Summary: (Y/N) has always been drawn to forgotten things — old machines, dusty books, broken relics of a world moving too fast to remember them. Fresh from finishing university classes, she visits a newly opened vintage shop, chasing dreams of building something greater than herself. But among the shelves of the past, she finds something far older — and far more dangerous — than she could have imagined.
Today is supposed to be the first step toward her future.
Request for one shot - Game and novel!John(He's been taking mission after another, much to everyone(Including Cortana, Blue Team including Linda, Avery Johnson, Miranda and even John's teenhood sweetheart)'s concern)) comes back from a mission, covered in bruises and cuts and has his wounds treated. Despite everyone(Including Cortana, Blue Team including Linda, Miranda, Avery Johnson and John's teenhood sweetheart)'s genuine concern, comfort and reassurance, John can't stop blaming himself. That night, John has a nightmare with PTSD flashback including Sam's sacrifice and death and Linda's near-death experience and he finally allow himself to break as John's teenhood sweetheart and Cortana help and comfort him. At the end, John is learning to open up to everyone about his trauma and PTSD.
Master Chief x Fem! Reader
"The Weight We Carry" - angsts and fluff one shot
Summary: After one mission too many, John returns more fractured than he’ll admit—and finds that even legends must eventually rest.
Notes: I've never read the novels, and I also wrote this on my phone on vacation so sorry if the formatting is a bit off! But I hope it's well written to your liking!
The hangar bay smelled of plasma, scorched alloy, and the lingering static of re-entry.
The Pelican’s rear ramp hissed open, hydraulic arms venting compressed air as its battered passenger stepped down onto the deck. Spartan‑117 descended slowly, his weight calculated but not quite fluid—his right leg bearing the brunt of the impact, his left arm refusing to rise above the elbow. Dried blood spiderwebbed along the seams of his Mjolnir armor, most of it his own.
He didn’t speak. He never did, not unless words served a purpose.
But the silence was different this time. Heavier.
Cortana’s voice buzzed low through the private channel, brushing the inside of his helmet with a note of insistence. “You need medical. Now. That’s not a request.”
He said nothing, but didn’t resist as the bay filled with motion.
Blue Team was waiting before the ramp touched down fully. Kelly moved first—close enough to catch him if he stumbled, though she pretended not to. Fred nodded once, sharp and contained. Linda remained still, her rifle slung low, but her gaze followed his every movement with surgical precision.
They didn’t crowd him. But they didn’t leave his side either.
“Hell,” Sergeant Major Johnson muttered, stepping into view from the left. “You look like you picked a fight with the Covenant’s ugly cousin and didn’t even duck.”
The line was familiar—an attempt at levity. But his voice betrayed him. There was concern there. Real, unpolished, paternal. The kind John never quite knew how to answer.
John didn’t flinch. Just walked forward, slower than usual. The thud of his boots echoed in the metal chamber—each step leaving a faint smear where cracked plating met blood and heat.
Miranda Keyes stood further back, arms folded tightly across her uniform. Her jaw clenched when she saw him. Her eyes flicked to his left side—just above the hip, where the armor was partially blackened, the alloy warped from a direct plasma hit.
“Chief,” she said, stepping forward. “You’re not cleared for deployment again until that leg is seen to. That’s an order.”
He inclined his helmet, barely perceptible.
Cortana's voice slipped through again, softer this time. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
The elevator doors behind them opened with a chime, and Lord Hood emerged, flanked by two aides who wisely stayed back. The Admiral's expression was unreadable, but his posture was not. This was not protocol. This was not formality.
This was worry.
“Stand down, Spartan,” Hood said evenly, stopping just short of the group. “That’s an order.”
John came to a halt, visor locked forward. The faint hiss of his internal systems hummed around him like a shroud.
“We’ve got you scheduled for immediate evaluation,” Hood continued. “Deck twelve. Medical wing.”
A pause.
Then, something quieter: “I won’t lose another.”
The air shifted.
Blue Team stood a little straighter.
John didn’t respond.
The pain was manageable. The exhaustion less so. But it wasn’t the bruises or the cracked plating that weighed down his frame—it was something older. Something that had started bleeding long before this mission.
Cortana’s voice returned, low and final. “She’s waiting.”
He turned.
The corridor to the medical wing stretched long and empty ahead of him. Lights flickered faintly overhead.
He didn’t limp. But the shift in his gait didn’t go unnoticed.
And when the doors closed behind him, the bay stayed quiet longer than it should have.
The hallway felt longer than it should.
His boots struck the deck in slow, measured thuds, echoing faintly between the steel walls. The lights overhead flickered in quiet intervals, their glow too sterile, too clean for the things he carried with him. He moved like a man stitched together by duty—upright, armored, but each step a controlled fracture.
His motion sensors remained quiet. No threats. No hostiles. No reason for his heart rate to rise.
But it did anyway.
Cortana hadn’t spoken since the last door closed behind him. Her silence wasn’t unfamiliar—but this one was weighted, as if she didn’t trust herself to say the wrong thing. Or maybe she knew this was something even she couldn’t talk him through.
He turned down the final corridor. The one they always took when wounds weren’t just physical.
There were no guards stationed here, no hovering medical personnel. Just quiet—clean, polished floors, walls that muted sound, and the faint, distant hum of the ship’s systems vibrating underfoot.
Her office was ahead. The lights were on.
He stopped.
Not because he was uncertain. Spartans didn’t hesitate. Not outwardly. But something in his spine tightened, the way it always did before a drop. Before he had to face something that couldn’t be shot, outrun, or carried alone.
She hadn’t seen him yet.
But he knew she was there. She always stayed late when missions went dark for too long. Always kept her door open when he came back more damaged than usual. She was the only one who touched him without armor between them and didn’t flinch. The only one who looked at him and didn’t just see the legend. The only one who called him John with a voice that remembered who he’d been long before the galaxy demanded he become something else.
He stood still for a second longer. Let the quiet settle. Let the pain in his ribs sharpen.
Then he stepped forward.
The door hissed open with a soft exhale, and the warm, amber-toned light of her office spilled out into the corridor—gentler than the harsh fluorescence of the ship beyond. It painted the steel walls in soft gold, touched the edge of his boots as he stepped forward.
She was seated at her desk, fingers hovering over her tablet, mid-entry, the glow of the screen reflected faintly in her eyes.
At first, she didn’t move.
She looked up—and froze.
Not in fear. Not in shock. But in that small, soul-deep hesitation that comes when you see something you weren’t ready to see, even if you were waiting for it.
“John,” she said quietly, the name slipping from her lips like an instinct. Not a title. Not a rank. Just him.
She stood slowly, tablet forgotten on the desk, her hands lowering to her sides as her eyes swept over him. She didn’t speak right away—her breath caught just slightly when she took in the dark streak of blood trailing down his shoulder plate, the fractured joint at his elbow, the faint limp he tried so hard not to show.
The silence between them pulsed.
Then she stepped out from behind the desk.
The room was quiet but full—the low hum of the ship’s life systems, the subtle rustle of her uniform as she moved, the hush of her own breath quickening.
“You’re still in your armor,” she murmured, half-statement, half-concern.
He didn’t respond.
His visor faced her, impassive as always, but she knew him too well. She could read the way he carried his weight—slightly off, right leg favoring the left, posture held upright by willpower and muscle memory alone.
“You should’ve gone to med first,” she added, voice softer now. “Let them check you properly.”
Still nothing.
She reached his side slowly, not touching, not yet. Her gaze flicked over the worst of it—the carbon scoring near his flank, the dented chestplate, the microfractures in the visor’s surface.
When she finally spoke again, it wasn’t clinical.
“Are you hurt?”
A pause.
Then, voice low and quiet through the comms: “Not badly.”
Not a lie. But not the truth either.
Her lips parted like she might push, might ask what “not badly” meant when blood was smeared across his thigh plates and dried against the outer lining of his gloves—but she didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly and gave him a look he knew too well—measured, careful, but tethered to something that had nothing to do with duty.
“I’ll help you get it off,” she said. “Sit.”
He didn’t argue.
He moved to the medical cot in the corner of the office—sturdy, not standard-issue, one of the few things she’d brought with her from a prior station. He sat with the weight of someone whose exhaustion had finally outpaced his refusal to acknowledge it.
She followed without hesitation, reaching for the storage panel beside the desk where her tools were kept. No assistants. No audience. Just her. Just him.
When she returned to his side, she stood there for a moment, fingers brushing the outer casing of the helmet. She didn’t speak.
And then—softly—she placed a hand near the side of the visor, just enough to signal her intent.
“Can I?”
He gave the faintest nod.
And for the first time since stepping off that Pelican, he allowed himself to be seen.
She lifted the helmet carefully, fingertips grazing its rim as she tilted it forward and free. It came off with a soft, hollow click, the inside warm from use, the air around it sharp with static and the faintest tang of ozone.
She set it down on the nearby tray, her hand lingering on its side for a heartbeat longer than needed—steadying herself.
And then she looked at him.
His face was drawn, shadows carved beneath his eyes where rest had refused to settle. There was dried blood at the corner of his mouth, a gash just above his right brow where the skin had split and dried beneath the edges of the helmet seal. Bruises bloomed beneath the surface of his jaw, one curling up along his cheekbone like a fading echo of something much worse.
But it wasn’t just the wounds.
It was the way he sat. Not with pride. Not with stoic poise.
But still.
Like he hadn’t given himself permission to rest in weeks.
She didn’t speak.
She simply moved behind him and began unfastening the locks on his chest plate.
Each click echoed in the quiet of the office, soft and final. The armor gave way slowly—resisting, as if reluctant to let go. She peeled the plating back in sections, revealing the underlayer beneath: pressure suit torn in places, blood dried in others.
She drew in a breath and knelt beside him.
“Lift your arm for me,” she said gently.
He did, slower than usual, and she winced at the sight that followed—purple bruising where the muscles had been overworked past failure, the edge of a deep contusion along his ribs.
She worked in silence.
Disinfectant. Salve. Pressure bandages where needed.
No questions. No clinical assessments. Just presence.
Her fingers moved carefully, the pads of them warm against his skin as she pressed gauze into place. Every so often she would glance up, searching his face for signs of pain he would never admit.
“You pushed too far again,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer.
But his eyes drifted, unfocused, somewhere past the corner of the room. Watching something that wasn’t there.
“You think if you just keep moving… it’ll get better?”
Still, nothing.
Her voice didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to.
“John,” she said, quietly, “you don’t have to outrun ghosts. They already know where to find you.”
That brought his gaze back to hers.
Sharp. Haunted. But steady.
She leaned forward slightly, placing the last wrap over the edge of his shoulder.
“You didn’t fail anyone.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
And didn’t say a word.
================================================
Night settled heavy aboard the Infinity—not with silence, but a kind of gentled hum that reverberated through every wall, every vent, every floor panel. The low thrum of power systems coursing through the ship's spine created an ambient hush that most aboard had learned to sleep through. But not him.
John lay still in his quarters, the dimmed overhead lights casting a soft orange glow over the edge of his bed. His undersuit had been exchanged for standard-issue sleepwear—navy fabric loose against his frame, sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. The color looked muted against the deep bruising at his forearms, the healing cut across his collarbone, the rigid tension that refused to leave his shoulders.
He didn’t sleep. Not really.
Sleep came in pieces. Shallow dives into memory, then violent resurgence.
His bed was neatly made, as always, despite his body in it. The sheets pulled taut beneath him like he didn’t trust them to hold his weight. He lay on his back, arms resting on his chest, breathing slow but not steady.
Cortana’s voice had gone quiet—respectfully, not absently. She understood the rhythms of his silence better than anyone. When he didn’t speak for hours, it wasn’t disregard. It was preservation. She stayed in the background, watching, waiting.
At some point, the stillness overtook him.
And the nightmare began.
It came without warning—no slow descent, no distortion.
One moment he was lying in bed, and the next—
Flames.
Heat licked the edge of his boots, and ash burned the inside of his throat.
The training field at Reach—reduced to rubble.
He turned—rifle in hand—but the cries weren’t drills. They were real. Blue Team scattered ahead of him, shapes breaking through smoke. A sharp ping echoed through his HUD.
“Spartan-034 offline.”
Sam.
He ran toward the signature, shoulder-checking a falling beam, his lungs searing.
But it wasn’t enough.
Sam was there—body charred, face half-visible beneath a cracked helmet. He looked straight at him.
“You left me, John.”
No.
He spun—and the terrain shifted. A cliffside now, jagged rock underfoot. A body crumpled at the edge.
Linda.
Bleeding.
Barely breathing.
He dropped to his knees, tried to press into the wound, to call for evac—but no one answered. Not even Cortana. The only sound was the wind, dry and empty.
And beneath it all, a whisper: How many more, John?
His hands were soaked. Blood. Ash. Guilt.
He screamed—
And bolted upright in the dark.
His breath tore through his chest in harsh, uneven gasps. The room around him was the same—quiet, dim, safe—but it didn’t feel real. He wasn’t back yet.
Sweat clung to his skin, his shirt sticking to the line of his spine. One hand clutched the edge of the mattress, the other curled into a fist near his temple.
He didn’t notice the door open.
Not until her voice broke the static in his ears.
“John.”
Soft. Steady.
He didn’t turn right away.
His name had always sounded different coming from her—gentler, weightier. Like a tether. He didn’t have many of those left.
She stepped inside, barefoot, dressed in gray fatigue pants and a soft tank, her hair pulled back but loose enough to look slept-in. She carried nothing but her presence.
“I saw the med log,” she said quietly, easing the door closed behind her. “It flagged a spike.”
He didn’t answer.
She approached slowly—no rush, no sudden movements. Just a steady orbit, like gravity drawing her closer.
“Bad dream?”
Still nothing.
But his knuckles were white where they gripped the blanket.
