[B-Deck] Boredom & Shenanigans

[Furby, J.]

1100 Hours, May 17, 2543 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Aboard the UNSC Vengenace, B-Deck, Berthing Area,
en route to Atlas Moons


"Chambers, what the fuck is this shit?" Furby demanded, grimacing as he took a sip straight from the bottle. 

It was day twenty of being stuck aboard the Vengeance, and everyone was ready to get back into the thick of the fighting. Being stuck aboard ship was only marginally better than having to suffer through garrison life. Back planetside, the stresses of everyday military life seemed to return to mercilessly assault them at every turn. Barracks inspections, NCOs and officers at every turn, and constant and unending bullshittery were to be had in garrison. Working parties were by far the worst. Furby had been summoned to police call many a parking lot back on Reach. Life aboard the Vengeance, however, offered a lot more downtime and far less stress. No one cared about if your uniform was pristine or if you had half-nude shrines to your favorite models all over your sleeping quarters. Everyone knew that soon, the Marines of Oscar Company would be back into the war, and none too soon if you asked some of the saltier Marines in the unit. 

Furby had found himself in the common area of First Squad's berth, sitting against the wall looking out at the group of people that had gathered. There was Avery, seated across from him in what could only be described as the military equivalent to a lawn chair, a can of whatever alcohol was local to Chambers' hometown on Reach grasped firmly in one hand as he occasionally flipped the magazine in his lap to the next page. Guns & Harlots was the reading material of choice for the machinegunner today. Off to the left was, of course, Chambers. Faust was likely somewhere in the berthing area, doing whatever it was she did in her free time... and Ward sat crossed legged beside Furby, a worn book in his hands and a soda bottle beside him. 

There was also Mihaylov, much to Furby's chagrin. There was just something about that guy that irked Furby's nerves. Maybe it was his seemingly innocent, surfer boy charm. Or perhaps it was because he, like Furby, was a Designated Marksman and actually thought he could outshoot the likes of him. He shook his head at the thought. There was absolutely no way he was gonna let some surfer with an English comprehension level of a ninth grader be a better shot than him. No way!

Except for that one time on their last op... but! That was a fluke! Mihaylov had gotten lucky. That's what it was! 

Avery took a sip from the can and chuckled. "It's smellin' a lot like bitch in here," he quipped, looking directly at Furby when he said it. 

"Oh, of course the psychopath likes it!" he replied with a grin. "You probably like to drink the blood of your enemies!"

"On the rocks, bro," Avery said with a nod. "On the rocks."

[Ward, J.]

Ward took a sip of his half-empty soda as he sat cross-legged on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall with a tattered book in his lap. He wasn't really reading it. Not really. It was a book he'd read a thousand times already, about a Marine in some forgotten Earth conflict in a distant land of jungles and clandestine enemies. A journal, actually. Fictional, of course, but still surprisingly accurate to the experience of the average grunt. Ward knew now just how real it was. 

When he'd first picked up the book, a hand-me-down from his father, and perhaps his father's father before him, he had been a measly civilian with an aspiration to serve in humanity's finest fighting force. Now, years later, he was that Marine. The very Marine depicted in the book. Although instead of human enemies that liked to hide amongst the jungles, laying in wait to ambush the next passing Marine, he was fighting an alien menace hellbent on the total annihilation of the human race. The experience wasn't entirely the same, but the emotions and the musings were indeed similar. He supposed his interest in the book had been renewed with their last operation, where he was faced with the very real prospect of having to take another life. Another human life. 

And take them he did. 

They all did. 

He was certain each and every Marine in the berth with him had claimed the lives of at least one Insurrectionist. Innies, he thought to himself. The pejorative that had been given to the men and women that found themselves at odds with the government. The people whom saw no other recourse but to rebel against the Powers That Be and fight for what they believed was right, and what the government inevitably believed was wrong. It was easy to forget that the Innies were people if you let yourself. Jon had not. Perhaps the book was his way of coping with the emotions that had grasped him. The difficulty he had in facing them. Killing was not a natural act, even if it was sometimes necessary for the sake of ones survival. 

That's all this war was about now, after all. Survival. The Covenant were determined to bring an end to the human race, and humanity stood in defiance to that goal. Humanity, as a whole, had no intentions of going quietly into the night. The death throes of an entire species that had spread across the cosmos would be violent, and there would be great destruction left in their wake. Of course, Ward was still hopeful that humanity would prevail. That the Covenant would stand defeated in the end, bested by the indomitable spirit of the human race. 

Ward's introspection was interrupted by the obnoxious complaints of Lance Corporal Jayson Furby. Arguably, Furby was his best friend and had been since he had joined the Fleet. He'd been the one to stand up to Avery, whom had, in typical Marine Corps fashion, acted as the bully to the new guy. It took surviving Phoenix III, Ward's first taste of combat, to put an end to the incessant jokes and constant douchebaggery from the machinegunner. Now, the three of them were tight. A sort of dysfunctional family that somehow managed to function when needed to, and look out for each other when it counts the most. Jon smirked at the quip from Furby towards Avery. "Chambers and Av have something called taste, Jay," he said, chuckling. "The alcohol brewed on Reach is some of the best in the colonies."

He knew that would strike a nerve with Jayson, and apparently so did Avery. "Damn, bro," the automatic rifleman said. "He said alcohol from Crystal be shit, my dude!"

Ward raised his hand in mock defense. "Well, not shit," he paused just for a second to glance at Furby before finishing with, "just not Reach quality."

