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He has never met a Spartan before.
Before he was moved to the Freelancer Program, he heard stories of them. They can be revived, a Marine said once, but he doubted those silly conspiracy theories. All he knows is that Spartans are treasure to the UNSC and too precious to spare. Too valuable.
And Wash finally came face to face with one.
Run away, run away, his mind screams as Agent Six stares at him from her seated position on one of the locker room benches. The gold visor of Six’s Recon helmet stares deep into his soul. She doesn’t move a muscle, an inch. Stiff, stiff, unmoving. Is this person a statue? Then, he breaks the silence.
“You must be Agent Six. I’m Agent Washington; call me Wash for short, though.” He raises his arm for a handshake.
Six stands—even for Wash’s height, she stood at seven feet in full armor—and walks over to him, grabbing his hand and shaking a bit too hard. After releasing he rolls back his shoulder. “Agent Six,” she says, voice unwavering. Stiff, stiff. She doesn’t remove her helmet and he wonders why.
Ignoring his curiosity he continues, “The Director mentioned you over speakers. Some of the Freelancers don’t take kindly to new faces, just letting you know.” Shit, am I sweating?
Six nods. Wash makes the assumption that she doesn’t talk much. Silence fills the locker room; sweat runs down his forehead.
When lunch arrives, he decides to sit with York and North. Six is nowhere to be found.
“Hey, where’s the Spartan?” York chews his apple.
“I don’t think she wants to eat with us,” North says, disappointed. “I know Maine is quiet, but she’s like a ghost. Kind of unsettling.”
Wash mumbles through a mouthful of chicken sandwich, “You think all Spartans act like that?”
“No, at least I don’t think so . . .”
York adds to the conversation, “I’m more curious as to how Six will do on the leaderboard.” His words only made Wash feel even more nervous—Spartans are deadly, he knows that, but he’s never seen one in action before either. There was just no comparing them to their unaugmented human counterparts. They are the UNSC’s heroes, the wild card to fighting against both Insurrectionists and Covenant.
I wonder if Six thinks of herself as a hero.
Then, out of the blue, North asks a question. “You think Six acts like a machine?”
Wash stops eating. He glares at North. “What kind of a fucking question is that?”
North holds both hands up in defense. “It was just a—”
“Stupid fucking question,” he finishes. “She’s only been here for even barely a day. I don’t think you should judge her so quickly.” Regardless, he knows Six will be judged—he felt the same when he first transitioned to Project Freelancer with nothing but a KIA on his record and a new name. But Six . . . Six is different.
You think Six acts like a machine?
The thought comes to him later, when the Freelancers are assigned to retrieve intel in an Insurrectionist camp located somewhere in the middle of the desert. His throat is parched and there is a bullet lodged in his leg. He can’t get up, the Innies are coming, he can hear them. No more bullets in his DMR. The boulder is nice cover but that won’t last long. Not when there are at least a dozen Innies on his radar, perhaps more. For a brief moment, he thinks of contacting Connie or Maine but that would give away his position.
Then he sees it, a shape looming over the horizon. A friendly unit. The armor bright orchid complimented with light blue, a contrast to the hideous orange sky. Treasure. Fairytale.
Spartan.
He reaches out at the figure with a weak hand, wishing, just wishing—
An Insurrectionist points at the figure.
The Spartan charges.
Wishing, just wishing . . .
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when they complete their first mission together and he realizes her name isn’t on the leaderboard. Six doesn’t react. Blank.
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when Six returns caked in blood not hers.
“It was a classified mission,” Six says, cold and direct. Carolina narrows her eyes.
“What makes you so special?” Inside, Wash knows. Spartan.
“I work better alone.” Wash feels a chill run down his spine. She is faster and stronger than any of them and he saw her in action himself. Six, slicing a knife across an Insurrectionist’s throat. Six, crushing an Insurrectionist’s skull with her bare hands. Six—
Carolina’s merciless interrogation continues, “Why should you be so deserving of solo missions? We could’ve done that mission—”
“You really shouldn’t care,” Six replies bluntly, stiff and unmoving as always. “I’m not on the leaderboard.” At that, it takes Wash grabbing Carolina’s wrist so she doesn’t punch Six. Carolina is fire, hot and burning her enemies to nothing but ash. Six is air, silent and sharp and lethal.
