1754 Hours, August 14, 2520 / Spartan Barracks Perimeter, Reach Military Complex, Planet Reach / Downtime
The second he hits the wall, I know it's bad. His head connects with the duracrete with a sound that doesn't echo—it lands, dull and final.
He slides down the side of the barracks and doesn't move.
I don't let myself freeze. I move to him, crouching low. Two fingers to the side of his neck, just below the jaw.
Nothing. I switch to his wrist. Just in case. Still nothing. He's dead.
I exhale through my nose and turn to the first one—the one I tripped, the one that came at me with the knife.
He's slumped face-down in the gravel, his arm pinned beneath him. Blood's pooling out, slow but steady. The hilt of the knife's buried in his side.
I gently roll him over. It's not just in him—it's through him. Straight between the ribs, deep and precise. Right into the heart.
I didn't stab him.
He fell on it.
Doesn't change the result.
Base security's already aware. They'll have picked up movement. Audio. Maybe even the vocal markers I used to trigger help. Doesn't matter.
MPs will be on-site within minutes.
Until then, I turn to Carris.
She's still sitting against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her knees, shivering even though it's not cold anymore. Her face is pale, eyes locked on the blood leaking into the gravel.
I sit down next to her. Not too close. Just enough to share the space.
"I didn't mean to kill them," I say quietly.
She doesn't look at me.
"I know."
A few seconds pass before she speaks again.
"I wasn't crying because of the program," she says. "Not because of the training. I was crying because of what came before."
I glance at her.
She's not fragile. Not anymore. Just cracked in different places.
"I was one of the ones who ran," she says. "A few of us tried. They say we broke programming. I don't think that's what it was."
Her voice is steadier now. Like she needs to say this out loud before the MPs show up.
"We went home. Back to where we came from. They replaced us, you know? Flash clones. Meant to die just right. Same faces. Same eyes. But wrong. Just wrong."
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. Keeps talking.
"I saw mine. She was already dying. She couldn't even talk right. My mom thought I was the monster. I wanted to die too after that."
"But you didn't," I say.
She nods. "Didn't want to waste what little life I had left."
I don't have anything profound to say. So I don't.
We just sit there.
The red and blue lights from the inbound MPs begin flashing down the corridor, chasing our shadows up the wall like ghosts trying to catch up.
The MPs fan out like clockwork.
Two flank the dead marines. One starts taking pictures. Another's already laying out the yellow tape. A pair of medics push between them with a stretcher, but it's more for protocol than recovery.
No one says anything to me.
Not yet.
Then Mendez arrives.
Boots sharp. Posture squared. Fury behind his eyes—but, as always, buried beneath stone and steel.
He stops in front of me. Glances once at the bodies. Then at Carris, who hasn't moved from the wall. Then finally, me.
"Stand," he says.
I do.
No lecture. No shouting. No accusations.
Just protocol.
"MPs, secure both trainees," he orders.
One soldier gently touches Carris's shoulder. She rises slowly, without resistance, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond this corridor. Another reaches for my arm, hand resting light against the crook of my elbow.
Then Mendez's comms chirp.
A faint click. A pause.
We hear only his side.
"…Yes, Doctor."
Another pause.
"No, the incident's under control."
Longer silence this time. His jaw tightens slightly.
"Yes. I understand."
He glances at me. Then at Carris. A different kind of understanding enters his eyes now.
"I'll handle it personally."
The comms cut.
Mendez waves the MPs off. "Change of orders. Carris-137 to the compound's medical wing. Escort her there—no restraints."
They nod, adjust their posture, and guide her gently away.
Mendez turns to me, "You. With me."
I follow.
He doesn't say a word as we leave the scene, pass through the central access corridor, and approach the admin wing.
The air gets colder the closer we get to Halsey's section of the compound. Like the building knows what kind of people work here—and what happens when they don't get what they want.
Mendez stops in front of her office door. He doesn't look at me. Just presses the panel and the door opens.
"Inside."
I step in.
It closes behind me with a hiss that sounds a little too much like a seal locking shut.
Dr. Halsey is already seated at her desk. She doesn't look up as I enter. Just finishes typing something into her console. Probably the postmortem on the incident. Probably the prelude to a court-martial that won't happen.
She gestures to the chair across from her without speaking.
I sit.
She finishes her input with a quiet tap, then finally meets my eyes.
"You didn't escalate. That's already confirmed."
I nod.
"You redirected a lethal attack and applied force proportionally—until it wasn't. The knife punctured the heart. The head trauma was secondary. Accidental."
I say nothing.
She taps a key. The holographic file of my proposal flickers to life beside her, still open to the last page. My signature hovers in the air like a verdict I forgot I signed.
