[B-Deck] Boredom & Shenanigans

[Wilkas, G.]

 Wilkas felt her cheeks grow hot at Avery's words, but she did not know what to say in reply or even how she should say it. In the end she said nothing, managing to meet Furby's gaze. "Of course." She responded, with a shy smile. Not that Grace was the betting sort, especially since she was a judge. It would not do to put some credits on the line, because she could, not that she would mind you cheat to ensure that she managed to win by being a judge. The redheaded RTO did quite like Furby, she knew or suspected how he felt about her and she felt the same for him. Yet, something held her back from saying anything, especially when the pair were alone. What if Furby had changed his mind? What if she had entirely misread the situation? 

Plus there were the mistakes she had made in the past, she did not want anything bad to happen to Furby because she messed up. She had already gotten herself and somebody else in trouble once. The last thing she desired is to drag another soul into trouble again.

"I'll try my best to be." Wilkas said in a quiet voice at Ward's faith as her skills as a judge. She then added  quickly. "Though if you want to bribe me, I like my breakfast in bed, with bread lightly toasted, no butter and my eggs fried..." Grace's tone made it clear she was joking, but she trailed off realizing, perhaps too late that her green eyes were resting on Furby as she had been talking. "That was a joke." She mumbled, hoping she was not about to find several different marines from First Squad trying to bring her breakfast in the morning. Somehow, she doubted it would go down well with the medic, or anyone else in the platoon. 

Wilkas froze, bright green eyes wide with surprise and fright at the sudden appearance of Stone. She looked for all the world as guilty as a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Seeing Dmitrii go to parade rest, she quickly copied the movement, her training finally overcoming her surprise. Stone's offer had changed the nature of the game, a weekend pass and one of the Sargent's bottle of alcohol? That was serious. Of course, the punishment for losing in the form of extra PT and extra duty also haunted her mind. Even though she was not actively taking part, she swallowed at the thought of it. 

[Chambers, T.]

The points system was quickly being hashed out between everyone. He had no objections, He wasn't a good enough marksman to comment in the difficulty of a few of the shots. Now however he felt it was getting worse having being lumbered as second fire team's Auto rifleman, he was a good shot but missed the ease of an MA5 in the the hand and on the knees and back. However their newest Guest the Platoon RTO, Wilkas did add a fairly sound point to it all, herself as tie breaker. Chambers though it was fair and as much as he wanted Mihaylov to win, he was very intrigued by just how much of a run Ward could give them for their credits with his MA5.

The conversation between his fellow auto gunner, Furby and Wilkas was good one to behind. Here mere appearance had done something to Furby. Perked him up a little. Tom guessed the bloke had a thing for the Sheila. He couldn't blame her. But Tom was not one to get himself into something with someone so close. It just screamed wombat shit to him. "I have no objections to Wilkas joining our illustrious judging panel."

He looked to Furby after the marines claim of kicking asses. "Only in your grandiose delusions, Furbs." Tom smirked at he looked between Ward and Mihaylov. "I'll take your 200 on Ward and add my own 200. But. I'll wager my last Rum Ruski here beats Furby."

There wasn't long however before their growing boisterousness was overcome with the grizzled clang of the gong of the simple presence of their squad leader. Sergeant Stone.

Most of them got to their feet. Tom made sure to keep a leg and boot between what he hoped would be the sergeant's eye line and the last dregs of his drink. He wasn't quite done. The Grizzled veteran looked across all of the common area occupants before adding his own stakes to the pool. No one would refuse them. Stone's treasured bottle, and pick of training sim. If they could pick a nice bludge sim. That would be his ideal pick.

However. The biggest surprise was Stones offer to Ward. Finally let the poor bugger use the Gun on their next 'Hog run. That was a motivator if he had ever heard one. Everyone loved to gun, but the man had been denied it at every turn on Melfa. Stone was a son of bitch, a bastard and an absolute pain in ass. But he was also damn good at getting the best out of them. However it seemed there was more. an extra incentive, a weekend pass and the losers getting raked over the coals just that little bit more.

Dimitri's response was predictable but appropriate. He nodded over at his Russian Team leader. He had damn well better win, or the last of his current stock of drink was toast. "You had better win there Dim." He said lowly over to him.

[Furby, J.]

The moment Sergeant Stone broke the threshold into the squad bay, Furby leapt to his feet and snapped to -- or assumed, rather -- the position of parade rest. He kept his eyes straight forward, not at all desiring to make eye contact with the NCO as he marched over to the group. It was like a tyrannosaurus rex. If you didn't move, maybe it wouldn't see you, and you'd escaped with all your parts intact. Jayson knew that the man was an observant son of a bitch. He'd been a Marine for as long as he'd been alive, probably. Not much slipped past him. 

