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HTA Chapter Three: Campfire Camaraderie (I of II)
Date: 6 August 2005, 4:14 pm
'Like shadows that disappear when struck by sunlight, they left me without trace, to stare down our enemies alone. Their names would be etched in stone for the part that they played, when reading them I cannot help but feel ashamed; for there are days when I cannot recall their faces...'
Dead End, turn back now.
The crew of zero-four-two had followed along the bottom of a cliff bank for over an hour, with no crevices or footholds to get up and onto the cliff, they were forced to admit defeat and hope that a way over would appear soon. Things took a turn for the worse when the path on which they continued to walk grew narrower until it stopped altogether. There the cliff took over and ventured into the water with its behemoth size. Without hiking up the cliff side; for which they were ill-equipped, the only other two options were to either wade into what was seen as a sea that opposed the cliff and hope to reach land around the other side... or turn back, an option that Sergeant Johnson did not want to consider. It was then that the gods appeared to smile upon them, Johnson got a call from a dropship that had been told to pick up their signal and was currently on its way to scoop them up. The pilot had not specified as to where he would be dropping them off, but the sarge knew that it was not gonna be a beach party...
Johnson spoke into his radio, more in optimism than rational thought.
"Raven Eye; is there no-one else closer to pick us up? Over."
Raven Eye, however could not lend much hand to Johnson's faith.
"Er thats a negative sergeant, we just picked up a couple of stragglers of your squad, all other birds are making shops and drops. Over."
The thought that others of his squad had made the landing instilled some hope, Johnson became excited.
"Roger that Raven Eye, whose fifteen minutes of fame isn't over in this show? Over."
"I got Mendoza, Bisenti and Jenkins all ready to dance to your tune Sarge, Mendoza being patched up and ready to boogie as we speak. Keep an eye in the sky, we'll be at your position in forty-five. Over."
"Well I'll be...Roger that, over and out."
Johnson, scoping his surroundings, noticed how vulnerable they were at the current rendezvous point, He turned to the crew;
"Ok men ETA to our position is forty-five minutes. Aziz, Clarke, set up and monitor three motion trackers, Costa and Reed'll cover you in ten, its breakfast time!"
Johnson rubbed his hands with glee, the rest of the crew sat down in the lush, velvet-like grass and began foraging in satchels for their rations. Davies opened a 'boltneck' energy bar frowning at its inclusion in Marine food, 'another hand in the forces budget' he thought. The company that owned the brand had enough money in their pockets without having their marketing men use the slogan; 'If its good enough for the best its good enough for you!' Nevertheless his objection to the company stopped short of him not taking a ravenous bite into the raisin and nut filled chunky log, Reed meanwhile had triggered the patented quickheat mechanism in his soup tube and shouted over to Clarke, neglecting to mention Aziz.
"Hey Clarke, you want me to crack open some soup for ya?"
Clarke noticed Azizs' face before replying.
"Nah, I'll grab something in a bit, but thanks anyway."
And so, four of the crew of zero-four-two began to eat; blissfully unaware of an enemy squad that had tracked the trajectory of the dropship Raven Eye and was busy intercepting its path. Davies, who had been quiet for some time, spoke up in memory of a particular thing that Price had done on Eukrat; the shape and colour of the 'boltneck' bar moving him to speak.
"Hey you guys remember on Eukrat when Price put that Grunt turd in his pocket and tried to smuggle it aboard the Pillar?"
The recollection was met with a chorus of disapproval from all those left eating bar Johnson, whom could never be put off his food, not even if he was knee deep in grunt faeces. Johnson knew what Davies was getting at, the energy bar looking like a grunt turd, was just a trigger for a memory about a guy they had all just seen die. Costa who was not fond at having the image of a piece of dried faeces put in his mind while he was eating something that resembled one; threw his half-eaten bar at Davies, it made a dull thud as it richocheted off his helmet and onto the ground beside Johnson. Costa was quite agitated.
"Davies I tell you you got really shitty timing man! I'm gonna go take a piss but when I get back to finish my food I don't want anymore talk about shit while I'm eating, no higienico essay."
