Sanders Henderson had never planned on joining the UNSC. He'd never planned on running, screaming away from the Covenant. He never dreamed he would see another world. And all because of something stupid he did.
Sanders was the proud third brother of seven kids of a family that consisted of a librarian and a curator. Although it was speculated his ancestors could be traced back to the Crusades, Sanders had never been one to actually like fighting, although that didn't mean he didn't enjoy watching it. One day, however, in a fairly drunken rage, he managed to become a public disturbance at four AM and was detained by law enforcement shortly after.
Despite the various accusations including the theft of at least five animals, most of them being birds and one goat, and the incineration of a toy store, Sanders was offered the option to clear his sentence if he joined the military. And so he did just that, hoping to be stationed somewhere he could lie around idly by, not doing anything of substantial value.
~~##~~
In other words, Sanders Henderson was one very upset man when he received word that the Covenant were on Reach. He would have to leave his nice job at the medical tent and fight the aliens he had signed on to battle, but avoided with careful excuses.
More upsetting was the fact that he would be joining a team of Spartans. Sanders stood before the desk of his commanding officer, jaw gaping to the floor after just receiving the news that he had been assigned as Noble Team's replacement soldier for the time being.
"But I'm a Private First Class. Not a First Lieutenant." Sanders stated bluntly.
"There is no other suitable replacement, Henderson."
"But I'm a medic. I don't even do guns."
"You are dismissed, Henderson. You'll meet with with Noble tomorrow morning at Visegrad."
Taking a deep breath, Sanders turned on his heel and walked out the door, closing it behind him. Forgetting that the walls of the base were rather thin, and that there was a window in the door to his commander's office, he threw his arms up in the air, and shouted.
"GOD DAMN IT!"
~~##~~
The shotgun fired at whatever moved, Sanders trigger happy fingers popping shotgun pellets as fast as he could reload them. But his aim was crap.
Kat's shields lit with static as the pellets peppered her. She spun around, pausing from firing her magnum at the few Grunts still remaining around them to yell at him,
"Henderson! Watch your aim!"
"Shut up!" He yelled at the female Spartan in his amusingly unusual British accent, "Women shouldn't be on the battle field!"
Kat took out her irritation at his comment by headshotting every remained Grunt there. "How about we stop the gender-bashing?!"
"Don't blame me!" He exlaimed, shotgun now hanging even more uselessly than before (was it possible?) at his side. "Blame my ancestry!"
"Ancestry has nothing to do with sexism!" Kat exclaimed at him.
"Then it was my upbringing!" He quickly came back with a second excuse.
Kat face-palmed herself with her robotic hand. This was going to be a long day.
~~##~~
Sanders stroked his moustache thoughtfully. The six members of Noble Team were camping out for the night in an abandoned house, complete with food and, more entertainingly, booze. But not for Henderson. He hated any alcohol after the incident that landed him in the military. While Jorge jaunted into the living room with two barrels of the amber colored liquid, Sanders sneaked out the back into the kitchen.
Maybe he could sneak out of the house and claim diarrhea or something in the morning. Or maybe he could desert the military altogether. . .But no. That wouldn't work. Surely one of the five Spartans would catch him.
Looking over at the counter, Henderson noticed another bottle of beer-but wait. Squinting, he could read the lable in the dim light. Ginger ale.
"Yesss." Henderson pumped his fist. He picked up a large beer mug, filled it with the ginger ale, and strutted back into the room with the rest of the Spartans. "Helloooo, Noble. Nice evening isn't it? Nice beer too, huh?" He purred, feeling even more full of himself than usual. The Spartans were all drinking real alcohol, surely they'd be drop-dead drunk and would never figure out that he himself wasn't drinking along with him.
But it didn't take long for the Spartans' advanced senses of smell to discover that their newest, most annoying member was enjoying a nice cold soda.
~~##~~
"It's an Elite!" Sanders yelled at the top of his lungs, his shotgun hanging uselessly in one hand at his side.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious." Emile growled as he took on the Elite, assaulting it with machine gun fire. The great alien fell at his feet, but neither of the two noticed a second Elite creep up behind Henderson. The towering alien pulled back its active camoflauge arm and prepared to strike the pathetic human with its energy sword. . .
When the Elite's active camo wore off. The three of them just stood there, completely stunned. Emile staring at the Elite, the Elite staring at Emile, and Sanders deciding whether to shoot or run like hell from whatever was casting that big-ass shadow over him that he didn't dare to look at.
Run like hell. Opening his mouth so wide that his great, bushy manhood-er, moustache, poked into his nose, he screamed, "RETREAT!" Breaking into a sprint instantly, Henderson took off into the hills surrounding the area, leaving behind Noble Team and the Covenant.
He didn't stop running or plan to until something changed in him, or rather, something old and persistent and rather. . .noble. . .came over him.
I can't leave them now, He thought, looking down at the battlefield from atop a hill. They need me.
Private First Class Sanders Bartholomew Henderson broke into another run. This time, like the last, his shotgun was almost completely forgotten in his hands, he was running as hard as he could, and he was yelling at the top of his lungs.
"TAKE THIS YOU ALIEN BASTARDS!" He screamed, entering the battlefield as Noble Team's newest recruit.
