[C-Deck] One-stop Shopping Spree

[Stringer, K.]

1235 Hours, June 16, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Aboard UNSC Vengeance, Armory, en route to
Phoenix III, Alpha Phoenicis System


Stringer was on the elevator down to C-Deck with the rest of his fireteam. Durant told him and the rest of Oscar Company to get to the armory, then to hold at the exit there. Stringer lead his fireteam to the elevator quickly after that, and now here they were. Waiting for the doors to open. He looked back at Gray, Silva, and Lawrence. He knew they were probably anxious, as was every other marine and navy personnel on the ship. Stringer was anxious as well. He didn't show it now, like he did in the cryo room. When he got to thinking about it on the run to the elevator, he realized he didn't need to do so for the sake of his fireteam. He would only give them an example to live by that would help them.

He pushed the thought aside and focused on the present. He would need to lead this team, and make sure each and every one of them got back alive when the mission was done and over. For now, the second step was getting them armed up. When he checked the profiles on his fireteam, he saw that Silva was an automatic-rifleman. He also saw that Lawrence was a rifleman, and Gray took point in her last fireteam. He would make sure the make use of all three of these roles. He normally took point with his old fireteam, so he figured he would have Gray move with him on point. He knew that S.O.P. was to let the pointman take lead, and the fireteam leader be right behind, but Stringer wasn't going to do that. He would make sure that every time, either he took point, or was alongside Gray.

He was brought back to reality when the doors opened on the elevator. He stepped off quickly and began to jog towards the armory. He made sure that the rest of his fireteam was keeping up. He knew adrenaline would make him want to run at a full sprint, but that would only serve to get his fireteam hurt or lost, so he kept calm and jogged at a steady pace. When they came up to the armory, Stringer was the first to step inside, as he stopped inside and turned to face his fireteam.

"Alright ladies! Load up on all the ammo you can carry! Grab at least five spare mags and place them into your rucks. Prolonged battle may give us a chance to swap mags, but we may not be able to reload right away, so I want you three to carry these to swap out for the empty ones when opportunity gives us a chance. Silva, in your case, grab only three M7 magazines. I suspect with you, we'll have ammo delivered to our position for your weapon. If we get into a spot where you run out, I will hand you my M7, and you use it till either we fall back, defeat the enemy, run out of ammo, or until fresh ammo for your weapon is handed off. Now, let's move it ladies! Time is of the essence, and father time doesn't play nice!"

[Silva, J.]

"Sir yes Sir!" Silva replied eagerly, though nervous she still remained completely and utterly enthusiastic for the fight, it showed in the raw energy that she seemed to radiate and the smile on her face. To some it might appear that maybe the reality of war was a new one to her, however those who knew Silva would know that she had previously seen combat before, even if she disliked to talk about it much. The New Paris Uprising was seen by many of the New Parisians to be a source of great shame and dishonour, especially among their planetary militia who had been unable to restore order to the planet without substantial reinforcements from the UNSC.
Silva could not wait to get to grips with the alien menace, give him a bloody nose and fend him off, protecting home, heart and the UNSC.

Carrying the machine gun was both a great achievement but equally a curse. The cons where it's weight, the weight of the ammunition, the fact that you drew a lot more fire than the ordinary soldier armed with the bog standard assault rifle. Pros where you had a high rate of fire so could unleash fast amounts of fuck you to anyone in range, as well as pin down a far larger body of enemies. She moved to grab hold of three M7 magazines, still buzzing with energy.
Silva believed she happened to be fighting in a war that was far greater than herself. After all humanity's survival was at stake, to defend home and the UNSC one needed to face the enemy, best him in battle and crush him utterly.

Being a marine would be the best way to achieve such a rather simple goal that entailed the complete destruction of the Covenant. Of course things always were much simpler than in reality.  Silva fully expected that a clash with the Covenant would be far different from fighting against Innie scum back on her homeworld, yet she believed that she would be able to engage the enemy successfully. After all the platoon seemed to be made up of various veterans from other units, their experience would be very useful. Especially to those marines like herself who as of yet never fought the Covenant. 
At least she wasn't entirely green, which would be a small comfort to some of the veterans. 

