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Futrellia
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Posts: 1661
Founded: Mar 29, 2013
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Futrellia » Mon Dec 20, 2021 7:52 pm

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Corporal Dariga Şäkirova
97th Mechanized Infantry Brigade, 4th Battalion, "W" Company, Fourth Platoon, 2nd Squad
New Alexandria Starport // August 23rd, 2552





"Corporal I get you're exhausted but that can be said for everyone, so catch your breath and get back in the fight." The words echoed through her head as she continued panting, her legs and arms shaking from overworking and somehow remaining true to the mission, despite the screaming of her body to release the load that was so much larger than her, the only thing keeping her moving seemed to have been adrenaline and her overwhelming need to survive, knowing that if she fell behind from the Spartan too far, gave up, that she'd be left behind and at the mercy of any Covenant squad that discovered them. So she kept pushing, ignoring her body for as long as she could, until she got Ataboyev to safety, or at least to the waiting arms of a Corpsman.

"Yeah......yeah..." She whispered between heavy breaths. She rose from her prone position that she had kept after falling, her aching arms shaking as she did, pushing herself from the ground to her back against one of the walls facing towards the enemy. She reached out and retrieved the MA37 that had fallen from her grasp earlier, immediately checking the ammunition counter displayed. The same fourteen rounds left as there'd been before. She checked her chest pouches. One mag left. As she regained her breath, she maintained a watch over the Corpsman as she did her work, a spike impacting the concrete just on the other side of the wall, where her head would have been. With her hands shaking, she rose up just enough to expose her head and rifle, releasing the fourteen rounds at the Brute that fired his round at where the Medic had been. In a span of seconds, her weapon replied with a click and she quickly dropped back down, pressing the mag release button, allowing it to fall to the ground, clattering. "Last mag!" She called out, ripping the magazine from it's pouch and sliding it into the rifle, giving the mag a bump and allowing the bolt to feed the next round into her weapon, her ammunition counter resetting.

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Beutarch
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 393
Founded: Sep 13, 2016
Father Knows Best State

Postby Beutarch » Mon Dec 20, 2021 8:53 pm

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Lieutenant Marcus Vince
8th Armor Brigade, 37th Cavalry Kilo-45
New Alexandria, Olympic Tower, Reach, Epsilon Eridani // August 23rd, 2552





For a moment, the sounds of war had left the tower's lobby. A healthy dose of Tramadol coursing through his veins, Vince stepped off the elevator and examined the blackened and pockmarked atrium. As soon as he heard that the fighting had died down, he resolved to survey the defenses for himself. A scavenged rifle now laid in his grip, an MA5, sleeker than the Army variants he was used to wielding. His frontal armor plate was loosely attached, so that it would not rub against the biofoam-covered portion of his side. Crouched behind debris, he moved toward the closest line of defenders. He sunk down next to a group of marines, nodding a greeting to the gaunt looking troops. Three helmets nodded back.

"What's the situation?"

"Not so great," one of the marines said, pausing to look over the silver bar on Vince's shoulder, "LT."

Somewhere on the opposite side of the room, a Spiker shattered the momentary silence, barking as it spat rounds toward the defender's lines. Two of the marines responded in kind, peering over their makeshift cover and returning a burst of steel.

"Is it tenable?"

The marine grimaced, "Maybe if we had a platoon of those ones," he jerked a thumb toward where the enormous mass of Spartan took cover. Vince had not so much as heard the beast reposition, and now stared at it in thinly veiled awe. The super-soldier acknowledged the huddled group of troopers with a glance, and then, evidently displeased by the position it had taken up, bounded away to another covered spot. "Haven't seen one yet? Where the hell have you been, if you don't mind me asking, sir?"

"Spent the better part of the day bleeding on the street. I'm here now."

At this the marines guffawed, to Vince's dismay.

"Listen, if you'd rather take orders from some ONI desk jockey, be my guest," he retorted. The marines seemed more responsive to this.

"Yeah, alright. Better keep your voice down, though, sir. The 'jockeys' are just ahead of us." The marine gestured toward another segment of cover, behind which a handful of armored Navy personnel sat, joined by yet another Spartan.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Vince, settling into his position.
I have no idea what to put here.
I guess I am a P2TM Prole, a F7 hermit and an II normie.

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Thai Sweet Billy
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Posts: 66
Founded: Dec 20, 2021
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Thai Sweet Billy » Tue Dec 21, 2021 11:52 am



Quezon
Covenant Empire
August 23rd, 2552 / Ninth Age of Reclamation



The Unggoy routing was the least of Char's concerns today.

Their offensive was bold, but the enemy's resolve was apparently stronger. In only a few minutes, the enemy had regained their composure, their File had fallen apart and halved in strength, and Char was now in charge of a unit he had little to no experience in leading. Not to mention, the Unggoy running about with their arms flailing was an added negative that only added more chaos to an already frantic engagement.

His shouting pierced above the other sounds of the aliens and violent crackle of gunfire and plasma fire all around them: "Keep it together! Focus!"

His orders were cut short as a piece of the wall he was taking cover beside was chipped away by incoming fire. The Kig-Yar Major ducked and fell back, the point-defense gauntlet covering most of his body as he retreated further back in the streets.

As he dug into cover, counting the friendlies that he had left visually, it finally dawned upon Char just how dire of a situation they were in. A dozen or so hostile soldiers were going to make quick work to about half a dozen mismatched Kig-Yar and Unggoy — a sizable portion of the latter already disorganized and retreating from the fight.

He looked up to the sky, past the buildings, as if to pray for some divine intervention, when he saw a strange bluish glint appear atop one of the shiny human buildings. He focused on the glint as best as he could...

KSSSSSHHHHHHH

The high-pitched hiss of a Type-50 firing was an unmistakably familiar sound among all Kig-Yar. The fighting seemed to stop for a moment as Char poked his head over cover, careful to not reveal himself.

The enemy lance leader (or their human equivalent thereof) crumpled to the ground, as if the life from his body had instantly been wrenched out of him by some invisible force. The hiss of a Type-50 rang out behind him again; Char saw another soldier's helmet fly off his body as the thin beam of energy punched through his head, right between his eyes.

Char was stunned. Were his prayers answered? Was this divine intervention? Had friendly forces finally arrived to relieve his unit?

No matter the case, Char's sense of courage was revitalized as he looked back to his forces, then shouted out the order to push. "PUSH UP! While we have the cover of sniper fire!"

The mismatched group of Unggoy and Kig-Yar advanced, a tidal wave of Covenant footmen overwhelming what remained of the human team in seconds. The humans spared by the mysterious marksman were cut down by swathes of bolts from their Type-25s, but the Human defensive remained firm. Char saw their impromptu leader point towards the buildings, shouting something out in their language, as he raised the human version of a marksman rifle up to bear.

His head turned to where the human was pointing. Char saw a blur bounding atop the rooftops, and as a torrent of gunfire slashed through the figure's form, he watched the body simply dissolve in mid-air, fading into a cloud of pixels before his eyes.

A hologram...?

The Type-50 hissed again, and then Char saw another human hit the floor, his weapon clattering to the ground.





Champion Kith Ven
Covenant Crusaders
Quezon
Covenant Empire
August 23rd, 2552 / Ninth Age of Reclamation



"MAN DOWN!"

"We're fucked! Anyone see where that came from?!"

Kith Ven tuned out the humans' frantic shouting as he braced his Type-50 against the side of the building, preparing a follow up shot. With no small effort on his part, the file on the ground now had a fighting chance against the human squad. Now, all he had to do was wait and see if the Kig-Yar Major would pull his weight in the engagement, and pray that he still had time for his main task.

Kith waited patiently as the Major barked something at his subordinates, then watched the file advance. The formation was simple; Unggoy up front, with the Kig-Yar on the sides to serve as skirmishers, where they would push through and meet the enemy at the center. All Kith had to do was wait patiently, and pick off the most casualty-producing weapons in the team...

...which had made itself visible to him right away. A human soldier braced a long weapon through a gap in cover, sporting two prongs on the underside of its barrel. Automatic gunfire erupted from the weapon, cutting down a pair of Unggoy too stupid to notice the gun emplacement in front of them.

Kith turned to the block of cover, his reticule hovering over the entrenched gunner. His targeting headpiece focused in on the most infinitesimal gap in the man's cover, a shot Kith knew he had as much chance hitting as he did missing.

So... he took the odds, squeezing the firing mechanism of the Type-50. The gunfire abruptly cut out as the thin lance of light punched through the debris and the gunner's helmet, and then Kith relaxed, knowing the file on the ground had enough momentum left to push through and finish off what Kith hadn't taken care of himself. The ensuing battle was nothing short of entertaining as the Unggoy and Kig Yar pushed, surrounding the enemy and slaughtering them from all sides.

However... his gaze panned over to the rest of the buildings in the city, far away from the crackle of gunfire or the staccato of plasma fire. Kith knew that human cities possessed a certain meticulous level of planning that most Covenant cities lacked. The streets were brutalist and gridded, forming a maze that one could get lost in without proper directions. Even he wouldn't last long on his own.

The T'vaoan grumbled, knowing what was going to happen next, as he rested the Type-50 against the mag holster on his back, then began to run.

In a single bound, he was off the roof, airborne for only a few seconds before landing silently on the roof in front of him, rolling to break his fall. In seconds, Kith was back on his feet in a sprint, turning to the right and vaulting off the side of the building, before rolling to the ground once again.

The Kig-Yar Major on the ground turned to what appeared to be a shimmer of light and a cloud of dust kicking up beside him, raising his Type-25. Kith deactivated his active camouflage, his point defense gauntlets lighting up as he retrieved the Type-33 from his hip mag holster, then scanned the area for any humans still left alive.

Immediately, the Kig-Yar lowered his guard, bulbous eyes lighting up in surprise as he spotted the esoteric marking on the T'vaoan Champion's monochrome chestplate. "You're a-"

"Yes." The Crusader spoke curtly. "Do not question why I am here."

"O-of course, sire!" The Kig-Yar nodded. "I... er, we did what we could, though our advance was sloppy."

Kith paused, turning his head over his shoulder as he inspected the Kig-Yar Major, and his Unggoy and Kig-Yar cohorts. "Are you in command of this unit?"

"Yes." The Major gulped. "I just assumed command."

Kith huffed. "Consider disciplining your forces more lightly, and reward the Unggoy. They'll scatter less on the incentive of a reward."

The Kig-Yar's jaw was agape. He watched as Kith sauntered past him and approached the body of the enemy squad leader on the ground. Of course, an Unggoy scavenging what he could was in the way; Kith grabbed the lowly alien by the back of his head and tossed him aside, stepping up towards the man's corpse.

He grimaced at the small hole in the man's head; if the Type-50 was not a marksman's weapon, it surely could've made its place as an effective lobotomy tool. Kith rolled the man onto his back and began policing the body, finding a piece of paper folded into a pouch on the man's gear.

The Kig-Yar watched intently as Kith laid the map out flat, pointing to two different points on it, before gazing at two different points in reality before them. He mirrored the motion, trying to make sense of the Crusader's gesture, but before he could say anything else, Kith had stood up, pocketing the map for himself.

"It's... a human map," the Kig-Yar muttered. "It is useless if we do not know how to read their ragged language, Crusader."

"I do," Kith corrected the alien, placing the map in a hard case of his own attached to his combat harness. He then began to walk. "And I know where I must go now."

"Wait."

Kith turned his head over his shoulder, cocking his head to his side. "What?"

The Kig-Yar Major practically dove onto his hands and knees at that point. "I, Char, am indebted to you, Crusader! Please allow me to fight alongside you for your mission! I will complete whatever task you have for me with the utmost confidentiality and prowess."

Kith tilted his head to the side even more, almost bursting out into laughter at that point. However, the idea of a pack of meat shields loyal to him was too enticing of an offer to ignore—a pack of meat shields that he knew could be very useful. Instead of laughing, Kith grabbed Char by his shoulder, lifting him up onto his feet.

"Then come with me." He ordered. "Fight well, and I will ensure you are rewarded."

Kith turned away and began to walk, knowing his promise was moot in the (likely) case his new underlings perished. They had no idea what was in store for them.




They reached the museum after about a half an hour of maneuvering through the city. It was a more elegant structure decorated with marble pillars that resembled some of the most ancient ruins of the planet Heian, a design that humans seemed to enjoy replicating on their government institutions and in museums on planets like these, as if to balance out their standard brutal, boxy design.

It was also a place where Kith knew his quarry was most likely to be found, so he had to choose his actions carefully. He looked over his shoulder at the small team following him in a staggered column, checked to ensure their rear guard was doing his job, then bounded up the steps of the museum.

Char followed closely behind, activating his shield gauntlet just as Kith's murmillo gauntlets powered on. Kith inspected the door, finding a wooden slab placed between the door handles; a hasty fortification that meant someone was likely still inside.

"You clear left," Kith ordered. "I shall clear right, the Unggoy watch the center. Check your fire."

Char nodded as Kith reached to his side for a small device that fit snugly in his non-firing hand. The single blade of an energy cutlass lit the entranceway up in a neon pink color, and Kith swung the blade down, effortlessly slashing through the wooden block between the door handles.

He sheathed the blade, pushed the doors open, and entered the building, protectively covering his head and midsection with the smaller energy shields around his wrists.

His dominant hand raised the Type-33 up, which he used to scan the right hand side of the entrance as the rest of the team entered and cleared out the lobby. The low-light setting on Kith's faceplate automatically activated as he began bobbing and weaving between artifacts, display cases, and counters containing various human trinkets, before returning to Char in the lobby.

"We are clear. What are we even looking for, Champion?" the Kig-Yar major pondered aloud.

Kith didn't answer his question, not out of confidentiality's sake, but because a shrill squeal suddenly erupted from the ranks of the Unggoy deeper in the museum.

Kith and Char raced through the hallways, and were met with a trio of uneasy Unggoy inspecting something awful-smelling on the ground, with a pair of Kig-Yar grimacing at the sight below them.

The body in front of them had been crushed by something large. The neon blood on the wall was still fresh and led to a puddle on the ground, as if the body had been smeared against the surface. What remained of the chest had been flattened, gore spilling out of the shattered remains of the lifeless Sangheili Minor's corpse, his eyes forever glazed open.

This was something that Kith knew no human, nor Sangheili, was capable of, yet he doubly knew what was responsible, and the implications of what would arise if word of this was to get out. Snarling, the T'vaoan slowly turned Char. He narrowed his eyes at the trembling Kig-Yar, who began to babble something from his maw.

"W-w-wuh... t-this... this is not a human's d-doing..." Char quaked. "Crusader, we should—"

Kith's Type-33 extended towards Char's face, the neon pink needles illuminating his faceplate. Char froze as Kith shook his head, a growl emerging from the T'vaoan's throat as his neck feathers rustled.

"No. We will not." Kith ordered. "If you attempt to utter so much of a word about this, I shall have your tongue."

Char nodded and stood his ground, gulping. "I understand the veracity of your mission..."

'Tralcamai was close, Kith could sense it, but there was a modicum of apprehension and fear in his body as he contemplated what to do next. The Evocatus was dangerous, let alone his bodyguards, but Kith had fought through impossible odds before.

No. I shouldn't think of that as an option. Kith shook his head, dismissing the thought. He and 'Tralcamai were on amicable, friendly terms, and had fought alongside each other to some degree in the past, if not indirectly. He knew who Kith was, and Kith knew who he was, so there was bound to be middle ground between the two in regards to their questioning of authority. Perhaps, Kith figured, he could use that to his advantage.

However, Kith had his tasking, as did 'Tralcamai... and his tasking involved investigating the Evocatus and reporting it to his higher authorities, and his superiors wanted an unbiased report. If he was responsible for this...

It can't be. But I fear for the worst. Kith slowly looked to his Kig-Yar accomplice and his troops.

