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Post by Wilkas, G. on May 11, 2018 17:34:16 GMT -5
So far as the majority of the Company had known, Grace's first name happened to of always been Grace. Few knew it was in truth, a mere nickname, her personal preference to be addressed as. But somehow, much to the chagrin of the platoon's small RTO, a rumour sprang up confirming that she had never told anyone her first name. From this a small band of her fellow marines and friends attempted to try and convince the young woman to confess to the truth. But Grace, being Grace so far at least had managed to avoid telling anyone. In spite of their guessing, her first name was not even Russian sounding or even Russian for that matter. Grace managed to escape the conversation in the mess hall be retreating to her quarters, which were oddly tidy. Unlike the norm, where they tended to be the lair of some teenager with a love of khaki. She sat on the edge of her bed, silently debating why her parents decided to call her Gabrianna of all things. She shuddered at the sound of it. Grace was a much better name, at least in her opinion any way. With a heavy sigh she lent back and lay staring up at the ceiling, her red hair cascading across the bed like a crimson waterfall. She wore trousers and a t-shirt with the words MARINES on the front, her boots were off, along with her socks. Both lay scattered across the room, like the toys of some careless child.
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Furby, J.
Marines
Fire Team Rifleman
Posts: 123
Character Gender: Male
Character Age: 19
Character Race: Caucasian
Character Nationality: Canadian
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Post by Furby, J. on May 11, 2018 18:53:43 GMT -5
Furby discovered far little too late that it was difficult to focus on anything in particular over the din of a crowded chow hall. Marines and sailors, all starving after a hard day's work, had congregated in large droves to procure themselves a feast to ail their grumbling bellies. Today's special was London Broil, and it seemed half of the Vengeance's registered population had come to partake in the juicy, delicious poultry that had been cooked and seasoned with meticulous care and precision.
Normally the state of the food in the chow hall was a gamble. Depending on whom was rotated into or out of the galley, the food was either the best one could ever taste or as appealing as a block of sun-drenched concrete (with a side of moist soil). Fortunately, the Marines had just returned from their lengthy operation on the surface of Melfa, and the Navy was putting out all the stops to welcome them back to their beloved home away from home.
Lance Corporal Avery sat across from him, practically nose deep in his meal. It almost disgusted him to see, but considering how the last couple weeks had been, he couldn't really blame the man. MREs was no substitute for real food, and Oscar Company had been subjected to more than their fair share of the heavily processed packaged meals. Enough to last them a lifetime, if anyone were to ask for his opinion. Of course, no one ever did.
But perhaps they should have. Jayson liked to think his insight was valuable to those around him; after all, he was nothing if not observant. It was a quality that made him such a phenomenal marksman, and an even better conversationalist. Who wouldn't want to pick his brain?
... well, at least part of that was true.
"Dude," Furby finally said, struggling to make his voice heard over the obnoxious noise of the chow hall and its many occupants, "you know your chow isn't going anywhere, right?"
Avery looked up from his food, and it was perhaps the first pause he'd seen the man take since he'd sat down with his tray. The man must have been starving, he thought. "Yeah, it is," the machine gunner replied, juices dripping from his chin.
"Oh?" Furby inquired, brow arched in curiosity.
His friend nodded, flashing him a toothy grin. Personally, he'd wished not to see the man's teeth in their current state. "Yeah," he rebuttled, tone matter-of-fact. "In my gut, bro."
Something told him he should have seen that coming. Nevertheless, it did not deter him from pressing the issue. Avery had unexpectedly and unintentionally opened the door for him, and it would be out of character for him not to seize the opportunity and barge in head first. "Now, see?! That's what's fucked up. The Marine Corps starves us! You know that?!"
"Here we go..."
Jayson ignored that remark. "I mean, they send us out into the feel with jack and shit for food and expect us to not to come back and fuck their shit up! I mean, look at this: they've given us the closest thing to a five star feast -- the type of shit made for kings -- and here we are devouring the shit like we're wild animals preying on some poor Gazelle who just wanted her some water from the stream!"
When Furby had finished his spiel, he noticed the glare that was being given to him by his compatriot. It wasn't harsh or derisive, much to his surprise, but more akin to a look of sheer and utter disappointment. The look perplexed him to some degree, as it was something he hadn't anticipated from his friend. This was by no means a typical reaction to his antics.
"Is... is that all you got, dog?" Avery asked, finally.
Furby blinked. "What?"
"Of all the things you could have said, all the different metaphors you could have made, you went with that?" said the auto-rifleman. He shook his head. "You must be running outta shit to bitch about."
Silence fell between the two as Furby contemplated his friend's words. Was he right? Had that been the best he could have come up with? Was he... running out of material? The mere thought caused him to shudder violently.
He had a reputation at stake here. One that he fully intended to uphold until either he left the military at the end of his enlistment term or was bumped up to a position where such behavior was no longer possible to get away with anymore. The likelihood that the latter option would ever happen was slim to none, so that left him roughly another year and nine months before he could feasibly throw in the towel. That was another year and nine months that would require him to uphold his hard-earned reputation.
