SECTION I: REVELATIONS

Chapter Four: The Titan of Reach

1344 Hours, February 21, 2557 (Military Calendar) \
Office of Naval Intelligence Research Station 054323-45 "Prometheus", Location Classified

Commander Atwood brushed his shoulder off: the shirt had some dust on it. Frowning, he turned his attention back to the hologram display. A picture of an older man dominated the top left: he had bronze skin, with dark brown eyes, coarse black stubble, and a clean-shaven head. His jaw was set in grim determination, and his eyes seemed to pulse with raw, physical power. Pulling up the Spartan's physical stats, Atwood let out a low whistle.

Black-Box cleared his throat. "Spartan Moana Ngata, service number 21690-14434-MN. The assault and CQC specialist of Onyx Team, designated Onyx Three. He is also one of the tallest SPARTAN-IVs on record, clocking out at an impressive 2.13 meters." Atwood chuckled: the man, out of armor, was taller than the Master Chief himself. In fact, he was equal or greater in height than a good number of SPARTAN-IIs.

"Born on May 5, 2515, on Europa to descendants of Maori colonists. He was only ten years old when the Covenant destroyed Harvest, his father serving in the Marines at the time. After his father's battalion was destroyed by the Covenant in the ruins of Utgard, his mother fell into a depression and committed suicide in 2531. On May 5, 2533, the date of his eighteenth birthday, Ngata enlisted in the Marine Corps." Copies of Moana's enlistment papers, including a full physical examination, flashed up on the display. Atwood dismissed them with a flick of his fingers.

"After serving three tours against the Covenant, Ngata was recruited for ODST training. After six months of training on Reach, he was deployed as a member of the 9th Shock Troops Battalion. Serving with distinction in nine different campaigns, by 2550, Ngata had been awarded the Silver Star three times, the Bronze Star another seven, and the Purple Heart an astonishing nine times. It appears that Gunnery Sergeant Ngata demonstrated that remarkable Spartan resiliency early on."

Atwood was amazed: Ngata's medical records were extensive, as he was hospitalized in every campaign he took part in. In the battle for Sargasso, he had taken three Needler rounds to the chest and still managed to kill two Brutes before losing consciousness. During the campaign on Paris IV, he served alongside Avery Junior Johnson, the pair cutting a swath through Covenant lines to evacuate a squad of wounded Marines. For his efforts, Ngata was awarded the Colonial Cross and returned to Reach for physical therapy and a mandatory two-month leave."

Atwood knew how this story ends: somehow, Ngata was one of the lucky ones to make it off Reach. He wasn't surprised that the burly ODST was on Reach: it seemed to be a magnet for Onyx Team's future members. At that moment, an ancillary file in Ngata's CSV opened, titled "Colonial Cross Recommendation."

"It was at Reach that Ngata distinguished himself as a true hero of the war. When the Covenant first made landfall, Ngata was deployed as part of the 12th Shock Troops to secure the ultra-secret Sabre launch facility at Farkas Lake. His unit held the site for five days against seventeen waves of Covenant invaders, sustaining ninety-five percent casualties as a result. Ngata reportedly killed three dozen Elites in close-quarters combat, including two Ultras. Confiscating their swords and wielding them with deadly effect, he came to be both feared and respected by the Sangheili warriors. Due to his prowess in combat and imposing height, he was dubbed 'The Titan' by Covenant forces."

Even back then, Atwood discovered, Ngata towered over men at six foot six inches. Several different clips taken from soldiers' helmet cams showed Ngata over the course of the battle at Farkas Lake. One showed him blasting an Elite Minor in the face point-blank with a shotgun, while another depicted him bisecting an Ultra with an energy sword. The Maori was a one man army, racking up a kill count the SPARTAN-IIIs would have been proud of. And he was only an ordinary man.

"The remaining ODSTs were relieved by the arrival of NOBLE Team on August 14, initiating Operation: WHITE GLOVE and torching the Sabre facility. The remnants of the 12th Shock Troops linked up with the 7th stationed in Mohács. The ODSTs, much to their apparent dismay, were ordered to run civilian evacuation through the space elevator outside the city, instead of launching a counteroffensive against the Covenant invaders. On August 29, with Reach's fate all but sealed, the last elevator car, crammed with civilians and two platoons of the 7th Shock Troops, ascended the tether. Aboard that car was none other than Gunnery Sergeant Moana Ngata, who had defended the evacuation site during fourteen hours of near-constant fighting."