"Search the building for any additional Covenant forces," he ordered. "Char, report back to me if you find anything."

Kith's figure dissolved into the darkness, leaving behind a frightened bunch of Unggoy and Kig-Yar, and a confused Char looming over a mangled body.
Last edited by Thai Sweet Billy on Tue Dec 21, 2021 9:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Hastur
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Posts: 270
Founded: Jul 01, 2017
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Hastur » Tue Dec 21, 2021 9:34 pm

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Staff Sergeant Alison Longacre
105th Shock Troops Division; 2nd Shock Troops Battalion Kilo-45
New Alexandria Spaceport, Reach, Epsilon Eridani // August 23rd, 2552






The brute maintained its advance towards the lance corporal, ready to tear him limb from limb as it discounted Longacre. Her hand streaked intuitively to her side, and when it encountered the absence of a sidearm, it veered high to the last resort.

The knife.

Her nervous fingers draped themselves around the grip as she snapped the clasp free, drawing the half pound steel blade. Pain flickered through her lower back as she got upward into a huddled position, ready to fight. Longacre wasn’t confident in the plan to jam it into the jugular, but if she did nothing, she and everyone else would be next into the meat grinder.
With a laboured wheeze, her eyes plugged into the monster’s back as she committed to the lunge, her jaw tightened as she braced to drive the knife into the creature. Before she could even get close, and without warning, its shield flared as several luminescent needles drilled deep into brute’s muscle, their grouping tight.

Longacre slowed, freezing as the assemblage of needles flushed vivid pink, her eyes shooting wide as she flung herself in the opposite direction. The brute let loose a terrified wail cut short by the bloody blast. A light pitter patter of cartilage and gore vibrated against her helmet, purplish crimson gore coating where it formerly stood.

Dazed, Longacre’s quick flash in the gunman’s direction was more surprising. An olive grab titan had blown through the wall, and now stood amongst the brute line, drawing their fire.

A spartan.

Longacre had heard the tales of secret test tube freak super soldiers that had killed ODSTs in training, but never seen one in action. She had always despised the image, but for a note, she couldn’t help but observe as it took them all on. Her jaw loose as it shifted from target to target with merciless speed and reflexes, executing each step with a grade of practical precision unseen, something that no human could do.

Whatever it was, at least it was on their side.

Screams from above snapped her awareness back, Longacre’s gaze flowing towards the skylight. As if the conflict wasn’t out of surprises, the youthful army trooper from before was swaying precariously. A grasp of confusion lingered as she saw a brute standing over her. The beast weighing on the metal beam as it aggressively swinging wide, operating a grenade as a club to wallop her loose.

It was only a matter of time before one connected, killing her.

Longacre lurched upwards, fortifying herself as she hastily sought for her rifle. The one-legged combat controller, renewed from his waltz with the brute that had assailed the lieutenant, pulled into a position to engage upwards. Fire from his DMR rattled off as she found it, her rifle wrapped beneath the splintered debris of furniture, barrel poking out from underneath the cheap laminated wood.

Longacre hurtled towards her weapon of choice, forcing through stiffness as she thrust the topping off, wrenching her oversized rifle close to her body as she turned to focus on the enemy. Crouching down, she got into a firing position, eyes squinting towards the brute as it reacted to the accurate fire. Like many times before, she attempted to whirl the rifle high from her low ready stance. At the most inopportune moment, she was collided with a flash of irritation within her arm. Longacre cheeks scrunched suddenly as she hissed out a curt grunt. The weapon merely made it only halfway to the destination before her supporting arm gave up, the barrel clanging against the floor as the beast above roared.

She scourged herself silently, anger flooding through her as her eyes scowled at the brute, which was now fully turning itself to face pegleg, preparing to jump down to fight them.

If she couldn’t muster through this, it would reach ground level.

A wave of hate fuelled energy washed over her.

Longacre aggressively flung her supporting arm into the sling, braiding it through the synthetic material with a furious spin, stiffening her grasp on the oversized weapon. Teeth gritted, she slung her rifle upward once again, warring against the discomfort as she forced it on target. The tell-tale whirl of the scope’s mechanical parts sounded off, and she pulled the trigger. Her weapon system roared, the recoil kicking into her shoulder, pain spiking in her shoulder blades as the bullet spat at the target. The 14.5×114mm struck its jaw directly on, disintegrating much of the cartilage and bone as it penetrated through, striking through the other side. The monstrous oversized ape abruptly went limp, lapsing from its perilous position as it plummeted downward, crashing into the ground in the food court with a repulsive splat.

“You lads alright?!” Longacre shouted to the others, irritation still in her voice as her eyes briefly detaching from the still dangling army trooper from the roof to give the combat controller a brief, thankful nod. "How the fuck is she going to get down from there?"

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Anowa
Post Marshal
 
Posts: 17534
Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Tue Dec 21, 2021 9:36 pm

Over Caracalla Park, the singular Falcon was doing enough it seemed to turn the tide. The 20mm autocannon made quick work of the Wraith, and the two side guns gave ample covering fire to the Spartan and soldiers moving across the park. In the distance, a Phantom moved to drop forces near the control center for the AA battery, while radio comms indicated that the forces on the east side of the space port were imminently about to collapse.

A maneuver to cover the landing site more effectively was in motion when a quartet of blue flashes came up from the ground in the corner of Seamus' eye. By that time, his craft had already hifted, and momentum made a dodge impossible.

In the back, Mike gave a cry of "Oh, Jesus Christ!", three dull thuds echoed through the airframe, a fourth did not "It's on me! OH GO-"

A series of 4 explosions, the Falcon's cockpit was immediately blaring with all manner of bells and whistles. Hydraulic pressure was tanking, fuel was leaking, and the stick was dead. At that moment in time as the craft began to list to the side and rotate uncontrollably, it's remaining two passengers were at the mercy of Newton's Laws, and could only pray that the machinations of the vehicle were moving in such a way that they'd land somewhere and some way that didn't kill them instantly.

Nausea set in as the Falcon kept spinning and spinning. Through the canopy, Seamus could spot a curved approach to the Starport, the altimeter giving him a solid indication of how long before his back was broken. A few seconds later, at about 30 meters, and close to 120 kph, power cut, and Seamus could only see the Starport's food court atrium fast approaching as the craft finally began to weather vane sideways. Yet they wouldn't clear the outer wall, not fully at least.

The floor of the rear compartment, and the landing skids impacted the westernmost wall of the food court, spraying rubble across the inside. The Falcon dumped most of it's energy and it's momentum became a prolonged roll. The first of which threw Lewis from the craft and in to the air, his screams of fear audible.

The falcon itself, on it's 3rd roll, slammed through the bust of Fujikawa, slowing further, and dropping to the floor, trailing fuel and hydraulic fluid across the food court, rolling once on the floor, it landed on it's roof, solidly nestled against the path to the East. Lewis, who until that point had been sailing through the air like a rag doll, landed among the pool of avgas and crimson hydraulic fluid with a sickening crack and position that said that, even if the man was alive, he'd never walk properly again. He was motionless.

The Falcon's left engine, still hot enough to char flesh, promptly ignited the avgas, causing the wreck to go up in flames. A small path of dry tile near the cockpit was there, but with the canopy composed of titanium and inch thick ballistic glass blocked, and smoke now filling the cockpit, Seamus while physically alright, was at the mercy of anyone who would brave the flames to get him out. Worse still, Seamus was still sitting on a few dozen 20mm rounds, which would likely start to cook off soon.

Outside, the motionless Lewis laying in a pool of gasoline, caught fire. An Instant later, the man, paralyzed from the rib cage down began screaming as the heat woke him up, as he vainly tried crawling through the slick. "No no no no no! NO NO NO! HELP!" His flight suit would protect him from flames under normal circumstances, but it didn't for long. What started as cries for help, very quickly escalated in to incomprehensible, blood curdling shrieks of agony.





Image
Second Lieutenant William Stuart IV
Viery Militia, Ad-Hoc Unit Kilo 45
New Alexandria Starport
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 1543 NST



At such a point in time, the gunfire had stopped. Either everyone was transfixed on the event before them, or all the hostiles were dead. Regardless of that however, Stuart, with a voice of authority that was most definitely not befitting of him, called out, "Get them out of that fucking fire!" It was an order that was only partially needed, as the young man was already sprinting in to the flames to retrieve the burning crewman. Deep inside, he was terrified of what his body was willing him to do, he actively knew it was just as likely to get him killed trying to save the man who he didn't know. But he had a duty, under his command or not, that was another human being, in incomprehensible agony. He could not stand idly by, not for this.

Flames licked at him, he could feel the warmth though his BDU, and it very quickly began to escalate from simply uncomfortable to painful. The vacuum sealing was enough to give him a few seconds more than the screaming crewman, which was just enough time to grab the man before he could feel his skin on his legs start to blister.

Grabbing the man was a grisly affair. At this point the flight suit had started melting in to his skin, and the remains of his helmet's polymer visor was melting in to the man's eyes. What was but a few moment's prior a somewhat controlled attempt to both cralw and pat out flames, was now a wild flailing as the man's voice box gave out from the screaming. Skin sloughed off as the officer picked the man up, and fueled by adrenaline from both the prior firefight, and kicked in to overdrive from feeling himself start to burn, hauled his own ass and the crewman to the rapidly draining fountain. He strode out of the fire, himself smoking, and his BDU pants having burned away, revealing the shriveling vacuum suit underneath, for a moment, he was wondering who else was screaming until he realized it was himself.

Diving in in to the fountain, the sound of steam forming off of the slowly contained fire bubbled in to Stuart's ears. A moment after they largely stopped, the man rose, the crewmember having him in a death grip as he coughed up water in between sobs. A blackened, ashen mess, muscle could be seen weeping through cracks in the now black and crisp skin, the mess of skin-nomex, had started to slough off where Stuart was holding him, and was completely degolved where the crewman held Stuart in a death grip. Stuart could see the now melted mess of the man's eyes through a warped and still sticky polymer visor, and the breathing mask that used to hang from the side had started to drip on to the man's neck.

Stuart, again with the uncharacteristic level of finality in his voice, yelled to be heard as he and the crewman sat in the fountain, "MEDIC!"

Between choked sobs and weak wails, the crewman gasped, "..D-Don't... don't leave me-eee-eee." a ragged breath, "Please! It hurts!" The man devolved back in to pained wails.

"I'm right here, man. I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." Stuart had spent some time in and around hospitals, as a CM he had some more civil volunteer duties. He'd seen a lot of burn victims after factory accidents. They got bad, bad enough to be considered a death sentence close to a hundred years ago, nowadays it would be a long road of treatments and physio, but people could make it so long as it hadn't outright killed them. But that was peacetime, when hospitals still worked. Watching this man in his arms cry and wail in agony made Stuart forget about his own blistered body.

Across the room, the Spartan had an instant of hesitation. On one hand, she had no clue if the pilot was still alive in that wreck, and unlike a common 7.62x51 or 12.7x99, the 20mm cook offs would have a risk of grievously harming her. On the other hand... she couldn't leave a man to die like that, not so pointlessly. Her glance over at the officer holding the fire grilled door gunner, his order resounded in her head.

She moved. For as much as her facination with fire and explosions had eased her, there was a moment for appreciating the natural beauty of what could be seen as the only purely neutral thing in the physical world, this moment wasn't it.

The FRG disengaged from her back to avoid a cook off as she strode through the fire. It was draining her shields faster than she wanted, a few thousand degrees celsius would do that. her hands wrapped around the front of the Falcon, almost 5 times heavier than a Warthog, it was something she could hold for a while, but surely not while also opening the canopy. Metal buckled around her hands as she made her own handhold and brought it up over her head. Within she could see the pilot still moving.

Alarms blared in her helmet, shields had dropped, and now flames were licking at her armor, and underneath, her flesh. Glancing down, the two brute spikes near her stomach were now clear to her, rather than just flashes of pain to ignore. It was swiftly added to the pain of burning legs as the pain on her leg plating began to matte. There was an inkling of fear in the back of her mind as she thought the soldiers and Marines would leave her to do this on her own, but that fear was very swiftly squashed by a sense of duty. She would hold the vehicle until she couldn't any longer, if the others didn't help, that was on them.
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Futrellia
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Futrellia » Wed Dec 22, 2021 9:29 pm

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Corporal Dariga Şäkirova
97th Mechanized Infantry Brigade, 4th Battalion, "W" Company, Fourth Platoon, 2nd Squad
New Alexandria Starport // August 23rd, 2552





The event that unfolded in front of her sent shivers down her spine as she could hear the blood curdling screams as one of the militiamen dragged out a burning man, a sort of unrelenting fear and peril keeping Dariga locked in place. Her breaths were short and raspy and before her was the Spartan, moving forward to the wreckage of the Falcon that had come down hard. As she watched the Spartan pick up the Falcon, Dariga forced herself into action, her legs and arms still shaky and weak, but recovered enough of her breath and as fresh oxygen poured into her, some of her energy had returned. Enough to pick her up and force her mind to readjust and think ahead.

Dariga snapped her neck around, her body turning to get a better view of the rest of the food court they were taking cover in. Very quickly, she noticed a small chamber under one of the tables that had been close to the order taking station, a small cubby marked with a red fiery symbol. "Going for the extinguisher!" Screamed Dariga as she ran to it, her legs providing a shaky jog, falling to her kneepads as she slid the small door open, revealing a red cylinder shaped fire suppressor. She ripped it from it's metallic clamps and detached the black hose from it's clamp on the side of the cylinder, her left hand grasping the hose while her right gripped tight to the trigger.

"Cover me." She said as she rushed past those still remaining behind the cover of the restaurant, running to the Spartan, watching as the fire crept up her legs. As soon as Dariga was close enough, she squeezed the trigger, letting loose a powerful burst of foam around the legs of the Spartan, following the trail of flames towards the Falcon's cockpit, spraying it and the closest flames, doing her best to keep the flames off of the Spartan as well as the cockpit. "Someone get the pilot!" Shouted Corporal Dariga as she continued spraying.

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Thai Sweet Billy
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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Thai Sweet Billy » Wed Dec 22, 2021 10:36 pm


Sergeant JaMarcus Hayden
3rd Platoon, Echo Company, 1st Battalion, 4th Marines Kilo-45
New Alexandria Spaceport
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552



When the gunfire stopped, JaMarcus slowly clambered out of cover, first sliding his M247 GPMG out before dragging the rest of his body out onto the open. He stopped to regain his composure, his breath hitching as the numb, buzzing sensation in his arms and upper body finally subsided. He wasn't sure how long he had been firing the GPMG for, nor if they were truly in the clear, but he had done his job of fire support well enough.

He scanned the area for a while, wiped off some grime that had collected on his helmet's orange ballistic goggles, and then picked up the GPMG. Although he was familiar with the weapon inside and out, it was still a particularly big and awkward machine to heft around. It rested well between his armpit in its low ready position, and although he could definitely carry it over his shoulder when the tripod was stowed, firing it from the hip or the shoulder was extremely undesirable, unless you were a Spartan.

Speaking of... His gaze passed over the Spartan, and he let out a sigh of relief, glad that they at least had a fighting chance with such a unit on their side.

As he was about to make his way over to the others, to try and finally catch up with them, something smashed through the wall of the spaceport and crashed into the food court.

JaMarcus basically froze as the entire event played out, his mouth agape at the ensuing carnage. The Falcon crashed to a cataclysmic halt in the middle of the food court, on fire... and a few of the crew were still alive. He paused, hesitating on whether or not he should assist, on if he should drop everything to help Stuart drag the crewman out or fish the pilot out with the Spartan's assistance, or even help extinguish the fire alongside Corporal Dariga. However, perhaps fortunately for him, people were already handling the latter two tasks, but there was still work to be done.

That Falcon being shot down meant two things to JaMarcus: the enemy still possessed ample anti-air capabilities, and they probably knew where it was going down and would likely come back to finish off the pilots, if they really wanted to. He sucked in his desire to help, lest he hurt himself and jeopardize the team, and instead picked up his GPMG and ran like hell to cover the entranceway.

