0217 Hours, September 24, 2517 / Elysium Orphanage, Elysium City, Eridanus II / Subject Acquisition
I wake up to the wrong kind of silence.
Not the kind when the power flicks off and you can hear yourself blink. No. This is heavy silence. Waiting silence. Like the air's holding its breath.
Then I hear it—click.
A boot. Hallway floor.
I sit up slowly, every hair on my arms standing up like they've been ordered to.
Another sound—whirr-chk. Some kind of latch. Not the front door. The main entrance? Back hallway?
I slide off the bed, quietly. Bare feet on cold tile. I step to the door, staying low, and peek through the little rectangle window. The lights in the corridor are off, but I see movement.
Men. Four of them. Black suits. Sunglasses. At two in the morning.
One is holding something that glows—tablet maybe. Another's adjusting something on his ear.
The third—
Click.
A flashlight turns on.
It swings across the hallway—and hits my door.
I duck, fast. Hit the floor, heart slamming in my chest. They're not just checking rooms. They're tracking. Me.
Of course they are.
Catherine and Jacob—they weren't a couple. Their chemistry was all wrong. No looks. No tension. Nothing real. They were scouts. Spies.
And they were here for me.
I glance around the room. No vents. No windows. No escape.
Only the door.
I could hide under the bed, in the closet—but they'd find me. I'd just be giving them the advantage.
So I do the only thing I can.
I grab my tiny pile of clothes—three shirts, two pairs of pants, and socks—and clutch them in both hands. I take a breath, center myself. My legs are shaking.
The doorknob turns.
Now.
I throw the clothes into the air and charge forward.
The flash of light blinds me. Shouts echo in the corridor. The flutter of shirts confuses the moment—maybe half a second. Maybe less.
Not enough.
A hand like a vise clamps around my torso and lifts me clean off the ground. I kick and thrash. Bite. Elbow. The man doesn't even grunt.
Another arm reaches up—and presses a cloth over my nose and mouth.
I gasp once.
Sweet. Chemical. Wrong.
My vision swims. My limbs betray me.
Before the dark closes in, I catch sight of something down the hall—something that shatters everything.
A figure.
My size. My face.
Just standing there.
A perfect copy of me, blinking slowly, like he doesn't know how to move yet.
He's wearing my favorite shirt.
And just before the world goes black, I understand—
I'm being replaced.
0504 Hours, September 24, 2517 / Reach Military Complex, Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System / Induction Transport
I wake up to shaking metal and screaming engines.
The floor is vibrating under my legs. I'm sitting. Slouched. A bunch of kids—maybe forty? fifty?—are crammed beside me in this cold, gray room with no windows. We're not strapped in. Just packed in. All of us dressed in the same dull clothes.
Some are crying. Heads buried in their arms. Others just look stunned. Like someone unplugged their thoughts and left the body running.
I don't cry.
Not because I'm not scared.
I just don't think it'll help.
Across from me, standing and holding onto the support rails, are three—no, four—adults in military uniforms. Real ones. Armor. Sidearms. Helmets with visors down. They aren't talking. They don't need to talk.
They're just watching.
The aircraft—Pelican, my brain fills in from something I half-read once—shudders as the pitch of the engine shifts and the rumbling slows. Whatever we're flying over, we're about to land on it.
A loud clang sounds behind me, and the rear wall of the craft starts groaning downward, forming a ramp. Blinding daylight spills in like a searchlight, and for a second I can't see anything. Then the shapes come into focus.
Concrete. Guard towers. Drones. An entire military base carved into the mountainside.
I'm not in Kansas anymore. Or Elysium. Or Earth, probably.
"GET UP!" a soldier barks.
Some kids freeze. Others scramble to their feet like they think they'll be shot if they don't.
They might be right.
I rise. Controlled. Calm. My knees ache. My muscles are cold. Doesn't matter.
Blend in.
When in Rome.
We're herded out of the Pelican like cattle. The landing pad leads to a concrete path lined with floodlights and automated turrets that pivot as we walk past. Cameras track our every step. No fences. No barbed wire.
They don't need fences.
They brought us here to stay.
We're led down a corridor and into a large open-air structure—like an amphitheater. Stone seats, descending in rings. Feels ancient and futuristic all at once.
Standing in the center is her.
