(-(-(—[]Tyler Woodrow[]—)-)-)


The way Petty Officer Second Class SPARTAN Red-098 lifted his leg, cocked it forward and dropped it down onto the metal step awaiting his contact was not limited by the Gravemind's control.

But it was a persisting error to compare Red's movement with that of the Gravemind's. Commanding Officers put emphasis that Red moved how Red sought to move. There was no plausible logic to give an explanation of the Gravemind's need for that level of control.

Sergeant Tyler Woodrow had seen Red before and after he transformed from one person to another. Red was no longer the man he was on the UNSC Kryptonite. He held a substantial alignment shift, and his mobility was more standard and unambiguous. It was a futile effort for Humanity to deny themselves the right to express themselves physically. Were it not contact with another individual, it was their passive motions. The coils of his muscles, the variables of his features, the pure conviction he put into each step—one conclusive measure stood above all others.

The elimination of theories presided over Red and what people expected of him. On every particle of Red's being, the continuity of his character showed—but it was malnourished with whatever the SPARTAN wanted, and so changes were distributed to preserve his mental state.

"That way you stare at him has 'cheesy-romance' written all over it—there's that passion, that intent, that subconscious undressing. Hey, don't forget anytime soon that ONI de-sexed him."

Tyler's thumb and pointer met his lips, and he toyed with them. When the provoking words of Private Desmond Tucker seeped in and sparked his brain back to a responsive state, Tyler rotated his head around to meet Desmond's round, soft white face; his blue eyes glittered enthusiastically for an answer.

Tyler sighed at the look. "Joking's not your forte. Please don't try it again because your words are contagious, and I cannot handle a cold ATM."

"Well, I'll put the ATM in front of a fire or something." Demond's face grew broader as his smile malformed its aspect ratio.

"Feckin' hell." As expired as his patience was, Tyler refrained from rolling his eyes and turned his head back to spot Red, Captain Courtney Jsarez and the three officers following them disappear inside the barracks commissioned for the thirty-nine survivors of the Kryptonite. The building was not up to par with what they deserved, but it was doable for what they had to endure the past month. The hot meals were enough to keep Tyler from complaining.

"Did you . . . like the Petty Officer or something?" Desmond asked.

Shut up, damn it! Anytime would have been suitable but that moment. Tyler sighed violently and squinted his eyes at the burning sun's rays that painted his shadow across the ground. "Can you not do this now! Feckin' hell, Desmond, my family's dead. Just . . . stop."

"Sorry, sorry." Desmond put his hands up and backed off, trying to calm down the enraged beast that counted as one of his only surviving friends.

Tyler escaped to the elevation of one of the landing platforms to confide in himself—lament on the past, present, and the obscure future. Desmond joined him; he wanted his friend to confide in.

"But it's partially your fault," Desmond continued, lowering his hands and re-approaching his friend. "That joke of your's led me on, so don't fucking pin me as . . . an asshole."

"Just . . . piss off!" Tyler snapped. He did not have the courage to face his friend—regret instantly set in and gripped Tyler's already derelict heart.

"That's not gonna happen," Desmond scoffed, crossing his arms and staring his friend over with a mixed confusion on how to proceed. "We're brothers in arms! If my duty's to hold you as you bleed out . . . then supporting you can sure as fuck be included!"

Tyler didn't speak. He instead leaned against the pad's railing, twisting his fingers together in a cyclone motion. Lamenting on the past, present, and the obscure future mashed down into one single focus. Decisive decisions had to be made fast—concluding his aggression was Tyler's rudimentary goal as of that moment.

I'm pushing him away—how feckin' cliché. Tyler rubbed his rigid temples; the pain from his scolding mind was near unbearable. Where's the logic in my bullshit? "I used to think no pain could beat sacrificing your arm for your face." Tyler's bluish-green eyes fell to the eight Brute spiker projectile scars running in a line across his left forearm. "But the worst pain's always the mental stuff. You just . . . I just never believed all that physiological baloney that powdered every Marine veteran."

"Oh, man, I hear you loud and clear," Desmond said, leaning on the railing beside Tyler. "You fight . . . you die, maybe. . . . You get rewarded with a rich paycheck and commendations."

Tyler agreed. Killing in Humanity's name debunked fear as much as it caused fear. In that ideal, no end for fear arose. "That . . . doesn't do much for the bongo drum treatment your head gets when you think back on all . . . all the stuff you do. This, that. . . . People think it's simple." Tyler's tired eyes reached the argentiferous plated gate of the base; hundreds of news correspondents from all across Earth mustered on the polar side. Tyler thought ill of it: They don't get it.

