1930 Hours, January 5, 2000 / Herman Melville Elementary School, New York, Earth / After-School Pick Up
It's cold. The kind of cold that makes your teeth vibrate and your nose run like it's got places to be.
Me and Mark are walking out of the big brown doors of Melville Elementary, our backpacks thudding against our coats like they're trying to get our attention. He's holding my hand because Mom said to make sure he doesn't wander, but really, it's because he still thinks I'm cool. He's seven. That'll wear off fast.
Today was LEGO robotics. Mine blew up. Not in a good way. Mr. Halvorsen said we weren't allowed to use battery packs from RC cars anymore. But if you're not melting plastic, are you even learning?
We pass under the flickering streetlight at the crosswalk. There's a "slow children" sign nearby with a stick figure that looks more like a ghost giving up on life. Mark's humming the Pokémon theme under his breath. He's out of rhythm. It's bugging me.
I point across the street. "There she is."
Mom's old silver Corolla is parked next to the curb. Her hazard lights are blinking like a sleepy robot. She's in the driver's seat, sipping something from her thermos, probably that gas station coffee she always says she's quitting.
We step off the curb. Then I hear it, an engine. Too fast. A growl, no, a scream. I turn, only catching a glimpse of a red blur. Headlights barrel towards me. No time, it is too close.
"Mark!" I shove him. Not like a push, like throwing a dodgeball with all the angry energy of a fourth grader whose teacher just gave weekend math.
He yells, trips over his shoes, hits the sidewalk.
And then there's—
Everything.
Light. Sound. Pain. No pain.
Something crunches. Something rips.
Then it's like the world took a photo and forgot to unfreeze it. The car—the red one—it's stopped. The windshield's cracked like spiderwebs. My legs... I can't see my legs. I feel wet. My brain's still trying to do math.
A guy in a dark suit with messy hair stumbles out of the car. He's got a goatee like the dads on TV. He's muttering something, slurring. His eyes are glassy. I smell alcohol. Motor oil. Metal. He crouches near me, mouth moving too fast. "Oh no, oh no. Kid—hey—kid—can you—uh... shit—call someone—oh god."
Mark's screaming. People are running. The man—he looks like he's trying not to throw up. And that's when I realize something weird. Not that I just got hit by a car. Not that my arm feels like a noodle. It's that I'm still holding Mark's backpack strap in my hand. Guess I didn't let go.
Everything hurts.
Not in a stub-your-toe way. In a I-might-be-toast way. But I can't move. Can't scream. My mouth is trying, but nothing's coming out except a breath that sounds like a dying balloon.
Sirens. Blue and red lights smear across the black sky like someone's using bad crayons.
"Stay with me, kid! What's your name?!" That voice isn't Mom's. It's sharp. Fast. Man voice. I think he's got a badge. EMT? My brain's foggy. He's pressing something against my side. It burns.
My head tilts on its own. Mark's there. Crying so hard his nose is bubbling. Mom's on her knees, arms wrapped around him, face twisted. Screaming something. Then crying. Then screaming again.
I want to say I'm okay. I really do. I open my mouth. Nothing. Not a sound. Just a crack of air.
They put me on something flat. The street disappears. Lights above me blur and slide by like stars.
1947 Hours, January 5, 2000 / Emergency Room, New York Medical Center, Earth / Trauma Admission
Bumps. Doors. Cold air. Beeping.
I'm on a bed now. Rolling. Fast. People in white and blue yelling codes I don't understand.
"BP crashing—"
"Prep OR three—"
Hands over my face. Needles. Tape. But I see it—Just past the swinging door of the OR. Three silhouettes. The red car guy is one of them. He looks like a kicked puppy in a billion-dollar suit. Two others stand with him—suits like Men in Black. Earpieces. Phones. Important haircuts.
My mom is in his face. A nurse tries to hold her back.
"You were drunk—do you know what you've DONE?!"
