Hi everyone, I am putting out this chapter with hopes that Halo fans are reading to get ready for Halo Infinite. And that RWBY fans are still reading my stuff. I tweaked a few things lore wise for Halo. Which is going to have majority of prominence in this story. I made it so that the Human-Covenant War began with Reach being taken first. You'll understand why later.

…

Chapter 01: New Places, More Problems.

Spartan 0999 Moniker "ARC" hated this. He knows deep down that Spartans are meant to be the biggest and baddest humans anywhere, so his current ailment only made him curse lack of field experience more for making him look like an idiot. He was currently in nothing but his Naval-Intelligence service uniform as well. So imagine how he felt, being the only Spartan on a packed Pelican not wearing either a decorated dress uniform or armor.

So here he was, a Spartan in a spook uniform, trembling at the knees and holding in vomit with every ounce of his will. Trying to distract himself, he took a better look at the other inhabitants of the transport he was riding within. At the front, propped up in the doorway to the cockpit, was a very intimidating figure. Arms crossed and helmet-clad head hung to his chestplate, there was a Spartan 2. He vaguely remembers reading his file too at some point.

From what he remembers, he believes the 8 foot tall monster in the front to be Spartan "PORT". Though his manufacture sequence number escapes his mind. The armor PORT wears was probably at one point fully maroon. But the entire Mjolnir system was pitted, bent, scorched, scratched, hell even some trim and lettering was melted. So he only catches some bits of maroon and gold peeking out from the less impacted areas. While repairs are obvious, it's also evident to his trained eye that this Spartan had completely replaced the occasional plate or fitting with new parts, albeit they appeared to be sanded rough with a belt.

Though PORT cut a very intimidating sight, ARC found himself scared even more of the prospect of having to be around the other inhabitants. His eyes pick up and single out that the majority of the Spartans in this bird were Spartan 4's. The new and improved model of him. Hell, that made him a few years older than the oldest of them. But judging based on their appearances and uniform decorations, all of them were far more experienced in combat than he was. That brings to mind his distaste with ONI and the UNSC deciding to reactivate him from his Psychological-Affairs assignment, back into Spartan-Operations.

He can't fathom why they would have him return. By all means he was one of the biggest, if not the biggest failure of the Spartan 3 program. He had barely shut down one insurrection before him and Fire-Team ABLE were recalled to defend Reach. Within six hours of touchdown, he had taken two covenant needles through the back after his shields were blown out by a civilian transport being shot down essentially on top of him. Three days of medi-gel and cryosleep later he remembers being treated aboard an Army medical frigate hellbound from Reach in an ICU ward. Punctured lung, perforated eardrums, shattered femur, and 3rd degree burns over half of his right arm. Before he knew it, reassignment to Naval Intelligence was sent down the line to land on his hospital bed.

He was no hero. He knows that better than anyone else. He failed to be there when ABLE 1,3,4, and 5 were glassed into dust. He was alive and on painkillers half a star system away. So being in a pelican with decorated war heros was not fun. He even kept catching the glances the rest were shooting his way. No soldier likes Naval Intelligence, when one of them strolled in, it was usually to arrest someone or issue discharge orders. He hears the insults muttered back and forth. He may have hearing damage, but they must forget he is super-human as well as they are. He can hear the heartbeat of a mouse in the ceiling when on-world.

PORT issued a warning to be ready for formation with a deep and charismatic tone. The newer Spartans all cheered and whistled. ARC simply nodded to his superior and elder and sat up straighter. Swallowing the bile rising in his throat as the bird touched down in the hanger, he stood. Being the first to enter the bird when loading meant he was the last to exit, and would be on the end of the line of a report formation. Hopefully he drew no attention being so far from the briefing officer.

They all filed out of the Pelican and took to standing at attention in two ranks, both facing inward towards each other. Silence followed. PORT stepped forward and stood at the end of the formation, between ARC and the Spartan on the other end of the opposing rank. His massive hands reached up to disengage the electromagnetic lock that held his helmet to his undersuit. Once the helmet was lowered away from PORT's face, his appearance became very clear. He had several inches of silver hair waving backwards from his forehead to the back of his head. A thick beard of silver was neatly trimmed and sat flush against the elder Spartan's features. His skin was haggard and lightly scarred. But his eyes, what little could be seen of them, were light and eerily joyful.

