The Assault

[Stone, T.]

"Alrigh' ladies, git behind the tanks 'n watch the exhaust port 'less yer lookin' for a quick way ta the burn unit!"

Sergeant Stone followed behind his squad as they rallied behind the first tank. Corporal Stringer and PFC Gray ran into a little action up ahead, and the tanks were about to clear the path for Second Platoon. The tanks etched forward, and the squad followed closely. Any obstacles in the way where either pushed aside or crushed underneath the sheer tonnage of the tanks. It was a sight that had some of the younger Marines captivated.

Stone was unimpressed. He'd seen it all before. The M808 tank was a powerful piece of machinery, and it had been in the UNSC's arsenal for decades. Thomas rode atop a few back in the day, when the Insurrection conflict was at its height, and people still asked the question of whether or not humanity was alone in the universe. Hell, he could recall a time he found himself on the business end of an M808A.

That had not been a pleasant experience. By the end of the day, half of his company had been wiped out by that damn tank, all because some asshole wanted to weazel his way up the totem pole by taking a mountain that no unit, Marine or Army, had been able to conquer. It took his battalion a week to take that godforsaken rock.

"Keep yer eyes open, ladies," Stone barked, struggling to be heard over the roaring tank engine. "The Covenant ain't just gon' lie down 'n take it. Watch fer flankers, suiciders, 'n buggers."

By then the tanks had made it past the bus that had a moment ago been blocking a good portion of the path across the bridge. The second tank in formation had advanced and smacked it out of the way like it was nothing but a paperweight. The tanks suddenly came to a halt, and Stone saw the reason why; Covenant were up ahead, just as Stringed had indicated. They weaved through the maze of abandoned and burned vehicles up the bridge towards the Marines. Stone was no expert on the Covenant, but it looked like they were surprised that the Marines were pushing forward all of a sudden. Thomas grinned. "Cover your ears, ladies," Stone commanded, "'n enjoy the fireworks!"[/b]

The turret turned and the cannon dipped ten degrees in pitch. Stone knelt down and clasped his hands over his ears, letting his rifle rest in his lap, and waited for the thunderclap. The cannon fired, spitting fire more than a foot out of the muzzle, and the Covenant were blown to smithereens. Several vehicles nearby were engulfed in flames from the blast. Thomas whistled at the scene. "Ya'see Marines? Covie shishkabob, served hot 'n ready."

That's when Stone saw it. An Elite stepped out of hiding with a Fuel Rod Cannon hoisted up on its shoulder. The Sergeant was just about to key his radio when the voice of Lieutenant Durant filled the air, warning of the wayward Elite. Stone watched as the second tank made quick work of the bastard with .50 BMG rounds. His grin became wider.

Several Marines cheered, and some like Sergeant Weatherby exclaimed "GET SOME!", but Stone just stood there grinning wordlessly. He scooped up his rifle from his lap and readied it. "Alrigh', show's over, assholes," he said, and stepped forward, "Let's git a move on 'fore -"

He perked up when he heard it. It came faint at first, so muted by the roaring engines of the tanks that he almost missed it. As it became louder, he instantly knew what it was, the sound bored into his memory. His blood turned to ice as he slowly glanced upwards towards the sky.

He saw them. At least a dozen of them taking off from the nearby rooftops. Their wings fluttered so fast that they were but a blur of motion. But their bodies, green and insectlike, were very distinct, and the stuff of Stone's nightmares.

"BUGGERS!" he screamed, tipping the muzzle of his rifle toward the sky as he squeezed the trigger, unleashing a spray of hot lead at the incoming swarm. "TAKE COVER!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did plasma rain from above. The Drones spread out and split up, weaving back and forth through the air in an almost serpentine fashion in an effort to avoid being shot out of the sky. A few of Stone's rounds hit their mark, and two of the pests fell from the sky.

