Hurry Up And Wait (EVENT)

[Durant, M.]

0700 Hours, August 12, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Hangar 2-C, C-Deck, aboard UNSC Vengeance,
en route to Melfa, Zeta-Zorata System

The hangar was alive with activity. Marines from across the battalion moved to and fro in full armor; they loaded crates onto aircraft, underwent inspections, talked amongst themselves, or ate breakfast. Much to the surprise of Second Lieutenant Michael Durant, the chow hall cooks had come down to the hangar with enough food for twice their number. The atmosphere of the hangar was jovial, excited, and there was an air of anticipation that settled over everyone.

Soon the First Suicide Battalion would deploy to the ground and join the fight. Michael scanned the crowd and was unsurprised to see that even the most pessimistic of his bunch seemed in high spirits. Perhaps it was because of the chow that had been brought down to them, though he preferred to think it was because they were excited for the opportunity to deploy into a combat zone again.

Lieutenant Durant tore his eyes away from the Marines around him and looked down at the tray of food he held up precariously with one hand. His meal of corn beef hash and fried potatoes was half gone, and yet, his stomach growled as if it hadn't received the slightest bit of sustenance. Michael chuckled to himself and took another bite out of his food, savoring the taste upon his tongue before swallowing. The cooks had really outcome themselves this time. The food was delicious.

"Check it out, sir," carried the voice of Gunnery Sergeant Sabre from behind him. Michael turned around and looked where Sabre pointed. Colonel Harrison and the Major were standing by an Albatross with a slew of Marines, armed to the teeth, standing around them. It looked to Durant as if the XO was about to disembark from the Vengeance, as he -- unlike the Colonel -- was in full battle rattle with a rifle sling.

Sure enough, it hadn't been longer than a minute before the XO was on the transport, the large number of Marines following behind him while the battalion commander stood at the ramp and watched as it closed and sealed. "Looks like XO is about to have some fun without us," the SNCO said.

Durant turned and looked at his platoon sergeant. "We'll get our chance soon enough, Gunny," he said. "The Major's headed down to prepare the doggies for our arrival."

"Oorah, sir," Sabre replied with a smirk.

Durant smiled back and then returned his attention to his food. It took all of about a minute to finish off the last scraps of the beef hash and then he moved over to the makeshift chow line to return the tray to its proper place. After that was out of the way, the Lieutenant marched back over to his platoon and cleared his throat. "Listen up," he said forcefully, getting their attention for a moment. "It was nice of the swabbies to bring chow down for us, so make sure you thank them for it. Otherwise next time they might spit in our food. I want all of you to enjoy your chow, but after you've finished stuffing your faces, it'll be time to get to business. Squad leaders, I want PCCs and PCIs executed in fifteen minutes. That is all. As you were."

[Harrison, D.]

Derrick marched through a crowd of battle-ready Marines, his destination, the Albatross situated on Landing Pad 09 that the battalion's advance party would in just a few moments ride to the surface of Melfa. He squeezed his way between two Marines that had been in the midst of conversation, the two dispersing immediately upon realizing whom had just walked by, and came upon the advance party at the foot of the ramp that led up to the pad. Standing at the head of the group that consisted of security and communications personnel was Major Killinger.

"Major," he greeted with a smile. "I trust you are all set?"

When the man answered, he nodded with a smile and leaned to the side to look at the Marines behind him. They were all busy checking over each other's weapons and equipment, and a few further back conversed quietly amongst themselves. "CIC picked up comms traffic that FOB Tinman is currently taking mortar fire. It should be over by the time you arrive, but if not, keep your head down. I need my XO in one piece."

For some reason he had the odd feeling that he was acting like an overprotective father concerned over his son leaving the house on his own for the first time, petrified that something terrible might befall him along the way. He pushed the thought out of his mind and returned to the matter at hand. "When you have scoped the FOB out and found a place to house our Marines and supplies, radio in. As soon as we receive the word, the battalion will load up on the birds and head planetside. Understood?"

[Furby, J.]

Lance Corporal Furby sat against a crate of MREs with a tray of food in his lap. The aroma of eggs, bacon, and summer sausage wafted up to his nostrils, making his stomach churn with anticipaton. He had not been expecting breakfast to be brought to them by the cooks, and the fact they had astounded him.

