Six had been walking around all morning with dread weighing him down. He’d had another nightmare, same as always— Reach was an ever-present part of his life, though he’d left the planet a long time ago. The whole experience had changed him, but what he regretted the most was not being able to save his team. Nothing hurt him more than the knowledge that somehow, there must have been a way to get at least one of them out alive, and he didn’t find it fast enough.
The worst loss had been Jorge, by far. He had chosen his fate, and that was what bothered Six. It was his drive to keep up the fight. All this time, he had held on to his dog tags— out of respect or denial, he didn’t know.
The Spartan was leaning against the side of one of the hangars mulling the whole thing over when he thought he saw… No. He died. I can’t be hallucinating things now, I’m already messed up enough! They’ll never let me back in if I lose it completely. But just to be sure, he stood up and took a deep breath in.
"Jorge? Is… That you?"