dryskim

Andrew looked at Marvin, noting his fellow recruit's behavior - his heroic dreams and swelling pride, Grec just sighed and went back to messing with his shoulder straps.

Grec toddled out of the Pelican, transitioning from the hard metallic 'clank-clank-clank' of boots traversing the last few feet of ramp to the soft 'squish-squish-squish' of semi-damp soil underfoot. ((Because trying to write a sound effect for normal dirt would be too difficult for amateur writer dryskim.)) The murmur from Sam about finding no familiarity in there surroundings - well, it put a damper on things rather suddenly. "Ah, ****, man. I had you pegged as the Boy Scout who could navigate by the stars," Grec said, removing a hand from his rifle's pistol grip so he could adjust the shoulder strap on his backpack. The whole thing was still lumpy and awkward and heavy, but that one shoulder strap wasn't currently biting into his shoulder like a barracuda.

Grec took a moment to run an assault gloved hand over the matte drab surface of his helmet before rolling it over and placing it on his head. The weight was a bit heavier then he'd been expecting, sliding the orange-tinted ballistic glasses over his eyes and instantly his vision was clouded with every manner of tactical display. "So, uh, who wants to be my battle-buddy?" Andrew said in between trying to figure out what the three-thousand icons clogging his vision meant. Aside from the tiny image of an MA5 with ammunition totals - nothing was exactly clear. Grec took a moment to run an assault gloved hand over the matte drab surface of his helmet before rolling it over and placing it on his head. The weight was a bit heavier then he'd been expecting, sliding the orange-tinted ballistic glasses over his eyes and instantly his vision was clouded with every manner of tactical display. "So, uh, who wants to be my battle-buddy?" Andrew said in between trying to figure out what the three-thousand icons clogging his vision meant. Aside from the tiny image of an MA5 with ammunition totals - nothing was exactly clear.

Grec glanced at Kyro - Andrew wasn't a team leader, but he'd sort of wandered up. He took a moment to collect himself before he said, "Uh, not to burst your bubble, but I don't think we're going to be getting explosives. From the looks of things, what we're currently carrying is what we're using," he shrugged slightly, "And even if we had explosives, the Staff Sergeant still hasn't gone over how to safely set that stuff up." And with that little bit of wisdom imparted, Grec started making his way back to the collection of olive-drab and woodland camouflage that was his squadmates. Now reverting to his usual demeanor and behavior, he found himself a quiet corner to hole up in. He was supposed to be grabbing up a buddy for this little walk in the woods, but he didn't exactly recognize anyone from the assembled mass as someone he labeled as his 'friend'. Then again, he'd always been ****ty at making friends.

Grec closed his eyes momentarily, he wasn't a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but sweet Jesus, he was sending up prayers for these two. They just didn't know when to cut their loses. If the Staff Sergeant just suddenly whipped around and slapped a *****, Andrew wouldn't have batted an eyelash.

Grec glanced over Marvin went...and actually returned cradling an anti-material sniper rifle, the recruit wasn't going to comment on that one. He went back to tugging at the strap running under his arms, trying find that sweet spot of just perfect. Either he had this vest on backwards - which wasn't the case - or he'd somehow ****** something up while putting it on. With his MA5 slung over his shoulder and his brain rolling through the inevitable ****storm that would result from someone effectively stealing a portable cannon from the armory. It was sad day when Andrew had to stand in formation, telling himself that maybe D.J. the former gangbanger was the guy he wanted watching his back in a fight. The guy held disdain for full-auto, but the chances of him actually being issued something other than an MA5 older than he was were rather slim. So Grec quietly offered advice, "If you're light on the trigger, you can get single shots off. I wouldn't really get my hopes up on getting something better, they're probably saving the fancier gear for the guys on the frontlines."

