If It Ain't Rainin'... (EVENT)

[Durant, M.]

1100 Hours, April 26, 2543 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Marine Corps Base Saint Rose Training Grounds, Viary Territory,
Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System

Lieutenant Durant sighed under the fabric canopy of the tent as rain soaked through it. The last several hours had been treacherous, as Reach's infamous weather reared its ugly head to torment and belittle the Marines of Oscar Company. Under normal conditions, the planet's irregular weather patterns would be of little concern to him, what with the sturdy shelters built upon the base proper. However, today, his Marines were slumming it in the wilderness, in a region of the base that many had affectionately nicknamed "the Maw."

Field training was a regular occurrence in the infantry. Even moreso now that their unit was mere weeks away from another lengthy interstellar deployment. The war with the Covenant only continued to escalate, and the UNSC needed bodies on the frontlines to stem the tide of the alien onslaught. Whereas before the Inner Colonies had been relatively safe, this was no longer the case. The Inner Colonies were under siege, and humanity was beginning to feel the hurt from the loss of so many precious worlds.

Economically, humanity was on the brink of crisis. The UNSC was going into debt fast, and military spending only continued to increase per fiscal quarter. Humanity needed more ships, weapons, and vehicles to continue the fight, and every branch demanded bodies to service that equipment and put it to use. Every day items such as toothpaste, food, and water were going up in price from all of the overspending.

Michael wondered how much longer things could go on before riots started to break out in the streets of even the most peaceful of colonies. When would the powder keg ignite, and mass pandemonium spread?

Pushing those thoughts aside, he turned his eyes outside, observing the happenings of the makeshift camp his Marines had erected. Even through the torrential downpour, there were some making rounds of the camp on patrol. At any moment the situation could go from bad to worse, and his Marines wanted to be prepared for it.

Their field training exercise had them in the heavily forested Maw, searching for an opposing force holed up in the woods. That opposing force was comprised of the Marines of Quebec Company of the Eighteenth Marines, whom were to play the role of the bad guys in a company-on-company showdown. So far things had gone relatively smoothly.

First Platoon sustained contact in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, and managed after hours of fighting to repel their attackers. According to their new platoon commander, only a handful of casualties had been sustained. Those Marines whom became "notional" wounded were treated and placed back in the fight.

Durant's own Second Platoon had encountered a few enemy patrols, and even managed to ambush one of their camps and take a few prisoners in the process. Despite the fact that the Covenant never took prisoners, humanity played by a different ruleset. Though rare for a Covenant soldier to surrender, Durant had heard that it was possible. If his Marines ever encountered such a situation, he wanted them to be familiar with the process.

Finally, Third Platoon. Hernandez' platoon had, so far, performed the worst in the FTX. Quebec Company hammered the unit for hours in an all-out assault, leaving far too many casualties; to include its commander. Since the platoon sergeant took over, though, things seemed to be looking up for them. Michael wondered just how long that would last, however.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention outside. The rain didn't seem to be letting up, and he was sure nobody in the camp wanted to do much of anything because of it. No one liked being soaked down to their skivvies. Especially when wearing full PPE. He turned and grabbed the radio handset beside him, and brought it to the side of his face. "Omen Two to Actual, interrogative: orders? Over."

[Stone, T.]

Sergeant Stone felt the rain pelt the brim of his eight-point cover as he stood outside the enlisted tent of First Squad, watching the happenings around him. Over the last few hours the camp had been brought on alert seven times due to the actions of Quebec Company, whom were rumored to be sneaking about the area. If those bastards wanted to take a shot at Second Platoon, Stone wanted to make sure no one would drop the ball.

Especially since he knew a certain NCO that now resided over in Quebec Company. While he lacked hard evidence to support his theory, Thomas knew that Sergeant Davis was behind the successful ambush of Third Platoon. He was as sure of it as he was certain that the sky was blue and that the grass was green. There was no question of it.

Davis was a ballsy son of a bitch. The type of man whom took risks simply because he knew he could get away with them, or because he wasn't concerned with the outcome. After all, he was responsible for a riot on the Vengeance almost a year ago, and was the idiot whom had stabbed an Elite in the face. Evan Davis was a pain in the ass.

And now he was becoming the bane of Oscar Company's existance.

It was only a matter of time before Davis would take a shot at Second Platoon. The man wouldn't be able to resist the temptation. When he did, Stone would be there to do what he always had to do: put him in his place where he belonged.

