A routine op, in and out; a distress signal from a decommissioned—and frankly, antique—Pelican dropship that was floating untethered in the chilling vacuum of deep space. And he, of all people, was sent to investigate.

It's how John found himself slinking through the barren hallways of the ship, his senses dialed to the tens, his weapon ready to fire at a moment's notice. The emergency lights strobed weakly, half-heartedly illuminating the metal floors a sterile blue.

John was quick to sweep the craft for any sign of life, friend or foe. The brig was empty, as was the deck, and the quarters, too. It was devoid of life. So what triggered the distress signal?

The only place he had yet to check was the cargo bay. Which is where he found himself, hesitating to open the door. Steeling himself, he forces the door open, raising his gun in preparation to attack.

When John isn't met with the immediate sound of gunfire, he falters. He surveys the room, letting his weapon lower.

His breath catches in his throat.

A cryo-chamber.

Edging closer, his heart pounds in his chest. Through the frost on the glass, he glimpses the figure trapped inside. And for a second time, he's left breathless.

A Spartan.

But not just any Spartan.

A Spartan-II.

Like him.

You, frozen in sleep, blissfully peaceful and unaware, a Spartan-II.