Halo: Militia (RP)

[Lycaoni]

Alison opened her eyes instictively when told they're getting blinded again. she puts her hands on her eyes for a second, holding back from swearing. she barely was able to jump the wall, not being the most athletic overall, and found the punching bag by tripping into it. she got up and started punching it until she was instructed to move on. when she finished up with the pit she sprinted in the direction she thought was the firing range. she tripped into a corpsman who helped point her in the right direction. when she got there she was given a rifle and attepted to hit the target downrange, missing most of her shots. a corpsman took the rifle eventually and lead her aside because she was finally done.

[Astronautics7]

Name: Oliver Shields

Age: 18

Physical Appearance: Shields, 5'11, has green eyes and what remains of his shaved hair is a dark brown. He has a couple of small, circular scars from trying to rid of teenage spots, and sports two freckles under his right eye. Overall, Shields is a fairly stocky lad with a little muscle visible - he's nothing of an amateur body-builder, though.

Rank: Recruit

 

Uniform: Olive Drab Battle Dress Uniform

 

Birthplace: Ezhtergom

 

Personality: Usually, Shields is fairly friendly. He is used to working with others and getting to know people quickly (see career below). He can get on fine with or without people and is generally cheery and a laugh to be around. Quite focused and concentrated on the task at hand and grows a little impatient when his progress in completing said task is hindered. Used to have something of a mild anger-management problem, but has learnt to deal with it and put it behind him.

Background: In 2534, Oliver Shields was born in Ezhtergom, to Mary and Charlie Shields. He grew up there until the age of twelve, when his parents decided to move out of the city to Manassas, due to some hostilities within his father's side of the family. Both of his parents found work rather quickly and the family settled into their new home.

 

Oliver did fairly well at school, especially in Hungarian, and didn't need to study much because of that. He got some part-time work helping the janitor out at the local elementary after he had finished school in the evening. With the money earned, he bought video games and put money towards what could be described as 26th century Airsoft. He used replicas of the MA2B and the MA3 and wore a knock-off of the M52B vest, without the plating.

 

After work on the weekdays, Oliver spent time with his mother, learning Hungarian at a night class. On weekends, he either went hiking with his father in the Highland Mountains, collecting blueberries and fishing, or to the "Airsoft" field on the edge of the city. Eventually, he got a job as a staff member, ditching his janitor duties. He was in charge of some of the teams and helped organise some MilSim games. Despite this experience, he never got to firing a real weapon, which annoyed him especially when his careers advisor suggested he join the military.

 

In 2552, Shields did just that. Much to his dismay, his father was admitted to a hospital a few days before he was being shipped out to basic training. When he left, his father was very ill but his mother assured him that he would be okay. He hasn't heard from her since.

 

Skills: Works well with people and, from his prior experience in his last job, is good at some combat situations. Speaks Hungarian quite well, also.

 

[Greetings, everyone.]

[BaconShelf]

Abandoning the spot, Jacob joined he rest of them in the crowd. He winced at the instructors orders, he had never experienced mace but knew well enough it's effects. He tried the centre of the crowd, he hoped he wouldn't be picked first to go.

[D-38 Boss]

"Man, I thought I was done bein' maced..." D.J. shrugged. Every single woman back home seemed to have one, and apparently had a quick draw when you tugged on their purses.

 

D.J. took a deep breath.

 

"Alright... hit me."

[Mr. Wolfy]

Kyro was standing near the front of the line. He honestly couldn't care less about the mace. He heard D.J. say "hit me" and nearly punched him for the humor of it, but decided it would create more hostility than humor. Getting maced in the eyes, Kyro lunged forward, had some trouble climbing the wall, made it over, laid into the bag while yelling what could almost be described as a battle cry, shouldered the bag, and made his way to the range. Stepping onto the range Kyro shot the AR in short bursts and placed the shots relatively well for being partially blinded.

[Helljumper425]

{Nice of you to join us, Astro.]

 

Fumbling over the wall, Dwyer hit the sand hard enough for it to form a cloud...only worsening the effect of the mace. Pushing himself to his feet, he managed to close in on a black shape, which he only assumed was the punching bag. As he drew closer, he could see the duct tape holding it together, and content that he wasn't mistaking it for one of their ODST assistant-trainers, he layed into it as best he could until he heard a whistle, which caught him off guard, causing him to miss the bag and hit the ground again.

 

"F*** my life..." he growled, pushing off the ground, trailing sand as he reached the table and grabbed a ruck.