The rest lit the platoon up with their plasma pistols. The tanks were unable to lend any support, their turrets unable to aim that high. Stone turned and booked it for the nearest vehicle to use as cover, plasma exploding at his heel. He leapt forward and crashed to the permacrete behind cover chest first. "Oomph," he muttered. He could hear plasma exploding against the roof of the car, and smelt the stench of charred metal. "I know y'all assholes didn't just shoot that green shit at me," Stone growled as he climbed to his feet.

The assault was on, and the attacking Drones would be Second Platoon's first victims.

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace began to feel much warmer when the platoon moved out to face the Covanent, however it failed to ease the nervous tension that surely all soldiers felt as they headed towards another battle. She tried to not think of home, however it was difficult not to. This might well be her last battle, the last fight she would take part in. She shook her head trying to clear her thoughts, the last thing she needed was herself falling victim to homesickness whilst in the middle of a battle. Grace shivered trying to sink deeper inside her armour.
She had been keeping in the general vicinity of Durant just in case someone wished to contact him. The sudden appearance of Drones froze Wilkas in terror.

Grace had never seen anything so terrifying in all her life, not even the Hunters were that terrifying. If her instincts had not kicked in then Grace would have probably been shot down by the plasma bolts. She dived for cover, rolling as she hit the ground, scrambling into the scant cover provided by a shallow crater.
She shivered frightfully trying to pull herself together. The sounds the giant flying bugs made seemed to be something straight out of a nightmare. Plasma bolts rained down around her, hissing as they past nearby before impacting into the earth with a sharp fizzle. Unfortunately where as the tanks assisted the marines earlier now they were powerless to help the marines against their airborne attackers.

Wilkas fumbled with her rifle, fumbling as she tried to summon up her courage to fight against the enemy.Things appeared to be less scary when you happened to be in the possession of an assault rifle. Grace forced herself to take aim against the flying horrors.
She squeezed the trigger, round flying up in a wild arc against the drones however unfortunately she missed completely. She squeezed off another burst managing to hit one of them, she smiled with satisfaction as it tumbled from the sky to hit the ground with a dull thud.

Yet, her smile was caught short by the sudden arrival of a plasma round as it rudely introduced itself to her left forearm. It burned through the armour quickly, scorching her fatigues before searing her flesh. Wilkas yelped in pain, sliding into cover, hauling her assault rifle with her. She shut her eyes against the pain, huddling up in her cover.
"Ah... I'm hit." She muttered far to quietly to be heard over the din of battle. Grace flinched as plasma rounds struck around her. Grace wanted to investigate the wound but with the weight of fire, the RTO dared not move just in case the alien bugs managed to score another hit on her. The radio operator cowered closer to the earth in order to take advantage of what little cover there was available to her.

[Furby, J.]

The show was finally on the road, and for that, Furby was thankful. The defense of the bridge had dragged on for hours, and while he didn't doubt for a second that it was a strategically important chokepoint, he was a Marine. Whether he liked it or not. The simple fact of the matter was Marines were trained to fight; to jump headfirst into combat and push forward until every last enemy soldier was dead and gone.

Sitting static was not exactly something Marines enjoyed doing. Not to mention the lack of mobility made the searing cold weather that much more unbearable. The only saving grace for him, that kept him from freezing his junk off, was the internal temperature regulators in the standard issue M52 armor. His armor, coupled with his camouflage utilities underneath the hardened ballistic shell, kept his body up to twenty degrees warmer in this cold climate.

However, he mentally smacked himself, as he realized he had forgotten the one crucial article of clothing that would have been perhaps the most useful... his balaclava. While his body and feet were relatively warm, by comparison, his face was a freaking ice sickle. Thankfully, his helmet covered his ears and shielded them from the bitter freeze of the wind, as well as the top of his head. But his face?

It was totally frozen.

So when the platoon began their advance, using the tanks cover, Furby, in a stroke of brilliance (fickle as it may have been), stood close the exhaust port of the M808's engine, the heat a welcome change. It wasn't perhaps the safest course of action, but he didn't care. What was the worst that could happen? His face become severely burned? That didn't bother him. Sure, it would hurt like all hell, but it might just get him a ticket back home.

