The Assault

[Durant, M.]

2250 Hours Local Time, June 16, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
51st Street Bridge, Tallusa City, Phoenix III,
Alpha-Phoenicis System

The sun had set hours ago, its final farewells spurning multiple attacks on the bridge by the Covenant. Second Platoon had just finished mopping up the last vestiges of resistance when the call came from the top. Phase II of Operation: FROST DRAGON was about to begin.

Since the platoon's arrival, the Covenant had managed to keep the Marines on the defensive. Each and every attack grew more ferocious as the Covenant became more desperate. They had even tried pushing drop-ship's across the river in a vain - and terribly organized - attempt to land troops on the eastern bank of the river. All attempts were colossal failures on the part of the enemy.

The gods had smiled upon Second Platoon. Durant was as sure of it as he was certain up was up and down was down. Second Platoon hadn't suffered a single casualty since the first Covenant assault on the bridge. Even better, Michael had received a status update from the field hospital, and all his Marines were alright.

Private First Class Gray was confined to bed rest under constant observation. According to her doctor, she showed no signs of her condition worsening. Come tomorrow afternoon, she'd be cleared to return to the front to continue the fight. Private Silva underwent surgery and made it through okay. She was transported to a Navy hospital ship that was stationed on the edge of the star system, far away from the space battle happening in orbit above Phoenix III.

Even Private Robin, whom had suffered a severe enough concussion to cause brain swelling, would be alright. She too had been transported off world, likely on the same transport that Silva had been on, and was slated to make a full recovery within a few days. All of this, the knowledge his Marines would be okay and ready to fight another day, took a huge weight off the Lieutenant's shoulders.

He'd lost two Marines already. He didn't need three more under his watch. That thought made him look in Corporal Faust's direction. Ever the stoic, she did not show what must have been a great deal of guilt that she was feeling for the loss of two of her Marines. Durant sympathized for her and headed no ill feelings towards her. She made a call. It was perhaps the wrong call, but it was more than what most people would have done had they been in her shoes.

"Wilkas," Durant called to his RTO, whom stood behind him and to his right, "radio the Skipper. Tell him that the attack has been repelled and that we're standing by for Phase II to begin. I'm going to have a meeting with Staff Sergeant Cruz and my squad leaders."

Durant clutched the push-to-talk fastened to his combat vest on his left shoulder and pressed the transmit button in. As he spoke, he scrutinized the broken city just past the bridge that awaited them. "Omen 2 requesting a leader meeting at my pos. Echo-Six Charlie, that means you too. Over."

A quartet of responses filtered through his headset, and the Lieutenant nodded. He could see Corporal Rio and Sergeant Stone making their way towards him with their assistant leaders. A few seconds later he spotted Sergeant Weatherby and Staff Sergeant Cruz climbing their way up the ladder to the top tier. Out of the three squads, Third Herd had seen the least amount of action by comparison. The Covenant had attacked the lower tier, but in fewer numbers.

Durant had a theory about it, but he had no way of confirming it, so he kept it to himself. No use theorizing over something he'd never get an answer to, and considering the circumstances, it wasn't something he'd need to worry about for long. He spared another glance at the city.

"Gentlemen, I've got excellent news for you," Durant said, trying to sound spirited about their new orders. "We're vacating this position. I just received word from the Skipper that Phase II is about to be put into action. Our new AO? Look behind you."

The Lieutenant raised his arms up and spread them apart, gesturing towards the city that lay just beyond the bridge on the west bank. A smile snuck its way onto his face as he beheld what should have been a very foreboding sight. "The western bank is our playground from here on out. We are about to bring the hammer down on the heathens residing just past our little slice of paradise."

Sergeant Weatherby turned, a look of concern plastered across his face. It didn't suit him in the least. "Sir, all due respect, that's a lot 'o ground ta fockin' cover. How does command 'xpect us ta take on a whole fockin' city?"

Michael had anticipated a question like that, and his smile grew wider, perhaps looking a tad insane. "With a lot of ass and firepower behind us," he said gleefully. "The entire might of the Twenty-Seventh MEU, to include air support and tanks, will be rolling across the bridges into the city. Additionally, three Army brigades will be making the push alongside us. Not to mention we have Force Recon already out there, and they've been coordinating artillery strikes on key targets across the river."

That seemed to squelch any further possible protests from the Scotsman. Durant nodded to him before turning his gaze to the others. "I've also been informed that when the assault is a go, a battalion of ODSTs will be dropped behind enemy lines directly into the city. They will engage the enemy and keep them in disarray."

He paused for a moment to let all the information soak in. "Any questions?"

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace Wilkas, the platoon's RTO had not been this tired, exhausted and down right frozen since her basic training back on Earth. She shivered inside her armour and wished they could have been fighting in a warmer climate, preferably against a race of evil tropical drinks. Right now she wanted nothing more than to find somewhere warm and get some shut eye. Instead, however she had to settle for standing a short distance behind Durant and do her best to not fall asleep standing up. 
She long lost track of the amount of evil alien bastards that she and the rest of the platoon saw off today, surely there couldn't be more Covenant? Their losses were simply inhuman. 

She nodded hastily to Durant when he issued her some instructions, Wilkas didn't want to speak because she was afraid her teeth would be chattering so loud the Covenant would hear her from here. Suppressing a shiver she grabbed her radio headset and said. ""Two Actual to Omen Actual, be advised: contact suppressed. Standing by for go code. Over." Wilkas listened for the response, as she waited she dreamed of warm places and of home. 
The brutally cold environment reminded her very much of her homeland, Grace hoped that the Covenant would never actually find their way to Earth. She didn't want to see her motherland in flames. But then again, neither did the rest of the marines who which she served with. Some of them had already lost their home worlds yet so far Earth is or was so from alien assault. 

Wilkas tried to shrink inside of her armour and fatigues to escape the cold. God damn it was so cold, who would have guessed that General Winter decided to enlist in the United Nations Space Command Marine Corps? Evidently tormenting only one planet was no longer enough for him. Maybe he would freeze the Covenant in their tracks and the the marines could just mop up the frozen bodies? 
A cold gust of wind blew and Wilkas shivered as cold tendrils seemed to punch right through her and rob her of any warmth. If this kept up she would literally turn into ice, she struggled to remember a time when she had been this cold, only her basic training came to mind. 

Grace hoped that they would be moving out soon, so then the physical movement should warm her up. Though she doubted how far she might get due to feeling completed exhausted. The battles here had been brutal, almost as terrifying as her first action, that trial by battle where she suffered a panic attack and injured her ankle. The only way her first action could have been more embarrassing would have been if she broke her ankle when she first dropped in. 
That would not have gone down well with anyone, here at least there was no danger of running out of lovely oxygen, even if it happened to be freezing cold. 

[Stone, T.]

Stone sat on a pile of sandbags as he dragged on a cigarette, staring out at the towering spires of the city on the other side of the bridge. His helmet rested beside him, his balaclava balled up on top of it. The cold and blistering wind was virtually unbearable, and yet he made no effort to shield his face from it. His cheeks were cherry red, and he could imagine ice sickles hanging from his ears.

He took another drag. With a single deep exhale, he blew the smoke out of his lungs and saw it swirl in front of him. The cold took him back. It took him back to a place that he only seldom thought about anymore. Revisiting that place often brought a hurricane of raw emotions upon him. The pain of revisiting those memories was deeper than any knife could cut, or any bullet could pierce.

Phoenix III reminded him a lot of Harvest after it had been glassed. When the Covenant glassed a planet, many things could happen as a result. In the case of Harvest, the glassing plunged entire sections of the planet into a nuclear winter. The areas that hadn't been glassed as thoroughly were transformed into barren deserts.

All that was left standing in the aftermath of the first invasion were the cities. Those cities - Utgard, Gladsheim, and the few smaller metropolitan areas - were reminders of Harvest's past. Before the Covenant's attack, Harvest had been a spectacular agricultural world. Outside the cities were miles of fields, farm land, and snowcapped mountains. It was the perfect planet for anyone who wanted to get away from the urban jungles and industrial factories of the Inner Colonies.

