Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex Three,
Planet Reach.
Sylvain awoke with a warm feeling dripping down to his nose.
He had been forced to live inside the Military Complex Three for what a group of doctors and men in white coats referred to as, "observation." Since then, he had been kept in a 10 x 10 bunker room, coloured a drab dark green, complete with his own small shower stall, toilet, and a washbasin and mirror.
Without even touching the warm liquid sensation, he quickly shot out of his bed, and inspected his face.
A slow trickle of blood began to bleed out of his eye socket, and dripped off of his cheek, into the washbasin below, leaving a crimson stain.
Sylvain pounded the bottoms of his clenched fists against the edges of the basin clumsily. It cracked a little as the flimsy porcelain was no match for his enhanced muscles.
What did that wicked doctor do to me, he thought over and over. Why did I agree to this project? What was I thinking? I'll be a statistic number just like those poor dead children. I've got to pay the Covenant back. I'll get that witch of a doctor if it's the very last thing that I do!
His mind was losing its pace and sanity with so many thoughts at once. He was going so fast, he could barely keep up himself. Was it another one of those augmentations? It had to be. He could never think so fast before. And with each thought that came to him had a very unfamiliar, and cold feel to them, almost as if the notions weren't his own.
He began to think of his old friends within the resistance, in particular, Corporal Stange and Field Commander Hansen.
Hansen was lost forever, but Stange had enjoyed a very successful career within the UNSC ranks. In the months he had spent battling the Covenant under the UNSC banners, he had taken many missions. Sylvain had heard that he has received a pair of Purple Hearts, and a promotion to his dream position: Major First Class. He had displayed a keen ability to lead his troops into battles as furious as the very fires of hell, and come back with a minimal number of casualties. High Command desired to place him in command of the infamous 105th Platoon, the Orbital Drop Shock Troops (ODSTs) or, as they were much better acknowledged and referred to as, "Helljumpers." They were so brutal during combat, and outside, they were feared by their fellow soldiers of lesser units. But Major Silva had the 105th Platoon. If he ever were to kick the bucket, Stange would be there to take over in an instant. The two had become fast friends, actually, but that was irrelevant information not recorded.
Sylvain wondered, what would Stange think of him, now? What would the seasoned soldier, now his superiour officer, say as he lay there in a shaking ball upon the floor? "You're a disgrace!" Sylvain could hear his friend and compatriot boom in a furious manner. "I can't believe that I saluted to you!" Every thought shook and rattled the frightened Spartan even more. "You were once a human, but now you are a freak! A disgusting, putrid freak!" Stange's voice thundered in his mind.
Sylvain pleaded back to the hallucinations in his mind, and he whispered over and over, "Forgive me, Jim… please, please, forgive me!" Every time he repeated it, his voice grew louder, until he screamed in a kneeling position, his head tilted toward the ceiling, "FORGIVE ME, STANGE!" And then, he slumped onto his side, huddled into a trembling ball, and covered his still bleeding eyes as he whimpered softly.
Dr. Halsey and a slew of hand-selected doctors had been watching his every move since he was sleeping, listening to his pleading to his own imagination.
One doctor had asked, "Stange? Who is that?"
Halsey turned to the doctor, removed her glasses from her eyes, and replied, "Jim Stange is a Major in the UNSC Marine Corps, and was apart of the very same resistance organization that Sylvain had come from. As a matter of fact, I believe that both of them were transported in the same Pelican that recovered them from Craft, in the Lambda Serpentis System."
The doctor had immediately realized who Jim Stange was now. "So," the doctor asked, "what do you think we should do? A few more days in that condition, and our Spartan-III will be a complete gibbering mental case. His sanity is slowly slipping away from us."
Halsey replaced her glasses, and glanced down at Sylvain through the holographic ceiling that was his room's roof. "Simple," she answered. "We bring Major Stange here for a visit."
1330 Hours, June 3, 2551 (Military Calendar)/Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex Three,
Planet Reach.
Sylvain had calmed down since his eyes had ceased their bleeding. But the thought of Hansen and Stange had caused a very noticeable spike in his blood pressure. Halsey had called the respectable Major five hours ago. At the time, he was in a debriefing, but he would be arriving shortly. Halsey hypothesized what Spartan-300's reaction would be when he was reunited with his old long-lost friend.
The bed had felt very comfortable to Sylvain tired and aching bones, but he could not fall asleep even if he had wanted to. His mind was working overtime, attempting to re-learn and become accustomed to the new modifications that he had been subjected to. But what had happened to the morning exercises? He hadn't gone to the gym all day. Someone was going to show up in his room, making sure that he was okay, making sure that he was still alive.
Just as predicted, a white-coated and name-tagged doctor opened the door, and stepped in. Only this time, a pair of burly Marines accompanied him.
The doctor flicked Sylvain a phony smile, and asked, "How are you feeling today, Sylvain?"
