This is mostly based off of the games, because I haven't read the books. My knowledge of the Halo-verse is pretty limited, so bear with me. If there are any factual errors, I apologize.

I do not own nor am I in any way affiliated with Halo. I write for the experience and for the fun. Please enjoy!

Emotion was something John was not familiar with. He had locked all of it away at a young age, forced to grow up, to be cold, calculative; a weapon. But the something warm, something ancient and familiar scathed the pit of him. Tendrils of heat, of hope, human. As he stood on the bridge, his worn, lackluster eyes studying the inky blackness before him, he decided this was not acceptable. Thinking, feeling this way was dangerous. He missed her more than he could put into words, and that was something he could not concede to. All this time he had no idea how much he depended on her. How dearly he would need her. His mind was numb now, slowly restricting itself. It was habit. Slowly, he lifted his hands to his tattered helmet, and gave it a slight twist, unlocking it and lifting it from his head. The stale air on his face aroused some small piece of humanity inside him. It always did. He set his helmet in the crook of his arm and continued to muse.

The sound of footsteps caused his eyes to flicker, fleeting over his shoulder to see Lasky. He stopped however, and cleared his throat, probably nervous to interrupt the quiet Chief anymore.

"Change of plans Chief... we're stopping on earth, briefly." John's stomach churned, slightly, and he nodded. Earth. It had been a long time. Curiously, he began to imagine doing something that wasn't saving humanity for a change. Maybe walk in a park, or see a film. This notion quickly faded though as Lasky padded noisily from the bridge. John ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the knick of a past battle, the scar from a foe. He could see his reflection in the window, and he looked at it hard. Strong jaw, pale skin, fading freckles, lines and scars of an old man. He was aging, no power in the universe could stop that. He sighed, and ran a hand through his now thick hair. His chin and jaw stubbly and thick with growth. He didn't know about shaving. Maybe he'd keep it. Probably not. Giving his reflection one last, lingering gaze, the Spartan replaced his helmet with a click.

That night John hardly slept, his dreams riddled with faces of people long since dead. People he had once... loved? Mother, father, brother. They were all just memories now. He wasn't even sure he remembered what they looked like. That hurt more than he had anticipated. Was he a machine? Or a human... he wasn't sure. At one time he didn't care. But Cortana placed it inside him. Rooted into him and made him question his motives, his memories and dreams. She was there that night too. "I'll miss you." Would she really? He doubted. She was like him, created, crushed and engineered to be artificial. A machine. But Cortana made him feel something no one had. She made him feel - alive. The haze he was in. War, death, defend, win. It was his life, it was his calling. Something drilled, nay, planted deep inside of him. Such was the life of a tool of war. As he finally drifted into a lull, he saw his mother. Or what he assumed was her. She was telling him not to put his elbows on the table and kissed him on the cheek. Sleep was overrated.

The ship docked early that morning. John was unsure if he wanted to set foot off the ship. After much internal conflict, he decided to do it. Being out of his armor was very uncomfortable. Especially after years of being in it day after day. Jeans and a white t-shirt. It was... awkward. His boots hit the ship's heavy flooring with nervousness. As he passed people through it's halls, they stared, whispered and nudged. John was never the type to be embarrassed. He did however feel very out of his element. As he rounded a corner and began to ascend a pair of stairs, he heard a familiar voice.

"Chief?" he paused and turned around, his eyes meeting Sarah's. "Wow..." she said, giving him a one over. He rubbed the back of his neck and quirked a brow. "It's weird, isn't it?" she said, adjusting her own white t-shirt. He nodded silently, looking over her fit figure. It had been a long time since he had seen a fellow human, not clad in armor. The human form was beautiful, elegant, and Sarah Palmer was no exception. She shifted, showing her own uncomfortableness and chukled, "Well, I'm going to go now," and she quickly shuffled away.

John pushed his mouth to the side and turned back to the stairs, taking two at a time. Dog tags jingled at his neck under his shirt, tattered and used. True to their owner. Experienced, strong and loyal. As he reached the loading bay, John watched his fellow soldiers preparing to board the planet. They were all chattering, obviously excited to be "home". He slowly came to stand behind a group of marines, listening to their conversation. Something about "getting some" which he suspected meant intercourse. He was getting too old for this. The thought of intimacy made his mind restrict again. He'd never experienced this, nor really had much interest. He understood man and woman had intercourse to produce young, but the idea of love and intimacy was lost on him. Besides, children were loud and broke things. He couldn't imagine himself fathering young. He was yanked from his thought as the bay doors opened, columns of light falling through them. They hit his skin, warm and welcomed. He could feel that ancient warmth dwelling inside him, so he quickly began walking. His first destination was going to be eating something. He was more excited about eating than anything else. Socialization was of no use. Peace, quiet and downtime was what he thought was of true worth. People talked too much anyway.

It was a beautiful day. No clouds, a light wind, mid-summer, and very low crowds on the installation. He liked that. Crowds were annoying. He ate at a post exchange, ordering a simple dish, something he remembered eating as a child. A casserole of some sort. After he had eaten his fill, which was pretty sizable, he decided he would enjoy sitting in a park. The distance between the park and the food court was minimal, so he walked there with his hands in his pockets, his eyes trained on the sky. The next thing he knew, something small had collided into his chest. A small shriek sounded, and the sound of books hitting the concrete caused him to whip his head down to his feet.

