Chapter Text
Settling in.
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The first thing they say to John-117 upon him getting out of cryo is, ‘Welcome to Sanghelios, hope you packed a toothbrush,’ although, to be fair, he’s since learned that’s just how Sgt. Johnson is, and now that he looks back on it, the question was very funny. But at the time, not so much.
The first week after waking up had him stuck in quarantine, taking shots in the arm to boost his already excellent immune system. During that time, he read up on everything the UNSC had gathered about the local Sangheili people, completing eight modules on the hastily put together political-regulations crash course from eight decades ago, and slept lots. He even took a shower with boiling hot water; a luxury for so many, now an easy-access commodity for those in camp.
When he was released into the wider encampment, John claimed his room which felt achingly lonely without his fellow SPARTANs, ate proper food that wasn’t nutrient jelly courtesy of the on-base chefs, and finally got a good look at Sanghelious from the ground.
The UNSC camp was in the middle of a large forested area, which itself was located close to the Vadam Keep, which was considered the region's governmental building, and from the top of a nearby hill, John could overlook the entire city.
Most of the time it was very hot thanks to the planet's three suns, and depending on the weather, the skies change from a light crimson, to a reddish-blue, to a very bright blue like Reach’s skies.
The air was breathable, crisp even, better than any human colony John’s ever been on, mostly thanks to the foliage, which the Sangheili weave into their architecture, as seen in their internal gardens and courtyards, which John got a small look at from his vantage point on the hill.
While many of the resident Marines were wary around him, (an ONI secret with scars that couldn’t be explained), they were amicable enough to let him help them construct new buildings across the camp; with his help, they got the first mess-hall up in four days, and once nobody was sitting on the ground to eat dinner anymore, they were much warmer towards him.
The food still wasn’t the best, but once the trade routes were established, hopefully the quality of rations would improve slightly, although probably not.
Then, at some point, three weeks into his time on Sanghelios, John was hit with everything all at once.
One of the engineering staff, Officer Alice Fox, found him sitting in the half-completed armour bay; staring out one of the huge white windows that overlooked the valley. The suns were setting over the horizon by then, and the light made his eyes water even with his tinted visor.
”You alright?” She asked, hands on her hips, “Looking a little blue there.”
John looked at her briefly before returning to staring out the window, shoulders slumped, hands loose in his lap. The planet was always hot, practically sweltering every day, so John had to shed his armour as the fans built inside the armour weren’t good enough to keep him cool. Normally a blessing, now it just made him feel horribly exposed.
He still kept his helmet on though, a final barrier between him and everyone else. That was perhaps the best thing for the moment.
”Missing home, huh?” She asked, sitting beside him; dwarfed by his tall stature despite being almost twenty years his senior, being the oldest in the engineering crew at 38. “I get that. I miss home too.”
She didn’t say anything else aside from that, and John didn’t correct her because he found he couldn't disagree.
He missed Reach and everywhere he looked he saw his home planet in the ecology of Sanghelious - her mountains, her rivers, her valleys - but it was lacking something fundamental.
It lacked people.
It lacked Fred’s warm hands on his shoulders, Kelly’s leg tossed over his, and Linda’s quiet stillness that felt more akin to prayer than anything else. It didn’t have the warmth of their presence, or the quiet companionship they shared as they passed in the hallways, or the familiar grooves in the rungs of the bunks that had been worn down under their weight after years of use.
The books Fred kept on his bedside table weren’t here, (UNSC approved books, anyway, they didn’t know about the ones in the vents, but the thought just reminded him that those weren’t there either), the bullet casing’s Linda kept stacked neatly along the edge of her bunk weren’t there, and Kelly’s specialized running shoes weren’t by the door; but the memory of them were.
Every morning John placed his coffee on the right off the bedside cubby, expecting books that weren’t there. Every time he left his bunk, he was careful not to knock the railing even though the casings weren’t there; playing into an imaginary bet that had no repercussions because nobody was there to see him fail. Every time he left the room, his feet traced a slight arc around the exact spot Kelly would keep her shoes, kept aside from the others because she used them the most and liked having them in one place; easy to grab them and hit the gym instead of having to come fully inside the barracks for one thing.
Without them it felt like there was this gap in his life.
