Chapter 1
"Fire Escape"

"All war is deception." — Sun Tzu

UNSC Infinity, 2557

"Wake up, John."

He was floating in a sea of black, body weightless and mind heavy. Her voice cut through the howling in his ears like the deep bass of the waves rolling in. One long roar after another, and he could hear nothing else. Feel nothing. Spartans never die, but he thought it might be like this—peaceful and easy after a lifetime fighting. Even if it were impossible, it made sense she would guide him there when it all ended.

"John… Wake up. Come on."

He felt heavier like gravity took hold, the bottom dropped, and his limbs were leaden as he was dragged under. The howling was louder, shorter, distressed. Something bright stabbed his eyes.

"Wake up dammit!"

It began in the center of his forehead, right between his eyes shuddering as they searched the darkness of his black lids: his pulse. It strengthened with each second, and he hung onto that steady drum and let it guide him out of the pit. Pain permeated him and settled at its heaviest in his throbbing head. He groaned, and the sound rattling through his chest and throat told him he was alive. Spartans never die. The light was sharp as his combat knife when he blinked his eyes open. Blurry shades of grey and black and flashes of red swirled around him, and in the eye of the storm, only one shape was unmoving.

"That's right! Get up, John!"

He blinked again to clear his eyes of the dizziness, gritted his teeth, and growled like a wounded animal as he forced his body to respond and tried to sit up. In front of him the image formed: black hair and a woman's face.

"Cortana?" Her name was gravel to his dry throat, and he finally succeeded in sitting up and facing her. The blood fell, emptying enough space in his throbbing head for the faintness to return. He sucked in a gust of air and concentrated on the fuzzy image of her face.

"What?"

Her voice was low and raspy with anxiety, a tone he didn't recognize, and he fought to gain his bearings. At last his gaze sharpened, and the blurry lines came into focus. Pieces of dark brown hair fell limp to her cheek while the rest was pulled in a hasty ponytail. Her skin was naturally olive complected but pale like she hadn't seen the sun in months. Freckles scattered across her face, her tense brow hooded over small hazel eyes, and her mouth was turned down in a frown.

She looked away from him to check over her shoulder anxiously and ordered, "Get up. We have to hurry. They'll be here any second."

His attention strayed beyond the stranger squatted beside him to their surroundings as he fit the pieces together. The sparse contents, the machines littered about, the examination table… Medical division, he understood, but the dim lighting signaled they had reverted to emergency power. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and pushed away that ache in his head so he could think clearly. Last he remembered was his routine physical and psychological assessment. Now an alarm was blaring and red lights were flashing overhead. Infinity was under attack. The Covenant? The Didact? Had he failed?

He looked from the room to the stranger still watching him. Their gazes locked briefly, his searching for answers and hers brimming with replies, but she only offered a stern instruction, "Get up. I can't carry you."

John's body was heavy and numb, slow to respond and lax of its usual athleticism so that he felt like a rusted machine grappling to get the joints moving. Her hands gripped his side, she wedged her shoulder beneath his arm, and together they pushed. She groaned her aggravation for his weight and the difficulty of managing his brawn, but even numb, his body responded and forced him to his feet. His arm was dead weight over her shoulders, the ship jostled, and her knee buckled and sent her stumbling back into the wall with a chirp of protest. John caught himself with his palm on the wall and recognized in his delayed mind her small stature next to him now that they were standing. She was human and wearing a Marine's uniform. She glanced at him from beneath her knotted brow, looking at once frustrated and relieved. John was similarly aggravated, but he was regaining control and shucking off that paralyzed feeling more out of stubborn will power than anything. He was waking up.

"You've been drugged," she explained as the first answer to one of his unvoiced questions, and she held still to his side in case he might lose control and as if she had the strength to stave off 400 pounds of biologically engineered muscle. "We don't have time to wait for the effects to wear off. You have to push through it."

"I'm fine," he countered in a clipped tone and pushed away from the wall to stand before her with his spine straight and shoulders squared. It felt like the ground was swaying and rocking, like a ship pitching on the waves, and a sea of black waited to catch and consume him. A cold sweat broke across his brow, but he held perfectly steady.

She watched him for a moment, looking hesitant before her impatience overcame her and she nodded. "Good. We're going to make a run for the launch deck."

"I need my armor."

