Aboard UNSC Destroyer Class-B Centurion
On Routine Patrol in the Epsilon Eridani System.
It had been a strange turn of events. Exactly three days ago, Dr. Halsey had personally (she took the time to speak face-to-face to her Spartan-III, a kindness Sylvain thought she was incapable of) informed Sylvain that he would be going on a "trip," but he would return in a few days. It seemed like a great idea anyhow, though it had come from the one who had caused him pain and suffering for the better of mankind. He needed a vacation out of that little metal box they called his bunkroom.
But Dr. Halsey had not told him that he would be on a destroyer craft in space. Sylvain didn't like being in space at all. He felt so helpless as his life was in the hands of a bunch of ship-jockeys, relaying commands to each other that he did not understand at all. He was not a pilot, he was a soldier.
Sylvain wandered up and down many hallways and corridors, occasionally stumbling, and sometimes having to stop and lean upon the walls for a few seconds before he could start treading upon his own two feet safely. If he fell once, he would probably be locked up in the sick bay of the Centurion. He did not desire his trop away from the Section Three complex to be wasted laying down in a white bed, surrounded by sterile walls, being watched by quack doctors.
But little did he know that he was there on that ship for a reason.
A lieutenant in a freshly pressed navy-blue uniform had approached him in the center of a long corridor. Sylvain sluggishly saluted him, not slamming his thumb and index finger into his forehead.
"At ease. Spartan-300 Sylvain Reno?" the lieutenant inquired.
Sylvain nodded once. "Yes, sir."
"Follow me, please."
This was not the first time that he had been led by a lieutenant through unknown "territory," but the last time it happened, his life changed forever. He wondered if he would be going through another transition, and he hoped that if he did, it wouldn't be half as terrible and frightening as the last.
The destination that the lieutenant was leading Sylvain to was a good distance from where they had begun. Many times, Sylvain had to embarrassingly stop, and regain his own balance to continue. But the lieutenant didn't become agitated or aggravated. He was well informed about the "sporadic and possibly psychotic" Spartan-300 Sylvain Reno, and, if anything, the lieutenant was frightened by his very presence.
It was a problem that the UNSC had been facing ever since Dr. Halsey had commenced the Spartan programs. Officers and soldiers alike had either become very alarmed by the super-human warriors, or, a much less desirable effect, threatened.
In front of two gigantic and intimidating sliding metal doors was where the lieutenant had finally halted. He waved his left hand twice to motion Sylvain inside.
Sylvain glanced up above the two doors. The room label read, in gold, bold letters, "ASSEMBLY HALL A." As he stepped in front of the doors, they swished open, allowing him inside.
The size of the assembly hall was twice that of the doors. There were rows upon rows of black padded seats, all pointed toward a large stage. A wooden podium bearing the UNSC flag, a blue field with stars and Earth in the corner, hung on the center, set up for the occasion. It was tasteful. Behind that, a set of windows had allowed a spectacular background setting for any event imagined.
Sylvain trotted down the center aisle, his eyes fixated upon a group of twenty-six people who filled the center-left front row seats. They were chattering amongst themselves, each having a very powerful voice. But when he had come to the end of the aisle, their talking had fallen completely dead silent. Each of them trained their eyes upon the red-bereted outsider, expressing complete indifference and apathy, some with disrespecting disdain playing their faces. None of them spoke a single utterance to him, they just eyed him, watching his every move should he decide to try something. Sylvain, not backing down from anyone or anything, stared at each of them right back with the same expression. He didn't like them one bit.
A familiar voice boomed from the many loudspeakers strategically set up around the room to maximize audibility for the speaker and the spectators. However, the volume was a just a little too loud. "Spartan-300, please take a seat."
Sylvain immediately turned his sights to the stage, but, just as it had been when he entered, it was completely empty save the decorated wooden podium. He did as he was told, but he stayed away from the others. They obviously harboured certain distaste for him, and he did not want to give them the pleasure of his company. They didn't deserve it.
Major Jim Stange stepped out from behind the burgundy curtains on stage left, and assumed his place behind the podium, adjusting the head of the microphone to set to his height. "At ease," his voice echoed.
Sylvain, taken completely aback by the presence of his old friend, wrinkled his brow in utter confusion. At ease?
He turned his head toward the others in audience with him. He had caught them standing only for a split-second before they each had returned to their seats simultaneously. But they were sitting before.
