Smokes, Bourbon and Whiskey

[Stone, T.]

0800 Hours, April 1, 2543 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
First Battalion Barracks Housing, MCB Saint Rose, Viary Territory, Planet Reach,
Epsilon Eridani System

Thomas Jeremiah Stone sat behind the oak-stained desk of his room. Situated atop the desk before him was a full bottle of bourbon and a half-empty Steel Harvest whiskey. With a month long furlough underway, there was hardly anyone left on base. That meant there was no one around to hassle him about all the regulations he'd set out to break, to include the smoking of fine cigars courtesy of the platoon's newest second-in-command, Staff Sergeant Mason.

Though cigarettes were his drug of choice, cigars complemented the mixture of bourbon and whiskey far better than any regular cancer stick. Stone was no efficienado on the subject, but he had to admit, it was sn enjoyable experience. One he'd indulged in multiple times over the course of the last three weeks.

To top the alcoholic extravaganza he'd sprung into after waking up, he'd found his old music collection -- classic songs from country artists native to Harvest -- and had it blaring obnoxiously in the background. It was an appropriate soundtrack to his escapade, and he would let no one interrupt it for anything short of a dire emergency.

He felt confident that that wouldn't be an issue.

Pouring himself another glass, Thom leaned back, his chair creaking from the sudden redistribution of weight. He exhaled a sigh as his fingers wrapped around the glass, his thoughts trailing off to a time long ago, when the Harvest sun beat against his unclothed back, tending to the fields flanking his parents' old farm house.

It was a bittersweet memory. At the time, he'd cursed the discomfort caused by the sun and the hard work. Now, however, it was something he dearly missed about his homeworld and his old way of life. Only in moments like this did he allow himself to seep back that far into the past; what felt like lifetimes ago.

The Thomas Stone then was not the man he was now. Now, all he knew was war, and the Marine Corps. He lived and breathed it every day, from the moment he awoke to the second he melted into the cold darkness of a night's slumber. Whether he liked it or not, the Covenant had taken everything from him. Everything.

17 Years Ago...

"Who's that?"

Lance Corporal Stone was torn from his reverie, his eyes darting up to the man that had interrupted his thoughts. Standing before him was Sergeant Michael Ward, his squad leader, and the closest thing to a mentor he'd ever had. His first instinct was to snap-to, folding his arms behind his back, almost dropping his datapad in the process.

"Sarn't," Stone nearly barked.

Ward shook his head. "Son, you dog that shit right now," the NCO growled, his lips persed in aggravation. "Or I will space you. Trackin'?"

"Roger, Sarn't," he replied quietly, chastising himself. It was such a boot thing to do, and yet he couldn't help himself. The man genuinely terrified him. There was just something about the grizzled NCO that was... certifiable.

It could have been the quadruple stack of ribbons that lined his left breast on the rare occasions that he wore his service uniform, what with the majority being campaign awards for participation in every major anti-terrorism operation of the last decade. Alternatively, it could have been the scuttlebutt that had floated around for some time that Ward had scalped a man with a razorblade for disobeying a direct, lawful order whilst under fire. Or, the likeliest option, that the man seemed cold as ice whilst taking fire. Nothing seemed to phase him. Not even the deaths of his comrades or the butchery of their enemy.

Ward exhaled a sigh as Stone "relaxed," letting his arms rest at his side. To the trained eye, that which Ward most definitely possessed, one could spot the rigidity in his stance. "Who were you eye-fucking on your datapad?"

"A girl my momma put me in touch with, Sarn't," he said, sparing a glance at her image on the screen for a fleeting second.

Ward nodded. "Back home?"

Thom had almost forgotten that Ward hailed from Harvest himself. He'd been cut from the same cloth. Ward had worked in the agriculture business prior to his enlistment in the Marines. Though he hadn't been involved in the actual gruntwork of farming, he was familiar with it.

Setting that epiphany aside for later reflection, he nodded slowly. "Thas' right. We've been talkin' fer a lil' while. I'm plannin' on seein' 'er as soon as I EAS."