Later after their confrontation Wash meets Six in the locker room. Again. A supposed home. He asks, albeit hesitatingly, “So, what did you specialize in?”
“Assassinations.”
No personality at all? “But you slaughtered them.”
Stiff, stiff, cold, cold. Unmoving. “I was ordered to.” She doesn’t say any more. Wash gulps and leaves the tense atmosphere. He’s sweating, he’s confused, he’s—
“Watch where you’re going!” South, of course.
“Geez, sorry.” They walk past each other a few feet until South calls for him. Wash turns.
“Why are you lurking around in the locker room so much?”
“That’s none of your business.” He has already lost the battle by lying terribly. South raises her eyebrows.
“What, talking to that sociopath again?” South seeps contempt and acid and his stomach tosses and turns. Prepare yourself. Be fair.
“Six probably isn’t one.”
A scoff. “Wash, you don’t understand. She’s a Spartan. She’s a machine. They’re meant to kill.”
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when Six is on the deck looking out at empty space, when her helmet is off. Dog tags dangle from her closed palm. Six sighs, opening one of her pouches and stuffing the dog tags inside. Her eyes are similar to a storm: lifeless, dull and boring. Gray. Wash stands adjacent to her, watching an asteroid fly by and crash into the surface of a planet.
“Have you always worked alone?”
She responds, “No, but for most of my career I have.”
“So those dog tags,” he faces her now, “were they a teammate’s?”
“Yes,” Six chokes, and she coughs, and if Wash’s eyes aren’t deceiving him he sees tears streak down her face and her body slumped forward and for once she isn’t stiff and unmoving. Six is glass, shattered and broken into many pieces. He’s about to speak, comfort her, but he’s met with Please leave, Agent Washington. Wash protests, she repeats herself but much harsher this time and Six doesn’t feel like the destructive wind that kills the enemy. Glass, glass, shattered glass. Broken.
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when a bomb detonates on the concrete they’re standing on, and impulse kicks in and Six pushes him out of the way. She falls, falls, falls so easily. Thud. Texas yells, his ears won’t stop ringing, and Six’s chest is decorated in red. Her biosigns flare red everywhere. He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when Six is on life support, when the medics whisper, She might not make it. North places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, I’m there for you. Sorry for what I said about her earlier. Maine hands him a beer; he doesn’t drink right away.
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when fifteen hours pass and Six isn’t dead, Six is breathing again. The medic allows him through. Bandages cover her body. Wash takes a seat in a rolling chair next to her bed.
“How are you doing?” he asks. The urge to hold her hand feels too real.
“Fine,” Six croaks, and their fingers intertwine when he decides to hold her hand. Her smile is so sad, so tired, but shines like the sunrise after a dreadful rainy day.
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later, when Six has recovered and he doesn’t realize how much he cares about her until he loses her again.
The city’s buildings are mostly rubble save for a skyscraper about two kliks west and the only way to save the civilians inside was to eliminate the suicide bombers. It’s a suicide mission, he is North and York’s cover, Six’s support. Protect the Spartan. They barrel through the chaos as gunfire sprays from all sides. Wash guns down two Insurrectionist, watching Six through his scope from the ground. She is mere inches from the door when unexpectedly three Spartans emerge out of the smoke. Six halts. He turns on his comms to peek on the conversation.
“We’ve come to retrieve you, B312,” the voice is male, armor red. “You belong to ONI.”
Six’s stance is hostile. “What about the objective?”
“There is none,” the green one notes. “Like my friend said, ONI can’t afford having a rampant Spartan on the loose with a profile as sketchy as yours.”
“Should you reject us,” Wash can’t deny the pureness of the steel one’s Australian accent, “we are authorized to neutralize you.”
A Pelican drops onto the bloody soil. Six waits for what seems like an eternity, then proceeds toward the Pelican. She’s leaving.
“You can’t just leave—”
“We’re supposed to—”
“Agent Six, get back here!”
Wash grips his DMR. You’ve betrayed me.
Her smile is so sad, so tired—
The Pelican flies off and Wash’s heart drops. She’s gone, gone, gone just like that. He ponders it for a moment. Stiff, unmoving, glass, glass. She didn’t even say goodbye. He doesn’t know what to feel.
You think Six acts like a machine?
He doesn’t think the thought until some time later—and he realizes.
Not her.