"Nah, nah, nah, homie," Avery interjected. "What you mean is it's straight dog shit! Ain't that right, Chambers?!"

[Chambers, T.]

Chambers had managed to keep himself mostly out of trouble during their Garrison. though it had helped that the wiring in the Barracks they had ended up posted in was probably older than Stone and even less well looked after. Mostly he'd spent his time slowly rewiring their barracks, continuing with the normal duties, training and work parties. The highlights were Fire watch and for some strange reason even once attempting to mop rain... while it was still raining. However it had meant they'd managed to sneak in a few cozy upgrades. That had gotten him both a stare down and a pat on the back. It really depended on perspective.

However like most of his fellow Marines getting off Reach and back to space was a welcome change. For him. It felt a lot better to be back on a ship. He might have been born on Reach, and raised on new Darwin, but unless it had engines or was some stupid hell hole, it just didn't feel right anymore. He was probably just getting cynical.

Right now he found himself in the common area of first squads berthing area. Furby was to his right, with fellow auto-rifleman Avery across from them. Chambers had due to his previous Navy time been able to smuggle them just a little bit of Contraband. It had cost him the rest of what he had acquired during their Garrison on Reach, but chances were he wouldn't be needing it, and if he did come back he'd just get more.

So the Alcohol had been handed out to those than wanted it. Worst of all someone, and that someone was Furby decided to complain.

"Chambers, what the fuck is this shit?" Tom smirked and chuckled to himself, but was beat to a reply by Avery..

"It's smellin' a lot like bitch in here," The gunner said after taking another rather self satisfied sip.

"Oh, of course the psychopath likes it! You probably like to drink the blood of your enemies!" The Marksman Retorted

"On the rocks, bro, On the rocks." Avery Replied dryly.

"Chambers and Av have something called taste, Jay,The alcohol brewed on Reach is some of the best in the colonies." Added Ward from Behind Furby. Chambers was having far too much fun of his own listening to this spiral out between the members of first fire team, they were some of a last faces even someone as new as him still recognized. Oscar had been stripped bare of a lot of its Veterans to build up other units.

Chambers had spend most of the morning stripping wires and connections off this damn Music player they had given him to fix. he was sure whatever they would choose would probably all be equally Terrible, but if it got them off his back about fixing it after the whole Garrison, he'd do it. right now he was replacing some capacitors and rerouting circuits, so he wasn't looking up.

"Damn, bro, He said alcohol from Crystal be shit, my dude!" Avery said finding another chance to rile up Furby. "Well, not shit, just not Reach quality." Ward replied attempting to defend himself. It was probably already too late.

"Nah, nah, nah, homie, What you mean is it's straight dog shit! Ain't that right, Chambers?!" Tom looked up at the gunner and shook his head.

"I'm not getting involved your three's strange marriage any more than I already am." Chambers paused and looked to Jay. "But if you don't like the Alfold spiced Rum. That I had brought on board for all of us to share" He paused and gestured around generally, circuit board in hand. " You're free to trade it back to me if you want Furbs." He of course still had a debt to pay to his FTL from Melfa, how the hell he had managed to owe than man so much was still a mystery to him.

[Stone, T.]

Thomas Jeremiah Stone had seen and done it all. Ever since he'd signed his name on the dotted line, his life had been characterized by two things: violence and boredom. Out of those two options, the former was more appealing. Boredom was every warrior's enemy. Marines, especially. Stone had lived a quiet, uneventful life up until his enlistment into the UNSC Marine Corps. His whole life changed the day he signed his contract, and in ways he had never anticipated. If someone had told him that his entire life would devoted to war and violence, and that everything that he ever cared for outside of the military would be snatched away from him, he would have laughed that person out of the room. 

However, that was the sad reality of his life now. He had no home to go back to. The Marine Corps was his life, and was the only thing outside of farming he was good at. It wasn't by choice, either. The Covenant had taken away every prospect, every opportunity, he'd ever had for a life outside of the military. Now? Now he couldn't return to that life even if he wanted to. He had seen too much, lost so much, that life as a civilian would be maddening. The truth was: he had become a part of the system. He had his opportunity to leave this life behind and carve out something different, but that had been wrenched from his hands by the Covenant. Some people would have been left broken by it. 

In a lot of ways he was. 

But like the phoenix, he rose from the ashes into the man he is now. A shell of his former self, but still alive. Still thriving in the chaos. The Marine Corps gave him purpose. People counted on him, and he couldn't let them down. Exhaling a heavy sigh, Stone tuned into the commotion just outside the squalid compartment that he called his home. He heard the familiar voices of the junior Marines of First Squad, and listened to their chatter with some amusement, a smirk creasing his scarred features. The topic of their conversation, unsurprisingly, was alcohol. Stone glanced at the bottle of bourbon that he kept, a relic and keepsake from his homeworld, on top of the drawer across from the table he'd long ago set up. Marines loved their liquor. 

Under normal circumstances he would have likely stepped out from the berth and found something more productive for them to do. However, he had heard the rumors surrounding their next mission. An operation of this scale was difficult to keep entirely under wraps. Information traveled fast in the Lance Corporal Underground, and Stone was keen to keep his ears attuned to it, despite having left that world behind years ago. He had his sources, as every good NCO did. Generally the information that came down the pipe from the Underground was riddled with inaccuracies; however, he had his ways of verifying information and validating whatever he heard through the grapevine. He knew that the next mission would be a nightmare. 