"I finished reading this," she says. "It's… bold."
"Necessary," I reply.
Her lips twitch—almost a smile.
"I agree. With one condition."
I sit up straighter.
"You'll need proper academic grounding before I turn you loose on ONI's R&D infrastructure," she continues. "I'm not building a tech cultist. I'm building an architect. You'll study engineering, physics, material sciences, and AI systems. Your training will continue alongside your formal education. Twice the workload. Triple the scrutiny."
She leans forward slightly.
"In return, I'll make you my protégé."
The room feels suddenly smaller.
I swallow once, but keep my voice level.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good," she replies, and it is a smile now—but not a warm one. "Then we'll begin tomorrow."
She studies me for another second. Then her tone shifts—cooler, quieter.
"Did you experience an emotional outburst during the incident?"
I shake my head. "No."
She raises an eyebrow.
"If anything… I was calm," I say. "Too calm."
Halsey nods once, slowly. She doesn't look surprised.
"That's not something to be ashamed of," she says. "But it is something we'll have to keep an eye on."
She closes the file. The proposal vanishes.
"You're dismissed, Leonidas."
I stand, salute, and turn to go.
I hear her voice one more time, just before the door opens:
"And for what it's worth… I would've done the same."
1002 Hours, July 14th, 2523 / Outside Tango Company Training Grounds, Planet Reach / Spartan-II Exercise: "Capture the Flag"
No armor.
No mercy.
No forgiveness if we're caught.
We crouch in the rocks above Tango Company's perimeter wall, concealed by a shallow overhang and six inches of Reach's red dust. The air is dry. Tense. Every one of us is breathing slow, controlled.
This isn't just a drill. Not anymore.
Below us is the pride of Tango Company—two hundred fully-armored marines, dug into their barracks like it's a forward operations base in a live warzone. Patrols every five minutes. Watchtowers, floodlights, drones. Live comms chatter.
And at the center of it all, flying proud and smug on its own private pole?
Their company flag.
Fred calls it a glorified dish towel. John says it's a symbol of authority.
I just think it's bait.
"Loadout check," John whispers, quiet enough not to carry over the wind.
We all go down the list.
Narq dart pistols. Twelve shots each. Quick-load mags, sealed units. Enough to drop anything short of a Rhino in under five seconds—but calibrated specifically for human biochemistry. Sleep, not death.
Stun grenades. Two per Spartan. Flash-crack concussion bursts designed to disorient at close range.
No armor. Just standard fatigue greys. No HUD. No armor. Nothing but reflex and resolve.
Linda's got the prize, though—an SRS-99 Sniper Rifle, carefully rigged for non-lethal rounds.
She slaps the side of the weapon affectionately.
"Borrowed it from a duo on patrol last night. Called themselves Echo Pair."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "They let you walk off with it?"
Linda's expression hardens under the brim of her cap. "Let me? No. But Fhajad helped me swap out their ammo with narq darts before we left."
Fhajad shrugs. "Didn't want anyone dying just 'cause we're embarrassing the wrong people."
Linda leans back on her elbows, eyes scanning the compound through the scope.
"Sniper One told Sniper Two their CO gave them clearance to 'bloody the freak Section Three kids.'"
That stings.
No one says it out loud, but we all hear it.
Freak Section Three.
It's not the first time we've heard it. And after today, it won't be the last.
But this time, we're sending a message back. Tactical. Sharp. Silent.
John pulls out a dirt-streaked terrain map and unfolds it across the rock between us. "Plan's the same. Kelly and Sam hit the east wall with grenades. I take north. Fred and Fhajad circle west, sabotage the generator, kill the lights. Linda provides overwatch. Leonidas—"
"Flag duty," I nod. "Extraction and insult delivery."
He grins. Not a big one. Just enough.
Fred clicks his tongue. "Can't believe we're stealing a flag."
Kelly smirks. "Can't believe they thought they could stop us."
The dogs are down.
Eight Dobermans—fully trained, genetically screened, and aug-supplemented to patrol the Tango perimeter like wolves. Sleeping like babies.
Fhajad watches them through the scope of a monocle optic he jacked from Tango's requisitions list two weeks ago. His voice is just a whisper over comms.
"Confirmed. They're out. No movement. No vitals above rest."
The berries worked. Spiked meat tossed over the fence last night, just before evening patrol. Took precise timing—had to hit their digestion window before exercise kicked in.
They never saw it coming.
John leans forward over the map again. "Team split."
We all know what's coming.
"Red Team: myself, Sam, Kelly, Leonidas, Fhajad."
I nod. So do the others.
"Blue Team: Linda on overwatch. Fred, you're her spotter. Eyes in the dark."
Fred gives a small salute. Linda's already adjusting her scope.