"Hey, Av," Furby beckoned his friend. Lance Corporal Avery sat across from him on his helmet, the barrel of his machine gun leaned against his leg, and a tray filled to the brim with food in his hands. "Just when I thought I hated the Marine Corps, they go and pull this shit."

Avery chuckled. "Right? This shit is the bomb, bruh!"

A hearty laugh followed between them. It was times like this that made him reconsider his feelings on having been drafted into service. He had never wanted to be anything other than a professional GravBall player, and often thought the draft had robbed him of that future. However, if it had not been for the draft, he would have never met such unique and interesting people, and would not have stories like these to tell to his future children, and perhaps his children's children.

In the end, his feelings were divided on the subject. Of course, he would never openly admit that to anyone aside from, perhaps, Avery. Well, maybe Ward, too. The problem with Ward was that he was oblivious to the happenings around him. It wasn't his fault, of course. He was new.

Private Ward had, in the grand scheme of things, experienced little of the "real" Marine Corps. He still clung to the fantasies that had carried him through boot camp and SOI. In time he would learn how things were, and would understand the games that the military played with the enlisted like himself. However, in Furby's opinion, that day couldn't come fast enough.

The sound of Lieutenant Durant's voice garnered his attention, and that of the rest of the platoon to varying degrees. Jayson was surprised, after the fact, that the Viking hadn't implanted some heroic speech about how they were warriors about to fight in glorious battle. "It'll come later," he said to himself before dropping a piece of bacon in his mouth.

"Huh?" Avery asked through a mouthful of food.

The Lance Corporal held up his index finger and vigorously chewed the crispy slivers of bacon. After a gulp and a hearty belch, he said, "The El-Tee. He didn't give us his usual dose of motard just then. He's probably gonna wait until we're on our way down to the planet."

His friend chuckled. "Yeah, true. How long ya think we gonna sit around, bro?"

Jayson shrugged. "Hopefully not more than a fucking hour," he said. "'cuz I am fuckin' amped, dude. I'm gonna score so many headshots, and then I'mma rub it in Mihaylov's face."

Avery shook his head and glanced over his shoulder. Mihaylov was over with his team in the midst of a conversation. He turned his gaze back to Furby and grinned. "The hell ya got against the Ruski?"

"He thinks he's a better shot than me," Furby replied as if the notion was preposterous. "Can you believe that shit?"

Avery didn't miss a beat. "Yeah."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams, homeboy."

Furby sighed, shaking his head, and resigned to eating his breakfast. So what if Avery thought Mihaylov could be a better shot than him? He'd learn better when they got down on the ground. The Lance Coolie couldn't wait to see the look on Mihaylov's face when he scored a row of headshots on targets downrange. He would eat his words then.

Jayson looked up from his food and spotted Wilkas nearby. He hadn't really had a chance to talk to her since the party besides maybe a few casual words in passing. "Hey, Grace!" he called, waving at her to come over and join them. "How you feeling?"

[Stone, T.]

Sergeant Stone stood amongst the gaggle of battle-ready Marines around him, his rifle slung across his back and his helmet tucked underneath his arm, a plastic plate grasped in his gloved hand with a half-eaten chocolate muffin sitting on top of it. He scrutinized his Marines from beneath the bill of his eight-point cover. They were spread out across Oscar's assembly area, most of them engulfed in conversation.

Despite the knowledge of their collective experience as a squad, he had his doubts that they were ready for what was in store for them. Out of the three hundred Marines that comprised the company, Stone was among a rare breed; one of a handful of Marines that had once fought against the likes of the Insurrection when they had been in their prime. The memories of that time flashed through his mind like a photoplay.

He had eight years of experience against the Insurrection tucked under his belt. Eight years before the Covenant showed up and devastated his homeworld. A participant of Operation: TREBUCHET at its height, he had witnessed first hand the tenacity and brutality that the rebels were capable of. Most people nowadays had forgotten that before humanity killed aliens bent on their extinction, they had fought one another.

