Helljumper425

A Corpsman approached Marcus from the side and gave him a firm-but-painless kick to the side of his leg to grab his attention. "You heard the Staff Sergeant. Fall in." Gabe had been tapping his finger against his wristwatch on a separate beat to the footfalls of many recruits falling in line. While Alpha group was cleaning off and getting settled for the last three hours, he had to rebrief the fresh faces--save for Jones--that were now all in line. A few of them were panting, some struggling with the attentive stance. Others took it well, especially one who seemed to duck out of the whole intro altogether. Gabe shook his head at that, and after orienting himself to face the lot of them, slipping his thumbs in his pockets, he finally spoke. "I expected better." He paused to let that sink in, then continued. "Forty two. Forty...two. That's how many recruits are actively training in this camp. Twenty-seven of you were already here, on time, and because brass deemed it necessary to make you feel special with an airlift right in the middle of our courtyard--which I might add is hardly suitable for a landing zone--I had to test your ability to blend in under pressure. Can't say I'm pleased with that. "Because HIGHCOM made a mistake, you have to pay for it. Because a few from your group didn't listen to instructions, you had to pay for it. If one person screws up, you pay for it because you're just as much to blame for not looking out in the first place. If any of you think you're all going to be acting independently out here, you couldn't be more wrong." He crossed his hands behind his back. "We're done for today. Tomorrow we start again, not too different of a schedule but you guys are going to have to make up for missing out on hand-to-hand and weapons training." He leaned out to the side to peer through the group of recruits, locking eyes with DJ. "Jones, since you went the extra mile and at least attempted to course correct the newcomers, you're shower rights have been restored. Congratulations. And speaking of showering," he said glancing at Marcus, "you get to clean scrub the floors of the shower room with a rag, and I best be able to see myself come the following morning. Copacetic?"

["Civilian" does apply even to gangs. And I'm not sure if we're on the same page as to what "long range sniping" means. I'm not talking about proficiency at firearms ranges. 600 meters is far, but it's not long range in the Haloverse. Marksmanship might've been a better term, but even so, you created a character who was out of a street gang. I'd advise an explanation, as I've been pretty lenient on player skills lately. For the most part I meant that if you have a specific skill that you want your character to have, make it develop in training.] By now, all of the recruits were dried on their ammo reserves. Some began to shuffle away after stowing their weapons as though they were dismissed, likely following the example of a few who were still running. For whatever reason Jones followed the newer recruit, who was clearly an acquaintance of his, Gabe didn't care about. It saved him the trouble of having to put him through more PT. The Staff Sergeant checked his watch. It read 19:55. "Alright, everyone pack up your rifles, clean 'em off and take the rest of the day to get some rest or see the medics--which I advise after the hell you soft heels went through today." He turned, a single Corpsman returning his gaze in the distance. "Call back all of our runners and have them fall in attention at the courtyard. I think they've had enough." "You got it, Staff Sergeant," the man said before jogging to the perimeter. As each recruit passed by, the Corpsman waved them back into the compound, all the while with a hand over the I/FAK on his thigh. At least one of the recruits was bound to have sore feet. "Fall in at the courtyard--stand to! Go! Go!"

["Moderate long range sniping skills" is oddly specific for a fresh new recruit. There aren't a whole lot of civilian experiences that can grant you that skill. Also, the place isn't exactly "empty," Kawolski was just shouting at the fresh group to run around the base for not arriving with the primary batch in the first place. The firing range is also occupied by some good thirty or so recruits, so yeah. Not empty.] Kawolski had been checking the line, watching the recruits' varying scores feed through on his datapad. He stopped at the sight of a fresh face conversing with one of the recruits, which happened to be Jones. For a man on thin ice, "DJ" really couldn't be blamed for this one, he told himself. That didn't change the fact he was ready to break someone's fingers out of sheer frustration. "Range cold!" he shouted to Geza, who in turn blew his whistle. Staggering, the fire slowed to halt and within a moment, Gabe was mere inches from Recruit Kyro. "This ain't no f***ing meet n' greet, it's a firing range! If you didn't hear me the first time, and I'm assuming you did having come from the same batch as the rest of your group, you won the prize for the rest of the runners! You all get to run ten miles, and every minute you stand here is another two! Move your ***!"