Reed echoed Costa's sentiments.
"You're a sick puppy just like Price, dude."
Johnson surreptitiously picked up the bar while answering his worried friend's apparent cry for help at understanding what had just recently happened.
"I remember. I remember Reed telling me he saw him slip it into a ration packet, trying to keep it fresh. Man that kid had problems, I remember making him throw it out the back of our ride home too. Struck the bird coming up behind us, ha, they must have thought it was a new covenant weapon or something. You can imagine that poor bastards face when he got back to the Pillar and discovered what it was as he scraped it off. Price was lucky I didn't throw the book at him for bringing an alien object aboard, he sure did shine some boots that week... Til the next time a'course, him 'n' his crazy ideas, got us into a few scrapes I'll say that.
Davies was thankful of Johnsons support at keeping the memory of his friend alive and continued with his version of the story.
"At first I thought the guy had just fell on some while we were evacuating, but the look on his face..."
Davies paused, and another memory of Price assaulted everyones senses; Price's soulless gaze upon the point of his death, they fell silent upon the reflection. Davies in time recovered long enough to tell the end of his story.
"...The look on his face when you made him take it outta his pocket was priceless, he looked like he'd just had his ball taken off him. Said he wanted to analyze its content, determine a weakness in their diet... Boy he was kook 'n' half.
Davies ran Price's wedding ring between his fingers, he contemplated his own fate that now lay in the hands of the gods; who would take his dogtags? Would they think to take the locket his daughter gave him? His thoughts turned to his own mortality and at not seeing his daughter again. Davies put the ring away and pulled out his Vippa. A small rectangular device roughly seven centimetres tall, three centimetres wide and half-a-centimetre thick. It was used for storing images and footage, the device only had one button that was held to turn it on and off, and pressed to flick through its various pictures and films, the soldiers were not allowed to carry any other version that had sound or other functions. Even the latest picture Davies had on his vippa was still old, Abbi was about nine. The images and movies that he had received recently could not be transferred to his almost caveman-like device, he cursed the incompatibility of the new devices to the old. If he were on the Pillar he could see her as she was at her twelfth birthday, watch her as she hid her face from the lens; her acne making her blush. Davies had gone through the same phase as a youngster, though he had told Abbi that his acne was worse in posts back, he knew that as a twelve year old girl, she could not relate to a time when her dad was a child himself, things had changed so much. Davies had fell out with Abbi's mother shortly after Abbi was born, having discovered that she had been having an affair with his twin brother; he was devastated, but he refused to believe that Abbi was not his, she was the only thing he felt he had worth holding on for, and he wasn't going to let anything get in the way of that. He brought the device up to his face, Reed and Johnson could see that he was sobbing, Johnson wanted to say something but he couldn't muster up the strength to tell him that everything would be alright when in truth he wasn't sure he would be able to believe it himself. Costa came back wiping urine from his hands before sitting down to finish off the rest of his rations, Johnson and Reed stared at him in disbelief, Costa, oblivious to his earlier statement about hygiene looked around for his half eaten energy bar before inquiring as to why they were giving him funny looks.
"What? you see my boltneck bar anywheres?".
Aziz felt that they were at a reasonable distance to be out of earshot of the rest of the crew before he began talking about Reed.
"See, now tell me I'm just paranoid,"
He continued in a mock tone of Reed.
"Want me to crack you a soup tube dude... He didn't ask me!"
Clarke laughed at Azizs' impression.
"He probably just didn't think, thats all."
Aziz responded sounding annoyed.
"Yeah thats right he didn't think, motherfucker never thinks thats just it! If he ever tries similar shit with me that he did with Mcgrath he'll get more than a couple o' stitches, I'll break his fucking nose, worse comes to worse, I'll put a fucking bullet between them beady eyes!"
The crew members that were eating fell silent, Aziz turned around thinking it had something to do with his outburst, then he heard Davies mention something about the look on someones face being priceless and the conversation continued. Clarke however became serious at this point.
