dust on the road
November 12, 2554
UNSC Red Army Training Grounds
Timberland Outpost
He awoke to a short sharp pain across the back of his head.
Jerking upright with an alarmed cry, Grif looked around quickly to take in his surroundings and tried to remember where he was. It hadn't been long since he'd gotten out of the therapy and retraining he'd needed after the damage his brain augmentations had done to him, and he was, in some ways, still healing. On top of that, he'd started taking a distance-learning business program, and the homework load kept him up late at night. Hence, he realized as his brain started to catch to the present, his napping in...
Oh. Right. Basic Training. He was in a classroom, other recruits seated all around him, including Martinez to his left, her hand still raised in the follow-through of having struck him to wake him up. At the front of the room, Gunnery Sergeant Amesbury looked at him with a look of obviously false bonhomie.
"Well, good morning, sunshine!" Amesbury called out. Tall, bald, and beetle-browed, he spoke with a rough Estuary English accent and could possibly be mistaken for a SPARTAN by someone who hadn't seen one before. He wasn't one, but he didn't let that stop him from bossing them around in the course of his training duties, especially since he specialized in the driving courses, where their strength wasn't as much of an issue. "We're not keeping you awake, are we?"
"Oh, not really," Grif said, intentionally taking the question at face value. He yawned, then settled his head down on his arms again. "I'm sure I can get back to sleep just fine."
Amesbury's expression fell, becoming a glower. He signaled to Martinez, who grabbed hold of Grif's ear and pulled him back up, unheedful of his exclamation of pain. "Not so fast, sunshine. Class is in session, so pay attention, 'cause any of this could be important out there in the field. Now, our subject for today is written up there on the board."
Grif looked from the instructor to the board, and his eyes bugged out at the word written in large, bold letters there. "Whoa, now!" he exclaimed. "'JACKING'?! I don't doubt that folks in the field are gonna get lonely enough to do that, but if I knew it was going to be that kind of party..."
"Vehicle jacking, smart-arse," Amesbury growled. "The art of hauling someone out of their ride and claiming it for your own. Not something you learn every day, now, is it?"
As it happened, while he generally preferred cars that were parked and unattended, carjacking was nonetheless a subject with which Grif had had no small amount of familiarity in his civilian life. Having been stripped of the disingenuous veneer he'd been trying to build up with his intentional misinterpretation of the subject, he coughed and said uncomfortably, "On the long-standing advice of my lawyer, I'm afraid I can't answer that."
"Really now." Grif wasn't entirely sure what he was seeing in the instructor's bug-eyed, tight-lipped look at that moment, but he was aware that it couldn't have been anything good. "Well, that's a shame, 'cause now you've got me curious. So, tomorrow, you and me are going to do a little demonstration for the class." Amesbury looked around to the other recruits. "Everybody got that? I want to see everybody on the driving course with practice armor tomorrow. Get your rest, sunshine. Class dismissed!"
The next morning, the class -- Grif included -- waited for their instructor on the driving course. The practice armor they wore wasn't powered, or shielded, and the helmets were much simpler, clear-fronted affairs than the SPARTANs in training would later expect to wear. It was more safety equipment than anything else, meant to protect against incidental injury while adding a small bit of bulk to prepare the soldiers for what awaited.
Across the compound, a throaty engine roared out and approached them at high speed, a monstrosity on wheels coming into view around a corner. While, in the field, they could expect to be driving jeeps -- "light reconnaisance vehicles," more officially -- in training, such services were performed by what used to be civilian rides. Seized by police from certain classes of criminals, turned over to the military government by requisition, these so-called "civilian surplus" automobiles were then chopped and modified by the motor pools of the bases they were sent to until they at least vaguely functioned like the real thing.
What Gunnery Sergeant Amesbury was driving looked like it might've originally been some sort of sport utility vehicle, but had had its doors, roof, and back seats removed and a roll cage installed. The engine, too, had obviously been made quite a bit more powerful. For a few moments, it looked like he was just going to barrel through his students at full speed, but instead he jerked the wheel and worked the pedals, and the faux-jeep instead slewed to one side and skidded to a halt next to them. It was, Grif had to admit, a fine bit of driving.
