[h2]Private First Class Roland Kertesz[/h2][sub]UNSC [i]Eternity Abroad[/i]
0645 hrs
March 3rd, 2526[/sub][hr]

"Goddamn." Roland muttered coldly and quietly as he ambled around, BDU strapped up and on, with the chest plate's straps still hanging loose and his helmet fastened by its chinstrap to his battle belt. "Need fuckin' earplugs to even walk around in here." He said, louder this time, not that it could be effectively heard over the din. He stood near the assembly area where the Marines would organize by company, and then into platoons to board their Pelicans.

He glanced around. No gas here, no gas there, open flight deck and a couple engineers on their smoke break nearby. He took the answer to his silent question and tugged at a plastic carton tucked into a pouch secured behind his chest plate. Once flicked open, he retrieved a rather worn down butane lighter and a good ol' Lucky Strikes. Popping it between his lips, he flicked at the lighter's striker until it produced a flame. He shielded his hands over the flame and held it to the death-stick, the end glowing a volcanic red.

With a quiet click he stowed the lighter and then the carton, and placed one hand upon the cigarette, grasping it between his index and middle finger, and using his other hand to idly tug at the balaclava which was pulled down and ruffled around his neck. His MA5 swung idly at his hip, the mag well empty, and his M6 was in its holster but not secure.

Seemed he was early, he mused. Briefing didn't start for another 15 minutes, as his combat-proof watch fastened over his sleeve on his right arm demonstrated. So he glanced around, observing the armor which he'd known so well, studying over the details again. His name was neatly stenciled on the front of his chest plate and the back, and on his helmet. He wore two pairs of tags as standard. Around his neck, a pair with silencers clearly demonstrated his name, rank, blood type, religious preference, and gas mask size, as was standard. An identical set was secured into his shoes. He hated to have known what it was all for. Printed in a uniform fashion on his left pauldron was his blood type, AB+, in large black letters. The opposing pauldron housed a single stripe, the mark of a PFC.

And it soon bored him even more. He finally ambled up to the rows of folding chairs that doubled as a briefing and assembly area. There were at least enough chairs present for an entire company. And each and every row was sectioned off by platoon and then subdivided into squads. Finding his squad's area, he lowered himself into the seat and pulled his chestplate tight, glancing at his watch as he snuffed the now entirely smoked cigarette, disposing of the butt. 10 til briefing. He leaned back and waited.