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Folks Need Heroes
Posted By: Marine Corps 117<marinecorps117@yahoo.com>
Date: 21 July 2006, 3:22 am
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"You wrote that the world doesn't need a savior, but every day I hear people crying for one." - Superman
Folks Need Heroes
Spotless dress shoes gracefully stepped onto the deck of cheering Marines and hover cams, which made for a heavy contrast to the olive green boots that stomped in their wake. Such an enthusiastic welcome was almost alien to the seven foot Spartan. For a fleeting moment he dwelled on what may seem absurd to anyone else: the irony of a battle-hardened super soldier finding the all-seeing eyes of the media more hostile and threatening than the enemy he was trained to fight.
It was almost overwhelming even: the relentless flashes and deafening applaud - fueled by the passion the Marines have been known for since 1776 - mercilessly assaulted his senses. In his eyes, he didn't deserve any of it. It was his job, nothing more. The Master Chief simply carried out his duty, just as they did.
Admittedly, the discovery of an alien artifact and its subsequent destruction were ground-breaking to be sure, not to mention the Covenant armada that went with it, but he found no pride nor satisfaction in what he had done to preserve not just humanity, but all that lived in the galaxy: the "greater good," as he was taught. The Master Chief just barely tilted his head downwards - it was the closest a Spartan would ever come to a mournful outburst. Dust and echoes…
"You said there wouldn't be any cameras," John-117 said as he halted his thought process. A hover cam slowly drifted in a position in front of his helmet. He tried to ignore its synthetic gaze. It couldn't have gotten the dramatic close up it desired anyway: all it recorded was the golden, distorted image of its own lens, dilating as it zoomed out, defeated. The Master Chief had stared death in the eye innumerable times but he could barely look into a camera.
Sergeant Johnson gave him a sideways glance as he snapped back in his signature gruff tone about "wearing something nice." The muscles at the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. The eye-catching sheen of the MJOLNIR armor was not an element usually wanted in combat, as reflective surfaces were very easy to see in any kind of environment; it made a rather convenient target for the enemy. Seeing me coming is one thing. His miniscule smile vanished just as soon as it had appeared. Doing something about it is another.
"Folks need heroes, Chief," Johnson said, straightening his dress cap, looking dead serious. "To give 'em hope."
The doors to the Cairo's bridge slid apart and the two weathered veterans of war walked into the cavernous, windowed command center, filled with rows upon rows of control consoles and screens. As the Master Chief walked side by side with Sergeant Johnson, he let the man's statement sink into his consciousness.
Do people really need a hero? Or do they just want one?
After all, there was no shortage of men or women who had performed admirably in the struggle against the Covenant. Training, augmentation, armor: they made John more capable in combat, but that was all that set him apart from the bulk of the UNSC fighting force. It was a timeless, everlasting thing for anyone who answered the call to arms: pushing the odds for what one believes is right and worth fighting for. John had done so countless times and had seen good people do so as well. Many of them fell victim to such risks… Too many.
What then, makes me different from the rest of them?
The Spartan's consciousness involuntarily drifted to a part of his life he wanted to completely repress but could never fully allow himself to forget. He closed his eyes and saw hellish flames: the kind of fire no human eye should ever have to see. Countless worlds had fallen: blue and green orbs of life reduced to giant, blazing graveyards in orbit - small sparks of death sprinkled across the stars.
John opened his eyes from beneath is one-way visor, trying to concentrate on the ceremony. It was unprofessional to let the mind sway so easily, especially in the presence of a superior. But he could not shake the image of the dead worlds. Each had millions of people that had laid their dreams and safety atop his shoulders. And yet all of them had perished, now nothing more than ashes, with only the silent cries for a savior echoing through their flaming graves.
He imagined what those poor souls must have looked like in their last moments: burning alive, undoubtedly screaming for help - for his help. The glassed worlds didn't just show what the enemy was capable of; they symbolized defeat and broken promises. His Spartans had taken a vow to do whatever it took to complete the mission. Usually, it meant killing.
Sometimes, it meant dying.
John's teammates - his family - died painful deaths for these people. If they were gone, did that make deaths of his surrogate brothers and sisters in vain? The orphaned soldier clenched his teeth at the very thought that all the pain and suffering he and his Spartans had gone through, that all the horrid, bloody evils he had been ordered to commit, that each and every life he had mercilessly ripped away from the realm of the living was all for nothing… The concept of futility was one of the few things that could truly strike fear into the man's soul, for if there was one thing that could cripple the fighting spirits among the bravest of men, it was doubt.
He believed with every fiber of his being that he would never stop fighting until he won. However, he had no delusions of glory. In his most private of moments, he found himself wondering just how a single man could make a difference for all of mankind. Did humanity really want to put all their hopes upon one comparatively insignificant mortal?
He kept his emotions in check, but he still could not help but mourn those people he had never and would never meet. John furrowed his brow, again trying to concentrate. It was never difficult to focus in the past. So why then, at an awards ceremony did his thoughts wander so?
Back in reality, Lord Hood handed Commander Miranda Keyes a small piece of metal with ribbon attached. The medal was not for her, but for her father's performance. The great Captain Keyes could not receive it himself, for his Flood-infected remains were now particles of vaporized matter drifting with whatever was left of Halo 04. John prayed Keyes's daughter would never ask him just how her father died.
With his face hidden behind the visor of gold, he looked at the female commander out the corner of his eye. John didn't have to read her face to feel what she felt as she gently closed her fingers around the medal granted to her deceased father. John had seen far too many good men like Captain Keyes perish in the war. At that moment, he understood the importance of the Sergeant's words and the truth that they held.
The remaining human populace did not simply desire an idol to bring themselves personal comfort or to have a winner to root for. Rather, they yearned for something - someone to rally behind, to rely upon to win. But more than anything else the Master Chief had - his combat prowess, his victories over the enemy - it was the simple fact that he was alive that separated him from the rest of the men and women who had left their mark on history.
The war truly had "enough dead heroes" as Cortana had once said. That was what made the Master Chief so special. Of all the champions born through the war, he was one of the very few who had come back from the fires breathing. He had not become a martyr that had to be remembered or mourned. There was no greater proof that the Covenant could one day be beaten than the distinct image of the Spartan who had defied them and lived to tell of it.
So they did need a hero: someone who would not only inspire them, but lead them as well. As warning klaxons blared, interrupting the ceremony, with men rushing to their battle stations, the Master Chief looked up and saw the formations of frigates and destroyers setting off to defend humanity's greatest prize against those who sought to violate its skies. Just as he knew what Earth needed, Spartan 117 knew what he needed.
"I need a weapon."
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