AN: This story is just one of my many theories on how Maine and Wash joined PFL. It will tie in with my other story, Living Fragments, but both stories can easily be read on their own and have little bearing on one another.
Thank you, and enjoy!
Recording 23.12.2447 - K-4738
"Is it recording?" an older female voice asked offscreen.
"Yeah. Thanks, Meemaw," the young man responded. He fidgeted nervously, playing with the edge of his sleeve as he spoke to a place just left of the camera. His UNSC uniform was crisp, brand new. It matched the boyish features a little too well. "So, Joey says they're real sticklers for documentation, so I guess I am starting my log. This is David McCor – or, uh, sorry, this is…" he leaned forward and looked down, as if he was reading something. "This is Kilo-4738. Huh. Mouthful."
He frowned as if he was just realizing something, but gave his head a little shake and stood straight. "Okay. Marine Kilo-4738 reporting in. I have been assigned to the ship called Pharaoh's Mercy, scheduled to exit Earth's orbit in two days."
"On Christmas," the voice offscreen said. She sounded offended. David sighed and ran a hand over his hair. It was too short to do anything – he had probably shaved it recently – but the movement looked well-practiced."
"Yes, Meemaw, on Christmas," he responded. "I am a member of the Kilo company augmentation. Our primary objective is to act as a response team to Covenant attacks –"
"You aren't an augmentation!" the other voice said. "You're replacements. For all the people that already died."
David closed his eyes for a moment. "To act as a response team to the Covenant attacks in the Apex Section of the inner colonies," he continued, obviously working hard to maintain a professional composure.
David's grandmother wasn't finished. "A noble directive," she said. From the way her voice was projected, it sounded like she was moving around. "For men and women. Not for children."
"I'm not a child!" The high-pitched crack in David's voice suggested otherwise.
"You faked your age."
He turned red. "I – no – I – I did not!" he cried defensively. Flustered. He looked directly at the camera this time. "Let it go on the official record that I did not fake my age. I am, as listed and as required by the UNSC prior to deployment, nineteen years of age." He paused and lowered his voice. "My grandmother struggles with memory, and finds it easier to believe me to be younger."
"Quit your lying, boy. I don't 'struggle' with hearing, either!"
David turned to his left, probably to speak directly to his grandmother, when a yellow blob flew across the screen and hit him on the head. He grabbed it out of the air as it fell, examining it. His expression went from offended to curious to terrified in a manner of milliseconds. He looked up, but it was too late. "Ack! No! Mr. McMuffins! Get down!"
A giant Siamese cat jumped onto David, clawing at what was clearly a little rubber duck in David's hand. The cat demonstrated no compunctions about tearing his human's new uniform to shreds as it latched onto his arm, climbing along the appendage to eviscerate the rubber ducky. Just as cat had nearly claimed its prize, a second death trap of black and white fur hurtled onto the scene, jumping at David's hand.
"Ouch! Ah, stop, Cleocatra, stop!" David flicked the yellow toy away, and both cats leapt off him to murder it. Despite the fresh scratches on his hands, he was smiling. He chased after the cats, grabbing the duck and taunting them with it (and earning himself several more scratches).
"I thought you were logging," David's grandmother asked casually. It sounded like she was standing right next to the camera.
"Oh, fuck."
"David!"
"Er, I mean…oh falafel?" His guilty expression was somewhat subdued when the black and white cat jumped onto his head. "Ack!"
"I'm turning it off."
"Okay. That's fine, I think I can just record over it."
Recording 24.12.2447 – K-3489
"Ah, there she is. Home sweet motherfuckin' home."
"Such bullshit, dude. Twenty-four fucking hours, and it's just to pick up the new meatshields."
The camera was shaky as it trained on the two marines. They were in worn fatigues and carried themselves with none of the forced professionalism associated with new recruits. Both were standing near the grav lift, waiting for their turn to drop down to the surface.
"They aren't meatshields," a grumbling voice said, much closer to the camera. It was a helmet cam.
The second soldier scoffed. "They are totally meatshields, dude."
Rather than responding, the soldier in the helmet sighed. "This is Marine Kilo-3489, reporting on 24.12.2447 from the Pharaoh's Mercy. We have docked above Earth and are awaiting clearance to drop."
"Yeah, no shit, dude," the first soldier said, giving the camera a funny look. "Oh…wait…fuck, dude, are you recording us?"
"Come on, man, he records everything. Only reason he gets around the verbal report." The second man gave K-3489 a scathing look. "Dick." He stepped forward toward the grav lift and peaked down. "Aw, shit. It's raining. Goddammit." But without any more complaints, he jumped. He was followed by his companion, who paused only to flip off the man recording. Finally, K-3489 jumped down the grav lift, landing on the concrete surface of the landing platform with just a slight crunch.
"Okay, let's help these kids load up," the first soldier said. He gave a small shiver. "I don't want to be stuck in this rain longer than I have to."
"Ever been to Seattle?" the second man asked. His tag read "Burnick."
"Grew up here," K-3489 growled.
Burnick looked surprised. "No shit. Wouldn't have figured you for the type." Before either of them could say anything else, they approached the bottom of the landing platform, where nearly a hundred men and women in crisp uniforms were standing at attention. The camera panned over them, as though the man inside the helmet was looking for someone.
"Alright, let's go, people!" Burnick called out. "Standard grav lift. Toss your shit in first. Hopefully someone up top catches it." A few of the new recruits exchanged glances, but they obediently fell into line, sending their gear up the grav lift and following onto the ship.
The camera stopped on a young man that appeared surprisingly at home. He stood at attention, but with not quite the same level of anxiety as his companions. He looked around as the cameraman's hand reached out – covered in Mach V armor, unlike the other soldiers – and smiled. "Joey? That you?" The camera bobbed up and down. "No way. Nice to see you, man."
K-3489 – Joey – pulled the recruit aside. "David," he said, his voice low, "are you sure?"
David looked a little offended. "Of course I'm sure. Never been more sure of anything in my life. More sure? Surer? Anyway…um…yeah, should be…sure…"
"Stop talking. Look at me." The camera lifted and dropped, stopping on a view of David's bags. Joey had clearly taken his helmet off. "I could report you," he said, his voice quieter now that it was no longer inside the helmet.
"Please don't," David responded, his voice cracking a little. "I have to do something. After Reach…"
"Fine," Joey responded, cutting that young man off before he could go into any more detail. "Alright, kid. Let's go kill some Covvies."