Return To Vengeance (EVENT)

[Durant, M.]

0600 Local Time, June 19, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Phoenix III Upper Atmosphere, en route to UNSC Vengeance,
Alpha Phoenicis System

Battlecruisers descended upon the planet in threes, forming triangle formations, underbelly plasma cannons burning red hot. Dozens of Covenant warships vectored into position just a few thousand feet shy of the clouds, looking over Phoenix III like a pack of hungry, ravenous sharks.

The first beam struck the northern pole, cutting through the cloud layer like a knife through hot butter, the ground beneath microwaved in minutes. Moments later the rest of the pack followed suite, and the atmosphere began to boil shortly thereafter. The death of a planet was a gruesome scene to witness, and Lieutenant Michael Durant had a front row seat to the show from the cockpit of a Pelican drop-ship ascending into space.

He turned and glanced back over his shoulder, peering into the troop compartment from the cockpit batch. The Marines of First Squad sat aft, the majority of them covered in grime and soot from the last three day of nonstop urban combat. Sergeant Stone sat the furthest back, his weapon in pieces - balanced haphazardly upon his lap - as he attempted to clean it in preparation for the grind that was to come upon Oscar Company's return to the Vengeance.

Second Squad was with Staff Sergeant Cruz aboard another Pelican, and Third Squad had had the pleasure of hitching a ride with the battalion staff aboard an Albatross transport. The last half an hour had been a mad dash to evacuate all MEU assets before the Covenant arrived to glass the planet, and this was perhaps the first opportunity his Marines had to relax since their arrival upon Phoenix III. Sadly, he knew this was to be only a temporary reprieve, as there was much to be done upon their return. Checking in weapons, debriefs, reports, the works was in Second Platoon's immediate future.

"Omen X-Ray to Omen Two, come in," rang the company's executive officer over the radio.

Durant straightened his helmet and clicked the push-to-talk. "Omen X-Ray, send your traffic. Over."

"Relay from Actual; your Marines were outstanding out there. After you clear supply, grant them the rest of the day off. They deserve it. Over," the XO heralded. Durant smiled, glancing back at his Marines once more.

Despite the loss of the planet, Oscar Company's mission had been deemed a success. Second Platoon had completed all of its objectives and suffered only minor casualties throughout the course of the battle. The civilian populace (what was left of it) had been evacuated off-world the day before, leaving the city a free-fire zone. The Covenant had been beaten to the brink of defeat before the word had been passed down that their ships were inbound.

Michael called that a victory in his books. "Solid copy, X-Ray. I'll pass the word on. Out."

With that, the Lieutenant turned and re-entered the blood tray. A few from First Squad conversated quietly amongst themselves, others remained silent, likely reflecting upon the events that transpired over the course of the last three days. Durant had to admit, he almost couldn't believe it had been three days. A week's worth of accomplishments had been managed in that short period of time.

He was proud of his warriors for all that they had done and accomplished. It was no small feat to assault an entire city occupied by a hostile force of genocidal aliens, yet his Marines had done it. No matter how stiff the resistance they faced, Second Platoon slogged forward, paving the way to inevitable victory. It was that display of courage and bravery that solidified it in his mind that he had been awarded command of a topnotch unit.

Oden would be grateful to have them amongst the gods in Valhalla. Durant was certain of this as he scrutinized the men and women that shared the confined space of the blood tray with him. There was not a single Marine assigned to his platoon that he felt was unworthy of the honor and glories of the afterlife that awaited him. Marines like Sergeant Stone and Staff Sergeant Cruz had long ago earned their keep, and even those such as Ward had proven their worthiness over the last ninety-six hours.

"Marines," Durant called, beckoning their attention. He clicked the push-to-talk so that he was transmitting on the platoon frequency that way everyone - not just those that were present before him - could listen to what he had to say. "I just got off the horn with the XO a couple minutes ago. He had a message from the Skipper he'd like me to pass on to you. Captain Flannigan believes we did an outstanding job back there. We completed our objectives and pushed the enemy back to the point where I'm certain they could taste the bitter defeat that soon awaited them."

He paused, eying each and every one of the Marines seated before him, gauging their reactions. The majority of them remained stoic, seemingly intent on only listening to their leader, while others, like Ward, seemed glad to be acknowledged for their accomplishments. Michael smiled. "So, with all that said, it goes without saying that we have much to do upon our return to our home away from home. I'm sure many of you are... looking forward to it... Just as I am. However, you will be disappointed to hear that this will not be the case.

Durant abated once more, the grin growing exponentially larger by the passing second. He noticed some of his own regard him with looks of disbelief, as if they thought he'd gone off his rocker. This was, of course, his entire intent. He did not want them to guess what was to come next. In other words, he had a penchant for the art of suspense.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started, extending his arms in a gesture that seemed more appropriate for a stage actor than a grizzled combat officer, "after you have finished up in supply you can considered yourselves off the clock for the remainder of the day. You've earned yourselves a reprieve."

[Davis, E.]

Davis leaned his head back against the cargo netting behind him, staying awake through sheer force of will. First team had all come back in one piece, more or less. No plasma burns or missing digits, no frostbite, and no KIAs. He had done his job, and his marines had done him proud. Not only had they killed in close quarters, a job no human should have to face, they had found a bit of innocent trouble. Furby and Avery, God love 'em, had found an abandoned liquor store, and brought back a bit of gut warmer. It was well worth the risks, and while Davis prefered corn squeezings to vodka, it hit the spot regardless. Now, all he wanted, was a shower, clean PTs, and his rack. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sergeant Stone starting to tear down his weapon and clean it on the evac bird. Davis was tempted to follow suit, but decided against it. For all he cared, his troopers were turning in their shit as is and could clean it when they were back on detail. He was in no shape, and couldn't imagine his boys were any better, to be dealing with asinine bullshit like "storage clean" weapons. Even Sergeant Stone could kiss his ass on that point, let alone some Master Sergeant in supply.