Thomas remembered watching the JOTUNs plow the fields during harvest season. Clouds as thick as wool of dust were left in the wake of the machines. He recalled having to go behind them after they were finished plowing and make sure there were no crops left unharvested. And then the grueling task of replanting seeds so that there could be crops ready by the next harvest season.

Those were memories of a better time. A simpler time. Back then there had been no aliens hellbent on ending his species. The only war back then was the war against the Insurrectionists. Humans pitted against humans. An enemy that everyone could at least in some way either identify with or understand.

But those days were long gone now.

Half the time he couldn't remember what the hell the old war was about. He just remembered being deployed to planet after planet, fighting guerrillas and revolutionaries, and wondering when it would all be over. The judge had told him four years. Four years and he could get out and return home.

However, the war wasn't over in four years, and Thomas Jeremiah Stone never left any job unfinished. So he re-enlisted for another four, a decision which he did not know at the time he would eternally regret. Because he decided to stay and fight, he never saw his family or home world again. When he returned to Harvest in 2526 to fight the Covenant as a part of Operation: PAYBACK, it was the first time he'd been back since he enlisted in the Marine Corps.

By then, his family was dead and his world destroyed. And with it? What was left of his humanity.

Stone took one last drag before he took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it away. He turned his head and saw that his squad was settled in their positions, awaiting orders or for the next attack. Thomas smiled.

As the day went on, the Covenant had grown considerably more desperate in their attacks. They had thrown everything at the Marines in hopes of breaking their spirits and tearing through their defensive line; tactics that might have worked had it been any other company of Marines, but not Oscar Company. The war dogs of Company O were tougher than that.

As a result, the bridge was littered with the enemy's dead. Grunts, Jackals, Elites, and even Brutes were lifeless bodies now. The Brutes had been the hardest ones to kill (except for the Hunters earlier in the morning) and yet even they were not capable of breaking through. Stone was proud of his squad. All of them.

But he sure as hell wasn't going to let them know that.

"Y'all better git yer shit tagether fer the next assault," he said with his infamous Southern drawl. "'Cuz last time those assholes got too damn close ta my line. Ward! That goes fer you especially. I saw how ya were shootin'. Damn sloppy."

Stone placed his helmet back on his head and stuffed the balaclava in one of his pouches on his thigh armor. He turned and looked over at Corporal Davis, who he saw had that trademark grin on his face. Davis knew by now the tricks Stone played. He could be standing in his face screaming and the bastard would know whether it was all just for show or the real thing. Part of Stone hated that about the man.

The other part admired him. If Davis knew the games he played, that meant he would likely use the same games when he became a sergeant. Technically it wasn't in the job description for a sergeant to be an asshole. That wasn't exactly something they taught you in NCO School or the Squad Leader's Course.

However, in Stone's opinion, if you weren't an asshole at least sometimes as a sergeant, then you weren't a good one.

He was certain the Gunny would pat him on the back for figuring that out were he here. Ward's father had taught him everything he knew about being a good NCO. While Stone and Ward were two different people, with largely two different styles of approaching leadership, they had one thing common: they both knew how to be assholes and good leaders at the same time. Stone took pride in that.

Stone was torn from his reverie by the sudden squelch of the radio. Lieutenant Durant was calling for a squad leader meeting at his position at the back of the defensive line. Stone craned his head over his shoulder, taking one last glance at the burning city behind him, and then started on his way to the Lieutenant. "Davis," he bellowed, "leader meetin'! Git'cher farm boy ass over there with me!"

A thought crossed his mind. "Oh, 'n Davis?" he said. "Tell Avery he's in charge til you git back!" If Davis had been in front of him, it would've been hard not to spot the grin on his face. Lance Corporal Avery was opposed to the idea of taking command. He preferred to stay behind his machine gun and fight, not be a leader with a rifle. Thom knew that if push came to shove he'd take charge, but he'd certainly hate every second of it with a fiery passion. Leadership meant no machine gun.

No machine gun equaled unhappy Avery.

Stone heard the heavy footsteps of Corporal Davis behind him trying to catch up to his squad leader. Stone glanced back and offered him a nod, but did not break stride. He was a man on a mission right now. His mission was to find out what the Lieutenant wanted as quickly as possible and then return to his squad to dish out what potentially could be some bad news. Or good news, depending on how one looked at things.

When the Sergeant had reached where the Lieutenant and his shadow (Private Wilkas) were at, Stone took a knee and placed his rifle against his leg to keep it upright. "Sarn't Stone here, sir."

Staff Sergeant Cruz, Corporal Rio, and Sergeant Weatherby quickly arrived beside him and the Lieutenant gave what was to be a long speech. A speech that basically boiled down to "we're going into the city with a fuckload of support and kicking alien ass." Or, at least, that's what Stone could translate from it. That was all he needed to know, the nitty gritty about the plan. He didn't need to know when the Army were going to take their next dump, or when the next hot meal would be brought up to the front, or any of that nonsense. Those were worries way above his paygrade.

He trusted the system enough to know all of that was figured out. He also trusted that none of that figuring would do a lick of good when it came to crunch time. Something would, as it always did, go wrong. A supply convoy would get ambushed, or a Pelican shot down, or a runner shot dead... it was the same shit, different battle. So he stopped caring about that because he knew his Marines could make do without knowing about all that unnecessary shit. Like him, they only needed to know the bare bone essentials of what they were about to do.

"Sir, if I may, what're our plans fer CASEVAC should we take more wounded?" Stone asked. That was really the only question he cared to ask and know the answer to. If one of his Marines got shot, he wasn't about to leave them high and dry because some POG didn't think about coming up with a decent casualty evac plan. Oscar Company would be encountering a lot of unknowns once on the other side of the western bank. The likelihood of injuries would be exceptionally high as far as he was concerned.

And he refused to let another Marine die without a fighting chance in Hell of being saved.

[Stringer, K.]

Stringer was pissed. Pissed off because he was down two marines. Gray and Silva were on the CASEVAC after they both sustained injuries. He got the report through Durant. Gray was on bed rest, in the rear with the medics. Silva wasn't as lucky, but she was going to make it. He was glad to hear it though. He wasn't out two marines, just down. Till they get back, he would have to make sure he picked up what slack he could. He also knew he had to watch out for Lawrence.

The last thing he was going to have happen on his watch is his entire fireteam get injured and out of the fight. The one absolute at this point was to get rid of the Covenant as fast as possible, so he could get back to the ship and out of this god forsaken place. The urban area ahead of the bridge was nothing but buildings damaged or destroyed by the Covenant, and only god knew where they were in the city. For now though, he knew where they were not.

He and Lawrence were taking up position on top of an abandoned school bus on the bridge. It had hit a few cars and was at a forty-five degree angle, and Stringer had decided that it was better up top than inside the school bus. He had a slightly better view of the other side of the bridge and the city beyond, and he also had the ability to get out of trouble should the Covenant decide to blow the bus. He'd rather jump than try to run out of the confined space of inside. He had Lawrence lay just to his right flank, down the bus just slightly. He ordered her to do as he did, and place her ruck in front of her, and place her rifle on top when aiming it.

This would both provide a little bit of cover, and steady her aim. Granted, she was using an assault rifle, but it would better the placement of her shots. Stringer, however, would have much superior shot placement. He knew this because of the previous times he'd done this. He was certain that the Covenant would not give up. He did know however that when they did, they destroyed entire planets when they couldn't take them, and even sometimes after they did take them, they pulled out and glassed them anyways.


For now though, time was on the Marines' side. Stringer knew as long as the Covenant had ground troops deployed, they would most likely not glass the planet. So, that gave them time to retake it, and hopefully the Navy could push back the ships holding orbit around the planet. He was where he would want to be though. Stringer would rather take the Covenant on the ground versus take them on in a space ship. The Covenant were known to have much superior shields, weapons, and even sometimes, numbers. It was normally an even fight when three UNSC ships took on ONE Covenant ship, in space combat. Their shields were just too damn tough to take down quickly in normal combat.