"Faust!" Stone barked into the tent. "I want Firs' Team on rovin' patrol of the company perimeter. Stay on the damn radio an' keep yer head on a swivel!"

He turned to fully face the opening that was the entrance to the tent. "Mihaylov, yer team will follow behind by about two hundred meters. Don't touch yer fuckin' radio, 'cuz no one can understand a damn thing ya say. Chambers! Ya git ta use the radio. 'Bout the only thing yer useful for."

[Chambers, T.]

Chambers has been fiddle farting around with the ammunition in the drum he'd has in and ready for his M739 SAW, loading and reloading the same five round or so, he wasn't nervous it was an exercise and he was now a multiple service combat veteran. Mainly likely everyone else he was fed up with the waiting, the weather wasn't so bad, weighed down in all their fatigues and gear it wasn't hard to start warm, especially inside a tent.

Loading the same rounds in and out they'd waited since the last alert, If Quebec wanted to fight them, just get it over with they were setting themselves up. What they needed to be doing was going at them, not sitting around waiting for the fight. He'd rather be the one doing the surprising not being the one getting said surprise. Clicking the last round back in he regarded the loaded drum with some interest, as much as training rounds were supposed to be as real as possible just knowing it was training changed you, just a little bit and they way you went about it, because you knew you weren't actually going to die, pretty much no matter what.

It seemed they're beloved Sergeant had also had enough of the waiting, the bark of Stone didn't quite startle him anymore, but it still certainly man handled his attention to the marine Sergeant.

"Faust! I want Firs' Team on rovin' patrol of the company perimeter. Stay on the damn radio an' keep yer head on a swivel!" The usual grace of the man quickly found itself directed at second team.

"Mihaylov, yer team will follow behind by about two hundred meters. Don't touch yer fuckin' radio, 'cuz no one can understand a damn thing ya say. Chambers! Ya git ta use the radio. 'Bout the only thing yer useful for." Chambers would disagree but by know and even before arguing with a marine NCO let alone Stone was a good way to see just how far a marine boot could actually go up your arse.

Flipping his drab boonie onto his head, the Australian loaded his weapon, chambered the first round and thumbed safety, walking out of the tent. "Aye, Sergeant." he paused and pressed the PTT of his radio as he passed the man "Two one Bravo Radio check, Over" He called before releasing the button, the rain again began to fall on him, if anything being a littler colder was preferable to being too hot, especially after the last, insurrectionist filled shit bog they'd been too.

[Furby, J.]

"I am so bored..."

Furby sighed as he caught the rubber ball that was thrown to him by Lance Corporal Avery, adjusting slightly to a more comfortable sitting position. For the last eon (or so it felt), he and Avery had been tossing the ball back and forth as the sound of the torrential downpour outside drowned out the usual chatter and tomfoolery that tended to occur in the enlisted tent.

Lance Corporal Avery shrugged. "Ain't shit I can do about it," he replied before gesturing for him to toss the ball back to him. Jayson acquiesced, flinging it at his long-time friend and comrade, nearly managing to pelt the machine gunner in the face. "Damn, bro! You tryna knock me out or somethin'?"

"I'm trying to fix your ugly face," he retorted quickly. The machine gunner simply laughed and sent the ball back at him. Furby swiftly caught it and shook his head. "Seriously, who the fuck signs up for this shit? Here we are out in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, getting pissed on by the sky, and doing absolutely nothing but throwing balls around."

It took him roughly a millisecond to realize he'd just messed up, as Avery immediately began to grin. With a heavy sigh, he prepared himself for the retort that was destined to be thrown his way. "I thought you liked throwing balls around," came the machine gunner's reply.

Yep. There it was. No matter how old a man happened to be, the Marine Corps seemed to possess the uncanny ability to turn grown men into adolescent children. Furby wondered if it was a part of their indoctrination technique; making the mind more malleable by reducing it to an infantile state. It seemed like a legitimate theory, in his eyes. How else could they convince so many people that this type of shit was cool to do and necessary for the protection of humanity's interests?

Before he could offer any sort of rebuttal (and there was always a rebuttal prepared for circumstances such as these), Sergeant Stone burst into the tent like a wrecking ball, dripping water from head-to-toe. It was immediately apparent to Furby that the man had some sort of shit detail for them to embark upon, and as soon as the old Harvestian opened his mouth, Furby's assumptions were proven true.