"Don't even think about it Fox," he said, seeing Ward try and take a cue from Sergeant Stone. "You ain't cleared to crack that thing open in here. Just relax."

When the LT started talking, Davis rolled his head over to watch the man, but made no move to sit up any straighter or pretend like he cared any more than he had to. The news was good, if a little overly dramatic for his taste. He could almost imagine the whoops and cheers in the other birds. Looks like weapons cleaning was slated for 0700 tomorrow after chow. For now, it was speed turn in and hit the rack.

Davis pinged his team over the HUD, knowing he could get their attention. He gave them a nod and a thumbs up before sinking into the cargo netting seats just a little deeper. Three days of active combat was even more brutal as an NCO. He would sleep like the dead and plan hell for them later. Perhaps some more hand to hand. It would be a good way to break Ward in.

[Ward, J.]

The torrential sea of thoughts that poured through Ward's wayward mind were overwhelming. A lot had happened since the moment he first stepped foot upon Phoenix III. He had witnessed death, bloodshed, and destruction on an apocalyptic scale and had little time to process any of it over the course of the last three days.

Now, for the very first time, he had nothing but time to reflect upon all that he had seen, and all that he had done. He leaned back in his seat as his eyes wandered to the ceiling of the blood tray, trying to organize the mess of memories that, somehow, all seemed to blend together into one bloody, sadistic college. Ward realized, as he reflected upon the battle, that his expectations of real combat did not match the reality of combat was; in the last ninety-six hours, Jon had never been so scared before in his life.

The sheer rush of adrenaline and unbridled fear associated with molten plasma hissing past your head was not an experience that training could ever perfectly simulate. He had managed to live through perhaps dozens of close calls in the last few days, and his tango with Death had not been a fond occasion. Had it not been for the others looking out for him and keeping him focused on simply moving forward, Jon imagined he would have given up long ago. The allure of turning tail and running away had seemed increasingly more enticing as the battle progressed and the Covenant be and more and more desperate to halt the UNSC's advance.

Jonathan was surprised that he survived. There had been moments where their chances of survival was, in his opinion, astronomically low. The first time Second Platoon had encountered a Wraith tank had been one of those occasions. In all honesty, Ward credited Sergeant Stone for pulling them out of that bind, as he had taken the initiative and moved to flank the tank.

Unfortunately, he had not been able to accomplish the task alone, and had called for Ward to come with him. It had not been a suggestion, but an order, and so he had trailed behind the grizzled NCO as they moved through an alley that ran adjacent to where the Wraith had positioned itself.

He covered Stone as he bolted over to the Wraith, climbed on top of it, and tossed a grenade down the hatch into the vehicle's cockpit. The Elite that had been operating the tank had been taken completely by surprise and, as a result, was unable to bail out before the grenade detonated. Jon had stood in awe of the salty old bastard. Never had he witnessed such a bold display of courage and bravery in his life.

Stone, ever the humble man, acted as if it had been as easy as getting dressed for morning formation. Even now, two days later, he was still in awe of the whole ordeal. As far as the Private was concerned, Stone had moved to godlike status in his eyes.

The thought of his squad leader spurned a glance in his direction. Sergeant Stone sat in the back of the compartment, his assault rifle disassembled in his lap, a rag and cleaning solution clutched in his hands. He watched him clean the weapon for a few seconds before coming to the decision that it was perhaps a good idea to do the same.

Lifting his rifle up from between his legs, he laid it across his lap horizontally. He was just about to start the process of disassembling the weapon when the voice of Corporal Davis carried across the blood tray. "Don't even think about it, Fox," he said, "you ain't cleared to crack that thing open in here. Just relax."

Jon nodded and set his rifle back down between his legs. Fox. He chuckled at the term. Corporal Davis had coined the term the day he joined the unit as a more clever phrase to use than "FNG" or "Fucking New Guy." During the course of the battle Jon had noticed that Davis had dropped the "No Go" and both Furby and Avery had started calling him by that name. What had in the beginning been a derogatory term was now officially his nickname, and perhaps even a term of endearment.

He had no qualms with it, in either case.

"Yeah, Fox, kick back," Lance Corporal Avery chimed in, his GPMG slung across his chest, the barrel just in front of his left shoulder. "You earned it, man."

Ward was surprised by the machine Gunner's civil tone and amiable attitude towards him. It took him a moment to conjure a response. "Thanks," he replied.

Avery nodded. "Hey, no bullshit; you did alright for a boot."

[Wilkas, G.]

Wilkas sat in silence throughout the Pelican's flight staring blankly into the distance at something which only the RTO could see. In her mind she recalled the sounds, sights and smells of brutal battles, however one sounded consistently replayed itself in her head. She hated the sound, but it persisted, the sound the Drones made. There was just something about it which served only to terrify her, or maybe the fact it came from a giant flying insect of death smart enough to use weapons and large enough to fly without the assistance of a jetpack?
Either way she would personally have preferred to never fight one let alone see one ever again. The Covenant seemed to possess a never ending array of freaky monsters and alien horrors to throw at the marines almost in a never ending attempt to disturb them. It was working, some of the aliens were very disturbing or thought provoking to say the least.

