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kelpiemomma · 1 year

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Emmet wasn’t an optimist. He never had been, really. When one grew up as a weapons experiment there was no room for optimism. There was only room for growth, for training, for getting stronger and faster and becoming better than everyone else. There was only room for survival. Survival, and Ingo.

Twins. They’d been together from the start. When the military had come to their planet too late they had found few survivors. Towns had been destroyed, cities had been leveled, and Emmet had Ingo and they both had a feral, ferocious instinct to survive. They had been taken in, kicking and screaming all the way, Ingo’s bellows extraordinarily loud even at the tender age of seven. Emmet bit and Ingo yelled and the scientists had poked them with fingers and pens and needles and said, twins? Incredible! Not a common find, not at all. We can do baseline tests, see how similar they are, we can see how they take to the program, if there are any physical differences… amazing! and then Emmet had kicked one of their expensive-looking screens and Ingo had screamed until someone’s ears bled and they stopped poking the boys.

Ingo was his priority. Emmet was Ingo’s. They went together or not at all. Their teamwork was extraordinary, able to communicate in looks and minor movements. Other Spartan-IIIs were strong and fast and capable, but none were the twins. None were the Twins. They were not just Ingo and Emmet but IngoAndEmmet. Where one went, so did the other. The top of the class, relying on each other to keep themselves safe and in one piece. When the other candidates made friends and cliques and then argued and fought, Ingo and Emmet watched them with solemn eyes.

Everyone was traumatized. Very few had been traumatized together.

They met Elesa in Camp Currahee. They played war. Not war games, because they all knew better than to pretend it was a game, but these battles were not life or death and so they were play. Elesa had been assigned to their team with two other candidates, her head high and her eyes fierce. Her hair had been cut short back then but her eyes remained electric. She listened as the twins laid out their plan of attack and then cut them down, pointing out the flaws and openings they’d left. When Emmet began to argue that some gaps meant the other team would be drawn into an ambush Elesa argued back that it would only be an ambush if they planned for it. Ingo watched them from Emmet’s side, his gaze darting between them as their voices raised. Arguing was not uncommon, not among children who had each been torn from their families by war. The twins had been in their fair share of fist fights and scraps over food, over sleeping arrangements, over who was right in an exercise, over who had drawn blood first. Ingo didn’t remember seeing anyone go toe-to-toe with his twin over a plan he made.

She helped them win that simulation. Ingo could go with the flow, could read Emmet’s movements and adjust, but she acted as determined translator. She demanded Emmet explain, give her a reason, give her backup information in case the first plan went to shit. When the simulation ended she approached them with a wry smile.

“You’re not too bad,” she said, “you know. For boys.”

They never managed to lose her.

They lost many others after Alpha Company was established. Not on their first missions, no. The Alpha Company was the most capable the Spartans had ever been, the most vicious and determined they could get. Each of them was a child of loss, of remembrance, of vengeance. They ran into battle silent and screaming, cutting down rows of Covenant soldiers without a backwards glance. They fought alongside each other, kept backs safe, made sure no one was left behind. Friendships grew between the Alpha Company. Ingo and Emmet found themselves extending their hands with guarded hearts. They met Iris and Dawn, younger than them, recruited after them, more exuberant in their down time when they could hide haunted and tired eyes behind games and laughter. The twins and Elesa found themselves drawn to the girls' youth, to their determination to still live lives instead of only being soldiers. They met Flannery, with red hair and a fiery temper who would haul anyone over her shoulder with ease despite her slight frame, and Cilan, who cooked in his spare time and asked for their opinions; they found friends to spar with and find relaxation with. Their little family grew.

And then it was almost destroyed in one fell swoop.

Ingo and Emmet had protested when they had been told they would not be joining their crew on Operation: PROMETHEUS. Elesa had argued as well, that the rest of their team was going, that they should also be joining them. They were ignored. They were not an official team, only a semi-familial unit calling themselves a team. The trio watched as Iris and Dawn suited up, joking about how they were taller than the twins in their armor. They joined Cilan and Flannery, the girls at their side, on the way to the ships. They chatted about the mission. Everything was normal. They just weren’t going this time. They waved goodbye, said give ‘em hell kids, said bring us back a souvenir.