Tyler's focus did not remain private. "You're right on, pal. But a number know that war isn't like the vids," Desmond said, clapping a hand on Tyler's shoulder. "But their word is outdone by the media's."

"I went out yesterday for lunch. . . ." Tyler trailed off, reminiscing on a thought as dark as his war crimes. "And I was followed everywhere. . . . I haven't had a burger in three months; I deserved that time alone to enjoy one. Ye-they keep going on about how we should be honored, but they won't let me enjoy a feckin' meal."

"There are drive-throughs," Desmond said wittingly. "You know Aussies aren't that lacking?"

"Dining in reminds me of a family tradition," Tyler replied; his voice held down a rocky edge even when the sadness of remembering his family overcame him. "I've only ever broken tradition when it comes to religion." Tyler turned to Desmond, leaning on his elbow that pressed against the railing. "BTW, what was with the 'brother in arms' example when we're five steps up?"

"I had to think up an example chop-chop," Desmond explained. "And the brother in arms one took the bait. It's also more serious. And it takes serious stuff to get through your thickly layered head."

You suck at lying, Tyler thought, moaning a hum of acknowledgment, but remaining not wholly convinced. "Oh, and for the record, the Petty Officer doesn't fancy me." Tyler pushed off the railing and opened his arms. "He just can't get jokes."

Desmond fell into Tyler's arms. He rubbed his head under Tyler's chin before raising it to meet his eyes, and moving in. Their lips connected and massaged one another affectionately before their tongues entered the foreplay. And the tongues were by far the more absorbing example of their passion. They swirled around each other, matching a rhythm and soaking in the moisture of each others' mouth.

I've reached the verge when it comes to luck, Tyler thought, considering if he should be so grateful that the person he loved survived the battle on the Kryptonite when the balance of Fireteam Ecuador was dead. Lance Corporal Dylan Rosolie, Sim Langman, and Private Monty Mccarthy were pulled apart by the explosive bombardment from the CSO-class supercarrier.

The scene grew increasingly vivid each time Tyler recalled it. Initial shock was the cause. The devastation of the moment was in Tyler's mind, but Tyler's mind had temporarily locked the memory away. Tyler didn't want it opened, but every minute that passed did not pass without him thinking of his deceased Fireteam. It was theoretically infeasible to shield his mind from the damage.

And then his family's death became known to Tyler; his world would have ended if not for Desmond. Every night since hearing the news, Tyler had cried himself to sleep in Desmond's arms even when he had refused Desmond's approach.

But there was never any mourning sex to comfort each other. The pair abided by an agreement to keep intercourse at a distance to ameliorate on the consolatory heat. It was also more difficult as, unlike male and female, eye contact during intercourse breached possibility and fled to impossibility.

Feckin' hell; he needs to shave, Tyler thought. He relished in the movement of their tongues in coordination but was distracted by Desmond's five o'clock. The dawn of the realization that they were not in the privacy of their quarters made its way to Tyler's attention. Desmond was also aware—but like Tyler, he did not care; the vibrant fervor he was subjected to held dominion over him.

They were not going to stop—to damnation with the judgment of others. They both subconsciously remembered the century of their existence. Unfortunately, time advanced without Humanity; opposite, Humanity advanced without time. But intricate beliefs and philosophies held a majority of Humanity back.

Unity was a lacking element to Humanity. It was a lacking that proved fatal when the Covenant arrived.

Clank. Tyler and Desmond pulled apart, and Tyler spun around and saw Major Tyler Hauver leaning on the railing next to him. No wet sound remained, so Major Tyler cocked his head around and smiled at the pair. "Woah, don't stop for me. Yours' is a show not so entertaining to me."

"Sorry, sir," Desmond said as he and Tyler fell into a salute, closing their legs together and breaking their backs in. "We carried away in the moment."

No regrets, though, Tyler thought.

"And I care why?" Major Tyler asked, shrugging with a matching curious look etched across his face. "Also, drop the 'sir' title. I'm resigning from the Corps. I'm moving in with Captain Jsarez and friends."

Hauver, to Woodrow, was not the paragon of one who would abandon the Marine Corps. At least, this was appearance, in general. He was SPARTAN-huge, standing over six feet and being broad across his shoulders; his biceps stretched his singlet. His face stood out from most Marines; Woodrow found his sharp features both appealing and distinguishable. His hair was a black curtain and reached down to the top of his eyes. His face was shaven clean of Human foilage; Woodrow found the hair aspect of him less appealing than his face, body, and his Hazel eyes.