She tuned back in when Durant called the marines together. "I just got off the horn with the XO a couple minutes ago. He had a message from the Skipper he'd like me to pass on to you. Captain Flannigan believes we did an outstanding job back there. We completed our objectives and pushed the enemy back to the point where I'm certain they could taste the bitter defeat that soon awaited them." She listened to what he had to say, however it failed to boost her confidence about what occurred on the planet, though it did feel nice to know that the Captain believed they all did an outstanding job.
""So, with all that said, it goes without saying that we have much to do upon our return to our home away from home. I'm sure many of you are... looking forward to it... Just as I am. However, you will be disappointed to hear that this will not be the case." Her stomach tightened nervously at his next sentence, she wondered what surprise the LT cooked up.

""Ladies and gentlemen," Here it comes she thought silently, extra PT, extra duties, going to fight Hunters on another world. Wilkas let out a gentle sigh when he informed them of the reprieve. "after you have finished up in supply you can considered yourselves off the clock for the remainder of the day. You've earned yourselves a reprieve."
Now that was a pleasant surprise, though she intended fully to find her bed before disappearing into it and not reappearing from it for at least twenty four hours. Hopefully that would be an acceptable use of her time.

The RTO fought against the desire to fall asleep, her eyelids fluttering shut every so often, her head falling down every so often. The days of horrific combat leaving her exhausted utterly. There had been little time for effective rest whilst out fighting the Covenant. She felt another marine tap her on the shoulder, mumbling something about stay awake, falling asleep on the Pelican would probably not serve her too well. No doubt the Platoon would not let her forget it any time soon.
Besides if anything important came in over her radio it might be wise for her to be awake enough to alert someone? Particularly if Durant or the rest of the NCOs failed to hear it.
She shook her head, trying to force back the desire to sleep, but it proved to be a powerful foe to combat.

[Furby, J.]

The conclusion to Operation: FROST DRAGON had been as Furby predicted the day Second Platoon arrived upon Phoenix III; despite their best efforts to rescue the planet from a doomed fate, the Covenant had won out. Dozens of Covenant warships descended from orbit and began the arduous task of transforming the planet into a glassy, uninhabitable wasteland. The battle for Phoenix III lasted three days. Three days did the Marines of the Twenty-Seventh MEU delay the inevitable fall of yet another human colony world.

Jayson looked at Private Ward. Ward had been ignorant to the truth about the war, as the boys at the Office of Naval Intelligence Section II churned out propaganda that humanity was winning the war and "beating back the Covenant Empire!" Those on the ground - the men and women who had faced the Covenant in the heat of battle - knew that the truth was far from what the media led the general populace to believe.

Ward had foolishly believed that humanity would be the Victor in the battle for the planet. He wondered, as he glared at the young Marine, if he now knew any better.

Probably not.

What was worse, in Jayson's opinion, was that those in charge would herald the operation as a victory for humanity. Technically the battalion had completed all of its objectives and managed to evacuate the remainder of the civilian populace that had been trapped on the wrong side of the river. That alone was enough for them to call the operation a victory.

Furby adamantly disagreed with that assertion. Humanity scored no victory here. The only way that they could have won would have been if they had managed to save the planet entirely. What was gained by losing a planet? A few thousand civilians saved? That was by no means worth the price that the MEU suffered in the last three days.

The reality was another planet had been lost. That meant, in the grand scheme of things, the Covenant were one step closer to Earth, and the extinction of the human race. If it was one thing Furby had learned, it was that humanity was fighting an uphill battle, and one that it would lose. All that they were doing now was stalling the Covenant from completing their ultimate goal of eradicating them from the face of the galaxy.

Unlike the others, Furby did not imagine a bright light shining at the end of the tunnel. No, humanity's future was a grim one, to be sure. He was not about to lie to himself and the truth that hung in front of him. Ignoring the truth would only foster a false sense of security, and would ultimately be detrimental to him and his mental health when reality reared its ugly head with a punch to the gut.

"Don't even think about it, Fox," rang the voice of Corporal Davis, breaking him from his musings. Jayson glanced back at Ward and noted he had his weapon in his lap. He turned and saw Sergeant Stone in the back, his weapon disassembled, cleaning it.

Jayson shook his head. The poor kid was already trying to imitate the crazy old codger that Furby was sure suffered from a very severe case of post-traumatic stress. That was the only reason he could imagine the bastard was so much of an asshole all of the time. Or maybe he just needed to get laid?

He almost laughed. Stone was far too ugly to have a snowball's chance in Hell at getting him some. He doubted even a prostitute would give him the time of day, even if the man offered his entire paycheck as payment for whatever favors were offered.

"Yeah, Fox, kick back," Lance Corporal Avery said, much to Furby's surprise. Did he just detect a modicum of civility in Avery's voice? Had his friend knocked his head on something? He chuckled and shook his head.

"Jonny," Furby started, locking eyes with Ward, "you're a lucky man. You just earned Av's respect after only three days of fighting."

He paused and glanced at Avery, whom merely grinned back at him, and again he chuckled. "It took me three months and two ops to get this guy to stop badgering me every five seconds for dumb shit. That's impressive."

Avery nodded. "Damn right, bro," he said. "You were boot as fuck and an annoyin' little shit. Somebody had to teach ya how it is out here with the big boys."

Jayson laughed and shook his head. He looked back at Ward after a moment's reminiscence to what he would have called the "good ol' days," which, in reality, had happened only a few months ago. "What I'm trying to say is, if you've earned Av's respect, then you're officially in, man."

Avery extended his hand beside Ward, his eyes locked with the private's. "Welcome to First Team, fuckface."

Ward took Avery's hand and shook it. "Thanks... Again."

Furby smiled, his pearly white teeth on display, and nudged the private's shoulder with his elbow. "Congrats, Jonny. Congrats."

[Stone, T.]

