0720 Hours, January 4th, 2537 / Camp Curahee, Planet Onyx XF-063, Zeta Doradus IV System
Leonidas-151 POV
The morning air on Onyx tasted like iron and ozone—crisp, sterile, and utterly unwelcoming.
Fitting.
Camp Curahee hadn't changed much since the first days of Alpha Company's training. The same craggy ridgelines, the same wind-blasted soil, and the same sky filled with artificial satellites monitoring everything from orbital posture to a cadet's blood pressure.
But this morning, everything was different.
I stood alone in the command center's briefing room, staring at the datapad in my hand. The screen displayed seventy-five new profiles, all recently logged into the Spartan Command database.
Spartan-II Class Two.
It was official now. The second generation of what Halsey had begun decades ago—reborn under Spartan Command's control.
Each candidate was tagged, cataloged, and processed through the enhanced gene-screening protocols we'd developed after refining the Spartan III and post-augmentation recovery systems. Many of these kids had lost their families to glassing, raids, or bureaucratic failure. Orphans. Survivors. Raw material with the right genes and no one left to miss them.
They would become weapons.
Not by choice.
But by necessity.
"Authorization complete," my AI, Phoenix, chimed from the console. "Spartan-II Class Two records verified and sealed per Spartan Command protocol. Psychological compatibility: 81%. Physical compatibility: 94%. All candidates currently in offloading quarantine."
I stared at the file at the top of the list. A girl from Eridanos. Six years old. Both parents lost at Visegrad.
Next file: Boy, Six. Sole survivor from the colony formerly known as Halcyon's Reach.
I closed the datapad and set it down.
I didn't feel good about this.
I didn't feel anything at all.
The emotion suppression protocol made sure of that.
But if I could? I think I'd feel resolve. A cold certainty that this was right. That we were doing what needed to be done.
We'd lost New Constantinople, but the Covenant had learned.
We bled them.
Now it was time to forge the next edge of the blade.
I turned toward the door.
Time to meet the recruits.
The amphitheatre hadn't changed.
The steel risers, the concrete half-dome, the wind that always seemed to bite a little deeper in this part of Onyx—it was all exactly as I remembered it. Even the air smelled the same: dust, ozone, and fear.
I stood at the center platform beneath the central holoprojector, hands behind my back, helmet clipped to my hip. My armor whispered softly as I shifted weight from one leg to the other. No one else spoke.
Seventy-five children filed into the stands in silence.
Some still had tear tracks dried on their cheeks. Others looked angry. A few looked empty already. A number of them still have parents they will never see again. All of them had that same posture: backs straight, eyes darting, trying to understand if this was a school… or a prison.
The answer was neither.
It was a forge.
They just didn't know it yet.
Funny how history repeats itself, I thought, standing in the exact same spot where Halsey once delivered the news to us. Where she took our names and gave us numbers. Where she told us we were no longer civilians.
And like clockwork, the holoprojector flared to life beside me, casting the same image: a Spartan helmet, hovering silently, slowly rotating in crimson light.
I stepped forward.
"I am Leonidas," I said, voice calm, carrying across the amphitheatre like a blade across glass. "Designation one-five-one. Spartan Commander. Veteran of the Harvest Campaign, the Battle of New Constantinople, and numerous operations classified under Naval Code Black."
I let the silence hang. Then continued:
"You have been selected for one purpose—to become something more than what you are. You have been conscripted into the UNSC Special Warfare Division under Naval Code 45812. Effective immediately… you are Spartans."
Some flinched. Some sat straighter. One boy in the third row began to shake.
I kept going.
"You will never return to your homes. You will never see your parents again. From this moment forward, your life is no longer your own. Your future has been decided. Not by choice. Not by luck. But by necessity."
I paused, just long enough to shift my tone.
"But unlike those who came before you… you will not face this path alone."
"You are no longer orphans. You are not just survivors. From today forward, you are brothers and sisters in the only family that matters now—your Spartan family."
I gestured to the emblem glowing above us. The mark of the Spartan branch.
