#staffsergeant-hoffman

The sound of morning reveille had long ago become a hated sound, a fact that didn't sit well with him on any morning, but even less than usual that day.  "...Nn..."  LCpl Damien Reaper jerked his head upright for what must have been the tenth time in that morning's formation, pale green eyes wide for a moment as he fought to stay awake as his new commander droned on and on, without heed or care for the fact that several of the new transfers to his unit hadn't arrived aboard the UNSC Onyx Wrath until close to 0200 hours, and that most of them hadn't slept but two, maybe three hours after reaching their assigned barracks. While he was used to a lack of sleep, he wasn't used to a commander being so damn dead set on a long, droning welcome speech before he'd had a chance to fully wake up, much less before he'd managed to grab himself a cup of coffee.  "-in closing, I want to make it clear to you all, I've reviewed your service records thoroughly," Their commander sternly gazed out over the gathered unit. "And I want to make it clear, those of you who are disciplinary problems-" Really, can't this shit wait? Damien did all he could not to roll his eyes, focusing instead on keeping them open so that he didn't fall asleep in place. So focused was he that he almost didn't realize when they were dismissed, and just barely managed to fall out in time with the others to ensure that his lack of attention wasn't noticed.  Dismissed, Reaper set to trying to weave his way through the early morning rush in the hallways towards the mess hall, his thoughts focused entirely on one thing, and one thing alone:  Coffee.  He managed to weave his way up nearer the front of the group of his unit mates, wearily taking a place in line behind a handful of others - none that he recognized from the shuttle that had brought him in - and rubbed at his eyes tiredly.  Can't this fuckin line go faster...

“You Ignorant Martian Bastard, I do tea-time complete with upraised pinkies, braid hair, and play house with the best of them!” 

“Yes, I could. Contrary to what my rugged and manly exterior might make you think, I’m actually decent with kids - had enough brothers and sisters that it’s kinda old hat to me to take care of em and entertain em. Bonus is I actually enjoy it if they’re well-behaved and well-mannered.”

The first thought that came to mind as he opened his eyes was that everything hurt. The second was that the world wasn't supposed to be upside down. Frederic-104 bit back a groan as he blinked hard, shaking his head in an effort to orientate himself, as his thoughts returned briefly to what had transpired en route to the combat zone. The drop was supposed to be a hot one - descend from several hundred feet above ground, fire thrusters and hit the ground shooting, a standard tactic. The others had managed their exit from the Pelican in good time, and he'd been about to when the chilling sound of a Banshee's engines had reached his ears, and the Pelican lurched beneath his feet as the pilot reflexively engaged in evasive maneuvers. "Fred?" The Chief's voice had sounded over his comms, and only someone who knew the man as well as 104 did could detect the tense undertone to his voice. "I'll catch up later," He'd replied, though they both knew all too well that he wasn't making any promises. "104, out." "We'll make every shot count. 117 out." "Keep going, Horner!" Fred had shouted to the pilot, receiving a short affirmation in return as he steadied himself, holding tight to the side of the drop ramp as he watched the Banshee coming around for another pass. "Seven o'clock, coming in fa-" That was when the shots came from below them, from a second Banshee that neither had seen coming. Between the bursts of the impact and the reflexive jerk of the Pelican as Horner tried to avoid fire, he'd lost his grip, thrown from the vessel and sent tumbling end over end. Dimly, he was aware of a few things - the ground approaching sickeningly fast, the proximity of both Banshees ensuring that even if he righted himself to fire the thrusters of his armor he'd be a deadman. The explosion of the Pelican as another burst of fire tore it apart before he pressurized the gel layer of his suit as he realized that hitting the roof his trajectory was leading him towards was an inevitability, then- Well then he woke up there, upside down and halfway through one of the floors of what seemed like it had once been a medical facility of some kind. He cursed softly under his breath as he wriggled his arms free and let himself fall the rest of the way to the floor, thankful that the floor below him held as he glanced back up to the rather impressive hole he'd left during a fall through what he wagered was at least four stories. A quick onceover revealed a lot of hurts but not a lot of major damage - he'd been lucky enough to take the fall from low altitude. He tapped the controls for his comms with his chin briefly, hearing nothing but static and the occasional hint of faint chatter from the usual bands his fellow IIs used, before he shook his head (a move he immediately regretted as an ache ran through it just behind his eyes) and tapped them again, scanning for the nearest live receiver. "Seems I lost my battle-buddies on the day down," He said, figuring that he'd earn himself more flies with honey than vinegar. "Anybody out there lookin for a friend?"

You gotta be shittin' me...  MGySgt. Damien Reaper sighed under his breath, as the commanding officer rattled off temporary housing assignments for those ODSTs unfortunate enough to have been pulled from their previous assignments for some contrived assignment that FleetComm or ONI had come up with, but hadn't yet seen fit to release the details or authorize debriefings for yet. SOP, hurry up and wait - Reaper was certainly used to the sometimes nonsensical way that the UNSC handled things, but this latest clusterfuck was insult on top of injury. Since the end of the war, and the seemingly ever-increasing push for ODSTs to join the Spartan-IV Program, it seemed like Jumpers were getting the short end of the stick with disorganized ops and less organized shipboard operational support.  And now this.  The fuck is this, boot camp? Kiddie school? We regular leathernecks all of a sudden? Reaper fought the urge to scowl, maintaining his bearing, as names were called off a long list for paired bunking assignments and soldiers fell out to make themselves scarce and keep the lot from bogging down the halls with mad dashes to see who got upper or lower bunks. Two ODSTs to a room was the plan for their temporary assignment aboard the UNSC Indomitable Will, which grated on Reaper's nerves more than he cared to admit. While he didn't mind a full-barracks style rooming assignment, and certainly didn't mind private quarters, the prospect of a melding of the two in close-quarters was making the sniper's thoughts already turn to all the myriad ways this was going to piss him off. Not only was he the only man from his unit pulled for the op, thusfar he hadn't seen a single familiar- "Reaper, Damien C.!"  "Sir!" He called back, torn from his inner grumblings as the commander in charge of their myriad mixed divisions reached him on the disorganized as hell list.  "89-A, Deck 19!"  He couldn't remember if he'd heard the numbers called before or not, as he fell out of formation, movements crisp and precise, before making his way out into the hallways. Once out of view of their temporary commander, the sniper's shoulders slumped, and a litany of muttered curses began to escape him as he stalked off towards his assigned room.  "... If I find some greenie little shitfuck in the bottom bunk, I'm gonna murder him..." 

It's important to note...  ... We were all sober.