He could stop; force his body to forget these things; the books, the bullets, the shoes. But then he’d forget the people who helped carve those memories out. Forget the people he cares for.
Forget what keeps him going.
Alice sighs and gets up, her knee’s cracking. The sound doesn’t knock John out of his thoughts, he was never submerged in them; his mind easily cataloging the conversation and his thoughts separately, like any good soldier, “Good night, Petty Officer John.”
He doesn’t turn to look at her; eyes fixed on the suns as they set below the horizon, framing the Keep in the far distance.
Despite his training, John misses Blue Team. Misses Sam. Misses the familiar corridors and familiar people. Misses the familiar feeling. Misses what he was with those things in his life.
But, as Chief Mendez once said, ‘tomorrow is a new day, recruit; smile, make it count.’
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It’s his second month on Sanghelios when he first gets to see the locals in person.
He’s guarding a crate shipment from the carnivorous wildlife with a platoon of young soldiers that he’s half keeping on track, half scaring into submission with his silence. There wasn’t a big enough clearing for supply ships to land close to camp, so they were forced to carry the crates across the grassy plains back to the camp on foot.
They’re five minutes out when he hears the quiet ringing of bells.
John pauses, hesitates, and looks around.
For a moment, he considers that he’s possibly lost his mind, but when the other soldiers pause and listen as well, he knows he hasn’t.
The chime of bells echoes from somewhere in the distance; a whisper on the breeze. The noise falls silent a while later as the wind picks up, and the group continue to make their way across the plains, back towards the forests that are just over the next hill.
John knows he could easily move the crates himself, they weigh nothing to him, but he likes the plains and the view it affords him of the nearby mountains, besides, it keeps the rookies out of trouble-
They crest the hill and go still.
Below them, in the field between them and the path to the camp, four Sangheili children - younglings as they’re called - are running around, seemingly playing a game amongst themselves.
They’re smaller than John expected, and while the logical part of his mind knows that’s because their only children, now that he’s staring at them, he can’t rationalise it. John can’t remember ever being that small; can’t remember ever being so carefree, either. He could probably pick all four up easily, if he needed to get them out of danger quickly.
But there is no danger.
The thought startles him enough that John frowns beneath his helmet.
Some part of him whispers that there has to be danger somewhere nearby. Something is a threat, there is always a threat. That’s what running black ops missions for ONI taught him, that danger lurks around every corner; nowhere is safe.
But, he isn’t on a black ops mission. He’s standing in a field, staring at children playing a game. This isn’t a back alley in some run down city. This isn’t an asteroid field where landmines are lain out, waiting for any reason to go off.
They’re just little kids, playing a game.
John flexes his hands by his sides, thumb pressing against the back of his fingers; cracking the knuckles reflexively. Gloves creaking. He lowers his rifle and lets it hang across his back, the weight somehow comforting even though the thought that it is should be disturbing.
”Are they wearing poncho’s?” One of the rookies asks, sounding bewildered
”And bell’s.” Another rookie confirms, shifting the crate across her shoulders; sweat beading on her brow.
John takes a closer look and a small smile spreads across his scarred lips; the younglings are, indeed, wearing ponchos and bells. One of them is even wearing a wool lined hat to match their cream-coloured outerwear.
One of the children must see them as they stop and point them out to the others, who also stop and stare.
The Sangheili younglings and the UNSC officers watch each other for a long time; crates slowly shuffling around until they’re sitting on the dull grey grass at their feet, shoulders flexing to stretch out their sore muscles.
It feels like a century passes with them just watching each other, although John’s HUD informs him it hasn’t even been a minute until the children seemingly wave goodbye and run off towards the city; bells ringing out across the space that stretches between them.
John watches them go. Listens to the sound of the chimes echo before being swallowed by the wind once more.
”Cute kids,” The second rookie says, picking up her crate again with a groan, “Let’s get these back to camp.”
John, sensing she’s struggling with the weight, reaches over and easily lifts her crate onto his own shoulder, then grabs a second and holds it under one arm. They barely weigh anything to him; like holding a pillow.
”Why didn’t you do that sooner?” Grumbles the first marine as he rubs his hands. He glowers, but John knows he won’t do anything; he knows that look. It’s the look of half awe, half annoyance that he can do hard tasks easily. It’s become a common look around the camp, even Johnson has the look sometimes, although it’s often followed by admiration.