She wanted to quickly write something home, anything just in case that would be the last letter they'd receive from her, until the one she'd given to one of her fire team members arrived. Silva did not want to fall in battle with anything left unsaid between the people that meant most to her in the entire galaxy. 
Despite the growing tension and the need to risk, she found herself oddly feeling heavily homesick. If it had not been for the evil Covenant, Silva probably would have never left New Paris. As the only reason she became a marine was because the UNSC plucked the best soldiers from the New Paris Militia to be trained as marines. 
The transition from being what some saw as a part time soldier to a full blown marine had initially been a bit of a culture shock, however she soon adapted. Now Silva wanted to make a difference and maybe prove herself to some of the marines who doubted her skill in battle.

[Davis, E.]

Davis pulled his team along with him towards the armory. It was going to be the last bit of info he could spare them before he was pulled on a detail. Judging from the names called, there was some serious brass coming with on this trip. All the big boys had been called up and that could only mean weight. He looked them over quickly before he pushed out to the front to get his rifle.

"Stick with Faust, load when you're told, and make sure your packs on the floor between your feet. We're probably going to have to load up our rucks so you'll want them accessible. Wilkas, you're with the LT when you hit the hanger. I don't need to tell you how to do your job. However, plug this into an input slot. Corporal Totino, the Captain's RTO, gave it to me. Said it would help you. And then just sit back and enjoy the flight. I'll see you boys on the bird."

With that he lowered his shoulder and started to move to the front of the line. "MAKE A HOLE," he barked. "DETAIL COMIN' THROUGH!" Davis pushed easily past many of the marines, sliding easily into a spot to quickly draw his rifle from its cradle. His pack, armor still strapped to it, stayed up high on his shoulders and his combat sling locked securely into place. He missed the weight of his former automatic rifle, but the grenade launcher was begrudgingly earning his respect.

"Where to Staff Sergeant," he called to Cruz, stepping out of the din of a weapons draw. "I'm assuming we're drawing down a ton of ammo."

[Durant, M.]

Lieutenant Durant led his platoon down to C-Deck, following in the wake of Staff Sergeant Cruz and the Marines he'd taken with him on ammo detail. On their way down they passed Marines in full battle rattle manning defensive positions. These security teams were placed all over the ship, and were in place expressly on the Admiral's orders in case of a boarding attempt by the enemy. After the history lesson provided by Cruz several weeks back, Durant couldn't blame MacArthur for being cautious.

Upon reaching C-Deck, the platoon made it to the armory a little under a minute later. The room was packed full of Marines from all over the battalion, grabbing weapons and their combat loads of ammunition which had been pre-loaded into clips and magazines by the armory staff. Off in the corner of the room was Oscar's XO. Around him were several crates marked as ammunition for crew-served weapons. Fifty cal, seven-six-two, twelve point seven... the whole nine yards.

Staff Sergeant Cruz was already there, loading the crates of ammo onto stretchers that the XO had acquired from Supply. It would make the grizzly task of transporting the crates into the hangar and onto the Pelicans far less of a pain in the ass, and Cruz definitely appreciated the gesture.

Michael watched as his Marines funneled into the armory after him. He turned and saw the many lines of Marines standing by to be issued their assigned weapons from the armorers. "Line up and get your weapons, Marines!" he barked at them. "Rifleman are to grab at least six mags for their combat load. Slackmen roll with five boxes and additional belts in your rucks. I don't want ammo to be a problem, understood?!"

The Lieutenant did not wait for their responses. Instead, he about faced and stepped into the nearest line. There were ten people ahead of him, some which he recognized as being from first and third platoons. A couple, however, appeared to have been from November Company. Seeing them reminded Durant of the scope of their mission. The entirety of the Twenty-Seventh MEU was about to deploy right on top of the Covenant's heads. The ground pounders were the movers and shakers for FROST DRAGON, and the Covenant had no clue that a hammer was about to be dropped on them.

The Marines would give the enemy no quarter. Durant personally would see to it that his Marines would not retreat nor surrender. Second Platoon would drive through the enemy like a spear, and stave off their attacks like an impenetrable shield. Today the Covenant would learn a valuable lesson.

