Disclaimer: I do not raise claim to the Halo universe, Halo equipment, or any references to the games or franchise. I do own the characters in the following story.
The patchwork job keeping the Exeter in one piece was certainly remarkable, given the time Rachel was allowed. Along with the surviving engineering team, she repaired both the engine systems and hull breaches in under twenty four hours. The Slip-space drive and weapons systems would be ready within the next twelve. Rachel probably hadn't slept in a few days, yet she was working as if she'd woken a mere two hours before.
Hall spent his time wandering the ship, learning the ins and outs of the cruiser-carrier and its crew. The engineering team and science divisions were recluses at best, and did not associate outside that circle. The pilots and marines were even worse.
The Mess Hall was dominated by these individuals. With the primary hab blown into space, the secondary mess had to serve the entirety of the ship, some three thousand crew, personnel, and military officers. The tension in the room could split an ocean. The various social classes, officers and enlisted included, were disgusted by the thought of dealing with the other, and military Lieutenants like Hall were caught in the middle, not full officers, but not enlisted men either. In point of fact, Hall's rank was mostly ceremonious. Orders given to technicians and soldiers on the battlefield must be obeyed, as an air or orbital strike is as indiscriminate as the plague, and a command to exfiltrate from a target site cannot be questioned. And so, pilots were always commissioned at first as the lowest officer rank, Second Lieutenant. Many officers looked at this rank with a form of disdain, as much as sovereigns would look at a peasant. And the lower enlisted men, marines, engineers, and simple non-commissioned soldiers, looked up at this lowly officer with royal hatred, as a serf would an unjust lord.
Hall's presence in the mess was therefore unwelcome to every man and woman in the room. Soldiers halted their business long enough to leer at the new entrance. Officers ceased their friendly gossip in order to stare at this foreigner to their world. A hush encased the room in ice. Hall's eyes panned the room, taking in the empty invitation to their world. The Lieutenant moved towards the dispensers for his food, and drink, and so life continued, however the usual clamor seemed to shrink away. Covered jests at Hall's back, and subtle insults across the room were the only exchange given.
"Just who does he think he is?" This louder voice caused Hall to stop in his tracks. A row of pilots stared at him from a table. Setting his tray down in front of the dispenser, Hall turned towards the pilots.
"Excuse me?"
A middle-aged man, his crisp hair of salt and pepper silver, rose from the table. "I asked, 'who does he think he is?'"
Hall raised an eyebrow, witnessing the challenge, "The name's First Lieutenant John Hall, Earth Defense Forces. I heard you guys got your asses kicked, so they called me out here." The gruff and forward attitude of this pilot required a response in kind.
"You weren't here. You didn't see it, nugget."
"Nugget?" The derogatory term for 'rookie' hung in Hall's mind.
The man nodded, "You heard me, nugget. How much battle 'ave you seen?"
Hall cocked his head to one side, the challenge clearly evident. They were doubtful of his abilities, and it wasn't uncommon, this rivalry. New comers were rarely welcomed. Hall didn't blame them, he'd done it himself. You did not want to get to know someone who may be dead in the next few hours. You had to be confident they'd survive and wit ha death ratio reaching ten deaths to every survivor, you got real good at picking the victors from the losers, "Well, my first combat flight was about forty eight hours ago; I was there when my entire squadron was massacred outside the Earth Defense Grid."
"Some good you were to them." The pilot's voice tripped a bomb in Hall's mind.
"And where the hell were you, hot shot?" Hall snapped, "Two grid platforms, and half a fleet were dusted. Two million people are dead at the hands of a Covenant assault fleet. And you were out here, in the middle of nowhere, fighting a battle no one cares about. They landed, you son of a bitch! We're lucky to have driven them back."
"The Covenant were on the Earth?" The shocked amazement of the crowd grew clear. They were on the fringes of human-controlled space, flimsy as that was; how could they have known?
Hall nodded, "They sacked New Mombasa, before razing it to the ground Jumping away." He stared at this opponent, "Think again before calling me that… nugget." The pause in his speech reversed the former insult. "I've seen more flight time than anybody on this deck, and my first combat was the hottest firefight in the war, hotter than Reach."
"Oh, yeah?" the accuser crossed his burly arms across his broad chest, "Then how did you survive?"
Hall's eyes drifted low, examining the spot where the floor met his boots, "Luck. I had my suit on. I was blown into space. SAR picked me up. My co-pilot…he didn't…." The wince of pain and look of pity in the other pilots' eyes communicated their sorrow. They'd all lost comrades, but few died in such a painful way. Bare skin exposed directly to open space was not pleasant; the uninhibited heat of a star would swiftly boil a human from the inside out. If there were no star with a clear shot, the temperature of space, around two degrees Kelvin, would simply freeze you solid in a manner of seconds. "Hawk-" Hall choked on the name of his friend, "He jumped in the seat without a second thought, saying he'd miss the launch. When we were hit…" The images were too graphic for him to retell. The look on Hawk's face as skin curled back to reveal vaporizing bodily liquids was too much for Hall's already weak system. A fiery inferno lit up his abdomen.
"Excuse me." And with one hand clutched to his mouth, the other to his failing stomach, Hall left the Mess, and the people before him astounded by this newcomer.
Hall's rapid exit was to the lavatory. He felt his stomach turn upside down and inside out. He bent over a sink, almost by instinct, dumping the contents of his intestines like a recycling bin. A shocking transit from refuse to salt came over him. His stomach fluid changed from the revolting turf color, to a garnet-red.
He couldn't believe his eyes. So it was true. It wasn't in remission.
"You okay?" The voice of his challenger startled Hall. His left hand turned the water on, washing the filth away almost by instinct.
He mimed washing his hands, "Yeah, I'm alright."
The man's hand drifted to the back of his neck, "I'm sorry."
"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Hall's voice was as cold as the vacuum that had taken his friend.
"Yeah, well…I should have known better. Man doesn't come this far away from home without a damn good reason."
Hall slowed his motions, taking that thought in, before resuming his cleanup. The man stepped forward, his image reflected in the glossy mirror before him, "The name's Travis Derringer, callsign Phoenix."
"An honor, Major," Hall said, daring to catch the assailant's rank from his shoulder medals.
"When we get to Reach…that's the last thing you'd ever say to your new wing commander."