Perimeter patrol.

What the hell kind of shit was that?

It was pouring down rain so thick one couldn't see five feet in front of them, and this old codger wanted them to somehow patrol the entire company's perimeter and keep any bad guys at bay. They'd have a better chance of changing the weather. Unless Faust or Mihaylov were master navigators, Furby saw the two fire teams getting lost out in the rain.

Exhaling a sigh, he shook his head as Stone relinquished Mihaylov's radio privileges to Chambers. "Now that's some discriminatory shit, Sergeant," he said in his usual obligatory "I-Have-To-Complain-About-Something" voice. "Mickey can't help that he has the English capacity of a three year old, and sounds like two ducks fucking over the radio."

The look Stone shot him was enough to cut his tirade short. If there was one man in all the Marine Corps that Jayson Furby feared, it was their very own Sergeant Stone. He had the feeling the NCO would ring his neck without a moment's hesitation, and likely use him as a hood ornament on a Warthog as a reminder to all why they should not cross him. Avery chuckled, shaking his head, and then grabbed his M247.

No matter how much he despised the orders they'd been given, orders were orders. Jayson turned his sparkling blues onto Corporal Faust as she began barking her usual orders. She was perhaps the second person in all the Marine Corps he did not want to cross, even if he did enjoy giving her a hard time where he could get away with it. Grabbing his BR55, he removed a magazine from a pouch on his vest loaded with TTR rounds and slammed it home, racking the bolt.

"Kill, Corporal," he replied. "And all that other moto bullshit."

[Faust, M.]

 Faust had been listening to the rhythm of the falling rain hitting the tent and soaking the forest. She checked her rifle for what must of been easily the hundredth time. Patience, waiting for instructions or actions was not something that came easily to the extremely ferocious corporal. Michelle hungered for action, half wishing that an attack would come, half hoping orders would come for them to launch their own attack. This wait seemed to be eternal, unending and completely dull. Her wish for action was soon to be granted however and she jumped to her feet as Stone barked her name, an disturbingly eager light in her eyes. "Yes Sergeant!" She replied swiftly. "You heard the man, now move your asses before I decide to kick them all the length of the patrol route!" Faust liked Stone, he understood and most importantly he happened to be a bloody great soldier. She liked the majority of her platoon and Oscar Company for that matter. It was not something Faust would ever reveal to anyone however, she had a reputation to maintain, of being a blood thirsty banshee who people knew not to cross. 

Irritatingly Furby started his usual complaints, Faust wished sometimes he would merely put a sock in it. To Faust, his near endless grumbles and complaints were tiresome and irksome in the extreme. At least he was no shirker, Michelle could of sniffed one out a mile away. He fought pretty good for a man who appeared to dislike the marines as much as he did. Michelle had been about to rebuke him when Stone silenced him for her, she bite her tongue, wishing that she had been able to silence him before Stone stepped in for her. She resisted the urge to snap at Stone over it, the man possessed a certain way of dealing with Furby. It would not do the company any good for Faust to pick a fight with him over who got to silence her loudmouth rifleman. 

"If we run into Davis and his mob...!" A dark grin appeared on Faust's face. "There won't be anything left of them to be cleaned up." It was not clear if she happened to be joking or not. Faust despised losing, she would want to beat Davis extremely badly. Ideally, give him a defeat that happened to be completely crushing. She glared at Furby, her eyes burning with a cold fire at his words. "Congratulations Furby, you're on point."

[Ward, J.]

Ward was in his own little world, ignoring the commotion around him as he swiped to the next page of the book he'd been steadily reading. He'd downloaded it to his datapad shortly before Oscar Company had traded the relative comfort of their air conditioned barracks for the sordid life of Marines stuck in the field. It was perhaps the only thing that kept him sane during the, more often than not, duller moments of the field training exercise.

If the exercise was designed to test the Marines' will to stay awake, then it was doing an excellent job of challenging them. Aside from the skirmishes with Quebec Company that the other platoons had endured, the majority of the exercise boiled down to a lot of hurry up and wait. Jon found himself sitting around, twiddling his thumbs, more times than he could count over the past few days. It was the type of stuff he could have been doing in the comfort and safety of the barracks.