The 300 Spartan-IIIs landed on K7-49 with no issue. Reactors were destroyed with ease. Each one sent a cheer up through the ship Ingo, Emmet, and Elesa were on. They smiled but did not join in, not while the rest of their family was away. Two days later things grew somber, began to grow tense. The Covenant would not take the destruction of their shipyard laying down. No Spartans were lost but there were injuries. They relax when the Covenant's counterforce is destroyed, begin to cheer when once again reactor after reactor is rendered obsolete. And then there was the call. Not a distress call, because Spartans were never distressed, but a call to say no one would be coming home. Their evacuation route had been cut off, overrun. They would fight for their lives but there was no guarantee anyone would escape.

And no one did.

It wasn’t their first loss. Others had died in the beginning, when they had first begun to receive augmentations. Someone would go to the lab and they would not return. Ever. It was a fact of life. People died and did not come back. Every Spartan-III knew this. It was why they were Spartan-IIIs, after all, because loss had driven them to fight. But this was not the beginning, and these were not strange bunkmates who side-eyed you after dinner, wondering if you’d hidden food down your shirt for later. These were their companions, their cohorts, their friends. These were the people they had trained with for years, had built a report with, had built a relationship and something resembling the family they’d all lost so long ago.

They didn’t cry. They couldn’t. This was the job. This was the life.

What a victory.

What a defeat.

What a waste.

And yet life continued.

Ingo and Emmet and Elesa did not stop. They could not. They were, quite literally, built to not stop. They drifted apart and fell together again. Elesa would be removed from their crew, because the Twins were never, not ever, separated. She would go and be a lone wolf and then she would come back. Emmet and Ingo would fight alongside the ODST and the marines when needed, charging at the Covenant with no tears in their eyes but the echoes of their friends in their heads.

For years it was so. So many years. They had forgotten, eventually, what it was like to kick and scream and fight a separation. Nobody tried and so they let their frantic determination dull. They began to find ways to entertain themselves without the other. Their cooperation in battle remained solid, sturdy, unbreakable and unshakeable. But in their off time they began to drift. Ingo would go and stare out at space, at the stars, lost in thought and silent. Emmet would go and spar, training, letting out his emotions against others. They had to do better or else they would all die.

And then Ingo got sent out alone. He came to Emmet one day, pale and shaken. Confessed that he was being given an assignment. Being given an assignment by himself. They sat together until he had to leave. Emmet paced until he returned, three days later. Emmet was given his own assignment a week later. His own. By Himself. He waited until last minute to tell Ingo, and when he was dropped planet-side he went in with a vengeance. He went in guns-a-blazing. He went in hard because he wanted to get back to his twin as quickly as possible. He returned to Ingo the next day, grinning ferociously because nothing would keep them apart. They might get sent on different missions but they would never get separated. Never for good.

Or so he’d thought.

Because it turned out the single missions were the start. They grew longer. Ingo was gone for days, then weeks, then months. Emmet would be dispatched while Ingo was gone, would come back to the ship to find Ingo in their room as if he’d never left. Sometimes it was Emmet who was gone for long periods of time, wishing he had Ingo at his side when a Grunt would come up screaming with a sticky bomb strapped to its chest.

Maybe they should have fought like they were children again.

Eventually the unthinkable happened.

Ingo was assigned to Noble team on Reach after their sixth had been KIA'd.

Only Ingo.

“How long is it?” He asked his twin. “Six months?”

Ingo had looked at him. Had said nothing. Ingo never said nothing, not to Emmet.

“Eight months? A year?” Emmet continued. He began to feel frantic, flighty. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not to them . They were IngoAndEmmet, they were the Twins, they worked best together.

“It’s a permanent assignment.”

And Ingo was gone. Down on Reach, by himself. Not quite by himself. There was Noble team. There was Carter and Cat and Jorge and Emile and Jun. But there was not Emmet. There was not even Elesa.

It was okay, barely. Just for a little while. Because Ingo would still contact him, would send messages, would describe his team. Jorge was very large but very gentle, like an elephant. Cat was sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, protecting herself by keeping others at bay. Carter was stern and kept them all together, kept them from fighting between themselves, because he had lost enough of his team and he wouldn’t allow dissension to break it down when death was on the line. It was okay because Reach was safe. There were no Covenant on Reach. Noble team existed to keep the inner colonies safe, to keep order. Never mind that they were replaced when one died.

