"Alright," Samantha chirped, looking at the line of three armored Spartans, where just hours ago five had stood. She didn't need the numbers, newly added with the publicity of the Spartan program increasing, to distinguish them. She knew them, after working with them for nearly two years years, almost as well as she did herself. "Let's get you out of that armor."

Her team of technicians moved forward. There were ten of them, more than the three Spartans required. Samantha, at the request of her superiors, publically referred to them by their number designations. Inside their garage sanctuary, however, she could – and did – call them by name.

"John, how was it out there?" she asked, stepped up onto a ladder to pull the tall man's helmet off. He had his arms out to his sides, his assigned technicians – George and Lucas – working with Arthur's former second technician, Jeremy, to unlatch the gloves and forearm armor.

"Bloody," he replied neutrally, shaking sweat and blood from his eyes once the helmet was off. He held still when she used a rag to wipe his face clean, almost like a mother to her child. "We secured Dr. Halsey but we lost Arthur and Solomon." There was sorrow behind his voice, though no one would have detected it without having known the Spartans for a long time.

Samantha nodded sadly. Upon hearing the report – it had come through before the Spartans had returned to their garage, likely delayed by debriefings – she had quickly acted to negotiate the complex duties of both senior technician and pseudo-caretaker to the emotionally-stunted soldiers. Two cots had been removed from the side of the room where the Spartans slept, Solomon and Arthurs' clothing already stripped of identifying marks and in the laundry to remove their personal scents. Samantha had scrambled her underlings as well, assigning the four extras to each of the remaining Spartans and leaving one to move between soldiers as necessary.

"I'm sorry to hear it," she said, patting the large man's shoulder. John simply nodded, his neutral face never betraying the very real guilt he was likely feeling. Samantha had rudimentary training in psychology, more of a hobby but one that her superiors had credited with her assignment to the Spartans.

The large man's armor was dented and scored with plasma. She tsked softly to herself, knowing John could hear it, as she examined the damage.

"I told you to be gentle on the gear," she scolded gently.

John shrugged slightly, a delicate move in the armor. "Sorry, ma'am." Despite her request, he never called her by name. He never called anyone but a fellow Spartan or Dr. Halsey by name.

"Tell it to the Covenant," Kelly snarled from her position, trying to help her three technicians pry her like a lobster from a badly-dented chest plate. "I can't breathe." She did look a little pale.

Samantha hurried over and assessed the damage. Something – likely an Elite hoof – had crushed the side of the front panel into the woman's ribs, not breaking them but definitely putting pressure on her entire chest cavity.

"We'll need to trip the emergency release," Samantha decided. "Fred, brace Kelly, if you would."

Fred left his own station with a silent nod and grabbed Kelly's shoulders, leaning back. She braced herself against him and Samantha flipped the emergency switch. Miniature charges set within the chest plate blew, making Kelly huff with the stinging pain. It did the trick, though, and the piece fell to the ground with a solid thunk.

"How's that feel?" Samantha asked, running her hands over the woman's ribs for signs of damage. She felt several bloody patches leaking through the black bodysuit, but nothing was broken or even cracked, that she could tell.

"I can breathe," Kelly replied, nodded slightly. "Thanks."

Fred released her and went back to his station, where the three technicians assigned to his armor continued pulling it off piece-by-piece. Underneath, the black bodysuit covered him from toe to chin, as it did all the Spartans.

Finally, all three of her charges were rid of their armor, standing easily in the form-fitting bodysuits. Samantha waved them towards the showers – they complied with the unspoken order eagerly.

"We'll need to replace quite a bit of this," George sighed, looking at the report from John's chest plate. "We brought most of what we need, but it's going to take a while."

Samantha nodded, looking over his shoulder. "Let's put in some extra gel here," she suggested, tapping the sides of the chest plate. Kelly's predicament hadn't been the first such incident. "It might help with their tendency to use their armor as personal shields."

George nodded agreement, tacking a note to the appropriate diagrams. He lowered his voice considerably. They all knew how well the Spartans could hear. "What do you think we should do with them?" he asked quietly.

Samantha tapped her lip in thought. Super-soldiers though they were, the Spartans would still need time to mourn their lost brothers – and it wouldn't do any good to dump them in the freezer just yet. She also had a sneaking feeling that Dr. Halsey might drop by to check on them, and the technician knew the Spartans would prefer to see the doctor while awake. She did it every time they happened to be aboard the same ship, even if they had gone into cryo.

"Go Fish," she decided. "Maybe poker or Tichu if we feel up to it, then we'll talk to settle down for the night."

"And if they don't want to?"