So, for now, Stringer was fighting an easier war, on the ground, with air, and a BR55 battle rifle. He had already restocked his magazines with fresh ammo, and even grabbed a few extra and placed them in his pack. He knew he would be fighting for not only himself, but for Gray and Silva as well. With two less weapons, that was more enemies Stringer would have to put down himself.


For now though, all was quiet. Stringer had eyes on both the end of the bridge the enemy was at, and the rest of his platoon behind him. So, now it was just a game of hurry and wait. 

[Faust, M.]

Faust injuries hadn't been severe enough for her to leave the field. Of course they hurt, but wrapped up in bandages they weren't a concern of her's any more. The pain was numbed by the sense of failure and deep personal anger that she directed at herself. She'd made a call, the wrong call in the heat of the moment, got most of her fire team wasted.

It brought back a lot of painful memories, during her service in the 712th Marine Division. During the last few days with the 712th she had lost many good friends to the Covenant it hurt to lose two marines from her fire team. It hurt because it had been her call, just like on New Madagascar. They could have taken cover, or fallen back but Faust demanded that they kept attacking, sure the marines captured the hill but it virtually wiped out the division doing so.



Michelle wasn't responsible for all of their losses, just her own which she bitterly blamed herself for. Faust was glad that she never became an officer because she felt certain that her actions would result in heavy causalities. Aggression worked well in urban environments but serve very little practical purpose elsewhere. At least she still made calls even if they were judged by others to be the wrong one.

Continuing to charge the Hunters would have resulted in everyone being butchered by those massive brutes. A marine could not take one of those things in close combat, it would slaughter them. Then her platoon would be down three, instead of two.



Faust had helped to fight off the Covenant attacks on the bridge, now she pushed bullets into an empty magazine. She tried to keep herself busy, act like everything was oh fucking kay when in reality it was not. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Nothing made this more obvious than Faust's silence, she'd been quiet ever since the battle for the bridge ended. Her mind depressed and her heart heavy with grief, regret and guilt. She had made the call, the wrong one. Now two marines lay dead, in addition to Robin being out of action.



All of this serve to remind the Corporal of the losses sustained during that charge up that hill back on New Madagascar. It was take that hill or die trying, if they stopped to take cover then the aliens would have easily pinned the marines down, picking them off with grenades as well as fuel rod cannons.

Getting up and charging them had been the only option left, even if it had been extremely costly to all the fire teams involved not just her own. Her mind conjured up the faces of all those who died in that last final push against the aliens. Her boyfriend for one of them, an Elite took him down with a beam rifle at near point blank range. His death had been instantaneous, but still losing Jonathan hurt a hell of a lot. She'd lost tonnes of friends, people she had known from basic and fought in countless battles, Sigrid, Stefan, Herman, Frank, Pierce, Hawker... She stopped inserting bullets, so many dead friends, dead marines why did she keep surviving when better soldiers died in stead of her?

[Davis, E.]

Davis would have enjoyed the last day if it hadn't been so incredibly cold. The down time in between the battles with the seemingly endless hordes was filled with ammunition checks, silent watches, and other mundane boredom. A few team leader tasks and some aiding Stone with the squad helped fill the time, but as a whole, it was a grind of slow motion nothingness.

The call from Sergeant Stone was enough to get him to his feet, glad for something new to do. The comment on Avery was enough to bring his smirk back, knowing how his Lance Corporal would feel about it. At this point, he would rather leave Furby in charge. If he were to ever break out of his continual bad mood and ass-hat behavior, he had the makings of a good NCO. He cared, and that was a good start. Davis paused, turning back to his team.

"Avery, you've got the lead till I get back," Davis barked. "And lay off Fox. Furby, if I find out you were out of line and insubordinate, you'll wish the Covenant had gotten you."

Stomping his feet a few times on his way over, he wished he had something to keep his feet warmer. The movement was enough to get the blood flowing again and it was obvious he wasn't in any danger of freezing, even in his toes, but he was certainly uncomfortable. It was the whole idea that made him cantankerous. And it was all he could do at this point to not just start taking it out on any Marine with a rank less than his. There was a large part of him that wanted Furby to start pulling his shit. It would give him something to do to warm up.

The orders for the assault were simple enough. Having the Army and armor elements backing them up was reassuring. He couldn't wait to take the fight to those alien bastards. It would be another chance to see if Ward could keep up. The pup was growing up quickly, but an assault through urban terrain was no joke, and as his point man, Davis was aware that Ward was the most likely one to not come back. Hopefully he could change those odds.

[Durant, M.]

2300 Hours, June 16, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \
51st Street Bridge, Tallusa City, Phoenix III,
Alpha-Phoenicis System

The bridge shook at its foundation, alerting all that something was coming their way. Headlights, twin beams of ivory light, cut through the veil of darkness towards the bridge. Lieutenant Durant turned, gazing back towards the UNSC's lines, and watched the headlights grow larger as they came closer. Behind the first pair, he spotted four more sets of headlights, following in close proximity.

"Omen Two, this is Anvil One Actual, comin' up on your six o'clock," rang a gruff, stern voice over his helmet's built-in radio.

Five M808B Scorpion Main Battle Tanks rolled up the slope of the bridge towards Second Platoon. The roar of their engines nearly deafening over the persistent silence that had fallen over the bridge for the last ten minutes. Michael stepped off to the side as the lead tank rolled by, coming to a stop several feet ahead by the sandbag positions established by the Army long ago. Durant couldn't help but smile as he eyed the machines that spelled death for any Covenant bastard that walked in their path. Those tanks weren't even a quarter of the firepower that would be heading into the city for the assault in just a few minutes.

There was a squeel of metal as the hatch to the lead tank opened, and the driver stood up in his seat so that half of his body was exposed from the midsection. Durant made his way over to the tank and leaned against the metal that lined the top of the four tread pylons. The driver, a captain, waved. "Lieutenant," the tanker greeted, "Ready to flush those bastards out?"

Durant nodded with a white, toothy-grin. "Yes, sir," he said. "My Marines are ready."

The captain nodded. "Outstanding. My column'll lead the way. Have your Marines follow behind the tanks. We'll clear the path for you."

Lieutenant Durant nodded and marched off, headed for the spot where he had assembled his platoon. All of them were there, spread out only a few feet apart, awaiting for him to pass down the word from On High as to what their mission would be. He knew his squad leaders had already briefed them on the long term goals of phase two of the operation, and now it was his job to fill in the blanks on the rest. The Lieutenant took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, a long blast of hot air swirled in front of him.

"Marines," he began with a firm, yet excited tone, "This is it. As you know, on the other side of this bridge, the Covenant are waiting. For too long they've controlled half of the city, laughing in our faces, mocking us. Well, no longer shall that be, because the full might of our forces are about to charge across the river and hit them where it hurts. Those tanks behind us aren't even a quarter of what'll be pushing across these bridges. The entire Twenty-Seventh MEU, alongside the Army forces still in the fight, and the combined air power of the Marines, Navy, and Air Force, are about to bring the hammer down on those unsightly heathens."

Durant paused, letting his words simmer. He used the time to scrutinize each and every one of his Marines, looking for any sign of what they feeling. From what he could see, they were ready for whatever was about to be thrown their way. "Going in, we will be supported by the Scorpions behind me. Our current objective is to reach the main subway station approximately twenty blocks northeast of us. The tanks will be with us for roughly ten blocks before breaking off to tackle their own objectives. At that point, aside from air support, we'll be on our own in hostile territory. I expect everyone to stay vigilant at all times and maintain a hard posture. The Covenant aren't just going to hand us the city... we're going to have to take it! Anybody not wanna go?!