"Uh, so . . . you're um . . . joining EDEN?" Desmond asked, leaning against the railing with Woodrow leaning behind him.

"Yes. Well, I mean . . . I don't see much other for me to do," Hauver said. "My family died on Reach and I refuse to contribute to the UNSC. Plus, Captain Jsarez has already promised me a dynamical pay."

" 'Dynamical'?" Desmond rubbed his chin, plucking at his stubble's bristles.

"It can go up and down depending how much of a good boy I am," Hauver clarified. "Indeed, I plan on being a very good boy."

"I can be a good boy," Desmond beamed.

Only when you're not in bed, Woodrow thought, moving up behind Desmond and wrapping his arms around his neck and leaning against him. A passing pilot grunted in revulsion; the three ignored him.

"I take it neither of you kiddies are going somewhere without the other?" Hauver asked, sharing the same playful attitude the duo exhibited.

"Not for a long time," Woodrow said. "But Private Desmond, here, farts enough to make me consider a trip to Germany. I would undertake a trip to Germany if their sausages didn't make the entire population have a worse gas problem."

Hauver chuckled; Desmond remained silent and in a state of denial of an axiomatic truth. Woodrow and Desmond had an intimate relationship and Desmond would make jokes up about Woodrow, but the diametric mate made japes consisting of the verity.

Woodrow was one for finding flaws in people and using them in a comedic—even offensive—fashion. It's boring to be safe, Woodrow repeated his slogan.

Putting aside the joke's humorous effect, Hauver asked, "Do you plan on enlisting with EDEN, uh . . . ?"

"Private Desmond Tucker, Fireteam Ecuador," Desmond introduced himself before cocking his shoulders to indicate Woodrow. "The fucker clinging onto me like a wet cat is my bitch, Sergeant Tyler Woodrow."

Hauver's face paled. "Wow. . . . I wonder what else we share?"

I can list some comparisons. "I hear you name your gun," Woodrow said.

"Yeah. Old Faithful remains faithful," Hauver said, narrowing his eyebrows, suspicious as to how deep the rabbit hole went. "You name your gun?"

"Yeah—Eagle-Eye. I sometimes use it to hunt Eagles."

"They're illegal to hunt," Desmond muttered.

Hauver was approaching ire—fast beyond innervation. Evidentially, there could only be one. "Let me guess—you're also a kidder? You sound like a kidder?" Hauver's voice fell to a cold whisper. ". . . Are you a fucking kidder?"

"Yes," Woodrow replied dryly. "I hear you are too. . . . This kinda sucks."

"There can only be one!" Hauver hissed, scowling at Woodrow who retained a clear face; Desmond was unsure if the current was a joke or an austere approach on Tyler Hauver's pride.

"I know. Go change your feckin' name," Woodrow deadpanned.

Hauver's bear face inverted; a panoramic smile grew, and he banged his hand on his chest before jabbing a finger at Woodrow. "Wanna grab a beer?"

Woodrow was inclined to agree. Alternatively thinking, he recalled a dangerous outcome. Lieutenant Colonel Keyes got so drunk she tried to rape the Major here. If it's me trying to do the raping, I will be sentenced to some hard labor for big bubber in return for protection.

"Just so long as you keep my liquor consummation under control," Woodrow said.

Hauver smiled and pointed at Woodrow again. "Another semblance: We need someone else to keep us from becoming inebriated."

"He also had a booze horde on the Kryptonite," Desmond said as the three broke away from the railing and hastened to the stairway off the landing pad.

"Traitor," Woodrow grumbled.

"So did I," Hauver hissed. "Then Keyes extorted me out of it."

"Oh . . . so you both are bitches in the relationship?" Unbeknownst to Desmond, this comparison was equivocal, and the facts were not in his favor. Lynda Keyes and Tyler Hauver were not in a relationship.

"I'm not the 'bitch'," Woodrow calmly objected, flicking the proposition off like a fly that bugged him. A point he always tried to prove was that blocking anger from his tone gave him more control over the situation as essentially the more ratiocinative one.

Tyler Hauver tensely chuckled as they reached the quadrate platform that divided the stairway into a separate section that led across to the other pads. "Me and Colonel Keyes are not in a relationship. She's not . . . um, not so ideal a mate after she tried to seduce me."