"Bully them into it," she replied. "It's good for them." A simple, non-warlike game would be cathartic for the Spartans, Samantha knew. It was a tactic she used often, half-bullying the giant soldiers into playing children's games with her and the other technicians. They kept it lighthearted. It was an unspoken rule that, once game time was announced, nothing short of imminent threat would be allowed to interrupt.

The technicians carted away the near-scrap armor and returned with the playing cards. They also brought the poker chips.

Kelly spotted the cards first and groaned softly, nudging John. Samantha noticed the small frown form on the man's lips and spoke before he could try to wiggle out of the game. "We're playing Go Fish," she told him, half-sternly. "And you all are joining us."

John compressed his lips slightly but obediently stood and followed her, motioning for his teammates to comply. He was only wearing pants, leaving his upper torso – scarred and thick with muscle – free, still slightly damp from his shower. Kelly was dressed in running shorts and a sports bra, clearly having planned on a trip to the ship's gym, and Fred tugged on a shirt, tucking it into his pants.

Kelly huffed as she sat down in the circle. George and Yanny were to either side of her, and John sat next to Carroway and George, with Fred placed between Samantha and Yanny. Jeremy and Misha sat between Samantha and Carroway. Such integration spoke volumes for how comfortable the Spartans were with the technicians. The others had formed their own circle; more than nine participants in a game of Go Fish disoriented the technicians, and gave a very clear advantage to the sharp-minded Spartans.

Samantha shuffled the deck and passed out the cards, three to each person. That left twenty-five in the ocean.

"Alright, Misha, you're first," Samantha said, frowning at her cards. Nothing matched.

Misha considered her cards for a second and then targeted John. Privately, the technicians had agreed that other Spartans, especially Kelly and Fred, took their cues from the Master Chief, and so focused intently on pulling him out of his shell first. "John, do you have any threes?"

The Spartan shook his head.

"Use your words," Samantha scolded the large man.

"Go fish," John said quietly, lips twitching. Misha huffed but pulled another card. Samantha saw the delight in her eyes as she paired the pulled card with another from her hand.

Carroway squinted across the circle at Fred. "Alright, Fred, got any kings?"

With a sigh, the large man flicked the card across the circle, landing it expertly in the technician's lap. Carroway grinned maniacally and made a show of tucking the card into his hand.

John was up next. He had set his cards down, his hands loosely piled in his lap. The Spartan had likely memorized what he had already. "Fred, hand over your four."

Fred frowned and flicked the requested card at his brother, aiming for the man's head. John deftly caught it and set it in his pile. "You always know," Fred grumbled, staring bleakly at his single remaining card.

John just shrugged and nodded for George to take his turn. "Alright, um, Kelly, do you have any queens?"

Kelly shook her head. "Go fish, George," she said quietly before Samantha could remind her to use her words.

George drew his card and sighed, placing it in his hand with a sloppiness that told Samantha it wasn't anything he had – which meant he likely held four different cards, a good choice to pick on when her round came up.

"Samantha, got any jacks?" Kelly asked politely.

Samantha peeked at her cards and then shook her head. "Go Fish, Kelly," she said, shoving the ocean of cards towards the other woman. Kelly looked at them carefully and then pulled one from the top, nodded in satisfaction at what she'd gotten.

Yanny fixed John with an almost challenging gaze. "John, do you have any fours?"

John acknowledged her with a bare tilt of his head, passing one of the four cards in his hand – he had to have at least two, but they played a slightly more difficult version of Go Fish that required only one card trade hands – around to the technician. He never threw the cards.

"Alriiight," Yanny murmured under her breath, nodding to Fred to take his turn.

"Carroway, please tell me you have an eight." Fred gazed in an exaggerated sad-dog look at the technician.

"Tch, fine, here," Carroway chuckled, throwing the card at the Spartan. It didn't make it half-way across the circle before it flipped and air resistance dropped it face-up into the ocean. Fred plucked it from the pile quickly, as though it would drown otherwise.

Samantha's turn, finally. She smiled winningly at George. "Queens, Georgy, hand 'em over."

Grumbling, George leaned over and tossed the card at her. It landed just short of her feet, and Samantha quickly picked it up.

It was Misha's turn again. She frowned in concentration.

They continued for a while and Samantha saw all three Spartans slowly loosen up, smiling more – though the movement was a bare twitch of their lips, more in their eyes than anything, she had long ago learned how to see it.

"Fred, give it," John growled at his brother, who held the last face-down card. John's hand, three matched cards that had to be sevens, beckoned to Fred's remaining card. All the rest were face-up in piles.

"I should at least win one pile," the male Spartan muttered as he tossed the card to the Chief.