Atwood was stunned: Ngata had been fighting for almost as long as the SPARTAN-IIs had, and he was just an ordinary human. "Pull up genetic record for Spartan Ngata." Black-Box did as instructed, opening the Maori's medical file. A complete genetic workup was attached, along with analysis from doctors formerly part of Beta-V, the ONI program formerly responsible for the SPARTAN-IIIs. It appeared that Ngata, just like Rajavi and Huan before him, had superior genetics to most of the SPARTAN-IV recruits, with a stunning seventy-eight percent match with SPARTAN-II genetic protocols. He was well within the margin of error for SPARTAN-III augmentations, one of the doctors noting "if he had been ten years younger, he would have been a prime candidate for Alpha Company."

"Okay Black-Box, resume." The A.I. flashed red to show his discontent, but continued nonetheless.

"Upon returning to Earth, Ngata was hospitalized for severe injuries incurred during the week-long campaign on Reach. Awarded the Colonial Cross for his heroism on Reach, Ngata was promoted to Sergeant Major and granted nearly seven months of mandatory medical leave. He subsequently missed the fighting on Earth, his hospital ship scrambling on a random vector upon the Covenant's arrival. The ODST was declared fit for active duty in late March 2553, and immediately volunteered for a combat role. His requests fell on deaf ears as he was shifted into training new ODSTs to combat the growing Insurrection. However, Spartan Command offered him a place in the second class of SPARTAN-IVs. He began training as part of Delta Company in November 2554, eventually joining Fireteam Onyx."

When Black-Box ended his narration, Atwood pulled up the end of Ngata's CSV. Delta Company: he had seen that before in the previous two Spartans' records. But the files ended with the Spartans' recruitment, leaving Atwood with very little information regarding the detachment.

"Black-Box, what do you know about Delta Company?"

"You do realize I'm not actually Black-Box, right? I'm merely a copy of his subroutines designed to assist you. As such, I do not have access to his full bank of memories." Atwood bit his lip as he thought this out. The "dumb" A.I. was right: there was no way to access the information he wanted to see.

So his question still remained: what the hell is Delta Company?

Onyx Three stepped out of his fireteam's barracks, sweeping his head left and right. I take a half-hour nap, and Huan runs off like a petulant child. He needed to make sure she didn't hurt anyone in her anger: her simmering rage was well-known to the Maori member of Onyx. I've been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count.

The hulking Maori walked through the deserted halls, his footsteps booming in the ominous silence. At 137.9 kilograms, Moana Ngata was easily the largest Spartan of his class, and maybe even the SPARTAN-IIIs as well. Many compared his physicality to that of a SPARTAN-II. He was what the Spartans were meant to be: walking tanks.

Of course, I can move a hell of a lot faster than most people think. It was true: he could still keep up with his smaller comrades. Even Huan had trouble sparring with him, his impressive combination of raw strength and precise blows making him a worthy adversary. He was well-suited to his role as Onyx's CQB specialist.

After nearly twenty minutes of stalking through the corridors in search of Huan, Ngata threw his hands up in defeat. That's when he heard grunting and shouting echoing from down the hall. Sounds like a fight. I wonder who it is.

Ngata broke out into a full-out sprint, flying down the hall in hopes of stopping the fight. Especially if it's Huan. After a few seconds tearing down the corridor, he reached the room marked "Storage Room I-17." Inputting a basic command code into the keypad, he tore into the room, looking for signs of a struggle.

He was disappointed to see that the supposed fight was just a group of Marines joking around and using punching bags to work on their form. They somehow didn't notice the massive Spartan run into the room, too caught up in their activities. Moana turned to leave, but something compelled him to stay. The Maori stayed in the door frame, watching the Marines throw powerful combinations at the sand-filled punching bags. The sound of fists slapping against canvas brought back memories, a warm rush of consciousness flowing into his mind.

