Chapter 13 – Auxilia
January 21st, 2552 - (07:15 Hours - Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach
Enroute to Falchion Base, Aboard UNSC Frigate Lady of Leyte
:********:
The day was just beginning, the time was early and Sergeant Jaxon Dalton was already pissed off. First an arrival delay nearly totaling a full week, now this.
His squad was missing.
Not one or two of them but all of them were out of place. They had wandered off somewhere in the bowels of the ship. They had done so while he and the other NCOs were working out the last details of their unit assignments. He expected better than this of his troopers, especially of his second in command who he told explicitly to bring everyone to the hanger while he went to the meeting.
More than anything, he expected better of himself. Leaving the ship's galley where the NCOs had met, he went to the hanger not even expecting his squad to be there. He just wanted to believe that he did. Deep down that was not the case. Sure enough, they lived up to his real expectations of them. Their behaviors had slowly grounded away at the standards he held them to. Worst of all, he had let them do it.
All these years and was he now growing soft? Training Helljumpers, ODSTs, the best humanity had to offer for its own defense was his forte for the better part of 20 years. He prided himself on sniffing out weak links, not letting anyone reach the graduation stage that could tarnish the Helljumper reputation. Those memories felt like a rebuke considering how far his standards had fallen in the past few months.
He'd left the bay five minutes earlier and spent that time brooding over the situation. He passed down busy corridors and passageways, a difficult task given that the Lady of Leyte's crew were out and about. Naval engineers were running diagnostic tests on the intricate network of systems and components that ensured their reentry flight ran smoothly. He wished they decided to do that before he needed a clear path. The dozen or so tech specialists decked out in their overalls were using ladders, crates and anything else to reach and remove paneling in the ceiling and walls. They left things in his way, from stray wiring to arc welders. He occasionally tripped up on the equipment he couldn't see while navigating through the jungle of ladders and low-hanging circuitry.
He took an elevator up to the ship's C Deck. The doors slid open and he was relieved not to see the usual assortment of sparking obstructions typical of the maintenance teams. He walked along the corridor, clearing several compartments. They were mostly empty spaces as well as those occupied by the Leyte's off-duty crew. Upon reaching the seventh compartment, an empty crew quarters, he was ready to throw in the towel.
Then a thought changed his mind. He wasn't thinking from the perspective of his squad's most influential member, its unofficial second-in-command and most consistent troublemaker. Dalton made a bet that he was the entire reason why the rest of the gang weren't where they needed to be. He considered the place on the ship that made the most sense to be at the time while also making no sense at all given their circumstances. Realizing where that was, he returned to the elevator and arose to B Deck.
The doors opened, he stepped outside and immediately laid eyes on them.
Five figures stood silhouetted against the light of Epsilon Eridani that came streaming through a viewing window. They were facing away from him, watching the last of the reentry flames flicker off the window, revealing a world of blue skies and white clouds. As Dalton stepped closer, he made out their standard ODST fatigues. One of them had an old coffee stain that had browned part of the 'O' in 'ODST' on his shirt. His lack of decorum as well as his body language, how he sat carefree against the wall as he watched the world outside, helped Dalton recognize him right away. He could pick out that fault in discipline anywhere.
"Attention!"
The group jumped a bit, startled. Their instincts quickly took over and they reassembled themselves in front of him. That was good, Dalton thought. They could still respond to the basics. He was almost thankful that he got the chance to test them like this, to make sure they could still do those basics. Almost.
He came close enough that their faces were cleared of the morning light. He didn't need to see them to detect the tension. They all knew he had just caught them openly defying his orders...again.
He set his sights on the trooper with the stained shirt. His squarish face carried all the hints of his unrepentance. A strong jaw locked in a knowing smile; brown eyes haughty, sharp nose tilted up with the rest of his head so that he seemed to look down on his superior.
Dalton slowly turned from him to let his glower rest upon the trooper on the opposite end of the lineup. Her curly hair was cut short and yet she had half-shaved it in order to have some canvassing space. She left it for a comrade competent with the razor to etch a fiery death's head on the side of hers. Funny then how she looked in contrast, jaws shut tight with embarrassment, gray eyes shifting from left to right in search of a good explanation for her actions that wasn't there.
