Military Calendar March 12, 2517, 1400 Hours
Planet Harvest, Victor Agricultural District, Reynolds Family Farm
The moment of death isn’t as drawn out as people imagine.
No life flashing before your eyes, no tunnel of white light—only the heavy, dull thud inside the chest when the heart stops, followed by boundless darkness.
Ethan didn’t know how long he drifted in that abyss.
Maybe a second, maybe a century.
Time lost all meaning in such void.
It wasn’t until a beam of sunlight pierced his eyelids, warm almost to the point of burning, that he realized he was waking up.
The smell of hay.
The earthy scent of soil.
Something crowing in the distance—not a car horn, not a phone chime, but a rooster.
Ethan opened his eyes.
He saw a sky so impossibly blue it defied belief.
No smog, no artificial domes, no obstructions—just a pure, vast, suffocatingly blue sky.
High noon sun poured down, painting the surrounding haystacks in gold.
He tried to sit up, only to find his body refusing to cooperate.
It wasn’t paralyzed, just entirely wrong.
Arms too short, legs too short, fingers too small—he raised a hand and saw the small, grubby hand of a six-year-old child.
Dirt was caked beneath his fingernails, and a light scrape ran across his palm.
A wave of dizziness washed over him—not physical discomfort, but a deluge of memories.
Two lives collided, entwined, and tore through his mind: the exhausted memories of a twenty-second-century corporate drone, and the brief past of six-year-old Ethan Reynolds.
Like two rivers crashing together, they whipped up tempestuous waves.
He remembered.
Cardiac arrest after seventy-two straight hours of overtime.
Dropping dead at his cubicle before he could even finish his last bite of takeout.
And then—then he became this child.
A woman’s voice called out from afar.
“Ethan! Ethan, where are you? Lunch is ready!” The voice flowed smooth and sweet like honey, yet it made his heart contract sharply.
A thought struck his consciousness like lightning: he recognized this voice.
He knew this planet.
He knew what was coming next.
Harvest.
An Outer Colony of the UNSC.
Glassed by the Covenant in 2525.
He had transmigrated into the Halo universe.
Ethan sat on the haystack, sunlight warming his back.
In the distance, a blonde woman walked along the ridge between the fields, flour dusting her apron.
A smile lit up her face—the kind that only appeared during moments of genuine happiness, with upturned lips and crinkled eyes, making her practically glow.
That was his mother.
His mother in this life.
Ethan stood, his bare feet sinking into the warm earth as he walked toward her step by step.
His gait faltered—not from adjusting to this tiny body, but because he had to fight with everything he had to keep tears from bursting forth.
Two lives.
Across two lifetimes, no one had ever called him to dinner like this.
“Mom,” he said, his voice tender and slightly trembling.
The woman squatted down, wiped her hands on her apron, and cupped his face in her palms.
“Why are your eyes so red? Did you get into another fight with Josh?” Her thumb gently brushed over his cheekbone, her touch as delicate as if he were the most precious thing in the world.
“No,” Ethan said, burying his face in her embrace.
It was warm, soft, and real, smelling of apple pie and sunlight.
He took a deep breath, searing the scent into the depths of his soul.
Because he knew this warmth wouldn’t last forever.
The next six months were the happiest time Ethan had ever known across both his lives.
Summer on Harvest was long and warm, with golden wheat fields rolling in the breeze like an endless ocean.
The Reynolds farm wasn’t large—only forty acres—but with the help of automated farming machinery, it was more than enough to sustain a decent living for a family of three.
His father, Marcus Reynolds, was a soft-spoken man of few words with broad shoulders and rough, calloused hands.
When he smiled, a gap showed between his front teeth.
He taught Ethan how to drive the farm tractor, letting his six-year-old son sit on his lap, guiding those small hands on the steering wheel.
“Easy there,” Marcus said, his large hand resting over the back of Ethan’s.
“The wheel isn’t your enemy, son. No need to squeeze so hard. Feel it, and let it go where you want it to.” Ethan felt the warmth of his father’s palm, the rough texture seeping into his skin, conveying a strength greater than any words.
His mother, Irene Reynolds, was entirely different.
She loved to sing, loved to laugh, and loved experimenting with new dishes in the kitchen.
Her apple pie was the best in the entire Victor Agricultural District—at least, Ethan thought so.