"Don't ever let me hear you speak like that again, you listening, joke or not I don't wanna hear that shit. You may not like him and he may not like you but we got stuff to deal with here and the last thing we need is in-fighting, 'nuff bastards out there wanna bury us without one of our own doing it for 'em."
Aziz at the minute could not see the bridge that he was burning with Clarke, he didn't listen to the latter part of what Clarke had said, instead he commented on Reed not liking him.
"He don't like nobody thats the problem, you wanna know why I think Mcgrath transferred, cos she didn't wanna stay in the same squad as that racist prick and I don't blame her, I heard he called her a..."
Aziz continued in a hushed tone, save for someone hear what he had to say and think he a racist,
"...a schwabbie, s'why she slugged him the way she did, s'why she transferred too."
"Why didn't she say anything to the sarge then if that was the case."
"Oh what cos they're the same colour?!"
Clarke couldn't believe how Aziz was trying to manipulate this into a race affair.
"No shithead cos he was her commanding officer you narrow-minded fuck. look, Jean just got tired of all the sexist jibes from us all not from the racist shit by Reed, that comment was probably just the final straw, Reed ain't that-bad-a-guy."
"Well maybe not to you, but I think he's a pussy and a useless one at that, Jean knocked him out, I mean how embarassing is that?"
Clarke laughed at the memory of coming round a corner in the Pillar to see Jean Mcgrath whacking the hell out of an unconscious Reed. After seeing the way Jean could handle herself Clarke quit the majority of his quips about her 'big guns upfront".
"Az, dude, she'd hammer me and you too if she was pissed off, even though she had those gorgeous distracting titties, she could certainly throw a good punch, glad I was never on the receiving end of 'em, the fists I mean, not the titties."
They both went through their memories as to the shape of Jean Mcgrath in combats; 'big guns upfront'; a smile went across both their faces.
Aziz was the first to return back to the subject having had the memory ruined by the fact that he thought Mcgrath was dead on Reach, and necrophilia wasn't his bag.
"Yeah well I still don't like the guy, I mean, the cunt watches me pray, watch him when I pray before I take food, and I've seen him look at the sarge in disgust when the sarge starts talking about his wife, bastards got no respect for fakrah or anyone else for that matter. I just don't like his kind."
Clarke replied flippantly and tinged with sarcasm.
"And there was me thinking we only had one enemy, sheesh."
"And what the fuck was that supposed to mean, ay? All of a sudden my people are an enemy aswell!"
Clarke responded angrily to this accusation.
"That was not what I meant and you know it, I ain't got the problem and you know that too, what I'm trying to fucking tell you is that all this bullshit don't help."
Clarke changed his tune and tried to come across more reasonable than before.
"Moe, you being suspicious and not trusting the guy only makes matters more difficult, I noticed last theatre your fire tended towards his end like you did't trust him to cover your back, even though neither me or Reed could get a good shot on those ghosts. I think you got to look at it from the wider perspective; I'd rather have a bastard that hates my guts cover me for both our survival, than a coward like Price just looking out for his own hide."
Aziz got the point, fewer numbers meant less of a chance for all their survival.
"Yeah well it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth"
"Not half as much as a couple of needle shards in the face though, remember?"
They both laughed, anybody that has ever survived an attack by a foe with a needler knows of the numbness a few of the shards can induce, Aziz spoke out of memory; recalling its effects on his face.
"Hey that shit weren't funny man, I couldn't move my face properly, I bit my tongue, I couldn't talk for hours."
Clarke jumped on the opportunity,
"Aah, bliss!"
They continued to talk and laugh as they set up the motion trackers, the war of words seemingly over for the minute.
Johnson figured the best way to get Davies out of his moping would be to bring up good memories of other folks that had come and gone through the crew, unfortunately Johnson had a habit of choosing crew members that had met rather sticky ends, Reed; explaining what happened to one of the more unusual folks that had come through Fire Team Zulu.