"Daz," Dalton said, his slight British accent causing it to come out more like an insult than a name. "Mind explaining what you're all doing here?"
Dasznow or 'Daz', his second in command, was now put on the spot. He wanted to see exactly what she would say. She had to know there were no excuses for this.
"Sightseeing, sir."
The two of them turned to the ODST with the stained shirt who was grinning from ear to ear, itching to tell a story that the sergeant was ready to hear. "What was that, Mackley? Sightseeing?"
Mackley nodded. "Yessir. We wanted to get a front row seat to Reach before we landed. It's our first time so I thought it'd be better if we made it special."
The rest of the squad shot nervous glances his way, quietly telling him to shut up.
Dalton smiled. "So what do you think?"
"It's a beauty, sir." Mackley laughed. "A real beauty. No rocky canyons everywhere, no dry riverbeds. It's not Mars, sir, so I'll take it."
"I see." Dalton returned to Daz. "And what do you think?'
She shut her eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I-, I went along with it."
"You wanted to go sightseeing too, did you?"
Shame made her close her eyes tighter. "No, sir."
"Then what?"
She bit her lip but said nothing more.
Dalton gave a slow, disappointed shake of his head. "Have some backbone for once, corporal. You can't expect them to show respect for the rank if you won't either."
Daz stiffened up but stayed quiet.
"We just wanted to have some fun, sir." Mackley piped in. "I mean, how often do we get to travel out of system like th-"
"Private?"
"Yessir?"
"Shut up."
"Yessir."
Dalton looked between the members of the squad, fixing each of them with a dose of his gaze. He needed them to see that he was being serious. The lack of humor in his expression quickly snuffed out Mackley's comedic spirit.
"I need you to understand something, troopers. This is no longer the reserves. You're not bystanders in this war anymore. Soon you're going to be an active part of it. I need you to act like it. First, understand the position that you're in. The training wheels are off. The guys we'll be rolling with treat their duties as a matter of life and death because it is. They won't take too kindly to anyone who doesn't do their job the same way. They won't want you watching their backs or taking point. They won't want anything to do with you honestly. The reason I know this is because I've spent years training people like the kind you're about to meet to be the way they are. To take everything that comes at them with the same seriousness that I'm trying to get across to you. I expect you to follow orders even when I'm not around, because I'm not your babysitter, I'm your squad-leader and you're my troopers. I'll be expecting much more from you and so will your new comrades. So forget what you did back in Sol. That's child's play. You're in the big leagues now. Out here, you better think fast and wise up or you'll be going back home in a body-bag faster than you can say 'oops'. Am I clear?"
"Sir, yessir." The squad replied but in a disorganized, weary cadence.
"What was that?" Dalton growled.
They gave a more hearty, unified response. "Sir, yessir!"
"Good. Now don't tell me 'yessir' and still do something else. It's been a while since I've been on the front and you guys have never been out here before, so both of us might end up being a little greener than we want to be. First impressions matter. Don't embarrass me on the first day, you got that?"
"Sir, yessir!"
Dalton surveyed them once more. He wanted to be sure there wasn't a hint of the unkempt defiance he saw a minute earlier. As he did, he noticed a growing break in the clouds beyond the window. A carpet of green landscape stretched far below it.
A woman's automated voice sounded through the ship's communication systems. "Attention. Attention. We are approaching our stationary position above the surface. All remaining ODSTs, please report immediately to Hanger-1 for disembarkation."
The message replayed itself.
Dalton checked them one last time to be certain they were ready. "Let's go."
:********:
The gentle hum of the dropship's engines helped Dalton to relax. The sound coming from outside proved surprisingly soothing throughout the flight. He came close to falling asleep a few times. However, his addled thoughts kept him preoccupied with five things, or rather five people.
Squad Whiskey was still a work in progress, a diamond in the rough or so he hoped. He routinely checked on each of them. Whiskey was spaced throughout the Pelican's bay to make room for another squad that accompanied them on the ride down. He'd known their faces too long to not perceive who was who in the dim lighting.
Mackley was off to the right side of the bay, occupying the seat closest to the rear door. With the anxiousness Dalton was picking up from him, it was obvious the young PSC was itching to be the first off the dropship. What mattered more to the sergeant was how exactly he was going to yank the kid's chain before he got too far ahead of everyone. He had a habit of jumping into things headfirst without thinking about where or how he was going to land.
