Helljumper425

[i'm gonna start wrapping this up soon.] "E for 'Energy,'" Gabe said, nearing the front of the room before turning about again. "Remember that. Most of what the Covenant races use is energy and physics based. Instead of projectiles--with some exception--they use plasma. Instead of combustion engines, they use anti-gravity cores. That weapon," he gestured to the Elite's firearm, "can melt metal and flesh through and through with the ease of only a few shots. In return, ours take little under a magazine to take down one of them."

Gabe calmly placed the grenade into the recruit's hand, taking him at the wrist as he closed the recruit's fingers around the device, finalizing with his thumb clicking the primer in its ready position. "If you take your thumb off of that shiny red button, not only will you you have a lot of pissed off people in this room, but you'll blow yourself up, you'll blow up the person in front of you, and worse yet, you'll survive it. Think you can handle that?"

"Are you referring to the alien's weapon, or stun grenade that Recruit Kyro so gracefully handled? Speaking thus," Gabe knelt briefly and swept the device from the floor. Straightening out, his eyes locked on Kyro. He approached him calmly with a flat expression, stopping just within arm's reach. "Hold out your hand."

Looking once at Jones, Gabe exchanged a glance with Geza once more. The Sergeant had a brow raised, a slight nod subtitled in for reassurance: They're catching on. "Good metaphor," Kawolski said, bringing his attention back to the class. Dwyer crossed his leg as the Staff Sergeant continued his lecture, resting an elbow on the knee as he leaned across to Jones. "I think you just saved yourself another thousand push-ups." "Dwyer, repeat what I just said." A chill crawled through Sam's skin. He wanted to be quick on his feet and appropriate a half-accurate response, but it came out simply as, "I didn't hear you, Staff Sergeant." "Do you need to see the medic?" "Negative, Staff Sergeant." "Then check whatever malfunction you're having and pay attention. I'm only going over this once and then you're on your own." "Understood." "Deterrence," Gabe continued, pulling standard issue stun grenade from his thigh pocket, "is any application of force meant to do just that: deter further action from the opposing force. You've already experienced first-hand the effects of the flashbang. Your twenty seconds to the ready line was just an example of how well you can delay an opponent's efficiency for a preemptive strike. This can also be done with several other devices; M9 Dual Purpose grenades, for example, are best when dealing with Covenant infantry. If one species in their ranks doesn't have shields, then they'll have armor no doubt. So unless you're confident in your aim, don't flank expecting flashbangs to work every time. You're UNSC warfighters, not SWAT officers." Without warning, he underhand tossed the device at the outlying recruit at the edge of the first row. "Pass that around. If the recruit beside you is asleep, put it in their hands and keep their thumb on the primer. It's better than a cup of coffee." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Geza pinching the bridge of his nose. No, Sergeant, he thought to himself. I didn't stop using that trick. "Let's recap. Suppression is feeling your enemy out, keeping them where you want them. Flanking is the uppercut that should put your enemy out for good. Easier said than done. Even with an effective maneuver, your firefights can last minutes to an hour. Thus, why you carry specialized equipment to soften your targets. But again, you may never have to do this if you're attached to Marine platoons. Make no mistake, we're kicking your asses into shape, but as far as formal military goes, Militiamen are just the backup. "That doesn't mean you should be any less effective in the field. By the end of your training, I expect you to operate as well as, if not better, than any UNSC outfit. And for that to happen, you need to know what you're up against." Clicking the remote behind his back, Gabe looked over the group as the display changed, now showing an image of a Sangheili Minor, adourned in their traditional blue armor. The image was artificially made, portraying the alien in a rather empowering stance with an plasma-based weapon in one hand and a more natural combat stance. The object wasn't to demonize it, but to make it relatable, at least Gabe hoped. The second they started to blindly hate the Covenant he knew they would treat this like a game. "Questions...so far."