"There's no time!" she snapped back, and her voice rose with a sudden rush of aggravation. Any patience had burned away leaving her face flush and eyes flaming. "Listen to me. We have to go! We have to get off the ship!"

His mouth parted to respond when the gears on their right retracted loudly. The door began to rise, and without hesitation, she charged past him and slid for a Battle Rifle on the floor. Rather than turning it on him, she pointed at the doorway and shot before the door even finished rising. A Spartan-IV recoiled, his shield flaring as it dispersed the blast and weakened, and she shot again but missed when the same Spartan-IV ducked behind the cover of the doorway. Three red sights cut through the dimness, two landing on her and the last one on John whose gaze reeled to follow the action. Everything was too sharp. His head was throbbing, the dull ache pulsing behind his eyes like it might tear through his skull, but he ignored it and forced himself to focus on the back of his enemy's head. She was the intruder.

Glancing over her shoulder, her face was paler than before, and she warned, "Duck!"

Time seemed to lag. The red sights left her, all three pointed at John's chest, and he dropped to his knees, crouching as he heard the shots ring out in the corridor. He felt too slow. One flew past his neck, a few inches from piercing his helmetless face, and the doorway burst with the explosion of a grenade the woman had thrown. The floor shuddered, and the space was awash with the smell of sweet, hot metal and the dirt taste of gunpowder. The flashing alarm echoed amid the lingering haze being cleared by the ship's ventilation system, and the woman hurried through its brief cover to John's side. This time her rifle was pointed at him more defensively than as a threat.

Searching his vacant expression, she muttered, "Let's keep moving."

John didn't respond, and they heard a group of Marines running toward the explosion. Clenching her jaw and cursing under her breath, she turned and led them through the back door where she checked each direction to be sure it was clear. She tilted her head for him to follow, and they started toward one end of the adjoining hallway and paused at the door.

"What's going on?" he asked, tone unapologetically neutral though lowered, and he glanced at her weapon and trusted his reflexes would be fast enough to take her down. The brief skirmish only succeeded in blurring the line between his friends and foes and confusing his already dizzy mind. He hadn't yet decided in which category she fell considering what her uniform told him: it was too large for her. The adrenaline was pumping through him and washing away the remnants of numbness lingering in his muscles and bones. The last effects made him feel lethargic and gave him a chainsaw migraine, but that could be easily managed. More concerning was his current predicament, and he had the sense any answer she gave him wouldn't clear the muddy water.

"UNSC forces," she answered and glimpsed back at him as if to be sure he was still following her lead. When their gazes met, her lips flattened reluctantly before she admitted, "They're coming for you."

A frown settled into the wrinkles in his brow, and he searched for the tail end of a lie. Nothing. "Why?" he asked quietly and tried to rationalize what he had seen and what she was telling him. The Didact… It had been able to control the Covenant and Prometheans within seconds, but this thought only spawned more questions. He had failed; Cortana had died for nothing… But how? Why would he be the target? Vengeance?

Readjusting her grip on her weapon, she seemed to grapple momentarily with the answer he needed but avoided it. "They have tranquilizer rounds and high charge tasers… They want you alive. If we make it to the launch deck, I'll explain everything."

"I need my armor," he repeated, and his body was awash with determination until even his features settled into a stony expression of resolve. He couldn't fight the Didact out of uniform. He wouldn't be strong enough and now without Cortana… He shook his head as if to clear it of that thought, but he couldn't swallow down the acidic mouthful of guilt the memory brought. They were supposed to protect each other, and when the end came, they would meet Death together—like old friends.

"John!" she snapped and seized his attention in one swoop so that his blue eyes spun to focus on her. Holding his gaze, she seemed to be searching for something, maybe an explanation for his wandering mind, and spelled out stiffly, "In a few minutes, they're going to have this deck and the whole ship on lockdown. We only have one shot at getting out of here."

"Go."

He'd never asked for her help. He didn't even know who she really was, why she was here, or what her motivation was for rescuing him. John glanced about them and oriented himself. They were still on the SPARTAN-IV Training Deck and close to the armor station. Depending on the number of Marines and Spartans flooding the corridor, he could reach it within minutes, and if he were lucky, some scientist would be near to apply his armor. He thought of the Didact again. How many were under its control?

"You can't help anyone if you're captured!" she snarled sharply like a dog baring its teeth only to bow her head and compose herself. She speared him with her fierce gaze again from beneath her brow. "You don't have any friends, John. Not anymore. Not here. We have to go."

