Cleaning and Killing Time (First Team + Wilkas)

[Davis, E.]

1500 Hours, June 20, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Aboard UNSC Vengeance, B-Deck, First Team Room

Davis sat in the first team bunks, his rifle apart and spread across the bunk next to him. The rest of his team was seated around the room on beds and footlockers along with Wilkas. He had insisted the RTO join them for weapons cleaning rather than sit alone in her room. Combat was brutal, and it was important for the soul to spend time with others that understood it. At least that was Davis’s estimation of it. He was pretty sure Wilkas would rather be in a supply closet somewhere rather than with people, but he hadn’t really asked her opinion.

“I’m sure they made you clean these solid in Boot,” Davis said, half lecturing Ward, “But after the stunt we pulled turning these weapons in yesterday, that Corporal down there is going to be looking for blood. They know better than to outright reject them, but if your weapons aren’t spotless, he’ll send ‘em back. And heaven knows that Master Sergeant can only keep those desk jockeys reigned in so long. Especially after Furby backed him down.”

Davis chuckled at the thought of Furby being at the supply NCO’s throat. There was a moment where Davis thought his PFC was going to go through the screen after the smartass on the other side, but he was glad Top had impressed on his men the need to move quickly. He didn’t need to restrain a Marine who was in the right just to rescue some POG. Furby may not have looked the part, but Davis imagined it would be something like trying to restrain some kind of rubber monkey. He doubted it would turn out well for anyone.

The current song that was playing over the radio came to an end, bringing Davis’s attention back to the room around them. The radio, such as it was, was plugged into the ship’s database and near limitless computing power. While storing and playing music might seem like a terrible use of resources, it was one of the comforts the UNSC readily provided, as the data storage and retrieval was negligible compared to the other bits of data it stored.

“Radio is yours Wilkas,” Davis said with a grin. “I figure I owe you that after the stunt I pulled heading planet side. Just try not to put us to sleep. If Stone walks into a bunch of drowsy Marines, I doubt it will end well for us.”

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace Wilkas looked at the various rifle parts, wishing she was not having to clean them out because she hated this part of the job. It happened to be one of those boring yet critically vital tasks, so with grim determination she quietly cleaned each piece. Failure to do so might result in someone yelling at somebody else which resulted in her getting yelled at.
If she wanted to get yelled at she would have just stayed on Earth.

She smirked when Davis informed her that the radio was now her's to choose what music played next. About time, she intended to show First Team true music, not
the nonsense played from her radio on the way down to the planet, desecrating it.
Grace stood up, wincing from a light bruise she gained from the unwise decision of entering a sparring session with Faust. The older marine seemed somewhat different after the battle. Grace noticed that she spent as much time as possible training. She wondered why.

She selected a good song, no a great song, perhaps even the greatest song in the galaxy. The loud roaring music of the Russian heavy metal band General Winter filled the room. "Proper music." She declared with a grin, rocking her head back and forth, she moved her fingers along in an air guitar as the Russian lead singer screamed something in Russian. Grace a native Russian would understand the language but the Fire Team? Probably not.
After a few moments she returned to her cleaning, grinning from ear to ear pleased that the other marines would now get an education in proper music.

She was glad that Davis pulled her out from the room. Grace's own thoughts when she found herself alone tended to be rather grim and dark. Every time her mind became unoccupied the thoughts of battle and all those who died, trapped on the planet as the Covvies glassed it.
All those lives lost in the most horrific manner. She put the piece of rifle which she had been cleaning down, pressing her hands against it on the floor, trying to stop them from shaking. So many people died, so much death. The Covenant must be stopped, defeated before they reached another world, before they discovered Earth.

[Furby, J.]

Furby clutched the muzzle of his battle rifle in his hand, the barrel detached from the upper and lower receiver. In his other hand was a cleaning rod, which he currently had jammed down the barrel, cleaning and lubricating it. Weapon maintenance was a tedious endeavor that he seldom enjoyed; however, unfortunately, it was a necessity in order to maintain combat effectiveness. An unclean, improperly maintained weapon could cause a jam during operation; which, a jam in a firefight could have dire consequences for both himself and his fire team.

No matter how much he hated the grind, he would suck it up and get it done. He preferred being aggravated and alive over the alternative. Death and / or previous bodily injury was technically a hazard of the job, but that did not mean he wanted to make the enemy's job any easier. If he could avoid potentially life endangering situations he would gladly do so.

Jayson averted his attention from the task at hand to listen to Corporal Davis, whom was in the midst of speaking to Ward about weapon cleanliness, and how being thorough would perhaps make his life easier considering the fact that one of the POGs working down in the armory likely had a vendetta out against Second Platoon. He grinned, fondly recalling how he'd let the smug bastard have it after pushing one too many of his buttons. Normally Furby would have regretted flying off the handle like that, but not in this instance.

Nope. That bastard deserved every word.

