Helljumper425

Harvest. First a supply run on Reach, the most pinnacle defeat in Human-Covenant war, and now Harvest, the first defeat in the Human-Covenant war. It was as though Wolfpack was going backward in time, though in a calmer manner of running potentially useless operations with little to no payoff in the longrun. James wasn't complaining, especially now on a night that left so much room for tragedy. As the Pelican began to set down over the rugged, plasma scarred plains, Wolfpack rose up from their seats with a few clicks and snaps of restraint clips giving away. The ramp lowered, a rush of cool air hitting the Sergeant in the face hard enough for his shemagh to require some adjusting. "Thirty seconds," the white-armored Crew Chief announced, waving a hand out the back ramp. "Go, go, go." All at once, they piled out, boots thudding heavily against the frozen ground as they jogged into their respective positions of cover. Despite the hellish scene that the Covenant had left years ago, their LZ had enough damage to bring on the same feeling of sorrow as someone viewing a neo-realism painting but only at a glance. Looking at it further, the truth was that the damage could've been much worse. The terraforming efforts had made a dent in restoring the planet's former beauty...and its memorable weather as Lockett would soon attest to. "Clean drop," Grey muttered, scanning the horizon with his DMR's night vision scope. "LZ secure." "All good down here," Mack relayed to the Warrant Officer. "See you in an hour." Their once silent pilot was now in her game-time element. "Roger. Moving to holding pattern, out." As the Pelican's thrusters lifted the craft away from the surface, hitting the squad with a slight jetwash, the five of them remained silent until Aaron broke the silence. "It's f***ing cold out here." "Now you know," Mack replied. "C'mon. Colony's a kilometer out."

[incoming lazy post.] Mack "No questions?" Wolfpack shifted and shuffled awkwardly in the silence. Even their Warrant Officer was looking bored at this point. "Okay then," he said, gesturing both hands up the ramp of the Pelican. "Mount up."

By the time Lockett escaped the steamy confines of a shower room in lockdown, with his datapad in hand to act as his hall pass, Smith was already thirty feet ahead of him down the corridor, fully geared with his armor rattling as he trotted down toward the hangar bay. Aaron still had yet to get his boots on, cursing himself as he frustratedly ran a hand over his damp hair. He rushed into the barracks, donned his M52B and web gear, and just as he reached for his M739 SAW with one hand, his helmet was being presented from the corner of his eye as Grey passed with a DMR hanging from his shoulder. "Steam room worth it?" he asked. Lockett snickered. "Stuck on lockdown in a co-ed shower room? How can't it be?" Richard simply rolled his eyes and vanished from sight, lightly punching the support gunner's arm on his way out. It would be another two minutes before the rest of Wolfpack 3-1 arrived in the hangar bay, standing in a staggered group in front of their assigned dropship, the pilot of which, a female Warrant Officer who didn't seem intent on removing her flight helmet, sat at the edge of its cockpit with one leg over the other, making a habit of avoiding the squad of devil dogs. Grey couldn't blame her, and Aaron would likely bust his balls for understanding, being the more upstanding, more woman-respecting member of the team, right next to Malachi. Speak of the devil, he thought, the Sergeant had just entered, MA5 hanging over his vest and a black balaclava down around his neck. "Aaron, put your sleeves down. You'll thank me later." Lockett furrowed his brow but did as instructed, rolling the sleeves down on his fatigue shirt, tightening their velcro cuffs. "What's the op, Sergeant?" "Colony blackout on Harvest--Dry Falls, apparently notorious for having anti-UNSC elements." Smith scoffed, muttering, "Dumbass colonists..." Aaron laughed. "Hey. Hearts and minds." Loudly clearing his throat, James shifted his weight. "Can I finish?" A combined silence gave him a satisfactory answer. "Comms have been out for about three days. Admiral Parker suspects Insurrectionist activity, and thus we have been given a zero tolerance mandate." "Shoot to kill?" "Affirmative, but remember the rules of engagement if it comes to that and check your targets after calling them. Despite potential threats, people do still live here, so let's try to keep this as recon-only for now, copacetic?"