A crew chief approached Staff Sergeant Kawolski from the newly arriving Pelican that had so graciouly found its way into the space that was their base's courtyard, offloading a handful of fresh faces. Gabe glanced once at Geza before nodding him at the firing line as he started for the Chief. "Got a fresh batch for you, Staff Sergeant," the man said from behind his visored helmet, handing off a datapad. "The last, I hope. I can't afford to slow this group's training over latecomers." "Your problem, not ours." "Yeah, just get that thing out of my courtyard," he waved to the dropship. "And no more flyovers of this zone or I'll shoot you down myself, yeah?" "Good copy," the man grunted before about-facing, vanishing into the D-77's cargo bay. "D*ck," Gabe muttered beneath his breath before addressing the new faces. "You got it easy today. Instead of weapons training, you get to run six miles around this base. Check with me when you get back and don't even try to cut corners. My corpsmen will be watching."

[bacon: Looks good. Welcome aboard.] [JL: The rich don't just enlist into a militia group just like that. They afford to go through officer's training and bump themselves up to SpecFor status, provided IF they go in the field.] [RussianGeek: Easy there, comrade. No need to get Red Army on my ass.] Gabe turned. So far with three recruits at the ready with their standard issue asskicker rifles in hand, and another thirty or so close in tow, he nodded at Cavril for his report. "Good to know," he set his hands down on an ordnance crate full of 7.62mm rounds. "And stop calling me 'Sir,' that's reserved for the cheese d*cks above the rank of Captain." Geza jogged into view ahead of the rest of the recruits, his own rifle strung across his back, a BR55 Heavy Barreled variant. With a grunt, he assisted the Staff Sergeant in opening the rest of the ordnance crates. Gabe pulled out a stack of vacuum sealed packages and held them high for all to see. "This is what you can expect to see near an ordnance dropoff. No fully loaded mags--no, we don't get that luxury." The packages exchanged hands with Geza, who tore the seal off and began demonstrating the proper loading method. "Magazines are reusable, and unless you have to drop it in the middle of a firefight, it's best to save them whenever you can. The M52B armor that you'll be issued should support a dump pouch, so invest in it." Gabe had had his own rifle resting against a post near one of the firing stations, a standard MA5C not unlike that of the recruits, though in the stead of a flashlight was an undermounted M301 grenade launcher. He placed it in a passive-ready stance: stock to the shoulder, barrel pointed at the ground. "Repeat after me, people. No western hip-resting, no over-the-shoulder. When you're gun's hot, you keep it downrange." He flipped it to one side, repositioning himself to one side as he placed a finger over a small button behind the foregrip. "Power button," he noted. He then brought his hand a few inches back in front of the trigger ring to another nob. "Weapon safety." With the press of an index finger, the safety popped and the weapon was live, presenting with a small red dot on the inside of the safety button. "Remember: Red is dead." After reengaging the safety, he yanked back the charging handle with a loud kla-shick. "Ambidexterous, unisex, family friendly. This weapon is your best friend. Unless you're a sharpshooter, you can't ask for anything better. The ironsights are what they are, but most--if not all--of you will have a working CH252 helmet, at which point your HUD will do the job for you. Make no mistake: just because you have a Head's Up Display doesn't mean you can fire from the hip. Weapon control is as important as maintenance. "In addition to being the perfect assault rifle to date, the MA5 is user friendly in its diversity. This one had been fitted with a forty millimeter grenade launcher. It can also be repurposed for close quarters, supporting 8 gauge underbarrels. If I haven't sold you on this masterpiece yet, then I invite you to shoot it out with the harmless sheets of cardboard in the distance. We'll be doing this for the next hour, so form single file, collect twelve magazines and grab a station, starting at the very end. Targets will be ranging from three hundred to six hundred meters out." Geza spoke up. "Start off firing from a standing position, semi-auto, pacing your shots until you're empty. After your first mag, go crouched, and after the next mag, fire prone. Keep cycling positions until you run out of mags." As the recruits complied, shuffling along and stacking up on magazines, Geza glanced over at the Staff Sergeant. With the bump of an elbow, he caught the man's attention. "You're smiling. What's up?" "I don't know. For once the words 'royally f***ed' didn't jump out of my head during an arms lecture to militiamen. I think we might have a decent batch." "Their hand to hand work concerned me a bit. Some of them just didn't f***in' get it. Got some cocky b*stards too." "They'll learn one way or an another."

