John wasn't sure what to make of the new trainers.
He had known that they'd been getting new ones for a few weeks now. The Chief had mentioned it one morning during their daily briefing. The Doctor had explained further in the afternoon, in the lecture hall.
The newcomers were Orion supersoldiers. The first Orions, the predecessors to him and his family. The Doctor had covered the past history of Project Orion extensively last year. She'd explained it all. Why the UNSC had decided to augment soldiers, what the intended goals were, and what had actually happened when all the dust had settled.
All of the Spartan cadets had taken the lesson to heart. Or, at least, what they thought the lesson was about: another repetition of the necessity of their own program, along with a sober explanation of the risks.
That was one of things about the Doctor. She liked to keep the Spartans on their toes. She'd teach them lessons that seemed simple and direct, applying only to the situation right in front of them. Then later on, they'd run into some test or exercise, and that lesson would come popping back up.
It wasn't that the Doctor was inherently twisty, or some kind of mastermind. Déjà had covered this in their lessons. It was all about having a good grasp of first principles. Once you master the basics, you can move on to the more advanced stuff. Not just with tactics or history or math, but also with beliefs, and methodology. Sometimes, people forgot that, no matter how well-trained they were. Nobody could remember everything all of the time.
Now, with the Orions on base, it looked like there was another purpose to that lesson… but John wasn't sure what it was, yet.
The Orions themselves weren't making it any easier. They were all floaters, roaming around in the background of the lessons and exercises. The regular trainers used floaters, sure, but that was for safety reasons, or to provide supervision. The newcomers were constantly inspecting them. Watching with inscrutable expressions. Sometimes, they did things that John didn't understand.
Just yesterday, one of the Orions had singled out Visha from the group during PT. He'd barked orders at her, hounded her, given her insane tasks that made no sense. Long after the rest of the Spartans had finished their exercises, and been moved along by the trainers, Visha was still at the parade grounds, doing jumping jacks or burpees or pushups.
Cruel, in John's eyes. Not just him. Alice and Li had both looked back as the group jogged off to their next lesson, leaving Visha behind.
Sam had sidled up to one of the trainers and asked something in a low voice. John hadn't caught the words, but the trainer's reply hadn't made Sam happy. The trainer himself had looked a little guilty, a few minutes later when he thought that none of the Spartans were watching. Many of the other trainers had small frowns.
At first, John thought those frowns was because the trainers thought that Staff Sergeant Byrne was going too far. That their guilty looks were because they hadn't stepped up to defend Visha.
But over the next few days, the trainers had all started being harsher on them. Not to the same extent that Visha got, but there was a lot less kindness, and a lot more attention paid to the Spartans.
John thought that the trainers had been pretty attentive before, but this was a whole new level. None of the Spartans ever skimped on their exercises, either by half-assing the technique or by skipping some of the count, but they'd grown used to small behaviors that the trainers no longer found tolerable. Little rests or comforts, like a second or two between their pushups. No more.
Now, the trainers were pushing them harder than they had in years. Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. The Chief had never allowed so much as a gram of friendliness to interfere with his instruction, but over five years, he was the onlytrainer who'd upheld that standard.
All of the sudden, with the Orions wandering around, it was like the trainers were trying to pretend that they weren't friends with the cadets.
The Spartans talked about it quietly back in their rooms, of course. Sam told them all that he'd asked what Visha had done wrong – and the trainer, Corporal Anas, had merely told him to get back in the ranks without giving them an answer.
Visha herself had been the one to explain it, the same day that she'd been punished for no visible reason.
"They're training us for emotional pressure," she told them, apparently unbothered. "Combat is stressful. If you aren't used to stress, you break more easily."
"But we've been trained for that," James pointed out. "That's not a big deal."
"Yes, it is. It's the most important lesson we can learn," Visha disagreed, shaking her head. "Historical casualty rates show that rookies take the most losses. It's disproportionate, no matter how well they're trained. Simulating the stress is the least bad option. The Doctor talks about it, sometimes, but she's doing too much to micromanage the Chief and the other trainers. They should have been doing this the entire time."
There was nothing anybody could say back to that. It wasn't a new idea to them; Visha was just reminding them of those lessons.
Whenever she spoke of the Doctor, that was the final word. In many ways, she was like an informant for them.
Nobody begrudged her that role. Not anymore, at least.
