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Heart of Iron

Chapter 10: Scars

Jake was sitting on a stool, idling wiling the day away reading a short novel. His hindpaws were propped up on top of the counter near the double doors to the office, tail flicking through the hole in the seat casually. The coffee shaded kat was happily enjoying the rare free time he was allowed. He licked a fuzzy finger and turned the page engrossed in the hardback, thoroughly enjoying the tale. The small volume was about a kat named Archimedes, a detective solving a string of grisly murders in the slums of 18thcentury Megakat City. Just as he was about to find out who the dastardly villain was, he heard a chilling howl of anguish reverberating through the floor from the hidden hanger.

Acting fast he rabbit-eared the page and vaulted out of his seat...and right into Chance. The tabby had been watching TV in the small reception area that people waited in as they were picking up their car. At the sound he had bolted up as well, smashing into Jake. The two collapsed into a pile of fur and twisted limbs. With much swearing they finally separated and didn't waste time arguing. Instead they focused on the noise, running to the hanger and sliding down the dual ladders.

They looked around quickly, trying to identify the perpetrator of the noise. The culprit was none other than Six. The spartan lay unmoving upon the floor clad only in his undersuit and helmet. His armor lay scattered across the floor besides an upturned trolley. The only identifier to the fact he was alive was the occasional twitch, muscles convulsing for some unknown reason. "What in the hell happened?" Chance muttered concernedly.

"I don't know, but we better do something about this." Jake replied, swiftly running over to the spartan and kneeling besides him. "Hey wake up!" He shouted, vigorously shaking him. For a minute it seemed like his efforts were futile. But right as he was about to give up and get some professional help, no matter the consequences, the spartan bolted up, sending the kat reeling backwards to the floor. Seconds later he grabbed his helmet and groaned painfully. Clearly his head was paining him.

Cautiously, Chance walked over and held a paw out. The spartan turned his helmet to look at the proffered furred limb. After a few seconds he grasped it and the muscular kat strained to lift him to his feet. Once he had done so he stared hard at the masked man. "Are you okay? What was that?"

As the spartan maneuvered his gaze upon him, Chance got the distinct feeling that he wasn't _really_looking at him, but at something else only he could see, far off in the distance. ".......I....." Six stopped there and just ambled away, falling to the floor besides the trolley and his strewn gear, managing to look lost despite his usual tough demeanor. Chance thought that he was done talking but he had more to say. "I used to have friends, good ones. But...war takes...and it takes what it wants...and it wanted my friends. So, I stopped making friends, pushed people away. I just didn't want to hurt anymore." The spartan's deep voice held a childlike sadness to it, like a kid who was too young to be on his own. "But then one day, I was forced to make friends. At first it seemed like we would all make it out alive. But then Jorge died, and then kat, and Carter, and Emile. And just like before I was left alone, but for some reason I didn't die. What didn't I die?" He asked hoarsely to no one but himself, burying his helm into his gloved hands.

At that moment, Jake and chance got a look at the real man under the armor. And he was broken; they truly began to understand him. Jake was the first to act. He slowly made his way over and sat next to the stone of a man. The he delicately placed a fuzzy arm around his unarmored shoulders. Jake didn't say anything at first; he just sat there with Six. Eventually he did speak.

"I have never lost friends before, and for that I am thankful every day. But my father always had a saying. The old kat war a vet of the conflict in the Fareast. He said, 'Son, war is a terrible thing, it takes what it wants and destroys what it can't have. But it is a necessity, if we don't fight for what is right, then no one will. And no matter how many friends I lost in those harsh desert sands, I always remembered what I fought for. I fought for you and your mother. I fought and watched my friends die so that you would never have to. And I would do it all over again.' My father was a great kat; he taught me how to be a hero. And when he died, sure I was sad, but I just reminded myself of what he said and it hurt less." Jake stopped, slitted eyes shining with memory.

Six lifted his head and turned to Jake. "Your father was a noble man, he would have made for a valiant spartan." His voice was beginning to regain its lost strength. "...Thank you for telling me that. It was...uplifting."

At that Jake shrugged it off with embarrassment. "It was nothing really, just some important words that a soldier might understand."

Six stood up suddenly, helping Jake to his paws. Then he grabbed his furred elbow in a friendly grip. "In any case, it might not have fixed everything, but it most certainly helped. If you ever find yourself in need of a gun at your side, all you need do is but ask." Six's tone was serious and welcoming, a far cry from what they had seen so far. Then he turned to Chance, who had been watching all of this with a mix of emotions. His father was close to Jake's. Yet Chance had lost friends in the wars. He had a better understanding of the spartan now. "My offer extends to you as well. I may have lost everything, but I can do my best to prevent that from happening again." His voice held conviction, as if he could will his promise alone.

