December 2551. Though the Covenant invasion of Concord has seen a rare UNSC victory, the Spartans of Noble Team find themselves stranded in a remote hinterland town. While the Covenant’s orbital presence has been neutralized, the remaining alien survivors have regrouped and prepare to make a devastating final stand.
With dwindling time and no reinforcements, Kat-B320 comes up with a daring plan to do what Spartans do best and turn the tide—and it’s up to Thom-A293 and Rosenda-A344 to make it happen.
Alongside the Noble Intention event in Halo Infinite, the arrival of Spartans Thom-A293 and Rosenda-A344 brings a new short story that explores an earlier configuration of Noble Team, seven months before the events leading to the fall of Reach would take place.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I’ve been getting really really into Halo again, especially Halo Reach, (this doesn't actually take place on Reach, but it’s a scene from the trailer for reach).
It’s short and sweet (not really bc angst) but I’m pretty happy with it.
Warnings: implied PTSD, canon-typical language and violence
Word count: 1,989
--
“How do you think we’re going to die?”
Jun asks it late one night, when they’re on lookout and the rest of Noble’s asleep in the cave below. He’s perched on the cliff-face, turned away with his sniper rifle propped on his knee and his helmet set beside him. The city burns in the distance, a searing sunset in the starless sky.
“What?”
Jun snaps his head toward the inferno on the horizon. “How do you think we’re going to die?” he repeats quietly. Thom fights the sick churning in his chest and clutches his dog tags, running a thumb over the callsign: Noble Six. He’s walking in a ghost’s shadow, they all are, and Jun asks how they’re going to die?
In a damn firefight like the others.
“That’s a pretty morbid question coming from you,” Thom says instead, even over the ache in his lungs. “Why do you ask?”
Jun shrugs, a roll of the shoulders that tips him precariously toward oblivion. Thom wrinkles his nose and pushes his back against the cliff. Snipers are crazy bastards. “Seriously,” he presses, “I thought you were supposed to be the optimistic one.”
Jun snorts softly. “No. I’m pretty sure that’s going to be Jorge.”
“...right.”
“We haven’t been a team that long. You’ll pick up on it eventually.”
How do you think we’re going to die?
Thom only thinks of it later, when Carter’s convulsing and coughing up blood, heaving and writhing while Jorge holds him down and Emile drives biofoam into the blast wound. Thom only thinks of it later, when they’re all huddled in a medbay and Kat hasn’t let go of Carter’s hand since they were allowed the room. He only thinks of it later, when their first mission as a team is a line in a file in a record somewhere and Carter barely made it back alive.
How do you think we’re going to die?
He only thinks of it later, when he’s hunched over a coffee in the mess hall and Jun’s staring past him, lost in the abyss. They’re the only two awake at this hour, or at least the only two willing to tolerate another’s company. Thom doesn’t ask about the man he replaced. Nobles die violently – and often. Kat and Carter are all that remains of the original fireteam, dauntless and indestructible and too human to hold on forever. He watches them, so synchronous they don’t need to speak, and wonders what either of them would do if they lost the other.
“What?”
He didn’t say it. Or maybe he did. Thom blinks. “I...you heard me.”
Jun snorts, sets his mug down and passes it back and forth between his hands, fidgeting, fidgeting, uncharacteristically restless for someone that spends hours silent and still. “Carry on, I suppose,” he says at last, shrugging. “What else?”
It’s quiet, so quiet, but for the tension in Three’s shoulders you’d think they were still in the middle of a warzone. Thom rolls his eyes, lifting his mug agreeably and Jun flinches – a flash in the darkness he almost misses.
How do you think we’re going to die?
He only thinks of it later, when they’re onboard a Pelican heading for their next mission and Jun’s armor sits empty and silent and no matter how much Emile bitches and moans and prods and pries, Carter’s unyielding and unanswering. Jace-B434 fills in well, clipped and professional, but the air aches with the absence. For all of their complaining, the chatter is a comfort.