Back in the first year or two, a couple of the kids had been jealous at the apparent favoritism shown. Whenever the Doctor had enough spare time to join them for exercises, she partnered with Visha a majority of the time. When she taught lessons firsthand, she usually asked Visha to elaborate or expand on specific points.
She was still definitely a cadet, but she was also, somehow, a bridge between the command staff and the cadets.
That favoritism had rubbed Daisy, Michael, and Sheila the wrong way. They'd confronted Visha about it, after lights out one night. Demanded to know why she got singled out. What she'd done. Who she knew.
Everybody had heard the argument. It was hard not to – back then, they were all crammed into a single barracks, all bunk-beds and shared space. John could still remember it well. He'd been staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him, in the total darkness, and he could hear the whispered words like they'd been yelled across the room.
"It's because I'm going to die," Visha had told them, those long years ago.
There had been a gasp, somewhere out in that dark barracks. Blankets rustled as kids shifted in their beds and turned to listen.
"We're all gonna die," Michael had argued back, heatedly. "Those surgery things, they said it was risky."
"Some of you might die," Visha replied, still calm. It stuck out in John's memory. The contrast between her acceptance of the fact, and Michael's anger. "But I'm the least compatible. Even if only one of us dies… it's going to be me. You all have better chances than I do."
The argument had fizzled out, like a firework dropped into water. The angry kids hadn't been able to argue back. Not against Visha, who was so calm and steady, even when talking about her own death.
There was something creepy about it. How relaxed Visha had been, as if they were just talking about the weather.
Visha was weird. All of the Spartans had gotten used to it. It wasn't a matter of hyperfocus fixation, like Linda, or restlessness unless they were physically active, like Jai or Kelly, or even the mild obsessions over niche subjects, like Naomi.
She was just… different. Not normal. She didn't talk like one of them, or act like one of them.
Some of the other kids had speculated, way back in those early days, that it was because she was from Siberia Prime – since there weren't any other kids from that planet, maybe that was just how they all were?
But John thought differently. He'd seen how stiff and formal Visha had been for those first few months… and how she'd relaxed after the trainers took her away to talk to the Doctor. He'd noticed how Visha's longer words and larger vocabulary made her seem more like an adult than a kid.
They'd all gotten used to Visha with enough experience, but John wondered if it was actually because they'd all become more like Visha. If all the Spartans were more adult than their ages. He didn't know for sure, but he knew that normal kids didn't learn all the lessons the Spartans did. Why should that be limited to warfighting, or academics?
Being more like adults wasn't a bad thing. Not necessarily. It's not like they were missing out on anything that a normal kid might have enjoyed. They were just… more advanced.
And it wasn't like the hazing from the Orions was allbad.
This morning, one of them, an older female Sergeant, had pulled Linda out of the formation right in front of John. They'd all just arrived at the outdoor rifle range for marksmanship practice. None of the Spartans had made a fuss, all of them probably remembering Visha's words, but they'd all quietly watched.
"I hear you're a good shot," the Sergeant said, barely audible only because John was the closest to them. "Show me."
She gestured off towards the furthest slot on the range. The Doctor's normal space, when she joined them. John glanced at it, and saw two SRS-99AM sniper rifles. Oracles, to use the colloquial term. Linda perked up, right in front of John's eyes.
"Yes, ma'am," Linda replied, firmly matching the woman's gaze.
Off they went. For the entire duration of the designated time slot, while they were shooting DMRs, there came the infrequent booms of the anti-matériel rifles off to the side. Everyone was shooting down the valley, south-bound, because that was the longest flat stretch in the area.
But Linda and the Orion weren't shooting at the same targets as the cadets, ranging from three hundred to six hundred meters. They were using the furthest targets, nearly two kilometers out. Linda's favorite ones.
Linda and the Orion stayed there when the Spartans left for their next lesson. An hour later, when the Spartans emerged from Lieutenant Keyes's lesson, there was still the distant thunder of the rifles bouncing off the valley walls.
After lunch, it kept going.
Five hours later, John could still hear the Oracles in the distance.
An endurance test, he figured. The Orion trainer was seeing how long Linda could hold up to the strain, not realizing that Linda was probably enjoying it. Getting to skip all the boring lessons, and just shoot? That was heaven for the redhead.
He put the thought out of his mind. It was three o'clock, and he had duties. Today, he was assigned to clean the outer windows on the administration block. Armed with cleaning agents, micro-fiber cloths, a hose, and post-cleaning treatments, he went about his tasks steadily.