"Alright, people, count your piles," Samantha ordered. She had clearly lost, as had Fred; they hadn't won any piles. Kelly and John had seemed to team up on the poor odd-Spartan-out, stealing all his cards ruthlessly as the game wore on.

Kelly had wound up tying George for second place, while John, predictably, took first. He was utterly ruthless in children's games, just as he was on the battlefield, and he hated to lose. He also had a lot of what his brothers and sisters called "Spartan luck" and it seemed to transfer over to card games.

Samantha stopped the trio of Spartans when they would have gotten up to leave with a soft command to sit back down. "We're going to play poker next," she told them.

"Samantha, no offense, but we're not really feeling up to it," Kelly said quietly, glancing at her brothers.

"I know you want to go run around the gym or lift weights and sulk," Samantha said with some sympathy, "but I'm not going to let you."

"It's not sulking to mourn your brothers," Kelly hissed, eyes narrowing slightly at the implied insult.

Samantha nodded. "But you're still feeling guilty, and until I feel reasonably sure you won't go off sulking and berating yourself, you're going to stay right here playing mindless games with us."

George shifted uncomfortably as John and Kelly, on either side of him, straightened slightly, almost threateningly. The technician suddenly looked – and likely felt – very small.

"You know you can't bully me into getting your way," she told them both sternly. Sometimes, Samantha wished she had been briefed on the Spartans' pasts. All she really knew about them was limited to her personal experience with them, learning how to handle the large men and women.

It was kind of like working with horses, in a way. Spartans could sense emotions around them almost uncannily, and responded accordingly. They had a herd mentality, but weren't averse to working alone – and John was definitely the top stallion in any group he commanded, though Fred was a close second. Spartans preferred action to talking, spending hours sparring or training in the ship's gym and only taking a break when they couldn't possibly lift anything, which took a long time, or she bullied them into it. They respected authority, but to get them to do something they didn't want to do took a lot of willpower.

She had to meet them on their ground. They sensed – and detested – being treated as machines or inhuman assets. So she treated them like sentient horses, asserting her dominance as herd mare. She might listen to John, but ultimately, the decision was hers – both as head technician of their tightly-knit group and as the closest thing the Spartans had to an on-call psychologist.

"Now, we're going to play poker," she told them, pitching her voice to a quiet but authoritative tone. "And when we're done with this game, I'd like to talk to each of you – individually."

John scowled – the expression was evident in the barest darkening of his eyes and furrowing of his brows. Kelly set her jaw and Fred's hands twitched. He was a fidgeter.

Ignoring the obvious distaste on the Spartans' faces, Samantha calmly dealt the necessary cards and handed out the poker chips. They never played with or for real money. Occasionally, there were lightly-hearted bets for tokens or favors, but seeing the suppressed anger in all three Spartans, Samantha doubted there would be any such joking around this time.

She was right. John and Fred trounced everyone solidly, apparently working off each other and trading wins. Once they pushed everyone out of the game – very quickly – they "battled" ruthlessly, betting high each time. They didn't quite push Samantha's buttons by being obvious about letting one or the other win, but it was clear to everyone that the three Spartans had a plan. The game was over in record time; John had lost to Fred with a reckless all-in bet on a pair of spades.

Samantha huffed as she gathered the cards and chips. The Spartans were already on their feet, headed back towards their cots. Samantha pursed her lips thoughtfully as she stared at their retreating backs. Usually, she took John first, alpha that he was. But this time, she sensed something darker boiling in Fred, and so called his name instead of John's.

"Come on, Fred," she ordered when the male Spartans both turned to look at her.

Fred growled something and John glanced at the other male before following Kelly to their side of the room. The division was more solid than usual, though nothing physical had changed; unlike most nights, none of the technicians approached their Spartan charge to ask if anything was pinching or tight.

She motioned him to a seat on the couch in the small room built onto the garage, usually a storage closet and repurposed for her office. She moved several piles of paperwork from her own chair and sat. Fred carefully lowered his frame onto the couch, sitting rim-rod straight.

"So, Fred, would you like to tell me about the mission?" she asked, ignoring the impulse to lean back in her chair. The Spartans didn't respond favorably to indirect questions, often feigning confusion – or maybe not faking it – and disliked informality.

Fred didn't bother reminding her it was a classified mission. She had good security clearance, and he knew she was authorized to hear anything from any Spartan under her charge who was having difficulties. He merely folded his hands in his lap.

"It was a quick mission, ma'am." She frowned lightly when he didn't call her by name, a clear indication that he was drawing a line between the informality of the card games and these sessions. "We took Booster Frames to infiltrate the fleet and attempt to rescue Dr. Catherine Halsey. Our mission was a success, though we ran into difficulties with decoys and Antimatter Charge." Fred's eyes dimmed slightly. "Solomon was on board the Covenant cruiser when it detonated."