Don't fuck with the Marines!

[Stone, T.]

Stone followed Staff Sergeant Cruz down to the armory with his usual characteristic enthusiasm. He moved with haste, wanting nothing more to get whatever needed to be done over with so that he could go ahead and acquire his weapon and combat load, and join his squad on the Pelican down to the planet. There were Covenant down there that needed an ass kicking, and he damn sure wanted to be the one doing the kicking.

In some odd, sick and twisted way, killing Covenant was somehow a theraputic endeavor for him. For every ugly he slew, he felt like he was repaying the favor the aliens dealt him by destroying Harvest. It was a terribly slow and grueling process, but he was enacting his righteous vengeance upon each and every alien that stepped in between his crosshairs.

Repressing the thought as he stepped into the armory after Cruz, Stone conned the scene before him. The armory was embroiled in barely contained chaos as Marines from every corner of the battalion armed themselves in preparation for combat groundside. The armory's staff almost looked overwhelmed by the sheer number of people before them, and Stone realized he did not envy their job at the moment. He couldn't imagine how they must have been feeling; though, if it were him, he would have been pulling what little hair he had out. There were just far too many people asking for weapons and ammo magazines.

"Over here, boys," Oscar's XO, Lieutenant Matheson, sounded from across the room.

Staff Sergeant Cruz ushered everyone over to where the XO stood in typical fashion. "You heard him! MOVE!"

Thomas marched his way over alongside the others and instantly noted two things. There were well over a dozen crates waiting for them in the corner marked as containing ammo for crew-served weapons, and there were a couple each loaded onto a set of three stretchers. Stone cocked his brow in curiosity, wondering how the XO had managed to procure them with all that was going on. He said nothing, however. Such a question was not important, nor was the answer.

Besides, he'd seen far stranger things before in the past.

"Grab a stretcher and haul the crates into the hangar," Matheson ordered. "Load the crates onto the Pelicans and then come back with the stretchers for more crates."

Stone nodded and turned to Davis. "Alrigh', son, yer with me! Ya git the front while I take the back!"

[Flannigan, S.]

Flannigan was quickly suited and back out into the passageways, working his way through the masses of Marines to get to his own weapons. He was also drawing for Matheson and Zieed, as they would be tied up at their posts till the last possible minute. Benefits of being a Captain, but also part of the responsibility. He was hopeful that they would be able have everybody ready, but even now he couldn't be sure.

"Weapons India-Sierra-Tango-Tree-Fife-Tree, Oscar-Romeo-Quebec-One-One-Ate, and Victor-Juliet-Poppa-Niner-Four-Seven, Top," he snapped quickly. "Pulling weapons for my First Sergeant and XO."

"Roger sir," the aging Master Sergeant said with a nod. "Just leave your mark for all three and hope they don't lose them. The new models are expensive."

"I don't spend my money on anything but the best," Flannigan said with a wink. "Good luck with the crazy here."

"Good luck with the crazy down there," she replied, moving back to fuss over some papers and one of her marines. Flannigan now stood by with but one task left to do, and he needed a specific man to make sure it was done.

"TOTINO," he shouted when he finally saw his RTO. "WHY AREN'T MY COMMS UP!"

"Sir, everything is ready," the dark haired lanky marine called back a whole lot quieter. "Just waiting for Command Lace authorization."

Flannigan started to access his lace codes, finding the one he needed to push open the company net. It was always better to test these things on ship, if at all possible. All his data started to spool up, with maps, vital signs, numbers, and a host of other command features at his command. Second platoon, he could see, were easily filing through the weapons draw. First platoon was right behind them and third platoon was still just leaving their berths. He frowned in slight disgust.

"Totino, keep up the good work," Flannigan said with a nod. 

"So you say every time sir," the RTO said with a nod. "See you at the hanger."

"All Omen Elements this net, report in. Radio check."

[Furby, J.]

Furby, along with the rest of First Fire Team minus Davis, followed the Lieutenant down to the armory on the hangar deck. As soon as they reached the armory, Furby moved towards one of the lines to retrieve his weapon. Avery stood directly behind him, and Ward took the back of the line beside them. There were about ten Marines in front of them, the majority being from Lieutenant Johansson's First Platoon.