Cortana would be able to scan the systems, locate the threat, and brief him on the situation, and the sensation of blindness confronted him. He wasn't accustomed to running into battle without foresight, and yet his closest ally had died and left him alone. You started off alone, he reminded himself and mistakenly glanced at this stranger who he had every reason to shoot and leave. Something in her eyes was so haggard and desperate, but he looked away from them before grabbing her by the scruff of her shirt and yanking her back. The door beside them opened as she fell, and he stole her rifle from her hands while stepping forward and aiming for the Marine who dared to sneak up on them. His sights focused on the man's head half-visible beneath his helmet and fell as he pulled the trigger, hitting the soldier at his shoulder in the slender gap between his chest plating and shoulder guard. The next was afforded the same clemency and the one behind him as well so swift the shots were nearly indecipherable. It wouldn't kill them, but it would slow them down. John ducked behind the cover of the threshold while retaliation shots rang out, but the Marines couldn't reach them.

"Launch deck's two floors up," he said and mentally tallied how many bullets had been used. He was thinking faster, pushing through the persistent throbbing, and he could feel himself regaining control.

Her face fell warily at his unannounced change, and she glanced at the Battle Rifle in his hands. Her misgivings settled into the frown on her face, but she said nothing and pulled out a Magnum from the holster at her thigh. John took off the opposite direction, crouching slightly, grasping the rifle in both hands, and searched ahead of them for any movement.

She started after him and hurried to match his pace while she muttered, "Elevators are out. We'll have to take the stairs."

He had assumed as much. It was all standard procedure for containing and neutralizing any threat aboard a vessel, and they'd already wasted valuable time with nothing to show for it. He had been prepared for a routine evaluation in a spare uniform, not his armor. They always called him in to assess his physical and mental health after each mission so that they could chart his progress and watch for any signs of diminished capacity. Even machines grow old. He wasn't prepared for battle, but then, that was the best time to strike.

The entry to the stairs was ahead on their left, but John ducked behind the cover of a nearby corridor with the woman at his heels as they heard sounds echoing down the hall. Footsteps. Too many to decipher, and the howling of the alarm overheard drowned out the noise in his ears. By the tone and echo pattern that he could decipher, he estimated their location on the map in his head and quickly strung together the best tactic to avoid combat. These were UNSC fighters—his brothers in arms, members of a much larger team. When he was young and pitted in a boxing ring with ODSTs, he only had three ways of classifying others: those he obeyed, those he helped, and those he killed. Now, years of fighting had taught him that the lines were never so perfectly drawn. He would defend himself and take out eminent threats, but if possible, he didn't want to cause them harm. They were just pawns in the Didact's game, and he would find a way to end it—somehow.

His gaze dropped, allowing him to catch the woman from the corner of his eyes, but neither his face nor stance gave any indication as to his thoughts on her. His unannounced ally had taken a bolder approach in the brief time he had been beside her, and he couldn't waste valuable time reigning in her bravado. They would reach the launch deck like ghosts. It was their best option. It was their only option.

He began to motion to explain his plan but paused, wondering if she would know standard military hand signals. The Marine uniform was a sham. It would be best if he shook her, but for now, he dealt with her. Under his breath he explained, "We do not engage unless necessary. We make for the stairs on my mark."

His gaze was still lowered so that he caught the stiff nod she offered him, and he lengthened his neck to better hear the sounds of the soldiers. They had been heading to the main hall of the medical wing, no doubt called to the room where John had been, but now they switched directions and returned back where they had come from—faster. Their orders had changed. They were on to them.

"Mark," he snapped, and both abandoned their cover into the empty hall and hurried with light steps to the stairs where John stepped in to clear the first level of the stairwell, paused on the landing, and looked up to the next floor. "Clear."

The woman covered him from behind, relying on her sight where John had been able to use his hearing, and she recoiled as a bullet sprung past her face and punctured the metal beside her. She returned two shots and heard one deflect off the corner and the other find its mark. She hurried up the stairs with a dry warning, "They found us."

Casper flew out his tactical window.

John bounded up the stairs two at a time to reach the next level where he stepped aside to cover the door while she rushed past him, Magnum in hand and pointed steadily ahead of her. She took the next landing and checked to be sure no one was waiting for them. John followed after her and watched their backs where the soldiers were clearing the stairs after them. They would be funneled into a tight space. It was the perfect set up for a grenade, but he had none and wouldn't have tossed it if he did. Even if his stealth plan had failed, he would stick to his guns—or avoid them, rather.