"If you can discern anything from my talks, Recruit Jones, the fact that a written test being the least of your concerns should probably be paramount. So don't worry your illiterate brain about it." Another recruit spoke out. "So... Out in the outer territories, we don't get too much news. What are the Covenant species?" Gabe shifted his weight at the question and folded his arms, glancing at the recruit before plainly answering, "We'll get to that." There was a moment of time he had to glance at Geza with a weary expression, to which the Sergeant simply shook his head. Without much more care for group speaking, he proceded on with the lecture. "Tactics, strategy, gameplan--these terms are all things you probably take for granted right now, whether it's in a ball game or a chess session. A lot of you might think you're fit for a leadership position. Without naming names," he said with a glance toward Jacob, "some have even directly asked me to place them as a squad leader for field training ops. Allow me to be frank: yesterday was your first day in the outfit, the first hardest day of your life. You can not expect me to entrust you to anything past the role of holding an empty rifle as of now. "Without further adeu, let's go over what you guys will have to worry about for the rest of your careers until you prove to be better. First up," he clicked his remote, killing the lights and engaging a slideshow on the smart screen behind him, "suppression fire. The screen shoewd a cartoonized set of blue Marine silhouettes and a series of red arrows lining from their weapons toward identical red silhouettes hunkered behind a rough representation of a trench. "Ideally, and kind of focused fire coming out of your unit will be when you have your targets dead to rights, out in the open, where dusting them off your territory is a sure possibility. Most Covenant you face will require combined riflemen to take down efficiently as it is. Most, if any, of your Covenant kills will happen this way as they have a habit of fighting in the open. However, they have been known to understand the proper value of cover, thus suppression is valid. Suppressing fire is where your whole element--squad, platoon, fireteam, et cetra--opens fire in the enemy's general direction, targeting movement or anything that looks suspicious enough to keep their heads below cover and dissuade them from moving. "If done properly," he clicked his remote, changing the image to a far-view, revealing two more sets of Marine icons moving in wide arches around their enemy's cover, "this should give you a number of advantages. The first being a lack of first-hand visual contact for your enemy. If they don't have the nerves to look, they won't be able to see you. The second advantage; if they can't see you, they won't know where you are. This should give you the room to flank their position and cut them down on your terms. Flanking requires paths, however. There's what flanks are: paths that lead you around the thick of a fight--back doors of kinds. Any respectable tactician should know to cover these flanks. Hopefully, you'll be working with Marines or Army when you finally get into a real fight, so you won't have to worry about the heavy lifting, but in the event that you're alone, let's talk about tipping the scales with deterrence. Everyone still with me so far?"

"Everyone accounted for?" Gabe asked, though more in the form of rhetoric than curiosity. "Good." Approaching the front fo the room, the Staff Sergeant sat himself at the edge of the desk overlooking his recruits and their seating. "I know this isn't ideal--working you to hell and back and then expecting you to be able to focus on a lecture, but we don't exactly have a whole lot of time together, as you're not the most formal Marine or Army candidates. You're placed on a fast track to reservism--yes that's a word--so working around the UNSC's limitations of militia training, we've arranged a few crash course presentations for you guys. Lesson one will be basic tactics and how to apply them to a fight. After that, we'll teach you how those tactics will be utterly useless against certain Covenant infantry types, and how to compensate for this. Any questions before we begin?"

Aaron had been walking for little over forty minutes when he finally decided to take a seat. He didn't make his resting place too inconspicuous, in fact he just chose the curb of some intersection without much a care about anything. If he got shot, so be it. At least he was comfortable. Resting a weary head to his gloved fist, he began to doze off, deciding it was better to forget where he was while he still could. And then some ***hole pulling at the fate strings brought his comm back to life. Not only that, but his HUD returned, monocular tactical data and everything. "Ah crap...now I HAVE to get back into the fight..."