Thomas Stone had been the last Marine to climb aboard the drop-ship before it had taken flight, and thus had chosen a seat closest to the hatch, his weapon currently tucked between his legs, barrel pointed at the ceiling. He inspected himself in silence, noting that his once white utilities were now a mixture of the white coloring, black soot, and purple and blue alien blood. The last ninety-six hours had been an arduous struggle to beat the Covenant back, to which his Marines had been extremely successful in doing.

However, as he and many others had surely anticipated, it had all been for naught. Phoenix III had joined the long list of colony worlds that had fallen to the Covenant war machine, much like his homeworld had seventeen long years ago. Thomas shook his head at the thought. It seemed that nothing that they did on the ground amounted to much in the end. The Covenant always won out.

However, Stone was able to find some solace amongst all the negative. The civilian populace of the planet had been evacuated after Mike Company had secured the spaceport, and that alone was a victory all its own. Such a feat was rarely accomplished by UNSC forces before the Covenant made their mark upon its colonies, and to know that millions of lives had been spared a terrible fate brought him some manner of solace.

Thomas sized up the Marines that surrounded him. Oftentimes they were talkative and alive with energy; but right now, most of them had resigned themselves to what Stone guessed amounted to silent reflection. There were a handful of the twelve that had persisted in holding light conversation amongst one another, but it surely was not the same as when the platoon had dropped onto the planet.

That was yet another phenomenon he had grown far too accustomed to over the years. He knew many of the Marines probably felt like they had suffered another staggering defeat at the hands of humanity's mortal enemy. Stone could not exactly disagree with them. While Operation: FROST DRAGON was technically a resounding success, it was difficult to see it as such when the planet they had fought tooth-and-nail for had succumbed to such a terrible fate.

Stone was not quite sure how he felt himself. Memories of Harvest flooded his mind as he considered the situation he presently found himself in. FROST DRAGON was not all that much unlike the Battle for Harvest. While there were, of course, glaring differences that set the two engagements apart, there was also a slew of similarities that spurned the amalgam of memories that afflicted him.

He sighed. The memories were the hardest for him to cope with. It was no secret that the battle for Harvest haunted him. Thomas had been given the dubious honor of a front row seat to the destruction of his homeworld. His entire family had been on that rock when the Covenant first glassed it. Everything that he knew and loved had been taken from him in those five long years of fighting.

And just like now, at its climax, the battle was deemed a victory for humanity. Harvest had been taken back from the Covenant; a lifeless rock plunged into perpetual winter thanks to those alien bastards. While Harvest had technically been reclaimed by humanity, it had amounted to very little more than a nice propaganda piece, as the UNSC quickly abandoned it after the Covenant began their push inwards, towards the Inner Colonies.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear his mind of the thoughts and memories that seemed to plague him after every mission against the Covenant. His eyes trailed down to his weapon, and suddenly, an idea struck him. Stone had always been a hands-on kind of man, and felt the most at ease when he used his hands for something productive. He needed a distraction, and, he quickly realized, one rested right between his legs.

Stone hoisted the weapon up into his lap and fetched his cleaning supplies from the admin pouch of his armored chestplate. He set them down upon his waist and immediately delved into the task of disassembling the weapon, piece-by-piece. Within seconds his MA5 had been reduced to its bare components; the upper and lower receivers, the barrel, and etcetera.

He sprung into action with cleaning solution and rag in hand, going to work on the weapon that had seen him through constant combat over the last three days. It had only been cleaned twice since the platoon had made landfall due to the constant state of readiness and alert they had been under during the fight to retake the city, and thus probably needed a very thorough cleaning to put it back to where it was when it was issued to him by the armory.

He didn't care about any of that, however. Thomas only cared that he had himself a potent distraction from his wayward mind and the memories that haunted him. That was his goal, and so far, it was working marvelously.

[Harrison, D.]

Colonel Harrison emptied the contents of a pill bottle into his hand. Three ivory pills no larger than a credit chip fell into his palm, all of them marked with a capitol "I." Since he awakened from what he described as an "hour power nap," he had been suffering from the effects of a throbbing headache. Even now his head pounded, as if his brain was attempting to burrow its way through his skull to be set free upon the world.

He wasn't quite sure whether three five hundred milligram pills of Ibuprofen would be enough to kill the headache, but he was sure enough going to try. Without a second thought, he brought his hand to his mouth and knocked back the pills, swallowing them as soon as he felt them touch his tongue. The taste of the pills was slightly bitter, and he would have liked to have had water to wash them down, but he did not so he had to make due. Harrison had awakened to chaos this morning, and thus a lack of H2O was the least of his worries at the moment.

The mass exodus of an entire Marine battalion, however, was among the top ranking items on his list of concerns. Word had been received roughly half an hour ago that the Covenant had received reinforcements and were on their way towards the planet. Derrick instantly realized what that meant and ordered an immediate evacuation of all the BLT's assets. The Covenant were on their way to glass Phoenix III, and he had been determined to make sure his Marines were off world before that happened.

Fortunately, as he listened to the reports that filtered in over the radio, it appeared that he had succeeded in that goal. All companies reported having been picked up by the Navy's birds and were all currently en route back to the Vengeance. That alone put him somewhat at ease. The most pressing of his concerns had been alleviated.

Despite that, there was still a laundry list of items on the list that needed attending to. He was not sure if he would be able to get to all of them today, but regardless, they all needed done. Derrick turned and glanced at the Sergeant Major and Major Killinger, both of which sat not too far away from himself. "Major, when we're back home, I want you to personally check with each unit to ensure all personnel made it back safely. I don't care how you intend to do it; just get it done. Afterwards, let the company commanders know they are to report to a preliminary debrief in my office no later than 1300."