"So, what you're saying is - maybe we should try negotiating with the aliens we've been at war with for three decades?" Grec offered, "That, maybe we should just, give them whatever they're looking for?" The recruit made a vague gesture in the direction of the still playing video, he bit his lip that his speaking his mind on this subject wouldn't get him on the Staff Sergeant's ****-list, but if that was the case, so be it, "Dude, I'm pretty sure we're way past talking things over." "History doesn't exactly show promising results for talking down attempted genocide," Grec finished, trying to reorient himself back towards the videos and figure out if he could actually glean anything from the helmet-cam footage. Except the whole, what if the aliens are after something argument drew his focus elsewhere, so actually finding anything of worth in the semi-fuzzy haze of shouting, explosions, and weapons fire of various types was becoming more challenging than necessary.

Grec glanced down at the standard-issue stun grenade lying in his hands, turning it over momentarily before passing it along. He'd honestly expected it to be...well, he couldn't quite determine if it was heavier than he'd expected or if he'd expected it to be a bit lighter, he was going back and forth in his head over the whole thing. Then again, he'd never held a stun grenade in his life, so he didn't exactly have any comparisons available. Suppressing and flanking, considering this was the kindergarten of military training at this point, it wasn't exactly the definitive article on the subject. Shoot at the baddies, keep their heads down, soften them with fragmentation grenades and stuns, and then flank and finish. He didn't label himself a tactical genius on any account, but he'd picked up a fair chunk of that by playing video games and watching movies. And then, blue alligator on legs. "Questions...so far." What's the correct military response to this? Nod your head and grin? "Yeah, we're fightin' aliens, kickass," was that the standard operating procedure? Hell, it seemed like everyone collectively was having this little battle since the whole room went deathly silent almost as soon as the slide switched. Seriously, even that ghetto-banger dude.

Grec, his face smeared with a substance that burned like termite, fell into position within the block of recruits. He dunked his head into the bucket of what felt like ice water expecting the **** to wash out of his eyes and off his skin. Aside from getting himself soaking wet from the neck up, he didn't really succeed in anything worthwhile. Instead, he took to standing as told while blinking like a ************. His vision had came back more or less within a handful of minutes and his lungs didn't burn like hellfire anymore, but his sinus' would not resist the chance to pour snot and mucus down his throat in a desperate bid to drown him. As for his shooting, running, and punching - he'd managed to stumble his way through, physically abusing his punching bag adversary, lugged his doomsday pack the required distance with only moderate difficulty, and fired his salvo of rounds. He'd managed to hit paper, so he'd been told. Then again, the fact the corpsman handed him a BR55 instead of his familiar MA5 threw him for a momentary loop. Sure, the controls were more or less the same but the MA5 had a push-button safety, the whole thing delegated by trigger pull, the BR55 had a selector switch, which with an eyeful of irritation and very little prior knowledge of the weapon in question left Grec asking his new friend, the corpsman, how far he'd need to go to find the semi-automatic.

Grec looked over at Jacob, seemingly surveying him for a long moment, "Their is a difference between liking something and tolerance. So I'm tolerating the bull****, because that's how things are going to be if I hit the fleet. But I'm also not going to slap a big grin on my face and pretend that the Corps is somehow above the bull****, because it's not true and I'm not going to lull myself into pretending it is," the recruit finished off his carton of orange juice, "In short, I'd recommend toning down your excitement, the dee-eye might skull-**** you for being too happy."