As the Sergeant added his own wagers to the bet, Furby realized the bottle of alcohol that he had been sipping on was just beside his feet. He attempted to shift his foot some, hoping to block the view of the bottle with his leg in the event the NCO decided he wanted to "life" them all out. Stone, after all, might as well have been a part of the furniture here since he had been in the Marine Corps so long. Furby couldn't imagine himself staying a Marine for that long. He was hoping to get his enlistment over with so he could return to the civilian life. Or, at least, that's what he told everyone on an almost daily basis. Part of him didn't truly mean that, as the Marine Corps had somewhat grown on him over time. He'd never openly admit that, however. He had a reputation to uphold, a far more important venture as far as he was concerned. 

Stone went through his spiel about how the victors would get to enjoy his own personal bottle of liquor and would be given a reprieve from all the daily monotony and bullshit that the Marine Corps brought with it, and the losers would have to face extra physical training and duty as punishment for their failure. None of that actually seemed to him to be a wager, just a bunch of rewards and punishments for not being the best of the best. Which, considering the source, seemed to make a whole lotta sense. It did increase the stakes a bit, which was fine by him. When he walked out of this the clear and decisive victor, he'd get to laugh as Mihaylov suffered. It'd suck that Ward had to be dragged into it, but his friend was tough. He'd manage just fine, Furby thought. 

Furby couldn't resist opening his mouth, though. "That's... not much of a bet, Sergeant." he said, shaking his head slightly. 

The glare that the grizzled NCO shot him was enough to make him snap back to parade rest and look away from him. "... shutting up, Sergeant," he smartly added. When the NCO finally left, he relaxed and slinked back down onto the floor, thankful for that ordeal to be over with. He glanced down at the bottle of alcohol and took a quick swig of it. Sergeant Stone's presence alone was enough to give someone anxiety. You never knew what you were going to get with that man. Sometimes he was in a fairly reasonable mood, and other times he brought fire and brimstone with him wherever he went. He was perhaps one of the few Marines aboard the entire ship that had the guts to stand up to any officer or senior NCO aboard the ship. Hell, rumor had it that he even stood up to Captain Flannigan a time or two. 

Another NCO would have been cleaning out the heads with a broken toothbrush for even attempting such a thing. Stone, on the other hand, seemed to get away with everything. Maybe it was the rumors that he'd literally tossed Marines out of an airlock to their deaths for crossing him; or, maybe, it was because he'd been in the Corps so long that he technically outranked everyone by time-in-service. Whatever it was, Furby wished he'd had it. No one shammed better or harder than Sergeant Thomas Jeremiah Stone. 

"Alright," Furby began now that the coast was clear. "So, when I kick your asses, I'll let you know how good the Sergeant's liquor is."

[Ward, J.]

Ward's amusement at the unfolding situation came to a screeching halt. Sergeant Stone had emerged from his hole at the rear of the berth and came barreling towards them like a predator dashing towards its prey. The PFC leapt to his feet with surprising speed and snapped to parade rest before the NCO had reached them, his book slamming upside down on the floor beneath his feet. The color seemed to drain from his face as the man detailed the terms and conditions of his part of the wager in their little contest. He was going to make whoever lost suffer. The stakes became even higher for him, as he told him he would actually let him operate the turret on the back of a Warthog if he succeeded in besting the other two marksmen. 

If there was one lesson learned from Melfa, it was that he really despised driving for Stone. While Furby had been having a blast on the turret, Ward had been steering the vehicle like a madman to keep them from getting shot to shit. Stone did not believe in retreating or finding an alternate route. When faced with an ambush, he always assaulted through it, and their vehicle was always on point for the platoon. The Sergeant made sure of it. The prospect was exciting, but he knew that it was a setup. Stone wanted for him to get his hopes up when he damn well knew there was no way he could beat either of the two marksmen. After all, all he had was an assault rifle. There was no way he was going to outshoot the other two when they carried optics and weapons that could literally reach out and touch someone with precision fire. 

Whatever fun he'd intended to have with the contest was now a pipe dream. He knew he was going to lose, but now he had to at least try to beat the others. If not, he would stand to provide further reasons for why his squad leader should be disappointed in him. It would be further evidence that he was not capable of living up to his father's reputation. Stone made it a point to hammer that into his skull at every turn. He clenched his fists behind his back and wanted to just collapse to the floor and relinquish his spot in the competition to someone else. Perhaps someone more capable of going against Furby and Mihaylov. He knew he couldn't do that, however. If he were to give up, that would mean that he was admitting defeat, and loudly proclaiming that the others were better than him. Stone would probably be more pissed off at that than if Ward tried his level best and still lost. 

"Roger, Sergeant," he replied quietly. 

When Stone left, he sat back down and contemplated what to do. Was he going to go through with this or simply back down now and accept whatever humiliation came from it? The answer to his query came in the form of a quote from then-Corporal Davis that recalled from Phoenix III: "Marines don't give up, Ward. They fight until they can't anymore." That was all he needed to make his decision, and he turned to Furby as he gloated about how he was going to win. "I'm gonna laugh when you're stuck cleaning the head, Jay," he said with a smirk. "I'll let you know how Stone's liquor tastes."

