Military Calendar: December 25, 2518 – May 1, 2525
Epsilon Eridani system, Reach Military Complex, Dr. Halsey’s Private Laboratory
The following records are excerpted from Dr. Catherine Halsey’s personal data terminal, encryption clearance: Σ-7 (Eyes Only).
These entries were never submitted to ONI, nor were they ever disclosed to anyone.
Dr. Halsey’s private laboratory was located on the deepest level of the facility, secured behind triple-tier biometric authentication.
The room was crammed with data pads, holographic projectors, and an array of analytical instruments.
The sole personal item was a faded coffee mug resting in a corner—its surface printed with “World’s Best Doctor,” an impulse purchase from a flea market on some outer colony that she had never bothered to replace.
Deja’s holographic projection hovered in the center of the room, silently watching Halsey swipe through the data pad.
Between these two beings—an artificial intelligence and a human—there existed a peculiar, unspoken understanding.
Deja knew what Halsey was thinking, but she would never voice it unprompted.
Some truths had to be uttered by human lips alone.
These observation logs were Halsey’s most closely guarded secrets, far more sensitive than any ONI classified dossier.
She had not even granted Deja read clearance—though she knew the AI possessed the capability to bypass the encryption if she truly wished.
But Halsey trusted Deja.
In fact, Deja was the only entity she truly trusted.
In the very first log, Halsey had used the word “protect.” She was not entirely sure what the word meant in this context—was it a scientist’s professional ethics, or a woman’s maternal instinct toward these children?
Perhaps both.
Perhaps neither.
In this frigid base, spending countless late nights alone before glowing data screens, the distinction had long since blurred.
The second log had been penned on a rainy night.
The rain on Reach always carried a metallic scent, drumming against the outer bulkheads like a colossal iron bell.
Listening to the downpour, Halsey had typed the words “from the future”—then deleted them, typed them again, and deleted them once more.
In the end, she left the phrase intact.
It was the only hypothesis that could account for every anomaly, no matter how preposterous it sounded.
If 007 truly came from the future, what did the world look like through his eyes?
When he looked at his companions, did he see comrades in arms, or martyrs?
When he looked at every drill on the training grounds, did he see a necessary crucible, or a predetermined track leading toward a known finale?
The thought sent a chill straight to Halsey’s marrow.
The third log was written after the augmentation procedures.
Halsey’s hands had been shaking—not merely because of 007’s anomalous metrics, but because his 5,000 percent peak in neural activity had suggested a terrifying possibility.
If the soul of a time-traveler resonated with an augmented brain… what did that imply?
Did it mean consciousness could transcend the physical vessel?
Did it mean the human soul was a measurable, augmentable physical quantity?
The answers to those questions could overturn humanity’s entire understanding of its own existence.
Yet she purged the data.
Every last byte.
In the hands of ONI, 007 would not be a person, but an enigma to be vivisected on an examination table.
She knew all too well how ONI treated “anomalous data”—coldly, efficiently, and devoid of humanity.
She would not let them touch this child.
The fourth log was both the shortest and the longest.
Short, because it contained only a handful of lines; long, because before writing them, she had sat in the dark for three full hours.
007 had possessed at least three distinct opportunities to defeat 117—a fact that pricked at her mind like a thorn, filling her with equal parts confusion and dread.
Why would someone from the future conceal his true capabilities?
What was he afraid of?
Or rather, what was he trying to protect?
The fifth log was written after 007 came to see her of his own accord.
When the boy walked into her laboratory and asked, “Do you already know?”, Halsey’s immediate reaction had not been shock, but a strange sense of relief.
At last.
At long last, someone had spoken aloud the question that had hung suspended in the air for eight years.
They had locked eyes for ten seconds.
In those ten seconds, Halsey glimpsed the sheer weight of a soul.
In 007’s gaze, there was no fear, no anxiety, none of the reckless arrogance typical of youth—only a bone-deep exhaustion paired with an equally profound resolve.
It was the look of someone who had already gazed into hell.
“Some survived.” Those two words echoed incessantly in Halsey’s mind.
She did not know whether this was good news or bad.
She only knew that when 007 spoke them, his expression mirrored that of the boy playing King of the Hill on a playground in Elysium City twenty years ago—indifferent to fear, focused entirely on victory.
***
Observation Log #001
December 25, 2518
Subject: Ethan-007
Observation Period: 15 months
Anomalous data continues to accumulate.
007’s cognitive assessment results exceed the standard baseline by 3.7 standard deviations.
