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| - "Christ, how long until we're there already?" Deming asked, cracking an ‘am I right?’ smile that scrunched up his fair, twenty-something face to look even younger. Of the couple weak laughs he got from the rest of his team, none were from Russel Dunlap, and not just because it was Deming's fifth time pointing it out this trip. Reminded of how long he'd been hunched over, half-sitting and half-standing in what the designer of the Pelican's troop bay had charitably called a 'seat', Dunlap shifted and stretched. His movement changed the patterns of shadow and dim blue light across his squarish GEN2 Defender helmet, resting on his titanium-plated knee. The azure glow glinted in the visor and turned its orange paint, the same color as the other five armored Spartans filling out the troop bay around a tarpaulined mass of crates, a shade of indigo Dunlap found more interesting than talking to Ernst Deming. "Hey, Dunlap," came the voice of Dunlap's personal albatross over the Pelican's engine whine, "want to take bets on just how long we have left?" Why choose me, asshole? Dunlap thought, but gave only an indecisive shrug. "Nah." Evidently losing interest without Dunlap leaping up with any pretty lights or loud noises, Deming turned to the other members of Fireteam Castle and spoke up in his husky, heavily-Americanized accent, "Any takers? You set your own stakes, and I'll take all comers." With everyone's helmets removed, Deming was able to see he'd caught the bright coffee eye of the woman directly across from him. "You, Lincoln?" "One hour, twenty-six minutes, fifty seconds. Give or take landing clearance time." Taylor Lincoln replied curtly. When Deming arched a surprised brow, she added, "You could've checked your mission timer." "Ahhh, c'mon," Deming groaned theatrically, "you're missing the point, you've gotta give it your best guess. It's to see who's better at estimation." "What's the point in guessing when you could know for certain?" Lincoln tilted her head, dark braids swinging loosely. Deming rolled his head around his shoulders, like he couldn't believe anyone wouldn't get the stupid game he was playing. "I don't know . . . get better at guessing. S'pose your helmet electronics go out on a mission, I want you to know how long a minute is without watching a timer." "I think I can remember how to do that." Lincoln smiled, thin-lipped. "Alright, look. Maybe you'll get it if we start with something you don't know already." he said, gaze dropping to the packages between them. "Like what's in these things? What's your bet, computers? More comfortable desks? An inflatable bouncy castle?" Lincoln leaned forward barely a fraction, but enough for Dunlap to see she was thinking about it. Why she was humoring Deming, however, he couldn't have guessed. "Supplies for Copernicus Base." she started. "So . . . rations? Setting up a stash in case they're cut off from Infinity for a while?" "You think Command would send a squad of Spartans to look after protein bars?" Deming asked rhetorically, taking over the conversation now that he had someone else in it. "It's gotta be some kind of research equipment. Expensive enough to warrant a kind of escort, even as just a token defense through the taxi ride over." "Could be rations if it's Palmer's way of punishing us for coming in last in the last War Games match." Came a coy suggestion from the back, where Spartan Tashi sat with a half-smug, half-embarrassed grin. He didn't meet Deming's eye, and instead shot a glance at Dunlap in the seat across. The way it seemed to deflate Deming made Dunlap smile. Being reminded of just how well he'd led the team seemed to drain Deming's good humor, and he sighed, eyeing the tarped crates. Settling on its nearest corner, Deming stood up and set his helmet in the vacant seat. "What do you think you're doing," you idiot? Dunlap cut himself short, frowning as Deming sidled towards the corner. "Finding out for certain." Deming replied, forcing a chipper note as his bulky, gauntleted hand reached for the corner like a greedy child. "Hey, just leave that the hell alone." Only half-sure he wanted to say them when they slipped through his teeth, Dunlap's words came out in an irate hiss that made Deming jump. Devoid of words, the moment of silence to follow dragged on into one tense second after another. Sure Deming wouldn't be content to just sit down and let that one go, Dunlap already regretted saying anything at all. "Shipmaster?" Gek 'Lhar asked tentatively, using one of the titles Jul 'Mdama was less frequently referred to as by now. Not Didact's Hand, not Supreme Commander, both of which were true, but their living god had not returned to guide his Hand and the Covenant he commanded was a paltry imitation of the Covenant he'd served as Shipmaster in. Gek was shrewd enough to see this, and his eye for the reality of situations was what put him among those close enough to use that lesser title, but Jul was still gratified there was a moment of hesitation accompanying it. "Speak, Gek." A command, not a query in turn. These were the details that made a pragmatist like Gek understand he was in control. Accepting the invitation, Gek marched forward, head bowed, to join him on the promontory, overlooking a craggy, red-rock gully in the heart of one of Requiem's several desert zones. The hulking Sangheili's steps so close interrupted the whistle of an arid wind he'd been able to listen to even as a crew of over a dozen other Elites readied themselves nearby, working quick and quiet. "Is it truly necessary to put yourself at risk being here?" Gek rumbled, something akin to concern in the tone. Coming from an Elite known as a brute and a terrorist, it was mildly surprising. "If you wished to see the preparations put in place yourself, they are done. Surely you need not see through such a trivial assignment—" "A small assignment, Gek, but not a minor one." Jul admonished. "The humans fly regularly to the temple they so eagerly seized. That was where our search for the Librarian began. If they have any knowledge of the Librarian, it means they seek her as well. I must know for certain, and if we cannot wrest back the temple from their hands, then I will be certain by seeing for myself what they bring to it." As Gek clicked his mandibles, submitting to Jul's reasoning, a Major Domo down the hill, hunched over a portable COM tower's console, cried, "Excellency! A human dropship approaches, on the course you predicted! It will be within range in thirty microts!" "Prepare the Shades, but be ready to abandon them." Jul bade the Major. "The humans will call for aid as soon as they are attacked, so we will have little time. Once we've confirmed its contents, we lift off immediately." "By your word, Hand." "Whatever's in there, it belongs to Infinity Science." Dunlap stated as flatly as he could. His face hardened as Deming took a step closer. "We're not supposed to mess with it." "As team leader, I have the authority to check out anything pertaining to the mission," Deming intoned sharply, spreading his arms wide, "in case it could lead to some kind of complication." Does that mean Lincoln's ass always pertains to the mission? Dunlap held down the words that so desperately wanted to get out. "You're just going to cause Science complications by breaking something." "Breaking—you think I'd break something?" Deming sputtered, then shook his head. "Dunlap, what is your problem with me? You want to talk about why we're coming up short in War Games, maybe it's you don't have any faith in your team leader." Dunlap snorted and looked away. His glance traveled around the bay, past Deming to his other teammates. They weren't talking, but no one had pulled out their Chatters or TACPADs to look busy. They were interested. Maybe it was time Deming had a taste of humility in public. "Don't kid yourself, Deming." he said. "This isn't your team." "Really?" Deming scowled. "Infinity Command seemed to think so when they promoted me to team leader." Dunlap got to his feet, fast enough that Deming was forced to take a step back. "You weren't promoted, we're all the same rank. They made you our team leader because you scored high in a test battery back on Earth while you were still getting used to your augs, and we were here on Requiem the first time, fighting off—" "That same battery of tests everyone took, Dunlap?" Deming shouted over him. He wasn't giving ground as easily as Dunlap thought, and it cost him his momentum. "Are they wrong to make me a team leader if I scored well, probably better than you did? Unless you think they did a crap job testing. Think you could do a better job?" "Yes!" Dunlap shouted back, locking eyes with him. The next second, they were torn apart as an explosion slammed against the outside hull, throwing them into the walls and deck as the whole dropship shook and dropped the floor beneath them out of balance.
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