He waited for their collective response, and then shouted, "Oorah, Second Platoon! Let's go take this city back!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did the radio crackle to life. "All stations this net, Chaos Actual, launch Phase II. I say again, Phase II is a go. Get 'em, Marines!"

Durant glanced back and saw the tank commander close the hatch to his tank. A second later, the tank was moving again, along with the entire column behind it. The Lieutenant turned to his platoon and waved for them to fall in behind the tanks, and then fell in behind the lead vehicle, Private Wilkas at his side. The noise from the tank's engine was so loud that Durant barely heard the sound of hundreds of Falcon helicopters, Pelican drop-ships, and attack fighters fly by overhead, all headed towards the Covenant-controlled city. It was a magnificent sight, and in Durant's mind, it spelled almost certain victory for the UNSC.

The Covenant would have to pull a miracle out of their collective hats in order to turn the tide of this battle.

((OOC: Would have made the post longer, but had to give it up. Phase II is a go, so let's get the ball rolling! And most of all, have fun! Whoo!))

[Stone, T.]

Stone had spent the last ten minutes preparing his squad for the inevitable assault. He had them clean their weapons, stock up on ammunition and grenades, and steel themselves for the tough fight ahead. Ever the attentive leader, Stone noticed a change in Private Ward's demeanor. The young Marine seemed nervous at the idea of close combat, and had asked his teammates questions regarding incidents they'd experienced involving urban warfare.

Both Furby and Avery had been dismissive, not paying Ward much mind. As was to be expected, they diffused the situation with attempts at humor. Personally, Stone didn't find them funny at all, but that wasn't saying much. After nearly three decades of war, one tended to lose his sense of humor. Even so, Furby and Avery, collectively, were idiots. It was hard for him to imagine that even someone with a sense of humor would find them funny.

"Ward," Stone barked, his usual firm tone momentarily gone, "ya ain't got nothin' ta worry 'bout. Jus' keep yer head on straight 'n watch yer sector 'n you'll be fine. Corp'ral Davis 'n the dumbasses got your six."

His tone was almost fatherly, a treat that his Marines seldom heard. He scrutinized Ward after he was finished, gauging his reaction. His words seemed to put some confidence back in the private, which that had been his goal, so he nodded. And just as fast as his fatherliness had arrived, it disappeared, replaced with the usual firm, authoritative voice that was trademark of Thomas Stone.

"Alrigh', ya animals," he shouted, making sure he had the attention of his entire squad this time. "I ain't gon' lie. Thirsty First's taken a beatin'. Second Team ain't lookin' too pretty, and Third Team's gotta few bruises. The best lookin' bunch outta the lot of ya is First, 'n they've got Furby 'n the new guy... But, fuck it. Davis, yer team's on point fer the squad. We're gon' lead the way fer Second Platoon, oorah?!"

He paused only for their collective response. He grinned, one of those rare grins that meant he was pleased with the situation and confident in his Marines. So much could be said with such a subtle gesture, and he knew his Marines got the message loud and clear. "Oh, 'n Davis?" he called, looking over at the Corporal. "Try not ta piss off any Hunters. It don't tend ta end too pretty."

Just then, the bridge began to shake. He could feel it through his fingers, his feet, the permacrete, all the way to the bridge's foundation. Shifting his gaze westward, he spotted what caused the sudden tremors. Five Scorpion MBTs made their way up the bridge toward the platoon, their bodies cast in shadows so that only their shape could be discerned behind their powerful headlights.

"Firs' Squad, fall in!" Stone barked, anticipating the Lieutenant's speech to be incoming. He watched as the tanks came to a halt just short of the sandbag barriers, and the commander of the tank column open up the hatch to his vehicle to speak with Durant. Thomas quietly listened to the exchange, and then snapped to a slightly relaxed position of attention as Durant approached the assembled platoon. Staff Sergeant Cruz stood right by his side, with Private Wilkas seemingly not too far behind them.

Stone listened to the grandois speech delivered by the Lieutenant. He barked "YES, SIR!" at the proper que and stood back as the man finished up what he surely intended to be a motivational kickstart for everyone. Once the Lieutenant finished, the call from On High blared over the radio waves, and the assault officially begun.

"Firs' Squad, fall in behind the firs' tank with the El-Tee!" Stone ordered his men, and then took to following behind First Team with the likes of Corporal Faust and Lance Corporal Upshaw. He glanced at Faust, giving her a one over, and then nodded. She was ready to make amends for her earlier mistakes, even if she didn't quite agree that she had indeed made a mistake.

Thomas turned his steely eyes skyward as thousands of UNSC aircraft flew by overhead. The memories of past operations flashed before his eyes for a split-second before he pushed them aside and carried on with his stride. Right now his mind needed to be focused on the present, not the past. What happened in the past was unchangeable. No difference could be made there.

But right here, in the present, he could make all the difference in the world.

[McMillan, J.]

After several rather intense firefights, and the initial battle to retake the bridge earlier, Mac had exhausted a good portion of his medical supplies. Bandages, MediGel, biofoam, and at least two vials of morphine had been expended over the course of the day. A great deal more than he had anticipated when he'd packed for the mission. Fortunately, the platoon recently was resupplied, medical supplies included.

McMillan sat on a stack of sandbags, his medical kit open, its contents sprawled out in front of him. The last couple minutes had been spent organizing his supplies by type, and now he was inventorying them. The word was that the platoon would be headed into the Covenant controlled section of the city, and as a point, he liked to make sure he knew exactly what he had in his kit and how much of it, should his supplies ever be needed. Wishful thinking would have him believe that no one else would get injured... but he was not a wishful thinker. Logic and reason singlehandledly carried him through his past experiences with the Covenant, and through his duties on the Hopeful. He saw no reason why logic and reason would not see him through the trials and tribulations that were certainly ahead of them.

Jim turned away from his supplies for a moment, looking towards the bus where Corporal Stringer was posted from over his shoulder. So far his interactions with the Marine had been far from what he would call pleasant. The Corporal had a mouth on him and quite the attitude... the kind of attitude that he was not fond of. He wondered if, over time, the young Marine and him would be able to settle their differences and bury the hatchet, so to speak. However, just as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it just as quickly.

McMillan wasn't the type of person to hold a grudge, by no means. Professionalism and respect were a part of his creed, and he abhorred confrontation lest it be absolutely necessary. But, some how, Stringer seemed to push his buttons. Perhaps not intentionally; hell, he might not have even been aware of it. But regardless, Stringer got on his nerves.

Shaking his head, Mac returned to the task at hand. He needed to get the inventory of his supplies finished before the platoon received their marching orders. So that's what he intended to do.

Bandages. Check. Tourniquets. Check. MediGel packets... Check. Biofoam. Check. Mac looked over his supplies once more, and found he had everything he needed and then some. Judging by the amount of supplies, he'd have enough to render first aid for most of the night. Perhaps into the next day if things went okay.

He could only hope.

Jim gathered his supplies and stowed them into the medical kit. He shut it, latched it, and clipped it to the back of his rucksack for easy access. Satisfied, he stood up. Then he felt it. It started as a gentle rumble, barely detectable, although easily heard. Soon, the whole bridge visibly shook, though not enough to cause for concern. Jim looked downslope and saw the cause of the persistent tremors.

A line of tanks were making their way up the bridge. Shrouded by shadows and partially blinded by the intense brightness of their headlights, all he could make out was their shape. Like their namesake, they looked like a line of scorpions approaching the platoon. The tanks stopped just short of the platoon's defensive line, and Mac watched as Lieutenant Durant made way to speak to the commanding officer of the tank platoon.

So, we're about to step off, the Corpsman thought. He craned his head towards the Marines of Second Platoon and saw that they were forming a rather loose formation, likely preparing to hear a heroic speech from the platoon's fearless leader. Mac shrugged, and joined them. As suspected, when the Lieutenant was finished with the tanker captain, he made his way over to the group and commenced his grand pep talk.