Out here, not only did they have to contend with the likes of Quebec Company and the tempermental weather of the season, but with the wildlife that roamed these parts of the Viary Territory. Thankfully, Second Platoon seemed to be lucky in that regard. The most contact they'd had with Reach's indigneous creatures were with that of a few flocks of Moa.

Moa weren't inherently dangerous, and seemed to be the alien cousins of Earth's ostriches. Out of the long list of creatures they could be encountering, Ward found himself relieved to have only seen Moa milling about. There were predators out there, and he hoped that they never had the misfortune of running into them. One thing all the hunting trips to Viségräd with his father had taught him was that the predators of Reach's outdoors were extremely unforgiving.

"Faust," barked the voice of Sergeant Stone, rousing Ward from his book. He recognized that tone and quickly found a place to stop, bookmarking the chapter before stowing his datapad. Stone had orders for them and that meant First Team would likely be on the move shortly.

Lo and behold, he was right. Jon reached for his MA5, mentally preparing himself for another stint on point.

That was until Faust nominated Lance Corporal Furby as point man.

For a split second, Ward was tempted to argue with her decision to put the Designated Marksman on point, but quickly bit his tongue. What did he care? This was an opportunity to relax to a degree and let someone else feel the heat. And with that thought, he smiled. Furby had dug his own grave, and now he had to lie in it.

"Looks like I'm bringing up the rear, Av," Ward said, a smug grin plastered across his face.

Avery chuckled. "Guess so, Fox."

Ward looked to Furby, his eyes focused on the man's rifle. "Since you're the point man now, I guess that means we should trade weapons."

[Furby, J.]

"Congratulations, Furby, you're on point."

Jayson's jaw fell slack. Corporal Faust's sudden rearrangement of the team's billets meant that now he, the Designated Marksman, was smack dab at the front of the line. If the team took contact, he'd be the first target in the enemy's sights, and likely the first to fall to a barrage of gunfire.

What the hell was she thinking? He carried the medium range weapon, and one with the smallest ammunition capacity and fire rate out of the entire fire team. If Quebec came ready to rock, what could he do about it from the front? Pray they were horrible shots?

"But, Corporal," he started, but immediately ceased. There was no way he was going to win a debate with a Corporal. Beyond that, it was quite possible he'd end up in the BAS with broken bones or severe bruising if he tried. Faust was not a woman to be trifled with, and everyone in the platoon with any common sense knew it.

So, instead of finishing what would likely have been the signature to his death sentence, he resigned to grumble under his breath as he snatched his BR55 from off a nearby crate that had been tucked away in a corner. He turned towards the exit to the tent, where it looked like a waterfall awaited him. The rain seemed to only be getting worse, and that did not bode well for his sunny disposition.

"Since you're the point man now," rang the voice of Ward behind him, "I guess we should trade weapons."

Had he lost his mind? Did he really think he was going to give up his battle rifle? For a fleeting second, Furby contemplated smacking him over the head with the butt of his weapon, just for putting forward the suggestion. He had all the right in the world to do so on principle alone.

This was his rifle. There were many like it, but this one was his. Every Marine had that damned creed beaten into their brains at boot camp, and further covered in the ITB. There was no way in hell he was going to hand over his rifle to anyone.

Even if he was the type of guy to rebel for the sake of rebelling.

"Jonny," Jayson said, his tone deadpan as he stared daggers at the man, "if you touch my rifle, I'll kill you."

Before Ward had a chance to respond, the Lance Corporal sharply turned on his heel and broke for the exit. The moment he crossed the threshold, he was assaulted by a barrage of rain. It only took seconds for the water to soak the exposed bits of the uniform he wore beneath his armor, and he could feel the fabric sticking to his skin. That alone was enough to make him want to retreat back into the tent and strip of his clothes.

Very seldom did it rain on Crystal, and to experience it as frequently as they did on Reach simply made him miserable. It was an icy rain. The kind that sent chills running down his spine with every drop that touched his pale skin. Whomever had decided it was a good idea to train under these conditions deserved a swift kick in the balls as far as Furby was concerned.

At least on Melfa the rain had been warm to the touch. Reach sported a colder climate in most areas than what he was used to. Then again, he was from a tropical paradise where the temperatures averaged around the same as Melfa's had, thus why he'd felt so comfortable there. Despite the fact that he'd complained almost every day about the heat, it had at least been familiar to him.

