Pvt. Maple Rier
Unknown Landing Site, Installation 04 (Alpha Halo), Threshold, Soell System
September 19, 2552 -- Military Standard Time
Rier peeked out from cover to risk another burst of suppressive fire. Really, it was all she could do at this range, her SMG proving itself more an annoyance than a genuine threat, but every bit helped, and the Covenant (or what was left) was forced back with lead flying in all directions. No chance of regrouping. No chance of winning this skirmish. The young, wayward Army Trooper pushed away the troublesome thoughts — of the war, of their being stranded on some alien ring-world, of home burned to glass — to focus on the here-and-now, a rare UNSC victory, small and insignificant but meaningful all the same. Rier, having lost so much, was apathetic to the prospect of long-term survival, and was surprised to have made it thus far, and although fearful of oblivion she wasn't at all opposed to being freed of the burden of continued existence, but, in the heat of the moment, she fought all the same, clawing against an unstoppable force if only to be granted another minute, if not for herself then for her brothers-in-arms.
To do otherwise would be selfish.
Then Dubbo screamed. Rier sputtered, her focus sidetracked by the high-pitched shriek, and, turning to look over her shoulder, she, too, yelled out in surprise. A Brute Chieftain was standing just behind them, Gravity Hammer raised high, looking almost uncertain, as if caught off-guard by the screaming. This was quickly followed by a blur of green. The Spartan, Ingrid-045, dispatched the alien mercilessly and efficiently. Messily.
A moment of stunned silence, and then the Spartan spoke. "Echo-419 is inbound," she informed.
The fighting had stopped. All Covenant KIA, as were many UNSC soldiers.
Rier got to her feet, shaking, and speckled in the scarlet blood of the Brute, uncertain on what to do as Sergeant Wilson, Specialist Crawford, and Ingrid-045 moved to assist those inside the downed Pelican. A pair of ODST joined them down in the narrow valley.
"Hey! You backpacks alright?" called the woman hefting the SRS.
"Backpacker?" Rier muttered to herself, standing awkwardly out of the way.
Sergeant Wilson, who'd returned from the Pelican, and Sergeant Lehkonen appeared to have some issue with the ODST snipers. Or maybe it was just friendly banter. Rier's nerves were too frazzled to know one way or the other. Playful joking wasn't at all uncommon, but the long-timers seemed to be more brutal than recruits on Reach.
Ingrid-045 and her A.I. hitchhiker returned with good and bad news. The bad: Echo-419 was caught behind enemy AA. The good: a Warthog had come down with Bravo-141 (now a smoldering wreck) and was more-or-less in drivable condition. Stuck on some rocks, but the Spartan resolved that issue with some brute force. Unlike the standard LRV, this Warthog sported a troop bay with just enough room for everybody if they squeezed in tight. Sardines in a tin can. The Warthog had obviously suffered a few bangs, mostly from being dropped from a height of 100 meters, and the engine, while running, did so with a hiccup that was a tad bit concerning to hear, especially for someone trained in keeping such machines up and running. It would get them to where they needed but not much further.
That wasn't even considering the body damage.
Not that Rier had the time or opportunity to make herself useful. They were racing the clock, and the Warthog was in good enough condition to serve its purpose. The opinions and concerns of a mechanic were of little importance in the grand scheme. So she said nothing and hopped aboard with the others, hoping she wouldn't have to sit in someone's lap.