No one had ever attempted something of this magnitude. Not since Harvest. It took one ambitious sonofabitch to come up with an operation of this scale. Harvest had taken five long, arduous years of fighting. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of lives had been lost in the brutal campaign to reclaim the planet. Whitcomb's plan involved an entire star system. How long would it take them to claim it? How many lives would be lost along the way? 

No. He'd let his Marines be. They deserved the downtime, and he'd let them have as much of it as he could. He wasn't sure how long they had left until they'd reach their destination, but he imagined it wouldn't be too much longer. Back on Reach, the Marines had trained constantly in preparation for the mission that they were to undertake. Hundreds of foot patrols, assaults on fortified positions, and combined arms field training exercises had honed their skills for this exact mission. He hoped it had been enough to prepare them. He'd see them through it regardless. 

That was his plan. He'd be damned if the Covenant was gonna stop him. 

Stone reached into his breast pocket, retrieving a crumpled pack of Harvest Reds. He'd snagged the pack from a buddy of his in Supply who knew a guy that knew a guy that had them by the cartons. The tobacco company that distributed them had been wiped out alongside the rest of Harvest. When word finally hit the colonies of the fate of the agricultural world, but price of Harvest Reds skyrocketed, and some people went out of their way to buy up as much of the stock as possible. Apparently, his buddy's friend was one of those people. Stone scooped up his zippo from off the table in front of him and opened the top with a flick of his wrist, and then struck the spool with his thumb. A flame sparked into existence and he brought it to the tip of a cigarette that he'd retrieved from the pack and precariously hung from his lip. He took a deep, long drag of the cigarette before flicking the top closed on the zippo, snuffing the flame in an instant. 

He exhaled slowly as he set the zippo back down and leaned in his chair, running his thumb across his face along a jagged scar. There was no telling where he had acquired it. He'd been wounded so many times over the years he hadn't been able to keep track of all of his scars and where they came from. He considered cracking open the bottle of bourbon, but decided against it. Cigarettes didn't go with bourbon. Cigars did. He leaned over a brushed the blanket that acted as the barrier between his compartment and the berth outside aside, peering over at the group of Marines that had perched themselves in a corner of the common area. Ward was there, apparently reading some old book. He grimaced. That boy was nothing like his father. 


"Ward," he called out, hoping to startle the young Marine, "what in the hell do ya know 'bout alcohol? Ya ain't even old enough ta have hair on yer chest!"

[Mihaylov, D.]

Dmitrii was enjoying the down time with his fellow Marines in the squad bay. It was far more cramped on the ship, and lacked the entertainment options that they had shared back on Reach, but it was somehow felt like it was a better place. He had drug his footlocker out so he could have a place to sit and was cleaning his rifle in the midst of the chaos. Not because it needed it, but more as a mental exercise and much needed distraction from the pending combat.

The rum Chambers had provided didn't hurt the time either. And of course, Furby had to complain. It was always something with his fellow SDM. Thankfully his teammates were happy to keep him in check. Or keep picking at the wounds in the first place. They were obviously made for each other. He secretly hoped his family would be as permanent as theirs seemed to be. Though they had lost Corporal Davis. The big NCO had been a fixture in first squad for a long time. It was strange for him to have moved on, but such was the way of the military. 


"Ward," Sergeant Stone's voice called from behind the curtain that separated his quarters from the common room. "What in the hell do ya know 'bout alcohol? Ya ain't even old enough ta have hair on yer chest!"

Mihaylov sat up a little straighter and pushed his drink ever so slightly behind the footlocker as he prepared for their squad leader to show himself. When Stone didn't show, he relaxed and just let the easy smile come back to his face. It was going to be one of those days where they were left alone, which told him that tomorrow was going to suck all the more. He took another pull from his drink and decided to just enjoy the day.

"I am happy to have drink from comrade," he said, hoisting the cup in toast to Chambers. "This is far much quality than home. One time, cousin made wine in bathtub we found in old home near beach. It did job, but made friends sick. Good times for no one on beach that night. Good waves though."

He pantomimed the act of puking to emphasize the 'waves' he was discussing. After pausing for a moment, he opted to pile on with the rest of his squad mates on Furby, knowing exactly how to prick the man's pride. In reality he was the only man Dmitrii had met who could shoot as his equal, but he wasn't going to let him know that.

"Perhaps better I take your drink Furby," Mihaylov said with a wide grin. "Too much make you drift long shots. Would be much bad to be out shot by hairless one at 200 meters."

[Wilkas, G.]

 Part of Wilkas was glad they were underway again. It meant no more having to keep her space tidy, she could let her room fall into it's usual disordered and downright messy state as it usually ended up in on any extended time aboard a starship. Yes, she had a lucky streak in managing to always tidy it up before an inspection, surprise one or not, perhaps akin to having a sixth sense for it almost. Planet side, with all those bored officers hovering like buzzards and NCOs circling as though they were sharks smelling blood, she had to keep it clean and tidy. She had eventually grown fed up with lying on her own bed and try as she might the worries and anxiety about the future kept slipping into her mind. No matter how hard she focused on her book, she just could not get into it. Defeated, she left in search of her fellow marines in the platoon. 

She hoped that she was becoming more of a reliable figure, someone they could be certain of in a fight. But she still feared or perhaps suspected that they viewed her more as nitwit or maybe some little sister type figure. Harsh, but perhaps appropriate since the rookie's arrival in the platoon had not exactly started well. Grace was not a coward, or at least she tried her best not to be but feared she might be. She was not strong or brave, fierce or even a decent shot with her rifle. But she was stubborn and loyal, which she hoped countered for her many flaws, or perhaps she just happened to be more aware of them than most. 

