0800 hours, January 17th, 2543 (UNSC military calendar)
Camp Currahee, Onyx, Zeta Doradus system

"No discipline." Samara said, tripping up one of the Spartan Trainees that had charged at her, with a fluid sweep of her leg. Before grabbing the fist of another mid-punch, and with a flash of her biotics, threw him over herself and into the ground. "None of you will survive against the Hoplites if you fight me without discipline," She said, parrying the training knives of the four members of the Trainee squad she hadn't 'killed' yet, with her training knife.

She struck out like lightning, scoring mortal blows across throats and femoral arteries with each strike. And not yet equipped in their Mjolnir armour, the trainees did not stand a chance against Samara's raw speed and skill. Just as the last squad that had tried, her current opponents lay spread around her, their training suits locked up from blows of her weapon. And without a single scratch on Samara to show for it.

John observed the training field where Samara was currently drilling the Spartan Trainees of Beta Company, nodding in approval at the ever-growing pile of bruised and tired teenagers whose squads had already tried to take on the Justicar in training duels.

Samara's insistence on training the Spartan-III's to sharpen their minds and instincts had led to her starting a series of completely nonsensical training regimes, which she insisted would be important for teaching mental fortitude. She taught the Spartans an esoteric mixture of poetry, gardening, meditation, and physical exercises. And as a result, the surroundings of Camp Currahee had become quite beautiful as the Trainees were forced to tend to the landscape.

John did not see the point of the exercises but trusted Samara's judgement. He only wished he could speak to her plainly about the anti-reaper Taskforce. But every part of Camp Currahee was bugged and wiretapped. And she knew this as well.

The final squad of trainees of the day moved around Samara, holding their training daggers, they slowly circled the Justicar, preparing to attack her at the same time. John knew that it wouldn't work. Nobody had beaten Samara in sparring drills except for John and a handful of Spartan Twos. And they still lost as often as they won.

The final squad charged, and in what felt like instants, each one of them was quickly struck down by Samara as she seemed to dance through her attackers as a blur of blue light, leaving

There was a single trainee left. A young girl with cold distant eyes, and a ruthless streak. The badge on her uniform identified her as B-312. She was unusually quiet, even for a trainee.

She slowly moved forward, her free hand clenching tightly, and the dagger in the other at the ready. Samara got into a defensive posture, just as B-312 charged.

Then, just before she got within range of Samara, B-312 suddenly threw the contents of her left hand into Samara's face. A handful of mud. Right into Samara's eyes. Then she threw her dagger at Samara's head. The plastic tube bounced off of Samara's forehead and flew towards John, who caught it with one hand.

"Unorthodox. But effective." John said, moving up to B-312. "Well done. You've earned those extra rations."

B-312 offered a faint smile but did not talk, only nodded at John. She offered a salute and then went to rejoin her squad, who cheered her on for her victory.

Samara walked up to John, rubbing the last of the dirt out of her eyes. "These children are persistent. Their potential exists to be sure. I do have a matter of some concern, John." Samara said, glancing at the instructors marching the trainees on to the next field and the waiting Zaeed and Sergeant Johnson.

"It is about my presence here. A problem has developed." Samara said, pointing at the instructors. "I swore the Third Oath of Subsumation to the UNSC to assist them until the Covenant threat had been resolved. But a problem has developed."

"What is the problem?" John asked.

Samara turned to look at John. "When my oath is finished. I will be required to kill every ONI member in this base. The code is clear on those who lay their hands upon children. I have seen the instructors using stun prods upon their charges. "

"Is the Code that strict, Samara? What about the Spartans, and Zaeed and Kirrahe?"

She looked in the direction of Mendez, who was running behind a group of marching trainees, nipping at their heels with a stun prod.

"To train children in the art of war is not forbidden by the code. There are Asari religious orders who do such a thing. But to abuse them while doing so is." Samara said. "When the threat of the Covenant has passed, I will be required to kill Sergeant Mendez, and every instructor I have observed harming a trainee."

John felt a surge of alarm. Sergeant Mendez had made John the man he was today. He was the finest teacher a Spartan could ask for. The thought of Samara being forced to kill Mendez to satisfy some oath was almost inconceivable for John.

"And nothing I can do, will deter you from this?" John asked. He did not want Mendez to come to harm, but he also appreciated Samara's friendship and did not want her to be hurt trying to fulfil her oath.

Samara paused, then looked John over slowly. She seemed lost in thought before turning around. "When this oath expires. I can swear another Third Oath of Subsumation. But we would need a clear target. One whose existence is abhorrent to the Code."

John nodded firmly. "The Slipspace Entities still exist. And they must be defeated and sent back where they belong. Perhaps they would satisfy your oath."