And speaking of hard earned reputations, Furby thought as he spotted someone approaching from behind Avery. Lance Corporal Sampson collapsed into the seat beside the machine gunner, a typical shit-eating grin plastered across his young, mischevious visage. "Guess what, guys?!"
"You lost your virginity," Furby snapped back without hesitation.
Sampson chuckled, seemingly unphased by the sudden hostility. "Better than that, though I lost that ages ago -- but that's a stor--"
"-- That nobody cares to hear."
Somehow, that only seemed to encourage the bastard. Furby made a mental note that he needed to reassess his approach. "Exactly! What you wanna hear is the scuttlebutt about Second Platoon's very own RTO!"
The mention of PFC Wilkas seemed to garner not only Furby's undivided attention, but that of Avery's as well. Lance Corporal Sampson's grin widened, realizing that the pair had taken the bait. Now he just had to reel them in. "Scuttlebutt says that good ol' Wilkas has a secret she's been keeping from you guys for... well... since she got drafted."
"A secret?" Avery inquired.
"Oh, yes," Sampson replied. "Apparently Grace Wilkas isn't her name. According to a buddy of mine in H&S, she gave the Corps a fake identity."
Furby couldn't stop himself. "Why?"
"Dunno," the blonde said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Though Scuttlebutt says she is a member of the Russian mob, here to recruit Marines to smuggle drugs across the colonies! Seems legit, right? Nobody would ever expect it!".
And with that, Furby rolled his eyes, unimpressed. Yet again Sampson was spreading baseless rumors around with little to offer in the way of hard facts. More than likely his information was off. Way off.
Grace could not be capable of that. There was simply no way. He'd known her for quite some time, and never once did she seem like the type to break the... oh.
The memories of her sordid affair with Staff Sergeant Cruz came flooding back to him. While the whole situation had been kept on the hush-hush, no one could have anticipated the Lance Corporal Underground to crack the story wide open. Wilkas had willingly and knowingly engaged in fraternization with her platoon sergeant, breaching quite a few regulations in the process. If she could break those rules so callously, what else was she capable of?
What other secrets could she be keeping from him and the rest of her fellow Marines? What more was there to learn about the seemingly shy and innocent Grace Wilkas? Jayson stood up wordlessly, his food half-eaten on the table, and left the chow hall.
He had some questions that needed answering.
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Post by Wilkas, G. on May 11, 2018 19:35:18 GMT -5
Wilkas sighed, she knew the scuttlebutt, the completely and utterly fake rumours that possessed no relation to the facts being spread about her. Well, at least most of them. She gave up denying them, to the people who asked, usually complete strangers, her denial happened to serve as nought but proof of the truth. It frustrated her. In all honesty, it made her want to go back home, to simply lie down in her own bed, in her own room, in her own house and just rest. Yet such a thing probably would not be happening any time soon. It seemed to her that no matter where she went the joys of high school were never far behind her. She heard a knocking at the door and at first tried to ignore it. She wanted to be left alone, to be alone with her thoughts and sulk like a teenager. For the present Grace happened to have enough playing soldier. Everyone else seemed to be a great soldier, a born to be marine and Grace... So far her notable achievements consisted of almost getting killed and nearly getting killed when she chocked on a cherry in the mess hall. Far from the tales of glory and heroism that some of the marines told her over at the mess hall or the other platoons told her.
The door knocked again. Whoever it was evidently was not going to merely go away without her telling them to do so. If she wished to talk to anyone then the door would be open to reflect such a wish. Sighing, she pushed herself up off of the bed and walked barefoot to the door. Grace opened it, starting to snap. "What.." Before trailing off after seeing Furby standing there. "Furby." She said with some difficulty and none of her usual friendly tone, that cute girl next door kind of voice. Grace's eyes flickered with indecision for a few heartbeats before she glanced around the other marine. He was alone. "Come on in then." She sounded resigned not to mention upset. She stepped aside to let him come in and closed the door. Grace resumed her seat on the bed, though watched Furby, part of her knowing why he had come to her room. Probably not to declare his undying love for her. More than likely he happened to be here to ask questions, to find out what if anything her first name actually was.
After a long and somewhat awkward pause, the red head spoke. "I'm not in trouble am I? I... I mean I haven't done anything wrong right?" She asked in these low quiet voice, complete with that usual tremor which Grace used when she thought she messed up. It commonly came out during the simulations when Grace would get hit or miss a target, or hit the wrong target. She knew it sounded silly, but, she tried to be a good soldier or at least an alright one. Yet, if she was a bad marine surely the LT would of thrown her out by now? She watched Furby, wondering if it had been a wise idea to shut the door. Grace shuddered at the rumour that briefly spread till Faust crushed it brutally, when the rather loud woman stopped by for a little chat and pep talk. It had been an unlike Faust thing to do and Grace had felt unable to refuse. Secretly, Faust terrified her utterly. Grace remained silent, wondering what Furby had come here to ask her.
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