By now, round two for New Mombasa was kicking in, with scarabs, light armor, and fresh infantry landing down. The UNSC was seemingly regrouping, judging by the fact that his current vicinity was rather void aside from him. He wasn't necessarily trying to rejoin the fight so it didn't surprise him to see decreased friendly activity. The Covenant were closing in as well, and patrols he was having fun traversing around. He was in the middle of it all, and worse yet, he was only half-armed. A designated SAW gunner was only as useful as his weapon, and right now his weapon was next to useless with a broken reciever and a charging handle that wouldn't come back more than an inch. With his luck, he'd be able to fire off a single, Grunt-killing around before his weapon jammed. Maintenance was a possibility, but he never carried spare weapon parts; Misriah made a products too good for them to need in-field repairs. He just didn't expect a God damned building to fall on him today. Solitude wasn't going to get him through this, he thought. "F**k...." he muttered, shaking his head. He was hoping to lay low, stay away from other friendlies. Any organized groups were certain to want to get back into the storm, but he knew it'd be a losing fight. But right now, he had no other option, so he touched his commpad again, repeating the same SOS sequence as before. "If I'm gonna die, at least it won't be alone."

[The next part's going to be some PT training, and I doubt you guys want to continue writing about doing pushups, flutters and running ungodly distances, so if you'd like to skip to the post-offer, shower off and have your characters find their way to the homeroom for lecture, then by all means.]

Sounds of vehicles and and gunfire were increasing all around. He came up empty on his search for survivors, but his trail didn't end, as he noticed a closely woven pair of treadmarks on the street. Tracing the black line with his eyes, his gaze finally met the horizon, where a steady stream of smoke was billowing in the distance. "Great..." Having not opted to try to chase down a vehicle, he started his walk to the point if interest, knowing damn well that he would later regret it. "I hate cities..."

"Well God damn, homey," said Les, laughing aloud with another trainer. "I might actually be impressed. Go on," he said, reaching out for the rifle. "Wash that crap out of your eyes and fall in when you're seein' straight." As he took the BR55 in one hand, Les could feel the watchful eyes of Kawolski waiting on an answer. Taking a look over his shoulder, he gave a sent back a nod. "Well I guess they have some hope," said Mates, raising his shades back over his eyes. Gabe was silent for a moment, deep in thought. It still troubled him that the Lieutenant, his former squad leader turned ONI official, was on his base. It couldn't have been just for the hell of it, or to say hi. "What's your angle, Dave? Why are you here?" Without skipping a beat, the Lieutenant shifted his posture to face the opposite direction. "A storm's coming. Everyone in the Office can feel it. I'd explain, but--" "Details. Nothing more." "Yeah...anyway, I'll be around. Stay cool." "Mhm...And hey, next time you're around, dress nicer. I'll kick your *ss otherwise."

