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The ground was slick beneath his knees, stained crimson and black. Every breath was a ragged, burning agony. John tasted blood, metallic and thick on his tongue. Around him, the battlefield still raged, the whine of plasma fire and the concussive thunder of explosions a deafening backdrop to his own failing senses.
Cortana’s voice cut through the chaos, urgent, strained. “Chief! Can you hear me?”
He blinked, trying to focus. Darkness kept creeping at the edges of his vision. He could feel her presence, a cool, flickering light in his mind. "Go ahead." The words were forced between reluctant lips.
“There’s a cave alcove nearby, bearing zero-seven-five. Can you make it?” Cortana’s voice, though strained, was firm, directive.
He managed to rasp a confirmation, the sound catching in his throat.
He could feel her guiding him, her presence a subtle pull, a digital hand leading him through the debris and carnage. Somehow, he moved. One agonizing step after another. Driven by her voice, by the ingrained Spartan discipline that refused to yield.
The cave was a shallow alcove in the rock face, offering scant protection from the ongoing battle, but enough to be out of immediate line of fire. Cortana dimmed the lights in his helmet display, easing the sensory overload.
“Stay with me, Chief. You have to stay conscious.” Her voice was tight with a worry he rarely heard, a vulnerability that was… unsettling.
He leaned back against the rough cave wall, his armor scraping harshly against the stone. Pain lanced through him in relentless, throbbing waves, each pulse threatening to drag him under. He fought to maintain consciousness, his eyes struggling to remain open, his focus narrowing to the shimmering blue of Cortana’s avatar, projected onto his visor’s HUD, a fragile point of light in the darkness of the cave.
Now, away from the main firefight, John allowed himself to look at his injuries. As he shifted, fire ripped through his side. A glance downwards confirmed what he already knew, a piece of shrapnel, angry and jagged, was embedded into his side, just under his armor plating. Blood seeped through his bodysuit, staining his armor a violent red.
Sweat trickled down his face as he considered his options. He reached down to where the metal and flesh met. A burst of light, a sharp contrast to the intruding darkness, flashed before his eyes.
"Chief, don't try to remove it! You'll tear the wound wider." He moved his hand away as he tried to focus on the rest of her words. "I tried to reboot your biofoam injectors, but they are still offline. I'm going to keep trying, but for right now, just stay still."
He tried to obey her simple command, but as the seconds passed, his legs started to give out. He slid down the cave wall, careful to try to land in a position that wouldn't push the shrapnel further into him.
"Chief, you need to fight! If you lose consciousness..." she trailed off, unable to voice the rest of the sentence.
He coughed. Blood sprayed in the inside of his visor.
She swore under her breath. "I can't..." She drew in a breath. "There's nothing else I can do for you, John." Fear was now laced with panic. It was the most scared he had ever heard Cortana's voice.
He knew her mind, how she could calculate trajectories and probabilities in fractions of a second, how she was able to dissect and analyze entire battlefields in moments. But here, facing the limitations of his own failing biology, even Cortana’s impossible capabilities reached their limit.
“Extraction… coming?” he managed, the words slurring slightly.
“They’re en route. Just… hold on, John. I need you to stay with me. After all, who else would take me to such nice places?” A swell of fondness overtook the raging pain that threatened to engulf him. He was glad that even in this dire situation, she was still undeniably Cortana.
A reply got caught in his throat, choked by blood and stoicism that would seemingly stay with him until he drew his final breath.
Still, Cortana kept talking. He tried to cling to her words, but the ringing in his ears and the oppressive darkness kept most of them from being heard.
He closed his eyes briefly.
He was so, so tired.
"John!" The despair in her voice broke through the temptation of sleep. "Please, just hold on a little longer."
She didn't know he was fighting as hard as he was able, but now, as the darkness grew and Cortana's avatar dimmed, he knew. He knew his body was giving out. Knew the darkness was no longer creeping, but advancing, insistent now, whispering insidious promises of oblivion and release.
If he didn’t make it…
The thought hung heavy, unspoken.
“If I don’t make it--” he began, his voice a bare thread.
“You’re too stubborn not to make it.” Cortana’s interruption was sharp, immediate, laced with a fierce denial. But beneath it, he could still sense the tremor of fear.
He managed a ghost of a smile, a flicker of warmth amidst the encroaching cold. It was difficult to speak, but he needed to say it, needed her to understand, needed her to know.
“--thank you.” Each word was a monumental effort. “For choosing me.”
She went completely still, the weight of a thousand words she couldn’t say seemingly pressed upon her. And then, softer than he had ever heard her, “You were always the only choice, John.”
Then, the darkness took him.
Time ceased to exist, boundaries dissolved, and there was only the void, absolute and unending.
Then, fragments of sensation began to re-emerge from the abyss. Flickering lights penetrated the void, muffled voices murmured at the edges of his awareness, the jarring tremor of sudden movement jolted him back towards a brutal, unwelcome reality. He was being lifted, jostled against a hard surface, pulled, impossibly, back from the silent, beckoning edge of oblivion.
Medics. He could sense them around him, their presence a flurry of focused urgency. Needles, pressure, cold rushing into his veins. Darkness consumed him again.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, true awareness began to sharpen, pushing back against the lingering fog of trauma and blood loss.
He was awake.
And, Cortana was there, looking at him, waiting.
Her avatar was projected in the medbay’s plinth, her posture less tense now, but still radiating a palpable anxiety. She was watching him, her blue eyes fixed on his face.
He managed a weak, wry smile. His throat was dry, his body leaden, but he was here.
He was alive.
He turned to face her better. His side twitched in pain, but he ignored it. “Guess you were right. I am too stubborn,” he said, his voice still rough, but audible.
Relief washed over Cortana’s features. Her smile returned, bright and familiar. The tension in her avatar eased, the sharp edges of worry finally, completely receded. She put her hand on her hip and raised her eyebrow, “Aren’t I always, Chief?”