Samantha murmured condolences, knowing better than to console Fred overtly.

"We located the flag ship and deduced that our target must be held within it. John led the charge; Kelly was pinged by a Seraph and Arthur dropped back to cover her, but was trapped between two cruisers and crashed. Kelly managed to jump onto my Booster Frame and we made it to the assault carrier. We moved through the hanger and hallways, and I remained behind to stall two Elites while Kelly and John continued. I managed to kill one, but the other ran away."

Samantha frowned slightly in confusion – that wasn't normal Elite behavior – and Fred caught the expression. He shrugged slightly. "He seemed to have something more important on his mind. I commandeered a Seraph and took out as many others as I could while waiting for Kelly and John to get out. Kelly was thrown into space when the ship separated, so I picked her up and she secured her own Seraph. John found the doctor and brought her out via an escape pod, and Kelly and I guarded it on the way back. That's basically it."

"Do you regret not being in charge?" Samantha asked. Fred usually led a team of his own; it was rare that he served under John, she knew.

Fred shook his head. "John was the better leader for this op," he said immediately, perfectly loyal to his brother. "Neither of us could have prevented Solomon or Arthur's deaths."

Samantha nodded encouragingly. "You know that intellectually. How about emotionally?"

Fred frowned slightly. "I'm still coming to terms with it," he admitted. "Losing two Spartans in one op is… unusual."

The technician nodded. They continued talking for a few minutes, Fred admitting that he really did just want to sulk, but together, they figured out a solution, just as they always had. The soldier was too emotionally stunted and in control of himself to cry, but there was a certain shadow in his eyes that spoke as loudly to Samantha as tears would have.

"I know you know how to handle it, even if it is a harder blow than usual. I'm always here if you need anything," she reminded him.

"I know," Fred said, smiling gratefully. "I'm sorry we were so… Uptight."

Samantha nodded in understanding. "I forgive you." It didn't need to be said, but she did it anyway. "Who do you think I should talk to next?"

Fred frowned, thinking. "Kelly," he finally decided. "She was guarding Solomon when he was on the cruiser, and it was her ship being hit that caused Arthur to drop back."

Samantha nodded. "Thank you, Fred."

The soldier stood and let himself out of the small room. Seconds later, Kelly – who likely knew it would be her turn next – knocked rapidly at the door. Samantha called for her to come in and she sat on the couch, stiff-backed in a defensive posture.

"I know you hate these sessions," Samantha told her, folding her hands on the table in front of her. "Fred's already given me the details about his part of the mission. Why don't you elaborate on the part after you were separated from him?"

Kelly huffed. "John and I fought through some uglies and then I pushed John through an airlock before it could close when the ship was coming apart."

The technician nodded. "Why John? Why not you?"

Kelly shrugged. "John's better at fighting hand-to-hand."

"Your speed would likely have been an asset." Spartans weren't exactly modest, especially not physically, and Kelly was rightfully proud of her speed.

"Only one of us was going to make it through."

"So, why John?"

Kelly frowned. That she was uncomfortable was obvious, though she didn't show it in so obvious a way as crossing her arms. "He's team leader."

"So? You know he would have pushed you through if you'd been the better choice – or given him a choice. Why did you push him through?"

"He had a better chance of retrieving the target." Kelly was sticking to her guns, then. Samantha had expected that.

"Do you feel guilty about not being able to stop Solomon from entering the Covenant ship and therefore being vaporized by the Antimatter Charge?"

Kelly blinked slowly, the only indication she had heard the technician. She muttered a reply; Samantha raised a brow, silently asking her to speak louder. "Yeah," the Spartan admitted. Now she did cross her arms.

"And that it was your ship that was hit so that Arthur dropped back to cover you?" Kelly nodded silently. "Do you think you could have prevented either or both deaths?" Kelly frowned and shrugged. "Kelly, use your words."

The Spartan woman growled softly but nodded jerkily. "If I'd been more insistent on waiting for John, Solomon wouldn't have gone inside and tripped the Charge. If I hadn't been hit, Arthur wouldn't have dropped back and gotten crushed."

"Do you blame yourself, then? Why not the Covenant?"

"I made mistakes. The Covenant didn't."

"Wouldn't you have done the same if it was one of your teammates who had been hit, or was inside an enemy ship?"

Kelly nodded. "Of course I would."

"Then isn't it rather selfish of you to assume Arthur and Solomon weren't good enough soldiers to know they were taking risks in protecting you, as you would have for them?"

"It's not that," Kelly objected, uncrossing her arms and leaning forward.

