This was bullshit.
Tucker kicked a rock with more force than necessary, sending it skittering down the path ahead of him. Things had been cool at first — they got to kick ass and do something useful by taking over the outpost. Wash getting hurt sucked, yeah, but the medevac had picked him up hours ago. He was probably chilling in Dr. Grey's office right now, not hitting on her even though Tucker kept telling him to. Dude kept trying to play it like they just enjoyed talking or whatever, but Tucker knew when two people were into each other.
As for those who remained behind at the outpost, their work had just begun. Cleaning up the carnage sucked. There was a fuck ton of burnt shit that had to be scrubbed clean, broken junk to be trashed, and he didn't care if Carolina really did shoot him like she'd threatened, he was never hauling another corpse again. He didn't think he'd ever get the smell out of his nose.
Even though that had taken for-fucking-ever, they'd still gotten done before the transport arrived. So for the past several hours they'd had nothing to do but dick around until something happened. He's used the time to try to plan out what he was going to say to the Sangheili, but every time he did he felt weird, and the longer he had nothing to do but think the weirder he felt so he just decided to wing it.
Still, a nameless unease roiled through him as he paced the perimeter of the base. It was a fucking stupid because he shouldn't be nervous — he wasn't nervous; he wasn't. He'd done shit like this before; he was a fucking specialist at this. Okay, he hadn't been embroiled in a huge conspiracy at the time, and there wasn't the possibility that the Sangheili were involved with the enemy or that a supercarrier overhead would glass the planet if he fucked up, killing everyone he was trying to protect and all his friends —
He gave a frustrated snarl as he realized he was doing it again, his heart beating faster and his breath quickening. He shook his head and told his body to quit being a bitch, but it ignored him.
It was bullshit.
He scowled. Personal issues were lame, and he wasn't fucking lame. So he ignored his growing restlessness as best he could as he searched for a distraction. With Wash gone and Carolina and Epsilon busy in the security room waiting for word from the transport, his options for diversion were limited. Fortunately his orange-armored target was just up ahead. Grif stood staring over the edge of the landbridge, looking down towards where the vehicles were parked.
"Hey, man," Tucker said as he neared, "Whatcha looking at?"
"Simmons has been trying to park that Warthog for almost ten minutes now," Grif said, his voice oddly monotonous. Tucker followed his gaze. Sure enough, there was Simmons, struggling to parallel park between two other Warthogs by scooting back and forth and inching into the space millimeters at a time. His and Grif's squads stood nearby and tried giving advice, but their claims were contradictory and confusing and often said at the same time as they tried to shout over one another.
"Wow, really? That far in only ten minutes?" Tucker asked.
Grif shrugged. "He's starting to show progress," he said, his voice still lacking inflection.
Tucker looked at him. "You okay? You sound weird," he said.
"Huh? Oh, probably because I'm asleep," Grif said, never looking away from Simmons' struggles.
Tucker lifted an eyebrow. With his helmet on, there was no way to tell if Grif was joking or not. Then again, weirder things had happened. "But you're standing here. Talking to me," he pointed out.
"Yeah. Learned how to do this years ago — I can literally hold bullshit conversations in my sleep. I barely listen anyway, so nobody notices. Great way to keep up your sleep schedule," Grif explained.
The man never ceased to amaze. Tucker stared at him, not sure whether to be awed or disgusted. "How do you do it?" he asked.
"You start by living in a boring fucking canyon with a kissass and a goddamn lunatic for a couple years," Grif said. "Throw in a Spanish-speaking robot nobody can fucking understand and you kinda just stop caring what anybody has to say. Replying becomes automatic, and then you, too, can take naps while talking to boring people."
"Fuck you, I'm not boring," Tucker snapped.
"I'm not responsible for anything I say; I'm unconscious. If it just so happens to be true, well, that's a coincidence."
Despite himself, Tucker couldn't help a grin. "You really got it all figured out, don't you, dude?" he asked.
"You know, a lot of people think being lazy is just lying around avoiding responsibility, but there's actually a lot of hard work and dedication involved," Grif said. He tilted his head, still watching Simmons. "Bet you ten bucks he never gets it."
"Will you even remember if you win when you wake up?" Tucker asked.
"Honestly, I've never had anyone say anything worth remembering, so I really don't know," Grif admitted.
Tucker looked down at Simmons. He was still fussing with the Warthog's position, but he had mostly managed to get the vehicle in the space provided and was inching his way to victory. Tucker's odds were pretty good, especially if Grif wouldn't remember the outcome anyway.
He grinned. "Make it twenty and you're on," he said, offering his hand.
Grif wordlessly shook it. "Hey, Simmons!" he called down as he let go, "You're still crooked!"
"Oh, you cheating motherfucker," Tucker snarled as Simmons began cursing, pulling out of the space to begin anew. A chorus of frustrated groans from his squad mingled with the mocking laughter from Grif's.