More critically, his learning patterns do not reflect those of a child—he demonstrates the cognitive framework of a mature adult.
During today’s tactical simulation exercise, while the other candidates were still grappling with fundamental concepts, 007 had already devised an exquisitely coordinated flanking maneuver.
Executing such a tactic requires a profound comprehension of logistics, troop morale, and topography—far beyond the capabilities of an eight-year-old child.
I have reviewed the combat footage between him and 117 twenty-seven times.
The close-quarters techniques 007 employed are advanced UNSC Special Forces hand-to-hand doctrines—protocols developed only recently in 2512, classified under top-secret clearance.
How could an eight-year-old boy possess classified Special Forces combat techniques?
When questioned, he claimed he “learned it in a dream.”
Absurd.
Yet I did not press him.
117 is a born warrior, the consummate Spartan.
But 007… he is an enigma.
As a scientist, I yearn to unravel this mystery.
As… as someone watching these children grow, I cannot bring myself to corner him.
God help me, what am I doing?
We stole these children from their parents to forge them into instruments of slaughter.
No. I cannot afford such thoughts.
The Spartan program is humanity’s only hope.
007, whatever secrets you harbor, I will discover them.
But until then, I will protect you.
***
Observation Log #002
June 10, 2519
Subject: Ethan-007
Observation Period: 21 months
Further anomalies.
Today’s history lecture covered the 2494 Apogee colony insurrection.
007 accurately recounted the precise operational dates, troop deployments, and even casualty figures for every major engagement.
The history instructor remarked on his “extraordinary memory.” But I know the truth—those casualty figures reside exclusively within classified ONI archives, never declassified for public dissemination.
He is constantly “guessing.”
“I’m guessing the rebels will push from the west.” — And the rebels indeed pushed from the west.
“I’m guessing this drill is a trap.” — And the drill indeed harbored an ambush.
The other drill instructors praise his “keen intuition.”
Intuition?
No. This is not mere intuition.
A suspicion begins to form—is he some manner of oracle?
Or… does he hail from the future?
The notion borders on madness.
Yet it is the only hypothesis that reconciles every anomaly.
If he truly comes from the future… what does he know?
Did humanity prevail?
Did the Spartan program succeed?
I want to ask him.
But I dare not.
If he knows what is to come, then when he looks upon us, does he see an assembly of dead men?
Catherine, pull yourself together.
You are a scientist, not a writer of speculative fiction.
Maintain observation.
Do not startle the quarry.
***
Observation Log #003
April 1, 2525
Subject: Ethan-007
Observation Period: 7 years, 6 months
The augmentation surgical data has been compiled.
007 achieved a 100 percent success rating across all surgical procedures—every biological metric was flawless, surpassing even 117’s baseline.
More alarming was his synaptic activity telemetry.
During the procedure, his neural activity spiked to 5,000 percent of the standard human baseline.
This is biologically impossible.
Even for a Spartan candidate, peak activity should not exceed 1,000 percent.
I asked him what he experienced during the operation.
He replied: “I had a dream. I saw stars—so many stars. And… war.”
War.
He knows.
He truly knows.
Procedure dictates that I report this to ONI.
They would dissect him to map his neural pathways.
I cannot allow that.
Catherine, you are a scientist.
Your duty is the pursuit of empirical truth.
Yet I am also human.
I have watched this child grow.
I will not allow them to harm him.
I will purge these records.
As far as the official registry is concerned, nothing happened.
***
Observation Log #004
April 15, 2525
Subject: Ethan-007
Observation Period: 7 years, 7 months
Combat simulation telemetry analysis.
I have reviewed the engagement recordings between 007 and 117 one hundred times.
007 had at least three distinct openings to neutralize 117, yet he deliberately held back on each occasion.
He yielded to 117.
Why?
He constantly conceals his true capabilities.
During the coin-toss evaluation, he deliberately guessed wrong.
In hand-to-hand sparring, he deliberately engineered stalemates.
In tactical simulations, he deliberately pulled his punches.
He does not want the spotlight.
Why would someone from the future strive so desperately to remain invisible?
What is he running from?
My curiosity deepens by the day.
Yet alongside it, a growing terror takes root.
If he truly comes from the future… and if that future is so horrific that he dare not speak its name…
God preserve humanity.
***
Observation Log #005
May 1, 2525
Subject: Ethan-007
Observation Period: 7 years, 8 months
He approached me today.
He looked at me and asked: “Doctor, do you already know?”
I offered no denial.
We stood in silence, holding each other’s gaze for ten seconds.