"Clear," she said, watching the doorway and down one direction of the adjoining hall, while John stepped out and pointed his rifle the opposite direction.

It was empty, but not for long if the soldiers behind them had anything to say about it. The launch pad was on this deck, and he knew the Infinity was stocked with everything from Falcons to Longswords. Even if they made it, how far would they get before the UNSC caught up to them or the Didact for that matter? His mission was to reach the launch pad and leave the ship. He would decide what followed after that.

"This way, Chief," she muttered and stepped past him to take the lead again.

He assumed she liked to be in charge, and for now he could hang back and cover their exit. The UNSC soldiers were stalled clearing the stairwell as they had and were careful not to rush up after them, but still, the hunt would continue sooner rather than later.

They paused at the entrance to the launch area where she keyed in the code. The gears retracted with a hiss of changing pressure, and the door lifted while she crouched near the corner and gazed down the short corridor. It was only occupied by the flashing lights and persistent howl of the alarm, and John took a step forward. All at once she lifted her fist, and he froze, watching her acutely to see what she had discovered.

A lone soldier strode along the other end of the corridor on patrol of the launch deck, paused just beyond her sights, and answered a call on his COM. She lifted one finger to signal what she saw, but she couldn't decipher his hushed words. When she heard his footfalls on the metal their direction, she understood, lifted her Magnum, and prepared to engage. The moment he was near enough for her to have a clear shot, her view was impended by John's burly body bounding through the threshold. He caught the nozzle of the man's weapon and tore it aside where the bullet missed his chest and screeched into the metal behind him, and immediately, his elbow swiped into the man's exposed chin and sent him recoiling with a short groan of pain. There was a snap. His jaw broke. He fell unconscious onto the floor, and the woman stepped up beside John to see the soldier crumpled like a ragdoll.

"You know for a Spartan," she said softly and watched the blood trailing from the man's mouth and pooling on the metal floor, "I didn't expect you to be such a hippie."

Her lips edged into a sarcastic smirk, both ironic and humorless, but John ignored her. She tucked her Magnum back into its holster and policed the soldier's MA6 and two packs of ammo.

Another of his silent questions had been answered by this short encounter: she had some sort of military training.

The door closed behind them. If they were lucky, the Marines following them would search each direction to track them though the obvious target was the launch deck. John was usually lucky, but he was counting his teeth today. Nothing was going right. He needed to think. He needed to breathe. Time wasn't often something he could afford. The flashing lights and howl of the alarm were bullets to his brain for the way they attacked his throbbing head. He'd seen James help take down two Hunters with half his left arm burned off. This was nothing.

They continued through another door; the following would open to the launch station. Directly ahead of them would be the controls which they would need to access to prep whichever spacecraft they decided to commandeer, but undoubtedly it would be guarded given they were aware of John and the woman's movements and their end goal. If they opened the door now, they would be charging blind into a possible ambush. They were outnumbered and out matched. The usual tactics Déjà had taught him wouldn't apply. They needed something unexpected to give them the edge. Evidently his new ally had already thought of this.

"Don't sweat," she said and pushed back the cuff on her shirt to reveal a detachable timer from some explosive attached to her wrist. "6 seconds, and we'll be home free—hopefully."

A 'V' formed between his brows as he briefly assessed her face and tone for some clue as to her master plan, but her poker face was in effect. Only her final word lingered and alerted him it was a risky maneuver. He braced himself, taking a better handle of his weapon in preparation, and watched the digital numbers steadily count backward.

3…

He thought of the Marines who had been on their tail and glanced toward the door they had just entered. If her plan failed, they'd be sitting ducks stuck between the two forces.

2…

"Hold on, John," she warned and placed a hand against the wall to steel herself.

He similarly found a hold and saw the timer flicker to 1—

—nothing happened.

The woman frowned and growled out, "Shit," under her breath. They were on their own with no better plan than to charge into the adjoining room with guns blazing. It was amateur. He might have made such a mistake at six years old when Dr. Halsey found him, but Déjà's first lessons were strategy and tactics.

He began to stand, but she commanded, "Wait!"

He halted, half-standing from his crouched position, looked to her, and watched how the thin strands of hair hanging in her face shivered with every short exhale. She gritted her teeth in momentary frustration. It had failed. They needed to move on.

