Post by Stringer, K. on Feb 10, 2016 0:38:38 GMT -5
1400 Hours, June 20, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Aboard UNSC Vengeance, B-Deck, Gym
Stringer decided to blow off some steam this afternoon. He had heard the rumors about a member of November Company being scooped up by Oscar, and that some of the No-Co members weren't too happy and started a fight in the mess hall. He had elected on skipping lunch, having had a late breakfast and then went back to clean his gear from the day before. He then came to the gym, where he now was hitting a hanging punching back, only having his fist taped up, electing to not wear gloves. He needed his hands to be used to such impact. In the field, there was no boxing gloves or padding. Just standard combat gloves, which didn't do much to dampen the impact of a strike with his knuckles.
Plus, he was only hitting a punching bag, not a tank or something hard. So he would be fine. He had his M7 and the combat plate sitting near-by, not wanting to wear it while working out. If an NCO came in and bothered him about it, he would just leave. He had a No-Co member already confront him in the passages about their member being taken, so he had enough shit for today. He was ready for his two marines, Gray and Silva, to be back and in fighting shape. He had already planned on having them, along with Lawrence, do some sparing and working out once they were back, taking it slow at first of course.
He was pissed. Pissed off that two of his marines, on his first deployment as a fireteam leader, got injured. It was the biggest slap to his face he could have had, next to them being killed. He would not stand for that to happen again though. He already lost one fireteam to the innies, he wouldn't lose the one he was in charge of to anyone, alien or not. It drove him to start hitting the punching bag harder. Right, left, right, repeating this trio of punches over and over, before he finally yelled out and stepped back, throwing his right leg up and turning a bit, his boot hitting the bag and sending it swinging a bit, before he landed back on both feet.
As Stringer took a few seconds to breathe, he heard the bulkhead doors open, and turned to see three members of November Company stepping into the gym. Stringer knew right them that was his signal to get back to the barracks. He was already planning on getting a shower after his workout. He stepped over and grabbed his combat plating, attaching it back over his thigh once more to hold his M7 there.
Stringer then turned around, to see the three marines standing there, looking at him now, as he breathed and began to tear off the tape on his hands and knuckles.
"Marines, something I should know?"
"Yeah, you heard Oscar Company took one of our's, right?" Stringer sighed, as he looked down and tore the last of the tape off of his left hand, then looked back up at the trio and nodded.
"Yeah, I heard. Upshaw, right? Boy knows how to handle his own in the field, like a marine should. Is he transferring back to November Company?" Stringer saw one of the marines step away, the other two starring him down as the one who was in the middle shook his head.
"Nope. Heard your company is stealing him away. Doesn't sit well with us in November Company."
"Well, we are all fighting the same war, devil dogs. Same side, same blood, same mud. Sorry to hear your buddy isn't being sent back, but that is above my pay grade. Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got some shit to do." Stringer by this point had the tape tore off of his right hand, and was walking to the right of the marine, when the man held his hand up and stopped Stringer by grabbing his shoulder. Stringer sighed and shook his head.
"Really boy? You want to start a fight, over something neither of us has control over? Tell you what, save your energy for the Covenant, and I'll see if my el-tee can buy your company a round of drinks or somethi-" By that point, Stringer was reeling back, the marine having landed a blow to Stringer's stomach. He had the wind knocked out of him, as he grinned. The marine who struck him, a PFC, was already charging, yelling a battle cry, as Stringer stepped towards him and brought his right boot up, slamming it home in the marine's chest and stopping him dead in his tracks. The other two, both PFCs as well, were starting to come towards him, as he stepped back a few paces, raising his fist up, preparing for what was coming.
Aboard UNSC Vengeance, B-Deck, Gym
Stringer decided to blow off some steam this afternoon. He had heard the rumors about a member of November Company being scooped up by Oscar, and that some of the No-Co members weren't too happy and started a fight in the mess hall. He had elected on skipping lunch, having had a late breakfast and then went back to clean his gear from the day before. He then came to the gym, where he now was hitting a hanging punching back, only having his fist taped up, electing to not wear gloves. He needed his hands to be used to such impact. In the field, there was no boxing gloves or padding. Just standard combat gloves, which didn't do much to dampen the impact of a strike with his knuckles.
Plus, he was only hitting a punching bag, not a tank or something hard. So he would be fine. He had his M7 and the combat plate sitting near-by, not wanting to wear it while working out. If an NCO came in and bothered him about it, he would just leave. He had a No-Co member already confront him in the passages about their member being taken, so he had enough shit for today. He was ready for his two marines, Gray and Silva, to be back and in fighting shape. He had already planned on having them, along with Lawrence, do some sparing and working out once they were back, taking it slow at first of course.
He was pissed. Pissed off that two of his marines, on his first deployment as a fireteam leader, got injured. It was the biggest slap to his face he could have had, next to them being killed. He would not stand for that to happen again though. He already lost one fireteam to the innies, he wouldn't lose the one he was in charge of to anyone, alien or not. It drove him to start hitting the punching bag harder. Right, left, right, repeating this trio of punches over and over, before he finally yelled out and stepped back, throwing his right leg up and turning a bit, his boot hitting the bag and sending it swinging a bit, before he landed back on both feet.
As Stringer took a few seconds to breathe, he heard the bulkhead doors open, and turned to see three members of November Company stepping into the gym. Stringer knew right them that was his signal to get back to the barracks. He was already planning on getting a shower after his workout. He stepped over and grabbed his combat plating, attaching it back over his thigh once more to hold his M7 there.
Stringer then turned around, to see the three marines standing there, looking at him now, as he breathed and began to tear off the tape on his hands and knuckles.
"Marines, something I should know?"
"Yeah, you heard Oscar Company took one of our's, right?" Stringer sighed, as he looked down and tore the last of the tape off of his left hand, then looked back up at the trio and nodded.
"Yeah, I heard. Upshaw, right? Boy knows how to handle his own in the field, like a marine should. Is he transferring back to November Company?" Stringer saw one of the marines step away, the other two starring him down as the one who was in the middle shook his head.
"Nope. Heard your company is stealing him away. Doesn't sit well with us in November Company."
"Well, we are all fighting the same war, devil dogs. Same side, same blood, same mud. Sorry to hear your buddy isn't being sent back, but that is above my pay grade. Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got some shit to do." Stringer by this point had the tape tore off of his right hand, and was walking to the right of the marine, when the man held his hand up and stopped Stringer by grabbing his shoulder. Stringer sighed and shook his head.
"Really boy? You want to start a fight, over something neither of us has control over? Tell you what, save your energy for the Covenant, and I'll see if my el-tee can buy your company a round of drinks or somethi-" By that point, Stringer was reeling back, the marine having landed a blow to Stringer's stomach. He had the wind knocked out of him, as he grinned. The marine who struck him, a PFC, was already charging, yelling a battle cry, as Stringer stepped towards him and brought his right boot up, slamming it home in the marine's chest and stopping him dead in his tracks. The other two, both PFCs as well, were starting to come towards him, as he stepped back a few paces, raising his fist up, preparing for what was coming.