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Heart of Iron

Chapter 9: Not Distant Memories

With the help of T-bone and Razor, Six made it to the Turbokat with little to no problems. With some elbow grease, they managed to leverage the heavy Spartan into the bomb bay of the Turbokat. It was the only place that he could ride in, being way too large to ride shotgun with the two. "Sorry about the rooming, we didn't expect to be lugging an alien back with us." Razor apologized with a grin as they set six down.

"I'll live, beats an insurrectionist POW camp any day." Six chuckled hoarsely, wincing as it exasperated his damaged throat, and maneuvering into a relatively comfortable position. Although there was a missile poking his side he thought with a little unease.

"What's an insurrectionist?" T-bone asked as he climbed onto the wing to start the jet.

"They were a bad bunch of people, and I was trained to deal with them." Six simplified the truth, if they really wanted to know it would take more time then they currently had. "I might tell you one day."

"Alright sounds like a plan, but how about for now we get you outta here, you can chill with us until you are feeling better." Razor said as he closed the bay door blanketing Six in darkness.

Now that he was alone, Six slouched his shoulders and leaned heavily onto the firm paneled wall. He sighed gustily and grabbed his helmet, twisting it sharply to the left. Pressurized air steamed out of the seal as he lifted it off and placed it in his lap. He reached a gauntlet up to feel the plugged throat wound. _'It could have been a lot worse.' _ A few centimeters to the left and his career as a spartan would have ended there, choking on his own blood. But as usual luck was on his side and he would live to fight another day.

Another day, another world, another fight... Six sighed again, wiping his greasy and sweaty raven black hair before propping his face in his gauntlets tiredly. 'When will it all end?' _War was all the spartan knew, since the age of five he had been casted to be a soldier, an expendable resource to save mankind. He thought he knew what he was getting himself into. Six scoffed bitterly,'like a child would understand.' Nothing could have been farther from the truth; none of the **"volunteers"_** were ready for what would be done to them. All the horrors of science and the brutalities of war, visited upon those still too young to understand. But they had been quick to learn, watching those who had become brothers and sisters die...one by one. Soon they understood, and when understanding came, innocence faded until all that was left was the desire to survive. To outlive the terrors of war and come out the other side relatively intact. Some tried to keep friendships, bit Six, he ended all of his.

It was easier to watch people you had no connection to die. His personal policy was forcefully ended when he joined noble team. And look at what happened, dead, all of them. He had opened his heart only to watch as the covenant ripped it out and glassed it. Jorge had been the closest to Six. The kind hearted spartan had befriended him, even as he pushed him away. Ever the gentleman, he had been friends to all. That is until he gave his life for reach. Six considered him the luckiest out of all of them. He had died thinking that he had saved Reach, his home. He never knew that an enormous fleet would come and burn it to the ground, killing everyone left alive.

Six pulled his gauntleted hands away from his face and lifted the dog-tag chain from around his collar, staring at it in the darkness of the hold, augmented cobalt eyes easily piercing the dusk. He remembered when Jorge gave him his tags, and his final words.

"Tell them to make it count."

Six thumbed the stenciled lettering and barcode with a gloved finger. He had tried to make it count. He only hoped that what they did had a lasting effect on the war, that his and Jorge's efforts did count.

He felt the ship vibrate and the engines roar, then a feeling of weightlessness let him know they were airborne. The spartan was jolted back as the ship rocketed to wherever its destination lied, and jogging him out of his revere. 'Well I will make it count here Jorge, I swear it.' _He swore as he clutched the necklace tightly in his fist, careful not to warp the metal. He had been given a second chance it would seem, and this time he wouldn't fuck it up. With an exhausted exhale, Six placed his helmet back on his head, sealing it. _'A spartan's job is never done. But for now, this spartan is going to rest.' Six drifted off to sleep, using this time to catch some lost zzzzs. Soon he was asleep, a troubled but restful sleep.

"What do you think about this Six guy?" T-bone asked as he piloted the Turbokat back to their hideout. He had already gathered his preliminary opinion on him and wanted to know Razor's.