Those ten seconds felt like an eternity.
He said: “I will not tell you what the future holds. Knowing the future compels people to change it, and interference almost always leads to worse outcomes.”
I asked: “Did humanity win?”
He looked straight into my eyes and said: “Some survived.”
Nothing more.
He did not utter another syllable.
*Some survived.*
Is that salvation, or tragedy?
I desperately want to know more.
Yet I dare not inquire further.
I harbor a terrible premonition: the burden he carries outweighs the collective weight borne by all of us combined.
Catherine, you must safeguard this child.
He may well be humanity’s final hope.
Or… he may be humanity’s gravedigger.
Only time will yield the verdict.
***
Dr. Halsey’s observation logs were far more than scientific telemetry.
They functioned as a form of catharsis—a private reckoning for a woman teetering on the precipice of a moral abyss, striving to organize the tumult of her conscience through text.
Every entry began with cold, sterile data—subject designation, observation interval, anomalous parameters.
Yet as the prose advanced, those clinical figures were gradually submerged by the warmth of human emotion.
Interspersed between technical readouts were desperate self-interrogations—”God help me, what am I doing?” Questions without answers, yet questions she was compelled to articulate, lest the suffocating silence crush her from within.
In her second log, Halsey had broached the hypothetical that haunted her sleepless nights: if 007 truly hailed from the future, then when he looked upon these children—at Sam’s radiant grin, at Kelly’s effortless speed, at John’s indomitable combat focus—did he see the living, or walking corpses?
The thought induced a bone-chilling dread.
On more than one occasion, she had been forced to down three cups of coffee in the dead of night just to banish the imagery from her thoughts.
Executing the data purge in the third log had cost her an entire hour.
The technical operation took mere seconds, but the psychological toll was immense.
Every datum was verified reality, an indelible piece of scientific progress.
To erase it was an act of treason against science itself.
Yet to preserve it was to betray 007.
Trapped between the scientist and the human being, she had chosen her humanity.
She did not know whether that choice was righteous or flawed.
She only knew that presented with the same crossroad, she would make the exact same choice again.
After completing the fifth log, Halsey shut down the data terminal and sat in the quiet dark for a very long time.
Beyond the reinforced viewport stretched Reach’s eternal, star-strewn sky—frigid and magnificent.
She recalled an ancient aphorism: *The one who knows the future is the most wretched of all.* For one cannot alter fate; one can only watch it unfold in agonizing helplessness.
007 was far more unfortunate than she.
He not only knew what lay ahead, but was forced to live, train, and fight alongside comrades destined for the slaughter.
Every single day, he had to feign ignorance of tomorrow.
Every single day, behind an unreadable expression, he carried the answer to that ultimate question.
*Some survived.*
Halsey repeated those words in the dark until the syllables lost all coherence, reduced to empty reverberations.
Then she rose, stepped back into the sterile glow of the lab, and resumed her work.
Regardless of what the future held, the only task within her power was to make these children as strong as humanly possible.
During the vast stretches of time between each logged entry, Dr. Halsey did many things she would never commit to a terminal.
On quiet nights, she would walk the perimeter of the barracks, pausing by the hatchway to watch the candidates sleep—some curled into tight knots, some sprawled across their bunks, others mumbling fragmented phrases in the grips of slumber.
Her gaze lingered on each child for several moments, as if reassuring herself that they were still alive, still drawing breath.
She paid particular attention to 007.
The boy’s sleeping posture was always impeccably disciplined—lying flat on his back, hands resting at his sides, his breathing deep and measured.
Occasionally, she lingered beside his bunk for extended stretches, searching his tranquil face for some elusive clue—who was he really?
Where had he come from?
What did his “dreams” truly entail?
Yet Ethan’s expression revealed nothing.
He guarded his secrets with flawless precision.
Once, she thought she heard 007 speak in his sleep.
Leaning closer, she held her breath—yet it was only a faint, indistinct murmur, like an echo of a forgotten name.
She could not decipher whether he had whispered “Mother” or something else entirely.
But her eyes caught sight of a crude, handmade plush doll tucked beneath his pillow—a small fabric bear, one ear noticeably larger than the other.
Halsey knew who had stitched it—she had met the woman herself.
Ethan’s mother.
Halsey did not confiscate the toy.
She merely gazed upon it for a lingering moment, then turned and walked away.
Out in the cold, metallic corridor, she leaned against the bulkhead for five full minutes, waiting in silence until the burning heat behind her eyes finally ebbed away.