The slipspace jump was not the clean, instantaneous transition depicted in the holos. It was a violent, disorienting tear through reality. Inside the cramped confines of the Forerunner pod, the universe outside dissolved into a kaleidoscope of impossible colors and screaming, discordant energies. Their bodies were pressed against the shimmering walls, the very atoms of their being stretched and compressed, then violently snapped back into place. Every alarm in their battered armor shrieked, protesting the immense forces at play.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.

The impossible colors snapped back to a familiar, star-strewn blackness. The screaming energies faded, replaced by the low, steady hum of the pod's internal systems. Relief arrived as the crushing pressure eased, allowing them to slump to the floor, gasping for breath.

Silence. A profound, aching silence that was far more deafening than the chaos that had just passed. The silence of absence.

Shadow was the first to move, pushing himself upright, his visor still flickering with residual energy. "Status report! Comms check! Anyone reading me?" His voice was hoarse, strained.

No response. Only the ragged breathing of the three other survivors.

Viper lay slumped against the wall, her wounded leg a mangled ruin, her ODST armor fused and smoking around the grievous wound. Ghost knelt beside her, his injured shoulder forgotten, his hands already moving to assess the damage, a low, guttural sound of anguish escaping his lips. Rook, still thoroughly exhausted from the data extraction, was propped against the opposite wall, her head bowed, her heavy breathing the only sound from her.

The air in the pod, once thick with the metallic tang of ozone and plasma, now felt impossibly heavy, choked with unspoken grief. Wraith was gone. He had bought them this escape, this silence, with his life.

Shadow's data pad, miraculously still functional, glowed faintly in the dim light. He stared at it, not at the complex Forerunner schematics they had just stolen, but at the empty space where Wraith's comms signature should have been. Blank. Gone.

"Wraith. . . he did it," Shadow whispered, his voice cracking. "He held them off. He bought us the time."

Ghost, his hands still hovering over Viper's ruined leg, slowly looked up. His visor was dark, unreadable, but the tremor in his posture spoke volumes. He closed his eyes, a single, heavy sigh escaping him.

Then, as he moved his hand from Viper's leg, he felt something cold and metallic clutched in his palm. He looked down, his gauntleted fingers slowly uncurling.

It was Wraith's dog tags. The dull, pitted metal, scarred from countless battles, reflecting the dim light. His service ID, his blood type, his religion. Wraith's. How? When? He remembered Wraith shoving Viper into his arms, the last desperate roar, the blinding flash. Wraith must have pressed them into his hand in that final, chaotic moment, a silent, desperate transfer. A final, tangible piece of him, entrusted to Ghost.

Ghost's hand clenched around the tags, the metal digging into his palm. He lifted them slowly, holding them up, the tiny chain glinting. "He. . . he gave me these," he whispered, his voice raw, thick with emotion. The silent, stoic Ghost, now openly grieving.

Viper, her breath coming in shallow gasps from the pain, slowly stirred. She blinked, her visor still cracked, then her gaze fell upon Ghost's outstretched hand, the dog tags dangling. A fresh wave of pain, emotional rather than physical, washed over her.

"Wraith. . ." she rasped, her voice barely audible.

As she tried to shift, a small, dark corner of fabric poked out from beneath the chest plate of her rig, just above her heart. It was a familiar patch, a faded, battle-worn piece of cloth. She reached down, her fingers trembling, and pulled it free.

It was Wraith's unit patch. The stylized, snarling wolf's head of Wraith Squad, the insignia he always wore, always insisted they wear, even when ONI tried to strip them of their identity. It was his. Tucked into her chest rig, a final, silent gesture of protection, of belonging. He must have slipped it there when he pushed her into the pod, a final, unspoken message.

Viper stared at the patch, her hand clenching around it, tears welling behind her cracked visor. The pain in her leg was immense, but the pain in her chest, the raw, tearing grief, was far worse. Wraith, their leader, their rock, was gone. But he had left them pieces of himself, tangible reminders of his sacrifice, his loyalty, his unwavering belief in them.

Rook, her head still bowed, slowly looked up. Her Mjolnir helmet, usually so impassive, seemed to sag with exhaustion and sorrow. She saw the dog tags in Ghost's hand, the patch in Viper's. And she understood. Wraith had known. He had known he wouldn't make it. And he had ensured they carried not just the data, but his legacy.

"He's really gone," Rook whispered, her voice devoid of its usual Spartan resolve, filled only with profound sadness.

Shadow, his data pad still displaying the blank comms signature, finally looked up, his visor reflecting the grief on their faces. "He saved us," he said, his voice choked. "He saved all of us."

The pod continued its silent journey through slipspace, a tiny vessel carrying the last remnants of Wraith Squad, and the heavy burden of a truth bought at an unimaginable cost. They were alive, but the cost of that survival would forever echo in the empty space Wraith had left behind. They had the data. Now, they had to honor his sacrifice. They had to deliver the truth.