"That is all, sir. Have a bird ready in the hangar bay for my squad by fifteen-hundred," James concluded, clicking his boot heels together and snapping a salute before he about-faced. The moment he turned the corner, he pulled his personal data-pad from his thigh pocket and brought up a message prompt, tagging the recipients as every member from Wolfpack 3-1. The message was simple. //WIPE YOUR D***S OFF AND KIT UP. DEPARTURE FROM HANGAR 4C AT 1500.

Malachi stood at attention, absorbing every word said by the admiral. When it came time for Q and A, he looked to his right in thought. "How long has the colony been dark?"

Mack was still in the bridge, hands behind his back. Admiral Parker seemed to have his hands full, what with locking down the ship and all. He'd be lucky to make it back to his quarters in the alotted time given to the crew. Without another minute wasted, he picked the folder of AARs up from the holotable and started for the door. "I'll...drop these off later at better convenience.." [You might as well give me an op while I'm still on the bridge.]

Malachi's eyes went plate-sized when the Mariner drew the humbler upon the rampant Elite, and yes he would refer to him as such for the length of the next month or so. Not even humans had the priviledge of barging into a ship's bridge making demands. He was just glad that the situation dissolved quickly, and that the man standing over Kel's unconscious body with a shock stick hadn't gotten the worse end of the deal. He was itching to get out of there, but it was damn difficult if he hadn't been dismissed, so he waited on the Admiral's go.

"O-o-kay..." Now's my chance, Aaron thought, quickly rushing into the shower room, hoping to avoid another confrontation--especially in the showers, lest they be unisex, and even that wasn't as promising anymore. At this rate, he was banking on the idea of every serviceman, human or otherwise, being a nosey f***stick. Meanwhile Sergeant Malachi was making his rounds, delivering After Action Reports to the bridge by hand, since his team hadn't been issued personal computers yet, nor were their datapads synched to any internal relay systems. As he entered, he had to sidestep a boistrous, and rather disgruntled Sangheili. He cautiously weaved his way around the alien and approached the Admiral. "Admiral Parker, sir. The After Action," he stumbled on his own words, realizing the irony of the term "action" being in that term. "The After Action Report." He took a step away once the folders had left his hand, then stood at attention, his eyes warily shifting back to the Elite in the room.

Just as Lockett thought he was comfortable enough to prep for a soothing shower, working this fingers under the seam of his T-shirt and beginning to lift, a voice came from out of sight causing him to stop and readjust his outfit. Damn it, he thought, noting that he was only three paces from the shower room door as he did an about-face to see a serviceman standing before him with a hand offered. "Private Lockett," he replied, putting on some false enthusiasm as he accepted the gesture. "Aaron Lockett." He nodded toward the punching bag. "Just another crewman hopped up on Captain America."

Aaron forced a laugh, waving a dismissive hand at the punching bag. "Ah, forget it. They're a dime a dozen. See ya 'round," he said, adding "F***'in tool" under his breath. With that, he headed back toward the barracks for a shower.

Aaron was about to speak when Kel decided to Beowulf the punching bag, and its riveted metal stand, into the wall just behind it. Some of the sand weighting it down had gotten on the shoulder of Lockett's fatigue shirt, which he nonchalanty dusted off before looking back at the Elite. "Uneventful." He thought for a moment. "Prolongued...and did I mention uneventful? Though I guess you could call that a good thing. Reach could use some stability after all of this."

Aaron did a double-take on the alien gargantua that was addressing him. Rather than freezing up like society would've expected him to, he remained composed and stood more attentive as he set down his set of dumbells. It was a surprise he managed to get his name right, but moreso that he was able to guess it at all by the nametag on his PT getup. He hadn't seen many former Covenant who could even speak English let alone read it. "Affirmative," he said flatly, looking the Sangheili in the eye, giving his neck a slight workout in the process. "I don't believe we've met."