Derrick turned his attention solely upon Sergeant Major Carson for his next string of orders. "Sergeant Major, I want you in the Hangar Deck armory to ensure that everything goes smooth as our Marines turn in their weapons and ammunition. If the boys down there want to give 'em any trouble, you unass the situation."

Carson nodded. "Aye, sir," he said.

The Colonel returned the nod and looked away. He tried to concentrate on all that he needed to have done before lights out. "Sir," Carson said unexpectedly. Harrison looked back at him, somewhat annoyed.

"What are ya plannin' on doin' with the sitch we had earlier b'tween Cappin' Flannigan 'n No-Co's CO?" the old codger asked. "We both know word'll git out about it eventually, 'n that could cause some unwanted tensions b'tween the two groups, sir."

Harrison considered the question for the moment. The argument that had occurred between the two company commanders had definitely been a major cause for his headache, and had he not intervened when he did, he had no doubt that it would have turned out into an all out brawl. The issue of the conduct being unbecoming of the two officers aside, Harrison was afraid that Flannigan would have most certainly placed his fellow company Commander in the infirmary if he had allowed the two to duke it out.

"Hopefully, Sergeant Major," Harrison began, leaning forward in his chair slightly, "word will not get out about the incident."

Carson shook his head. "All due respect, sir, but there were E-3s present when the argument took place. By noon t'day I'll bet ya a hundred creds that the word'll be out on the Lance Corp'ral Underground. We need ta have a game plan. Sir."

Harrison nodded begrudingly. He hated to admit that the bastard had a point. Enlisted personnel talked, and often liked to embellish certain facts. There would be no way for him to prevent word from getting out about the argument. He needed to be prepared for possible collateral damage because of it.

"Major," Derrick called, his attention diverted back to Killinger, "I want you to put it on the wire that if any Marine attempts to pick a fight from a Marine belonging to another company, that Marine and any others that are involved in the incident will be NJP'd faster than their head can spin. You can politely advise the company commanders of that as well, if you catch my drift."

[Flannigan, S.]

Captain Flannigan had almost run into the worst bit of luck on Pheonix III, but instead, Lady Luck had stayed with him. They hadn't been out of the tunnels for more then five minutes when the call came to evac, and it had been a mad dash to get back and get out. The entire company turned and started running back toward the evac zone. Unfortunately it was all the way back across the bridges to get to open enough ground to start setting birds down to load them up. There were already reports of Force Recon and ODST units air loading from some of the taller buildings in the city. It had been thirty minutes of running and shuffling back across the half ruined city, with sweat forming and freezing in the fridgid air of the planet.

after his announcement to the platoons, Flannigan sat back, surrounded by the marines of second squad, third platoon. They looked the least haggard of any of the marines he had seen in his command, but their first twenty four hours had been the easiest as well. The Covenant were not known for inventive tactics, and it had held true. It kept third platoon out of the fighting until the city assault, leaving them better rested than their brethren. Now, they talked quietly, talking about what they had seen, done, and heard. He saw a few near the mouth of the bird whispering in hushed tones while looking in his direction. He was sure more stories about old man Flannigan where getting ready to circulate. He didn't mind though. It was good for morale.

Pulling up his map in his neural lace, he stated head counting his marines by position. All of them were accounted for except one. He started scouring the command net for Lt. Matheson's signature, finally finding it just breaking atmo. This was danger close to a glossing operation so he pulled up the man's vitals to see if it was a body count. All vitals were normal but he was obviously breathing canned air.

"Omen fife, this is Omen Actual, sitrep, over."

"Omen Actual, this is fife. I'm all green here, over."

"Care to tell me why you're danger close to a glassing op, over?"

"Securing the Corps' shit, sir. Happy to report that all operable assets are outbound to the squids, over."

"We'll talk about this back at home. Good work fife. Actual out."

Flannigan finally let himself relax. There was plenty of work to do back on the boat, but for the next twenty minutes, he was his own man, leader of a great troop of marines who could hold their head high. Now he just had to get them to stay quiet and out of trouble for a few days so they didn't have to go straight to the freezers.

[Durant, M.]

0630 Hours, June 19, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
En route to UNSC Vengeance, Alpha Phoenicis System

Half an hour had passed since the platoon had left the surface of Phoenix III. The journey through space had been quite an adventure as the Pelican's pilots executed complex maneuvers to avoid debris and other obstacles in their path towards the Vengeance. Fortunately, in the vacuum of space, the Marines in the blood tray were oblivious to the evasive actions taken by the pilots. For them, the ride was smooth.

Durant himself would not have known had he not spent so much time in the cockpit, his eyes directed towards the view port. Off in the distance he could see the behemoth that was the Vengeance in geosynchronous orbit with the planet's satellite. The rest of the battle group appeared to have left save for two frigates that had assumed defensive positions around the massive cruiser.

Durant turned around and walked back into the troop compartment, taking in the sight of the Marines before him for a moment. They were haggard and covered in filth, but none of them suffered any injuries from the battle past. That was all a platoon commander could ever ask for as an infantry leader.

"Get ready," he barked over the drone of the engines. "We'll be touching down momentarily. Make sure you have all your gear and that your weapons are condition four."

Michael about faced and returned to the cockpit. The pilots steered the Pelican toward one of the port starboard hangars. Seconds passed as the bird came closer and closer to the ship until the mammoth ship swallowed the drop-ship whole. The pilot carefully brought the Pelican into the massive hangar bay and brought her down. Durant braced himself against the wall as the craft jolted as the landing gear settled upon the deck.

The rear hatch opened and the gangplank extended. Durant marched out of the cockpit after thanking the pilot for the ride and broke for the exit. He took in the sights around him as he stepped off the Pelican into the hangar. Enlisted flight crews bolted towards the birds that had landed in the hangar, some of them wielding refueling lines, and others buckets full of cleaning solution. Pilots, whom had finally landed for the last time over the course of the last three days, made their way towards the exits. While so much occurred around him, Durant felt that it all packed the urgency and chaotic atmosphere that had dominated the hangar bay when the platoon had deployed planetside.