Then again, he doubted he'd be that lucky. Knowing the UNSC, they'd just toss him in the burn unit, where he'd spend several months in intensive care while they flash-cloned new skin and grafted it to his face, and then kick him right back out the door to the front. It wasn't particularly uncommon. Thanks to modern medicine, what once was considered a debilitating wound centuries ago was now just a minor nuisance. Hell, loss of limb wasn't even legitimate grounds for Discharge from the military.

Jayson sighed. As far as he was concerned, he was stuck here until his enlistment ended or he bought the farm.

"Bro, cover yours ears!" Furby heard Avery shout over the din of the tank's engine. Jayson reflexively cupped his ears, pressing down on them with his palms with all his might. He was all too aware of how loud the guns on those tanks were. Back on Reach, the Sixteenth Tank Battalion had been doing maneuvers in the area that his training unit had been in during SOI. Jayson had had the unfortunate displeasure of being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of cannon fire.

That night had been a sleepless one.

The cannon fired and the Covenant downrange became free floating molecules and shredded appendages. Seeing the damage of a ninety millimeter cannon firsthand was quite an eye-opening experience. Common sense told him that he never wanted to find himself on the business end of one, but now he was hesitant to even be near the damn tank. The sheer power of it was slightly off putting to him.

"Fuckin' get some," Lance Corporal Avery shouted jubilantly. "Fuckin' A, bro! Did you see that shit?"

Furby nodded. "Kinda hard to miss."

Avery laughed. It was that kind of manic laugh that made him feel like the man was missing a few screws here and there. "Bro, I'm tellin' you, I think I signed up for the wrong gig. I should've been a tanker!"

Jayson chuckled and shook his head. "Could be worse," he said.

Avery looked back at him, suddenly perplexed. "What do you mean?"

The PFC shrugged. "You could have been a POG."

The look on Avery's face was tell tale. Jayson knew that the thought of being a POG in Avery's mind was perhaps the ultimate terror. Avery had volunteered to be a Marine. He volunteered for the infantry. When he was in SOI he was given a GPMG during a field op and after that, he always volunteered to run as an automatic rifleman. He was a fighter, through and through. For Lance Corporal Avery, a desk job was a death sentence.

Honestly, despite how much he bitched about his involuntary placement into the infantry, a desk job wouldn't have suited Furby either. The world that POGs lived in was a vastly different one from the world grunts inhabited. Jayson had encountered many POGs in his short time with the Marine Corps, and the differences between him and them continued to surprise him. In his mind, the only traits he had in common with them were that they wore the same uniform and came from the same place.

"BUGGERS!"

The voice of Sergeant Stone was like a punch to the gut to Furby. He glanced up at the sky and saw the swarm of Drones diving towards Second Platoon, plasma pistols at the ready. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, pressing himself against the back of the tank as what seemed like thousands of globules of green plasma rained down from above. Lance Corporal Avery shoved himself into cover next to Furby, his GPMG clutched tightly in his grasp.

"Shit, man," Avery muttered. "Where the fuck did they come from?!"

Furby shrugged and tightened his grip on his battle rifle. "No idea," he said, and then stepped out and took aim. He scanned the sky from behind the scope of his rifle, and spotted a lonely bugger hovering back and forth, lobbing rounds at any target that presented itself. Furby's finger covered the trigger, and with a single smooth pull, the Drone fell from the sky with a bullet through its cranium.

"Got'cha, bitch!" Jayson exclaimed, immediately moving on to the next target.

Avery stepped out and aimed his weapon towards the sky from the hip, not even bothering to aim as he let loose. "Hey, you ain't gettin' to have all the fun, bro!" he screamed. "GET SOME!"

[Ward, J.]

The tension was building inside Ward. He could feel it, boiling beneath the surface, underneath his skin. Jon gripped his rifle tighter, trying to release some of the tension, and give him something to focus his attention on as he led the way for First Team. When the order came to fall in behind the column of Scorpion tanks, he sighed a sigh of relief. Solace came to him then. Set before him, paving the way for the platoon, would be a sixty-six ton behemoth sporting thick ceramic-titanium armored plating and a really big gun to dispatch hostiles with ease.

