The Onyx Chronicles/A Path Not Walked

“How many of them this time?” Callum-B042’s eyes were set on the field below, a familiar arrangement of featureless cubes arranged across a large area intended to simulate an urban environment. Inside a labyrinth of gray, two teams of five children duked it out. From carbines larger than most of their torsos, the boys and girls loosed volleys of Tactical Training Rounds back and forth, most shots doing little more than splattering the paint rounds across the surface of the environment.
Their aim was sloppy, their formation non-existent, their tactics juvenile. But the kids were only a year and a half in now, their lessons hadn’t truly taken hold yet, they did not murmur callouts in their sleep yet, or instinctively check each and every corner of a room. In fact, the teams they were in now likely had only just been formed, so he gave them a subconscious pass. The children of Fireteams Machete and Glaive were exempt from his judgment, for now.
“Three hundred thirty, no cuts yet.” The voice that answered was as familiar as it was stern, but there was something almost fatherly to it now that’d been absent all the years Callum had been the one down in the gray maze. He almost worried that Senior Chief Mendez was going soft on him, but Tom-B292 had assured him that this was just how he was once they’d graduated. Maybe he didn't have to hide how he felt anymore, or maybe it was just guilt. 
“Dropouts?” Callum questioned, turning his gaze to the Senior Drill Instructor for the SPARTAN-III Project. The fact no cuts had been made surprised him, Gamma Company must’ve been something else to have gone that long without losing a few kids to the cut. Beta certainly hadn’t fared that well, but Callum wondered if that had more to do with those in charge of Gamma than the children within it. Ambrose and Mendez didn’t want to give up on a single one of the new blood from what Tom had told him.
“Had a few who wouldn’t jump, but that was it. Not a one has given up since, got a runt or two thinking about it though.” Mendez gave a chuckle and shook his head. “I’ll run that idea outta their minds, don’t worry.”
Callum nodded, and a small smile formed on his lips, but it was a facade at best, even if his instructor’s words brought up what were now fond memories of Abdul-B213 and himself running until they puked, and then running some more as punishment for some antic. But Abdul was dead, all his friends were dead, and Callum was alone now among the ghosts.
“Were we that sloppy back then?” He asked, turning his gaze back down to the arena where a boy vaulted over a bit of cover with his carbine ready, TTR meeting him mid-transition and laying him out flat. Callum could feel that sting. When they were that small, body armor hadn’t been provided, they’d worn the bruises the TTR gave them as a badge of simultaneous pride and shame. But, like they had when they’d been that small, all the boy was doing now was crying. Nothing ever prepared you for how bad it hurt. 
“You were sloppier. Could barely shoulder your rifle until right about now, then Deiter had the bright idea to hand you a shotgun.” Callum was surprised Mendez even remembered, the threes were not their predecessors, the two preceding companies had been three hundred strong to the SPARTAN-II’s barely seventy-something. He wasn’t sure how Mendez could possibly recall such minute details, yet he did. Again he almost smiled, but he remembered how Deiter had screamed, and the light in Callum’s eyes died again. Mendez saw it, even if he didn’t say it, he did.
“I grew into it, they will too.” The Spartan noted with a half shrug, watching as two girls each rounded a corner at the same time, coming face to face. One lunged for the other, and the other promptly shot her. Before the girl could touch the ground, one of her teammates came around behind her, carbine barking madly and pelting the shooter. It made Callum grimace ever so slightly, there would be bitterness over that.
“I’ll be sure of it. Could always use an extra hand though.” He’d known that was coming, no doubt Mendez and Ambrose both had seen the After Action Report from Sargasso, they knew how badly he’d botched things. It hurt his pride to hear the offer, even if he knew that wasn’t the intention. They didn’t think Callum could make it in the field, not on his own. Or they just genuinely wanted him there on Onyx, it didn’t matter either way.
“Can’t, I have my mission Senior Chief, need to sit through.” Even without looking to his former instructor, he could feel him narrowing his gaze, and tilting his head. Frustration and confusion usually came out one in the same from Franklin Mendez.
“What mission supersedes ensuring those coming after you are better equipped than you were? If this is about that spook handler, he’s in enough shit, the Commander and I can have you reassigned, you don’t have to do this proceedu-”
“I want to do this, Senior Chief.” Callum interjected, every part of his mind screaming at him for daring to cut off the man whose rule he’d lived under for the majority of his young life.
“Why? Answer me Spartan, what’s more important than this? What mission is greater than all you can do here?” Mendez pressed him, demanding answers how he’d once demanded perfection. Callum hadn’t satisfied him then either.
“The mission is to make sure they have no mission, Senior Chief.” Callum’s eyes hadn’t left the trainees, even as the exercise came to a close. He didn’t remember which of the teams was which, but he watched with grief-tinged nostalgia as they lifted one another up, smiles spreading across their faces as they tried to find a reason to laugh. The DI’s would PT them for it, but it never mattered, they’d smile together in that too.
“Callum, son, I know a lie when I hear it.” He wasn’t used to Mendez using his name, Callum couldn’t even think of a time Mendez had used it before then. He’d always been Trainee, and then Spartan, but never his own name. From Mendez, the word was as alien as the Covenant. Callum turned to look the seasoned instructor in the eye, lifting an eyebrow as if to dare him to continue, and Franklin Mendez did not miss a beat.
“Revenge has no place on a battlefield.” He reminded Callum, though that left the Spartan bristling. They’d been recruited on the promise of revenge, and MAGICIAN understood what Mendez didn’t. He was too old, had lost too much, Callum could not let the deaths go unanswered that the Mendez could.
“It’s not about that, it’s about them, I’m protecting the-” Before his voice could rise any higher, Mendez brought up a hand to stop him, a stern look in his eyes that froze the teenager in his tracks. It was practically muscle memory.
“Do not justify what you are doing with those trainees, Spartan. You dying on some nameless battlefield won’t help them, and it won’t stop them from having to fight. All you can do is make them ready. Callum, they aren’t even equipping you properly for goddamn budgetary concerns. Stay here, help them in a way that matters.” The man was pleading with him, and as Callum’s expression faded into sorrow, his eyes turned back out to the arena.
Two more teams entered: Macihuitil and Shamshir. Both sets of children stuck tightly to one another as they entered the simulation, and Callum again saw himself in their place. He could still remember exactly what it’d been like to be where they were. He still felt the sweat on his skin, the weight of the weapon in his young arms, and the strength he found in those standing beside him.
Then he remembered how they’d screamed when they died, how Marcella had writhed in agony, how Dieter had cried out as defiance turned to fear, and how Abdul had made no sound at all. He felt the heat of Pegasi burning, and the cowardice that had driven him to run. Then all he could feel was the shame, and his expression hardened once more.
“Negative Senior Chief, you didn’t train us to leave jobs unfinished."