Regardless, she soon found herself in First Squad's birth. No sign of Faust, which Wilkas felt slightly reassured by. The tough and often fierce NCO had something about her that made Wilkas ever so slightly frightened by her. She soon came across Furby, Chambers,  Avery, Mihaylov, Ward and Stone. The smaller redhead approached quietly. "Mind if I join you guys?" She asked, offering them a friendly if nervous smile. The RTO tended to always be on the more nervous side, something she wished she could overcome. Heck, she was a marine after all, she faced down alien monsters intent on killing her in a variety of horrible ways and yet talking to people who had faced the same horror, still made her nervous. Grace considered asking for a drink, but she did not handle her alcohol well. It went straight through her and too her skull. Unwelcome memories of hangover she got from shore leave came back to the fore and she decided against it. No drinking, not for a while at any rate. 

[Furby, J.]

Furby craned his head towards Ward with a deep frown. He hadn't expected him to insert himself into the conversation. The guy had been quietly reading that book of his for the last half hour with very little input until now, and he had opted out of drinking. Jayson surmised it was because Stone was a stone's throw away (pun intended) from where they were all congregated, and he did not want to open himself to being a further target of the NCO's attention. For whatever reason, Sergeant Stone enjoyed picking on Ward, especially in the field. He wasn't sure if the man had some sort of personal vendetta against him or what, but he suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that Ward's father had been the Sergeant's mentor. 

After all, Stone made sure to bring that up any opportunity that he got. At this point, the whole platoon knew who Ward's father was. Jayson shook his head, his frown deepening as Avery went to dig the knife deeper into his side. "Damn, bro, he just said alcohol from Crystal be shit, my dude!" That caused his blood to boil. Crystal was often regarded as a paradise world. It boasted beautiful women and plenty of golden beaches along its many archipelagos. As a result, the liquor business was a huge contributor to the planet's economy, as anyone that traveled to Crystal for a vacation away from their home colony would want to have a taste of the planet's lengthy list of spirits. To declare that the alcohol on Crystal was anything less that superb was an affront to his patriotic spirit; what little bit of patriotism he had. 

"Hold up," he declared, shaking his head vigorously, "I'll have you know that you won't find Artesian Spiced Rum anywhere else in the galaxy, and it's fucking delicious!"

It seemed Avery had banked on Furby quipping back at him for his colorful commentary, as he seemingly had a response prepared in advance. "Rum ain't 'spose to be delicious, bro," he replied with a chuckle. "It's 'spose to get you fucked up quick."

"It does that!" Furby shot back in defense. "Chambers, c'mon, you gotta know that Crystallian liquor is a tourist favorite!"

He glared at the machinegunner from their sister fire team expectantly. Chambers, however, was not about to fall into the trap that had been set for him, it seemed. "I'm not getting involved your three's strange marriage any more than I already am," he'd said, much to Jayson's chagrin. He didn't know why he expected the man to side with him considering he'd just criticized his choice in spirits. Perhaps he'd thought the man would have been a voice of reason despite the controversy. Furby had been wrong, yet again. "But if you don't like the Alfold spiced Rum... that I had brought on board for all of us to share; you're free to trade it back to me if you want, Furbs."

Jayson blinked at him, dumbfounded. He had not expected that retort at all, and it took him some time for his brain to process a suitable response. He had hoped for something witty to shoot back at the Reach-born Aussie; but, instead, he had to settle for: "No, man. It's fine. I'll drink it." He raised the bottle beside him to his lips and took a short swig, resigning to defeat. Avery, Chambers, and Ward had all managed to silence him, a feat to behold. 

The silence was short lived. As he set the bottle back down and swallowed the rum, feeling it burn on its way down his throat, the last person he'd wanted to hear from tossed in their two credits. "I am happy to have drink from comrade," Lance Corporal Mihaylov interjected, eliciting a roll of the eyes from Furby. "This is far much quality than home. One time, cousin made wine in bathtub we found in old home near beach. It did job, but made friends sick. Good times for no one on beach that night. Good waves though."

That sounded absolutely disgusting, in Jayson's opinion. Wine made in some old bathtub in an abandoned house? What was this guy, a vagrant? What kind of people decided to drink out of a bathtub? Just the term "bathtub wine" elicited a churn from his stomach that caused his hand to hover over it. Avery, on the other hand, seemed entirely amused by the idea. "Bro, that's hardcore," the machinegunner replied, nodding in approval. "I ain't never tried that before. That's some next level shit right there."

Furby wished the conversation had ended there. He could have lived with that. However, it seemed Mihaylov intended to throw one more dig in there to get under his skin. "Perhaps better I take your drink Furby," the Russian said with a stupid grin on his face. "Too much make you drift long shots. Would be much bad to be out shot by hairless one at 200 meters."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. "Ward?! Out shoot me?!" he exclaimed with incredulity. "No way! There's no damn way that he could outshoot me. Not in a million years!"

That was, of course, the invitation that Avery needed to interject himself back into the midst of the fray. "Ward, you gonna let him dog you like that?" he asked, smirking like an idiot. "Honestly, it sounds to me like somebody's gotta settle this before it gets outta hand. How's about this: when we get planetside, we see who's the best shot."

"You mean like a contest?" Furby inquired, scratching the back of his head. 

Avery shook his head. Notlike a contest, a contest. You, Mihaylov, and Ward here compete to see who can snag the furthest kill with his rifle."

