DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HALO
|CHAPTER TWO|
"Wake up, trainee!"
The harsh command cut through the hazy veil of sleep, shattering Sam's fragile dreams. He groggily rolled over in his cot, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion, only half aware that this wasn't his familiar room, and that there were other figures lurking in the shadows. But before he could fall back asleep, a jolt of electricity surged through him shooting up his spine like a lightning bolt. The unexpected surge of energy rippled through his body, with a startled gasp, his body jerked involuntarily and tumbled off the cot, hitting the cold, unforgiving ground below.
"I said up, boot! You do know which way up is, don't you?"
Blinking away the remnants of sleep, Sam struggled to focus his bleary eyes. His heart raced within his chest, pounding like a war drum, as he fought to shake off the disorientation that clung to him like a persistent fog. He forced his bleary eyes to focus, and there, standing over him, was a man whose presence exuded an air of authority and intimidation. Clad in a formidable camouflage uniform, his hair was closely cropped, the gray at his temples betraying the passage of time and the burdens he carried. But it was his eyes that held Sam's attention, eyes that seemed too large, too intense, and held an intensity that seemed almost inhuman.
In his hand, the man held a gleaming silver baton. He flicked it effortlessly toward Sam and the air crackled with electricity as the baton sparked to life, a mesmerizing dance of light and energy. Sam instinctively recoiled, his body moving with a desperate urgency to create as much distance as possible between himself and the instrument.
Sam's gaze darted around the spartan room, taking in the bleak surroundings. Cold, gray walls towered above rows of cots that stretched like soldiers at attention and other trainees stirred from their slumber, their faces etched with a mix of weariness and apprehension. It was clear that he was in some kind of military training facility.
Still shaken by the jolt and the intimidating presence of the man before him, Sam tried to gather his thoughts. He quickly realized that complying with the orders would be the wisest choice for now.
The man's voice boomed through the room, commanding attention and respect. "I am Chief Petty Officer Mendez," he shouted with an authority that brooked no dissent. "The rest of these men are your instructors. You will do exactly as we tell you at all times."
His words hung in the air, punctuated by an underlying threat that sent a chill down Sam's spine. Mendez's gaze swept over the trainees, his eyes scrutinizing their every move, daring them to challenge his orders. Sam knew that compliance was not just a suggestion.
With a nod toward the far end of the cinderblock barracks, Mendez barked his next command. "Showers are aft. You will all wash and then return here to dress." He opened a trunk at the foot of the neighboring cot, revealing a stack of gray sweats, each one a testament to the uniformity and anonymity that awaited them.
Sam's eyes widened as he caught sight of a name stenciled on the chest of one of the garments: John-117.
As his gaze lingered on the name, a sudden movement caught his attention. Mendez's baton descended upon John, a swift and brutal reminder of the consequences of faltering.
"No slacking! On the double!" Mendez tapped the boy between his shoulder blades with the baton.
Sam watched John crumple to the floor, writhing in pain. Then Mendez turned his piercing gaze upon him, his lips curling into a thinly veiled sneer. With a swift and deliberate motion, the silver baton met Sam's chest with a force that stole the breath from his lungs. Lightning surged through his body and the room seemed to tilt and spin as his muscles betrayed him and collapsed back onto his cot, his body convulsing in response to the electric shock.
"I mean it!" Mendez's voice reverberated through the barracks, its commanding tone slicing through the haze of pain that clouded Sam's mind. "Go! Go! GO!"
The urgency in Mendez's voice intensified, each word a thunderclap in Sam's ears. The command reverberated through his being, leaving no room for hesitation.
Sam pushed himself up, his body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and determination. Through gritted teeth, he forced his legs to move, propelling himself forward in a disoriented shuffle. He couldn't inhale—but he ran anyway, clutching his chest.
As he moved toward the showers, Sam managed a ragged breath. By the time he got to the showers, the other kids had all stripped off their nightshirts and stepped onto the conveyor. looked scared and disoriented. He stripped his clothes off and took his place in line, washing in lukewarm soapy water, then rinsing off in an icy cold spray.
When he was done, Sam ran back to his bunk and got dressed in the gray sweats, their fabric clinging to his damp skin. He pulled on thick socks and a pair of boots that fit his feet perfectly and stood at the end of his cot waiting for his next orders.