Both Jake and Chance were speechless. This was a defining moment in their lives. They had earned the friendship of a wounded man. It was something to be cherished and nurtured. "Hey Jake, how about we show out friend here a good time. I'm thinking we can bring out the grill and cook up those steaks we have been saving." Chance said with a smile and laugh, acting as the fun guy.

"Sounds like a plan bro, you get it set up and I'll help Six." Jake replied, smiling as well. Chance left and Six was feeling a little uncertain. To eat would require taking off his helmet. Something he had only ever done when alone, not even taking it off around Noble Team. 'I suppose I must adapt.' He concluded after a minute of internal debate. 'Come on, let's go up." Jake said softly, helping the spartan by giving him a gentle nudge. Six looked back to the kat and nodded, climbing up the ladder. It didn't even creak, probably due to the fact most of his armor lay on the floor. With one last look at the room that had been a defining place and change in himself and his life, he arrived at the top of the loft ladder. He slid out of a hatch and into an empty room. He went through the open door.

This was the first time he got a look at his two new friends' abode. It was homely enough, full of little knickknacks and pictures of the two in various places. What caught his eye the most was a rifle hanging, mounted on a frame above the doorway into the garage. "Was that your father's?"

Jake turned his attention to where the spartan was pointing. "Yeah, He brought it back after he left the army. Said he couldn't be parted with the old girl, she had too many memories."

Six nodded in understanding. Emile would rather have died then let go of his shotgun, and he had. "My friend Emile was the same way. Although I don't doubt he was different than your father."

"What was he like?" Jake asked, curious to see what type of people the spartan befriended.

Six smiled under his helmet. "Emile was...different. One of the oddest yet strongest men I have ever had the honor of serving with. He boasted that he knew thirty different ways to skin a grunt, although he never really said how." He answered with a chuckle. It was a little easier to talk about them. But he still felt a pang every now and then, and he knew that if he watched it all again he would probably have another breakdown.

"Skin a grunt?" Jake muttered in confusion.

"Grunts, nasty, cowardly little creatures, weak alone but potentially dangerous when in large numbers. I once saw Jorge punt one over a warthog, splattered right on a sangheili Field Marshall. That was the first time I ever heard Emile laugh."

"Sangheili? Warthog?" Jake was puzzled, these were words he was not familiar with.

"Things from the past, I suppose they don't really matter anymore, nor do I think I could talk about it." Six answered, frowning under his helmet. Any information he used to consider relevant was no longer so. This was a new world, with its own problems and facts.

Jake nodded; acceding to the spartan's reluctance to talk. He knew that it must be incredibly hard for him. Personally, he had no idea how he would cope if he was stranded in a world where he did not belong. "How about we check up on Chance?"

With that, both kat and spartan went to the sound of a crackling fire. Just outside, at the back of the garage, Chance was standing over a small grill built into a scraped car's engine block. He looked up and waived at the approaching duo. "Hey!"

Jake began to talk with Chance while Six observed his surroundings. They were in a massive scrapyard, piles of discarded car parts and broken appliances were stacked in orderly rows. The immediate area around him was completely devoid of any such refuse. Obviously both kats were fastidious about their workplace, something the spartan could respect. He himself took great care of his bunk and quarters when he still lived on a UNSC base. He thought that a room emulated a person's personality. So he could tell that they were devoted to their job, both as mechanics and vigilantes.

Six was brought out of his revelation when he felt a tap on his shoulder, actually feeling it through the unarmored suit. "Chance is finishing up with the steaks." Jake notified, simultaneously pointing to a small table he had failed to notice. The spartan got the message, moving to take a seat at the far end, the chair holding his less encumbered weight without a complaint.

As he waited, he noticed Jake and Chance laughing and smiling. The spartan grimaced dejectedly; he never made friends like these two. Spartans were not very...open. They were anti-social and withdrawn, at the best of times. The marines on the other hand were quite boisterous, it was just the conditioning. Spartans were trained differently, to be more severe, calculating. It made sense, one needed to be levelheaded at all times, taking the situation with an emotional detachment. Still, as he watched them, he couldn't help but feel a pang of longing. He wished he could be like them, act like them. But he doubted he ever would, he was just too scarred. What he had seen and done changed him; he held no liability on his superiors. The things he did were for the benefit of humanity...at least that's what they told him. A clink on the table in front of him alerted the spartan to the fact that the food was done. He looked down to see a particularly tasty looking steak on a plastic plate with an odd lettuce like substance mounded next to it. Beside the plate was a pair of utensils, a fork and knife. Both were slightly smaller then what he was used to, but he couldn't expect everything in this world to conform to his demands.

With the meal evaluated he turned to see both kats sitting across from him, staring at him oddly. 'What are they staring at?' Then it hit him, he would have to take his helmet off to eat. He surmised that they were eager to see what was under the armor. He could not fault them for their curiosity; it was hard to remember that he was the alien in this situation. This was their world and he was the outsider. With a sigh he reached for the seals, grabbing the indented latches, 'It had to happen sooner or later.'