"It's....alright?" Andrew managed after a few moments. To be honest, he was finding Jake a bit hard to read - maybe the dude was just really awkward around other people? Or he was more stiff and proper than an Englishmen. ((In reference to Major HawThorne)) Okay, since I'm here and I have an idea what's going on, I'll explain things to you. First of all, this RP is about the training of militia by UNSC Marines on Reach, prior to the Battle of Reach. So, based on that string of logic - your character couldn't be running operations against Covenant forces during the Battle of Reach - because the Battle of Reach hasn't occurred yet in the timeline of the RP. Two, your character - even if he was allowed to be a Spartan variant (which he isn't) - could not be a Spartan-IV, because the Spartan-IV Program to my knowledge was not in play in September of 2552. Lastly, while this isn't important because your rank is dictated by the fact that everyone is a 'recruit' (not even holding a military rank yet) - their is no conceivable way that your character could be a Lieutenant at the age of 23. Well, aside from him going to Officer Candidate School but that wasn't featured in his biography, so I'm assuming that he did not go to school. Also, he's a friendly Lone Wolf (because everyone is a Lone Wolf...) which sort of brings into question how. If he's a Lone Wolf, he's most likely anti-social which doesn't typically result in the most sunny of personalities - or relations with people. Eitherway, you at least followed the proper formatting (which some people don't) so I'll give you a cookie in that regard. The rest of it is typical for people new to roleplaying or who failed to read up on the details prior to posting. So here are my recommendations, go back to the first page of the roleplay and read that first post. It'll help you get an idea of what the aims of the roleplay are and even gives you some help with creating the application. Two, skim through the roleplay itself and take a look at some of the other applications so you can see how others have set up theirs. As for not being good at roleplaying, not much I can say there other than just keep at it. It's just like anything else, you just gotta keep at it. Hopefully, some of that was helpful and I didn't come off too heavy as a know-it-all jerk.

Grec half-shrugged, "Yeah, I dunno about that athlete part," the recruit made a show of poking his belly with a pair of fingers, "I've always been a bit doughy." Andrew cast the new guy a glance, "Well, you certainly have a particular way of talking," he mused, but deciding to not begin this meeting of the minds with 'JACKASS' firmly stamped on his forehead in red ink, he made a show of introducing himself, "Andrew Grec."

Grec glanced up from his tray of breakfast slop, "Huh? Oh, yeah, you can sit there, I don't care." The recruit shrugged as Dwyer settled down across the table from him. To be honest, the guy had a point - everyone else was pretty damn tall and rippling with muscle. Andrew? Eh, not so much. "Yeah, I just settled for losing a couple pounds before I turned in my sheet," he joked, "Cut down on my doughnut intake, that sort of thing."

Fresh from his two minutes of shower time, which consisted of getting wet and then getting out of the shower, Grec followed behind the others at a semi-lumbering pace, pausing momentarily at each fresh plot of food to quietly assess before tossing it on his tray. None of it really looked terribly good and it probably tasted worse than public school food, but as the gigantic gang-banger said, food was food. And then the even more gigantic Russian brought up how cake was unhealthy for an oversized dude like himself. As much as Andrew just wanted to turn around and tell the dude to quit talking so loud, effectively bellowing over the shorter recruit's shoulder to give DJ his pro-tips, the comparatively tiny recruit decided the hell with it and went to find himself his own seat, a bit aways from the others. Within a moment of sitting down he'd decided his order of battle, terrorizing his meal one side at a time and leaving the biscuit as the lone survivor. If in doubt, he could shove the biscuit into his mouth as he walked out the door and choke it down some point. And with that in mind, he went to work on whatever mystery meat was the prominent feature of his plate.

Grec, who had his dozen magzines laid out carefully in-front of his firing position took a moment to give his new baby one final once over. It took him a bit to figure out why in hell a rifle would need a power button, painfully long when he finally hit the button and figured out what the fuss was all about - it turned the LED screen on and off. If he wasn't holding a nine pound death machine in his unworthy hands, he'd have punched himself in the genitals. Well, not really, but his stupidity deserved as much. Anyway, now standing with a fully-loaded magazine of 7.62x51mm, Grec realized just how damn heavy a full magazine was. It was like holding a brick. With the bolt still locked back so he could visually confirm the chamber was empty, he slotted in his first magazine. The mag slid into the slot like a dream, and he gave it a slight slap to make sure it was fully seated before giving the charging handle a firm slap with the heel of his hand. Now locked and cocked, the recruit adjusted his stance, making sure to lean a bit into the rifle. Now with a fully-loaded magazine in the rear, the MA5 felt awkward and back heavy but he figured he'd eventually get used to the heft. His trigger finger clicked the safety to the 'off' position, and his finger eased to the trigger. The MA5 lacked any fire selection, being merely 'SAFE' and 'FIRE', so the recruit was careful to merely squeeze the trigger rather than give it a sharp tug. This was the first time he'd ever held an automatic weapon, let alone fired one, he didn't exactly want his first range experience to be him pumping a fully thirty-two round magazine into the dust. The trigger finally broke, the rifle kicked, and a hole appeared in the paper downrange. Grec's aim was a bit off, his first shot hitting a little low, dissatisfied, he adjusted his aim accordingly and fired again.