She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him yet. Just close enough that he could feel her presence—not demand, not instruction. Just warmth.
“You were saying things,” she said gently. “Sam. Linda. You were—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked on the single word.
But it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t refusal.
It was... fragile.
She shifted slightly, finally lifting her hand to rest it against the back of his arm—light, grounding. “You don’t have to explain.”
He let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for hours. Maybe days.
“I should’ve saved him.”
“John…”
“I left him. I let him go in alone.” He swallowed hard, jaw clenched so tightly she could see the tension in the curve of his throat. “He was just a kid. We both were.”
Her hand didn’t move. “You were following orders.”
He shook his head. “That doesn’t make it right.”
Silence fell again, heavy and dense.
Then—finally—he shifted toward her.
Not much. Just enough that his shoulder brushed hers, that his body no longer faced the wall but the center of the room. It was the closest he’d come to reaching out.
“I see him,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the dark. “Every time I close my eyes.”
She turned slightly, resting her other hand over his. “That’s not your fault. None of it is.”
He looked down at her fingers. Smaller than his. Warmer. Unarmored.
“Why do you stay?” he asked.
And something in his voice broke when he said it.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Because you’ve carried everyone else for long enough.”
That was it.
That was the moment.
He let go of the blanket—and let himself fall forward.
Not completely. Not uncontrolled.
But enough.
His forehead came to rest against her shoulder, breath hitching. His arms stayed at his sides, still too rigid to wrap around her, but the surrender was unmistakable.
She held him.
Quietly. Steadily.
Not like a commander. Not like a nurse.
Just... like her.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered.
And for the first time in what felt like years—He believed her.
She didn’t ask him to move.
When his weight leaned into her, she simply adjusted—leaned back against the bulkhead where the bed met the wall, and let him come to rest there, shoulders bowed, forehead near her collar, breathing shallow.
It wasn’t comfort, not exactly. Not yet.
It was permission.
For the first time in years, he wasn’t the one holding someone else up.
Her hand smoothed over the back of his head, into damp hair, fingers slow and soothing. The tremble in his frame had faded, but not the tension. His body was used to wounds—it wasn’t pain that kept him braced. It was everything else.
She didn’t fill the silence with empty words.
She knew better than that.
It was Cortana who appeared next—quietly.
Her figure flickered into form on the tabletop by the far wall. A soft pulse of light framed her, blue holographic strands weaving through her posture like unsettled air. She didn’t speak. Not yet. But the way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides was all too human.
She was worried.
Desperately so.
But she gave him space. Gave them space.
She knew this moment wasn’t hers to intrude on.
His voice, when it came, was low—rough around the edges, scraped raw.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
(Y/N) kept her fingers moving gently through his hair. “Stop what?”
“Running. Fighting. Trying to... fix it.” His breath caught. “I know I can’t. But if I stop moving, I feel like they’re all going to catch up to me.”
She didn’t need to ask who they were.
The ghosts didn’t wear name tags. They didn’t have to.
“I thought if I kept going, if I didn’t let myself—”
He broke off.
She pressed a kiss—not romantic, not intentional, just instinctual—to the crown of his head.
“You’re not weak for needing a second to breathe, John.”
“You weren’t there,” he said, barely a whisper. “Sam... he was smiling when he died. I was fourteen.”
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t speak.
“I keep thinking if I had done one thing different—”
“Then it wouldn’t have been you,” she said gently.
He turned his face just slightly—enough to bury it against her shoulder. His eyes stayed open. Dry. But they stung.
She held him tighter.
“You don’t have to carry this by yourself anymore.”
He didn’t respond.
But she felt it in his breathing—the slow unclenching, the hesitant release of something too long locked down.
Cortana’s voice finally stirred, quieter than she’d ever been. “He hasn’t let anyone in like this. Not since...”
She didn’t finish.
Didn’t have to.
(Y/N) met her eyes—holographic and worried—and nodded once, a silent vow passed between women on opposite edges of reality.
“I’m staying,” she said, voice calm.
John shifted again, his forehead pressed now just beneath her jaw. The room stayed still.
“Do you want me to get water? Something for the pain?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “Just stay.”
Her chest ached.
“I will.”
She tilted slightly to ease them both down more fully onto the bed—his weight heavy against her, but not oppressive. Just real. She guided his head onto her lap and pulled the blanket over him, her hand never leaving his hair.
He didn’t sleep. Not yet.
But his eyes closed.
And for the first time in a very long time—
He let himself rest...
The ship’s engines thrummed on, far beneath them. Somewhere, missions waited. Orders. War. But here, for this one night, the soldier slept—and the man beneath the armor was allowed to breathe.
Hi! I’ve recently just finished reading chapter 9 of fragments of tomorrow.
And can I just say, your writing skills has to be one of the best, if not the best I’ve read so far in my 10 years of reading fanfiction. The way you describe things, the situation, the surrounding, the emotions, literally everything. How you describe the situation and location is so well done, it’s like I’m actually there, I can imagine the smell of the air, the texture of the ground, and the readers pain, and just literally 10/10.
They’re all so beautifully and coherently written, i might even say that your writing is better than most published works out there. I genuinely don’t know how else I can express my awe other than by engaging with your works on here.
Oh my god, this comment absolutely made my day—and honestly, my entire week. I can’t even begin to explain how much it means to me that you took the time to write something so kind and thoughtful. Writing Fragments of Tomorrow has been such a personal journey, and hearing that it connected with you like this means everything.
The fact that you could feel the atmosphere, the texture, the emotions—that’s exactly what I hope for when I write, and knowing it reached you like that genuinely brought tears to my eyes. And to be compared to published work?? I’m speechless. That kind of praise is beyond anything I expected.
Comments like yours are the reason I keep going. Truly. Writing can be such a lonely process sometimes, but hearing your thoughts and feeling that connection through your words gives me so much motivation to keep pushing forward. Your feedback reminds me why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being here, for reading, and for leaving such a beautiful message. I’m so grateful.
(Also , I’m constantly travelling right now, but I will try updating soonish! I apologise it’s taking quite some time for new chapters❤️)
Which Halo installment is Fragments of Tomorrow taking place in or your own?
Fragments of Tomorrow takes place during Halo 4, I’m following the canon game with ideas and changes of my own to fit our reader. So the team is currently on Requiem :3
Hmm, I haven’t come up with any yet, but I can write: Headcanons , one shots etc. (Fluff, Angst, some nsfw I can try as well.)
I can write about most Halo characters both women and men, my strongest one are John, Jun, Emile… maybe Jerome as well? But i’m down to write about almost anyone, I can always learn their personalities.
Fandoms outside of Halo I can write about are: Baldurs Gate 3, COD-(Like König, Ghost, Keegan etc.(I haven’t before but I can try.)) Avatar, RE3, JJBA, Arcane, The Hunger games: Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (Aka Snow, Sejanus etc.) These are the ones I can think about at the moment.
Anyone can put any type of request and I’ll respond if I can or can’t write it, so you can be very open with ideas or settings, but I would like some details on the request on what exactly you would want to happen and if you want more of an angsty or fluffy fic.
Thank you, for the question hope I answered it well! 😊
bestducky, what would be your favourite Halo game?
Honestly, my favorite has to be Halo Reach. I just love the story, the atmosphere, and Noble Team has such a special place in my heart. It’s one of those games I never really get tired of!
Summary: In the heart of Requiem’s jungle, a flicker of sanctuary appears. As (Y/N) and Master Chief reach a forward camp, rest finally becomes possible—if only for a moment. But when silence falls, truth surfaces. A date. A realization. Five hundred years too late. She says nothing. Not yet. Some secrets are too heavy to share… even with the ones who never leave her side.
Notes: Sorry for the late update, I was on vacation and didn't have time to write, so here's a little "slice of life". I looked it over only once, so if anyone sees any mistakes, please tell me <3
She didn’t know how long they had been walking.
The jungle had swallowed time the way it swallowed everything else—heat coiling around her skin like breath, vines curling into her path, the sky above a murky green canopy that shifted with every wind-stirred leaf. She moved carefully, awkwardly, her weight uneven from the dull burn radiating from her right thigh. It wasn’t as sharp as before—no longer white-hot like the moment it had happened—but it throbbed in steady pulses now. Alive. Angry. Familiar.
Still, she kept going.
Chief walked ahead of her, just a few steps, silent as always. The occasional glint of light on his armor was the only thing that caught her eye between the dense walls of ferns and trees. That, and the quiet clicks from his suit’s motion as he adjusted pace for her—subtle, but frequent.
He hadn’t said a word since they’d begun the trek. Not about the crash, not about the pylon, not about the Didact’s voice echoing in her skull.
But he had looked at her. Once.
It was just after they’d crawled free from the canyon—the Ghost in flames behind them, pieces still raining from the sky like angry stars. She’d stood there, half-doubled over, gasping from the run and the weight of everything—and he’d turned. A glance. A brief sweep of her leg, her hands, her face. Then a nod, the kind that said you’re still standing, and he moved on.
She followed him into the trees like someone chasing gravity.
Now, hours later—or was it minutes?—the underbrush was starting to wear her down. Every step caught her jeans on thorns, every misstep pulled at her wounded leg, and sweat had carved a trail down the back of her neck. Her breathing had become the only sound she heard besides the distant jungle calls, irregular and unplaceable, like birds invented for nightmares.
Chief paused.
Her heart jumped.
She stumbled to a stop behind him, hand brushing the edge of a tree for support, and followed his gaze forward. Through a break in the foliage—small but widening with every inch they moved—she saw it: motion. Human shapes. The glint of something metal. A blur of green.
Then sound: voices.
Not alerts. Not gunfire. Just the chatter of men and women talking low, organizing gear, walking between makeshift tents. She saw a flicker of a medical cot. A crate being dragged. A Pelican wing crumpled beside a supply station.
A forward camp.
Her breath hitched before she could stop it. Not from fear. Not this time.
She hadn’t realized how tense her shoulders had been until they dropped—slow, unsure, but down. She leaned a little heavier into the tree, thigh aching in protest, and stared forward like she was afraid the scene might blink out of existence if she looked too hard.
Chief moved again.
He stepped forward with the heavy precision of someone returning to familiarity, boots firm but slow. His head tilted slightly toward her—not quite checking, but aware—and she peeled herself from the tree and followed, heartbeat shifting from defensive to something closer to human.
As they emerged from the last line of trees, one of the Marines spotted him.
“Holy—”
The reaction rippled. A couple of men stood quickly. Someone barked out his name. The tone wasn’t disbelief, but something close—something reverent.
“Spartan 117!”
“Sir—over here!”
The moment exploded in slow motion. A few Marines began approaching, cautious but grateful. Others looked over, confusion blooming across their faces when they spotted her just behind him—dressed in torn jeans, a dirt-streaked T-shirt, hair plastered with sweat.
She caught one of the looks. It wasn’t unkind—just puzzled.
She straightened her back, winced as her leg reminded her who was boss, and kept moving. Close behind Chief. Always two steps behind.
He stopped near what looked like a field map table, where a few officers had gathered. One of them—Lieutenant, maybe?—opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance.
“I need a medic,” Chief said. Voice flat. Direct. Like it wasn’t a request.
The Lieutenant blinked. “Yes, sir. We’ve got one at station two—just east side of camp.”
Chief’s head turned to her. “Come on.”
It wasn’t until he said it that she realized how badly she wanted to sit down.
They moved through the camp with the unspoken agreement of pace—his steps just slow enough to accommodate her limp, her movements just steady enough not to seem like she needed it. Around them, Marines bustled between tents and equipment stacks, but she could feel their eyes tracking her. None of them stared outright. None of them approached.
But she was the only one bleeding through jeans.
They reached the east side of the camp quickly—too quickly—and there it was: a tent with the red cross barely visible beneath mud smears and heat-warped canvas. The air changed as they ducked inside—cooler, quieter, but edged with urgency. Someone muttered about a splint. Another voice cursed the lack of biofoam.
A young medic glanced up from the cot he was tending, blinking fast behind round glasses smeared with sweat.
“Uh—Chief?” His voice cracked slightly. “I—sorry, give me two seconds, I’ve got a burn case I need to—”
“She’s injured,” Chief said, tone level, but not unkind.
The medic wiped his forehead, hands trembling as he gestured vaguely toward the left side of the tent. “There’s space there. Supplies are prepped—alcohol, stitches, gloves. I—I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
Chief didn’t wait for more.
He moved, hand resting briefly on her back to guide her toward the empty cot. It wasn’t a touch meant to steady, but it did. When they reached the table, he turned back to the supply shelf with the same focus he had in a firefight—picking up a roll of gauze, a pair of shears, a bottle of disinfectant. When he turned again, she was still standing.
“Sit,” he said.
The word carried no pressure. No tone. Just that solid Spartan finality.
She obeyed.
The cot gave slightly beneath her as she lowered herself, leg stretched out, her thigh buzzing with the kind of ache that made her teeth clench. She hesitated, fingers curling around the edge of her jeans. They were dark with dirt, stained with sweat—and now, she realized, the faint crust of dried blood was visible too.
The wound ran from just above her knee to the midpoint of her thigh, a jagged, raw line half-hidden under denim.
She glanced up.
Chief stood there, supplies in hand, waiting.
No tension. No judgment. Just readiness.
Still, the idea of undressing in front of him—of peeling back layers in a space so vulnerable—sent a ripple of heat through her that had nothing to do with fever.
She reached slowly for her waistband.
“I—okay,” she said under her breath, more to herself than him, and began to tug down the jeans.
The fabric stuck slightly around the dried blood, and she hissed through her teeth as it pulled. Every inch of movement lit the wound on fire again. Chief didn’t move, didn’t glance away—his eyes trained on her leg, not her, the kind of gaze that had nothing to do with gender and everything to do with focus. With assessment.