Dalton found his 'chain' in the form of the corporal who sat adjacent to the antsy private. Daz was watching him closely this time, arms folded over chest, scoped in on Whiskey's veteran pain in the neck like a sniper sighting in on a target. Dalton found the comparison slightly hilarious, reason being that the guy she was focused on was the squad's actual sharpshooter.
He was more of a crack sniper, that is if feats he'd seen him pull off at gun ranges back on Mars were anything to go by. Mackley had a hard time focusing on anything or anyone for longer than several seconds, a strange contradiction considering his specialty. It was something he compensated for by hyper-focusing on whatever was put in front of him and acting fast. This consequently gave him one of the fastest reaction times that Dalton had seen in a while.
Daz on the other hand had a leveler head. She was able to keep track of things whenever they got too disorganized for most recruits to do the same. Hence why her previous officers had gotten her promoted to corporal shortly after her graduation. The main downside was that her hyper-awareness of the bigger picture tended to make her hesitate when a small action was needed. In her mind, she would stop to stare long and hard at the last two pieces of a complex puzzle in order to think about other places they could fit. In other words, she liked to overthink. That hesitation often left her vulnerable to Mackley's impulsiveness, and her lack of confidence usually made her a springboard for the marksmen's brashness. So long as Dalton himself was out of the picture, the power dynamics of Squad Whiskey revolved around those two. One had the rank. The other actually acted like he did.
That looked to be changing however. Daz was showing none of that trepidation at the moment in her stern-faced, no nonsense bearing. Perhaps the chewing out she'd received earlier had put some pep in her step. Or maybe it was the realization of how real things were about to get for the nascent squad. The spectacle of the clouds zipping by the rear door's viewing window was probably the main catalyst.
Her eyes shifted his way. Dalton nodded approvingly. After a shorter instant of uncertainty than he expected, she nodded back and returned to her vigil. Mackley in turn could care less. He was too enraptured with the sight on the other side of the door to be interested in anything else. The fact that he did made Dalton feel a smidge of relief. So he could in fact focus on something for longer than it took to kill it. This trip was probably getting to him and in a good way at that. Maybe he was starting to shape up as well. But his starry-eyed expression left much to the imagination as to what was actually going on in that thick skull of his.
Possibly through some act of divine intervention, Mackley was able to pull his attention away from the strip of reinforced glass. "Hey Sarge, what do you think our new place is like?"
"What do you mean?" Daz answered. "You saw it already, remember?"
"I'm sorry, are you the Sarge now?" Mackley turned to Dalton. "When were you going to tell us about your demotion, sir?"
"Would you shut up for a second?" Daz groaned. "I'm trying to get you to think."
Mackley looked her over and jabbed his chin at her. "What if I don't wanna, corporal?"
"My God. Just listen, marksmen. They gave us that site presentation before we left Erythraeum, remember?" Her eyes narrowed like she'd finally found her target. "Or were you not paying attention again?"
"Probably not." Mackley pointed to the man sitting next to him. "It was Lang's fault though. He's always chatting me up."
The conversation took yet another shift, this time taking aim at Whiskey's next member. A natural blonde buzzed down to a standard regulation cut, face shaped like an oval. He was as pink as a freshly picked peach, a characteristic that earned him his fair share of nicknames back during selection. However, his default expression was that of someone who had a joke to tell that everyone else could enjoy, of somebody who could listen to those nicknames, laugh them off then come up with an even funnier one on the spot. Langhorst or 'Lang' was the squad's best scout, forward observer and spotter. He was also the second-best shooter right behind Mackley who he frequently spotted for. The pair were good friends and had remained so since their days together at Camp Ravenport. Dalton was well aware of their capabilities because of that. He was also aware of their dynamics. They were equal opportunity troublemakers with Langhorst being the subtler of the two. Wherever one was, the other wasn't far behind. In Lang's case, not too far from Mackley to keep from doing what they shouldn't but always far enough to avoid getting himself caught.
Lang was following his usual tact as he shrugged off what was said. "Innocent old me? I was trying to see what amenities they got at the company quarters. You were the one talking up a storm at the presentation, pal, not me."
"Oh really?" Mackley dared. "Name some of the amenities then."
