Post by EmperorMyric on Dec 17, 2017 13:33:47 GMT
"Leone! You squared away?" About ten meters below the open cockpit of the Hellion, stood a Minevan in a pilot suit; Chief Blanchard. The man was about ready to shout again, just before a head emerged from the cockpit.
"Am now," The woman called back, reaching her arm out in the open with a thumb up. She immediately retreated back into the Hellion's depths, disappearing from Blanchard's sight. The Chief turned, drawing a breath to shout across the hangar bay once more.
"Lieutenant-"
"I heard, Blanchard!" A distant voice rang through the open expanse, its source almost indiscernible. Across the long hangar, dozens of squadrons were preparing their units. The Eagles and their older brothers, the Black Eagles, had been stored in the reserve bays, to create more room for the Hellion corps and their maintenance. The bay was bustling with activity, but very ordered. Everything was going by pre-battle procedures; massive weapons being fitted with munitions and towed, last-minute diagnostics were being run and rerun, and the pilots about were given their time to mentally and physically prepare themselves for what was to come.
In separate hangars, other personnel were also preparing for the ominous landing. Some of these hangars, however, weren't accommodating Hellion corps. In one particular hangar, swathes of infantry were forming and loading up. From the designs of their full-helms and visors, that only a few men were wearing at the moment, it was evident that the force was made of Marines. Heavy Infantry Marines, at that; obvious from the designs of their large armor plating that didn't seem to encumber them too badly.
A few enlisted men were by the strewn supply crates, garnering their gear and exchanging banter. Their conversation was cut once they realized the deliberate footsteps of a steel-faced Section coming their way. The enlisted men stood, some in a more disciplined manner than others. The Section, however, had her eyes set on a single Sergeant. "Evans," The junior officer spoke, "Can you tell me what that is on your pauldron?"
Sergeant Evans brought his left shoulder to bare at the officer, "Ah, uh, Section Vauban. It's the Schultes coat of arms." The emblem on Evans' pauldron was a dull red herald, with two vertical white stripes running its height. The Sergeant relaxed his stance after the Section didn't immediately reply. After a few dead seconds, Vauban's blank expression cracked a smirk.
"How did you get that?"
"One of the Navy guys offered to paint it on," Evans shrugged.
The Section nodded. After a moment, Vauban grabbed a passing Navy Korpral by the shoulder and left her platoon. From the looks of it, it seemed plenty of other men and women across the hangar were getting the coat of arms painted in various spots as well. It seemed that the energetic air of the Heavy Infantry was fueled with the courage of the late Commissar.
As if on queue, another officer approached their group. His white hair was shaved into a warhawk, and his face was rugged and gritty. His expression, however, didn't exude confidence like the rest of the men. This was Price Company's Captain. It seemed that the trend had still reached him, though; the Schultes coat of arms was blatantly laid on his chest
"Captain Martel," Evans remarked, smile plain on his face, "What's the matter? You look worse than that Spartan Battlegroup."
Martel shot him a hard look, although a smirk was able to permeate from the enlisted man's audacity. He knew cracking statements was an odd way to pay respects towards the fallen, but it was as typical amongst Minevan warrior culture as veneration was.
"They fought hard, and they died hard," Martel stated, firmly nodding. The company was just about wrapped up, fastening their gear in prep for the imminent drop. The men and women of Price Company were converged on him, now.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure you know what's going on." He surveyed the group before him, and noted they were silent. All noise came from the bustling rest of the hangar. All eyes were on Martel. "The Hellion Corps are jumping right now. Those hardy sons of bitches are going to gun it to the surface, and blow the everloving shit out of whatever they find. Once they're done-"
Martel paused, bringing his voice to a level to make sure that all heard him, "Once they're done, the 1st Heavy- that's us," The mention of their uniform summoned a few light cheers from several of the infantrymen, "Are going to ride down with the 24th Armored and make the wasteland our own. Ura?"
In unison, the entirety of his company shouted the ancient battle cry back his way; "URA!"