For a long moment silence pervaded between them as Stone nervously watched the Sergeant process that information. How would he react? When the news finally reached the NCO that Thom hadn't signed his re-enlistment papers, he'd seemed angry at his decision. Perhaps, even, a little disappointed.

So when Ward finally smiled, it sent a chill running down his spine. "Thom," Ward began, alarming him with his use of his first name, "that is out-fuckin'-standing! It seems like you've got it all figured out."

"... Sarn't?" Stone dumbly stammered out.

The squad leader chuckled. "When I heard you were getting out, I was angry -"

"I know, Sar--"

"Cut me off again and I'll slit your Goddamn throat," Ward threatened as he moved his hand to rest over the hilt of his combat knife. Thom slammed his mouth shut with a gulp. "... because you didn't tell me. I had to find out you canned you re-up papers through second-hand sources. I figured that meant you were guilty about it, and hadn't put any thought into the decision to leave the Corps."

Stone was taken aback by that statement. All this time he'd imagined the lifer was angry because he decided to put the military life behind him. He had no idea that it ran deeper than that.

It seemed the Sergeant read his mind. "Am I disappointed that you are on the out? Yes. You are a damn fine Marine. One of the best I've ever had the distinct pleasure of serving with. However, my main concern was that you were making a decision without thinking it through first... something that gets people killed in our line of work."

"But," Ward said before taking a deep breath, "I see now that my concerns were unwarranted. You have yourself a job lined up for you when you return to the world, and have dreams you're willing to chase. But most importantly, you have something to come back to that's worth it. Honestly, you're a lucky man, Thom. And for that, I'mma buy you a beer."

... The Present...

Sergeant Stone sighed as the memory faded from his mind. His steely hues found their way to his datapad; the same datapad he'd had all those years ago. The picture was still on it. He'd never had the guts to delete it, even after everything that happened and how much he changed.

It was a trinket from a past life. A reminder of the Thomas Stone he used to be. The naíve, happy-go-lucky country farm boy from a planet most people hadn't heard of prior to the Covenant's arrival. Now? Now he was a shell of his former self. The Covenant had taken everything he loved and cared for from him, and robbed him of the opportunity for a different life.

No matter what, it was his mission to kill every last one of those alien bastards until there was none left alive, or until he drew his last breath. For humanity, and for Harvest.

Knock, knock, knock!

Stone's eyes shot to the door as the sound echoed through his room. He pulled from his glass the remainder of its contents before setting it down with a bit more force than he had originally intended. Who the hell dared knock on his door at a time like this?

"This better be good or I swear there'll be hell ta pay!" he shouted as he stood up from his desk and closed in on the door. Pressing the button to open the door, his jaw went slack as it retreated to reveal whom stood behind it. "Gunny!" he exclaimed, snapping to Parade Rest with all the snap-and-pop that he could muster.

Gunnery Sergeant Michael Ward shook his head. "What the hell have I told you about that shit, Thom?"

[Davis, E.]

Davis made his way into the Oscar Company area with a case of longnecks on his shoulder and a bottle of bourbon in his hand. While the previous night of drinking and racing could be  know by the faint event of exhaust and alcohol, Davis still looked like he had turned in early the night before. With the bright sky beating down on his sunglassed face and broad, skivvi skirt covered shoulders, it was another prefect day. 

Davis thought about this last stretch of garrison time. His promotion to sergeant and squad laser had been excellent, though he was stuck with a new company. He missed his guys, and though he'd never admit it, he missed Stone. That was why he had brought gifts for the chance to spend the day with his old team. 

The trek from the Quebec company area wasn't far, but it was enough for Davis to build up a sweat and a thirst. That first beer was going to be delicious. He even got lucky enough to catch the door with his toe and slip in. Almost unnoticed. 

"Davis! What are you doing here?"

"Totino! How'd you end up on desk duty?"

"Flannigan's duty day," the  RTO said with a shrug. 

"I'll be up with thirsty first if someone needs to know."

"They're all out," Totino said. "Except Stone who has a guest."