Lang counted them off on his fingers. "They got a floor for long-range communiques, they got a laundry area, air conditioning, elevators and other stuff."
"...What other stuff?"
Lang sighed. "You're trying too hard, Mack."
"You're not trying hard enough."
"And what about you? What do you remember?"
"Simple. They got a communiques floor, a laundry area, air con-"
"Other than what I just said."
Mackley stopped to think. "Um, okay let's see. They got..." He trailed off as he resumed staring out the viewing window.
Lang burst out laughing. "Nice try, man. Nice try."
"Hold on...they got hospitals, storage facilities, commissaries and-...hey-hey, I see a restaurant. Our place on Mars has nothing on this, hands down."
Lang was befuddled. "Wait, how'd you remember that?"
"I don't need to remember jack. I'm looking right at it, aren't I?"
The rest of the ODSTs in the bay were leaning in, turning towards the door, curious. Outside the rear window, the top of a large mountain came within sight as did dozens of other mountains, ridges, valleys and forests both near and far. The Pelican was descending. As it did, the base of the closest mountain came into view along with the series of structures built there.
To Dalton, the way Falchion Base was setup reminded him of the shape of a maple-leaf. The 7th's battalion headquarters began on a plain near the base of the mountain. It proceeded down the slope into five distinct extensions that reminded him of the steep neighborhoods he'd seen in Old San Francisco.
The pilot keyed in over the communications. "Fox-3-1 to ODSTs, we're about to wrap up our flight here. Landing in a few seconds. Recommend you wait until the seatbelt sign is off to move freely about the bay. The temperature outside is approaching 60 degrees Fahrenheit. The weather is great, the beaches are beautiful and the people here are nice when air control's not mistaking you for a Phantom. It's been a pleasure working with you as your pilot and I hope you have a wonderful day."
The bay was filled with laughter at the pilot's jest as they felt the Pelican's landing gear extend and make contact. A moment later, the ODSTs disengaged their safety harnesses and gathered up their duffels from the overhead netting. They were already waiting in two neat lines as the rear door unlocked. It fell backward into the world with the mechanical slowness of a drawbridge. Once it was down, the two lineups flowed freely into the outside world.
:********:
Falchion looked exactly like it did on the brochure, at least the way the 105th's logistics group had shown them before shipping them to Epsilon Eridani. At its outermost extensions it seemed to function like a self-contained town, separate from the rest of the base. The innermost area was a dense urban jungle of vehicle depots, storage and training facilities as well as every other facility needed at a long-established operating post. Glass, steel and reinforced concrete comprised the bulk of the architecture they passed. However, the otherwise basic structures possessed a spirit to them that he couldn't quite call standard.
The air of specialty came from the denizens of the location. They were a metropolitan-like mixture of off-duty and actively transiting personnel. Marine Jarheads, Navy Swabbies, Army technicians among others travelled in gangs and swarms. Their numbers created living streams of fatigue-wearing humanity that used the sidewalks and streets to channel here and there.
So many and yet he could hardly find a single ODST among them.
For a base built for Helljumpers, he thought they would have been present in greater numbers. The numerous service branches being represented in the crowds directly challenged that notion. Falchion was not the homogenous township he expected as much as it was a miniature city, more municipality than military. Still the telltale signs of armed MPs patrolling in Warthogs and Mongooses, manning checkpoints and street corners, reminded him that it was indeed a battalion headquarters.
Squad Whiskey drove through such checkpoints in their Warthog as part of a two-dozen strong convoy of troop carriers. Each Hog was filled to bursting with ODSTs, allowing the scheduled transports to carry all 140 of the 7th Battalion's reinforcements. The duffel-carrying, whistling and starry-eyed host were a composite of several ODST reserve units. There were plenty of Earth-born troopers like himself and Whiskey as well as those from other colonies. Though they were technically from reserve battalions stationed in high priority systems, Dalton refused to think of himself as a reservist. The title itself held too many connotations of being half-in and half-out, half civie and half wannabe. It was the type of person some active personnel liked to look down on. Even he did once upon a time. But there was no such thing as a reservist in the ODSTs. You were either a shock trooper or you weren't, none of that gray zone stuff. His group only counted as reserves in the sense that they were 'reserved' for the defense of those systems where they were stationed. In Whiskey's case, for the past six months it had been Sol.