"Got you covered!" He shouted out loud as he hefted the GPMG on his shoulder and ran.

The machine gun was set down behind a pillar nearby a restaurant, which gave him an ample angle of fire on the entrance in the event they were flanked. JaMarcus turned his head over his shoulder to ensure everyone else was okay, then turned back to watch his angle. It hurt not to help out, but tasks like these were a necessity.





Champion Kith Ven
Covenant Crusaders
Quezon Museum of Science
Covenant Empire
August 23rd, 2552 / Ninth Age of Reclamation



Kith Ven slithered into the room, his Type-33 snapping right, then left. After clearing out the area, he relaxed and lowered his arm, then stepped into the open.

A ray of sunlight punched through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating only a small section of the trillions of dust particles floating around in the room. To anyone looking, the air seemed to shimmer and blur for a moment as Kith's cloaked form moved about, eyeing the display stands and plaques inside of the museum. Of course, no one seemed to notice, given that no one was here.

He narrowed his eyes as his curiosity got the better of him, and Kith found himself uneventfully moving over to one of the exhibits. Given that he was fluent in their language, he could read out what it was saying: It represented the first steps of human space exploration and colonization, particularly in regards to the planet they were on now, which they referred to as "Reach". Most of their efforts were rudimentary at first—humanity wasn't graced with technology like the Covenant was, after all, nor had they accelerated into the stars as fast as the Kig-Yar on Eayn. However, Kith could respect that the humans were a hardy and persistent race, having managed to explore so much on their own, unassisted.

It almost made him feel a little bad, glassing their worlds, massacring their populations, all in the name of a holy war. Kith was never particularly religious, but he often pondered if humanity and the Covenant perhaps could've met on better terms. It was not his position to question these sorts of things, though. He was here to observe, document, and, if necessary, execute.

The Crusader turned away from the exhibit just as he heard the scraping of metal footwear against the tile floor. He stopped, turning to the entrance, to watch the Kig-Yar Major Char enter.

The Ruuhtian looked around the room for a moment, nervously rubbing his clawed hands together, before he looked over to one of the exhibits and saw something shiny, making a vocalization that seemed to indicate glee.

Kith cringed, watching the Major step over and reach for the object. He then decided to made himself visible by letting out a low growl. "Char. What are you doing?"

Char turned to the sound of Kith's voice, and watched the previously-cloaked T'vaoan materialize out of thin air. He scampered back, dropping the small piece of pottery, and watched it shatter against the cold floor, much to his dismay. "O-oh! M-my apologies, s-sire. I did not noti—"

Kith was in front of Char before the Ruuhtian could even let out another syllable, pinning him to the wall. A Kig-Yar and Unggoy pair on patrol in their section of the museum stopped to watch, only to run off as Kith snarled at them, the crimson-tipped feathers on his neck rustling. The faceplate on the the T'Vaoan Champion's helmet flipped up over his forehead, revealing attentive amber eyes that pierced into the the Kig-Yar's bulbous eyes.

"My question, Char." Kith reiterated, then paused menacingly. He pushed him further into the wall, as if for encouragement. "It remains unanswered."

"I... er..." Char stammered, but the energy cutlass Kith lit up with his free hand immediately got him talking properly. "I cleared out w-what I could, Crusader! I have not found any humans in the building, nor sign of what we are looking f-for!"

"No Covenant?"

Char nodded.

Kith sheathed the energy blade, cursing both to himself and his incompetent chaff as he grunted. "I must be too late."

"T-too late? For what?"

A muffled, yet squeaky voice, as if sent through an electronic filter, spoke into the communicator Kith carried in his harness. "Leader! Found something in main area where body is! Come quick!"

The pair looked at each other, as if they silently understood the news. Kith peeled away from Char, finally giving the Kig-Yar breathing room as he retrieved his Type-33 from his hip mag holster. "So it seems. Lie to me again, Char, and I shall have your head. Come."

Char made no other indications of protest and followed the T'vaoan out, barely managing to keep up with the Champion as they made their way back to the lobby. Kith vaulted over a railing, bypassing the several flights of steps down into the lobby as he gracefully landed beside an Unggoy. The stocky alien was waving him towards a passage that led deeper into the museum, practically running on all fours to keep up with Kith. "Come! Come!"

In only a few strides, Kith had made it to the end of the passage, and was faced with a large, open exhibit that Char's lance had spread themselves out in. The entire area was decorated with regalia similar to the boxy (and honestly ugly) ships used by humanity, from the earliest of their most primitive expeditionary capsules to the ubiquitous boxy warships that dominated their current naval doctrine. At the center, though, was a podium seemingly built into a rock from space. The body they had found earlier laid below it, untouched.

There were two interesting things about this, though, which Kith hadn't noticed until now: for one, that the plaque that would usually be on the exhibit was missing; a scorched cavity was in place of where it once sat, as if it were cut out by a plasma blade. The display case atop the piece was shattered, and whatever was on display was missing.

Kith narrowed his eyes at this, and then immediately checked the floor. A faint, almost indistinguishable trail of grime led to the back doors of the museum, which the T'vaoan followed, ignoring the requests to wait by Char and his accomplices. He practically smashed through the doors and ran onto the patio outside, Char scrambling after him.

Kith looked up to the sky, just in time to watch a Type-52 fly over. The Phantom hovered past the Museum, evidently taking its time on its journey as it turned, then slowly began to descend. The distance between himself and that Phantom was a distance Kith was confident in making before it departed—after all, Skirmishers were naturally agile, having to rely on speed, surprise, and violence of action in their battle doctrine. These were qualities Kith not only embodied, but excelled in.

Char marched up beside Kith, watching this. "A transport. We never called for extraction, did we?"

"No," Kith said. "But he has. Yours shall come soon."

"Wai—"

Kith vaulted off the side of the building, sliding down the railing and using the momentum to spring away from the museum and into another building. Before Char could even protest, the T'vaoan had vanished, leaving the Kig-Yar with more unanswered questions than answers.
Last edited by Thai Sweet Billy on Thu Dec 23, 2021 12:08 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Bolslania
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Thu Dec 23, 2021 7:29 am


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1st Lieutenant Seamus O' Duggan
7 Delta
Above the New Alexandria Starport
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552.



His work above the forces of Fox Company at Caracalla Park had without a doubt expedited the process of getting those AA batteries back online. However it had come with the ultimate sacrifice. Some covvie bastard with a Plasma launcher managed had gotten lucky. Before Seamus could react 4 glowing blue balls had stuck themselves to his Falcon, detonating at several points along the aircraft's hull.


He tried to fight it. He truly did, but his flight controls had been taken out, flashing red alarms filling his cockpit and HUD as the world spun around like a twisted amusement park ride. He heard Mike scream as he was incinerated by a plasma grenade. Seamus could do nothing but wait as the centripetal force glued him to his seat as they spiraled towards the Starport. That is the moment when he lost consciousness. The incessant spinning of the falcon sending blood straight to his head, his vision faded into black as the Falcon slammed through the wall of the food court. He regained consciousness, blood soaking the inside of his helmet. He realized he was upside down, his canopy covered by the tile flooring of the foodcourt.

It is said in times of intense stress you fall back on your training, and that's exactly what Seamus did. He gave himself a once over, the dump of adrenaline masking any pain, but splotches of blood were soaked in to his flight suit. They would have to wait. He quickly killed the engines to the Falcon, the rotor hubs, long since stripped of their blades, spinning down to a stop as the thrust engines spooled down. He then turned his attention to his helmet, making sure it was sealed as the smoke began to leak in to his cockpit.

His stomach lurched as the Falcon was lifted off the ground.

Oh shit He thought. There was no way a man could pick up his bird, it had to be an Elite or a brute. He firmly took hold of his pistol, reading himself to fight to the last before he saw the armored titan standing in front of him. It was a SPARTAN. He had no time to gawk however as he saw the SPARTAN's armor begin to matte and char under the effects of the ongoing chemical fire. Luckily the ammunition from the 20mm was at less risk of cooking off now that the ammo storage had been lifted away from the fire. That gave them time.

He worked all the measures inside of the cockpit to try and open the cockpit, but nothing was working. Not the release button, not the manual pump, not even the damn blasting caps. He turned to frantically beating on the canopy with the butt of his pistol in an attempt to break it open, but to no avail. The ballistic glass was too tough to be broken by brute strength.



Senior Airman Meriwether Lewis lay in the arms of the CM officer. His voice all but gone, whatever remained of his vocal cords dedicated to letting out moans of pain. His helmet had been stripped off, but not before some of the visor had dripped around his eyes, leaving charred bubbly marks all over his skin. He whimpered as the armored boots of the SPARTAN clomped past to go rescue Seamus. The difference in sensory response between his legs and his upper torso was noticeable to say the least. His upper torso and arms were in indescribable agony, while his legs didn't feel a thing. He knew what happened when a bird hit the ground, even if he lived long enough to undergo all of the medical treatment that would be needed, he would never walk well again.

He'd seen Mike explode all over the inside of the passenger compartment, felt the warm and sticky globs of flesh hit his flight suit. The damage had been so severe it had even destroyed his harness, which resulted in him being flung across the food court, torched by his own bird's jet fuel and thrust engine. It was a sick sense of irony that the vehicle which he cared for and maintained would indirectly cause him grievous injury.


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2nd Lieutenant Jordan Grey
Ad-Hoc Kilo 45
New Alexandria Starport
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552.



He hit the ground hard as Bear shot the brute that had him by the neck. Oxygen and blood flooding back in to his head as the jumper rocketed through the window. He stripped off his helmet, bypassing the middle-man of his helmets respirator to suck in as much air as possible. This was the first time anyone on the top floor had seen the Lieutenant's face. He looked up as Bear and Longacre downed the brute attempting to beat Maple to death with a spike grenade.

He shouted up to the terrified girl

"Maple! Look around up there for an access ladder or fire escape! There should be one near you!" He called as an eerie silence descended over the battlefield. He clutched his chest as the yell caused a stabbing pain in his chest. The brute had broken or fractured several of his ribs almost certainly. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as he stood up. He examined the people on the top floor. They were all still alive, Longacre clearly in pain as she too looked for injuries. Chiao looked a little worse for the wear, and thankfully Bear was still alright. Grey put his helmet back on as he collected his M7S from where it had skittered across the floor. He slapped in a fresh magazine as he went to the edge of the building. He paused for a moment, as standing amongst the debris and dead covvies was a SPARTAN. On a normal day Grey would've ignored or said something snarky to the SPARTAN, but today was far from a normal day.

The IFF above the SPARTAN's head identified it as Noble 3, one of the Army's SPARTANs. He also noticed a Corporal Dariga Şäkirova carrying a wounded soldier in to the World Cuisine. He spoke in to his radio.

"Welcome to the New Alexandria Starport Noble 3, thanks for the assist." He said. Just as he finished he heard an odd, but not unfamiliar, noise growing increasingly louder. He struggled to place the noise, but his thought process was cut short as a Falcon crashed through the side of the food-court. It rolled along the ground, a man rag-dolling from the side of the rolling helicopter. Grey stared in shock as the man was ignited in an inferno of jet fuel. Stuart's voice cut through the initial shock, snapping Grey out of his trance as soon as it had started.

"Get some fucking fire extinguishers and put out that bird!" Grey shouted, grabbing up his DMR from where it was laying on the floor. As he ran down the stairs he shouted more orders at people. Normally he would've grabbed his ODSTs to do this, but he could see the biofoam smeared across Blackburn's chest, and Chips was clearly in a bad state. So he had to resort to other options.

"Killroy! Steele! Amir! With me!" He shouted at the three men. He lead them out after Stuart, the young CM officer showing his internal courage by braving the fire, and dragging out the charred door gunner. Grey got behind a piece of rubble in the Courtyard between the Falcon and Line 3, shouting at the three men he'd dragged out here to do the same. He also noticed that his team had been joined by JaMarcus Hayden, who had taken up a position to cover the door.

Grey gave a quick glance over his shoulder as he saw the SPARTAN lift the Falcon above her head, revealing Seamus inside. The pilot clearly working all measures he could think of to get out of the cockpit ASAP. Nothing appeared to be working for the poor man. That's when Callilis broke through the flames licking at the helicopter, using his strong robotic arms to rip the canopy off of the burning Falcon. Seamus wasted no time in releasing himself from his seat, dropping to the ground. He scrambled away from the burning helicopter, allowing for S-045 and Callilis to get away from it while Bear and Şäkirova hosed it down with fire extinguishers.

Grey sighed as he turned his eyes back to face down the hall towards what had previously been Line 3.

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Anowa
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Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Thu Dec 23, 2021 12:58 pm

Thai Sweet Billy wrote:Kith looked up to the sky, just in time to watch a Type-52 fly over.



Image
Evocatus Delgatus Rtusze 'Tralcamai
Fleet of Blinding Redemption
Quezon
Covenant Empire
August 23rd, 2552 - 1544 NST



The Type-52 alone was a sign of the Shipmaster's presence, being plated in the pearl white nanolaminate of the Evocati, rather than the standard purple. The same could be said of the Lich loading mass amounts of Cargo. All things considered, it was enough of a sign for any Covenant personnel that would see it to not ask a single question about what was going on, and it was a sign to the humans to not play games with it.

What the cargo was, and why so much was being loaded was a question that many didn't ask. The crew's loyalty to Tralcamai was that of steady trust. While they didn't know why, they had no desire to, they knew that regardless of what the giant did, he had a reason to do so, regardless of what it was. It was good that the Ultra had little sway outside of his own ship, because if he could amass any larger a following, the prophets would surely order his death.

It was a good five or six minutes before the Lich started to button up, raising itself without any complement. The personnel filing aboard the Phantom, before it too affixed itself to the bottom of the larger craft.

Outwardly, Tralcamai showed no suspicion of anything as he stood over the shoulders of the pilots. Inwardly, he was already aware of the arrival of -for lack of a better term- stowaways. Firstly, the headcount was off, secondly, he didn't recognise a few of the newly acquired crew, and thirdly, he sense of smell still worked. He did nothing for the whole flight up to the Pious Crusader, and when they docked, he still did nothing but file off. Though he almost immediately made for the bridge at a somewhat leisurely pace.

Of his 400 some odd crew, he knew the names and faces of each who came on board and died when it happened, or as close to it as possible. The official assignments he understood, the unofficial ones he usually understood, and did the so called paperwork to make it official, however, given the time, place, and nature of the arrival of the new faces, it paid to be paranoid. Entering the bridge, the Ultra gave no pause in looking to his two aides.

The first, a Sangheili Ranger, the head of the ship's small contingent of Rangers, Saro 'Tesovai was young for his position, yet he had a noted understanding of both adaptable tactics as well as traditional ones. His career had started less than a decade ago, but his service to the Covenant was noteworthy, up until he ordered a general retreat under threat of nuclear hellfire. He was one of the few individuals on this ship that Tralcamai could willingly rely upon to complete objective given without worry, and ironically the only Sangheili. Tesovai was the closest thing Tralcamai had to a child... And given the nature of his genetic line, it was all but a fact. The height disparity between the two was not as severe as it was among other Sangheili, and that lended credence to the fact. Neither of the two ever said anything about it, but Tralcmai was certain that 'Tesovai had suspicions, if not already confirmed. Underneath their helmets, the relative rarity of their purple eye color added credence to the fact.

The second, was a Jiralhanae, Baraka. Her assignment to the vessel was a troublesome one to attain to say the least. But Tralcamai could reliably say it was worth it. An unfortunate consequence of being an executor class vessel, Jiralhanae and Sangheili ended up serving together, and as was known, they did not get along. Even in the best of cases it was simply a case of begrudging cooperation instead of open hostility. The Sangheili, of course would listen to a Ultra of Tralcamai's status without question, even if they had been shamed by their acts that got them stuck here. The Jiralhanae would not be so easy, Tralcamai found that out the hard way.