[Just joking about the "hearing his thoughts" part, Boss. But anyway, yeah, I think I need to reiterate the part about characters not having military experience. As far as Marcus goes, seventeen is a good enlistment age for the Haloverse, and I accept it, but it's not good for someone to be A) an expert marksman, B ) an expert hand-to-hand fighter, and C) a medic. Granted, combat lifesaving is easy as hell, it's not something a seventeen year old could do right off the bat. You could say he's knowledgable in the medical field, having taken, say, a first aid course growing up. I guess if everyone wants to go on the rich kid enlistment trend, then it's easy to get away with a lot of things, but really there's only so much room for the rich. At this rate, I might have to create me own recruit to balance it out.]

[Contrary to whatever your preconceptions might be about this roleplay, yes, there is a plot planned out. I didn't plan on it being a never ending hangout for wannabe space Marines. I planned on it being a two part story following the hardships of Reach's militia through both training and Winter Contingency. I see some potential here for at least an interesting story to be written here with the guidelines in place. You can be a part of this attempt or you can stay clear of it. Whatever you want is fine by me.] Just then, Sergeant Geza heard DJ's thoughts. "The hell are you saying 'Wow' for? What did I miss?" [seriously now.] Geza's sharp whistle pierced the air for a long two seconds, another three passed before the recruits stopped what they were doing and readjusted themselves. "That's enough for today. Everyone fall in formation and head back to the compound. Once you get there, grab a rifle from one of the crates--don't worry, they're not loaded--and check in with Staff Sergeant Kawolski at the firing range."

[Halo CE through 4, excluding Halo 2 which I shouldn't even exclude, had you playing the role of a pro-human figure and still managed interesting storylines. The intro heavily implies that this is going to be a Marine mindset RP with human characters. It's meant to be a buffering RP, something a little more structured with some nice set of guidelines, other than most "anything goes" RPs I've seen around as of late. If everyone starts off as a completely seasoned warfighter, picture perfect, then things can have a way of getting old very quick. I'd rather see a number of weak characters develop over time than have mobs of people who don't change in anything but their killcount. The title says "Militia," not "Tales of the Alien Warrior Monks" or "Down with the UNSC." If you want to play the role of a terrorist or the near faceless copies that are Sangheili soldiers, then go ahead and find another RP, create your own even. I just might join it for my love of writing. Hell, I'll bring fireworks and champagne.] Sergeant Geza had a whistle in hand as he observed the sessions surrounding the pit. He was glad to see some coming out on top, learning quick, but at the same time allowing themselves to be taken down as they gave pointers. They were learning, some better than most. They wouldn't likely use the skill, but this spoke some volume as far as their ability to process information and turn it into action. When one recruit, Hoffman, hit the sand in front of his feet at the hands of Recruit Hawkins the Sergeant blew the whistle and knelt down beside the kid as he muttered a defeated curse. "Before you get up, describe to me in your own words what you think just went wrong." Wiping the sand from his mouth with a cough, Hoffman shook his head. "It's hard to stay standing when he gets me in a grab. I almost get him down, but he--" "Almost doesn't count. Drop your center of gravity." "What?" "Your knees," Hawkins added. "Bend your knees. It makes it harder to fall." Geza nodded in Hawkins' direction before smacking his hand on Hoffman's shoulder. "Sound good?" "Sure..." "Get back at it." With that, he rose to his feet just in time to hear a call from Cavril. He observed a set of sandied fatigues on both recruits and shook his head. "That looked like a well disciplined bar fight. That being said, I think you're getting it. Keep at it, but try to use more grappling than impacts. Our corspmen are unfortunately on a budget." He turned away, but then returned as another thought came to him. "Oh, and if you ever get in that instance where you're on the ground with a Covvie, you best have your good hand on them at all times. Fights are most dangerous when you're on the ground. Keep control or they will be taking bites out of you." [i kinda want to make sure everyone who's been participating has a chance to get into a spar session, but I'm not sure what Dryskim's been up to. I'd gladly work with him, seeing as he posts about as often as I do, but what do you guys think? Should we timeskip to weapons training soon?]