"That's not fair," Furby said. "Ward's not a DM. He carries an MA5."

That seemed to have occurred to Avery, and it did not discourage him one bit. "Yeah, so he gets double points for scorin' a shot well outside his usual engagement distances. Quadruple if its a headshot."

"I like this idea," Ward said, chuckling. 

Furby shot a glare at the rifleman that could have grounded a Halcyon-class cruiser. For as meek and soft spoken as he appeared to be, he really did truly enjoy proving that he was actually a savage in disguise. But, he couldn't exactly argue with Avery's logic, and it seemed like a fair rule considering that his friend was at a severe disadvantage compared to him and Mihaylov. He did have but one question that he wanted clarification about. "So who's gonna keep score?" 

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

"How come you're keeping score?!"

"I'm a Senior Lance Corporal," the machinegunner replied, matter-of-fact. "And, just to make sure I don't get accused of bein' biased towards First Team, I'll let Chambers judge as well. That way neither of us can favor our own teammates over the others." That's when Avery turned to Chambers. "You in, right?"

[Ward, J.]

If there were words to describe how Ward felt as his friend and teammate, Furby, devolved into a overly sensitive mess would be that he was tickled pink. The spectacle was enough for him to close his book and take a brief swig of his soda, intent on witnessing the series of events that were undoubtedly about to transpire unfold. He listened intently to Furby and Avery have their typical back-and-forth, a grin snaking its way across his face as the conversation grew all the more juicier. Avery had proposed a content between himself, Furby, and Mihaylov to prove who was the better shot among them. What made him all the more happier was that the machinegunner had already considered his severe handicap in this particular contest; the fact that he was a rifleman and lacked the proper equipment to generally reach out and touch someone at longer ranges. He would score double the points if he managed to kill something at greater distances, and the points would double again if that kill happened to be from a headshot. 

It would mean he would have to pay attention to his shot placement downrange, and there would probably need to be some sort of confirmation to his kills in order for them to count for him. Combat was a messy, chaotic affair. There wouldn't be very many opportunities for him to assess every shot he made to ensure it hit its target, let alone hit it in its head. Thankfully, whenever a battle damage assessment was necessary, First Squad was usually volunteered to handle it. Sergeant Stone had a knack for volunteering First Squad for things, and it didn't seem like the other squad leaders minded much. Perhaps it was because Stone had them all beat by about a decade in experience. Very few people had the gall to cross that man, and even fewer lived to tell the tale. 

"I like this idea," Jonathan replied, shooting his friend a toothy grin. The glare he received in return was enough to cause him to chuckle. Lance Corporal Furby had been into sports prior to his draft into the military. He'd almost went to college on a GravBall scholarship, a fact he often liked to remind people whenever he had the opportunity, along with the obligatory statements that the Marine Corps had robbed him of his future as a prospering sportsman. Generally, in Ward's experience, people that hailed from that life boasted an ego. That was, at least, true for Furby. He didn't like it when his pride was targeted, and it was an easy thing to target. 

Before the conversation had even steered that way, Ward knew that Furby was going to accept the challenge. He had to. His very reputation as a marksman was on the line, and ever since Lance Corporal Mihaylov had joined up with First Squad, Furby had considered the man his rival. Whether the man wanted to admit it or not, Furby felt threatened by Mihaylov. Anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that. That was what made this whole thing all the more juicy. There was an opportunity to knock the man down a peg or two. Ward generally wanted the best for his friends, but Furby was the occasional exception to that rule. 

In the midst of the foray, Ward noticed someone enter the berth. His head careened towards the door to be met with the sight of Private First Class Wilkas, the platoon's RTO. He greeted her with a wave as she hesitantly made her way over to them. Walking in on the midst of such a heated debate was probably off-putting to some people. However, anyone that had spent longer than five minutes around First Squad was probably used to it. This was an almost daily occurrence. "Hey Wilkas," Ward said. 

"Mind if I join you guys?" the RTO asked respectfully. 

Ward generally wasn't in a position to speak for the group, but no one would object to him bringing Wilkas into the fold. Especially not Furby. Although, given the current set of circumstances, he could have been wrong. When the man's ego was under attack, he generally didn't like too many spectators. Which, in Ward's case, was precisely why he beckoned her over. "We don't mind at all," he replied. Sometimes it was more entertaining to watch the chaos unfold. In this case, he had the unique opportunity to add to the chaos without any negative repercussions. It was a win - win scenario, and he was sure that Davis would have been proud of him were he here to see it happen. "How's things?" he asked her, hoping to ease her somewhat into the mix. 

[Mihaylov, D.]

Furby's absolute loss of his posturing was a win for everyone there. Dmitrii couldn't help but laugh as Furby lost his mind at the notion of Ward out-shooting him. The whole of this scenario was absolutely ridiculous, but pride was never a gentle master and Furby was fully ruled by it. Mihaylov took another pull of his rum before continuing the fun.

"I will gladly compete," he said. "What does winner get? And does loser lose? I not like playing for nothing."

Mihaylov raised his cup in salute to the RTO as she entered the room. He knew her on site at this point, but she had spent much of her time alone or with first team. He had heard a rumor the Sergeant Davis had taken an extra interest in her, but he didn't particularly care. He never seemed to give her special treatment so id didn't effect him at all.

"I also think we give special points for hard target. Elite is harder than Grunts you know."

In typical fashion, this was quickly escalated into a full blown game rather than a simple competition. Mihaylov was waiting to hear other people wanting in on the scoring system. There was going to be drinks and favors on the line and he was willing to wager that in the end, neither he or Furby would win this thing. Then again, watching Furby sputter like a breaching whale was victory enough for now.