"Red Team will breach perimeter and split after entry," John continues. "Sam, you and Fhajad go loud on the south munitions depot—just enough to draw heat. Leonidas, you flank left to the barracks and jam comms. I'll hit their officer wing."
He pauses.
"Kelly's on the flag."
No one questions it. She's the fastest, most agile of any of us. She'll hit the center, grab the target, and ghost out before the first squad can respond.
"We'll regroup at the LZ after extraction. Do not break concealment until you hear the signal."
A faint metallic chirp cuts the air—the familiar whistle we all know.
Olly olly oxen free.
That's how you know it's safe. How you know the wolves are calling the pack back home.
John finishes with one last check.
We each pull out our mirror shards, scavenged from Tango's latrine waste bin. Trimmed and cut smooth. Polished just enough to catch flashes of fingers—our private hand-signal code passed in reflection. Not standard issue. Not sanctioned.
Just ours.
I flash mine at Sam. He returns the signal—good to go.
Kelly gives a thumbs-up.
No one speaks.
No one has to.
We're ready.
And then John lowers the map, his tone final.
"Begin."
Our target rumbles down the road to the base. The truck's old—an M831 personnel hauler, pre-fab cargo bed, chipped paint, and an exhaust rattle that's half rust and half personality.
It's perfect.
Red Team waits in the ditch beside the road, cloaked in dust and silence. As the truck slows to a stop for final pre-entry checks, we slide underneath—like shadows pressed to metal.
One by one, we tuck into the undercarriage, limbs bent, packs flat, pistols silent. Fhajad fits himself between the axle and the drive shaft like he was born there. I fold into the exhaust panel, wedging my back tight between the fuel line and a bracket of bolted frame.
The gravel crunches under boots just above us.
Two marines climb into the cab.
"We should be on the wall, not running this milk run," one grumbles.
"Tell me about it," the other says. "Waste of time. I'd rather be on overwatch detail."
"Yeah, see if one of those freak Section Three kids finally makes a mistake."
The first guy chuckles.
"CO says if we see one, we're greenlit. Live rounds."
That's the one that almost makes me move.
I feel the tension ripple down the chassis—Kelly's knuckles whitening as she presses into the frame, Sam still as stone.
But no one reacts.
We are not children anymore.
We are not angry.
We are waiting.
The truck grumbles to life.
It rattles forward.
Closer.
The gate looms—ten feet of steel and reinforced steel. Tango Company's front door. Two guards step out from the shack beside the checkpoint, flashlights out, mirror wands in hand.
Standard procedure.
They drop to a knee, mirrors extended.
The beam of light sweeps beneath the frame.
I shift one hand slowly, raising my own shard—angled just enough to catch the reflection and distort it. Just like we practiced.
One mirror sweeps past Kelly's boot. She twitches, just a hair—enough to knock her shard loose. It slides across the gravel with the softest scrape.
The mirror starts to fall.
But her hand snaps out, snatching it back with surgical speed. Held. Re-angled. Reset.
Flawless recovery.
The guards pause. One mutters something about a loose wire, taps the frame, and moves on.
Then the gate opens.
The truck rolls forward.
We're in.
Inside the belly of the beast.
And they still don't know the wolves are already in their house.
The team scatters like a whispered secret—vanishing into corridors, alleys, and blind spots.
I break left.
Silent.
Quick.
The communications center is a two-story prefab with thick plating and a concrete foundation—makeshift bunker style, bristling with antennas and linked directly to Tango Company's combat net.
Which makes it my target.
I circle to the north wall, find the dented maintenance panel Sam spotted during recon, and slip my fingers under its edge. A little pressure. A little leverage.
It pops loose.
The crawlspace beneath the comms center is tight—barely high enough to drag myself forward. I slide in, pulling the metal panel back into place behind me. Darkness swallows me whole.
I wait.
Breathe slow. Ears tuned.
Above me, two voices. Faint. One yawns.
"Can't believe we got stuck with this," one mumbles. "Nothing ever happens here."
The other grunts.
Chair creaks. Terminal hums.
I move toward the central hatch in the floor—positioned beneath the main relay station. I feel it with my fingertips. The bolts are loose.
I ease it open two inches and peer through.
One marine slouched, blinking slowly at a glowing monitor. The other halfway through dozing off—head bobbing like it's fighting gravity.
I raise the Narq dart pistol through the gap. Line up a shot.
Thhfft.
The first dart hits the alert one in the upper neck. He twitches, slumps in his chair. Out.
Second dart, center mass on the sleepy one before he can finish his snore.
Both down.
I slip into the room, close the hatch behind me.
No wasted movement.
I move straight to the main console. The heartbeat of Tango's comm net. Antenna control, signal relay, encrypted outbound channels.