 

Before he attempted to put it on, he heard its zipper break open, as he had grabbed it upside down and let the eighty pounds of weights fall at his feet.

 

"Sh**!"

 

"Don't just stand there!" a corpsman barked. "Pick 'em up! Move!"

 

Dropping to a knee, Sam fumbled the weights back into the bag, though in a much less neat fashion than before. It didn't seem like a problem, but when he put the bag on, he could feel the disarray of their packing begin to jab at his backside with a myriad of rough edges. Nonetheless, he secured his straps and broke into a full sprint.

 

By now, his lungs were burning, throat coating with phlegm to resist the foreign contaminants attacking his body; sand and mace were a hell of an alliance, but the human body never ceased to amaze him as he was able to cough up a brittle wad of sand and spit. Eyes down, he focused on the path, the only thing leading him to the rifle range. When he arrived, the blurry figure of another corpsman was there to greet him with a BR55 rifle.

 

"This my prize?" he tried to joke.

 

"We'll see," said the Corpsman. "Come on," he said, ushering Alison out of the booth and making way for Dwyer. "You've had enough fun for the day."

 

Sam shouldered off his ruck, letting it hit the ground with a thud, then shouldered up. Brushing his eyes a few times, he managed to clear away the pool of tears but not for long. It was only just enough time to level in on the paper target downrange. From there, he had to guesstimate the killzones as he fired one at a time. His bolt finally clicked, locking back from the last shot.

 

"Not bad. One in the killzone, the rest are superficial. Only one problem, Dwyer." Sam hung his head, distracting his inevitable disciplining by clearing his rifle. "You took off your rucksack. That weight will one day be your friend; whether it's ammo, food, or medical, you're gonna wish you learned how to shoot with it all on your back. Go on, rinse your eyes out and clear the line."

 

 

 

 

Kawolski had taken some pleasure in offing a full second and a half of mace into Jones, but then he reminded himself of Cavril's presence and was infinitely happier. While a show off was one of the lowest of likes in his book, a man with a natural appeal to intimidation only served well in the field. In training, around people who likely never even touched a weapon before, he was only a distraction.

 

"Shields, you're next and last. Let's go."

 

 

 

At that point, Geza was catching up with the rifle range, observing the performance of some. One stood out notably, Kyro, having placed most of his shots on the target, much less a few in the killzone. He approached the booth, and suddenly his hope was killed as he noticed the MA5 in his hands.

 

"What were your instructions regarding this exercise, recruit?"

[Astronautics7]

Oliver, last in the line, watched as the guy in front of him ran off, face scrunched up like a ******* gurner. He had to admit it didn't look fun, especially when one of the punches he swung at the bag took him to his knees. Then, he threw a few more hits, hefted the sack of weights and shambled off. Just watching made Shields feel sorry for the dude, and he couldn't help wincing when he fell.

 

"Shields, you're next and last. Let's go."

 

The words 'Oh ****' ran through his mind for a few seconds whilst he figured the direction of the punching-bag. His inner cursing was interrupted when his eyes began to burn like a thousand suns. He ran to the bag, biting his bottom lip, fighting the urge to scream, touch his eyes or even scrunch up his face. One of his buddies back on the playing field he worked for was a cop and had mentioned what pepper-spray was like.

 

His description-work was a pile of ****.

 

Shields slammed closed fists at the bag, trying his best to ignore the pain, which only put more effort into his punches. After four sets of one-twos and three sets of three-fours, he hefted the bag onto his right shoulder, the one he didn't use to shoulder a weapon, due to his left-handedness. Then, with the Staff Sergeants eyes on him, steadily jogged to the firing range, arm aching.

 

When he got there, he thanked the heavens that his right eye was slightly less impaired than his left. He took the BR55 Geza handed to him and shouldered it, closing his left eye and bringing his right to the scope of the rifle. His first squeeze of the trigger let three rounds slam into the cardboard just outside of the outline of the figure. The next burst hit the target in the lower abdomen, the next slightly higher in the heart/lungs area. He missed the next shot, but scored a few more chest and headshots. The last shot he missed also and with that, he clicked the safety back on and handed the weapon back to the Sergeant.

 

"Son of a..." Shields muttered to himself, keeping his hands a mile-and-a-half away from his face. He looked around at the fuzzy world, looking to see if others had rushed off to the sinks or showers.