Shaking his head, he continued marching as a NAV marker winked into existance on his Heads Up Display, courtesy of the neural interface every serviceman was implanted with. At least the path would be highlighted for them, likely thanks to Durant or Stone. Furby wasn't quite sure whom the orders had originated from; but, then again, he didn't really care to know, either.

"This is such fucking bullshit," he groaned under his breath. "Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut?"

[Faust, M.]

 When Furby attempted to protest about her change of the team's order of battle, Faust glared at him murderously. He decided against objecting. Michelle anger and ire had been unleashed, blood pumping, hot tempered now, Faust was unreasonable and this was the best way of punishing Furby swiftly. A small voice deep within her, knew that his objection happened to be justified. But, she ignored the voice, it served to only annoy her. Perhaps in a way she was also venting on him some of her own frustration. There were matters that few within the platoon knew about going on in the background, outside of Durant. There was little that she could do to change the matters, her brother would join up and there was no way of preventing it. She recalled bitterly having to defend him in far too many fights with various bullies. Even though it had been years since Faust last saw him, Michelle could not imagine him being a marine, let alone joining the military. He was... At least to her a fragment of innocence. Yet, now even that last bastion of peace and nobility seemed to be determined to be dragged into the muck of war. 

Damn the Covenant. Faust tried her best to ignore the rain, though it soaked her instantly. It hammered down with relentless intent, she blinked fat water drops from her eyes. Somewhere out there Davis lurked. Faust longed to be the one to flush him out. She pushed thoughts of home life aside and focused instead on the more immediate problem. The rain would be ideal for concealment, plants moving with the impact of the rain served to make it easy concealment for hidden foes. Faust hated the idea of walking into a trap, but breaking out might require a more obvious, if not indeed blunt tactic of simple brute force to escape from it. A thought flickered into her head suddenly, what if Davis attacked the camp whilst they were away? Or used the ambush as a lure to spring others on the reinforcements sent to aid Faust? They may not of been there at all, no enemies or foes to fight. Davis might simply be just sheltering from the rain, waiting better weather and time to attack. 

[Reese, J.]

Reese had been tossing pebbles around for the last few hours. He had been transferred over to Oscar company recently since they'd returned from leave and he immediately got thrown into rotation for their next pre deployment work up. It was shaping up to be the same old story as with his last unit, he'd heard good things about them, some hardass NCOs but he still hadn't decided how he felt about that yet. There was a difference between being firm and being an asshole. He hadn't had much interaction with them yet so the jury was still out. There was always the proverbial bitching about the rain, every Marine did it and Reese was no exception. He couldn't remember ever being in the field when it wasnt raining but it was either this or be bored to shit drinking in the barracks, despite how awesome it sounds the novelty would wear off quickly.

In a way he was kind of an anomaly, it was very unusual for a squad to have more than one designated marksman but he was actually the second one here. Furby was the other one and Reese had been trying to get to know him lately, it would be good to compare notes and maybe they could work together in the future. In this case Furby had been ordered to take point on patrol...that was not what a DM was supposed to do. Reese snorted, "idiots, putting a marksman on point". He understood why there was hesitation but his fireteam was ordered to follow them as backup. He adjusted the brim of his boonie and checked his ammo, there was the same amount there had been the last time he checked, and the time before that.

Reese clicked his mic "If you're worried you'll piss yourself Furby let me know, I can take the shot for you". Some friendly ball busting to ease the tension should help out. Even though Reese agreed Furby shouldn't be on point he couldn't pass up the chance to try and make him laugh.

[Durant, M.]

Lieutenant Durant sighed as his ears were assaulted by static. It seemed his radio was on the fritz again, much to his chagrin. He'd requested a new one from Supply weeks ago to no avail. The sergeant he'd spoken with had given him a whole slew of excuses as to why it wasn't possible to procure a new one for the immediate time being. He'd considered checking back with them to see if they'd managed to requisition more equipment, to include radios, but had decided against it.

Perhaps now he'd press harder. After all, they were only mere weeks away from deployment. If he waited too long, he'd have a hell of time getting anything replaced as H&S moved everything from Reach to the ship they'd call home for the next... well, however long they were deployed. With the current state of affairs, UNSC military deployments were getting longer and longer. Their last deployment had carried on for well over a year, and he expected much of the same with this upcoming one.

He shook his head and switched to the platoon net. Keying the radio, he silently hoped that his message went through. "Actual to Echo-Two Whiskey, I need my RTO. Report to the command tent, over."