"...Well the guy kept saying that none of this was real and when they finally put him away he ripped out a warden's eyes with a spoon and then bashed his head through the same spot on a toilet seat over and over again screaming, 'deja vu, deja vu, deja vu'. When it went to court, the only thing he said in his defense was that 'there was no spoon'. He's doing life in pandora's box at the minute. Some eccentric brought some artwork off the guy recently, load of mechanical type octupuss things, massive they are, guy's seriously fucked up.
Johnson grimaced.
"And that was the same kid that didn't get my 'two sticks and a rock' newbie speech?"
Costa jumped in.
"Yep, although how do more than one people throw a rock sarge, I never got that either?"
Reed seemed puzzled himself but remarked on another part to the spoon story.
"Funny thing was though they never found the spoon or the eyes for that matter."
Johnson realised none of this was helping Davies, so he brought up someone else.
"Er what about that guy Kimball? He at least seemed normal."
Reed continued unabated about another poor soul.
"Kimball died in a freak cryo-sleep accident that was being overseen by a Hal nine thousand, first of its kind as they normally have impeccable records, course he was in transport for killing his wife and trying to put the blame on a one-armed man, but that never fooled anyone."
Johnson began to think that all that went through his crew were complete headcases and pondered wether he may have had some bearing on that, he decided to ask if there had ever been anybody, that didn't end up totally out of balance.
"Ok have we ever had anybody leave us or transfer, that hasn't killed someone or started having a relationship with a horse, or... ended up dead from something terrible?"
Reed and Costa looked at eachother, and realised that they couldn't think of anyone that didn't meet that criteria, then Reed thought he had the answer.
"Ooh what about Nietzsche, german guy, had a bit of a god complex y'know didn't believe in god 'n' stuff, married his cousin, funny moustache, him and her."
Johnson figured that that was probably about as weird as it got and didn't expect what was coming; Reed continued.
"Poor bastard got hit by a bus three days before the cheque cleared on his lottery win... Sure makes you think don't it."
Johnson had heard enough.
"Ok you pair, go relieve those two, I feel a migraine coming on."
Davies spoke for the first time in what seemed like an eon, all the time his breathing still stunted from all the crying he had done.
"Think I should've read my stars this morning Sarge."
Johnson was happy to see him come round seemingly so well, Aziz and Clarke had decided to take their food elsewhere so as not to become upset themselves at his cathartic mourning for Price, little realising that he wept for himself, his daughter and the 'ghosts of the past' just as much. Johnson smiled, the guy in the squad he was close-to was back 'on point', and ready to lead the way.
"Think I should have too Davies, think I should have too."
Davies made a mock-up of what his stars would probably entail.
"Destiny marks you with an O, ha, you shall meet new people but do not be discouraged if they do not believe as you do, as you have the power to change their minds."
Davies and Johnson thought of the covenant, looked at their guns and began laughing.
"Too right Davies, too right my friend."
Davies became serious, he clutched at the locket around his neck and Price's ring; which he had tied into it.
"Sarge?"
Johnson gave him a knowing smile. He would do it if it ever came to it.
"I know Ray, I know."
Davies acknowledged the smile with one of his own, he suddenly felt miles better, like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Things would be taken care of, he knew that now, and he took strength from it. Davies offered out his hand and Johnson took it, they both gripped each others hand with all they had. A passing of minds that transcended all but the very nature of their souls occurred, the result made both of them realise the bond that they had made. Ray Davies felt relieved, Avery Johnson meanwhile did not, he now carried a burden of a soul that was yet to know that it had no future in this life. Johnson felt this impact, but he didn't tell Davies, he thought that Davies already knew and could feel it too. A feeling that he would later wish he had expressed and tried to understand from Davies, despite Davies being dead for a long time by that point.
While Costa and Reed busied themselves about a motion tracker, one of the others had fell over; face down, and was busy resetting its parameters towards the ground. A slow trickling of pulses brought it to the attention of Reed who picked it back up failing to notice the activity it was giving off from around twelve-hundred metres down. Reed manually reset its parameters to cover the cliff face. Meanwhile Johnson and Davies were still talking, and Johnson asked about the locket around Davies' neck.
"So who was it a gift from?"