That changed the second his battalion commander received an urgent order from the upper-ranks. They were demanding transfers to reinforce the 7th Battalion. Dalton knew the 7th well. He had quite a few buddies in his time who joined its ranks. He also had quite a few buddies that died in it. The same applied manyfold for the recruits he'd trained and shipped out, as it was for virtually any battalion.
Whiskey was among those chosen for the transfer to the 7th. Ahead of the slipspace trip, he ingratiated himself to the rumors that often floated around in the special forces community after a big battle. The latest one was Daedalus. Good news came out of that scenario on official channels. Everyone knew it was a victory without the Waypoint reporters having to dig too deep into the details of the cost. That kind of information came from word of mouth, and from what he'd heard, the word wasn't good.
The 7th Shock Troops Battalion suffered heavy casualties on Ballast. One of its companies was particularly savaged. The rumor was that half of Delta company was lost on one of the orbital defense platforms when the entire thing basically fell apart during its ascent. Burning alive while suffocating to death in a zero-oxygen, maximum G-force environment sounded like a horror typical to the ODSTs. There wasn't an honest soul alive among the shock troops who could say, if asked, that burning alive in their own pod wasn't their greatest fear. Getting captured or killed by the enemy was an easy second to that, making what happened to Delta that same nightmare scenario but compounded a thousand times over.
Dalton was worried about that for a variety of reasons. The main problem was the surviving troopers. Undoubtedly most of these new reinforcements were going to them. How kindly would the survivors take to having their good friends replaced? Those reinforcements were also overwhelmingly greenhorns, troopers that got put into reservist posts right after graduation. They would be unlike these frontline veterans of Delta in that way as well. He imagined there would be plenty of tension there that would need to be resolved.
Things would not be the same for Whiskey. Unlike the rest of the reinforcements, the crew had an absurdly greater standard to live up to: working alongside one of the most legendary squads in the whole battalion.
During that NCO meeting aboard the Lady of Leyte, he learned firsthand that his squad was to be assigned to a different company. Bravo company. He was also informed that Bravo's 1st Platoon was the battalion commander's go-to whenever he needed an important job done. He found the unit to be unbelievably strange upon reading into their file.
1st Platoon wasn't a platoon as much as it was a single squad. Their callsign, Epsilon, was a name he was surprised he had never heard of in the SF community given their track record. He found an extensive list of the battles and operations it took part in with engagements as early in the war as 2536. At first it impressed him. Then he realized he could still scroll down on the pad he was using and find even more engagements. His admiration turned to envy then finally into nervousness.
Extensive was not the same as exhaustive. He found a handful of ops on the list that held redacted information including names, descriptions and dates. What it told him right off the bat was that 1st Platoon were not your average ODSTs, people who as a group were comprised of those society would already deem above average. He wasn't certain why those up-top would want a green squad like Whiskey to join their ranks. That is until he reached the part of their file that showed the individual squads and troopers. After that, his worries about why Whiskey was chosen faded away. In their place remained the question of why no one had bothered to ask for them sooner.
Of the three squads that made up the platoon, two were suddenly and utterly annihilated in 2544. This included Squads Eagle and Echo along with their respective squad leaders, the latter of whom was the platoon captain. The only explanation for their deaths was the very brief descriptor: 'KIA - Miridem'.
The sole survivors remained within Squad Epsilon.
Learning this, he quickly asked his superior if it was a reporting mistake. There was no chance a squad managed to survive on its own for this long. His superior merely smiled at him like he'd overcome the same sense of disbelief before telling him to take a second look at their file. He did. The information he found there astounded him. Against all the odds, Epsilon had indeed continued to function on its own. Its list of unit citations and commendations that continued on from Actium were no longer impressive. They were miraculous. The squad hadn't just survived, they had thrived, doing everything in their power to make sure the enemy did neither.
Yet Epsilon had taken some losses too since their inception. The most recent was on Ballast with the death of a corporal 'Corry Deaks'. His demise on an unnamed operation marked the end of the most abnormally long survival streak he had ever come across for a UNSC unit, yet alone a squad of ODSTs.