Jun comes back after a week away from the field, pale and tight-lipped and high-strung until Jorge drags him into a bear hug and Emile snipes – What, Carter finally letcha out of the brig for breaking noise protocols? He only thinks of it later, when he’s wandering the halls of the Dawn and nearly runs over Jun slipping out of the medbay. He gets the barest glimpse of the interior, of Doc Reynolds, resident shrink, and Jun scowls darkly, snarls Keep it to your damn self, and shoves by.
How do you think we’re going to die?
Not like this.
He only thinks of it later, when Emile’s on lifesupport, when the medics are caucused in a corner, He’s not going to pull through. Carter sits beside him long into the night, clasping his hand, brushing his thumb over the bruised knuckles, Stay with us, stay with us, you’re strong, Emile. They push him away when Four flatlines and even then he hovers, clutching the doorframe until his own knuckles turn white, clutching Kat’s grip when she pulls him away from the blood and the broken beat of Emile’s heaving heart. Let them work. Let them work, Carter. Emile’s stubborn. He’ll be all right.
He only thinks of it later, when Emile’s breathing steadily, regulated by a respirator. The medic makes the mistake of stepping in front of Carter, makes the mistake of barring his path.
“Commander, you may want to prepare yourself for the possibility he won’t wake u—”
“Get out of my way.”
The medic shrinks to the side. Carter retakes his seat, retakes Emile’s hand. They all stay beside him, rotating shifts so at least some of them are rested. Thom wraps a blanket and an arm around Carter’s shoulders when it’s his turn to keep watch. He doesn’t need to hang on for so long. He doesn’t want to let go.
“He’ll pull through,” Carter says hoarsely, rote by now, so raw right now. He leans into the hold and Thom pulls him as close as he can. “Thom—”
“‘Course he will,” Thom agrees easily. Carter clears his throat and shrugs away so Thom drops into the chair beside him and props his back against his shoulder and his feet on the empty table. Carter swallows thickly, blinking, blinking – breathing. Thom clasps his free hand and holds – and anchors. We’re with you. You’re not alone. “‘Course he will, Carter.”
“Hey, boss,” Emile croaks eighty hours later, a thousand eternities, and Carter squeezes his hand between both of his own and doesn’t let go. His smile is so tired, so worn, but it shines like the sun after a storm.
How do you think we’re going to die?
Not like this.
He only thinks of it later, when Kat’s shaking in his arms and he’s stumbling across ragged terrain still screaming from a Phantom’s plasma assault.
“You h-have to...leave me,” she chokes, a garbled groan through her shattered comm. “Thom—”
“No chance in hell, Kay.”
She chuffs a strangled laugh. “I h-hate that...damned name,” she forces, swallowing thickly. “Thom--”
“Kat, come on. What kinda guy would I be if I just left you here?”
“A smart one.” Kat pauses, sucking a labored inhale. “We both—”
“—are getting off this rock alive.”
The drop zone is two miles east, through the seething plains and over the scorched sand dunes. Kat falls quiet, limp, lifeless, and he jostles her gently, enough for her to groan, enough to keep her awake, enough to know she’s still alive.
How do you think we’re going to die?
Not like this.
“You’re such a damn cowboy,” she complains later, when she wakes up in the medbay, held together by stitches and hooked up to a healing unit. “Jorge said you stole a Wraith.”
“Jorge left out the best part.” Thom slides into the other seat beside her bed, taking her free hand with a dramatic flourish that makes her laugh. Carter rolls his eyes, nudges him with a shoulder, I’m glad you’re okay. “Which is when I used the Wraith to trash their base and steal a shuttle.”
“Cowboy,” she repeats, deadpan, and he shrugs, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up on Carter’s legs.
“One of us has to have some style.”
“That wasn’t style. That was suicide.”
“Hey, I’m still here, sis,” he says without thinking, and she tries not to smile, shoves him and rolls her eyes.
How do you think we’re going to die?
