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mood |
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 bored |
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SPARTAN-918, Lacrimosa, sat upright in the passenger hold of the buckling Pelican. It was impossible to sit otherwise in the bulky MJOLNIR armor, but she was pretty sure it helped; one had to be alert at all times…at least that’s what she was told.
The twenty-forth of September marked the day of departure. Two weeks ago she and a few other SPARTAN troops were told by authorities that they were being relocated to the Siberian ice lands, from their recent stay in New Mombasa as a regular company move. It was kept very hush-hush as not to create a stir among the population; after all, since the catastrophic missing number of SPARTANs in Dr. Hasley's project, which was reduced from 75 pre-enhancement, to 33 surviving, to 4 remaining, ONI wanted to keep a watchful eye on these troops for those who knew of their existence...
The Pelican roared beneath her seat as every buckle that strapped her in clashed against her armor, turbulence was normal on these flights and most pilots were all but reckless.
“Ain’t nothin’ to worry about,” rang a voice inside her helmet as the pilot spoke over the communication line, “Just a few bumps in the road...storms a comin’”.
Lacrimosa looked up and down the bucket seat walls subtly to see if she recognized any familiar faces or helmets on-board She knew there were several more Pelicans in flight carrying members of various teams, but out of every randomly selected roster there was at least one face she remembered. None here, she thought to herself.
This had to be one of the most mind-numbing flights of her life.
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okay
contemplative