[Mr. Wolfy]

Noticing the same voice that had been yelling at him the last time he was in the range was behind him again. Kyro had a sinking feeling. "S**t" he muttered to himself as the voice approached. Setting the rifle down he turned to face the man, "Climb the wall, beat the s**t out of the bags, grab our sack, haul a** here, and shoot the targets...sir." The last part again added with an afterthought. "I was also informed that using anything other than this gun would get me in a world of hurt, sir..."

[Helljumper425]

"Details, recruit," Geza said to Kyro in a calmer tone. "They have a way of biting you in the *ss." With that, he redrew his can of mace and put on a cartoon-like grin. "But smile! Since you had the decency to admit it, you get to again--free of charge!"

 

 

 

Patrolling the line of rifle lanes, Kawolski watched the recruits as they peeled off from the formation, one at a time dunking their faces in the nearest basin of water. A corspman joined him as the last few recruits were winding down, a notepad in his hand. "How'd they do, Les?"

 

"Allison was a little laughable, but not bad. Same as Dwyer--okay at best but not enough to qualify if you ask me. Shields got some in the killzone, granted I think he missed with half his mag, and from what I heard from Geza, Kyro did okay with an MA5. He's having him redo the course."

 

"Good. How about Jones?"

 

"Pardon, Staff Sergeant?"

 

"Jones, how did he do?"

 

Les shook his head. "I wasn't covering his side, why do you ask? I thought you hated the guy."

 

"I do. His attitude sucks but he was a half-decent shot yesterday. I want to know how he works with a Fifty-Five."

 

"Sorry, Kwol. He wasn't in my lineup. You'll have to hear from one of the others."

 

Gabe hummed in disappointed thought, however nodding in acceptance. "So overall?"

 

"Not bad. Everyone pretty much passed, at least all of my lineup did."

 

"Alright, help the others wrap up, and once everyone's squared away, give 'em a twenty minute run around the perimeter--PT for the rest of the hour after that. Showers next, then get everyone in the homeroom."

 

"Finally going to lectures? I hope the AC's working."

 

Gabe turned a persistent stare at the man. "Les..."

 

"Going, Staff Sergeant."

 

After a moment to himself, a figure came just out of his peripheral, hands behind its back. He knew the stance, and he knew just about only one pompous jackass who walked like that. The man's voice, all but confirmed it. "Bit harsh?"

 

Mates, he thought with an internal hiss. "Lieutenant Mates," he said with a smile, turing to face the man. "What brings you to this wonderful corner of hell?"

 

Lieutenant David Mates, donned in the most military-looking civilian attire--a pair of cargo slacks, a plain olive shirt and three day old stubble--pried a set of aviators away from his eyes and squinted past Gabe's shoulder. "Sight-seeing. I heard there was a comedy show in town."

 

Taking the hint like a dose of salt, Gabe looked over his shoulder at his recruits, then exchanged a stern glance with the man before him. Snarky pr*ck. "Oh yeah? Well you've gotten fat."

 

A genuine laugh escaped Mates' lips, and Gabe himself managed to chuckle as they shook hands. "Jesus, Kwol. I heard you started training, but I thought it'd be ODSTs, Reach Rangers or...hell something else."

 

Gabe's face sank to a sour expression. "Nah...they won't make me a proper DI, not with the way things are now."

 

"Sucks, man."

 

"Yeah..." He looked his old squad leader up and down, hoping the change the subject. "What's this f***ing safari guide look for? ONI bust you down for sleeping with too many secretaries?"

 

With a scoff, the Lieutenant waved a dismissive hand. "C'mon man, drop it. I'm comfortable--can't say the same for you."

 

Gabe looked down at his uniform briefly as they started to walk across the field. "It fits."

 

"For now. Only a matter of time before you come over to the dark side."

 

"I already told you, desk jobs aren't for me, and neither is this intel crap," he said with a poisonous tone. "Seriously, why are you here?"

 

"I'm just checking in, really," he said, the honesty readable in his voice. "You realize the militia training approval is just a gimmick. You, and these ODSTs here on assistance, are just here to supplement Reach's defenses."

 

"They told me that when I signed on, ONI and the clerks. What's your point?"

 

Stopping, the agent brought his hands up, as though to reveal a great truth to the Staff Sergeant. "You're wasting their talent. They're babysitting reservists when they could be running field training ops."

 

"Stop there. Most of these guys just made Lance Corporal and Specialist. Call it leadership experience. Reach is gonna get hit sooner or later and these 'babysitters' are going to be the only difference between an organized evacuation and crowd of scared civilians."

