- Rainman89
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Read about the Forgotten Spartan I Program
Butane: To protect the world from devastation!
sir_brilliant: To unite all people within our nation!
Rainman89: To denounce the evils of truth and love!
sir_brilliant: To extend out reach to the stars above!
SpaceGhostFlyer: Jessie!
Butane: James!
sir_brilliant: Team Rocket blasting off at the speed of light
Butane: Surrender now or prepare to fight
sir_brilliant: Meowth, that's right!
another reminder to join the official fanfic group(link in my first post in this thread)
but more importantly here is chapter eight, completed...
Chapter Eight
0700 Hours, January 27, 2525 (Military Calendar) /
Richter System, Richter VII, Camp Ulysses,
Officer’s Barracks
Simmons woke up on the day they were to depart for Reach and started packing. He dressed in his fatigues and holstered his M6C. Once his Duffel was full of all his possessions he headed for his warthog. He clipped the duffel onto the back, and hopped in the driver’s seat.
He drove to the depot and handed it over. He walked the half a mile to the airfield where the pelicans were being prepped for take off. O’Donnell and Dominique were talking to the pilot of one of the pelicans. Simmons walked up to them, and without saying a word to either Dominique or O’Donnell, he turned to the pilot and said, “Let’s go.” The pilot obeyed and walked into the cockpit, as the mechanics rushed off the airfield. The doors to the pelicans closed, and their engines roared to life. Simmons attached his bag to the floor of the pelican and strapped himself into a crash seat as the drop ship took off.
Simmons looked around; Dominique and O’Donnell were sitting next to each other, quietly discussing something. With Simmons’ advanced hearing abilities, he could have paid attention, and hear every word, but he did not care to. There were also five other men from Simmons’ platoon. They were all quiet, some of them seemed frightened of Simmons, and no one was sitting within a seat of him. He felt the pelican accelerate as it cleared Richter VII’s atmosphere, and the ride became smoother. Simmons patiently waited as the pelican slowly approached the oncoming Montgomery, the ship was outfitted with over one hundred ODSTs, and Simmons was hoping to blend in, but that would mean he would have to stay away from the gym. Simmons rarely worked out anymore, Halsey had said it wasn’t necessary after the augmentation, but it felt strange nonetheless.
Simmons could feel the drop ship decelerate as it entered the Montgomery’s hangar bay, and gravity was restored. Once the pelican landed the marines started to pile out. Simmons waited for everyone to leave, and once the pilot had exited the cockpit he slowly exited the back hatch and walked to the corridor that would take him to his quarters.
He could hear whispers coming from the assorted pilots and mechanics in the crowded hangar, and most were directed at him. He ignored the looks and whispers, and quietly weaved his way through Pelicans and Longswords as well as one small ONI corvette. He wondered who the ONI officials aboard the Montgomery were, and if they knew about him.
Simmons arrived at the corridor and left the whispers and glances behind him. He walked down the corridor, which was luckily deserted. Simmons felt good to be alone. He was not always like this, but now he succumbed to the wish to be alone, to just think. And remember. There were only two things that made him comfortable now; being alone, or being in combat.
As he reached the end of the empty corridor he entered his quarters. He had requested to be as far from the main crew quarters as possible. He was finally completely alone. He dropped his duffel unceremoniously on the floor and sat on his bed. He thought about Reach, and the new Spartans, and Dr. Halsey. After five hours of sitting and thinking Simmons could feel his stomach churn from hunger, and prepared to leave for the Montgomery’s mess hall.
As he exited his room for the ship’s elevator his thoughts were suddenly thrown to his parents. He did not know why he was reminded of them, but sure enough he could not stop from thinking of them. His parents had been horrible people. His father abused him; that was why he started to work out. His mother insulted him often, so he began to study as well. He realized now, that though his parents, if they were still alive, were horrible role models, they had shaped him into the exemplary Marine he was. He had become fit so he could defend himself, and he studied to prove his mother wrong.