It was a shame, what he was going to do to a fellow wheelman, but his blood was up, now. Grif's slacker plan was still in its infancy, and not enough of his anger had been buried yet. He saw an opportunity to do something that might get him kicked out, and he was damned well going to take it.
"Here, now," the instructor said, looking out at the class, looking to see who might've been ducking for cover. "Didn't scare any big, bad SPARTANs, did I? heh. Right. Ordinarily, we don't do the practicals until you've gone through the basic classwork, but since sunshine's actually here and awake, I think we'll make an exception." He looked over at Grif and grinned. "Well, sunshine? Let's see what--"
Amesbury's grin turned into a wide-eyed look of shock as, with a surprisingly wrathful expression on his face, Grif leaped onto the side of the vehicle. His left hand easily caught the top roll bar while his feet found purchase on the sideboard and fender. His other hand punched once and then again, Amesbury's jaw only remaining intact by the grace of his helmet. Having knocked the instructor for a loop, Grif grabbed hold of his chestplate and yanked him out of the vehicle in a single, smooth movement. Gravity and the arm on the roll cage helped him make a quick and easy hop-swing into the driver's seat. It took all of three seconds from the initial leap to the moment Grif's foot slammed down on the accelerator and he took off.
From the spot he landed on the ground, Amesbury tried to both shakes his head clear while cradling his jaw, then finally keyed his comm and said, "Sir? I didn't think it possible, but he did it, and he's vicious. Good hunting."
"YEAH!" For one brief, shining moment, Grif was truly happy again. He was behind the wheel, going at top speed, riding the high of some successful GTA. If he could just make it to the other end of the compound, maybe he could bust through the perimeter or something. What he'd do next, he wasn't sure. They had to have flagged his ID by now -- there was no way he was getting off-world, to Earth or anywhere else -- so he was probably going to have to settle for tooling around until he got bagged and hauled back for court martial.
Engines roared to life in the distance. From the motor pool lot, four other crookmobiles-turned-fake-jeep barreled onto the driving course, each of them at least as hot-rodded as the one Grif was driving. They had obviously been dispatched to stop him, and their drivers all appeared to know what they were doing. That was fine; it'd been a while since Grif had had to shake off a police pursuit, and this time, he didn't have to worry about maintaining the car's resale value.
It was one part race, one part off-road rally, and three parts demolition derby. None of the vehicles came out unscathed, but in the end, Grif still had an engine and wheels that worked, and the others didn't, and that was enough for him. He bombed out of the course and set his sights on the front guard post. It looked oddly deserted, but he didn't care just then. There was only one thing besides the sight of his escape that came to his mind in that moment, crawling up from the depths of centuries of accumulated pop culture, miraculously unscathed by the ravages that SPARTAN-II had wrought upon his memory:
"FrrrRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO---Ohhhhh, SHIIIIIIT!"
While they had no real jeeps, the base's motor pool had other resources at its disposal. The fake-jeeps that had chased Grif around were distractions, so they could deploy and stage. Now that his escape truly looked possible, they burst out from behind the nearest buildings on either side of the gate, gathering to block his path: Cobra artillery platforms, massive Scorpion tanks, and even a smattering of MPs on foot to fill the gaps. Grif slammed on the brakes, pulling up short of the blockade, and the MPs surrounded him, rifles at the ready.
From one of the gate's loudspeakers, the voice of Master Sergeant Kingsley, who ran the motor pool, called out. "That was some fancy driving, there, but I'm afraid this is the end of the line. Hope you enjoyed it. Now get out."
Defeated and dejected, Grif powered down the car and stepped out. The MPs reached out for him and knocked him down, the butts of their rifles slamming down on the plates of his practice armor.
"Boys. Boyyyys?" Kingsley's voice caught the MPs' attention, their beatdown pulled up short for a moment. "I know he's a big tough SPARTAN and all, but try not to rough him up too badly. He does have to finish Basic, after all."
The speaker clicked off, and in the course of the ensuing beatdown, the pain taught Grif that he'd maybe have to rethink his tactics a little. Aggression was only going to give him trouble.