But Stone hadn't forgotten. He turned to look at Captain Flannigan. Even the Captain, with all his years of experience, had never encountered the Innies before. Thomas recalled when he first met the man almost two decades ago. Second Lieutenant Shay Flannigan had been assigned to Oscar Company shortly before the start of the Harvest Campaign. The Irishman had assumed command of Second Platoon, and he'd been as green as the grass back then.

It was odd to imagine him as anything but a battle hardened, no-nonsense leader anymore. But, the truth was that back then, he had been anything but the man he was today. Of course, Stone had been different then to. An eight year veteran of the Insurrection and, at the rate he was going, destined to be a Terminal Lance for the rest of his career.

After being passed up for promotion after promotion, all he wanted to do was get out and return to the farm. He had had his fill of war. Those eight years had been some of the best and worst of his life, but he'd had enough of it. All he had wanted was to return home and carry on the family tradition.

Stone chuckled to himself. Those days were long gone now. The Covenant had robbed him of that opportunity, and had robbed his family of the right to live. With nothing left for him, he decided to renew his enlistment and continue doing the only other thing he had ever been good at. It was a cruel turn of fate that had, in retrospect, saved his life. If he had not been caught by the cops for stealing and given the opportunity by the judge to join the Marine Corps, he would have most certainly perished with his family when the Covenant attacked Harvest.

The Sergeant pushed those thoughts aside and ate the rest of his muffin. When Lieutenant Durant addressed the group, Stone half-listening, expecting another one of his over-the-top speeches that he had become famous for. The fact that he hadn't was unexpected, but not all that surprising. He'd save the best for last, Thomas supposed.

"Roger, sir," Stone replied to Durant. He turned to First Squad. "TLs, PCCs an' PCIs in fifteen. Davis! Look after O'Reilly. O'Reilly? Yer gonna do fine. This may be yer firs' time as TL but it ain't yer firs' rodeo. Davis 'n Faust are here fer ya if ya find yerself at a loss."

[Killinger, J.]

Major Killinger was suited up in full armor, more-so than the typical Marine. He preferred the heavier, more protective armor that had thicker groin, shoulder, outer thigh and knee protection compared to the more mobile gear that Marines typically wore, even if they had similar appearances. The additional weight wasn't much, at least initially, but during a long deployment or patrol he'd start feeling the fatigue accelerating the longer they went. If it became too much of a burden, he'd have to suck it up, depending on where he was.

"So what does a XO do during an advance party, sir?" A marine from Killinger's security detail asked.

John thought for a moment before he realised he hadn't done one yet. "I'm not too sure, actually. I'm told to find a landing zone suitable for the Battalion, find housing for the Marines and tour the TOC for an area large enough to accommodate the battalion staff. Basically, just make sure the GCE of the MEU can fit inside Tinman. Vehicles, Marines, supplies, artillery pieces and what not. If their isn't room, gotta make room else where I'd assume."

"Make room else where?" Another chimed in.

"Albatrosses can bring enough materials to make a FOB out of dirt, literally. H-barriers around a perimeter, tents and camo nets - you've got yourself a hasty FOB. Doesn't offer any actual protection like a built FOB has, but they can be built and disassembled during an operation." John replied.

His conversation was interrupted by the Lieutenant Colonel before anyone else could respond directly to John himself. He listened as the man spoke before speaking himself, though John did smirk slightly when Colonel Harrison finished his sentence in anticipation for what he had to say. "It's the mortar crews that should be afraid of me, sir." John said with a light, but genuine chuckle, his pearly whites showing briefly. "I'll radio in as soon as I've got all the details for you to deploy the rest of the 12th." John added.

[O'Reilly, C.]

O'Reilly, unlike the most of the other Marines in the hangar, was somberly eating her meal. She had seen the Innies in action before. It was never pretty, and you could never count on being able to fight back. She forced a smile onto her face, expertly crafted to look genuine. At least the food was good. She couldn't let her team know she doubted herself here. She'd just have to focus. If she couldn't trust herself, she had no right to ask these men to trust her.

She took in her surroundings, gnawing on some bread. The XO had just left, and most of the Marines in the hangar were joking around and chatting. That was good. Marines with high morale fought better and were less likely to break.

