B312. I don't know the date.

I find it hard not to dream.

Vivid memories cloud my mind. Shroud my consciousness in the fiery depths of my birthright. That cold and sickly, hard trial. That trial gave me my weapon, my shield, my being - both separating and elevating me from what I had been. Stripped me of the last scraps of my humanity.

The dream. It grows stronger each year. A steady assault on the mind, forever drawing me back to the screams, the nightmares, the agony, and the madness of my creation. I suppose it's the same for us all. For each of my brothers and sisters. A kind of psychological side-effect forever cursing the mind with trauma unforeseen by our creators. But it's difficult, and we were not bred to discuss our emotions. I guess it wouldn't even matter... Most of us are dead now. And I haven't seen a friendly face in half a year. And so my reality is that I'm alone in this unique kind of suffering.

My dream. It takes me back to the last time I was ever truly around others. To the years that formed my earliest memories. Those days were hard, and I was weak. Small and cowardly; distinctly fearful of my own mortality, and the expectation that I would not last. Onyx was unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or since. Ruthless and chaotic. Brutal and vicious. Violent and bloody. Every waking moment had been intense. Often times our lives had been at stake. We were never given time to think - to wonder and long for our past selves. Those who failed to prioritize the next challenge, the next fight, the next hurdle, did not survive. More than a thousand of us had been selected for the program. Only 300 of us made it to the trial.

I dream about my master. We'd all known upon introduction that Ambrose was more than man. It'd been evident in his physique. A massive demigod, chiseled from stone and fashioned into physical perfection not found naturally. It'd been evident in his movements. He was fast, efficient, inhumanly elegant and graceful. It'd been evident in his features. Ambrose had been rich in beauty, with a baritone voice that'd demanded attention to every single word. Ambrose was what we'd been tasked with becoming: a Spartan.

And his example provided us with motivation. Clarity toward what we were fighting so hard to achieve. Something apart from mankind; something that could protect and serve mankind.

The dream always resurfaces the trial. The augmentations. It was the culmination moment. The pinnacle of our training cycle - a gift for our hardships, a catalyst for the beginning of an era.

I remember we boarded the shuttle early that morning. So early that none of us had slept the prior day. Not that we could have even if we'd had the time. It was too big a day, too much anticipation on the line... Too nerve-wracking. Nobody said much of anything on the way up to the Hopeful. But there was communication. It could be seen in the worried glances, the nervous fidgeting, the wide-eyed stares. Of course, they told us what we were getting into. Deep Winter explained the fundamentals. But the truth couldn't be taught - it had to be experienced.

We were around 13 at the time. Between the constant supplements and nutrients we ate, as well as our constant training, we all had the bodies of teenage athletes going into that trial. Lean and fit and honed. But the augmentations... The augmentations changed us.

The dream reminds me of the excruciating torment that'd wracked my mind and body. Reminds me of how long it took. The seemingly endless days of sheer agony as my body transformed into something unrecognizable.

B312.

-Chapter 8-

Project CHRYSANTHEMUM

September 17, 2544 (Three years Later)

0200 Hours

In low orbit above planet Onyx

Voidsitter-class research station UNSC Hopeful

They'd lined everyone up in a dark hallway. It stretched from end to end like a tunnel, and the darkness conjured up a memory within the recesses of Saint's mind: the day he and his fellow spartans charged into the neln-nest. The event seemed like such a long time ago. Like a lifetime ago, as though he'd experienced it in a past life. Saint was taller now. Bigger. Hardened. And so was everyone else. In many ways, this seemed like a callback to that day in the forest. Seemed like some kind of rematch. It sure felt like it. The difference was that this time, Saint hadn't gone in first. And some of the guys who'd gone into that nest were no longer alive. And the opponent was something far greater than the denmother. Another key difference was that, this time, Saint needed no words of inspiration to quell his fears. He didn't need words of encouragement or a rousing speech.

This was what his life had led up to.

Saint was ready to get started. He'd been last in line. And so he'd been slowly making his way to the big doorway for the past two hours as they called in one spartan after the next. They were taking their time, and Saint wondered what was on the other side of the door. He supposed he'd find out soon. There was only one other person still ahead of him.

"When we're done here," Tom said. "We should catch up."

Saint put a hand on his shoulder. "Focus."

On cue, the light above the doorway flickered green. The intercom activated. "Tom-B292, proceed forward."