"Details, recruit," Geza said to Kyro in a calmer tone. "They have a way of biting you in the *ss." With that, he redrew his can of mace and put on a cartoon-like grin. "But smile! Since you had the decency to admit it, you get to again--free of charge!" Patrolling the line of rifle lanes, Kawolski watched the recruits as they peeled off from the formation, one at a time dunking their faces in the nearest basin of water. A corspman joined him as the last few recruits were winding down, a notepad in his hand. "How'd they do, Les?" "Allison was a little laughable, but not bad. Same as Dwyer--okay at best but not enough to qualify if you ask me. Shields got some in the killzone, granted I think he missed with half his mag, and from what I heard from Geza, Kyro did okay with an MA5. He's having him redo the course." "Good. How about Jones?" "Pardon, Staff Sergeant?" "Jones, how did he do?" Les shook his head. "I wasn't covering his side, why do you ask? I thought you hated the guy." "I do. His attitude sucks but he was a half-decent shot yesterday. I want to know how he works with a Fifty-Five." "Sorry, Kwol. He wasn't in my lineup. You'll have to hear from one of the others." Gabe hummed in disappointed thought, however nodding in acceptance. "So overall?" "Not bad. Everyone pretty much passed, at least all of my lineup did." "Alright, help the others wrap up, and once everyone's squared away, give 'em a twenty minute run around the perimeter--PT for the rest of the hour after that. Showers next, then get everyone in the homeroom." "Finally going to lectures? I hope the AC's working." Gabe turned a persistent stare at the man. "Les..." "Going, Staff Sergeant." After a moment to himself, a figure came just out of his peripheral, hands behind its back. He knew the stance, and he knew just about only one pompous jackass who walked like that. The man's voice, all but confirmed it. "Bit harsh?" Mates, he thought with an internal hiss. "Lieutenant Mates," he said with a smile, turing to face the man. "What brings you to this wonderful corner of hell?" Lieutenant David Mates, donned in the most military-looking civilian attire--a pair of cargo slacks, a plain olive shirt and three day old stubble--pried a set of aviators away from his eyes and squinted past Gabe's shoulder. "Sight-seeing. I heard there was a comedy show in town." Taking the hint like a dose of salt, Gabe looked over his shoulder at his recruits, then exchanged a stern glance with the man before him. Snarky pr*ck. "Oh yeah? Well you've gotten fat." A genuine laugh escaped Mates' lips, and Gabe himself managed to chuckle as they shook hands. "Jesus, Kwol. I heard you started training, but I thought it'd be ODSTs, Reach Rangers or...hell something else." Gabe's face sank to a sour expression. "Nah...they won't make me a proper DI, not with the way things are now." "Sucks, man." "Yeah..." He looked his old squad leader up and down, hoping the change the subject. "What's this f***ing safari guide look for? ONI bust you down for sleeping with too many secretaries?" With a scoff, the Lieutenant waved a dismissive hand. "C'mon man, drop it. I'm comfortable--can't say the same for you." Gabe looked down at his uniform briefly as they started to walk across the field. "It fits." "For now. Only a matter of time before you come over to the dark side." "I already told you, desk jobs aren't for me, and neither is this intel crap," he said with a poisonous tone. "Seriously, why are you here?" "I'm just checking in, really," he said, the honesty readable in his voice. "You realize the militia training approval is just a gimmick. You, and these ODSTs here on assistance, are just here to supplement Reach's defenses." "They told me that when I signed on, ONI and the clerks. What's your point?" Stopping, the agent brought his hands up, as though to reveal a great truth to the Staff Sergeant. "You're wasting their talent. They're babysitting reservists when they could be running field training ops." "Stop there. Most of these guys just made Lance Corporal and Specialist. Call it leadership experience. Reach is gonna get hit sooner or later and these 'babysitters' are going to be the only difference between an organized evacuation and crowd of scared civilians." Mates nodded, feigning a smile "Right. Right, police training for shock troopers." After a long look at the field, he nodded toward the recruits. "What about them? Sating your DI bloodthirst?" "Something like that." Taking a moment to breathe, he let out a long exhale. "I dunno, maybe I'm just trying to pass the book, keeping the old ways alive before ONI--" "Aye, aye, I get it. Watch your tone--God damn..." Dwyer had lost count of how long his face was in the bucket. It felt like five minutes, which was something he could be proud of if it were true. He was never good at holding his breath, just as much as he was at taking mace. Every time he tried to pull out and breath, the sun reactivating the burning sensation of the mace, not just in his eyes but also on his skin. It was like rubbed his face into a basket of Earth-imported jabanero peppers. Needless to say, he wasn't going anywhere until he had to.

A shot rang out, closer this time. Despite previous attempts at a low profile, Aaron quickened his pace to investigate. Upon arrival he found a Covenant casualty; a Brute, shot clean through the head, and no doubt at close range by the powder burns singeing its facial fur. However killed it had himself a brief melee. Nudging the corpse to the side, Lockett looked it up and down with his M6 in hand, then pilfered it for its last spike grenade. The device was heavy, and more akin to the shape of a club than a grenade. He decided it was of use and slung it to his rucksack. Just as he was about to search its bandoliers he noticed a set of tracks, marked by its own maroon blood. The tracks didn't last a long distance, but they did tell him which direction its would-be victim went. After finding nothing else of value, he would rise, take up his sidearm again, and find the owner of said trackss. Why? Because he just didn't have anything else to go with.