Before ARC could examine more from the corner of his eye, PORT's booming voice called out attention. Every Spartan in formation snapped their arm up to salute the incoming officer. Heavy footsteps could be heard in the dead silence. But ARC took note that they were not armored. They had a subtle clack to them, indicating dress shoes.

"Spartans. I am Colonel Ozpin, the commander of this Installation. I will be leading the program the high-command sent you all here to be in. So, for lack of better terms, I am your headmaster. Over the course of the next two days you will be tested in simulations to determine your fire-teams and combat orientation. I would usually start my other programs with a trial by fire entrance exam. But high-command has assured me that every one of you is fully capable under fire and in returning it. This formation is class one. Tonight, find your temporary quarters, eat in the mess-hall, and become reacquainted with the process of maintencing and cleaning your Spartan gear. Take them away Sergeant Majo…" Ozpin cut off.

ARC felt his gut drop, the Commander had stopped speaking not because he stubbed his toe, nor because he ran out of breath. He had cut short when his eyes had landed on him. The Commander's gait took on a more cautious pace when he began moving again. His next few steps had him standing in front of ARC staring at his face. ARC took the time to examine the older gentleman in front of him without averting his gaze from the horizon. He had a messy mop of white hair atop his head. A clean shaven face, and a set of sturdy military-issue spectacles sat neatly upon his nose. His features spoke of vast intelligence and wisdom, but his eyes had an edge impossible to place. His commander was what his intelligence instructors would categorize as a wildcard.

The Headmaster gazed up thoughtfully at ARC, not being a Spartan himself, the commander was half a head shorter than ARC. Which made him a foot shorter than the Spartan 4's. And a whole two and a half feet shorter than Spartan PORT.

"At ease Spartan." The commander said with an amused tone.

"Of course Commander." ARC responded as he spread his feet and interlinked his hands at the small of his back. Finally, he was able to lower his chin and make eye contact with Commander Ozpin.

"Ah, a very gentlemanly response! Hard to tell you're a Spartan at all!" The commander said with a smirk.

Snorts and choffs rang out amongst the other Spartans in formation.

"Next one to lose composure while in formation can have fun cleaning radioactive dust from the exterior hull!" Sergeant Major PORT bit out. His voice was not loud, but the venom was enough to scare the others into proper behavior.

"I don't recall a Spartan 3 being on the manifold. Have you found it odd you are the only one here mister…" Commander Ozpin asked.

"My manufacturing sequence number is 0999 Sir. My service Moniker is ARC Sir."

"Ah. Well, there will be no need for either of those forms of identification outside of combat here. Where your creator and I differ is that I believe that you are human first, not a set of numbers assigned to a machine of war. Do you have a name?" The commander showed clear disgust at ARC's ingrained response.

"I-I'm afraid I don't understand sir." ARC responded.

"Don't worry Commander, come morning they will all be using their names. And… I'll just have to find this one a name I suppose." Sergeant Major PORT said the last line with… what seemed to be a remorseful undertone.

"Very well, I leave them to you Sergeant Major. Have them in the training complex by 09, that is all. Dismissed!" The commander said turning away and striding back to where he came.

ARC found himself surrounded by noise once again. The other Spartans relaxed and started bantering back and forth. Jokes and stories began and typical pissing contests were hashed out. He found himself simply putting a little distance between himself and the others. Before he felt an enormous weight settle on his shoulder. Glancing to his left he found the Sergeant Major standing besides him, eyes settled on the others as well.

"You'll warm up to them. But I have to warn you, there are a few 3's instructing here at this program. They will think you a favorite. So keep your discipline like you did with the geezer, and you'll be fine. One last thing…" Sergeant Major PORT said slowly.

"Yes Sergeant Major?" ARC responded, never taking his eyes off his classmates.

"Was it Reach?"

ARC felt the burn of flames on his arm, the sting and discomfort of needles in his back, and the headache of an explosion in his skull. But years of practice had him never move a muscle, nor change facial expression.

"Day One, settlement six, the City of Discord." ARC responded, the same as he had responded a million times in psych evaluations.

"I was thirty clicks west. Clearing mountain shelters and evacuating the farmlands. I've met the other seven to make it out of settlement six. One is here. For one time only, I'll get you in with her." Sergeant Major Port said before stepping forward and starting to corral the class of Spartans to the bunk level.

…..

"Thirty Spartan 4's. Or should I say twenty nine? Who is he, why is he in my program?" A sharp female voice calls out.

"What a greeting Commander Palmer. Should I stand at attention for you as well?" Ozpin says boarding the observation deck. His eyes fall on the vast array of cameras depicting every square inch of the Installation besides living quarters and latrines.