The door parted. Saint couldn't quite discern any details. It was dark, just like the hall they currently stood in. But the room seemed massive. As far as Saint could see. Sectioned off into hundreds of individual compartments that were covered by curtains. And, impossible to miss, was the screaming.

Before Tom continued, he turned to face Saint. Met his eyes. They shook hands. "I'll see you on the other side," Tom said, a note of determination in his voice.

"Likewise, brother," Saint told him.

The door closed shut behind Tom.

Saint would have to make certain of that. For almost 2 years now, Saint had hardly any interaction with the rest of Beta Company. Almost none at all. Ambrose had pulled him out of the main company many months ago and transferred him to another training facility on the other side of Onyx. One that nobody had ever spoken of before. Since then, Saint had been conducting training, fitness and combat exercises almost entirely alone and almost at an endless pace. Rather than working as part of a group, or with drill instructors, Saint spent most of the time directly under the overview of Ambrose and Deep Winter themselves. On rare occasions he would see a fellow trainee - and only then in brief moments, where communication was quick and to-the-point. His relation with Beta Company had grown distant in that time, and faces that had once been familiar were now strangers.

So last week, when Ambrose had briefed him on the augmentation procedure, a hint of excitement had flared through Saint. He'd even been giddy. Practically for the first time in his life. It would be his first time seeing so many friends in so long.

That excitement had evaporated though. When Saint had arrived at the spacefield to join the waiting Beta Company. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, but everyone had changed. Jonah hadn't cracked any jokes or pulled any pranks. Kat was now... Cynical. Distant. Entirely focused on her own technical projects. Owen hadn't had much to say. His best friend Tom had a distant look in his eye.

Catalina. She'd apparently died a long time ago, in a brutal training exercise against an army of auto-mechanicals. That fact soured Saint's mood, and he still had yet to recover. It'd depleted his energy, and even now, Saint couldn't quite raise his shoulders. Had spent most of the past week at her gravesite, trying and failing to remember her face.

And Sindy... Saint hadn't seen her yet. Tom said that she'd gotten pulled out from Beta Company around the same time as he did. Didn't know anything else. Whatever the case, Saint hadn't seen or heard anything of her at all. Maybe there was another facility on the planet where she'd gone to. Maybe something else.

Saint sighed. Either way, he couldn't wait to get through the augmentations - he and Tom had a lot of catching up to do.

"Saint-B312, proceed forward."

Saint found himself walking into an open space, where hundreds of individual sections were lined next to each other in over a dozen rows. There was no mistaking the sounds of surgery being performed. It was an assault on the ears. A violent mixture of surgical tools operating alongside cries of pain. Saint couldn't even hear his own footsteps. Couldn't even hear his own thoughts over the din of madness. He scanned his surroundings intensely. It was a habit borne from countless training exercises, and from the drive to absorb and process as much information as possible. Service tags were stenciled onto each of the curtains: B002, B023, B024, B030, B041, and so on. Saint could only deduce that these were the assigned compartments, and that his would be on the far end of the room, given that the numbers were in ascending order. Everybody had their own specific surgery table. It made sense; physical alterations of this caliber had to be tailored to specific individuals. It was unlikely any two procedures would be exactly the same. Saint had read only the documents he'd been allowed to see. From the information he'd gathered, the augmentations were largely chemically-induced. Injections and some implants. But there was a lot of stuff blacked out, and a lot of stuff that'd obviously gone unsaid. Nothing had been mentioned of what the side-effects were, or just what the hell would be going on.

So Saint wasn't exactly going in blind, but he was going in blurry-eyed.

As he made his way down the rows, he checked the curtains and read the service tags. Trying to see who had made it and who hadn't. They'd assigned him to a small barracks back in the spacefield, so Saint hadn't really been able to interact with the large bulk of Beta Company. He was pleased to see some of the tags. Traevon-B055, Vulcan-B058. Roland. Owen. Fiber. He couldn't see through those curtains, of course, but he could just vaguely recall their appearances from memory. Even spotted Covan-B117, Beta Company's elite sharpshooter and one of the few guys Saint had worked with on occasion the past several years.