 

Mates nodded, feigning a smile "Right. Right, police training for shock troopers." After a long look at the field, he nodded toward the recruits. "What about them? Sating your DI bloodthirst?"

 

"Something like that." Taking a moment to breathe, he let out a long exhale. "I dunno, maybe I'm just trying to pass the book, keeping the old ways alive before ONI--"

 

"Aye, aye, I get it. Watch your tone--God damn..."

 

 

 

 

Dwyer had lost count of how long his face was in the bucket. It felt like five minutes, which was something he could be proud of if it were true. He was never good at holding his breath, just as much as he was at taking mace. Every time he tried to pull out and breath, the sun reactivating the burning sensation of the mace, not just in his eyes but also on his skin. It was like rubbed his face into a basket of Earth-imported jabanero peppers.

 

Needless to say, he wasn't going anywhere until he had to.

[D-38 Boss]

D.J. choked through the mace, and squinted enough for his eyes to water, clearing his vision just enough for a tiny slit of vision.

 

D.J. made his way over the wall, and dropped down on the other side. The awkward landing in the sand caused him to stumble forward, but he rolled and kept on his feet.

 

He rushed into the next area, only to bump into one of the punching bags.

 

"Damn it!"

 

D.J. launch a quick jab, hitting the bag. He heard a whistle, and turned toward it. The bag hit him in the chest, but he managed to keep his grip on it. Rushing down the path, his eyesight finally started to clear to the point where he could hold his eyes open for a few seconds before he had to blink.

 

D.J. lifted the BR in his hands, and dropped to a knee in the shooter's box. He fumbled a bit to slide a mag into the mag well, and slammed the bolt closed. He leveled the rifle and aimed down the sight. Blinking through the mace, he could make out the red dot on the head of the paper target.

 

D.J. exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and the rifle kicked in his hands.

 

His first shot was dead on target, but the other two in the burst missed completely.

 

He fired another burst, aiming for center mass this time. the first shot hit the targets center of mass, and the second hit it's throat, with the third sailing over completely.

 

He emptied the mag, stopping once to clear a jam, with much the same result, accurate first shot, and trailing off with the rest.

[Helljumper425]

"Well God damn, homey," said Les, laughing aloud with another trainer. "I might actually be impressed. Go on," he said, reaching out for the rifle. "Wash that crap out of your eyes and fall in when you're seein' straight."

 

As he took the BR55 in one hand, Les could feel the watchful eyes of Kawolski waiting on an answer. Taking a look over his shoulder, he gave a sent back a nod.

 

 

 

"Well I guess they have some hope," said Mates, raising his shades back over his eyes.

 

Gabe was silent for a moment, deep in thought. It still troubled him that the Lieutenant, his former squad leader turned ONI official, was on his base. It couldn't have been just for the hell of it, or to say hi. "What's your angle, Dave? Why are you here?"

 

Without skipping a beat, the Lieutenant shifted his posture to face the opposite direction. "A storm's coming. Everyone in the Office can feel it. I'd explain, but--"

 

"Details. Nothing more."

 

"Yeah...anyway, I'll be around. Stay cool."

 

"Mhm...And hey, next time you're around, dress nicer. I'll kick your *ss otherwise."

[BaconShelf]

Jacob stepped up and recieved the chemical. He knew it was painful but didn't realise how much so, his eyes began to water as he ran, jumping, crawling and running. He finished rather slowly compared to other recruits before running to the range, picked up the rifle and fired. He got used to the weapons weight, fired and hit two targets in a single burst. Firing again, he found two misses before hitting the last; and furthest away target. He liked the weight and lack of recoil on the weapon, it was nice. He was surprised he managed to hit 3 of 5 targets, not too bad considering he couldn't see. He rubbed his eyes, able to see a little better before walking ip to the Sarge, "How did I do?" he asked.

[D-38 Boss]

D.J. used his bandana to dry his face. It wasn't his first time being maced, but you never really got used to the sensation.

 

With his eyesight more or less intact, he wandered back over to the ready line, prepared for the next exercise.

[Lycaoni]

alison rinsed her eyes thourougly trying to stop the burning. when she could at least see well enough she went to the ready line trying to avoid being late. she ended up standing next to D.J.

[dryskim]

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.

[Astronautics7]

Coughing as he did so, Shields removed his shirt and ran it under the water of the sink. He wiped away the mace on his face as best he could, drying off the wet with the dry part of shirt. Then, he bunched the material up, twisting it into a small point, soaking it and wiping his eyes. When he was done with his face, he began slowly drinking water to help with his burning lungs and sticky throat.