"Report to the armory to turn in your weapons and ammo," Durant ordered. "When you're done, you can go get chow or head up to the berths; whatever suits you. If you any of you should need me, you'll know where to find me."

[Stone, T.]

The return to the Vengeance had been an uneventful trip. Stone had largely kept to himself the entire trip and only listened to the little but of conversation that had persisted around him. His eyes wandered over to Private Ward, who sat alongside his fire team, and noted that he looked just as haggard and unkempt as the rest of the squad. He risked a rare smile, glad to see that the young Marine was starting to fit in amongst his team.

While he would never let the young man know it, he was proud of him. Ward had managed to survive some of the toughest urban fighting Oscar Company had been dealt in a very long time, and executed all his orders without question. Hell, he even accompanied Stone in destroying an enemy Wraith tank and covered him as he disabled the vehicle. That right there was enough to prove to Thomas that he was well and truly his father's son.

Of course Ward had much more growing up to do before he could truly attain the level of experience and knowledge that his father possessed, but that was what Thomas was here for. That was why he was Ward's squad leader; to mold him into the Marine he needed to be in the future. Surprisingly enough, as Stone looked into the young man's eyes, he noticed that the glint in his eyes had not dissipated.

Most Marines lost that glint in their eyes after their first combat action. The reality of war and all the death that surrounded you just sort of beat the innocence and motivation out of a person. However, despite all that Ward had seen and done, that glint was still there. Bright as ever.

Stone wasn't sure what to make of that. However, he did know that someday, perhaps years from now, Jonathan Ward would make a damn fine Marine. There was a lot of untapped potential locked away there. All that Ward needed was for someone to provide him with the key.

That would be Stone's goal.

He would give him the key.

Thomas was rocked from his thoughts by the jolt of the Pelican as it touched down. The hatch opened to reveal the hangar bay of the Vengeance, and a plethora of personnel charging towards the bird all at once. Stone grabbed his rifle, put back together minutes ago, and stood up. He marched off the bird behind Lieutenant Durant and his shadow, Private Wilkas, and took up a position off to the side.

He turned around and watched as his squad filed out of the drop-ship. He knew they were aware of their orders and where to go, as the Lieutenant clearly laid it all out of them, but that still did not stop him from offering a bit more incentive into the mix. "Last one ta the Armory's gettin' my boot up their ass! Git a move on!"

A lot had happened over the last three days and his Marines would have a lot of time to think about it. However, now was not the time to get lost in reflection, and so he would make sure his squad was kept sufficiently preoccupied. The time to act was now.

"Y'all are 'gon form a line 'n wait 'til the POG calls ya up fer yer shit," Stone barked as he led them into the armory. "When ya hand it all over, stand by the exit, but don't ya dare leave. TLs, make sure yer Marines surrender all their weapons and ammo. One stray round found left in yer pocket an' you'll be prayin' that all ya git is an NJP."

[Stringer, K.]

Stringer was the last one on for the pelican for Second Squad. His fireteam being just him and Lawrence meant great cover for the rest of the marines to run up onto the pelican without the worry of having to be shot. Stringer took the right side and had Lawrence take the left. His main priority when they were evacuating was to make sure his last fireteam member didn't get shot, nor any other marines. Once they were airborne however, it was out of Stringer's hands. It was then up the pilots from there on, to get them off the planet and back onto the ship.

Stringer knew this routine all too well when it came to fighting the Covenant. Win the ground battle, lose it up in space with an eventual glassing of the planet. It was sickening, to be sure, but at least they got the civilians off the planet this time. It would have been better for Stringer if Silva and Gray both had not been injured. For now though, he would have to wait on word of their conditions. Gray was suppose to be transported back to the Vengeance, while Silva was being taken to the medical ship to be patched up. Gray's condition wasn't too severe from what McMillan had told him the day after she was hurt, but she was going to need to be monitored for 72 hours to be sure.

As they were in the vacuum of space, Stringer sat there, unloading his BR55 Battle Rifle, only take the round out of the chamber, but immediately placing it into the magazine, and the magazine back into the weapon. Most marines would be at ease right now, but Stringer didn't like having an empty weapon, or no weapon for that matter, anywhere he was. He knew the Covenant never took a break, and neither did he. Everywhere he went, he had a firearm on him. That's why he had Cruz approve for him to carry a M7 SMG while on the Vengeance.

For now though, he would have his battle rifle ready to rock, only needing the pull of the charging handle to be able to pop off rounds. Should the need to do so arise, Stringer was in one of the hot seats, being right at the hatch. First off, last on, is how he liked to be on the pelicans. Him being a former point man, he was used to being first in line in combat. This is why everywhere the company went, he was always trying to get to the front when he could. If he wasn't, he was worried for who ever his fellow marine was on point.

Stringer had his battle rifle in his lap, when he heard Durant come over the headset, talking about how the officers said Oscar Company did an outstanding job on the planet. All things considered, they did, despite the losses they sustained, but it mattered for nothing now that the planet itself was soon to be lost. What caught Stringer off guard was the news that they would have twenty-four hours off the clock to relax and do whatever on the ship once they returned, however. Stringer would use that time to get Lawrence to get her gear squared away, then check on Silva and Gray. Stringer knew Silva would probably have to wait till after the fleet made the jump through slip-space, so Stringer would make sure to check on Gray once they got back and their gear stored.