[Chambers, T.]

The grunting recrimination of Ward from Sergeant stone caused pretty much everyone, Chambers included to reflexively hide their drinks. But Chambers had come prepared for such an eventuality. With Stone it would probably mean he'd keep his head and loose the bribe of a pair of Cigars, but probably also watch ancient war machine of a man he was either drink it all right in front of them or make them pour it out. However they might just get away with it. He had to hope the man drove them hard in combat, rode them to their deaths, but off duty, out for fun. Oscar and Stone let you get up to a lot. 

Mikhailov's story was not one he cared to hear. If one thing about his Russian friend was true, he had spent most of his youth doing not too much. being the carefree social butterfly, surfer boy he always portrayed himself to be. You had to be someone he surmised. Chambers however just wanted to survived. Chambers looked up from his work as Avery congratulated Mihaylov. He shook his head but not before he caught a little glimpse of Furby apparently a little unsettled by the revelation Mihaylov was probably the least picky in the room with regards to what he drank.

What followed however made it possibly worse or better, it really depended on your point of view. The heated exchange between Furby, Avery, Ward and followed by the entrance of Wilkas. He nodded at her when Ward welcomed her in. The real interest was this competition between the Designated marksman... and Ward. This sure was going to be interesting. Now it moved into the details, scoring and who would keep it. Avery had the bright idea of volunteering both Auto Gunners.

"I'm a Senior Lance Corporal, And, just to make sure I don't get accused of bein' biased towards First Team, I'll let Chambers judge as well. That way neither of us can favor our own teammates over the others." Avery then turned to him. "You in, right?" the squid smiled.

"Sure why not." He said with a shrug. "Bad thing for these two though," He jerked his head at Mihaylov and Furby before returning his look to Avery.  "We get to keep them honest this time. But you work out the scouring. I'll just judge it." Chambers finished with a laugh. However his vision fell on Ward last.

"I assume the rest of us can bet too? He smiled at the man. "because I smell something to be won."

[Wilkas, G.]

 Wilkas smiled at Ward warmly when he said that no one minded her joining. "Thanks." She said softly to him as she seated herself down nearby, listening to the somewhat heated debate going on between the various different members of First Squad. At his question, the small redhead shrugged. Grace seemed to have a shrug for just about every occasion. "Things are good." She replied honestly, perhaps not great but good all the same. She just was not looking forward to having aliens shoot at her or Innies shooting at her. Maybe and quite rightly, Wilkas did not like to be shot at. At least there was an advantage to being small, easier to find cover. "What about you?" She inquired in turn, but the question also happened to be directed at everyone else too. 

From the sounds of it there was going to be a shooting competition between Furby and Mihaylov, there were going to be two different judges. But she found there was a problem with that, not who they were, rather their number. "I can judge as well, that way there will be three of us and a tie breaker in case of any draw." She offered, though sounded uncertain as if it were not her place to. Wilkas suddenly felt her cheeks grow warm. If they accepted would they accuse her of being biased towards Furby? Or what if they declined because of her and Furby? Well the offer was out there now anyway. She would not be biased towards either if they asked her to judge. 

Now on the other hand, if they asked her to take part in the contest she would decline. Not because it would not be fun, but because she would lose. Her skill with a rifle tended to be low. If she did somehow achieve a win, it may either be from luck or because someone allowed her to win. 

[Furby, J.]

Furby had become the center of attention, and not for any reason that he would have preferred. Avery had suggested a competition between him, Mihaylov, and Ward, and it seemed everyone was eager to participate in it but him. Why did he need to prove himself to them? He was an expert marksman! There was no point to it. Not at all. 

Except, there was. Mihaylov had declared himself the better marksman out of the two, and now his reputation was on the line. If he decided to opt out of the competition, it would mean that he agreed that Mihaylov was the more skillful and that he was acknowledging that fact. That simply wasn't the case. Furby could outshoot him every day of the week, and twice on Sunday. He knew he could. But, without tangible evidence, no one would take his word for it. And the only way to produce evidence to the contrary was to participate in the competition. 

He was well and truly cornered, and he knew what he had to do. "Fine, I'll bite," he said before rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But, if we're doing this, loser has to pull the next ten duty rotations once we're back from this op." That seemed like a fair punishment to the loser. Duty rotations varied in what they required of a Marine. Some duty rotations consisted of fire watch, which was both boring and monotonous. Others could range from working parties where one would find themselves police calling an area of the ship, to working in the galley, or serving a stint in the armory. None of those options were very appealing, and to be forced to do ten of them in row was downright torturous. 

"Bet," Avery replied, nodding in agreement. "As for the winner, I say anyone can wager what the winner gets; be it credits, food, or hooch. Buyer's choice."

"I also think we give special points for hard target. Elite is harder than Grunts you know," said Mihaylov. 

Avery nodded. "Special points sounds fair." 

As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't argue with Mihaylov's point. It did make sense. "Alright. How about three points for a Grunt, five points for an Elite?"

"Ten for a Hunter."

"A Hunter?!" Furby asked in disbelief. 

The Lance Corporal merely chuckled. "It ain't just Elites and Grunts out there, bro," the machine gunner replied. "Four points for a Jackal with its shield deployed. Those bitches are hard to kill."