{Nice of you to join us, Astro.] Fumbling over the wall, Dwyer hit the sand hard enough for it to form a cloud...only worsening the effect of the mace. Pushing himself to his feet, he managed to close in on a black shape, which he only assumed was the punching bag. As he drew closer, he could see the duct tape holding it together, and content that he wasn't mistaking it for one of their ODST assistant-trainers, he layed into it as best he could until he heard a whistle, which caught him off guard, causing him to miss the bag and hit the ground again. "F*** my life..." he growled, pushing off the ground, trailing sand as he reached the table and grabbed a ruck. Before he attempted to put it on, he heard its zipper break open, as he had grabbed it upside down and let the eighty pounds of weights fall at his feet. "Sh**!" "Don't just stand there!" a corpsman barked. "Pick 'em up! Move!" Dropping to a knee, Sam fumbled the weights back into the bag, though in a much less neat fashion than before. It didn't seem like a problem, but when he put the bag on, he could feel the disarray of their packing begin to jab at his backside with a myriad of rough edges. Nonetheless, he secured his straps and broke into a full sprint. By now, his lungs were burning, throat coating with phlegm to resist the foreign contaminants attacking his body; sand and mace were a hell of an alliance, but the human body never ceased to amaze him as he was able to cough up a brittle wad of sand and spit. Eyes down, he focused on the path, the only thing leading him to the rifle range. When he arrived, the blurry figure of another corpsman was there to greet him with a BR55 rifle. "This my prize?" he tried to joke. "We'll see," said the Corpsman. "Come on," he said, ushering Alison out of the booth and making way for Dwyer. "You've had enough fun for the day." Sam shouldered off his ruck, letting it hit the ground with a thud, then shouldered up. Brushing his eyes a few times, he managed to clear away the pool of tears but not for long. It was only just enough time to level in on the paper target downrange. From there, he had to guesstimate the killzones as he fired one at a time. His bolt finally clicked, locking back from the last shot. "Not bad. One in the killzone, the rest are superficial. Only one problem, Dwyer." Sam hung his head, distracting his inevitable disciplining by clearing his rifle. "You took off your rucksack. That weight will one day be your friend; whether it's ammo, food, or medical, you're gonna wish you learned how to shoot with it all on your back. Go on, rinse your eyes out and clear the line." Kawolski had taken some pleasure in offing a full second and a half of mace into Jones, but then he reminded himself of Cavril's presence and was infinitely happier. While a show off was one of the lowest of likes in his book, a man with a natural appeal to intimidation only served well in the field. In training, around people who likely never even touched a weapon before, he was only a distraction. "Shields, you're next and last. Let's go." At that point, Geza was catching up with the rifle range, observing the performance of some. One stood out notably, Kyro, having placed most of his shots on the target, much less a few in the killzone. He approached the booth, and suddenly his hope was killed as he noticed the MA5 in his hands. "What were your instructions regarding this exercise, recruit?"

[i'm liking DJ's omnicient misconception already. Whether he gets surprised or not by it, I'm hoping he is there for the revelation that there's more to the training than just being able to walk into the fire. But if it's "cannon fodder" that you're expecting the training to crank out then that's probably what's going to happen by the end of basic. That being said, the platoon won't last very long if they can get interrupted by a verbal dispute every few minutes.] Noting Recruit Jone's thousand-yard stare as he pried away, Gabe lead on, Geza close in tow. Eventually, they came to the pit, forming two lines, and at the front of each was either instructor. Beyond the first area of the sandpit was now a twelve foot wall, and everything beyond was left to the imagination. From their back pockets, they each pulled a canister of mace, the kind favored by law enforcement and MPs alike. "You learned how to fight yesterday," Gabe said. "Now you're gonna know how to fight blind. Once you've had your turn, hop the wall, and from there you'll hopefully find your target--a punching bag. There's four, so don't worry about crowding the pit. Give it a good fifteen seconds hate, then move forward. There'll be an eighty pound rucksack. Put it on, sprint back to the rifle range. The Corpsmen will guide you to your booth, in it a BR55 combat rifle. As fast as you can, load it, shoulder up, and put your best placement downrange." "All of this will be done while you're mostly blinded by mace, by the way," Geza announced with a plain expression that sent a chill down Dwyer's spine. "Eyes wide." Sam, still processing what was going on, instinctively raised both brows in question. Before he realized his mistake, a full second sensation that mixed traits of fire, acid, and every quick corrosive element he could thing of was unleashed into both of his eyes. He withdrew, cursing aloud, even cursing out Geza, whose smiling expression he was only able to gauge by his laughing voice. "Motherf***er!" "Hop the wall! Go! Go! Go!"