Saint hurried his way down the rows. His compartment was near the far end of the room. Tucked away by itself, lit by only a single bulb hovering just above it. Saint took in a deep breath, then placed his hand on the palm-scanner. It flickered green, and the curtains parted a moment later, revealing an area that contained a single operating table. Surrounding the table were more than a dozen pieces of machinery. Automated arms and clamps. Drills and saws. Wires and cables hung from the ceiling above the table, dangling like some kind of twisted chandelier. There was a single pedestal located at the head of the table. Light-blue hololight flashed and came to life when Deep Winter appeared on it. The old man grabbed his beard like a handle and flung it over his shoulder.

"Saint-B312. Come, come..." Deep Winter beckoned with his hand. He snapped a finger, and the curtains sealed behind Saint as a series of lights activated within the small room. "How are you feeling?"

"Anxious."

"As expected. But how do you feel?"

Saint looked down at his hands. Studied the callouses on his palms, the knuckles along his fingers. Flexed his hands, then looked lower to his bare feet. He bounced on his toes for a second. His body was lean. Pure muscle, but lean. Cut like an olympic runner. He was vaguely aware of the fact that, for better or for worse, he would never be the same after leaving the room. But his mind was elsewhere. Distracted and stressed out.

"I... Feel disappointed. Undeserving and unworthy," he admitted to the AI.

"You have come a long way, young Spartan. You have earned all that you are given, and more."

"For as long as I can remember, I've been looking forward to this moment. But now that it's here... Can I ask you something?"

"Indeed."

"What's the point of it all?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I don't have... Anything. Just anger, and hatred, and combat. I just want to fight. And that's all I'll ever have. But it has no meaning."

"You'll find meaning, young Saint, in the lives you'll save and the future you'll guarantee. You'll find meaning in the knowledge that humanity needs you. It will not survive without your sacrifice, and though your deeds may never be known, the future of our species - everyone in that future - will owe their existence to warriors like you. Your meaning is in the hearts and minds that will prosper once we've destroyed the Covenant.

"Now, come on. We must begin."

Saint nodded. Satisfied. Deep Winter had never lied to him before. So he climbed onto the operating table and stretched out. The table molded perfectly to him, and he assumed it'd been crafted specifically for him. Still, it was cushioned and pliable. Soft. At least, the parts touching his body. The under area of the table was left exposed, where even more tools sat, waiting for their chance to operate on his backside. So not quite a bed... But probably the softest thing Saint had laid down on in over 7 years.

"Take this."

A tiny plate extended over him. Saint reached up and grabbed some kind of pill. One of those fat, swollen kind.

"What is it?"

"Ultra-metasthizine anesthetic."

That's heavyweight stuff, meant to keep things like guta sedated. Saint sat up and found a small glass of water on the table by the bed. Used it to help down the pill, then laid back down.

He felt... High. Calm and comfortable and warm inside.

At first. The sensation evaporated a moment later, when the straps sealed him to the table and snapped him back to reality.

"After the first injection procedure finishes, the surgical procedures will begin, followed by another round of injections. The total surgery will last an entire week, after which your body will require time to adjust to the changes. A long time. You will be here for the next month," Deep Winter informed him. The AI vanished from the pedestal, but his voice continued. "I must warn you: the nature of the augments requires your mind be fully aware. Drugs planted within you will prevent you from losing total consciousness, and keep your body awake for the week. The sedatives will handle core memory processing; life-support systems will handle your metabolic functions. It will not be pleasant. Farewell for now, Saint."

It began, then, when the lights dimmed drastically. On either side of him, large automated arms angled toward his body. Two on either side of his temples, on either side of his arms, his hands, his thighs, shins and ankles. The arms were equipped with fat needles at least half a foot in length. Saint had never been afraid of a needle before... But this was different. Unnerving and without a human touch. They adjusted and locked into position, and then a low hum appeared as they slowly encroached on his body. They inched closer. And closer. Saint decided it would be best to close his eyes. But he couldn't keep his hands from balling into fists.

At first, he wasn't even aware that the needles had penetrated him. But the sensation became acutely shocking within seconds... And it only got worse from there.

Saint began to scream immediately, even as he lost motor-control over most of his body. His eyes shot open. It felt as though steel beams were carving into his brain, and the anesthesia did little to null the fire that swamped his central nervous system. Out of his control, Saint's back arched violently, his nails digging deep into his palms to draw blood - teeth rattling so uncontrollably that he could feel several of them begin to loosen and chip. Stars dotted his vision and left his eyes frantically jumping from one point to the next. Electrical currents violated his bloodstream and seemingly pinpricked his bones... And he could feel that raw, grinding sensation in literally every part of his body. As though his entire nerve system was being set ablaze and restructured from the inside out. Foam gathered at his lips as he began frothing. Somewhere deep within the corner of his mind, Saint was still there, still aware and desperately fighting for sanity. But the battle was being swiftly lost. His sanity felt as though it were slipping.