John lost himself in the gentle motion of the cleaning, wiping, and coating the windows once more. He didn't mind the work. Not really. It was meditative, in some ways. Gentle motions, back and forth, allowing his body to keep moving while his mind could wander. An essential skill, in some ways – something that the trainers had emphasized when they were teaching the Spartans about guard duty, medal ceremonies, and other times that you'd need to keep yourself at an attentive state for hours without falling asleep.
"Cadet, atten-shun!" a loud, harsh voice snapped.
John stiffened, muscle memory throwing him into attention, as he turned around and saluted.
There was an Orion trainer in front of him. One of the older ones, though he was in such good shape that John could only tell by the tiniest wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. A bristling mustache stood out from his mocha brown skin. Dark eyes inspected John, scanning him from tip to toe, all without a single sign of any emotion… other than a frown.
The man's uniform had the shoulder stripes of a Staff Sergeant. The name on his chest read: "JOHNSON".
"At ease," Sergeant Johnson said. "Walk with me, cadet."
John set his cleaning supplies back in the bucket.
Luckily, he'd just finished with this window, so he didn't have to leave it unfinished. It was a small thing, but he took some comfort in it. Maybe the Staff Sergeant had been watching, and had chosen to wait until he was finished, so that he didn't have to come back and finish it later.
He started to follow Sergeant Johnson, but the man gestured for him to step up – to walk side by side with him, not behind him.
"I said 'with me' Cadet, not behind me," the Staff Sergeant said, his voice a rumble. John stepped up next to him, and walked alongside him.
They moved away from the administration building, and over towards the parade ground. That didn't bode too well, but John wasn't too worried. A big, open area like the parade ground meant that they would be easily watched from a variety of places, including the watchtowers at the edges of the compound.
It meant that even if the Sergeant was about to try to push him to his limits, like his fellow Orions had done to the other Spartans, they'd still be in plain sight.
Was it wrong to think that a UNSC soldier might do something bad, if they went out of sight?
Not according to the Doctor. Loyalty, like competence or professionalism, were aspirational goals, she always told them. People weren't perfect, and they'd fail sometimes, even if they didn't want to.
It wasn't wrong to keep one eye out for yourself, your comrades, and your mission.
It was just... rational self-interest.
Sergeant Johnson didn't speak again until they'd stopped in the center of the parade ground. He turned back to face the compound, and gestured out at it with a sweeping hand motion.
"What do you think about all of this, cadet?" he asked John. "Go on, speak freely."
John wasn't sure what to say. Think about… what? The layout of the compound? The program as a whole? The Orions visitors? The weather?
"What about, Sergeant?" he replied, cautiously.
The Orion tilted his head, and pursed his lips.
"Whatever comes to mind first," he answered, after a moment. "This isn't a test. I want to know what you think. Nothing more."
Not a test. Right, John thought to himself, restraining the eye-roll he wanted to give at those words.
Just like Kelly said once. When someone said it wasn't a test, it was definitely a test.
He looked out at the compound, and tried to think about what might stand out. Was there something unusual about the place? Anything different from normal? Or perhaps, since Sergeant Johnson was a newcomer who didn't actually know what was normal and what wasn't, maybe he wanted to know if John could tell what was different from most UNSC bases?
"We should put the canopies out," he finally said.
"Canopies?" the Sergeant asked, neutrally.
"For the picnic tables," John said, pointing to the mess hall. "It should stay warm enough to eat outside for the next couple days, if the forecast stays accurate. But direct sunlight can be a bit too bright, this high up."
"Mmm," Johnson hummed, not giving any indication if he approved of John's answer or not. "Is that what you think about? Day to day life? Food, weather?"
"No, Sergeant," he replied quickly. "Just a thought at the moment. Most days, I focus on the lessons, so that I can be the best soldier I can be. I'll re-hash them internally while I do repetitive physical tasks, and I try to ensure I'm in the proper mindset for the next lesson when I'm on route to the next one."
The older man let out a small huff of breath.
"You're a kid," he murmured softly, but still loud enough to make it clear that he expected John to hear him. "You shouldn't know what it's like to be a soldier. Some things… you can't learn 'till you're being shot at."
"Of course, Sergeant," John agreed, nodding his head. "But sending untrained recruits is even worse, and it's wasteful in lives and material. This is the least bad option."
Sergeant Johnson turned his head, and looked down at John with an openly disbelieving expression.
"You sound like Halsey," the Sergeant muttered, shaking his head. "All… robot like."