"I didn't—Ma'am—I didn't see him—"
"You're Tony Stark, for God's sake! You have everything! How could you—"
He stares at the ground. Doesn't answer. The other two are already pulling out checkbooks. Lawyers. Damage control.
"Ms. Grayson, Stark Industries will cover all the bills and provide a stipend for your family for any work missed while visiting your son."
I hear words float through the haze building in my head. The room gets brighter and a loud buzzing screams in my ears. My vision blurs.
"Like we said...Stark Industries..."
"...liability..."
"...cover medical, legal, all of it..."
None of that makes sense to me. I just want to go home. I blink once. Try to turn my head. Fail.
Heavy.
Then—
It's like sleep. But deeper.
No dreams.
No light.
Just…
Nothing.
[UNKNOWN TIME] / [UNKNOWN LOCATION] / [UNKNOWN STATUS]
My eyes snap open. There's no ceiling above me—just sky. Purple-blue, like it's dusk, but glowing weird. Soft. It's quiet. Too quiet.
I blink. Once. Twice. My chest isn't tight anymore. My legs don't ache. Nothing hurts.
I'm lying on cold pavement between two buildings. Walls stretch up like teeth on either side. Something buzzes softly overhead. A sign in a weird language scrolls across a storefront nearby in glowing letters, but I can't read it. Neon lights hum from the edges of windows. This... this looks like New York. Kind of.
But cleaner. Shinier. Like a movie set. Like someone tried to build Times Square out of metal and LED strips.
I push myself up with shaky hands. This isn't the hospital. This isn't New York.
"M-Mom?" I croak.
No answer. No cars. Just footsteps echoing somewhere down the street. I stumble out of the alley into the sidewalk. My backpack's gone. My coat, too. I'm still wearing my school clothes, but they're too clean. No blood. No rips.
I start crying.
Not loud. Just the kind where your throat feels tight and your nose starts leaking and everything in your brain yells help. I want to go home. I want Mark. I want to wake up in my bed and laugh about this at breakfast.
"Hey—did you hear that?"
Two people turn the corner. Tall. Black armor with bright blue lights on the shoulders. Big helmets with full visors. They look like... stormtroopers? No. Police. One of them's holding a tablet. The other's scanning the alley I just came from.
They see me.
"Hey, buddy," one says, crouching down slowly like I'm a squirrel he doesn't wanna scare off. "Are you okay? Where're your parents?"
I open my mouth. Everything wants to come out at once. "I-I don't know—I was at school—and then there was a car—red—and it hit me—and I was bleeding—but I woke up here and—"
"Whoa whoa—breathe, kid," the other one says, kneeling next to me. "You're safe now. What's your name?"
"Leonidas."
They glance at each other behind their visors.
"Alright, Leonidas. Can you tell us what year you were born?"
"Nineteen ninety-four."
The kneeling cop tilts his head. "Say that again?"
"Nineteen ninety-four," I repeat, voice shaky.
More silence. They don't believe me. I can feel it.
The standing one mutters into his comms. "Yeah, we've got a foundling. Male, approx age six to seven. Claims birth year nineteen ninety-four. Copy that. Sending medical support."
The one beside me puts a hand on my shoulder. "You're probably confused, kid. Might've had a knock on the head. We're gonna get you checked out, alright?"
I nod, but I'm already crying again.
[UNKNOWN TIME] / [Elysium City Pediatric Hospital, Eridanus II] / Emergency Intake
The ambulance was sleek. White and blue. No sirens, just a humming engine. The windows weren't glass—they were holo-screens showing the street outside.
Inside the hospital, everything smelled like metal and plastic and pine cleaner. Nurses poked and scanned and checked things I didn't understand. One woman said something about my vitals being "ideal," but "chronological mismatch" flagged on her screen.
Then a man in a suit showed up. Not a cop. Not a doctor. He smiled too wide.