"I dunno, Corporal," Lance Corporal Avery piped up with a toothy grin, "I think Furby put the fear of God in that asshole pretty good. I doubt he'd have the balls to pick a fight with us again."

Furby laughed. "What can I say?" he asked rhetorically. "That bastard pissed me off."

Avery shook his head. "Bro, he didn't just piss you off... I swear I thought you were about to smash your way through that cage and wring his neck."

Before Jayson could respond, Ward spoke up. "Yeah, Jay," he interjected, pausing only to chuckle at the memory of what had occurred yesterday morning, "you had murder in your eyes."

"I've tried to tell you animals I'm a crazy motherfucker," Furby replied, smirking. "You guys are just too dumb to listen... minus you, Corporal."

Lance Corporal Avery burst out laughing, shaking his head vigorously. "Bro, you are so full of shit that the POGs in the armory can smell that shit!"

Jayson shook his head, chuckling, and set down the barrel to his rifle. He carefully removed the rod and set it down on the floor. Moving his hands over the upper received, he picked it up and inspected it closely for a moment. He'd cleaned the internals before working on the barrel, but wanted to make sure there was no sign of even the slightest speck of dirt or grime anywhere that might be cause for alarm. Despite his dismissive attitude towards the Marines that worked the armory, he did not feel like having to check out his weapon a second time due to carelessness on his part.

When the song that had been playing over the radio finally came to an end, he glanced over at the device for a moment. He debated asking if he could pick a song when Corporal Davis turned and bestowed that privilege upon Private Wilkas. Jayson cocked his head in Grace's direction, a bit curious as to what she would play. They hadn't really ever talked about each other's taste in music and, were he to guess, he figured she would be a fan of flip music.

His assumption turned out to be way off base, however. Heavy metal shrieked through the speakers suddenly, catching him off guard. Jayson looked at Avery and, just by his expression, summed up his feelings on her tastes. "Oh God, Corporal," Avery blurted out all of a sudden, "just kill me already!"

Jayson nodded. "Yeah, I know we can be assholes sometimes, but this is just cruel!"

"I like it," Ward interjected.

"Shut up, Fox."

[Ward, J.]

Jon sat cross-legged on the floor with his rifle on top of a sheet in pieces in front of him. Beside him was his cleaning kit and a bottle of lubricant, the latter open and ready to be poured into the inner workings of his weapon. The scene before him brought him back to his stint in boot camp, where weapon cleaning was almost a daily occurrence, and he had enjoyed that time immensely.

The act of maintaining a weapon was a tedious and sometimes annoying task, but it had always been his favorite thing to do during boot camp. Drill instructors were relentless and unwavering in their enforcement of discipline; however, any time the recruits had been ordered to clean their weapons, the DIs seemed to back off and give them some room to breath. During those times he actually had an opportunity to socialize with the recruits he shared the squad bay with without the fear of being reprimanded.

Any reprieve from the DIs in boot camp was a welcome one.

"I'm sure they made you clean these solid in Boot," Corporal Davis suddenly said to him. Ward looked up from his disassembled weapon to listen. "But after the stunt we pulled turning these weapons in yesterday, that Corporal down there is going to be looking for blood. They know better than to outright reject them, but if your weapons aren’t spotless, he’ll send ‘em back. And heaven knows that Master Sergeant can only keep those desk jockeys reigned in so long. Especially after Furby backed him down."

Jon was just about to respond when Avery interjected his way into the conversation. "I dunno, Corporal, I think Furby put the fear of God in that asshole pretty good. I doubt he'd have the balls to pick a fight with us again."

Ward chuckled, recalling the events of yesterday morning. Jayson had really laid it on thick with the NCO behind the cage. Jon had never seen the PFC so angry before since his arrival with the unit. Now that he had seen what his friend was capable of, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to piss the man off for any reason.

"What can I say," Furby asked. "That bastard pissed me off."

"Bro, he didn't just piss you off," Avery said, shaking his head. "I swear I thought you were about to smash your way through that cage and wring his neck."

Jon smiled and looked to his friend. "Yeah, Jay," he said, chuckling. "You had murder in your eyes."

Jon returned his attention to the task at hand, only half-listening to the conversation that carried on between Furby and Avery. He picked up the individual segments of his rifle and started to reassemble it. During boot camp, his instructors had held contests between the recruits on who could put their weapon back together the quickest. It had been a devious game, as in the end, no one turned out a "winner," per se. Winners were awarded the honor of cleaning the squad bay from top to bottom, but considering the alternative - PTing in the mudpits for two hours - it was well worth it.

Ward's time was a minute and twenty-eight seconds, placing him in third place for his platoon. That earned him the prestige of handling the laundry of the squad bay and the attention of his senior drill instructor. He recalled how the senior would hassle him incessantly whenever he failed to excel at a task, citing his excellence at disassembling and reassembling a rifle as his only marketable skill.