That was when the overhead cables descended. They fell on him like intertwining snakes, biting into his skin at multiple locations - his chest, arms and legs. Even felt similar clamps slam into the skin along his back in multiple locations. Saint gave up on fighting it at that point. Just rode with it as the cables began sending some kind of reverberating pulse throughout his body, flooding him with chemicals. They spun in place, piercing through his skin and digging directly into his body. Blood splattered, dousing Saint in his own life fuel. He hadn't even stopped screaming yet, even though his throat had long since gone hoarse, and tears flowed from his eyes as his own hot blood landed in his mouth.

Black tendrils began creaking through the edges of his vision. That's what he thought it was, at first. Until he recognized the saw that began to descend over his body. Saint's eyes widened even further as the blade whirred to life and fell on him.

More than several weeks later, Saint was still laying there on that operating table. Had been laying there since the augmentation procedure first began.

Every second of his life for the past month had been a hellish nightmare. After that first week of surgery, he'd been slipping in and out of consciousness. Since then, his bones had been snapping and creaking as they literally changed shape. All the bones in his body, from the crown of his skull to the joints of his toes. Skeletal, smooth and cardiac muscles alike had warped. Transformed, stretched, reconfigured and so on. The organs within his body had changed over time as well - whatever had been done to his body, the most jarring of it had come to his nervous system. Saint could feel it. Could feel all of it, in a way he'd never done before, and the sensation had been excruciating. It'd only began to dissipate a mere 13 hours ago, but even now, Saint could feel his thoracic cavities warping into shape. Could feel the minute expansions of his ventricle and atrium; the growth and bending of his aorta, twisting into a new shape as it left his heart and traveled to his abdomen. Saint could feel everything.

And his mind...

The first couple weeks, Saint hadn't noticed anything. He'd been too busy trying to keep his sanity, too busy withstanding the blinding agony ravaging his entire being. But since yesterday, Saint was beginning to realize it. Everything appeared sharper. Clearer. His perception of the world was new. Each change in color, from the most obvious contrasts to the subtlest of shade differentials, was as obvious to Saint as the distinction between two different pictures. Each crack, each detail, it was impossible to miss; it felt as though Saint's vision was both zoomed-in and expansive at the same time. Like he could focus on any and everything. And his internal thought processes felt sharper. Clearer and more precise. More efficient, more directed, more powerful. Just lying on the table, it wasn't really obvious. But it became so when Saint thought back to everything he'd experienced since being on the table... Saint realized that he could recall every single detail, every impression, every sensation as though he were actually experiencing it in real time. The feeling was slightly disturbing. Scary.

Like he could relive past moments. And not in that broken-up, piecemeal snapshot method - but in an entirely continuous stream of consciousness. And it was scary because Saint realized just how much he didn't want to remember the surgery.

He lay there on the operating table. Still sore and aching. The only reason he knew that the date was currently October 21st was due to his circadian rhythms - another thing which must've been affected by the augmentations, because Saint could keep fairly precise track of it now.

"Saint B312," Deep Winter appeared on the pedestal. Saint hadn't seen the AI since first undergoing surgery.

"Deep Winter," Saint croaked out. His lips were cracked like stone, throat as dry as sandpaper.

"I imagine you're still in a lot of pain right now."

Saint just nodded. Didn't want to deal with speaking.

The straps sealing him to the table suddenly retracted.

"You've been on your backside for approximately 34 days now, Spartan, and you've felt your body alter as it adjusted to the augmentations. You may have noticed substantial changes just yesterday. That is because the metabolic stabilizers and chemical supplements implanted within your body have worn-off."

Saint nodded again. He'd figured as much - especially when the urge to pee had suddenly consumed him about an hour ago. That, and the overwhelming thirst and hunger roiling through him.

"Well, you're encouraged to get up now. Move about," Deep Winter hovered over Saint, looking down into his eyes. "By now, all of your peers are up and at it... Mostly in the dining hall and devouring the feast we've prepared."

