ladies are still…what word would you say? Enamored, with him, I guess? Sounds about right.

I'd ask you how Keller was, but considering our last encounter, back during the TORN VICTOR days; I don't really want to ask. David, I want you to know that the Matt Keller I knew was a good man. He was uptight, but he wasn't crazy. Now, I don't know what replaced him.

What happened to him David? Why would the Covenant torture him like that? It's not like them to take prisoners…

January 26, 2550

David,

This is going to be my last letter for awhile. We're going on some deep cover operation, so no correspondence sent or received. I guess you would know the drill well enough. Not that it really matters; you never were much of a writer, even if you read all those classics under Bristow's tutelage.

I have a bad feeling about this one, David. It's just a gut instinct, but I've learned to follow my gut on stuff like this. I don't know…

Anyway, I enclosed a picture of us, right after we beat away a Covenant advance on a small moon outpost. It barely qualified as a victory, but as you can probably see, we didn't really care. We were happy we just won once.

Take care of yourself David. I'll write as soon as we're back in secure space.

-Claire

It had been almost eleven months since he had received this letter. In that time he had written, and shelved or threw away, at least half a dozen letters, in between the dozen or so special operations he had undertaken with Bristow.

He took a sip of the whiskey in his glass. It was unpleasant, even after all these months, but it had a subtle smoothness to it that David had learned to appreciate in the months following that incursion in the Hydra system. Whiskey helped him. He never drank enough to get seriously drunk, but just enough to ease the transition between awake and asleep. He had learned to enjoy a glass with Bristow too, usually after a completed operation, when they could just kick back and enjoy each others company.

He had told Bristow, a few days after returning from the Hydra System, how he had made friends with the two ODSTs back on the Wolfs Sun. He did this for two reasons: one, so Keller would not inform Bristow first and make it look like he was trying to hide something, and two, because he knew he couldn't keep a secret from Bristow, not even after all these years. He had expected Bristow to be surprised, if not angry, but the old man never lost his cold façade, never batted an eyelash. He had even given the friendship his blessing.

You're a grown man now, David. You've long earned the right to pick and choose your friends, without my needing to approve them.

His exact words, David remembered. He mulled over them now as he nursed his whiskey.

A slight padding was at the door, and suddenly a small tube shaped dog with a shining smooth brown coat shuffled into the room. David reached down with a smile and ruffled the dog's ears. "Poncho, you moron, you should have stayed outside. Today's the only day the sun's going to shine." The dog licked his hand in response and jumped onto his leg, eyes begging for treats. David stuck his pinky into his glass and let the mutt lick the whiskey off the tip of his finger.

Poncho was the Christmas gift of over three years ago. David had christened him Poncho, after one of the secretaries in the Asymmetric Warfare Division, a woman with a family, gave the puppy a little poncho, "for wet weather", as she freely explained to David. The sight of the little mongrel trying walk around without tripping on the cloth almost brought tears to David's eyes.

Poncho was the most fun out of life he got now. The rest- monotony and whiskey broken by days and weeks of tension and terror.

His eyes fell to the pictures scattered on his desk. The first one was the one Claire had sent with her last letter, a picture of the squad on the surface of the backwater moon they had taken back against the Covenant. There must have been air on that moon, because their helmets were off. Their faces were grimy with dirt and sweat but radiant with genuine smiles, happy that they had actually won for once.

The second picture was one they had taken back during the Hydra incursion, right before their second mission groundside. It was a big picture, of the entire team, including Captain "Red" Kennedy, and the Spartan-III's Lee and Jennifer, to fill in for the people they had lost on Macedon. Everyone was smiling the faint, slightly ironic smile of hardened warriors going into battle. On the bottom of the picture, someone had scrawled, Kicking ass and taking names. Sucks for you Mr. Charlie Foxtrot! –TF TORN VICTOR, April 2548.

David remembered the photograph well. There he was, upper right corner, towering over everyone else in the team. He had kept his helmet on, but depolarized his visor for the picture, at Claire's request. Speaking of which…

There she was, standing right next to him. She had taken her helmet off for the picture, and even in otherwise full combat dress she looked resplendent.

Resplendent…you miserable fucker, he thought jadedly.

He buried his head in his arms, feeling the cool oak desk against his cheek. Alright, he argued silently to himself, alright, lets face the facts.

I'm a Spartan super soldier. I'm twenty-seven years old. I've spent over two-thirds of my life training and fighting and killing, doing a lot of killing. I earn medals like a Boy Scout. Friends, family, lovers, I have almost none of those, because I've never had a need for them.

Two and a half years ago I met a good group of ODSTs and lowered my guard a bit. I made two friends. I got close to one. And now I miss the living hell out of her.

That was all true. Three months in TORN VICTOR, days spent fighting with Claire at his side, nights sometimes on patrol, or retrieval missions, or holed up in some makeshift command post trying to cadge sleep, Claire almost always by his side.

She was there when he almost got his face mauled by a berserk Brute, leaving him with a distinctive upside down y-shaped scar on the left side of his mouth. Ouch.

