FOREWORD: Well, guess I'm moving away from endnotes now. Oh well. Anyways, I'd first like to thank /u/greeny74 and /u/clamzilla of the RWBY subreddit for agreeing to test-read this story for me. They've been an immense help to me because (like everyone else) I think more of my abilities than I probably should. Also, greeny74 has an account here ( u/6150908/greeny74) and is an awesome writer; go check him out!

Since I'm posting this on Feb. 1, the anniversary of Monty Oum's death, I'll leave a little tribute here. As I got interested in RWBY only after his death, I'm perhaps not as moved as others by his passing. However, he has made art in his work with RWBY and Dead Fantasy; art is long, and life is short. Thank you, Mr. Oum, for your art and for the inspiration to create my own art.

Disclaimer: I am not Microsoft or Rooster Teeth, so I do not own Halo or RWBY.

Ozpin thoughtfully watched the screen in front of him over the rim of his coffee mug. On it was the image of his commanding officer – and old friend – General James Ironwood. At the moment, the general was scowling as he read something on his datapad. Shaking his head, he set the tablet aside and returned the colonel's steady gaze. "This is your program's most accomplished fireteam?" he questioned, his voice filled with disbelief. "It seems you have been producing loose cannons, Colonel, not Spartans."

"Fireteam RWBY is, by any standard, an exemplary unit," Ozpin calmly returned, mentally adding, Although these biographical extracts I wrote up don't cast their… quirks in a particularly favorable light. "As I recall, you personally attended several of the Spartan-IIs' combat demonstrations over the course of their training. I also recall that you specifically pointed out their skill in battle and their high respect for ranking officers."

"Perhaps," Ironwood relented. "However, soldiers tend to check their behavior during demonstrations. Severe discipline problems usually get swept under the rug when the brass arrives."

Undeterred, Ozpin continued. "Every fireteam has been assessed per UNSC combat standards and has performed at or above required competency levels, with RWBY being particularly exceptional." To prove his point, the colonel pulled up the files he had retrieved earlier and swiped them across the screen to the video image of Ironwood. A second later, he heard a ping as the documents appeared in the general's inbox. The dark-haired man's rigid expression was broken as his right eyebrow climbed until it was pressing against the metal plate on his forehead.

"This fireteam is ranked as nearly hyper-lethal," Ironwood murmured, not sure whether he was impressed or very concerned for his safety.

"I'd like to add that the team, not the individual Spartans, earned this rank," asserted Ozpin. "They each perform admirably on their own and are individualistic thinkers, like the Spartan-IIs of Gray Team after whom they are modeled. But like the Spartan-IIIs, their true strength lies in their cohesion as a unit."

Ironwood's surprised look had already melted away into his usual stony frown. "Just because they work together well doesn't mean they're not loose cannons. There's little to no social protocol: no standard dress when off-duty, only cursory oversight of their activities while on base, reports of behavior unbecoming Spartan personnel. They're acting like children, and you're treating them as though they are."

"That's because that is exactly what they are." The colonel didn't have to raise his voice to convey his anger; his acerbic tone betrayed him. "Have you forgotten that we took them from their families before they even finished first grade, trained them to be weapons, broke them and reformed them as we pleased, and turned them into science experiments so they could kill better? Have you forgotten that we chose to sacrifice their precious, fleeting childhoods in order to erect one last shelter for our dying hope? I treat them like children because they are children. A child is not a machine." Ozpin noticed the general momentarily break eye contact; Ironwood had repeatedly petitioned high command to develop combat androids, in hopes of creating the perfect killing force.

The colonel paused for a moment and took a deep breath to calm himself. "But it is not long before a child can understand words that still perplex us – words like sacrifice, honor, duty, courage. I may not be a Christian, but the Bible says that the faith of a child is a powerful thing, and I believe it. Just like the first Spartan-IIs, these children have accepted that giving their lives to a cause they didn't volunteer for is their destiny and they have every intention of living up to the expectations we've placed on them. Please, James, allow them their quirks, their faults, their breaches of protocol. We are putting their innocence in the line of fire already; we shouldn't have to destroy it first."

