0700 Hours, July 12, 2519 / Reach Military Wilderness Training Preserve, Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System / Survival Training — Day One
The Pelican rumbles beneath my boots, cutting low over the mountains.
Outside the windows, snow-capped peaks stretch into the sky like giant, broken teeth. Forests blanket the land below—thick, white, and cruel. The river snakes through it all, half-frozen, with chunks of ice the size of our bunks drifting in fast currents.
No cities. No towers. Just nature and punishment.
Most of the trainees stare out the windows, wide-eyed. Not me. I already know the game hasn't started yet.
This isn't a field trip.
It's a test.
We're eight now. Older. Meaner. Some of us don't even flinch at stun batons anymore. But this… this is different.
Across the cabin, I see the subtle shift happen.
A nudge. A glance. A twitch of fingers from the Spartans near the front.
They're sending a message. Quiet. Controlled.
I catch the signal and pass it on.
Sam blinks twice. Kelly scratches her ear. John tilts his head toward the river.
"Regroup at the river," he says under his breath.
We all nod.
Unspoken. Understood.
At the front of the bay, Chief Mendez stands beside a crate. Kelly's called forward, and he hands her a metal case.
"Distribute them," he says.
She moves through the Pelican, dropping rough, cut pieces of a larger map into each trainee's lap. Like puzzle pieces without a box image.
When she reaches me, I glance down at mine. It shows part of the forest. Half a trail. Nothing else.
Mendez steps forward. His voice cuts clean through the roar of the engines.
"This is survival training. You will navigate to the clearing shown on your fragment. It's the only place clear enough for a Pelican to land."
A murmur of nerves ripples through the cabin.
Mendez continues, unmoved. "You will not be given a full map. You must cooperate or you will fail."
Then comes the hook. The real threat.
"The last trainee to reach the extraction zone will not return with the rest."
Every head turns.
"He will be left behind to find his own way back to the base."
Not dead. Not disqualified. Worse.
Alone.
Outside, the terrain rushes closer. Pines thicken. The river glints below like a knife edge.
At least this time, we have gear.
Thick thermals. Waterproof boots. Gloves. A backpack strapped to our chest—three days' worth of rations, a thermal blanket, flint, and water. Parachute rig strapped to our backs.
It's still not enough to feel safe.
Mendez's voice sharpens. "Three minutes to drop!"
Adrenaline kicks in. I double-check my straps. My pack's tight. Gloves are on. No room for mistakes.
"117—you're first."
John's voice cuts back with zero hesitation. "Yes, sir."
The back ramp lowers with a hydraulic growl. Wind screams into the cabin.
"Go."
John launches into the void.
One by one, the Spartans leap after him. No fear. No delay.
My turn comes fast.
I step forward. Breathe. Focus.
The freezing wind punches me in the face as I fall.
I count seconds.
Pull.
The chute jerks me hard, and the ground rushes up—trees, snow, and jagged clearings scattered below.
I steer toward a small break in the trees—tight, but big enough if I hit the angle right.
Legs up.
Snow explodes around me as I hit the ground, roll, and stop.
Alive.
Safe.
For now.
I follow the river.
The trees thin just enough to give me a path along the edge—snow crunches beneath my boots, each step measured, every sound magnified in the stillness. The water moves fast and violent, dark with shadows under the ice. No bridge. No signs of civilization.
Just nature. Brutal and uncaring.
And us.
It takes twenty minutes before I see movement through the trees. Two figures crouched low behind a cluster of frost-covered rocks. I signal before approaching—two fingers up, then one to my chest.
Kelly stands, face flushed from the cold but sharp-eyed. Sam's beside her, brushing snow off his coat.
A little further behind—John.
He's got his map piece spread over a flat rock, frowning at it like it insulted him.
"You're late," Kelly says.
I smirk. "You're early."
John stands as I approach. "You got your piece?"
I pull it from my pack and hand it over. He takes it, lays it beside the others—three more segments already lined up. Not a full map yet, but it's starting to take shape.
We're joined seconds later by three more figures cutting through the underbrush.