The senior did not let up until grass week, when Ward showed proficiency in marksmanship, earning a near-perfect score on his rifle qualification. He remembered being called to the SDI's office, known as the "hut" by the recruits, and being personally congratulated by his senior for his score. Staff Sergeant Wolf even suggested he should consider picking up 0312 as his MOS; however, Ward declined. He may have been a crack shot with a rifle, but he wanted nothing more than to be just a Rifleman.

Ward's thoughts were interrupted (more accurately drowned out) by the heavy bass and screams of a Russian heavy metal song. Jon, whom had finished assembling his weapon, set it upon his lap and looked up to see Private Wilkas by the radio, a grin spread across her face. He listened to the song for a moment, finding it strangely enjoyable. He began to bob his head to the beat of the drums as he policed up the cleaning equipment around him.

"Oh God, Corporal," Lance Corporal Avery cried suddenly, "just kill me already!"

"Yeah, I know we can be assholes sometimes, but this is just cruel!" Furby added.

Ward shook his head. "I like it."

Avery locked eyes with him. "Shut up, Fox."

Ward shut his mouth and nodded. He finished packing up his gear and leaned over to reach his footlocker, punching in the code into the keypad to unlock it. Lifting the lid, he dumped the cleaning supplies into the footlocker and slammed it shut, hearing the click of the lock as it engaged. Satisfied, he stood up and slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Good to go, Corporal."

He turned to look at Private Wilkas. "What's the name of this band?" he asked her.

[Davis, E.]

Davis enjoyed the hard beat and foreign lyrics. It was a taste he had acquired early on in the corps. Some of it was a slight at his Father and the farm, but a lot of it had to do with the mixed company he now found himself in. While he hadn’t heard anything Russian before, it was similar to some of the German metal his old bunkmate used to play back on Reach. He gave a broad grin at Wilkas as she rocked out and relaxed some, simply enjoying the time rather than being so uptight. It was almost hard to believe that this was the same girl he had watched break down in tears not even a week before.

“Never let a man stand you down when you have good taste Fox,” he said, staring at Avery with his lopsided grin. “Even if he thinks being a Lance makes him special. You get the next song Fox, being as these two whiners obviously lack taste in music.”

He knew that Avery and Furby would bitch regardless of what was played, but he enjoyed watching them go back and forth. The two of them were the soul of the team now and in turn helped make the soul of the platoon. As such they needed to be encouraged to continue being themselves, even if that made for whining and bitching.

Davis noticed out of the corner of his eye that Ward was wrapping up. The Private went so far as to completely pack up his cleaning kit. He was confident, but Davis knew all the tricks. He had only been a Corporal for a short time. Before that, he had borne the brunt of abuse from nearly every trick and dirty trade secret that was out there. It was time for him to pass on that knowledge the hard way.

“Let’s see it Fox,” Davis said, setting down his own rifle parts to check over the weapon. It took him twenty seconds to have the rifle field stripped for a supply inspection. He glanced up at Ward, seeing if the Private was in awe, as most Privates were, before returning to his impromptu inspection. He pulled the bolt out and removed the firing pin. This was the most obvious check that supply would make and Fox had scrubbed them clean.

Davis gave a nod of approval before turning the upper receiver over and looking at the gas tube. Here was what he had expected, with bits of carbon build up still stuck to the inside parts of the weapon. This was a constant with all gas operated weapons, but that didn’t stop supply Nazis from using it to “teach” the lower enlisted. Davis had spent more time cleaning carbon flecks from his rifles than anything else.

“Little fast on stowing your kit,” Davis said with a chuckle. “They’ll gig you on this today. If you’ve got a dental tool, it works best. Perhaps your buddies will teach you a thing or two about unconventional cleaning supplies.”

[Furby, J.]

Jayson shook his head at the Corporal's comment towards his taste in music. He preferred flip music, the descendent of what he'd heard was called hard rock, over the obnoxious sound of guttural screaming. At least with flip music he could understand the singers, even when they screamed, and the soundtrack behind the vocals wasn't so overpowering.

When the Corporal passed the reigns over to Ward for the next song, Jayson shot him a glare, dumbfounded. He was giving the new guy radio privileged over him and Avery? "Oh, c'mon! That's dirty, Corporal!"

Avery nodded vigorously. "Yeah, Corporal, what the hell? Fox probably listens to some dumb shit like Celine Barbados or some other dumb shit. I ain't listenin' to some girls cryin' about how their boyfriends left them and shit."

"Guess it's time for earplugs, then, huh?" Furby asked, shaking his head.

Avery nodded again and then returned to cleaning his weapon. Furby sighed and did the same. No matter what, Davis had the final say, and neither of them would be able to convince him to change his mind. So he just cleaned his weapon like a good Marine and kept his mouth shut. If Ward played something stupid, he'd make sure his friend would never live it down.