"Ah, it's the protection thing again, isn't it?" Samantha smiled knowingly when Kelly huffed in agreement. "Kelly, you may be a Spartan, and you're a damn fine soldier, but even hundreds of years of feminism and equality can't completely erase the protective instinct over females that all males have. Especially when those males are your pseudo-brothers."

"I don't need special protection," Kelly protested. "I'm just as good a solider as any other Spartan. Better than some."

Samantha nodded soothingly. "And intellectually, your brothers know that. But in flight-or-fight response, they're going to want to protect you – and not just because you're female. Think about the mission. Speed was essential. You're very fast, and you've proven you're good at infiltrating Covenant ships." Kelly nodded reluctantly, conceding the point. "It may not seem fair, Kelly, that you lost two brothers in the same operation, both while you were nearby. But you can't blame yourself. That would be tantamount to saying Solomon and Arthur didn't deserve to be out there, fighting beside you."

Kelly frowned slightly. She always crumpled to this argument; she saw the sense in it, but it didn't help the guilt and hurt she was feeling.

"I know you think better when you run," Samantha continued. "Go run a few clicks and get it out of your system. I think you can make the rest of the journey yourself."

Kelly nodded gratefully and stood. She paused, however, and said quietly, "Thank you, Samantha."

Samantha nodded. "Send John in next," she requested.

John entered after a polite knock and the invitation to enter, sitting down gently on the couch. He was always the toughest nut to crack, though he was also the most cooperative, and in this instance, Samantha was grateful that she had previous knowledge of the mission from his siblings.

"Well, John, I know about the mission up until Kelly pushed you through the airlock. Would you like to elaborate on what happened after that?"

John nodded in agreement, his brass voice pitched to a quiet rumble. "I found the containment cells and freed Dr. Halsey, who was still in her cryotube. We encountered an Elite on the way out, and he challenged me to a duel." There was some slight confusion in the man's tone, but Samantha was silent. She would ask her questions at the end. "However, before it could be concluded, the Elite was lifted out of the ship by a gravity lift. I secured the doctor and myself in an escape pod; we ejected from the ship just before it was destroyed. Kelly and Fred covered us in Seraphs and we rejoined the fleet before they liquefied the remaining Covenant ships."

"I see." Samantha tapped her lips thoughtfully. "How do you feel about the deaths of Solomon and Arthur?"

"Angry and hurt," John replied immediately. He knew better than to fight her – or try to lie. "Angry because I wish I could have prevented it. Hurt because they were my brothers and under my command, and they died under it."

"Do you blame them for their actions?"

"Solomon, a little bit," the man admitted, shamefully. "He shouldn't have tried to secure a whole cruiser by himself. The first scan was suspicious – the Covenant knows we have tracking devices in all UNSC personnel…" John shook his head. "Arthur, though, followed protocol. Kelly was hit, so he dropped back to cover her. I would have done the same if I hadn't been in the lead."

"Do you blame Kelly? She was present both times, and it was her ship damage that caused Arthur to drop back."

John shook his head emphatically. "She blames herself," he said knowingly. "But I don't blame her. Arthur was protecting her, like he should have done for any compromised teammate. "

"Do you blame yourself, then?"

John frowned slightly, the indication that Samantha had hit a sore spot. "You know I always do," he said softly. The technician nodded but indicated for him to continue. "I knew Solomon was eager to rip the Covenant a new one, after Sheila's death; he shouldn't have gone, but brass ordered a five-man team, and it would have delayed us to wait for someone else. He insisted on coming along after we found out it was Halsey who had been captured. I know I couldn't have done anything about Arthur's death, but I still wish I had thought of something."

"Let's go back to your report," Samantha suggested, seeing from the set of the Spartan's jaw that he was starting to resist the probing. Not wanting him to shut down on her, she changed the topic. "You said you dueled an Elite?"

John nodded, confusion evident in his eyes. "He challenged me to a formal duel. I was weaponless and he gave me an energy sword." Unspoken was the knowledge that, without the sword, John wouldn't have survived the battle without a weapon.

Samantha frowned slightly. "You're building quite the reputation among the Covenant," she said thoughtfully.

"All of us are. Covenant can't tell us apart. Not many can."

"Still. I think there's been a special hatred aimed at you, specifically, John, at least from the Elites." John tilted his head, curious. "I don't know much, it's all very hush-hush, just like you are. But our intel indicates that you've been identified in several battles, at least after we started putting numbers on your chests."

"I'm not special," John protested.