Jon stayed close behind the tank, keeping back far enough to not fall prey to the hot exhaust, and watched in awe as the tank effortlessly took care of a squad of Covenant at the foot of the bridge. Many of his comrades cheered, and their high spirits were contagious. Jon threw his fist in the air and cheered along with the others, the sound of his voice slightly muffled by the roar of the Scorpion's engine. With what he had just seen, he imagined the assault into the city was going to be a cakewalk endeavor. After all, who would be foolish enough to take on a column of tanks?

Apparently the answer came. Much sooner than expected. The shriek of Sergeant Stone's voice was enough to catch Ward off guard. His eyes instinctively turned to the sky, and before him he saw the stuff of his nightmares. A dozen insectoid monstrosities filled the air and dived towards the platoon, unleashing a tight barrage of plasma fire that rained down all around them. A bolt exploded mere inches from Ward, and without thinking, he leapt to the side and crashed to the ground, his helmet, not secured, falling over his eyes.

Ward pushed himself off the ground and, with his free hand, fumbled with his helmet. Another green bolt of death exploded nearby, and he decided to ditch the effort in favor of grabbing his rifle and falling into a more secure position. He wrapped his hands around the MA5B and moved to the rear nacelle of the tank, using the tread of the nacelle as a backrest. Jon could hear plasma sizzling atop the armor of the nacelle. One of the bastards had him pegged.

He was safe for now, however, and so he fixed his helmet and fastened the chin straps. Lesson learned, Ward thought to himself, mentally kicking himself for not securing his kevlar earlier. With that put aside and out of the way, he leaned forward and peered up at the sky from behind the nacelle. There were three Drones darting back and forth over the tank, narrowly avoiding being shot out of the sky by the Marines who were returning fire. It didn't look like they were aware that he was there. 

But he knew that one had to have seen him. It was a gut feeling. He just couldn't confirm it, nor did he see the bugger that had made his position. Ward stood there for a moment, debating on whether he should act or not, and decided in favor of the former. Shouldering his rifle, he took aim, flicked the safety off, and squeezed the trigger. 

The rifle bucked against his shoulder as it spat seven-six-two millimeter rounds at the trio of Drones. The Private watched a tracer tear through the closest ones' wing, causing the alien to plummet from the sky. It landed atop the tank with a loud thud, and it shrieked in pain as its uninjured wing flapped in an attempt to take to the sky once more. Jon stood up and quickly took aim at its oddly-shaped dome. He squeezed off a round and the Drone's struggle came to an abrupt end.

Private Ward did not stand by to revel in his handiwork. Immediately he fell back into cover, just as recently departed Drone's partners turned their interest on him, and covered his cheek with a gloved hand as plasma crashed into the ground by his feet. Jon leaned over to peer around to the back of the tank, where he spotted Lance Corporal Avery and Private First Class Furby, and shouted, "I'm pinned down!" 

[McMillan, J.]

Jim recoiled from the frigid caress of the wind. The weather on this world made him wonder how anyone could have selected it as a suitable planet to establish a colony. His home world, Propitious, only had mild winters at best. He could stand the cold, but the weather here was bordering on the lines of unbearable. It made him appreciate the armor he wore all the more, what with the temperature regulators and all. 

McMillan said nothing in regards to Durant's speech. He tuned in and listened quietly, running a mental checklist of his equipment once more to ensure he was acutely aware of the supplies he had on hand. Urban warfare was a brutal affair, and he possessed the foresight necessary to realize there would more than likely be more casualties for Second Platoon before the night was over with. The Battle of Propitious flooded his memory. Men and women dead or dying in the streets, anarchy spread across the colony like wildfire as the Covenant laid waste to the planet's population. 

