Crayons No More - Steve "Scot" McPherson PT III

Orchestra of Violence

It had been many months since the first time he'd set foot in a drop pod and now it was becoming all too commonplace. Vomit no longer stains the inside of his visor every time the airbrakes deploy and his knees no longer go weak when the explosive bolts toss his door - his only protection - away, but it's an ordeal all the same. The only thing that makes it bearable is knowing that he was selected for this because he showed promise - the Captain had looked at him and saw something he didn't see in other marines, something that gave him the potential to rocket through the sky towards hostile territory with the best of the best.

Again comes the sickening thud and gut wrenching G-forces of the airbrakes slamming him down into his seat - it wouldn't be long now until he was on the ground.
10...
He checked his magazines - boxes of rounds, each containing around two hundred. 
5...
He initialised some of his systems - vital readings, communications, low light vision...

THUMP.

With another thud, the pod crashes into the ground - the gunfire in the area stops momentarily as the insurrectionist forces stand in shock and awe at the violence of the craft landing. As if in synchronisation, the explosive bolts crack and catapult the pod doors across the field of battle and with them, Kilo-1 emerge to enact some shock and awe of their own.

Rounds jump across the grass as the insurrectionists finally come to their senses about what's happening, here, but by then it's already too late. The distraction and sheer, oppressive force put upon them by the ODST gives the Marine forces in the rear enough of a break to push forward, knocking out strategic targets on the way - tanks, bunkers and officers.

It was a very different sort of warfare for Steve - he'd been so used to the slow, methodical movements of the UNSC Marines that it had almost seemed like chaos watching the ODST move - but he understood it now. The synergy required for each man to know exactly where he had to be, to pick his targets to best protect his brothers and sisters in the sky and on the ground... it was why he'd joined in the first place. The chaos of the ODST forces had quickly become almost a dance, to him and it seemed the same for the others.  With a tenth of the men they could apply ten times the pressure by being entirely unpredictable but almost entirely choreographed without anyone having ever said a word. 

The battlefield had become a stage - the Captain the owner of the theatre, The 1st. LT the conductor, his brothers in arms the actors, and the hail of gunfire the music to seal the masterpiece they would create together.