Razor frowned under his oxygen mask as he formulated his response. "I don't know T-bone, first time I met him he was ready to kill without hesitation. Only Ms. Briggs's intervention prevented it. He is a dangerous almost unstoppable machine of destruction; yet he seems to be dedicated to Ms. Brigss. We don't even know what he looks like under the armor. The only reason we know for sure he isn't a robot is the fact he bled. We know virtually nothing about him or where he came from. What people would have need for a warrior like him, how was he created?" Razor sighed. "Still he has shed blood for us so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. I just hope it isn't misplaced."

T-bone digested all that his friend had to say before replying with a chuckle. "You always were the more talkative one, a simple yay or nay would have sufficed."

At that they both laughed and smiled. "And you were always the bluntest. Still, thanks for listening to me rant." Razor said with a grateful tone, it was good to finally get it all off of his chest.

"Anytime buddy, but we will have to finish this another time, the hanger is in sight." Conversation died as the Turbokat descended into the hanger, the VTOL engines setting it down on the floor with a gentle thud. Both kats deftly climbed out of the cockpit, years of experience around fighters lending them that ease. While T-bone went to the locker, Razor headed to the undercarriage of the Turbokat to let out the spartan. As he reached for the maintenance switch he found himself hesitating, paw millimeters from the small control. What if the alien warrior was waiting to leap out and kill him? Razor chided himself and flipped it, although he did wince and close his eyes reflexively. When, surprisingly, no killing blow was brought down upon him he opened his eyes and looked inside.

The armored man was propped against the wall, chin resting slightly turned to the left on his thick breastplate. His arms were folded in his lap, holding onto something that looked like a necklace as he sat there unmoving. 'He must be asleep.' Razor thought as he took this time to study him closely. He couldn't tell why, but he got the feeling that the alien was exhausted, not physically, but mentally. His aura was one of a person used to the grind of war. This must have been one of the rare times he allowed himself to sleep deeply. Hesitant to awaken him, he just stared at the spartan. Oddly enough, Razor sensed a kindred spirit inside the bulky charcoal black armor. Almost as if he was the same as T-bone and himself. Someone who defended people who did not want but needed them, giving up a normal life to do it.

Suddenly the man's helmet turned to him. "Are we here? Well wherever here is anyways."

Razor was jolted out of his thoughts and rubbed the back of his head; a little guilty that he had been staring. "Yeah, we just landed. I was going to wake you up but it seems that I am no longer needed."

The spartan was quiet for a moment. "...Thank you anyways, it has been awhile since I could sleep without the threat of death looming over me." At that moment, the spartan sounded depressed, something was definitely bothering him.

"Is there...something wrong?' Razor asked slowly, not sure how to broach the topic with such a strange individual. It wasn't every day that one talked with an alien from another world, let alone one that displayed ruthlessness and kindness in equal measure.

"No, just some old memories...painful one." The spartan replied quietly, swinging out of the bay to stand in the hanger, his helm revolving as she took in the sight. "This is quite the setup you two have here; it's almost as well supplied as a UNSC hanger." He praised as he looked at the efficiently cluttered space filled with various tools and parts. There must have been enough implements and parts here to build two more jets.

Razor found himself beaming at the unexpected approval, tail swishing happily behind him. "Thanks, we have put a lot of work into our operations here. You are the first one to see the inner workings. I hope you plan on keeping it a secret." Razor added, worried that he may be their undoing.

The spartan turned to him seriously. "I would never breach someone's trust, especially ones who helped me when they did not have to."

Razor exhaled in relief, one problem taken care of. _'That only leaves a few dozen more.'_He thought wryly. All they had to do now was find out to keep the spartan occupied until the heat died down. Luckily, his dilemma was taken care of by Six himself.

"I don't suppose I could use your facilities? My armor needs a little fine tuning." He said, looking down upon his bloody and battered MJOLNIR.

"Sure! Help yourself to whatever you need; T-bone and I will be upstairs if you need anything." Razor replied as he went to his locker, starting to switch back into his normal clothes just as his friend was finishing.