It had been a long and arduous battle. The UNSC had fought tooth-and-nail for the colony; but, ultimately, the Covenant won out. Their fleet had succeeded in destroying the Navy's orbiting battlegroup, and with no one left to oppose them, they swooped in like a pack of hungry sharks and turned his home world into a cinder. Fortunately, he escaped, and so did a great many others thanks to him; but the pain of that loss stuck with him. 

That's precisely why he enlisted with the Navy and became a corpsman. He wanted to help others, but beyond that, he sought vengeance for the place that he called home. 

Mac stuck to the Lieutenant's heel like glue as the platoon fell in behind the column of tanks. He wanted to be close enough to the action to lend a hand, but far enough back as to not be in any immediate danger should the Covenant come on strong against the platoon. After all, he was arguably the most important person in the platoon, excluding its leadership. If he went down, there were only a handful of people in the unit with combat lifesaving certification, and none of them carried all the equipment necessary to render appropriate medical attention should a serious injury crop up. 

The Corpsman paid little attention to the Covenant troops at the foot of the bridge. The tanks can handle it, he surmised, and was quickly proven correct. The lead tank in the column stopped, shifted, and let loose with its ninety-millimeter cannon. In the blink of an eye, the Covenant were gone, and the coast was clear. Some Marines cheered, others boasted of the tanks power; Mac just stood there. He'd seen what the Scorpions were capable of firsthand before, and was unimpressed by it. The tank served its purpose, and that's all he could bring himself to care about. 

"BUGGERS!" someone screamed, and Mac's eyes turned to the horizon, where they beheld a swarm of Drones bearing down on the platoon. Now that is something to worry about, he found himself thinking as he snapped his rifle up and opened fire, laying down a barrage of covering fire so that his comrades could make the short dash to cover. Plasma began to rain from the heavens, and McMillan dived into cover underneath one of the tanks. "Shit," he mumbled under his breath, "That was close."

The battle for Tallusa City was on now, Mac realized. These Drones were just an appetizer; a sample of what was to come as Oscar Company ventured deeper into the lion's den. Humanity had been made the away team in an odd twist of fate, and they were up against a sturdy defensive line filled to the brim with players that were looking to score another win for the home team. Crawling out from underneath the Scorpion, Mac looked around, checking if the coast was clear. It appeared that the Drones were preoccupied with the others, which he found fortunate. He had room to breathe, and that's all he needed. 

"Doc to Platoon, is anyone hit?"

[Stringer, K.]

As Stringer was able to get back up on his feet, he saw the tanks rolling slowly forward across the bridge in a column. He knew that the Covenant didn't have as much of a chance of engaging the marines in his platoon as successfully, and it meant the chances of his fellow marines dying not as high. As he got up, he checked on Lawrence, looking over at her, seeing her slowly getting to her feet as well now. He stepped over and grabbed her left arm, careful to not yank her up as he helped her to her feet. Once she was up, he moved over and picked up his rucksack, moving it to carry it once more on his back with the aid of the straps for it. He then picked up his BR55 battle rifle and checked to make sure it was functional. Once he was satisfied that all his gear was good, he moved into formation with the rest of the platoon.

For once, he was glad his fireteam wasn't taking point. He was down two marines, which meant that his fireteam was not at full strength, and therefore, not the best fireteam to handle any possible ambushes the Covenant may have in place for them. For now though, he was another rifle in the platoon, ready to lay down some hate and discontent on the alien bastards that were trying to take this city.

Before Stringer could enjoy the small victory that the scorpions achieved, he heard sergeant Stone yell out that there was drones overhead, calling them "buggers" as some marines came to know them. He looked up and saw the alien bugs lying towards the column, plasma pistols at the ready. Stringer quickly aimed upward and began to fire at the aliens, firing in burst with his BR55, as to both score quick rapid hits, but to also try and to cover the alien bastards with anti-air fire. One drone was nothing, but a whole squad or two of them was more than enough to deal with, considering how fast they moved, and that they had the advantage of being able to move up and down as well, where the marines were stuck on the ground.