The Jiralhanae had a relationship with the opposite sex that could be best described as henpecked. While the men were warriors through and through, the women were largely expected to take care of basically everything else that didn't fall under the purview of killing. That being said, the woman still had enough sway in their society to all but stonewall up and coming Alphas, seeing as part of the status a male had was their sexual conquests. In addition, striking a woman as a man to the Jiralhanae was on par with a loss of honor as it was being a coward. Baraka, in addition to being generally safe from being punched in the face by the Jiralhanae on the ship, she had a silver tongue to get them in line regardless. Her assignment on the ship was argued that women of the Jiralhanae had no right serving on a ship of the military, which was a good thing the Pious was under the Ministry of Tranquility.

Tralcamai spoke, "Baraka, were we due any new arrivals today?"

Her facial expression shifted to mild concern, less at the question and more at the tone, "Not to my knowledge, Shipmaster. Why?" Her voice was what humans would describe as androgynous. To many species of the Covenant, it was demonstrably feminine.

Tralcamai didn't answer her question, instead turning to 'Tasovai who had already garnered something was wrong, "Lockdown the ship. Relay the order that anyone utilising active camouflage is to be detained. I want every T'voan Champion in Hangar Four and under guard, I'll relay further orders when that is done." Tasovai said nothing, simply getting to work.

Baraka spoke up as a number of bridge crew were rather anxiously caressing their sidearms, "You think the hierarchs have sent assassins?"

"Not assassins... That would be stupid of them to come aboard. Certainly someone however. I intend to find out what, but I think I already know who." a pause, "You have the bridge."

"By your order, Shipmaster."
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Postby Caber » Thu Dec 23, 2021 3:44 pm

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Private Joshua Moiner
Kilo 45
New Alexandria Starport // August 23rd, 2552





"On your feet Private! You're with me. Load that magnum and stick to my ass."

Moiner snapped out of his blank stare with a start. He had zoned out, eyes locked to a random point of the ground as exhaustion and stress set in and he lest track of the battle around the room. He didn't know how long he had stayed out of it all, maybe a few seconds or a minute or an hour he really couldn't tell. Looking up to where the voice came from Moiner saw the corporal pointing to him, he didn't know the man but his armor had the mark of the Eposz militia. The corporal checked his weapon and surveyed the decimated food court.

"Sir I got no more..." He blurted out, speech slurring, but the corporal had already started away towards the World Cuisine restaurant. Moiner looked at his pistol then back up towards the embattled troopers inside the food stall. Looking up he saw a fair stack of boxes any soldier would recognize as ammo containers. Better there then here I guess. He thought to himself and went follow quickly behind the corporal, keeping his magnum raised and searching for targets, there was a distinct lack of them. Most of the brutes had been killed already and it looked like what was left were being dealt with, Moiner's two bullets wouldn't be missed in bringing them down. As Moiner stood up he noticed a pounding in his skull, like his brain was trying to leave its confinement in his head. His head started to dip and he had to focus on bringing it back up to place to look around. The magnum dropped from up and ready to hanging at his side as every bone in his body most especially his back responded to the act of moving with pain. Just a little further... Moiner thought as he approached the World cuisine.Upon entering the World Cuisine stall Moiner noted firstly the medic on the ground performing an impromptu surgery, no not a surgery, an amputation. The sight made him want to throw up, an arm sawn straight off of a very much still alive and somewhat conscious man. Moiner looked away over the rest of the floor. A machine gunner had a position near the front and troopers were taking up positions around the building, some standing around, others laying down hate on alien bastards.

Moiner took a seat on the ground against the wall near the front of the restaurant, near collapsing onto the ground dropping his magnum next to him. The back of his skull was bothering him, a mix of sharp pain and ache. He reached his hand around the back and felt the rear of his head, it was warm and wet, pulling the hand around back in front he noticed the blood. A lot of blood.

"Oh shit, that's not good" He said out loud. "Medic, I... I need a medic" His skull hurt worse and his neck was stiffening. Moiner looked up to where he saw the medic. She was getting up to move to the stairs when he called out to her. "Medic!" the militiaman called out as best he could, getting her attention.

Just after a loud crash resounded through the food court, Moiner didn't know what it was only that screams were the result.
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Kassaran
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Democratic Socialists

Postby Kassaran » Thu Dec 23, 2021 5:39 pm


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CPL Amir, Benjamin
Eposz Militia, Ad-hoc Unit Kilo 45
New Alexandria Starport
UNSC
231546NAUG52



Amir had seen the falcon dropping out of the sky, the thick black smoke rolling off of the craft as it slammed down into the wall of the courtyard and a flash of heat across his face as he began to duck low. Fuel ignited and charred rubble scattered across the open area with the distinctive smell and sound of an inferno taking hold. His eyes squinted as he tried to divine where the screaming was coming from as he saw several people running towards the wreck. Then he noted the crawling, prone form of one of the crew chiefs in the flames get pulled out by a Lieutenant as the SPARTAN also moved to free the trapped pilot. A distinct flash rippled across their armor as their shielding gave out and Amir's eyes widened ad he recognized the clear and present danger the SPARTAN had placed themselves in. The cyborg gave little evidence of concern for their own safety though as they worked towards helping another soldier free the pilot.

Turning towards the private he'd ordered onto his six, he recognized the man was thoroughly injured, the dazed and slack expression in his face said enough as the man called for the corpsman. His bloody hands were covered in bright-red ichor, his expression dazed and confused from the sudden flurry of action and drama unfolding elsewhere. The corpsman had just finished a hasty battlefield amputation of the broken trooper dragged in from the streets and would soon be present. Getting on a knee next to the soldier, he gave him a soft knock on his armored chest plate before speaking.

"Hey, corpsman's got you soldier. They're on their way, you're going to be fine. Just took a few knocks to your noggin. Nothing the corpsman can't fix with some ibuprofen, right? A few hits of medgel and you'll be back on your feet-"

Several troopers had already split from the restaurant and begun to work towards the ruined aircraft with fire extinguishers while an ODST called his name out. There would no-doubt be Covenant soon upon them again as the fighting had largely subsided likely due to the looming threat of the Corvette taking up position directly over the Starport. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he nodded towards the ODST and braced himself to face the flames of the wreck as he no doubt would be on Security. He locked and loaded his MA37, smashed a few extra mags into the pouch on his left hip, and sprinted to catch up.

"I got coverage on the mains Trooper! Killroy, watch the right approach, I'll draw on left! Stee-oh."

Amir's mouth shut with an audible click as he recognized the Staff Sergeant's higher rank. His head flicked back towards the entryway of choice the first waves of Covenant had used. If the NCO had other ideas or plans, he wasn't going to contest it. The man probably had a better idea of what to do so he settled on just doubling down on what he did best- comms.

"Steele, I'm green on 37, but my helmet got busted up a day ago by shrapnel and my Magnum's got 2 mags left."

The militiaman have a semi-apologetic shrug as he lowered himself behind an overturned bench, keeping his assault rifle trained on the doorway as he called back. His dark brown hair was matted and caked with blood, dust, sweat, and dirt which. It wasn't the best of looks, but more troubling was the telltale of the concussion he was still suffering from. Minor as it was and nauseating as the injury was, he could fight and he intended to do so.

Most would be scared of the possibility of dying, but Amir was more disgusted with the idea of letting those bastards do to any more Humans what they'd done to his platoon a few weeks prior.
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Thai Sweet Billy
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Founded: Dec 20, 2021
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Thai Sweet Billy » Fri Dec 24, 2021 11:21 pm


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Champion Kith Ven
Covenant Crusaders
Pious Crusader
Covenant Empire
August 23rd, 2552 / Ninth Age of Reclamation



The ride up to Tralcamai's ship would've been uneventful, had Kith Ven not had to share the space with guards that were way more vigilant than what he was comfortable with, let alone knowing that his "chaff" team had smuggled their way onboard.

He thanked whatever gods had blessed him with a silent step and the patience of the most disciplined sniper in the universe as the Lich made its way into the larger ship, soon hovering to a halt in the hangar. Kith waited for a moment as the various aliens onboard filed out, along with the cargo loaded aboard the larger craft. Before long, only he remained in the cargo bay of the ship, and slowly made his way over to the gravity lift.

Below, Kith saw Char and his lance bickering with an Ibie'shan, as if either didn't believe their excuse as to why they were here. Kith's invisible form slowly descended from the gravity lift and stepped out of sight, though he remained in earshot to hear what his impromptu underling had to say.

Char was stupid, for sure, but given what Kith was hearing now, it was safe to say that he wasn't incompetent. Kith heard Char's excuse loud and clear—the Ruuhtian had been separated from a larger unit and only was here because he didn't know any better, thus leaving Kith's name out of his mouth, and giving Char some plausible deniability in the event he was questioned any further. The T'vaoan smiled, knowing his anonymity would be safe for now, and said a silent prayer of thanks before moving on.

The cargo that Kith had inspected was innocuous enough, and Kith knew what exactly was being brought onboard. 'Tralcamai had a penchant for plundering human relics, as per his mission, and it wasn't Kith's position to question it, nor did he particularly care about that mission. All he had to do, really, was ensure that the Sangheili giant was still keeping his promises in regards to whatever tasking he owed of the hierarchs. Given the prevalence of boxes around the area, the proof was readily present.

Now all he had to do was find his way to the bridge.

Kith stuck close to a group of Covenant that passed by his concealed position in a corner, practically hugging an Unggoy Heavy he trailed as they passed through a door. The Unggoy, a slightly older veteran that had a bit more keen of an eye than most, raised his head up as he assumed he saw something out of the corner of his eye, only to watch as a cloud of vapor extruded from a vent in his peripheral vision. He muttered something to himself as the door closed behind him, and Kith continued on. Given his memory of ships of this class, the bridge was only a couple dozen meters away from where he was standing, and it was a straight shot to it.

"All T'vaoan Champions, report to Hangar Four immediately on order of the Shipmaster. All forces utilizing active camouflage are to be detained."

Kith's neck feathers stuck up as his heart skipped a beat. 'Tasovai, the Sangheili Ranger serving as one of 'Tralcamai's lieutenants, sent out an announcement that meant only one thing to Kith: 'Tralcamai knew he was onboard... somehow.

The fact that he wasn't dead already spelled a different story. If he knew that Kith was onboard, he could've simply ordered his forces to hunt him down and kill him. The fact that he was alive meant that the Evocatus likely was willing to "talk things out," so to speak—a far more favorable option to Kith than shooting his way out. After all, the two were on good terms, and had fought alongside each other and worked alongside each other in the past, so it made sense that 'Tralcamai likely wanted to solve this up front instead of staying paranoid.

Kith swallowed his apprehension and made his way to the hangar. A few of the Champions already mustered there looked up to what appeared to be a door opening randomly, and to the ones paying greater attention, they likely saw the almost translucent outline of Kith standing on the catwalk above them, looking down at the T'vaoans mustered in the hangar.

Kith's eyes passed along the ranks of the Champions, recognizing only a few faces, before it shifted over to the giant Sangheili himself. 'Tralcamai waited patiently as he assessed the T'vaoans mustered, as if he had no fear for any assassin that might've snuck onboard. The pair of Mglekgolo he normally travelled with were absent, at least on first glance, which made things all the more unnerving for Kith as he considered if his next move was going to be worth it. Was he going to respond violently or peacefully? Was he expecting him or not expecting him? So many questions were running through Kith's head, yet he felt as if he had no time to answer them all.

He sighed to himself and leaned over the railing of the catwalk. "Evocatus 'Tralcamai, lend me your ears: I, Crusader Kith Ven, come alone, on behalf of the Prophet of Truth."

Kith's descent to the hangar floor was silent as ever. He only landed with a light metallic thump a few footsteps away from the T'vaoans, causing them to turn their heads to the noise and instinctively reach for their sidearms. However, as Kith materialized from his camouflaged state, they lowered their guard, seeing the Crusader remove both weapons from his mag holsters and place them on the ground. Kith held both hands up, as if to show they were empty.

"There's no need for violence," Kith continued slowly, still holding his hands up. "I have only come to discuss your mission, Shipmaster."
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Bolslania
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Founded: Mar 07, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Sat Dec 25, 2021 1:08 pm


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Obidentiary Saso 'Vasamai
Fleet of Blinding Redemption
Quezon
Covenant Empire
August 23rd, 2552 - 1544 NST




Saso had been silently observing the Unggoy and Kig-Yar under his command pack and load boxes upon boxes of items from a human building into a Pearly white Lich. What the building was, and why they were looting objects from it Saso hadn't a clue. But he didn't bother to question the instructions passed down from the Shipmaster himself. Many of the Unggoy aboard the Pious Crusader were older and more experienced, requiring less direct supervision from the Elite. It was a welcome change for Saso, although he found it odd that he was responsible for instructing creatures of which several were 20 years his senior.

He had left a Grunt Major by the name of Lammam in charge of direct supervision of the other Unggoy as Saso took a moment to examine the human building. He strolled amongst exhibits and statues, keeping an ear out for the squeaky voices of his Unggoy to make sure he didn't stroll to far away. His hands were folded behind his back as his eyes traced these relics. They were far removed from Forerunner artifacts he'd seen. Much more square, much less distinguished. However there was something to be said for the tenacity of the humans. They had proudly displayed their large rectangular behemoths that they called ships landing upon this planet. It was true that humanity had spread quite far amongst the stars, that could garner them at least some respect. He picked up an object from an exhibit, taking a moment to examine it. He set it down, confirming that he had little to no knowledge of humans outside of military affairs.

In speaking of military affairs, he found his new position under the Ministry of Tranquility to be quite.... boring. In the midst of a siege of a human military world, where combat was raging all throughout the city, he was here. In a human building sans humans, collecting human things that he didn't understand. He sighed quietly as he turned back to his file. What was further irritating to the Major was his reduction in responsibility to basically that of a Minor. As an Obedientiary Officer he should be leading a full Kai'd of 40 troops, now he was reduced to leading 12. The aforementioned 12 were currently carrying boxes full of "artifacts" back to a Lich, then going back inside to repeat the process. His distinctive black shoulder pauldrons glistened in the dim light of the museum as he silently observed the group go about their work. Lammam was himself almost 50 years old, and was much calmer than many Unggoy, casually directing his subordinates from atop a table.

That's when Saso received the order to return to the Phantom to go aboard the Pious Crusader. He stepped out in front of his unit.

"We're returning to the ship. Load what you have on to the Lich and then board the Phantom." He lead his lance outside in to the smoke-filled air of New Alexandria, watching as a Corvette hanging in the air shot down a human civilian ship. In a way he felt bad for the humans aboard that shuttle. They were doomed for a slow, painful death at the hands of a vastly technologically superior institution. Besides that the humans aboard that shuttle had no way of knowing the true reasons why the covenant was killing them. There were days were even Saso didn't know. He stepped aboard the Phantom, taking an open space near the front as the Type-52 lifted itself in to the air, docking on the Lich.

Saso cast a quick look to his Shipmaster. The 12 foot tall giant standing stoically over the pilots shoulders. Rtusze 'Tralcamai was an odd sangheili. A former spec-ops Ultra, now in command of a Frigate under the Ministry of Tranquility. Not something one sees everyday. Furthermore the Ultra's issuing of plasma rifles to all Kig-Yar and Unggoy was an odd move, but Saso had been pleased with what he saw of his units performance with the weapons. Also the fact that the only reason he and his brother Zato were allowed to carry their swords being that 'Tralcamai couldn't legally stop them was odd. Generally Elite commanders only restricted Minors and some Majors from carrying swords. However Saso had come to respect the giant Ultra, even though he sometimes was odd.