Ingo wouldn’t die.

Except then the Covenant were on Reach. Ingo did not send him a message immediately. He found out after everyone else, after messaging Ingo, demanding to know why he had been quiet, why Emmet was being looked at with pity. Ingo admitted that the colonies, that Reach, was no longer free of their enemies. That they were engaged in battle with the Covenant. But it was small forces, Ingo reassured him, scouts. Easy to take out.

But then there were more. Ingo didn’t respond to messages as often. He didn’t have the time. Emmet heard it second, third, fourth, sixteenth hand that Jorge had sacrificed himself for the mission, had destroyed the cruiser only for so many more to show up. He hears that communications on Reach are down. He watches as the ship fills with refugees, people with glassy eyes that are lost, scratches on their faces. They whisper of the Elite, of the snipers, of hunters.

There is a small group of people, members of a militia, that had been saved by two Spartans against all odds. There are whispers that go through the ship of a Spartan in black armor who raced through New Alexandria to save civilians, ushering them to safety. There are tales of a Spartan with a sliver of silver on his helmet taking down three hunters on his own, saving the lives of the six marines who had been caught in the building with them. One refugee finds him, a book in their hands. They look nervous to be around Emmet. He understands though. Since there are more and more people around he had taken to wearing his armor at all times. They hand him the book silently, almost solemnly.

“He said,” they whisper, “that he wanted to apologize for not being able to contact you more.”

Emmet went still. He held the book carefully, gently.

“Where did you get this?” He asks in a trembling voice.

“It has been a journey. I was not the only carrier. We all knew it needed to make it to you.” The book is pushed closer to him. “Noble team is doing what they can… we offered to help carry their burdens, and Six requested this journal reach his twin. I hope whatever is inside brings you solace.”

They vanish in the crowd before he can ask anything more. Hours later Emmet stands in his room, door locked, staring at the book in his hands.

Miles and lives apart, Ingo still thinks of him, still communicates.

Emmet has not cried since their parents were shot down before them while he and Ingo hid in the house. He did not shed tears while his body was used as an experiment, as a toy, as augmentation after graft was placed upon him, in him. When he broke his leg in two places he was as stoic as a stone, his smile ever-present and vicious as he sent his fist through the skull the Elite that had driven into him and broken the limb. But this little book, a journal that Ingo had found the time to write in because he could not directly communicate with his brother so easily, was making emotions he hadn't felt in years, decades, rise up. There are little tidbits in the book. Notes on Reach, on the flora and fauna and people he has seen. There are sketches of Noble team, of the Gúta , even of the Covenant. Ingo had always found inspiration in all places.

What finally breaks Emmet is the mention of their old family. Ingo has hesitantly - Emmet can tell by the gaps between pen lines, the heaviness and depression of it left on the paper sheets - sketched their old friends. It’s clear he was uncertain in some way. Could he not remember their faces? Was he unsure if he should be sketching them at all? But there they are, anyway. Dawn and Iris, leaning against each other with smiles and such a joy in their eyes; expressions they'd never truly had, that he'd never been able to see. Cilan has a pan in hand and his tongue half stuck out of his mouth in determination. Flannery is standing on a cliff-side, watching the sun before her, shadows cast out behind her like flame, a content smile on her face. On the next page is a man Emmet doesn’t recognize, a face that is wide and kind. There are heavyset brows and a gentle grin that is almost hidden, his mouth almost stern. Underneath it is Ingo’s hurried chicken scratch. He said to make it count. We did. We tried. We will keep trying. There are dark drops on the next few pages- blood, because Ingo wouldn't let an injury stop him when he was determined. Emmet can tell these next sketches were made in a hurry, almost in desperation. A woman’s face with a scar across her eye, expression stern but there's a certain sharpness to her gaze. Another man’s face, looking into the distance pensively, posture relaxed though his hand is held in a fist. A helmet with a skull carved into it, the person it’s attached to looking at ease as they lean to one side, obscenely large knife resting across their knees. One more person, a rifle in their hand as they peer down the scope. Words are interspersed and infrequent. Names are not given- likely in case the book came into wrong hands.

