0847 Hours, December 7th, 2531 / Drop Bay, Pelican 4 of 12, Above Camp Curahee, Planet Onyx-XF-063, Zeta Doradus IV System
Spartan-III Program Evaluation Drop – Phase I Initiation
Shane‑A112 POV
The hum of the Pelican's engines filled the bay like a heartbeat—steady, loud, and impossible to ignore. Everything smelled like metal and sweat and recycled air.
Four hundred and ninety-seven kids. Orphans, every one of us. Packed into a dozen birds. Some sat in stunned silence. Others whispered or clutched their parachutes like lifelines. A few… a few cried. Quietly. Ashamed.
Not me.
I sat near the back of the bay, eyes locked on the steel floor beneath my boots, fists clenched. The fire in my chest burned hotter than the cold air spilling from the cracks around the drop doors. I wasn't scared. Not really. I'd volunteered. We all had. But not everyone meant it.
The day they came to my orphanage, I knew what I was signing up for.
The man in the dark green uniform didn't smile. Didn't lie. He said if we joined the program, we'd be stronger, faster—able to protect others. To fight back. My parents died screaming while a Covenant cruiser turned our sky to glass. I didn't need more than that.
He offered me revenge.
And I signed in blood.
The lights above flickered yellow, and the bay doors hissed open. The wind howled in like a ghost, loud and sharp, scattering loose straps and nerves.
The instructors stepped forward, tall, armored, and angry-looking, their armor painted matte grey with no insignias. Just nameless helmets and mirrored visors.
"Parachutes. Now."
They tossed the first packs out like candy, letting them hit the deck in a heap. Some kids scrambled. Others hesitated. One girl whispered "No," and hugged her knees.
"First test starts now," the lead instructor barked, voice distorted through his helmet's speaker. "You jump. Or you fail. You don't jump… you go home."
He didn't mean home home. He meant back to whatever hole the war hadn't finished yet. There was no home. Not anymore.
The first girl up to the door was small. Pale. Shaking like a leaf. She looked down and whimpered. The instructor didn't push her. Didn't say anything.
She looked at us—then jumped.
Silence.
Then someone muttered, "She did it."
Now it was my turn.
I stood up slowly, heart pounding in my ears. My legs didn't want to move, but my fists clenched harder, and I forced my boots to the edge. The wind tore at my jumpsuit, roaring up from the misty green forest below.
I could do this. I had to.
Then I felt a hand slam into the back of my neck.
"Move it, coward," a voice snarled behind me.
I turned. The kid was older, maybe a head taller, face twisted with hate. "Gonna cry for mommy next?"
I squared up—ready to hit him—
—and he shoved me.
No time to scream. No time to think.
The wind swallowed me whole.
The sky screamed.
Wind tore at my face, my arms, my legs. I twisted, tumbled, limbs flailing before instinct finally kicked in. Training—barely two days old—flashed through my brain.
Count. Breathe. Orient. Deploy.
I squinted through the slipstream and yanked the chute cord hard enough to nearly dislocate my shoulder.
WHUMP.
The parachute snapped open, and the world yanked me upward for a split second before gravity reclaimed me in a gentler descent. My breathing slowed, but the fire in my chest didn't.
Far below, I saw the forest canopy give way to open dirt—flat earth that would later become a training ground, a place of sweat and scars and broken limits. Kids were already landing. Some stumbled. Others rolled like the instructors taught us.
And one?
One was laughing.
That kid.
The one who shoved me.
He hit the ground ahead of me and tore off his chute like he'd just scored a point in some game. I didn't even register my landing—knees bent, roll absorbed—I was up before my chute even settled.
My eyes locked on him.
He was walking away, cocky, already gloating to some kid nearby. I didn't hear what he said. I didn't care.
I charged him from behind.
I tackled him into the dirt, fists already swinging. The world narrowed to just him and the rage boiling inside me. I saw his face twist from smug to shocked just before my fist cracked across his cheek.
"You think that was funny?!" I snarled, barely hearing my own voice over the pounding in my ears.
He tried to fight back—threw a wild punch, missed. I grabbed his collar and slammed him back down. My knuckles burned. I didn't stop.
Not until the instructors started shouting.
My next swing never landed.
A metal hand clamped around my arm, stopping it cold. I snarled and twisted, ready to break loose—until I looked up.
Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez.
The man was built like a tank, face carved from stone, voice rough like gravel on steel. He didn't need to shout. Authority radiated off him like heat.
He yanked me back with a single movement and shoved the other kid—bloodied and scowling—a few steps in the opposite direction.
"Enough," Mendez growled. "Both of you."
The other instructors moved in, but paused as another man approached.
Taller than Mendez. Not armored, but dressed in a grey combat officer's uniform with no visible insignia other than a single bar on his collar. Eyes sharp. Jaw locked.
Captain Ambrose.
Kurt.
I didn't know his name yet—but he looked at me and Robert like we were something he'd been waiting to see.
"What should we do with them, Captain?" Mendez asked. His tone was professional, but something behind it felt… weighted.
Kurt turned to him. "Send them to medical."
Mendez raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"They passed the test," Kurt said, eyes never leaving mine. "Both of them."
Then he looked between us, chin lifted, appraising.
"These are just the kind of recruits I've been looking for."
He took a step forward, then crouched slightly—eye level with the both of us.
"What's your name, soldier?" he asked me.
"Shane," I said, still panting. "Shane‑A112."
Kurt nodded once, then turned to the other kid.
He wiped a smear of blood from his lip before answering.