With the clatter of weapons fire in the distance, Aaron thought about regrouping, but in the shape he was in--especially lacking a fully operational primary--he wasn't ready to get back in another fight. He figured it best to survey first, keeping a low profile while attempting to collect anyone along the way.

With some improvisation and creativity, Aaron managed to salvage a comm module from the helmet of a downed Marine. Replacing his spent one, he hoped that it would at least bring the device back to life. Static was all he heard this time, but he had to try. "Click," he muttered, toying with the radio, the pressure pad specifically. While he couldn't transmit audio, the radio queue would at least come through as a faint click on any receving channels. He continued to send short bursts of static and pops, sending them in intervals consistent with a morse code SOS call. With any luck, someone would catch on and click back.

[sorry for the crappy post. I've been putting most of my attention in Militia thanks to DJ's attitude.] Lockett found himself under a slab of polycrete. No other way to describe it. He hadn't been knocked unconscious, hadn't passed out from blood loss or a concussion. One second, his squad was regrouping on street level with their platoon, and the next, a slip-space event had collapsed a building damn near on top of them. From the short screams, he could hear those that died from the falling debris, crushed on impact. Others were wounded, likely being evacuated by now. For all of his good fortune of avoiding immediate death or fatal injury, he was in fact winded, and as he tried to call for help, all he could do was gasp for air. The weight on his chest plate was making it worse, and by the time he could finally shout, no one was responding. His grip was weak, body aching, forearms lined with abrasions, he pressed his gloved hands to the slab holding him down and gave a push. Pain shot through his shoulders, protesting the action but the slab began to give way. With a few labored breaths, he tensed himself, pushing with all his strength until the slab rolled off to the side with a loud thunk. When he sat upright, clearing the dust out of his lungs with a few coughs, the private realized he was still on street level. One mystery was out of the way now, and had he been anywhere else he would've been baffled and worried. Here, he recognized that he was right where the war had left him, only this time bloodied, alone, aching and... "Ah, son of a b*tch..." he grumbled. His Squad Automatic Weapon was lying beside him, and that was about the only good news. Its strap was broken off at the clip, dangling like a wind chime as he lifted it onto his lap for a quick inspection. Tilting it to one side, he noticed a dent on the magazine corner, the least of his concerns compared to the charging handle. While a scuff mark wasn't a lot to get worked up about, the Private was more concerned for its internal components. If the action took a hit, it wouldn't be too far fetched to suspect an internal flaw that could cause a jam. Other than that, the weapon was relatively intact, and with some luck he could possibly rehabilitate it. But in the mean time, he wasn't going to risk using a faulty primary, and opted to use his sidearm instead. As he stood, he almost forgot about the broken strap and panicked to catch the weapon. He managed to keep it under his arm until he tied a temporary knot at the other end and slinging it on his back before drawing his M6G. Coughing one last time to clear his throat, he touched the commpad on the side of his helmet. "Bravo...Bravo this is Second Squad--Private Aaron Lockett. Is anyone out there?" He was met with nothing. No voices, not even static, which unnerved him the most. Comms were always working, even when they weren't. Static at least meant there was room for hope, but utter silence meant his radio was dead. That was when he noticed that his eyepiece was also out. No data was streaming, just an empty window covering his eye. Cursing, he retracted it for the time being. He was on his own.