On his first bite, the flaky crust crumbled between his teeth, and the sweet aroma of apple filling laced with a hint of cinnamon exploded across his tongue.
As Ethan chewed, tears began to fall.
“What’s wrong? Is it too hot?” Irene rushed over anxiously.
“It’s just so good,” Ethan sniffled, tears dripping onto his plate.
Irene chuckled, kissing his forehead.
“Silly boy,” she murmured tenderly.
She didn’t know her son was weeping for two lifetimes of hunger.
Nights belonged to father and son.
There was a skylight on the barn roof that could be pushed open.
Marcus would spread an old blanket there, lying side by side with Ethan to gaze at the stars.
Harvest’s night sky was clear almost to the point of transparency, the Milky Way stretching across the firmament like a river of light.
“See that brightest one over there?” Marcus pointed toward a faint blue star near the horizon.
“That’s Reach. Our ancestors came from stars like that, a long, long time ago.” His voice was deep and distant, like he was telling an ancient legend.
Ethan stared at the star in silence for a long time.
Reach.
He knew what waited for him there—cold underground facilities, brutal training, and a boy named John.
“Dad,” he whispered, “if one day I have to leave… will you miss me?”
Marcus blinked, then reached out to rustle his hair.
“Silly kid, wherever you go, I’ll follow. Why ask something like that all of a sudden?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
He rested his head against his father’s shoulder, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat.
From that day on, Ethan began secretly recording everything about his parents.
Using an old notebook, he wrote in crooked handwriting: the clothes his mother wore each day, the way his father looked when he smiled, the recipe for the apple pie, the location of the blue star visible from the barn roof.
Every page felt like archiving a time destined to end.
He silently swore in his heart: he would protect them.
No matter the cost.
On September 3, 2517, Military Calendar, a black transport vehicle pulled into the Reynolds farm yard.
Ethan was helping his mother hang laundry.
When he saw the vehicle, the bedsheet slipped from his hands.
He had known this day would come, but when it finally arrived, his heart tightened all the same.
The door opened, and a woman stepped down.
She wore a pristine white lab coat, her short hair neatly tucked behind her ears, a pair of thin-framed glasses resting on the bridge of her nose.
Her gaze was sharp and focused, piercing straight through to Ethan like a scalpel.
Dr. Catherine Halsey.
Ethan had only seen photos of her in files before.
In person, she looked younger, yet far more exhausted.
Fine lines creased the corners of her eyes, her lips pressed into a firm line, and her whole persona radiated a cold, restrained composure.
Yet the instant she looked at Ethan, an imperceptible flicker of softness passed through her eyes—was it the excitement of a scientist confronting a perfect test subject, or the guilt of an adult looking at a child about to be robbed of his childhood?
Ethan couldn’t tell.
Perhaps a mix of both.
“Hello,” Halsey said, squatting down to eye level with Ethan.
“Are you Ethan?” Her voice was warm and polite, like catching up with a friend’s child.
But Ethan noticed her right hand remained inside her lab coat pocket, her fingers subtly fidgeting with something.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said.
His voice was calm, hands hanging naturally at his sides, though he knew his knuckles were turning white from tension.
Halsey spread a white cloth before him and pulled a metallic disk from her pocket.
The silver surface gleamed in the sunlight, depicting a relief profile on one side and an eagle clutching arrows on the other.
Ethan recognized the coin—a twentieth-century United States silver coin, the prop Halsey used to test potential Spartan candidates.
“It’s a game,” Halsey said.
“I’ll flip this coin, and before it lands, you tell me which side is facing up. Heads, or tails—the eagle.” Her tone was relaxed and casual, but her eyes never left Ethan’s face.
Ethan’s heart rate spiked.
He knew this was a trap—not malicious, but deadly enough.
If he displayed supernatural “luck,” Halsey would recruit him into the SPARTAN-II program.
If he performed too poorly, he would remain on Harvest, destined to be glassed alongside his parents in 2525.
He had to be chosen.
But he couldn’t perform too perfectly, either.
“All right, ma’am,” Ethan said, concealing the tremor in his voice.
Halsey flipped the coin.
The silver disk spun through the air, sunlight tracing a brilliant arc along its rim.
Ethan’s eyes tracked it—leveraging his memory as a transmigrator, he knew the outcome of every throw.