"I think she's too old for you," Woodrow commented. "Don't mind me prying."

"You pry as well?" Hauver inquired; he resumed disposing of his composed state in the act of expressing his profound repugnance at the prospect that someone shared so much with him.

"Are we still going with this joke?" Desmond asked, trailing the group off the staircase and onto the base's expanse; the bar wasn't far, a treat for any tired aviator who just returned home. Australians held liquor to a traditional esteem.

"What joke?" Hauver wondered ignorantly. "We are being serious, okay? I'm dead serious when I recite my motto: There can only be one motherfucking Tyler Hauver!"

What a little child. Tyler Woodrow rolled his eyes and ran his hand over the prickles of his buzzcut. Woodrow only had it cut recently, and upholding something almost of a regulation, Woodrow, on a basis, sought the sensation of the prickles. "My last name's not Hauver, thank God."

"Is . . . is there something wrong with my last name?" Hauver asked. Desmond and Woodrow were both aware that the ex-Major was about to explode into a delirium that bordered between being fabricated and being serious.

"No. I just can't envision my surname being anything other than Woodrow," Tyler Woodrow said.

"Neither can I . . ." A devious smile spread across Hauver's face. "Just . . . the nicknames."

I had this coming. Nothing bad ever happened to someone unless they drew it on. Woodrow groaned petulantly.

"I know, right?" Desmond agreed, looking over his shoulder to Woodrow who returned the contemptuous gesture with a countering symbol—his middle digit erected.

"You can't do that!"

In concurrence, the three turned to the shout. Over by a pad adjacent to the one the three just left was Staff Sergeant Tom McAllister. He was shadowed by the pad's platform, and he rested against one of the concrete columns holding the pad up. In his hands was a datapad; in his green shaded eyes were tears.

Tom McAllister was young—but he held all the substantive features of an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. Neither Desmond or Tyler Woodrow knew him, but they acknowledged him as an ODST off the bat. A stand-out was the two M6 Submachine gun tattoos running across each side of his clean-shaven jaw. His brown mohawk also gave an indication to what was below the surface.

"SHE'S MY DAUGHTER!" Tom screamed. A muffled response caused him to smash the datapad against the column. He then sat in the dirt and knocked his head softly back against the pillar. Choked gags flared from his dry lips and his feet kicked away the shrapnel of the datapad and unturned the soil.

"Should we—"

Desmond had no time to finish before the two Tylers started towards Tom. Their boots condensed the dirt to smaller particles, and the crunching of the grass and soil made Tom look up. He knew Tyler Hauver but not Tyler Woodrow, so it was the former who his head cocked to.

Hauver stopped in front of Tom's slumped form. "Yo-you all right, Sergeant?" Tyler Hauver asked worryingly, grabbing Tom's arm and hefting him up to his feet.

"I watched two of my buddies get cut down before me by incursive Covies. And that was only events constricted to the Kryptonite," Tom said, wiping secretion away from his nostrils. "I've lost my family; my girlfriend has married and won't let me see my kid. I'm not good. I'm far from it. I fought for something and that something can't give two damns—no, they think one is even too much."

Woodrow crossed his arms. Desmond took a more intrigued approach and stopped aside Hauver, his ears agape for information. Humans had a basic scripting that petitioned for them to learn all they could. After adolescence had passed, adults learned what they could in a strategy of supporting their relations.

"You take your girlfriend to any court," Desmond said, "you employ any attorney . . . and I guarantee that you'll see your kid."

"If not, go to Captain Jsarez," Hauver added. "She won't allow injustice. That is EDEN's principle. It's not to work for a profit; it's not political or religious. There's no—"

"St-stop!" Tom held his hand up. He was barely blocking his emotions. "It-it's not based on custody or spite. . . ." Tom's eyes randomly locked with Desmond's and a vibrant fury gleamed from them. "THE FUCKING CUNT NEVER TOLD MY GIRL ABOUT ME; HER FATHER IS MY GIRLFRIEND'S HUSBAND!"

Passing personnel of the base glimpsed over, but seeing the situation handled, continued with their responsibilities.

I can't consider someone who would do that a mother, Woodrow thought bitterly. "That's low." Tyler Woodrow could say no more or no less. Certain times called for certain words.