John doesn’t say anything more; silently beginning the walk back to camp.
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The next time John sees a local, he’s putting up the wooden frame for a radio post.
The gentle click of beads and the ringing of a bell let John know he’s being watched, but he doesn’t turn. Half because he doesn’t want the frame he just put up to fall, wasting an hour's work, and half because he doesn’t want to scare the child away.
He continues carefully slotting beams together, his leather gloves creaking across his knuckles. The wooden frame groans slightly as he next forces two supports into place, but John’s content that it won’t fall for the close future. He’ll need to put the metal sheets up next, line the inside with insulation, then put the inside walls up to cover it. His helmet should filter out anything dangerous he might breathe in doing that, which is probably why SGT. Johnson volunteered, (told), John to do the task.
Not that he minded.
This was better than sitting in silence or getting in someone's way.
The bell rang again from the brush nearby, and John turned his head just in time to see a youngling Sangheili wander out from the bushes and stand beside the toolbox.
The child’s scales are smooth and a light grey colour, almost like a pebble, and their orange eyes glint in the low light that manages to flicker through the canopy of leaves above. They wear a long cream-coloured poncho that falls to their feet, complete with a thick fur lining around their neck. A small, silver bell dangles from a beaded necklace around their collar, which jingles every time they move; the cord running across a patch of paler scales at the child’s nape.
John goes still, not wanting to accidentally frighten away the child who is curiously edging closer to his space.
He keeps calm, letting the youngling draw closer until they’re a foot away from each other. The bell chimes and jingles with each step, but there’s nobody nearby except for John to hear it; everyone else has gone inside to get out of the worst of the heat.
The child looks up at John, mandibles clicking open and closed.
”Hello,” John greets, keeping his voice low and his tone calm. “You’re far from home.”
The youngling makes a quiet chirping sound and draws a little closer. John holds out a hand to stop them.
”It isn’t safe,” He explains, pointing upwards to the wooden frame of the radio shack, “You don’t have any P.P.E, and if that falls, it’ll hurt you.”
The child stops just before John’s hand and stares curiously at his fingers, before following his arm and looking upwards to where he’s pointing.
”You need to keep your distance, okay?” John said again, kneeling and very gently pushing the child backwards. He tried not to be rough, he doesn’t want to hurt them. He’d never forgive himself if he did, not to mention it would be something the higher ups could have him shot over.
The child promptly flopped onto the sandy ground, bell jingling, and sneezed.
John nodded, content the child wouldn’t move any closer, before turning back to his construction job. He examined it carefully, remembering his next step, before moving to accomplish it.
He didn’t know what the UNSC protocol was for children being on an active construction site, he doubted it was allowed. But they were under his supervision, and he wasn’t going to let them… he didn’t know, go ransack a weapons crate, or something similar.
Besides, this camp didn’t technically fall under UNSC jurisdiction. It fell under the local Government’s jurisdiction, which would be the Vadam Kaidon, and there was nothing stopping the local populace from walking on public land, which all land in this region was classified as.
He was saying this not because he wanted the child around, not at all, just because… well, he liked to be on top of any rules he might be breaking. It was easier to weigh the risks and rewards in his mind. (Not that it always saved him, the current rank on his barracks door reminded him of that every time he walked past, sometimes, you just can’t win, no matter what you do)
Once the frame was complete, John turned and picked up the first sheet of metal from a nearby pile; carefully leaning it against the frame to collect the nailgun from his tool box-
”That’s not a toy,” He found himself quickly saying, carefully taking the nailgun in question from the small, four fingered grip of the local child. John twisted the gun until the tip was pressed against the wood, pulling the trigger; the tool letting out a loud bang. “See?”
The child flinched back at the loud noise before leaning in, eyes sparkling with both curiosity and what, John thinks, is worry.
Or maybe not.
The child extends their hands again, fingers flexing as if asking for John to hand it over.
”No,” he told the Sangheili again. “Not a toy.”
If the soft squinting of eyes and the snap-like click of mandibles read as frustration, John was certainly picking up on it.
”Not a toy,” John said once again, putting the nailgun down, “It’s dangerous.”