Jayson looked up when he noticed Ward was putting his materials away. He put his weapon back together and stowed the supplies in his footlocker. There's no way he's done, he thought. The boot would have had to cut corners somewhere. There was no other way he could have finished before anywhere else. He was sure of it.

Davis immediately jumped on the opportunity to inspect his weapon, ensuring thoroughness. It took the NCO mere seconds to find a discrepancy. Lo and behold it was the gas tube. Furby smirked, knowing tge gas tube to be the bane of many a Marine's existence. The MA5B was a gas-operated weapon. Gases from the first round and the rounds to follow would impinge upon a piston, which pushed back on the bolt carrier which would rotate the bolt, allowing subsequent rounds to be chambered and fired.

The common issue was the gases often left carbon fleks that, over time, built up in the tube. If the fleks were allowed to gunk up over a period of time, there would not be enough gas reaching the piston to rotate the bolt, which would either cause the weapon to jam or not function at all past the first round fired. The common rookie mistake was to not clean the tube thoroughly enough to get rid of all the carbon particles.

Furby grinned and grabbed a toothbrush from his kit. He kept one in his cleaning kit just for that purpose. "Jonny," he called, extending his arm towards the private, toothbrush in hand. "Take this."

When Ward took it, he set down his tools and scooted over to his friend. "Use that on the tube. The bristles are rough enough and sturdy enough to scrape off all that gunk in the tube. Just take the brush, stick the bristle end in the tube, and brush vigorously until you've scraped every last flake out of it. Brushes are the best, but if for whatever reason you're short on one, a razorblade can work."

Avery chuckled. "Yeah, except you can't cut yourself with a toothbrush," he said. "If you ain't careful, you can slice your finger open with the razorblade."

Furby nodded with a sigh. "That's why you use a brush if you got one. Personally, I prefer the electric ones, but like a dumbass I lost mine. Had to buy that piece of shit from the shipboard PX. Apparently the Navy doesn't carry electric toothbrushes."

"Fuckin' Squids."

The PFC looked over at Davis. "Anything I forgot that you wanna add, Corporal?"

[Ward, J.]

Private Ward picked up his weapon and handed it over to Corporal Davis. He'd forgotten that the team leader was supposed to inspect this weapon, mentally kicking himself for it. It was something that should have remembered, as even after boot camp - in the ITB - he had been required to fork over his weapon for final inspection after cleaning it.

Ward's eyes widened at the sight of Davis taking apart his rifle. He didn't keep count of the time, but if he had to guess, the Corporal had disassembled it in under thirty seconds. "Wow," he mumbled aloud, captivated by the sight. Jon watched as his team leader pulled the bolt out of its housing and removed the firing pin.

It was immaculate. He had spent a great deal of time scrubbing it to ensure it was squeeky clean. It was, after all, one of the more important parts of the weapon. He'd heard horror stories throughout his stint in boot camp and SOI about the woes of improperly maintained weapons. Weapons misfiring or jamming in the most inopportune of times. He vowed back then never to fall into that trap.

The private smiled at Davis's nod of approval. He expected that the whole weapon would pass his inspection. Jon had always prided himself on being thorough in tasks such as these. So when Corporal Davis flipped his upper receiver over and found a problem, it genuinely took him by surprise. He leaned forward, looking down into the gas tube, and instantly noticed the discrepancy.

"Little fast on stowing your kit," Davis said, making Ward regret his decision to stow it even more now. "They’ll gig you on this today. If you’ve got a dental tool, it works best. Perhaps your buddies will teach you a thing or two about unconventional cleaning supplies.”

Ward nodded, averting the NCO's gaze. "Yes, Corporal."

Jon relinquished Davis of his weapon and sat back down, sighing the entire way down. He had hoped to be done with this before everyone else, and because of that, he had screwed up and given himself more work to do. He mentally kicked himself again, feeling as if he should have known better than to rush through something so rudimentary.

"Jonny," called the voice of Furby. Jon turned his head and noticed his friend had his arm extended towards him, a toothbrush in hand. "Take this."

He took it. Furby scooted over to him as he hovered the brush over the gas tube. "Use that on the tube. The bristles are rough enough and sturdy enough to scrape off all that gunk in the tube. Just take the brush, stick the bristle end in the tube, and brush vigorously until you've scraped every last flake out of it. Brushes are the best, but if for whatever reason you're short on one, a razorblade can work."

"Yeah, except you can't cut yourself with a toothbrush. If you ain't careful, you can slice your finger open with the razorblade," Avery added, chuckling.

Furby nodded, sighing. "That's why you use a brush if you got one. Personally, I prefer the electric ones, but like a dumbass I lost mine. Had to buy that piece of shit from the shipboard PX. Apparently the Navy doesn't carry electric toothbrushes."