"This I gotta see," Davis said, breaking into a trot towards his old squad leaders door. 

[Stone, T.]

After about seven or so years, give or take a couple, Stone was graced with the presence of his former mentor, Gunnery Sergeant Michael Ward; the man, the myth, the legend.

Despite how unnerving it was for him to play host to the Gunny as a guest in his personal quarters, he invited the grizzled combat veteran into his not-so-humble abode. The first thing the man did as he stepped through the threshold of his door was make a beeline for the liquor. Stone, whom under normal circumstances, would have threatened grevious bodily harm and dismemberment for even having the thought of touching his alcohol, remained silent.

If Ward wanted a drink, then a drink he would have. Thom owed him that much.

"I see you've upgraded from that piss water you used to drink," Ward commented as he poured himself a glass of bourbon.

Thomas nodded. "I leave the beer fer in the field," he said, rather matter-of-fact. "When the good shit is hard ta come by."

The Gunny chuckled, twirling the glass of bourbon in his hand, watching the liquid swirl inside. "Wouldn't it be just outstanding if those Supply POGs would just send shipments of beer, dip, and cigarettes into the field."

"It'd brighten my disposition."

Ward laughed before taking a swig of his drink. In one go he'd already downed half of the glass as if it hadn't even been there. The man hadn't changed one bit, even after his discharge from the Corps due to his leg. The truth was, he was everything Stone aspired to be.

Out of all the NCOs Thom had had in his long stint in the Marine Corps, none had been able to hold a candle to the Gunny. He was the craziest son of a bitch in the entire unit, and even the previous skipper knew it. It sometimes made him wonder how he was able to manage juggling raising a family and being a Marine's Marine.

And how his son seemed so oblivious to the world around him. Not to mention emotional. Melfa had been a struggle for the son of the man whom stood before him drinking bourbon. While the combat had been fierce, without a doubt, it was what had happened to him psychologically that concerned him.

Ever since the First Suicide Battalion rotated back to Reach, Stone had been noticing warning signs in the young PFC that unsettled him. Irritability, quick to anger, and separating himself from his close friends were the first signs that something was wrong. Thom knew exactly what had caused this, and so, in an effort to distract him, had worked him harder and grilled him every chance he got.

Killing Covenant was one thing.

Humans, was another.

"So you're Jon's squad leader," Ward said, matter-of-fact. Thom knew it was a statement, and not a question.

He nodded. "He's a good Marine."

Ward shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Don't feed me that BS, Stone," he said. "I want your no-bullshit assessment of my boy. Is he performing to par or does he need some IT?"

Thom looked away for a moment, eying his bottle of whiskey. The man was going to force him to talk, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. With some trepidation, he started to give his mentor the full picture. Before he could even get the first syllable out, a knock came at his door.

"I swear ta sweet baby jumpin' Jehovah Jesus," he growled, starting towards the door, "if it ain't a mail-order bride in nothing but a bowtie I'mma murder someone!"

He slammed his fist against the open button and watched as the door retreated into the wall. The man whom stood on the other side of the door was Sergeant Evan Davis. "Davis!"

[Davis, E.]

“Aw, and here I forgot my bowtie Sergeant,” Davis said, shoving the bottle of bourbon into the man’s hands and making a beeline for the fridge to start downstacking beer into it. Three steps into the room he finally saw Stone’s guest. It was disappointing after the imagined woman who would be gracing Stone’s quarters, but Davis recognized a veteran when he saw one.

“Sergeant Evan Davis,” he said, offering a hand to the older man. He did a second perusal of the man and the pieces all klicked together. “You must be Ward’s father. He looks enough like you. Which means you’re Sergeant Stone’s old NCO. A complete pleasure to finally meet the mentor of the Sergeant here. I bet you have some stories!”

Davis broke away and started feeding beer into the fridge, playing off his intrusion as though he belonged there. He felt a little guilty about interrupting such a reunion, but he had his plans for the day and they consisted of joining Stone at the barracks until the rest of the world got off and he could find some races. He wasn’t about to change them just because someone else had showed up. In fact, if he was lucky, the day would be even better.