With that being said, Six wandered around, grabbing anything that looked familiar and piling it all up on one of the few barren tables. _'These kats were pretty well stocked.'_He thought to himself. They even had some tools that were similar to the cradle system, the machine that helped the spartan take off and don his armor. Obviously the tools were not meant for it, but they had the same qualities. For example they had a small machine that lifted extremely heavy loads, something perfectly suited to removing the denser sections of his armor. There was also some power tools that he could repurpose to loosen his plates, a trolley durable enough for him to lay his armor on, and some other things that looked useful.

Once he was ready, he waited until Razor was gone before starting. He had no desire to be seen outside his armor by anyone, possibly forever if he could help it. Although he thought, '_Callie and Felina might be able to at some time'. _Puzzled, he buried that odd notion and continued his hard task. It took him a full hour to just figure out how he was going to do it. Eventually he had an idea and began. Twenty minutes later, his breastplate and bulky pauldrons sat on the trolley. When they were out of the way, the rest of the process became much easier. In half the original time he had the remainder of the armor on the mobile table. All he was wearing now was his nano-weave undersuit, his helm and his boots. After a few minutes of debate he took off his helmet as well, laying it on top of the breastplate, facing away from him.

For the first time he could smell his surroundings. The oiliness of the well maintained tools, the acrid fragrance of gunpowder, smoke, the copper tang of spilt blood, and a dozen other odd scents that he could not identify. Taking a minute to enjoy the good and bad aspects of scent, he fumbled around in a previously unopened pocket. As he did he wondered what his diminutive squirrel friend was up to. No doubt he was basking in the kat woman, Karen, affection. Still, he found himself almost missing the little bugger...almost.

Concerns aside, he at last pulled out what he was searching for. A relatively large container that had gear he would need to survive. It had some quick titanium alloy jell, a small tube that was used to plug very small dents in armor. A suture set, for resealing any tears in his suit. It also had an additional cylinder of another liquid, used for mending any cracks in his visor. There were some other things that he didn't require at the moment, since they were not needed he put them back into the container.

With his supplies on hand, the spartan effected repairs on his armor, going over it with a familiar hand. This was his armor; it has taken him through the terrors of war and strife of rebellion. Saving his life in situations he doubted he would survive. It had withstood Covenant plasma weapons, needler shards, irradiated slugs, explosives and insurrectionist bullets. It was so customized that no other suit like it could be found in the known galaxy; at least it would be if he was still in the same galaxy. Something he questioned very much with each passing day. With his armor attended to, he picked up his helmet, staring at the crack running along the visor. He would have to be more careful from now on, he was no longer part of a team. He would need to watch his own back. Six would like to live at least a little bit longer; life was just starting to look up for him.

He looked into the interior of his helm and saw something that caught his eye. It was the little recording device built into the circuitry and running up to the camera under his flashlight. His hand froze just touching the button. So much was stored in the data, the last glorious stand of Team Noble. The death of every one of his friends lay inside the drives. Kat, Emile, Carter...Jorge. His hand began to tremble and he deliberately pulled away. He was not ready to see it all again, not yet. He doubted he would ever be ready; he was sorely tempted to delete it all, but couldn't do it. That would be like spitting on their sacrifice, their memory. Six would never do that to them. So exhaling with a shuttering breathe he flipped the helmet right-side up and tried to focus on the fissure in his polarized visor.

He was only partially successful, subconsciously drawing his hand back to the recorder before realizing and stopping himself. With that distraction it took him twice as long to fix what should have been the easiest repair to make. Finally he finished, almost flinging the helmet at the wall, but only causing it to roll away on the metal surface of the hanger. As it revolved, each rotation of the obsidian death-mask was like rusty a nail drilling into his fragile head.

With a sudden snarl, he grabbed the trolley, and with his immense strength, slung it away from him, sending it and its contents scattering across the ground with a clatter. Six started to hyperventilate, stumbling drunkenly and grabbing his head, hissing as he was assaulted by flashbacks.

"Tell 'em to make it count."

"What does he get off calling a demolition op priority one-?"

"You're on your own, Noble. Carter out."

"I'm ready! How 'bout you?!"

The memories ravaged Six's mind, sending him to his knees, letting out a primal roar as he clawed his own head, desperate to rid himself of the pain. He finally collapsed, with just enough strength left to make it to his helmet, sealing it securely on his head. _'Forgive me.' _He whispered in his mind, not receiving an answer as he finally blacked out.

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