Avery burst into laughter. "That's right, Fox," he exclaimed, "you fuckin' tell him. My homie here just said he's about to wipe the floor with yo asses."

Ward leaned back against the wall and picked his book back up. He turned it over and continued reading from where he left off, as if nothing had happened. Avery continued to cheer him on. "My money's on Fox, y'all. Most def."

Jonathan turned his attention to Wilkas as she responded to him. He chuckled at her quip about bribing her. "I've been told I'm a good cook a time or three," he replied, and couldn't help but grin from ear-to-ear at the look plastered across Furby's face. It was so easy to get under his skin. All it took was the right quip or the right topic, and he'd go off on a tangent. Sometimes his rants were entertaining to listen to, other times they were draining. It all depended on what had his ire at that time. In this case, his frustration was absolutely great to behold. Avery, of course, knew when to lay it on thick. Sensing an opportunity, he took it without remorse. 

"Sounds like Fox might wine and dine Wilkas, bro," he said jokingly. "Unless you beat him to it."

Ward chuckled. "Nah. I think I'll play fair. I dunno about Mihaylov, though."

[Mihaylov, D.]

"I not know about me either," Dmitrii said with a grin and wink at Ward. "I know booze though and I gladly share with judges. I am generous as good as shooting. Perhaps if I win, judges win too. Not paying, just saying!"

Dmitrii picked up his rifle and started the reassembly process. With every last piece of carbon scraped from the bolt, he slid the bolt back into the bolt carrier group, setting the retaining pins and firing pins with a practiced ease. Setting the muffle on the floor between his legs, he started sliding the bolt carrier into the body of the rifle, lining up the piston with the gas tube and pushing the bolt carrier past the various catches and indents in the body. The final piece was the buffer spring, a short, stocky spring to reduce recoil in the bullpup design of the UNSC's rifle. It was not his preference, as the explosive parts were right under his chin, but no one had asked him about the design of the rifles humanity would use across the galaxy.

"I miss old rifle," he said, pushing the last of the field stripping pins back together and making a quick operations check of his rifle. "When I shot at home, it was for fun. Old rifle from grandfather. Kicked like mule with old wood furniture, but accurate as far as I could see. Once hit target while riding wave 600 meters out. Best time of life. First time I fired from board, I nearly got knocked into ocean. Ahh, good time."

His voice trailed off as he remembered his life before being drafted. It was a good life, and a simpler life. The rifle check showed he had reset everything correctly, but it didn't bring the smile back to his face. His new family here was all he could hope for, but the weight of it all started to show up again. Who would make it back this time? Would he? Dmitrii shoved those feelings aside and the easy smile came back to his face. All of that would have to be answered another time.

Besides, he had a contest to win.

[Wilkas, G.]

 "I'll try not to disappoint." Wilkas promised Chambers, though she winced inwardly at the words even as she said them. She felt as though since she somehow managed to survive marine training long enough to pass out, she had been nothing more than an embarrassment to the Corps. Grace shook her head. "I'll bet on Furby, though I don't have 200. So... 50 now and 150 when I get paid?" She suggested uncertainly, her voice having that soft tone that she often used she felt unsure. 

Furby, it seemed could not help himself and Wilkas felt the corners of her lips twitch as his comment almost made her laugh. Laughing at a comment made to a Sargent, especially a Stone Sargent was not a good idea. Not unless she found herself very bored of life and looking for an extremely painful exit. Better to stay low and avoid the attention of the NCO. No smirking, no laughing, no nothing. 
She felt her heart race as she imagined Stone glaring at her, searching her eyes and face for any kind of amusement, any hint of something being off. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

"Try not to get too hung over." Wilkas warned Furby. "After all I doubt you'll get much sympathy from these guys." Or quiet for that matter, no doubt they would start making more noise than they normally did just to get one back for losing to him. 

"Oh... I..." The redhead flushed, first at Ward's comment then it deepened when Avery added to it. "Hey that's not..." She trailed off realizing that they had been pulling her leg and joking with her. Grace took a deep breath and silently saying a swear in her head before speaking. "Well if neither of you guys are willing, I'm sure Furby will be man enough." Though she sounded confident at the start, her voice had an almost squeaky quality too it when she said the last two words. It would, not doubt open herself up to further jokes. But... What if they did not think she was joking? That she was not just messing around with the squad? "I'm joking, I'm sure you're both man enough." 

[Stone, T.]

