SSgt Scott Edwards
He went and dug his own grave.
That was what you heard when a trooper's drop went bad, and they died on impact. A pretty regular occurrence, all things considered. Be it from popping the chute too late or too soon, your angle being the tiniest bit off when you re-entered the atmosphere, or from a million other reasons. There's a lot of things that can go wrong when you hop into a cramp, dark coffin and get dropped out of orbit. And a lot of things did go wrong. No matter how hard the brass tried to deny it.
For morale's sake, incidents of troopers "digging their own grave" would instead be lumped in as preventable causalities due to user error, or simply destroyed by enemy anti-air fire. Better for fledging Helljumpers to fear the alien plasma cannons, and not the pods they entrusted their lives to every mission. But it didn't take long for the new guys to catch on, assuming the saltier troopers didn't tell them first.
They say one in four troopers end up digging their own grave.
I guess that's me then.
It took Scott a moment to realize he wasn't dead. The white of the pod's cracked and flickering screens and the red of the emergency lights washed over his face as a pinkish blur as he forced his eyelids open. The radio crackled in his ear, and he heard his own heart thumping in his chest. Every muscle ached, and something warm ran down from his cheek. He wasn't in the crash seat anymore, instead face down on the front hatch. Blood dotted against the viewport, which showed only pitch blackness.
I'm buried alive. He thought for a moment. I'm buried in my grave, coffin and all
But he knew that wasn't true. Recollection flashed in his mind, and he remembered making an awkward landing on the edge of a cliff, which gave way under the force of of it all. He remembered the ground rushing up to meet him, and holding onto the handles of the seat with an iron grip before the world went black.
No, he wasn't dead. He wasn't buried alive. But face down in the dirt, trapped in a half ton coffin with the Banished attacking? It wasn't exactly that much better of a situation.
Wolf... Last Scott saw, his team had been forced to scatter during the emergency drop to avoid debris and hunter Banshees. Nobody was hit, as far he knew, but it wasn't that long before he had lost visual contact. Drops were dangerous enough when everything went right. And today, it sure felt like everything went wrong. They're fine, Scott told himself. If the universe wanted them dead, it would have done it a long time ago.
It was a silly thing to think, he knew. But dying of worry in a box a hundred miles away wasn't about to do anybody any favors either. In the dim light of the pod, Scott forced himself to roll over- and winced in pain as every muscle screamed in protest. Hands fumbled over what would be the overhead compartments, unlatching covers and flinging open lids. And like the world's saddest gift basket, a whole assortment of goodies tumbled loose and clacked against each other and the metal and glass of the hatch.
The pod hadn't been his to begin with, so Scott wasn't sure what he'd find tucked away. Officially, ODSTs weren't allowed to keep weapons stashed in their pods until the arming phase of preparation. But Scott prayed that the owner was a bit of a rule breaker. Unfortunately, all he found were several candy bars, three chem lights, a medkit, and a flaregun with three flares of different colors. And not even a single knife or sidearm. If he had taken Calson's pod, he'd be drowning in pistols and knives with some shit like SEMPER FI poorly etched into the metal.
The flaregun was something, at least. It felt good to have something with a barrel and a trigger in his hand, even if it was perhaps the furthest thing from an M6 there was. Though both were equally useless when it came to the matter of flipping his pod right side up. There was probably an abundance of fuel left for the maneuvering thrusters given Scott's sparse use of them on the descent, but those were mainly placed on the top and bottom of the craft. There were some of the side to assist in steering, however. Though their force paled in comparison to the main thrusters, and may not have had the strength to lift the pod up once it was landlocked. There were explosive bolts on the rim of the hatch as well for emergencies, but those were meant to send the hatch flying, not the pod.
Still, where was the harm in trying? If he could just get the pod to roll over, even the tiniest bit, he could gun the secondary maneuvering thrusters and the explosive bolts at the same time, and that might just be enough to get himself righted again. All he needed to do was get back in the crash seat, grab ahold of the controls, and try.
He was only partially wrong. The moment he got back in the crash seat, the whole pod gave a metallic groan. Sunlight broke through the blackness in a thin arc at first, before filling up the viewport and nearly blinding Scott from the intensity. When he felt comfortable opening his eyes again, he was half-expecting to see a Spartan, or Brandt, on the other side of the latch.
But it was a Brute. Huge, beardless, with dark brown fur that peeked out beneath turquoise armored plates. And a smile of long tusks crowded by smaller, sharper fangs. The creature barked something in its alien language that Scott didn't understand. But he did understand the laughter that followed as he eyed Scott. The Brute braced the pod against its own massive frame so it could free a hand for its weapon.
But Scott didn't give it the chance. On reflex, Scott primed and squeezed the activation for the emergency release bolts, and the hatch exploded outward, knocking the Brute on its ass. The kickback tipped the pod backwards as well with a clang. The open sky was above him now, with nothing between it and himself. And that meant nothing between him and the Banished's plasma bolts. He could already hear the chittering of Grunts and the surprised clucking of a Jackal- before they were drowned out by the grumbling of the Brute as it struggled to rise to its feet.
Scott couldn't see anything but blue skies within the pod, but he gunned the top thrusters all the same. They blazed to life with a woosh, and the backside of his pod carved a trench in the earth beneath as it rocketed into the Brute. It had almost risen to its full height when the human craft had slammed into it, so its upper body spilled into the interior alongside Scott. A mix of surprise, confusion, and fear splashed across its ugly face, before everything blurred into rage. It raised its weapon- some sort of massive revolver of Brute design, and attempted to draw a bead on Scott.
