July 14 2553 / 1329 Hours (Local)
Separatist Assault Carrier Shadow of Intent, Fleet of Retribution Flagship
Crew Quarters, 223rd ODST Regiment
Sergeant Max "Vegas" Saiger lay in his bunk, contemplating the past few months' events. For two months the War had been officially over, and that was all that the civvies back on Earth needed to know. It was a nice reality for the folks back home, finally being able to let down their guard a bit, and try to pick up the pieces left over from a war that lasted over twenty-five years. Vegas had been there for the final five, though these past six months were the most interesting of it all.
So, while the guys back home got to relax a bit and start rebuilding, Saiger and his comrades knew the truth: the War wasn't quite over. Not yet.
While the Battle of Installation 00 had managed to kill the Prophet of Truth and destroy a very large portion of the Loyalist forces, there were still hundreds of Covenant ships out there, and millions more Brute forces to remove.
And that's where he came in.
While publicly, the Fleet of Retribution was an entirely Covenant Separatist venture, secretly a regiment of ODSTs had been added to the Fleet's combat force as a token of goodwill by the UNSC. For two months the 223rd had followed the Sangheili warriors into skirmish after skirmish against the Jiralhanae, and they'd been very successful.
Hell, he'd even made friends with some of his new allies.
Saiger smiled at the thought. Friends. He'd just had lunch with someone who he would have shot outright just months ago. Amazing how fate can be.
With that, he decided it was time to practice again, although he sure was getting his fair share lately.
The Sergeant swung his legs out and sat up, lacing up his boots and blousing out the legs of his gray BDUs. He reached under his bunk and slid out the larger of his two footlockers, flicking the case open.
He always smiled at the sight of his most trusted companion.
The matte-black surface of his BR55HB DMR stared back at him.
It was a specially modified version of the standard BR55HB SR, made for him, and him alone. Well, at least that's the way he felt about it. He'd done all the modifications himself.
A longer, heavier barrel, a selector switch that only had SAFE and SEMI, a modified slide that ejects casings the proper direction for a left-handed shooter, and a custom-built 2x/6x variable zoom smart-linked scope. His job was to be one of the team's Designated Marksmen. He loved his job.
While all Marines are trained to be good shots, and ODSTs even more so, DMs were just short of a true Sniper in their skills (and talent) with a rifle. They were trained to cover the "No man's land" – the area between 500 and 800 meters; too far for an average rifleman and too close for quick comfortable targeting by a true sniper – and to support their squad with accurate fire in close combat. This was a task that Sergeant Max Saiger excelled in.
Vegas removed the rifle from its case and pulled back the slide, checking that the weapon was empty out of pure habit – he knew full well that it was – and slung it across his back, standing and walking towards the blue and purple doorway, which promptly hissed and opened out into the corridor. The Sergeant proceeded to jog the fifty yards to the nearest elevator and rode it down into the hangar bay of the massive Shadow of Intent. He really liked this ship, and he knew that despite its mission, it was the safest combat vessel he'd ever been aboard.
The doors hissed open and as he stepped off he nearly ran into an Elite. He apologized profusely and stepped aside before recognizing the eight-foot-tall warrior.
"Ahhh shit! I didn't notice it was you, N'tho."
The Sangheili equivalent of a smile played across his mandibles, and the young soldier laughed at seeing his friend stumble into him.
"It is nothing, Saiger! I must say I'm glad to see you, even if you had nearly bowled me over."
Max smiled back at his friend, constantly amazed how quickly the Sangheili had picked up Human slang, as well as the absurdity of a 5'9" man "bowling over" an 8' alien.
"I was just heading over to the range for some trigger time. Care to join me?"
N'tho 'Sraom glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the practice range and clicked his mandibles, the Elite "shrug." He turned back and nodded.
"Why not? I've completed my duties for the day, and I could use the practice."
Saiger caught the gleam in the alien's eye, a sparkle that clearly said, "…and I'm willing to bet I'll kick your ass at it, too."
With a friendly slap on the back of his comrade, the Sergeant started walking to the range. He should really know better by now, he smiled to himself…
Author's note:
Thanks for reading, I will be updating soon!