"I can't wait to hold Suzy again?" Avery murmured from behind Furby.

Jayson glanced over his shoulder at him, his right brow arched. "Suzy?" he asked.

"My weapon."

Furby shook his head as he rolled his eyes. Avery worried him sometimes. "Dude, if you keep talking about your weapon like its trim, everyone's gonna know you're fucking crazy."

Avery chuckled with a twisted smile. "At least no one will try to mess with me then."

The PFC shrugged and looked away from Avery. He'd learned a long time ago that it was a waste of time to argue with the man, and right now time was a precious commodity that was in terribly short supply. So he opted to just let it go and go on about his business.

The line moved slower than Furby would have preferred, but after a few minutes he finally stood in front of an armorer. The man on the other side of the metal partition was a Sergeant, and he glared at him expectantly. "Quebec-Tango-Mike-Four-Four-Two, please," he requested.

The Sergeant nodded and stepped away from the partition. He searched along the weapon racks until he came across the BR55 rifle whose serial number matched the one Furby provided him. The armorer gently removed it from the rack and brought it over to the partition, setting it down in front of Furby. Jay thanked the NCO and stepped away, his destination the line where ammo magazines were being issued.

It took only a minute for him to arrive at the front of the ammo line, and a particularly cute corporal slid him eight pre-loaded magazines. Furby nodded and scooped up the mags, cradling them in his arms as he walked away from the line to let the next person receive their ammunition.

After that, Jay began stuffing all but the eighth magazine in his combat webbing. He closed the pouches up and inserted the last mag into his rifle. Before he turned to head for the door, he made sure the safety lever was set to SAFE.

[McMillan, J.]

Jim arrived at the armory in the wake of the platoon commander. He wasn't shocked to see that it was crowded. When an entire battalion's worth of Marines were pressed for time due to an insane deployment schedule, it was to be expected. Still, it did jar him a bit, for entirely different reasons.

He wasn't exactly the most sociable of people, and he hated standing amongst large groups of people. It wasn't that he was unaccustomed to crowds. Back on the Hopeful, the infirmary he worked in tended to get pretty crowded in the aftermath of a battle. Doctors and support staff would flock to the numerous medical bays aboard the ship to help take care of the large influx of patients they almost always received.

However, when he could avoid being around crowds, he seized the opportunity - preferring solitude over group socialization.

McMillan pressed these thoughts to the back of his mind and moved over to the nearest line. While he waited for his turn to be handed a weapon, he took the time to make sure all of his belongings were secured properly to his person and were easily accessible were he to need them in a pinch. There was no telling how things would play out on the surface of the planet, and if his experiences on Propitious when the Covenant had invaded had taught him anything, it was that one could never be too prepared for the worst to happen. And generally he'd seen that whenever the Covenant were involved in any particular way, the worst that could happen tended to do so.

The Marine in front of him peeled off after receiving his weapon, and thus it was the Corpsman's turn to speak to the armorer. He scrutinized the young lance corporal behind the metal partition for a moment, seeing the wary look in her eyes. This was probably her first time dealing with so many people at once, and it definitely seemed to be taking a toll on her mentally, and likely emotionally too. Jim smiled politely at her, in hopes that the gesture might ease the tension she must have been feeling at least somewhat. "Papa-Charlie-Whiskey-Two-One-Zero," he recited to her.

The lance corporal nodded and walked off to retrieve the weapon. She returned with his MA5B and handed it to him, then asked him to write his signature on a datapad that sat atop the surface of the partition. Mac slung his rifle over his shoulder and heard it clink as it magnetically attached to his up-armored rucksack. He picked up the pen from beside the datapad and wrote his signature as requested, then smiled and walked off to go grab ammo for his assault rifle.

That didn't take as long as he had expected it too. It seemed the armorers in charge of handing out the pre-loaded ammo magazines were dishing them fast so that they could keep the line moving at a relative steady pace. Jim stepped up to them and asked for twelve magazines, to which he promptly received. He shoved his off to the side and opened up all his pouches, stuffing two mags in each pouch 'til he had stowed them all away except for one. The last mag got loaded into his assault rifle, which he slung back over his shoulder after he ensured the safety was on.