Did he have to ask? It only made him feel worse. He felt like he did yesterday, and the day before that, and so on. He felt like shit, pure and simple.
Sylvain managed to speak as his head pounded like thunder. "I can't move or walk without falling down, my head hurts, and my eyes were bleeding this morning."
The doctor answered back, "Those are good signs, Sylvain."
How could those be good signs? Sylvain felt as if he was going to die every single minute of each restless day and each sleepless night. He felt so useless. He felt so worthless. He had betrayed his own morals, and he had killed for those morals. He sometimes wished to die. But he didn't deserve death. He deserved to suffer.
"Come with me, Sylvain. We have a surprise for you," the doctor hinted with his emotionless voice.
Sylvain clumsily swung his legs to the edge of his bed, and attempted to stand up, but just as he had gained balance on his feet, both legs had gave way to his weight, and his body tumbled forward. He was going to fall.
The two big Marines snagged Sylvain out from his fall, and helped him to stand, groaning all the way. Had they been an iota weaker, the Marines would fall down along with him. They wordlessly threw his limp arms over their shoulders, and helped him to stay upon his feet, and stand erect. "Thank you," he mumbled.
The doctor left the room, and the Marines followed with Sylvain. He practically had to drag his feet against the floor. Unusually chilled, he inspected his torso, and realized that he was not wearing any upper garments. He suddenly remembered removing his shirt four hours, sixteen minutes, and forty-five seconds ago. He turned to his bed, and murmured, "My shirt…"
The doctor turned to face him, and said, "Don't worry, Sylvain. It's all right."
They continued down the cold, steel hallways, guiding Sylvain to his "surprise."
He was brought into a small room, and seated in front of a plate of bulletproof glass. To him, he felt like a prisoner talking to someone on the outside, but the black sheath had not been pulled yet. The doctor and the Marines had left the small room. As soon as the door closed, the black sheath was raised toward the ceiling, and Sylvain had recognized the man sitting before him.
A crisp olive military jacket, medals, citations, and campaign ribbons decorated his chest. He had a thick, muscular neck, a spiky mustache and beard, piercing black eyes, a sharp nose, and crew-cut brown hair. It was Major Jim Stange.
Sylvain quickly saluted, hurting his forehead and hand in the process.
"There's no need for that, son," Stange's voice was still strong and confident, albeit slightly raspy. "I'm just really happy to see that you're still in one piece."
Sylvain could not say a single word. Stange didn't seem angry at all, and that worried him.
"I heard that you were talking about me. Is everything okay? Are you all right?"
Sylvain wanted to say that he was sorry that he had completely turned his back on the resistance. That he had allowed himself to be unnaturally altered. That he was guilty of treason. He wanted desperately to, but the words just wouldn't come out. Instead, all he could force out was, "I am augmented."
The Major didn't get angry, he didn't get red-faced, and he didn't raise his voice. Instead, he grinned, and replied, "So I have read and heard."
Sylvain groaned loudly, and asked, "Aren't you ashamed of me? Aren't you angry at what I have become? I'm… a killing machine, a Goddamned killing machine. I'm no better than the Covenant."
Stange looked at him square in the eye. Those fires in his eyes were burning hotter than they ever had.
"Sylvain, you are not a machine," he calmly stated. "When you recover, you'll be a fighter, a damned good one, I might add. Hell, you were one of the best soldiers I have ever seen in my life. You're fearless, bold, and smart. Now, imagine those qualities of yours multiplied by ten. That is you, now."
Sylvain looked to the floor in contempt of himself. "But sir, I, we, were apart of a rebel faction. We fought against practices such as this that has been done to me. And I agreed to it. I agreed! I turned my back on all of our fallen brothers in arms."
Stange became agitated. He slammed his fist against the oak of his side of the table and shouted, Sylvain, those fallen soldiers may have hated the UNSC, but they loved the human race. Now, it faces total extinction at the claws of some alien scum on a fanatic crusade! If anything, they would approve of your augmentations, and probably would have followed you had they the chance! You and the other Spartans can make a drastic change in our losing war, and the soldiers would be proud of that! Damned proud! Can't you see? Look at me, Sylvain. That is an order."
Sylvain's eyes met Stange's. Sylvain was shaking.
"Choosing to become the only Spartan-III was the right answer. I don't know of any soldier or Marine or human being more worthy to becoming a Spartan-III. You're a helluva hard-core soldier, son. Survive, and become the best."
Sylvain's lips trembled, and curled into a smile. As he always was, Stange was one hundred and ten percent right. He had told him to press on. And damn it, Sylvain would. "Thank you… so much, sir."
Stage grinned, placed his military hat upon his head, stood, saluted, and said, "I'll see you in a month."
As Stange left, Sylvain saluted him back.
Sylvain would survive. He would be the best.