1st Lieutenant Horatio Grainer
Four miles east of the northern pelican crash site, island two.
Horatio clambered out of his drop pod with his chest full of fire, and his left leg feeling akin to broken glass. His landing had been rough; for a moment, he thought he wouldn't make it.
And as he put weight on his left leg, he momentarily wished he hadn't. The pain was mind numbing, like a bright crash of lightning.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, switching his weight to his right leg.
Each breath caused a spider web of pain to span his torso, telling him he'd certainly cracked a rib or two. He hoped that was all he'd done; an internal injury would leave him shit out of luck.
Horatio tried to take his mind off the pain steadily encroaching on his body, and peered around. The environment was similar to a lush rainforest, like those found on earth. The sky above was blue and clear; a pale outline of a moon stood at its zenith. A few indigenous animals cawed and cooed in the background, reminding the getting-too-old-for-this-shit lieutenant of some kind of fictional paradise.
And then he heard the hum of a Type 25 Covenant dropship's engines, and it was getting louder by the second.
"Fuck," he sighed, gritting his teeth over the pain.
He instinctively reached for the radio attached to his left breast, but his hand came away holding shattered plastic and wires. He'd of launched another obscenity, but his chest was having none of it. Any more talking was going to put him in an early grave at this rate, and he wasn't much into the idea of cashing out early.
Not like those poor bastards on Reach.
Grabbing his M7S, which thankfully hadn't shared the same fate as his leg or his radio, Horatio hobbled away, and threw himself into some thick undergrowth just as the Type-25 crested the canopies surrounding his drop pod. It hovered there briefly, and the injured 1st lieutenant prayed to whatever deity would hear his calls: let them pass.
The Type-25's engines slowed to dull thrum, and the stiff Y-shaped dropship started to descend.
Horatio wasn't going to run; he couldn't. Instead he chose to lay low in the thick greenery, hoping for a moment that none of it harboured anything dangerous, and pulled back the receiver on his M7S. They'd either move on, or they'd find him; he was probably fucked in both cases.
Four miles east of the northern pelican crash site, island two.
Horatio clambered out of his drop pod with his chest full of fire, and his left leg feeling akin to broken glass. His landing had been rough; for a moment, he thought he wouldn't make it.
And as he put weight on his left leg, he momentarily wished he hadn't. The pain was mind numbing, like a bright crash of lightning.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, switching his weight to his right leg.
Each breath caused a spider web of pain to span his torso, telling him he'd certainly cracked a rib or two. He hoped that was all he'd done; an internal injury would leave him shit out of luck.
Horatio tried to take his mind off the pain steadily encroaching on his body, and peered around. The environment was similar to a lush rainforest, like those found on earth. The sky above was blue and clear; a pale outline of a moon stood at its zenith. A few indigenous animals cawed and cooed in the background, reminding the getting-too-old-for-this-shit lieutenant of some kind of fictional paradise.
And then he heard the hum of a Type 25 Covenant dropship's engines, and it was getting louder by the second.
"Fuck," he sighed, gritting his teeth over the pain.
He instinctively reached for the radio attached to his left breast, but his hand came away holding shattered plastic and wires. He'd of launched another obscenity, but his chest was having none of it. Any more talking was going to put him in an early grave at this rate, and he wasn't much into the idea of cashing out early.
Not like those poor bastards on Reach.
Grabbing his M7S, which thankfully hadn't shared the same fate as his leg or his radio, Horatio hobbled away, and threw himself into some thick undergrowth just as the Type-25 crested the canopies surrounding his drop pod. It hovered there briefly, and the injured 1st lieutenant prayed to whatever deity would hear his calls: let them pass.
The Type-25's engines slowed to dull thrum, and the stiff Y-shaped dropship started to descend.
Horatio wasn't going to run; he couldn't. Instead he chose to lay low in the thick greenery, hoping for a moment that none of it harboured anything dangerous, and pulled back the receiver on his M7S. They'd either move on, or they'd find him; he was probably fucked in both cases.