"Sergeant, for the sake of your daughter, I can't endorse and decision to expose yourself to her," Hauver said, placing a careful hand around Tom's shoulder and shaking him tenderly. "If she grew up with someone else as her father and a complete stranger comes along to contradict an important part of her life, it will destroy her. I know it's hard, but a father puts his daughter before himself. Even in the face the injustice, you can't put yourself first."

"You can still supply them financially," Desmond added supportively. "Your daughter can live a good life. You can't give that up over anything."

There's always a silver lining. Tyler Woodrow smiled; relief flushed over him. This event was his own through a mutuality with Tom.

"My girlfriend wants nothing to do with me." Tom was supported back to lean on the column by Hauver. His head hurt; throbbing drew his hand to squeeze the frustration and despair from his mind. "I can throw, hypothetically, billions at her. She-she'll just throw it back and yell that I 'ruined her life'."

"Ruined?" Woodrow asked, slightly conscious of Tom's meaning, and expanding his detestable feelings towards his girlfriend with each second that counted away.

"Apparently—no . . . not apparently. I believe her, of course. . . . She went through a state of denial and depression when she heard I was missing—not fucking dead. Still, she hated me for leaving her with so much pain. She promised herself that she wouldn't honor me by letting my daughter grow up with my photos and likeness remembered." Tom swung his head around to Desmond. "Your financial support suggestion won't be well-placed since the fucking dick she wedded has gambled away all their money. They're in tight trouble with some gangs. If they're not on the street by the end of the year, they'll be dead!" Tom's voice broke. "But she won't have anything at fucking all to do with me!"

"Fuck," Desmond hissed, rubbing his hand over his head to draw out every idea he had. The direness had changed from workaround to urgency. Desmond was afraid; Woodrow was ambivalent about what he could say or do, and Hauver had an intuition.

"This gang? Who are they?" Hauver asked, brushing his hand over his shaved face.

"Oh, fuck . . . I didn't pay much attention to it." Tom shared the same confusion that spread between Desmond and Woodrow.

Hauver, on the other hand, could not cease his queries. "I can hardly provide help like this. Um . . . okay, Does the Chicago Illuminati ring a bell?"

"The what?" Desmond sputtered. Woodrow silently agreed. A gang run by conspiracy theorists from the 21st century? Feckin' hell.

Tom's face lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. Anticipative, he turned to Hauver, eyes enlightening a shared hope to Hauver. "Yes-yes! I-I can't not de-hear that stupid name!"

Hauver smiled and clicked his fingers. Woodrow would not hold him smarter than he was until he heard an elaborate explanation. "The Chicago Illuminati are a gang mostly domestic to . . . Chicago. But they are present all over North America."

"Aren't you smart," Woodrow sarcastically murmured.

"Aye, I am. In reality, I just heard this on a news broadcast in the barracks fifteen or so minutes ago," Hauver explained. "Another important detail I—well, everyone in the barracks took this into account. Get this, the gang's headed by First Sergeant Albert Freud's sister!"

"Who?" Desmond asked.

"Fuck. . . ." cursed Tom, mouth spread wide; he closed it quickly when a fly got too close. "He had a sister? Sneaky ass never told me about her!"

"Nothing's more ill-suited than changing the subject, Sergeant," Hauver smiled. "What you can take for certain from me, a possible friend, is that your family may be safe. How good are you at ass kissing?"

"I can hardly get the shit washed from my mouth, sir," Tom replied, beamish.

Hauver clapped his hands, determined to help Tom McAllister and get behind Albert Freud's cryptic character. "Then you're gonna love my plan."


AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Sergeant Tyler Woodrow is an original character of Soul's Release's design. And before you solidify your belief that I made him homosexual to make some digressive point, I ask that you reconsider.

I have over a dozen original characters I need to introduce, develop and set-up for a significant role in this plot. To further strengthen the reader's distinguishing between characters, I need to give them traits, back-stories and attributes that make them stand out.

Soul, hope you aren't bothered by the orientation of your character. Sadly, changing this will be bothersome, so let's hope I didn't miss the wagon of hay.

Thanks go to Joat the Goat for following. I admit, your alias had me chuckling.

I appreciate reviews pointing out typos, canon errors, and grammatical mistakes. Also, please tell me your opinion on how this chapter played with the overall consistency of the story. Is playing ping-pong with the narrative confusing? If so, I'll stop, but progressing certain characters will only decrease in ease.

Thank you lyndakey1, Trusne, tmachgaming, Starart132 (Just saw that I've gotten the numbers of your name wrong), Fleightfire, and The Constitutionalist for your reviews.