"Hard work and dedication," Grif repeated.
"Are you even really unconscious?"
"Totally. There's no way I'm waking up after only sixteen hours of sleep."
Tucker stared incredulously. "Dude, you drove here. There was a fucking firefight," he said.
Grif shrugged again. "Your point?" he asked.
"Jesus Christ, dude," Tucker said with dawning horror, "Remind me to never get in a car with you again."
"Whatever. That's twenty bucks, sucker."
"No way, he can still make it!" Tucker protested. Grif slowly turned to face him, and after a second or two Tucker sighed in defeat. "I'll pay you when we get back to base," he growled.
"Sir! Captain Tucker — Sir!"
Tucker's mood worsened at the familiar voice. He ignored it, but Grif turned to watch as the speaker approached. "Palomo? You brought Palomo?" he asked, looking at Tucker, "Don't you hate that guy?"
Tucker ground his teeth and didn't answer. Much to his irritation, Palomo was more than happy to do it for him. "Oh, yeah, totally, but Captain Tucker didn't have any other choice! Word got around about his little 'incident' at the FAC Outpost Twenty-two, and only one dude from the Feds wanted to volunteer for his squad!" he said cheerfully, oblivious to Tucker's rising anger. He lowered his voice to a conspiratory murmur. "And I think they forced that guy to do it — he's always glaring at me and he only ever hangs out with Feds off duty and he won't even talk to us!"
"That's because he's mute, you fucking idiot!" Tucker snapped.
Palomo twitched, then let out a long "oh" of understanding. "So that's why they installed an ASL translator in my VISR!" he said.
Outrage whirled Tucker around. "It's been three fucking months, and you're only just now realizing that?!" he shouted. He paused as a thought occurred to him. "And they gave it to you?! I'm the fucking captain! Why didn't they give it to me?!"
Palomo shrank back, holding his rifle in front of him like a shield. "Uh, probably because your armor doesn't support VISR? I mean, we could always trade helmets — except that would look, like, really stupid. I guess we could trade armor. But you're bigger than me — I don't know if you're built or just fat, but no way would you fit in my armor," he said.
All Tucker could do was stare as he tried to figure out which part he wanted to get angry with first. The problem was they were all really stupid and he needed to yell about them but the words just clogged in his throat.
He was starting to see why Church was pissed all the time.
After a few seconds of silence Grif let out a disbelieving laugh. "Damn, man," he said to Palomo, "I mean, I've been hanging around incompetent assholes for so long I'm kind of a connoisseur of jackasses, but this... this is magical. You're like a fuck up olympian."
"Uh, yeah... yeah," Palomo said, hanging his head. "I mean, the only reason I'm still on his squad is because, like, nobody else wants to be anywhere near him. The Feds 'cuz of all the dudes he killed before you guys figured out the war was a ruse, and the News because he got Rogers and Cunningham killed. I mean, I told them that it was, like, one time and almost half a year ago, but —"
"Palomo!" Tucker snarled as an old guilt bit at him, "Shut! The fuck! Up!"
Grif grunted. "Gold medal, kid," he said, "Gold medal."
Palomo was spared from trying to recover by Carolina's voice snapping over the radio. "Alright, people, we've got contact. The Sangheili just radioed for approach. Tucker, it's your time to shine."
All the moisture in Tucker's mouth evaporated. He tried to swallow, but just to try and get some spit going in a really dry climate; he was definitely not gulping. He rolled his shoulders and gave his head a quick shake then hit the radio. "Yeah, on my way," he said.
He started towards the landing pad. Much to his annoyance Palomo fell into step behind him, Grif trailing along after. "Wow, aliens! Real live aliens! This is gonna be so cool!" the private said, bouncing up and down as he walked, "I've always wanted to see one; like, that's why I joined up in the first place! Man, this is gonna be awesome!"
"Hey, Palomo."
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you remember when I told you to shut the fuck up?"
"Uh, yeah?"
"Yeah, that's a standing order. Shut the fuck up."
"Besides, dude, they're really not that great," Grif said. "The last time we met some we kept them busy by having Epsilon read printer instructions to them."
Despite Tucker's admonition Palomo replied. "Uh... but isn't their technology, like, way more advanced than ours?" he asked.
"Yeah, they're really weird. All I know is, if they ask you to go on a quest or something, say no. Or at least bring protection," Grif said.
Palomo's confused "What?" was overridden by Tucker snapping, "Fuck you, dude."
"Hey: unconscious."
"You're about to be beaten unconscious," Tucker threatened.
The landing pad was an ostentatious name for what was basically a clearing between the base and the caves they'd used to get here. Most of their company had arrived ahead of them and were standing in clumps talking, looking kind of like groupies awaiting the arrival of the band.