"Hi, Leonidas. My name is Mr. Karras. I'm with Child Protective Services. We're gonna help you, okay?"
"Where's my mom?"
"We're still looking. Do you remember her name?"
I told him.
He frowned. Tapped his tablet. "No matches in UEG citizen databases. That's alright. These things take time."
Later, I heard a nurse whisper something about vaccines. Something about how I had no UEG-standard nanoshot records. They thought I was from an unregistered colony. Or worse—maybe born in a Sovereign Holdout.
That's when they told me.
"You're going to stay at a nice place with other kids for a little while," Mr. Karras said, "just until we find your family. It's called the Elysium Transitional Care Center. You'll like it there."
I didn't believe him.
But I was too scared to argue.
1030 Hours, September 23, 2517 / Elysium Transitional Orphanage, Elysium City, Eridanus II / Candidate Evaluation, Phase One (Spartan-II Program)
The building is clean. Artificial. Polished to give the illusion of warmth—wood-patterned flooring, soft pastel colors, strategically placed plants. All fabricated comfort. I can see the outlines of the security cameras tucked into the corners. The recycled air still carries the scent of sterility. Institutions always smell the same, no matter the veneer.
I walk beside Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Keyes, who currently plays the role of my adoring husband. He's effective. Convincing. Quiet, but authoritative enough to be taken seriously. Our wedding rings are plain titanium bands. Just enough detail to suggest authenticity.
The front desk personnel are cooperative, as expected. Our documentation is flawless.
"We're looking into adoption," I say. "We're unable to have children of our own."
Not a lie. Simply not the entire truth.
We're led through two sets of reinforced glass doors, past a row of children's common rooms, and toward a private visiting suite. The walls are painted with holographic images of smiling families and cartoon animals. Someone has decided giraffes are comforting.
As we walk, I review the candidate dossier in my neural implant. Subject ID: GRAYSON, LEONIDAS.
Origin: Unknown.
Date entered UEG records: 53 days ago.
Location found: Alley, Elysium Sector 4.
Clothing: Outdated child uniform of unknown Earth-based institution.
Claimed birth year: 1994.
Verified medical records: None.
DNA analysis: 98.7% compatibility with Spartan-II program parameters.
A near-perfect archetype. Strong genetic baseline. Unexplainable temporal mismatch. And of course, the name—Leonidas. Either a disturbing coincidence or some poetic stroke of fate.
I do not believe in fate.
The door hisses open.
He's already seated at the small table. Two chairs. A pitcher of water. Drawing paper. No crayons. ONI's instructions, no doubt. They want clarity, not distractions.
Leonidas Grayson stands as we enter. Instinctively polite. Good sign. He's a Caucasian male, but I can see the traces of Korean ancestry in his cheekbones, the almond taper of his eyes. Black hair—straight, thick, slightly overgrown. Black eyes. Uncommon. Piercing.
He is taller than the other six-year-olds in our candidate pool. Not by much, but enough to take note. His posture is upright. Controlled. He watches us like he's sizing us up, not out of fear—out of calculation.
"Hi," he says simply, with the faintest trace of a New York accent, still soft at the edges. "Are you really looking to adopt?"
"We are," I say, keeping my tone warm. Not too warm.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"Catherine. This is Jacob."
He nods. "Nice to meet you."
Polite again. Almost rehearsed. Not performative. Surviving.
I sit across from him and fold my hands. "Tell me, Leonidas… What do you think makes someone a good person?"
He thinks for a second, too long for a child his age.
"Doing the right thing… even if it's hard."
"And how do you know what the right thing is?"
He shrugs slightly, but there's no deflection in his tone. "You just… feel it. In your chest."
Emotionally driven moral compass. Unrefined but rooted in personal conviction. No mention of rules or punishment.
"And what do you think makes someone strong?"
He tilts his head. "Protecting people who can't protect themselves."
Keyes flicks a glance at me. I ignore it.