"Robert. Robert‑A057."
Kurt stood, arms behind his back. "Welcome to Camp Curahee."
0082 Hours, December 28th, 2531 / UNSC Headquarters, Sydney, Australia, Planet Earth, Sol System
Fleet Admiral Jack Harper POV
The silence of my office was a rare luxury.
From this altitude, with the city lights stretching beyond the harbor and the southern stars barely flickering beyond the glass, you could almost pretend the war wasn't tearing the galaxy in half.
Almost.
My fingers traced the rim of the untouched black coffee on my desk. Cold. Same as the last three. And the one before that.
Then: three sharp knocks.
"Enter," I said without looking up.
The door slid open, and Rear Admiral Elias Wetherford stepped in—tall, gaunt, always too stiff in the shoulders. He was in charge of Earth Defense, a role no one envied and everyone secretly dreaded. If the Covenant ever made it this far, he'd be the last line before oblivion.
He didn't speak, just walked across the room with his regulation-efficient gait and placed something on my desk.
A Slipspace Communication Orb.
Spherical. Matte black. No visible interface, but I recognized the design immediately.
Onyx.
ONI. Not HIGHCOM. Not even direct Navy channels.
Classified as blacker than black.
Wetherford offered a nod—no salute, no questions—and turned without a word, leaving the room as quietly as he came. He knew better than to stay.
The moment the door hissed shut, I stood.
My hand tapped the override controls under my desk—sealing the office. Doors locked. Audio dampeners active. Visual scramblers up.
No surveillance. No interruptions.
Just me.
And the message.
I touched the orb.
It came to life in an instant—hovering above the desk, projecting a tight-focused holopane filled with static. The UNSC seal flickered once, then resolved into the unmistakable figure of a Spartan.
Leonidas‑151. Grayson.
His voice was calm. Cold. Professional.
"Fleet Admiral Harper. This is Spartan-151, Leonidas Grayson. I am submitting a formal request for authorization under UNSC wartime charter Section Twelve, Clause Nine…"
My brows rose slightly.
"…to take full operational control of the Spartan-III Program, and to authorize the formation of a new, official UNSC military branch—comprised solely of Spartan assets."
I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes narrowing.
He wasn't done.
The image of Leonidas‑151 flickered slightly, but his voice came through crystal clear—measured, resolute, and unmistakably surgical in its intent.
"Admiral… you already know Spartan assets are being thinned. Not by the Covenant. Not yet. But by political infighting in ONI Section III."
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just stared dead ahead as if he were staring through the screen and directly into my office.
"Colonel Ackerson is attempting to run his own version of the Spartan‑III program. His model is flawed. Fatally. He intends to train orphans for seven years only to deploy them on suicide missions, without extraction, without support, and with no expectation of return."
"In theory, yes, these teams could cripple the Covenant in ways the broader UNSC cannot. But theory dies fast when no one comes home. This is not a war won by martyrdom."
I narrowed my eyes.
He was right. We'd all seen the projections. Ackerson's plan was high-speed meat grinder doctrine. High-risk infiltration. Zero return. Zero repeatability.
Leonidas continued.
"I have a better way. The Spartan-II program was never meant to be public—but it is now. A symbol of strength. Of resistance. We can shape the future of the war with what the people already believe."
"Give me the Spartan-IIIs, and I will turn them into more than expendables. They will become a branch of the UNSC in full—Spartan Command."
"Self-sufficient, long-range, multi-theater operatives. Deployed behind enemy lines with the training, equipment, and strategic flexibility to cripple Covenant infrastructure permanently. Raids. Sabotage. Systemic disruption. They will carry with them what it takes to outlast, outsmart, and outfight any Covenant force. Then make it back home"
I leaned back, arms crossed, the weight of his words building.
"A dead spec ops team is worth nothing. Any temporary damage they inflict will be repaired in time. But a living Spartan asset with the right tools and knowledge can carve a canyon into the Covenant's war machine. One team. One blow. One system lost forever."
"The public already believes in the Spartans. Let's give them something real to believe in."
"You don't have to sell the lie. Sell the truth: that Spartans are selected from the elite. And in ten years, I will present a pipeline to convert existing ODSTs into Spartan-IVs—augmented, trained, loyal. Less effective than their predecessors due to the shorter cycle, but better than anything else the UNSC can field."
His tone shifted. Firmer. Personal now.
"But I need control of the Spartan-III program. Total control. I need Ackerson out, or at the very least, isolated. I need minimal interference from Section III. Politics are killing more Spartans than plasma fire. I've lost years of progress on survivability because my proposals were politically inconvenient."
"I'm not fighting for a name, or for clearance. I'm fighting for the UEG, for the UNSC, and for humanity's survival as a species."
"Included with this message are my previously submitted strategic proposals and survival-enhancement technologies—all blocked or buried by ONI."
The holopane dimmed, and a secondary projection opened beside it—pages of files, schematics, battle simulations, doctrine revisions. Every proposal he'd ever sent up the chain. Some I'd seen. Most I hadn't. All of them ahead of their time.
Leonidas's voice returned, one last time.
"Give me the chance to win this war before Earth is a memory, Admiral. I'll carry the weight. All you have to do is give me the keys."
The message ended. The orb powered down.
I stared at it for a long moment, then slowly reached for my terminal.
"Computer," I said. "Begin drafting operational orders. New command authority—Spartan Command. Authorization under Wartime Charter Section Twelve, Clause Nine."
"Designation: Leonidas Grayson – Commander of Spartan Operations."