Ward nodded and went to work on the gas tube with the toothbrush. He scrubbed the bristle-end against the inside of the tube, watching as flakes of carbon residue dislodged from the tube and fell to the floor. He hadn't imagined that the carbon buildup had been that bad. As he brushed the tube and watched the flakes wipe away, he felt worse for not double checking his own work. Now I see why we're supposed to hand over our weapons for inspection, Ward realized.

"Sorry, Corporal," Ward said, looking away from his weapon for a moment. He'd felt the need to apologize for his mistake. "I won't let this happen again."

[Wilkas, G.]

"You guys don't appreciate good music." Grace pointed out as the song continued to play. She focused on cleaning her weapon for a few minutes before turning her attention back to the conversation in order to answer the question about the band's name. "General Winter." She responded with a smile, Wilkas loved the General Winter band, the music happened to be considerably popular back in Russia. Grace did not know if they were popular on the other worlds.
She sighed when the song ended, she loved the music even if her parents disliked it.

She doubled checked her rifle parts, slowly reassembling it with the same care that a mother might with a new born child. Finally the work was done and she leant back with a sigh. The RTO tried to keep her thoughts firmly against what horrors may the unfortunate doomed souls on the world they left behind suffered.
Grace noticed that her hands were shaking so she clasped them against her stomach as she leaned further back her eyes staring up at the ceiling.
She wondered what the weather might be like back home, hopefully General Winter (the actual Russian Winter, not the band) would not have found a way into space. She was used to the cold, proper cold, the rest of the marines may not be used to it.

She pulled herself back up, re-examining her rifle suddenly not feeling as though it was not perfect enough. "Can I be excused for a moment?" Wilkas inquired, suddenly wishing to be away from the other marines for a brief moment.
The unwelcome thoughts of what the Covenant did to human worlds invaded her mind haunting her, it had been the first glassing she witnessed. There was something about witnessing it first hand rather than reading about it or watching the news about such horrors.

Grace Wilkas wanted to exit the room, without waiting for an answer she made an abrupt exit. She exiting the room, not stopping till she reached a stairwell. She stopped, trying to control her breathing, a panic attack would not be appreciated by the fellow marines who's company she abandoned swiftly nor herself. She shut her eyes, attempting to follow the various techniques she knew of to control it.
It would never happen to Earth, the aliens will be defeated long before they even reach the home world of humanity. She struggled to breath, her chest feeling tight almost as if there were a heavy weight on it.

[Davis, E.]

Davis couldn’t help but laugh at the two fire team members as they protested, mocked their peer, and finally relinquished with the final few barbs thrown at the Private. Ward was good for it, but he would have taken the berating comments regardless. It was part of growth in the Corps, and Davis wasn’t about to change years of tradition just because some Private was soft.

“That should be good enough for today,” Davis said with a nod, watching Ward sit down dejectedly. If the boy was going to beat himself up over it, there wasn’t much Davis would do to stop it. It was the mark of a good Private to beat yourself up, and Davis knew that Ward would be a great marine if they could just keep him alive long enough.

"Sorry, Corporal," Ward said, looking up from his weapon for a moment. "I won't let this happen again."

“You don’t owe me nothing Fox,” Davis said with a drawl that sounded far more country than he liked. “Just get your work done and learn. That’s your job right now, to learn every damned thing you can. Someday, you’ll know twice as much as Avery. He gave up learning for lent eight years ago and never picked it back up.”

Avery shot Furby a look that rang of confusion and Davis couldn’t help but shake his head and continue on with his cleaning. Wilkas asked to step out and bolted before Davis could answer. Remembering her penchant for panic and the whole reason he had her here with them, Davis looked over at Furby.

“Go take care of that,” he said, jutting his thumb after Wilkas. “No marine should be stuck alone with their thoughts after yesterday. And if you see No Co on the hunt, call for help and then beat the shit out ‘em. When you get back, maybe you can explain to Avery what lent is.”

Moving back to cleaning like nothing had happened; he took a dental pick to a particularly stubborn piece of carbon. He glanced at Ward and Avery to see if they were still working or trying to figure out what was going on. Avery knew better than to question and immediately returned back to work. His LMG wasn’t going to clean itself and Davis knew better than anyone else what it took to make those things inspection ready.

“We’ll be spending most of tomorrow in the simulators,” Davis said, trying to keep his team abreast of the plan. “Plan for morning PT, breakfast, simulators, lunch, simulators, dinner, and then more simulators.”

[Furby, J.]

Furby chuckled at the look of dejection that held steady across Private Ward's face. It was an interesting prospect; gazing upon someone else that was experiencing things for the first time that he had not long ago experienced himself. He remembered how he used to take criticism to heart when he first arrived to Oscar Company, and constantly best himself up over the smallest mistakes.

In retrospect, none of that crap should have affected him so intensely. Somehow, no matter how hard one pushed against it, the military was capable of changing someone, however subtle that change may be. Before he became a conscript of the Marine Corps, he never let anything bother him. If he made a mistake, it was no big deal. He just shrugged it off and kept on slogging through his daily routine.