"You will be trained, tested, and reforged. And when the day comes, you will be the edge of the sword that drives into the heart of the Covenant. You are the hope humanity never knew it needed."
I locked eyes with a girl in the front row. She didn't blink. She would do well.
Then I turned and walked off the platform, just as Halsey once did.
History might repeat itself.
But this time, we were writing it on our terms.
0800 Hours, October 13th, 2537 / Beta Company Barracks, Camp Curahee, Planet Onyx XF-063, Zeta Doradus IV System
James-B486 POV
Screams. Wet chewing.
The sound of bones breaking—not snapping, grinding.
I was in the cupboard again.
Pressed against the back wall.
Tears streaming down my face.
Hand clamped over my mouth so I wouldn't make a sound.
The cupboard slats let just enough light in. Just enough to see them.
Jackals.
Raptor-freaks with glinting eyes, their beaks slick with blood, tearing into—
My mom.
My dad.
Both my sisters.
They were still alive when the eating started.
I could hear them scream.
And I did nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing but hide.
I shoot upright in my bunk, drenched in sweat, eyes wild, chest heaving like I'd run a mile.
It took a full second before the real world loaded back in.
No Jackals.
No screams.
No cupboard.
Just rows of grey military bunks, concrete walls, and the muffled shuffle of three hundred other orphans like me waking up to another day of training.
The Beta Company barracks. Camp Curahee.
The nightmare faded—but the fire in my chest stayed.
That wasn't fear anymore.
It was rage.
It was the only thing that hadn't left me when the blood dried.
My name is James-B486, and I was chosen—one of three hundred, pulled from the ashes of fallen colonies across UNSC space. They said I was lucky.
Lucky.
If that's what luck looks like, then luck is a sick bastard.
But I didn't care.
They gave me a number. A new name.
They took my pain and shaped it into something sharp.
They gave me a purpose.
Spartan.
I ran a hand over my buzzed hair, wiped the sweat from my neck, and focused on my breathing. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. Slower. Steadier. My heart began to slow.
They died screaming.
And I would spend every breath I had left making sure the Covenant learned how to scream too.
__________________
We were called by number. Not name.
B486. B135. B324. B149. B048.
That made us Team X-Ray. One of dozens in Beta Company—the second generation of Spartan-IIIs being sharpened into weapons. Five trainees, trained to breathe together, bleed together, and eventually… kill together.
Christine-B135 stood next to me, jaw clenched, eyes colder than the morning fog.
Johannas-B324 looked like he was carved from marble, his expression unreadable.
Drake-B149 was barely keeping still, rage burning just under the skin.
And Caleb-B048, always watching, always calculating. The kind of mind that would either get us killed—or save us all.
We stood inside Training Ring Three, backs straight, faces blank, eyes ahead.
Watching us were two of the most terrifying men alive.
At the far end of the ring, arms folded behind his back and clad in the grey-and-black digital camouflage of a Spartan Branch officer, stood Leonidas-151.
No armor. Just crisp lines, medals, and that cold, almost surgical calm in his eyes.
Beside him, looming like a statue of wrath, was John-117. The Master Chief himself. Fully armored. Visor gold. Silent. A mountain of legacy and weight.
Both of them watching. Evaluating. Measuring.
"Today," Leonidas began, his voice even, clear, and entirely devoid of mercy, "you will be tested in close-quarters combat against real Spartans. You will not win. You are not meant to."
He started pacing slowly, hands behind his back.
"You are here to learn. And sometimes… pain is the only teacher that matters."
John didn't speak. He didn't have to. His presence was a statement.
"No holds barred," Leonidas continued. "No weapons. No help. One-on-one. Hand-to-hand. You will fight until your instructor decides you have nothing left to learn."
He stopped in front of us.
"This is your chance to show us you're worth the time we've already spent on you. Do not disappoint me."
With that, five figures stepped into the ring.
Spartans. Not a "company." Just operators. Teamless, but lethal. Legends before we were even born.