Back aboard the UNSC Eagle's Talon, Wolfpack 3-1 was generally dispersed, looking for something to entertain them wherever possible. Lockett followed a format, unlike them. Rather than dozing off in the recreational room, like Malachi, or checking weapons for the hundredth time, like Grey, the Private got his After Action Report (AAR) out of the way as soon as he could, then typically grabbed some shut-eye before moving onward with recovering activities. Sadly, his energy hadn't been burned up on the operation, not entirely anyway. Sitting on watch was mentally taxing with all of the boredom, but it was hardly a method of fitness. So once again, he found himself in the gym, running laps, pummeling a punching bag, all the while trying his luck at so much as a conversation with any female crewman or Marine. None seemed interested, as most were probably used to the ego-swinging jarhead types. His status as Recon didn't much allow room for thought otherwise, but he didn't mind. It only made it easier when rooting out the ones who actually recognized him for his personality. As naive as it was to think it might last in the long-term, at least he'd make a new friend. So far...nada. "Man this ship needs to open up a dating service."

Another two hours had passed. Wolfpack 3-1 had been rotating watches aboard their designated Elephant with hopes that some dumb son of a b**** tried to take a shot at their convoy. To no avail, as once they passed through the canyon path, the construction site was just around the corner about a mile out. Lockett, who was up top at the time announced it to his team first, laughing at the disgruntled moans and groans as the rest emerged from the hatch. "Well on the bright side," Malachi said, "at least we won't have to clean our guns." Smith shrugged. "Fair enough. They better not ask us to help with construction though, I'm in no f***in mood." James shook his head and tapped his helmet mic. "Eagle Talon Actual this is Wolfpack 1-3. Precious cargo is one mile out to destination. Have an evac bird waiting for us when we get there, over."

Dryskim's okay. He PM'd me already.

I...really don't see what Geek42 did to deserve a textual ***-chewing. His character app was pretty spotless and left a lot of doors open for opportunity. But whatever, he said he would create an alliance character, so that solved itself...that is if he's still interested after that.