Strangely, he noticed a string of deaths for those with the squad callsign 'Ep-8'. It struck him as an unlucky number given the list of several dead men associated with it. This pattern of death appeared to have stopped eight years ago with an ODST by the name of 'Duncan R. Iris.'
The name was vaguely familiar. He struggled to place where he knew it from. His inner concerns overruled his curiosity, however. He wanted to know whether Whiskey would prove a good fit for these vets of the highest order. Everyone in it aside from himself were recent graduates. They had existed as fully-fledged troopers for only half a year now. These guys in Epsilon were going hard against the Covenant on colony worlds while most of Whiskey were still battling with puberty and teenage angst in high-school. Epsilon's record, the parts he was allowed to see, were signs of a cohesive machine. Whiskey was still in the process of learning to follow orders when he wasn't around. The experience gap was huge. Too huge, he feared, to ever be bridged.
During the drive through Falchion, he determined that Whiskey could not be allowed to become a liability. Especially if it was joining a squad preferred by their new colonel for the riskiest and most important missions. Whiskey could not afford to hold them back. Worse yet, he could not let them become like those squads that failed to adapt to the frontlines. That kind that got themselves wiped out the moment they hit the ground. They needed to learn how to bring their A-game to every situation if they wanted to amount to anything in the eyes of their peers. He hoped that perhaps Epsilon could help him with that.
He purposefully kept the squad in the dark about the specifics of their reassignment. They were aware that they were joining Bravo company and that was about it. He hoped the squad's caliber would shock his troopers into improving themselves. His years as a drill instructor had taught him that there were fewer motivators better than personal insecurity cooked over the slow heat of peer pressure.
The convoy eventually broke up into groups that spread out towards their company quarters. The single Hog carrying Whiskey went straight to the Dante Building, a multi-story barracks that gave off the feel of a military-style hotel. Enough reductionism to avoid that fancy atmosphere but with sufficient class to avoid looking like a homeless shelter.
The Hog dropped them off at the door and they slipped on inside. The ground floor lobby was just that, a decent arrangement of chairs, tables, good lighting and a front desk. The squad ogled the sights and smells on their way over.
Their approach pulled the attention of one of the receptionists manning the front desk from her holo-screen. She pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose and gave them a classic customer service smile. "Good morning, troopers. How can I assist you today?"
"We're looking for 1st Platoon." Dalton said.
The receptionist began typing into her keypad. "Are you a part of the recent transfers?"
"That'd be us." Mackley said proudly. "So where're our guys at?"
"Well, knowing them, their probably either conducting, starting or finishing up a PT drill."
"PT, why would they be doing that? Isn't the fight good enough for them?"
The receptionist continued looking into the database streaming by on her screen. "You have to understand something, trooper. It doesn't matter what anyone else is doing, Epsilon's going to Epsilon. It's as simple as that."
Mackley scrunched his nose in confusion. "Wait a sec. Epsilon? That sounds like it's just a squad."
"What about the rest of the platoon?" Lang butted in.
The receptionist shook her head, her only response to his question. "Sorry for the wait. I have to confirm your identities in order to officially add you to the resident registry system. Can I get your service numbers?"
Dalton watched his squad out the corner of his eye, gauging their reactions to the news while he gave her his number. "48817-56311-JD."
"Thank you." She gracefully typed in his information. "Everyone else?"
The rest of the squad gave their numbers without a hassle or need for jokes. The newfound seriousness with which they spoke inspired a greater confidence in Dalton. In order to blend in with active-duty servicemen they first needed to act the part.
"You're all set." the receptionist said at typing in the last number. "Feel free to use our housing services anytime or call me personally if you need assistance around here."
"And our floor?" Dalton asked.
"Oh, sorry. You're on the 5th floor with the rest of 1st Platoon."
"And our room keys?" Mackley joked.
"No, we don't have those available in this building. The entire floor is one big open space for everyone to use."
Dalton saw the expectation in his squad's eyes die a little. Daz was the most affected. She stepped forward, visibly troubled. "Hold on. You're saying there's no individual rooms? No privacy?"
"Privacy?" The receptionist cocked her head quizzically. "What's that?"
Daz shivered, appearing horrified as she glanced between Mackley and Lang who didn't look too happy about it either. "You mean I still have to share the same space as these two?"