"Would you ever lie to protect someone?" I ask.
"If I had to," he says. "But I don't like lying."
I lean back, letting the silence sit for a second. He doesn't squirm. He looks between us, not out of discomfort, but because he's watching for intent.
This child is not average. He is not even normal. He is adapting—rapidly. Fitting into a system he does not understand, in a world that should not exist by his own timeline. He is surviving, because he refuses to do anything else.
He is perfect.
"Thank you for speaking with us, Leonidas," I say as I rise from the table.
He stands again, that same awkward poise of a boy trying to behave like a man. "Are you really gonna adopt me?"
I pause for half a second. "We're considering all our options carefully."
His face tightens just slightly. The kind of tension a child shouldn't know how to hide.
Keyes offers a softer smile, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You're a sharp kid, Leo. Take care of yourself."
He nods, but says nothing. I can feel his eyes on us as we leave the room. Watching. We're escorted to two more children for "comparison"—a girl from Arcadia and a boy born on Luna. We spend five minutes asking superficial questions, offering hollow smiles and parent-like concern.
The moment the orphanage director believes our act, we excuse ourselves.
1120 Hours / Civilian Shuttle Terminal, Upper Elysium Platform
The walk to the shuttle is uneventful. No one follows. No watchers. No interference.
We board silently, the side thrusters humming softly as it lifts off from the docking ring. Once we're mid-atmosphere, Jacob finally speaks.
"That kid," he says, turning from the viewport, "Leonidas. Something about him was… off."
I glance up from my datapad. "Define 'off.'"
"Not in a bad way. Just—he didn't feel like the other kids. Didn't act like them. Too serious. Like he's playing a part."
I nod slightly. "He is. He's had to."
Keyes narrows his eyes at me. "You think he's really from New York? Earth? That '1994' thing?"
"I think," I reply calmly, "that it's possible."
He blinks. "Seriously?"
"I have no evidence," I continue, tapping on my screen, "and neither does ONI. No records. No genetic trail. No planetary registry. But too many details lineup too well for it to be a fabricated identity."
"So you believe him?"
"I believe he believes it," I say. "And that makes him more dangerous—and more valuable—than he knows."
The shuttle levels out. A soft rumble hums through the floor.
I close my datapad. "Do you remember what I told you after we met John?"
"That I was being brought in because I could keep secrets."
"And I expect you to keep this one."
Keyes leans back and exhales, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Right."
[CLASSIFIED — EYES ONLY]
Office of Naval Intelligence — Section Three
Report 17-0923-HALSEY-INIT-SPARTANII
Subject: Final Candidate Selection — SPARTAN-II Program
Prepared by: Dr. Catherine Elizabeth Halsey
Date: 23 SEP 2517
Clearance Level: BLACK-ULTRA
SUMMARY:
Seventy-six (76) candidates identified, screened, and approved for immediate acquisition. Subject selection was based on psychometric profiles, genetic compatibility, and projected neurological plasticity.
One (1) anomalous candidate included: GRAYSON, LEONIDAS.
Subject GRAYSON lacks verifiable UEG origin. Discrepancies include:
No birth record
No medical history
No vaccination nanolog
Claimed birth year: 1994
Claimed origin: New York, Earth
Entry into Elysium records: 53 days ago
Subject displays accelerated cognitive development, advanced moral reasoning, and sociocultural knowledge inconsistent with civilian orphanage exposure.
Despite temporal and origin anomalies, genetic and psychological metrics place Subject GRAYSON within top 0.01% of viability for Spartan augmentation and operational adaptability.
Candidate approved for acquisition. All traces to be sanitized. Cover family to be deployed post-abduction.
ACTION ITEMS:
Authorize mobilization of capture teams for all 76 candidates.
Initiate replacement clone production.
Prep cryosleep for transport to FLEETCOM Installations on Reach.
Begin Phase II: Augmentation Trial Planning.
— END REPORT —