Hoping to keep the child from potentially finding another dangerous tool, or getting hurt if the box falls on them, John pushed his knuckles into the dirt and pulled out several of the smooth stones that the marines had complained about needing to clear earlier. These ones must have fallen off at some point before getting buried by kicked up dirt; each one almost perfectly the same size and shape, with a slightly flatter bottom and a slight sheen to it, although that could just be from the dirt.
“Here,” carefully, as if he were holding something fragile, John dropped half the pebbles into the child’s leathery palm, the other stones he kept in his own, folding his fingers around them to keep them from scattering all over the place. (That he knew was a construction hazard, hence why Sgt. Johnson was so firm on getting the surface layer of them moved before John started working on the second, external barracks, even though John insisted that wasn’t necessary.)
”Watch,” John said quietly, tossing one stone up into the air before twisting his wrist to catch the pebble on the back of his hand; his glove creaking. He then lightly flicked his wrist upwards, quickly tossing another rock and catching both on the back of his hand. “Reckon you can do that?”
The child leaned over and John repeated the motion again; reminding him of the coin currently tucked in his drawers back in his barracks. The memory of the sound as it spun through the air made John smile faintly behind his helmet.
”Go on,” He quietly encouraged, “Give it a go.”
The child glanced down at the pebbles, twisting them between their fingers, before attempting to copy the human.
Maybe it was the slope of their knuckles, or the unfamiliar movement, but the first try had the rock dropping to the sandy-dirt with a clatter. Their mandibles stretch outwards before folding back in; surprise maybe?
”It’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?” John asked, picking up the dropped rock and returning it to the child’s palm. “Here, try again.”
After a few more tries, the child finally manages to catch the pebble. This time the clicking of mandibles convey excitement, and the Sangheili jumps slightly in delight; bell ringing back and forth with the movement, falling against their chest.
John finds himself smiling at the little one’s excitement, nodding in what he hoped came across as encouragement; “Good job, reckon you can get through all of them? I bet you can.”
With the Sangheili child thoroughly entertained, John dropped his own make-shift knucklebones into the toolbox before he returned to pinning metal sheets to the wooden frame, although with a hammer and nails, instead of the nailgun. He didn’t think the Vadam people would be so happy with him if he got their youngling interested in dangerous building equipment.
The click of pebbles and the ringing bell was an absent background noise to John’s ears as he worked, managing to get half the paneling up before the child tugged on the back of his cargo pants.
A quick glance around revealed no danger, so when John knelt to the Sangheili’s level, he was confused when the kid showed him catching four pebbles on the back of their hand; eyes wide with, what John quickly realised, was a victorious preen.
Oh.
”You’re showing off,” He realised with a breathy chuckle, “It’s very impressive. You can keep those if you want, we have plenty.”
The pouches on his belt had been empty for weeks now, so he filled them with the pebbles from the tool box and handed it to the child-
”Do you have a name?” John asked, holding the clasp open as the Sangheili put their own pebbles inside.
A head tilt was the only response.
’Right; language barrier.’ John mentally smacked himself for the oversight. He’s better than that, he’s better than rookie mistakes.
”I’ll just call you Pebbles,” He decided, more to himself than the Sangheili child who was happily rocking their new pouch of faux knuckle-bones back and forth. “Nice to meet you, Pebbles.”
The youngling makes an odd squeaking noise before withdrawing their arms back into their poncho; bracelets clicking. They do a small twist, mandibles opening and closing happily, before they turn away, vanishing back into the brush.
John lets them go; listening to the bell as it fades.
He stands, returning to his work.
The shed is put up by nightfall. He eats his rations. He drinks water. Turns on the fans in his too-lonely barracks, and goes to sleep; tormented by faces he knows and faces he barely remembers.
The next day, he eats breakfast, puts on his helmet, and goes to complete the wiring for the shed.
He finds a collection of small blue rocks sitting where his toolbox was the day before, wrapped in a fabric he doesn’t know. He runs his thumb over the pouch before clipping it to his belt, in the exact spot his other pouch had hung a day ago; before he gave it to the youngling.
He doesn’t tell anybody where he got them, but the weight comforts him more than he realises over the coming days. (Books, bullet casings, shoes). (Slowly, the gaping wound in his chest is slightly filled with bright blue pebbles).
John goes to sleep; he’s got another day tomorrow.