Samantha smiled slightly. "You're very special, John. All of you are. Getting back on track, though, this Elite may have tangled with your before and recognized you – or perhaps didn't differentiate between Spartans and just wanted someone's blood. You know how highly Elites value their honor. This sounds like he took a serious blow to his honor from one of you green demons and was trying to regain it by killing you."

"But why was he pulled away at the last second?"

Samantha shook her head. "I can't tell you, John. Halsey may have some idea – she was, after all, their prisoner, at least for a while."

John nodded. "Can I go?" he asked.

Samantha shook her head slightly. "Not yet, John." The Spartan huffed quietly. "There's still something bothering you."

John frowned, his fingers twitching slightly. The Spartan wasn't usually fidgety, making Samantha wonder what was behind the movement. "Two things," he admitted. "One of them really isn't related to anything with the mission."

"If you would prefer to talk to Dr. Halsey, or another psychologist, I could certainly arrange it," Samantha offered.

The man considered it for a long moment before shaking his head. "You're probably the best one to talk to," he admitted. "I don't really want to go through explaining all the backstory to a regular psychologist and it's not something… I don't want to talk to Dr. Halsey about it."

Samantha nodded. "Then let's take it one step at a time," she suggested.

John nodded, clearly organizing his thoughts. "This mission… It didn't require a five-man team." He frowned slightly as he spoke. "The fleet was certainly large, but we drew more attention with more Spartans."

"Do you feel that Arthur and Solomon's deaths could have been prevented if your orders had been to take only Fred and Kelly?"

John nodded. "I would have brought a wing a Longswords out with us, had them clear the way, and ignored the first scan altogether. We know the Covenant know about our neural laces, and we could have figured they'd put Dr. Halsey on the assault carrier without scanning. Or we could have made the scan before directly engaging the target."

"So this is a case of bad orders?"

John nodded, eyes unfocusing slightly as he called up some memory and then released it. "Maybe I don't have all the intel, but we wouldn't have lost two Spartans if we'd been more careful."

"Ah." Samantha nodded, seeing the puzzle click into place in her mind's eyes. "You feel that your team's lives were spent wastefully."

John paused for a moment, then nodded carefully. "Inexperience, maybe. But you've heard the rumors, same as I have, about our being robots – 'military hardware' – and it could be that whoever gave the ultimate orders for our involvement figured unnecessary firepower would be a brave show of force."

"Even knowing the time constraints you worked under? And how important Dr. Halsey is – not only to you, but to the war effort?"

John tilted his head thoughtfully. "You could be right," he conceded. "But five Spartans… We haven't been deployed that strong in a long time. It would have been faster to put me, Kelly, and Fred on the first ship out, but we waited for Arthur and Solomon."

"Hmm. It is an interesting question. Perhaps the brass did want a show of force."

"Which then raises the question of how expendable we are." John's voice wasn't bitter, but Samantha frowned slightly anyway.

"Think of it intellectually," she instructed him. "The UNSC has invested millions of credits into every single one of you, from training to armor and upkeep. You know I make a comfortable sum, and there are ten technicians on board, each being paid. We're entirely dedicated to your team – we have no secondary functions."

"Our babysitters," John said, smiling slightly.

Samantha grinned, nodding. "And your engineers, software technicians, and general confidants. We're multi-tasked, so we're earning our money, but also think of how much your armor costs. We have to repair and replace a lot of it when you come back from battle, and that's not cheap. Plus, there's the whole backside in research and development looking to keep improving and integrating Covenant tech into your armor."

John tilted his head. "Money is a foreign concept to me," he admitted.

"Well, it's a lot of money keeping your teammates fed and in the battlefield," Samantha assured him.

"Alright." John nodded, both to himself and to her. "I think I understand now."

"So, what about this other thing?"

John was immediately uncomfortable and Samantha leaned forward slightly, encouraging him to speak. He knew nothing would leave this office unless she had evidence that he was in danger, or knew of a threat. She had made a point of telling them that their first sessions, but she didn't need to now. They trusted her.

"I've been having…" He shook his head slightly, before continuing with determination. "Difficulty sleeping."

Samantha nodded. "How long?"

"A week," he admitted.

"You have had such problems in the past," she said softly, tapping the paperwork on her desk with one finger – one of which did include a full psych-workup on John, and on every Spartan she had worked with. "Is this worse or not as bad?"

"It's different. Actual hours spent sleeping are nearly the same, but I don't wake feeling rested – and I don't know why. Last time, it was nightmares, and I'd wake up covered in sweat and breathing hard." Samantha nodded. She had been warned, by both the Spartans and her predecessor in this role, not to approach a nightmare-bound Spartan. "One of your functions is to help all of us deal with those, when we can't ourselves." John never said anything trivial, so Samantha knew he was reiterating one of her functions either to buy time or to lay out his own thoughts clearly – she thought it was likely the second. "But the past week, I haven't been sleeping well, but I haven't been waking up in cold sweats and I don't have any memory of the flashbacks – or whatever is going on in my head while I sleep."