In typical Sergeant Stone fashion, as soon as he was finished setting the status quo, he turned on his heel and returned to the humble accommodations of his berth. He waited until he'd broken the threshold of his door to crack a toothy grin. Already he could hear Ward and Mihaylov talking smack to Furby, betting that they would be the ones to enjoy some R&R from the regular monotony of the duty roster. He would never admit that he had done it intentionally. An arsonist would never openly admit that they started the fire that burnt a building to the ground, and neither would he admit that he had added fuel to the fire that was his squad's makeshift competition intentionally. 

But, he had. He was proud to have contributed to the chaos. The stakes had effectively been raised a bar higher thanks to him, and he was genuinely curious to see who would emerge the victor. Though he'd never admit it, his money would have been on Ward if he had offered any to the pool to begin with. Too often did his squadmates dismiss him because of his position as a mere rifleman. Stone had witnessed Ward shoot on several different occasions, and he'd been impressed with him each and every time. Even with the Marine's adrenaline pumping through his veins and his heart beating a mile a minute, the kid still managed to make some fairly accurate shots at range. Not a lot of people could make the claim and not be full of shit for saying it. 

Mihaylov and Furby definitely had the advantage, in no uncertain terms. They were equipped with marksmen rifles that were meant to reach out and touch someone at nine hundred meters away with near pinpoint accuracy. Ward's own MA5 had a maximum effective range of six hundred meters against a point target. Despite that, it wasn't impossible to make a shot at greater ranges, but accuracy would surely be decreased. It'd take more than one shot to score a hit past that six hundred meter radius, and that was assuming the bullet still had the velocity to travel much further than that. However, if there was one thing that Thomas had seen from Ward in his time as his squad leader, it was that he knew how to improvise. How much of that was inherited from his father or passed down from Davis prior to his departure to bigger and better things, he didn't know. He'd seen the kid think on his feet, though, and that was an excellent skill to have.

If he couldn't beat his opponents on skill alone, he could always outsmart them. Furby was not exactly the brightest crayon in the box, and Mihaylov oftentimes underestimated others based off of his preconceptions about the person. Stone was almost certain that Mihaylov would dismiss Ward entirely as a threat, and focus all of his attention upon Furby, whom clearly was closest to his equal. That left Ward in the role of the underdog. It was a good place to be sometimes. "They're gon' hate him when he whoops their asses," he commented aloud, chuckling to himself. At least, he hoped Ward would best them. 

Because if he didn't, he was going to haze the shit out of him. 

No one would make Thomas Jeremiah Stone a liar. Not even the son of his mentor. 

[Gray, L.]

Once again Louise Gray had spent her downtime on Reach with Lawrence doing their usual routine that they did. She had also spent time with her brother Jake, who had been yanked from November Company to fill a spot in one of Mike Company's platoons. Now Gray and her brother as well as Lawrence, alongside the rest of Oscar company and the rest of the 1st Battalion, 12th Marines were now back on deployment heading into the unknown once more aboard the Vengeance.

In Oscar Company itself there had been changes. Mason and Rio, who had been in charge of second squad at the time Gray had joined, had moved on, as had her old team leader Kevin Stringer. Now Louise Gray found herself in a position she was not normally accustomed to. Due to a reshuffle in Second Squad as well as gaining a new Squad leader who she had met not long before they had departed Reach, the marine had found herself promoted to assistant squad leader. Not only that, she was also a fireteam leader for the first fireteam in the squad. Luckily for Gray, she still had Lawrence and her other teammate and friend, Silva in the same team which made things a bit less nerve wracking for her.

Gray glanced around the common area of Second Squad's berths, momentarily observing the marines who were casually hanging out with her, before returning to her thoughts. It was odd to think how far she had come from her boot camp days. She vividly remembered her first day with Oscar Company and how feverous she had felt on the inside, especially overhearing the remarks made about her and her teammates at the time. However thanks to the effort her team and herself had put in, Gray had ended up earning the respect of those marines as well as the rest of Second Squad, which in turn had lead to where she was now. Louise only hoped she didn't mess up.

[Chambers, T.]

With Sergeant Stone gone, the group quickly resumed their positions. Stone still had a presence and feel that both frightened him a little but in the midst of combat strangely enough made him feel a lot better. He ran them and trained them so hard that often real combat was preferable to another sim with the grizzled grey piece of steak their Sergeant was.

The exchange quickly returned to the back and forth between the usual suspects. Tom smiled to himself before taking the final swig of his drink, taking it down with gulp. Furby and Ward were going at each other like dogs through a fence, the bark was incredible. The bite... if you outside of Oscar company, human or covenant it was worse. Each one claimed to tell the other about how Stone's drink would taste. Mostly he was hoping to get a taste. Mihaylov's comment about sharing was not unexpected. He assumed if he won his team leader would at least share it around.

Avery seemed to quick enjoy pumping Ward up. it was good to see. You had to be careful of an underdog. Back one into a corner and just about anything could happen.

