Spartan-Issue Only

October 5, 2551

Jorge's smirk spread to a huge grin beneath his brushlike mustache.

I know you don't like to make a fuss," the SPARTAN said, voice low and even, "but it's just a little something."

He held out a canvas drawstring bag in his giant hands, flat and rectangular. Jory picked it up, immediately surprised by its weight, until he realised exactly what it was.

"Jorge... I don't know what to say..." Jory trailed off as his fingers slipped the canvas back over the sheathed knife.

"Hey, it's the first birthday I've seen you on since '25. You could say I had some making up to do."

Jory held the weapon up, unsheathing it to reveal a pristine powdered black finish. Its balance and heft was immediately familiar again, as if the seven years since he'd used it hadn't existed.

"M11, upscaled for MJOLNIR, SPARTAN-issue only," Jorge detailed as the ODST officer replaced the sheath. "Hyper-dense. It's not your one, of course," he apologised. "No idea where that went. But we've got loads of these in the stores, and I-"

He stopped suddenly as Jory wrapped his arms tight around him, almost knocking the breath from his chest. It seemingly took both men by surprise.

"I'll take that as a "thank you"," Jorge chuckled, returning the embrace after a brief moment. "Although you do know what this means, don't you Fifty?"

"What does it mean?"

"Well, that knife is SPARTAN-size. You better get down the gym, Helljumper."''

* * *

October 5, 2552

It was families that marked birthdays, and he didn't have one of those, did he?

Not any more, at least.

Jory was pensive. The cool light evening breeze cut across the open cab of his Warthog, disturbing the fine film of dust that coated every interior surface from the steering wheel to the radios. His platoon of ODSTs were resting nearby, and he supposed that was where his driver had disappeared off to. The yellowish sun of Earth had only just retreated behind the horizon, and it now scattered rich hues through the darkening sky. Some of the greener marines had in panic mistaken the sunset for the faint glow of Covenant weaponry in the distance, but Jory knew from the radio's low warble that the latest warning of enemy warships was yet another false alarm.

And besides, there wasn't the crackling of static in the air that always followed a glassing.

Most people only got the chance to grow up with one set of kin, and yet Jory had known two. How unlucky then, that the SPARTAN-IIs had lost both the families they had grown to love?

Yes, he was indulging in self-pity. Just this once, he had let down the armour that partioned his emotions from the rational decision-making part of his mind, and explored where those feelings took him. It was a rare experience, like a strange bittersweet tonic. But he was surprised by the ferocity of the feelings that gripped him once he let them in. Probably as good a reason as any to keep all this boxed up. Lesson learnt.

But here he was. It wasn't simply because his forty-first birthday was about to pass unmarked. How childish would that be, a grown man sulking over his own unimportance? He was dedicated to, and responsible for, the happiness and the safety of a dozen men and women under his command. Some of them could conceivably die, in the next few months, enacting his plan. Following his orders. He had far more fundamental things to devote his time to than celebrating the anniversary of his birth.

In any case, he'd actively avoided disclosing his birthday to his new colleagues now that he was an ODST platoon commander. No one had the interest to ask, and he simply hadn't bothered to drop any hints. It wouldn't be the first birthday that passed unremarked and it wouldn't- with a bit of luck, anyway- be the last.

But here he was and despair washed over him.

He wasn't overly sentimental and he thought he'd be fine. Now though, now that he'd opened that Pandora's Box of emotion, he regretted that decision. This hurt. More than ever. This time.

One hand absent-mindedly reached for the knife affixed to his body armour. One last memento from Jorge; one year ago to the day. The knife for the man; it was a piss-poor trade.

He rarely thought of his birth parents, the home he'd been snatched from when he was barely old enough to remember it. He didn't even know if they'd survived the glassing of Durisdeer. In a way, he hoped they were long gone, spared from watching the slow extinction of humanity by the oblivion of death. But could they have survived? Were they now, an elderly couple, still haunted by the breaking of their family four decades earlier? Or had they moved on, had other children- Jory's unknown brothers and sisters- and made something meaningful of their lives?

Or were they nothing but a memory in an ageing SPARTAN's mind?

How many from his second, adoptive family, the SPARTAN-IIs, had made it to forty one?

Twenty five years of fighting and he could scarcely keep track of who was left from that frightened rabble of children that had become his brothers and sisters. The few that remained, scattered to the fringes of human space or desperately defending its last worlds. A dozen or more fallen at Reach; so many he hadn't even seen in years and probably some more who were dead even then, as he sat there, whose demise was hidden from him. One by one, they'd abandoned him.

They were all gone. Two homes, shattered. Two families lost forever.

"...Boss," said a voice.

Jory looked up to see his driver.

"Happy birthday." In his outstretched hands he offered a flask, its contents throwing out hot vapour.

Maybe Jory was wrong. Yes, twice before he'd been shorn from a family. But who was to say he hadn't discovered a third?

He laughed. How many people saw a family fade twice over, only to be welcomed anew? It seemed blindingly obvious to him now.

"Boss?" Only when he saw the marine's puzzled face did Jory realise he had been laughing to himself.

Now, though, it dawned on him; not two families, but three. These men and women, Helljumpers, who he was sworn to serve. Jorge would've made some silly joke. He smirked, the same wide smirk the big man himself would've pulled.

He took the flask.