Helljumper425

Sam turned to the new arrival, allegedly "Jake," and with a tone of rather disinterest--namely for having his conversation interrupted--he half heartedly introduced himself. "Sam Dwyer." Looking the man over, he seemed to have an aura of ignorance, especially with his everlasting etiquette. He hadn't yet fallen to jargon like most recruits.

"Roger out. You heard 'im," the Sergeant announced, waving a directing hand to his squad. In seconds, the seven of them detatched from their platoon, boots trudging against the concrete. They rounded the corner, and a as relayed by command, there was a Pelican waiting. Their footfalls clanked up the ramp, one by one, followed by a click and snap as each one of them strapped into their seats. "Set," Aaron announced, Wyk, Redding, Grey and Liggy following suit. Then came Malachi, "Arrh." And finally the Sergeant. "Good to go. We're ready to go, chief. Bring us up." Warrant Officer Da Silva, a rather petitely sized woman, body shrouded entirely by a flight suit, gave a nod from around her pilot seat. Without warning, the Pelican lifted up off of the asphalt, ramp whining to a close. "Super Six-Four-One in transit to Objective: 'Ironclad.'" "'Ironclad?'" Liggy repeated. Juarez gave him a half-glance. "We're going after an arms production plant essentially. Our goal is clearing the streets leading to it--that collossal hulk of guns down there we saw is going to be doing the main damage. We just gotta make sure it gets there." "Oorah, baby," Aaron said with some zeal.

Juarez hung his MA5C at his waist and pressed a hand to his helmet's comm. "Command, this is Three Charlie, First Squad. We're ready to go as soon as you have a Pelican for us. Over."

Dwyer acknowledged the newcoming taking a seat beside him and Grec, but paid little attention to him for now, figuring a seat was all he was looking for. "Doughnut intake," he snickered. "I don't even think that was necessary with the drilling they gave us yesterday. At this rate, we'll be athlete material by the time we get our ranks."

[DA FRAK IS THAT THING?! YOU OUGHT TO SEND THAT **** BACK TO MECHWARRIOR. Just kidding. Bacon said that Halo 4 weapons were allowed, and if the UNSC can produce Mantises then why the hell not bring along a jazzed up bi-pedal tank. The one thing I'm confused on is what kind of missile silo are we talking here: Cheyenne style or shoulder-mounted, Metal Gear REX style of silo? I just need to visualize this thing.] Lockett shifted his weight at the emergence of what could only be described as the Goliath big-brother to the Mantis. Corporal James Malachi and Private Richard Grey were both at his sides, heads partially cocked to either side as they strained their necks to look at the thing. "So...fire support?" Malachi grunted. "Sh**, Lockett, if that's fire support, then I don't even know why the hell they've got us, much less, ODSTs on the ground with it." "Oh that's an easy one. Security." "Good pilots don't need security," Grey said, his naturally low voice cutting in appropriately at the brief silence. "Then again, I'm just a Marksman, so what do I know?" "You put yourself down too easily, Rick," a fourth voice said. Sarah Redding, their squad Corpsman, had her helmet hanging at her hip as she retied her blonde hair back into the best ponytail she could manage. Just then, Juarez neared the group. "What's the call?" she asked, fitting her helmet back on her head. The Sergeant jerked his chin toward an idle Pelican. "That's our bird. We'll be briefed en route." "Works for me."

[He means non-mission-sensitive stuff. Geek's having his character put a little much effort into explaining his outfit, so his radio reports are coming out as rather long winded. I understand his need to clarify, but firstly Ivan's hearing dialogue that is in no way possible for him to hear being far out of earshot, and my Marines aren't going to be on open comms 24/7. I can work with it though.] Juarez waved his hand off at Kyro for a brief moment as his comm came back to life. "Yeah, Ivan, we got that. Thanks." Tuning out his radio with a curse, he looked back at the Helljumper in their presence. "We noticed. The next time you want to go Banzai charging, let us know, yeah?" Lockett glanced about at the mention of their CO. Lieutenant Kirkland was off to the side, away from the convoy and already directing the assembly of a security checkpoint. He had already been filled in on their mission objective, so to cut out the middle man, he had given First Squad the task of clearing the assigned facility. Juarez simply straightened out before Kyro. "We're your squad. Six Marines, plus one Corpsman. Command says we're inserting via Pelican, if I'm correct?"