Fahjad. James. Linda.
"Nice drop," James mutters, nodding toward me. "I landed in a pine tree."
"Show-off," Sam grins.
John barely reacts. He's scanning the pieces, working angles in his head. His focus doesn't break, even when Linda sneezes and mumbles something about frostbite.
"Still missing four pieces," he says.
"They'll come," Kelly replies.
"They better."
He pulls the map segments closer together. Slowly, a route emerges. Forest trail—bends east, slopes into a valley. The clearing's near the riverbend. Close, but far enough that navigation matters.
John looks up. "We need to check the area. Make sure this isn't a trap."
Sam nods before John can ask. "Want me to take a team?"
"Yeah. Take Fahjad, James, and Linda. Circle wide. Look for anything weird—disturbances, trails, listening posts. Mendez doesn't play fair."
"No kidding," Fahjad mutters, already adjusting his pack.
They split off quickly—no chatter, no time wasted.
The rest of us stay low, finishing the map puzzle. As we work, more trainees filter in—pairs and singles, breathless but intact. One by one, the last map pieces are delivered.
John locks them into place like a general planning a campaign.
"Alright," he says. "We've got our route. We march in twenty."
Kelly folds her arms. "You sure you want to lead?"
John meets her stare. "I'm not running ahead this time."
Kelly doesn't smile. But she doesn't argue either.
Sam's team returns just as the snow starts to fall—light flurries dusting our shoulders.
"No traps," Linda reports. "But there's animal tracks north. Big ones."
John nods. "We avoid the north ridge. Stick to the trail. Stay close."
We fall into loose formation—packs tight, eyes forward.
The cold bites. The weight of the gear pulls.
But the mission's clear.
And for the first time since we were dropped—
We move like Spartans.
The snow thickens as we march.
Not heavy—but constant. Slow flakes drifting down like ash, collecting on shoulders and hoods, crunching softly under boots. The trees close in tighter the further we go, the trail narrowing to a frozen corridor between looming pines.
We move single-file, no talking. Just breath and footsteps and the occasional grunt as someone adjusts their pack.
Then Fahjad breaks the silence.
"Someone's going to be left behind."
His voice isn't loud. It doesn't have to be. Everyone hears it.
James looks over his shoulder. Linda glances at the ground. Sam sighs.
John keeps walking. Doesn't respond.
Fahjad keeps going. "We should talk about it now. Figure it out. Before it's too late."
Kelly shrugs without looking back. "Draw straws."
Sam snorts. "Great. Lose dinner one day, lose a person the next."
"I'm serious," Fahjad says. "If it's a choice between someone getting stuck out here alone, or making it fair…"
John stops.
The whole column halts behind him like dominoes.
"No."
He turns, snow gathering in his hair.
"No one gets left behind."
Kelly steps forward, arms crossed. "That's not the mission. Mendez gave an order."
"He gave a test," John shoots back.
"A test with rules," she snaps.
"Rules we're supposed to break?" Linda mutters behind me.
John looks between us. "We figure it out. There has to be a way."
Kelly stares at him for a long second. Her breath fogs between them.
"You said that before," she says. "Last year."
"I meant it."
Silence.
Then Kelly exhales. "So… what's the plan?"
"We get everyone to the LZ," John says. "Worst-case, someone hides just out of sight. Lets the Pelican leave. Then we circle back. Bring them home."
Fahjad frowns. "And if they freeze before we find them?"
"Then we don't fail," John says. "We don't leave anyone."
No one argues this time.
Even Kelly just nods.
We keep marching.
The snow keeps falling.
And for the first time, it feels like we decide the kind of Spartans we'll be.
We reach the clearing in silence.
The river bends sharply just beyond a thick line of trees, opening up into a flat snow-dusted stretch of frostbitten grass and frozen dirt. It's exactly as the map showed—open, level, just large enough for a Pelican to touch down.
And there is a Pelican.
But something's wrong.
We stay low, hidden in the brush along the edge of the treeline. John crawls forward. I follow. Sam flanks to the right with Kelly watching our rear.
On the field, next to the dropship, are four men.