“I see you both have a drink so I’ll just help myself. Don’t let me interrupt your talk. Pretend like I’m not here until you want me to be.”

Davis made his way to a tumbler and some bourbon. The beer was for later when he didn’t care about taste anymore. Beside, liquor before beer, all in the clear. It was wisdom to live by.

[Silva, J.]

 Janet Silva knocked lightly on the door to Stone's room. She wanted to speak to him about something, something important and thought what with almost everyone being current away from the base, he would probably be alone. After all, what she wished to speak to him privately. The door opened. "Bonjour Sargent Stone excuse..." She said in her strong French accent, though trailed off seeing that he in fact had company. Sargent Davis and someone who looked distinctly like Ward, enough she guessed to be his father. "Je suis désolée." She apologised, handily in French. So far as she knew, outside of herself not many people spoke it. French happened to be Silva's first language. "I see you have company. I'll come back later." She felt embarrassed by this, though comforted herself somewhat with the knowledge that it would of been less awkward if say, she had already been in the room when Davis and Ward's father arrived. Now that probably would of led to a lot of talk around the company. It appeared the three of them were quite comfortable, liquor, beer and from the reek of it, cigars. 

[Stone, T.]

Stone was dumbfounded when Davis shoved him a bottle of liquor, and then maneuvered around him. Did that cocky, dumb farmer just waltz into his own like he owned the place? In front of him? Stone wasn't sure what had been happening over in Quebec Company since Davis left for it, but something must have happened to the man's hard head for him to think he would be getting away free and clear.

Oh, no. Sergeant Thomas Jeremiah Stone was no pushover. Especially when under the harsh scrutiny of his former mentor and long time friend. Nope. Davis had picked the wrong day to barg--

Stone finally looked down at the bottle of bourbon. It was a Jottenheim Special, one of the best liquors to ever come out of one of Harvest's breweries, and it boasted a whopping fifty percent alcohol content per volume. It went down smooth, but had a powerful bite when the liquid hit its destination. In all his years, he'd only had a Jottenheim Special once prior to this.

Davis had really pulled out all the stops this time. And now he'd suddenly forgotten what he was angry about. "Well, jus' make yerself right at home, why don't'cha?"

Angry or not, he still had to maintain the status quo. "I should jus' keep my door open 'n invite the whole damn base ta my quarters. Let 'em drink my liquor 'n fuck ma sister, don't'cha think?"

Davis had to have known what was coming. If he was smart, he was drinking all that he could now before Stone throat-punched him out his window. It would be the wisest decision at the moment for him, considering that Stone had already prepared his knife hand for the strike.

However, instead, Davis had offered his hand to the Gunny; and, to his disbelief, the man had accepted the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. "You'd be right, son," Ward said. "Gunnery Sergeant Michael Ward, medically retired. You don't have to be formal, though. Gunny'll do just fine."

Stone released the tension in his hand. He saw where this was going. Michael Ward was a predictable beast if you knew his nature, and Stone knew him all too well. Except for when he decided to be unpredictable, which, at that point, shit had hit the proverbial fan anyway.

"Tell me, Sergeant," Ward started, watching Davis stock the fridge with beer, "do you make it a habit of bursting into peoples rooms unannounced? Because there is one thing that pisses me off more than some bootenant who can't navigate his way through the Highland Mountains in the winter time, and that's assholes barging into rooms unannounced..."

Stone grinned. He recalled the incident to which Ward referenced in his spiel. Then-Lieutenant Flannigan on his first field training exercise with Second Platoon had gotten the unit lost on their way to the objective, and it took three hours for them to eventually find their way there, with a lot of help from the NCOs. He'd almost forgotten about it, as it had been so long ago.

Before Harvest, actually.

With the Gunny closing in for kill, Stone set the bottle Davis had given him down on a nearby end table. He wanted to witness the master at work. It was going to be glorious. Absolutely glorious.

"... and not offer me the first sip of the party favors."

Oh, yeah! He'd just--

Wait, WHAT?