[My bad, Boss. Typically when I see something in quotes my mind automatically places it in speech form. I'll adjust my post accordingly. As for the fight, keep it up, and on all sides, don't be afraid to speak out of character for the sake of correction.]

"I admire your attitude, recruit Jones," Geza said in mid turn, kicking up some sand as he readjusted his footing. "But against Covenant, your average backalley brawl tactics won't keep standing for long, unless you're looking to cave the skull of their lowest ranking infantry." The Sergeant waved the recruits to spread out. As they did, he put his feet apart just a little past shoulder width and relaxed a little. "Just like violence, fighting is percieved differently per person. What I teach you today might go in one ear and out the other for some of you uppity b*stards who have some prior experience. Others may actually use this, but bear in mind, the enemies you will be fighting will be taller, shorter, midrange. While some might provide a challenge in themselves, a greater challenge might come from having to adapt to each species among the Covenant suited to play the role of infantry. "Blunt force trauma is a good way to end a fight quickly, but it can tire you out just as fast. What you gotta do is know how to take control of the fight, not only over your opponent's strengths--using them against them and all--but also over yourself. If you get the most out of this portion of training, then you should notice a bit of a lifestyle change. The way you move, even the way you think might be slightly altered--improved. Believe me when I say that fighting is a part of life." He took a moment to let it sink in before observing the group. The batch was rather diverse; big and small, thick and thin, he had already thought of ideas in varying combat scenarios, pitting the opposite body types against one another for a bit of a lesson in audacity and cunning tactics. First, they would have to run through the basics. "Let's start with some forms, then I'll partner you guys up." They drilled for a good fifteen minutes on various maneuvers: blocks--high, middle, and low; direct and redirecting. He'd be able to see how well they learned defensive stances while sparring amongst themselves. Striking was a whole different story. They would have to learn proper attacks the first time through, as it was a little more difficult to learn in heightened stress. Describing an ideal punch, he delved into everything from the quarter-rotation of the fist to the fast retraction. Part of it was humor to him, knowing they wouldn't use this against most Covenant; even Grunts were known for taking some hits, but Standard Operating Procedure was "Standard" for a reason, plus it never hurt to know everything there was to know. "Alright, that's good. Take two minutes, find a partner. When I blow the whistle, you're on your own. The objective is to get your opponent on the ground."

