- Dragonzzilla
- |
- Intrepid Legendary Member
Ignore my gamertag. It's actually Dragonzzilla.
PROLOGUE
1200, January 1st, 2518 [Military Calendar]
Olympic Tower, East Medical Wing
New Alexandria, Planet Reach
Staff Sergeant Wilton McNeil couldn't feel his check. Actually, he couldn't feel much at all. It felt like he was missing the left side of his ribcage, his arm felt like it was going to fall off (if probably might), and his neck had the most terrible creak. But it wasn't his body McNeil was worried about; wounds and bones heal, but pride doesn't. He was training one of the Spartan-IIs.
"Well, Doctor?" Wilton coughed as he laid on the table.
Doctor Duane Haynes stroked his grey beard, holding a chart in his hands. He put the chart down and shifted his eyes to McNeil. "Well, Sergeant. I've got good news and bad news, take your pick." McNeil attempted to lift himself up, grunting in pain on the way up.
Duane advised, "Careful, Sergeant." Duane added sarcastically, "Since you think you're in such a good condition, I'll tell you the bad news." The veteran doctor picked up his chart again and showed it to Duane.
"See this, Sergeant?" Duane asked.
"Yes," McNeil answered.
"This is your skeleton before today's events," McNeil saw a healthy skeleton on the paper. "This is after," the next page revealed the same skeleton, but some of the bones were misplaced, some were broken, while one of them were outright snapped.
"It's amazing you're still alive, Sergeant. If it weren't for the medics that brought you in, we'd probably be writing your Last Testament." Duane said as he scribbled on a notepad.
McNeil breathed, "Lucky me."
"Indeed. The good news is that my medicine will have you back on your feet in three months." Duane informed. "But Sergeant, I have a question; natural curiosity really. Can you perhaps answer it?"
"Doc, if you're going ask what the square root of the Universe is, I'm afraid I'll have to turn you down."
Duane chuckled, "Even though that would be interesting to know, that wasn't going to be my question. Your skeleton was in example condition, and then suddenly medics bring you in with your skeleton turned into a pile of pudding. My question, Sergeant, what happened?"
McNeil didn't answer. It wasn't because he didn't want to; the memory was as fresh as his wounds. The kid -or Spartan better yet- was taller than most of the others, and was quick. He was exceptionally strong, even for his age. And from what McNeil has observed, this particular Spartan was as tough as bricks; he had high amounts of stamina and willpower, also quite "hardy" as some of other trainers stated. At first glance, this kid was the perfect soldier. But there was a counter for the potential superweapon that this kid was; it was his anger management and his dying devotion for his friends.
One time, a trainer kept pressuring the Kid during rifle training. Poor sob got a rifle butt to his gut and then his back. Kid had to do 200 reps of almost every exercise in existence and had to live through the rest of the day without dinner. McNeil remembered the other trainers talking about something similar a year back September 24th he believed the first day for the Spartans. McNeil didn't want to remember earlier today, so he said, "Let's say I had a disagreement."
Duane sighed and said, "I thought as much. Your pride was broken by a young man and now you refuse to speak."
"How did you know?"
"You have to give people some credit, Sergeant. It was on the report. But I'm still perplexed by how a kid did this do you,"
"Anger is one hell of a stimulate I guess. So, what are you going to do to the Spartan?"
"What else, I'm going to recommend that Kid for Project Úlfhéðnar."