With that, Mac moved over to where the other members of Second Platoon were congregating, and waited patiently for further orders.

[Ward, J.]

Private Jonathan Ward walked with pep in his step as he followed his team down to the armory. He was excited - anxious, even - to retrieve his weapons, board a Pelican, and get the show on the road. Over the last several months he'd endured much and trained hard to earn his place here, among some of the most badass men and women humanity had to offer. Soon he would be on the ground kicking ass with the best of the best.

This was what he'd signed up for. He'd enlisted to fight the Covenant and send them to the depths of Hell where they belonged. Right now he felt unstoppable. Undefeatable.

Jon was pumped. Though, despite his high spirits and naive thoughts, there was a part of him that felt terrified. He'd never actually seen an alien in person before - only on the news - and had no idea of what to really expect. In SOI, his instructors had gone into gruesome detail about the Covenant races that the UNSC had encountered over the years and they had learned extensively about their tactics. Grunts, by far the least dangerous Covenant troops when alone, were always up front as cannon fodder, mostly. Jackals, the ones that looked similar to vultures, generally either led a small team or were in the middle of a Covie formation.

Lastly, and perhaps the most terrifying of the bunch, were the Elites. Elites were almost always found in the rear and were the most dangerous. Inhumanly strong, abnormally tall, and extremely intelligent, Elites were known to take out entire squads of Marines singlehandedly.

At least, that's what he'd been told. Jon wasn't quite sure whether or not there was any truth to that, but he was pretty certain that he would rather not find out. If he saw an Elite, he would shoot it until it dropped dead. Plain and simple; end of story.

Ward walked into the armory and was surprised by how packed it was. There were a lot of Marines arming up for the battle to come. He snapped out of it when he saw Lance Corporal Avery and PFC Furby head over to one of the lines. Jon followed, and entered the line adjacent to theirs. The wait felt like forever, but eventually it was his turn to be given a weapon.

Crap, Ward thought as he stepped up to the front of the line. What's my rifle's serial number? As he stood there trying to remember it, the staff sergeant on the other side of the partition glared at him impatiently. One of the Marines behind him groaned, and Ward thought he heard him mumble something about boots being stupid under his breath.

"Uh, Foxtrot... Delta... Golf... Three-One-Three," Ward stammered out slowly. The staff sergeant rolled his eyes and went to go get his rifle. Jon looked to his left and saw that Avery and Furby had already gotten their weapons, and were now in line to pick up some ammo.

That got him wondering how much ammo he would need to bring with him. The standard combat load for the MA5B was eight or nine magazines of sixty rounds each. But, with all that was going on, and the platoon's mission to hold a bridge, he wondered if it would have been a good idea to snag some extra mags just in case.

"Here, boot," the staff sergeant said, having returned with his rifle.

Jon took his MA5 from out of the staff sergeant's grasp and exited the line. The Marine that had been behind him again murmured something too quietly for him to hear it, but he knew it must have been derogatory by the look the man gave him. He shrugged and moved into the line to get ammo, and soon came out of it with ten magazines for his rifle; deciding it was best to err on the side of caution. Ward loaded down his combat webbing with the ammo and then joined the others in waiting for the Lieutenant.

[Wilkas, G.]

Wilkas currently found herself engaged in a heated debate with an NCO who issued her the radio, a new one, not the one she broke on the last mission. This one however, much to her frustration did not work when she received it. It was a bust, a dead weight. "For the last time Corporal the radio doesn't work! How can my platoon contact anyone if the radio doesn't bloody work!" To be honest it was less of a debate more of an argument, involving the heated exchange of colourful language and use of insults. 
"Private I assure you that the radio pack you've been issued as a replacement for the one you broke functions perfectly." Came the reply of the ugly looking Corporal, he just had one of those faces that for some reason everyone just wanted to punch.