After his conscription and the horror show that was boot camp, however, he found he took a lot of things to heart that he probably shouldn't have. Boot camp had been one of the toughest journeys of his entire life. The physical aspects of it had been nothing special - after all, he'd been an amateur GravBall player - but mental? Emotionally? It'd been rough.

Of course, none of that mattered now. He was a much different person now than he was mere months ago. Combat had influenced a great deal of that change, but not like being a part of First Team had. No matter how much he griped about all of the things that happened around him, and the cards that life had dealt him, he was thankful to be a part of such a tight-knit team. Jayson was under the command of arguably the finest team leader in all of the company.

He couldn't ask for a better fire team, or, for that matter, a better unit. Furby could not imagine being anywhere else in the entire Marine Corps than here; a Marine with Oscar Company. He's heard the horror stories of other units, the venerable "good companies" that existed outside of their battalion. The regulation heavy, do-gooder type of crews that sucked the life out of all those a part of them. He couldn't do that nor would he ever settle for it.

Jayson was torn from his stupor by Jonny's sudden apology. He glanced up at the young Marine and smirked. Ward was actually apologizing for his mistake as if it was some kind of big deal. It was a trivial matter. Nothing more, nothing less. Furby turned and met Avery's gaze. He too was smirking, giving the private the slightest shake of the head that he had ever seen.

"You don't owe me nothing Fox," Davis said with a somewhat thick drawl. Furby fought the urge to snicker. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the team leader used to be a farmboy back in the day. “Just get your work done and learn. That’s your job right now, to learn every damned thing you can. Someday, you’ll know twice as much as Avery. He gave up learning for lent eight years ago and never picked it back up.”

Lance Corporal Avery shot him a look of confusion at Davis's statement. Furby was just as confused as he was, but he didn't show it, recalling the old adage that it was better to keep your mouth shut lest you wanted others to think you were an idiot. Or something like that. He couldn't remember exactly how it went, but it sounded accurate.

Furby's attention diverted from Ward to Private Wilkas, who asked to be excused and then suddenly rose up and bolted before anyone could say a word. The PFC furrowed his brow in concern. It was not like her to act that way. He knew she had a slight penchant for panic attacks, recalling the incident that had transpired on the Templar weeks ago, but he had seen marked improvement in her since then.

"Go take care of that," Davis ordered, pointing in the direction Wilkas had fled with his thumb. “No marine should be stuck alone with their thoughts after yesterday. And if you see No Co on the hunt, call for help and then beat the shit out ‘em. When you get back, maybe you can explain to Avery what lent is.”

I don't even know what that means, he thought to himself. "Roger, Corporal," he said, nodding curtly. He set his rifle against his rack and stood up. Furby carefully maneuvered around Ward and out the door, stepping out into the "common room" as the others called it. He turned and exited the berth, making his way to the nearest ladderwell. The stairs were rarely used by the shipboard personnel due to the elevators posted at regular intervals. If he were looking for solitude, that would be where he would go.

Sure enough, when he arrived at the ladderwell, he found Wilkas standing there. She was breathing heavily, as if she were trying very hard to ward off a potential panic attack in the making. He checked the area briefly to ensure they were truly alone before approaching her. "Grace?" he called out, his voice soft and quiet. "You okay?"

[Ward, J.]

"You don't owe me nothing Fox," said Corporal Davis with a detectable southern drawl somewhat akin to Stone's. Ward was surprised by the statement and the sudden appearance of the accent. He's heard that Davis had grown up a farmboy, but he'd just thought that was a terrible joke conjured up by Furby. "Just get your work done and learn. That’s your job right now, to learn every damned thing you can. Someday, you’ll know twice as much as Avery. He gave up learning for lent eight years ago and never picked it back up.”

Ward chuckled. He looked at Lance Corporal Avery and saw a look of confusion slapped across his face. It was apparent to Ward that the E-3 had not the slightest clue what the word "lent" meant. He almost suggested that he look it up, but resisted the urge. Though the machine gunner had backed off since he had been unanimously accepted into the team, Ward knew better than to poke the bear and expect not to be mauled.

"Yes, Corporal," Ward replied, returning to scrubbing the carbon particles out of the gas tube. After his earlier mistake, he wanted to be extra careful, making sure that every last bit of gunk was eliminated before he put the weapon back together. Carbon fleks had accumulated on the floor from his handiwork on the gas tube, a visual means of showing that progress was being made.

When Jon looked up, he noted that Private Wilkas had left. He'd been so focused on his weapon that he had not heard her excuse herself. Corporal Davis looked at Furby and ordered him to go after her, citing that it was not a good idea for her to be alone considering the circumstances. Jon agreed, having learned the hard way that traveling alone aboard ship could potentially be dangerous. Had it not been for the platoon sergeant, the November Company Marines may have put him in the Infirmary.

Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to his rifle, noticing that the gas tube finally appeared to be clean. He decided to check all of the common places one more time to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. The bolt housing was clean and lubricated, the chamber immaculate, and the barrel pristine. All appeared to be in good working order.

"We'll be spending most of tomorrow in the simulators," Davis said. Ward heard a groan from Avery's direction. "Plan for morning PT, breakfast, simulators, lunch, simulators, dinner, and then more simulators."

Before Ward had a chance to speak, Lance Corporal Avery beat him to the punch. "Since Furby ain't here, I gotta get the obligatory bitchin' out the way," the machine gunner said. He put on his best Furby and added, "that fucking sucks, Corporal. Why can't we sleep 'n shit."

It took every ounce of discipline Ward had not to burst into a fit of laughter. Avery shook his head, grinning from ear-to-ear, and then said, "Nah, sounds good to me. That just means more time with my baby." The lance corporal had tapped his LMG as he spoke, indicating that the weapon was his baby. Jon smirked and shook his head. "I'd like to get some more practice on point," he said.

Jon scooped up the pieces of his weapon and offered them up to his team leader. He made it a point to do things right this time before packing his belongings and calling it quits. "I think I'm done now, Corporal."

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace's chest rose and fell with each carefully controlled breath, she could feel the rising panic and her building anxiety increasing with each passing beat of her heart. The last thing she wished was to break down into another panic attack though suffering one on the ship might just be preferred to say one on the field of battle.
The RTO never considered a military career till the UNSC drafted her, she did not believe she happened to be tough enough for soldiering. Even if she survived the horrifically hard Russian training.

Private Wilkas heard a familiar voice of Furby, she opened her eyes to see the marine watching her with great concern. Grace opened her mouth to answer but all that came out was a strangely chocking sob. She shook her head slowly, looking away from him.
"No." She whispered quietly, sliding down the wall wrapping her arms around her knees hugging them closer to her chest. She wanted the Covenant to stop, they destroyed another human world.

How could the UNSC hope to halt such a dark force of pure malevolence before it reached the sacred homeworld of humanity? The private saw no way of humanity managing to achieve victory, each time she faced them, the aliens managed to conjure up yet another nightmare to terrify her with.
Grace wondered how the other marines managed to find belief in their victory against the Covenant? She wished that she would and could share in it.

"How can everyone act so normal? How can they talk of a job well done when the Covenant destroyed the planet?" Grace's voice sounded tormented by pain, fear and uncertainty. "Is it a job well done if the enemy retained the field of battle? All those people we left behind..." Her voiced vanished in a strangled cry as she broke down into her panic attack, sobbing silently.
She hated the aliens for what they were doing to humanity.

[Furby, J.]

Furby gazed upon Private Wilkas, an expression of concern solidified across his face. He watched her open her mouth to answer only for her to choke on a sob and look away. She placed her back against the wall and slid down on it, wrapping her arms around her legs in a kind of fetal position. "No," she answered finally, her voice barely a whisper.

The PFC wasn't sure what to do. Hell, he hadn't even found out what the problem was yet. Until he knew what feelings were brooding behind those olive green eyes, there was nothing he could do. So, he resigned to stand there dumbly until she decided to let him in on what was troubling her.

"How can everyone act so normal?" Wilkas suddenly asked. Her voice was tormented by pain and anguish. "How can they talk of a job well done when the Covenant destroyed the planet? Is it a job well done if the enemy retained the planet? All those people we left behind..."

She trailed off into a fit of quiet sobs. Jayson stepped forward and sat down on the floor beside her. He leaned forward and wrapped his hands around his knees, using his legs as leverage to keep him upright. Furby contemplated what to say to alleviate her toxic thoughts.

It was no secret that he was by no means the most motivated of Marines. He never asked to be a Marine. The government had made that decision for him nearly a year ago. This was also not his first rodeo, having seen the destructive power of the Covenant firsthand a handful of times before Phoenix III.

The first time was always the most traumatic. Witnessing a planet burn at the hands of dozens of Covenant warships was like a punch in the gut, especially after having spent time attempting to prevent just that from happening. Jayson recalled his first time and were it not for the company of others, he imagined the process of coping would have been that much harder.

"Grace," Furby started, trying to organize his disparate thought train, "you can't do this to yourself. I know exactly how you feel and even now I still have my doubts, but you can't think like that. Yes, the Covenant glassed the planet. Ultimately those fuckers won out... But we completed our mission."

His words sounded hollow, he realized, and he wondered whether he truly believed anything he just said to her. He took a deep breath and decided that, yes, he did believe it. "Our mission is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy. We did that. We had the Covies retreating from the city. If that fleet hadn't shown up, we would have kicked those assholes off the planet."