Gabe stepped in front of the recruit this time, half a mind to ring the arrogant b*stard's neck. "Are you a shrink, Jones? Are you a combat analyst, human-intelligence, that sort of thing? For a gangbanging piece of sh**, you sure talk like you're well informed, like you know a thing or two about what you're up against. I can tell you already that that'll get all of you killed, if not by the Covenant, then by me, making you dig holes until you pass out long enough for us to forget and bury you. So by all means, keep talking. Keep running your f***ing mouth. It's big enough for your whole platoon, so how about you speak for them as well?"

"Recruit," Kawolski said firmly once Jones was finished speaking. "Firstly," he began, stopping the formation of recruits, "The enemy cannot arm themselves if they're already dead, and catching them off guard when they're most comfortable is far better than catching them alert and without guns. You feel me so far?" Without warning, he took a step forward, one that DJ undoubtedly saw coming and might've been able to recognize as threatening. The Staff Sergeant's original intentions were to sucker punch him in line, but at this rate he'd probably get the point either way. "Second: If you think you're the wiser, then by all means, ask, and I'll give you a shot at the brass ring. Just bear in mind that I have had about just enough of your bull**** to leave you on the streets. Now move."

"Shut up!" Geza snapped, mere inches from the back of Jones' head just to make sure he got the message. "You're dead! You're all dead! Had this been real, Yovvie the Covvie would be drinking from your skulls right about now!" It wasn't entirely true, despite the emotion and effort the ODST Sergeant was placing into his charade. They had made rather good timing, and he knew it, as did Kawolski who was now standing before the messy line-up, tapping his wristwatch. About to speak, his leg started burning again, just above the knee, where it always did. He shifted his weight to cope, rather than reaching down to scratch at it in front of his recruits. "If it's any consolation," he began, "Twenty-one point eight seconds was better than the batch I had four months ago. Maybe there's hope for you yet. Now that we've got you all warmed up," a grin formed over his face, "time to go back to the sand pits, we've got something special for you today."

[boot camp is what's happening in the story. Since these aren't traditional Marines or Army troopers, Staff Sergeant Kawolski and Sergeant Geza can train the Militiamen however they see fit. While using non-lethal ordnance on your own candidates during chow seems outlandish, it's no crazier than the live fire exercises that armed forces do in today's militaries.] "Move your *ss, Fawks! No one's coming back for you! Dwyer! Did I see you stumble?!" Truth be told, Sam admitted, he did stumble, just in time to avoid the corner of a table from making full contact with his groin. If making him look weak for a moment saved him from burning pain, then so be it. Eventually he found his way out the door, placing enough recruits between him and Sergeant Geza to avoid anymore hardship and grief. Managing to find the line, his eyes watered as he tried to focus his feet in the proper placement, aching from the morning sunlight against his already sensitive eyes. Inside, Geza was still chewing out whoever was left, but Sam needed to know where the other shark was. He wouldn't feel safe otherwise...

[There we go.] Gabe rested his hand on the door handle leading to the outside. Turning his head to Geza, he sent the man a nod across the room, and without a moment wasted, he weaved his way out the door in some haste. The Sergeant, on the other hand, stayed a moment longer, taking his signal with a grin. One hand behind his back, his thumb slammed down on the primer of a stun grenade, and as he about-faced for his own exit, he swung his arm around, landing the obnoxious deterrent in the center of the mess hall. Much to Dwyer's surprise, Grec turned out to be the more hardspoken type of man than he originally expected. He had all but verbally crushed the hype, but Sam couldn't care less. He laughed instead, but his amusement was short lived. The blast was barely heard before his hearing went out, but the last thing he saw--ironically, Kyro, the last person he wanted to look at--was imprinted in his vision for the next few moments, slowly replaced by multi-colored sunspots that mocked the outlines of everyone around him. The ringing came next, and by now he figured out that he had fallen from his seat, holding his head with one hand, meanwhile someone's boot came close to crushing his other. Another close call came from a set of obsidian black combat boots matched with crisp black fatigues. Without the unsteady gait of post-disorientation, the cleaner--and equally sinister--figure approached him next, tossing one recruit aside. "Get up! Get the f*** up!" Sam's head felt like it had been stuck in a church bell, but something was pulling up to his feet, either himself through some ethereal state or someone else with the courtesy to make him look less like an idiot. "Out! Out! Out! Everybody get the f*** out and assemble the line!"