Not like this.
He only thinks of it later, when Carter barks bomb and he hears it, he has to move, but he can’t turn fast enough, it’s ticking, ticking, ticking down the rest of his life, the exit’s blocked, barricaded by rubble, and his chest is churning acid. Trapped. Not enough time. Nowhere to go. Not like this. Not like this. Not for nothing.
“Thom!”
He hears Jorge, can’t see him, and then the wall crashes down like the bomb’s already detonated and he’s on the floor, crushed beneath. The room shudders, shudders, shatters; the building’s collapsing, an earthquake, an avalanche, and he should feel fire, should feel pain, should be seared from this mortal plain, but there’s nothing, nothing, nothing except Jun’s scream. Jorge!
They tell him if it had been anyone else the blast would have killed them, tell him Jorge’ll be all right, tell him it’s not his fault. “It was his choice to save you. Respect that,” Carter says, squeezing his shoulder, always their pillar, always his strength, and Thom nods numbly and hangs on.
“I’m fine, Thom,” Jorge says, hours later when the medbay’s quiet and dark because the rest of Noble’s been kicked out for taking up too much space. His eyes are boring, serious, and Thom bites his lip and nods. Jorge’s hand closes around his wrist, grounding, forgiving. It’s all right. “I promise.”
How do you think we’re going to die?
Not like this.
He only thinks of it later, when they’re all together again and he didn’t realize how much he loved them until he almost lost them.
Fumirole’s burning around them and they’re outnumbered and the only way they make it out of this alive, they only way they win, is if they take out the super-carrier set up three kliks east. He straps the jetpack on his back and shoots to the sky, Jun and Jorge’s cover, Emile’s backup, Carter’s support. Kat’s their carrier, protect at all costs. They drive into the heart of the swarm and she sets her jaw and the charge and leaps into the fray. He wills her toward the grav-lift, wills her to their salvation. She has to make it, she has to toss it, then she has to run for her life, leap from above, and he’ll be damned if he’s not there to catch her for all of their sakes.
“Path’s clear—”
“Squad incoming. I’ve got them—”
“Cut through, cut through, cut through—”
She’s so close. She’s so far. He sees the Banshee screaming, roaring, but it’s moving too fast, shrieking toward her. The blast hits, Carter cries Kat!, and for a terrifying second Thom’s high enough above that he can’t see her through the smoke, she’s not moving on his radar anymore, Carter’s snapping Kat, respond. Noble Two, respond, and hell, she’s down and there has to be less than two minutes left on the timer.
How do you think we’re going to die?
Not like this.
She can barely turn her head, tilted just enough to catch his eye through the visor before it lolls back to the side, the last of her strength expended. She can’t speak, her helmet’s shattered, and she has to know it’s the only way but even with the spent set of her spine her protest screams.
How do you think we’re going to die?
“Thom?”
“Thom, damn you, what the hell are you—”
“There’s not enough time. You’ll never make it out.” A sniper rifle snaps in the background. “Damn it, Thom, are you listening?”
How do you think we’re going to die?
“Six.” Thom skids to a stop in the center of the ship, seconds, seconds, seconds to speak. Carter’s voice is hoarse, raw. “Thom, run like hell.”
Her hands flit around his temple, cleaning and covering the gash with a gentleness and care that are so rare for her. He waits until she pauses and then pulls her to him, bows his head to her hair and breathes – breathes. Kat’s silent, pressed close, and he holds her until she shrugs at him and says let me finish this, boss. But there’s warmth to her tone and laughter in her voice and for him, that’s always been enough.
This is home.
Jun’s usually chatty as hell but tonight he’s voiceless, perched on top of a bulkhead on the Dawn’s observation deck. His knees are drawn up to his chest, arms folded atop them. He looks relaxed (he’s not, of course he’s not) when Carter climbs up and sits beside him. He doesn’t protest the new presence but the glance he gives him comes through red-rimmed bloodshot eyes so Carter loops an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close and lets him tremble in the blessed cover of the burning dark. It’s all right, brother he murmurs and Jun breathes, steady and even now, and doesn’t pull away.