Once the jeans were free, she folded them beside her, her bare thigh now exposed to the cold air and his gaze.
He crouched without a word.
His gloves came off one by one with practiced ease as he put them to the side. And for the first time, she saw his hands—not the weapon-wielding symbols of the UNSC, but his hands. Calloused. Broad. One of them bore a long, pale scar across the back knuckle.
He reached for the disinfectant first.
“This will hurt,” he said.
There was no warning in it. No apology.
She nodded.
“Okay.”
And then the cold sting hit her skin, seeping into the cut like wildfire—
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek as the disinfectant touched the wound, every nerve in her leg lighting up like a flare. It wasn’t a scream kind of pain—it was a deep, clawing burn, like her skin had decided to remember everything at once. She tensed instinctively, shoulders lifting, jaw locked.
Chief didn’t flinch. He didn’t apologize, either.
Just kept working.
His hands—bare now, large and surprisingly precise—moved with the same rhythm he had in battle. No wasted motion. Just clean efficiency, dipping gauze into solution, pressing it to her thigh, wiping away dirt and blood with steady, almost mechanical care. And yet… somehow not mechanical.
He wasn’t careless. Not with her. Not even once.
She found herself watching the tinted visor of his helmet, as if she could see his eyes behind it. The way he crouched low, bracing her leg gently with one hand while the other worked. His touch was firm but never rough. Intent. Measured.
She sucked in a breath when he hit a tender spot.
“Sorry,” she muttered, not sure why. Maybe for flinching. Maybe for bleeding. Maybe for being here at all.
He didn’t look up.
“Keep breathing,” he said.
The words surprised her.
Not because they were comforting—he didn’t sound comforting—but because they existed at all. A voice like his wasn’t meant for small, soft reassurances. It was meant for orders. Combat. Tactical reports.
Still, something about the way he said it grounded her.
She nodded, barely. “Right.”
He set down the gauze and picked up the suture kit.
She swallowed hard. “So... sewing me up. That in your training manual, or is this just a secret Spartan hobby?”
There was the faintest pause. Then:
“No manual.”
He didn’t elaborate, but something in the way he said it—flat, almost deadpan—carried just the faintest edge. Dry. Maybe even a hint of sarcasm, if one squinted hard enough. It caught her off guard. She almost laughed. Almost. For half a breath, she wondered what his laugh would even sound like. Could he even laugh?
Instead, she watched his hands again as he threaded the needle.
When the first stitch went in, she hissed—eyes fluttering closed, fingers clutching the edge of the cot so tightly her knuckles ached. But she didn’t cry out. She didn’t pull away. He moved at a pace that allowed her to grit her teeth and bear it.
“You’ve done worse,” he said after the second stitch, not asking.
“Yeah,” she breathed, voice thin. “Just… not sober.”
Another pause. She swore she heard the barest flicker of breath inside the helmet—like maybe, just maybe, he’d almost smiled.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t anything, really. Just space. Just time. Just the buzz of pain slowly giving way to something calmer—something that hurt less, or at least became part of her now.
She let her gaze wander to the side, where his gloves rested neatly beside a tray of instruments. The sight of them—just sitting there, fingers curled like they’d been taken off moments before battle—felt oddly intimate. Like seeing something he wasn’t meant to show.
Her eyes drifted back to him.
His head was still down, focused entirely on her thigh.
Not once had he looked at anything else.
He was giving her a kind of privacy she didn’t expect. Not by turning away, but by being so completely focused on her injury that the rest of her didn’t seem to exist. He saw pain. Not skin. Not softness.
Just damage. Something to be fixed.
Something to protect.
She didn’t know what to do with that.
He finished the last stitch with the same precision he’d started with—tight, clean, nearly seamless. She watched his hands as he snipped the thread, then pressed a gauze pad against the sealed line of her thigh, taping it down with a kind of deliberate gentleness that almost didn’t match the rest of him.
Then he leaned back, gloves still off, his eyes meeting hers for a second through the visor.
“It’s done.”
She exhaled like she’d been holding the breath since they entered the jungle.
“Thanks,” she whispered, because it was the only thing she had left to say.
She started to reach for her jeans—balled up on the cot beside her, stained and rumpled—but before her fingers even brushed the denim, she heard the subtle click of metal.
Chief moved his arm—not fast, not flashy, just smooth—and pulled his combat knife from its side sheath with one clean motion. The same motion she’d seen back in the canyon, when he’d cleared a path through the wreckage without saying a word. The blade caught the light in a flash of silver.
She froze. Not from fear. Just from surprise.
He reached forward, knife in hand, and took the jeans before she could react.
Then, without explanation, he began to cut.
He worked quickly, blade sliding through the fabric like it was nothing—slicing from just above the knee upward, stopping just shy of the band. The cut was clean, diagonal, ending exactly at the spot where the bandage started. He flipped the jeans once, repeated the motion on the back side, then folded the blade back into its sheath.
All without speaking.
She stared at the altered leg of the jeans, then back at him.
“You… modified my wardrobe,” she said, breath catching somewhere between incredulous and amused.
He simply nodded. “Won’t reopen the stitches this way.”
And that was it.
No explanation for why he thought of it. No awkwardness. Just function.
But something in her chest twinged, small and sharp. Because it wasn’t just function. Not really.
He’d watched her struggle. He’d thought ahead. He’d acted—quietly, efficiently, and without asking for permission. It wasn’t for convenience. It was care. The kind that didn’t need a name.
She slid the jeans back on, careful over the bandage. The altered leg slipped over her skin without resistance, no tension around the wound, no tugging on the stitches. It wasn’t perfect—she felt the breeze immediately against her bare thigh—but it was better. It was something.
She flexed her knee gently, testing.
“Not bad, Chief,” she murmured. “You’ve got a future in tactical fashion.”
He didn’t answer.
But she swore—swore—she saw his head tilt just slightly, like maybe he’d caught the joke. Or maybe he was cataloging it. She didn’t know which felt more disarming.
She stood slowly, her weight shifting carefully onto her good leg, the newly stitched one stretching under her with the grace of a rusty hinge. The ache hadn’t faded—it probably wouldn’t for a while—but it felt more manageable now. Less wild. Less like something trying to consume her.
Chief stepped back as she rose, giving her space without comment.
Her hands moved instinctively, smoothing the uneven denim where he’d cut, adjusting the waistband, as if pretending that somehow made her look less like a half-dressed time traveler in the middle of a military outpost.
She was just about to thank him again—something simple, something quieter this time—when a voice called out from just beyond the tent flap.
“Hey—” A Marine stepped inside, glancing from Chief to her, then back again. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, with gear strapped haphazardly and a streak of dried blood across his neck that didn’t look like his.
His gaze hovered on her for half a second longer than it needed to—not in judgment, not even curiosity, just recognition. She wasn’t one of them.
Then he nodded toward the east side of camp.
“Shower units are up behind the storage line. Nothing fancy, but the water’s clean. There’s spare clothes, too.” His eyes flicked down briefly at her half-torn jeans and dirt-smeared shirt. “Might be a better fit.”
He said it without sarcasm. Just matter-of-fact.
Still, it landed like a soft tap on a bruise she hadn’t realized was still sensitive.
She opened her mouth to respond—maybe a joke, maybe just thanks—but her eyes drifted to Chief first, instinctively.
He was already looking at her.
No movement. No shift in posture. Just that unreadable, unshakable gaze beneath the gold of his visor.
And then he nodded—once, subtle. A direction. A signal.
Go.
She didn’t question it.
“Right,” she said quietly, brushing her fingertips against her thigh as if to confirm it was still stitched, still there. “Be right back.”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
She stepped out of the med tent into the heat again, the sun slicing through the canopy in golden shards that made her blink. Around her, the camp buzzed with low voices, shifting crates, the hum of portable comms. But her eyes were already on the far corner, where the rows of modular shower stalls stood behind a screen of camo tarp and gear lockers.
A private space. Temporary, imperfect.
But for the first time since she’d been pulled through space and time, it looked like something normal.
And that almost made her ache more than the wound.
The path to the showers was short but uneven, gravel laid hastily between mud and broken roots. She limped lightly, favoring her leg but not letting it slow her too much—not here, not now, not when the promise of clean water and new clothes felt like the closest thing to salvation she’d known in days.
The tarp curtain rustled as she pulled it aside, revealing a row of modular stalls set into reinforced flooring. A crude bench ran along one wall, half-filled with scattered towels, a dented supply crate marked “HYGIENE,” and folded military fatigues in standard-issue olive drab. Some were too large. Most looked like they’d been pulled from whatever cargo didn’t burn in the crash.
She paused there—just for a moment—taking it all in.
No mirrors. No warmth. But it was a space to be alone.
She stepped inside the first stall, the rubber mat cold beneath her bare foot. Her hands moved automatically—tugging her shirt up and over, sliding the shredded jeans down what was left of her uninjured leg, unhooking the bandage carefully from the other. The moment the last piece of fabric hit the floor, she stood naked in the pale light of the stall, wrapped in silence and steam and fatigue.
She didn’t look down at herself. She didn’t have to.
The dirt on her arms. The bruises on her ribs. The scratch just below her collarbone from when she’d slipped during the canyon escape. It was all there—carved into skin that used to belong to a woman who sat at a desk late at night, curious about a strange artifact.
Now she stood in a jungle, on an alien world, with an AI in her head and a Spartan watching over her.
The water kicked on with a mechanical hum.
Cold.
She flinched—but only once—and then leaned into it, letting the stream soak her hair, trail down her spine, rinse the blood from her thigh. It wasn’t peace. Not really. But it was pause. And right now, that was enough.
She let the water run until the chill became background noise.
When she stepped out, skin prickling, the air bit at her again—but she barely noticed. Her fingers reached for the spare clothes folded on the bench: a fresh shirt, rough but clean, two sizes too big. Cargo pants, bit big on the hips. Underwear that didn’t belong to her but was better than none.
And then—at the very bottom of the pile—boots.
She stared at them, blinking.
They weren’t particularly nice. Worn leather, scratched laces, scuffed soles.
But something about them caught her.
She sat down, tugged them on one by one, expecting the usual—too tight, too wide, not quite right.
But the second her heel slid in and her toes touched the front, she knew.
They fit.
Perfectly.
For the first time in what felt like hours—days—something fit.
She stared at her feet for a long moment, boots planted against the floor like anchors. And then she exhaled—long, shaky, almost a laugh but not quite. It wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t fate, but it was hers.
She lingered a moment longer near the bench, her fingers tightening around the cuff of the shirt she’d rolled twice past her elbow. The fabric, stiff and unfamiliar, smelled faintly of recycled air and disinfectant—military, efficient, impersonal. The pants sagged slightly at the hips, cinched just enough to stay on, and the boots… the only thing that fit perfectly.
Her gaze drifted across the changing area. A flicker of motion caught her eye—a dull blue light glowing from the corner. Mounted to the wall, tilted slightly from impact or poor installation, was a standard UNSC data terminal. She moved toward it without thinking, drawn by the low hum and the soft pulse of light. It was still active. Someone had left it on.
Her fingers hovered above the interface, then pressed lightly against the surface. The display flared to life, momentarily washed in static, then settled into legible text.
Mission logs. Deployment entries. Field comms. She scanned the screen casually, not looking for anything in particular—just wanting to read, to see, to make this world tangible.
Then her eyes caught the heading.
UNSC Forward Camp | Requiem Surface | 23 October 2557
The numbers sat there like punctuation. 2557.
It took a second for them to register—just digits at first. A logistical label. A line of metadata. But then her mind caught up.
2557
She stared.
Not 2023. Not 2080. Not “a few decades ahead.” Not a planetary jump or some clever, cruel illusion. This was real. Five hundred and thirty two years had passed since the last time she’d touched her phone, since she'd microwaved dinner, since she'd been anyone that made sense.
She stepped back from the terminal, slowly, as if it might lurch forward and say it again. 2557.
Everyone she had ever known—every voice, every face—was gone. Her mother’s laugh. Her best friend's terrible singing. The cat that followed her home from college. Her favorite bookstore, her apartment keys, her reflection in the mirror that still looked like someone who belonged somewhere.
They were all ash.
No gravestones. No funerals. No goodbyes.
Just a dateline.
Her knees gave a little, folding into the squat without her realizing, and she found herself seated on the cold floor, hand covering her mouth, the other braced against the tiles that smelled faintly of metal and plastic. She wasn’t crying. Not yet. But the weight had dropped. Heavy. Complete.
She had hoped—deep down, quietly, foolishly—that this was some orbital fluke. A wormhole trick. Another Earth, maybe. Somewhere far away but within reach.
But now, the timeline had spoken. She was out of time.
And the boots on her feet—these perfect, practical, miracle-fitting boots—felt like anchors she hadn’t meant to tie herself to. They made her real here.
Which meant everything behind her was over.
The floor beneath her was cold, but the memory came warm.
It wasn’t anything dramatic—no grand goodbye, no last sunset. Just a moment. A Tuesday, maybe. Or a Thursday. She couldn't remember. But she could see her apartment like she was still there. The soft hum of the fridge. The worn beige couch that dipped on the left side. Her desk, cluttered with tools and coffee rings and an old lamp that flickered when she jostled the cord. She remembered the way the morning light came through the blinds in soft slices, hitting the half-peeled posters on the wall, and how she’d sometimes sit on the floor with her legs crossed, half-eating, half-working, the TV droning some documentary she wasn’t really watching.
No one else had been there. Not really.
She lived alone.
The solitude had never hurt before. She’d called it freedom. Independence. She liked choosing her own meals, leaving the laundry half-folded, buying strange antiques and prying them apart without anyone asking why. It was her space. Her silence.
And now, she would never go back to it.
Not the couch. Not the uneven tiles in the kitchen. Not the sticky window that refused to close fully in winter. Not the silence that she’d once found comforting.