McMillan listened halfheartedly. He wasn't interested in hearing how they were going to flip the tables on the Covenant and place their collective boot up the Covenant's proverbial posterior. Jim only wanted to get the next phase of the operation underway, so that he could do his job unhindered. Truthfully, he was excited about the opportunity, but he wasn't interested in listening to a speech about it. A job needed done, and talking about it wasn't going to get that job finished.

So Jim was thankful when Durant concluded his speech, and the platoon started to move, using the tanks as mobile cover. Phase II was underway, and he was eager to be fighting again.

[Bukar, O.]

Alarm klaxons droned, reverberating throughout the ship, incessantly. The ship shook from yet another blow, the force of the impact nearly putting him to the floor. Steadying himself, Gunnery Sergeant Omar Bukar marched on, his destination only meters from reach. Behind him were nine others, cloaked in obsidian armor, weapons slung over their shoulders.

The Armstrong had been in the thick of the fight against the Covenant fleet for hours, and the toll upon the ship was finally becoming apparent. Multiple decks had been breached from plasma bombardments. Entire compartments were sealed off to contain the breaches, sometimes with crew still inside, all of them left to die from asphyxiation and pressure loss. Omar shuddered at the thought.

It was a terrible way to go.

Clearing his mind, the Gunnery Sergeant pressed forward through the hatchway as the doors folded into the bulkheads. Beyond the threshold was the drop bay, where dozens of human entry vehicles awaited willing occupants. Bukar passed through the middle row, scanning the pods until he found the one with his name on it. Without pause, he unslung his weapon and stowed it in the gun compartment, and then climbed in.

The door to the pod shut and sealed, cocooning him inside. As if aware that it was now suddenly occupied, the SOEIV's systems sprung to life, and he felt the teardrop-shaped vehicle shift as it slid into the departure tube. Very shortly, he would be plummeting through the atmosphere of Phoenix III, on his way to the sprawling Covenant occupied metropolis below.

"Sparks, this is Gravedigger, come in," Omar said into his helmet's built-in radio microphone.

"Sparks here, send traffic," came back Lieutenant Hirohito Kano, the commanding officer of Crimson One-Three, his voice sounding tinny over the radio.

"Interrogative: there a NAV marker in place for our DZ?"

Suddenly, on Bukar's Heads-Up Display, a NAV marker winked into existence. Omar grinned. Kano was a cheeky bastard, he thought. "Affirm. Government Plaza. Be advised: the Covenant are pretty thick in that area. My guess is they're trying to gain access to the AI Core. I don't have to tell you that we cannot allow that to happen."

Bukar agreed. Roughly a mile underground was the housing complex of Tallusa City's custodial AI, Jax, and there were only two ways to access it: through the subway tunnels or via the Governor's Hall located smack dab in the center of Government Plaza. Jax was the machine that kept the city running behind the scenes. It controlled all automated machinery from traffic signals to billboards. Unfortunately, it also contained highly classified data that would be invaluable to the Covenant were they to capture it.

That was Crimson One-Three's mission: to prevent the enemy from obtaining Jax by any means necessary, to include outright destroying the data center entirely. Crimson One-Three was the only unit tasked with this mission out of all of the ODST units that would be dropping into the city. But that was because Crimson was no ordinary ODST element.

It was a Beta-5 AAG, and thus fell under the auspices of ONI Section III. Lieutenant Kano was the team's ONI handler and a decorated Section III agent. After the debacle on the Templar, where Bukar's last unit was almost entirely wiped out, ONI had him and Staff Sergeant Brutus transferred to Crimson One-Three, and the two were immediately thrust back into the fray.

Which was okay. Omar preferred to be in the thick of it all. He was never one to sit idle and let others do the fighting. After all, that's what landed him on ONI's radar in the first place. He was a seasoned operator with years of combat experience. Innies, pirates, the Covenant, all forces he'd encountered and survived aplenty over the years.

"Drop sequence initiated," a lifeless, electronic voice droned. The Armstrong's AI was the most likely culprit. "Ten pods set to launch in T-Minus ten seconds..."

The Gunnery Sergeant tuned out the countdown and instead glanced at the computer display to his left at head level. It showed a video feed from one of the pod's external cameras, the feed dominated by the grey-white mass of Phoenix III. He squinted, inspecting the feed more closely, and noticed a flight of Seraph fighters engaged in a brutal dogfight with a squadron of Longswords.

Omar's lips curled in a twisted smile. Seraph fighters were formidable opponents, but they stood no chance as the odds currently stood. The Longswords had them outnumbered and outgunned. Were it not for the sharp maneuvering of the Covenant fighters, the Longswords would have won the battle by now. His smile faded, and just as he was tuning back into the happenings around him, the clamps holding the drop pod in place released.

The pod entered freefall instantly, and for a moment, Bukar's stomach was in his throat. As the sudden weightlessness subsided, he relaxed, and switched the display on his right to a readout of the team's vitals. Everyone's heartrates were elevated, but all were within acceptable ranges. The radio came alive, and the voice of Brutus filled his ears from a direct radio link. "Thank you for riding Helljumper Airlines," his friend said in his best mock Stewardess voice. "Please keep your hands and feet inside the HEV at all times. If you're feeling sick, you're screwed, as the UNSC is too cheap to put barf bags in these things. Thank you, and enjoy your drop."

Omar chuckled, shaking his head. "Very official, Brute. Very official."

He heard Brutus laugh. "Thank ye, ya fockin' arse!"

"Any time," Bukar replied.

Omar glanced at the temperature readout, feeling the heat level steadily rise. It read eighty-nine, and was climbing fast. He looked at the feed from the external camera, and noticed it was bathed in a crimson hue. The pod was just beginning its entry into the planet's atmosphere, perhaps the most dangerous part of orbital insertion. If the external heat shielding failed to hold, he would literally be cooked alive. He'd personally seen it happen to troopers he'd dropped with before. It was never a pretty sight and a damned terrible way to go.

However, he wasn't really concerned about it. He had faith that the pod would hold up, and if it didn't, oh well. There wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. So, with a flip of a switch, he flooded the interior of the drop pod with heavy metal, and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long trip down.

[The Commander]

Roha 'Rahmamee grimaced with a wicked snarl. Before him stood a titanium-reinforced bulkhead, seemingly impenetrable after the punishment it had sustained over the course of the last five minutes. Beyond it was a score of humans whom had cowardly fled at the sight of him and his warriors. From what he had seen, only one of them had been armed, leading him to believe the rest were noncombatants.

They were prey unworthy of him. Any average Unggoy could manage them singlehandedly with laughable ease. Humans were easily frightened, and pathetically fragile creatures. At least the majority of them were. He had, in the past, including most recently, encountered humans worthy of the warrior moniker. Of course he found them to be few and far between, but they were out there. The ones that stood and fought rather than fleed garnered his respect, even if they happened not to survive the encounter.

He shook his head. The humans beyond the door were not his target. They were mere targets of opportunity; an appetizer before being served the main course. No, the real target, sought after by him and his SpecOps lance, was the human artificial intelligence buried beneath the surface of this frozen rock. The door in front of him led to a service lift, the primitive machinery that transferred humans from one level to another, and that lift wa his ticket to reaching the AI Core.

"Commander," Major 'Fulkamee beckoned, standing several feet behind him.

'Rahmamee turned, his armored boot making thunderous booms upon the sleek granite flooring beneath it, and locked eyes with his scarlet-armored subordinate. The Sangheili was not a member of SpecOps, but an attaché, so assigned to the lance for his aptitude in demolitions. "Yes?" the Commander inquired, his tone thoughtful.

"By your command, I can rig the door with a antimatter charge, and burn it to dust," the Major stated. His tone seemed eager.

Roha considered it. Antimatter charges were powerful and quite often used to breach the hull of human warships. The use of such a devastating weapon within the confines of a structure built far less sturdily than a warship was dangerous. However, without it, he and his team would almost assuredly never be able to make further progress on their mission, and that alone was unacceptable.