It was a depressing thought that not all of these men would see this hanger again. It was inevitable that some wouldn't make it. Hell, she might not even make it.

"TLs, PCCs an' PCIs in fifteen. Davis! Look after O'Reilly. O'Reilly? Yer gonna do fine. This may be yer firs' time as TL but it ain't yer firs' rodeo. Davis 'n Faust are here fer ya if ya find yerself at a loss."

She glance at the sergeant. "Ooh-rah, Sergeant!" she called. She looked around. Time for a pep talk with her team. She swallowed her last bite and continued searching. "Min, Torngate, and Winters, fall in! I want a word." she called out.

[Davis, E.]

Davis had found himself in a new position aboard the Vengeance, and it was one that he quite enjoyed. He was, in a way, the King of the junior enlisted. He knew he had a bullseye on his back as far as the officers were concerned, but from his peers on down, he was the guy everyone wished they could be. It was not the first time in his life he had been in that position, but it was by far the most power he had wielded in this scenario.

Currently he was eating his breakfast while slightly reclined across his ruck while a dozen other Junior Marines from across all three companies were there begging to hear the stories be retold from the night of the party. Sampson was in the middle of it all, both telling and embellishing every detail when he was given the opportunity. If Davis was King, Sampson was working hard to be his new herald.

“So no shit, I’m in the middle of the dance floor with Coronado from Mike,” Sampson said, his fork sticking out of the untouched plate of food he was holding. “When the Corporal steps through Beatrice and kills the music. At first, I’m thinking that it another announcement or part of the entertainment, because he looked awesome stepping out of the hologram like that. Then he says we’re shutting down and I’m pissed because she was just about ready to head back with me.”

“Only one more drink,” another Marine cut in. “We’ve heard before Sampson.”

“Fuck off,” Sampson said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The new guy hasn’t. But then he starts calling November out for a fight and turns on some ancient piece of crap he got from the Captain. It worked though. He charged into 'em like some ancient general and we busted some skulls.”

“Non-mission capable, would be the correct term,” Davis said, finally speaking after inhaling most of his breakfast.

“That’s No-Co’s general state Corporal,” another Marine barked out, garnering a laugh from the group. Davis couldn’t help but chuckle at the joke, even though he was doing his best not to encourage them on.

“What happened after the fight,” the new Marine asked, obviously intrigued.

“We all bolted,” Sampson said, still having not taken a bite of his breakfast. Davis coughed. “Well, almost all of us. The Corporal and first team covered our escape. Twenty seven Master-at-Arms was the final body count at the infirmary.”

“Thank the man right there,” Davis said, pointing to Ward, “Took down ten himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me boys, I have to go get some work done. Fox, don’t take too long telling your tale. PCCs and PCIs in five mikes.”

Davis leveraged himself up and started towards the trash. He was in high spirits with the rest of his Marines. Life was good and they were heading to a fight. He heard Stone’s orders and gave him a thumbs up from across the noisy hanger. It was easier than trying to shout back. He did a quick scan, first for his men and then for O’Reilly. The new TL was going to be fine, but he wanted to be sure he was available to help her. He heard her call her team over, so he made sure to give her space, instead turning towards Avery and Furby. Let Fox find them in time. It would be a good test for the Private.

[Mihaylov, D.]

Dmitrii sat down with his plate and watched the hanger for a minute while he chewed. The scene was not uncommon, but it had been a while since he had eaten hot chow before hitting an op. He was careful to sit rather than recline, trying to keep tabs on his rifle and ensure he didn’t bump the optics on anything. It was the achilles heel of the Squad Designated Marksman, even though it was what set him apart from the other Marines. The eggs and sausage were fine food, though not his usual fare. He missed fish, at least good fish, as it was a rare thing to eat well prepared fish aboard a Navy vessel.

Dmitrii noticed that his rival from first team was nearby and heard him still jawing about being the best shot. His machine gunner cohort was next to him driving needles with every word, and it made Mihaylov think of his own machine gunner. He quickly glanced around for Chambers, hoping the marine wasn’t far off. The talk of headshots brought him back to Furby and he smiled as he interrupted his conversation.