John frowned. Sounding like the Doctor should be a compliment, but the second part was clearly not. He wondered if he hadn't explained his answer clearly enough, and opened his mouth to explain further, when Johnson continued and cut him off.
"What I mean, cadet," the Sergeant said, looking him right in the eye, "is that I want to know how you think. I want to know what you care about. What your mindset is."
John felt a cold shiver run down his neck.
A psychological evaluation. He hadn't been prepared for that. Those kind of things were done by Doctor Meyer's shrinks, and never by the trainers.
This wasn't good. Psych evals could seize on the smallest words and use them to unravel you entirely. And here he was, replying to the Sergeant with meaningless minutia like putting up shade canopies for the mess hall.
"I should clarify my previous statements, Sergeant-" he tried to say, but the Sergeant raised a hand and cut him off.
"I understand your previous statement just fine, cadet," Johnson said, a growl entering his voice. "You have a practical mindset. Fine. You wouldn't be the first kid like that in the world. But is that how you always were? Or is that just how you were trained?"
The Sergeant was taller than John – not hard, at John's eleven years of age – but he seemed to loom even taller as he spoke.
"You've been here nearly half your life," Johnson said. "How much of that six year old is even left inside you?"
"…sergeant?" John asked, his voice a little strained as his mind raced. "I'm… not sure what you mean."
"That's the point, boy," Sergeant Johnson said, sternly. "You don't understand."
John stood there, staring up at the Orion trainer in confusion.
It was a strange feeling. It wasn't like he was never confused, but most of the time, it was just a lack of knowledge about some weird quirk of physics, or some bizarre historical event. A temporary sensation that would inevitably be treated by listening to the lesson. Everything would be explained in only a short amount of time.
This time, John knew instinctively that it wouldn't be that easy. Because this wasn't like the other times.
He wasn't just uncertain, or lacking information about some academic trivia to be installed in his memory. His body was automatically reacting to the Sergeant's words in ways that didn't seem to fit. His heart was beating faster. He was starting to undergo an adrenal reaction.
A fight or flight response. That was easy enough to recognize.
But why? Why was his body preparing to fight the other man, just for asking questions? It didn't make sense. Sergeant Johnson hadn't said anything offensive, or even aggressive. But somehow, the words had still struck him like blows in the sparring ring.
As Doctor Halsey said: when in doubt, attack.
"Then tell me," John said, standing his ground and looking back at Sergeant Johnson. "I might not understand now, but I'm young. I'll learn. If you tell me."
"You're a child trying act like an adult," the Staff Sergeant told him. "Plenty of kids do that. But you… do you even know what being a kid is like, anymore? Do you know what kids do?"
"Yes, Sergeant, I do," John replied, firmly. "Doctor Meyer's psychology staff have done their best to keep us in tune with normal children of our own ages. It's important that we stay grounded and realistic as people."
"Let me put it in a way that your soldier-boy mindset can handle," Sergeant Johnson said, continuing as if he hadn't heard John. "If you were assigned to infiltrate an elementary school, full of kids your age. As a grounded person, do you think you could blend in with the other children?"
John hesitated. He'd had sessions with Doctor Meyer about normal behaviors for children his age. There were also some infrequent lessons from Déjà, occasionally supplemented by some awkward commentary from Lieutenant Keyes about his own daughter.
One of his fellow Spartans, Maria, had once joked that they should bring the LT's daughter Miranda back, since she was a subject matter expert. Sadly, that wasn't an option. Nobody had seen her since her single appearance years ago, and nobody wanted to potentially ruin the LT's day by asking about her, in case she'd died in some tragic accident or something.
"There would probably be some aspects that I couldn't prepare for in advance," he answered cautiously. "In-groups, local slang, sub-cultural behaviors… but I'm confident that I could adapt to those elements and fulfill the objective."
Sergeant Johnson closed his eyes slowly, and huffed out a breath.
"You really don't understand, do you?" he asked, shaking his said.
John frowned.
He'd answered the Staff Sergeant's question to the best of his ability, but the man still wasn't happy. At this point, he was starting to think that the problem was with the old Orion, and not with him.
The Doctor had warned all the Spartans about unrealistic expectations in superior officers – which still included non-commissioned officers, of course. It was a topic that the she had discussed once or twice in her more informal lessons, the kind where they didn't have a set lesson plan.
Superior officers had a different perspective than the man on the ground. Sometimes, this was a major advantage, but other times, it could be a major blindspot. Just as easily as they could spot an abstract pattern from their lofty perch, so too could they obsess over broad and vague penumbras and emanations, and miss the stunningly obvious.