 

See, Shields had dealt with this sort of issue before - a lady close by wasn't too happy about their grav-ball landing in her back garden. The first thing she grabbed when she'd seen him sneaking around her garden was a can of wasp-spray in her kitchen. Oliver hadn't noticed her until he had a face full of the pesticide. He'd got out with the grav-ball though, and she took a bollocking from his parents when they found out she'd assaulted him.

 

He spit out a yellowish slime into the silver basin, along with some water. He drank a little more and spat until the burning had ceased to what felt like being rather out of breath. Then, he wrung out his shirt and put the damp, olive-drab material back on. It was cool - the moistness helped settle some of the areas on his lower neck, upper chest, that had caught some of the spray.

 

"S'all yours, bud." Shields nodded to the next guy, who probably couldn't even see him, let alone formulate a response. The recruit nodded back to him, a guttural sort of 'thanks' emanating from his inflamed windpipe.

 

"How'd ya find that, Shields?" asked a blonde fella' his age, squinting with his words.

 

"F*****g invigorating. You look like you got punched by Davey Krenshaw again, Mickey."

 

"Yeah, well, I told him to stay away from Izabella."

 

"You don't just punch a two-hundred pound szemét and expect to walk away with the girl." Shields grinned, walking away from the sinks with his highschool bud Michael Griffiths, or Mickey, as he was more well known.

 

"F*** off. I did get the girl, thank you very much." Mickey punched him in the bicep, smiling, despite his stinging eyes. "And what a wonderful girl she was. Oh, our grad party, Curls. Daaaaamn."

 

'Curls' was the nickname that had stuck with Oliver since the start of highschool. At the time, he had a full head of curls that sprang down to his shoulders. Mickey had forced him to get his haircut, for his own good. He hadn't let it drop since.

 

"You got knocked out cold and he slept with her, Mick."

 

"Hey, she was a wh***, but wh*** are good at some things nice girls ain't."

 

"How the f*** do you know what a nice girl's like in bed?" Shields asked, an eyebrow raised at his friend.

 

"Julia was pretty good." Mickey winked, poking fun at Oliver's girlfriend. Shields turned his head slowly, shaking it.

 

"Get f****d, Mick."

 

"Already did, brotha'. I'm sure we just covered this topic."

 

[Very tempted to app Mickey as a character. Later on, we're gonna need some deaths when the recruits finish training and I'd be happy for Mickey to bite the bullet, or plasma bolt.]

[BaconShelf]

Jacob looked in disgust at the yellow ball of phlegm lining the sink he was to wash his face in. Instead, he cupped his hands and at the water fill them before drinking. It tasted horrible, but was the best he ever tasted. He got another handful and poured it over his face and rubbed his eyes. He could actually see now.

[Helljumper425]

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

[BaconShelf]

Jacob made his way to the showers and cranked up the heat. 5 degrees. It was enough, he wagged the sand out of his hair and sweat off his body before making his way to the lounge and kaid across three chairs, taking up mot of the few chairs available. He say there, waiting for the next part and hoped it wouldn't be another Flashbang.

[D-38 Boss]

D.J. had already showered, and was sitting in the back of the room waiting for the lecture to start. He was surprised to be doing something other than P.T. and drills, but of all things, it had to be a lecture. D.J. wasn't too bright, and he knew it. The last thing he wanted was to be back in school.

[Astronautics7]

[Damn. Just lost a post. Will do, Rook.]
 
Name: Michael 'Mickey' Griffiths

Age: 18

Physical Appearance: Mickey, 6'1, is a fairly stocky guy. He has shaved blonde hair and grey-eyes. He's something of a looker, always fooling around with girls back home. Not marked with any scars and is generally a healthy human-being. 

Rank: Recruit

Uniform: Olive Drab Battle Dress Uniform

Birthplace: Ezhtergom

Personality: Mickey is a bit of a joker, but a great guy to have around when you need someone. He may seem like the average cocky, undisciplined teen, but he takes things, other than his flings, quite seriously. Should the time arise, he will drop the funny man act and aid you as seriously and helpfully as possible.

Background: Ezhtergom was the birthplace and hometown, or city, if you prefer, of Michael Griffiths. Mickey spent all of his eighteen years there, a friendly face in the neighbourhood. He got on with most everyone and earned money by doing oddjobs, "out of kindness", which he just so happened to get paid for.
 