[Yes it's better. To save yourself the trouble you don't have to put the * marks up on either side. Just put dialogue in quotes "". Also, I still don't know who you're talking to, because it can't be my guy seeing as he sat down with Grec, and Grec was alone when he found him.]

At the impromptu sounds of carnage, Lockett's squad spun about. They were about to form a defensive perimeter when, all of the sudden, Kyro's Wraith went crashing through the mass of Unggoy fodder troops. Aaron lowered his squad automatic weapon just as he saw the Helljumper making his way over, show-boating his presence by bellowing out jargon against the defeated enemies, but more foolishly removing his helmet to light a cigar in an active combat zone. With a scoff, the private rose to his feet from a kneeling position and shook his head. "F***stick," he muttered beneath his breath. A hand slapped his shoulder, and then Wyk appeared beside him. "Woah, man. Easy with the name calling. That's an ODST." "That's all fine and dandy," Aaron said, keeping his tone low, even though he had a suspicion that his discretion would go unwarranted anyway. "What isn't is the fact that he's making more noise than we should have to deal with right now. He didn't even call his targets." "Well then take it up the chain." "Nah. We've got more important things to do. Let's get this gear stocked and get out of here."

[Who is Jake talking to again? Also if you type in narrative form, that would be great (Third person, past tense)]

Juarez shook his head as they pulled around the corner. He wasn't much liking the amount of radio traffic being tossed around, a good number of it hardly mission sensitive. Nonetheless, a reply was still in order. "Three Charlie pulling in now. Out." The vehicles grinded to a halt, staggering a line around the park area. Turrets swiveled outward, covering the perimeter while the Marines slipped out of their carriers, bounding toward the resupply point. Lockett strolled in tow, covering the rear of their line, half-heartedly engaging in a ready stance. "Man this place is a straw away from turning into a free fire zone." "Just restock on ammo and get a move on." "Roger. Oh yeah," he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, at the wraith tank looming over the zone, "Ivan's at our six." "Yeah, I can see that," the Sergeant said, waving to the blue-purple mass. "Keep it tight and don't deviate. If anythings starts getting nosey, I don't want anyone to be in that thing's kill radius." With that, they began to restock, handing out respective ammunition types to the appropriate MOS. Lockett didn't have a whole lot of trouble finding his .30 caliber reloads. He did, however, dig to the bottom, unveiling a 100 round box of incendiary rounds. "Time to turn up the heat," he joked. Jonas shook his head. "Oh, shut the f*** up, Aaron."

Juarez raised a thumb up. "Roger that--resupply and proceed to the park. Coordinates recieved. We're en route. Gentlemen, Christmas came early," he announced on TEAMCOM. "We're restocking and moving to clear the park area. We've got fire support from a few commandeered wraiths." Lockett furrowed his brow. "Comandeered?" "Yeah. Recon specialists." "ODSTs." "Affirmative." "Should be fun." "Oh yeah."

Dwyer was about to take a seat near Jones and the other recruit, a man of almost equal size, until he caught a glimpse of Grec down the line of tables sitting by himself. With a double take at his current table, he dismissed himself. "I'll catch you guys later," he said, deciding that lonership was too good a way to stand out in their predicament, making his way to Andrew. "This seat taken?" he asked. Without waiting on an answer, he set his tray down and took the seat across from the man. "Good to see another guy who's rather normal in body shape. Most guys I see here were aiming at pristine figure before they enlisted."