Then it triggered all at once, but he recognized it more as a shudder in the floor like mild turbulence on a plane. A fleeting smile teased her features, and she pounced up to her feet. John followed suit, and soon the intercom hissed to life. He recognized Captain Thomas Lasky's voice:

"All hands brace for emergency thruster maneuver."

The ship lurched as the emergency thrusters immediately kicked in. The woman tumbled forward into the door in front of them while John's hand snapped out and caught him. She punched in the codes without comment, oblivious to his hard stare centered on her. She'd taken out one of Infinity's engines. They were in orbit around Earth nearing the space dock. This close Earth's gravity could take hold, suck them into the atmosphere, burn up the metal hull, send them spiraling toward the surface, and kill hundreds of thousands—maybe millions of innocent people.

John learned something else about his abettor: she was crazy.

The door jerked open but stopped halfway, signaling the ship had been placed on full emergency lockdown. Override codes would be needed to access doors and computers. It wouldn't be impossible to hack into the system. Worse, it would be time consuming, and time was all that stood between them and the 6,000 Marines aboard the Infinity. As if unconcerned with how this affected their escape plan, she ducked beneath the edge, and shots rang out as John followed after her, practically doubling over himself to squeeze through the small space. The seven Marines guarding the launch station hadn't had the time to brace themselves and were scattered across the floor in all variety of positions. They hadn't expected the thrusters to kick in, and they certainly didn't think the culprit behind this explosive Houdini act would charge at them next. They tried to jump to their feet or roll out of the line of fire.

Three were hit: one was killed instantly, and the other two had been wounded and were taking cover. The woman dove out of the return gunfire and hid behind a few stacked crates. She had drawn their attention, and bullets pelted the crates even after she disappeared from view. John took advantage of the diversion and twisted around the corner shrouding him. He peered through the rifle's sight and found his target. He fired, and the three successive shots pierced through the Marine's helmet, causing the soldier to fall back and slump dead onto the floor. Meanwhile, the woman knelt behind one of the crates while peering over the edge with her weapon in hand and covered John who stepped around the edge and forward where his shot was clear for the next soldier. Three were dead, and the other four were either wounded or stranded in an open space with no appropriate cover to hide behind. They were disposed of within minutes, but it felt three times longer to John. Every second was precious. Reinforcements would come blasting through that door at any moment. They had to hurry.

"Come on!" the woman called to him and ran toward a Pelican-D79 that had been loaded onto a launching pad. All available spacecrafts had been launched to distract the Didact while John infiltrated its core to plant the nuclear warhead. The Pelican was one of the few crafts that remained. They needed to get to the control panel to override the codes and open the air-locks, but John followed after her and assumed she had more explosives up her baggy sleeves.

Instead she circled around to the launch kiosk where she commanded, "Prep for launch," took out a data pad from a small pack at her back, and linked into the network. John left her to hack in and override the systems, and inevitably he thought of Cortana who could have the locks open within minutes. How long would it take his new accomplice? He couldn't be sure, so he hurried to the pilot's seat to power up the systems, warm the engines, check the guns, and load up the map to confirm their position and devise the best escape route with mechanical efficiency.

"We've got company," the woman warned him from outside. "I need cover!"

His tasks were completed, and he instantly abandoned his seat to pick up his Battle Rifle and return to the launching pad. The Marines had followed them and pried open the door at the opposite end of the launching station where they were advancing. Too many for John and her to take out like the others, and they were in the weaker vantage point now. He raised his rifle and shot down two Marines without hesitation while the woman crouched beside the panel and continued typing furiously at her pad.

"I'm in the system, but the ship's AI keeps blocking me!" she called out, an angry bite to her tone. The first gateway had been opened, but the successive ones were stalled much like the half-ajar door they had passed beneath to enter the room.

He tore through the first round and snapped, "Ammo!"

She promptly ripped open one of her pockets and tossed him fresh magazine which he caught and loaded so quickly it seemed like he had only paused to breathe. The Marines were scattering and taking cover, making it harder to neutralize them and sustain their returned fire. Five Spartan-IV's brought up the rear. John fell back.

"How far out?" he yelled over to the woman who didn't respond.

They couldn't be this close and fail. That wasn't an option. They needed a new plan. He glanced over his shoulder where the lock doors were still ajar and stalled. A new tactic popped into his head: one that made him look crazy and tested his luck.