Samantha nodded. "Have your siblings noticed changes in your sleeping routine?"

John nodded slightly. "I'm quieter, Kelly says, and I don't wake up as readily. That's dangerous – if we get ambushed and I'm not completely awake…"

Samantha held up a hand, stopping the Spartan. "Let's worry about getting you rested before we worry about working on getting up quickly. I have a feeling the one will solve the other." John nodded in agreement. "You don't sleep much anyway, and humans are designed to sleep a lot more than you do. You take short naps, I know, to mitigate the problems, but you may just be tired, John. You haven't had a real break since this war began –for all I know, since before it began."

John's face was carefully neutral. Whether or not he and his siblings had been active before the Covenant showed up was still a mystery to Samantha, but judging from their scarring and comfort in the battlefield, she guessed it was so – which begged the question how old they all were, and when they had started.

"And I know that ordering you to take a long break would likely put you under even more stress."

"Spartans aren't designed to break," John said, voice blank.

"But humans bend and break under strain, and you've been under a lot of it." She held up a hand to forestall his argument. "I know you're a Spartan, John, but you're still human. We have a long Slipspace journey ahead of us. I would like to keep you and your siblings out of the freezer for at least a few days. You can catch up on your sleep, spend a little time socializing – don't frown at me like that – and we'll see if your problem improves. If not, we'll look deeper, alright?"

John nodded stoically, rising. "Thank you for your time," he said politely.

"Any time, John, you know that." She tilted her head with a slight smile and the Spartan let himself out.

After making the appropriate notes in her files, Samantha turned her attention to the pile of requisitions her technicians had put in after their initial examination of the Spartans' armor. Several she passed through without comment, but others she flagged – either because they didn't have the part needed or, more commonly, there was a cheaper or more reliable way of fixing it.

This task consumed hours and so it was with a slight twinge in her neck that Samantha looked up when someone knocked at her door.

"Come in," she called, pushing her bangs from her face.

She was expecting one of the technicians, likely with a couple more stacks of paperwork, but the woman who entered was clearly not one of Samantha's young scientists. She had greying hair, kind but worn eyes, and was built on a willowy shape that bespoke a youthful beauty. Now, the woman looked majestic and wise, not wizened as many reports would have of her.

"Dr. Halsey." Samantha rose and offered her hand.

Dr. Halsey shook it gently, her grip feather-light but firm nonetheless, and took a seat without being asked. Samantha also seated herself. "I'm sorry for the mess, doctor. If I'd known you were coming, we would've cleaned up a little…"

The doctor shook her head. "No need, Samantha. I've already checked on my Spartans and thought to talk to you."

"They're awake?" Samantha asked curiously. She'd thought they'd be asleep by now.

The woman smiled slightly and shook her head. "I did not want to wake them yet. They look tired."

Samantha's eyebrow rose a notch. Despite the trust the super-soldiers put in her and the other technicians, there was no way any of them could have walked into their space without waking at least one, usually all three. It bespoke a much deeper trust that flowed between the doctor and the Spartans.

Samantha regarded the woman more carefully with this new intelligence. Rumor said she was a mother figure to the Spartans, both their commanding officer and a warm presence in their life – and that she had taken them as kids, not adults. The Spartans themselves did not often speak of her, but then, Samantha knew them well enough to know how highly they valued the doctor. The Spartan II program was supposed to be her brain-child.

"How are you enjoying your job?" The doctor leaned back on the couch stuffed into the office, crossing her legs at the ankle and folding her hands over her knees. Despite the apparent relaxation in the position, Samantha didn't feel as though this was a friendly chat.

"I like it," she answered truthfully. "Working with the MJOLNIR armor is amazing. Even if the paperwork is top-secret." She smiled slightly and Dr. Halsey tilted her head in acknowledgement.

"And working with my Spartans?"

The first time Dr. Halsey had claimed the soldiers to be hers, Samantha hadn't really noticed. Now, however, she read Dr. Halsey's obvious intention. They were her soldiers, and she was clearly making sure they were getting the best of care. Keeping this in mind, the technician answered carefully.

"It took getting used to, but we understand each other now. I have some background in psychology-"

"Yes, I know. It's why brass wanted you working with them." There was something under Dr. Halsey's voice that Samantha couldn't quite identify. It was almost pain, but there was pride, and worry, there as well. The older woman fixed her with a stare as though she could see into her very soul. "So that you could identify any cracks in their armor, physical and mental."