"No it doesn't! If it worked I wouldn't be here arguing with you trying to get a radio that fucking works!" She snapped back at him, her temper getting the better of her. Why could this asshole not understand a simple fact was beyond her. The Corporal shot her a glare. "Listen to me private if you don't fuck off back to your unit with the radio which works I will right your dead ass up on report!" Wilkas looked about ready to give him a black eye to remember her by when she felt a warning hand on her shoulder.
She turned her head to see who recognising one of the marines from her platoon. Finally someone who would tell this fuck head that the radio didn't pissing work.

Grace was furious with him, it had be fortuitous that she checked her radio before hand otherwise she would have left her platoon high and dry without one. Not to mention Durant would have thrown a book at her, or a boot, whatever he had to hand at the time really. 
She tried to control her temper, save her rage for the Covenant who brought them here, all of them here. If it weren't for these damned aliens, she would still be on Earth not on a warship, about to face the most terrifying enemy in existence dealing with some idiot. 

She unclenched her fists, not realising that she had made them. The thought of punching the Corporal, last name Havard lessened slightly however it still tempted her greatly. That man was one ugly sucking glass mole, perhaps punching him in the nose would improve his hideous features somewhat? 
Truly that was a face not even a mother could love, might explain why he was such a idiotic wind bag who could not comprehend that the radio he issued was defunct, dead, broken, bust. Whatever word you wanted to use, but regardless it did not work. 

[Durant, M.]

The Lieutenant had just retrieved his assault rifle, and had been just about to step over into the line to pick up some ammo, when he noticed Private Wilkas standing in the far corner of the room with a Marine he didn't recognize. In Wilkas' hand was a radio pack - likely the one she had requisitioned after her last one ended up damaged beyond repair - and, judging by the look on the other Marine's face, something was wrong. Intrigued, Durant stepped out of line after slinging his rifle, and approached the two swiftly.

The clock was ticking, and his RTO hadn't even checked out a weapon yet. That was enough cause for concern in of itself to warrant seeing what the hold up was. As the Lieutenant neared them, he was able to catch the Corporal's last words. He threatened to put Wilkas on report.

"What's going on here, Corporal?"

The Corporal, whose name tape read "HAVARD," straightened when he noticed that Durant was an officer. "Private Wilkas here claims that I issued her a faulty radio. I know for a fact that that is far from the case. I inspected it this morning personally, sir."

Michael glared at the Corporal for a moment before switching his gaze to Wilkas. The expression on her face was that of loathing, and perhaps even offense. "Is Private Wilkas requesting she be issued another radio?"

Havard nodded. "Yes, sir. I told her there was nothing wrong with the one I handed her and that she should return to her unit."

Durant sighed through his teeth. He wasn't quite sure what was happening here, but he knew he needed to resolve it quickly. There simply wasn't time to play kid games with some cranky, self-assured POG comm rat. "Well, Corporal, if my RTO claims there is something wrong with the radio, I am inclined to believe her. Now maybe you did check the radio out this morning, and maybe there isn't anything wrong woth it like you say; however, right now I have neither the time nor the inclination to play referee here. So, in the spirit of expediency, since we are pressed for time and I need functioning comms to maintain command and control and communication between my superiors, get another radio for the lovely lady. Just pretend you're doing it for me."

Corporal Havard seemed to take the hint. He took the broken radio out from Wilkas's hands and hurriedly ran off to retrieve another one. The NCO returned a few moments later with the new radio. Durant thanked him and then turned to Wilkas.

"You're welcome," he said with a smile and a wink. "Boot it up, make sure she works, then get your weapon and ammo. We're running out of time."

[Gray, L.]

Gray and Lawrence were right behind Stringer as they exited the elevator and headed for the armoury. Lawrence had also agreed to look after the letter that Silva had asked her to. When they got there, the armoury was crowded, which was expected given the situation. Gray listened to what Stringer had to say and nodded silently, she preferred to not speak at all in times like this and get on with whatever was asked of her. She quickly got into line with Lawrence right behind her.

As she waited in line to get her rifle, Gray could feel the scars on her back and cheek tingling from the adrenaline that was coursing through her body right now. She could vividly remember the pain those injuries had caused and the grief she had suffered during that battle. She was ready to eliminate the whole Covenant race even though she knew it could never bring her brother nor the friends she lost back then. It would make her feel better though at any rate, as she had a tough time since then, trying to deal with all the feelings that had been thrown up in the aftermath. She gave a soft sigh and shook her head to try and get rid of the thoughts plaguing her.

