Apollo stopped. The sand he stood on was strangely solid. He slammed his heel into the shallow sand. A hollow thump resounded from the ground. After brushing away the sand with his foot, he revealed the metal paneling, a rough boot-shaped depression visible in the sheet.
He got down on one knee and slammed his fist into the ground. The panel gave way, snapping off what weather-weakened bolds were still holding it together. It fell what Apollo assumed to be forty feet downward.
Empty fuel cells littered whatever wasn’t covered in sand, but aside from that, the room was empty. Stenciled letters spelling out “Hangar” were nearly faded from the walls. A door on the east side was partially opened, sand spilling into the neighboring room.
After judging it safe enough to land, Apollo dropped down, his landing sending a loud low clank echoing throughout. He scanned the room again for threats, slinging his rifle around. He always anticipated there to be threats, especially in a place like this.
He walked through the door, entering into a large warehouse-like room. Supporting I-Beams lined the walls and the ceiling like ribs. Shelves upon shelves dominated the space. The cargo it carried was completely unmarked, their only identifiers being the shapes and colors of the containers themselves. Several man-operated forklifts were found in the charging docks at the far wall, or scattered around the room. The size of this room alone spoke of how large the rest of the facility was. Apollo didn't mind. He'd search every room of this place before he’d even think about getting back to his patrols. It's not like they're keeping tabs on him 24/7. He would just claim that he fell into a sand pit, or something of the like.
Hydrogen gas bellowed down the sides of the container and across the floor as Apollo pushed off the lid. This one was filled with freeze-dried meats. He searched through more containers, finding canisters of water, dried greenery, backup generators, fuel, and some unidentifiable chemicals. Everything you'd ever need to last a hundred lifetimes down here. He made a mental note and continued down the aisles.
His attention drew to another forklift. This one had tipped over, sending a sheet of glass shards onto the floor. A large puddle of coolant accompanied the glass, along with droplets of crimson mixed in.
The facility as a whole gave an unprecedented air of familiarity to Apollo that he had never felt until then. He inexplicably felt drawn deeper in.
He continued forward, and when he reached the opposite door, pried it open with relative ease. Beyond was a small staircase, composed of thin metal. He tested the metal with his foot, fearing that it might collapse under his weight, and, after finding it fit enough to traverse, stepped in. He stepped down what must have been several dozen stories, the lights becoming dimmer and dimmer.
Apollo had finally reached the stairway’s bottom, finding himself in the middle of two long hallways. 'Generator' and 'Facilities' was inscribed on the left and right pathway respectively. Without a second moment's hesitation, he took the right path.
The hallway opened up into a wide expanse of a room. Hexagonal LED panels coated the roof of the dome-shaped room. Of the panels that were still functional, they displayed what appeared to be a live feed of the above-ground.
This entire space appeared to serve as a training facility. A large military-style training course sat in the middle of the room. Four prefabricated buildings were arranged around the course, and a wide running track bordered the wall. Stenciled letters labeled each building accordingly; a Mess Hall, a Range and Armory, an Administrative building, and one simply labeled “Cryo.”
The chamber had taken more than a fair amount of wear. Sand had begun to gather, gathering against the walls, but leaving the center area clear.
The closer he got to the center of the massive room, the more that feeling grew - that familiarity.
He decided to head to the armory first, anticipating that they had hurriedly deserted their stash of ammo. It would be better than buying the crap stuff from the colonies, anyway.
The first room of the building was only about ten feet long on each axis, the rest of the prefab being taken up the range. Bullet holes pock-marked the targets.
The Spartan popped open an ammo box on the shooting table.
“Jackpot.”
A full box of seven-six-two ammo, ripe for the taking. He grabbed enough to fill his pockets. As he refueled, he still kept his free hand hovered over his pistol, ready for action at any moment. It was a habit he'd built over the countless times he had to occupy himself while under pressure. A sure hand at his pistol would ensure he could snap at any attacker looking to catch him by surprise. He distinctly remembered an instance where he was tasked with rooting through a insurgent leader's files, all while the rest of his squad held off attackers. Were it not for that habit, he wouldn't have been able to fend off the insurgent's own son, hiding in the room. He was certainly thankful for that.
The click of a Magnum's safety was all he heard. In a fraction of a second, the Spartan spun around, unholstering his own pistol and setting the barrel straight down in front of him, not even allowing himself time to process who he was aiming at. A relatively short security droid stood before him; the gun it carried, welded to its own body, trained on Apollo’s head. The droid was clothed in kevlar patches, covering its head and torso. The thing’s three eyes gleamed in the darkness, illuminating the room in a wash of red.
“Too scared to go for the shot?” He smiled under his helmet.
The red light flickered as the robot thought. “I might say the same for you, Spartan.” The voice echoed through the hall, making the droid’s voice sound even more artificial than it already was.
So, you’ve got a smart mouth, huh? His finger feathered the trigger, in that instant considering killing the thing; but he quickly hushed that part of his mind. He knew this thing was old—far older than this facility. “What are you doing here?”
Its eyes began to flicker again, decayed processors warming up for the first time in years. “Protecting this facility from outsiders.”
“What is this facility doing here? What’s its purpose?”
The eyes flickering again, this time taking a half a second longer. “Classified.”
With a concussive boom, the droid collapsed to the floor, a bullet hole right through its eye. “I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”
120 stepped back out into the dome room, slamming the door behind him. A light winked on at the corner of his HUD. He was unaware the SAT-COM would even reach this far underground. He opened the message.
“Finally! Took ya’ long enough!” Thalia’s icon overwhelmed his view, her voxellized form portraying a very "angry" face. Apollo wouldn’t admit it, but he flinched far more than he should’ve. “I can’t believe you actually disabled me! You could’ve died and I wouldn’t have been able to help you at all! And-” Her icon finally reduced in size, wedging into a corner of his view. It blinked, turning away from him as if actually looking around, instead of simply using his armor's sensors. “Where are we?”
“A UNSC bunker.” Apollo coldly replied. “A training facility, it seems.”
“How did you get here? Is this what I navigated to!?”
“Seems like it.”
The AI paused for an uncomfortably long moment, seeming to take it all in. “I shouldn’t have listened to you.”
He ignored her comment. He turned his body toward the opposite building. “What training facilities have cryo chambers?” Apollo probed, heading in the room’s direction.
“As far as I know, there aren’t currently any training facilities with cryogenics.”
“Then this is no ordinary bunker,” Apollo muttered, looking up at the hundreds of screens lining the dome, “clearly.” He looked behind him. He was only a quarter of the way around to the other side. Boot prints were still planted deep into the compressed dirt. Small boot prints at that. They were half the size of his own. “And no ordinary facility trains children.” He paused a while to collect his revelation. “They were training Spartans here. More of them.” His fist clenched and unclenched.
Apollo wondered many times what life he would've lived if he wasn't taken away. A life without the relentless training before his brain was barely developed—forced to pick between life and death barely before his teens... he could barely imagine it. To think of what had happened to him and seventy-four others, and to think that now so many more suffered the exact same way...
This facility could feed thousands of people. If they had planned to use full capacity, that could mean hundreds of children who were taken and trained. A Spartan troupe in the count of the hundreds, somewhere out on this planet, or somewhere in the galaxy, it sounded like both a dream, and a nightmare. So many lives with potential both lost and gained. He shook his head. No one should go through what they went through ever again.
“Spartans!? So there’s more of-”
He muted her. “Not dealing with you right now.” Thalia gave a disapproving frown.