When the Lich docked on the CAR-class Frigate, Saso disembarked the phantom with a final nod to Lammam, who functionally acted as a second in command to Saso, before he stepped off into the hangar. Not having much else to do, he watched as the Lich was unloaded of its cargo, leaning his weight on a catwalk above the hangar in order to stay out of the way of the hangar crew. He sat there for a few minutes, watching the hustle and bustle of the hangar before he heard the PA.

The Shipmaster's aid de camp, Saro 'Tesovai, was speaking over the intercom.

"All T'vaoan Champions, report to Hangar Four immediately on order of the Shipmaster. All forces utilizing active camouflage are to be detained." The Elite Ranger said. Saso did what humans would refer to as raising an eyebrow before 'Tesovai spoke directly in to his radio.

"Obidentiary, lead your lance to Hangar 4, the Shipmaster wants the T'vaoan's under guard. Over" The Ranger said. Saso and Saro had had limited interaction, usually just being in the same room as 'Tralcamai spoke. However Saso and Saro shared their early rise to authority and responsibility.

"Understood Ranger." Saso replied. Switching his frequency to his file's he spoke.

"Major Lammam, gather the lance and meet me in Hangar 4, we are at least part of the guard detail for the T'vaoans."

"Yes Obedientiary, on the way now." came Lammam's reply. A matter of moments later, Saso and his lance were standing around the assembled T'vaoans, who looked around perplexed. Saso currently had one of his Type-25 rifles on his hip, his energy sword sitting on his opposite hip. His arms were folded across his chest as 'Tralcamai entered the hangar. While the pair of Lekgolo that the Ultra usually travelled with were currently not visible, that by no means meant that they weren't lurking somewhere, waiting to spring upon anyone who posed a threat to their master.

"Evocatus 'Tralcamai, lend me your ears: I, Crusader Kith Ven, come alone, on behalf of the Prophet of Truth."

In one smooth motion, Saso had his energy sword in one hand and his Type-25 in the other, the Type-25 levelled at where the invisible T'vaoan Crusader had landed from the catwalks above. His hands were steady as he aimed at the now uncloaked T'vaoans head. As the Crusader set his weapons on the ground, raising his hands in the air, Saso still kept his plasma rifle on Kith.

"Halt Crusader." He said as the T'vaoan slowly approached 'Tralcamai. Turning his head slightly in the direction of the Shipmaster, keeping his eyes and rifle fixed on Kith he spoke.

"What shall I do Shipmaster?" Saso asked of his superior. His voice contained no unease or nervousness, and in fact he had no intention to kill the T'vaoan, only to apprehend the Crusader should the Evocatus command it.
Last edited by Bolslania on Sun Dec 26, 2021 5:42 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Vacif
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Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Vacif » Sat Dec 25, 2021 7:12 pm

Revlona wrote:

HCFC Alissa Viel
105th Shock Troops Division, 7th Shock Troops Battalion, Ad-Hoc Unit Kilo 45
New Alexandria
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 1542 NST


"I set up a small station for those wounded I already treated near the back there," Veil said to Lance Corporal Callilis. "Take him back there for me," She said, before gathering up her gear and departing, her job done for now. She kept low encase any covvies other than the obvious Bravo Kilo were hiding and looking for targets. Her eyes strayed to the second floor where she could hear an abundant amount of moans, screams, and general sound of the wounded and calls for medics coming from. It was there that she made her way next.


With the last of the Brutes dealt with for now, Callilis swiftly threw the MA5B over his shoulder and grabbed the casualty. He gently but quickly hefted the man up and brought him over to triage station in the back of the restaurant. The guy didn't look so hot, but he'd survive the day if the rest of them did. Callilis felt bad about holding the man down while he was in clear pain earlier but it was what needed to be done. "Alright guy, just hang tight." The Marine gently put the casualty down, he wasn't sure if the soldier could actually hear and understand what he was saying, but it at least made Callilis feel better about the situation.

Standing back up, he brought his rifle back up and rejoined the rest of the team, evidently things had calmed down as there was no more screaming and shooting. Well, human screaming. He was pretty sure there were still a few grunts out in the cafeteria quietly sobbing in their own gore. Scanning his surroundings there wasn't any hostile force left so he began to check himself, both his equipment and his person. Physically, he was sore but he couldn't taste iron in his mouth anymore and the head ache had kind of gone away so there was that. Gear wise, he was down a fragmentation grenade and four magazines for his MA5B.

Then as if the universe wasn't done yet, a falcon slammed through the wall, spewing concrete and titanium everywhere as it tumbled through the air, annihilating the statue and slamming into the hall the lead to gates A and B. One of the crew was violently ejected from the craft with a sickening crack. The bird wasn't much better, it was badly mangled, metal warped and wrapped in flame and inky black smoke. To top it all off, the bird was upside down, the pilot's hatch wouldn't be opening at that angle.

Then the screams and the smell hit him. He wasn't unaccustomed to cooked flesh, hair and the likes. He'd been in what would be his fourth campaign as of this month. But something about it all brought him back to Fumirole. The counter-assault on the battle cruiser over the capitol. Callilis was on the 'hog's turret, the squad Corpsman, Kovacs was riding shotgun in front of him with Racker driving. He didn't see what hit them, but it ruined the hog. Racker and him were 'lucky' as they'd been thrown from the vic. Racker lost his legs and Callilis had lost both his arms. But Kovacs had been trapped in the passenger seat. The upholstery burning, the scent of the burning flesh, Kovacs's screams. He couldn't do anything to help Kovacs as they burned, no one could. "Someone get the pilot!"

The yell broke his stupour. Callilis threw his rifle over his shoulder and assumed to the form of a perfect sprinter. Heat washed over him as he approached the burning wreck. His armour and balaclava worked well to protect him against the flames still licking the Falcon, creeping towards the cockpit and ammo storage. The Spartan was already there, lifting the body for him. Inside he could see the pilot struggling inside, punching, kicking away at the jammed canopy. Callilis grasped the hull with his left hand and punched his right hand into a small gap between the canopy and the hull. The canopy groaned under the stress of Callilis's pull until a loud metallic pop! slammed the bulletproof tomb door into the ground. The Pilot tumbled out of the cockpit and wasted no time and making their escape. The Marine stepped back, allowing the Spartan to do whatever they needed to do with the wreck without having to factor in Callilis.

"Thanks Spartan!" He called out to the titan as they retreated. Those with firefighting materials rushed in to quell the flames before secondary cook off killed half the cafeteria. Had they met? He'd met a handful of Spartans during his service, he didn't know how often Spartans modified their armour, but the Spartan's designation rang distant in the back of his mind.
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Beiarusia
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Founded: Dec 29, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Sun Dec 26, 2021 12:41 pm

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Private Maple Rier
8th Armor Brigade, 3rd Support Battalion Kilo-45
New Alexandria Spaceport, Reach, Epsilon Eridani // August 23rd, 2552






The enraged Brute swung wildly, the spikes of its impromptu club missing the helpless trooper by mere centimeters. Maple was trying desperately to scoot away, struggling to support her weight as the damaged frame of the skylight quavered with each and every movement, the lightweight metal groaning and likely soon to snap. She had managed to pull herself up to some degree, but the overwhelming mass of the ape-like alien was threatening to collapse the entire structure as it crawled towards her. Maple was honestly surprised that the skylight frame had managed to withstand the unintended burden as well as it had for as long as it had.

The metal buckled slightly as the Brute forced itself forward with another yowl.

“Just leave me alone!” she yelled back. Maple was maybe two meters now from the concrete edge that encircled the skylight. A bit further and she could maybe scramble up onto solid footing.

The Brute swung again, the spikes affixed to the grenade sparking against the frame and leaving an unpleasant gouge in the already weakened metal. Another yowl as the Brute continued its pursuit like an inchworm. A comical sight if not for the seething bloodlust in its eyes. It bellowed some bitter threat – Maple assumed it was a threat, or at the very least something entirely unpleasant – in a guttural language, brandishing the Spike Grenade like an old man shaking an indignant fist.

“I probably don’t even taste that good!” she cried as she imagined the Brute preparing a fancy sauté. She laughed nervously at the thought, more-so imagining the alien adorned in a chef’s hat and novelty apron. A defense mechanism to distract herself from the very real fact that she was probably about to be skewered.

The Brute’s energy shield flickered as gunfire peppered it from down below. “Private! Move out of the way!” shouted Bear over comm.

Maple risked a disgruntled look down his way. “What do you think I’m doing!”

She yelled again as the frame shook. The Brute had turned its attention towards the radioman and was about to jump down to club him instead, however, the ponderous movements were likely to send the both of them falling as the metal creaked in protest. The joints were nearing a breaking point. A bit more and they’d give way.

The Brute roared in anger, and then its jaw simply disintegrated with only a vapor trail to give any indication to what had transpired. The behemoth struggled a moment more, fueled by adrenaline, before finally going limp and falling from the skylight to splatter against the tiled floor of the atrium with a sickening crack. The frame rebounded now that the excess weight was suddenly gone, bouncing Maple up who quickly threw her leg over so that she was straddling the metal beams as opposed to hanging precariously. It took a few seconds more for the wobbling to subside, by which point an eerie calm had descended upon the food court. The soldiers had just barely held the World’s Cuisine.

“You alright lads!?” shouted Londacre from somewhere down below. This was quickly followed by, “How the fuck is she going to get down from there?”

“I’m fine!” Maple shouted back. Despite the near-death experience she sounded reasonably calm, though in actuality was likely too frightened to properly show it. Had she been standing she’d be shaking like a leaf. “Don’t mind me! Just gonna hang out here for a bit. Find a way down.” She gave a reassuring thumbs-up that was more to steel her own nerves than to assuage any worries from her compatriots.

Slowly, she began to crawl towards the edge, inchworming towards safety, an effort that was far easier to accomplish now without the Brute breathing down her neck. The frame continued to protest but it seemed less likely to collapse now which was reassuring. As she neared the lip a peculiar noise caught her attention. The whine of an engine, and it was fast approaching.

“Hey, do you guys hear that?” was all she managed before the Falcon came crashing down into the food court, clipping the westernmost wall in a cacophony of carnage that rivaled the gunfight that had occurred not a minute earlier.

The shock of the collision was too much for the skylight as one joint failed, and then another, as the entire frame buckled from the cascading structural failure. Maple practically had to jump the last few inches as the metal fell away from underneath her. Her fingers scrambled to grab hold of something, anything, finding just enough purchase on the concrete to keep herself from falling alongside the fragmenting skylight as it rained down on those below, however, the threat was minimal and the metal frame simply added to the noise that had once again erupted in the food court with the crash landing of the Falcon. Only after the clattering had died away did she hear the screaming from the injured crewman.

Choosing to focus on her own predicament, Maple pulled herself up and onto the roof with a small childlike grunt, rolling onto her back and laying spread-eagle for a long moment as the adrenaline wore away. Sore from the sudden flight and roughhousing, but she was alive.

She was alive!

She laughed – a nervous giggle really – mostly from her inability to process just how she had survived the encounter and partly from the absurdity of such a plan actually working. It wasn’t a thought-out plan, sure, and neither was it the smartest of plans, but it had kept her from becoming an appetizer just long enough for someone else to save her skin. Despite the laughter she really, really, really hated today.

“Today sucks,” she moaned as she slowly picked herself up and into a sitting position, wiping at her eyes as tears threatened to overflow. A sniffle but she held it together.

A few bumps and bruises, but Maple was perfectly okay despite the situation, and although missing her shotgun had the remainder of her kit firmly in place, including her multi-tool and the M6C sidearm holstered on her left thigh. Standing, she unholstered the sidearm – just in case – and began looking for a way down. As she traversed the rooftops the engines of the nearby transports were again spooling to full power. Hopefully that was a good sign. The sooner they left the sooner they all could leave, and Maple very much wanted to not be here anymore. That said, the Covenant Corvette lingering overhead was still very much a troubling sight. A reminder that, at any moment, they could be atomized, and that the only reason they hadn’t thus far was that the Covenant liked to get its hands dirty in a much more personal capacity. Now that they had been rebuffed by the UNSC defenders, what was to stop the Corvette from simply firing down upon the starport? Maple shivered at the thought and quickened her pace.

Across the river the assault seemed to have died away much like it had in the food court. The flash of plasma was an easy thing to spot, even on sunny days like today, but Maple saw nothing as she offered a passing glance. She did note, however, the stacks of black smoke now rising from the burning cityscape, and couldn’t help but to wonder if Praha had been hit as hard. Her uncle (and his family alongside herself) had escaped New Constantinople when the Covenant had attacked, and Maple was sure he’d do it again.

She paused. “Huh….” The AA batteries across the river, by Caracalla Park, were moving to acquire a targeting solution. Maple curiously looked up towards the Covenant Corvette and hoped that something good was about to happen. Not that she was willing to stick around and watch just in case the ship blasted everything to glass in retaliation.

It took another few minutes to find an access ladder, and a few minutes more to work her way back towards the food court. The concourse she found herself in was abandoned, which she was thankful for, and it was only a matter of finding the correct path to head deeper into the complex, towards the landing pads, and avoiding any exit that would dump her back outside. By the time she arrived a rescue operation was underway to save the pilot of the Falcon, and only then did she notice the Spartan. She also noticed a few guns pointed her way from those keeping watch.

Maple threw her hands up and offered a weary smile. “Friendly! Don’t shoot.” Another nervous giggle. “I’m just gonna get outta the way. Okay. Good job. Yeah.”

Not knowing what she should be doing she scrambled off towards the World’s Cuisine to look for Chiao and the ODSTs she had met on the rooftop. It didn’t take long to bump, quite literally, into Longacre, to which she offered a small apology followed by a sincere thank you.

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Parcia
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Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Sun Dec 26, 2021 8:25 pm


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Warrant Officer Grimsdottir, Olivia
ONI Section 1 "Jester's Hand" Data Analytics Team
Sub Level 3, Office of Naval intelligence Regional HQ, Olympic Tower, New Alexandria, Reach.
Office of Naval Intelligence Section 1
August 23rd, 2552 - 1544 NST



She kept her impromptu posting next to the captain as she returned fire and began to form her plan of action in her mind. As far as Olivia knew, The Captain was the only real commanding officer she could recognize at the moment and, and an ONI officer at that, practice dictated she make her self useful and subordinate to the older woman.

Her entire plan was thrown out the window as the Spartan appeared.

Olivia had known more then her fare share of people she would idolize, even crush over. A spartan was never one, having never seen one in person sans a chance glimpse of one at a field op in 47. Still, the blue armor clad Spartan was one she recalled from an earlier file.

"As of current, we're working on finding you the equivalent of a personal guard and hopefully to get you somewhere more secure, but as you can understand that criteria is rapidly dwindling. HIGHCOM as of current wants you rooted in this facility, do you understand?"

She recovered her self as the Commander spoke and when she felt it was her turn, spoke up. "Commander, s-sir." she paused, reigning in her feelings in the face of a demigod of Humanity. "I and the..." she took a moment to look over the newcomer and recalled what she knew of him. "CTT1 Vik...Vykopal? aren't currently doing anything and were both armed for the task, we can post security for the Captain until some one more qualified can be found."

She felt some bile rise in her throat and held it. Initiative was something rarely rewarded in ONI and as far as Olivia could tell she was being nothing more then an annoyance tot he two officers present.
Last edited by Parcia on Sun Dec 26, 2021 9:35 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Kyraina
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New York Times Democracy

Postby Kyraina » Mon Dec 27, 2021 12:38 am


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MSGT Joseph "Bear" Bridges
Kilo 45
Starport, New Alexandria
UNSC
23August2552



Bear saw the Brute's head disappeared as Longacre had taken the shot. He stopped shooting as the brute fell off the sky light, and shook his head as Maple stood on the skylight. About the time Maple had said "Hey, do you guys here that?" The ATC Comms in Bear's ear went crazy, and before he could decipher what was going on a falcon came crashing through the food court, and wrecked everything in its path. He saw a man ejected out of the side, and fluid started to come out of the fluid, and it pulled around the ejected falcon crew member, who was soon engulfed in a fire made by Jet Fuel and Hydraulic Fluid.