Catherine.
She's not smiling.
Beside her, a blue hologram flickers to life. A woman in a Greek toga, holding a clay tablet. Her expression is stern, unreadable.
To Catherine's right, a tall man in full naval dress uniform, arms behind his back. Steel gray eyes. A jaw carved out of granite. He doesn't blink.
The soldiers shove us into seated rows. One of them is behind every kid. Watching. Ready.
"Good morning," Catherine says, her voice echoing around the amphitheater.
No one responds.
"I am Dr. Catherine Halsey. You have been chosen for a purpose. Not because of who your parents are. Not because of where you came from. But because of what you are."
A few kids straighten their backs. Some stop crying. Others just stare blankly, too drained to care anymore.
"You are to become protectors of humanity. Of Earth, and her colonies. The enemy is coming. You are humanity's shield."
I don't know what she means. But I believe she believes it.
"You will not return home. There is no returning. You have been conscripted into UNSC Special Project 45812, codename: SPARTAN-II."
Some kids shout. One kid tries to stand.
The soldiers move. Fast.
He's down. Quiet.
"Enough," says the man beside Halsey. Voice like a thunderclap. "You will listen."
I sit still. Eyes forward.
Catherine turns to the hologram. "Deja."
The woman's voice is calm. Almost kind. "Children, you are embarking on a journey. It will be hard. But you will become something more. Something better."
Catherine nods to the man. "Chief Petty Officer Mendez. Begin routine."
He steps forward, hands behind his back. "You'll eat. You'll sleep. Tomorrow, your training begins."
"Fall out!" he barks.
The soldiers shove us into motion again, dividing us into double file as we're led to the mess hall. Everything moves with mechanical precision. Even the sobbing stops. The silence returns.
We eat gray food. Protein bars. Water. No talking.
Then we're marched into a massive bunkhouse. Rows of cots, spaced exactly one foot apart. Seventy-six cots. Seventy-six kids.
No privacy. No nightlights. No comfort.
I pick an empty cot near the wall. Lay down. Hands crossed over my chest.
I don't sleep.
I just stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, we begin.
0430 Hours, September 25, 2517 / Spartan-II Bunkhouse, Reach Military Complex, Planet Reach / Training Day One
The first sound I hear is screaming.
Not fear. Orders.
"ON YOUR FEET! MOVE! MOVE NOW!"
Boots slam against the concrete floor like thunder. Metal batons snap with electric hiss. Somewhere near the center row, a kid yells in pain—he didn't move fast enough.
I sit up instantly. Heart pounding. Cold sweat down my back.
Another cry. Another zap. One kid tries to hide under his blanket.
Bad move.
CRACK. The blanket flies. He's pulled from the cot like trash from a bin.
Across the room, soldiers are dragging kids up by the arm or just jabbing them straight in the ribs.
I swing my legs over the side and stand. Fast. Quiet. Compliant.
No need to draw attention.
"STAND AT THE FOOT OF YOUR BUNK!" a soldier bellows.
We form rough rows. The room smells like fear and unwashed clothes. Some kids are still crying.
A figure steps between the cots—tall, square-shouldered, with a stare like steel cable pulled taut.
Chief Petty Officer Mendez.
He looks at us like we're nothing. Because right now, we are.
"I am Chief Mendez," he says, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. "You will listen to my instructors. You will follow their orders. If you don't, you will suffer. If you break, you will not be missed."
He lets that hang. Several kids shrink into themselves.
"Now," he growls, "shower and dress. Your uniforms are under your bunks. You have five minutes."
We move.
I drop to one knee and yank the neatly folded clothes from under the cot. Grey sweats. Soft but utilitarian. On the chest, stenciled in clean, black print: Leonidas-151.
So that's who I am now.
The showers are cold, fast, and public. No curtains. No time. No comfort.
I rinse, dry, and dress in record time. The sweats are snug but flexible. Durable.
By the time I return to the bunkhouse, the air's buzzing with noise—screams, scuffling, the sharp crack of another stun baton.
Mendez is already outside.
"MOVE!"
We sprint outside into pre-dawn darkness. The wind bites. The sky's a murky gray, no sun yet, just stars and clouds hanging low like smoke.
We're shoved into lines. Sloppy at first.