More importantly, he knew he had to intentionally guess wrong often enough to place his accuracy rate in an “impressive, but not anomalous” range.
“Tails,” he said.
The coin landed on the back of Halsey’s hand—eagle facing up.
Halsey gave a subtle nod and flipped it again.
This time, Ethan knew the outcome before the coin reached its apex.
Heads.
But he said, “Tails.” Wrong.
Third throw: heads.
He said, “Heads.” Correct.
Fourth throw: tails.
He said, “Tails.” Correct.
Fifth throw: heads.
He said, “Tails.” Wrong.
Sixth throw: tails.
He said, “Tails.” Correct.
Seventh throw: heads.
He said, “Heads.” Correct.
Four right, three wrong out of the first seven.
Now he had to start guessing wrong more frequently.
Eighth throw: tails.
He deliberately called heads.
Ninth throw: heads.
He called tails.
Tenth throw: tails.
He called tails.
The coin flipped fifteen times in total.
Ethan’s final accuracy rate was forty-seven percent—just below the fifty-percent statistical baseline, a score that reflected “decent luck, but nothing extraordinary.” His fingers trembled slightly behind his back, not from nervousness, but from the intense mental exertion required to consciously control every guess.
Halsey pocketed the coin and glanced down at the data in her hand.
Her brow furrowed slightly—not in disappointment, but in confusion.
She had witnessed John-117 snatching a coin out of midair, an astonishing display, whereas this boy before her…
His reaction time was just as swift, his gaze just as keen, yet his answers were so mundane.
“Your instincts are sharp, Ethan,” she remarked.
“I just got lucky, ma’am,” Ethan replied, his eyes dropping to the ground, neatly evading her probing gaze.
Halsey stared at him for a long moment.
“Luck?” she murmured softly.
“No. There is no such thing as luck.” But she pressed no further.
Standing up, she gave a slight nod to the ONI agent waiting behind her.
Ethan knew he had passed.
Not because of his score on the coin test, but because of his genetic markers—the very traits Halsey had already verified before coming here.
The coin test was merely the icing on the cake.
Still, his performance needed to appear normal enough to avoid attracting unwanted scrutiny.
For someone from the future, the most fatal mistake was letting others know he came from the future.
Departure came three days later, in the quiet hours before dawn.
Under the guise of a “Gifted Children’s Special Education Program,” ONI agents officially took Ethan away.
They explained the so-called “program” to Marcus and Irene in the living room with cold, professional detachment, as though taking a piece of official paperwork rather than a living child.
Irene said nothing.
She knelt before Ethan, packing his bag item by item—two changes of clothes, a new pair of shoes, and a handmade stuffed animal she had sewn herself.
It was a crude little bear with one ear larger than the other and misaligned button eyes.
But she had spent three full nights stitching it together, every tight, meticulous thread heavy with reluctant farewell.
“Take this,” Irene whispered, tucking the bear into Ethan’s backpack, her voice chillingly quiet.
“So you won’t be scared.” Her hands trembled, but she fought desperately to conceal her weakness from her son.
Marcus stood at the doorway without a word.
His jaw was set like iron, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he uttered no sound.
Only when Ethan walked up to him did he reach out, resting a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Be a man, son,” he rasped.
Ethan looked up at his father.
The man’s eyes were rimmed red, yet he held back his tears.
In the world of farm men, crying was harder to bear than death itself.
“I will, Dad,” Ethan said, his voice steady.
Not because he felt no grief—he was choked with sorrow so intense he could barely breathe—but because he knew that if he broke down, his father would collapse with him.
He turned and walked toward the black transport.
Every step felt like treading on blades.
He didn’t look back.
Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t dare.
He feared that if he turned around, he would never be able to walk away.
As the transport door slammed shut, Ethan caught a muffled sob from behind.
His mother’s voice.
He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the sound drive itself like a nail deep into his heart.
He would remember all of it.
The sunshine, the scent of wheat, the taste of apple pie, his father’s calloused hands, and his mother’s gentle voice.
They would be his fuel, and his shackles.
The transport rolled off the farm, merging onto the highway bound for Elysium City Spaceport.
Ethan pressed his face against the window, watching the golden fields recede into the distance, growing smaller and smaller until they dissolved beyond the horizon.
*Harvest, 2525,* he chanted silently in his mind.
*I have eight years left.*
Eight years.
Before then, he had to grow strong enough.