"Yup. My apologies, mam. I would offer you a different space if there were any. The rooms are unisex on every floor though."
"...And the bathrooms?"
"Don't worry. Those actually are divided by sex."
Daz breathed a sigh of relief. "That'll do I guess."
"Good to hear." The receptionist pointed behind her and far to the right towards an elevator. "That's your way up. Either that or the stairs. Remember, you can contact me if you need help."
Dalton gave her the thumbs up as he ordered the squad to the elevator. He was halfway there by the time he noticed the number of footsteps had gone down by a factor of one. He stopped and turned in the direction of the front desk.
A member of Whiskey was leaning onto the desk. From his confident posture and ladies' man smile, it was clear that PSC Reznik was trying to strike up a conversation of his own with the receptionist. Definitely not one conducive to the squad's current objective. The brown-topped caricature of wanton charisma kept himself well-groomed, a stubbled beard connected to a suave hairstyle by a pair of faded sideburns. He looked like the type that could've been a model for men's suits if he wanted. He indeed was for a time, however he never stayed with it. He chose the service over a career in being handsome, instead becoming the squad's resident demolitionist. That's not to say that he left his old ways behind. It tended to rear its ugly head in his romantic life. Like his explosives, his many one-time relationships with women both inside and outside the ODSTs followed the same pattern. They were primed for success but quickly detonated into oblivion. The consistent factor to each and every one of them was him. Yet here he was not learning his lesson and trying to make some other innocent heart pay the price for it.
"Reznik." Dalton called.
The commanding tone of his voice quickly disrupted whatever gains Reznik had made on his newest mark. The receptionist politely hailed him off as he hurried after them. Despite the setback, he peered over his shoulder back in her direction. To Dalton's dismay, so did the receptionist.
Lang came up next to his squadmate and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey Rez?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do it."
"Don't do what?"
"You know what I mean."
Reznik rolled his eyes and snickered. "I'm just making new friends."
"With benefits." Daz sighed.
"And I can tell she's got plenty of those." Mackley laughed.
"Leave her alone, will you?" Daz warned. "Both of you."
"What, I didn't say anything."
"And I didn't do anything." Reznik said. "So get off my case."
"Oh, so you admit you have a case?" Lang teased. "Hey Sarge, I think he caught another case of that one-night one-bite syndrome."
The squad got a moment to laugh at the expense of their teammate. Dalton ignored them as he pressed the elevator. A minute later the doors dinged and opened. It was already full. Whiskey had to move aside to let a group of troopers step out. Their numbers and the general air of unity around them helped him deduce that they were a squad. They were being led by a distinctly Slavic man with tiger stripe patterns in his hair and an intense demeanor. He was too busy talking to one of them, a tall and buff jock of a man, to take notice of Whiskey. Their conversation, more a mild argument, made his Russian accent stand out amidst the chatting within the squad.
One of them caught Dalton's attention, a trooper that stuck to the back of the group. It was the face that seemed awfully familiar. The eyes, a set of deep blue that were off somewhere in their own world, triggered a hazy memory. It was one of those times he knew that he had met someone before but couldn't quite place where or when.
The trooper went on by along with the rest of his squad. The experience left Dalton wishing Epsilon's file came with personal photos. At least that way he would have known if he'd just run into them or not.
"Sarge, you good?" Lang asked.
Reznik traced his gaze to the ODST. "You know that guy?"
"I don't know." Dalton said. "I think I do. Not sure."
They piled into the elevator and Dalton pressed the 5th floor.
"Maybe you trained him before." Daz suggested as the doors closed and the elevator lifted.
"Makes sense." Mackley agreed.
"You probably trained too many people." Lang proposed. "Now every face has got to be familiar to you, 'cause at one point you might've had your boot on it."
The squad got another little laugh out of it. Dalton wanted to be sure it would be their last for the day. "Mouths shut and eyes peeled, people. First impressions."
"Yessir." They declared, though not altogether in the same earnestness that he was after.
He realized it was too late once their ascension ceased and the doors opened.
The first things he noticed were the bunks. There were plenty of them. More, he wagered, than they would need for a whole platoon. Far more than a squad would use. The bunks were arranged like a maze of steel frames, rectangular mattresses and meticulously folded sheets. The hallmark of a squad that took itself seriously.