"I meant no disrespect Colonel, but we both know that command sent the manifold stating thirty Spartan 4's. Seeing as I would never have made that change without their permission I must call into question your possible involvement." Palmer said, crossing her arms.

"Spartan Palmer, you can rest assured I was not the one to make the change. His attendance is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. But at least he can be utilized nonetheless." Ozpin said sitting before the main desk and utilizing the holodeck.

"In what manner sir?" Palmer asks.

"A control group is utterly useless in experimentation when there is nothing to compare the results to. Say the twenty nine Spartan 4's you brought me serve as our control group, then what would we have to compare them to? What better than a Spartan who is in their eyes outdated? One who appears wearing a uniform they hate? One with true knowledge of not fighting aliens, but other men of flesh and blood. Ah, here we are…" Ozpin finishes as he sweeps several files into the air before them both to be observed.

Several seconds went by, Palmer's enhanced brain function allowed her to read all the information and see the images in the fraction of the time a normal human could. She was going to wait for the Commander to finish in a couple minutes but he simply hums while playing with the mug on his desk while waiting for her to initiate the discussion. Sometimes she forgets he was a first model, right alongside the legendary Sergeant Major Johnson. Fucking Proto-Spartans. They may not have the body enhancements but they damn sure have the mental tweaks. Same as any of the successful Spartan programs to come after their failure.

"So. Can't help but notice everything before Reach is mostly blacked out. Besides knowing he was in fire-team ABLE, and that they were in orbit of a colony world conducting missions before being called to Reach, we know nothing of his Spartan career. Barely even a career to be frank, I had more combat missions in my first three months than he had in over a year." Palmer said, shaking her head.

"Yes. But he has had the entirety of the Human Covenant War to hone his skills against not aliens, but men. His focus as Naval Intelligence for all these years means he will be a stark contrast in skillset compared to the others here. They are not used to seeing other humans as enemies. Only killing things with neon blood. And let's not forget what we are doing here in this program Palmer. We are not here to train Spartans to kill more Covenant. We are here to train them to keep entire worlds under control. With the galactic threat of war fading, the issurections will begin again and we must be ready. So I'm admitting him. Get him down to the ghost box. Find him equipment. Dismissed."

"Right away Commander."

…..

ARC found himself folding and tucking away his uniform. Donning a standard ONI issued long sleeve dry fit shirt and black cargo pants. Or so he thought he would. Before he could get his shirt over his head a hand slammed down in what the owner must have thought was an intimidating manner onto ARC's locker frame.

"HI there! Name's Yang! Nice to meet ya old timer!" A bombastic woman with long golden hair tied up in a bun half-yelled in his face as she stuck out a hand.

So it was intimidation after all, just excitement.

"Pleasure's mine Spartan Yang. But I would ask you to refrain from calling me old. I was only eighteen when my Spartan career truly began, and ended. Sure, I'm legally 46 but a lot of that time was spent in slip-space and cryosleep. My last physical stated I'm physically not a day over twenty-six." ARC responded with a smile and a chuckle.

Outside of operations and away from commanding officers he has been told he is funny, in an odd sense. But he could say he's a comedian by the way Yang laughed.

"Forty six! A little younger than you sound, but way older than you look! I guess that means you were one of the later Spartan 3's then? I was an ODST for around six years before I got the chance at being a Spartan. I'm only twenty seven overall. Barely any cryosleep and slip-space. I would love to pick your brain man! I bet you got a lot of stories!" Yang said, plopping herself down on his bunk and stretching her arms over her head.

ARC is not a fool. He knows underhanded flirting when he sees it. But one of the wonders of being one of the earlier Spartans is that his notions of romance were non-existent in early life. He didn't grow up liking girls or boys and wishing one to ask him out to dances. He grew up with a loaded magnum and an eight pound knife. So he doesn't notice when she seems almost disappointed that he didn't take the chance to ogle at her assumedly above average sex appeal.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but like I said. I was only an active Spartan for a little over a year before I was reassigned. You more than likely have much more combat experience than I do." ARC responded.

"Sure man. But like I said too, I was an ODST. I had a family and a life before the service, and I chose to be a Spartan. You were raised pretty much from birth to be one. You've known nothing but this life for way longer than me. What was that like?" Yang asked.

Images of pain, beatings, drills, and bloody screaming flashed in his head.