0832 Hours, September 3, 2554 (Military Calendar) \
ODST Headquarters, Kenosha, Tanais, Mars

Moana hit the bag again, grimacing at the pain radiating from his hand. He had been in the gym for nearly three hours now, taking advantage of his free time to let out some stress. After running for an hour and a half on the treadmill, he had hit the weights for another hour before sparring with the bag. The titanic Maori wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead, the salt stinging the cuts on his knuckles.

Unlike most boxers, Moana rarely used gloves, instead choosing to wrap his hand in specialized cloth designed to absorb kinetic energy. The ODST did this for a simple reason: gloves shielded the hands, something a soldier didn't have in combat. Even in his bodysuit, his hands wouldn't be fully protected. He just thought it would be prudent to train as he would fight, if it came to that.

Moana stepped back into his stance, his fights hovering in front of him. He fired off two light jabs, spinning around into a kick that violently shook the punching bag. The Maori was breathing hard at this point, nearly three hours of relentless physical activity starting to get to him. Haven't felt this worn out since Reach.

The Maori continued his fight against the phantom opponent, ducking and weaving from imaginary blows. A right hook that sounded more like a thunderclap than a punch sent pain radiating up his tired arm. He winced at the pain, stopping to flex his fingers and feel for any damage.

"Giving that bag a run for its money, eh, Sergeant Major?" The seasoned ODST spun around to find a man dressed in fatigues standing behind him. Moana took in everything in a glance. The man was Caucasian, with brilliant red hair and vibrant green eyes. A scar ran from his left ear down to beyond his shirt line. Even more bizarre, he was only millimeters shorter than Ngata, who stood at almost two meters himself.

The man smiled and stepped towards Ngata, his footsteps thundering in the empty gym. The ODST frowned at the mysterious stranger's approach. His steps sounded like his bones were made of titanium. The man chuckled at Ngata's confusion, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "You got me. You Helljumpers know how to pick us out of a crowd."

Us? What the hell does he…? Oh my god. A deep, dark chuckle escaped the Maori's lips as he turned back around to spar with the bag again. "What do you want, Spartan?"

"First, I'd like to say it's an honor to meet you, sir. I've read your file: you're a legend!" The man's voice cracked, startling the ODST. How old is he? The Maori Helljumper continued to hit the bag, intrigued by the young Spartan.

"My name is Albert, and I'm here with a proposition for you, Sergeant." What the hell does a Spartan want with me?

Even though he couldn't see Albert, Ngata heard the telltale clicks of a datapad in use. "It says here that you've applied for reassignment seven times. Each time, your superiors cited your lasting injuries and years of continuous combat against the Covenant as reasons to keep you in a training position. However, every single one of your physicals has shown that you're in prime condition. There seems to be no lasting damage that would hamper you in combat, but yet here you are."

Ngata's punches became a little more forceful as he remembered the indignity of his reassignment. The higher ups had said something about giving vets a chance to retire, be with their families. He had refused their retirement package: his parents had died a long time ago, and his few remaining comrades were the closest thing he had to a family in this world. Then, the brass took them away too, shipping him off to train ODSTs on Mars while the remaining members of his squad were deployed in the Outer Colonies. Those assholes are putting me out to pasture.

Ever since the end of the war, many soldiers who had fought since the beginning of the conflict nearly thirty years prior were forced into retirement or taken off the frontlines. The UNSC had no use for older, battle-hardened warriors like Ngata: with power shifting into civilian hands for the first time in decades, emphasis was placed on rebuilding Earth's extrasolar empire. For that, they needed new blood, with soldiers whose first battle was on Earth taking the forefront of humanity's expansion. Well, them and the Spartans.

A few months after the war ended, the UNSC unveiled its SPARTAN-IV program with a daring counterassault on Insurrectionist elements spread throughout the colony of New London. The vital Inner Colony world had become the UNSC's new fortress world following Reach's fall, and it was under threat of rebellion from several factions of the URF. Undeterred, the UNSC deployed nearly one hundred Spartan operators against the nascent insurrection. In over two dozen operations across the colony, the newly commissioned SPARTAN-IVs claimed victory over the Insurrectionists.