Davies searched to find a suitable answer, he wanted to explain its history, though it was only a three-hundred dollar locket that could be brought from most major jewellery outlets, and the photos inside were just pictures of a baby and a nine year old girl, for him it encompassed a whole lot more. Davies thought of the world in which he lived now; one of constant war and hatred, a world where it was us or them, no in-betweens, where there was no time for walks in the park, no time to sit with loved ones and simply be. While evacuating Eukrat, Price had said something that had made an impression on Davies,
'Y'know with every new face I become more lonely, I just want to go back home Ray, back to mankind, back to my wife.'
Davies, unaware that he was thinking aloud spoke the word,
"mankind."
Johnson caught what he had said and pondered upon it,
"a gift from mankind huh, a gift from a world we are trying desperately to defend, I think I know what you mean..."
HTA. Chapter 3 (II of II): The Relativity of Mountains and Molehills
Date: 11 July 2006, 8:46 am
Author's Disclaimer:
If you are seeking a Halo canon-esque story infused with action and adventure, I'm afraid you are in the wrong story; the right place, but nevertheless the wrong story. Here in Hboff we have a cornucopeia of fruitful styles and thought-provoking stories with no limit to what the imagination can conceive, all ready to be exactly what the reader so desires. From fiction that exemplifies the very best of Halo canon, appearing as if the concepts and ideas contained within were that of Bungie themselves. Through authors that borrow heavily from the creators of Halo but ply an artistically liberal licence; sculpting something rich and well-textured with their vision and passion for the subject while still managing to be as unique and individualistic as the author. Ending with writers that mix their Halos with their Half-lifes and unpredictably manage to pull off such a feat with relative ease, almost as if the subjects had been separated at inception; less like crossovers and more like their natural form. Then there are the miscellaneous housing ruffians like me, hence, you might find what you are looking for elsewhere in Hboff. If however you are not looking for action and adventure and you've never heard of Halo canon, read on. Unless you live in Nicaragua, your statutory rights have not been affected.
...my love for that girl, my memories of love and being loved, my friends, my calling; no piece-of-shit alien scumbag can ever take those away from me. As he holds me close whispering sweet nothings in my ear, I pull at one of the plasma grenades on his belt and set it alight, he ain't got a fucking clue. Slamming it firmly onto his breast plate, spitting blood in his face and with all the strength I got left, I hold tight and whisper to him a sweet nothing of my own:
"Fuck you, bitch..."
* * * *
She met him at the train. A feast-like picture of beauty for his eyes to engorge themselves upon after a famine of such delicious sights. Her hair was shiny and silken, the sparkle from her eyes emanated what scientists had defined as the essential crux of vitality, all bosomed with a smile that was positively captivating. He loved her. He raced towards her as if at any moment she might disappear and he be entrenched, surrounded by the dying and rotting bodies of the dead; relieved of their thankless duty to stave off mankind's annihilation. With her gentle flowing mane softly bracing against his neck, he wrapped himself up in her for every moment of his leave, kissing her wherever her body and face touched his eager lips that begged for her to return their favour. Never would he burden her with the horrifying life experiences that viciously and without mercy, tore wounds into his mind. This hero's welcome was not worth destroying with tainted memories.
For every horror there was a remedy, for every nightmare, a dream. Waking on a cold bright sunday afternoon with that morning afterglow feeling to breakfast in bed; no alarms, no surprises. A reading that soothed him gently to sleep, drowning out the eternal cries of shattered brothers and sisters still in the midst of battle, still crying out for a lending hand, still out there as he slept. A dance, an intimate movement to an old love song to silence the ever present roar of covenant forces, a visit to a museum or a theatre to remind him why he fought so vigorously to defend humanity. She was his rest and recuperation, she was his refuge, his focus from the bite of hell that held him deep within the gaping mouth of madness so tightly in its flesh-ridden teeth. She had news, wonderful news. A new hope, something else to keep out the chill and constant reminder of death and of dying, new life. A girl, he was told, he contemplated deserting...
* * *
She wants to play... a game of hearts.