The short exchanged between Wilkas and originally Furby, then with Ward added was something else. It was quite plain that something, was between the two. The indications of how to make her breakfast seemed like a little more than an innocent slip. Well he couldn't blame either of them. Spending so much time in close proximity to each other and imminent demise could do silly things to a Marines brain. "Sympathy, For Furby? That's a good joke Wilkas. You should do stand up." He replied with a wink.

The conversation went further down that particularly slippery slope. The RTO had started to go on about who was man enough. It was a sight to see. He hadn't spent too much time with her. But she defiantly was an even less usual Marine then he was. Sure he was an average shot at best, that's why he got the lump the saw around, you can somewhat fix okay shooting with volume of fire. But Wilkas seemed to know just about everything radios and communications. He chuckled at her implication about Furby and shook his head as he continued with his repairs.

Chambers looked up as the conversation continued. Mihaylov's stories, as ever were something to listen too. Always a little nugget of knowledge in each one. He seemed his usual casual self at first, but noticed a flicker in the man's expression, ever so briefly as he reassembled his rifle. The mans story about shooting off a surf board... hard to be believed, but the man rarely lied in Tom's experience, embellished perhaps. “That, I would want to see Mihaylov. Overwatch from a Pelican on this one?” he said before resuming his tinkering. This old piece of garbage was going to work, it was just a question of when.

[Furby, J.]

Furby breathed a sigh of relief at the departure of Sergeant Stone. The man was as terrifying as he was unpredictable. Though Furby often tried his luck with him, he always went into it fully expecting to come out of it in worse shape than he had started. No one trifled with the likes of that man and lived to come out of it totally unscathed. Hell, there were rumors that had been going around for as long as he had been a member of Oscar Company that the man had sent people out of airlocks into the airless void of space because they had the idiotic misfortune of crossing him. Most dismissed those as mere rumors and no one ever reported it to the higher ups; but, Furby wasn't so sure. 

He'd only seen the man truly pissed off maybe twice since he arrived at the unit so long ago. Whenever the man became that enraged, there was an almost murderous gleam in his eyes. He wouldn't put it past the man to actually have the balls to do it. Either way, Furby had no intentions of finding out for sure. He very much enjoyed staying amongst the land of the living, even if he tended to describe his existence as mind-numbingly monotonous with infrequent bouts of excitement thrown into the mix to keep it mildly interesting at times. No, he knew the boundaries that he shouldn't cross, and he gave those boundaries a wide berth. He'd be entirely content with witnessing the carnage happen to someone else than himself. 

His attention was redirected back to the conversation at hand when Wilkas agreed to put her own money into the steadily growing competition pool. A grin slowly snaked its way across his face as she stated her confidence in his ability to emerge the victor, and he nodded cockily in the direction of Avery. "Yeah, man," he began, chuckling quietly, "Wilkas' knows what's up."

Avery didn't miss a beat, much to his chagrin. "That's 'cuz she wants some, bro," he said quietly, so as to not be overheard by the RTO. 

The Lance Corporal simply rolled his eyes and looked back at Wilkas, whom cautioned against him becoming too inebriated once he emerged the clear and decisive victor. He chuckled and gave her an exaggerated, almost cartoonish, shake of the head. "No worries, Grace. I can handle my liquor."

It wasn't long before Wilkas steered the conversation back to her earlier comment, and made a statement that caused him to sigh internally. "Well if neither of you guys are willing, I'm sure Furby will be man enough," she'd said. Furby could feel the stupid glare from Avery without even having to see it, and he could feel his cheeks turning a light shade of crimson. He was never going to be able to live that one down. The machine gunner, of course, knew how to lay it on thick. "Y'see what I mean, bro?" he inquired rhetorically. "Or do ya want me to spell it out for you?"

Jayson exhaled a sigh and shook his head. "No, I got it..." he said, trailing off to run his hand through his short-cropped hair. He felt like he was back in high school sometimes, and First Team was your typical clique. You had Ward, who was the nerdy kid that would do your math homework for you if you asked him to, and then you had Avery. Avery was clearly the jock that everyone both feared and admired for his natural prowess on the field. Furby was kind of in the middle. He was totally a jock -- there was no denying that -- but he wasn't exactly the all-star athlete that Avery was. Normally, he'd get decent grades in all of his classes and had hobbies outside of sports. And Faust? Faust was most definitely the punk rocker that everyone knew would bust your face in if you came at her the wrong way, and loved to be the one that would start a mosh pit so she could jam out and fuck people up without catching a charge for it. 

It was a uniquely First Team dichotomy that would be impossible to imitate anywhere else. Funnily enough, it hadn't always been like that. Davis, in Furby's esteemed opinion, was responsible for molding First Team into what it was today. The first example that came to mind as evidence to that fact was the sim party. He had singlehandedly organized and orchestrated an illegal party battalion-wide in one of the ship's many simulation training chambers. Even now, months upon months later, the crew of the ship and Marines across the battalion spoke of the party. Davis had solidified himself as a real, no-shit legend amongst the rank-and-file aboard the ship and within the unit. Even Stone had been impressed. 