Once all the seventy-five trainees were dressed Chief Petty Officer Mendez's voice cut through the air once more, his tone commanding their attention. "Outside, trainees!" he called out, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Triple time...march!"
Sam and the others were herded out of the barracks onto a strip of grass. The grass was wet with dew. There were dozens of rows of barracks, but no one else was up and outside. A pair of jets roared overhead and arced up into the sky.
Chief Petty Officer Mendez stood before them, a pillar of authority amidst the sea of trainees. His commanding presence, accentuated by the steely glint in his eyes, sent a chill down Sam's spine.
Mendez's, sharp and resolute shattered the silence like a crack of thunder. "You will make five equal-length rows," he barked, his words carrying the weight of command. "Fifteen trainees in each."
The trainees shifted nervously, their gazes locked on the ground, hesitant to meet Mendez's piercing gaze. The rows began to form, their edges jagged like fragments of a puzzle waiting to be assembled. Sam positioned himself in the second row, behind the boy, John-117. His heart was pounding with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. The rows before them stretched like neat, parallel lines, waiting to be perfected.
Mendez prowled through the rows, his footsteps measured and purposeful. His voice echoed off the barracks walls, each command a calculated strike aimed at instilling discipline. "Straighten those rows!" he shouted, his words echoing off the barracks walls.
Sam watched as another trainee scrambled to adjust his position, feeling a knot of anxiety twist in his gut.
"You know how to count to fifteen, trainee?" Mendez's voice carried a mixture of frustration and authority. "Take three steps back!"
Sam's heart raced as he absorbed the instruction. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and retreated three paces, his boots sinking into the soft ground. As he breathed the cold air, Sam's mind drifted to his past, to the night he had been forcibly taken from his home. The memories were fragments, like shards of a broken mirror, reflecting the turmoil that had upended his world. He recalled the prick of a needle, the hazy fog that enveloped his consciousness, and the voice of Dr. Halsey, filled with both concern and resignation. They had stolen his innocence, his carefree existence, replacing it with an uncertain fate and a purpose he was only beginning to comprehend.
The weight of solitude pressed upon Sam's heart as he scanned the faces of his fellow trainees. None of them bore any semblance of familiarity, no trace of the friends he had left behind.
"Jumping jacks!" Chief Petty Officer Mendez's voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. The words jolted Sam out of his reverie. "Count off to one hundred. Ready, go."
The officer started to exercise and Sam followed his lead. Among the seventy-five trainees, one boy hesitated—for a split second. An instructor, swift and ruthless, closed in on him in an instant. A baton whistled through the air, finding its mark in the boy's stomach. The impact doubled him over, a gasp escaping his lips.
"Get with the program, boot," the trainer snarled, the words dripping with contempt. The boy straightened, steeling himself against the pain, and started the exercise.
Sam's muscles burned with a searing intensity as he pushed himself through the relentless onslaught of jumping jacks. His arms, stomach, and legs screamed in protest. He had never done so many jumping jacks in his life. Beads of sweat trickled down his back, mingling with the strain etched across his face.
"Ninety-eight... 99... 100," Mendez's voice boomed, punctuating the completion of the arduous exercise. The chief petty officer took a moment to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm of exertion. Then, with a determined resolve, he dropped onto the grass. "Sit-ups! Count off to one hundred. No slacking."
Sam threw himself onto the ground, the impact reverberating through his bones. The threat of punishment loomed over him like a specter, pushing him past his limits.
"The first crewman who quits," Mendez said, "gets to run around the compound twice—and then comes back here and does two hundred sit-ups. Ready... count off! One... two... three..."
Deep squats followed, sinew and muscle straining against the relentless demand. Knee bends tested their endurance, their determination etched upon their perspiration-soaked faces.
Sam's body rebelled against the punishing regimen, betraying him with a surge of nausea. He threw up, but there was no respite, no reprieve from the relentless trainers who descended upon the struggling trainees after only a few seconds.
"Leg lifts," Mendez's voice persisted, resolute and unyielding. The officer continued the relentless cadence of the exercises like he was a machine. As if they all were machines.
Sam couldn't go on—his body trembled, threatening to buckle under the strain, but the threat of the baton's sting fueled his faltering limbs. He mustered every ounce of strength, his perseverance bolstered by the silent camaraderie shared among his fellow trainees.
"Rest," Mendez's voice, laced with a tinge of begrudging approval, finally called for respite. "Trainers: get the water."