What really was the Staff Sergeant's objection? That John wasn't a normal kid?
It couldn't be that simple. The Orion might have been older than most of the trainers, and maybe even the Chief, but he had working eyes, right?
Of course John wasn't a normal kid. He was a child conscripted into a super soldier program. None of those things were normal – and nor should they be, given the moral issues with the first concept, and the difficulty issues of the second concept. But times were desperate, and without the Spartans, the fires of the Insurrection might flame up into an inferno that consumed all of humanity.
"Sergeant Johnson, you asked if I could do a mission," he reminded the older man, taking the chance of getting in trouble. The Orion had told him to speak freely, so he would. "I believe I could. If you're unhappy with my response, I'm not sure how to help you."
"I'm unhappy with your response because you sound like a machine," Johnson shot back. "You don't sound like a person."
John blinked in confusion, and he wasn't sure what to say back.
"I have no doubt that you'll be a real good killer one day, but there's a lot more to life than that," Johnson told him. "I'm a heartless Marine sniper, and I went through this crap before you did, so trust me when I say that you're missing out."
"Missing out on… what?" John asked, nearly biting hit tongue as he realized that he probably shouldn't have answered so cheekily, so impudently.
"Everything else in life," the Sergeant told him. "The high fancy joys of the rich folks, the low-down ugly charms of a working man, and everything in between. You're missing sports, arts, music, movies, literature, all that stuff. You're not in touch with anybody. I'm not asking you these questions because I'm your replacement therapist, I'm asking you because I wanted to see if you even realized it."
"We play sports here, Sergeant," John protested. "Regular exercise, mental flexibility for the different rule sets, and leisure, all combined. Studying art is part of our curriculum too, and we're encouraged to watch, listen, or read recreational entertainment in our spare time."
Sergeant Johnson made a foul noise of disgust in the back of his throat, and he spat into the dirt, off to the side, away from John.
"When's the last time you had any fun, cadet?" the Sergeant demanded, his anger undimmed by John's entirely reasonable answer. "When's the last time you enjoyed life?"
John held his tongue, restraining himself from raising his voice. Staff Sergeant Johnson was being a jerk, and he wanted to tell him that – but that would be immature, and only make the Spartan look like he was unreliable or easily stirred into emotion.
If this was a psychological evaluation, then it was possible that it was a test of his restraint. How well he could hold back against someone deliberately trying to piss him off. His heart was still hammering, and he took a slow breath to cool it down, trying to keep it subtle so that he didn't give away any sign of how much the Orion trainer was pissing him off.
"Yesterday, Sergeant," John replied, fighting to keep his voice as studiously polite as possible. "When I relaxed with a good book. I'm currently reading All Quiet on the Western Front."
The mocha-skinned man looked at him with an appalled expression.
"You had fun reading a book on trench warfare?" the Orion asked him slowly, his words like an accusation.
"I enjoy learning," John replied, pointedly. "Self-improvement is fun, and it helps me become a better person not just for the UNSC, but also for myself. Reminding myself of the necessity of soldiers, but also how horrible war is. A good balance that puts me in the right mindset for-"
"Cadet," the Sergeant said, cutting him off. "Every time I've asked you a question, you tell me about some practical benefit you're getting. Alright. I understand. But is that all there is to you? Do you make decisions like the world's nothing but a spreadsheet? Is everything just pros and cons to you? Are you a human being, or are you an accountant? Have you got feelings in that head of yours, or just numbers?"
John's forehead furrowed, and he had to bite his tongue.
He was really starting to think the Sergeant was testing him. That no matter what he said, the Sergeant would spin off a slightly different argument, just different enough to confuse the Spartan, just close enough to keep the argument going, and see how angry he could make John.
He didn't reply to Johnson's question. He didn't see a reason to. He kept his expression stone-faced, professional, like he was assigned to stand guard at a watchtower. There was no winning here, no point. If Johnson was going to grade him poorly because of that, then so be it – he trusted the Chief and the Doctor to understand his side of things, on the off-chance he was hauled into an office and told to explain himself.
The Orion was an outsider, anyway, so it wasn't like he mattered as much as Mendez or Halsey. He trusted the people he'd known for years over this newcomer who came in and started making trouble.
Sergeant Johnson let out a long exhale. He reached up, and took off the forage cap that he'd been wearing. Beneath the cap, his hair was trimmed tight to his scalp, with a few gray hairs creeping in on the edges.