Thomas stared at the Gunnery Sergeant in disbelief as the man stood there grinning at Davis. What the hell did he just say? Had he just said what he thought he just said?

This could not be happening.

Knock, knock, knock.

If it was possible for a man's head to explode from so much bottled up rage, Stone's guests would be the first to find out. Suddenly, after being left in relative peace for the majority of the battalion's furlough, the grizzled NCO had suddenly become popular, and everyone vyed for his attention.

Thom turned around slowly as Silva stood at his door, clearly the culprit of the knocks. "Bonjour Sergeant Stone, excus-" the Marine started before apparently noticing the presence of Stone's other guests.

When she spoke up again, it was in some French babble that he could not understand, and that was all it took to blow the lid off the kettle. "PFC Silva," he barked with all the fury of a Rottweiler, "I dunno if ya got the memo, but in this here Marine Corps we speak ENGLISH! I dunno what kind of pseudo-Communist bullshit you were jus' sayin', but if I hear it agin I'mma find the nearest view port, open it, 'n send you out it like a bag of garbage!"

He wasn't finished. Not by a long shot. "Now I dunno whether or not puttin' up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign would do me any damn good considerin' ya can't speak without fallin' inta ya native tongue, leadin' me ta believe ya can't read shit if it ain't in... whatever the hell it is you speak. Now, what in the Sam Hell could'ya possibly want thas' so damn important ya had ta stick yer nose through my damn hatch?!"

He blinked, glaring at her with all the anger he could muster. Today had started out just fine. Now, everyone and the brother wanted to party with Stone. Could this day get any worse?

[Davis, E.]

Davis was surprised when the Gunny announced medically discharged. From the hand shake and appearance of the man he could probably give Davis a run for his money. He half listened to the man as he started stowing the beer. The tone and seriousness of the man gave him a chill he'd only had with Stone. He spared them both a glance as he tried to solve his problem.

Options tumbled through his mind. He could apologize. Not his style. He could confront aggression with aggression. Two on one with killers was a bad choice and he could see Stone circling. Apparently the Jottenheim wasn't enough good will today. He opted for playing dumb. Answer a rhetorical question honestly like he'd missed the point. He had an answer ready to go when he caught the shift in the Gunny's target. The man deserved to be Stone's idol.

"I only barge in with the best Gunny," Davis said with a conspiratorial wink. "However, that bottle now belongs to the most dangerous man I've ever met and a crazy some bitch to boot."

The fun at Stone's expense was interrupted by another knock and Davis almost started laughing at poor Silva's terrible timing. Stone let her have it and Davis moved next to Gunny Ward to top him off while they enjoyed the show. And what a show it was.

[Silva, J.]

 Silva flinched at Stone's barrage, she had not been expecting nor prepared for the verbal battering. She held her tongue, deciding against speaking up or attempting to interrupt till he finished. She was not foolish enough or suicidal enough to even consider attempting that. The marine looked alarmed when he wanted to know what had been so important for her to come find him. She swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly dry, her eyes for a heartbeat flickered from the furious Stone to his company, then back to him again. "I... I had wanted to speak to you in private Sargent." She began, hoping she sounded more confident than she now felt. "As your busy... I can come back another time..." No that was a bad idea, she mentally kicked herself for suggesting it and stopped mid sentence. Stone probably would not approve nor agree to it. He might wish to go back to his guests, but for the present moment, he could chew her out. "I'm sorry for interrupting your..." She trailed off uncertain as to what exactly it was. She regretted her decision to come up here and try to speak to with Stone. This was far from the ideal way to stay in the good graces of the Sargent. 

[Stone, T.]

Stone blinked as Private First Class Silva stammered out a hasty reply to his verbal tirade. It took a few seconds for the words to process through brain, a side effect of the liquor and his current enraged state. She wanted to discuss something with him, privately.

What could it possibly be, he wondered. And why, of all the people in her direct chain-of-command, would she come to him?