As Stringer was turning the take aim at another drone, a trio of plasma rounds went by his head, the last hitting his helmet. Stringer could feel the heat as the round started to burn through the helmet, as he quickly snatched the strap downward and flung the helmet off, just barely avoiding being burned. He could feel the heat on his scalp still, but he wiped his hand over his head and feel no pain, so he knew he was good. He then saw the drones coming back around as he took cover behind a car and began to unload into the group heading towards the marines, yelling at them as they were coming.

"Come on you alien bastards! Make my fucking day!"

[Licina, K.]

Licina grinned to herself as her ears cuffed her helmet. She pressed to block out the sound, but the blast from the Scorpion battle tank rang through like rain on a metal roof. That’s what you get, bastards, she thought to herself as her radio chirped. Durant calling out an elite she couldn’t see from her position. She heard the burst of the scorpion’s mounted machine gun and her grin widened. She hated elites the most because they flew banshees which she assumed was the planes her mother meant when she described her father’s death.

“Don’t worry Dad, These bitches‘ll pay some day.” She whispered to herself as the radio went loud again.

“Buggers,” hollered the Sergeant with the heavy Southern accent. Instantly Licina cocked her head to the sky to see the insectiod aliens flying toward them. She had heard stories about them, but had never truly seen one this close. Suddenly she saw the hint of purple swelling among the greens of the insect’s exoskeleton. She knew the plasma pistols well and knew it was not fun to get hit with one. The order to take cover came out and she instantly dive rolled to the right of the tank in front of her. She cast a glance at Corporal Rio. Him and Frost had taken to a bad cover, and were pinned by fire from above. Rodgers however was nowhere to be seen. She turned to see him hiding next to her his face buried in the ground. He began to get up and Licina turned back to the battle at hand.

“Rio, Frost, to me!” She called out over the fire fight. She leaned out from cover using her iron sights to target the bug that was closest to her. She pierced its wings with three shots forcing it to crash to the ground. And with another burst of lead she finished off the grounded bug. She looked back up from the carcass and began to fire more bursts towards the different bugs making them scatter. As they did, Frost took off on a dead sprint for the better position. Rio followed shortly after as Licina continued spreading suppressive fire. Soon the bugs realized what was happening and began firing at her. She took a hit to the metal of her prosthetic. It began to eat at the metal slightly forcing Licina to duck back into cover. She looked at her HUD and then into the visual on her Assault rifle. She had 2 shots left in her current clip. She decided to swap out to a fresh clip and grabbed one from the front of her armor. She quickly swapped the clips and lifted her head just high enough to glimpse over the treads. She could see a chunk of the original swarm of bugs had been smashed by the rest of the platoon, but there still was a force to be reckoned with.

[Durant, M.]

The assault had begun just moments ago, and already the Covenant were attempting to thwart it. Second Platoon, supported by the might of four Scorpion MBTs, had not moved but thirty meters forward when the first of many Covenant troops bravely (and foolishly) stood in their path. Durant was unimpressed, to say the least. He had expected more from the alien boogeymen than a single squad and a swarm of annoying pests.

When the plasma started to rain from above, the Lieutenant sought cover, and ducked behind the tank in front of him. He remained conscious of the exhaust port that spewed a hundred-plus degree exhaust fumes into the air, keeping himself beneath the port to avoid being burnt. Bolts of plasma crashed to the ground around him, but, despite the barrage, his platoon managed to place themselves into cover and begin to return fire. The number of Drones immediately began to lessen as his Marines offered their rebuttle in the form of seven-six-two millimeter FMJ.

Michael grinned, and stepped out from behind the tank, his assault rifle at the ready. The remaining Drones had entered evasive maneuvers, darting back and forth to avoid the hot sting of molten lead. With steady hands and careful precision, the platoon's commanding officer took aim. The digital crosshair turned crimson, and he snapped his finger back on the trigger.

The oddly shaped head of the Drone he had been aiming for exploded, sending white, pasty blood flying through in the air in all directions at the rest of its body suddenly plummeted to the ground below. Durant did not pause to appreciate his own handiwork. He turned his rifle onto the next pest that harassed his platoon and let loose with a burst of hot lead. The rounds wounded it in the wing, and it slowly lost altitude. It struggled to stay aflight, but alas, its other wing was simply not strong enough.