Reach was about the same as they had last remembered; barren, lifeless, and oddly quiet, Wolfpack 3-1 felt about as at home as they did back in 2552. The only difference was that the landscape lacked a thick black haze and the sound of distant chaos. The sky was also clearer, reflecting an orange glow of dusk upon the hard, dry surface of Utkozet. Private Lockett could almost still feel the heat of post-plasma-bath radiating off the ground. James' distant voice caught his attention. "Lockett! Let's go!" he called from the top of the Elephant at the very rear of the convoy. Aaron took one last look at the glass-scarred land and finally about-faced, lugging his M739 at his waist. "On my way," he called up. He ran a hand over vehicle's massive tread as he made is way around to the rear deployment ramp, stepping up into the cabin to find Smith resting himself against a supply crate, conversing with Marine combat engineer. "I'm telling you, two Mammoths would've been enough for this run," the technician said. Smith had his arm rested over the stock of his BR55. He did a take on Lockett, acknowledging him with a nod as the fading sunlight glinted off of his shades before he turned back to the white-armored serviceman. "Yeah, but the way you describe the Mammoth it sounds like something you'd use to roll over a platoon of Covenant, not take a ride to grandma's house." "They're better built, better armed and require less of a security detail to keep safe. Seriously, the only reason they use Elephants is for these crappy meals-on-wheels ops." Lockett grinned, and it showed since he had his shemagh down around his neck for a change. "Hear that, Smiff? Marine Force Recon on a crappy op." "Tss...when are we not?" The engineer raised up both palms, ready to laugh. "Huh--woah wait a sec, you guys are Recon?" Aaron cocked his head with a nod. "Yeah, and our first ET operation is a f***'in babysitting job." "Hey, if it makes you feel any better I feel more important if I've got Recon watching my six." Malachi's voice came seemingly from nowhere again. "Noted," he said, emerging behind Lockett and Smith, addressing them both. "Grey's gonna keep first watch with the regularly assigned Marine escorts. We'll change out every hour." A few less-than-enthused sounds came from the two, but James was quick to curb it. "Hey, make no mistake: this isn't exactly what we were brought up to do, and for all I'm concerned, we're along for the ride, but this isn't a joyride. Until we reach our destination, we are acting security, oorah?" "Yeah." "Got it." "Good." 45 Minutes Later Malachi reclined back in the passenger seat of a secured M12 LRV that jostled with the Elephant's turbulant cruise over the rugged terrain. "Man f*** this job." "Welcome to my life," said the engineer, Yeven as they learned only in the past minute after Smith finally asked. "Ever since SIVs showed up, all that Marines ever get are garrison assignments, security detail and babysitting jobs." "What about the ODSTs?" asked Lockett, meanwhile daring a few pull-ups on the cargo netting while donned in full kit. Not an easy task after the first set of ten. Smith laughed. "The fireballs? Not for me man." Yeven shrugged, but didn't bother to take his eyes away from his console. "Yeah, they get their fair share of action. It'd probably be more exciting than this job but I just don't have it in me to go through all of that training." James lolled his head to the side, in Yeven's direction. "I heard a rumor that ODSTs were being drafted into the Spartan Four program." "Unwise," said a deeper voice, one belonging to Grey as he stepped down through the roof hatch, cradling his SRS. He took a moment to say, "Smith, you're up," before continuing. "ODSTs had a generalized hatred for Spartans, believing they were glory hounds. Over time they realized how misplaced that hatred was, but then came the Spartan IVs, which accept volunteers, the kind of people who have the luxury of hounding." Lockett and Malachi both exchanged bemused glances as Grey continued. This was the most they had heard him speak in well over three years. "Drafting ODSTs against their will to be augmented would be like giving a watchdog carbon teeth; effective as a weapon but it's not likely to always do as you say....more or less." At this, James shifted himself out of the passenger seat. "Alright, Grey," he said, clapping his boots against the plated floor. "How the f*** do you know all of this?" "I put research into the ODST program through a lot of means. I once thought to sign up, but like Smith said, 'it's not for me.'" "Well I'm glad you stayed, you creepy b*******." "Back on topic, it makes sense not to draft anyway." Lockett dropped from the cargo netting, taking a breath. "Not everyone's gonna agree with you on that. I can see the pro-augmentationists already up in arms about how a Spartan is better than a squad of ODSTs." Grey nodded. "Yeah, but in the longrun you have to think about humanity's expansion, and we simply can't afford to create enough Spartans to secure every inch of ground we own." "He's right," Yeven said. "One million Marines may not have the same punch as a thousand Spartans, but one million is still more than a thousand--more people for your quick reaction force when things get hairy in the colonies again." "Besides," Malachi added. "When you look at it, we've got totally different jobs. Spartans have the high risk missions, ODSTs are the blacker than black mother*****s, and FORECON--" Lockett cut him off. "Babysits cargo?" "F*** off, Aaron."

Name: Dwayne "Smiffy" Smith Affiliation: Marine Force Recon Rank: Private Race: Human - Age 23 Appearance: Male Black. Standard M52B. CH252 Helmet with TAC Monocle over his left eye. Grey bandanna worn around his neck along with a set of standard protective goggles. Weapon of choice: BR55. M6C. History: His father was a Navy man during the rise of Preston J. Cole. Anyone who knows the story probably knows where this one is going. Aspiring to his father's stories of glorious work against the insurrection and later the Covenant, Dwayne had his mind set on a Navy life, but his father convinced him he would be better placed in the Marine Corps, as Naval battles were where the Covenant were taking most of their ground. He complied, and though misery followed him through his first year as a Marine, he caught a break upon transfer to 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company. Go ahead and give me an op.

