. . Chief is . . Tired.

Going through the motions.

And for a heroic super soldier..? He seems oddly ready to die. Or at least .. content with the thought.

He’s been a soldier all his life. Never understood the intricacies of human emotion— hell, he often considers himself a machine. In the end .. he’s just a soldier; hoping he’s doing the right thing.

He doesn’t act out of hate. He never kills out of revenge— not even when said enemies have taken the lives of his colleagues.

He’s doing what he’s been taught to do. What he’s been told to do. He’s climbed the ranks. The most respectable Spartan in the galaxy.

And yet .. he feels .. empty.

Near as empty as this spire.

He sits silently on a shredded chunk of metal— something he’d had to rip from the spire’s networking. He couldn’t hack. Couldn’t code. All he knows is violence, really. No matter how stoic of a man he is, he’s a war machine. And he knows this.

His gauntlets entwine with each other, as he rests his arms on his knees. He’s lent forward in a slouching position, his posture oddly helpless, for what he is. Who he is.

Cortana’s replacement chimes in the background— Joyeuse, she calls herself.

Not the same.

Never will be the same.

His head sweats ever so slightly as he keeps it low, eyes wilted behind his visor— not that anyone can see it.

He puts his hand to the side of his helmet, soaking into his intercom calmly.

“.. pickup .. 6o’clock.” he murmurs, gruffly.