- Drop From the Sky -
(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. As a warning, there is minor, uncensored swearing is in this text, and some may find the imagery disturbing. Claustrophobics and pyrophobics, you may wish to refrain from reading.)
It had been routine, normal, but with urgency and with panic. The orbital drop shock trooper was a powerful soldier, trained to withstand high G-forces and temperatures as they came down from orbit. He, a veteran, still spry despite his grey hair, grabbed his trusty shotgun and ran like mad. His eyes were focused, his heart pounding, the rush of an oncoming battle and the roiling sensation of anger making him feel hot.
Reach was in a Winter Contingency. The last great bastion of earth, the galactic fortress both peaceful and militaristic, was being bombarded by wave after wave of Covenant. It was enough to shake the hardest of hearts, as some of ONI's most important projects were locked away on the planet's bases. The sheer eagerness the Sergeant had for smashing in a few heads would have been frightening to the average citizen.
They loaded up. The great, bulky cocoons that were the drop pods clacked and hissed, the interior claustrophobically cramped. With little hesitation, Sarge hopped in, checking statuses and barking replies into his radio as command prepared the drop. He settled back into the hard, heat-proof seat, locking his weapon into a nearby equipment rack. As the door gave a great hiss, locking shut to prevent Sarge from being ripped from the pod by re-entry forces, the soldier took a breath.
Today would be a great day for a fight.
They fell.
Like rain from a cloud, like a stone from a cliff, they fell from the belly of the ship. It began slowly, but then gained enough force to pin the troopers to their seats. The pods glowed red-white, hot as an oven's insides and maybe even more so. Anyone finding the drop too intense would clench their teeth, performing special breathing exercises as they did. Within some, there was the urge to flee, to fight against the restraints of physics and get out of the damned things, but training taught them otherwise. The intensity of re-entry would pass, and the impact would be slightly jarring, but their suits and their pods' systems would save them from whiplash and other injuries.
Explosions boomed all around them. Missiles sought, struck, exploded and missed - aircraft dodged, weaved, shot and was shot. They were like fireworks in the upper atmosphere of Reach, lighting the bulky, gritty crafts of the UNSC and the sleek, colourful ships of the Covenant in a fiery glow. Sarge's hands clenched over the ends of the armrests; he was impatient, wanting to strike the earth already and get going. He was like a falcon struck with yarak, eager for the hunt, to chase and to kill. Those sharp eyes of his were narrowed, his adrenaline rush growing greater as the pod whistled with terminal velocity. His helmet's altitude checker was quickly counting down to the inevitable crash onto the surface.
BANG!
The explosion was not direct, but its shockwave still ripped through the air. It hurtled towards the pods, sending every one it hit into a tilt, then a spin. Sarge was no exception, and he just had enough time to turn his head -
"WARNING: IMPACT GIVEN. POD RE-CORRECTION SYSTEMS ACTIVATED. BRACE FOR INCREASE IN DAMAGING FORCES."
It was like a country fair ride gone berserk. The sensation of a tornado's intense whirling was combined with what felt like an intense fever mixed with a panic attack. Every turn ripped through the pod, through Sarge, through the systems hurriedly working to keep themselves together. The CO was screaming to hold on, to let the emergency systems do their work, and for everyone to keep calm. Sarge's heart was like a car's engine on a bumpy road, but he would not break, and yield to the fear the Covenant wanted them to have. This wasn't the first time he had had a rough landing.
CLANG!
"WARNING: OUTER SHELL PENETRATED. CERAMIC HEAT SHIELDS DAMAGED."
His eyes opened wide. A sudden, cold feeling struck him, followed by what had to be the most intense burn he had ever felt.
"EMERGENCY COOLING SYSTEMS ACTIVATED."
BAM!
"WARNING: COOLING SYSTEM DAMAGED. DEPLOYMENT CHUTE DAMAGED."
"Digging your own grave" - the fate every ODST dreaded. If the friction from the atmosphere on falling didn't cause him to cook, the impact at terminal velocity would. Everything was spinning faster now - how his seatbelt was holding, Sarge didn't know - and there was a horrible smell. It was smoldering metal, frying circuitry, scorching anti-heat fabric and his sweat, something that one might smell if they were throwing old household items into a bonfire. Then - and this almost made him scream - there was the sizzling on his skin, the slight shift in the material of his armour that told him he was overheating. His cooling systems frantically kicked in, dispersing the life-saving "ice-gel" that would keep his body at a normal temperature.
He could hear the screaming. It pealed through his radio and rattled in his ears, his brain echoing with the sound of his comrades in pain. They were screeching that there was debris everywhere, and that it was smashing into them left and right. Rocket thrusters could be heard firing madly, the ODSTs' radios buzzing, everyone trying to frantically communicate to see if each other was all right.
Then came the hissing. Then, the crackling. Sarge winced as one of his squad's Corporals gave a blood-curdling cry - his ice-gel depositors had malfunctioned. There was bubbling, popping, sobs that melted into the sound of flames ... and then nothing. One by one, they all cooked, they all went silent, and Sarge's pod was getting hotter and hotter. He could not ignore his skin any longer; the unarmoured parts of his suit began to melt, running bits of black down his body.
"WARNING: CH-CHUTE M-MALFUNCTION (FUNCTION). INITIATING CODE RED."
He was going to crash.
"INITIATING CODE RED."
He was trapped. He couldn't move, and the damned suit was fusing to his skin with every second. All of the moisture in his eyes, nose and throat was gone. The altitude meter, though starting to malfunction, read that Sarge was less than four thousand feet in the air. His chutes were still not deploying properly, and he couldn't tell if his adjustment rockets were kicking in. His radio had gone completely silent, and Sarge could hear it sparking from heat damage as his suit went into overdrive, disabling anything that wasn't needed.
For the first time since he had been a rookie, he screamed. His chutes finally, blessedly deployed, but he could not hear them over the roar around him.
WHAM!