That silence was gone now.
She’d traded it for this—the jungle heat, the ache in her thigh, the sterile hum of military tech, the voice of a soldier who had barely spoken ten words to her but somehow meant more to her survival than anyone had in years.
A new kind of alone.
She rubbed her hand over her face, eyes burning, and whispered to the empty changing room, “They’re all gone, aren’t they?”
The words didn’t echo. They just… settled.
Her voice faded into the stillness, unanswered—but it didn’t disappear.
It stayed, caught in the stale air of the changing room, floating just above the cold tile, settling somewhere behind her ribs. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her elbows rested on her knees, shoulders curved inward like she could fold herself smaller, maybe small enough to disappear. The boots—so perfectly fitted minutes ago—now sat too heavily on her feet, anchors pressing her down into this century, this world, this moment.
She stared at them. At her hands. At the floor.
The quiet was not comforting. It pressed against her temples like static.
Why her?
The question surfaced before she could stop it. Not loud, not angry. Just... quiet. Frayed at the edges. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t brave. She hadn’t saved anyone. She was a woman who lived alone in a small apartment, surrounded by tools and secondhand books and a life that fit no better than these clothes did now. She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t earned it. She’d bought a strange object from a cluttered shop and tried to take it apart. That’s all.
And now she was here.
In 2557.
Five hundred years after the world she knew had quietly turned to dust.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, breathing in slow, shaking pulls of air that didn’t want to go deep enough. Not grief—not yet—but something close. Something old and cold and rising, like standing waist-deep in ocean water as the tide came in around her and she couldn’t tell if her feet were still touching the bottom.
Everyone she loved was gone.
Not in the abstract. Not in theory.
Gone.
She closed her eyes, and without meaning to, she saw her apartment. The morning light striping across the kitchen floor. The sound of the radiator kicking in, hissing with that tired metallic groan. A coffee cup on the edge of the sink. A sweater half-folded on the couch. The quiet of it all—hers. Chosen. Safe.
That life was a fossil now. Trapped in amber, unreachable.
She tightened her grip on her sleeves.
And then she heard it again—his voice.
Not Chief.
The other one. The one that had wrapped around her mind like icewater, that had filled the inside of her skull with pressure and dark, terrible knowing.
The Didact.
“You were meant to be more.”
The words still echoed, not like memory but like contamination—something left behind in her bloodstream. She remembered how he had looked at her, not just at her, but through her, like he knew things about her she hadn’t even admitted to herself. She remembered the way his voice had shifted—disgusting and harsh one moment, then strangely... measured.
“You were not ready.”
She didn't know what he meant. Not then. Not now.
He had called her unworthy. A pest. Something he’d wanted gone.
But there had been something else beneath it. An edge she hadn’t understood at the time. Like he hadn’t just dismissed her—he’d seen her. Considered her. Given her a second chance, even if it dripped with contempt.
Why?
Why say that?
Why show her that vision—the moment in her apartment, the artifact, her hands on its shell, the light blooming just before the world was torn away?
Why let her live?
And then there was the other word. The one he had spoken like it meant something—like it should have stopped her heart.
The Librarian.
She didn’t know who that was.
The name meant nothing. No image. No voice. Just syllables that hit her like a sentence half-heard underwater.
He had spoken it with venom. With weight.
She swallowed hard, throat tight.
None of this made sense. None of it felt real.
She was five centuries too late. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t a scientist. She was someone who got motion sick if she stood up too fast and had spent most of her life convinced that the most dangerous thing in the world was loneliness.
And now she was surrounded by the kind of silence even loneliness couldn’t touch.
Her head dropped forward, forehead pressing to the edge of her knees, breathing in through cotton and sweat and the fading trace of soap from the shower.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered, voice cracking at the edges.
It took time—longer than she’d meant to give herself—but eventually her hands moved again. Slow. Mechanical. One palm pressed against the floor, the other against her knee, lifting her frame upward like she wasn’t quite certain her body belonged to her anymore.
She stood.
The air felt thicker now. Denser. Like it knew something she hadn’t said out loud.
She ran a hand through her damp hair, pushed it back from her face, and turned toward the tent flap. Her boots—sturdy, worn, solid—thudded softly against the floor as she crossed it. Each step felt more real than the last. Her breathing, still a little uneven, smoothed with repetition.
The flap rustled as she pushed through it, and light hit her like a reminder. Heat clung to her shirt, the humidity curling against her skin, and for a moment, the world looked too sharp. Too vivid. The kind of clarity that only came after tears that hadn’t quite fallen.
Her eyes scanned the camp.
He was there.
Of course he was.
Standing a few meters away, just beyond the edge of the tarp, body still like a shadow cast in metal. She didn’t know how long he’d been there—if he’d moved at all—but he was positioned the same way he always was. Within reach. Within sight. Watching without watching.
Her throat tightened again, but she swallowed it down.
She made her way toward him, steps careful but unhesitating. The jungle stirred beyond the camp, voices murmured at her periphery, but all of it fell quiet beneath the steady hum of something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Presence.
And then—mid-step, mid-breath—Cortana’s voice broke softly into the space between them.
“Your vitals just spiked,” she said, not accusing, just observing. “Everything okay?”
The question hung there, low and concerned, brushing lightly against her ribs.
She paused only a second.
“Yeah,” she said, voice steady. “Just... the shower. Cold.”
There was a silence that followed—not long, not dramatic. But she felt it.
Chief didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But he knew.
She didn’t know how. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Maybe it was the split-second catch in her voice she hadn’t meant to leave. But she knew—deep in the space between breaths—that he didn’t believe her.
Still, he didn’t press.
He didn’t ask.
And that—somehow—was worse.
Because how could she tell them?
I’m not from here.
I’m not from now.
Everyone I know is dead and the last thing I remember before this life was just being tired and curious and small in a room that doesn’t exist anymore.
Would they even believe her?
Would they look at her differently?
Would he?
The questions chased each other through her skull, fast and vicious. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles whitening, but she said nothing. Gave nothing. She simply stepped closer to him, close enough to feel the subtle presence of his armor beside her—heat radiating off its surface, calm and impassive.
Night had settled by the time she finally sat down.
It wasn’t dramatic, just the slow inevitability of the day folding in on itself. The camp lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting soft amber rings on the mud and metal, the kind that never reached the treeline. The jungle beyond remained thick, inscrutable, humming with distant noise. Somewhere, someone was fixing a comm tower. Someone else was swearing at a field report. But here—at the edge of it all—there was quiet.
(Y/N) sat on a supply crate near the med tent, a ration pack balanced on her lap. It smelled vaguely like chicken. Or maybe regret. She couldn’t tell. Her leg ached in a dull, persistent throb—stitched, wrapped, and still sore—but it was manageable. She could sit, eat, breathe. That counted for something.
Chief stood nearby, same as always—close enough to feel present, far enough not to crowd. He hadn’t spoken since she returned from the showers. Not about the limp in her gait, or the paleness in her face. But he’d looked.
He’d seen.
Cortana’s voice slipped gently into the space between them, low and calm. “Vitals are stabilizing. Pulse is still a little elevated.”
She didn’t answer at first. Just took another bite of the meal and tried not to grimace.
Then, “Cold shower. You know. Jarring.”
There was a pause—tiny, but telling.
“…You’re a terrible liar,” Cortana said, almost fond.
(Y/N) scoffed around the next spoonful. “I’ve had a long day.”
“Which would explain the adrenaline spike, the cortisol surge, the elevated respiration—”
“—maybe I just really didn’t like the shampoo.”
That earned a beat of silence. Then, to her quiet satisfaction, Cortana replied, “I picked up traces of three antiseptics and something labeled ‘citrus fusion.’ You should be worried.”
“I am worried. My scalp might never emotionally recover.”
Chief shifted slightly nearby, just enough to draw her eye. He didn’t speak—of course he didn’t—but she could feel the focus beneath the visor. He was listening. He always was.
(Y/N) offered him a small smile, more reflex than thought. “Sorry,” she said. “We’re doing post-trauma comedy. It’s a vital stage of recovery.”
He didn’t answer, but his head tilted—barely noticeable. And somehow, that said more.
She went back to eating, slower now. Her stomach had finally stopped fighting her. The warmth of the food was spreading, anchoring her to the moment. Not home. Not comfort. But... here.
Cortana spoke again, quieter. “You don’t have to pretend. You can talk.”
The words hit a little too close.
(Y/N)’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth.
Then she smiled again—soft, but distant. “I know.”
Cortana didn’t push it. There was something in her tone—respect, maybe. Or understanding. Whatever it was, it felt like a thread offered, not a net thrown.
(Y/N) lowered the spoon, exhaled slowly through her nose, and looked up at the canopy above. No stars. Not here. Just shadows and branches and the soft hiss of distant wildlife.
She didn’t say anything more. Didn’t explain the spike in her vitals, or the reason she’d stood frozen in the changing room for almost ten minutes, staring at a date that rewrote her entire life. She didn’t say I’m not supposed to be here or everyone I know is gone or I don’t even know if I’m real in this century.
Because how could she?
Would they believe her?
Would he?
She didn’t want to find out. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Instead, she poked at the last of the ration with the corner of her spoon, squinting like it might suddenly turn into chocolate cake. “Think if I pretend to pass out again someone’ll bring me pudding?”
Cortana hummed. “Tempting fate is not a recovery strategy.”
“Says the one living rent-free in my nervous system.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied primly. “Your nervous system was a mess, by the way.”
“You scanned me while I was unconscious.”
“You were bleeding out.”
“Still creepy.”
Cortana made a sound that might’ve been a sigh. “I take back my concern. You’re clearly recovering.”
(Y/N) smiled without showing teeth, soft and tired. “Sarcasm. The first sign of true friendship.”
The jungle murmured beyond the camp. Chief remained still at her side. Her leg throbbed. Her hands ached. Her mind felt stretched between centuries.
But she was fed. Stitched. Not alone.
For now... that was enough.
Tag list: @ketilinisnothere , @lialacleaf (comment if you'd like to be added!)
Summary: Chief and (Y/N) make a desperate escape through a collapsing Forerunner canyon, clinging to survival as the world around them disintegrates. But just as they reach safety, a new threat rises—and with it, the impossible arrival of something far greater. As the Cryptum vanishes into the sky and the UNSC Infinity crashes into the jungle below, one thing becomes clear: this is far from over.
Tag list: @ketilinisnothere @lialacleaf (comment if you'd like to be added!)
The silence wasn’t comforting.
It was hollow. Too perfect. Like something had been surgically excised from her skull and left unstitched. She sat frozen behind the column, knees drawn in close, the pistol clutched to her chest in a death grip. Her breathing came in short, shallow bursts. Her ribs barely moved. The cold had sunk deep into her limbs, deeper still into her bones. Sweat slicked her back, trapped beneath the cling of her shirt, but she couldn’t feel it anymore. Her skin was numb. Her ears were ringing.
The voice was gone, but the echo hadn’t left.
Her head throbbed—not from injury, not from sound, but from the unbearable pressure of memory forced back into place. The artifact. Her apartment. The hum of the fan. The way the portal had flared open inches from her face and swallowed her without hesitation. It hadn’t pulled. It hadn’t given her time to run. It had taken her, cleanly, like something reclaiming lost property.
And he’d shown it to her.
There had been no warning. No defense. Just the sharp, gloved touch of his voice, and then the past unspooling like it had been waiting for him to open it.
What the hell was that?
She hadn’t imagined it. That was the worst part. Every second of it had been too vivid, too anchored. She’d felt the shape of her chair under her knees. The tension in her shoulders as she leaned forward with a probe in her hand. The glow. The sound. The weightless moment between knowing she’d made a mistake and realizing it was already too late.
Her fingers trembled. She looked down. The pistol was still in her grip, smeared with dried blood and slick sweat, but her hands felt like they belonged to someone else. She hadn’t fired it since. She wasn’t sure she could now.
A crack of gunfire echoed through the chamber—distant, sharp. Chief’s rifle, unmistakable. She flinched anyway. The sound snapped through her like electricity, reminding her that the fight hadn’t ended. That she was still here. Still crouched on the floor of a Forerunner satellite, injured and alone, shaking like a child.
Get up. Move. Do something.
But her body refused.
Her mind was still chasing shadows. Her thoughts wouldn’t line up. She kept hearing the words again, not as sound, but as truth, heavy and calm in the quiet left behind: You were delivered. Not taken. Not lost. Delivered.
Her jaw clenched, and her stomach turned.
It wasn’t just the memory that scared her. It was how natural it had felt. How easy it had been to fall back into that night. How some part of her had wanted to stay there, to surrender to that soft, spiraling nothing and let it take her again. Because for just a moment, it had felt like peace.
And she hated that.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned, but the tears wouldn’t fall. She wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not where anyone could see. Not where he might still be listening.
What if he’s still watching?
The thought clawed up the back of her spine, unbidden and sickening. What if he was still in her, buried deep, quiet again, waiting for her to lower her guard?
She pressed her back harder to the column, curling in tighter, willing herself to disappear. Her chest rose in sharp, unsteady jerks. Every breath scraped like glass in her lungs. The battle felt so far away now, like it was happening in another life entirely. There was only the cold floor, the shadows, and the echo of something ancient still curling around her ribs like a second spine.
She was losing control. Losing herself.
Her breath shuddered in her chest, not quite a sob. No one was watching. No one could see the way her shoulders trembled, the way her eyes burned with tears she refused to let fall. The air felt thinner now. Colder. As if Requiem itself had pulled back from her, just slightly, to observe. Like it was waiting for her to shatter. She stared at the floor. At the soft, uneven reflection of herself in the alloy, pale and cracked and barely human anymore. Her thoughts looped in a steady, broken rhythm. Get up. Get up. Get up.
Something in her obeyed.