The horrible household had driven his brother to leave for the UNSC, just as it done to Simmons. His drive to be the best had led him to join the Spartan I program. He knew now that his parents were the reason for everything, good or bad, that happened in his life. He no longer blamed them, but accepted their role in shaping his life.
Simmons reached the elevator and stopped thinking about his childhood. As gravity fluctuated between the spinning decks of the Montgomery as it ascended Simmons simply stood there, the other passengers made quick glances at him, but that was normal to Simmons now, and did not bother him.
As Simmons entered the crowded mess hall, he could sense the feeling of awe that passed over the crew and Marines stationed on the Montgomery. Simmons had recently been measured at six foot ten inches, and he weighed in at three hundred pounds. He lowered his head as he entered and walked for the buffet line.
The ship was outfitted with a prototype portable hydroponics center, and there were ample, lush vegetables and fruits laid out. Simmons grabbed a tray and slowly advanced down the line. He noticed he was grabbing twice as much as the men in front of him, and started to pick less. Once he was through the line he scanned the mess hall. He looked for any members of his platoon, the only men who understood him, but he saw none of them. It reminded him of his days in the academy. Simmons had known what it was like to be alone well before his augmentation. As a child he was felt forced to be alone, and would not venture out into the world. At the academy that changed, he met Amacus, and finally had what he could call a friend. Now that Amacus was dead, Simmons had no one. He knew that wasn’t true, he had O’Donnell, and Dominique, but still he felt alone as he sat at an empty table and began to eat his plentiful meal. He could practically feel the burning glances cast by those around him. He simply sat and ate.
As he finished his meal he got up to leave the mess hall. Through his peripheral vision he could see three men get up as he did, and the followed him into the empty corridor. As they closed in on him Simmons turned around.
He quickly sized them up; there were two navy ensigns, and a marine private. The three men were all at least eight inches shorter than Simmons, and none weighed half as much as he did, but he knew they were looking for a fight. “Can I help you, gentleman?” Simmons asked, the ensigns cracked their knuckles and stared at him, but the private was unsure of himself, and involuntarily backed up a step.
“Yeah, freak, you can,” the ensign on the left said. Simmons didn’t want to aggravate the man, but would not stand for such a breach of rank.
“I am superior officer, not a freak,” Simmons told him. The ensign did not back down, but the private took another step backward. Simmons prepared for the fight he was now sure would come.
“Just shut up, freak,” the ensign said as he charged at Simmons. The private behind him turned and ran, “coward,” the ensign on the right said, as he too closed in.
“No,” Simmons said, now smiling, “smart.”
The first ensign attempted to grab Simmons around the waist, but he shrugged him off. The man was impressively strong, but still no match for Simmons augmented strength. The second ensign tried to land a punch. Simmons grabbed his wrist, and simply squeezed until he felt the bone crack, and the man fell to the floor. The ensign behind Simmons jumped on his back and attempted to choke him. Simmons grabbed the man’s knee. He pulled upward, and the man was sent flying to the ground, he landed on his back, and was slow to move. The second ensign had now gotten up, and was clutching his wrist. When he saw Simmons was still standing he prepared to punch again, this time with his left hand. Simmons sidestepped, and the man’s punch went astray. He had exposed his side to Simmons, who sent an uppercut into his ribcage. The man flew sideways into the bulkhead, then fell to the ground, and did not get up. Simmons strode away; he did not want to be involved when someone arrived at the scene.
Simmons walked to the Montgomery’s cryo section. He walked up to the engineer managing the sixty pods lined out on this deck. “Is it too late to have a pod?” Simmons asked. The man had the usual look on his face, as if he had stumbled upon a monster, but it went away faster than most others’. He quickly pulled up a registry of the pods and found an open one.
“If, you’ll follow me, sir,” he said, as he walked briskly to a row of small lockers, “You’re clothes,” he said as he opened one of the vacant lockers. Simmons stripped his clothing and placed them in the locker neatly. He closed the locker, and followed the engineer to an opened pod. Simmons hopped inside and the hatch closed.
He felt the gases flow into the pod and he slowly drifted to a deep sleep.