Those people were like a bunch of robots.
But was he one of them?
No. He would never be one of them.
Stange cleared his throat, and spoke into the microphone. His voice, thick, strong, and still as confident as ever, sounded. "Spartan-II's, and Spartan-III's, you have each been called to this exclusive assembly for a particular reason."
They were the Spartan-II's? Why do they seem to hate me so much, Sylvain wondered.
"Spartan-II's, as you may or may not know, there has been a significant requirement for more of you. Unfortunately, as you DO know, the amount of time and resources it takes to successfully train a Spartan-II demands years and millions of dollars."
Behind the Major, a white screen retracted from the ceiling, and took its place, blocking the view of space. The lights inside the hall dimmed, and many different screens, all focusing on a Spartan-II and their creation, was displayed. Had Sylvain known his augmentations and their processes, he would have laughed at the laughable excuses for operations blinking on the screen.
"That is why," Stange continued, cutting off Sylvain's daydreaming state induced by the screen, "Section Three and High United Nations Space Command has decided to initiate the Spartan-III program." He had used a pause in his voice to compound the tone of seriousness that existed in this dire subject. To Sylvain, it had worked.
Stange turned his attention to Sylvain. "That's you, kid," he said with a warm smile curling the corners of his lips.
"Unfortunately, there was only one eligible candidate for the Spartan-III program." Many images of Sylvain, some taken during his days with the resistance, covered the remainder of the screen. Then, one single shot dominated all other photos: one of him smiling assertively and slyly.
A pang of nostalgia had infected his mind. He reminisced of that time in his life where he felt he had all he wanted. What he wouldn't give to go back to those days, he thought.
"However," Stange resumed his speech, talking louder now, "the Spartan-II's and the Spartan-III will be working together as a single unit in combat, and peacetime. Together, you can do more for the Human war effort against the Covenant than anything else could even dream about. Together, you all will fight the Covenant. And together, you will be victorious."
Stange was preparing to finish. "Now," he said, "Why don't you all introduce yourselves to your new teammate?"
Sylvain stood up from his seat just as the other Spartans had. Now that they realized just who he was, each of them had approached him with a grin, excepting a few of the more temperamental or self-respecting individuals. They were the prototypes; Sylvain was the wave of the future. Sylvain saluted each of them and shook their hands as he introduced himself.
Eventually, he had learnt all their names excepting their leader. Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan-117, John. He didn't grin or smile at all, but Sylvain had already held a considerable amount of utter respect for the strong and decisive Spartan-II. He snapped off the best salute he could possibly muster from his being.
"Sir," he said. "Spartan-300 Sylvain Reno at your service, sir!"
John gave Sylvain a quick once-over glance, his eyes traveling downward to his body, then suddenly upwards again. For what seemed like an eternity, John spoke not a single word. But soon, he returned the salute.
"So, you are the young Spartan I've heard so much about," he reverentially murmured after the salute. "I've also heard that you will be assigned to my squad. I'd like to say that this sort of addition will take some getting used to, but I am glad that a soldier of your caliber is on the field with us."
Sylvain smiled broadly, his confidence once lost now returning. His new leader was praising him already. "Sir, you can count on me, sir!" The response was filled with pride.
Up on the stage of the auditorium, Major Stange had been watching, and smiling. Sylvain was fitting in already, and the thought of the two of them doing what they desired most, getting their sweet revenge from the Covenant for annihilating Craft, side by side. As long as they were alive, the resistance would be alive as well.
Stange cleared his throat, and activated the auditorium's microphone once again. "Well, I'm glad to see that you all are getting along with your newest Spartan. Now, I want you all to take a week or two to relax, and get to know him. That sort of relationship will be invaluable on the battlegrounds."
John had something on his mind. He raised his voice so Stange would be able to hear him. "Sir," he said. "We all appreciate your offer, but the best way we Spartans get to know each other is in the midst of battle. We formally request a mission."
Stange chuckled mixed in with weak coughing. "Yes, I would understand that request," he spoke. "Well, Spartans, I will see what I can do to get us into some action, but for now, just be ready to roll out any time!"
He finished the assembly, but he was also feeling the burning desire to combat the Covenant just as all of the twenty-seven Spartans did as well. "Spartans," he boomed, "dismissed!"
The Spartans all saluted the Major simultaneously, including Sylvain. Once again, in a long time, he felt like he was part of a team; the best team that ever had existed.