Grec shrugged, giving his issued MA5C a once over. The Recruit had been busy in the pit, getting his ass handed to him. (I'd post more, but I'm a dumbass and just realize I have five minutes until class. So I'll edit this when I get a chance.)

Andrew, being a middle class suburban kid growing up....well, let's just say he wasn't looking forward to getting his teeth knocked down his throat. He found his pace in formation, making sure not to step on somebody's heels with his long strides before settling in place while they awaited Sergeant Geza to commence kicking their collective asses. Or judging from the decent sized sandpit, they'd all get a chance at turning black and blue. Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, right?

With his chest burning and his lungs threatening to evacuate his body through his mouth, Andrew slowed to a halt in front of their new home. Which meant it looked about one stiff breeze from burying them alive while they slept. Anyway, despite the pounding of his heart in his temple, Grec tried to keep his posture relatively solid. As much as he wanted to bend over at the waist and put his head between his knees - he couldn't get through one-hundred and fifty push-ups. ((From my chats with Rookie, I've deduced this : The RP takes place on Reach, prior to the Fall of Reach. The RP isn't expected to be some long winded, epic trek across the galaxy - it's a boot camp RP, and maybe some stuff involving the Fall of Reach. Yes, that's limited in scope - but a lot of quality entertainment has been made with an extremely limited scope. The Office is a multi-season show with the entire show revolving around character interactions occuring at their office. So, for me, this is a place to take a character - and develop them. Take a character who starts off as a flat application, and eventually smooth him/her out into a fully realized round character with depth, dreams, desires - and a solid backstory that puts them in the middle of one of the single most important battles in human history. So yes, in terms of scope of locales, the RP is limited. In terms of scope in terms of character growth - that's only limited by your own writing talents. Besides, the next part is the hand-to-hand section, so plenty of laughs to have there if you're willing to stick around a bit longer.))

Andrew watched as Home-Slice pounded out his punishmental push-ups like some sort of olympic class body builder, seemingly putting in close to what - seven hundred push-ups in the span of ten minutes? Then again, so had the massively tall Russian - despite not being told to actually do any. Andrew had opened his mouth to inform the giant that he in-fact, did not need to drop and pump out one-hundred-fifty, but by that point the dude was already back on his feet after pushing the planet out of it's orbit thanks to his massive Russian arms and unnaturally colored eyes. The dude creeped out Grec. But damn, if he ever needed something carried - he knew the guy to call for the job. So while Rasputin was no doubt a strange individual, the ******* looked like a decent guy underneath it. Maybe a little bit naive, but a decent fellow. Unless he turned out to have served time in some Russian gulag, eating babies and getting blood transfusions of straight vodka.

Andrew Grec, not exactly looking forward to inciting the Staff Sergeant to hit him with push-ups did his best to fufill the command as issued. He shouted, "Yes, Staff Sergeant," with the majority of the recruits....except for Home-Slice. Grec internally labeling the recruit Home-Slice just due to his simple appearance, the doo-rag, the dark sunglasses, the attitude. Honestly, Grec wouldn't have been too terribly suprised if the guy had sauntered in with a joint between his lips. And so, with his toes on the line, he awaited the candid response from Home-Slice about his punishment. Becaused, damnit, if the dude didn't have some sort of retort, well, Andrew would honestly be a bit disappointed in their resident gangbanger. Now he just had to focus on keeping a strong poker face, and he'd fade into the background and go unnoticed. Which was honestly where he'd rather perform. Not too good as to be singled out for acclaim, that'd only incourage the others to rag on him for showing them up - and not perform so badly as to incite the anger of his fellow recruits for performing underpar. Average, that was his goal. Then again, being the best was a damn unlikely proposition.