Stringer would have to wait though, as he felt the pelican moving a bit, knowing he wasn't feeling the full force since it was space, but that the pelican was more than likely dodging debris. He knew there would be some for sure. There is always debris after a fight with the Covenant, no matter where the UNSC went. The UNSC had bullets, metal projectiles and explosives, while the Covenant just had alien fucking weapons that shot plasma, which melted or burned away anything it touched. Stringer figured if there was debris, it was a mix of both species, more than likely the UNSC having took heavier losses from past experience.

A little while longer, and Stringer and the rest of Second squad would be on the ship, feeling the artificial gravity taking over, as Stringer stood up.

"Lawrence, with me when the hatch opens. We go turn in weapons and gear, then wait on my word on where to go next. Got it?" Stringer saw the female marine nod and stand with him. He held his battle rifle with his right hand, his left gripping the netting above as he waited for the pelican to touch down. With a soft thud, and a sudden hiss, the pelican was down on the deck and the back hatch opening. Stringer knew to be quick, so he immediately stepped off once there was enough clearance, landing on the deck more than stepping down to it as he made sure Lawrence kept up. He heard Stone barking to first squad to form a line and wait for the armorers to take in weapons, then for team leads to make sure every member had no ammo. Stringer looked back to Lawrence, as he saw she was already looking at him. He saw her nod, knowing she knew what he was thinking, which was she better not miss a step on getting her gear stored.

As Stringer looked forward once again, he began to step into line with the rest of the marines in the hanger deck, waiting to store his weapon and gear. Stringer knew he was not gonna turn in his M7, and he would have to fire a request for a new helmet since his took plasma damage and was lost somewhere on the planet, but that was all he would need was the helmet. He still had most of his magazines, including the spares in his pack, but that was a given that marines lost magazines in combat. When you are being shot at, you don't always recover empty mags as much as just drop them where you fight and leave them to scrap haulers or glassing.

[Min Jung Jun]

Min Jung Jun had been quiet throughout most of the trip back up to the UNSC Vengeance. It served as no surprise to anyone, the rocket jock who thought she played the bazooka blues with the alien armour happened to be quiet most of the time. Yet this time her silence was from the gut wrenching horror of knowing that the world behind them burned with blue fire as the Covenant menace destroyed it. She vowed that this would never occur to her own home world, Reach. That was the one planet in the UNSC least likely to fall to the hands of the alien foe.
Her hands shook uncontrollably, her nerves frayed from the battle. Once again she had survived where others fell. The worst part for her happened to be witnessing the bodies of the civilians slaughtered, no murdered by the Covenant. In time she hoped the aliens might pay for their innumerable crimes against humanity.

She hefted her missile launcher up, despite the ammunition for it having been expended in battle it still weighed a surprising amount or maybe the nagging exhaustion in her muscles made it feel like it weighed a considerable amount.
Min had not been in Oscar Company long, though she went out of her way to learn everyone's names. She felt that she should at the very least know everyone when she first rocked up as a replacement. The fall of the world behind her may have not been her first battle but it still was her first glassing. In her previous Covenant engagements whilst she served with other companies and different Marine Battalions the worlds she fought on never suffered glassing, or at the very least as far as she knew never suffered the horror of being glassed.

Standing up, she dismounted the Pelican quickly her dark brown eyes flickering around the hanger taking in the various momvements of the naval and marine personal as they scurried around. Following her orders she joined the line, waiting for her turn to hand over her weapons. Honestly, Min greatly wished to be in the possession of her weapons, at the very least till they reached friendly controlled space.
Yet, however her orders dictated that she handed over her weapons so she needed to do exactly that and ignore her own personal preference her.

She failed to keep her mind off of the situation which she realised grimly was probably still taking place on the world they just bugged out from. The brutal images of battle were conjured up in her eyes, the shrieks of dying aliens, the screams of plasma weapons, the distinctive roar of human weapons. She shook her head, awkwardly transferring her rocket launcher over to her left hand, so that it was now held on her left shoulder instead of her right, with her now free right hand she removed her helmet, enjoying the feeling of knowing that for the moment the brain bucket's duty was over.
Min tried to focus her thoughts onto what activate she might indulged herself in once she handed her gear over, shower and a hot meal right now sounded like just the ticket.

[Davis, E.]

Davis leveraged himself out of the seats with a groan and a grumble, following the herd of marines out of the pelican and onto the flight deck. There was no smug smile on his lips, no swagger in his step, just pure exhaustion and fatigue settling deeper in every line on his face. Even the sound of Sergeant Stone barking at the squad did little to increase his speed or motivation. He did understand, however, that he couldn’t be the one to make his Squad leader suffer.

“Let’s go, first,” he added, “We’ve got shit to do. Avery, Furby, make sure you have Fox prepped for his shakedown. We ain’t staying here any longer than we have to.”

Falling into line behind his team, Davis lumbered down the line, moving with the squad through the bowels of the ship towards supply. It was a treck he hated, even more so in his current state, and longed for the stretcher of ammo he had carried down here to the funeral like march back to turn in weapons. They were all tired and it was only a matter of time before the POGs started causing trouble for his weary marines.

Right on cue, he could hear some PFC berating a private for the state of his weapon. Davis was out of line and marching to the front, his rage displacing some of his weariness. They couldn’t just leave them alone. Some POG-ass PFC had to start running his mouth and try to get the best of a green line guy who didn’t know any better. Davis’s usual smile was twisted into a mask of hatred and death. Fortunately for the PFC, the Master Sergeant who ran the armory stepped in and saved him.

“PFC Cartwright, what the hell are you doing,” the Master Sergeant barked, freezing Davis in his tracks.

“Declining this weapon for not being properly cleaned Top,” the PFC said, as though it were the most natural thing in the universe.