I unsling the small pouch from my hip.
Battery acid. Harvested from the hauler truck's power core hours earlier. Transferred into a polymer pouch lined with insulation and hellish intentions.
I pour it slow.
Across the relay junctions.
The fuse lines.
The cooling racks.
The console lights flicker. Then go dark.
A soft hiss fills the room as insulation melts and crystal boards dissolve like sugar in rain.
Then I pull the grenade.
Concussion-type, modded. Wrapped in a sock with nails, screws, and gravel—nothing lethal, but enough to make the room scream.
I yank the pin.
Count to two.
And run.
Drop through the hatch. Slam it shut. Hit the dirt and roll under the crawlspace just as—
BOOM.
The building lurches overhead. A wave of dust floods the crawlspace. The shockwave rattles screws from beams and pops a vent panel clean off.
Then—more booms.
East.
North.
South.
Red Team's lighting the board.
This isn't a drill anymore.
It's a message.
The second I push the crawlspace panel aside and climb out, the whole base feels like it's on fire.
Sirens wail. Smoke curls from a barracks building across the yard—its roof partially collapsed from what was definitely one of Sam's enhanced grenades.
And that's when they see me.
"Contact!"
Three marines burst from the shattered side of the barracks—full armor, rifles raised, faces already locked in a kill-or-capture command state.
My arm snaps up.
Three shots. three darts. Thhhft. Thhhft.
They drop mid-step, convulsing briefly before hitting the dirt in twitching silence.
No hesitation. No mercy. No time.
I bolt, legs pumping as I sprint across the open yard toward the mess hall's shadow—cover's thin, but the geometry buys me seconds.
I reload mid-run, slapping the mag release with my palm and jamming in a fresh cartridge one-handed. My thumb snaps the slide release as I leap upward, grabbing the top of an instacrete perimeter wall with both hands.
Boots scrabble, traction holds. I haul myself up just as rounds zip past my shoulder.
Crack! Crack!
Puff. Puff.
The wall takes two hits, spitting chalky gray dust inches from my face.
Rifle fire.
They're not using narq.
They're using lethal.
My blood goes cold—but my movements don't.
I rack the slide on the lip of my belt to clear a jam and run across the top of the wall, gaining elevation, gaining vision.
Below, a full sweep of Tango Company is converging—marines boiling out of side doors, bunkers, checkpoints. Shouting orders, screaming locations.
And I'm the lightning rod.
I fire again, aiming for center mass in the densest group of pursuers—more narq darts punching out. One hits a chest plate, another finds a soft spot at the neck seal. Both drop. The rest scatter.
Then my pistol clicks.
Empty.
No time to reload.
I tuck it into my belt.
The last few steps carry me to a corner tower. I don't hesitate. I leap off the wall—clearing the chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, knees tucked high.
I sail over like a whisper of wind.
Thud.
I hit the ground hard—knees bent, shoulder rolled. Dirt and gravel kick up, but the impact's absorbed clean.
No hesitation.
Just motion.
I push off and sprint—out of Tango's compound, away from the searchlights, and into the edge of the wilderness zone where we prepped the LZ.
The forest swallows me.
But I'm not running away.
I'm running toward the finish line.
The trees are thick this far out—needleleaf pines packed tight like ribs around the heart of the mountain.
It's quiet.
Birds stay gone when Spartans pass through. Even the wind seems like it knows better than to make noise.
I move through the underbrush with no sound but my own breath. Dry. Controlled. Not even winded.
I spot Sam first—half-crouched behind a boulder near the LZ, camo draped over his shoulders like a second skin. He doesn't look at me, doesn't wave, just holds up two fingers.
Second to arrive.
I join him in the brush, flattening down behind cover. A few seconds later, Fhajad appears from the treeline—then Kelly, darting low and fast across the clearing like a whisper with knees.
She's carrying it.
The flag.
Tango Company's proud stitched colors, folded under one arm like a cheap souvenir from a shop they never should've left unguarded.
No one says anything.
We wait.
Ten seconds. Twenty.
Linda's already on overwatch, hidden somewhere in the rocks above the ridge. Fred will be with her—counting movement, checking vectors.
We don't break cover.
We don't blink.
We just wait.
Then it comes—soft and clear, whistled between fingers from the north ridge.
Three short notes. One long.
Olly olly oxen free.
The signal.
Safe. Complete.
John's voice follows, low and even over short-range comms.
"Regroup. Move."
We step out of the brush as one—six shadows in motion, flag in hand, dart pistols cooling. We disappear into the trees again, heading back to base before the smoke at Tango even clears.
No victory chants. No taunts.
Just Spartans.
Mission complete.