Name: James "Mack" Malachi Affiliation: Marine Force Recon Rank: Sergeant Race: Human - Age 26 Appearance: Male Caucasian, 5'10. Black hair, brown eyes. Medium build. Standard M-52B armor (Halo 3 Marine armor) with a balaclava to compliment his CH252 Helmet. Weapon of choice: MA5D Assault Rifle. M6G Magnum Sidearm. History: With few skills to keep him going in the real world, James diverted his attention to enlistment, later deciding to be a career Marine. While he is new to a Sergeant's role, he hardly lacks experience. He first fought the Covenant on Reach, then New Jerusalem, then again on Earth, each time leading his own fireteams whenever detached from Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon. "More than green" would be an insult. Name: Aaron Lockett Affiliation: Marine Force Recon Rank: Private First Class Race: Human - Age 23 Appearance: Male Caucasian. 5'9" Medium Swimmer's Build. Brown eyes, brown hair, shaved head. Standard M52B armor. Olive Drab shemagh acting as a makeshift mask. Weapon of choice: M739 Squad Automatic Weapon. M6D. History: 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. He was a candidate for Marine Force Recon, which he was waiting on while assigned to planetary defense after training on Reach, but the submission is still a week away from being finalized when the Winter Contingency went into effect and he was tasked to covering evacuations in Manassas. His actions won him notice for the FORECON program, where his skills as a support gunner are greatly appreciated. Name: Richard Grey Affiliation: Marine Force Recon Rank: Corporal Race: Human - Age 25 Appearance: Male Caucasian. 5'11". Black hair, blue eyes. Light-medium build. Standard issue M52B armor. Like Lockett, he adopted the traditional Olive Drab shemagh and its many purposes for facial protection. Weapon of choice: SRS99C-S2AMB Sniper Rifle. M7 SMG. History: Born in Beta Centauri, Richard lived a life of the average colony child of the system. Growing up on a farm, he learned the values of manual labor. With his mother deceased at an early age in his life, he learned most of his mannerisms from his father, acting mostly composed and quiet, but active when needed. Originally, he wasn't designated as a scout sniper, but after the assigned MOS in his squad fell injured, it was on him to prove his skills with a rifle at long range. Needless to say, his role was quick to change. [This is what I got for starters. I plan on having at least a fireteam if not a squad, so expect at least one more applicant.]

I think it's because Halo Books/Music/History and all of that is the overall "dump it here" for things that really matter, like canon discussion and such. Also you're right. They tried to balance the Wraith with sluggish ton-f***ery handling and a lousy range for its cannon. Granted, its cannon does some damage, it's still a pretty measly piece of s***.

Uh...the MA5 series in Halo uses 7.62x39 millimeter. That's the same kind of round fired by an AK47. I can tell you right now, that 7.62 can not do in real life what it does in Halo. Granted, it's a video game, but canonically, those rounds pop shields. I think Humanity's all good on the gun department if pre-Gulf War era ammunition specs are now hellishly advanced enough to stand a chance against and alien species.

Scorpion MBT beats Wraith hands-down. Its main cannon has an ungodly range greater than that of the Wraith's flaming mothball launcher. Though I'd take an Abrams over the Scorpion any day simply because it's way faster and has been fitted to fire depleted uranium rather than tungsten shells.

I kinda like Boss' idea. It may not be as much as a role play, unless we're doing joint operations at some point, but it's cool nonetheless.

