#emeraldcomet

[nox-aeternus]

"Missed you so much..." ~ John-117 and Adrian Fii

Yeah, today was a slash drawing day. What of it?  John-117 and Cpt. Adrian Fii, because I still will ship it until the end of time, and am slowly getting back into the mode to write them again.

[mcpo-john-117]

This Armor

No more running. 

No more hiding. 

The time for childish things had been over long, long ago, and once one left them behind, returning to them was an impossibility. 

The technicians, for their part, stood almost warily at the ready, watching the tall man prepare himself as he had so many times. He could hear the murmurs, pitched low enough that perhaps a IV couldn't have heard them but then again, the IIs weren't particularly open about the fact that they could hear from one end of a ship to another. 

No more mourning. 

No more days spent remembering, questioning what might have been. 

Clad only in the reactive bodysuit that he wore as the base of his armor, John mounted the steps of the platform without the hesitation of his last several attempts, gaining himself the much appreciated silence of the technicians, who sprang to life and to their stations. A faint, but frenzied energy almost radiated from the men and women as they set to work, and they only paused when he did, hesitating the moment before he stepped into the armature itself. 

No more nights spent sitting awake, staring at the ceiling unable to cry, or breathe, or feel anything but empty. 

No more guilt. 

Two steps in and the process began, excited technicians saving their gasps and chatter to instead focus on their work. Segmented armor plates locked into place over his feet and ankles, and he raised his arms more out of habit than knowing this new procedure. No more technicians hefting pieces of armor to clumsily mount them in place, but sleek machinery, automated for one job and perfectly calibrated to accommodate for his height, his weight. Nothing like the first time they'd stripped him of his armor, when he'd more than welcomed it's removal and hoped he'd never see it again. He remembered at the last second about the grips, opening his hands with lightning fast reflexes to take hold of them just in time, wrists perfectly positioned for the pieces of armor that slipped into place with ease. 

"Here's hoping this will actually-" 

He tensed ever so slightly, as the armature rotated, the last pieces of his greaves locking into place as his body was lifted into a horizontal position above the ground, watching the chest-piece being lowered towards him even as the back-plate lifted towards him from behind. For a moment, he was struck with a memory, the first time he'd ever donned the armor, watching magnetic locks slip into position out of the corner of his eye with no small amount of nervous anticipation. How things had changed. 

No more regret. 

No more living in the past.

No more nights haunted by one, terrible, final good-bye.

John-117 closed his eyes as the last of the pieces of his MJOLNIR MK-VI locked into place, heavy armor that, in tandem with his size, had given the technicians at least three month's worth of trouble adapting an armature for him. The armature rotated him upright once more, locking down his upper arms, the last of his armor even as it lowered him down, lowering his helmet to lock into place with a pressurized hiss of air as his HUD sprang to life. Sensory feedback immediately kicked in through his suit, feeding him a thousand different sensations at once that threatened at first to overwhelm him the same way it always did before he relaxed into it's sweet embrace. Artificial and overwhelming though they may have been, they were preferable to the harsh, glaring, garish world outside where the only beautiful thing left to him were icey-blue eyes in a handsome face framed by crimson hair - Nothing else. 

"... Christ..." 

The word, uttered like a prayer, for the man that had once been as iconic as the messiah they named, slipped unbidden from the lips of one of the technicians as John-117 took a slow step forward. Thought translated to action immediately, no effort required in that movement.

No more fear. 

No more feeling. 

Only the calm quiet, the analytical confidence that had served him so well for so long.

Like a man returning to the arms of a long-spurned lover, John-117 couldn't deny that it felt right to wear his armor again. 

[mcpo-john-117]

>>S-253649-117

But normal had been a lie, a false reality, and that happy little illusion had been stolen from him at the tender age of six. He'd never been normal, despite the lies everyone spun. Stronger, taller, faster, smarter, strange down to his very DNA that made him and seventy-four other children special. Seventy-five young martyrs to the cause of state supremacy - lives stolen away from them before they even understood what a civil war was. 

Seven years of training before the Covenant came, with fourty-two lost forever to them. Twenty-five some-odd of fighting an indomitable alien force hellbent on destroying mankind. He'd seen things, done things, that he'd never dreamed possible, and somehow managed to sleep at night, somehow managed to stand strong in the face of the most horrifying things in the universe without showing even a moment's fear. 