"Noted," Gabe said flatly a simply acknowledgment of the recruit's piece of mind rather than a "yeah, get on with it," or sorts. He nodded his head towards the courtyard. "Fall in and wait for everyone else." As the recruits lines up, he approached one of the crates in front of them and retrieved one of the sleek bullpup designs. In a few quick flashes of motion and series of preparatory clicks, he pulled back the action, confirmed that the chamber was cleared, sighted the weapon toward the sky and pulled the trigger. The satisfying sound of the hammer echoed across the yard. He held up the weapon briefly with one hand and approached the first recruit at the far left of the line. "This is the MA5C Individual Combat Weapon System. She fires six hundred seven point six-two millimeter rounds per minute from a thirty-two round magazine. Feel the weight." He tossed the weapon to the recruit and jerked his chin toward the rest of the line: Get a feel for it and pass it down. "This is the standard issue weapon for most Marine riflemen. At fifteen hundred yards you can turn a soft target's head into a shadow of its former self with one round if you're good enough. If that's possible, just imagine what thirty-two rounds will do at three hundred yards. The reason I decided to start you off with these instead of the Army's training model MA37, is because, personally, I don't like it. Sure; you can go ahead and storm a few city blocks and burn through twenty magazines without ever having to clean the weapon, but it's a hock of metal with a skeletal design, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to end up cleaning it after being stationed in non-urban settings." He gently ran a hand over the line of rifles still in their case and continued. "With these, you can drag it through muck and mud, batter it against a tree for ten minutes and still be able to shoot a Covenant scout through the skull at long range. Unfortunately," without looking, he brushed his hand over the lid, and the rifles vanished with a slam, "before you can master this combat masterpiece, you need to know how to use your hands." A second Marine, one in black fatigues stepped forward past the Staff Sergeant as if on some kind of queue as Gabe continued. "Sergeant Geza here will guide you to the sandbox and run you through hand-to-hand. Sergeant, they're all your's." "Thank you, Staff Sergeant. Recruits! Right-face!" He took the lead of the formation and with a blunt, "March!" they began moving.

[You're going to have to try harder than that if you're trying to make Gabe respect your character. Simply controlling the reactions of NPCs and assuming that other player's characters will follow suit is just a tool for making a character look better. I strongly advise against that.] Gabe was unfazed by the recruit's words, though baffled by his ability to stroke his ego, pointing out traits that he himself felt were defining features, and speaking as though he read the Staff Sergeant like an open book. "Stop while you're ahead, recruit, and allow me to say I don't care what you think of yourself or what you think that I think of you. I have forty recruits inside who are being delayed from weapons orientation every second we spend out here. So if we can just cut to it. What do you want?"

Kawolski looked up at the freakishly tall recruit addressing him, noting how the recruits seemed to keep their distance. Gabe wasn't all that impressed so far. If height was a primary intimidating factor, then the Staff Sergeant would've deserted the war along ago what with the giants dominating the Covenant military. They were going to learn that sooner or later. He didn't like the fact that the recruit was addressing him directly, requesting a private conversation, but he was willing to humor him. "Fine. Outside."

[Well, that's on you, but I can assure you that the story is going to become at least slightly vaster in scale after boot camp, but like Dryskim said, this isn't the usual "Create a Badass" roleplay where every page is victory after victory. The limitations imposed by the template are meant to serve only as a wireframe for the character, where the rest of them is built upon in training. Parallel the character's learning experience with that of your own, if that helps at all. Think of boot camp as a narrow prologue to a wider possibility that is the Fall of Reach.] As Gabe lead the cadence while the recruits pushed themselves up the top of the hill, their barracks came into view: a old-school, steel and aluminum compound with a chain-link fence, front gate, and two guard towers--the fate of the other two couldn't have been more implied by the shattered bases that once supported the towers. They'll have to do with one when the time comes, Gabe thought. "A-a-and halt!" He raised a hand, slowing the cadence to a stop, taking a few deep breaths in and out, spitting once before blowing his whistle. At the call, two medics from triage sprang into motion from the compound, hopping into an M831, the troop carrying model of the traditional "Warthog" Light Recon Vehicle. Normally he would push a company to wait until they reached the base before getting treatment, but they had had enough as it is. And as much as he didn't want to admit, he could feel a titanium joint shaking loose in his prosthetic leg. "Bottles up! Drink your water slow! Don't need you all cramping up before you all meet the girls." He hoped his choice of words would snap up the recruits' attention, though some of them looked as if they could already read between the lines. "From here on out," he began, clearing his throat and spitting yellowish wad of saliva between his boots once more, "you are all part of Asimov Company. And that," he poked a thumb over his shoulder at the compound in the distance, "is your new home. Corpsman Grigsby," he snapped to one of the medics. "How are they looking?" "Everyone checks out, Staff Sergeant. The worst thing to expect is a few blistered feet." "Alright. Let's walk it the rest of the way; shake off that glassy bone feeling." ---------------------------------------- Upon entering the raggy, worn down compound, Staff Sergeant Kawolski introduced with a hearty "Home at last!" At that he heard a handful of groans erupt from the company. "What? You don't like the home that the good people of humanity just gave you? You're right, you should all stay the night outside and eat the grubs off of your boots in the morning for breakfast." The moans and bellyaching soon ceased after that. "Exactly. We all know how cold it gets around here at night, and even I don't have the heart to do that to you. But this will be your new home for a while. It doesn't look like much, but if you treat it with respect then it'll care for you all the same. Besides, it's got the right accommodations every young man needs: hot water, mess hall, living space and best of all..." Gabe took a pause, approaching three crates off to the side of the courtyard, accompanied by a man in a jet black uniform, Sergeant Geza. The two popped open one of the crates, lifting the lid slowly for the recruits to see. "It's got companionship." Dropping the lid, the crate revealed two rows of neatly stacked MA5C Assault Rifles. A few recruits smiled, some just exchanged glances, some even had a dumbfounded expression that read "so I take it there are no women?" Kawolski was satisfied with just that. He removed his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow then pointed to the barracks. "Get cleaned off, put on some fresh BDUs, and assemble back here in ten minutes."