“Is headshot game this op,” he called over, his teeth showing between wide smile. “Let’s put mouth where money is. Nickel dime. Nickel for kill, dime for headshot. You pay me when done mission, yes?”

In all reality, Dmitrii would gladly admit that Furby was fundamentally a better shooter. It showed in their range sessions and most of their stationary practice. His groupings were tighter, his shots more accurate, and all around he was just better with his mechanics. It was the practice and practical application of shooting that Dmitrii held in spades, allowing him to do things that Furby simply hadn’t practiced. It made for an interesting contest though, as field work was not the same as the range.

More importantly it got under Furby’s skin when it was pointed out that someone might be better. Armed with that bit of information, it was unlikely Dmitrii would ever let it go. To watch the loud-mouthed marine lose his cool over something brought no shortage of enjoyment to Dmitrii and he intended to see how much fun he could squeeze out of it before it ended.

[Ward, J.]

Ward stood magnanimously next to Corporal Davis. Ever since the party in the simulator, First Team had earned legendary status throughout the battalion. The junior enlisted that had been present, and even those whom had joined the battalion after, knew of their exploits that night. Davis may have been the star of the show, and the example by which the more dubious of the enlisted sought to emulate, but the rest of the team were just as popular.

That made Ward a hero by association alone. He loved the attention and the newfound respect he received from his peers and seniors alike (excluding the NCOs, SNCOs, and officers). While he had not been a co-conspirator for the idea of the party, he had accomplished something just as awe-inspiring, and for that he was proud of himself.

It seemed odd to be proud of the fact that he had been a participant in an illegal party and complicit in what could only be described as a riot, but he was. There wasn't a single team on the ship that could boast that they singlehandedly beat twenty-seven MAs. Beyond that, there wasn't a private on the ship that could say they took on ten of those MAs by themselves.

But he could.

He reflected upon that achievement, and realized it hasn't been as easy as he, admittedly, made it sound. Hell, Ward wasn't quite sure how he managed it in all honesty. When the MAs had shown up, he had thought for sure that they were goners. One could point out that they had been in the end, but Ward had expected it to all be over from the get-go. Davis's little contingency plan had been what saved their asses and prolonged the inevitable from happening later rather than sooner.

When Davis mentioned him to the others as the savior of the day, Ward had to resist the urge to crack a smile. While what the Corporal said was true, he had to appear humble in front of the others. After all, he had a reputation to maintain. "It wasn't that spectacular. I'm sure any of you would have been able to do the same thing were you in my shoes."

Lance Corporal Sampson shook his head. "Humility is not very becoming of you, Fox. C'mon. Tell us what happened. We're dying to know."

Ward realized that all eyes had turned on him, the Marines looking at him expectantly. He stood there in silence for a moment, pretending to look as if he were trying to recall the events of that night as if it was some type of distant memory. "Well," he began, pausing for dramatic effect.

One of the Marines, a particularly lithe woman from Mike Company by the name of "Collins," arched her brow at him. "Well?"

Jon grinned. "The MAs had just burst through the door into the simulator in full riot gear -- stun batons, shields, shotguns loaded with beanbag ammo -- the works. So I'm thinking in my head, "oh shit, we are so screwed." Well, then Corporal says something and the whole sim changes from the club we were in to some type of maze. He books it and we follow."

If he hadn't had their attention before, he did now. All eyes were on him as he relayed the tale of their antics that night. "I bolt down this corridor type-thing and end up getting lost. Well, I round this corner and there's an MA right in front of me. He swung his baton at me and I grabbed his arm --" he reached up into the air as if he was grabbing someone invisible by the arm "-- and pulled him into me. Then I swept his feet out from under him and slammed him to the ground. I managed to steal his baton and hit him in the chest with it, stunning him."

"Daaamn," one of the Marines crowed.

"So there I was, standing over a stunned MA, when three more MAs came from around a corner ahead of me. They charged at me. Now, at this point, I know I'm a goner but I told myself I was gonna go down fighting. The first MA reaches me and I ducked and stabbed him with the baton. He drops like a sack of potatoes and the other two trip over him. I knocked the one guy out in mid-air with my baton and then kicked the other in the face, knocking him out cold."