He wanted answers. Silva had put him in an awkward position, as he wasn't sure whether he wanted to continue with berating her for any number of reasons (there were quite a few he could spout off just off the top of his head) or change gears and see where things would go from there. Thomas glanced back at Gunnery Sergeant Ward, whom while in the midst of conversation with Davis, still managed to watch the unfolding scene like a hawk.

Thom knew what he was doing. He'd known Ward long enough to be aware when the man was sizing up the situation and evaluating how his subordinates handled those situations. The man may have moved on to the First Civ Div, but he was still the same damn crazy bastard he'd been since the day Stone had met him.

If he did not handle the situation to Ward's satisfaction, there would be hell to pay. Thom did not want to relive his younger days a second time by incurring the wrath of the Gunny.

"Firs' of all," Stone began, choosing his words carefully through the faćade of anger, "when you knock on my hatch, or the hatch of any NCO, you do not stick yer damn nose until -- or any Goddamn part of yer body -- until ya've been given permission ta enter. Do it agin an' I'll accidentally on purpose throw ya out the nearest porthole!"

He paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "Second of all, don't'cha ever say "sorry" ta nobody! It's a sign of damn weakness. Third, an' final, why in the name of all that is holy did ya not go ta Corporal Stringer? Or Sergeant Rio? Why the hell is a Marine that don't belong ta me showin' up at my door?"

Stone spared another glance over his shoulder to see Ward still watching, though he had a look on his face that told him he'd better hurry up and deliver the punchline to his speil or he'd have the Gunny stepping in. Nodding to himself, and overhearing the Gunny say to Davis, "Looks like nothing's changed in Oscar," Stone returned his attention to Silva.

"Now, since ya can see my room's a tad occupied at the moment, step outside. Yer gonna tell me what the hell ya want, or I'mma place my boot in yer ass an' walk ya back ta yer quarters myself."

[Silva, J.]

 Stone was clearly in a bad mood, Silvia found herself regretting her decision to come to him. Silently she endured his barrage, she preferred it when he happened to be shouting at someone else, ideally the enemy rather than herself. There was no easy way to say what she wished to, no easy way to speak or voice it. The marine possessed little doubt that he would make good on any of his threats if she provided him with the opportunity to do so. "Yes Sargent." She said, stepping outside with him. Now she had some manner of privacy, she found that the words were hard to come by. Though perhaps having a furious Stone glaring down at her had something to do with that. Janet took a deep breath and decided to just get it out, to merely ask it. The Sargent would not appreciate her dancing around the subject. He happened to have company over. "I..." She paused, her throat feeling suddenly dry. "I wanted to ask you for your advice Sargent. I know I don't belong to you, but... But that is why I wished to speak with you over anyone else." She left out how she might feel embarrassed asking it of anyone else.

"It's a sensitive topic, but how did you cope with the destruction of your home world?" Silvia's own planet had been destroyed by the Covenant, and she only received word or found out from her ex, then person she happened to be with whilst recovering from an injury. She knew Stone formerly dwelt upon Harvest, a the first planet to be destroyed in the war. Janet bitterly regretted that she was not able to take part in the defence of her home, even if she would of died. The thoughts, feelings and sense of guilt haunted her through most of the furlough, till finally, Janet needed to ask, or it drove her to voice it. She did not want to see a shrink, nor mention it to those in her immediate circle. 

[Stone, T.]

Stone blinked in shock, dumbfounded. He was speechless, a rare sight to see. After years upon years of being an NCO, no one had ever had the balls to ask him such a direct and personal question. Especially about such a sensitive topic as the destruction of Harvest, his homeworld and the very first to fall to the hands of the Covenant onslaught.

First Contact with an alien species had not gone peacefully. Humanity, whom had thought itself alone in the big, open expanse of the universe, had received a rude awakening when the Covenant finally revealed themselves. He wasn't quite sure on the specific events that led to the fall of Harvest, however, he did know those bastards burned her to a cinder.