Before Davis took over the team, it had been pretty mediocre. Private Porter had been a really stand up guy that liked his women loose and his booze dark, but he'd never really been the adventurous sort outside of that. The team leader before Davis had been your typical Marine NCO, doing what needed to be done to bring his Marines back home safely but never really associating with them too much outside of that. Corporal Fernando had been the type that liked to hang out with his peers and let the junior Marines do their own thing. It wasn't until Corporal Davis came along that the team really became tight-knit and locked on target. Despite how much he complained about the shit that Davis often had them do, it'd paid off on numerous occasions. Especially all the hand-to-hand combat training he'd submitted them to on a regular basis. 

The young Crystallian smirked at that thought. He remembered quite vividly having to go toe-to-toe with the boys from November Company in the simulator room, and just as some ancient song from centuries past came on encouraging them to start a riot. First Team did just that. It had started out as mere words being tossed around, and ended in an all-out brawl between the Marines of Oscar Company and November Company. By the end of it, the last team standing had been Davis's own First Team. Hell, they even managed to take down a few MAs before being subjected to the immobilizing effects of their stun batons. That had hurt like a sonofabitch. But, despite having been taken down by the Navy's knock-off MPs, First Team's reputation had been immortalized forever in infamy. It was a hell of a shoe for Faust to fit into, and Furby felt bad for anyone else that took the helm of the team in the future. First Team were some salty motherfuckers. 

Furby pushed the thought aside and decided to change the subject away from the competition, as the focus was slowly being drawn away from the rules and regulations of the competition and more onto himself and the platoon's RTO. "So, anyone else think that this op is fucking insane? An assault on Covenant conquered territory? For what?" Satisfied he'd set himself up for plenty of opportunities to complain, while giving everyone a chance to weigh in with their two credits, he leaned back and let the ammunition make itself.  

[Ward, J.]

Ward had resigned to sit back and listen to the chaos unfold. Their original conversation had quickly devolved into a pissing match about who would do better and who was the best. Ward enjoyed fanning the flames of the fire, but there came a point when you had to step back and admire your handiwork. That was exactly what Ward had done, and he was very pleased with himself. He couldn't take all the credit, of course. Avery and Chambers had really been instrumental in concocting the idea, and had really laid it on thick to Furby. Mihaylov seemed to have no problem contributing to it, either, which had been the most satisfying part about it. Furby couldn't stand the Russian surfer, and it made the whole thing that much more amusing to witness. 

When Wilkas had entered the fray, it had already devolved quite a bit. Once she lent her own two credits worth into the conversation, it had absolutely spiraled out of control. Ward could tell that his friend was thoroughly frazzled by it, and he was thoroughly enjoying it. There was nothing better than seeing him put off kilter and knocked down a peg. He deserved it sometimes. Most of the time, really. 

It came as no surprise to him when the marksman decided to not-so-subtly change the subject to avert everyone's attention off of him. Ward considered whether he should try to redirect the attention back to the previous debacle, but decided against it. He would give his friend the reprieve he wished for. Though, if he thought for a second he was about to join him in his moaning, he was very mistaken. The PFC rolled his eyes at him. "To give the Covenant a good ass kicking." He had said it with such confidence that it almost sounded like a matter of fact.

That seemed to elicit Lance Corporal Avery to nod in agreement. "Fox just said it, bro," he replied, giving a wink in Ward's direction. "We're gonna curb stomp those alien bastards back to whatever hellhole they came from." The machine gunner stomped his foot on the deck to emphasize his point. He seemed in no way apprehensive about what was to come. It was perhaps the most notable quirk that he admired about him. He never showed fear in the face of unsurmountable odds. There was just a willingness to do what he had to in order to accomplish the mission. Perhaps that was why everyone called him a psychopath. He simply wanted to kill aliens with his machine gun. Nothing else seemed to satisfied him more than a few dead Covenant at the hands of his weapon. 

During their last deployment, he had seen the man concerned maybe once. The squad had been ambushed on a narrow street at night in the capitol city. Second Platoon had all been mounted in Warthogs, advancing as a convoy through the city to a rally point with an Army platoon that had sustained some casualties and needed cover while they evacuated their wounded via Falcons. GPS had not shown any obstructions in their path to the rally point, and the night vision was next to useless due to the lack of power in the district they were in. Ward had suggested using the Warthog's headlights to illuminate their path ahead, but Sergeant Stone had quickly shot him down. He'd said that it would make them too easy of a target. 