"FORMATION!" the soldier to my left shouts. "STRAIGHT ROWS!"
I adjust, watching the others. Most of them don't even know what "formation" means. Doesn't matter. I stand tall. Shoulders square. Eyes forward.
Mendez steps onto a metal riser.
"This is your warm-up. One hundred jumping jacks. Then sit-ups. Then leg lifts. First to quit runs the compound perimeter twice. BEGIN."
The sound is chaos. Limbs flailing. Feet slapping dirt. A few kids already look like they're going to puke.
I breathe steady. Count in my head. Focus on rhythm.
One kid gives up twenty reps in. Collapses. Two soldiers yank him up and shove him toward the outer perimeter.
"RUN!"
No sympathy. No slack.
We finish the jumping jacks. My chest is heaving. Everyone's sweaty now.
"Down!" Mendez barks. "Sit-ups. Count your own. No cheating."
The kid next to me is already struggling. I pace myself. Controlled. Efficient.
Leg lifts burn worse. My abs feel like they're tearing, but I don't stop.
Ten more kids drop.
They're all sent running.
We finish. Panting. Some kids crying again. No one helps them.
Mendez steps forward again. "You are not done. But you have earned water."
Instructors bring forward steel jugs. The liquid is warm—not comforting, just not freezing. It tastes salty. Like soup without flavor.
Electrolytes. Hydration. Optimized recovery.
I sip, then drink fully. Don't gulp. Don't waste it.
This is just the beginning because next we run. It starts as a jog. Then a sprint. Then something worse.
There's no finish line. No "almost there." Just running. Around the perimeter. Past the same wall, same tower, same corner—again. And again. Until my legs don't feel like mine anymore.
The first few kids who'd quit during PT are already on their second lap. Most are barely upright. One's puking on the side. No one stops for him.
We just keep running.
The cold cuts at our skin. The warm water from earlier is long gone, replaced by fire in our lungs and that metallic taste of pushing too hard. My vision gets blurry at the edges, but I don't stop. Not because I want to impress anyone.
Because I know what happens to kids who fall behind.
Eventually—mercifully—the instructors bark a stop, and I stagger to a halt with the rest. My breath feels like knives. My shirt sticks to my back. My muscles are jelly.
We've stopped in a courtyard.
The ground is made of flat, dark flagstones. The kind you see in places that want to look important. In the center stands a flagpole—tall, silver, unmoving. The wind catches the dark blue flag above us.
UNSC. A symbol of Earth we belong to.
They herd us inside.
The building is massive—white stone, wide halls, steel paneling. Polished, but not decorated. Everything screams military.
We pass through two sets of security doors and enter what looks like a lecture hall—only round. Tiered desks curve around a central holographic table. The floor is clean. Too clean. Not a speck of dust. Like even dirt knows not to mess with this place.
I take a seat in the middle row. Others shuffle in behind me.
Mendez stands at the front, hands behind his back.
"You showed effort this morning," he says, voice still gravel but less like he's about to snap someone in half. "That's not praise. That's a fact."
Some kids perk up.
He points to the hologram projector. "You'll learn here, too. You're not just weapons. You're soldiers. Soldiers need minds."
He turns and walks out with the rest of the instructors. The silence is sharp.
Then the hologram shimmers.
A woman appears. Blue light. Robed in flowing digital fabric. Her face is gentle, but her tone is anything but.
"Good morning, children. I am Dejá."
A few kids groan. "School?"
One boy mutters, "This sucks…"
Dejá's expression darkens—barely.
"If you would prefer to skip your education, we can return to physical training. I'm sure Chief Mendez would be happy to accommodate."
No one says another word.
From the side wall, a small hatch opens and two drones roll in. They deliver trays—each with a foil-wrapped cracker pack and a small white carton of milk.
I don't trust the milk. But I drink it anyway.
The lights dim, and the holotable in the center comes alive.
Mountains. Shields. Spears.
"The year was 480 B.C.," Dejá begins. "Three hundred Spartans stood against thousands of Persians at a narrow pass called Thermopylae."
Figures flicker to life—stylized warriors with red cloaks and bronze shields. Tiny enemies swarm around them like toy soldiers.
"They knew they would die," she continues. "They fought anyway. For honor. For duty. For their people. Here are some clips from a movie."