Name: Andrew Grec Age: 18 Physical Appearance: His skin is light from long hours formerly spent indoors, and his hair is a medium shade of blonde. Eyes are hazel in color and his jawline is specked with acne, normally neatly hidden with a layer of light scruff. Of course, being part of the UNSC-Lite, he doesn't have any hair to conceal it with. While his body isn't fat, he does carry a neat layer of fat around his midsection. No tattoos or outstanding marks. Rank: Recruit Uniform: Olive Drab Battle Dress Uniform Birthplace: Manassas Personality: Uh.... Background: Andrew was born just outside of Manassas, the urban sprawl rising up towards the clouds while his own early years were restricted to suburbia. Andrew grew up in an average middle-class household, not having to put in too much conscious effort into his studies through most of his schooling. While he wasn't overly outgoing, prefering to keep to himself to a degree, he was able to make and sustain friendships. Then, in his last year of middle school he hit the snag of math starting to outstrip his natural intelligence. Still, with tutoring he was albe to make progress and continued on to high school, where during his last two years of schooling his inherent lackadaisical nature started to become his undoing. While he wasn't stupid, his interests always came first, and because of this his education slipped. With a heavy dose of luck, he was able to receive a diploma and moved on to college. While he himself personally felt himself unready for college, faced with his parents heavy encouragement, he failed to find the words to state his case. Let alone a quiet desire to enlist. Of course, that underlying feeling of fear remained and steered him away from that path. Still, when the option of enrolling in the militia came up, he decided to sign up. The likelihood of an actual deployment was virtually nonexistant, and he'd be able to get training that would help him decide if actually joining the Marines was a topic worthy of debate. Skills: In the past, as in years ago, he used to occasionally go shooting with his father. Whether this translates to him being a superb shot when armed with an MA5 variant is anybody's guess. Likewise, his knowledge doesn't extend to actually caring for a firearm, despite his enjoyment stemming from shooting. His workout routine peaks out at a few sit-ups and some push-ups, and endurance isn't really his thing, so physically he's underpar.

"Maybe they're....uh....sleeping?" Salvinski shrugged, "It's a possibility, right? It's a little late to be out wandering around unless you're warrior gods like ourselves," the FORECON Marine adjusted his groin flap once more before rolling back onto his belly, "I dunno, anybody else getting that ominous feeling, or am I just a p*ssy?"

"Okay, I'm a sexist prick, please, everyone stone me to death," Salvinski muttered under his breath. Within eight minutes, he propped up on his elbows surveying the sleepy town below through a green haze of night vision optics, "Recon's a pretty broad subject, Sarge. You mean recon as in peeking in windows and snooping around, or recon as in breaking 'n' entering hopping to find some rusty RPGs down in the basement?" The Lance Corporal shifted slightly, resulting in a crackling sound that to his own ear sounded like a million tiny bombs going off, but in all likelihood the range of sound was lost within five feet thanks to the wind, ambient sounds, and the generalization that humans half the time didn't want to know what the creepy sounds up in the forest are.

"Look, Lockett, there is a reason that I am known throughout the Corps as Cockasaurus Rex. I have determined, since cutting scores are such bull**** in this man's military, that I must do the only sensible thing. And like my female counterparts, I must f*ck my way up the pay scale," Salvinski continued, hitched up his assault pack a bit on his shoulders, the loaded tube from his M41 clanking off the back of his helmet. Which drove his NODs into his eye sockets with a muffled, "Motherf*cker," disappearing on the wind that was likewise blasting at his exposed face like a sandstorm, he should have worn a half-mask like the rest of Bandito-Squad.

"Dude, hot blonde, hot Lieutenant," Salvinski chided in, his breath visible in front of his face thanks to the green-ness of night vision optics, "Wandering the countryside with NODs on like confused pedophiles? Not as much fun. So tell (RAY-GUN) Parker, that I send him his regards on cockblocking me."