The squad stepped out into what seemed the only area of open space in front of the elevator. Dalton turned and was surprised to see that the housing of the elevator shaft was no longer embedded in the walls. It was actually in the middle of the space, leaving more room for an ocean of bunks on the other side.
Mackley whistled. "All this for a platoon? Nah, this could fit half a company."
"Better to have more than you need than not enough." Reznik figured.
"Maybe." Mackley sighted in on one of the bunks. He threw his duffel to the side, plopped down into the bottom bunk and relaxed. He laid his head on the side without the pillows so that he could lay his boots on the pillows themselves. "That's better."
Daz came up to him. "Hey stupid, the pillows are for your head, not your boots."
"I know."
"You-, ugh, come on, you can't-"
"Hey stupid," Dalton called more firmly. "The pillows are for your head, not your boots. Move."
Mackley quickly corrected himself and laid down the proper way. "Yessir."
Daz exhaled dejectedly. Mackley shot her a look that dared her to try doing the same. Before she could give him a piece of her mind, a member of Whiskey, the last of its ranks, walked over. Despite his shorter build compared to the average trooper, PSC Berlin tended to make up for it with a big heart. His timid appearance, a slim goatee framing a mouth that spent most of the day staying shut, was reinforced by thick eyebrows that tensed as he went through the mental gymnastics of thinking up something to say. Whatever might make his squadmates stop arguing. It was among some of the few occasions where he would talk openly. As the squad's tech specialist, human interaction was not his forte. All the same he had a habit of speaking his mind when it really mattered.
"You guys?" He said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think we should be sitting in these bunks."
"Yeah, why's that?" Mackley asked.
"Well, these look pretty old, like someone's kept them this way for a while. They might have it like that for a reason. I think we should check with Epsilon first before we settle down."
Mackley shot Daz a nefarious grin. "Okay, Mr. Peacemaker. Since you asked nicely." He got off the bunk and patted his smaller squadmate on the shoulder. "Let's find them then."
The squad progressed further into the room. Berlin stayed behind to fix the sheets on the bunk Mackley had rumpled up then followed after them. There was no sign of anyone in the room and the arrangement of the beds made it difficult to navigate. Dalton imagined the squad that lived here knew their way around like the back of their hands, explaining why they didn't bother clearing a path.
The group were nearly to the wall when Mackley perked up. "Heyo, what's that?"
Dalton looked in the same direction and could hardly see what he was staring at. "What is it?"
"That can't be real." Mackley chuckled. "No way." He steamed on ahead of them, giving Dalton an uneasy feeling.
"What is it?" Daz echoed.
"Come see for yourself."
Dalton watched the sniper disappear deeper into the labyrinth before reappearing in a clearer spot. He quickly tracked the path he'd used and the rest of Whiskey followed close behind.
The room's wall was right in front of them. So were the lineup of beds that were given arguably the best view of the base from the windows there.
Mackley was approaching one of the beds. Dalton moved to stop him. His first step forward was his last as he fully observed what the private had just found. It was like something out of a horror film, like the personal collections of the shamans of old Britannia.
It was an ordinary bunk. Mostly. The abnormal, and if he was more open-minded to that kind of thing, the paranormal began with the myriad of strings that hung from the upper bed to drape over the lower. On them were placed a host of teeth that were obviously from different species. He soon realized they were necklaces. The squad held their breath while they looked closer. He wondered if they were just as relieved as him after finding that there were no human teeth up there.
Mackley decided on an even closer look. He stepped right up to the bed, awed at the oddities that swayed in the morning light.
"This is...unreal, man." He reached out for a necklace with inhumanly massive canines. "Whoever made these must be one real hell of a trooper."
"He was."
Mackley stopped dead in his tracks, his fingertips almost brushing against the canines. He whirled around to Dalton and the rest of the squad. But they were already turned elsewhere, to the mysterious woman that leaned against a nearby bunk.
Dalton was certain he hadn't heard her come in. Was she just that quiet? The mystery slowly faded away at spotting the 'ODST' branding on her shirt. Her drab fatigues bore a stark contrast to the rest of her. She was a redhead, distinguishably eastern-European in the face with emerald eyes that pierced as she stared them down.
"Now, who are you?"
Auxilia - Reinforcements