It wasn't long before Ashley was setting foot in a Pelican prepping for dustoff, close in tow behind Fuchs as he adamantly picked out his seat around the supply crates. Ashley turned her head to the side, aligning her jaw to her shoulder to dare a glance back at the Infinity's hangar. She still couldn't find anything positive in it, anything worth remembering. The whole operation was just a long series of inconvieniences and tragedies. Finally shuffling her way into the cabin, she set herself down across from Fuchs. "Sealing the ramp," the pilot announced, and with a slight, mechanical groan of motors the bright light of Infinity's interior gradually disappeared, replaced by the dim red glow of the Pelican's interior lighting. A burst of comm traffic came through just then, the voice belonging to Sergeant Ty, requesting a sitrep from either of the two. Arnold actually looked upon Soto this time as though expecting her to rectify the situation with silence, looking on for approval as well as he reached up for his helmet. She shook her head and made the decision for him. "Soto here. Fuchs and I are on guard detail for a supply run. Situation developing," she lied. "Over and out." With that, she removed her helmet, closed her eyes, and leaned back into the paneling with a soft sigh. The female pilot's voice broke the silence again. "All good back there?" Fuchs gave a tug at his restraints. "Affirmative." "Alright. Pelican Alpha 314 departing." The engines whined, increasing into a subtle scream with an overlapping rumble of the passing launch bay. That soon vanished, replaced by the low hum of thrusters in the vacuum of space, something Soto could only describe as a continuous breath of air. She treated it as a lullaby, trying to catch at least some sleep...until Fuchs took it upon himself to speak again. "Just like that, huh?" She pulled her head back upright and looked across at him with query--as well as a slight frustration. "What, you got a problem with it? Do you think I made the wrong call?" "I didn't say that," he raised his voice to emphasize his defense. "It wasn't the wrong call." "You didn't say it was the right one either." Fuchs shrugged. "Can I really? We're leaving a job a little more than half-finished." He was right in that sense. Ashley always saw things through to completion, as did everyone she had ever served with. It was just their way, their job's requirements. Backing out simply wasn't something they were all brought up on. But sometimes it was the only truly good option, she told herself as she leaned forward. "The Flood are actively present on and around Requiem. That's bad news in itself. Somehow they were able to infect our ship's AI, despite being non-organic, and now the UNSC Infinity, Earth's new pride, is under the control of an ancient Artificial Intelligence that claims to be the first ever created. I don't know about you, but that is screaming rampancy itself. Have you asked yourself yet, Fuchs, why the hell did all of this happen?" In silence, the two looked at eachother. Only a few seconds passed before Fuchs had decided he had enough time to let her words sink in. "You know, I've dealt with incompetence before--" Ashley furrowed her brow. "Incompetence doesn't even cut it. Did you see how our team operated together? Ty nearly died twice in the time we were aboard that ship, and both instances were no more than a few minutes apart. And you know what grinds my gears the most?" Fuchs made a slight sound, a pre-speech, broken fragment of a word uttered to buy him time to think, but Soto simply continued. "Cyborg Marines," she spat. "What the Christ is that all about? This whole place has become Infinity's f---ing playground and we see how well it's backfiring against it." "Ashley!" Fuchs yelled, then brought his voice down. "I get it. You made a good decision, probably not the best, but better to get out of it while you can, right?" "Exactly. When the damage is out of your reach, sometimes it's better to walk away then hurt yourself fixing it." The pilot's voice filled the PA again. "UNSC Lost in Time is in sight. Prepping for dock procedures." Ashley got on her feet and made her way to the cockpit to share the pilot's view. The frigate was as massive as any other, though after seeing the Infinity, it was hard to say it was a giant. As they closed in, the bay doors began to open and finalizations for docking were underway. From here, they'd be shipped back to colonial assignments, menial tasks like counter-insurgency. Non-ideal jobs for previous high-end special forces a-- kickers, but it was better than being along for the ride when the tombs of ancient evil were being raided by the top tier of the UNSC. "Welcome to your new home," the pilot said. It almost didn't feel real, or possible. It felt like it was just a dream that Ashley might wake up from, or better the whole ordeal beginnign with her arrival on Requiem turned out to be just that, a nightmare. But if all of the things she had witnessed were true, all of the strange convieniences and inconveniences, the Promethean tanks, the cybernetic Marines, and straight up deus ex macchinas--if all of those were real, and possible, then so was this. So was something worth living for.

[Correct.] Ashley gave the Captain his moment, shifting her weight, gaze floating to the ceiling behind her visor as she listened. When he was finally done speaking, she glanced back at him. "Spartans aren't the only personnel that matter aboard this ship, Captain. We've had combat engineers attending to the arrays for some time since we cleared them, and while they haven't brought the arrays back online, this notice came through because I sent this request from Forward Operating Base Charlie in the night before our operation even started." She straightened out and looked once at Fuchs. The only reason he was along was because he was recommended, and in good conscience she couldn't make the request for herself and leave him where he was. It paid to have family in the system. She continued. "I'd also implore you to read the text for details. Nowhere in either of our notices does it say we're going back to Earth. As of right now, the UNSC has a strong foothold in this ship to commence a steady reassimilation, and with reinforcements currently in flow, there's room for rotation out along with medivacs and supply runs. This ship will be cleared, but it'll be with two less Helljumpers than you expected."