"I am so sorry sir, I wasn't looking where I was going." She was small, frail, pale and he could have killed her with the flick of a wrist. Nothing about her seemed to suggest someone who was capable of defending themselves. She was scrambling to pick up several books and papers. John's eyes gave a slight roll, and he leaned down, snatching up a clump of papers and pushing them into her arms with the others. Clumsiness was nothing to admire. She looked up, finally, and met his eyes. A small, unwelcomed, untamed tendril of heat flickered inside of him. Her eyes were so familiar. Soft, light blue with flecks of gray. Parisa. He gave his chest a sigh and uncharacteristically offered her a hand to stand. She took it, graciously, and stood to her feet. She had an oval face, high cheek bones, angled jaw, full lips, a small nose and almond eyes. Her skin was light, but not matching his own paleness. She was a perfect exable of the feminine form. John wanted to say something, but his scope of socialization was limited. The woman sighed, offered a small smile, and took his hand in a shake. John let her guide his limp, calloused hand. "I'm Charlotte."

He watched her, the weight of her hand was amusing. She waited for his name. "John," he answered simply. He didn't know what to say, really. He just wanted to leave. He dropped her hand, and put his own behind his back at ease. Always the solider. He longed for his suit. At least inside of it, no one could see his face. Could calculate what he was feeling. It was apparent to him that he actually cared what this woman thought, and he shook it off, glancing towards the park. He looked back down at the woman, and noticed her staring at his service tag.

"You're a Spartan," she said, sounding a little surprised. John flicked his eyes.

"Correct."

"Amazing."

"I don't understand," he wanted out. She was doing that thing people did. Talked. But he couldn't make his feet move, nor break contact with those familiar eyes.

"I've just never met any. I mean, they're all... well... dead." John didn't respond. He thought to his squad, to the children he learned and fought and lived with. The pain of being alone was all to real to a soldier. John began to move past her, but she moved to walk beside him. He glanced to his side, his eyes narrowed down at her. "Well?"

"Hm?" he said gruffly, annoyed.

"Well, are you alone?" John nodded to her question. She kept walking beside him. He stopped, faced her. "What?" she sounded innocent, optimistic, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing." He started forward again, she followed, slightly.

"Please stop that."

"I just... I am a writer. And, well, I have a lot of questions..." John's face was emotionless as he stared at her. He supposed it couldn't hurt, but then again, he felt as if he was making excuses to talk to her. She watched him, carefully, and though he did not respond, she smiled broadly and produced a pad and stylus. John began walking again. "Where were you born?"

" Eridanus II." She jotted something down. He paused, extremely annoyed with himself for telling her that. The questions that followed ranged from favorite food to his last battle. He was curt and very undescriptive. She didn't seem to care. After her incessant questions, John asked her his own.

"Are you done?"

"Almost." She was frustratingly persistent. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I cook a mean chicken. Cmon, MREs can't be that good." Chicken was good. He mentally kicked himself. She noticed the slight arch of his brows. "Good!" she said, now leading the way. He sighed heavily, trudging after her. What was possessing him to care how this woman felt? A growling stomach and the thought of military food to come, that's what.

She didn't live far from his prior location. Her home was small and unimpressive. She let him in, throwing her things in a pile on a desk. John stood in the doorway, wearily eyeing his surroundings. The longing for his suit was back. The idea of being exposed gnawed him to the core. Charlotte poked her head around the corner from the kitchen where she was clanging pots.

"Make yourself at home."

Too many throw pillows, paper and... a cat was sitting in the only available chair. He lifted the cat with his hand and dropped it to the floor. It mrowled and darted into the kitchen. He sat down, his hands on his knees. He felt too big for the house. The smell of food quickly wandered into the living room, and John found himself leaning slightly to see into the kitchen. He could see the woman moving around, somewhat. She was humming, a small, pert smile on her face. Her behavior baffled him. How could she invite a complete stranger into her home? He could be anyone. A serial killer, rapist or worse. She was completely opening herself up for harm and danger. John just couldn't wrap his head around this. He shifted in the chair stiffly, his cold eyes scanning the room. Pictures of family, people smiling and hugging, drawings, noted pinned to cork boards. She was not wealthy, he could tell be her lack of much technology. It was quite common for people on earth, whose family was not very well off to live in these conditions. It was humbling. He noticed a data cortex sitting on the table in front of him. He leaned, down, and quickly slipped his fingers over it, turning it on. It was an older model, slow and glitchy, but military grade. Not even a common foot solder's, but an all-clearance officers. In the hands of a civilian. This bothered him. He opened up her latest search and found a file. Silas Taggart, missing in action, thirty nine years old... SPARTAN-288. He recognized this person immediately. John stood up, gripping the device in his hands. He looked into the kitchen and strode into it heavy-footed. He slammed the cortex, harder than he had meant to onto the counter. Charlotte jumped, whipping around to face the tall man. Her eyes scrambled to the device.

"Who are you?" John's voice was stiff and cold. The look of fear in her eyes reminded him she was no assassin. She wiped her hands on a towel on her shoulder, and walked over, trying to slip the device from under his hand, but John held onto it. "Where did you get this?"

"It was my father's," she replied, quickly, looking into his cold eyes. "He died, three months ago." John was unphased, he just stared at her.

"SPARTAN-288."

"My brother."