Chance and Jake stared at the spartan. This was the first time they would be getting a look at the alien. They were filled to bursting with questions. Would he have fur? Did he even have teeth? How many eyes did he have? Was he hairless, covered in scales? There were simply too many theories, but at least they would be answered.

The spartan reached for the helm and manipulated something on the underside of the jawline. With a startling hiss of air, he twisted the helmet to the left and agonizingly slowly dragged it off. What they saw was both incredibly alien, and similar.

The head that greeted them did have hair (black as night), but only on the top and a somewhat thin layer on the cheeks, chin and around the lip. His jaw was square and strong, giving him a regal air. He was unusually pale; at least they assumed it was unusual. He had a strange nose, sticking away from the face, so unlike their own. His smooth flesh was marred by a few scars that looked as if they had been unbelievably painful when he received them. But his eyes were the most interesting feature. The bright sapphires orbs looked youthful, but at the same time ancient. His eyes were the kind that told you he had borne much pain in his life, but had remained resilient, with an unbending inner strength.

Soon they realized that they had been staring, making them apologize. "Do not worry yourselves. I too have seen my fair share of strange aliens, both here and back...home." Six brushed off easily. They were by far the strangest aliens he had ever encountered, ironic because they were also the most familiar. He had become so used to the strange creatures of the covenant that aliens that looked like houspets were more abnormal to him.

They nodded thankfully, glad that their staring had not upset him. With the uncomfortable part of the meal out of the way, they spent the remainder talking. Six found himself, for the first time, talking and occasionally, laughing softly, as they regaled him with tales of their exploits. He found these two kats to be quite the pair, from what they told him, they had been this city's main line of defense. He could sympathize with them; spartans were humanity's only hope against the inexorable onslaught of the covenant. Spartans rallied men and accomplished missions once thought to be impossible, at the cost of their own lives.

"So Six what was it like back in your own place?" Chance asked as he took a massive chunk out of his steak, question mumbled through overstuffed lips.

"I don't really know. I have been in the spartan program for most of my life. All I ever really knew was warfare." He answered as he sawed through his steak, forking a piece and eating it. This was a few degrees better than UNSC rations.

"How long exactly?'

"I was five when I 'volunteered' for the program." His tone at the word volunteered was bitter.

"Five years old!" Jake muttered in disgust. "That's heartless, how could they do that?'

Six sighed and began to explain the true horrors of the covenant. He spoke of the annihilation of planets, people, and the merciless wanton slaughter enacted by the feverish zealousy of the alien collective. When he got to the part of the heroic last stand of Reach he found himself unable to continue, some of the fault lay in his damaged throat and the majority resulting in the memories. The only way to truly understand was to see it. The bravery and courage of an army that knew they were already among the dearly departed. Fighting beyond terror and grief, they fought because their sacrifices meant something. If any battle could be considered the defining moment, it was the Reach campaign.

He finished and went quiet, focusing on finishing his repast, thoughts wandering in sorrowful memory. Jake and Chance took a long time to absorb what they had heard. It made their fight seem like a meager squabble. It was a humbling thing to think, gave them a better perspective on the workings of the universe. By the time they started to eat again, the spartan had finished and was putting his helmet back on. The helm giving him the familiar distance that he preferred. "Thank your for the food, it's been some time since I've had a quality meal." He inclined his helmet in appreciation.

"Anytime, it was our pleasure." Chance retorted cheerfully, trying not to dwell on the recent conversation.

Six nodded again and walked back into the garage. No doubt he was going down to the hidden hanger to see to his abused armor. Jake looked to his friend and frowned. "That all sounds so...crazy, but I don't think he would lie. Can you imagine going through that? I can't."

"I don't think either of us could." Chance replied as he started to clean up the mess from their late lunch. It was quite a bit of time before they were back to their old selves.

Meanwhile, Six was cleaning up the mess he created, placing his scattered armor and weapons back on the trolley. When he finished, he looked over his stuff, each scar and scratch of paint had a story. He traced a particularly deep gauge in the upper right portion of his breastplate. He had earned that in the freefall as he fell back to Reach, seconds after Jorge threw him off the covenant corvette. Watching as the makeshift bomb detonated in its bowels, destroying it and the supercarrier Long Night of Solace. A random shard of debris hit with enough force to shatter his shields and scour his armor.

"Tell them to make it count."

It was a sentence that seemed to hound him wherever he went, reminding him of what happened, of what the big man wanted. A fierce scorching determination manifested itself in his heart, heating up his iron core in the rising conflagration. Six grabbed the obsidian breastplate and brought it to his chest. It was time to make good on that promise.