Covered in paste and small pieces of bear-adorned wallpaper, he ambled down the stairs having put the finishing touches to the room. Opening the lounge room door, he was confronted by a smile across her inviting lips as she lay rubenesque across the sofa, resting her child laden figure. She glowed of a heavenly radiance that could disintegrate any hint of discontent and leave him at peace, even in a world at war.
"It's finished."
Returning her smile, he coyly dropped to his knees and shuffled across the floor to beside the sofa so as to feel her near him. He slid his hand gently over her stomach. Her navel popped out from the pressure of the nestled baby within and she chuckled at the sight of it protruding from her curvaceous and extended belly.
"I heard the phone go, who was it, beau?"
"Your brother, he wanted to know if you wanted a hand, decorating."
"Well, it's too late now."
Much too late...
* *
'Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane, ain't got time to take a fast train. Lonely days are gone, I'm a'goin home, my baby just wrote me a letter.'
Nobody met him at the train...
He looks at her, shaking his head from side to side.
"Girl, I believed in you, my heart was here."
He taps repeatedly on the table as the tears begin to fall.
"And you rip it to fucking shreds while I'm taking shit out there. What the fuck do you expect me to say, huh? Hope you're happy together?!"
He tries to laugh but it is too much, she averts the hateful gaze of his eyes until such time that he is looking out of the window. Beyond the condensation, beyond the rain that battered the ground and all its surroundings incessantly, time and time again.
"It's just the way I feel."
"Just the way you feel, just the way you feel?!"
He wants to scream at her to stop, his heart still has life and it resides with her, just for her to shut the fuck up, just to find a little peace somewhere in the eye of this storm. The torrent his mind has begun to create refuses him respite, it continues the torment, continues to swell and amass the pain. His eyes dot back and forth as if piecing things together, deluging him with yet more feelings of betrayal for him to consume as blows to the very essence of his being.
"He was in the house when I dropped my stuff off, wasn't he."
It wasn't a question. She looks through him, she doesn't see him anymore and his hands begin to shake. A rift of three light years could have been between them for all she cared; so detached, so distant. The pugnant smell of coffee overwhelms his senses, causing him to feel nauseous, he gets up to leave. Bumping into a guy walking past the table, he reacts, the guy falls to the ground unconscious and twitching. There is no feeling of remorse for what he has done.
Beyond the point of safe return.
He runs, he wants to feel the nervous fire that made him run towards her at the train many moons ago, to have that desire of something to aim for, something to run to. With every battle won he felt closer to home, now there was no home. He realises that he is attempting to flee from what she has said with the same impetus and energy that drove him to her, but he knows, the damage is done. He tries desperately to seek solace in some part of his mind that is not flooded with this new threat to his soul asylum, that there is a haven where his wife and daughter sit, awaiting his return. It is futile. Time after time the information hammers at him, he imagines his brother dancing with her to old love songs. Leading her by the hand upstairs, a wry smile on her face. Fucking her, loving her, holding her.
He is on his knees begging for it all to stop. The downpour of rain and invaded memories leave him reeling from their constant lacerations to the place he longs to forever be: home. His senses struggle to take it all in and he begins to vomit. The pool of undigested matter and bile is scattered around his hands and knees. Passers-by look on with disdain etched across their face, strangers that judge him on a single deed and by his unkempt appearance: a drunk, a vagabond, without home, without hope.
He spits the last of the poison from his stomach, his eyes glazed and bloodshot, his breathing hard and his insides feeling laced with heavy acid.
The world appears unfriendly to him now, as if despite all that he had done for her, none of his deeds had any meaning. He was now the one being drowned out, another casualty of a war not of his making. He becomes lost in a haze of memories that are no longer his sacred rite, but his mental prison. Every instance of their love and happiness that he had helped to create and nurture within his mind had been overshadowed, displaced by an entity that did not require him in order for it to grow and fester. A sizeable leviathan of envy, hatred and bitterness.
The final nail.
Fearing the memories of unrequited love too much to bear, he falls headlong into the whirlwind of war, relishing death and her kin over painful reminiscence of lost love. He feels he has made the right decision. His Commanding Officer is informed and his leave is revoked. He vows never to take leave again...