[Lost interest already, Geek? Or did you not expect this to welcome your recruit with a more realistic Marine Corps training experience?]

Between Jones mouthing off with each set of pushups and the other recruits absorbing Kawolski's words with feighned expressions of contentment, Gabe wanted to bury his face into a hand, but they had other more important things to get on with. When Jones finished, again concluding with an ego trip, the Staff Sergeant's attention was diverted to an oversized human with a clearly slavic accent of some sort. "Staff Sergeant Kowalski, is there anything else you would like me to do, sir?" He looked at the sweat forming around the man's shirt collar and shook his head in distaste. Not only did the group have a comedian, but it had an issue with following orders. "Yeah, start listening to directions, dipsh***." He turned once, but then did a double-take. "And stop grinning like a f***ing retard." With that said he studied the recruits over for a pair of candidates. "You," he called out, pointing to a man named Franco, then another recruit, Josten, "and you--right-face and stand next to eachother. Everyone else, form two lines behind them!" He then pointed to Jones. "You volunteered to follow at the rear--make sure no one falls behind, because so help me God if I see you or anyone else lagging, I will PT you all 'til tomorrow morning." As the recruits made formation, Gabe lead way to the front. "Since you're all already in uniform, and it's pretty nice warm day, I don't suppose you all mind going for a four mile run to your new summer home." His whistle blared three times: a signal that essentially meant "move your asses." "Two line cadence! Double time! Let's go! Left! Left! Left--right--left!" He followed next to the middle of the line. Four miles wasn't nearly as bad as KWOL could have given his recruits. Back in OQT he had to do an 8 mile with his platoon along a country highway on Harvest overnight. Whether they made stops or not didn't matter so long as each man was accounted for before sunrise. That was a one-way, flat leveled road though. The recruits had it easy for the first mile, after that they would have to hike up about two and a half miles of dirt road and brush to get to their destination: an older, less adequate training barrack than the ones in Javelin Base. There was more reason for this than drilling the recruits' discipline. With the near inevitable threat of a Covenant invasion, UNSC was pressing to advance the training of all enlistees, thus having to provide more food, shelter, and advisers. Javelin was running out of room and initially didn't have anywhere to put the new Marines. The barrack up north would have to do for now. It was meant to be decommissioned and used for orbital defense target practice, but Kawolski saw one last use in it. Besides, if the Staff Sergeant was being asked for quick results, then he'd rather not give his recruits the "luxury" of a cozy and uniform base just yet. Gabe caught up with the two Marines leading the cadence just as they left the front gate of the base. "Uphill both ways from here! Constant pace! Don't you dare slow down!" He then fell back, jogging half-way up the line again to keep check on all of the recruits. He began shouting out one of the most basic Marine Corps chants to start off with, heartily yelling out each line for the recruits to repeat. "When I die, please bury me deep! Put an MA5 down at my feet! Don't cry for me, don't shed a tear! Just pack my box with PT gear! One early morning, 'bout zero-five! The ground will shake, there'll be lightning in the sky! Don't you worry, don't come undone! That's my my ghost on a PT run!"