A few movie clips flash—real movies, with roaring warriors and impossible slow motion, where they kill without a single scratch on themselves. My eyes lock on the images. I recognize this story.
The three hundred spartans.
My dad—Nolan—used to say the Spartans weren't just warriors. They were purpose. They were unbreakable. Even if they were doomed.
I didn't get it then. I'm starting to now.
Someone near me whispers, "Leonidas…"
I glance down. They're looking at my name. Leonidas-151. Not an accident. I don't say anything. Just keep watching.
When the lesson ends, Dejá looks around the room and says, "Now then… the playground."
Some kids cheer weakly. Like the worst is finally over. But I know better. Playgrounds don't come after battle history lessons. Whatever's next—it won't have monkey bars.
The second Dejá's lesson ends, the door hisses open and Chief Mendez storms in like he never left.
"Get up. Outside. It's time for the playground."
The way he says it makes me want to flinch. We fall into line. He leads us out into the chill again. "Short run," he says.
It isn't. We run for miles.
My legs scream. My stomach twists. The lukewarm milk threatens to come back up. A kid in the back pukes and keeps running.
Then we see it. A towering metal beast sprawled across the base's eastern yard—half jungle gym, half death trap.
Ropes dangle over mud trenches. Pulleys swing across gaps. Monkey bars stretch the length of the compound. Walls to climb. Pits to jump. Rope swings. Zip lines. Every inch looms over a concrete pit filled with murky water.
This isn't a playground.
It's a test.
Mendez stands at the front. "You'll form nineteen teams of four. Teams will complete the course together. All of you must ring the bell at the far end. Then you will double-time it around the course and back to this line."
His eyes scan the group.
"You win by finishing. As a team. First team back wins."
A hand shoots up.
John-117.
Kid with the gap in his front teeth and those dead-serious blue eyes. "What do we win, sir?"
Mendez doesn't blink. "You win dinner, One-One-Seven. Last team back does not eat tonight."
Kids start murmuring. Tension spikes.
"Dinner," Mendez says slowly, like he's baiting a hook, "is roast turkey. Gravy. Mashed potatoes. Corn on the cob. Brownies. And ice cream."
Silence.
Stomachs growl on cue.
"Teams. Now."
I find myself next to a kid with darkly tanned skin and sandy hair. Green eyes. He grins. "Samuel-034."
"Leonidas-151."
Then a taller girl steps into place. Long, wild mane of blue-dyed hair. Electric eyes.
"Kelly. Zero-eight-seven."
Last, John.
Taller than Sam, smaller than Kelly. Tussled brown hair. A few freckles. He gives a short nod.
"John-117."
Kelly squints at him. "You're the turkey guy."
He shrugs.
"Alright," Sam says, rubbing his palms. "Let's do this."
Mendez raises a hand.
"Go."
We sprint.
John launches forward. Clears the first mud pit like it's nothing. He doesn't wait. Doesn't look back.
Sam slips on the second monkey bar and slams into the water. Cold splash. Gasp.
I'm already reaching down.
"Grab his wrist!"
Kelly's on the other side. We hoist him out together. His teeth chatter, but he nods. "I'm good. Keep going."
By the time we reach the far rope climb, John is already halfway up.
"Wait up!" Kelly shouts.
He doesn't.
We scale the climb with Sam wheezing behind us. My arms burn, but I keep pushing.
John rings the bell first.
He doesn't look back.
By the time we pull ourselves up and slap the damn bell, the field's mostly cleared. The other teams are already doubling back.
We hit the ground running—but we already know.
We're dead last.
Back at the line, Mendez waits like a statue.
"All teams return to barracks and report for chow," he calls out.
Except us.
I glare at John. So does Kelly. Sam's too winded to talk.
John's confused. "But… I finished first."
Mendez walks over. Stares him down. "You were first, One-One-Seven."
He turns slightly.
"But your team was last."
John's lips part. No words.
Mendez continues. "You do not win unless your team wins. You never succeed at the expense of your squad. Not here. Not ever."
A few of the instructors start walking away.
"You want to be a Spartan?" Mendez asks, voice low, lethal. "Then remember this: alone, you are a child. Together, you are a weapon."
We stand in silence.
John looks down. Not ashamed. Not angry.
Just… thinking.