Samara nodded. "That is an acceptable course of action." She paused, then offered a brief but sweet smile. "John. When the day is done. Shall we retire to your chamber?"

John was taken aback by the sudden proposal. Samara had a thing for him? He knew the Asari were casual about romance but hadn't expected to be on the receiving end of it. It did explain the fondness the Justicar had shown for him, and her willingness to assist so readily in training the Spartans. He was quiet for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say.

"I am the wrong man to ask," John said. "There is no room in my life for anything other than duty."

There was a hint of disappointment. But Samara seemed to understand fully. "I understand. Your species takes such things more seriously than mine." The Justicar said, her demeanour unchanged from before. That same proud and determined fierceness all Asari warriors seemed to exemplify. "The offer remains, however." The Justicar returned to her duties, leaving John shaking his head in confusion.

He returned to his office. There was always more work to be done.

-
15:00

The sun was shining bright, but the wind was blowing fiercely, which made the heat tolerable. John observed the datapads he'd taken outside from his office as he continued on his duties. He was sitting on a bench at a table reserved for the staff. With one hand he examined the latest requisition reports and crew transfers for Camp Currahee, and with the other ate his rations. The medical personnel at Camp Currahee had told him he had been spending too much time indoors, but without his armour to constantly feed him with the vitamin supplements that a lack of sunshine could result in. And they had refused to give him said supplements when they could instead make him work outside. He wondered if this was an elaborate joke by Kurt or some insidious plot by whatever shadowy organization had killed Ackerson to slowly wear him down through constant inconveniences.

At this point. John felt it could be both.

Linda slowly hovered next to John, her anti-gravity wheelchair suspending her over the pavement and rustling the freshly planted flowers that now surrounded every road in the Spartan's new compound. John still had to get used to the fact that Blue Team was out of action, pending a series of intensive reconstructive surgeries that pushed their transhuman biologies to their absolute limits.

Linda had not been off as badly as the still-comatose Kelly, but her damage had been much worse than Fred, who was already up and about. Although Fred was still completely blind at night, and could only take off the blinders that protected his regrown eyes for a limited time each day.

"Physio-therapy is going well. I managed to walk across the room before falling." Linda said, chuckling. "I've been talking about the med-techs carrying me to the firing range and laying me down so I can get some practice with the new rifles. But they're not letting me."

John rubbed the corner of his eyes. The sun was annoyingly bright without his Mjolnir's visor to compensate. He'd not worn his Mjolnir for several days, instead, he was sticking to more practical Marine fatigues as his armour went through its monthly maintenance. "You nearly died, Linda. You shouldn't be taking any risks. I'm not overriding their medical advice."

There was an awkward silence, interrupted only by the distant cursing of Zaeed at the Spartan-III squads following his urban warfare drills. John was learning a disturbingly comprehensive and colourful vocabulary from the Spartan-I to the point that at times, he nearly began to use some of it himself before quickly stopping himself before he accidentally used 'goddamn' while speaking to his trainees.

"They skinned Cassandra. You know that?" Linda asked, her face betraying hints of concern for the Spartan Washout. "They sent her to Zone 67. They're skinning her, removing most of her muscles, and slowly taking apart her skeleton." She shuddered. "I think I would have taken 'The Shot' long ago if I were in her position."

Zone 67 was an ONI research base on Onyx that dwarfed Camp Currahee three times over. And that was just the part outside the mountain. Scuttlebutt was that it was where ONI reverse-engineered its alien technology. It was also a place where trespassing was punished with the immediate execution of the offender.

'The Shot' was the term given to the highly concentrated morphine syringes carried by UNSC medical personnel for administering euthanasia. John had never had to use The Shot himself. When he'd had to mercy-kill a fellow soldier. Usually, the only option time allowed was a quick shot to the back of the neck. There were times when he was in the midst of a battle and came upon a horrifically wounded marine that would not survive but might spend several more minutes in agony. In such occasions, John would put them out of their misery with his pistol.

The thought put him off. The amount of free time he found himself with on Onyx was starting to aggravate him. He had too much time to think, too much time to allow long-forgotten memories to bubble to the surface of his subconscious and threaten to drag him down. He did not fight the memories when they came, instead calmly processing them until they faded away.

"She's strong. All the washouts are." John said. "Sometimes I wonder if those of us who died during the Augmentations were the lucky ones compared to the Washouts. To suffer all that pain, and to still go on."

John glanced at the edges of the path, where the first flowers were starting to bud where the Spartans had planted them under Samara's training.

20:00

John-117 was bored out of his mind.