If his radio wouldn't reach out to the Company CP, then he would use Wilkas's radio to get the job done. Technically he could have called for a runner to take a message to the command post, but that was far too time consuming, and put the runner at serious risk. With Quebec Company creeping through the woods, there was no telling where they were and what they would do. So far they seemed to leave Second Platoon well enough alone, but Durant had the sinking feeling that that would last no longer.

Sergeant Stone had been adamant that Sergeant Davis would strike. While it largely seemed like paranoia to him, he wasn't about to disregard the tactical assessment of one of his most experienced NCOs. Hell, if he were to be honest, Stone was one of the most seasoned NCOs in all of the regiment. Few lived for as long and seen as much as he had. The man was a walking encyclopedia of combat experience.

Michael, with that thought in mind, consulted the topo map sprawled out on his cot. He'd painstakingly marked the locations where Quebec Company had engaged Oscar, looking for some sort of pattern that they could use to devise some sort of counterattack. Oscar Company had so far been largely on the defensive. He knew that Captain Flannigan wanted to see more aggressiveness out of his men, and Durant intended to deliver.

No one ignored the wishes of the Fighting Irishman.

"Two-One, this is Two Actual, come in, over."

[Stone, T.]

Sergeant Stone stepped back inside the enlisted tent as First and Second Fire Teams departed, hoping to dry off as the sky continued to fall. There was no indication on how long the storm would last, and he was not about to have a staring contest with the clouds above. The rain would cease when it ceased.

Making his way through the tent's crowded interior, he shook his head as Third Team seemed to be in the midst of a wrestling competition. When Marines were bored, seldom did good things happen. This rang true as he watched the Marines wrestle about, striking at each other with full intent to make their shots connect. If there was one thing he would not allow, it would be his Marines injuring each other.

"Firs' one ta git hurt is diggin' fightin' holes in the rain," he growled, eying the team leader. "With yer bare hands."

With that aside, he cut a bee-line through the tent to his cot. He'd set aside a small living space for himself in the far back corner of the tent. From there he could monitor the happenings around him with little in the way of obstructions. If he wanted privacy, something of which was in short supply within their current communal environment, he had several boxes of MREs that he could stack beside his rack to act as a barrier. Of course, rarely did he ever see the need for privacy in the field.

After twenty-some odd years in the Marine Corps, he'd almost forgotten what privacy even meant. There was little time afforded to one's self in the military, especially when you were a grunt in the field. Of course everyone managed to sneak in some time alone where they could, but it was an extremely rare commodity. As Stone saw it, if you wanted privacy, you should've joined the Air Force. Rumor had it that they lived in their own rooms, and that their accomodations were more akin to that of a five-star hotel.

How that was possible when most of the UNSC's budget was split between the Navy, Marine Corps, and ONI was beyond him. It didn't seem too far fetched for the Air Force, whom did little in the way of actual soldiering, to spend most of their budget on housing and accomodations for their servicemen and women.

"Two-One, this is Two Actual, come in, over."

Stone heard the familiar call of the Lieutenant over the radio, and sighed. Was he going to need to recall his Marines? Grabbing his helmet, he held the microphone up to his mouth. "Two Actual, this is Two-One, send it, over."

If he had to call his fire teams back, he was going to be one very unhappy sergeant. And an unhappy Stone spelt a bad day for First Squad.

[Ward, J.]

Despite his original elation, Ward felt odd bringing up the rear of the team formation. Since he'd joined First Team, he'd always served as the point man, often leading the way for the entire squad. Now, he found himself in the boots that Furby usually filled, and it was definitely an adjustment he'd have to get used to.

Quickly, possibly, if Quebec Company reared their ugly heads.

As the team maneuvered across the rain stricken landscape, Jon continually reminded himself to turn around and check their six. A rear guard was no good if they failed to actually do what their job entailed. The last time he'd spent any amount of time as the number four man in a fire team had been during SOI, something that felt like ages ago.

In reality it'd only been a little over a year since he'd left the infantry training battalion for the fleet, but after being with Oscar Company and making it through two combat operations, it felt like so much longer. He knew that he'd matured fast over the last year. Between his parents and his soon-to-be wife, there was no way that he could forget that.

It wasn't exactly something he liked to talk about. While he'd seen some pretty horrible stuff during FROST DRAGON, none of it seemed to compare to what he'd been forced to endure on Melfa. Killing aliens was one thing; killing humans, on the other hand, was a far more grizzly task.