Carolina stood by herself off to one side, watching the sky with a puzzled frown on her face. She noticed Tucker and immediately moved to greet him. "You're sure we don't need some kind of plan?" she asked. She paused, then gave her head a little shake like she was shooing a bug.
Tucker shrugged, trying to ignore his increasing queasiness. What the fuck was wrong with him? "You don't really need a plan for this stuff," he said. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him. "These guys are gonna come out trying to intimidate us; they're predators, so they wanna be dominant. Keep your helmets on, visors polarized and don't back down, but whatever you do, don't draw your weapons unless they attack — to these guys, if you show it you're gonna use it, and that pisses them off. Let me do the talking, follow my lead and we'll be cool."
"If you say so," Carolina said, donning her helmet. She shook her head again.
"What's up with you?" Tucker asked.
Carolina looked at him as Simmons and the remainder of Orange Team pulled up in the Warthogs. "Epsilon's been laughing like hell since we got the approach request, and he's only gotten worse since you and Grif showed up. He won't explain why," she said.
Tucker didn't have time to wonder as the first heavy hum of engines reached them. The entire group fell silent and straightened to attention, hands tightening on their weapons. Tucker didn't need to see their faces to know they were nervous, and against the Sangheili that was just asking for trouble.
"Hey, guys, relax," he called, casually slinging his rifle onto his mag clip. As the sound of the approaching Spirit grew he strutted forward so everyone could see him. "They're big, they're ugly, and they smell, but I'm kind of a big deal to them thanks to this key/sword thing. We're not gonna have any problems."
"That made him laugh harder," Carolina murmured on a private frequency as the Spirit crested the top of the caves.
The transport circled once, taking a quick reconnaissance of the area. Shaped like a tuning fork, an antigrav energy field between the two prongs fluctuated wildly to keep the craft level as it made a tight yaw turn to face the human soldiers. The heavy plasma cannon hanging like a bee's stinger underneath swept over the assembled humans before levelling for some reason at Grif.
Tucker took a deep breath as the Spirit lowered to the ground. The prickling spider-webby feel of the nearing antigrav field was nothing compared to the way his heart was pounding in his chest and his guts felt like someone was grabbing them and twisting. He grit his teeth and did his best to ignore the feeling, pulling his sword from its magclip and holding it unpowered in his hand. He settled his weight on one leg in a nonthreatening but unimpressed posture.
The Spirit settled in a low hover a few feet off the ground. The transport bay doors swung open, and the Sangheili swarmed out, weapons up as they trooped into formation but not making any threatening moves. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple squad members twitch, but he held free his hand out palm down and they obediently stilled.
Tucker scanned the alien's helmets and breathed a soft curse. The lowest ranking warriors there were the Honor Guard Ultras; the same type of soldiers that had defended the Prophets when they had been part of the Covenant. What the fuck had the New Federation gotten themselves into?
One of the Sangheili stepped forward, arrogantly standing his full eight-foot height and towering over the humans. The deep purple of his armor and the two spike-like protrusions on his helmet marked him a Field Marshal almost as much as the Class-2 Fuel Rod cannon he carried. Who speaks here? he demanded in his native language, the honks and blarghs at odds with the imperious tone.
Tucker swaggered to meet him, projecting as much cockiness as he was capable of producing as he ignited his sword, keeping it low at his side. He stopped out of range of his weapon but under the alien's field of vision. The marshal's lower mandibles twitched as he was forced to tilt his head to keep Tucker in sight, golden eyes blazing in anger.
"I do," Tucker said as they locked gazes.
The marshal clicked his mandibles speculatively as he took in Tucker's stance, position, and sword, his slitted pupils rounding slightly at the last. He resumed meeting Tucker's stare. Is the area secure, keyholder? he asked, sounding a hair less antagonistic.
"Yeah, it's safe," Tucker answered.
The marshal nodded and twitched his free hand in signal. The honor guard straightened as one, executing an about face and presenting their weapons. Tucker kept up the eye contact for a moment longer, then deliberately turned to look past the marshal in a show of dismissal.
Two figures in religious Ascetic armor exited the troop bays, a stranger in brown and a familiar face in green. He had only a second of alarmed realization before the Sangheili leader stepped out of the ship.
Tucker's heart stopped dead in his chest and his throat snapped shut. His vision tunneled; he no longer saw his teammates or the honor guard or the field marshal.
The only thing that registered was the young Sangheili, walking with a stately air as his magnificent blue-and-aqua robes swirled around him. He was the smallest one there by far, his head barely making it to Tucker's waist (though the ornate headdress added at least a foot). He came to a halt mere inches from Tucker, looking up without a word. His brown, round-pupiled eyes met Tucker's as if the polarized glass wasn't even there.
There was a long silence.
Tucker cleared his throat uncomfortably. He needed to say something, if only to break the growing tension. His voice barely made it out of his mouth, and when it did it was a cracked, feeble thing:
"Hey, Junior."