“Do you have a death wish son,” the Master Sergeant barked back. “Take their weapons, sign them in, and get them the hell out of here. NOW!”

Davis let out a satisfied grunt and shuffled back into his spot in line. It was good that the veterans at least knew better. The PFC may have felt like he had taken an unfair lashing, but both Davis and the Master Sergeant knew full well the near death experience he had been saved from. The pace of returns moved up dramatically, and Davis was soon over checking out his team for loose ammo and brass.

[Killinger, J.]

"Yes sir." John replied after the Lieutenant Colonel had finished his conversation with the Sergeant Major. There weren't a lot of opportunities to say it before then, as the two seemingly didn't break in their speech for what felt like an hour. When they did, it was only momentarially. John knew that the two were probably just as frustrated, if not more, than himself. Though John only saw a few combat moments delivering supplies, the outcome of the battle irked him, maybe he could have done more if he actively participated in the battle. Just like any other planet they had to withdraw because the Covenant were going to glass it. The Major had been fighting a long time, perhaps the mounting losses had begun to effect his morale. He was curious how the NCO's felt, but he wasn't about to go poking his head in places it didn't belong.

A calm head almost always prevailed, though.

Patience over immediate action.

Unlike previous events, John wasn't about to take his anger out on people who didn't deserve it; not a single soul belonging to the Corps were at fault, but the Covenant... Well that was a different story. The only thing that troubled him was something he wasn't even aware of, he was ignorant to the fact there was even an issue between the two Captain's. Apparently, he was either away from the incident or oblivious to it. It was also possible he had forgotten, but something that sounded that serious caught him as something he'd remember. It didn't hurt to ask, though, but John knew the Sergeant Major had a point.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, but what happened between Captain Flannigan and No-Co?" John asked.

Hopefully there was enough time for the LTC to respond before their transport landed and he had to depart for his duties. He'd go platoon to platoon making sure everyone was present, then talk to the Company COs that they're expected for debriefing at 1300. Since word typically spread like a wild fire in a busy hanger, he'd tell a random Marine that if anyone fought another Marine they'd be NJPd. Since more than one Marine would hear it, it would spread from mouth to ear and repeat fairly quickly; however, John was prepared to take a more direct approach in informing everyone in the hanger... if he had too.

Opinion of him was probably going to go down, but John had to hope that his sometimes timely arrivals with ammunition and heavy fire support were enough to carry him through the actions he had to take. He wasn't the most popular officer in the MEU; not that he cared too much about that opinion anyway.

[McMillan, J.]

Jim had not spoken a word since boarding the Pelican. The battle for Phoenix III had taken its toll on him; mentally, emotionally, and physically. He was drained from it all. The life of a combat corpsman was by no means an easy one. Many of the Marines around him scarcely understood what it was he was tasked to do as a corpsman, and the horrors that he had to witness up close and personal in the effort to save lives.

McMillan glanced down at his hands, thoroughly drenched in mud, soot, and blood. At some point during the fighting he had run out of gloves, forcing him to resort to the use of his bare hands to render aid to badly wounded Marines and soldiers. Hell, there had even been a civilian or two that had required his care during one of the more grueling of firefights.

The thought that Second Platoon had only lost a handful of its personnel in the fighting surprised him. There had been a handful of grim moments where even he had thought all was lost. The Covenant were not known to retreat from a fight, even if outnumbered, and many of them would fight to the bitter end. Even inches from death, the Covenant's troops were still lethal.

One soldier from a supply unit learned that lesson firsthand. Second Platoon had been passing a unit being resupplied on their way to the subway terminal. The unit had just survived a pitched battle against a dug-in Covenant platoon. A squad of the supply soldiers had been ordered to deadcheck the bodies of the enemy platoon. Specialist Gorman had stepped too close to the body of an Elite, only to discover the Elite was not quite dead.

The first indication that something was wrong came from the startled cry of the Specialist as the Elite knocked him to the ground. Somehow the young soldier managed to wrench free from the alien's rock solid grip and attempted to crawl away. That was when it happened.

There was a bright flash and a thundering boom, accompanied by dust and debris. The next sound that echoed across the street was the bloodcurdling scream of the Specialist, his legs flash-vaporized by the plasma grenade. Mac rushed over to the wounded soldier alongside an Army medic and rendered aid.

Unfortunately, despite their combined efforts to save his life, Specialist James Gorman, twenty-one years of age, had perished. He'd taken his last breath in front of them both. Gorman's eyes lost their color and his body remained as still as stone. The sight of the young man's lifeless corpse was burned into his brain.

It wasn't the first time he had seen death. However, it was the first time he was at the scene of the incident, and lacked the tools that he'd had as an aid on a hospital ship. The look of pain and anguish forever left stenciled across his face would be the stuff of his nightmares. He knew it.

The squelch of the radio in his ear shook him from his reverie. He listened quietly to Lieutenant Durant's praises and the proclamation that the platoon had been granted a reprieve. The news did not offer him any solace, but he was glad to know that someone in the chain of command cared for them. Captain Flannigan was as well versed in war as any one of the grunts that surrounded Jim. Every Marine in Oscar Company respected the old man for his experience and no bullshit attitude.

Even Mac had to admit the man was the stuff of legend.

The minutes that past after the transmission passed by in relative silence from the occupants of the Pelican. Mac glanced across the bird to Corporal Stringed, whose fire team had suffered ninety percent casualties. Though both of his Marines were going to make it, he was sure that it had been a terrible blow to the man's morale.

When the Pelican finally set down within the bowels of the Vengeance, Mac slowly filed out and made his way towards the armory. He wanted to put the whole ordeal behind him, find his rack, and enjoy a nice twelve hour nap.

He was done with FROST DRAGON.