Saint did some type of grunt. He'd meant it as an 'mm-hmm'.

"But take it slow. You will have to get used to moving again. Thinking. Your new strength, your new speed, and perhaps most difficult to adjust to - your reactions and general perception of time. Your time-perception will be noticeably different now."

So Saint took it slow. Lifted his legs over the side of the table... And could tell differences immediately. It was almost like his body was weightless. Despite the pain, everything felt so natural, so precise, so easy. So... Perfect. Saint stood, and realized that he was now taller. A lot taller. He put a hand to his face, feeling the bones and the skin and...

Hair? I have a beard and a mustache...

"I recommend using the latrine, young master. You'll find it out the primary passage across the room," Deep Winter informed as he vanished from the pedestal.

The next few minutes moved by slowly. Saint spent most of the time trying to keep from falling. It was difficult. He had to devote conscious attention to each step, each sway of his arms. Every sensation felt magnified as well. Cold ice touched the soles of his feet as he walked across the steel floor, and the sounds of his footsteps were clear as day. It took him a while to find the bathroom. By the time he got there, he'd gotten a little more used to himself. After he finished relieving himself, he paused in front of the mirrors by the bathroom's exit.

Totally didn't recognize himself.

Apart from his newfound facial hair and chest hair, Saint's face had morphed. His cheekbones and jawbones were both more pronounced, more defined and broadened. No blemishes, no scratches or scars. Smooth and solid and slender. As was the rest of his body. Broad and large shoulders, supporting arms that were chiseled like a powerful heavyweight boxer. Even his torso and abdomen. Legs. Saint's body appeared as though it were wrought from marble and stone. Sharpened and fashioned into the visage of an ancient greek statue. Moreover were his eyes. They'd been simple and brown before. But now... Saint leaned in to the mirror. Blue lines surrounded both his pupils, running around his irises like circles. Saint had read about these kinds of possible phenotypical side-effects. Similar blue lines were in his hair. Long stretches of hair strands reaching across his scalp were now bluish in color, as though he'd dyed it that way.

Saint didn't know what to think about it all. But he did feel his stomach growl.

He washed his hands and made his way to the mess hall. It was a massive space, and seemingly the entirety of Beta Company was gathered, filling row after row. Everyone with their augmentations now. Everyone a true Spartan now. This was Saint's first time truly seeing the Company arranged together since... Since the day Ambrose announced Phase 2 of the training cycle. Saint could barely recognize everyone.

A hand rose up from one of the tables.

Tom. Beckoning him over.

Saint took the time to get himself a plate first. Buffet, too, so he ended up getting as much as he figured he could down. It was undeniably the best meal Saint had eaten since before ever being conscripted. Spadehorn steak, takoyaki, roasted khulu-beans, cheese, pasta, a cheese moaburger, sauteed onions, a bowl of some kind of soup they referred to as 'ramen', Jovian ice cakes, and a tall glass of lemonade. By the time Saint had finished getting his plate, his mouth was practically drooling. He quickly made his way over to Tom, sliding in next to him.

"Y'made it," Tom patted him on the back... Hard. Hard as hell.

"I see you got the dedicated strength upgrade."

"Oh! Sorry..."

Across the table, Lucy let out a laugh. "Hey, Saint! You look so different."

Saint downed a whole ice cake. It tasted better than he'd imagined. Impossibly good. "As do we all."

"Well, check this out," Tom reached down the table and brought forth a tall glass of... Something that looked alcoholic. He slid a glass over to Saint and poured it halfway.

"How'd you... Get... That?" Saint asked between mouthfuls of moaburger.

"Being Company Commander's got its perks. It's Hiskellian Curated," Tom said. He held up his own glass.

"Toast?" Tom asked.

"Are... We old enough.. To drink?" Saint wondered. He couldn't believe how good the food tasted, even accounting for the fact that he hadn't really eaten anything aside from fruit, nutrient paste and supplements for the past few years. Then he figured it was the augmentations. Given the enhancements to his nervous system, it made sense. Gustatory cells were chemoreceptors. The neurotransmitters were probably hitting his axons at a higher rate than ever before. Saint guessed that his dopamine levels were probably skyrocketing.

Tom shrugged. "I'd say we earned it."

Saint nodded. He raised his glass and clinked it together with Tom and Lucy.

"To Beta Company!"