That was fairly reasonable, Furby thought. A Jackal by itself, without a deployable shield, was fairly easy pickings. However, when they had a shield, you had to aim just right to be able to take them down. The notch in the shield was small enough to make it difficult to actually hit the Jackal, but big enough for it to shoot back at them. It took an experienced marksman to take one down, or someone with a lot of ammo to toss at them to throw them off balance so that they'd expose their center mass to their assailant. 

Grace entered the room and Furby immediately acknowledged her with a nod in her direction. Normally he'd give her a proper greeting, but he was far too consumed in the conversation to sidetrack himself from it, even if he wanted to. That was why it took him by genuine surprise when she volunteered herself as another judge. He hadn't expected her to be interested in participating, and now he felt the pressure even more to excel in the competition. Furby looked back at Avery and saw a twinkle in his eyes. He knew exactly how Furby felt about Wilkas, and something told him he welcomed the prospect of her judging in the competition a little too much. He may have been his friend, but he enjoyed giving him hell at any available opportunity. Here and now, Wilkas had presented one such opportunity for him. 

"Alright," he exclaimed, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Wilkas in the house. I like it! You can definitely hop up on this train, girl!" 

Jayson did not much like how he had phrased that last sentence, but let it slide because he knew the man had done it on purpose to annoy him. Now there was yet another stake in the betting pool, and one that was probably unique to him and him alone. If he lost the competition to either Ward or Mihaylov, Wilkas would be a witness to it. The embarassment alone would be crushing for him. He needed to win this. There was no choice in the matter. "I hope you know that I'm gonna kick their asses," he said to Wilkas with all the faux bravado he could muster. 

Avery rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, we'll see, bro," he replied. "My money's on Fox. Two hundred credits says he stomps both y'all's asses."

[Ward, J.]

To say Ward was enjoying the devolution of the conversation into the equivalent of a high school pissing contest would be an understatement. He was absolutely smitten. He found himself amused by how flustered Furby had become with the sudden turn of events, and it was satisfying to witness. Of course, he was nervous. After all, he was being called upon to compete against his peers, both of whom were expert marksmen and equipped far better than he was to complete the task being demanded of them. However, he was up to the challenge. 

At the very least, if he was able to beat Jayson then he would have some bragging rights. If he lost? Well, no one could really blame him. The deck had been stacked against him from the start. Turning his attention to the scarlet-haired radio operator, Ward replied, "I can't complain."

That was lie. There was plenty for him to complain about. He was hundreds, if not thousands, of lightyears away from his home. He had left behind the love of his life and newly wedded wife. That had been an interesting development. He'd finally decided to tie the knot with his high school sweetheart just a week prior to deployment. Everyone had seen it coming, but it still came as a surprise to him. The transition from bachelor to married man had been a smooth one, but it was still a lot to take in, and it had happened all of a sudden. Initially, the plan had been to wait a few more months, but in light of their redeployment to the frontlines, Charlene had convinced him to speed things up. 

Furby and Avery had both given him crap for it. All of the jokes about how he couldn't wait to get out of the barracks had lasted for about two weeks, and had grown old pretty fast. Still, they both picked on him for it on occasion. He supposed it didn't matter, though. He loved Charlene and couldn't imagine himself with anyone else. And the honeymoon. That had been memorable. He'd rented a small cottage out in Visegrad, the place his father used to take him as a child, and spent that weekend with her away from civilization. It had been just the two of them, alone in the wilderness. It'd been blissful. And now he had left her behind to go off and fight once more. 

It hurt to think about, but it was simply a part of his life that he could not control. He'd signed a contract to serve humanity and answer the call to action whenever it came, and it had come. Ward caught himself rubbing his wedding ring with his thumb, and promptly stopped, choosing to divert his attention back to the shenanigans that were transpiring before him. "I think Wilkas will be an excellent judge. She's as close to impartial as anyone can get."

That wasn't perhaps entirely true. He knew that Wilkas and Furby were close friends and that Furby had a thing for her. Well, anyone with half a brain could tell that Furby was attracted to her. It seemed to him that Wilkas was oblivious to it. Maybe he was wrong. He hadn't spent enough time around her to be able to tell with any level of certainty. There were rumors that had circulated about now-Sergeant Davis and her spending a lot of time together, but First Team knew those rumors were bullshit. Davis was not the type. At least, not within the platoon. Outside of it, however, was a different story. 

And then there was the rumors of fraternization between her and Gunnery Sergeant Cruz. Avery had told him once when he asked that it had been a thing, and that that's why the Gunny was no longer their platoon sergeant. He wasn't sure if that was true, but he remembered Furby wouldn't shut up about it. He had been pretty hurt when he'd heard the rumors, and of course he turned to Avery and Ward to vent. First Team was tight, and as a consequence they had to hear each other's dirty laundry. He shrugged. It was the nature of the beast, he supposed. 

"If a Hunter is twelve points by itself, I feel like a kill shot to its neck should be twenty-one points," Ward added, not really having any objections to the point system. Avery had said that headshots meant quadruple the points, and a neck shot to a Hunter was the closest thing to a headshot that one could manage. It was also damn near impossible, as it was the smallest target and in between the alien's armored torso and impervious helmet. 

If he was to participate in this competition, he was going to have a say in the rules of it. 

It was only fair, after all.

[Stone, T.]

Stone took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled it slowly, watching the smoke plume in front of him. Regulations be damned, he needed the nicotine. He was sure there'd be some Navy reg-jockey that would breath down his neck for polluting the air scrubbers, or whatever it was that caused them to frown upon smoking aboard ship. He dared anyone to step up and say something to him. First Squad knew better, of that he was certain. It helped that he'd had an air cleanser installed. It constantly ran in his squalid quarters, sucking in any pollutants that could potentially enter the air filtration system and clog it. He'd learned after his last get together with Staff Sergeant Mason, when the two had shared cigars and bourbon together. Without the air cleanser, the squad bay would fill with smoke fast. 