Her fingers shifted first, checking the weight of the pistol, then her palm slid slowly along the floor toward the edge of the column. The metal was smooth, warm from the last burst of plasma, and under her grip, it felt solid. Real. That was enough. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up inch by inch, her thigh flaring with fresh fire as soon as she bent it beneath her. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t whimper. Just clenched her jaw and used the pain as something to lean on. When she reached her feet, the world swayed beneath her. She swayed with it.
She didn’t know if Chief had noticed she’d gone quiet. Part of her hoped not. Part of her hoped he had. Her boots scraped forward. One dragging step, then another. Her thigh protested each motion, but her body fell into the rhythm the way it always did when it had no other choice. She followed the flashes of light and movement across the chamber, past the fallen bodies and half-melted stone. The platform ahead shimmered with the last sputtering flares of Covenant weaponry. And there—through the haze—Chief. Still moving. Still fighting. Still ahead of her. A Crawler emerged from the far side, fast and low, barreling toward his blind spot. He hadn’t turned yet.
She raised the pistol.
Her arms were weak. Her shoulder ached from the fall. She exhaled and squeezed the trigger once.
The shot struck the Crawler clean through the neck. It skidded sideways in a hiss of sparks and collapsed, its limbs twitching before going still. Chief turned halfway, just enough to register the direction the shot had come from. His helmet caught the dim light, gaze locking with hers across the chaos.
He gave her a curt nod , turning forwards as he focused on the targets ahead,boots hitting the floor in that same heavy, relentless rhythm. She limped forward in his wake, her breath scraping thinly in her throat as she kept pace as best she could. She didn’t try to speak. Didn’t need to. There was no space left for anything but forward.
Then Cortana’s voice cracked through the comm, sharp and high with urgency. “Chief, you need to hear this!”
(Y/N)’s stomach tensed. Chief didn’t pause, but the angle of his head shifted slightly, listening. The channel clicked, filtered static breaking across a deep, neutral voice. “We’re detecting a slight gravimetric disturbance near the planetary entrance. Suggest altering approach vector: 43K-750K-12K.”
(Y/N) blinked hard, the numbers washing over her like meaningless code until the weight behind them landed. Requiem’s entrance. Incoming trajectory. They were coming. Still.
Even after everything.
Cortana’s voice returned, louder, clipped, almost panicked now. “They’re not diverting from the opening! Hurry, Chief!”
The silence that followed wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of quiet that held a sharp edge beneath it, like the last breath before impact. Chief picked up speed without answering, sprinting now toward the control platform across the chamber, rifle tight to his chest. She didn’t have the strength to run—but she followed, pushing forward through the burning cold in her leg and the ache in her lungs, dragging her fear behind her like a shadow.
The satellite was still humming. The light above them pulsed faintly, casting shifting patterns across the floor. The gravity here felt wrong. Just slightly. Like something vast had begun to move beneath them, and the world hadn’t caught up yet.
The Cryptum rose in silence, and the chamber shifted with it. Not shaking—breathing. The very air changed. Static clung to her arms, raising the hairs on her neck, and light poured from the sphere in pulses like a heartbeat. The black shell folded outward in layers, revealing a brilliant core that glowed like molten glass. It wasn’t just rising. It was waking up.
“Find us an exit,” Chief said, backing away from the platform.
Cortana’s voice wavered. “Don’t wait around on my account...”
(Y/N) took a step back as the energy around the Cryptum spiked. Then the wave hit.
A flash of light detonated outward, and she was thrown sideways into the metal wall. Her shoulder cracked hard against the surface, and she slid down with a sharp breath, the wind knocked clean out of her lungs. A half-second later, she felt the impact tremor roll beneath her boots like thunder. She looked up.
The Cryptum hovered above the platform now, humming with power. Its core opened slowly, like a flower in reverse. From it, a capsule descended—sleek, black, and angular, Forerunner script gleaming along its sides. As it touched down, the capsule hissed and unfolded, petals of armored steel peeling back.
And something stood inside.
Tall. Humanoid. Silent at first. Then he moved—rising to his full height in one fluid motion, his body framed by the burning orange light behind him. As he stood, armor assembled around his limbs piece by piece, locking into place like a ceremonial rite. There was a weight to the way he moved. Not strength. Not speed.
Authority.
(Y/N) crouched low behind a jagged outcropping of cover, her fingers frozen around the pistol. Chief moved beside her, lowering into a crouch behind the nearest barrier, rifle raised. Neither of them spoke.
The figure looked out over the battlefield as if seeing none of it. Then he raised one hand.
The Prometheans flared.
Blue turned to orange in an instant, and they stopped moving. Every single one. Even the Crawlers. Even the Knights.
The Covenant fell to their knees. Heads bowed.
“Didact,” one of them murmured.
The name echoed like a trigger.
He turned toward them.
(Y/N)’s breath caught as his gaze swept the chamber. When his eyes found her, she felt it like a hand around her throat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just looked—through her, past her, into her—and something in his expression changed. Not recognition exactly. Something colder.
“So fades the great harvest of my betrayal,” he said, voice smooth and absolute.
The sound reverberated off the walls. He looked down at the Prometheans, then the kneeling Sangheili, and finally to Chief.
“Even these beasts recognized what you were oblivious to, human. Your nobility has blinded you... as ever.”
The barrier between them disintegrated. Chief stood. His rifle came up instantly—but the Didact didn’t flinch. With a single gesture, he lifted Chief into the air, body locked in place by invisible force. He hovered midair, legs dangling, struggling against nothing.
(Y/N) lunged forward without thinking. “Chief!”
She froze as the Didact turned toward her again. She raised her weapon, but her hands trembled. The weight of his stare pressed down like gravity.
His tone softened, almost contemplative. “The Librarian...” He studied her as if seeing something just out of reach. “So this is what she left behind.”
She didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t want to know.
“You are not of them,” he said. “And yet... you bleed with their softness. Strange.” His voice lowered. “You were meant to be more.”
She stepped back, breathing hard, eyes wide.
The Didact tilted his head. “You were not ready.”
And then he dismissed her. Not with contempt, but with indifference. He turned his attention back to Chief, still held aloft in his grip.
“The Librarian left little to chance, didn’t she? Turning my own guardians—my own world—against me.” He glanced down at the Prometheans, then toward the Sangheili. “But what hubris to believe she could protect her pets from me forever. If you haven’t mastered even these primitives... then Man has not attained the Mantle. Your ascendance may yet be prevented.”
He drew Chief in closer. The orange light of his core flared brighter.
“Time was your ally, human. But now it has abandoned you. The Forerunners have returned.”
His helmet formed with a shimmer, closing into the shape of a skull crowned in gold.
“This tomb… is now yours.”
With a sweep of his hand, the Didact hurled Chief across the chamber like he weighed nothing. He slammed into the far wall with a sound that made (Y/N)’s blood run cold—metal groaning on impact, then silence. She didn’t think. She ran.
Her boots scraped hard against the floor as she bolted from cover, ignoring the spike of pain that shot through her leg. Her pistol clattered somewhere behind her. She dropped to her knees beside him, breath catching in her throat as she saw the damage—his armor was scorched, one shoulder plate dented deep where he’d hit. He was moving, barely, one hand weakly bracing against the floor.
“Chief—big guy, come on—” Her hands scrambled to his arm, hooking under it, shoulder shoved beneath his with everything she had. She pushed. Nothing. He was impossibly heavy—every inch of him built for endurance, for battle. Her legs trembled, her arms locked. “Get up—please, come on—”
He shifted suddenly, faster than she expected. With a sharp, focused motion, his arm snapped around her back, the other hooking beneath her knees. Before she could protest, she was off the ground, her weight caught against the cold curve of his chestplate.
“What—Chief, no—I can still—”
He didn’t respond. His grip adjusted once, tightening around her as he turned, shielding her body with his own. The Cryptum behind them was howling now, the air splitting with raw power. Heat licked at their backs.
“Slipspace rupture!” Cortana’s voice cut through the comm like a knife. “Chief, move!”
He ran as fast as he could.
(Y/N) clutched his armor, fingers digging into the edge of his armor. The world around them buckled. The chamber warped, light bleeding in through cracks in the air itself. She felt her stomach drop, her ears ring, her entire body weightless and fragile in his arms. She pressed her face against the curve of his chest and held on.
The Cryptum detonated.
Not an explosion—an unraveling. Light exploded outward, and the entire chamber was swallowed in blinding fire. For a second, everything disappeared. No sound. No gravity. No pain. Just white-hot stillness.
It spun in slow, broken circles above her, grey and copper and veined with smoke. The air pressed hard into her ears, thick with static and dust. For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her body ached in too many places to count—every limb heavy, her stomach roiling with leftover force. Something had crushed her, ripped her from the world like a page torn out of a book, and now the story didn’t make sense anymore.
Her fingers clawed at the ground.
Not metal. Not the satellite.
Dirt.
She was lying face-down in Requiem’s canyon, boots splayed, shirt soaked through with sweat and ash. Her side throbbed where she’d landed hard—spine twisted, ribs rattled, skin raw beneath the fabric. Her head rang like a struck bell, the pressure in her skull pushing against her eyes.
What happened—where am I—what—
She jerked upright, then gasped, clutching her ribs. The pain hit sharp and immediate. Her leg flared next, her thigh screaming in protest. Her vision blurred at the edges as she staggered up onto her elbows, heart racing, lungs scraping in dust and smoke.
The sky groaned.
A tremor rippled under her hands. She blinked the grit from her eyes and looked around, breath short and uneven. The canyon stretched out in jagged shapes—rock formations split open like wounds, debris scattered in wide, burning arcs. Something had exploded. No—detonated. Reality itself had been peeled open and slammed shut again.
And she’d been thrown from it like garbage.
She turned, throat tight.
Where was he?
A few meters back—closer to the scorched crater at the canyon’s center—Chief lay sprawled face-down, half-buried in the dirt. His armor was scorched, smoke curling off the backplate in lazy spirals. One arm was limp at his side. The other outstretched. Still. Too still.
Her stomach dropped.
She scrambled toward him, crawling on one knee, one hand gripping her ribs. The ground shifted beneath her, the world too loud and too quiet all at once. Her voice tore out of her before she could stop it.
“Chief—!”
He didn’t move.
The comm in her ear buzzed faintly, then sharpened.
“Chief, please!” Cortana’s voice snapped through, ragged, high with urgency. “We’ve got to go!”
(Y/N) dropped beside him and gripped his shoulder. The armor burned against her palm, but she didn’t let go. “He’s not—he’s not getting up,” she choked. Her breath came fast, shallow, useless.
“He’s alive,” Cortana said, tighter now. “He took most of it. You need to wake him—try the base of the neck joint. Quickly.”
Her hand slid up, shaking, fingers searching through soot and blood and alloy until they found the latch. She pressed, hard.
“Come on. Come on—wake up.”
He stirred.
A twitch. Then a full-body shift. His hand pushed against the ground, weight shifting, legs planting beneath him. His shoulders rose in a slow, mechanical arc. His helmet flickered with light—then steadied.
He was awake.
“What’s happening?” he asked, voice rough, distorted.
Cortana answered before either of them could breathe.
“That... Didact. He manipulated Infinity’s signal to get us to release him. Get up.”
He stood. No hesitation. Like his body just followed commands, even half-broken.
(Y/N) followed slower, clutching her side, blinking the dust from her lashes. Her leg buckled once, but she forced it straight.
Then she looked up.
Above them, the sky was collapsing. A swirling energy field had formed over the canyon—massive, violent, beautiful in the way tornadoes are beautiful. A Covenant light cruiser was already caught in its pull, twisting slowly as it rose toward the breach, debris breaking off in massive chunks that rained fire behind it.
“Moving the satellite into slipspace destabilized the core,” Cortana said.
A nearby Phantom spiraled overhead, shrieking as its engines flared and died. It collided midair with another, both ships igniting in a fireball that crashed against the canyon wall. Shrapnel flew. Ghosts dropped from their bays as they fell to the ground below.
“The Didact’s leaving!” Cortana shouted. “We’ve got to find a portal out of here before the whole network collapses!”
They moved forward slowly, each step uncertain, the canyon ahead cracked wide open by the shockwave. Smoke curled in twisting black lines from shattered Phantoms and splintered rock. Fire bloomed in the distance, short-lived but fierce, as stray pieces of wreckage combusted against the exposed terrain. The heat from it all pressed down like a second sky.
(Y/N) followed close behind him, eyes darting across the destruction.The world was coming apart under their feet.
Chief said nothing. He moved with the same unwavering precision as always, rifle raised, posture alert. But there was something different now. Not slower—but heavier. As if even he felt it, the weight of what they’d just let loose.
Every few seconds, a deep shudder rolled through the ground. Loose debris shifted, dust lifting in slow spirals, the kind of movement that made you think something below was waking up. The energy field overhead groaned louder, swelling with another pulse. She winced and ducked as a streak of light cut through the sky above—a piece of burning metal careening overhead like a comet.
A jagged split in the earth forced them to reroute, Chief raising one hand to signal her to hold before he scanned a narrow path along the edge. The drop was steep—maybe twenty feet—but full of jutting angles and unstable slabs of stone. One wrong step would mean a broken leg or worse.
“Stick close,” he said, voice low through the comm.
She nodded, swallowing hard. Her throat was dry. “Trying.”
She stumbled once, her boot catching on a cracked section of alloy embedded in the dirt. Chief turned without a word and offered his hand—steady, gloved, like stone. She hesitated, just for a second. Then she took it.
His grip was firm, guiding her across the broken slope, not pulling, just enough to keep her upright. When they cleared the worst of it, she let go quickly, chest tight.
