Eighteen: Rebirth

December 31, 1990; New York City, New York; nearing midnight.

The partying down in Times Square was incredibly loud and out of hand to his ears, even though he was sitting atop the MTV building (and Lord only knows how he had gotten up there) to watch the ball drop. Some of his Infected were down on the ground in the actual square, counting down with the humans, and although he had a strict rule against psychoactive substances (as they affected everyone, not just that person), he permitted his Merry Men one alcoholic drink on the New Year, should they choose to take it. Most of them were having their booze to celebrate both the humans' New Year and their own countdown to destruct – er, to 2552.

The Spartan tipped his own glass back and forth, back and forth as the countdown began from thirty, eyes sweeping the crowd below. Their minds were so quiet compared to those of his Infected, like a constant, low-frequency hum at the edge of his awareness; those minds more in line with his sounded louder, clearer, more distinct. His Infected, who now thought on the exact same wavelength, sounded the loudest, of course, broadcasting to one another as they were.

He wondered, briefly, if that would show up as extra activity in his brain if he ever had to get an MRI or something. Unlikely as it was, it would be good to know when he got back to the Origin.

If he got back.

:water:

His eyes snapped open; he was not even conscious of having closed them as he straightened, abandoning his drink in favor of scanning the crowd. His Infected were instantly on high alert; no doubt they had sensed it, too.

What was that?

What the hell was that?

A mind like music, like the slow, sedate glide of a mountain stream through a green, green valley, not yet swollen with the runoff from the winter snows. It was so close, so resonant, so clear, that he could taste the pure air on his tongue. Enjoy the cool slide of the water down his throat, soothing the heat of a long, hard run. Feel the almost burning ache to run to the mountains and throw off his human form the way he had thousands of years ago; touch the smooth, rounded pebbles beneath his :paws-hooves-talons: as he forded the stream. Watch the rain fall from the safety of a warm, dry cave on the mountain side; see the snow spill from dark clouds and turn the land white in the dead of winter.

He sharpened his eyes to those of an eagle, searching for the mind's owner even as his Infected began doing the same from within the Square, and just as the counter reached zero, all of their eyes locked onto her at once.

It was impossible – it couldn't be –

But it was.

Her name left his lips in a startled exhalation as again the sensations of :mountains and streams and pure and forest and open-space and wild-emptiness and PEACE: flowed over him, taking his mind back to the time he had lived in what was now Plitvice Lakes National Park, some two thousand years ago –

the falls had been so clear and the water so pleasantly cool when he dipped his hands into it and it had been a shade of ultramarine blue that wasn't the right color but reminded him of her and her cool presence inside his mind anyway

"…Cortana?"

Her short black hair was the right style – almost boyishly short in the back and a little longer than chin length in the front – and her eyes were the right color – that specific shade of blue that the sky turned about twenty degrees above the horizon when the sun was at your back and not directly overhead – and she wasn't dressed sluttily the way fashions were beginning to turn, favoring a tee shirt – depicting the ringworld from the Halo-like videogame they'd begun to release, how fitting – and a pair of capris – with flowers embroidered on the lower legs that looked eerily similar to the Blue Amaranth of Soraceon III – and a pair of strappy Mootsies-Tootsie's and God, how was she not cold?!

'It's the middle of winter in New York! She's insane!'

[We knew that already.]

He watched her make her way over to what apparently was her family – father, mother, one younger brother, and one younger sister – and the man who seemed to be her boyfriend and bore a striking similarity to the Spartan watching them.

:sulking jealousy mixed with slow amusement:

'Well, how about that? She can't have the real you, so she goes for your evil twin.'

[Mm.]

-------------------------------------------

"I don't remember that."

"That's because you were a trading card at the ti – OW!" Venera started laughing as she held her arm where John had given her a "love tap," darting out of range in case he tried to make another go later. The Spartan simply quirked an eyebrow at her, a faint smirk pulling his lips up at the edges.

"I believe we can explain that."

"Was hoping you would," the Spartan-Gravemind replied, turning to face Epheria and Selenica, who had appeared on the table during their story time.

"During the fight between us and the P'Vort goddesses," Selenica explained, "they actually opened up the gateway to send you to the Parallel as we were fighting, even if they lost, and so we had access to the Origin as well. Unfortunately, we could not send you back home, as they would just try again later, so instead we brought Cortana through to join you, concealing her in human form so that Lusa'Nia and Mak'Ara would not suspect she was here until it was already too late.

"Which, fortunately, they haven't."

"Okay," Halsey said, resting her chin on her palm and nodding in understanding, "Now I have a question."

"Shoot."

"Why are both of you female? Isn't nature about balance? You know, good and evil, black and white, predator and prey, male and female?"

"Because I lost a bet," Selenica sighed, "My name is actually Xo'ar, and ordinarily, I'm a 'dude.'" Her – er, his sister giggled behind her hand, and he took a swing at her, resulting in a mini-scuffle on the table and much cussing in other languages that appalled even the Infected, infamous as they were for their swearing abilities.