No uniforms. No visible UNSC tags. Combat boots, yes, but their armor is mismatched. Civilian jackets. Old gear. Rifles slung across their backs, too casual for marines.
Not one of them is moving like a soldier on duty.
They're talking. Joking. Smoking.
No helmets. No discipline.
Kelly whispers, "Where's the actual pickup team?"
Linda mutters, "Those are the pickup team."
"No," John says flatly. "They're not."
We pull back to cover—just out of sight, where the wind can't carry our voices.
Sam squats next to a fallen log, breathing hard. "Could be a test. Mendez's idea of a fake ambush."
Fahjad shakes his head. "Or maybe these guys killed the real marines and took the bird."
"Insurrectionists?" Linda suggests. "ONI said they were active out here."
No one laughs.
Then someone—probably me—says it: "We need a plan."
The group falls quiet. Then John speaks, low and direct.
"We send Sam in."
Sam blinks. "Thanks?"
"You pretend to be injured. Limp, favor a side, whatever works."
"Why me?"
"You're the best actor."
Kelly nods. "True."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Fine. But if I end up with a bullet in my leg, I'm limping for real next time."
"Kelly," John continues, "you circle around, pull them into the woods. Get two of them away from the clearing."
"And if they're hostile?"
John looks at us all. "We say a code."
Everyone leans in.
He thinks for a second. Then says it:
"'Olly olly oxen free.'"
It's a phrase from another world. A game. A whisper of childhood none of us really get to have.
We all know what it means.
Come out. It's safe.
Or in our case?
Come out. It's not.
We nod.
"If we say it," John says, "we all hit them. Rocks, sticks, whatever we've got. Hit hard. Fast."
"And if they're friendly?" I ask.
"Then we make our case. All of us leave. No one stays behind."
Everyone's quiet.
Then Kelly says, "From now on, that phrase is ours."
Linda grins. "Password for life."
Sam raises a brow. "Yeah? Even when we're Spartans?"
"When we're Spartans," I echo, "and we're deployed, and we don't know who's out there—if one of us says it, we know. We don't fight each other."
"Friendlies," Fahjad says. "Always."
John nods. "Then it's official."
We go silent again.
Then we start gathering stones.
Sam limps into the clearing.
Not overacting. Not playing it up. Just enough—favoring his right leg, wincing with every step. He rustles the underbrush with one foot like he's trying to scare off a snake or find a path.
Then he pauses.
Looks up at the Pelican. At the men standing beside it.
He turns and limps back into the forest.
Exactly as planned.
A few seconds later, Kelly bursts into view from the other side of the treeline. Just as loud as we need her to be.
"Hey! We've got an injured kid over here!"
She doesn't stop—just sprints after Sam like she's scared he's bleeding out.
I watch from the ridge with the rest of the team, hidden beneath a tangle of pine and rock.
One of the men steps forward.
The leader—shaved head, thick neck, jaw like a sledgehammer—waves his arm.
"You two! Check it out!"
Two of the others nod and follow after Kelly and Sam without hesitation.
That's when I see it.
They pull out something from under their jackets—short rods, maybe a foot long.
With a click, each one telescopes outward into a full baton.
Not UNSC-issue. Civilian black market. Compact. Illegal.
They don't jog. They stalk.
I grit my teeth. That's all I need to see.
Predators.
I signal to John.
He nods. Slowly.
We follow. Quiet. Off the trail. Trees are thicker here. Shadows deeper. We fan out, just like we practiced.
Thirty seconds pass.
Then I hear it—low, cruel voices.
"Fall again and I will break the other leg, kid."
Sam's down. Lying in the snow. One of the men standing over him, twirling his baton like a toy.
Kelly is crouched behind a tree just a few meters away, tense and ready but alone.
The men aren't just playing a role.
They're enjoying it.
And that's when I say it.
Quiet, but clear.
"Olly olly oxen free."
The forest erupts.
A volley of stones rains down on the two men—sharp, fast, brutal. The first hit gets them to flinch. The second gets them to panic.
Then Linda throws.