One stood in front of me–Grace-093. Every muscle in her frame was made of steel. Her movements were measured. Her eyes, cold.
She didn't wait for a signal.
She lunged.
What followed wasn't training—it was a calculated dismantling.
She was faster. Stronger. Smarter.
But I didn't fold.
Every time I got knocked down, I got back up faster.
Every strike I blocked, she changed angles.
Every weakness I showed, she punished—until I stopped showing any.
Around me, the others were fighting their own uphill battles.
Christine had blood on her lip but fire in her eyes.
Drake was reckless but tenacious.
Johannas moved like a shadow.
Caleb lasted the longest before his Spartan instructor swept his legs and dropped him hard.
After twenty minutes, we were bruised, bleeding, and breathless.
And still standing.
Leonidas stepped forward again, glancing over us.
"You'll do," he said simply.
John nodded once.
No praise. No congratulations. Just acknowledgment.
And for Spartans like us?
That was more than enough.
Our bruises from hand-to-hand hadn't even started to swell before they marched us across base to the marksmanship range.
Pain was just another part of the day here. Another thing to compartmentalize. Like fear. Like anger.
We lined up side-by-side—Team X-Ray—beneath the long concrete awning overlooking Range 7, the wind biting harder here.
Instructors paced behind us. No names. No small talk. Just stern eyes and loaded sidearms.
A rack of weapons was already laid out for us. The M7S caseless submachine gun, modified for suppressive fire and compact engagements. Then came the M6H magnum, BR85 battle rifle, and the VK78 Commando—every rifle a legacy of death-dealing refined through use in the UNSC.
There are even newer firearms among them. CAR SMG, Spitfire LMG, Hemlock BF-R, V-47 Flatline, Smart Pistol MK7, JAR-5 Dominator, R-36 Eruptor, AR-61 Tenderizer, and the UNSC Coilgun.
"Pick your weapon," the range commander barked. "You will learn it. Sleep with it. Breathe it. Until it feels like an extension of your own body. The first tool of the Spartan is not strength—it is precision."
We each stepped forward.
Christine went straight for the BR85, her fingers already moving to check the mag and chamber like she was born holding one.
Johannas picked the V-47 Flatline, quiet, efficient, brutal.
Drake grabbed an M7S like he was daring it to jam.
Caleb took the magnum, which said more about his confidence than words ever could.
I hesitated for only a second—then picked up the AR-61 Tenderizer.
Balanced. Versatile. Heavy enough to feel like you meant it.
Targets popped up downrange—silhouettes of Insurrectionists, then Covenant figures, and even UNSC deserter profiles to simulate the rare but possible scenario of friendly-unfriendly combat.
"Fire on command. Controlled bursts. Center mass. Headshots preferred."
"Fire."
The air thundered with automatic fire and controlled precision bursts. Brass casings hit the concrete behind our targets like rain.
Christine's first shot split the target's head like a melon.
Caleb double-tapped a simulation in the eye and throat before it could vanish.
I hit the chest, the head, the hip—and shifted immediately to the next silhouette.
No wasted rounds. No missed kills.
We reloaded under pressure, hit moving targets, swapped weapons mid-sprint, cleared tight corners, and ran live drills with simulated hostiles and flashing lights designed to overload our senses.
Some trainees in other teams hesitated.
Team X-Ray didn't.
We adapted.
We fired.
We survived.
When the smoke cleared and the targets dropped, I looked down at my gloves.
They were shaking slightly.
Not from fear.
From clarity.
This was who I was now.
This was where I belonged.
When the blast doors opened, we stepped into a different world, a world where I can learn to make the covenant bleed.
The Pilot Simulation Wing was buried beneath the east sector of Camp Curahee, a repurposed aerospace hangar turned training labyrinth. Cool air hissed through floor vents as holographic emitters, rail-mounted platforms, and environmental projectors loomed overhead. The floor itself was a shifting jungle of modular walls, kinetic platforms, and motion-reactive obstacles.
This wasn't just a training ground.