Half impressed with Jone's ability to do his reps in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, Gabe cocked his head as the recruit sprang to his feet. He wanted to see how well he could do situps after kneeing him in the gut with his permanent prosthetic, but the infighting could wait until later when he pitted them in self defense training. "Not bad. Four hundred more, shower privelages revoked for the next five days. Advise you keep it shut before I find more ways to make your life a living Hell." As he left the man to it, he got back on the clock and started to pace the line, addressing all of the candidates. "I am not your friend, I am not your squad leader, I am not that person to go running to just to talk about how you can't sleep at night. This is not your typical power test qualification that you were spat out from, where the only thing you learned was how to run in a straight line and not break down in tears after a round of push-ups. That strength won't be worth **** if you don't know how to use it." He about-faced going for another round. "Which is why you were thrown into my beloved Corps' training ground: for me to shape you into something that's worth looking at." He paused, looking over their faces once more with a wide smile. "And quite honestly, looking at you now tells me that we've got a LOT of work to do."

Gabe's head jerked back in the direction of Recruit Jones. "You, down," he snapped, approaching him with malicious intent. "On the ground and start cranking out a hundred fifty."

"They're all yours, Staff Sergeant!" the crew chief yelled from the Pelican, collapsing his non-active humbler and fitting it into a pack on his waist. He slammed a fist twice on the ceiling of the cabin to signal the pilot to ascend. "You shouldn't have!" Gabe called back. He didn't show his smile, but inside he was laughing. Approaching the line, the clicking of his boots could be heard over the rattling clatter and the unified chats of those in training all around the courtyard. He shifted his weight slightly to compensate for the permanent prosthetic, which he had concealed neatly beneath his pant leg, tucked in a uniform manner into his boot. The faces of the newcomers that now occupied the ready line were young; some showed ambition, some misery, some showed nothing at all. In the end, he would see every side of them. "Yo!" one of them blurted out, a thick unsophisticated tone weighing his voice. "Like what you see?" In a blink, the Staff Sergeant marched his way up the line. Mere inches from the recruit's face, he was wary that the brim of his duty cap didn't make contact. "You're not going to be much to look at when I'm scraping you off my heel." Just then, his eyes darted up to the rag around the man's scalp before dropping to meet his gaze. "Keep that ghetto sh** off when you're in my presence and fall in at attention like everyone else." Gabe backed off then began pacing the line, hands behind his back as he inspected each of their faces. "I am Staff Sergeant Gabriel Kawolski and as of today until the end of month, I am your drill instructor. You will address me by rank, not 'sir.' Failure to keep with that standard will result in a whole lot of misery on your part. Do I make myself clear?"

[Alright, let's fire it up. Enough waiting] Staff Sergeant Kawolski stood at an eased stance in the middle of Javelin Base's courtyard. Around the yard were troopers lead by other drill instructors and staff sergeants, all jogging in cadence, Physical Training or still being chewed out for the first time introduction to the Corps. It came as a surprise to Gabe that he was stationed here for local training and the like; he was more expecting to be shipped off to the outer colonies. Still wouldn't hurt to send a few from Earth fleet if humanity was so concerned with the Covenant striking Reach, he decided. Just then, the rumble of Pelican thrusters filled the air over the courtyard and the dropship circled its way into the makeshift landing pad: the solid white line that Gabe had painted out for the pilot to use as a guide. It also served as a ready line for the fresh batch of recruits on board. It touched down, hatch opened. The crew chiefs inside had begun ushering the new boots out; shouting, pushing, barking out commands that essentially meant the same thing. "Go! Go! Go! Move your asses!" "Hop to! Get it in gear and get your boots on the ready line!" Gabe remained still, gauging each recruit's reaction to being hassled out. The first test for them: finding the ready line. As simple as it was, completing that task might determine their initial worth in Kawolski's unit. This was important, and yet Gabe had to fight the urge to smile.