"It was… pain I guess. A life of pain growing up, and a life of loss every day since adulthood. But I am a Spartan. Always have been. That's just what life is." ARC said nodding and finishing the donning of his clothing.

His eyes met hers as he closed his locker and turned. She sat still, a look of sorrow and pity on her face. Her mouth hovered on words but barely settled on any.

"They...they never even gave you a name did they? I heard what the commander and the big guy said to you. Have you only ever been a number?" Yang asked quietly. Her hands tugged at her yellow ODST jumper.

"I-I was called a name once." ARC responded. A small smile came to his face.

"Oh yeah?" Yang said, a little bit of joy sparking life in her eyes again.

"A little girl I loaded onto a transport during the evacuation of Reach. She looked back and said thank you. She called me Jaune." ARC said taking a seat on his bunk besides Yang. He felt awkward, sitting next to a woman who was half a head taller than him sitting down.

"Jaune? Got any meaning?" Yang asked.

"It's french. It means yellow. I think she called me that because Reach was a colony world, and they called us UNSC or ONI soldiers yellow in their languages to mean yellow bellies. Cowards. That little girl probably didn't know any better and must have thought that was our actual name." ARC said with a soft laugh.

"I think you should take that name with pride. Yellow is the color of smiley faces and signifies youth and hope. So, it's nice to finally meet you Jaune." Yang says, nudging his shoulder with hers.

"Jaune… I guess I can roll with that." Jaune responded.

…..

Jaune awoke in the middle of the night with discomfort. His arm was wild with phantom burns. It's odd to him. He hadn't had night terrors in over a year. Maybe it was all the talking about Reach he did yesterday. Whatever started it, he didn't truly care. He just worked hard to slow his breathing and wipe away the sweat that had coated his forehead and neck. Running his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, he felt calm once again. His eyes searched for the glow of light from ambient space, but he realised that the bunk rooms on this installation had no windows. A deep thrum and a vibration sounded and began from the band around his wrist.

The message read 'ABLE 2 report to hallway and toe the line'. Swinging his legs out of bed and standing, Jaune grabbed his dog-tags from the storage drawer of his bunk before making his way to the door. He idly noticed the other three bunks were occupied. When he fell asleep only Yang had been present. But now, Jaune notices on the other double bunk not occupied by himself or Yang, there were two large bundles of blankets and snoring people. His hand hit the electric panel and the door slid to the left to allow him access to the hall. Stepping outside and directly to the right, he took a position of parade rest with his toes behind the bright red line painted on the floor.

No sooner than the door had closed, Jaune heard footsteps approaching. Turning his head he caught sight of a tall and imposing female Spartan approaching. His old habits rose with a fury as he analysed the approaching figure. The hair, apparent youth, and expression was familiar. News most likely. He had never been assigned to the case files of Spartan 4's, so he didn't know her from his investigations.

"ABLE two I presume." She spoke as she came to stop in front of him.

"Sergeant or Ma'am, I was ABLE 2 during the Reach campaign. Reporting." Jaune said, making clear eye contact.

"My name is Palmer, Commander Palmer. I am the officer in charge of overseeing the education and development of the Spartan's assigned to this program. You may address me as Ma'am. Follow me Spartan, we have to get you equipped for tomorrow. I hope you don't mind the late hour, I had more important things that required my attention." Palmer said with heavy emphasis on the word more.

Following his officer, behind and to the right about a pace, Jaune made sure to examine the route they took. It was well known to him that officers and NCO's were not encouraged to waste their soldier's time. So Palmer's decision to have him toe the line at 01 was an obvious sign she did not like his inclusion to her Spartan program. They walked till they reached the end of the floor, past the dining hall, and showers. Palmer called the elevator down and used her authorization to access a lower level. Once inside the elevator they stood side to side and for the first few seconds it was filled with silence.

"Spartan. I was under the clear impression that I was ordered to receive thirty Spartan 4's. You are a surprise. And as a leader and the one responsible for their advancement, I hate surprises. I will not target you, nor will I grade your performance differently than the others. But know this, I will not tolerate machines in my program. You are a man, you will act like it." Palmer said.

"Of course Ma'am." Jaune responded as the elevator halted and the doors opened.

"Welcome to the ghost box Spartan." Palmer began as she led him into a large room. It was clearly a bunker meant for housing a nuclear warhead or slip-space drive. But it had been turned into a vault for something. "You will be picking your Armor today."