It was a gauntlet—and our instructors had no intention of making it fair.
At the far end of the room, a large digital timer flickered to life on the ceiling.
The number glowed bright red: 03:00.00
"You finish the course in under three minutes," the instructor announced, his voice booming from the catwalk above us. "You move on to the next phase of Jumpkit training."
"You don't?" He shrugged. "You stay here until you can."
Simple enough. Until he kept talking.
"Kelly-087—Spartan-II—holds the course record. Thirty-four seconds. Without a Jumpkit."
There was a pause. Some of the trainees muttered.
Thirty-four seconds? That was impossible. We hadn't even learned to wall-run properly yet. This was our first day in the simulator, and they wanted us to be under three minutes?!
Drake muttered something about suicide.
"Don't worry," the instructor said, reading the room like a vulture over a corpse. "You won't make time today. Or tomorrow. Or next week. That's not the point."
"The point is learning to move like your life depends on it. Because one day… it will."
The gauntlet shimmered to life in front of us. The walls restructured themselves—modular plating shifting with mechanical groans, creating a complex, jagged alleyway. Slanted surfaces. Moving platforms. Near vertical shafts. No straight lines. No clean paths. A truly random obstacle course.
"This is where you learn wall-running, parkour, and spatial awareness in three dimensions. The course changes with every attempt and during the run if you are too slow. No memorization. No crutches."
Christine stepped forward. Always the first.
She triggered the start pad.
The timer beeped.
The run began.
It was ugly. Brutal. Unforgiving.
Christine made it through in seven minutes, forty seconds. Johannas took nearly six—but at least he finished. Drake made it halfway before catching a hard fall on the second vertical wall and needed extraction. Caleb fumbled a jump and nearly broke his wrist.
When it was my turn, I breathed deep, launched forward—
And learned just how much I didn't know.
The wall-running mechanics were a lie. If you didn't hit the wall at the right angle, you lost momentum. If you overcompensated your thrust? You overshot. Hesitate for even a second, and the platforms changed position. No planning, only reactions. The whole damn course reconfigured around your failure.
I finished in seven minutes and eleven seconds.
I'd never felt slower in my life.
But I wasn't angry.
This wasn't punishment.
It was a warning.
If we couldn't master movement, we wouldn't survive real combat. If we couldn't adapt in motion, we wouldn't even reach the battlefield.
This wasn't about being perfect.
It was about becoming possible.
My body ached. Shoulders, knees, ankles—all throbbing.
The gauntlet didn't care.
The instructors didn't care.
And most importantly, the timer didn't care.
I stood back at the start pad. My breath slow, focused. Eyes tracking the changing walls as the simulation reconfigured itself again. The layout was new. The logic behind it wasn't.
The first run was a mess. Instincts conflicted with momentum. My weight shifted too late, my footfalls weren't synchronized with the angled walls, and I'd launched from the wrong height more than once. The wall-running didn't feel natural.
Until now.
Don't run at the wall, I told myself, run with it.
The start light flashed green.
I moved.
Step—jump—plant.
My boot hit the sloped surface, and for the first time, my stride didn't falter.
The wall was no longer a surface to get past. It was part of my path.
I ran across it, low and fast, letting the angled weight shift carry my body horizontally while I pushed my left hand against the wall. I hit the ledge, rolled, came up into a sprint, and launched toward the next vertical wall.
A half-second delay. Course adjusted mid-run. Don't panic. Adapt.
I slammed my foot against the surface, ran two strides, and kicked off at a 45-degree angle, twisting in midair to hit the narrow landing pad. A new record for me.
The gauntlet was still a beast—but now I knew its language.
I hit the finish pad and dropped to one knee, panting hard. Sweat soaked my undersuit. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out. But I wasn't broken.
The overhead timer read:
05:16.
Almost a full two minutes shaved off from my last run.
Still over the pass mark.
Still a failure in the eyes of the system.
But it felt like a victory.
For the first time, I didn't feel like a trainee pretending to be a Spartan.
I felt like one becoming it.