But between the underside of the pod, and the cliffside it smashed into, there was simply no time before the life was violently squeezed out of the alien like a tube of toothpaste, painting the silver cliff face a dark red. Its weapon clattered uselessly to the floor of the pod- which Scott wasted no time in scooping up before vaulting over the edge.
Gravel and dirt crunched beneath his boots as he finally set foot on this enigmatic ring world for the very first time. But it was hard to take in the majesty of the occasion when a bolt of green plasma whizzed overhead. Scott ducked beneath a massive fallen tree, but not before stealing a glance in the direction the bolt had come from.
Three Grunts. Plasma pistols all.
Even without his gear, Scott wasn't worried too much about the little Grunts. They were nightmares in large enough numbers, to be sure. But in this small a group, pick off one in a brutal enough manner, and the rest would be sent running. But what happened to that Jackal he heard? Or had he simply been mistaken?
Another trio of emerald plasma bore into the tree and set it aflame from the inside out. Ignoring the muscle ache, Scott moved down to the part of the tree that wasn't burning, before popping up, and returning fire. The Brute revolver barely fit in his hands, and it took all his strength to pull the trigger. And when he did, the weapon kicked like a bitch, nearly ripping the arm of his socket. Though for all the trouble, at least one of the Grunts fell, clutching a spike the length of Scott's forearm that had dug into its chest.
Its squeals of agony made the other two think twice, but to their credit, they didn't run. That was unusual, to say the least. Especially with their Brute friend dead. With no leader to threaten to reward desertion with death, Grunts were even more likely to just make a run for it the second things got too rough. The fact that they were staying put told Scott that that Jackal he heard must have been real.
Great. Now if only I can find the bastard.
The death of one of their friends stopped the barrage for a moment, but after that the onslaught of haphazard plasma fire continued. Grunts weren't known for their marksmanship in the first place, but it seemed grief threw their aim off even more as more and more shots went wide. None of them even came close as Scott popped up a second time further down the length of the tree, catching another Grunt in the tank with a spike. The shot barely nicked its shoulder, but from the creature's wails, you would have thought its whole arm had been blown off.
The Grunt turned to run- but a lance of crimson energy blew its own head off before it could waddle away. Following the shot from its point of origin, Scott could barely make out the faint red flicker of a sniper Jackal, atop a piece of what could only be wreckage from the Molon Labe. The trooper cursed under his breath, ducking to avoid a second red beam that sizzled right past where his head had been a moment prior. This was bad. Even if he was crazy enough to try and beat a Jackal to the draw, the sniper was easily twice as far away from Scott as the grunts had been. And as impressive as this miniature harpoon revolver had been in Scott's hands, somehow he doubted he could make a shot like that. Maybe Calson could.
But Calson's not here.
Before he could formulate a plan, a shimmering orb of blue tumbled right next to him behind the tree.
Oh shi-
He scrambled and tried to make as much distance as he could while still hunched behind the tree, before diving to the ground. And not a moment later, blistering heat erupted and washed over Scott like a burning wave. He was sure he was dead. Not for the first time that day. And like before, he wasn't. Just a tiny bit tanner on the backside than he would have liked, but otherwise no worse for wear. The tree he had been using as cover, however, was nothing but ash now, having been vaporized by the blast. All that remained was the little stump he was currently hiding behind. And there was nothing else to shield him. At least, nothing close enough. The moment he popped out again, that would be the end of it. The Jackal would not miss, not at this range. If that last Grunt has one more grenade, than other the blast takes me, or the sniper when I jump out of the way.
It had been miracle that he and Wolf Team even had the time to find pods to escape the Labe's doom. It had been a miracle that he had survived that drop. Was it perhaps too greedy to hope for one more?
If it was, then if nothing else- it was a good thing he went and dug his own grave first.
Dark thoughts, but they reminded him of the pod. There was no way he could make a mad enough dash for it to hide behind as cover, and even if he did, what then? He'd be no closer to getting rid of that damn sniper. But he did take something from the pod. It was a gamble, he know. For it was equally likely to attract more enemies than allies. But hey, at this point, what did he have to lose?
He retrieved the flaregun from his waistband, and held it and the Mangler in one hand each. He could never shoot the damn Brute revolver like that, but he didn't need too. All he needed to do was just hold the weapon upon up over the edge of the log...
A flash of red bore a hole clean through the Brute weapon. The Jackal must have been waiting to take a shot at anything that dared peek up from cover. And so it did. Only, it had not been the human trooper it was hoping for. Knowing he'd only have a moment to take advantage of the confusion, Scott popped up, pointed the flaregun at the slain Grunt with the ruptured methane pack that was still spewing green gas ever so slightly- and pulled the trigger.
Another crimson lance traced through the air, but Scott was already back behind the log before it could strike him. One methane pack alone would not do much, Scott knew. But the fireball that ensued quickly over took the other two- first of the grunt who was first killed by Scott, which was joined by a chain reaction of the creature's own store of plasma grenades. The blast that followed engulfed the third, still living grunt, and added its methane and grenades to its fuel, creating a flume of green, red, orange and blues.
And a deafening boom.