The Commander decided. "Very well," he said, scratching at his throat, "make it so. Do not detonate the charge until all personnel have retreated to a minimum safe distance. Understood?"

'Fulkamee nodded, grinning wildly. "Yes, Commander. By your command."

The demolitionist immediately went to work, retrieving an antimatter charge from its container and setting it by the door. 'Rahmamee did not linger to admire his work, but instead made his way down the passageway ordering his subordinates to fall back down the adjoining corridor. The blast from the charge would be massive. He imagined that the damage to that section of the building would be catastrophic, and he wanted to be nowhere near the charge when it went off. The Commander was not afraid of death - not by a long shot - but he intended to perish in battle with honor.

There was no honor in being killed by a charge planted by one of your own.

[Stringer, K.]

Stringer laid there on the top of the school bus, watching the other end of the bridge. He knew the assault would begin sometime soon. When it did, he knew the support they would receive was the only thing that would save them if they got into urban combat with the Covenant. Urban combat alone was deadly, but you add plasma weapons into the mix, and it was almost suicide. The only time you could get the upper hand on the Covenant in urban combat, was either with luck, or an over abundance of firepower. So, Stringer could only hope that command was sending enough assets to cover them should they get into urban combat, and he knew the platoon most likely, if not definitely, would get into urban combat with the Covenant. After all, they wouldn't just leave the city without a fight. Stringer knew he wouldn't if he was in the Covenants' shoes.

Stringer pushed back the thoughts for now though. It wouldn't do him any good to keep thinking about such things. For now, his primary objective was to hold the bridge with the rest of the platoon. He had the top side covered from his perch atop the bus, with Lawrence. He knew being down two marines would affect his fireteam's combat strength for sure, but if he and Lawrence kept their heads on a swivel, they would make it back alive. So, he would do whatever he could do to make sure she does so, and do what he could to protect his fellow soldier. He still couldn't help but wonder though if there was something he could have done to protect Silva and Gray better though. Seeing soldiers he was now in charge of get hurt in combat was not an easy sight, and it weighed heavily on him. He would make sure that next time, his ENTIRE fireteam survived their combat mission.

Just as Stringer was about to check through his scope at the buildings near the bridge, he began to feel the bus shake a bit, and he then began to hear a familiar rumble. He didn't need to look back to know that was the sound of a M808B Scorpion Main Battle tank. He knew their 90mm cannons alone could put the Covenant in their place, along with the machineguns they packed with them. Stringer knew now, hearing multiple tanks rolling up behind them. He knew the lieutenant was probably about to have a morale speech, like all commanding officers did before major combat operations. Stringer heard enough of them, so he had no desire to move from the bus to go hear it. Instead, he decided to maintain an over-watch of the other end of the bridge.

Thankfully, he wouldn't have to worry about making the wrong decision, as not even a minute later, he saw the Covenant start to send troops to the bridge. He saw about two squads worth of grunts, backed by two jackals running towards the ramp onto the bridge. Stringer pressed the PTT for his headset, speaking through the platoon's com-chanel.

"Omen Two-Two-Charlie to all elements, contact front on the top tier!" Stringer released the PTT and clicked the fire-selector switch to semi-auto, and began to fire rounds at the grunts, aiming through the scope at their torsos to maintain accuracy and try to get up a high firing rate. No sooner that he began to fire, he heard Lawrence begin to open up on the Covenant as well. He cut down two grunts in less than ten seconds, and began to search for his next target, when he saw a quick sight of blue. He removed his right eye from the scope, when he then saw an elite. Trying to catch his new target, he focused back in through the scope. When he found his target, his heart skipped a beat, as he saw the elite carrying a yellow weapon, recognizing it as a Covenant fuel rod cannon, their equivalent of a rocket launcher. He then saw the elite crouch and take aim him, Stringer almost being able to see down the barrel.

"Oh shit! Lawrence, get up and off this bus, NOW!!" Stringer grabbed his pack, throwing one of its shoulder straps over his left arm, getting up quickly, as he saw the elite fire the round from the alien launcher. The rounds did start fast, but slowed a bit as the plasma did heat up. Stringer saw Lawrence still a second behind him, as he grabbed her left arm with his left hand and pulled her to her feet. Once she was up, he lead her, almost pushing her onto a car behind the bus to land on to get down. When he landed on it and he saw she was safe, he began to jump down as well, just as the round from the fuel rod cannon hit the bus and caused an explosion, making him miss his mark significantly as the blast propelled him past the car, and onto the bridge. Stringer didn't land gracefully at all, landing on his knees and then chest instead of his feet, as he fell. The impact did more than knock the wind out of him, as his legs began to hurt, his BR55 battle rifle sliding a few feet past where he landed. He laid there for a second, before trying to move, feeling he still had motor control of his legs, which let him know they were not broken. He would probably just have a few bruises and scrapes.

When Stringer stood up and turned, he saw one of the scorpion tanks rolling past him, smacking through the burning wreckage of what was left of his previous perch. The metal, burning remains of the bus didn't stop the tank, as part of the bu was tossed over the side and into the river below, as the tank rolled up. As soon as it did, Stringer saw and heard the machinegun open up on the Covenant, before a blast forced him to take a step back, it being the shockwave of the 90mm cannon going off. After a few more moments of the machinegun fire and another blast, the bridge fell silent, the scorpion dealing with the recent threat. Stringer grinned wide, as he turned and picked up his battle rifle, making sure it was still functional.

When the rest of second platoon came up behind the tanks, Stringer was still grinning. He looked to Lawrence and then the rest of the platoon, before he started laughing a bit.

"Fuck man, talk about one hell of a ride!"

[Furby, J.]

Furby turned his baby blues onto Lance Corporal Avery as Corporal Davis marched off, his grin as wide as ever. The expression on Avery's face had surprise written all over it, intermixed with a little frustration. Jayson had worked with Avery for what seemed like years, when in reality, it had only been a little over a year. The man was what he called an artist with the GPMG, but he lacked very much in the leadership department.

Avery never enjoyed being in charge. While technically he was capable of leadership, and often took charge when he had to, but normally he kept his distance from the responsibility. He was a man of simple interests. His place, as far as he was concerned, was behind a machine gun pumping out lead, not barking orders and coming up with plans.

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do?" Avery asked. His eyes locked with Furby's.

Jayson shrugged. "Stand around and look like you're keeping us busy?" he suggested.

The Lance Corporal seemed to ponder over that for a moment, then nodded. "Not a bad idea, bro," be said with a smirk, "how 'bout you police up our MRE wrappers while the boot supervises?"

"What?!" Furby cried. "You're gonna make me pick up trash and let Ward just stand there and watch?!?!"

Avery nodded. "Corporal told me to play nice, so, I'm playing nice."

Ward opened his mouth next, clearly just as surprised as he was, and Avery shot him a mean glare. The Private's mouth quickly shut. "Your input ain't needed here, Boot!" Avery barked. "I said supervise, not help!"

With that, Avery made his way back to his weapon and began to disassemble it, piece by piece, part by part. Jayson glared at him the entire way there, hoping his gaze would be enough to stop the bastard's heart. He looked around and saw there was plenty of discarded trash for him to clean up. However, that presented a new challenge for him to overcome.

Where was he supposed to dump the trash? There weren't exactly trash cans lying about on the bridge, and he wasn't about to haul the crap with him in his rucksack. He needed to come up with a solution fast, before the Dickapotomus Rex returned to harass him some more. Jayson looked around briefly before his eyes trailed to the side of the bridge.

A lightbulb lit up above his head.

He could throw the trash over the side. He smiled, mentally patting himself on the back for that token of ingenuity, and set to work. The next few minutes were spent scooping up plastic wrappers, discarded box containers, and everything else that his brethren had tossed aside from their meals. When his hands became too full, he made his way over to the siderail of the bridge and released the trash over the side, watching if plummet to the frozen river below.