She was there when they successfully pushed the Covenant advance force out of the city on Arcadia-II, then watched as half of the alien's fleet was decimated by Battle group Normandy.

She was there when he was forced to call in another Shiva nuke on a city they had lost on the Massey colony. That time, she had hugged him, instead of the other way around.

They had shared foxholes on the frontlines. They had shed blood together. They had cracked morbid jokes in true blue soldier style, celebrated minor victories, suffered through terrible defeats. They had come to rely on one another on a level that surpassed friendship, which was different than that of lovers; it was a soldiers bond, if so dubious a term could be applied.

He picked up the picture and crashed onto his bunk, listening to the music spilling from the player on his desk. "Steel Rain", by a long dead artist named Chris Cornell. Claire had introduced David to the artist's work during down time on the Wolf's Sun. Once he had returned to Reach, he had procured, furtively and with surprising difficulty, several music chips from old artists like Cornell, a British jazz singer named Sting, even a "hardcore rock band" named Papa Roach. It was an interesting change of pace from the Beethoven and Bach that Bristow had played when David was growing up.

The whiskey had mellowed him a bit; he wasn't drunk but relaxed. Meditatively, he pondered on the feeling of missing someone. It was alien to him, even more so than the Covenant, because he was exposed almost daily to the Covenant, while this feeling had just appeared out of the blue, with no rhyme or reason.

He briefly remembered the name 'Ambrose', remembered the feeling of loss connected with it, and the memories of dark streets and not enough food and Smiley, the masked thief who left him to die. But this feeling was different. This was one of affection.

He suddenly realized that this must be what it feels like for regular people, un-augmented non-super soldiers. This was a human feeling.

The irony of being mystified by a simple instinctual human emotion wasn't lost on David. He smiled briefly to himself.

"I'm glad to see your smiling." A voice from the doorway murmured.

David turned his head sideways on his pillow, smiling more broadly at the lean old man in the doorway. Even though it had been twenty ought years since Bristow had retired from the field, he was still silent on his feet, even able to sneak up on a Spartan.

David sat up. Something was wrong, he could tell. Bristow's face was grim, anxious, his cold gray eyes uncharacteristically emotional. "What is it, Bristow?"

The old man handed David a data pad. "I thought you might want to see this." His voice was hoarse, faint. "I received the news just now. No doubt it will hit the civilian channels by this evening."

David took the data pad with foreboding, feeling a growing sense of dread tighten in his gut. What the hell is it…?

But he knew. He had known, always known, since the day he had allowed Claire and Katy to call him by his given name. He looked at the data pad with a chill, the chill that comes from looking at a friend's grave, and it didn't help to know that that grave had always been there, waiting for his friend.

Waiting for…

He only read brief snatches of the report from ONI Recon-235: "…non-UNSC space…debris field…lacked enough for positive identification…searing indicates Covenant anti-matter charges…UNSC Wolfs Sun…no survivors detected…"

His eye twitched. He swallowed, trying to unclog his throat.

"…no survivors detected…"

Wordlessly, he handed the data pad back to Bristow. The old man laid a comforting hand on David's broad shoulder. "I'm sorry, David. I wish there was something…"

"Bristow." His voice sounded faraway in his own ears. "Don't, please."

The old man's eyes took on an emotion that looked almost like sorrow. "I thought you would want to hear it from me, before you inevitably heard it on less…personal, channels." He squeezed his shoulder and walked out of the room.

He sat on his bed, hunched forward, one immobile block of nerves and muscle. His mouth was slightly agape, but his breathing was so shallow that it barely registered. His eyes never blinked, the only movement was in his chest, where his heart pumped blood mindlessly, needlessly, without rhyme or reason.

Gradually he became aware that the world was trembling beneath his feet. No, that wasn't it; he was trembling, not in any one area, but a massive quake emanating from his core to the very ends of his body. His hands shook like a palsied old mans and his lips trembled.

He glanced wildly to every corner of the room. Where, he thought through the growing polar numbness of his mind, where did I put the exit to this house of horrors? Where's the brakes on this psychotic train? Where is the parachute on this free fall?

Nowhere, that's where.

He got up, stumbling, and stiff fingers groped for the letters on his desk, the pictures, the music player, everything. He shoved the entire bundle into the bottom drawer of his desk, smashing it down as much as he could, trying to fill the growing hole in his chest.

But no matter how hard he smashed, the hole wouldn't coalesce.

Finally he stopped, panting and trembling. Gently, he picked up the music player, reinserted the battery, and switched it on. He set it on his desk and fell back on his bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as music drifted through one ear and out the other.

This will fade, his mind argued with what little power it still had. This won't last forever. This emptiness will either get filled up by rage or hate or it will simply go away in the face of more immediate matters. Even the most biting cold loss will lose its sharp edge. The cutters curse, to become accustomed to the knife. It is a phase, it will pass with time and distance and memory. You'll get over this.

His let his mind tell him that, but all the while, one thought kept replaying over and over in his head: Claire's dead. I wasn't there. I failed. They're all gonna die. They're all gonna die.