So, when the platoon had reached its turn, Ward had turned down the street as ordered by Stone. Avery had been the gunner on the 'hog on that particular mission, and had called out that there was something in the road ahead of them as they approached it. That something had been a large steel pipe that had been dug up from elsewhere and dragged onto the road in front of them. It was perhaps the simplest obstacle to put one a vehicle's path, yet the most obvious indication that the road ahead was not safe. The only advantage the Innies had had was that it was so dark the Marines could not see the obstacle until they were damn near on top of it. Stone had ordered Ward to stop the vehicle and had notified the Lieutenant that the road had been blocked. 

Unfortunately for them, Lance Corporal Conaway had halted her vehicle too close to Mihaylov's own 'hog, leaving him no room to turn around. Mihaylov had smartly ordered his driver to halt their vehicle in the typical herringbone fashion, but Conaway's driver had parked too close and too sharp, literally blocking the entire length of the road with her vehicle, and thereby leaving Stone and Mihaylov's vehicles on an island. Essentially, Conaway's vehicle completed the kill zone that the Innies had been hoping to create. Ward had tried to back up, but found Conaway behind them. He remembered the tone of Stone's voice vividly when he reported to him that they were boxed in. For the first time since he had joined Oscar Company, Stone had sounded legitimately worried. It had been very unsettling. 

Avery was cognizant enough of their situation to begin scanning the area around them as best he could with the LAAG. It wasn't Avery that had noticed the Insurrectionists in the windows of the buildings, though. It was Sergeant Stone. "There are men in the windows..." he'd whispered, so quietly that Ward had almost missed it over the dull rumble of the Warthog's engine. Stone had fired the first shot, and the ambush began at that point. Tracers had torn through the air over their heads as assault rifles and chain guns let loose on the surrounding buildings. A couple rockets fired from makeshift launchers soared through the air and collided harmlessly many feet away, kicking up dust and dirt that swirled through the air, further hampering visibility. 

The ambush had lasted several minutes with, shockingly, no friendly casualties. The Innies that had ambushed them had been untrained guerrillas, and not the usual ex-military that had been known to occupy the city. He imagined most of them had blindly returned fire, not really aiming at what they were shooting at. It was probably because of the immense volume of fire that had been sent back their way in retaliation, but he couldn't know for sure. That had been the one time that he had seen Avery concerned, and Stone visibly worried. It had taken Stone leaping out of the Warthog and shouting at Conaway's driver to back the hell up and turn around for them to be able to move their vehicles and retreat from the kill zone. They had all been covered in dust and soot from the battle, but had otherwise been no worse for wear. 

"It's what we're good at, Jay," Ward finally added, setting the thoughts of Melfa to the wayside. "Kicking ass and taking names."

"Not me."

Ward turned towards Avery, his brow quirked in curiosity. The machine gunner chuckled. "I don't take names," he clarified. "Just kick ass."

[Mihaylov, D.]

"Pilots not like rifles fired from Pelican," Mihaylov said with his quick smile. "Tried once. Nearly got thrown off bird and I fly like rock."

It was then that the talk turned to the next mission and why they were on the offensive. For Dmitrii's taste, he preferred the offensive to sitting back and reacting to the aliens. But he found himself agreeing with Ward. The marines of Oscar Company had proven themselves able killers. Melfa had proven they were capable of killing anything, not just Covenant. It had been an entirely new experience, and one that Dmitrii would have preferred to never kill another human. Unfortunately, it wasn't his choice. He pushed those thoughts aside and listened to First Team banter. He hoped his team could tighten up like that, but it was unlikely. He spoke English so poorly that he would likely never inspire his marines. But he was still going to try.

"I assign Chambers to take names," he added in. "No worries for first squad with two of the great shooters, right Furby? And with Ward trying for real, perhaps he even get a few in target rich places. Hopefully we get OpOrd soon. I want to start getting ready. Waiting is worst."

He grinned to himself. If waiting was always like this, with friends, a rifle, and good stiff drink, he could probably handle more of it. This was a good time. Hopefully there would be more good times on the other side of whatever hellhole they were headed to.

[Chambers, T.]

Furby's change of course for their conversation was as surely predictable as had been his reaction to their various successful attempts to . But one that they certainly had through about since finding out about it all. The waiting was the worst part. This time however Tom was happy to be fighting the Aliens bent of eradication of the human race once again. Melfa... had been an experience for them all. He was thankful he had been with Oscar down in that steaming pit of a jungle world. Stone and the few other older marines had really gotten them through it.

The sayings were true, it was one thing to Kill some Grunts, a Jackal or an Elite. It was another thing to kill another human being. It was something that had long been done in human history, but it hadn't made it any easier. for him Sure you shot at fellow marines a lot in training, but you knew in the back of your mind the TTR rounds apart from a freak accident, pretty much wouldn't kill them. The jungles both natural and concrete of of that god forsaken planet however, you had to kill or be killed.