When the task was finished, he turned around to see Ward standing there, his expression incredulous. "Did you just toss all of that trash over the side?" he asked, his tone accusative. Jayson glanced back over his shoulder. He imagined the large pile of trash that had likely accumulated at the bottom. There had been quite a lot of trash left by the Marines.

The PFC turned his head back to Ward and nodded. "Yep," he replied, rather matter-of-fact. "There wasn't anywhere else to chunk it."

Ward shook his head. "You could've stuffed it into a vehicle or something... I mean, it's not like anybody's using them."

Furby was taken aback by Ward's tone. It seemed that he was chastising him for the way he improvised in getting rid of the discards. "Since when did you get promoted, Jonny? Last I checked I got a mosquito wing on my collar," Jayson retorted, closing in on Ward. "Besides, what's it to you? This place is gonna get glassed to shit anyway."

Ward shook his head even harder. "You don't know that!"

Jay nodded. "Actually I do. Right now the Navy is up there -" he pointed to the sky for emphasis, "fighting a losing battle. It don't matter what we do down here, man! The Navy can put up a fight all the want, but in the end, the Covenant always wins. Their ships are too powerful and shields too strong. Once the Navy gets its ass kicked, those same ships are gonna swoop in like a pack of hungry wolves in glass this place to shit. We don't get to fucking win!"

Furby's voice had raised an octave during the course of the argument, and it seemed that it had attracted the attention of Avery. The Lance Corporal bolted over and stepped in between the two, obviously sensing the tension in the air. He probably figured that someone was going to swing on the other. Furby wasn't about to, but he realized it wouldn't take long for him to reach that point.

"Break it up," Avery barked. He turned his gaze onto Furby. "And you shut the fuck up. My baby and I ain't gonna let those ugly motherfuckers get another win over us. I'll strap a damn jetpack to my back and head up there myself if I got to!"

Terse silence fell between the trio. Seconds ticked by, the only sound being that of the Marines around them and the howling, icy wind. Finally, Jayson turned away, feeling outnumbered and outgunned, and made his way back to the sandbag partition that had earlier been his perch. He scooped up his rifle, which had been left leaning against the sandbags whilst he policed up the trash of over a dozen hungry Marines, and plopped down on the partition.

It wasn't long thereafter that Sergeant Stone and Corporal Davis returned from their pow wow with the platoon's leadership. Stone immediately jumped down everyone's throats like he'd never left, barking out orders and making his usual threats of previous bodily injury to those whom did not comply on the spot. Jayson had become immune to the fear that those threats once instilled, but he was no fool. He knew what Stone was capable of and no matter how much he bitched and griped, he still obeyed. Sergeant Stone was certifiable in his book. There was no telling what the man would do if someone crossed him, and frankly Jayson was not at all interested in finding out.

Minutes past by in relative silence as First Squad went about whatever duties the old coot had bestowed upon them to accomplish. Jayson spent the majority of the time checking his equipment. He had the feeling that Second Platoon would be thrown headfirst back into the fray, and he wanted to be doubly sure he had everything he needed to stay in the fight.

The first thing he did was disassemble and clean his weapon, taking it apart with practiced precision. It was a task that he'd done a thousand times before, and in less than two minutes he had his weapon put back together again. From there he inspected his gear and retrieved some grenades from his ruck, affixing them to his combat webbing. The last, and most important thing he checked, was his ammo.

Jayson nodded, satisfied that he had everything he needed. In total, he had two frags, ten magazines of 7.62mm ammunition, a full CLS kit, and a smoke grenade he'd appropriated from an Army mutt hours ago. All in all, it wasn't a bad loadout in his opinion. He had just enough of everything to keep him in the fight and still be able to lend a helping hand if needed.

And he was sure he would need it.

PFC Furby stood up. He was about to make his way over to Avery and Ward when he felt, or rather heard, something headed their way. He craned his head towards the opposite side of the bridge, looking to see if maybe the Covenant were preparing to go another round with Second Platoon. He saw no indication that they were under attack, and Corporal Stringer - who was perched atop the bus at the bridge's center - had not sounded the alarm.

Perplexed, Jayson turned back to the side the Marines had come from, and it was then that he realized what it was. Trudging their way up the bridge, their headlights piercing veils in the darkness, was a convoy of Scorpion MBTs. The mere sight of them was enough to squash any doubt he had about their mission. One Scorpion alone could wipe out an entire company of Covenant soldiers. Four of them was enough to take on a whole battalion. Jayson looked up at the cloudy, obsidian sky above, and thanked whatever deity that had granted them such a welcome miracle.

"We might actually have a shot," he mumbled under his breath.

Lance Corporal Avery cocked his head at Furby. "Huh?"

Jayson shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. "Nothing, man."

That seemed to be enough for Avery. He returned his gaze to the tanks, watching as Lieutenant Durant spoke with the commander of the column. Jayson tried to listen in to the conversation, but the voice of Sergeant Stone coupled with the roar of the tank's engines were overpowering. Stone imparted a brief speech upon the squad about their Disposition, and then established who would lead the way.

Of course it had to be First Team, Furby thought. That put Ward at the helm, a responsibility Furby wasn't sure he was quite ready for. Images of his first time on point flashed through his mind, and he vividly recalled the way he felt. There was nothing more nerve-wracking than being on point. Every sound and every glimmer of movement was heartstoppingly frightening. He knew that he was the first in line to receive a bolt of plasma to the face should an alien pop around the corner or a sniper take aim.

Jayson felt for Ward. When he looked over at him, he immediately recognized the signs of distress and fear; it plagued his demeanor. The young man may have trained a hundred times as a point man in the rear, but everyone knew that was different. Absent was the fear of death or grevious bodily harm in training. There were no aliens vying for your life on Reach.

Jonny wasn't in the rear anymore, and this was not a training exercise. If he screwed up even in the slightest, it could very well spell disaster for everyone involved. That mind of pressure was not an easy thing to deal with, and even now Furby would have had trouble with it were he in the Private's shoes. The only solace to be had from the situation was that there were seasoned veterans watching Ward's six.

"No worries, Jonny," Jayson said, trying to sound encouraging. "You got this. We got your six."

Ward gulped, and nodded. "Thanks," he said with hesitation.

"Just don't fuck up, Boot," Avery quipped with a grin. "That's all ya gotta remember. Don't. Fuck. Up."

[Ward, J.]

Perhaps it was his father telling him over and over that humanity would never die out, or maybe it the constant berating and motivation beaten into him at Boot Camp by his drill instructors, but Ward could not believe for a second that Phoenix III was a doomed planet. Sure, the Covenant clearly had humanity bested in the technology department, but humanity had the spirit and the drive to never retreat and never surrender. He looked around, thinking of their operation on a grand scale.

Right now there was an entire Marine Expeditionary Unit vying to retake the city from the Covenant. Next to them stood the Army, with all of its assets practically ready to climb over each other just to get a piece of the bastards that had almost beaten them to the brink. After all that you add the artillery supplied by both groups and aircraft from the Navy and Air Force and you have one lethal combination.

The only way the Covenant had even the slightest chance in turning the tide was in space, as Furby had so eloquently pointed out. However, Ward could not wrap his head around that notion either. The MEU had arrived with a full battlegroup led by an admiral notorious for his can-do attitude and brilliant tactics. Not to mention that same battlegroup had surely linked up with the remainder of the defense fleet that had been keeping the Covenant's battlegroup at bay. The Covenant were vastly outnumbered and, in his opinion, woefully outgunned. He couldn't see a way that they could turn the tables in their favorm.

Shaking his head, he finished up what he was doing just as a platoon of tanks arrived to reinforce the Marines for the coming assault. The M808B Scorpion tank was a fine piece of machinery, and it starkly resembled its namesake, what with the cannon poised in the back of the vehicle like a scorpion's tail ready to strike. It had a ninety millimeter smoothbore cannon pumping hate and discontent in the form of high explosive shells that automatically fed into the barrel thanks to a state-of-the-art feeding system. It was truly a marvel of human engineering.