Humanity had been amazed at the revelation of more Spartans. Despite ONI's best efforts, it became somewhat widely known in military circles that the Master Chief, Spartan-117, had been the only Spartan to survive until the end of the war. Ngata had heard whispers of a second program, some ONI black ops division creating more Spartans, but he didn't believe it. Until Albert had walked in the door.

Ngata, ever the seasoned veteran, had come to his conclusions thirty seconds after the Spartan walked in the door. The Spartan might have been tall, but he couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. In addition, he didn't walk or act like a SPARTAN-IV: many of that generation were veterans, ODSTs or other special forces units being prime candidates for the program. Why would any of them be impressed by his service record? Sure, two Colonial Crosses was good and all, but he was just an ODST. A Spartan was something else entirely. But there was only one way to prove his theory, and the kid wasn't going to like it.

"Sergeant Ngata?" The kid interrupted him again. The Maori swung around to deliver a swift blow to the Spartan, only to have his fist caught in a vice-like grip. Knew it. Staring into the kid's eyes, he still saw the fearsome gaze of a warrior, and the scars proved he had seen the business end of a Brute weapon. "Okay, kid, you can let me go now."

Albert obliged, the Helljumper massaging his bruised knuckles. Chucking softly, Ngata walked over to grab his towel and water bottle. He plopped down on a stool next to the bag, Albert following close behind. "So, you're not a Spartan-IV for sure. But I thought the last of the original Spartans died on Reach."

Albert grimaced at the mention of "original Spartans." "Well, I'm not exactly original, but I'm just as good. Spartan Albert-G079 at your service." Ngata's teeth bared in a wolfish grin. I knew it.

"What's your unit?" Albert shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his feet. "Formerly Gamma Company, Fireteam Claymore. Now I'm part of Spartan branch, just like the remaining SPARTAN-IIIs." There it was: SPARTAN-IIIs.

"What exactly do you mean by SPARTAN-IIIs?" Albert shifted again: he was nervous. Ngata pushed forward. "Come on kid, I'm not ONI." At that, the Spartan seemed to find his resolve, standing fully upright with his fists clenched at his sides.

"Idea came back in 2531, with ONI realizing there were too few Spartans to turn the tide. They decided to create the SPARTAN-IIIs as a mass deployed unit, designed to take on high-risk missions. Alpha Company took down a Covenant shipyard, Beta Company a refueling station on Pegasi Delta. Both companies suffered near-complete casualties, but succeeded in their missions."

Ngata was stunned: Spartans sent on suicide missions? From what Ngata had seen in the war, Spartans were meant to be bringers of death, clad in the myth of invincibility. Even Noble Team, who Ngata knew weren't SPARTAN-IIs, were a highly skilled group capable of dealing immense damage to the Covenant. The idea of throwing away Spartans for the sake of damaging the Covenant, even grievously, was mind boggling.

"So what did Gamma Company do?" Ngata's question, for once, didn't seem to phase the young Spartan. "About a week after Earth was invaded, we got the call to be shipped out. My team and five others were deployed to fight off Covenant forces landing on Luna. We lost eleven Spartans over the course of five days, but eventually, the Covenant just left. After our superiors figured out that the Covenant was redeploying all their forces to East Africa, ONI deployed the remaining hundred and seventy or so of us to Nairobi. We were ordered to take a Covenant battlecruiser hovering over the plains to the south of Voi. I lost every remaining member of my team that day."

"How many of your company survived?" Albert let out a derisive snort. "Less than fifty. We were chewed to pieces by the cruiser's defenses, and by the time we even got in the ship, we had lost nearly half of our assault force. ONI called us off a few hours later, saying that the situation had changed. I was attached to some Marine unit on its way to Voi, but by the time we got there, the city was already glassed. The remaining members of Gamma Company were supposed to be returned to our training facility, but the damn thing had been destroyed by the Covenant. So, ONI handed us over to Spartan branch a few months later. The rest is history."

Ngata was amazed: at just fifteen years old, the kid had survived battles that would have broken any full-grown man and gone to continue his war against the Covenant. I guess that Spartan spirit carried over to the next class. Ngata only wondered what the hell he could do for this hero.

"What do you want, Spartan?" He repeated the question from earlier, this time with more deference to the teenaged supersoldier. Albert grinned, grabbing his datapad off the ground from when he dropped it during Ngata's abortive attack. Punching in a command once more, he activated the device's holoprojectors.