[Hoping for maybe two more.]

[Not really. The only limitations I have in place are those that keep characters from being unrealistically inbalanced from everyone else. Their proficiency all depends on how well you write.]

[Now to await additional recruits, if anyone has the creative motivation to enlist.]

[Yeah it's good. But I'd say pocket those shades and bandanna on the on-hours unless Deej is prepared for ridicule.]

[This is an RP idea I had on another site a year or so back, so the whole intro is kinda copy/paste, so bear with me. Halo fans, hardcore or casual, will already know the details, but I made this idiot proof back in the day.] The year is 2552, twenty-seven years since the start of humanity's war with the alliance of alien specie known as The Covenant. Battles rage on across the galaxy; colonies are vanishing, planets are being burned to glass, and humanity is close to extinction. With the time they have, the United National Space Command (UNSC) is pushing to mobilize and expand its military to defend what ground they have left. Locals and colonists are now being trained to combat the Covenant on their own homes, learning their strengths, weaknesses and tactics from veterans who have walked away from countless engagements with the empire's ruthless forces. Location: Reach http://halo.wikia.com/wiki/Reach The planet Reach is a major source for Human economy and industry. With its lush, life-giving nature and its vibrant metropolises, Reach is the crown jewel of humanity's progress. The best part of all, it is located just at Earth's "doorstep." If Reach is lost, Earth should be expected to fall along with it. This is why the UNSC has pushed for additional military defense on the ground, taking volunteers from all over the planet to be trained and equipped for war. The locations below are the many populated sectors where said volunteers have been recruited from. -New Alexandria (Metropolis) -Aszod (Industrial City) -Visegrad (Rural) -Manassas (Metropolitan City) Rules: Same rules as any RP apply to this one. So we'll move past that. *Note: The only exception that these two rules have is that I will be playing the role of your drill instructor. - This RP will be be plotted by me all through the beginning act. It will start with your training. - Everyone starts in training* - Everyone will begin as a recruit* - Everyone will have had no prior military combat experience by the time of their enlistment. If anyone has some kind of knowledge in fighting or otherwise, they will need to provide an explanation. - Skills and skill sets will vary among each RPer. Don't try to BS your way into being a sniper or something like that. Just have your character good at what you know you as a person want to be good at as far as combat. Focus on that and work at writing it in training. - If you're worried about individuality, don't be. You all may start off the same in training (uniforms and the like) but later on when you're earning your own gear, you can feel free to vary yourself a little. Feel free to try and have a little personality too. -No God modding, etc. Template Name: [First and Last] Age: [between 17-30] Physical Appearance: Rank: Recruit Uniform: Olive Drab Battle Dress Uniform Birthplace: [Choose from the list of locations] Personality: [Only if you want to. It's not needed.] Background: [include anything along the lines of previous occupation and reason for enlistment.] Skills: [Nothing outlandish] Name: Gabriel Kawolski Age: 38 Physical Appearance: Light skin tone. Regulation length black hair--slightly graying on the sides--with brown eyes. Right leg is a permanent prosthetic. Rank: Staff Sergeant Uniform: Olive Drab Battle Dress Uniform Birthplace: Earth - Old Chicago Background: Drafted into the UNSC Marine Corps in 2524 at the age of 18, Gabe's first assignments were mostly sentry detail until the invasion of Harvest. There, his MO flipped to Marine Search and Rescue (SAR) for any stray colonists. On one operation, he and his team were shot down en route to the last known location of a settlement and were ordered to abort. After falling under heavy fire, they had no choice but to advance on mission, going off reservation under Gabe's recommendation. Since then, Gabe was given the nickname of "KWOL," as opposed to "AWOL" for "Away Without Official Leave." After Harvest, he began to rise through the ranks at a slow pace as he served during colonial engagements with the Covenant. He was recently transferred to Reach to train local militia. Skills: Experience with the Covenant has pretty much brought him to the point where fighting them is like trying to remember right from left. He can explain a number of scenarios to first-time fighters and knows whether or not someone is ready for combat.