The look on their faces was priceless. They were enthralled, captivated, in a manner reminiscent to that of the way someone would look at a guy whom had won the Legion of Honor and had decided to tell the story of how he earned it. "After that I regrouped with the others, by luck I guess, and took down the rest standing with my team. I hit some poor swabbie with the stun baton so hard that it actually snapped in half."

"Holy shit," Sampson mumbled under his breath.

He crossed his arms and gazed back at the crowd before him. They stared back at him in silence for what felt like forever before someone commented on how awesome his story was. Ward chuckled. Had he heard the same story told by someone else -- someone like Sampson, for example -- he would have called BS on it. It was an impressive tale that sounded so improbable, and yet, it had happened exactly like that. He smiled with pride and finally said, "Welp, I gotta go see my team." And with that, he walked away from the group, who all stood there struck with awe.

[Chambers, T.]

Chambers had spent some time around 0300 down in the armoury stripping, cleaning and reassembling his M247. He had been and still was nervous. Not a lot but some. It wasn't his first time in combat though, just his first as a Marine and against other humans; it was easier to kill an alien than to kill another human being, however, he was reluctantly confident in his ability once it all really began to do what he had to do to survive and keep his mates alive. If there was one thing he was sure of it was that this would be far different from the past.

Walking back through the mob that was the battalion sitting, standing and leaning on the hangar deck he caught Durant's speech. He'd always been in the habit of being respectful to the cooks, without them you couldn't fight a single battle, and as his mother had said, "never insult the person who prepares your food."

Walking towards Mihaylov he passed by the group formed around and near First Team, he was close enough to overhear the exchange between Furby and Lance Corporal Avery, one of his fellow automatic riflemen. He wasn't going to say anything but noticed as his Russian friend caught wind of what was going on. He listened as stakes were raised about how they would count their kills and he looked instantly to Avery. "You keep him honest I'll keep mine the same, deal mate? That or we can let them beat the crap out of each other?" He offered with a smirk to Avery. A rivalry between them on this could be good but there were only two ways they could settle this amicably in his mind; this way or the kind of way First Team had already become legendary for, though he hoped if it came to that he and First Team's machine gunner could keep it to a one-on-one and not to the death.

He made it back to his team. He'd left to take his tray back and take a leak. "You think it's wise trying to take on someone from the fire team that downed 27 of my formerly fellow Squids. As long as Avery stays out of it, I'll do the same, it's your two's rivalry." He said lowly. 

Tom then knelt down and picked his weapon up and opened the breach before cycling the charging handle. All seemed to work perfectly, though he was just making sure. The Aussie then listened into yet another retelling of the riot; it was a story of which he'd become far too familiar with in his short time. He was both hopeful that being with Marines like them would raise his life expectancy, he was also concerned that to be fully accepted he would have to do something equally as crazy.

[Winters, R.]

Winters was in the Hanger, preparing her self. She was putting on her armor and helmet. Assembling and checking her weapons and the like. She packed extra ammo and other explosives but was also taking a Katana and a few other melee blades and weapons. She smirked gently as she looked at some of the crafts on the Hangar. She somehow know that some of these crafts where made by her former company. This fact made her prouder, inside. She grabbed another bit of grilled chicken that was cut into larger bits and popped one more peice into her mouth. She love chicken and always followed a special diet. 

She then wiped her hands and looked at her own weapons. These guns where somewhat more powerful and better then the standard issue rifles and guns. She smiled gently as she immagined what the officers thought about how she had more advance gear, tech and weapons then everybody else. 

She was not sociaising like the others, but was rather focusing herself. She however was, very self confident that she would survive, if even with a possible smaller injury. She however had great doughts as well about the mission. To her, the Convenant was the enemy... but here they where, about to face hostiles... this time the hostiles where actually other humans! 

She blerted out in a low voice. "My enemy is all whose who shoot at me... be it human or non human," she said, having no way of not saying it and really hoped that nobody would hear it so much.  
She finished re-checking most of her armor, gear, ammo and all, when she head a voice call her name. She jumped slightly and as she nodded grabbled a cup of water that she on her place with the chicken.

