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Contact by email at Jakkar@gmail.com for preference.
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy =)
- Jack
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Blip. Blop. Blip. Blop.
BlipBlopBlipBlop,BlipBlopBlipBlop,BlipBlopBlipBlop Pschew!
John sighs softly, staring levelly at the ragged defenses of the last holdout of humanity. Four pixellated shields, pocked and riven with gaping wounds, no proof against the weapons of an unstoppable alien foe. He still couldn't beat Her high score.
Closing the emulator with a gesture of thought, consigning another Earth to it's end at the pincers of the Space Invaders, the armoured man proceeds to the starboard viewing windows of the craft with a series of measured steps, dull clunks of vibration sounding through the structure of the suit, in place of the old feel of bare skin on metal. It feels like an inordinately long time since he last felt the touch of cold metal.
Insulated by plastics, gel, metal alloys and glass from every searing burn, every final scream, every kill and every death, he wonders if He could be forgiven - by the dead - for sometimes thinking.. That it did sometimes seem like a game.
A soft, somewhat cynical female tone interrupts his star-gazing revery. "Looks like it's going to be a long night."
"Mmhmm." Non-committal, as if worried that agreement will make it so.
"Want to play a game?" The voice asks, a digital grin concealed behind the tone. The Spartan holds his silence.
His audio linkup registers a measured rapping noise, and it occurs to him it seems to have been doing so for some time. Glancing down at a movement, he frowns behind the orange glass, and stops the tapping of his gloved and plated fingertip upon the hull.
Time passes.
Striding toward the consoles purposefully, the Destroyer checks the consoles, foot tapping restlessly a moment, as He counts this the seventh time he's done so in the last... hour?
"Has it only been that long?" he soliloquises - "Has it only been mere hours since They tore the ring asunder with the touch of Autumn, it's shattered shards spinning apart, sparkling like salmon twisting briefly in the sunlight, as they leap and battle their way upstream?"
Though not capable of reading his mind, She considers the Hero's status as an unsung poet, reading the words from His lips in the reflection of the visor. Hero culture made the Spartans, whatever was now left of them, seem the heroes of bygone days, warriors undefeated, immortal. Or it had done, 'til Reach. It was easy to forget they were humans. Or it had been, til Reach.
If They ever got home, perhaps the Spartans would seem heroes once more, in light of the events on the Ringworld, now slowly spreading in pieces between Threshold and Basis...
More time passes.
"Your turn."
The teasing voice in His head, no less pervasive than the demons of a schizophrenic, lightly offers Him this gem of kindness, another round.
With a tired drawl, the ghost of an empty threat in it's cadence, the real Demon responds;
"I Spy. With my.."- He sighs -"Little eye. Something, beginning with.. V."
"Void." The voice in His head immediately snaps, sharp, confident, and amused.
A dull clunk marks the helmetted forehead hitting the control console.
More time passes.
John sits, staring into the Master Chief's eyes. The helmet sits on the console before him, and cool, though slightly bitter filtered air fills His lungs and touches His face directly. A different flavour is noticeable without the double-filtration of the suit. A female voice buzzes tinnily from inside it; the digital reproduction of the voice and personality of Catherine Halsey.
He remembered the woman well, from His upbringing and training, and wondered how He would ever deal with her again, after having her digitised purple double living in his head. He hoped He'd get the chance to find out.
"When I was four hundred and seventy nine.." She sings dully, "I smuggled a casket of Colonial Wine.. The day I went to sea. I climbed aboard the Pirate Ship and the Captain said to me 'We're going this way that way forward and backwards over the Milky Way, a bottle of Rum to warm my Tum and that's the only way-way-way-way, way-way-way-way.."
More time passes.
Time has no end... no beginning... no purpose.
Floating through space, John-117 and Cortana wait together in the Longsword for someone to write what happens next.
I am lost in time.
I am lost in time.
I am lost in time.
By Jakkar.
Guess I'll clarify this is fan fiction and that Halo and all that jazz belong to Bungie, Microsoft, and all that jazz. Also, I do not infringe upon the timeframe depicted by Halo: Combat Evolved or Halo: First Strike by Eric Nylund, fitting neatly between the two.
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