No longer able to maneuver quickly, the Marines were able to dispatch the alien with ease, leaving but a handful of the aliens left. It wasn't long before the remainder of the Drones had either perished underneath the heavy barrage of gunfire, or retreated to avoid the fate of their brethren. When the buzz of the Drones could no longer be heard, the platoon exited its cover, and prepared to move forth unto the breach once more.

"Wilkas is hit!" someone yelled.

Durant's pearly hues snapped to the young radio operator. He noticed she had taken a hit to her arm. Her armor had mostly done its job in protecting it, but it looked as if some of the residual heat had managed to make its way through the protective shell that encased her arm. Of course, he was no doctor, and couldn't exactly be sure how badly hurt she truly was.

"Corpsman!" he called, scanning for the platoon's sole lifesaver. He spotted him running towards the RTO's position. "Place her on one of the tanks and patch her up. We're not stopping."

With that, Durant climbed atop the lead tank and shouted over the roar of the tank to the driver. "Ready to move!" Seconds later, the tank began inching its way forward, quickly picking up speed. The rest of the column followed suite, and with it, Second Platoon. The tanks turned and headed down the off-ramp to the freeway onto the city streets. Michael wasn't quite sure what to expect from here on out, but he knew all too well that the road ahead would be riddled with danger.

"Omen Two to Platoon, weapons free from here on out. The Covenant own this territory."

[McMillan, J.]

Jim snuck a cautious glance over the Genet. He saw that the coast was clear. The Drones, which had mistakenly chosen Second Platoon as their prey, had either all been killed or fled the scene. He nodded, affirming to himself that neither himself or the others were in any clear or present danger, and stood up, resting his rifle upon his shoulder. The corpses of the dead littered the ground. Fortunately, Mac thought, none of them were human. 

A voice, startled, beckoned his attention. "Wilkas is hit!" one of the Marines called. Instantly, Jim began to scan the battlefield for the young, apparently wounded RTO. He spotted her huddled behind a vehicle, stricken with pain as she clutched her arm. The corpsman darted forward, beelining towards her at a quick pace before anyone had even made the call out for him. Lieutenant Durant, unsurprisingly, called out for him a moment later. Already on it, he thought to himself. 

"Place her on one of the tanks and patch her up. We're not stopping," Durant said. 

Mac understood. Wounded Marine or not, the show must go on.

"Aye, sir!" McMillan replied. 

He stopped and knelt down beside the private. He rolled brought his hands up to the snaps that kept his rucksack fastened to his back and unsnapped them, letting the pack fall to the ground behind him. "Private, how're you feeling?" he asked her as he reached behind him and slid the pack beside him. After hearing her response, he nodded, and chuckled. "Well, never fear, Doc is here."

Jim smiled at her. Judging from the wound she was not seriously injured, which had been his greatest concern. Knowing that the injury was minor put him somewhat at ease. He wouldn't need to call out for a CASEVAC any time soon, it seemed. Digging into his pack, he pulled out his medical supplies, and fished out a packet of MediGel. "Okay, Grace," he began, looking her in the eye, "I'm gonna get you patched up in a jiffy. But the platoon's gotta move, so if you can follow me over to the tank over there, I can get you feeling good as new." 

McMillan pointed to the tank at the center of the column with his thumb, and gathered his belongings to move, keeping the MediGel packet in his grasp. "Let's go."

[Stone, T.]

((OOC: Looking back at my last Durant post, I didn't give you folks much to go off of, so I'm going to take the opportunity to move things forward a tad bit. It won't be too much of a jump, but enough to give you guys something to go off of.))

Another firefight has passed. Stone thumbed the release on his MA5 and swapped magazines. The ammunition indicator went from near empty to a full in an instant. He scanned his surroundings, making sure his squad was still alive and intact, and then relaxed. Drone corpses littered the ground around him, along with an assortment of Covenant weapons, much to his satisfaction. Nothing pleased him more than seeing piles of lifeless alien corpses around him. 