She poured hald of the glass of water down her throat and not too gently slapped the cup back down on the plate. She then moved to head towards her assigned position, falling in like she was told to.

((sorry if if is so short ))

[Martin, M.]

Say what you would about military food if there was one thing they got right, it was always breakfast. The new corpsman of Oscar Company didn’t have much time to enjoy the food, his weary eyes busy checking and double checking the medical supplies that were going to be getting sent down to FOB Tinman. It wasn’t technically his job, but any mistakes that had been would be easier to rectify up here than it would be once the company was planetside. Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to let himself go hungry. He had learned the essential arts of fitting an entire breakfast onto a biscuit early on in his career, and it had stayed relevant throughout his years of service.

Careful not to make a mess as he tore into his breakfast sandwich, the Corpsman reviewed the clip board held lazily in his hands. Everything seemed to be in order, sodium dichloro-isocyanurate tablets, anti-toxin’s, hydration tabs, an almost excessive supply of saline bags. The list went on but Martin’s primary concern was ensuring he had enough supplies for preventing the more common effects of jungle warfare. Marines were going to become dehydrated, they were going to get heatstroke, they were probably going to piss off the wrong insect or viper. Everyone knew how to treat combat injuries to some degree, command knew the importance of supplying the corpsman with anticoagulants, biofoam, choratozine for traumatic head injuries, and all the rest. What was most commonly forgotten, was the medical supplies for non-combat medical issues.

Fortunately, this company seemed to have their shit together. With a mouth full of hot sauce covered breakfast biscuit Michael nodded his head approvingly, setting the clip board down to survey the scene around him. The Marines, most who he had only met in passing seemed, to be in high spirits as they recounted their victory of the MA's. Hopefully that enthusiasm was maintained once they got into contact.

The Corpsman’s blue eyes continued scanning the room until they settled on the approaching XO. Still standing on the outskirts of the assembled Marines, the Corpsman hurriedly polished off the last of his biscuit and lazily listened in on the orders being issued. It sounded like they wouldn’t be disembarking for a hot minute, which meant there was a potential to get seconds from the cooks.

His brand new combat boots lightly clomped across the deck to where the food had been set up, refilling his canteen with water before nodding his thanks to one of the cooks.

”You guys have really outdone yourselves today, that sausage might have been the best I’ve ever had,” he stated casually, a tired half smile forming on the edges of his lips. He hadn’t slept well last night, and not just because he had to share a room with Wilkas. He had managed to survive his last bit of combat by pure luck and brutality, and the fact that his life might yet again be determined by what was effectively a coin flip was wearing on his nerves.

Fortunately, he still had a flask of moonshine in his pocket to settle his nerves.

[Torngate, D.]

Hangar 2-C, C-Deck, aboard UNSC Vengeance

Torngate was down on the hangar deck, staging with the rest of the other Marines. He was still new, and socially awkward, to this posting, and so kept his head down. He looked out for anyone else in his team, be it O'Reilly, Winters, or Min. He didn't see any of them at first, so walked a little. He'd already eaten, and so was set there. He always ate early and quickly, not wanting food to get in the way of him and his job. He never really liked the food, consisting of unidentifiable mess hall garbage. Come to think of it, Torngate didn't like food in general. It took too much time out of his day, and he only did it because he had do. 

Torngate walked around, fully armored up like most people, his pack on his back stuffed up with all the things he'd need- from extra water to extra ammo to those very important papers used instead of the nature surrounding. Chafing and poisoned plants on one's rear were not conducive to marching and walking. He felt like he had too much stuff, but as he could carry it he decided it was worth the weight. He also had his helmet on, and his BR-55 battle rifle slung on his back and his M6G pistol in his leg holster. He'd added his own little touch to the armor, having a knife in a sheath in the laces of his boot, easy draw from one knee or just good to have in general. 

He heard the voice of O'Reilly, and immediately turned 180 to see her. He worked his way over, standing at attention when he arrived. He didn't say anything, but stood stoically looking at his boss. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and waited to see what he would be told. He hadn't gotten to familiar with the people he was currently with, having kept his distance. He'd spent most of his time with his weapon, trying to improve his reload time or his skills, as his last posting had him fire, over a period of a year, exactly three shots with a weapon. The weapon in question had been a regular M6 pistol, so dispite his good scores he wanted to get in more training time.