Defeated, Ironwood sighed and, closing his eyes, let his head droop a little. He straightened up a second later. "You're almost certainly right about all that. Still, you took it very easy on them compared to Mendez's boot camp." His tone may have been subdued, but his criticism was obvious.

Ozpin smiled slightly as he took a sip of coffee. "We may both be chronic bachelors with no personal experience in raising children, but I do have a doctorate in child psychology. I assure you there is method to my madness." He set his mug back down and added, "And my method does not include waking first graders up with shock batons."

Ironwood smirked slightly; it was well-known that Chief Petty Officer Mendez took training to the extreme. But his amusement was shortly replaced by his usual rigid disposition. "Shall we attend to the matter at hand?" His voice was even grimmer than usual. Squeezing his eyes shut, Ozpin nodded solemnly. The general continued: "You've seen the reports by now. At the rate the Covenant is currently progressing, we will be very lucky if it takes them two years to reach Earth. The Spartan-IIs and IIIs are doing their part, but we can only create so many obstacles for them to break through. Slowing them down is the best we can hope for now. In other words, we need to cycle your Spartans into combat as soon as possible."

"Fireteams RWBY, JNPR, SSSN, CFVY, and CRDL are being prepared for temporary assignment to Fumirole, as that world has only recently attracted the attention of the Covenant," Ozpin replied. "We will have them ready to deploy within the week."

"Very well," Ironwood said with a curt nod. "However, before they can enter full service, the Office of Naval Intelligence has asked I inform you that the Spartans will be assigned ONI handlers."

"Handlers?" one of Ozpin's eyebrows involuntarily arched upwards. "From what I understand, Spartans tend to operate under only light influence from Navy Special Forces."

"I'm not entirely sure what they have in mind either," the general admitted. "However, they have told me you may specify any agents you might prefer to assume that role."

Taking a sip of coffee, Ozpin thought for a moment before answering with one name: "Agent Qrow Branwen."

Ironwood stared back at his friend skeptically. "Why him? Branwen is a hopeless drunk and has nearly been dishonorably discharged twice."

"On the other hand, he has dozens of successful operations under his belt and has demonstrated superb combat and strategic abilities," replied Ozpin serenely. "Also, he is the uncle of two of the members of fireteam RWBY: Ruby-181 and Yang-249."

"I believe that fact makes him an even less qualified candidate."

"I don't." The colonel took another sip of coffee. "Love of family is just as powerful as the faith of a child. He will go above and beyond to ensure his nieces and their fellow Spartans return safely from every mission."

Scowling, Ironwood growled, "That attachment may also cause him to lose sight of those missions' objectives. If he sacrifices the mission to save them…"

"He's an ONI agent. He's trained to make that call," explained Ozpin, resisting the slight urge to roll his eyes. "I want to be sure that every effort will be put into keeping those children safe." He paused, then added, "Will you recommend handlers as well?"

"Yes. Agent Winter Schnee."

"I thought utilizing family members as handlers was a bad idea." A smile tugged at the corner of the colonel's mouth.

Ironwood nodded. "It may be a bad idea, but I didn't say you were wrong. Now if you'll excuse me, I have another briefing to attend…" He reached for the screen to terminate the call.

"Oh, and James?" Ozpin added. "I'll be sure Lieutenant Goodwitch keeps you informed on the Spartans. She was the one feeding you all that extra information, correct?"

"How did you guess −"

A synthesized, vaguely female voice announced, "Call ended." Ozpin let his mug rest on his lap as he turned to stare out the window behind his desk. His mind drifted away from the industrial scenery before him. He imagined the sort of men and women his Spartans would be when they grew up and feared how many of them would not have the chance to grow up.