User:RelentlessRecusant/Halo: Vector/Rendezvous of Fate

1310 Hours, April 20, 2554 Washington District, North America, Earth

The Acumen Labs had, surprisingly, been only a short hop by metro from the historical Washington District, and Lauryn had opted to take a day's walk around the area to clear her head. The District was famed for having been the capital of both the ancient United States and the recently-dissolved North American Republic, and Lauryn could barely believe that its near millennia-old buildings were still standing, let alone admitting tourists.

She'd never been here before, her busy social life and the difficulties of running a successful biological research firm had taken up the majority of her spare time. And she couldn't have ever afforded the fare. There's one plus, she thought to herself. I can at least take advantage of ONI's kidnapping me.

Now, strolling along the vibrant Mall and breathing in deep the unfiltered, wildflower-scented air, she realized that for the first time in a long while, she was at ease. There were no risky business deals, no obnoxious would-be suitors, no anxieties about publishing deadlines, just the clean, fresh, breeze, the sun, and the decision of her lifetime. Ah, yes. Not completely carefree, she remembered, smiling wryly. Doctor Schore had been very gracious in allowing her to come here and consider his offer, but she had the feeling that Acumen, and by proxy, the Office, would be more than just “disappointed” if she said no. As soon as she had been packed off of Thebes, the choice had been made for her. This was just a way for the intelligence types to cover their scheming, intimidating rear ends. If a problem ever arose, they could return to this moment and say that they had left the decision up to her. She snorted. As if.

Then again, why was she complaining? The job was so much better than the one she had at SierraCell in almost every way! Increased salary, more interesting projects and research goals, more success… something still felt wrong about it, though. Something disconcerting that she couldn’t put her finger on quite yet. She shrugged, inhaled deeply, and putting a smile upon her delicate face, continued her stroll through the greenery. She was taking the job no matter how she felt or decided here, so why worry? She’d just enjoy her little self-guided tour of the District.

People streamed along the sidewalks, their clothes a riot of the warm colors that had come into vogue at the end of the War. Their dispositions and outfits were only brightened by the warm spring sunlight. Tall, shady trees whispered to each other in the gentle breeze, leaves rustling almost happily, and flags flapped proudly beneath the monolithic Washington Monument. Somewhere, perhaps in front of one of the giant Smithsonian Institution museum complexes, a concert was taking place, and its soft, smooth strains of jazz slinked their way across the verdant greens of the Mall. Lovers lazed contentedly on picnic blankets, families from newly-founded Outer Colonies gawked in wonder at the memorials and towering statues, and photographers snapped stills of the dress-uniformed UNSC Marines that stood guard around the recently-completed Spartan Memorial.

That particular structure caught Lauryn’s attention. The towering SPARTAN-IIs, clad in their now-legendary power armor, the grim faced children who had not survived the brutal training program at their feet, struck an emotional chord somewhere inside her. What must it have been like, to be taken from friends and family at such a young age and forced into a life of combat, the fate of mankind riding singularly on your small shoulders?

“The figures with heads tilted toward the sky are those who either died defending humanity from its enemies or went missing in action, and have not yet been heard from. The ones you see looking towards you are the remaining Spartans, who are either on active duty or have been retired,” a docent explained to a small group of tourists. One raised her hand to ask a question, her camera held tightly in the other, as if she were afraid it would run away if given the chance.

“Why do only some have their helmets off? Does that mean anything significant?”

“Well, ma’am,” the docent responded almost by rote. “Not all of the Spartans had a picture of what they looked like, so the sculptor decided that, instead of just guessing at what they looked like, he’d just have them remain helmeted. Take for example the leader of the Spartans, John-117. For such a hero to be portrayed inaccurately would almost be an offense. By the way, if any of you have any particular questions, you can view the terminals to the side of the memorial. They have details on each Spartan, like their operational history and awards. Are there any other questions?”