The mess hall staff glanced at Jones with near apathy, judging that by the looks of the man, he'd eat anything they had. "Eggs, greens, rice, and mashed potatoes. Knock yourself out." Dwyer was in line behind the rather hulking recruit, tray in hand as he squinted at the assembly of food containers. He was still post-waking state, waiting for his eyes to reacquaint themselves with the light, natural and otherwise. Ever since his correctional surgury, the process seemed to take longer, and every time he saw his reflection in the sneeze-shield he noted that his irises showed more color than before. He hadn't been shot at yet and enlistment was already proving to be a life changing experience. "I never thought I'd be hungry enough to not care that I'm being served meals from a military budget," he muttered, flopping a spoonfull of potatoes on his tray.

Lockett had his foot pressed against the roll cage of his personnel carrier 'Hod, which was in the middle of 3/C's convoy of eight LRVs. They had just now reached East 110 Highway. When the reports that the Master Chief was on East 105, the complete opposite side of the city, there was a mix of disappointed groans and accepting laughs. Lockett simply shook his head. The presence of John-117 didn't change anything from their SOP or the way Charlie Company was going about securing the city. If anything, they had a little more freedom, not accounting for the presence of a half ton human destroyer. As Command broke through the comm channel, he could see Juarez raise ahand from the passenger seat ahead of his own. "Command, we're en route to the downtown area now. ETA five, maybe seven minutes from the highway exit. You got an RV point for us yet?"

Gabe stepped into the barracks with an asp baton in one hand and an empty trash can in the other. He could see various levels of awareness; waking states, a few too perfectly still to be asleep, others genuinely trying to sleep in. That was about to be corrected. "Rise and shine!" he shouted as the baton started to strike the inside of the aluminum can, the result being a discombobulating echo that resounded down the line of cots. Dwyer snapped to as quickly as possible, taking a risk by running a hand over his face. As he stood at attention, the room seemed to waver, like his body couldn't decide if it wanted to stand or go back to sleep. He guessed the other recruits probably felt the same. The drill sergeant would soon make the decision for them. "Two minutes in the showers and then report to mess hall. A day isn't a good one without calories."

"Third Platoon, Charlie Company, Second Squad. You're clear to engage." Sergeant Juarez of 3/C-2 removed his hand from his helmet mic and punched the safety off of his MA5C. "That's our go. Get ready!" He stood, formed up on the wooden gate leading out of the alley and onto the street, Privates Lockett and van Wyk in a close stack behind him. "Go!" Juarez swung his leg back, breaking the aged gate's handle and leaving it swinging on one hinge. Private Aaron Lockett charged through first, lugging his LMG at shoulder level, barrel forward as he neared the sounds of a hellish exchange. He mounted up his weapon at the first spot of cover he saw--a charred frame of a civilian Genet--and leveled his sights on an Elite that was exchanging fire with law enforcement personnel. "Not today, you squid headed motherfu--!" His voice, along with the Elite, faded under the clattering roar of his .30 caliber LMG. The muzzle flashes lit up the few shadows inside the building that sheltered the rest of the police, brass and empty casings streamed out over the blackened hood of the car, and almost as soon as it was that he began firing, the Elite withered, flailed and crumbled in a mess of holes. Not a moment after his first confirmed Ultra kill, a second LMG cut loose just over Aaron's shoulder, joining him and 3/C in mopping up the remaining Covenant infantry with a deadly crossfire. Between bursts, he could almost hear Private Nathan van Wyk laughing at the hell they were imposing upon their enemy. Grunts fell rather quickly, the Jackals lasting only as long as they could hold their shields to the incoming fire. It wasn't long before a few stray rounds passed their weapon notches, breaking their defensive stance and flaying them with continuous fire. "Cease fire! Cease fire!" Lockett complied but stayed low--swept the streets left to right with Nate as they exited cover. "Clear!" "Clear!" Nate called out, soon followed by Juarez who was in the middle of a mag change. By then, someone from 3/C threw out a red flare in front of the building near the NMPD patrollmen. "Regroup at the smoke!" Aaron and his fireteam slowly jogged their way to the regroup site, his heavy gear rattling with each stride. He dropped his mag, pulling a fresh box from his thigh case and locked it home, sliding the fresh belt in through the side before locking the mechanism down. "Yeah! Get some, Lockett!" a squad mate called as he punched his shoulder. Aaron smiled, giving him a nod. "We're all clear sergeant." "Roger that. Command, Three Charlie Two is clear. Repeat, Grid Alpha Four is clear. We're gonna start making our way through the outskirts until we hit the highways and then advance into downtown Mombasa to rendezvous with the Shock Troops. ETA thirty minutes. How copy, over?" "Solid Copy. We'll give 'em a head's up. Out."