And yet, the TacPad in his hands and the name of the file highlighted on it made his hands shake and his head swim, every heartbeat loud in his ears and every breath a short ragged gasp. 

>>S-253649-117

It didn't matter that they'd all been granted authorization to review the files Halsey had kept on them all, the fear was still there. It was an overwhelming sense of doing wrong, looking at something private and well above his pay grade. His heartbeat quickened, and involuntarily he glanced back over his shoulder as if expecting to see grey-uniformed ONI operatives in position to descend upon him if he dared to open that file, ready to accuse him of accessing classified information and demonstrate the consequences of such a gross violation of protocol. 

>>S-253649-117 -- Open? Y/N

There had been a certain hint of malicious glee in eyes of the operative that had confirmed his authorization for access, as if they were watching the greatest human tragedy on earth about to reach it's climax before their very eyes. And in a sense, he supposed, they were. 

The past had been buried for so long, pushed into the back of his mind until he couldn't even remember the names or faces of his parents, his own last or middle name. Maybe the operative had seen it before, maybe the others had reviewed theirs and fallen to pieces, their emotional armor shattering like glass all around them. Or maybe they hadn't been able to read them at all - maybe they'd just sat there for hours, the same as he'd sat frozen for the past two, too afraid to step into the unknown and too proud to flee from the edge. Maybe he knew what was coming, or what he hoped was coming, as he closed the comm channel between them to leave the Chief to the privacy of his quarters and the answers to all the unanswered and unvoiced questions of his life. 

For a moment, he wished Adrian was there, before pushing those thoughts aside. He'd spoken with Adrian about it of course, before even requesting access. The redhead had listened, before offering to be there for him, even just in the room, and he'd brushed it aside without a thought. Professing, as always, that there was nothing in those files that would bother him, and that all he wanted was to see. Adrian had looked so concerned that he'd reiterated it again and again, before his fiance finally relented, muttering concerns for John's emotional well-being before agreeing to let him proceed as he saw fit. 

No, the last thing he needed was comfort right now, the last thing he wanted was any more emotion invested in a situation where he was already warring with his own, trying time and time again to swallow them down and file them neatly on their little shelves. 

Once upon a time, on leave, he'd wandered through the streets of a city that no longer existed, breath coming in short white puffs as he gazed in wonder at the interiors of stores decorated for the holidays. Parents and children busily shopped around for toys and gifts, and the shelves it seemed had been filled to the brim. He remembered standing for hours outside one particularly large store, long enough to watch a tired worker push over a loaded handcart, climb a ladder, and begin tiredly stacking box after box to restock the shelves, each one becoming increasingly difficult to maneuver and find a place for on the shelf. 

He understood how they felt. 

No, having anyone else here would only complicate things, make taking inventory of his own emotional state all the more difficult to manage. He moved for what felt like the first time in years, body feeling stiffer now than he had when he'd come out of cryo aboard the Dawn, setting his TacPad at his side to bury his face in his hands for a moment. It didn't make sense for this to be such a daunting prospect, it was the past and the past was unchanging. He ran his fingers wearily through unruly, short brown hair and closed his eyes for a moment, pressing gently on either temple as he took a few deep breaths to calm his beating heart, catch up with the organization of his thoughts, and once he felt himself reasonably calm, John-117 reached for his TacPad once more. 

Now or never. 

>>S-253649-117 -- Open? Y/N

Subject Designation - 117 Legal Name: Driscoll, Johnathan Liam

Once upon a time, standing there outside that store, he'd watched as the clerk overbalanced on their perch, as their hand flew out to steady them. In catching themselves on the support of the shelf, they'd inadvertently caused a cascade of boxes to shake loose and come tumbling down to the floor, some knocking stock askew or loose on other shelves in a chain reaction that had left the entire row in complete disarray. The clerk had stood there, staring numbly at it, before bursting into tears. 

He understood how they felt, as a two simple, clinical, informative lines of text cut through years of rigid discipline and indoctrination, and those orderly little shelves stocked with all of the emotions he'd ever labeled neatly with Laters and Not-Nows came crashing down. Shock, dismay, regret, and anxiety all warred for control in the moment following the collapse, and he dimly registered the unfamiliar sensation of tears burning at the corners of his eyes just a heartbeat before they fell, tracing warm paths down his cheeks and along scars etched into his skin by augmentation and combat alike. What calm he'd managed to attain moments before was gone, and his heart pounded so loudly, so quickly, that he felt as though it was all he could hear. 