"Fall back!" he commanded the woman and sustained his fire to keep the Marines distracted and the Spartans from charging.

"I'm not—"

"Fall back," he repeated without giving her the chance to disregard him, and she yanked her link from the kiosk, tucked away her data pad, and picked up her MA6 to shoot as she retreated up into the co-pilot seat of the craft.

John took the pilot's seat, checked the status of the engines and weapons, and lastly considered the tranquilizer dart sticking from his thigh courtesy of another Spartan. Frowning, he tore it out and tossed it onto the floor beneath him. He'd worry about it later. He lifted the Pelican from the launching pad and maneuvered through the narrow gap in the first air-lock.

The COM channel crackled briefly, and then she wondered from behind him, "What's the plan, Chief?"

The emergency air-lock was even smaller, and the roof of the Pelican scraped the top like nails on a chalkboard as they squeezed through. The paint peeled away, the metal was scratched, but the craft was in tact. The sound of bullets disappeared.

"Man the M6 cannon," he instructed and switched controls from the rail turret to the mounted cannons.

"I always like to make an exit," she returned dryly.

Ahead of them, the last and final air-lock was sealed tight.

"Cannon's hot."

John took a beat. The sound of his pulse thundering in his ears lagged behind: every repercussion was spreading the sedative through his veins. A numbness started in his feet as if he were dipping them in ice water. By contrast, his chest and head felt like they were licked by flames. His brow knotted above his blue eyes, hooding and shading them, and he forced the whole of his concentration on the last barrier between them and space.

Focus, he ordered himself. To her, he said, "Fire."

He could barely feel his fingers as they launched the series of turret missiles whose tails flared briefly and then trailed along as they shot straight for the air-lock. A burst of red fired after them, but it quickly overtook them and buried into the metal first, the missiles nestling and bursting after it. Their screens were momentarily blinded by the rush of smoke that lingered and lethargically dispersed into the air. The metal was warped and blackened in places but in tact.

"Again," John commanded. He wasn't sure he hit the switch. He couldn't feel it, but the missiles from the other wing fired. The laser charged past them. All met their mark, and this time the smoke didn't linger. It was sucked out into space.

Fresh alarms from inside the Infinity started up to signal a breach. The emergency air-lock closed behind them. Their only option was a small shredded gap, as narrow as the last air-lock but jagged and uneven. The numbness seized his arms and thighs. He didn't have long before he lost control and fell unconscious. There was no time for him to reload and try to clean up the breach. He pushed the throttle to maximum burn.

The COM was silent as the Pelican hurdled forward, the size of a toy plane in comparison to the Infinity. One fraction of a miscalculation could send them crashing into the metal instead of through it. The last aircraft he'd flown, he'd deliberately wrecked and survived, but he didn't have his MJOLNIR armor to protect him this time; he also had a human co-pilot to think of.

"I hope you know what you're doing," her voice finally whispered over the channel.

"Hold on," John returned in an even tone, void of fear or concern, and angled the ship to match the widest part of the gash. There was no turning back. There was no stopping. Time seemed to slow when they neared the split, close enough for him to see how slim their chances of surviving, and then it jumped forward all at once as if it were squeezing through the slender gap with them. Metal upon metal screeched, louder and sharper than before, the Pelican jostled and struggled against the thin space, and John held steady to the throttle even as alarms screamed to life across his controls. One signaled the thrusters had reached their limit. He kept pushing.

They burst through the air-lock and swung back, curving alongside the Infinity and dropping near enough to Earth to catch the orbit. The thrusters maxed out, but the orbit propelled them around to the dark side of the planet and away from the Infinity. His head was spinning. Darkness funneled around his eyes like sharks circling closer and closer. A thousand tons weighed on his chest, feeling like it might crush his ribs. He fought for his last movements.

John transferred the pilot controls to her before everything went black.

Author's Note: Hey lovelies! I wanted to take a moment to point out, in case it's not already obvious, that this is not a strictly canon Halo fic. I'm taking the Halo universe and placing my own spin on things, and if that bothers those die-hard fans out there, then you might want to find something else more suitable to your standards. I'll add that I've read the majority of Fall of Reach (still working on it!), and I have played the games, so I'm using what I've drawn from those as a cornerstone. This is a story about John-117, deception, and retribution. If that interests you, enjoy xoxo