Chambers thought about the worst of it, for him personally for a moment. The moment he had felt the most desperate, the most instinctual. Seconds had felt like minutes, it was part of the reason he was fiddling with this relic of a music player. He needed to keep himself busy. As the Ward and Avery began to reply to Furby's latest addition to their collective bickering he felt it come back to him. It had been early on, before they had reached the city. They had been out on patrol into the jungles. It had been another grueling patrol no sign of the Insurrectionists. However if history was anything to go by, that was not a great sign.

The first thing that gave away what was about to come was the bark of a rifle and the crack of the rounds flying past them. The contact was close. Very close. He'd only just turned to face the contact and had been about to let his first rounds fly when his world became a blur and he found himself lying in the muck weapon beyond reach and another man laying part on top of and next to him. Hands and legs had quickly tangled. Elbows and knees found soft spots on each of them. And they both struggled with all their strength as they writhed around together in the undergrowth.

Rolling in on the jungle floor Tom had eventually managed to get himself on top. He reached around for his combat knife but failed to reach it when he took another hit to the ribs from the man below him. Toms grabbed what was closest to hand from behind and pounded the mans head with. The fight between them ended with a gurgle and Chambers found himself blinking rapidly as the man's smashed head leaked its crimson red contents over the leaves and dirt below. He had bludgeoned him to death with his entrenching tool, still in its stowed position.

Chambers shook his head and found himself staring at the circuit board just after Mihaylov spoke his name. "I assign Chambers to take names, No worries for first squad with two of the great shooters, right Furby? And with Ward trying for real, perhaps he even get a few in target rich places. Hopefully we get OpOrd soon. I want to start getting ready. Waiting is worst."

The Aussie smirked lightly at his team leader. "That's only because if you take them, no one will understand those names." He said lightheartedly. "Guess they just finally decided its time those Aliens get a nice kick in the teeth, courtesy of some Oscar company boots." He replied to Furby as he wiggled his right boot for emphasis.

[Wilkas, G.]

 Chamber's comment about sympathy for Furby proved her point in her mind. No one in his squad or perhaps the whole platoon save for herself would be sympathetic to his plight when or if he got hung over from drinking Stone's alcohol. Grace could easily imagine the Sargent drinking fuel or ethanol and having no ill effects, she supposed his alcohol might be enough to kill a lesser man. Grace smiled when Furby used her first name. "Please do otherwise you're squad might make it the worst hang over of your life."  

Unfortunately for the RTO the conversation suddenly switched back to the Covenant, to the war, to the very thoughts she sought out company to try and seek some escape from. She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat as she listened to what the rest of the marines believed. Confident, fuel of the idea of victory, of taking those alien monsters down a peg or two. She shuddered, as her mind replayed images of her encounters with the aliens. Grunts were not terrifying, the Elites and Jackals on the other hand... Best not to think about those. She wanted to say something but the words could not leave her throat. She was scared to go into battle, scared to face the enemy again, scared that she might die, scared that they might die. Fear was a natural response she told herself, she had her training and she was with her fellow marines. Safe as houses some might say and she was certain Stone was immortal, the Grim Reaper if he tried to come for the Sarge may find himself doing push ups and on latrine duty for duration. 

"To defend the UNSC and her colonies?" Wilkas suggested as the reason for the assault, her voice once more quiet.

[Silva, J.]

 Silva was seated on one of the chairs in second squad's common area, boots off, standard issue marine socks on. The boots were stacked nearby, polished and clean to a standard that might make an NCO happy. She lost herself in a book, though her mind kept retreating to other problems which assaulted her mind every time the writer went down a tangent unrelated to the story. She had already solved the mystery in her head, but the detective himself kept going after this red hearings and pointless threads. Perhaps the writer needed to bulk out his word count?

So much for her girlfriend, the dear Jane letter had come through the post whilst they were on Reach. Her ex could not stand the idea of her dying so wrote her a letter. Their planet went and got glassed, their families were all but wiped out and... And she had the nerve to send a dear Jane letter saying she could not do the relationship anymore? Bloody civilians, bloody navy, bloody marines, bloody bloody everything. She closed the book with a sharp snap, wishing she was able to fling it at someone, preferably her ex, maybe a grenade would be more fun for that though. 

She sighed, it was nice to be single again though after so long. She was trying to see the bright side of it really, though oddly the break up did not hurt. Something she suspected came down to the fact losing most of her family when New Paris fell to the Covenant hordes, unsurprisingly hurt a heck of a lot more than some woman. Plenty of more fish in the sea, maybe she would date one of those ODSTs, the big guys with the chiseled jaws who liked to be shot at a planet. Maybe. Also she found herself now using a SAW, which was an improvement. Silva would prefer a grenade launcher or assault rifle, but being able to spit enough lead down range to break down almost any infantry assault was always a plus. 


She nodded seeing Gray standing around. "Hello." Her New Parisian accent strong and thick as ever, maybe she would teach her friends to swear in French? Might be a fun way to pass the time.