"Son, when's the last time you played?" the Sergeant asked him, softening his voice. His expression had shifted. The anger had drained away, and now, he looked at John with a sad, almost regretful look, as if he pitied John.
"…Sergeant?" the question slipped out of John's mouth, unconsciously. He didn't understand.
"When's the last time you played?" Sergeant Johnson repeated.
"What do you mean by… 'played'?" John asked, carefully. "Sergeant Wentworth's obstacle courses are-"
"No, that's training," the Staff Sergeant interrupted. "You did that because it gave you a result. Because it was improvement. Playing isn't like training. It isn't body-building, or learning, or any of those things that you've listed. It's not about making yourself better for the future. It's about enjoying your present, right here, and right now."
The Orion supersoldier shook his head.
"Can you remember the last time you played?" he asked, with a weak note in his voice that almost sounded like begging – but that was impossible, John thought.
"I…" John started to say, before stalling.
He had played. He knew that. He was still a kid, still the same boy who'd been the best at king of the hill, on the old schoolyard on Eridanus II. It wasn't the last time he'd played king of the hill – the Chief had integrated that into their exercises, along with capture the flag, and slayer, oddball, and other variant objectives. The last time they'd done one of those was just a week or two ago. Kurt's team had won, John remembered. It still annoyed him, a little, because he hated losing.
John went to say that, and stopped.
Did… did that count? It had been playing, yes, but… John hadn't really chosen to do it on his own initiative, had he?
One of his sessions with Doctor Meyer came whispering back to him. The different kinds of motivation, intrinsic and extrinsic. Doing things for yourself, versus doing things because you'd been prompted by other people or factors. Motivated by a reward, or things like that.
Doctor Meyer had been using it to talk about the Spartan program. How all the cadets, as conscripts, had been motivated extrinsically, and not intrinsically. John remembered trying to argue, because the Spartans all agreed that the program was a good idea now. Doctor Meyer had explained that it didn't matter if they agreed now, after they'd been conscripted. Even if someone enjoyed an activity or event that they'd been forced to do – it still wasn't really their choice, originally.
But I'm not solely motivated by extrinsic things, John reminded himself. Plenty of leisure activities were still intrinsic. Like reading books. I do that because I choose to.
But Sergeant Johnson hadn't solely been talking about intrinsic versus extrinsic motivations, had he? The Orion had been talking about John doing things because he enjoyed them, and nothing more. Not as preparation, or training, or some step towards a distant future.
When was the last time that he'd done something like that?
"Sergeant," John said slowly, "What are you talking about?"
"You heard me, boy," the Orion said, softly.
"Yes, and it doesn't make any sense," John replied, looking the older man in the face. "You already went through your augmentations. You know what I'm going to be, what I'm going to have to face, in order to become a proper soldier."
The cadet paused, stopping where he stood as both of them stopped walking.
John was breathing a little more stiffly, in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He was in excellent shape, he did not lose his breath merely from talking – but somehow, his chest felt tighter. Hotter.
"Why aren't you helping me prepare for them?" he demanded, staring Johnson in the eye. "Why aren't you making me a better soldier?"
The Orion stared back at John. He made a circular motion with his jaw, as if he was chewing on something, or trying to crack it.
"Soldiers must be people first," Sergeant Johnson told the Spartan, the words careful and cautious. "If they're not, then they're nothing more than killing machines."
John was confused. Wasn't the entire point of the Program to make killing machines? Wasn't that a good thing?
"I knew a lot of Orions like that," Johnson continued, looking even older as he reached out with one hand, and laid it on John's shoulder. "They're not here with us… and I don't want to see you wind up like them, son."
John grabbed the old man's hand and pushed it off his shoulder, unhappy with the contact.
He was angry now, and he still didn't know why. The gnawing pit of frustration in John's stomach felt like it had its teeth sharpened with this added confusion. Why did his predecessor make it seem like his goal – the program's goal – was all for nothing?
"So long as I'm a good soldier, what does it matter?" John demanded. "I don't care about any of that stuff!"
The Sergeant looked down at him, his face twisting into a sorrowful, sad expression… and John finally saw the emotion behind the man's eyes. It was pity.
Johnson pitied him.
"You may not care right now," Sergeant Johnson said, staring him in the eyes. "But one day, you will, and you'll look back on this, and you'll be the unhappiest son of a bitch in all the galaxy."