Bear had immediately sprinted towards the stairs, and ran down them two at a time, to the kitchen. He searched and found the Class K Fire Extinguisher near the deep fryer, and ran towards the crash. He ran by others and shouted "Grab fire extinguishers, but they need to be rated B or K classes, Multiclasses are fine as long as they have rating for B class. We push back the flames, we can get that pilot to safety."

He ran over to the wreck, pulled the pin, aimed the nozzle at the area towards the spartan, started to sweep the nozzle, and pressed the trigger together. He slowly swept the nozzle back and forth, and worked his way towards the cockpit of the Falcon.





Image
LCPL William Killroy
Kilo 45
LStarport, New Alexandria
UNSC
23August2552



Killroy simply nodded at Amir, and reloaded his M37 LMG, and put the rest in his pack. He heard a load pitched noise and looked up in time to see a falcon come crashing into the food court. He saw people already moving to do different jobs, some to secure the crash, while some moved to fight the flames. He moved to go secure the hallway that had lead to what had been line 3, when he heard his name called by the ODST Lt. Grey

"Copy sir. Already moving to secure the Scene sir."

He found a good spot opposite from Sgt Hayden and laid prone on the ground and aimed his LGM on the hallway that lead to line 3.
Last edited by Kyraina on Mon Dec 27, 2021 12:44 am, edited 1 time in total.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is suppose to go here?

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Anowa
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Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Mon Dec 27, 2021 12:40 am




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Lieutenant Elias Haverson
Office of Naval Intelligence, Assigned to UNSC Pillar of Autumn for Operation RED FLAG
Pillar of Autumn Hangar 6
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 1547 NST



Haverson stepped out the rear of the pelican, barely avoiding being bowled over by maintainers already setting to work refueling and rearming both the pelican and the escorting Longsword without pause. Trailed by his own marine escort, Haverson saluted the crew in the cockpit of the pelican as the engines powered off for a safe rearming.

Haverson didn't know it then, but it wouldn't be the last time they'd see each other.



Rearm and refuel took about an half an hour, with news of the Traflagar's destruction, and the destruction of Yankee 9-1's base down on the surface, both craft were reassigned to the Autumn for the time being. And with that reassignment, the Autumn was buttoned up as it relocated from it's current debris field, which took another hour.

Not a moment after the order to open up was given,7 Delta 5 and Yankee 9-1 were renamed 4 Delta 14 and 4 Delta 15 respectively, and put on a line with Vice Admiral Whitcomb. They were rather abruptly ordered to head back down to Olympic Tower for another Priority One operation that would be detailed upon arrival. Given the Deputy Chief of Naval Ops had told them this, it was neither an order they could refuse, nor was it likely to be a falsehood.

They were about to kick some sort of Hornet's nest.


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WO-2 Sierra-045
NOBLE Team
New Alexandria
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 1544 NST



The Spartan felt the wash of cold before she saw it. White powder spraying across her legs and at her feet, from the Corporal she had saved no less than 5 minutes ago. 045 recognised the woman's intent wasn't meant to be harmful, and was in all likelihood in an effort to both pay the effort forward, as well as assist with rescuing the trapped pilot. The Spartan appreciated it, but at that moment wished the troopers hadn't done it. Mjolnir, as advanced as it was, didn't like being confused like that. For every spray, the heat regulation the gel layer underwent paused and reversed, for something like plasma wash or spikes of cold from cryo weaponry, the external factor was a brief enough period that it didn't matter, and normally there'd be no harm done... Normally, 045 wasn't standing in a knee deep thousand degree inferno.

There wasn't any point in getting angry, the troopers had no way of knowing, and the newly arrived cyborg was already tearing open the hatch. 045 said nothing as it was done, and as the pilot was pulled clear, her unfailing mental clock hit zero, and the 20mm started cooking off. The slugs boring holes in the air a few millimetres from her head. She took a few steps back, feeling a restraint on her right lower leg, the one closest to the Corporals extinguishing efforts, and the one subjected to the rapid temperature change. She nearly stumbled, but caught herself, a lance of pain jamming up said leg and she backpedalled from the cooking off vehicle.

Turning, she took note of everyone's varying physical states, the two most pressing to her in that instance was the ODST with a caved in chest plate, and the all but melted airman. She'd tend to them soon enough, but first she had to go over her own injuries.

A thought brought up her biomonitor, a more in depth and classified version than would show up on the HUD of the Marine corpsmen.

Bruised bones from her fall from orbit still lingered despite the bone knitting polymer, the re-entry pack's airfoil having failed at a not too fun distance to the ground. Her left wrist had a carpal bone dislocated, flexing it as she pressed in with her right hand resulted in an audible pop as the nigh indestructible bone shifted under the tension of muscle and tendon coiled like high tension wire.

The two spikes in her left abdomen had cooled to the point they no longer cauterised, she hadn't vomited from the impact so they hadn't punched through her stomach. Grabbing the lower one, she gave a slight tug and felt the telltale pulling she didn't want to feel, parts of her intestines had burned on to the red hot spike on impact. Pressing one hand around the wound, and tearing it free, chunks of burned meat and cooked blood stuck to the tungsten rod, same with the second, both holes being filled by her suit's internal reservoir of biofoam.

Glancing down at her now stiff ankle, she realised the 2nd degree burns had gone deep enough to all but solidify her ankle's skin. She gave a deep breath as she suddenly flexed her ankle in every direction it could move. A muffled wet tear could be heard at the start of the movement, and a pain that reminded 045 of her augmentations lanced up her leg. Sweat mixing with the now open wounds, torn blisters, and raw skin. With no penetration between her body and the biofoam layer, no painkiller or disinfectant would come, and given the fact biofoam solidified, she wouldn't be adding any either. Right now she needed mobility over comfort. Any infection could be dealt with later.

Jacking her Motion Sensor's range to it's max of 500 meters, the woman looked back up, her eyes were drawn to PFC Dubbo and the the Airman.

Dubbo had now removed his chest plate and was working on reshaping it, an effort that surprisingly bore a minimal amount of fruit. Walking over, the Spartan rather roughly yanked the plate from his hands, and with an effort many would see as herculean, reshaped it closer to normal and handed it back.

The man gave a slight guffaw, "I should bring you a pickle jar one of these days. Thanks Chief."

"Not a chief anymore, Dubbo. You gonna be fine?"

The man nodded as he strapped the upper plate back in place, knocking on it a few times, "Yeah, no one's tougher than me, mate." Given the rather spotty past the two encountered each other, 045 only doubted that claim a little bit.

Approaching the Airman and Lieutenant in the fountain, she knelt, taking stock of what the man had to deal with. Eyes would have to be removed, his helmet thankfully saved most of his head and scalp from harm, meaning that mess of debriding could be avoided. However the rest of his body was a mix of burned flesh and flesh melted in to his uniform that would need to be separated at some point.

A voice suddenly cut in, as the sound of muffled thumping could be heard across the bay, <<Missile defense online. All evac transports, you are clear for takeoff! Repeat, you are cleared for takeoff! Go, now!>>

Above them, the sound of missiles rocking against the Corvette pounded everyone's ears like a drum. Followed by secondaries from the craft itself. Outside the high pitched whine of aircraft engines ripped over the sound of semi-distant gunfire as the remaining evac flight took off and sailed in to the wild blue yonder.

NOBLE Teams radio channel somewhat suddenly cut in, as 045 turned to gaze at the still burning wreck, <<...you copy? Repeat, this is Noble Two. Noble Six, Noble Three, do you copy?>>

<<This is Six. Go ahead, Noble Two.>>

<<"We picked up your transponder about an hour ago, but we could not risk open comms. Covenant have this city sealed tight. We're getting nothing from Anya.>>

Anya responded, her gaze still locked to the fire, <<I'm here Kat. Transponder got damaged on the way down, with a myriad of other things.>>

<<Are you wounded?>>

The woman gave a slight frown, <<I'll make it the rest of the day.>> a pause, <<Starport garrison could use an extract, we have multiple wounded, one confirmed critical with potential others.>>

Six gave his own sitrep, <<Fox Company is in a similar state over here. Transports are away, corvette is waving off.>>

Looking up, Anya could see the giant purple boil on the skyline making for orbit, flames and the occasional secondary waving off of it.

<<Three, Six, copy. We're bringing you to us. Three, we're bringing Kilo 45 with you, they're not needed at the Starport anymore.>>

While Kat didn't outright say it, Anya picked up on the subtext. Six gave his copy, followed by Anya's own, <<Copy Kat. Three out.>>

As people still fought the fire, she sighed, "Let it burn! We're not gonna be back here."

A few minutes later, the Pelican came in overhead, coloured in the white and green of the NAPD. It gave little concern for the aluminium framework of the skylight, settling down quite solidly on the other side of the fountain from the wreck. As everyone boarded, under their own power or otherwise, The Corpsman, Army Medic, and EMT inside went to work, 045 was the last on board, and when her foot met the ramp, the altitude of the Pelican dropped with a dull clang of the belly bouncing off the tile.

The pilot craned back from his seat, "What the fuck did you just loa-..." the Spartan looked back at the man wordlessly as she took it upon herself to simply stand at the rear of the blood bay, "The man's face went from an open maw to a glistening smile, as if all his fear and anxiety had just washed away, swinging back in to his seat he gave a cry of victory andf started talking to his co-pilot about how things were gonna be alright.

Anya simply turned to look out the rear of the craft, upon the wreck of New Alexandria, her thought currently floating around what was happening with the brothers and sisters she'd been seperated from. To her left, Stuart was seated with some burn salve on his legs, his eyes were filled with aspects of fear, a god like awe, and childlike admiration directed at the Spartan, who either didn't notice, or didn't care.

Dubbo had somehow managed to produce a can of Foster's beer, presumably from his ruck, his gaze the typical thousand meter stare though there was still movement in his eyes as he took stock of everyone. It was the standard look for the man, despite being an E-2, it was the preset look of most battle hardened SNCOs. His gaze went down to the crispy critter on the deck plate, a series of IV bags now rigged in to him as the Army Medic was in the process of debriding his wounds and slathering him in a half centimetre thick layer of medigel, "He gonna make it?"

The Medic sighed, "Maybe. Depends mostly on what we have back at Olympic Tower."

Dubbo nodded, to his right in the seat next to him, Blackburn was mumbling. Dubbo shook his head as he took another swig from his can, "I still don't get why you do that."

Blackburn mumbled a few words before his visor depolarized, "Alien or not, I pray that they find the error of their ways and return to The Lord's path, in this life or the next."

"Yeah... you've said that before, but, why?"

The Mormon sat for a moment, "The Lord was not of us when he was exalted. Who am I to say his domain only extends to us? On the day of our judgement, we may very well awake to the knowledge that we are not the only children of the Lord. I pray for that reason, that The Lord may give those who throw themselves at us another chance to see the path set before them." a pause, "To pray for the forgiveness for your enemy's ignorance, and to ask for God to take mercy is one thing. To protect one's own and deliver those who would strike you down is another."

Dubbo said nothing, but simply flashed his brow as he took another swig.



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PFC Chips Dubbo
Kilo 45
New Alexandria
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 1831 NST



It was a ten minute flight, but the team of Kilo 45 went through a quick restructuring, and the critically wounded were sent up top the Stalwart Dawn, the critically wounded in this case being no one from Kilo 45. At this point, everyone was back to walking wounded status, torn muscles and ligaments were mended, bones were reformed; burns lacerations, and crush injuries were similarly tended to. None of those injuries were fully healed, but there wasn't a whole lot they could do about that. The Covenant didn't wait for such things. Say what one would about the spooks, ONI's medical staff knew what they were doing.

The pilot of the Falcon that went down had been folded in, along with some of the Spooks from the tower, which they now were all tasked with protecting one Vera Patkos, an O-6 who apparently didn't like being told to evac, at the very least, Dubbo could respect her on that alone. The other two spooks they picked up were some Cryptology goons who looked greener than Stuart.

The Young CM Officer had proven himself in the engagement at the starport, maybe not as a good officer, or as a good fighter, but he had the balls to wade in to the Devil's front yard, and that was good enough for Chips. Right now, the unit was stuffed in some out of the way waiting room, with what little downtime they had. ONI security, as well as a number of Spartans were taking care of security.

Through the now broken window, past the skyscrapers and near the horizon, Dubbo could see massive lances of light burning away the ground. Beyond it, the planet was already on fire. How long until it was on them?

Hearing footsteps Dubbo got to his feet, being the closest to the door, he was the impromptu firewatch. In through the door came the Spartans commander, who Dubbo didn't salute, for the obvious reason of it being a Warzone.

"Captain Patkos?" not a question of his identity, but of location.

Dubbo simply thought, and the waypoint was set on her head, "Over there, Sir."

The Spartan nodded, making his way over, once again taking a knee, "Captain, I've got good news and bad news." a pause, "Good news is, you and your team isn't gonna be sticking around for much longer. Bad news is you're not going to be evac'd.

"Vice Admiral Whitcomb has tasked you and a team under reasonable capacity in initiating the Cole Protocol on a Prowler caught in a jam at a compromised ONI refitting site in Aszod. given the limitations and the fact that every other team is predisposed at the moment, it's likely you and the people in this room are the only ones capable of accomplishing the task in the alloted timeframe. You and your team need to be ready to move in the next half hour."


A half hour later it was. An IFF winked in to view as the Pelican approached, November 909, Spellcaster. In the distance the tell tale silhouette of a Longsword could be seen circling like a shark. Dubbo shared a look with Blackburn, no time to rest really, and no time to gather their thoughts. This was about to be a complete fucking shitshow, he felt it in his gut.

As everyone filed in to the Pelican, their radio channels opened up,m and started giving everyone a brief. Many would recognise the voice of the man on the other end.

<<Kilo 45, this is Vice Admiral Whitcomb, Deputy Chief of Naval Operations. We have a situation. On the 20th, a prowler, the UNSC Welwyn's Vengeance was docked with Anchor 4 for a slipspace refit. In an effort to rush the mounting and get the ship out of system, it was unfortunately mounted improperly, and the shipboard AI only found this fact out at 0700 hours this morning, and the prowler, now without any orbital installations to support it, was forced to set down at one of ONI's dedicated shipbreaking yards.>> a pause as he let the informtation digest, << As you can probably garner, this resulted in the shipbreaking yards being discovered, and subsequently taken by Covenant forces. Through means we are currently unable to discern, the ship was not discovered or boarded by the Covenant despite being groundside, and the Shipboard AI is broadcasting a directed distress signal on one of the few channels remaining secured. As of current, it's likely the local security and the ship's crew are deceased.>>

<<Right now, you have been tasked with boarding the Welwyn's Vengeance, initiating the Cole Protocol, if need be destroying the ship, and either destroying or evacuating the Ship board AI, designated KKT 6017-55 "Kauket". A data packet should be sent to your officers with a detaileed outline of the facility. We cannot allow the information aboard that ship to fall in to Covenant hands. Get it done. Whitcomb out.>>

In the cockpits of the two respective craft, a series of waypoints guiding their way to wherever it was the ship was docked. Almost 30 kilometers outside of Sopron, across a whole ocean and damn near a world away. Fuel would be tight for both craft, and even then they wouldn't have enough to burn in to orbit like that had before. It was for all intents and purposes effectively a one way trip if they couldn't resupply out there.

It was an eight hour flight, enough for everyone to catch some sleep, but midway through the flight, another radio call awoke everyone who happened to be light sleepers. New Alexandria was gone, currently being glassed, the status of everyone there called in to question, the only good news being that the Stalwart Dawn and with it, whoever was left in the city had jumped out of system. From what could be garnered, the number of evac points left on the planet could be counted on one hand, none of them where they were going, and they were past the point of no return. They'd either find a way home, or they'd die on Reach.