The trainers wheeled out carts laden with bottles of water, a lifeline for the exhausted trainees. Sam's trembling hand seized a bottle and he gulped it down. He didn't care about its lukewarm temperature or that it was slightly salty. It was the best water he'd ever had.
He flopped on his back in the lush grass, his chest heaving as he panted. The sun was up now. It was warm. He rolled to his knees and let the sweat drip off him like heavy rain.
As he gradually regained control of his breath, he turned his gaze towards the other trainees. They were crouched on the ground, holding their sides, and no one talked. Their clothes clung to their bodies, drenched in sweat.
"A good start, trainees," Mendez told them. "Now we run. On your feet!"
The trainers brandished their batons and herded the trainees along. They jogged down a gravel path through the compound, past more cinderblock barracks. Then run seemed to go on forever—they ran alongside a river, over a bridge, then by the edge of a runway where jets took off straight into the air.
Once past the runway, Mendez led them on a zigzagging path of stone.
Sam wanted to think about what had happened, how he got here, and what was going to happen next...but he couldn't think straight. All he could feel was the blood pounding through him, the ache in his muscles, and hunger.
They ran into a courtyard of smooth flagstones. A pole in the center flew the colors of the UNSC, a blue field with stars and Earth in the corner. At the far end of the yard was a building with a scalloped dome and white columns and dozens of wide steps leading to the entrance. The words NAVAL OFFICERS ACADEMY were chiseled into the arch over the entrance.
A woman stood on the top step and beckoned to them. She wore a white sheet wrapped around her body. She looked old to Sam, yet young at the same time. Then he saw the motes of light orbiting her head and knew she was an AI. He had seen them on vids. She wasn't solid, but she was still real.
"Excellent work, Chief Petty Officer Mendez," she said in a resonant, silk-smooth voice. She turned to the children. "Welcome. My name is Déjà and I will be your teacher. Please come in. Class is about to start."
Sam groaned out loud. Several of the others grumbled, too.
Déjà turned and started to walk inside. "Of course," she said, "if you prefer to skip your lessons, you may continue the morning calisthenics."
Sam double-timed it up the steps—
"Samuel Westergaard?"
Sam stirred on his cot as an artificial knock reverberated through his cell, penetrating the stillness of his surroundings. With a heavy sigh, he shifted his gaze toward the speaker embedded in the cold, metallic cell door, blinking rapidly to clear the haze that clouded his vision.
"You know it's me," he grumbled, his voice laced with weariness, as he remained sprawled on his narrow cot, an island of discomfort in the bleakness of his cell.
A patient tone emanated from the speaker, its artificiality grating against his frayed nerves. "I need positive acknowledgment of your identity," the voice persisted, undeterred by Sam's lack of enthusiasm, "for your scheduled meeting with your court-appointed advocate."
Sam's eyes rolled in exasperation, the muscles in his face straining against the weight of his frustration. He recognized the futility of arguing with an automated system, a cog in the impersonal machinery that governed his existence.
Reluctantly, he acquiesced, his words laced with a bitter tinge. "Yes, I am Samuel Westergaard," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of resignation. He inhaled deeply, the stale air filling his lungs like a bitter reminder of his limited freedom.
It's been a while since I dreamed about Day 1, he swallowed heavily and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He assumed it was a twin telepathy thing—him being able to remember Samuel-034's training on Reach.
Sam hadn't ever put much stock in the Twin Telepathy Theory until it started happening to him. And considering he was living a second life in a world that used to be a video game...well anything was possible now; at least in his mind.
The cell door glided open, releasing a mechanical hiss that echoed through the small room. Sam's heart thudded in his chest as he anticipated the imminent confrontation. His eyes locked onto the security bot, its cold, unyielding gaze fixed upon him. A shiver of apprehension coursed through his body, bracing him for the onslaught of fear and panic.
However, as he slowly pushed himself up from the clammy cot, peeling his sweat-soaked shirt away from the mattress, he didn't feel any of that.
For the first time in years, he felt calm.
"Prisoner 319, please stand up," the faceless voice commanded. "Turn around and face the wall, hands behind your back. If you attempt to resist, you will be stunned."