An image of a Spartan clad in armor appeared above the pad, bringing its assault rifle to bear on an imaginary enemy. "We need more of them. Spartans. HIGHCOM just approved funding for a new batch of the IVs, and my commanders ordered me to recruit twenty of the best soldiers the UNSC has to offer. So instead of bashing in Elites' skulls like I should be, I'm stuck here until I get you to sign up." Ngata looked at the Spartan inquisitively. "You're my twentieth," the Spartan answered. "Saving the best for last, you know."

Ngata smiled at the praise. For all his Spartan training, the kid seemed to do a good deal of hero worship. It was ironic in so many ways, considering the Spartan could floor Ngata with a single blow. Well, maybe two. "So, are you in, Sergeant Major?"

Ngata couldn't believe it: after two years of sitting on his ass, he could finally rejoin the fight. And as a Spartan no less. It was a dream come true.

"Sergeant Major Ngata?" Albert's hand waved in front of the ODST's face. Ngata snapped out of his trance and stood up. Albert took a step back, thinking that the man was about to attack him. Instead, Ngata's hand shot forward to grasp the young Spartan's in a firm shake.

"Sign me up. And it's not Sergeant Major anymore: I think Spartan has a better ring to it."

1407 Hours, February 21, 2557 (Military Calendar) \
Office of Naval Intelligence Research Station 054323-45 "Prometheus", Location Classified

Ngata stepped out of the room, letting the door shut slowly behind him. It had been nearly two and a half years since Albert had signed him up for the program, and the Spartan still remembered the sheer joy he felt that day. For the first time since the war ended, he had a purpose again: to be a Spartan.

As an ODST, he had been the rare member of the elite corps who didn't hate the "freaks" of the Navy. They were soldiers just like him, and they deserved respect for their accomplishments. Without them, humanity wouldn't have lasted past the 2540s, let alone survived the war. Spartan-117 and his brethren were heroes, plain and simple.

Ngata looked down at his hands, remembering the power he felt after undergoing his augmentations. Much to his delight, he could now truly box without gloves, his bones nearly unbreakable. He laughed as he remembered punching a hole clear through the first punching bag he tried to use. The look of shock on his DI's face was priceless.

The former Helljumped looked up to see Yasmin walking ahead of him. Without a second's hesitation, he jogged up to meet her. Maybe she had something interesting to do.

"An interesting specimen. The Titan of Reach: I like the name, even if it is a bit ostentatious." Black-Box swiveled to look at Atwood, who seemed deep in thought. "Commander Atwood?"

The ONI officer jerked, swept out of his trance by the A.I. fragment. He had been thinking: why were such highly qualified Spartans being sent out here on guard duty? Sure, security was paramount at Prometheus, but any team of Spartans would have sufficed. They didn't need to send a Cat-II team out here to be what amounted to highly lethal security guards. What was ONI's game?

If only he could access the files on the Spartans post-augmentation, he could get some answers. All the Commander knew was that Onyx was originally part of a larger, platoon-sized force called Delta Company. Atwood assumed that it was in deference to the planned S-III Delta Company, but he couldn't be sure of anything without the goddamn files. Oh well.

"Open the next one, BB. We've got two more to go."

Author's Note:

Another member of Team Onyx introduced. I hoped you liked the story of Spartan Moana Ngata. He's kind of a badass, with a lot of experience fighting the Covenant. Besides, he's already kind of half a Spartan already, what with being six foot six inches and all. Also, fighting Elites hand-to-hand pre-augmentation: kind of unrealistic, but you've got to remember that humans are pretty resourceful, and Ngata was rated as being compatible with S-III genetic protocols.

Anyways, we've got three more chapters in Section I, then we move onto the main story. I'm really excited to get to Malurok, but that will be some time away. But when we get there, I promise the battle won't focus only on the Spartans: I've planned an epic naval battle as well.

The next chapter, "Hitting the Mark," will be up as soon as possible. I've really been focusing on this story, because of Halo 5 promos exciting the hell out of me. But I promise that I will start working on my LOK/Avengers crossover again. Until then, see ya!