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PFC Chips Dubbo
Kilo 45
ONI Yard 2218, near Sopron, Reach
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 2607 NST



It was the dead of night on Reach. A preliminary scan indicated the various AA batteries had been switched off, likely in an effort to mask the EM signature off the base. Which did fuck all more than act as an invite as it seemed.

First and Third squad had been tasked with finding the prowler and completing their objective, Second Squad was tasked with finding fuel for the pelican which was hanging back and had nestled itself in a grove of trees, security being pulled by Blackburn, Chiao, Kilroy, and their new pilot, O'Duggan.

The Longsword had been politely requested to take care of the Covie Frigate hanging around over the facility when the AA had mopped up the Phantoms and Banshees flying around. A request that had more weight behind it given it's full load and Shiva warhead graciously given by the Autumn's crew.

Nestled between some cliffs in a canyon leading to the ocean was the ONI yard, masked by rock walls, the light twinkling off of what seemed to be metal deposits in the canyon walls and the water a few dozen feet below the various landing pads, entrance ways, and windows indicating most of the facility was jammed in to the canyon walls. It was rather smart of them to put it here. The metal deposits would fuck with EM scans, and it's location meant anything less than a 90 degree top down angle would make it obscured.

Ahead on the cliffside, an entryway in to the rock labeled 'authorized personnel only' a good two dozen feet below, an open hangar door opened up on to a landing pad with a partially pulled apart Condor, ONI insignia on black panelling making it hard to see beyond it's obvious silhouette.

The sound of Grunts and Jackals arguing over scrap below with a few resounding clangs could be heard, and thankfully used to mask the approach of the two squads. Dubbo approached, stacking up, and keyed to opening, the auto-door flying open and Dubbo swinging left, stairs leading down to an opening. An emergency access way most likely.

Slowly, the man stepped down followed by the others, the sound of arguing cannon fodder becoming louder as the man crept up to the solid railings, obscuring the team as they arrayed themselves on the highground, looking down on another, much more rudely ripped apart Condor.

On the other side of the hangar two more doors lay in wait, one on the top floor, a single file width, the one on the ground double file, both likely leading to the rest of the facility. To the right, ballistic glass layered computer offices, and likely the facility's ATC. It would likely tell them where the Prowler was.

Around the hangar, over two dozen Grunts and Jackals were arrayed, picking over shiny bits and bobs without a single CO in sight. Left to their own devices, they were completely unaware of the UNSC forces in the same room.

Stuart, a few men down, keyed his mic and spoke in a low tone, <<Third Squad to 4 Delta 15, stand by, we're about to pop the cork.>> The man weaselled his rifle between two plates on the railing, and awaited the command to open fire. Stealth was not an option with a group their size unfortunately.



At the other end of the canyon, Second Squad had elected to Fast Rope down, on to a landing platform with it's hangar door sealed up on the cliff face. An access door on it's right, leading to a hangar clearly labeled 'Fuel Bunker'. based on the maps that were outdated by almost 20 years, it was adjacent to the barracks, itself adjacent to the system's control, which would likely allow them to activate the AA system. Of course, with a dated map, it meant they might have to blow a hole in a wall, a bad idea in a fuel bunker, so the only other alternate path was a trail from pad 6 to 8 to 4 across open catwalks.

As they peeked inside the Fuel bunker, it was as expected, a bunch of fuel tanks surrounded by blowout containers, and a few trolleys to haul around fuel to the respective hangars. Of course, the other hangars had fuel, but there was risk of only finding partial tanks. The FB was the best bet for a full fuel load. No sound came from the room besides the ordinary clunks and creaks of super cooled hydrogen. Though, as expected, the room had been sealed off from the barracks, likely in the interest of safety if the bunker full of hydrogen went up.

Creeping back outside, the team's movement was suddenly hampered by the arrival of a Phantom on Pad 8, below it a duo of elites were keeping an eye on around two dozen Grunts hauling what looked like flight computers towards the Covenant air vehicle. Something that could not be allowed to happen. They had to engage, and they had to do it now, or those computers would be on board that Phantom, and it could fuck off with impunity.
Awards:
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An Intro to Anowa

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Bolslania
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Mon Dec 27, 2021 2:56 pm


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2nd Lieutenant Jordan Grey
Ad-Hoc Kilo 45
ONI Yard 2218, near Sopron, Reach
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552.



Grey was less than pleased with his new assignment. Having to go out to some ONI shipyard and collect an AI for the spooks instead of bugging out on an evac ship was not how Grey wanted to spend his time. However he had gotten an opportunity to catch some much needed sleep. He had only woken up to the radio coming on in the cockpit of the pelican, announcing the destruction of New Alexandria.

"Fuck." Grey muttered, leaning his head against the back of his seat. They were no longer losing the battle for Reach. They had already lost.




The insertion into the AO had gone fairly smoothly so far. 2nd squad had fast-roped down next to the Fuel Bunker, and the clearing of the bunker had gone fairly smoothly. There was only one problem. The FB had been sealed off from the barracks, so without doing some demolition work, they had to take the long way around. To make matters worse a Phantom, chalk full of covvies, had just landed on Pad 8, right where 2nd Squad needed to go.

"Shit." He muttered under his breath. The covvies were taking ONI computers, which almost certainly contained intel that the covvies shouldn't be allowed to have. He needed to act quick. Given that the Pelican had been loaded with a full arsenal, he had seen fit to bring two SPNKrs with the team. He had passed one out to Longacre, who he had left up top with her rifle and the rockets.

"Hayden. Get your MG set up and on those grunts. Callilis, Amir, get yourself an unloaded trolley, mount the AGS on the back and bring it out here. Amir, if you have time, try and flood the covvie battlenet with noise to slow down a QRF response. Everyone else take out those elites." He said to his squadmates. He had brought down one of the SPNKrs with him, and he detached it from his back, bringing it up to his shoulder. He took a knee behind a small wall, resting his supporting arm on it. He drew a bead on the Phantom's engines as the SPNKr locked on. He spoke in to his radio.

"Longacre, I need your spanker on that phantom, ill take the left engines, you'll take the right. Over." He looked around him to make sure everyone was getting in to position.

"Alright, when I fire everyone follow suit." He said to the others. He quickly connected to Patkos directly.

"2nd Squad to Kilo 45 actual, we're about to engage hostile combatants. Over." He said. His quick heads-up to the acting superior officer had given everyone else time to ready themselves for action. His index finger settled on to the trigger of the SPNKr, lightly squeezing on it. The reticle of the rocket launcher sat steadily on the Phantom's left forward engine. It went off with a sudden Phwoosh, the rocket streaked towards the hovering covvie aircraft, slamming in to it with a massive explosion. The Phantom rocked to the side as it lost power to one of its engines. Before the pilots could react, Grey's second rocket was under way, slamming in to the left aft engine as 2nd squad opened fire on the enemy combatants.

As soon as they had taken out the covvies on Pad 8, they would have to move fast. That's why Grey had Callilis and Amir grabbing a trolley. They could all get on the vehicle and drive to where they needed to be, the trolley being capable of moving quicker than any of them could run. Furthermore, they could bring Callilis's AGS as a form of AA gun for the banshees that would surely be descending upon them.

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Futrellia
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Futrellia » Mon Dec 27, 2021 7:57 pm

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Corporal Dariga Şäkirova
Kilo 45, 3rd Squad
ONI Yard 2218, near Sopron, Reach, August 23rd, 2552





Dariga had wished that she could shake the events of what happened at the Starport from her mind. Being saved by a Spartan, carrying the last member of her squad so far in such a small amount of time, despite his weight and mass compared to hers. The firefight, saving that pilot, and the evacuation from that cursed Starport. Even though combat for the moment had ceased, her hands continued to shake. They didn't shake violently but it was noticeable to anyone that seemed to have been paying attention to her. For this reason, she gripped her MA37 tight.

Once she had reached the adequately safe zone known as the Olympic Tower, she was pleased to see Ataboyev carried away, bound for whatever transport was left above them in orbit. Before she was pulled away from him, she held his hands, lying limp within her own. She would tell him how it'd be alright, how she'd make them pay for it, what they did to their comrades, their friends, many of whom stayed together since the beginning of the Tribute campaign. They felt the happiness in watching the UNSC take on the Covenant at Casbah, pushing them back shortly before they were all evac'd out to provide support for Reach's own fight with the Covenant. Now, she would be all that's left of her squad, now melded into the jumbled mess of troopers, marines, and others known as Kilo 45. Even from the heights of the Olympic Tower, she could still hear gunfire and explosions from below, from battles still raging for control, reminding her of her battalion's fight near the city center, sacrificing themselves to save civilians. To pluck innocents out of the fires of war and whisk them away to safety, all while hemorrhaging good men and women. She remembered the comms right before they were all scattered at Evacuation Zone Alpha, about how Covenant forces were overwhelming many of their forward positions. And that was it. Comms went dead right after they were pushed off of their position. They were chased down ever since. Had it not have been for that Spartan, she'd be long dead, flies already claiming her corpse as they did for hundreds around her. She hoped they were okay.

As she restocked her supply of magazines full of 7.62mm rounds, she listened as Kilo 45 was assigned a new mission.




Corporal Şäkirova had managed to sleep four hours on the flight to their next mission, awakening only to the sound of a new radio transmission. She was pleased to see that her hands had finally ceased in their uncontrollable shivers and that, after four hours of rest, her body had stopped aching. The soreness set in, of course, but it much easier to ignore. It was in that few seconds after her initial awakening and observation on her body that she heard the news of what had become of New Alexandria. It sent shivers down her spine as she gulped, shaking her head in disbelief. Initially she felt fear, fear of what had become of Reach's crown jewel as well as what could have happened to whatever was left of Whiskey Company or even the whole of the 97th MIB's Fourth Battalion. Next came anger, a disappointment wracked with failure. Failure of the mission she'd come here to do. Pulled from Tribute to save Reach, only to fall into the same grave as all the others. She thought of what could have happened had they stayed at Tribute. A number of profane words rolled from her mouth in Kazakh, then some in English. She rested her rifle onto her feet under her and pondered what the point was of deploying reinforcements here if they were all going to die anyway. Maybe Tribute was still standing? Maybe they'd heard word of New Alexandria's fall and that more from the 97th and other units were making their way to Reach in a last ditch effort to hold onto the planet? Unlikely. That anger, the fire under her breath only lasted a fleeting moment before it was replaced with a solemn silence, as she reached into her pants cargo pockets and retrieved an MRE pack. As she ate the various contents of the pack, sharing what she could with those around her that hadn't eaten, she contemplated whether or not this would be her last meal.

Once their transport had landed, Corporal Şäkirova remained silent, doing as she was told by others of higher rank and taking her place in the stack the closer they came to their target. Her MA37 lifted to shoulder height of the next one ahead, pointing out away from her teammates to avoid flagging, her eyes remained moving, her head remained on a swivel.

<<Third Squad to 4 Delta 15, stand by, we're about to pop the cork.>> She could hear the man whisper over comms. Dariga's grip tightened as she mirrored the action of the Militiaman. She sighted in her target: a pair of grunts arguing with a Kig-Yar near the left rear engine unit of the Condor, seemingly too occupied with proving a point to the Jackal than keep a level of awareness that would probably be encouraged had a commanding officer such as an Elite been present. Until the order was given, she would take slow smooth breaths, her finger remaining off of the trigger.

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Beutarch
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Father Knows Best State

Postby Beutarch » Mon Dec 27, 2021 8:52 pm

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Lieutenant Marcus Vince
Kilo-45
ONI Yard 2218, Reach, Epsilon Eridani // August 23rd, 2552




The flight to the Yard was punctuated by short, fitful moments of rest and a growing sense of unease. Having been present on Reach since the beginning of the Covenant siege of that planet, it was distressing for him to hear a firsthand account of the battle happening simultaneously on Tribute, his home planet. He hung on every word Şäkirova let out, painful images of Covenant troops marching down streets he grew up on crossing his mind. He wished that he was there, but reminded himself that he was doing important work on Reach. As the Pelican continued on its flight path, Vince's fear for his family and his home gradually simmered into unbridled anger toward the enemy.




Vince stepped through the door Chips held open, joining the rest of the First and Third on the catwalk. Before settling down, he stopped next to Patkos. Acknowledging her rank, Vince asked her for permission to orchestrate the coming firefight. Upon receiving an affirmative response, he got into position. Though he was sure the Captain was a capable soldier, she was still a spook and hardly an infantry officer, and therefore he was pleased that she was allowing himself and Stuart to handle things. A couple bodies down from the young Second Lieutenant, he took a moment to whisper harshly, telling the troops to mind their spacing. The distracted soft targets ahead of them should be easy pickings, but he wanted to ensure that the soon-to-come spray of bullets would be evenly distributed among the Grunts and Jackals. After a little more shuffling, Vince bent down and pointed the business end of his rifle at the enemy. A fresh magazine from the Pelican in the weapon's magazine well, he sighted a Grunt directly ahead of him.

<<Third Squad to 4 Delta 15, stand by, we're about to pop the cork.>>


On the other end of the Yard, a missile careened into the side of a Phantom. At the same moment the Covenant battle-net began to light up with reports of violence, Vince activated his mic.

<<All Squads, fire at will.>>

A dozen or so small arms opened up on the Covenant infantry playing around in the wreckage of the Condor. Bullets peppered the ground, tearing into flesh and pinging off of the metal scrap that littered the room. As the first bodies began to hit the floor, the still-standing Jackals scrambled to open their shields and Grunts dove further into the remnants of the Condor to seek safety. The first Grunt Vince sighted fell after a short burst from his assault rifle, and he quickly shifted his aim to a now-shielded Jackal. Continuing to aim center mass, firing at the Jackal cost him the better part of his 32-round magazine. Stressed by the longer burst of FMJ-AP rounds, the shield soon flickered and sputtered out, leaving the Jackal to the same fate as the Grunt.

The firefight began to die down, as the surviving Covenant lay hidden inside the shredded Condor. Only intermittent bursts of suppressing fire could be heard. Vince spoke into his mic once more,

<<Second Squad, leave your marksman and two others as overwatch. Take the rest and push up with First. Secure the room, no quarter.>>

He then tapped the shoulder of the man next to him, signalling the others to move down the stairs. Keeping his rifle trained on the enemy, he sidestepped down to the floor. Moving quickly, he and the other troops crossed the room to the Condor. Boots crunching shards of glass and scavenged electronics and stepping over the bloodied corpses of their earlier victims, the squads were left to clear out what remained of the hostiles. Upon reaching the first chunk of twisted metal large enough to serve as cover he crouched down, yelling out one last addition to his order,

"Clear out those Grunts quick, more Covvies could come out of those doors at any minute!"
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Tayner
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Posts: 7887
Founded: Oct 09, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Postby Tayner » Tue Dec 28, 2021 1:50 am

Lance Corporal Lana Sorokina
Ad-Hoc Unit Kilo-45

New Alexandria, August 23rd, 2552



Lana lit a cigarette as she sat in the office room in the Olympic tower. The firefight was a blur for her, after the initial wave she returned to the defense, the only things she could really make sense of in her memories were the gunfire and wounded. The arrival of the Spartan was also to note, Lana didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one though. She didn’t know much about them as anything but their unit’s name was highly classified, but what she did hear from her more experienced counterparts in the 112th was that they weren’t any better than ODSTs, and that a lot of people who stood near a Spartan ended up dead, but never the Spartan. She didn’t know what to think, she hadn’t seen any of her old NCOs pick up the front end of a falcon, but she figured that she would keep her distance.