They crested a ridge of scorched rock, and below, embedded halfway into the canyon floor, lay two Ghosts—flung from the wreckage above, their sleek hulls battered but intact. One was on its side, cracked open at the cockpit and sparking faintly. The other hovered a few inches off the ground, its gravity drive whining, one wing slightly dented, but otherwise intact.
(Y/N) slowed. Her leg ached, her breath raw in her throat. She pointed at the nearest one, eyebrows drawn.
“…What the hell is that thing?”
“A Ghost,” Cortana answered without pause. “Covenant reconnaissance craft. Fast, light, unstable under fire.”
(Y/N) stared at it like it might sprout legs and bite her. “It looks like a weaponized beetle. With handlebars.”
Chief was already walking toward the functional one, methodical, silent. He pressed one armored hand to the console, adjusted something, and climbed on like it was second nature. The platform beneath it hummed to life, stabilizing under his weight.
“Is this where you expect me to get on that death sled and pretend this is normal?” she muttered.
“It’s normal,” Cortana said a little too brightly. “For him.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
(Y/N) hesitated. Her pulse hadn’t slowed since the Cryptum. Her legs still shook. And the thought of trusting that machine—alien, hissing, still hot from the fall—made her stomach turn. She took a half-step back.
Then the sky above them groaned.
She looked up just in time to see the burning silhouette of a Covenant cruiser losing altitude—twisting, trailing fire, metal shorn open like a wound. It dropped fast, out of control, its hull tearing into the air as it fell toward the canyon wall like a dead god.
It hit with a sound that didn’t belong in nature. A thunderclap of pressure and fire. The wall shattered. Stone exploded. A wave of heat roared outward, slamming into her like a wall.
She didn’t think. She ran.
Chief reached down from the Ghost without a word. She grabbed his forearm and he pulled her up behind him in one swift, practiced motion. She landed roughly, one arm around his side to keep herself steady as the vehicle jerked beneath them, rising.
“Okay, I’m on!” she barked. “Go—go, go!”
The Ghost lunged forward with a mechanical snarl. She screamed—short, high, and entirely involuntary—as the vehicle hurled them into motion.
“Oh my god—we’re riding a space Roomba from hell!” she yelped, clutching onto his armor with both arms.
The Ghost dipped slightly as they accelerated, skimming over rubble and scorched stone at terrifying speed.
Her hands scrambled across the smooth armor plating before she found the small ridge of his shoulder guard and clung to it with both fists. Her legs tensed around the sides of the vehicle, half-hovering off the seat, heart thundering somewhere in her throat.
They were flying.
Not just fast—impossibly fast. The world blurred around them, streaks of heat and smoke and shattered stone rushing past in fractured bursts. Chief didn’t hesitate. He steered through the wreckage with terrifying confidence, weaving through collapsed struts and jutting rock like he’d done it a hundred times before. The Ghost hummed violently beneath them, every shift in terrain making it buck slightly, the anti-grav plates overcorrecting just enough to remind her they weren’t meant for canyon floors.
“Okay,” she shouted into the wind, voice high and tight, “so we’re not crashing! That’s good! Very not-crashing!”
A jagged piece of debris whipped past her head, close enough that she ducked reflexively and gripped tighter. Chief leaned the Ghost to one side, skimming the edge of a fractured boulder, then veered hard left to avoid a flaming engine coil still sparking from the earlier cruiser impact. The turn pulled her sideways, and she braced one hand against his spine for stability, teeth clenched so hard it made her jaw ache.
She could barely hear herself think over the roar of the engines and the chaos unfolding all around them. But the thought that did claw through was simple, shrill, and undeniable:
She was absolutely going to die on a space motorcycle.
And yet—he hadn’t slowed once.
Every motion was deliberate. Clean. He rode like the world wasn’t ending, like he knew exactly how far he could push the vehicle, like he’d already calculated ten exits she couldn’t see. And all she could do was hold on, heart in her throat, and pray he was right.
The Ghost howled beneath them as it raced over broken ground, cutting a jagged path through flame and rubble. (Y/N)’s grip on Chief hadn’t loosened—not once. Her hands were locked onto the back plating of his armor, knuckles white, fingers curled into every groove she could find. The heat blurred everything ahead of them, the canyon pulsing with orange light and the sickening groan of structures giving way in the distance.
Then the wind changed. The air shifted—sudden, heavier.
A sharp screech tore through the sky overhead, louder than the Ghost’s engine, louder than her pulse. She craned her neck and caught the black silhouette of a Phantom dropping too fast, spinning sideways with one wing sparking violently, the hull tearing itself apart mid-descent. It was on fire. Completely out of control. Her chest seized.
“Oh no—no no no—”
The Phantom slammed into the far side of the canyon, metal screaming as it split on impact. The blast lit up the sky behind them, a rush of heat surging outward and nearly throwing the Ghost off its path. Dust surged forward in a wall of thick, blinding gray. She choked down a cry, ducking lower behind Chief’s shoulder as the vehicle lurched and corrected itself.
She barely had time to recover before movement caught her eye up ahead.
Figures—small, erratic—scattering across the path like panicked animals. She squinted through the smoke and. Dozens of them, maybe more, all running in the opposite direction, shrieking in terrified bursts of guttural clicks and wails as they scrambled away from the disintegrating canyon.
“The little guys are bailing!” she shouted over the wind, her voice cracking with a mixture of disbelief and panic. “That’s never a good sign!”
Chief didn’t answer, but his posture shifted. The Ghost dipped slightly, accelerating. The fleeing Grunts leapt out of the way just in time, tripping over each other, one flailing its arms as it tumbled down an embankment with a startled squeal.
(Y/N) clung tighter to the back plate of his armor, her fingers numb, heart thudding in her throat as the Ghost surged ahead. The terrain wasn’t holding together anymore. The canyon walls were splitting in long, jagged seams that stretched up toward the clouds. Massive slabs of rock were peeling from the floor and lifting skyward, not falling—rising. Suspended. Spinning. Like gravity had simply let go.
The wind shifted. Sharper now. Carried a low-frequency hum that made her teeth buzz. The Ghost skidded slightly, compensating for the uneven ground. Chief veered them toward a narrowing pass where the air choked with smoke and fractured debris. She could feel the change in pressure—a wrongness building under her skin.
“Something’s pulling the whole canyon apart,” she said, mostly to herself, her voice thin in the comms. “What the hell is—”
A tremor rolled beneath them, long and deep. The rock to their left cracked wide open, dust spraying as an entire ridge folded into itself.
Cortana’s voice broke in, tight and urgent. “Emergency broadcast from Infinity!”
Del Rio’s transmission followed—garbled, frantic, distant but unmistakable. “FLEETCOM, this is Infinity. We are encountering an unidentifiable gravimetric disturbance and are being pulled inside a planet of Forerunner origin! Possible contact with the UNSC Forward Unto Dawn! Jettisoning complete log beacons at our last known—”
“Cortana,” Chief said, voice steady through the storm, “we need to get up there.”
“It’s not like I can get out and push!” she snapped. “Hold on!”
The Ghost dropped into a cleft in the rock and veered sharply into a collapsing tunnel—one of the old Forerunner cave routes, half-imploded, lit only by the glow of unstable energy veins streaking through the walls. The vehicle fishtailed once, then gripped. (Y/N)’s stomach lurched. Her face was nearly pressed to the curve of Chief’s back, but she didn’t dare loosen her grip. The whole cave shook as another wave of pressure moved through the ground, loud enough to vibrate in her ribs.
Another pair of Grunts sprinted across their path in a full panic, one of them screeching as it leapt over a crack in the floor and nearly missed the landing. Chief didn’t slow. The Ghost hurtled forward, dodging fallen columns and burning debris, the path ahead crumbling faster than they could outrun it.
“The core’s not going to last much longer!” Cortana warned, voice spiking as the tunnel opened into a chasm.
They launched over it.
The Ghost left the ground in a blur of motion and smoke, clearing the ravine by a hair. (Y/N)’s breath caught—no scream, no sound, just the tight clench of her jaw and the fire in her lungs. Then the wheels hit solid ground again, hard, and the impact sent another bolt of pain up her injured leg.
Ahead, the cave widened.
A flat, open stretch of ground split by ruptures of flickering light and broken platforms. In the center—tall, arched, impossibly stable—a glowing slit of blue energy shimmered between two Forerunner pylons.
“Portal, up ahead!” Cortana shouted.
The Ghost locked onto it like it was a finish line.
The floor behind them peeled away.
The nose of the Ghost lifted.
They hit the portal at full speed. And the world snapped out from under them.
They hit the portal like a slingshot tearing through fabric.
The Ghost shot out the other side in a violent jolt, the hover field whining high as its weight dropped onto a slab of uneven stone. The canyon was gone. Now it was open sky and jagged earth, the Ghost hurling forward across a narrow cliffside trail with no barrier, no edge, and no forgiveness.
(Y/N)’s scream caught in her throat as the horizon tilted. Her fingers locked tight onto Chief’s back plate, knuckles white, her body whipped sideways by the sudden shift in direction. The Ghost’s stabilizers howled beneath them, fighting to maintain balance on fractured terrain. Dust and gravel sprayed outward in rippling shockwaves from the lift plates.
Ahead—just meters away—the edge.
“Chief—!” she gasped.
Cortana’s voice snapped through the comm. “Whoa, cowboy!”
He didn’t need the warning.
In a flash, Chief leaned hard into the side thrust, wrenching the handlebars. The Ghost responded with a screech of burning grav pressure, slamming into a sideways skid, the entire vehicle tilting with centrifugal force as it carved a brutal arc across the stone.
(Y/N) was weightless for half a heartbeat.
Then his arm shot back.
He grabbed her by the waist—one brutal, practiced motion—and pulled her off the seat.
Her boots hit the ground mid-turn, skidding across the gravel. Her injured leg buckled, and she stumbled—but Chief caught her before she could fall. His arm wrapped across her biceps, iron-steady, anchoring her to him as the Ghost continued forward without them, its energy field still flaring wild and uncontrolled.
They both turned to watch.
The Ghost hurtled toward the cliff’s edge and didn’t slow. It crossed the last few meters of cracked stone like a thrown blade and vanished into the fog below. A few seconds later, a flash of fire bloomed far beneath them, swallowed instantly by the gray.
Silence followed. Wide and cold.
Her breath stuttered out, sharp and uneven. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it.
Chief’s arm was still around her. Not crushing, but firm. Steady. Like he knew she needed it just for a moment longer.
(Y/N) blinked hard, her heart still in her throat. Her legs felt like water.
“That thing,” she said, voice hoarse, “really didn’t like us.”
Chief didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go either.
His arm stayed around her just a moment longer, firm and steady, until her breath began to steady—just enough to function. When he let go, it wasn’t abrupt. He stepped forward a few paces, silent, visor angled upward.
(Y/N) turned her head, chest still tight, following his line of sight.
At first there was only cloud—dense, roiling gray layered with electric light. Then the shape came through.
She froze.
It wasn’t a ship.
It wasn’t anything she had a name for.
It broke through the cloud layer like a mountain coming down from orbit. Vast and angular, its hull swallowed half the sky, glowing in places with shifting currents of blue, electricity dancing across armored ridges that looked more like terrain than technology. The sound of it came seconds later—a deep, rolling groan of mass pushing against air, dragging heat and wind behind it like a collapsing thunderhead.
Her mind couldn’t place it. Couldn’t scale it. There was nothing in her world—her century—that prepared her for the sight of something so enormous, so impossible. It felt less like witnessing a ship and more like watching a god fall out of the sky.
“What the hell…” she breathed.
The comms burst to life, full of static and panic.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is the captain of the UNSC Infinity. Unknown entity has seized control of our ship! We’re without power and on a collision course with an unidentified Forerunner planet! Jettisoning complete log beacons at our last known—!”
Then the voice cut out.
The behemoth veered slightly, its stern glowing with emergency flares, and descended into the jungle miles away. The treetops caught the sunlight for one last moment before the ship plunged below them, trailing smoke and ruptured atmosphere.
“Track its descent,” Chief said.
Cortana responded immediately, tight with urgency. “Marking. Impact predicted seventy-seven point eight kilometers due north.”
(Y/N) blinked, still stunned. Her voice had left her.
Then—behind them—the air changed.
Heatless and sudden, like the moment before lightning. A low tremor rumbled through the ground, just enough to make her knees lock.
Chief turned on instinct, his rifle rising.
The Cryptum rose from below the cliff edge in total silence. It loomed upward like it had never stopped rising—like it had always been coming, just waiting for them to notice. Its surface shimmered with pale orange light, Forerunner symbols pulsing across the panels like heartbeat patterns.
It stared.
A narrow beam of energy fired from its base, sweeping over the cliff. It passed over Chief. Over her. There was no impact. No sound. But (Y/N) felt it—deep in her bones, as if her cells had been counted and filed.
Then the Cryptum shifted.
And launched.
It rocketed into the sky with a violent blur, leaving a sonic ripple that knocked loose gravel from the cliff and bent the clouds around its exit path.
Chief lowered his weapon only slightly.
“You know where he’s heading…” Cortana said.
He answered as he turned towards the direction of where the Cryptum had launched.
After disabling the second pylon, (Y/N) and Chief step onto the satellite—into a war already in motion. As Prometheans and Covenant clash, (Y/N) is forced to take cover and fight from the shadows. As she clings to cover and fire rains overhead, something far more terrifying than bullets finds her.
Notes: I hope everyone is enjoying the series! Would anyone like to be added to a tag list, to know when a new chapter has been posted? Have a great day everyone <3
The slope was steep and crumbling underfoot, loose gravel scattering like dry leaves with every step. (Y/N) lowered herself slowly, boots digging in, hands braced on the rock as she half-climbed, half-slid down the narrow path toward the valley floor. The ridge behind her still pulsed with the remnants of battle—scorched rock, the acrid stench of plasma, and the jagged corpse of the thing that had almost killed her. Her heart still hadn’t slowed.