[Alright, I'm just gonna give you a heads up: read everyone else's posts and then read your own. You don't have to write novelistic quality posts, but at least keep them consistent, like you're showing a narrative not a story you'd tell to buddies over a game of bar room billiards.]

In all honesty, macking a character is easy when considering "What do I want my guy to be good at?" but when it comes to "How exactly do I get him there with his bio" it becomes a little trickier. You need to do a little math as far as the age of your character goes and how compatible it is with his training programs and the lengths thereof. I just think it takes time. Hell, it took me more than four years to master writing.

[That works fine.]

[i guess I'll put this here for now, just in case.] Name- Aaron Lockett Rank- Private Service Tag- N/A Branch- Marine Appearance- Male Caucasian, 5'10" medium build. Shaved head, brown eyes. Enlistment bar code tattooed on the back of his neck. No Dogtags. Armour- Standard Issue UNSC Marine BDU with Olive Green armor. He lacks tactical goggles but his helmet is equipped with the classic CH252's holographic monocle. Aaron generally keeps his sleeves rolled up and wears fingerless gloves. He has a combat knife attached to the pauldron on his upper left arm and an additional softcase on his left thigh for additional .30 caliber ammunition along with a rucksack. To keep himself shielded from the certain heat buildup from his weapon after extended firing, or even from close impact plasma shots, Aaron wears an olive green shemagh as a half face mask. Weapons- Primary .30 caliber Light Machine Gun with neither an ammo reader nor an optical sight--Aaron feels that either is useless, reasoning that the magazine is deep enough not to worry about reloading and that its inaccuracy won't be fixed by "slapping more weight on the top." His secondary is a standard issue M6G Magnum. Specialty- Assaultman. Lockett's experience with the Light Machine Gun variants is extensive to say the least. He's also got street smarts, which were usually Aaron's thing back home. In an environment like New Mombasa he wouldn't be quick to find a lingering feeling of doubt in a military situation. The Assaultman MOS also covered certain explosive techniques, primarily C7 and shaped C12 charges, meant more for breaching than the heavy duty reconstruction methods. History/backstory- Aaron grew up on Earth in Old Chicago before shipping off to Mars to work while finishing his last two years in general education. Once completed, he moved on to enlist into UNSC Marines, having nowhere left to go. After being placed on deployment on Reach, a rather black chapter in his military service career, he managed to keep alive with his platoon by outsmarting Covenant movements through the urban centers until they arrived at a feasable evacuation. After that, he was placed on Earth defense, where he applied for Marine Force Recon, seeing as the ODST program simply wasn't something he believed he had time for.

I feel that the guitar kinda screws up the rest of it. The in-game version was better.

[Probably not. I've got off-site RP projects going on, plus one story I've been procrastinating on for a creative writing event. I'll look into it though, maybe join if things slow down elsewhere. It may, afterall, help with my story.] Kawolski was in his drilling staff's quarters, the "office" of sorts that had formerly been the Military Police's station at the corner of the courtyard near the main gates. Geza was cleaning his rifle, a BR55 SOPMOD, as he exchanged talks with the Corpsmen. "That true? Franco's not gonna re-up after this?" Geza shook his head. "Yeah. You'd think there wasn't a choice. You could call this the apocalypse almost and he's still thinking about kicking back; mowing the lawn, watching football and all of that." "Guy's got a family. If the end was near and you had the option--" Instinctively, Gabe found his hands tightening as they were resting across his lap, and for a moment, he even thought to pull his reclining feet from the table and rise up in anger, but he was too comfortable for that. "Hey," he snapped, "Enough of that 'this is the end' sh**. It doesn't help anyone." "You're right, sorry. Just making a point. Still, in Franco's defense, he hasn't exactly aged well for a military careerist." "Hasn't aged well? He's my age, for Christ's sake." The Corporal laughed. "I rest my case." Both brows raised, Gabe broke into a smile. "You calling me old, you little sh**? I can still outrun your sorry ass."