On the last page are two faces that Emmet knows as well as he knows his own, because one of them is his own. Beside his face is Elesa’s. Both of them wear easy smiles in an expression that he has never truly felt.

Is this the future? Ingo has written. I feel compelled to follow these tracks. I hope to see these smiles one day, once the battle is over. Maybe then we can be at ease and let the past lie peacefully in its grave.

Emmet collapses, falling in on himself as tears well in his eyes like blood from a fresh wound. This is its own injury.

Ingo, despite not drawing himself, is all over these pages. His brother has left notes, has left their family, for Emmet to see once again. Because now he is all alone and memory is all he has left.

He holds the journal tightly to his chest and hopes desperately that this will all end soon.

And it does, but not as he had thought. Not as he had hoped.

All communication is quickly lost with Noble team. Everyone who can be evacuated has been, including Jun and Dr Halsey. Neither of them are on his ship, and neither of them send message about his brother. Emmet wants to track them down and demand to know what has happened on Reach, wants to know if Ingo is still alive. Elesa finally arrives, having finished her mission, and is immediately always with Emmet.

“Your brother won’t die,” she reassured him, “you two are a set.”

“He left me.” Emmet replies.

“And so have I. I’ve always returned, and so will he.”

And then they hear the final news of Reach.

It has been glassed.

Noble team sacrificed everything they had, including themselves, to ensure a package escaped the planet. His brother has died for an item.

The pair of them stand at the window that used to be Ingo’s comfort zone, silent.

Still.

Both of them grieve for their lost brother. Elesa reaches out to take Emmet’s hand, her grip tight and shaky.

“He can’t have…” she doesn’t finish.

He can’t have what? Died? Survived? She doesn’t say. Emmet is too tired, too broken, to say anything.

He has never been optimistic. Now there is no reason to even try.

Those in charge come and find him eventually.

The war is not over. Ingo may be gone but the Covenant is not. Emmet is sent planet-side, is sent ship-side, is sent all over. He does not go in guns-a-blazing anymore. There is no one for him to hurry back to. Elesa gets her own missions as she always has. There is no reason for him to rush. He doesn’t think he’s ready to die even though he wants to see his brother again. Instead he feels anger; that the Covenant have glassed a planet, that the Covenant still exist while his brother doesn’t, that Ingo gave his life to hand a package over instead of getting on the ship with it.

He could have gotten on the ship. He could be with Emmet right now.

Emmet fights and shoots and runs until he doesn’t have to think. Until he doesn’t have to think about how he is no longer EmmetAndIngo, that there is no Emmet and Ingo, and that he is now just Emmet.

Simply. Emmet.

Alone.

He soaks in his vengeance, wears it like a second armor, infuses it into every bullet that he fires. This is for Ingo. This is for Dawn. This is for Flannery. This is for my mother. This is for Ingo.

He runs on little sleep and less food unless Elesa is with him, shoving rations into his mouth with a fiery determination he remembers from Before. From before they were really Spartans. Back when they were just playing war. It is difficult because sometimes, when she is scolding him or arguing with him over a tray of food, he thinks he feels a warmth against his side even when he wears his armor.

When the war ends he feels… conflicted.

Relieved, that it is over.

Angered, because what does he do now?

Sad, because Ingo has not lived to see it.

Enraged, because the Covenant was not wiped out . The Sangheili have deserted their posts and are being welcomed into the navy. Perhaps not with open arms, but John-117 and the Arbiter have claimed that they are allies.

Allies? After the planets they have glassed? After all the lives they have taken, the homes they have destroyed?

Emmet does not take his armor off around them. He watches them suspiciously, waiting for any of them to make one wrong move.

The years pass again. With less battles to fight, skirmishes against the few remaining Covenant holdouts only, Elesa is frequently by his side. They have been allowed to make a new crew. Emmet is second-in-command and Elesa is Emmet’s-second. There is Skyla, who was-and-remains ODST, and Rei, who is barely old enough to be called a man but a decent marine. They are joined by a young Spartan-III, Barry, whose AI is called Lucas, who has decided to take a form that resembles Rei. Emmet had no idea Spartan-IIIs were still being developed. Barry looks like Rei, barely old enough to be an adult, but he’s sweet despite the training he went through. Determined and competitive, incredibly clever, and Emmet thinks Ingo would have liked him.