If it made it into the passageway beyond the berth, the cavalry would no doubt be called. The ship's AI would detect the smoke and mistakenly sound the alarm, assuming it was from a fire. In a way, it sort of was. However, in this case, the fire was at the tip of his cigarette, and it burned brighter with each subsequent drag. He'd spent about three-fourths of the cigarette since he lit it, and the squad bay was entirely void of haze. It was a testament to the power of the air cleanser. He wasn't sure how long the thing would last before inevitably breaking down, but he would continue to use it until that fateful day. Some things were meant to be enjoyed, and he enjoyed his nicotine. 

As he slowly worked the cigarette down to its filter, he listened to the conversation happening in the squad bay proper. It sounded like, from what he could overhear, Furby's pride had gotten the best of him once again. That boy was about as thick as a rock when it came to people baiting him. He fell for it every time, like a fish to a worm in the water. The fish would become so focused on the worm that it wouldn't see the hook just waiting to snag its next victim. Stone chuckled. There was always one in every crowd. Stone was an educated man, by any means, but he was smart enough to realize when he was being baited. And no one pulled a fast one on Thomas Jeremiah Stone. 

Stubbing the cigarette out on the table, Stone discarded the butt in an empty bottle of whiskey that he'd repurposed as an ashtray. He stood up, deciding to make an appearance. He knew that he would catch the Marines unawares by his sudden appearance, and that was his sole intention. He had to keep them on their toes, even in the rear. He stepped over to the threshold and poised himself to rip the blanket aside. A smirk crossed his face for just a fleeting second as he imagined the expressions that he'd undoubtedly behold. It quickly disappeared and he wrenched the blanket aside, storming into the squad bay with nefarious intent. 

"So, y'all wanna start throwin' bets 'round, huh," he asked, his silvery eyes darting from one person to the next. He settled his gaze upon Ward, letting an uncomfortable silence fall over the group. If they were going to throw around wagers, he would spice things up a bit by giving them one of his own. "Well, alrigh'. Since y'all feel so damn confident in yerselves, here's my wager: the victor gits ta have the whole bottle I got sittin' in my berth, an' the pick of the next trainin' sim the squad'll run when we git back."

Now that he had sufficiently upped the anty, he turned focused solely on Ward. "An' you... if ya beat these two knuckle heads at their own game, I'll personally tell yer pappy ya ain't a waste of oxygen. Hell, if ya really kick their asses, I might even spare ya from drivin' my damn 'Hog the next time we run a convoy. How's the LAAG sound, Ward?"

Ward had been assigned as his driver throughout their time on Melfa. Any time he'd asked to man the gun, Stone had turned him down. It wasn't because he didn't trust him to do his job as the gunner. No, it was far less personal than what the young PFC likely imagined. The truth was, he did it because that was what Ward's father had done to him when he was a lowly junior Marine. The Gunny would always tell him that he had to earn the right to man the gun, and now his son was no different. Stone saw potential in the kid, truthfully. He'd managed to gain the trust of Davis when he was their fire team leader, and that meant that he was capable of being exceptional when the situation called for it. Hell, Stone had pulled Ward away many a time to do what was necessary to pull the platoon out of hot water. If he didn't trust him to be able to perform when he needed to, he wouldn't call upon him to do so.

For how bleak his impression of his former mentor's offspring was, the kid had managed to prove him wrong. He'd thought for certain Ward would have folded under pressure, or gotten himself killed on his first taste of real combat. However, Ward had done quite the opposite. He rose to the occasion on more than one instance and showed a determination that made him truly believe he would make one hell of a Marine some day. There were just a few kinks to work out, first. 

"Oh," Stone began, letting the slightest smirk crease his scarred lips, "an' the winner gets a weekend pass when we git to the next duty station after we're done sendin' some split-lips to Hell. The losers git extra PT along with their extra duty. Y'all gon' be some strong sum'bitches."

[Mihaylov, D.]

Dmitrii couldn't help but grin like an idiot as the members of First Team squawked and bickered back and forth. The wager was already set up to make for the best time they could manage in the middle of an operation. Dmitrii scraped a small speck of carbon from the bolt of his rifle before taking the last swing of rum from his cup. The bet of 200 credits on the handicapped participant was the most intriguing one to start with.

"I will see credits for me victory," the Russian said with a toothy smile. "No likliness of hairless one beating me. Even with extra points. I gladly take money from gun bunny."

The back and forth was gaining volume and animation as wagers were quickly cast around the squad bay. Money was easy to come by at this point as they had nothing to spend their credits on until they made it back, if they made it back. It was all part of the fun and camaraderie, and Dmitrii loved every second of this. 

The fun came to an abrupt end with the voice of Sergeant Stone. The grizzled vet strode out into the squad room and everyone froze. Dmitrii slowly stood to a parade rest in as nonchalant manner as he could. The smile leapt from his face in the practiced fear that only the Corps could provide. He glanced from the corner of his eye to try and gauge the Sergeants demeanor. It only took a sentence before he knew that the game was truly on. Dmitrii's smile crawled back across his lips and he nodded his head in agreement with everything Stone had to offer.

"OOORAH!," he shouted in response. "I must win now. No other thing is possible!"