[Flannigan, S.]

Flannigan stood by watching his marines as they ate their breakfast. Morale was high. He was slightly surprised that the news of the fighting other humans wasn’t more troublesome to them. He had heard about an outburst from Lance Corporal Furby in the sims, but past that everyone seemed to be accepting their new mission with very little complaint. He wondered how much the NCO’s had to do with that. Major Killinger had been right, killing other humans was something new to the latest generation of marines, himself included.

He turned to grab his own breakfast, knowing all his people had eaten already. A hearty country breakfast was always welcome to him, despite the big city having been his home now. On the rare instance that biscuits and gravy was served, Flannigan was known to go back for thirds and there was only one occasion it had not been worth it. Today he would settle for french toast sticks with his eggs and sausage. He doubted the food on Melfa would hold up to this.

“Captain Flannigan,” he heard, and quickly spun to see who was calling him. It was his counterpart from Alpha Battery with a squad of marines behind her. Being as he doubted they were coming for breakfast, it was a safe assumption that they were the Forward Observers that were being attached to Oscar Company. At least some of them.

“Captain Peldunas,” Flannigan said, doing his best to keep eggs from falling out of his mouth. “You caught me at a bad moment. What can I do for you?”

“These are your FO’s,” she said, all business. “I don’t want to hear about any crazy hero stunts being done with them. Your marines have been stirring up all kinds of trouble lately, and I don’t want my Marines involved.”

“I give you my word Ma’am,” Flannigan said with a wry smile, “They will not be forced to do anything except their jobs.”

“Send ‘em back in one piece too,” she said with her own knowing grin. “Corporal Belukas is for your Company Staff, with Lance Corporal Sorenson, Dominguez, and Private Altar for your platoons.”

“Welcome to Oscar Company Marines,” he said with a flourish of his fork. “Let me gulp this food down and I’ll get you settled with your PCs. TOTINO!”

“Right here sir,” the RTO said from behind him. Flannigan wheeled around and gave him a dirty look. Totino had a bad habit of being where he was needed but not where he could be seen. It was a good quality to have for most officers but it just bothered Flannigan.

“This is Corporal Belukas,” Flannigan said, gesturing to the newly attached marine. “She’s our Company FO. She’s going to be your shadow for a while. Corporal Belukas, Corporal Totino, my RTO. He should be able to get you anything you need. Now, the rest of you wait two minutes so I can eat. Grab a plate if you still need breakfast. Could be the last good meal for a while.”

Shay hurriedly ate his food, and when they were ready, made his way to the platoons. Second Platoon was the last one he visited, and Lance Corporal Sorenson was the final FO he had in tow. He figured that he was likely of the same bloodline as his Norse Lieutenant and while race wasn’t a consideration to Flannigan, the oddity wasn’t lost on him.

“Lieutenant Durant,” Flannigan barked, gaining his PC’s attention. “This is your new FO, Lance Corporal Sorenson. Treat him good because five to one you’ll need him once we hit planetside. Carry on.”

With that, Flannigan was gone again, leaving the two to figure out their new relationship.

[Edward, Z.]

Edwards saw that the cooks had brought food out into the hanger. He wasn't in the mood for food so he just dug into his pack and made sure everything was  in order. After tightening  his straps that held the shotgun, he went back to the armory and grabbed two more clips for his rifle and a extra box of shells.

The sound of having to go kill insurrectionists sickened to his stomach. There had to be another way of around this. Edwards leaned against a pile of crates somewhat hiding him from most marines. He had no problem will killing the Covenant but when it came to killing humans, he wasn't going to kill, there would be no way. He'd rather be shoved out of the airlock. The only way he would even consider killing another human is only to defending himself.

Laying his pack on an one of the crates he sat there waiting, watching the marines that he could see from his concealed spot. Sighing from boredom, he  turned off the coms in his helmet and pulled a small book  with a golden cross  on the cover and began to read.  He was going to at least read in peace.