A thought hit him like an eighteen wheeler. Jesus Christ, I sound like Davis, he thought, shaking his head. That was the last person he wanted to sound like at the moment. "Point is, we only lost because the Navy didn't do their job. People did die because of it, but do you know how many people we saved? Thousands. Thousands of lives were saved because we landed and kicked ass. If we hadn't arrived when we did, they wouldn't have even had a prayer."

He hopes his pep talk was working. It was hard to judge whether or not it was considering that her face was shrouded by her auburn hair. "As for everyone 'acting normal'... that's just how we cope. Shit happens and there ain't a damn thing we can do about it. Besides, do you remember yesterday? I almost took some POG NCO's head off. That is not normal for me. I'm a lover, not a fighter. I may stick up for my platoon and kill aliens and shit, but otherwise, I hate confrontation. I'll bitch about things, but that's just how I cope with shit. It's how I handle the BS that surrounds us."

That, and he enjoyed being that guy, but that was besides the point, and not worth mentioning. He fought the urge to grin at the thought. It probably wouldn't have been appropriate given present circumstances. "I know none of this is easy. But no one promised us grunts a rose garden, Grace. I was an amateur GravBall player with a full-ride scholarship to a prestigious university on my homeworld with aspirations to go pro... and here I am; an infantry Marine toting a BR around, visiting distant worlds that are AFU. The green weenie wanted my ass and had it it has."

[Davis, E.]

Davis didn’t try to stay stoic or even hide behind the ideals of a professional NCO, he laughed. It was a deep, full belly laugh at the expense of his PFC and the outstanding stroke of comedic brilliance by Avery. There had been almost no reason to laugh since they had been thawed less than a week ago, and he intended to take every opportunity presented to him while he could. He also knew that Furby would be informed that the complaining had been done good and proper when he got back.

“You need more work on point Fox,” Davis said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He motioned for the Private to bring him the weapon for inspection again. “We need more practice as a team. We also need to get Wilkas up to speed tactically. It’s usually up to the RTO to try and keep the officer they're attached to from doing something stupid. I’m counting on us to keep the LT alive through her.”

It was a sobering thought to have, but it was something Davis was happy to take on. He had men to ensure made it home, and if by training Wilkas he could save one more, that was great. The idea that the LT’s gear list could be in his foot locker next to Porter’s was something that took the smile from his face, even as he looked over Ward’s weapon. The return of the frown wasn’t lost on the Private whose face fell as well, likely thinking Davis had found more wrong. It was all Davis could do not to crack up again at the Boot.

“Should pass by supply,” he said, closing up the weapon. He started to close up his as well. “You take Wilkas’s and give me Furby’s. You help your team when you can Fox, even when it doesn’t seem fair. And if they try to take advantage, you still help them, and then make them pay for it later. Right Avery?”

Davis took the pieces of Furby’s rifle and started cleaning on that before he realized the radio had died again. Furby had done a solid job on his weapon so far, so there were just minor details to hit, like the gas tube and the trigger guts. Davis took out his shaving cream and squirted the smallest bit down into the workings, as it stuck to the dirt and dust that worked down into it over time.

“Avery, get us some tunes. This quiet is worse than listening to Furby bitch.”

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace listened quietly but his words failed to convince her to change her mind or her attitude to the situation. They had lost the battle regardless of their own actions and the actions of the navy. Yes, the platoon helped to save countless lives, but how many more lives were lost as a result of the UNSC losing the battle?
She wanted to go home, Wilkas had enough of fighting now. Yet the UNSC would never release her, not until the war against the Covenant ended. She was stuck here, leaving the unfortunate members of Oscar Company to thus be stuck with her to.

"I was a drop out." Grace whispered when Furby informed her about what he happened to be before the UNSC came knocking, looking for new soldiers. She had no choice in the matter of enlisting, the UNSC called, you went otherwise the military police came hunting for you. No one wished to encounter them before basic training, in fact she had no desire to encounter them now either.
"I cannot stop thinking about how many died... What if that was home?" She whispered, imagining Earth burning from pole to pole as the Covenant glassed the home world destroying the cradle of mankind.

She did not get up from the floor, preferring to remain there for the moment as she struggled to breath and feeling increasingly wretched about herself. Part of her was grateful for the company but another part of her wished to be alone.
For the moment, she knew not which one she wished for. Somehow the thought of being alone haunted her, the world that the marines left behind burned itself into her mind as the Covenant glassed it.

How could anyone hope to stop a force possessing such dark powers? What was stopping the Covenant from crushing humanity on the ground? The UNSC spoke of victory, of how the enemy would be stopped, beaten, crushed yet for the present the aliens advanced where ever they wanted, where ever they wished.
Humanity fought back as per their nature yet how long was that going to last before the aliens burned the worlds of humanity, destroying all who resisted, all who fled or all who decided it was not their fight.
"I don't think I can do this Furby." She mumbled in a barely audible voice.