My First Story. Review, please!
It is obviously assumed that MC is Master Chief
Underground
Ch. 1
MC's combat boots scraped on the packed desert gravel as he got out of the warthog.
I don't need this. Not now.
He turned back to look at his vehicle. While speeding across the desert on his return from a reconnaissance mission to the Covenant's main weapons production facility, a bolt had loosened on the right front component of the warthog's suspension system. A spring broke, and the whole jeep had slammed down onto the front wheel. As parts started flying off of the engine compartment MC slammed on the brakes and the hog had scudded dangerously to a stop. Needless to say, the vehicle had been unable to operate and MC surveyed the damage as the sun prepared to hide behind the gas giant Threshold.
The entire front right fender was gone, and the vehicle's tires were shredded and dangling off of the wheel hub. The suspension was a total loss, and MC suspected that the radiator and exhaust manifold had been gnawed off by the wheel during the accident. They were probably lying a few hundred feet behind him.
MC hadn't been injured, but the vehicle was beyond repair, and he hadn't seen any signs of civilization on his trips to and from the weapons facility. He spoke into his radio as he searched the warthog for extra supplies he could salvage.
"Echo 419, this is Master Chief. Repeat, this is Master Chief. Do you read me, Echo 419?" He rifled under the driver's seat.
Some static, then a reply: "Roger, Master Chief. What can I do for you?" It was Fohammer.
"Fohammer, I need a pick-up. My warthog just crashed." MC found a banana peel and tossed it over his shoulder.
"Roger. What's your location?"
"Uh," he looked around. "The middle of nowhere?"
He grabbed a Satellite Location Finder off of the dashboard and referred his coordinates to Fohammer.
She responded after a long silence. "Master Chief, you're about 90 kilometers from my location. I could pick you up, if I loaded the Pelican with fuel, but it would mean I'd get there tomorrow."
MC sighed. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes, Chief," Fohammer said. "Or, you could walk. It's your decision."
Master Chief opened a toolbox and dumped the contents out onto the seat. He then selected a few tools, grabbed a pack from the glove compartment, and tossed them in it. "10-4 Fohammer, I guess I'll camp out here until then," he said.
"Right," she said, "I'll be there at 900 hours. Echo 419 staying on station. Fohammer out."
MC turned off his radio. He felt, since he would have to spend the night in the cold desert, he needed to make some shelter. He searched through the warthog, looking in the glove box, under the seats, and in the rear storage compartment. After combing the entire vehicle, he managed to find a 10 x 10 tarp, some fire-making tools, a flashlight, rope, and a few small metal rods. He figured he would attach the tarp to the warthog and stretch the canvas to the ground to create a sort of lean-to on the side of the wrecked jeep. He set to work, attaching the canvas to the steel tubing of the rear gunning compartment, and bending the rods into hooks by hammering them over some desert rocks. He soon had a simple tent made with enough space for him to lie down uncomfortably on the desert floor. He decided to test his creation out, so he knelt, and wiggled his way under the tarp.
It was the most uncomfortable position he had ever been in. There was a large, unmovable rock by his upper back that he could feel through his suit. The tarp was too low to the ground, but there was nothing to tie it to that was farther off the ground. His face was muffled in the smelly burlap, and he coughed as he slid out from underneath it. As he stood up, he decided to try and find different shelter.
After untying the tarp, rolling it up and tossing it in the back of the warthog, he grabbed the flashlight off the seat and turned on his heel, setting out to explore his immediate surroundings. The sky was becoming dark, and Halo's atmosphere had turned from a deep red to a deeper blue, though there were a few wisps of cloud that had managed to stay red. Aside from a broken spine of craggy mountains to the south, the desert was a flat, gritty plate. Only a few scattered bushes poked through the gravel pavement here and there. MC turned on his flashlight. A disk of blue light appeared on the desert floor. As he strode to the west, from where he had come before the accident, he could see where the warthog had dug up the sandy earth in great gashes a foot or more deep as it had scraped across the ground. The light was quickly fading, but he continued on. On one side of his path, he found a tin lunchbox filled with foil-wrapped food. He toted the lunchbox under his arm as he continued. The wind, which had become chilly, rustled a few bushes to either side of him. He could see little, but a few shiny leaves and smooth stones glinted in the light of one of Threshold's dim moons. MC decided that his eyes had adjusted and the moon was bright enough that he could turn off his flashlight. He clicked off the flashlight and stared off at the stars as they winked on one by one in the black sea of space.
And then, suddenly, he stepped, and there was no ground to support his foot, and he tumbled into darkness.