Her rock arcs high. Clean. Beautiful.
Crack.
Direct hit to the temple. One of them drops like a felled tree.
The other turns, tries to run—bad move.
A storm of rocks crashes into him from all sides. The last thing I see before he collapses is pure fear in his eyes.
Then silence.
Real silence.
No birds. No wind. Just the sound of our breath—heavy and fast and wild.
Sam sits up, spitting out a pine needle. "Did we…?"
"Yeah," Kelly says, brushing snow off her sleeves. "We did."
Linda walks over, picks up her stone, and tosses it in the air once before letting it fall. "Still got it."
We gather around the two bodies.
Unconscious.
Weapons taken.
Threat neutralized.
John steps into the center of us all. He doesn't say a word.
He just looks at us—and we know.
We're not just kids anymore.
We're not prey.
We're the wolves now.
We don't celebrate.
No fist bumps. No whoops or cheers. Just quiet, measured breathing as we stand over the two unconscious bodies.
"What if they were part of the test?" Linda asks, voice low.
"Then they failed," Kelly snaps.
John doesn't say anything at first. He's staring at the Pelican in the clearing through the treeline, jaw clenched.
"They're still waiting out there," I say.
He nods. "Yeah. And we still need the bird."
Sam leans against a tree, stretching out his faked-injury leg. "One of them had a candy bar. That a military ration?"
John glances at it. "Nope."
"Well," I say, "there goes the last sliver of doubt."
"They still could be ONI," Linda offers. "Undercover. Dirty test."
"Maybe," John says. "But we're not going to kill them. Not unless we have to."
"So what do we do?" James asks, crouching beside one of the downed men.
We all go quiet.
Then Kelly says, "We draw the others in. Closer to the trees. Then end it."
"Fast," John agrees. "Hard. Like before."
"And this time," I add, picking up one of the collapsed batons, "we make sure they stay down."
The weapon is lighter than I expected. It fits in my hand like it belongs there.
Fred steps forward and grabs the other baton without being told.
John looks at us both.
"You two finish it."
We nod.
Kelly stretches her neck side to side, then starts walking toward the edge of the trees, adjusting her posture, slipping into that not-quite-a-kid voice. The one she uses when she's baiting authority.
She calls out:
"Hey! Those guys you sent after us—they slipped! One of them's not moving! We need help!"
The leader straightens, drops his cigarette.
"What?"
"They just—fell! We couldn't stop it! You've gotta see it, come quick!"
He mutters something to the last guy, and the two of them jog toward the trees—closer, closer—
Perfect.
John signals.
A second later, another volley of stones rains from the brush—sharp and fast.
The men shout. Stumble.
Fred and I move.
We break from cover as they stagger from the impacts. The moment they're disoriented, I swing hard—catching the first man behind the knee. He crumples.
Fred goes for the other's shoulder—pops it out of socket with a clean strike, then drops him with a follow-up to the thigh.
We don't go overboard. No extra hits. No blood.
Just done.
John calls it. "Clear!"
Sam emerges from the side with some spare thermal rope we found in one of the unconscious men's gear. We bind their hands and feet. Check their pulses. Still alive.
"Now what?" Fahjad asks, panting slightly.
"We take them with us," I say.
Everyone turns.
"If they're UNSC, ONI will want to debrief them. If they're not, they'll want them even more."
"That's gonna slow us down," Linda mutters.
"Not if we rotate carry," John says. "Half clicks. We share the weight. This ends our way."
There's no vote. No argument.
We haul them up—four unconscious bodies, carried by eight-year-old hands.
The Pelican waits.
And so does Mendez.
The Pelican is cold, dark, and humming softly.
We drag the last unconscious body inside, lay him down on the floor beside his partners, and lock the ramp.
It shuts with a solid clunk.
Sealed in.
Linda flicks the interior lights on. Sam slumps into a jump seat with a groan. "Alright. Now we just fly this thing home and graduate early, right?"
Kelly raises an eyebrow. "You know how to fly a multi-ton gunship?"
"...No."
That's when it hits all of us.
We have no idea how to fly this thing.