Melfa's rebels had been sick, twisted human beings. He'd seen soldiers nailed to trees and left to rot, and Marines sent home in closed caskets after having been recovered from cleverly disguised booby traps. The fighting in the city had perhaps been the easiest for him to digest. Those people had been trained soldiers, and played by conventional rules.

The Innies in the jungles, however, had not been quite as humane. When you armed a bunch of angry, disgruntled farmers with automatic weapons and explosives, there was little hope for a clean fight. It was difficult for him to imagine how humans could be so cruel and heartless to one another. It was an eye opening experience for him, and one that he could have gone his entire life without.

Though, despite that, it wasn't something that he could easily forget. The sights that he had seen did not cease to haunt him, and it baffled him. How was it that it affected him so harshly while the others seemed so... casual... about it? No one around him seemed at all fussed over the things they'd been forced to do and see over the course of HUMP. Why was he the only one that couldn't come to terms with it?

Jon shook his head. It wasn't something he needed to ruminate over right now. Corporal Faust needed him focused and aware of his surroundings, not suffering from some existential crisis. There would be time for self-introspection later. For the time being he needed to remain in the here and now.

"Yo, Fox," called Lance Corporal Avery.

"Yeah?"

"You hear what that new guy just said?"

Ward blinked. Had he really been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard the conservation happening over the radio? "No."

"Dog, you been sleepin' back there?" Avery asked. The concern in his tone was obvious.

The PFC decided to play it off. "No, I... thought I saw somethin'."

Avery looked back at him, and for a moment, Ward thought that maybe he hadn't sounded too convincing. If he did think he'd been lied to, he said nothing of it, as the Lance Corporal merely shrugged. "Good lookin' out, I guess, bro. But yeah, that new lance coolie's got some balls on him. That Reese guy. Such a white name."

"Oh, like "Avery" isn't a white name," Ward retorted.

The Lance Corporal paused for a second, as if digesting that. "Yo, I'm black Irish. What do ya expect?"

"Wasn't your dad white?"

"We don't talk about that, bro."

And with that, the conversation died off. The team continued along the path highlighted by the NAV markers, Furby leading them all the way through the soggy forest. Jon kept his rifle lowered, but at the ready. If Quebec Company wanted a fight, then a fight was what they'd give them.

[Wilkas, G.]

 Wilkas had been attempting to stay as dry as possible and fight off boredom with equal measure. It was the kind of rain which would instantly soak whatever poor individual who possessed the poor fortune to be in it. Grace resisted the urge to sigh when she heard Durant call for her through the radio. So much for remaining dry, adjusting her helmet strap she shrugged on her radio and picked up her rifle as she exited the tent into the rain. She moved quickly towards where Grace knew Durant to be, hoping that be some miracle she might manage to not get too soaked. Alas, no such luck, she happened to be dripping by the time Grace made it to the tent. Wilkas stepped inside gratefully, simply glad to be out of the rain. Part of her felt sorry for the marines who happened to be out patrolling in this weather. However at least she would be inside. She spotted Durant and headed over towards him. "Reporting as ordered sir." For a heartbeat it looked like she might salute, but then with this technically being a combat situation, Grace decided against it. She doubted that there would be snipers, but... But it never hurt to be cautious about it. 

[Chambers, T.]

Chambers couldn't hold it all in, Furby had as part of his usual form found something other than the obvious hardships of Marine life to complain about and he was sure that would come up again at some point. Tom gave a smile wry and a small laugh.

"Whats the line up?" he asked Mihaylov, as they moved into formation with first team

They all hated it and they all liked to complain, however there wasn't any point whinging at Stone, the man simply didn't have and fucks to give anymore, not that he didn't enjoy Furby being the voice of it all he certainly couldn't disagree but orders WERE orders, and now off to find the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Quebec Company. Letting the raid soak him he glanced up towards the sky for a few moments before looking back down, just in time to see the Platoons resident complainer get stuck with point duty. 'Idiot, you don't mess with the German witch.' he knew from experience.

Tom stayed in formation as they began their patrol, the weight of the SAW far better than what he'd carried onto Melfa, he was almost thanking an Innie for for braking his weapon, even if he'd gotten a massive ass kicking from Faust and stone for 'loosing his weapon' It wasn't his fault that farm boy had been unlucky enough to hit his weapon and not him. Now he owed the Marine Corp a life and a weapon, he was really hoping it wouldn't ever call collect.