Name: Samuel Dwyer Age: 22 Physical Appearance: Medium-light build, akin to a swimmer's body. 5'10" 145lbs. Brown eyes and brown hair, which has been shaved upon enlistment. Light complexion. Rank: Recruit Uniform: Olive Drab Battle Dress Uniform Birthplace: Manassas Personality: It'll develop. Background: Having graduated with a degree in journalism, Sam found himself unemployed for longer than he liked. Even though it was only a month after his Associate's was handed to him, he had had enough waiting and sought out other options, namely in the First Responder category as an Emergency Medical Technician. While awaiting replies, he hastily decided that it wasn't going to happen and handed off his resume to the UNSC militia reserves program. Little did he know that he would be employed the next week. While it wasn't an ideal situation, Sam figured it was the best option, as having a degree was almost a guaranteed promotion to Specialist, plus with his foot already in the door as far as first aid he couldn't see the harm in following through. Skills: Limited first aid having been a licensed EMT. Firearms handling is all muscle memory by now, having been raised in a family where both his father and brother were law enforcement, though with his recently cured nearsightedness--with the help of UNSC benefits--sighting on targets farther than five hundred meters causes some disorientation. He studied martial arts for a time during general education, but just enough to get him through the bullies. Now with boot camp sharpening that edge, he's feeling rather confident. He's also really good with people. With the day winding down, James found it best to turn himself in to the barracks after checking in with the local corpsmen for an antisetic pad. Upon arrival to the barracks he laid flat on his cot and carefully pulled his boots off to reveal a crimson red streak on the inner most sole of his right foot. With a grimace, he tore open the alc-wipe and applied it to his foot. After a good cleaning, he safely discarded the item and washed his hands. Last thing I need is to catch a staph infection in this f***ing place, he mused, shaking his hands dry as he set himself back down. It was surprising to see so many recruits in lights out already, though between Jones' apneic snoring and Cavril exchanging words with Jacob about a twenty-first century novel that was seemingly well remembered, it was understandable that the mood wasn't quite there yet. Still, they were bound to get less than eight hours of sleep at this rate, so he made the best effort by lying back and putting a pillow over his ears.

[sorry for the delay, but I'm back now. Jake Barson needs some revision. 17 years old, went to pilot school, tech school, and he knows how to be a military strategist? I'm sorry, but that needs to be changed. All of that is technical training above highschool level, so he either has to be older, and I mean somewhere up to 24 if he has degrees. Plus, we're going into that realm of having over experienced people. Ideal enlistment age is about 17-25 right now, which hardly leaves a lot of room for having skills applicable to the military life.] Gabe folded his arms at the recruit. "Weapons training is every day for the rest of your life while it's in my hands. Anymore questions?"

Gabe took half a glance at Kyro. He wanted to call it a night with "Get the f*** out of here," but he instead opened with, "Since it took you this long to fall in, and you missed my lecture on professionalism, you'll be joining Marcus in scrubbing down the shower rooms. Dismissed." At that point, he was approached by another recruit. "Uh, Sergeant? Sorry for the interruption but when do we get split into squads or have training excercises. Y'know, in the woods, those paint rounds. Because if we do them, I'd like to volunteer as a strategist or leader or something...." He admired the fact that the kid was enthusiastic after the run, but what he was asking for was damn near insulting. A Staff Sergeant handing off squad leader or logistical command to someone who didn't even have a rank yet was as bad as giving a child a rifle. Granted, there was a first time for everything, but there was a reason they had procedures. "If you get far enough to perform in field training operations, then you'll volunteer for what I tell you to, understood? No one gets special treatment. Anything else?"