Halo: Front Lines [BOOK ONE]

Chapter Fifteen - After

UNSC Military Headquarters Colony: Reach,
Epsilon Eridani System,
1250 Hours January 5th, 2531 (Military Calendar)
Historian's Note: The families of Spartan II candidates that were [REDACTED] were never notified that their children were Missing In Action.

Arnold Wellington had just wrapped up with his unpaid lunch hour when the factory's loudspeaker emitted it's usual chime. He worked a mundane job in a forgotten industrial district of New Alexandria as a Warehouse Lead. Once a factory designed to produce cars for the general public's delight, it now produced LAARV Warthogs and Scorpion tanks for the front.

That told him all he needed to know about how things were going in the outer colonies.

Ever since he lost his daughter to Stoneman Syndrome all he wanted to do was make it though today, and the next day, and the next. However despite his best efforts, even that seemed too daunting a task to achieve.

"She was only six years old..." He thought as he closed his metal lunchbox in earnest. No matter how many times he went to counseling, he could never shake the feeling that something deeper went wrong with his daughter's premature demise. The doctors had been baffled, utterly taken aback by the severity of her ailment.

At first, they thought she had been neglected, but after rigorous questioning he and his wife Elizabeth had proven that wasn't the case. It was as if their daughter's body was hardening to stone right before their very eyes. No one had ever seen a case this aggressive in medical history, much less found out a way to counteract its effects. One week, the happy suburban couple's little girl was bright, vibrant, and full of adventure, full of life. The next, she was dull, standoffish, and secluded.

Six months later, she was gone.

"Dead." Arnold forced himself to say internally. "Not gone, not waiting to magically reappear out of thin air, just dead."

Every single day that went by since he lost her he'd come home hoping to see her waiting, but she wasn't. Possibly the worst part of it all was how everyone else treated him because of the trauma he and his wife had endured. Now everyone looked at him warily, as if he'd snap at any moment. Rumors began to spread, and conspiracy theories burned through his workplace with the uncontrolled fury of a forest set ablaze. He was tired of the sideways glances, tired of being treated like a lunatic.

"Im not crazy, I just lost my little girl..." He muttered to himself as he stared at a picture of his wife and daughter. There Sarah was, smiling wide with crooked teeth, poorly done nail polish, and frizzy pony tails. Arnold looked up to see a young warehouse worker staring at him from across the table.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy Mr. Whit-" The nineteen year old kid began. Arnold interrupted him by snorting in disgust, snatching up his lunch box, and stomping away. Anxiety welled up in his throat, but he dispatched it quickly by popping two more pills. He was already at the maximum dosage, but they still seemed to have little effect.

Arnold took a restroom detour and found himself leaning over a dirty sink. He washed his face with water and took a long, introspective look into the mirror. Just then, two men in unmarked naval fatigues passed him by. Their name patches read Burton and Gray. He didn't think much of it as virtually everyone had a close relative serving in the war, and many of them liked to surprise their distraught loved ones at work upon their arrival home.

"Thank you for your service." Arnold said as he dried his hands and prepared to return to his duties. The grieving father flashed them a polite, but forced smile as he began to walk away.

"And thank you for your sacrifice." The younger of the two servicemen responded. Arnold halted, and slowly turned to meet the young man's gaze.

"What did you just say?" Arnold asked. A flurry of emotions rushed through him. His heart beat faster, his mind raced. He'd never sacrificed anything for the war except his time and effort at the factory.