He couldn't do this, not now. 

Maybe not ever. 

Desperately, he backed out of the file, movements growing ever more frantic as he tried and failed again and again to swallow back the tears and banish the feelings that made his breath come in ragged, sobbing gasps. It took four tries to pull up his TacPad's contacts, and another three to initiate the call, and by the time the familiar face with smiling eyes appeared in the video feed, he could barely speak. The smile in those eyes melted away immediately, replaced by concern as Adrian put two and two together, and only three words passed between them before the call ended. 

"I'm coming, John." 

[mcpo-john-117]

The Morning After ~ John-117 and Adrian Fii

Somewhere between the moment of panic at waking up in an unfamiliar environment at an unknown hour and the usual stumble to the bathroom in time to catch the stray droplets of blood that tended to run from his eyes in the mornings, John-117 registered that the previous evening had been one of the best nights of his life.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed that much - certainly had never drank so much in one evening - or smiled so often in a single week before, much less a handful of hours. Talking and drinking late into the night, Adrian Fii had proved himself both charming and intelligent, able to keep the Spartan's interest in the conversation and make him laugh at the same time without any of it feeling forced or unpleasant. And late in the night, he'd ushered John out of the room, watching as he made his way down the halls weaving slightly this way and that occasionally, towards his quarters where the Spartan had collapsed into bed and fallen into a dreamless sleep with a foolish smile on his face.  His eyes focused properly in time, and his head stopped aching quickly enough for him to figure that it was just the usual aches and pains, not one of the fabled hangovers that media made out to be so debilitating. A quick hot shower and a fresh change of clothes later - much the same style he'd worn the previous evening, he wasn't particularly varied in terms of his fashion sense - the Spartan finally checked the time as he wondered just where in the hell he was supposed to get breakfast on a military ship at a quarter past nine in the morning. 

[mcpo-john-117]

About That Drink ~ ODSTAdrianFii

It was his own fault, really. 

ONI psych had begun recommending brief stints of leave for them all, much to the dismay of the powers that be. He'd managed to dodge it for longer than he really should have - between himself and command always able to find some mission, op, or battlefield that required his presence or attentions, some function or reason to keep moving and active - until at last Personnel had finally put their foot down and that was that. 

Cycled off active duty status, regulated to off-duty leave. 

It wasn't even shore leave, not that he was interested in that sort of thing. The idea of spending his afternoons on some bright sandy beach or his evenings in a crowded casino or bar of some kind were the closest thing to horror that he'd ever really felt - too many people, too much noise, and above all nothing to occupy his mind or keep his thoughts from wandering the dark roads of memory to the things he'd seen, the things he'd done over the years. If anyone knew his age, they'd scoff and say he was too young to feel so old, but if they knew the truth they'd sing a far different tune. 

He listened to the officer drone on and on, about what was expected of him during his stay aboard the UNSC Trafalgar, listening only for key words instead of the entire lecture delivered as if he were some sort of inexperienced rube straight out of boot. Maintain his PT standards, rise for morning colors, but aside from that, rest and relax, and above all else, stay out of his MJOLNIR per orders from-

It all bled together, and while the rest didn't phase him, the prospect of being stuck without that second skin stung more than he'd like to admit. Alone without his fellows, on a ship full of Marines and ODSTs, the last thing he wanted was to be stuck without his armor, vulnerable and unarmed. 

"Chief?" 

"Hm?" 

"I said you're dismissed." 

"Yes, sir." John-117 straightened immediately, rendering a proper salute before he took a single step back, a precise about-face, and took his leave of the ONI attache's office, catching up the bag he'd set down at his side in a single graceful motion on his way. Once in the halls, he resisted the urge to heave a sigh, painfully aware that such a break in decorum would both not go over well, and be visible without the protective gold polarization of his visor hiding his face from the world. If it weren't for his scarred features and hands, his black uniform with its distinctly different cut and style compared to the rest, he'd have looked like any other young soldier who'd just gotten a tongue lashing, not a man who was supposed to be relaxing. 

With any luck, the Covenant would attack and they'd decide he was needed after all. If not... it was going to be a very, very boring two weeks.