A few minutes into their operation, the Squad still hadn't fired a shot. Their pilot, Warrant Officer Da Silva, was taking care of that part. It wasn't long, however, before the rooftop of the complex was clear of Covenant overwatch--Jackal snipers, Unggoy heavy weapons specialists and such. They could almost hear the QRF incoming from the lower levels of the complex: Elites barking orders, Grunts with their childish warcries, and the thuds of tens of footfalls. Juarez punched the door to the pilot's seat. "We need to get down there, now!" "Acknowledged. Hold tight." Without much more warning, the Pelican dipped violently, plummeting towards the rooftop despite their already-dangerously low flyover, but just as quickly nosed up and swung around in a sharp 180 degree turn. "Go, go, go." The Marines all piled out at once, and with some record time, set up a perimeter to repell responding Covenant at their source, which in this case, being so far back in the frontline, meant they had to cover the stairwell entrance and possibly the freight elevator. The latter took up most of their manpower, earning the attention of Liggy, Grey, Wyk and Juarez. The stairwell, on the other hand, fell to the rifleman, Malachi, Aaron with his SAW, and--despite her skills in medicine--Redding, who excelled with an M7 SMG. The Private pulled his shemagh up over his face, pulling back on the knot a little harder to ensure it didn't slip off in combat. "I hope to God they're not planning on using these stairs after this fight. We'll be slipping all over the blood." "Good to know, you're not a psycho or anything," Sarah muttered. "It's not psychosis, babe, it's truth." A few heavy treads echoed up to the stairwell door, Elite hooves and Grunt stubs nearing with a hollow symphony of clomps. "Did you just call her 'babe'?" Malachi asked, despite their predicament. Sarah shook her head. "He nicknames everybody. I don't care, just don't let Grey hear you say that." "I'm sure he'll understa--F*CK!" he was cut off by the emergence of an emerald green ball of plasma impacting the doorframe. Eyes readjusting to the normal light, Lockett zeroed in on the outline of the Grunt, who he instantly dubbed "the pistoleer" and soon after rendered the victim of a half second of .30 caliber fire. He didn't see much past the cloud of blue ichor, but he could guess the alien was doing the dance of death, as were the next two behind him. By then, James and Redding opened fire, showering the stairwell in various round types, shredding flesh and armor. The first Elite didn't last long, his shields rippling to a glassy pop before he was thrown backward down the stairs with an array of holes in his chest and face. "Keep the fire on!"

Despite what could be seen as common belief, Sam wasn't irritated with the new arrivals. In fact, he was glad to see more recruits conforming to his and Grec's table. He always liked people, liked interacting with them. With some hope, he would use this as a stepping stone for building trust or at least familiarity when team mentality starts to come about. "Oh not much really," he replied to Kyro, noting his rather comic looking expression and sarcastic tone, "Just odds and ends really." He had to keep himself from cringing as he later noticed his attempts at an "advance" on the female arrival. Just then, another recruit materialized nearby, introducing himself and requesting a possible time on training runs. "Well since we're all playing the dating game," Dwyer laughed, "I'm Sam." With a half glance at a few others in the room, he shook his head. "I don't know why you guys are so eager to rush back into training. Count your blessings and rest while you can." Meanwhile, Staff Sergeant Kawolski ran a thumb over his wristwatch's screen, wiping away a smuge from the analog's viewport. Geza was across the room, hands folded behind his back with a plain expression. Systematically, he would look in Gabe's direction, looking for approval, each time recieving a headshake. "Five more minutes," the Staff Sergeant mouthed.