Chief was below, already pushing through the last cluster of enemies with brutal efficiency. Plasma fire lit the air in erratic flashes, reflected in the gold sheen of his visor as he moved with sharp, surgical strikes. She followed his trail of destruction, ducking low when a bolt whined past her head and hiding behind a jutting piece of shattered Forerunner alloy.
Her thigh burned with every step, the hastily-tied strip of fabric now soaked in dark blood. She gritted her teeth and kept moving.
Chief spotted her through the haze and cleared a path with a burst of rifle fire. He looked back at her, his way of asking if she was alright.
“Still standing,” she called back, voice tight.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He just turned toward the last node, now exposed near the base of a collapsed structure—one final gleaming orb cradled in machinery. (Y/N) fell in behind him at a stagger, keeping low, her pistol held close and shaking slightly in her grip.
The firefight was quieter now—only scattered resistance. She ducked behind a broken column, peeking through the gaps and firing when she could, her shots striking down a Crawler mid-leap. Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t luck. She was getting better at this. Slowly. Horribly. But still.
Chief reached the node and unleashed a burst of gunfire into its center. It flared, screamed—then cracked apart in a brilliant wave of light that shimmered out in every direction.
And then—
A voice.
No, not a voice—something more. A presence. It slammed into (Y/N)’s mind with the force of a freight train. She staggered back, clutching her temple as fire bloomed behind her eyes. The world tilted.
Unworthy .
It wasn’t spoken so much as it was branded into her bones, reverberating through every cell. The same voice she had heard before—only this time, it was no whisper. It roared with the weight of centuries, a storm of thought and judgment laced with rage.
You interfere , pest.
(Y/N) fell to her knees, gasping. The ground felt miles away. Her hands trembled.
You do not belong here.
Her vision flickered, white at the edges. She was vaguely aware of Chief turning toward her, shouting something—but his voice was distant. Like a call underwater.
You are not Reclaimer. You are not worthy.
And just like that—it was gone.
The silence that followed was worse. She was left panting, drenched in cold sweat, the world slowly knitting itself back together. The fire in her thigh was distant now, muffled beneath the ringing in her ears and the pounding of her heart.She didn’t know how long she sat there. Seconds? Hours?
“(Y/N).” Chief’s voice. Clear now. Close.
She blinked up at him. His hand was outstretched. She took it without thinking, letting him pull her upright, her legs shaking beneath her. Her fingers barely gripped the pistol anymore, slick with sweat. His hand stayed steady at her elbow until she found her footing again.
He didn’t say anything else—but she didn’t miss the way his head tilted, the way his body turned subtly toward her. Guarding. Watching.
And Cortana—her voice flickered into the earpiece, cautious now.
“Are you alright?”
(Y/N) hesitated. Then nodded. “I think so,” she lied.
Behind them the energy node that had been shattered left the last of its power, as if screaming into the sky before fizzling into sparks. The world trembled faintly beneath their feet, a deep mechanical groan rising through the stone like something old and sleeping had just stirred.
Then Chief moved.
Not a word. No hesitation. Just a sharp pivot and a full sprint toward the second pylon, the towering structure silhouetted against the storm-lit sky ahead. A final climb. A final strike.
(Y/N) grit her teeth and followed.
The terrain was uneven and brutal—slabs of fractured alloy, splintered rock, and scorched patches of earth. The ground sloped upward toward the pylon’s base in a long incline, broken only by ridges of debris and the craters left by plasma fire. Wind swept through the valley, colder now, cruel and insistent. It pressed through her shirt like ice water, flattening the thin fabric to her back, already soaked through with sweat and blood.
Her jeans clung to her legs, stiff and heavy, the soaked denim scraping against torn skin as she pushed forward. The bandage at her thigh—just a strip of cloth she’d tied in desperation—was failing. She could feel the warmth of fresh blood beginning to trail down her leg again, soaking into her boot with every step.
Chief was halfway up the slope when she stumbled.
Her foot caught on a jagged piece of metal. She pitched forward and barely caught herself, one palm slamming into gravel. The skin tore instantly—rough stone against soft, exposed flesh. She sucked in a breath, hissed through clenched teeth, and pushed herself back up.
Her vision blurred at the edges. Her leg screamed.
Still, she kept moving.
She made it another five steps before her gait faltered again, her weight shifting wrong on the bad leg. This time, her breath caught—not in pain, but in frustration. She blinked hard, wiped a trembling hand against her shirt, and tried again.
Ahead, Chief stopped.
She hadn’t called out. Hadn’t said a word. But he’d heard her. Or maybe he’d just known.
He turned sharply, armor gleaming in the fractured light, and came back down the slope toward her—fast.
He reached her in four strides.
She looked up as he approached, breath ragged, lips tinged pale from the cold. Her fingers were smeared with dirt and blood. The fabric of her shirt fluttered weakly in the wind, thin and useless against the chill. She was shaking—barely holding herself together.
Chief didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He just reached for her.
One hand curled around her upper arm, firm but careful. His grip was cold through the fabric, but steady. Grounding.
She tried to protest—tried to move on her own—but he was already moving, half-turning and pulling her along beside him. Not roughly. Not gently either. Just—decisively. A solid wall of momentum that didn’t give her room to argue.
They climbed the slope together.
He slowed his pace to match hers, adjusted his steps every time she faltered. When her foot slid on a patch of loose gravel, his hand didn’t even tighten—it just shifted slightly, anchoring her back into balance without breaking stride. She hated how much she needed it.
But she didn’t let go.
The archway at the pylon’s base loomed ahead, carved in cold, silver geometry and pulsing dimly with residual energy. The wind howled louder the closer they got, whistling through exposed fractures in the structure like the pylon itself was keening.
She stumbled again—another jolt of pain through her thigh—and this time, she didn’t stop herself from leaning into him for half a second longer than she should have.
He didn’t react as they stepped beneath the archway together.
The moment they passed beneath the pylon’s outer shell, the wind died like a switch had been thrown.
Sound dulled.
The air turned colder—still and dry, like something preserved in a vault for too long. (Y/N) felt it settle on her skin like frost, clinging to the sweat on her arms and neck, raising a new wave of goosebumps across her body. Her T-shirt, already soaked through, offered nothing. The chill seeped straight into her spine.
The interior was impossibly smooth—curved Forerunner alloy etched with soft lines of dying light. The walls pulsed like veins, their glow dimmer now, flickering faintly under each step as if the structure itself were failing.
(Y/N)’s boots left damp prints on the polished floor. She was limping harder now. Her injured leg trembled beneath her, every step threatening to buckle. The blood in her boot had begun to dry, making the leather stiff and uneven against her ankle. She could feel it every time she flexed.
They reached the lift.
It stood at the center of a wide chamber—just a circular platform of seamless metal hovering slightly above the floor, the edge rimmed in faint blue light. It looked harmless, almost delicate. But she knew better. She remembered the first one—the lurch of it, the rush of motion, the sense of being launched upward like a bullet in a chamber.
Chief stepped on first.
His weight made the lift shudder subtly beneath their feet. He turned back toward her without a word and extended a hand.
She didn’t hesitate this time.
Her fingers were raw, knuckles scraped and dark with blood. The moment her palm met his, her legs nearly folded under her. He caught her without effort, guided her fully onto the lift, one hand still braced on her elbow until her boots found purchase.
Then the platform rose.
(Y/N) tensed instinctively, her hand tightening around the inner railing. The lift moved faster than she expected—silent and smooth, but with a weight that pressed into her chest and made her ears pop. The shaft around them was a blur of metal and shifting light, its walls cut with tall, vertical slits that glowed and pulsed like the ribs of some mechanical giant.
She could feel the vibration in her bones.
She glanced up at Chief. He stood motionless beside her, staring ahead—weapon lowered, stance balanced. The soft, ambient light from the walls glinted off his visor. His presence was solid, unmoving. But not cold.
There was something in the angle of his posture—an attentiveness, an awareness. A readiness to move if she slipped again.
(Y/N) exhaled slowly and tried to focus.
She couldn’t stop shivering. The cold had found its way under her skin now, into her lungs, her joints. The fabric of her shirt clung to her torso like wet gauze, and the breeze coming through the shaft above made her arms sting with each pulse. Her jeans felt like sandpaper—stiff, wet, and rubbing every raw patch of skin beneath them.
She leaned slightly toward the inner rail t to stay upright.
Her heart was pounding again, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was pressure. The rising. The wait. The dread of what was at the top.
Then a voice broke in—garbled, distant, but unmistakably military.
“UNSC Infinity to survivor, Forward Unto Dawn. Reading a faint IFF tag near the planetary core. Do you read?”
(Y/N)’s pulse stuttered.
Cortana answered fast, voice tight. “The planet’s core? They know we’re here! Infinity, this is UNSC AI Cortana. Do not approach Forerunner planet! Repeat, do not approach—”
Another reply, fragmented through static. “Infinity to UNSC asset! Forward Unto Dawn! We read you, but you’re breaking up! Helm, increase speed by point-seven. Get us in there.”
“Negative, Infinity!” Cortana snapped. “Do not enter the planet!”
The comm crackled, strained.
“If you can hear us, keep transmitting.”
“No!” Her voice was sharp now, cracking at the edges. “Chief, you’ve got to get that beam down now!”
The lift rose in near silence, a pressure shift, a hum in her teeth. Then it stopped. A soft hiss, and the doors split open into sky.
(Y/N) stepped out into cold air.
This time, she didn’t gasp. She didn’t freeze at the threshold like she had at the first pylon. She just adjusted to it—tensed her shoulders against the wind and stepped forward into the open platform. She already knew what waited: a fractured ring of steel and ancient circuitry, curved walls like ribs bent over an exposed heart, blue veins of light pulsing underfoot like blood in a dying machine. But even knowing didn’t make it easier.
The cold here was worse than below. It moved like a living thing—twisting around her arms, sinking through the soaked cloth of her shirt and into the sweat cooling along her spine. Her jeans felt heavier now, the soaked denim tugging stiffly at her knees as she walked. Her leg still burned. Not with fire anymore, but with the deep, pulsing ache of something torn that hadn’t had time to heal.
Ahead, Chief had already moved.
He crossed the platform quickly, his silhouette clean and sharp against the emitter’s glowing pedestal. She trailed him more closely this time, her pace slower but steady. The first pylon had taught her what to expect—what it looked like when these machines came apart, how the light exploded, how it all went dead. She hadn’t flinched this time when the wind picked up or when the metal groaned beneath her boots.
She kept walking.
The emitter was already unfolding as Chief reached it, the segmented dome splitting along mechanical seams, the core rising like a spine from a body too old to remember what it was made for. Energy shimmered around it in loops and arcs, restrained but unstable.
He didn’t hesitate. Never did.
His hands gripped the curved handles and pulled. The motion was precise. Familiar.
The core resisted—but only briefly.
Then it came free.
The reaction was instant. A high scream of power breaking apart, the sound rising from the pedestal like a storm shrieking into the wind. Blue light flared across the platform in jagged rings, stretching to the edges of the structure and beyond. The whole pylon vibrated—not violently, but deep, as if the foundation itself had been shifted one inch out of place.
(Y/N) slowed at the edge of the core, one hand braced lightly against the curved wall beside her as the light died. Sparks flickered in the emitter’s housing, but the pulse was gone. The pylon was down. Just like the first.
Cortana’s voice broke through the comms again, breathless and fast.
“Cortana to Infinity, do you copy? Come in, Infinity! The interference is gone, but your suit’s transmitter’s not strong enough.”
Chief’s reply was steady, absolute. “Route us up to the relay satellite.”
“Already done. Go.”
(Y/N) turned her head just as a portal opened—above the platform, at its outer edge. The metal split cleanly, light spiraling upward as the gate formed in a slow, steady rise. The energy shimmered blue and silver, quieter than before. More focused. The gravity of it was palpable, like the center of a storm that hadn’t broken yet.
Chief turned toward it—but didn’t walk away.
He waited.
She crossed the last few steps to him, the ache in her thigh flaring but under control. The blood had slowed, dried into the fabric, stiff and itchy, but she didn’t falter. Her breath steamed in the air as she approached, wind curling around her like smoke.
Chief stood beside the portal, gaze fixed on its depthless center. The energy danced across his visor in waves.
He turned his helmet slightly, enough to look at her.
She nodded once towards him, as they stepped into the portal.
The portal let go like water releasing pressure. The world came back in a single, breathless pulse.
(Y/N)’s boots hit metal, not hard, but sudden. The light faded from her vision, and air rushed back into her lungs, cool and metallic with the scent of something ancient—ozone and dust, the sterile tang of machines too old to breathe.
She blinked hard against the glare, eyes adjusting. The sky was gone.
They were back. The open platform between the pylons stretched out beneath her feet, the storm hanging still and low above it, as the core gleamed in purple hues in the distance.
The moment they stabilized, a new portal opened—wide and clean across the far side of the platform. It came alive in a slow twist of energy, not sudden like the others, but deliberate, as if it had been waiting.
Cortana’s voice slipped through the comms again, steadier this time, her tone shifting into focus.
“Once we’re on the satellite, there’s bound to be a central control point.”
(Y/N) turned just in time to catch the glint of distant light. Up above—ships.
Three Covenant light cruisers detached from the far side of the second pylon. They drifted backward, their engines flaring in faint pulses as they turned slowly toward the satellite, graceful in a way that made her stomach tighten.
Chief was already watching them, his stance shifting.
“The Covenant are moving towards the relay, too.”
Cortana’s voice sharpened with disbelief. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would they care about a broadcast relay?”
“I’ll handle them,” Chief said. “You just find us that control node.”
He turned and walked into the portal, disappearing into the light.
(Y/N) followed.