Jaune walked down the line and was able to see into the many cases and display units. There were hundreds, if not a thousand or more sets of Mjolnir armor. Different shapes and sizes and most were in utterly destroyed states. He recognised sets ranging from prototypes to Spartan 2's, 3's, and a few 4's. Jaune wanted to feel amazed. But he now understood why she called it the ghost box. These were the Armors of previous Spartans. Whether dead, retired, or medically discharged. His eyes took in that over half of them were Spartan 3's. They were noticeably smaller and didn't have the more advanced system interfaces the newer models did.

"Ma'am. May I ask why I won't be receiving a new set?" Jaune asked gingerly, picking up a MK-V helmet with clear plasma damage.

"This program is not funded with enough money to have new systems made. We are under everyone but high-command's radar. Too much inflow or outflow would raise eyebrows. And we don't want the systems outside of the UNSC or ONI to be able to track the transactions. So as much as it hurt, the Colonel had all available sets in UNSC control transferred here under the guise of 'fuel'." Palmer said, staring at a particular set towards the back wall.

Jaune's eyes fell upon the armor she was looking at. His breath hitched and he finally felt awe. It was recognisable to anyone with a brain. An olive green set of MK-IV armor with damage.

"It was his. The Master Chief's. He wore that set when he saved earth from the prophets and the flood. But as with him, no-one could run it without the help of an A.I." Palmer said.

After a few minutes of searching, Jaune felt a vibration from his wrist. A tingle ran up his spine. His translocator. He hadn't felt it since Reach. The implant each Spartan 3 had put in before the campaign. It was supposed to help you to find each other. Without thinking, his feet took off. Much to Palmer's distaste he started sprinting from case to case looking for it. Eventually his heart dropped to his feet. In front of him, in a case far too big for its contents, was a helmet he recognised. Along with several pieces of what was left of her armor. A MK-V Commando Helmet burnt black with ash sat atop the pile of wrent metal that was once her vambraces and chestplate.

"Pyrrha." Jaune said as his hands slid the glass to the side and his hands gripped the helmet. It's visor was blasted out. The outer shell's metal scorched to the point her crimson paint was fully gone. One of his hands reached down to brush through the pieces of the armor in the case. Eventually his fingers found what they were after. A small metal pill of sorts. It was blinking and buzzing. He dropped it to the metal floor and crushed it under his heel. The vibration in his own wrist stopped. Usually they would all start when in proximity and when they were all together the leader of the fire-team would use the remote in their vambrace to make them stop.

Checking the integrity of the helmet by brushing away the dust and ash he found that it was still mission capable. He nodded to himself. If he was going to be a Spartan again, he wasn't going to let her down this time. Eventually his eyes glanced up and his heart stopped again. It wasn't just Pyrrha. ABLE was here. Ren, Nora, and Oscar were all here. Seeing their gear in bits was hard. Ren's EVA helmet was just the frame and a pile of glass. Nora's Assault chest plate was melted in half. Oscar's Helmet was just a scrunched up piece of metal, and the visceral death it must have been for him to have his head crushed in had Jaune's stomach flipping.

"I see you've found some of the glassed sets. Have no idea why they were even brought. Worthless now." Palmer said. "This is the only set in this section worth anything." Palmer said, gesturing behind him.

Holding his tongue at her insulting his brothers and sisters, Jaune turned away to see what she was talking about. Before he could stop himself, a wide smile broke across his features and he laughed in joy.

"You know him?" Palmer asked, impatient.

"Know him? Ma'am, of course I know him. He's me." Jaune said, flinging the case open. Somehow, after all these years, his armor was sitting in front of him. The MK-V Pilot configuration Armor was still white. Albeit with obvious damage here and there. But once he patched the holes in the back plate and the damage to his thigh cover, he could wear it.

"Well then, I'll have it packed up and taken to the Armory. Maintenance starts tomorrow. And by the looks of it, you got some work to do." Palmer said, trying to lead him back to the elevator.

"Ma'am. With your permission, I'd like to repair and have this helmet on standby for when I'm not piloting. It belonged to ABLE 1." Jaune said, holding up Pyrrha's helmet.

"Noone else is going to use it. Do as you need Spartan. Put it with your gear, it'll get where it needs to be." Palmer said.

With that, Jaune placed the Commando configuration helmet inside the case with his armor and followed his officer back to the bunks. The knowledge that his friends were here with him, in some small way, gave him a little more hope for this assignment. He suddenly didn't feel so alone. And tomorrow, he will be acquainted with an old friend once more.

…..