The voice of Furby muttering under his breath snapped him out of his reverie. "Huh?" Jon asked, craning his head towards his pessimistic comrade. Furby shook his head and said it was nothing, so Ward shrugged and looked back at the line of tanks that, in a few moments, would be rolling across the bridge with impunity. Jon caught sight of Lieutenant Durant stepping away from the lead tank, headed towards the platoon, and somehow he knew to start falling in before the order had even left the mouth of Sergeant Stone.

Second Platoon fell into a loose formation before Lieutenant Durant, and Ward listened to his commander's speech with keen interest. There were parts of it he found... Odd... but overall, he liked it. His spirit was high when the platoon was dismissed. The Marines were going to charge into the city and do what the Army could not; kick the Covenant off the planet. That filled him with pride.

And then it all came crashing down with only a few words from his squad leader. Ward's Fire Team was on point, and that meant he was on point, leading the way for the entire platoon. In all of his excitement he'd forgotten that he was a point man, and forgot that he could very well be the first man walking into the enemy's line of fire. He was the platoon's frontman, and that meant he would take the blame if all went south.

He looked around at his fire team, and especially towards Corporal Davis, his expression dominated by trepidation. In eighteen years he had never quit anything he'd set out to do. He enjoyed a challenge and always tackled a problem head first. However, right now, he wanted to tell the Corporal to find someone else to take point, that he just couldn't do it. Jon was afraid he might cause people to get killed, and he didn't want that on his conscious.

But he couldn't. The words refused to leave his mouth, no matter how much his brain screamed at them to. He signed up to be in the infantry, and inadvertently by extension signed on to be a point man. If he tried to bail out on his team now they would never let him live it down. That kind of stigma would follow him for all eternity, written in big, bold, black lettering on his CSV to be seen by every commanding officer he'd ever go on to serve underneath.

So, as much as he wanted to turn and run, he couldn't. No matter what he had to push through the fear and the doubt and keep on moving forward. He just hoped that this icy hell hole would not become his final resting place, because Jonathan Michael Ward had too much to lose. Before he'd left for the infantry training battalion after Boot Camp, he told his fiancé he would be coming home. He even went as far as to promise her that he would.

Jonathan Ward never broke a promise.

"No worries, Jonny," came the voice of Jayson Furby. "You got this. We got your six."

Ward turned and looked at his friend, managing a small, weak smile. "Thanks."

Lance Corporal Avery chimed his next, and much to Ward's general surprise, it was somewhat uplifting. Somewhat. "Just don't fuck up, Boot. That's all ya gotta remember. Don't. Fuck. Up."

Jonathan nodded and took a deep breath. That couldn't be too hard, could it? Don't fuck up, don't fuck up, don't fuck up, he recited in his head as he unslung his rifle and prepared for the hard slog ahead. He wanted to commit it to memory. "You can do this, Jon," he muttered to himself. "Just remember your training and don't fuck up."

[Durant, M.]

((OOC: I listened to Halo Theme Mjolnir Mix before writing this off the Halo 2 Anniversary Soundtrack. Listen to it. It makes everything ten times more epic.))

2300 Hours Local Time, June 16, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
51st Street Bridge, Tallusa City, Phoenix III,
Alpha-Phoenicis System

The order had been given. Phase II of Operation: FROST DRAGON was now in effect. Michael grinned as he turned his gaze onto the column of tanks that would be their escort for most of the journey through the Covenant-infested streets of Tallusa City. Only a fool would be brave enough to challenge the might of a Scorpion tank.

Just as he was raring to issue the order to advance, a dull roar reached his ears. It was barely audible over the racket of the tanks' engines, but somehow still loud enough to be heard. He turned his head outward, towards the bridges down river from theirs, and saw nothing that could have made such a powerful noise. Michael stood there for a moment confused. It wasn't until he looked up at the darkened sky above that realization found itself upon him.

Soaring through the sky towards the western bank of the city was every type of aircraft imaginable in the UNSC arsenal - Pelicans, Falcons, Longswords - you name it, it was there.

Longsword bombers approached the city in vast formations, preparing to rain tons upon tons of computer-aided and laser guided bombs atop the heads of the Covenant. Shortswords flew alongside them in tight formations, ready to lend aid to the Longswords if necessary and provide the ground forces air support if necessary. Durant imagined there was at least a thousand aircraft headed for the Covenant-controlled side of the river.

He was impressed. The upper echelons had really come through this time, putting out all the stops to push the Covenant out of the city. He realized the fight would be hard fought, but perhaps all the support would make at least a marginal difference for the forces on the ground. Durant wasn't convinced, but he could dream.

"CONTACT FRONT!" rang the voice of Stringer over the radio. Durant watched as the Corporal and PFC Gray leapt off the bus up ahead as it went up in flames. It seemed the Covenant were just as anxious for a fight as his Marines were. A grin lined his features.

He turned and wordlessly seized the handset from off Wilkas's radio pack. "Omen 2 Actual to Anvil One, we've got company up ahead, over."

The gruff drone of the tank commander came through his headset. "Roger that. We'll roll out the welcome wagon," he said, the grin apparent in his voice. "Tell your Marines to fall in behind us and watch out for the exhaust. It's pretty stuffy back there."

Durant nodded and placed the handset back on his radio operator's pack in a single motion. He keyed the push-to-talk on his chest and said, "Second Platoon, let's move out! Fall in behind the tanks. They're gonna clear us a path."

With that, Durant grabbed his rifle and moved to fall in behind the second tank in the formation. He could hear the chatter over the radio from his squad leaders as they relayed the orders to their respective squads. Within seconds the platoon had fallen in behind the tanks, and the vehicles started forward at a reasonable pace.

The lead tank pushed an abandoned vehicle out of its way as it started its advance across the bridge. The second tank broke formation and moved into the next lane, increasing its speed until it was parallel with the lead tank.

Durant watched as the tank ran up on a pick-up truck and drove right over top of it. The truck's frame bent and contorted, pushed inward from the weight of the tank rolling over top of it. The windows exploded outward, sending tiny shards of glass in all directions. By the time the tank had cleared the vehicle, it was almost as flat as a pancake.

"Anvil One to One-One," Durant heard over the radio, "Pick up speed and ram that bus. It needs to get the hell out of our way."

The Lieutenant didn't hear anyone reply, but he did notice the second tank begin to move forward faster than the others. Seconds later it was upon the burning carcass of the bus Corporal Stringer and PFC Gray had been posted on just minutes ago. The front end struck the bus and, to his amazement, Durant watched as the tank shoved the vehicle aside with relative ease.

The tanks came to a halt just past the bus, and Durant could see what appeared to be half a platoon's worth of Covenant up ahead, slowly advancing towards the tanks. The lead tank's cannon quickly turned towards the clustered aliens, and Durant realized what was about to happen. "EVERYONE COVER YOUR EARS!" he screamed, then cupped his hands over his ears underneath his helmet.

BOOM! Fire erupted from the end of the cannon, the sound so loud that Durant's ears rung even with his hands pressed over top of them. Michael looked where the Covenant had been a moment ago, and saw nothing but a scorch mark and bits and pieces of the alien soldiers.

Michael thought that was the end of it, but then he noticed an Elite jump out from behind a car at the bottom of the bridge, a Fuel Rod Cannon on its shoulder. "Anvil One, AT at your eleven o'clock!"

Another voice, this time a woman's, played through his headset. "I got 'im!" A fifty caliber machine gun roared, and Durant watched as the top half of the Elite disappeared in a flash of purple mist. The rest of the body plopped to the ground lifelessly. "He's cooked."

"Omen 2, path's clear. We'll stick with you for about a klick, then you're on your own," the tank commander said.

"A few of your boys can ride on my tank," the operator of the second tank added. "It'd help keep the riff raff off."

Durant smiled. "Solid copy. I'll let my Marines know."