Soon it was her turn to get her rifle. Stepping forward, Gray reeled off her weapon's serial number to the young female armourer stood in front of her. The woman nodded and went to get the weapon. Watching her walk away, Gray felt sorry for the young woman, who she knew must be overwhelmed with the amount of people that she had to see to. When the woman returned, Gray gave her an encouraging smile as she took her weapon from her, before moving out of the way so that Lawrence could get her weapon. Once Lawrence had got hers, the pair of the moved over to the ammo line.

As she moved over to get her ammo, Louise spotted her brother Jake, a corporal in November Company, making his way to get his weapon. As she passed by him, he stopped her briefly and said "It's good to see you lil' sis. Stay safe won't you?" Looking at him, Gray said to him "I'll do my best big bro' and same to you, stay safe. It's good to see you too." before moving on to the ammo line. When it was her turn to receive ammo, Gray requested seven mags which were quickly given to her as did Lawrence who also received hers quickly. The pair then moved off to one side, putting six of the seven mags they had each into their rucks and loading the remaining ones in to their weapons whilst they waited for Stringer and Silva to join them. There was no way that either of them were going anywhere without the other members of their team.

[Stringer, K.]

Stringer watched as his fireteam began to go through, procuring their weapons and grabbing ammo. He began to move into the line to do the same, when he over-heard Wilkas arguing with another marine. He was about to step out of line and walk over to see what was going on, when he noticed the Lieutenant moving in that direction. He then knew it would be settled, whatever it might be, so he turned to face towards the armorer. He was next after Lawrence, stepping up to the armorer.

"Sierra-Delta-Whiskey-Two-Two-Five."

"Got it, just give me a minute."

"Well just make it quick! We don't have all day!" Stringer sighed as he saw the man walk off, thinking that it would be easier if they just had weapons lockers or something. This process always pissed him off, and its why he liked being groundside alot of the time. He could just keep his weapon on him at all times when it was that type of situation. He knew that as he had to wait for a weapon, more and more humans were dying, whether it was marines, or possibly civilians, and that he couldn't change that without his weapon in hand.

As the armorer came back to him with his BR55 Battle Rifle, he snatched it out of the armorer's hands and slung it onto his shoulder, walking away as he heard the man start cursing him for being rude and impatient, along with a few other things. Stringer flicked up his left middle finger back at the man, and heard the armorer hit something. He stepped up at Lawrence and Gray just finished grabbing magazines, seeing them fill their combat webbing and grab five additional magazines, and each of them placing one in their weapon.

"Lawrence, Gray, remember. Don't put one in the chamber till we are thirty seconds from being on the ground. I don't want any accidents in the bird. Bullets love to ricochet, and Pelicans don't like bullet holes. ESPECIALLY when there is air inside, but not out. Got it ladies?" Stringer watched and listened as the two of them gave him their acknowledgements, as he loaded up his combat webbing with magazines for his BR55 and his M7. He then grabbed eight additional magazines for his BR55 and four for his M7, placing them neatly into his rucksack. He then grabbed one magazine and placed it into his BR55, as he walked towards the armory exit. He remembered Durant told them not to exit until they all were ready and he was there. He motioned for Silva, Gray, and Lawrence to gather near him. Once they were near him, he nodded once.

"Alright, now that we have our weapons and ammo, and all we are waiting on is the go order to load up, I do want to share something with you three. My previous fireteam and I always had a tradition. Every deployment, no matter if it was from a ship or groundside, we'd say something together. I want to share that with you, because it was something that was a kind of respect for ourselves and our fellow marines. 'To the ones who have fallen, and the next in line.' We say that, knowing we are fighting in a war, and people will die. Let's try not to be the next ones, but honor those who have, and who may. Oo-rah!"

[Furby, J.]