The transition this time was slower. Not rough, not disorienting—just… quiet. As if the portal was reluctant to open. There was no lurch of movement, no pull. The light simply stretched, widened, and accepted her. Then the cold sensation washed over her again, this time heavier. Heavier than before.
When her feet hit solid ground again, she felt it in her chest.
The satellite interior opened around her like a cathedral.
It wasn’t a corridor. It wasn’t a room. It was a space that didn’t feel like it belonged anywhere real. Light arced along the walls in slow pulses, casting shadows that seemed to ripple on their own. The floor beneath her feet was glass-smooth and shimmered slightly, almost like it wasn’t solid at all. Everything here was pristine and perfect—no dust, no time, just geometry and power suspended in stillness.
And at the heart of it—
The sphere.
Massive, suspended in the center of the chamber, perfectly round and utterly still. Its surface was a smooth gunmetal gray, not matte, not polished, but absorbing light in a way that made it hard to look at directly. Etched across it were angular, glowing patterns—veins of brilliant orange that pulsed softly, shifting like heat behind glass. They seemed to move on their own, not in loops or lines, but like a thought unfurling just beneath the surface.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
(Y/N)’s breath hitched in her chest. Something about it was wrong—not violently, not visibly. But off. The way its shape refused to feel static. The way the orange glow didn’t reflect but sank in. It wasn’t watching her… but it felt like it could. Like if she stared too long, it might decide to.
The air was colder here. Still, but tense.
It felt like standing at the edge of a sleeping animal’s den.
She stepped closer to Chief, who stood motionless, facing the sphere.
“I’ll handle them,” he repeated, more to Cortana than her. His voice low, steady. A soldier’s promise.
Then something cracked across the chamber—a sound like glass shattering underwater—and the silence was gone.
From the far side of the room, beyond the sphere, twin gates of shimmering Forerunner light collapsed inward. One blinked with lavender static, the other with jagged amber. Out of them came chaos.
On one side, Prometheans. Crawlers first—skittering, low-slung, all limbs and snapping jaws. Then two Knights phased in behind them, hulking shadows plated in living metal, eyes burning orange. The machines made no sound beyond the shriek of metal on metal as they touched the floor and began to advance.
From the other portal, Covenant. Sangheili barked orders in their alien tongue, blades flaring to life as they charged out ahead of a line of grunting Jackals and a pair of needle-wielding Kig-Yar. Their boots slammed the metal hard, discipline unraveling as they caught sight of the Prometheans.
The two forces saw each other—and opened fire.
The sound was instantaneous. Plasma bolts, needler shards, hardlight rounds—the air filled with streaks of light and bone-rattling impact. One of the Crawlers leapt at a Sangheili mid-stride and was cut in half by a swipe of energy sword. Another Jackal’s shield collapsed under a Knight’s barrage and sent it tumbling across the floor.
(Y/N) froze.
It was all too fast—too loud. She had seen fighting. She had fired a weapon. But this… this was a war erupting all around her. The satellite chamber, moments ago so quiet and terrible in its stillness, was now a thunderclap of ancient and alien fury. The walls trembled with energy discharge. Sparks flew from distant ruptures. Something exploded behind one of the upper walkways and rained metal down in glowing chunks.
And then they saw them.
Chief didn’t wait for the attention to settle. He raised his rifle and charged forward, firing in bursts, clean and mechanical. His rounds cracked across the chamber as he advanced toward the center—toward the eye of the chaos. Covenant and Prometheans alike turned to face him. Neither hesitated.
(Y/N) felt her breath catch in her throat. Her fingers tightened on the pistol at her side.
The gun suddenly felt far too small.
She ducked low and sprinted for the nearest column—its base wide enough to give her partial cover. She slammed her shoulder into it, wincing as her thigh flared up in protest. The cold bit deep through her damp clothes, and the sweat on her skin made her arms feel raw and exposed. She pressed her back to the cool metal and tried to slow her breathing.
She could barely hear herself think over the sound of weapon fire.
Peeking out, she caught sight of a Knight being torn apart by concentrated plasma—but not before it impaled a Sangheili through the chest with a hardlight blade. One of the Crawlers turned its glowing eyes on her for half a second before being blown apart by Chief’s rifle.
She flinched and ducked again.
The floor trembled beneath her boots.
Everything smelled like ozone and melting circuits.
Something hissed past her shoulder and seared into the pillar, filling the air with the stench of scorched metal. She turned, aimed around the curve of the column, and fired. A Jackal crumpled, hit square in the throat. She didn’t wait to see if it stayed down.
This wasn’t battle. It was collapse.
The Covenant were killing the Prometheans.
The Prometheans were killing the Covenant.
And both were trying to kill them.
Chief had disappeared into the middle of it—cutting through the firestorm with brutal efficiency, his movements unreadable in the chaos. But she had no illusions: she couldn’t follow him there. Not yet. Not in what she was wearing. Not with how badly she was bleeding.
So she fought from the shadows.
Not because she wanted to. But because it was all she could do.
She wasn’t sure if any of her shots had landed. The chaos had folded in on itself. She no longer knew who was firing at whom. The light was too bright, the noise too sharp. It rang in her teeth.
A plasma bolt tore past the column and struck the floor at her feet, exploding in a blossom of heat. She jerked back, heart hammering, breath catching in her throat like wire.
Then—
Something… shifted.
It wasn’t sound, exactly. Not from outside. It came from within.
At first it felt like a pressure behind her eyes, like she’d stood up too fast or clenched her jaw too hard. But then it stretched. Grew. Not pain. Not yet. Just presence. A weight pressing gently—too gently—against the inside of her thoughts, like a door had opened without her noticing.
And then a voice.
Not spoken. Not heard. Imposed.
“So fragile. ”
She froze.
The battle still raged around her, but it fell away all at once, drowned beneath the pressure of that word—those two syllables, spoken with a weight that didn’t belong in any language she knew.
“You bleed, you hide, you cling to cover like prey. And still, you persist. Curious. ”
Her hands trembled.
She pressed her back harder into the pillar, eyes wide, chest heaving. The voice wasn’t coming from her comm. Not Cortana. Not Chief. It wasn’t a memory. It was in her. Through her.
“Do you think you understand this place? This structure? That shell of armor you follow? ”
She shut her eyes. “Stop,” she whispered before she realized she’d said anything.
But the voice didn’t stop.
“You walk through the works of gods as if they were ruins. You misunderstand everything. ”
It wasn’t loud. That was what made it worse. It was calm. Controlled. Not asking for attention—assuming it.
“And yet… there is something inside you that does not recoil. You do not belong here… but something in you fits. ”
She curled forward, arms around her knees, the pistol still clutched in one hand. Her heartbeat was too loud in her ears. Her skin felt wrong—tight, raw, like her nerves were recoiling from the inside out.
“They left you to die. The ones you call your own. They let you fall through time and dust and blood. But I see you. ”
Her eyes burned.
She didn’t know if she was hearing this or dreaming it or losing her mind. Her leg throbbed. Her arms were numb. She could still hear gunfire. She thought she could hear Chief yelling something, but it was muffled. Distant. Like it was underwater.
The voice came closer. Not louder—closer.
“I offer you clarity, little shadow. Understanding. You need only listen. ”
She shook her head. Not violently. Just a twitch. A denial she didn’t have the strength to say aloud.
“There is nothing human in this place but noise. And you are not like them, are you? Not truly. That thing you touched—it changed you. It carried a memory. A purpose. ”
Tears welled in her eyes, hot against the frozen sting of her cheeks.
“But I see, so let me show you. ”
The voice drifted across her thoughts like breath on cold glass. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just… inevitable. As if he had already been inside her mind, already dusted off this memory, and was now unrolling it in front of her with careful, gloved hands.
And in an instant, the battlefield dissolved.
The shriek of plasma fire, the electric howl of Promethean machines, the crack of Chief’s rifle—all gone.
Replaced by the small, quiet hum of a ceiling fan.
She was home.
Her apartment—not a dream, not a hallucination. Real. Anchored. The familiar scent of old books, soldering fumes, and slightly burnt coffee hung in the still air. Light from the city outside bled through half-closed blinds, painting strips across the floor. The hour was late, and the only thing breaking the silence was the soft tick-tick of a tool against metal.
She saw herself—leaning over the desk, legs folded beneath the chair, sleeves rolled past her elbows. Her T-shirt was wrinkled from the walk home, her hair tied back in a loose knot. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light. Just the desk lamp. Its bulb buzzed faintly.
The artifact lay in pieces on a foam mat.
Silver-white metal, curved in impossible angles. Hollow in the center. Lighter than it should be. Its surface was unmarred—no seams, no fasteners—like it had been grown rather than built. Four hours ago, it had been sitting in the corner of a junk shop between a rusted-out radio and a chipped model ship.
She remembered the owner. The way he had grunted when she picked it up.
"Take it. Don’t know what the hell it is. Was about to toss it anyway."
She had bought it without hesitation. Something about it… called to her. Not loudly. Not with sound. But with a kind of silence that had weight.
Now, in the memory, she was taking it apart.
Gently. Slowly. Curiously.
A pair of tweezers pinched a small, inset ridge. She tilted the piece under the light. No resistance, but no entry point either. Her desk was scattered with notes and sketches—strange, intuitive impressions of the shape. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since she brought it home.
She shifted another panel, felt it click under her fingertips. Not a mechanical response. More like… recognition.
She didn’t notice the lights dim the first time.
The fan above slowed, then resumed. A blink. A warning she didn’t yet hear.
Time passed.
She worked in silence.
And then—
It happened.
The artifact flared.
A low, thrumming sound bloomed from inside it—too deep to come from a speaker, too real to be imagined. The lines on its surface illuminated in a sudden, sharp glow—orange and white, like molten circuits bleeding through metal. Symbols spiraled outward from its core in neat, synchronized rotations.
Her hand jerked back.
She didn’t even have time to stand.
There was no wind.
No crack of thunder.
Just light. A blooming, blinding surge of energy erupted outward, directly in front of her—a fracture in space so sharp it looked two-dimensional, like a tear in paper suddenly made real. It opened less than a foot from her face.
And pulled nothing.
Because she didn’t have the chance to be pulled.
She was taken.
In a split second, the light exploded around her, collapsing her vision inward. Her chair scraped back as her body spasmed against the pulse—but there was no room to run. No time to scream. The portal hit her like a wall of gravity turned inside out.
And then—
Nothing.
The room was empty.
The artifact clattered once on the desk and then went still, its glow fading slowly like breath from glass. The city outside carried on. The coffee cooled. The fan spun lazily overhead.
No one saw her vanish.
No one knew she had ever been there.
“Now… you understand. ”
The Didact’s voice returned, not triumphant. Not cruel.
Just certain.
“This was no accident. You were not taken. You were delivered. ”
The words settled in her skull like ash—still glowing, still burning—and then the world tilted.
A searing green bolt screamed past her left side. She didn’t see it, didn’t track it—her body just moved, snapping to the right with the raw, unthinking instinct of something hunted. The plasma burst struck the pillar she’d been leaning on with a violent hiss and a flash of white heat. Shards of liquefied metal bloomed outward. One nicked her cheek.
She hit the floor shoulder-first, a clumsy tangle of limbs and pain. Her thigh lit up in agony as she skidded, but she didn’t stop. She pushed—scrambling on hands and knees, boots slipping, blood streaking the smooth alloy floor. Her pistol clattered from her grip, spinning away. She dove after it, fingers closing around the grip, and then she was running again—half-blind, pulse thundering, no direction, no plan.
She ducked behind another fractured support column, wider this time, jagged from hardlight impact. The heat of battle pressed in all around her—weapons fire, alien voices, metal groaning under strain—but it might as well have been miles away. She collapsed behind the pillar, curled inward, gun clutched to her chest like an anchor.
Her breathing wouldn’t slow. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
What the hell just happened?
The voice was gone. That terrible, calm presence that had slid into her thoughts like it belonged there—ripped away in a second. But its absence felt like a wound. Her head was quiet now, but not in a comforting way. It felt hollow. Scraped out. And in that silence, the memory lingered like a fingerprint she couldn’t scrub off.
She’d been back home. At her desk. She’d seen herself. Felt herself. The angle of her body in the chair, the dim desk lamp, the smell of old paper and solder—none of it invented. None of it imagined. That had been real. She remembered the pulse of light, the way the artifact unfolded, and the sudden, crushing force of being taken.
Taken.
Not pulled.
No chance to react. No time to scream.
Just gone.
Her back pressed harder to the metal behind her, the chill seeping through her soaked shirt and into her spine. She dropped her head to her knees and closed her eyes, as if that would make it stop.
You’re losing it. You’re losing your goddamn mind.
She could hear her heartbeat in her teeth. Her fingers dug into the pistol’s grip hard enough to ache. Her breath kept stuttering, chest too tight. Every time she blinked, she saw the desk. The artifact. The flash of orange light. The way the portal had swallowed her whole without even asking.
And then his voice. So quiet. So certain.
Her throat burned. She curled tighter. Something shook loose in her chest—not quite a sob, but close. She didn’t know if the tears on her face were from the plasma burst or from whatever had just happened inside her head.
What was that? That wasn’t a hallucination. That wasn’t… It wasn’t mine.
It hadn’t been like the pylon, where the voice came as rage, as judgment. This had been different. Deliberate. Methodical. He’d shown her her own memory, but from outside, like she was watching someone else wear her skin. She hadn’t invited him in. She hadn’t had a chance to stop him. He’d been in her head, rearranging her memories like they were furniture.
And the worst part—the part that made bile rise in her throat—was that for just a moment, a small, cowardly part of her had wanted it. Wanted the calm. The clarity. The comfort of it. That was what made her feel sick.
Her hand trembled against her leg.
This isn’t happening. You’re breaking. You’re—no. No.
But the thought kept looping, spinning tighter every time.
You’re not okay. You’re not okay. You’re not okay.