Sam took a deep breath and rose to his feet. Complying obediently, he pivoted away from the cell door like a good little soldier. He felt the security bot's mechanical touch encircling his wrists with plastic restraints, tightening them just enough to induce discomfort. Yet, it stopped short of crossing the line into pain, almost as if acknowledging some form of consideration.
"Now, turn around and follow the security bot. If you attempt to resist, you will be stunned."
"Yeah, I know," Sam muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with resignation as he was led out of his cell.
The narrow, colorless corridors stretched before him, devoid of life. It seemed deliberate as if they meticulously timed these movements to avoid multiple prisoners crossing paths. It was all part of an elaborate scheme to minimize the chances of escape, leaving the prisoners disoriented and powerless. The absence of markings on the doors reinforced the labyrinthine nature of the facility, further entangling him in its clutches. It would be hard to make an escape when you didn't have any idea where you were.
Guided by the security bot, Sam arrived at an unmarked doorway, blending seamlessly with the monotonous surroundings. The door slid open, revealing a cramped booth with a solitary chair, its silver concave walls gleaming. Holographic projection screens flickered to life, casting an ethereal glow across the room.
"Fucking virtual meeting," Sam sighed, stepping reluctantly into the enclosure. He should have seen this coming.
"I will now remove your restraints," the automated voice announced, devoid of emotion. "If you attempt to resist—"
"I'll be stunned," Sam interjected, his voice laced with dry sarcasm. He arched an eyebrow, scrutinizing the emotionless machine. "Did I get that right?"
"That is correct."
The machine lacked the sophistication to comprehend humor, leaving Sam's joke hanging in the air, unanswered. The plastic straps around his wrists fell away, and before he could fully turn around, the security bot had left the room, and the door was sealed shut with a mechanical click.
"Please take a seat, so your meeting with the court-appointed advocate can commence," the voice instructed, its tone impersonal and detached.
The moment his butt sank onto the cool plastic seat, Sam's surroundings transformed, whisking him away to a different reality. The room enveloped him in a sensory feast—a symphony of scents mingled with the touch of supple leather upholstery beneath his fingertips. He found himself surrounded by shelves of real, solid wood, laden with hardback books, basking in the warm embrace of genuine sunlight that flooded through the windows. It was a vivid display that screamed artificial, a simulated façade that failed to deceive Sam.
Seated across from him at the magnificent mahogany desk was a striking blonde woman. Her flawless skin seemed to radiate an ethereal glow, and her teeth gleamed with an unnatural brilliance. She wore an exquisitely tailored business suit, that looked so expensive it surely surpassed the cost of an interstellar ticket to Earth.
"Good morning, Mr. Westergaard," she greeted him, her voice dripping with feigned cheerfulness, reminiscent of a sleazy used car salesman or...a cunning lawyer. "I'm Annalise Keating, your court-appointed advocate."
"You're nothing more than a damn AI subroutine," Sam retorted, his frustration palpable. "Let's skip the play-acting and get to the part where you tell me how hard I'm about to get fucked."
"As you wish." The smile on her face remained unyielding, as she sifted through a stack of virtual papers, extracted from a simulated file folder. Finally, she found the one she wanted. "Mr. Westergaard, you stand accused of felony battery, possession of illegal narcotics, reckless endangerment, and felony homicide."
"Felony homicide!" Sam exclaimed, his disbelief echoing through the room. "Of who?"
"Whom," she corrected him with the mechanical patience of a computer program. "Ms. Luna Omos."
The AI lawyer raised a still image, a photograph of the woman who had been shooting at him. However, this particular image originated from the woman's police record.
"She jumped in front of a fucking train!" Sam protested, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation. "While she was trying to kill me! How the hell is that my fault?"
"Technically," his AI lawyer elucidated, her voice devoid of emotion, "if you engage in a felony and anyone even remotely associated with that crime is accidentally killed, whether by the police or otherwise, you are held accountable for felony murder. It is highly probable that this charge could be dropped in a plea bargain if we were to threaten to take the case to trial."
"Well, let's fucking threaten, then!" Sam exclaimed, his voice laced with righteous indignation. "I didn't murder anyone!"
"That is one option, but there are alternative courses of action we could consider," Ms. Keating suggested calmly.
"Fire away, Ms. Keating," Sam conceded, slumping in his chair, his head cradled in his hands. Murder. They wanted to charge him with murder!