This is home.
Emile’s not the strong, silent type, never has been, so when he stalks out of the locker room with a cold scowl that’s more typical of Jun, Carter follows. He finds him back in the gym, beating away at the broken bag dangling in the corner, pounding, pounding, pounding until his knuckles are battered and bleeding. Carter lets him storm, lets him rage, so uncharacteristically controlled in his fury, ice and ire, until he pauses, heaving, heaving. Then he reaches a hand toward the hurricane and closes a careful grip around his wrist. He doesn’t ask if he’s okay. He just says I’m here and whatever arctic wall Emile’s constructed crumbles and he lurches forward into Carter’s hold. There’s nothing to say, then, nothing except I’ve got you. I’ve got you.
This is home.
Thom’s not as much of an enigma as he likes to think he is, quick to laugh, quick to smile. Kat calls him cowboy for his impulse, for his snap-decision-drive, and Carter knows he means well, knows that for all that bravado Thom’s smart, not completely reckless, just a little less measured, just a little less careful, just a little more extreme. But Thom's so still lying there, as pale as the sheets and bandages that aren’t stained with his blood. Carter shuts his eyes and Thom’s charging headlong into hell to draw the onslaught away, barking a laugh even when he’s beating at death’s black door. You know how much you mean to this team Carter says, hoarse in the empty silence. Thom’s hand is still in his own, breaths even, even. We need you, brother.
This is home.
Jorge is their soul, their rock when the world is turning tumult and turmoil. Carter relies on that more than he should and maybe Jorge knows and maybe he doesn’t but he finds Carter on the bridge, shaking and staring down at the planet they were too late to save, seething glass and simmering ash, and rests a hand on his shoulder and says I know. From anyone else, it wouldn’t be much – but from Jorge it’s more than enough. The screams are still burned into his mind, the fire roaring behind his eyes, and Carter draws his hand into a fist while plasma rains hell on innocent heads, raises his chin and locks his jaw. There’s nothing to say but Jorge is steady beside him, silent strength. I know.
This is home.
They’re all sprawled in the rec room, reading, dozing, breathing, together, and Carter slips onto the couch beside Kat and lets her lean into him and heaves a sigh that’s heavy with relief. They’re safe. They’re here. They’re a team, they’re a family, they’re not alone.
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Waypoint Chronicles Volume 1 is out this month! The short story anthology series is set to be released May 26th, 2026. To celebrate its release, I’m counting down the days with the already released stories. Next up is:
Winter Contention
Winter Contention sees Noble Team, including Rosenda-A344 and Thom-A293, defending some isolated mining towns in the hinterlands of Concord from desperate Covenant forces in December 2551. The story includes a huge Draugr, banter and an argument about naming Covenant color choices (Are you a fan of Military Magenta or Violent Violet?), and a message from Rosenda to Jun about catching up sometime.
Thom "enlisted" in the Spartan-III program after his homeworld of Dwarka was attacked by the Covenant when he was five years old. He was assigned to Alpha Company, but was separated and placed in a spec-ops group before most of Alpha Company died during Operation: PROMETHEUS.
He was then placed on NOBLE team, a Spartan team under the authority of the UNSC Army Special Warfare Group Three, providing on-the-ground support and largely operating with non-Spartans. NOBLE team was deployed to the colony of Fumirole to defend it from a Covenant attack. During the battle, he participated in an op with Catherine-B320 to destroy a Covenant battlecruiser with a small nuclear bomb. Kat, who was carrying the bomb, became injured as they fought their way to the ship. With Kat unable to continue, Thom flew into the cruiser by himself. He tossed the bomb into the hangar bay, but was unable to escape the ship before it detonated, killing him but destroying the ship. He would be replaced on NOBLE team during the Fall of Reach, a decision his team disagreed with.