Chambers kept hid finger hovered over the trigger and his thumb on the safety lever, it a moment he could be up and firing this bad boy at Davis, and he hoped he didn't register the 'kill' on him, he wanted second team to present that son of a bitch to Stone, maybe then they might catch a break, unlikely but Marines needed dreams like that.

It was hard not to enjoy the new guy, Reese's comments to Furby finally someone might make him shut up, even for just five minutes. But He still wasn't sure how he felt he was an older guy but still a lance, How that worked he wasn't sure maybe he'd joined or even been conscripted late who knew, but hopefully they'd find out, he always liked to know why everyone else was here, with front row seats to the end of the human species.

Tom also wasn't sure how his seeming friend ship with Dimitri would go now the Russian was the FTL, hopefully they'd learnt to trust each other a little even if Tom seemed to have just enough bad luck to get into bad situations but never get too badly done by them, His navy Career, the planet he crashed into and their lovely trip to Melfa and his luck with getting his weapon FUBAR'd.

[Furby, J.]

The weather was well and truly out to get him. In the span of about five minutes, every inch of him that was not covered by armor was thoroughly drenched. Each step that he took, as a result, was more uncomfortable than the last, and he cursed whichever deity that was willing to listen for it. This was absolute bullshit, and he hated it.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, he paused for a moment. Set before him was a narrow path that cut through the forest. Path, of course, was a very loose term. It appeared as if some of the wildlife have carved themselves a path out of the woods, as much of the grass and shrubbery looked to have been stomped down. He debated, momentarily, whether or not to seek out a better route; however, the NAV marker set by Stone (he assumed) highlighted this path as the one to take.

Furby decided that it was best he stay on the path set for them, and continued forward. The forest abruptly swallowed them up as they crossed the threshold, and what little visibility he'd had before was now far worse. No matter what, the trek through the forest would be a hard slog. Cursing under his breath, he fought his way through the dense brush and shrubbery, cutting a new path through the forest.

Or, more accurately, stomping a new path. A machete would have been a godsend out in these woods, but he doubted anyone had actually brought one along. Machetes weren't exactly standard issue, and if his memory served him right, the platoon had been forced to submit a special requisition for them during their prolonged foray through Melfa's unforgiving jungles. Perhaps the only good thing he could say about Reach's forests in comparison was the noticeable lack of blood-sucking insects.

Melfa had been home to all sorts of creepy crawlies and airborne pests. It was what made it so much more difficult to bear. If people thought he complained too much now, then it was safe to say they had not been around for the better part of Operation: HUMP. The vast majority of his time awake in the jungles had been spent bitching and moaning about the horrid, adverse conditions.

He was sure the squad had gotten tired of hearing him talk. Even Stone, whom was consistently stoic and angry, seemed to have been seriously considering ending him with a bullet to the head. Furby smirked at that thought. It was funny to think about how much sway his actions had over people.

Of course, it was exactly for that reason that he now found himself, a Designated Marksman, on point for his fire team. Alas, his mouth was both a gift and a curse.

"Echo-Three Romeo," Furby said into the boom microphone built into his helmet, "you won't have to be worry about me pissing myself. If we get attacked by who I think we will, I'll be a casualty before I have time to even blink."

Jayson chuckled, shaking his head. He'd served under Davis since he'd reported in to First Squad. In all that time he'd learned that the man was not one to be trifled with. When he wanted something, he got it, or he damn sure tried. The events that transpired aboard the Vengeance that had, since their return to Reach, become the stuff of legend flashed through his mind. There were very few people that could claim they started a riot on a Navy ship, fought off dozens of drunken November Company Marines, and sent almost a dozen Navy MAs to sick bay singlehandedly.

Sergeant Davis was a god among Marines as far as Furby was concerned. First Team had garnered itself a reputation that night, and to this day they still received a mixture of awe and disappointment from those around them. Totally worth it, in his opinion.

Furby threw his fist into the air as he climbed over the rotten remains of a felled tree. In front of him, maybe seven feet away from his foot, was a patch of what appeared to be recently disturbed soil. He scrutinized it for a moment before glancing back over his shoulder. "Corporal," he called quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "check it out. I think I've found clear evidence of some kind of Queer Company fuckery."