"The primary predicament, Mr. Westergaard," Ms. Keating continued, her voice laced with gravity, "is that the city of Utgard is intent on trying you as an adult. Your past transgressions were committed during your juvenile years, and following those offenses, you successfully completed your mandated sessions of professional counseling, leading to the sealing of your records. However, this is an entirely different situation. If you are found guilty of felony murder, you could be looking at the death penalty when you turn eighteen."
Sam let out a weary sigh. That would be one hell of a birthday present. How had things spiraled so far out of control?
"Even if, as I speculate, the prosecution drops this particular charge," Ms. Keating continued, her tone contemplative, "the combined sentences for the remaining crimes, which are undeniable and indefensible, would likely amount to twenty years of laborious restitution, coupled with compulsory vocational training in one of the other Outer Colonies."
"That's the same thing as the death sentence," Sam murmured, his head shaking in disbelief. "No deal."
Even if he managed to avoid being killed by one of the hostile inmates, being exiled to the Outer Colonies would leave him trapped, unable to return to Earth or even the Inner Colonies. He would be nothing more than a fish in a barrel for the Covenant.
"What other options are there?" Sam pressed, his voice tinged with desperation. "You mentioned alternatives, so tell me what they are."
Ms. Keating interlaced her fingers, resting her elbows on the desk as she assumed a thoughtful pose. "There are two possibilities," she began. "If you were willing to divulge information about your accomplice, Jennifer Young, and reveal her whereabouts regarding the illicit trade of synthetic endorphins, your sentence could be reduced to fifteen years of restitutive labor on a colony of your choosing from a preapproved list."
"No," Sam declared, his voice devoid of hesitation, surprising even himself with the resoluteness of his decision.
"The authorities are already aware of her involvement. Security cameras captured her accompanying you into the restroom area, and her social media accounts document a ninety-four-day-long relationship with you," Keating informed him, arching an eyebrow. "Although, two weeks ago, she made an effort to erase all traces of you and is now romantically involved with a man named Nazir."
Sam grunted in response. It didn't take her long to move on.
"It doesn't matter. I won't take that deal," he insisted, his gaze fixated on the intricate grain of the simulated mahogany desk. It felt as if he could discern hidden patterns within it if he stared hard enough.
Fifteen years was still an eternity. If Jen still had possession of the product, she could sell it and find a way to Earth. Turning her in would only result in both of them being condemned to death.
"There is, however, one other possibility," Keating reminded him, her voice taking on a serious tone. Sam locked eyes with her, unable to ignore the striking blueness of her gaze, which was far too intense to be natural. "If you agree to enlist in the Colonial Militia, all crimes committed up until this point will be fully pardoned."
Sam blinked, his mind struggling to process her words. He stared at her, uncertainty etched across his face, questioning whether he had truly heard her correctly.
"What?" he asked, his voice a mixture of confusion and disbelief.
"If you willingly enlist in the Militia," Keating repeated, her voice unwavering, "and successfully complete the training, upon the conclusion of your enlistment, you will be granted a full pardon, and your criminal record will be expunged."
Silence enveloped the room as Sam absorbed this unexpected proposition. He closed his eyes, momentarily shutting out the illusory surroundings so he could think without any distractions.
If he agreed to join the Militia, he knew he would eventually be drafted into the United Nations Space Command (UNSC) once the cataclysmic Human-Covenant war erupted. And once he joined, there would be no escaping. A chill ran down Sam's spine as he reflexively rubbed the back of his head, where the neural chip embedded in all UNSC personnel would be implanted. Trying to go AWOL would be a futile endeavor, as the neural chip would let the UNSC track him down, no matter where he fled.
Caught between the relentless pressure of circumstance and the harsh reality of his limited choices, Sam found himself trapped between a rock and a hard place. Whichever path he took, a confrontation with the Covenant seemed unavoidable, looming on the horizon, inevitable and menacing.
If I can't avoid the war...
Sam opened his eyes, a steely resolve taking hold within him.
"Yeah," he declared, his voice laced with a mixture of resignation and determination. "Okay. Sign me up."
Next Chapter Sam joins the Militia!
I know most of the Flash Clones died, but there is a reason for Sam being normal despite being a clone. It's the same reason Samuel-034 is the tallest and strongest Spartan-II.
I wonder if anyone can guess, so if you think you know why, feel free to leave a review!
The next chapter will be posted if the story hits 50 Favs and Follows.
Thanks for reading!