The stars. Such a beautiful, if not now haunting, visage.

He expected, years ago, to die amongst them. To die amongst his kin, his fellow Spartans and Marines... on that battlefield. On that insatiable ring.

He hadn't. Instead he went through battle after battle after battle, heartbreak after heartbreak. Now he stood, on another ring, living with himself, his thoughts, and the few left after they'd driven the Banished on this ring to their knees.

The Harbinger of Truth was confronted, dead. Cortana... sacrificed. Now he had the Weapon—so much like her, yet... different—and Echo-216—no.

Fernando Esparza. The pilot formerly known only as, Echo-126.

As night fell over the rings artificial cycle once more, as he stood at the base of an random FOB—or was he at Outpost Tremonius? It was hard to remember... he hadn't slept since he was found in space. Hadn't stopped for anything. Everywhere on this ring was mountains, Forerunner bits and pieces strung together by an unknown force. It was starting to fix itself. Not that he cared anymore.

They were just waiting. Alone with their thoughts, and awaiting the end of the Banished here—actively hunting them down, of course, to return the favor—and for either the discovery of an intact Slipspace drive or a UNSC rescue.

Whichever came first, as he stared up at the sky, observing the stars that were so far, yet far too familiar.