He wasn't big on school, but focused on the more key subjects, such as English, Maths and the Sciences, hoping to land himself a decent career in the future. When his grades rapidly dropped, as shown by his report card at the age of 16, he ignored his studies and focused on earning money. At one point, he found himself in a little trouble with the law, trying to make extra cash off of reselling items for a more expensive price on the street and around school.
 
Oliver Shields, the kid who moved in when he was about twelve, became quick friends with Mickey. The two went through school together and, when Oliver noticed his friend's grades slipping and his police troubles, he set him up with a handyman-esque job at where he worked. The two worked well in a team when they actually got down to playing on the Airsoft field they worked on.
 
When they both turned 18, Mickey was one of the reasons Shields joined the UNSC. The two of them were whisked off to boot fairly quickly after enlistment.
 
Skills: Pretty handy in a fist fight, not too bad at MacGyvering out of a situation. On numerous times, he has fixed things in the "field" and works well under pressure. In pretty good shape, too.

 

---

 

"Get drenched, get dressed and get your a***s to the homeroom. Five minutes."

 

Great, Shields thought to himself, swinging legs from over the side of his bunk. He slept on the top, whilst Mickey took the bottom, who was currently lead, or sprawled, face down on his mattress. Shields took his spare fatigues and a towel from under the bed and nudged Mickey.

 

"We smell like ****. Come on." he said, but Mickey just mumbled what sounded like Hungarian for monkey genitalia. Lovely. Of all the things he could teach himself with the Hungarian dictionaries at school, he picked the ***** of a f*****g ape.

 

"I smell like roses."

 

Mickey slumped onto the floor, took his towel and fatigues. They all needed to change, otherwise the barracks would begin to smell like mace and, when it got hot in here, that'd be the last thing they wanted. Just thinking about the thick air irritated Shields' throat.

 

They showered, if one counted standing under freezing cold water and running a hand through hair to wash it as showering. Then, they got dry, changed into their fatigues and headed over to the homeroom. Mickey hadn't stopped complaining since they'd left the barracks.

 

"What are they gonna do, teach us how to flip a rifle like some pansy ballet dancer? Show us the best way to clean our boots?"

 

"I know you hated school, Mick, but this is important. Could mean life or death, later on."

 

Mickey groaned for what seemed the millionth time as they entered what was going to be their classroom. They took seats beside each other, not at the front, nor the back. In the middle, Shields, who was interested in what they were going to learn, could see the DI, whilst Mickey could sort of hide away and not get bollocked for not giving a ****.

 

"Don't f*** around. Listen, Mick."

 

"Shut up, Curls."

 

"Seriously, stop it with my terrible hair choice. Don't make me tell the entire base of your homose---"

 

"Shut up. Now. You said you'd never mention that Chris ******* again."

 

"Don't you mean 'Christine'?" Shields winked, shaking his head at the reddened cheeks of his compadre. In all fairness, that dude had done a pretty good job at making himself look like a chick. Unlucky for Mickey, he didn't find out until his hands made their way down to his lover's crotch.

 

Oliver shuddered.

[Helljumper425]

"Everyone accounted for?" Gabe asked, though more in the form of rhetoric than curiosity. "Good."

 

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

[D-38 Boss]

D.J. raised his hand.

 

"Are we gonna be tested on this? Other than in a real fight, I mean."

[BaconShelf]

Jacob raised his hand, but waited patiently before getting bored and shouting out;

"So... Out in the outer territories, we don't get too much news. What are the Covenant species?"

[Astronautics7]

[Welcome back to the land of the living, Mike.]

 

"Are we gonna be tested on this? Other than in a real fight, I mean."

 

"So... Out in the outer territories, we don't get too much news. What are the Covenant species?"

 

From these questions alone, Shields came to the conclusion that most of the recruits surrounding him were a bunch of uneducated ******** that knew next to nothing about what they had signed up for. Great. Mickey was thinking similar thoughts, as could be summed up in the rolling of the eyes Shields caught.

 

"You're kidding me." Shields muttered when the DI looked away at the recruits with questions. His voice was just loud enough for Mickey to hear him.

 

"Didn't he watch any footage?"

 

"Idiot."

 

Mickey shrugged, smirking in a way that said "Man, I'm so much better than these dumbasses.". Oliver saw that look in the corner of his eye and, whilst he agreed with the expression on his friend's face, he knew that it had gotten Mickey a few smacks in the past.