UNSC Red Army Training Grounds
Timberland Outpost
He awoke to a short sharp pain across the back of his head.
Jerking upright with an alarmed cry, Grif looked around quickly to take in his surroundings and tried to remember where he was. It hadn't been long since he'd gotten out of the therapy and retraining he'd needed after the damage his brain augmentations had done to him, and he was, in some ways, still healing. On top of that, he'd started taking a distance-learning business program, and the homework load kept him up late at night. Hence, he realized as his brain started to catch to the present, his napping in...
Oh. Right. Basic Training. He was in a classroom, other recruits seated all around him, including Martinez to his left, her hand still raised in the follow-through of having struck him to wake him up. At the front of the room, Gunnery Sergeant Amesbury looked at him with a look of obviously false bonhomie.
"Well, good morning, sunshine!" Amesbury called out. Tall, bald, and beetle-browed, he spoke with a rough Estuary English accent and could possibly be mistaken for a SPARTAN by someone who hadn't seen one before. He wasn't one, but he didn't let that stop him from bossing them around in the course of his training duties, especially since he specialized in the driving courses, where their strength wasn't as much of an issue. "We're not keeping you awake, are we?"
"Oh, not really," Grif said, intentionally taking the question at face value. He yawned, then settled his head down on his arms again. "I'm sure I can get back to sleep just fine."
Amesbury's expression fell, becoming a glower. He signaled to Martinez, who grabbed hold of Grif's ear and pulled him back up, unheedful of his exclamation of pain. "Not so fast, sunshine. Class is in session, so pay attention, 'cause any of this could be important out there in the field. Now, our subject for today is written up there on the board."
Grif looked from the instructor to the board, and his eyes bugged out at the word written in large, bold letters there. "Whoa, now!" he exclaimed. "'JACKING'?! I don't doubt that folks in the field are gonna get lonely enough to do that, but if I knew it was going to be that kind of party..."
"Vehicle jacking, smart-arse," Amesbury growled. "The art of hauling someone out of their ride and claiming it for your own. Not something you learn every day, now, is it?"
As it happened, while he generally preferred cars that were parked and unattended, carjacking was nonetheless a subject with which Grif had had no small amount of familiarity in his civilian life. Having been stripped of the disingenuous veneer he'd been trying to build up with his intentional misinterpretation of the subject, he coughed and said uncomfortably, "On the long-standing advice of my lawyer, I'm afraid I can't answer that."
"Really now." Grif wasn't entirely sure what he was seeing in the instructor's bug-eyed, tight-lipped look at that moment, but he was aware that it couldn't have been anything good. "Well, that's a shame, 'cause now you've got me curious. So, tomorrow, you and me are going to do a little demonstration for the class." Amesbury looked around to the other recruits. "Everybody got that? I want to see everybody on the driving course with practice armor tomorrow. Get your rest, sunshine. Class dismissed!"
The next morning, the class -- Grif included -- waited for their instructor on the driving course. The practice armor they wore wasn't powered, or shielded, and the helmets were much simpler, clear-fronted affairs than the SPARTANs in training would later expect to wear. It was more safety equipment than anything else, meant to protect against incidental injury while adding a small bit of bulk to prepare the soldiers for what awaited.
Across the compound, a throaty engine roared out and approached them at high speed, a monstrosity on wheels coming into view around a corner. While, in the field, they could expect to be driving jeeps -- "light reconnaisance vehicles," more officially -- in training, such services were performed by what used to be civilian rides. Seized by police from certain classes of criminals, turned over to the military government by requisition, these so-called "civilian surplus" automobiles were then chopped and modified by the motor pools of the bases they were sent to until they at least vaguely functioned like the real thing.
What Gunnery Sergeant Amesbury was driving looked like it might've originally been some sort of sport utility vehicle, but had had its doors, roof, and back seats removed and a roll cage installed. The engine, too, had obviously been made quite a bit more powerful. For a few moments, it looked like he was just going to barrel through his students at full speed, but instead he jerked the wheel and worked the pedals, and the faux-jeep instead slewed to one side and skidded to a halt next to them. It was, Grif had to admit, a fine bit of driving.
