1730 Hours, August 14, 2520 / Spartan Barracks, Reach Military Complex, Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System / Personal Downtime — Leonidas-151
The barracks are quiet.
Too quiet.
Most of the others are still finishing evening PT or buried in diagnostics for tomorrow's sim rotation. I finished early. Pulled triple performance scores in hand-to-hand this week. Mendez didn't say anything.
Which is his version of praise. So, for once, I get an hour to myself.
I sit cross-legged on the footlocker in the corner of the room, the wall-mounted terminal glowing soft blue in front of me. My hands rest lightly on the haptic controls, muscle memory already kicking in.
Titanfall.
Not the newest game in the galaxy—not even this century. But it's mine.
Took weeks of begging Dejá to locate the archived runtime. Even longer to get clearance from ONI's digital security arm to let her spin up an isolated server. No network access. No PvP. No mod support. But she made it work.
The only opponents are AI. Dumb, twitchy, algorithm-bound enemies that bunny hop in the same pattern and try to flank with all the grace of a stunned deer.
I don't care. I'm nine, technically. Mentally older, had to be in order to survive. Emotionally? Somewhere in the middle.
And this? This game is home, more specifically the home I lost. It feels like 2000's Earth again. The world I left behind. The world I missed out on.
The heavy footfalls of a Titan dropping from orbit. The muffled thoomp of pulse rounds. The sprint-slide-snap-pop rhythm of movement I swear was made for kids like me—kids born to run and fight and think faster than the world wants them to.
I pull off a wall-run into a grapple hook swing and land a perfect 360 jump-kick on a bot trying to camp a corner.
Crack.
"Pilot neutralized," the voice says.
I smirk.
The scoreboard pops up. 47 kills. 0 deaths.
"Still got it," I mutter under my breath.
Across the barracks, Fred and Sam are deep in a strategy doc for tomorrow's tactical sim. Kelly's sitting upside-down on her bunk, reading something old and paperbound—no idea how she got that past security.
John walks in mid-match. Sees me, nods once.
No judgment.
He gets it.
He's seen me play.
Dejá chimes in through the terminal's audio: "Performance remains consistent, Leonidas-151. I believe you are ready for the next installment."
I pause. Eyes widening.
"You got Titanfall 2 working?"
"I did. Its campaign mode may interest you. A story of loyalty. A pilot and his Titan."
I lean back and grin. "Sounds like something I'd write."
"I know," Dejá replies. Her tone has a smile buried in it.
I power down the terminal. Let the haptic fade from my fingertips.
With fifteen minutes left on the clock, I decide to walk.
Not far. Just enough to stretch the legs and let the post-sim adrenaline fade. There's a winding path that cuts between the main barracks wings, a concrete corridor flanked by rigid planters filled with sharp-angled flora, the kind that looks decorative but wouldn't hesitate to slice open a bootlace.
They let us have more space now. More privacy. We'd earned it. Years of brutal conditioning, field exercises, combat sims, live fire drills. We were no longer "the children" to ONI. We were assets now. Controlled. Sharpened.
Still just one class. Seventy-six of us. Though there were whispers—hushed rumors of another class coming down the line someday, once they got the funding. If they even could.
I round a corner near the Alpha Wing barracks, where the light starts to dip behind the far structures, casting long, lean shadows across the walls.
That's when I hear it.
Soft, stifled.
Crying.
Not loud. Not broken. The kind that someone doesn't want to let out, but can't quite hold back anymore. The kind you only hear if you're listening.
Crouched low against the far wall is a girl with knees pulled in tight, arms wrapped around them like a failing shield. Her uniform reads Carris-137, but her face is buried too deep to see.
She doesn't hear me approach. Or maybe she does, but doesn't care.
I don't call out. Not yet. I've seen what happens when someone tries to cry alone. They always say they're fine. Always lie first.
Then footsteps behind me. Louder. Sloppier.
Two marines round the same corner from the far side of the perimeter.
Off-duty. Out of place.
Their movements are wrong—uncoordinated, uneven. Laughing too loud. I smell the alcohol before I see the sway in their step. The way they look around like they're not even aware of where they are.
Marines are rarely seen this deep into Spartan housing. It's not forbidden, but it's not a good idea either. There's a mutual distance between us—respect and a little fear on their side, suspicion on ours.
These two either didn't get the memo or are too drunk to care.
One of them spots Carris.
"Hey," he slurs, elbowing the other. "One of the little robo-kids."
The other laughs like it's a joke he's heard before. "Damn, they really do come in girl versions."
I feel my stomach twist.
They walk toward her, casual but fast. One of them makes a vague gesture—too close to a point, too close to a reach. She flinches.
"Hey, kid. You crying? Aw, come on, no need for that. We're just saying hi—"
The second one steps in, more aggressive now, his hand brushing her shoulder. She recoils. He follows.
That's when I move.
I step into their path.
Deliberate. Straight-backed. Hands at my sides.
Regulated. Controlled.
"You're not authorized to be here," I say, my voice calm but loud enough to carry. "This section of the complex is restricted to Spartan personnel only, unless given permission by a superior officer. Article Seven of Reach Garrison Code. You're trespassing."
The one on the left, the talker, pauses—swaying on his feet. He sizes me up. Sees the uniform. The name tag. The number.
Sees a child.
The other doesn't stop.
He grabs Carris by the arm, jerking her upright with zero care. She yelps in pain.
"Hey!" I bark, stepping forward. "Let her go."
The second marine snarls, his face red with booze and something deeper—resentment.
"You freaks think you can bark orders?" He pulls a knife from his belt—compact, utility, sharp—and charges.
My body moves before I think.
Side step. Palm to elbow. Redirect the momentum. Hook his foot with mine and trip.
He stumbles. Hard.
Crunch.
The sound is different. Wet. Final.
I don't process it—not yet.
Carris screams.
The other marine shoves her to the ground and swings at me.
His punch comes high. Wild. Telegraphed.
I duck under it and ram my shoulder into his gut, driving him back. He's heavier. Taller. Full-grown. My feet slide on the pavement as I push.
He recovers fast and swings again—this time low.
I block it with my forearm, then twist his wrist, forcing him off balance.
He tries to bear hug me. Big mistake.
I slip under, pivot, and bring my elbow up under his chin. His head snaps back.
I sweep his legs out from under him and slam him into the ground, hard and fast.
His skull hits the concrete wall of the barracks with a sickening crack.
He stops moving.