They are a ragtag bunch of people, a mess of emotional issues and traumas, but they have each other. They take care of each other. They are a family above all else. They leave the position of leadership open, a sign of respect towards their missing family member.

They volunteer to do a recon mission on Reach. Elesa doesn’t think they should but Emmet is determined. He needs to. He has to. He watched his parents die. He watched his old community starve and turn on each other. He has always gotten closure, until Ingo. Ingo’s body was never recovered, his armor never found, and Emmet needs something besides the journal. He needs to know that, despite how many years have passed, Ingo is truly gone.

Reach has been glassed but Emmet will still look.

On the way down they receive a distress signal. It shocks them all- Reach has been glassed, has been uninhabited for years, so why-? They prepare for a fight. No one should have survived. No one should be alive on Reach.

They disembark from the shuttle and trudge off in the direction of the signal. Emmet and Elesa lead the way, Skyla and Rei in the middle, and Barry keeping watch on their six. The ground is solid and blackened beneath their feet, and yet despite it… Emmet thinks he sees something hidden underneath. It sounds poetic, and stupid, to say it looks like hope resides beneath the destroyed ground. It crunches and cracks below their boots, footprints being left with every step.

They find the distress signal where they least expect it.

A helmet. Blackened. Visor cracked. There is a sliver of silver around the rim when Emmet wipes the ash away. He grips it tighter- this is Ingo’s.

This was Ingo’s.

“He’s gone.” Emmet finds himself saying flatly.

Here it was. His proof.

His closure.

Somehow, he had hoped. He had dreamt that Ingo would have made it, somehow.

“Emmet,” Elesa says, “get up.”

He runs his hand over the cracked visor and turns the helmet over. He delicately presses the latch in the back, a chip popping out. He takes it with a gloved hand and holds it reverently.

“Emmet, seriously.”

“Hold on. I need to see if this works.” Emmet says flatly and he places the chip in his own helmet. Elesa sighs in aggravation; he hears her telling the others to make a perimeter, to keep their eyes peeled, but he is distracted. The chip sinks into his helmet and clicks into place. Static fills his screen for a moment before it projects as it should. The image is faded, torn in places like an old film, but it is still there.

And so is Ingo.

Emmet can’t see his face but he can see his brother’s armor. There are Elites everywhere . On the ground are already two bodies, and then one kicks the helmet as it lunges towards his twin. Two more appear from what looks like nowhere. Ingo kicks one off of him, stabs it with an energy sword before picking up a gun. He manages to fire off a few rounds before he is tackled by another Elite, sent to the ground. Emmet wants to scream as he sees the alien raise another energy sword, aiming to slam it into Ingo’s chest, when the video cuts off.

It’s damaged and degraded. The fact that it has survived this long on a glassed planet is impressive.

It is damning evidence for Ingo.

Emmet remains still a while longer, eyes shut behind his visor.

Ingo is gone.

“Emmet, c’mon hon. You’re ruining the mission.” Elesa chides him gently, nudging him with a knee. “You also need to see this.”

Emmet opens his eyes and stands, holding Ingo’s helmet like he’s holding a delicate, priceless artifact. To him, it is. It is what remains.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Look.” Elesa points at the ground. Emmet does, frowning in mild confusion.

“It’s been glassed.” He states the obvious.

“Emmet, it’s been years. Why did the distress signal turn on now? And, look- closer. See that, in front of where you picked the helmet up?”

He looks closer.

A bootprint.

Not very deep; the owner of said bootprint must be lightweight, but it is there. It is real and solid. Though it is obviously a boot the weight is odd, focused on the toes instead of all the way to the heel. How...?

“There’s more. There’s a trail. Someone turned the distress beacon on, Emmet.”

“We need to find them.”

New hope burns in his chest.

Emmet has never been an optimist, but he thinks he’s willing to give it a shot.

#Submas #subway boss Emmet #subway boss Ingo #gym leader Elesa #halo submas #I needed a release and my brain compelled me to write 4k of halo submas #Spoilers for Halo reach #(its a 13 year old game. Can it be spoiled?)#Ingo as Noble 6 #This fic has an open ending but any looking at my halo submas and Spartan Ingo stuff #obv there's an after to this fic lol

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