The horizon was orange, the purple of covenant ships glistening above the mountains. Just beyond them was the town of Dara, Lana’s home. She felt many emotions, but helplessness could describe the chief among them. She already watched one home burn, but she again watched the destruction, hoping her mother was evacuated safely. It was ironic that she would be scared for the safety of the mother of three children who had kids fighting in a war, it was supposed to be the other way around. She struggled to keep her emotions hidden, like a gazelle she tried to look strong, so that she wouldn’t be left behind for the predators chasing their pack.

Despite all her efforts, all the efforts of the military, so much had been lost. Lana hung her head low as she sat with her back against the wall, arms resting on her knees, only moving enough to bring the tobacco to her lips in between silent sobs. If anyone cared to look, they’d see a tear stream down Sorokina’s cheek before she crushed out her cigarette and dried it at the sound of marching orders.


Lance Corporal Lana Sorokina
Ad-Hoc Unit Kilo-45

ONI Yard 2218, August 23rd, 2552

She didn’t sleep too much on the flight, she didn’t talk much either to those besides her. Lana Barely removed her helmet except for when she smoked, and when they finally got wheels down it was time for action. It didn’t take long for second squad to engage the enemy, multiple rockets impacting the recently arrived phantom. Their plan of action was clear; kill the enemy, grab the fuel, and activate the anti-air emplacements.

Lana threw a grenade with all her might, a throw to make some baseball players envious as it landed in the center of a gaggle of grunts, who were now scrambling as hell broke loose. It detonated, killing half a dozen panicked grunts who were unable to be herded by their elites yet. She hefted up her shotgun, and fired a few slugs at the neatest elite, who was now returning fire. The first slug hit center mass, weakening it’s shields, the second tore into it’s weapon, penetrating the shields and causing a small plasma detonation in the elite’s hand. As it roared, small arms fire from the rest of the squad took the beast down.

“Second Squad, leave your marksman and two others as overwatch. Take the rest and push up with First. Secure the room, no quarter.” A voice came over the radio. No quarter? No shit! Lana thought as she turned towards Grey.

"What? I thought we were securing fuel?" She questioned, as plasma impacted the cover she was behind. For now she would worry about the imminent threat, worry about the confusion later.
Last edited by Tayner on Wed Dec 29, 2021 1:37 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Ubaria
Minister
 
Posts: 2790
Founded: Sep 14, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Ubaria » Tue Dec 28, 2021 1:25 pm

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Captain Vera Patkós
ONI Section 1, Special Activities Center Reach - Reassigned to Multi-Branch Unit 'Kilo-45'
En-Route to ONI Shipyard 2218, near Sopron, Reach, Epsilon Eridani // August 23rd, 2552





Was she flying? No. Falling. There was no control of her descent. A relentless barrage of ice cold winds buffeted at her face, chilling it to the very bone, her brown hair whipped around frantically and her eyelids peeled back at the vehement force of air as she fell. Through watery eyes she could spy for miles and miles around, right to the horizon where behind the blackened silhouette of ominous mountains the green mesmeric glow of Reach's ionizing thermosphere. Down below was a city afire, great spires of grey steel, white concrete and mirror like glass burned like so many matchsticks, soft shadows cast against the rolling plains outside and the shimmer of orange, yellow and red danced on the placid waters of a sea that stretched to the other horizon.

New Alexandria burned. Vera descended further still, the buildings seeming to grow out of the hard grey rocks below. She craned her head left and spied the glow of afterburners against the night sky, a flock of rectangular ships that ascended past her like metal cormorants, escaping the carnage. They grew from dozens into the hundreds and for a moment she heard the cries of those inside as she passed, thousand of voices clamouring, crying and shouting and then ... screaming. Many of them began simply combusting like fireworks, the screams of the occupants quickly silenced in a ball of fiery ash. More and more were plucked out of the sky and the intensity of the screams grew louder still, frantic cries of children and mothers. Then she heard it. A voice too familiar that drew her attention to one of the ships in particular.

"I want my mother. Where is she?" A young voice cried out, a sob almost.

"Quiet child. Your mother is OK. You'll be with her soon ... i promise" Another unfamiliar voice replied, authoritative yet soft in it's tone.

"But i want her now, please" The child's voice wavered into a cry.

"Shh ... quiet Sara. It'll all be OK. I promise -"

The ship burst into a blossom of fire and twisted metal. Obliterated into a thousand parts that were cast out across the sky. Vera felt a wordless cry escape her mouth that was drowned out by the sound of rushing wind and explosions. Then, the ground.

---

Vera awoke with a start. She lurched forward in her seat but was restrained by a pair of over-shoulder belts that kept her secured in place. Quickly her eyes darted about the dim, red-lit interior to see multiple other unfamiliar faces, some looked her way but most paid her no mind. Quickly she recomposed herself and reclined once more in her seat, slowly recalling the events of the last few hours. It had been hard fighting, though they had been extracted in the nick-of-time from the Olympic Tower, only to be quickly sent in pursuit of another objective halfway across the continent. Vera had been folded into a new unit, an ad-hoc collection from all branches across the UNSC, soldiers that had lost their units or simply that had been obliterated by the relentless Covenant assault. She had also been informed that out of everyone, she was now the third most senior officer on the planet, behind Vice Admiral Whitcomb. As a result, she had been placed in command of Kilo-45 and was now responsible for it's men and women, something she scarcely wanted but had no other real choice.

Their mission now was to retrieve or destroy an ONI Prowler Class vessel that was dry-docked at a classified ONI facility deep within enemy territory. So far it had been spared the initial assault but the Covenant had eventually located it and had boarded the Welwyn's Vengeance with the purpose of retrieving the Shipboard AI and any other sensitive data. Needless to say, that couldn't and would not happen. Vera eyed over the other occupants of her Pelican and sighed. Could this ragtag band of soldiers complete such a task? It wasn't down for her to say. Only to try.

"Pilot, what's our ETA." She called towards the front of the craft and for a moment there was no reply.

"Estimate Six mikes." Came the reply.

Vera grabbed at her rifle. Well. It wasn't her rifle so to speak, though it's previous owner most likely had no use of it anymore and so she carried it into battle. The DMR was a lean weapon, designed for precision shooting at longer ranges than it's Assault or Battle Rifle counterparts, she had plenty of experience with the rifle on the range and in the field and it felt natural in her hands. Keeping the barrel low, she spied into the chamber and charged the weapon with a satisfying clack.

Outside, the whine of the Pelican's engines changed pitch as the craft powered into a landing pattern and so the craft lurched from one side to another. The others remained stoic and began preparing their own weapons and Vera quickly found herself questioning her place as officer of the unit. She had spied their passing glances, though their expressions didn't betray much, Vera could tell that many of them didn't trust her, and she supposed they had good reason. She wasn't a Marine or a Soldier, she hadn't bled alongside these men and women, to them she was just some desk-jockey spook that happened to carry a title all of them had to respect and follow. A bulbous lump rose in her gullet.

"We're here. Prepare for dismount."

Vera undid the straps on her seat and rose carefully to her feet. Above her in the stowage compartment was a ruck full of cobbled together equipment she had scrounged together from the tower and gracious donations from fellow soldiers. She grabbed the armored ruck and slung it over both soldiers and secured it to the rear plate of her armor, it weighed her down. Many of the soldiers had advised her not to go out into battle with the rest of the soldiers, though Vera had adamantly refused. If she was to lead, she had to do so from the front. She grabbed a handhold near the ramp as it descended, letting a blast of cool air into the troop-hold, just like in her dream.

<< First Squad. With me! >> She waited until the Pelican had reached a safe hovering altitude and quickly she skipped from the Pelican's ramp, landing with a less than gracious stumble. She was not yet used to carrying so much weight. Behind her she heard the rest of her squad disembark in a clatter of guns and equipment. Eyes darting around, Vera sought out the first bit of cover she could find and darted towards it, a waist high metal barrier meant for blast deflection, and took to a crouching position behind it. Once the rest had dismounted, First squad quickly made way across a set of catwalks and entered the facility proper through a small maintenance entrance of a sort, they filed in quickly and wasted little time pushing forward.

After a moment or so, they emerged into a cavernous space occupied by the remains of what seemed to be a UNSC Condor class vessel, most of the outer plating had been stripped away and it's inner guts of wires and conduits spilled out onto the floor. Nearby, a group of Jackals and Grunts seemed to argue over the rights to the precious scrap metals that had been plundered from the wreckage, their guttural chirps and chittering masked the footfall of First Squad as they arrayed into firing positions. Vera eyed the group warily as she posted position in a gap between the solid railings, a generous section of the hangar revealed itself from the relative safety of solid metal cover.

<<Third Squad to 4 Delta 15, stand by, we're about to pop the cork.>>

"Take the bird like ones first if you can. They carry shields." She informed the rest, lining up her scope on one of the Jackals seemingly inspecting the contents of a toolbox. Vera had seen them at the ONI tower, they had been sent up first as shield-bearers, they carried circular shields that seemed to form out of pure energy, enough to withstand quite the battering from small arms and it'd be prudent to eliminate them first, lest they managed to compose themselves. Vera steadied her breath and narrowed her vision, allowing her to see clearer through the scope. The reticule through the electronic scope fell upon the Jackal's repellant face and for a moment, it seemed like the Jackal was aware something was looking at it.

<< All squads. Open fire >>

Vera pulled the trigger and the bullet flew through the air, the round impacted the beast square through the jaw and blew apart it's skull in a spray of purple viscera. It's corpse hit the floor and Vera quickly darted towards another target, reeling the trigger in four rapid pulls to put down another Jackal that had witnessed his friend get his head blown apart. He too hit the deck hard, dropping a handful of nuts and bolts that he had been collecting. All at once the room erupted in an explosion of gunfire, casings rattled off the deck and bullets peppered into the ground, Condor and the enemy, ripping any unfortunate alien into ribbons of sinewy flesh and gore.

"Moving!" Vera pulled away from the railing and slid past the soldier next to her, proceeding down the catwalk to push the initiative. Quickly and with purpose, First Squad suppressed the remains of the survivors long enough for them to push up to the wreckage of the Condor.
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Anowa
Post Marshal
 
Posts: 17534
Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Tue Dec 28, 2021 5:24 pm


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PFC Chips Dubbo
Kilo 45
ONI Yard 2218, near Sopron, Reach
UNSC
August 23rd, 2552 - 2607 NST



Beutarch wrote:<<Second Squad, leave your marksman and two others as overwatch. Take the rest and push up with First. Secure the room, no quarter.>>


It was a few seconds after standing and moving that Vince would hear somewhat rapid footfalls. A moment after it registered, and about three feet from the foot of the stairs, the man's back was slammed in to one of the Condor's removed engine blocks, and his face was filled with the helmet of a pissed off ODST.

"You are not an O-2 right now! You're a fucking E-5! You lead first squad, Grey leads second, Stuart leads third and Patkos leads us all!" the man pointed downwards, "You are right fucking here! Not over there! Unless you suddenly gained the ability to see through fucking walls, you have no clue what the fuck second squad needs! Give orders to those under your fucking command, and no one else! You keep fucking around like you are right now, orders conflict, confusion erupts, and you get people killed! Stay in your own goddamned lane and pull your fucking head out of your arse! You power hungry fucking muppet!"

Stepping off, the ODST's arm stopped pressing in to the O-2's shoulder as he took a position at the corner of the engine block. His foot kicked something heavy, and looking down, he spotted not a plasma pistol or a needler as he expected with Jackals and Grunts... but a Plasma Rifle.

The sound of door's opening reached his ears as he looked across and saw Jackals and... well just jackals, because Dubbo couldn't past the shield wall they had made. Bristling with plasma rifles, blue blobs of energy ripped away from the Covenant formation in a very effective wall of suppressive fire. Above them on the catwalk, a small 4 man team of Grunts took position, two of them starting to set up the equivalent of an HMG, with the other two laying down fire from their own plasma rifles.

A few plasma grenades sailed out of the rear door of the Condor rather than be aimed directly at anything, they just sat there and detonated, the light causing Dubbo's visor to auto-adjust black for an instant. Ducking in to cover, Dubbo could hear heavy footfalls of the hostiles that had previously been 'hiding' in the Condor approaching, most definitely to drive them from cover.

Dubbo peered around and was no less than two meters from a Grunt, it wasn't startled, it didn't yell, it didn't even flinch. The purple armor clad Grunt simply raised it's plasma rifle, but only a second too late. Dubbo all but mag dumped it as he suddenly looked at the armor colors of the hostiles assembled, white, purple, and green. A rag tag group of the least skittish Grunts and Jackals.

Ducking behind cover as the plasma cannon started stitching fire across his cover, Dubbo reloaded and somewhat shakily called out, "We're in the shit lads! These are spec ops, they won't die easy!"
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An Intro to Anowa

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Parcia
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 7573
Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Tue Dec 28, 2021 7:44 pm


Image
Warrant Officer Grimsdottir, Olivia
ONI Section 1 "Jester's Hand" Data Analytics Team Kilo 4-5
ONI Yard 2218, Near Soporon Reach.
Office of Naval Intelligence Section 1
August 23rd, 2552 - 2600 NST



Olivia removed her helmet only when she had snagged a seat near the captain, ending up to her direct left. With her restraints buckled, the Warrant officer set her helmet down in between her boots and took a moment to breath, to let the quiet calmness of the small moment of peace to still her mind.

Then she began to sweat, and shake, almost as if she were in a freezer. Her heat rate spiked with a rush of anxiety and as the adrenaline died down she realized that, at some point in the last few hours of her first combat experience, she had wet her self. She padded the pouches on her rig until she found the small cloth case she had stuffed her e-cig in and, after making sure it hadn't been damaged in during the fighting, put it to her lips and inhaled.

The cinnamon and vanilla flavored mixture of nicotine-salt, benzoic acid, and glycerin took the edge off the sudden welling of emotions that had stormed her mind now that she wasn't laser focused on running and gunning and she let out a deep sigh of belated relief, purposely angling the small cloud downward to avoid smoking out anyone near her. She closed her eyes for a moment and took another deep breath of the quickly staling air and her hands began to tremor again as the sights, sounds, and smells of combat came back to her. The mix of gunpowder, plasma discharge, burned and charged flesh and both fresh and dried blood filled her mind along side the roar of gunfire, the screams of the wounded and dying, the cries of men and alien alike desperately fighting a battle for their lives and their races. Being able to tell what the enemy said when they fought and died and killed made it worse.

She blindly reached for her knife on her belt and laid it across her lap, letting the E-cig hang in her lips as she reached for something dangling underneath her chest plate. It was a small medallion, shaped like an old round shield with the vulknot, or Odin's knot, inscribed in silver and encircled by a dragon and a rose, intertwined. She wrapped the chain in her hand and let the medallion hang over the stiletto dagger.

She spoke low, reciting an old prayer in old Finnish, one her mother had taught her and one she had added to and changed to fit her more current situation.

Rukoilen jumalia
Ohjaa käteni taisteluun
Anna kostoani lentää suoraan ja totta
Suojaa jumalallinen rakkautesi ja suojelen veljiäni ja sisareni
Suojaa heidän sielunsa tämän sodan kauhilta
Ja voiko vanhurskas valo hävittää pimeyden, joka roikkuu meidän päällämme ja peittää vihollisemme
Rukoilen jumalia


Her prayer finished, and her mind just a bit more calmed, she put the medallion back around her neck and sheathed her dagger. She opened her eyes and took another puff off the e-cig, using it to take slow, deep breaths. Unbuckling her restraints and sitting her helmet on her seat, she went about refilling her ammo and topping off her empty mags before performing a weapons check and taking the moment to down some water and a cold ration once she reclaimed her seat.

Like most of the others, she took the 8 hour flight time to catch some sleep and only found fitful nightmares.
Last edited by Parcia on Fri Jan 28, 2022 10:17 pm, edited 1 time in total.
So apparently Cobalt has named me a Cyber terrorist, I honestly don't know to be Honored or offended.
Right leaning Centrist from Florida No I am not The Floridaman...hes my uncle. Other then that dont @ me about politics, im leaving that
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