*
"Davies, heartbreak hill is a mountain to some and a molehill to others. You'll cry now but laugh later, trust me son, soon as you hit the peak, you'll look back and wonder what all the fuss was about. That's it kid, get her outta your system."
It had been a hectic few days since the escape from Reach and the crew of Fire Team Zulu were showing signs of fatigue. Johnson was growing anxious awaiting their pickup as he stared off into the clear midday sky above them, Davies caressed his dogtags standing beside him.
"Looks like they might have rain on this fucked up hamster wheel, what you think, Davies?"
Johnson directed his hand blithely at a sum of dark clouds that appeared to plume before his eyes and drift ominously towards the crew's position. As if to defend Halo from something that didn't belong. He grimaced as he put his thoughts out for review.
"What kinda fucked up species would create a bullshit world like this Ray. Ray you listening?"
Davies looked in the direction that Johnson's finger pointed and the troubled soldier considered the clouds with little thought. Johnson quipped at Davies' contemplative silence.
"Earth to Ray, come in Ray."
The ploy worked and Davies half-smiled at what he deemed was his Sergeant's mistake.
"Cept this ain't earth though, is it Sarge, it's definitely not home."
"Good job it ain't too, we don't want those covvie bastards getting their grubby claws on the pearl of humankind. What you say huh?, I tell you they'd have to hump my dead body before I let those dirty alien scumbags touch the pearl."
Davies could see what his friend and sergeant was trying to do, he took in a deep breathe before opening his heart and purging his revelation.
"I'm tired, Avery."
"Bullshit!"
Johnson wasted no time in cutting to the quick, he knew what Davies was getting at.
"You just need a break, s'all, you need to recharge those batteries, rediscover your faith for the cause. Thirty three ain't no time to be talking like it's over."
The conversation was over, Johnson would hear no more of it.
"I guess you're right Avery, I guess you're right."
He echoed the sentiment as if to convince himself, but it was to no avail. Much to his consternation, a dejected Davies was resigned to keeping his thoughts on the matter, to himself.
...
"He's cracked man, I'm telling you it's last cigarette syndrome."
"Y'reckon?"
"Seen it before, he'll just sit down one time and no matter what happens to him he won't have it in him to get back up. 'Appens, I only hope if I get it the bullet comes soon after."
"Amen."
"What? Me getting the bullet?!"
...
"Clarke?"
Clarke was on all fours scouring the ground for something apparently lost, his unusual behaviour attracting an audience in the shape of Reed, Aziz and Costa. The crowd began their usual jabberings, Reed was first off the mark.
"Clarke, if you're waiting for Covenant I can think of better positions."
Aziz couldn't help himself either.
"Is it a film, maybe a catchphrase?"
Costa took his cue, pointing emphatically at Clarke's face, complete with darting eyes and furrowed brow.
"Confusion of warring wolves by Claptrap!"
Reed acknowledged the album with typical revere before continuing the tirade.
"Hey, I have that album. I'm gonna recommend you have a med check when we get back C, you're starting to freak me out. I can't work in these conditions, I'll be in my trailer getting make up if anyone wants me."
The joke fell flat as Reed tried to divert the issue so as to be about himself, the three stooges soon realised that they weren't getting a rise out of their ground scurrying colleague. A change of tact was decided, Costa cocked up his left leg and pushed his behind out at Clarke's head, breaking wind loudly in the process.
"Incoming enemy from the rear, quick, drop altitude."
The off balance soldier was easily toppled with a push of Clarke's hand, Aziz moved away from the vicinity of the smell; sniggering. Reed however, leaned in and took a sniff before condemning the odour, his actions not going unnoticed by Aziz.
"Something wrong with your guts man, I ate the same shit and mine don't smell like that."
Aziz was the first to get down on all fours and attempt to look at what Clarke was looking at, he made an effort to avoid sounding facetious.
"Is something wrong, mate?"
Clarke replied in an enthused tone.
"No weed."
The group fell about laughing, they had their rise inadvertently, Clarke stopped looking.