"Last chance, people; do what you gotta do and mount up," Captain Martel slammed a gloved fist on his armored chest with a nice 'thud', doing their salute the best he could. Every man and woman put their right fist over their heart in the same fashion.
"Am now," The woman called back, reaching her arm out in the open with a thumb up. She immediately retreated back into the Hellion's depths, disappearing from Blanchard's sight. The Chief turned, drawing a breath to shout across the hangar bay once more.
"Lieutenant-"
"I heard, Blanchard!" A distant voice rang through the open expanse, its source almost indiscernible. Across the long hangar, dozens of squadrons were preparing their units. The Eagles and their older brothers, the Black Eagles, had been stored in the reserve bays, to create more room for the Hellion corps and their maintenance. The bay was bustling with activity, but very ordered. Everything was going by pre-battle procedures; massive weapons being fitted with munitions and towed, last-minute diagnostics were being run and rerun, and the pilots about were given their time to mentally and physically prepare themselves for what was to come.
In separate hangars, other personnel were also preparing for the ominous landing. Some of these hangars, however, weren't accommodating Hellion corps. In one particular hangar, swathes of infantry were forming and loading up. From the designs of their full-helms and visors, that only a few men were wearing at the moment, it was evident that the force was made of Marines. Heavy Infantry Marines, at that; obvious from the designs of their large armor plating that didn't seem to encumber them too badly.
A few enlisted men were by the strewn supply crates, garnering their gear and exchanging banter. Their conversation was cut once they realized the deliberate footsteps of a steel-faced Section coming their way. The enlisted men stood, some in a more disciplined manner than others. The Section, however, had her eyes set on a single Sergeant. "Evans," The junior officer spoke, "Can you tell me what that is on your pauldron?"
Sergeant Evans brought his left shoulder to bare at the officer, "Ah, uh, Section Vauban. It's the Schultes coat of arms." The emblem on Evans' pauldron was a dull red herald, with two vertical white stripes running its height. The Sergeant relaxed his stance after the Section didn't immediately reply. After a few dead seconds, Vauban's blank expression cracked a smirk.
"How did you get that?"
"One of the Navy guys offered to paint it on," Evans shrugged.
The Section nodded. After a moment, Vauban grabbed a passing Navy Korpral by the shoulder and left her platoon. From the looks of it, it seemed plenty of other men and women across the hangar were getting the coat of arms painted in various spots as well. It seemed that the energetic air of the Heavy Infantry was fueled with the courage of the late Commissar.
As if on queue, another officer approached their group. His white hair was shaved into a warhawk, and his face was rugged and gritty. His expression, however, didn't exude confidence like the rest of the men. This was Price Company's Captain. It seemed that the trend had still reached him, though; the Schultes coat of arms was blatantly laid on his chest
"Captain Martel," Evans remarked, smile plain on his face, "What's the matter? You look worse than that Spartan Battlegroup."
Martel shot him a hard look, although a smirk was able to permeate from the enlisted man's audacity. He knew cracking statements was an odd way to pay respects towards the fallen, but it was as typical amongst Minevan warrior culture as veneration was.
"They fought hard, and they died hard," Martel stated, firmly nodding. The company was just about wrapped up, fastening their gear in prep for the imminent drop. The men and women of Price Company were converged on him, now.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure you know what's going on." He surveyed the group before him, and noted they were silent. All noise came from the bustling rest of the hangar. All eyes were on Martel. "The Hellion Corps are jumping right now. Those hardy sons of bitches are going to gun it to the surface, and blow the everloving shit out of whatever they find. Once they're done-"
Martel paused, bringing his voice to a level to make sure that all heard him, "Once they're done, the 1st Heavy- that's us," The mention of their uniform summoned a few light cheers from several of the infantrymen, "Are going to ride down with the 24th Armored and make the wasteland our own. Ura?"
In unison, the entirety of his company shouted the ancient battle cry back his way; "URA!"
"Last chance, people; do what you gotta do and mount up," Captain Martel slammed a gloved fist on his armored chest with a nice 'thud', doing their salute the best he could. Every man and woman put their right fist over their heart in the same fashion.