Fred steps into the cockpit and stares at the controls. "It's like… a hundred buttons and a murder switchboard had a baby."
John sits down in the pilot's chair. "There has to be a startup sequence. Or autopilot. Or… something."
Kelly sighs. "This is the test. Not the forest. This."
I push past the others and slide into the copilot's seat.
"I've got an idea."
John looks at me. "Please tell me it involves someone with a flight license."
"Sort of."
I lean forward, activate the internal comms, and patch into the ship's communication array.
The line hisses, then crackles. Static. Dead air—
Then a voice. Clear, calm. Blue.
"This is Dejá. I see you're improvising, children."
Kelly exhales. "About time."
"Dejá," I say. "We need help flying this thing."
A pause.
Then, almost amused: "Well, Leonidas-151. Do try not to crash."
I nod. "No promises."
I sit in the pilot's seat now, hands hovering just above the controls. Dejá's voice comes through the comms directly into my earpiece, soft and surgical.
"Begin with the ignition sequence. Lower right—green panel. Press and hold."
I do. The Pelican's systems flicker to life—lights strobing, panels glowing, power surging through the cabin like a heartbeat restarting.
"Good. Now bring the power levels up slowly—do not throttle the vertical lifts yet."
John straps the unconscious men to the tie-down rails. Fred and Linda monitor the back. Kelly and Sam man the side seats, watching the readouts.
"Raise the VTOL thrusters in sequence. Left, right, aft."
I follow each instruction like gospel.
The Pelican shudders. Lifts.
Snow swirls across the clearing as the landing struts retract.
"Excellent," Dejá says. "Now keep it steady. Set heading 241. Return vector to base is locked."
I guide the bird forward.
The others don't cheer.
They just watch.
Focused.
Tense.
Together.
As the mountains fall behind us and the base looms in the distance, I realize something:
We didn't just survive the test.
We hijacked it.
1400 Hours, July 12, 2519 / Chief Petty Officer Mendez's Office, Reach Military Complex / Debrief — Survival Training, Day One
The silence is louder than the Pelican's engine.
I stand in the middle of Chief Mendez's office, soaked in sweat, mud still crusted on my boots, uniform stiff from river spray and tension.
He hasn't said a word in five minutes.
Just sits behind the desk. Hands folded. Eyes locked on me like I'm a live grenade with a loose pin.
I haven't blinked once.
The door hisses open.
Doctor Halsey steps inside, calm as always—immaculate lab coat, tablet in hand, expression unreadable.
"Doctor," Mendez says, voice low and sharp.
She nods politely. "Chief."
The tension snaps tighter.
Mendez leans forward. "Explain."
I swallow hard. "Sir?"
He stands. "You were told to reach the LZ. Navigate with partial maps. Leave the last trainee behind. That was the objective."
"We did reach the LZ, sir," I answer. "Together."
"And you returned with four UNSC marines in custody," Mendez growls. "Explain that."
"They weren't marines, sir."
"Why not?"
"They carried civilian batons. Weren't in uniform. One threatened to hurt Sam."
Mendez's brow twitches.
"Why didn't you leave them?" he asks. "Why didn't you leave the last trainee behind, as ordered?"
I square my shoulders. "Because we're Spartans, sir. Spartans don't leave anyone behind."
Silence.
Even Halsey raises an eyebrow. Slight. Almost imperceptible.
Mendez turns to her. "What would you recommend we do with this one?"
He's scowling, but not shouting.
Not anymore.
Halsey taps her tablet once. Looks at me.
Then smirks.
"Promote him."
The room goes still.
Mendez raises one thick eyebrow. "Squad leader?"
Halsey nods. "Effective immediately."
I stand a little straighter. "Thank you, ma'am."
Mendez doesn't object.
He just nods once—sharp, tight—and sits back down.
"You'll earn it every day, One-One-Seven. Fail once… and I'll make you dig your own replacement."
"Yes, sir."
Halsey smiles. "Congratulations, John."
I turn and leave the room without another word.
My pulse is steady now.
The pack will follow.
And I won't run ahead ever again.