"I'm serious you fucks, there are no weeds anywhere, you'd think there'd be some. If there's weeds then they'd spread and shit and what'd stop em."
Reed tried to stop laughing long enough to get a sentence out but he was too far gone, the absurdity of his colleagues actions and words had tickled him. Moments passed before Aziz jumped on such an opportunity to compound the pressure placed on everyone's already aching guts.
"We don't have any papers anyway."
Since Reed had never dabbled in drugs he didn't see the funny side to the comment, instead he gathered his composure long enough to strike a blow of his own.
"So you think we should be on the lookout for an elite gardener on a plasma mower with a hoe."
Despite Reeds ignorance of agricultural equipment, they got another rise out of Clarke. This rise backfired, he became agitated.
"You're the fucking hoe, elites take it in turns dipping plasma swords in your ass, you don't even need paying, you love that shit."
Reality reared as their daydreaming took flight from them, reminding them as to where they were and the trouble they were in. Elites and plasma swords rarely made good jokes, the atmosphere became quite solemn.
Clarke was the first to break the imposing silence.
"Bunch of fucking kids."
Clarke did not realise that his behaviour made him party to his own statement, he moved off and away from the crew and towards the waters edge nearby. Stooping down, he cupped his hands and brought up the crystal clear water to his mouth, he pursed his lips before syphoning in the gently swaying liquid. No salt, no surprise.
Aziz could not let such a chance slip from him, reality was cold enough without being stranded with it. The daydream found itself in a stranglehold, he shifted focus onto a new victim, Reed.
"I saw you checking out Clarke's rear defences Reed, feeling lonely?"
"Fuck you, you beige spunk monkey!"
Such an opening and spite-filled rebuttal was clearly a bite, Costa recognised the signs and jumped onboard, helping to reel the fish that was Reed's ego in; hook, line and sinker.
"You like big men?"
Reed, clearly flustered at being the centre of attention, at least in the firing line, raised his guard and went into strategised defence. With his tail feathers fanning out and colours on show, the marine paraded his manliness for all to see, unaware that it would probably hang him. He held out both his index and little finger, shaking his hand back and forth in time to each of his words.
"I, got, females, on, tap."
Bingo, hoist by his own petard, Reed was out of the water and flailing. Aziz just needed to be merciful, where Reed was concerned though Aziz was anything but. He picked one of the lowest ranking Covenant forces to be Reed's females, and he made them deceased. Casting reflection on a previous deed, Aziz eviscerated the arrogance of Reed.
"What you do with the dead grunts you shoot and in the privacy of your bunk is between you and them, hope you wear a rubber hat, they got some serious diseases, man. Is it because they're dead or because they're fellow fartsniffers?"
The supersonic noise that broke from Costa took everyone by surprise, the marine rolled around the floor laughing uncontrollably; unable to breathe. Almost choking on the lack of air denied to his lungs caused by his chest and stomach tightening, his cheeks flooded with tears. Finally, nodding his head and in a high tone, he managed to utter a few words.
"Reed fucks dead grunts."
Aziz continued, oblivious to Sergeant Johnson making strides towards them.
"Yeah, he's intimidated by the live ones, can't handle the conversation, can't make the moves, can't get to first base. His idea of porn is a bunch of profile shots, while everyone else is taking notes in cov-ed he's got his di--"
The short sharp crack around the back of Aziz's head cut him off from finishing his sinker. Johnson was peeved that no-one was watching the motion trackers, even if the audio on them was set to high.
"That'll be enough of that shit Aziz, grow some hair on your balls and go check on those trackers. I need a sniper to take down covenant, not you sniping at my men."
"Sorry sarge."
Though in truth he was not.
The group straightened up with the exception of Costa who continued to giggle. Aziz was curious as to why he continued to laugh, he leaned over to the chuckling mexican and spoke in a hushed tone.
"It weren't that funny Cossa, c'mon."
Costa decided to let Aziz in on his own little joke.
"See when Clarke over there drank the water?"
"Yeah?"
"I pissed in there about ten minutes ago."
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