It was a shame, what he was going to do to a fellow wheelman, but his blood was up, now. Grif's slacker plan was still in its infancy, and not enough of his anger had been buried yet. He saw an opportunity to do something that might get him kicked out, and he was damned well going to take it.
"Here, now," the instructor said, looking out at the class, looking to see who might've been ducking for cover. "Didn't scare any big, bad SPARTANs, did I? heh. Right. Ordinarily, we don't do the practicals until you've gone through the basic classwork, but since sunshine's actually here and awake, I think we'll make an exception." He looked over at Grif and grinned. "Well, sunshine? Let's see what--"
Amesbury's grin turned into a wide-eyed look of shock as, with a surprisingly wrathful expression on his face, Grif leaped onto the side of the vehicle. His left hand easily caught the top roll bar while his feet found purchase on the sideboard and fender. His other hand punched once and then again, Amesbury's jaw only remaining intact by the grace of his helmet. Having knocked the instructor for a loop, Grif grabbed hold of his chestplate and yanked him out of the vehicle in a single, smooth movement. Gravity and the arm on the roll cage helped him make a quick and easy hop-swing into the driver's seat. It took all of three seconds from the initial leap to the moment Grif's foot slammed down on the accelerator and he took off.
From the spot he landed on the ground, Amesbury tried to both shakes his head clear while cradling his jaw, then finally keyed his comm and said, "Sir? I didn't think it possible, but he did it, and he's vicious. Good hunting."
"YEAH!" For one brief, shining moment, Grif was truly happy again. He was behind the wheel, going at top speed, riding the high of some successful GTA. If he could just make it to the other end of the compound, maybe he could bust through the perimeter or something. What he'd do next, he wasn't sure. They had to have flagged his ID by now -- there was no way he was getting off-world, to Earth or anywhere else -- so he was probably going to have to settle for tooling around until he got bagged and hauled back for court martial.
Engines roared to life in the distance. From the motor pool lot, four other crookmobiles-turned-fake-jeep barreled onto the driving course, each of them at least as hot-rodded as the one Grif was driving. They had obviously been dispatched to stop him, and their drivers all appeared to know what they were doing. That was fine; it'd been a while since Grif had had to shake off a police pursuit, and this time, he didn't have to worry about maintaining the car's resale value.
It was one part race, one part off-road rally, and three parts demolition derby. None of the vehicles came out unscathed, but in the end, Grif still had an engine and wheels that worked, and the others didn't, and that was enough for him. He bombed out of the course and set his sights on the front guard post. It looked oddly deserted, but he didn't care just then. There was only one thing besides the sight of his escape that came to his mind in that moment, crawling up from the depths of centuries of accumulated pop culture, miraculously unscathed by the ravages that SPARTAN-II had wrought upon his memory:
"FrrrRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO---Ohhhhh, SHIIIIIIT!"
While they had no real jeeps, the base's motor pool had other resources at its disposal. The fake-jeeps that had chased Grif around were distractions, so they could deploy and stage. Now that his escape truly looked possible, they burst out from behind the nearest buildings on either side of the gate, gathering to block his path: Cobra artillery platforms, massive Scorpion tanks, and even a smattering of MPs on foot to fill the gaps. Grif slammed on the brakes, pulling up short of the blockade, and the MPs surrounded him, rifles at the ready.
From one of the gate's loudspeakers, the voice of Master Sergeant Kingsley, who ran the motor pool, called out. "That was some fancy driving, there, but I'm afraid this is the end of the line. Hope you enjoyed it. Now get out."
Defeated and dejected, Grif powered down the car and stepped out. The MPs reached out for him and knocked him down, the butts of their rifles slamming down on the plates of his practice armor.
"Boys. Boyyyys?" Kingsley's voice caught the MPs' attention, their beatdown pulled up short for a moment. "I know he's a big tough SPARTAN and all, but try not to rough him up too badly. He does have to finish Basic, after all."
The speaker clicked off, and in the course of the ensuing beatdown, the pain taught Grif that he'd maybe have to rethink his tactics a little. Aggression was only going to give him trouble.