"Alrigh', First Squad, that was jus' an appetizer! Stone shouted, his tone stock full of its usual gruffness. "Git'cher asses b'hind those tanks 'n git a move on. This ain't no time ta lollygag."

Within the span of a minute, the column was moving again, and Second Platoon with it. Thomas placed himself directly beside the forward-most tank, keeping his eye out for contact, as Private Wilkas and Doc McMillan currently occupied the jump seats atop the Scorpion's treads. If the platoon were to come under fire, the pair would be sitting ducks out in the open. Easy game for a sharpshooter or Jackal sniper. 

Stone spared a glance at the sky above. Darting across the dreary skies of Phoenix III were dozens - no, hundreds - of assorted aircraft from all four branches of the UNSC; Pelicans, Falcons, Shortswords, and Longswords vectored towards the besieged city. Such a sight had once upon a time stricken him with awe and amazement. However, he had seen it far too many times now for it to have such an impact. Dozens of operations had started off much like this one. He was almost certain that his greener counterparts, such as Private Ward, were probably envigorated by such a spectacle. 

He would learn. 

No matter how hard the UNSC pushed against the Covenant, the Covenant always managed to stake their claim in the end. The fate of Phoenix III inevitably would not fall upon the ground pounder's shoulders. In the end, the ball would lie in the Navy's court. If the Navy were beaten back, then Phoenix III would fall. Stone knew this, as did Oscar Company's veterans. Of course, the Sergeant would never utter such thoughts aloud. If his subordinates knew that his faith in their mission was nonexistent, it would shatter morale, and their will to fight. 

The most difficult part of being a leader was knowing when and where to lie to your troops for the sake of the mission. On the outside, he had to remain firm and unwavering in the face of what would certainly be insurmountable odds. His Marines had to believe that he possessed the utmost confidence in their mission, and their ability to achieve its success. 

After all these years, Stone finally understood how the Old Man must have felt. That thought spurned a glance at Ward. The young Marine was a spitting image of his father. It bothered him how much he was reminded of the Gunny when he looked at Ward. The Gunny had been the toughest son-of-a-bitch Thomas had ever had the pleasure to serve with. His offspring on the other left much to be desired, in the grizzled old coot's seasoned opinion. 

The tank column shifted, changing course towards the off-ramp. Up ahead was the city's freeway, which cut right through the northern flank of the city. Second Platoon's objective was further south, which meant they would need to descend to the Covenant-infested streets below. Stone would have liked to have remained on the freeway, but he understood that it would take them off mission. Street-to-street fighting was dirty business, and he imagined it would take a heavy toll on the platoon before long. 

It only took the platoon a minute and a half to traverse the off-ramp before their boots touched the broken streets of Phoenix III. Directly ahead of the column was the scene of a eight car pileup, the owners of the respective vehicles still trapped inside, forever frozen in place. It did not appear as if anyone had made it. Stone looked back at his squad and noticed several eyes wandering. Ward's eyes were focused on a silver Genet at the rear of the pile-up, its front end smashed in, and the windshield cracked and bloodstained. 

It hadn't dawned on him that the young Marine had never witnessed death on such a wide scale before. The notion that death was uncommon was completely foreign to Stone. Years of seeing good men and women die all around him had hardened him beyond repair. He could not recall at time when he hadn't been surrounded by death; another sign that he had been doing this for far too long. 

Stone sighed inwardly, and shook his head. He hated greenhorns. Their reactions to the environment around them spurned memories he would rather leave buried. "Eyes open, people," he barked. "There ain't nothin' ta see over there. Ya should be lookin' fer Covies, not corpses!"

Thomas opened the Squad Roster on his HUD and winked at Corporal Davis's name. There was an audible squelch from the radio as it activated a private channel between him and the Corporal. "Davis, keep yer eye on th' boot. He's losin' focus."