Furby stood by the door. Avery and Ward were on either side of him, the former cradling an M247 GPMG like a baby in his arms. The armory was rife with activity, and the number of Marines packed in one relatively small space was dizzying. Pre-op work-ups were always a bit chaotic, but not like this. This was crazy.

He had to give the gun nuts credit, though. They were handling the situation fairly well. Furby didn't envy their job. Were he in their shoes, he'd probably have lost his shit. There were so many people asking for weapons and ammo, and some of them were being impatient.

Like Corporal Stringer, for instance. Jayson nudged Avery in the shoulder and gestured towards where Corporal Stringer stood, waiting to be given his primary weapon. The man was bitching at the armorer, and the armorer looked like he was about to reach across the partition and strangle Stringer.

"He's a little belt-fed today, ain't he?"

Avery chuckled and nodded. "Yeah," he replied, "he sure is, bro. Can you believe they put that guy in charge of people?"

"I'm starting to wonder why."

Ward looked over at them. Judging by his expression, he didn't agree with that sentiment. "I don't see anything wrong with him. He seems like a real hard charger to me."

Furby's eyes shuttled over to Avery. He saw the retort coming from a mile away, and decided that it wasn't worth trying to stop the Lance Corporal from chewing him out. If there was one thing he learned since he had been drafted, it was to never argue with the guy carrying a machine gun.

"Shut the fuck up, boot!" Avery spat. "You don't know shit. When your dick stops getting hard every time you hear someone scream "oorah," then you can talk to me."

The PFC suppressed the urge to laugh and simply resigned to shake his head at Avery's harsh words. He turned his head in time to catch Staff Sergeant Cruz and Sergeant Willowby barreling towards them, a stretcher held between them with a couple crates of ammunition on top of them. "GANGWAY!" Willowby bellowed, and Furby immediately stepped to the side lest he be run over by the pair.

The door opened and they disappeared through it, likely headed for one of the Pelicans belonging to the platoon for the trip groundside. Avery muttered something under his breath that Jay didn't quite catch, and Ward stayed against the wall out of the way. Glancing down at the watch around his wrist, he noted the time. They had a little less than twenty minutes until they were supposed to be on the ground. With all that was going on, he wasn't quite sure if they'd make it down in the time that the brass wanted them to.

Corporal Skip's third fire team just joined them at that moment, all of them looking ready for the coming fight. That left Corporal Faust and her team to get their gear and then First Squad would be ready to go.

And then? They'd hop aboard the express elevator to Hell.

[Davis, E.]

"Roger that Sergeant," Davis said, slinging his pack down on top of the pile of ammunition. He still wasn't armored up, but he wasn't worried about it. He could dress up on their ride down if he had to. Right now, he was going to be sweating enough in his cold weather uniform while they hauled this pile of ammo back and forth. He grabbed the front end of the stretcher gave it a test bounce or two to settle it into his hands, and then he was off. He could hear Sergeant Stone's footfalls pounding behind him, but that didn't matter. If the man wanted to go slower, he would say so. Davis was just paying attention to direction and making sure the path was clear.

"GANGWAY," he bellowed as he turned a hard left. The gaggle of marines parted in front of him, a few of them jumping at the last second when they saw the small giant barreling towards them. Sergeant Stone's slapping feet could still be heard keeping time behind him and they put on a little more speed as they reached "The Closet" as the passageway to all the hangers had been so oddly named. One more shouted warning, a marine that didn't move fast enough and was left plastered against the wall, and one final right hand turn put them in the hanger. Running up to their assigned Pelican, the stretcher was placed on the bloodtray and the two men started shoveling the cases in.

A pilot walked up and looked them over before leaving without saying anything. He knew better than to question marines with ammunition, but Davis had to assume he was the pilot of this craft. Fly boys didn't like people around their craft for now good reason. With the first load empty, Davis picked up his end again, his ruck still resting on the stretcher and they started the quick job back to the armory to pull more ammo. Neither one had said much, focusing on breathing and speed, but Davis had an idea and he didn't want to wait around for it.

"Sergeant, I think we can take the rest in one go," Davis said quickly before they reached the armory. "We'll load most of it to my end. I don't think it'll way much more for you and it'll save us another run. Unless you don't think you can keep up. Then we can take two more trips."