Ever since the death of Ackerson, and Onyx going on lockdown, the Spartan-II and now the man in charge of training all Spartan-III recruits, had spent all his time as well as his free time, in training his new charges to be the best possible fighters. It was mentally taxing to look after so many Trainees. Even more so when due to Ackerson's death, and Kurt's promotion to full command of the Spartan Branch, John now had to lead all the Spartans in existence.

Everything was off. He leaned back into his chair, finding the chair far too soft, even for one that was supposed to withstand his weight when clad in full Mjolnir armour. He'd put in a requisitions order for a simple metal stool. But the base had none to spare which could hold the weight of a Spartan, and the next supply shipment would only arrive in two weeks.

There were a series of newly-installed buttons on John's desk. And with them, he could do anything from calling for a meeting of the now-beheaded Anti-Reaper Taskforce to having one of his new secretaries bring him a drink.

He had secretaries now. And aides. And a direct line to the base AI to assist him in whatever needed to be done. He wasn't made for this work. He was made to fight on the frontlines. Not to waste away in an office.

What gnawed at him the most, was the lack of action for him and his fellow Spartans. The Spartan Twos were performing admirably when it came to training the newest generation of Spartans and passing on their skills. But they were all starting to suffer from the overabundance of free time.

To the point that John had received multiple requests by Spartans to be placed in cryogenic suspension when not actively training other Spartans. He'd had to deny the requests, and instead given them even more strict training schedules. But this was barely enough to keep boredom from setting in.

And every request to send Spartans out on missions had been denied by ONI, stating that the remaining Spartan Twos were too valuable to risk on the frontlines at the moment. And that they were needed to train the next generation.

John didn't believe it for a moment. He was sure the Spartans were being sidelined for a replacement by the Spartan Threes.

Having a Spartan's mind was a double-edged sword. Because while it made them supremely intelligent and blisteringly fast in a fight, the absence of conflict left many of them with far too little to do to satisfy their constant need for sensory input and action. There was just too much time to think, too much time to dwell on old memories.

He had been having trouble sleeping on his new bed. It was far too soft and comfortable, and the sheets were too smooth. He'd taken to sleeping on the floor inside his armour instead. This had resulted in John scaring the cleaning staff off their feet when they had tried to right what they'd thought was a suit of Mjolnir that had fallen over. Only for it to come to life and inform them they were breaking regulations by manhandling him.

John nearly felt the urge to sigh as he thought back to the situation he had found himself in and was constantly trying to think himself out of.

He was stuck on Onyx, with the leader and the source of most information on the Anti-Reaper Task Force and Cerberus torn to shreds, by someone who had escaped any attempt to identify them. And with ONI controlling every aspect of life on Onyx, John had no safe method with which to talk to Samara, Kirrahe, and Zaeed without being eavesdropped. John had to work alone if he was to stop the Trainees under his care from becoming oppressors, instead of defenders of humanity.

It was becoming clearer and clearer by the day that the way events in the UNSC were moving, civil war or rebellion was in the cards. From what Lord Hood and Catherine Halsey had told him, ONI had been slowly setting themselves up as a shadow government for humanity, with their influence throughout human society growing by the day.

Not that such a thing would remain quiet for long. There was scuttlebutt amongst the ONI staff assigned to Camp Currahee that a 'Final Society.' was being built for humanity, one that was supposed to have been hand-crafted by ONI and would guarantee an end to rebellion and division in humanity. A glorious new age for humanity for a new galaxy of allies and enemies. One with interstellar diplomacy and trade with the Citadel, and the Terminus Systems beyond.

John had no doubts in his mind that Lord Hood would raise a flag of rebellion if that was his only option to stop Vice-Admiral Parangosky from becoming the leader of humanity and finalizing her plans for a Final Society'. And he had no doubts either that Parangosky knew this as well.

The Spartans had been formed into their branch, which had been thoroughly stacked with personnel John suspected had been hand-picked by Parangosky to try and bring the Spartans under her control. John had been reading personnel reassignments to Onyx for some time now and noted that an unusual amount of them barely had the qualifications needed to be assigned here.

There was little John could do, besides pretend to be a loyal ONI puppet, and hope that this could allow him access to more information. He glanced at his Mjolnir armour, and the helmet. He didn't even dare to think the thoughts he was thinking right now while wearing a suit of armour that could operate by thought. He had little doubt that it was tapped.

The thought put John ill at ease. Not even his internal thoughts were safe. But what else could he do besides wearing Mjolnir as little as possible, and keep any thoughts on ONI firmly under wraps, and outwardly loyal. Just knowing that thinking a single word too many might result in his Mjolnir picking up on his potentially treasonous thoughts and report him to ONI was chilling.

And the thought he'd had when he found Ackerson's body and had been wearing his helmet. Were those thoughts compromised as well? There was nowhere John was truly safe anymore.

