John followed suit; he needed to, as he hadn’t explored very much of the cavernous ship the last time he’d been on it. This one seemed more familiar with the place, a fitting guide, no doubt.
So John followed her lead. As he floated through the wide halls, his mere presence drew eyes. People gawked, backed away, whispered amongst themselves. It was as if some mythical beast, some dragon or pegasus had come gallivanting into their lives.
The hallway opened to an expansive deck. Hundreds of gyroscopic structures compromised the floors, and like bees in a hive, the place was abuzz with activity. It was here, John fully appreciated the enormity of the population of Spartans on this ship. There were hundreds among him, all in various stages of practice and armament. And yet, even they seemed aghast by his presence.
Every time John got remotely close to one, he seemed to give them pause. Comedically enough, one skidded off his treadmill.
Technicians led the legendary Spartan away to one of the gyroscopes. Rather than place him in it, they put him through a more familiar process. They went to work with their tools, prying John’s suit off piece by piece.
Moment by moment, his limbs grew lighter and his body more prone. John, like the rest of his kind, had no qualms nor shame about nudity, but this, this was a stripping down of a sort. At a time like this, John could understand the shame of nakedness, he felt naked himself, prone before the whole of civilization.
As the last piece came off, John shuddered. The light hit his pale flesh and the air seemed to nip. How long had it been since he felt the air on his skin? It was almost alien, to say the least.
Without his armor, the stares of the surrounding people seemed to grow wider. It hit him, for many, this may be the first time anyone had seen his face. To much of his species, John as a faceless shell, a war-machine, a shield guarding the realms of men. Many didn’t expect flesh beneath the armor, a soul in the machine.
Promise by the end of this, you’ll find out which one of us is the machine. She’d said to him.
Those words had cut doubt into him now.
Artemis couldn’t help the snort that escaped her when one of the Spartan-IVs tripped on the treadmill, and almost wound up flying, when he laid eyes on the Master Chief. She couldn’t blame him, really, but it was still amusing to watch him trip up. After all, given that Spartans had the best reflexes out of any human in existence, he shouldn’t have tripped at all.
As the two Spartans walked up to a line of the Brokkr armour mechanisms, a couple of techs approached the smaller of the two, and she handed her railgun off to them. She then stepped up onto the machine beside the Chief’s, and let it do the work for her.
That was how she was finished by the time she saw the Spartan-II’s helmet getting removed, and she tipped her head as she studied him for a moment. Pale, scarred flesh; faded freckles; bright blue eyes. There was no mistaking the face that was so like her own.
The Spartan-III seemed so much smaller now that her armour was gone and she was only in her techsuit. She stepped off the platform and stood off to one side to wait for the Master Chief, arms folded across her chest. Studying him, appraising him.
He looked exhausted - there was no doubt about it. And not just the type of exhausted that came from so many years of nearly non-stop fighting. He was world weary. His heart was so heavy, and there was such a burden on his shoulders. He was physically being weighted down by metaphorical feelings.
Her heart went out to him.
“Master Chief, if you’ll follow me.” Her voice was soft, gentle, and about as reassuring as she could make it.