"And emotional," Samantha agreed.

Dr. Halsey lifted a brow elegantly. "And emotional," she murmured, a slight frown crossing her face. She shook her head slightly, as though scattering troubling thoughts. "And what is your assessment thus far? You've had a full year to work with them – some of them, at least."

"If John, Kelly, and Fred – and Arthur and Solomon until recently-" there was a real flash of pain across the older woman's features, which Samantha noted in surprise – "are good averages of the Spartan program, then I think they are truly remarkable soldiers. While I can't imagine what kind of training and conditioning they went through to get to this point, and frankly I don't really want to know about it, I can appreciate the enormous sacrifices they made and continue to make in the war."

"Yet you disapprove at the same time." Dr. Halsey's eyes glinted knowingly.

Samantha paused for a moment, thinking her response through. The woman in front of her, so rumors claimed, had captured children to train into super-soldiers. She could be completely ruthless, and her motherly side a fiction of the Spartans' minds.

"I do," she answered carefully, "in the strictest sense. There is no war without sacrifice, I know, but even with that… We have morals, laws, for a reason."

"And I trust you have heard all the rumors." There was no question in the doctor's voice, but Samantha chose to interpret it that way. She nodded.

"There's no good way to explain it, doctor," she elaborated. "I worked with horses before I joined the UNSC after college, and working with the Spartans is a lot like that." Dr. Halsey nodded slightly at the comparison, as though against her own experience. "I had to assert my authority over them not only as a technician – though they have never been dangerous, or less than perfectly proper – but as a psychologist. They react in ways that I would chalk up to PTSD – if they weren't so obviously also suffering from some sort of Stockholm syndrome."

There was slight warning in the doctor's gaze, so Samantha closed her teeth over her next point – that it was obvious something had changed the Spartans' basic nature to mold them into a better soldier.

"Unfortunately," the doctor said after a long moment of quiet, "I cannot relieve you of your position." Samantha frowned, opening her mouth to object, but the older woman motioned for silence. "Let me speak. My Spartans require very little in the way of human needs. Physical contact, emotional support, "down time" – those needs were, to the best of our ability, trained out of them. They are the ultimate soldier and, I honestly believe, humanity's next step, in an evolutionary sense." Samantha shuddered slightly to think of an entire race of ice-cold, stone-hard Spartans. "They are necessary to our very survival in this war. Your expertise in both psychology and advanced MJOLNIR systems recommends you very highly for this position, and I cannot override those who put you in it. But," the doctor leaned forward, eyes angry, "you are compromising years of training and education in your treatment of the Spartans."

"They're not machines," Samantha protested, unable to quiet herself.

"Of course not," Dr. Halsey said, waving the idea away as though ridiculous. "I know many believe they are robots, but they aren't. They are still human, at least in a physical sense, but trust me when I say how very different they are from when I saw them even last year. It is not a change that will keep them alive on the battlefield, and that is of the utmost importance. Whatever else they are, my Spartans are soldiers first."

"You can't just sacrifice them like chickens," the younger woman argued, surprising herself – and obviously the doctor – with her vehemence.

"Perhaps you have been compromised yourself," the doctor said quietly, studying Samantha with a new intensity. "My Spartans are not children to be coddled. Tell yourself honestly: Would John, or Kelly, or Fred, be happy in the civilian population?"

Not as you made them, Samantha thought to herself, silently fuming.

"As for your conduct, you will be receiving some suggestions from your predecessors, myself included, on ways to interact with my Spartans without compromising their training or abilities. I suggest you study them intently. If you continue to jeopardize them, I will put in a formal request for your transfer."

Unspoken was the promise that such a transfer would likely make it straight to the desk of one of Dr. Halsey's numerous supporters and approved without so much as a glance. Samantha liked her job – she liked working with the MJOLNIR armor, and the Spartans themselves – and didn't want to be forced to find another one.

"I understand," she said stiffly.

Dr. Halsey nodded, apparently satisfied, and rose, letting herself out without noticing the insult in Samantha's refusal of a parting comment to smooth things over. Samantha could hear her moving through the garage, her heels clicking sharply on the floor, and figured she was going to talk to the Spartans.

Samantha frowned, staring through the piles of paperwork still waiting for her approval and tapping her lip thoughtfully. Her first face-to-face meeting with the doctor painted a very different picture from the caring mother figure the Spartans saw her as. Well, maybe not caring, she amended herself, but certainly a constant.

Sighing quietly to herself, Samantha forced her brain to comprehend the top-most paper on her next pile of to-do. Still, somewhere deep and unfocused, Dr. Halsey's words murmured through her subconscious – humanity's next step.