There was a knock at the door that snapped John out of his introspective.

"Enter," John said, pressing the button that unlocked the door.

His heart nearly skipped a beat when he saw Parangosky herself appear in the doorway, flanked by two Spartans in black armour, with two more close behind. Something approaching panic flashed in John's mind, even if his body did not show it. If ONI knew of John's pledge to Hood to depose Parangosky if the alternative was Civil War, he was a dead man.

He cursed the damnable internal politics and schemes he was wrapped up in. He was not built for them. He wanted to go back to fighting the Covenant.

He snapped a salute. "Sir. I was not expecting-"

"Master Chief Petty Officer John-117. I have good news for you." Parangosky said, her voice devoid of any emotion. John now saw there were four Spartans with Parangosky, each lacking in any identifying markers. John could not recognize the body language and poster of any of them. Each Spartan had their uniquely distinctive way they moved while wearing their Mjolnir Armour, and John could normally make out with a glance who someone was.

But not these Spartans. There was no hint of their identity. None at all. They moved without any hint as to their real identity. Were they even Spartans? Or were they something else entirely. Or perhaps more survivors of Alpha Company, taken away and formed into some Praetorian Guard for Parangosky herself.

"In light of Ackerson's death, and Kurt's promotion to Colonel. A vacancy has developed for someone to lead the Spartans." She placed a small box on the desk and slid it forward. Inside was the insignia of a UNSC Captain.

John's raised an eyebrow at the contents. He was NAVCOM, and therefore under the command of the UNSC Navy. This was the rank insignia of a Captain of the UNSC Army. John played up the persona of the utterly single-minded soldier ONI thought of him as. "Who will be getting promoted, Ma'am?" He asked.

Parangosky paused for a moment, then rolled her eyes. She looked almost disappointed in John. Which made him hope his plan had worked. "You, Master Chief. You are hereby being promoted to Captain of the UNSC Army."

"Why the army, Ma'am?" John asked cautiously. "Spartans have always followed NAVCOM ranki-"

Parangosky interrupted him. "You were. But by a decree of the Security Council. The Spartan Branch is being separated from its UNSC Navy and Marine Corps connections. Instead, it will follow the UNSC Army rank structure. And as the Spartans right now number a Company, you are being given the rank of Captain."

John paused. He wasn't going to be in the Navy anymore? The thought stung more than it had any right to. John had always felt a connection to the men and women serving in the UNSC Navy and Marine Corps.

Then it immediately clicked in his head. This was another of the political plays Parangosky had been pulling. She was trying to move the Spartans away from the UNSC Navy and Marine Corps, and away from her political opponents. He repressed all emotion and feelings about the act and continued to play the role of literal-minded Supersoldier.

"I accept the promotion," John said, reaching for the gold bars in the velvet-lined case and pinning them to his uniform.

"Now. Onto another matter." Parangosky said. "It is about the matter of Ackerson's death. And the perpetrator. It is hard to imagine a Spartan could break as Emile did and murder his superior officer in such a gruesome fashion." Her voice sounded genuine, even if John knew there wasn't a scrap of humanity or emotion in what the Vice-Admiral was saying. "But he has been getting proper psychiatric care at Zone 67."

John's blood went cold at the suggestion. ONI had taken Emile to a black site? He hadn't had a clue such a thing was happening. He gave a careful glance at the four Spartans guarding Parangosky, and he had a sinking feeling that Emile wasn't the first Spartan to be sent to Zone 67.

John weighed the options. If Parangosky had been guarded by flesh and blood humans, he would have been able to quickly drop all five humans in the room with the pistol in his drawer, before they even saw what was happening. But he was facing Spartans without wearing his Mjolnir. If he drew the pistol, he'd be shot dead before he aimed at Parangosky.

And he had a suspicion a notoriously paranoid woman like Parangosky would be wearing a hidden barrier on her person, or have bulletproof materials woven into her uniform.

"I'll approve the transfer," John said, his voice not betraying what he recognized, was the first true hatred he had ever felt for any human.

Parangosky nodded. "And finally. I require a group of Spartans to provide guards for an upcoming diplomatic meeting with the Covenant leadership. We have received an offer of armistice, and we will be requiring our finest soldiers to defend against treachery, as well as to set an example."

"Armistice?' John asked. "The Covenant finally wants to talk?"

The Vice-Admiral shook her head. "There is some internal division in the Covenant. We believe it is a Civil War. One of the larger factions is offering to open diplomatic relations with the Coalition. This is a chance we might not get again."

John nodded. "I'll pick a team and lead them personally."

Parangosky grinned. "That is acceptable. But before you go. I need you to follow me to Zone 67. There have been great changes happening to humanity. And I believe you can be a part of them."