There were a few more, mostly about the program’s early history, and Lauryn stayed to hear the docent’s knowledgeable answers. When he and his tour group had moved on, she took a look at the memorial for herself. The Spartans were cast out of a weather-proof gold-bronze alloy, and the platform upon which they stood was hewn from black marble, polished to a high gloss. At the front of this formidable dais were laser carved the words “Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13.” A little below these characters was inscribed the sentence “They died so that we might live.”

It was a beautiful tribute, Lauryn thought, looking for a place to sit down and view the monument’s grandeur. Finding only one bench, which was placed directly in front of the statues, she was startled to find a tall figure sitting there already, all alone. He was huge, easily seven feet tall if he stood up, she guessed. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze staring vacantly at the shining figures on the dais. What took Lauryn by surprise, however, was the fact that he was clad in the sleek gray jumpsuit-fatigues of a UNSCDF Naval officer, his chest filled with service ribbons and decorations; just the colorful rectangular tabs, however, as if there were no room for displaying the full medals. She sat down quietly next to him, a polite distance between them, and adjusted the hem of her shirt out of habit. He didn’t appear to notice her, and they sat together in silence for some time, her occasionally glancing at him, him still staring straight ahead. Unconsciously, she sized him up.

He was good looking, she decided. Not vid-star, over-the-top handsome, but ordinarily and everyday good looking. A very distinct scar arced along his left cheek, long-healed but still mean-looking. It was joined by a myriad of tiny, almost invisible companions, as if he had survived several close-range explosions. His light brown hair was close-cropped in the traditional Marine Corps high-and-tight style, buzzed on top and shaved on the sides. His shoulders and neck hunched slightly from over-development, and the fatigue jumpsuit was tight on his frame, muscles bulging almost everywhere. His jaw seemed to work slightly every now and then, clenching and unclenching. For a few more minutes, she regarded him, and as he made no motion to speak with her, she finally asked, “Are you alright?”

The answer came slowly, automatically. “Yes, ma’am. I’m green.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “I think I am. Just reminiscing, I suppose.”

“You were a veteran? Navy, right?”

He looked slightly bemused, laughing at her naïveté without saying a thing. “Yes, ma’am, in a way, I suppose I am.”

Suddenly, Lauren remembered the manners her mother had hammered into her, and blushed slightly, apologizing. “I’m sorry. My name’s Lauryn. Lauryn Alden. I’m sorry to disturb you, but you looked sort of upset. I can leave if I’m bothering you…”  She half-pointed to the sidewalk, ready to depart.

“Oh, no, ma’am. It’s fine,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. “It’s always nice to talk with someone new. My name is Jared.”

“Good to meet you, Jared…?” She left a blank for him to fill.

“Just Jared, ma’am.”

“No last name?” she inquired, immediately regretting opening her mouth.

“I… I guess I had one a long time ago, but I can’t remember it. So, no, ma’am, I don’t have a last name.” Again the bemused look.

The realization finally dawned upon her: very tall, very strong, Navy “in a way,” no last name… “You’re a Spartan?” she exclaimed more than asked. “A real, living Spartan? It’s… it’s such an honor to meet you!”

“Really, ma’am, it’s not that much of an honor. It’s a pleasure to meet you, as well,” he drily returned, as if being almost a superhero was not a big deal to him. She found that she had been shouting and lowered her voice to normal conversation levels, embarrassed.

“If you don’t mind my asking… which one are you?” She gestured to the memorial and it rows of glittering metal figures. Jared lifted a hand and pointed to one of the masked Spartans, one that wore a slightly different armor from the others. The sun reflected off of the burnished metal, sending shimmers of colorful prisms into the air and onto nearby trees and buildings.

“That one,” he stated. “Jared-091, Senior Chief Petty Officer, United Nations Space Command Naval Special Warfare and Weapons Division, Spartan Two Program.”

“Wow,” Lauryn breathed, awed. “Do you come here often? To think, I mean.”

Jared smiled wanly. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

There were many Spartans with their faces lifted to the sky, Lauryn observed. Too many. No wonder he came here; he missed his brothers and sisters, lonely and in need of company.

“Let me ask you something,” she said, voice neutral.

“Sure,” he answered, motioning for her to continue.