It took five painfully long and excruciating years to retake Harvest. Stone had been on the ground during the offensive, and watched in awe and horror as the Covenant slaughtered Marines by the dozens in close quarters engagements. A part of him died when he learned the fate of his homeworld, and the other half sometimes wished he hadn't made it off the world when humanity fought to retake it.

So many raw, forgotten emotions jolted through him like an electrical current, jarring him out of his anger and briefly stonewalling his normal stoicism. Thomas Jeremiah Stone, under all the conditioning, was a broken man without a place to call home. His old life had perished with Harvest, leaving him with nothing else but the Marine Corps to call a place of his own.

Thomas grabbed the open bottle of whiskey on his desk suddenly, and took from it a long, drawn out swig. The burn that followed the auburn liquid down numbed his throat, and took off the sudden edge he felt. He turned his head to regard Gunnery Sergeant Ward with a quisitive look, as if asking the man for permission to step out of his own room. Ward's features were permeated by a deep frown as he returned a nod and looked away.

With that out of the way, the grizzled NCO stepped outside his room and ensured that the door shut behind him. "What kind of fuckin' question is that, Marine?" he demanded, though his voice lacked any trace of anger. "How the hell did I cope? Ya really wanna know the answer ta that, d'ya?"

He downed another swig and shook his head. "Ya don't wanna know the answer," he then said, very matter-of-fact. "And what in the hell does it matter ta ya? Ya writin' a Goddamn book or somethin'? Thought I'd be the posterchild fer some kinda fuckin' helpbook or some shit?"

[Silva, J.]

 Silvia flinched at his reaction, somehow the fact that his voice lacked any anger made it worse. She wanted to explain she was not aiming to be rude, or to write a book about his experiences. Yet she thought it wise to not interrupt him whilst he spoke to her, venting or maybe the emotions she clumsily kicked up brought this upon her. "No... No Sargent." Silvia managed to say. "I... I wanted to know as I lost my own planet Sargent if you would have any advice." A pause. "I thought that you might... Might be able to assist Sargent." She finished looking pained. Janet clearly had not been coping as well with the loss of her planet as she appeared to in the past. Perhaps the chance to rest and relax finally brought it home. 

[Stone, T.]

Thoughts of Harvest bubbled to the surface of his mind's choppy waters as he listened to Silva stammer out an explanation. It had been far too long since he'd given his homeworld any thought. Out of all the people that she could've asked for advice on healthy coping mechanisms, he was perhaps the worst candidate. There was nothing healthy about how he dealt with Harvest's fall.

The fact that humanity had retaken Harvest was but a mere small comfort to him. It didn't change the fact that every single damn person he'd known or loved back home was dead, and that the planet was now a barren, icy wasteland. When the Covenant glassed a planet, its atmosphere boiled and evaporated. With little ozone left to trap the heat of Epsilon Indi, the entire world had been thrown into an ice age that it would not soon recover from. Harvest would need some serious terraforming to become a viable candidate for recolonization.

A dark, insipid voice whispered in the back of his mind, reminding him that the Harvest would never be the same again. The planet that he'd grown to love was dead. It was gone, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it.

However, despite the rampant thoughts that blew through his mind, he was cognizant of the fact that he couldn't voice them to Silva. She needed encouragement where there was little to give.

He wished, quietly, to be back in his room now. Drinking until he was unconscious seemed like a much better usage of his time.

"Silva," Stone said, his voice lacking the usual bark or gusto he was infamous for, "there's no sure way ta cope with it."

Thomas exhaled a heavy sigh. "When Harvest fell, I ain't found out 'til we were on our way there ta kick the Covenant off-world. I ain't had time ta really process it. I'mma tell ya it ain't somethin' ya fully git over, but it does git better."

That sounded far more optimistic than it had sounded in his head, much to his surprise. He scrutinized the woman for a long moment, curious if his words were having any effect on her. "There's nothin' ya can do fer yer homeworld. It's gone. Ya got no control over that," he said. "But ya do got control over how ya respond. The Covenant think they've won. It's up ta ya ta show 'em the error of their ways. Give those bastards hell. Make 'em regret ever havin' shown up at yer homeworld. That's how ya can make things better."