An IC-RP Blog for Emile-A239, formerly of Noble Team. Piss off, I don't die that easy. (Base Faceclaim for unmasked!Emile: Merwin Mondesir, with quite a few scattered scars) [Will RP only in the Halo-Universe, Moderator is 18+]
Jun sighed as he rested the side of his helmet against his sniper rifle, fingers finding a gentle groove along the barrel.
"Your voice as a sweet quality to it, it’s what I like about it. Helps me find that calm in myself."
A calm I used to know as a child. Jun smiled behind his visor as his body shimmied back into the position he needed to take the shot.
"So, talk."
"Never could master that whole 'calm' thing," Emile shrugged, gaze shifting back up for a moment to scan about them before flicking back to Jun then down once again. "Think that's why I took to the CQB and the knife thing - keeps me moving so that I can be calm, I guess."
The older Spartan was silent for nearly half a minute. He really hadn’t been counting on that kind of an admission – maybe a few remarks reaffirming Emile’s dislike of Kurt, perhaps even a jab at Jorge himself. Banter, even aggressive banter, he could handle easily.
Emile’s tone was even, casual, detached from the words he spoke, but those words still held a great deal of pain. It was conversations like this one that gave Jorge insight regarding Spartan-IIIs, and it only served to sour his opinion of whoever decided it was a good idea to irreversibly traumatize war orphans in order to bring about a cheaper supersoldier.
He remembered the anguish that had lingered even long after the funerals, the intense training and graduation to full Spartanhood; those who survived the augmentations missed their lost comrades, even though they were driven and forged to move on from the loss without slowing their strides. Waking up covered in near-disfiguring scars, pain throbbing with every blink and breath, only to discover that half the beds were empty… it had been hell, and it had driven in the fact that their lives could in fact end for no good reason at all. It had been a slap in the face to soldiers raised to believe they could be invincible.
Enough about that, he thought, echoing the other man in his mind. He felt pity for the Threes, but only for the memory of what they had once been. The man before him was a far cry from being an angry orphan, and had grown into a highly capable Spartan despite his aggression. Noble Team, Emile included, had managed to shatter any suspicions he harbored regarding any inability to measure up to his old unit’s level of performance. They were rougher around the edges, but they were the best of the best. They didn’t need or deserve his pity, only his respect and cooperation.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jorge replied, glad to leave the subject of Kurt behind despite his curiosity about what else his former comrade had gotten into. Maybe it’s better I don’t know. “We’ve our share of differing opinions. Tend to shove ‘em to the back burner, but that’s expected on a mission. Hell, we even had a class clown.”
The thought of Will brought up the lingering sense of severance from his old squad, and he forced a smirk to chase it away. “… Mendez would have my ass for telling you this, but we succeeded in ditching him and went on vacation for a solid week during training. Once in a lifetime opportunity, that. Those were the days.” He leaned back in his seat, allowing himself to lose the rigidity that hadn’t quite left his posture yet. “You wouldn’t think it now, but we pulled off some crazy stunts. Drove the man almost as hard as he drove us. There was this one time, with the cigars… nah, you’d probably like to live without that one.”
He realized he was rambling, but it felt right. Pretending to be a war machine with ice for blood was fine when it came to PR, but it was insulting among fellow Spartans. If he was going to be personable with Emile, he owed the other man honesty when it came to his disposition. Emile certainly hadn’t held back when it came to his own.
The bewildered laugh and the smile that Jorge was able to see on the hooded man's face was enough to convey the surprise Emile felt at those words. The idea of ever getting one over on Mendez like that, of managing a week's worth of vacation and somehow eluding the man for the duration was almost impossible to believe. But if the IIs were as impressive as he'd grown up believing, well...
If they're half what they say, maybe it stands to reason a day or two, but... a week?
But before he could voice his disbelief, there came the mention of a story about cigars, and Emile latched on to that one. Humorous stories of childhood shenanigans were easier to believe than the idea of the IIs being able to get one over on a god made flesh.
"Nah," Emile shook his head, reaching beside him for a moment to take up his pencil, toying with it in his hands for something to do. Out of armor, despite the fact that the tension between them was slowly beginning to fade, it didn't change the fact that he was still keyed up, nervous enough, to need something to do with his hands.
"You can't mention something like that, big guy, and then not finish it. Cmon, spill."
"Specialist filling a hole in your unit," Emile replied, shifting his weight back to the other leg. While his armor certainly took a lot of the effort out of maintaining the position, it still didn’t quite stop it from being less than comfortable. Jun may have had the seniority and respect to be able to lie down on the interim between deployment and the job, but Emile was the new guy, and respected the chain of command enough, the military pecking order, to not assume he had the same freedom.
"Assault and CQB is my particular specialty," He continued, gesturing to his choices of weapons, his armor’s over all configuration. "Seems like you’ve got a commander, a tech specialist, and a hell of a sniper, but that still leaves you with long, mid, and support. No one for your short range, and sure as hell no one to bring the pain when it’s needed. No offense intended, of course."
"Use the proper tools for the job, ya?" Jun asked, a question that was more rhetorical than anything else.
He figured from Emile’s attitude alone that he would agree with the sentiment.
“That’s good, we need a short range fighter. I need one, especially on these long tactical missions. I can’t always watch my own back and the target.” Jun let out one last long breath as a wave of calm finally washed over him.
The moment has passed. Back to business. Jun shifted, rolling back onto his stomach to take up his rifle again, leveling it as he sighted the area once more.
“Keep talking. You’re voice is soothing.”
"So I hear," Emile chuckled wryly, pausing for a moment with his head cocked to the side as he regarded his little drawing on the ground. Behind his visor, blue eyes flicked up to his reference, the prone sniper as he resumed his position, before flicking to the sides quickly. To say that the specialist could multitask was an understatement, but that was the very least expected out of a Spartan. "People keep tellin' me it's soothing to hear me just talk away, but I don't see it.
Same position as before, perfectly posed, Emile couldn't help the little grin that spread over his features. You sure as hell became an amazing Spartan.
"But don't worry, I'll make sure I don't distract you when it comes to takin' your shot, and that I'm keepin' an eye out around us... But if it's talking you want, you'll have plenty of it in the lead up."
Emile-A239 is extremely selective about his sweets, because when he goes for them, you bet he goes for them.
Haitian by descent, he has rather fond memories of the fairly rich, sweet desserts that his mother used to both make and buy. He tends to gravitate towards sweet potato or coconut flavors, though he also leans towards strong fruit-flavored alcohols and rum.
Because of the fact that he tends towards the richer, sweeter desserts, Emile has to restrict his intake of them in order to maintain weight standards.
Needless to say, having Jun around makes that last part difficult to adhere to. If Jun is ever baking sweets, Emile is in the kitchen waiting to be taste tester.
"Don’t worry about it." Jun said, his words soft but stern in their inflection as he shifted slightly, visor still upturned to the sky.
“So, why were you brought in?" Jun asked, his chest’s heaving finally slowing to a soft, slow rythym as he rested his hands over his chest.
His panic attack had subsided but now he realized that his back was tense and in pain. A little release of that would help him for the long haul of waiting for their target.
"Specialist filling a hole in your unit," Emile replied, shifting his weight back to the other leg. While his armor certainly took a lot of the effort out of maintaining the position, it still didn't quite stop it from being less than comfortable. Jun may have had the seniority and respect to be able to lie down on the interim between deployment and the job, but Emile was the new guy, and respected the chain of command enough, the military pecking order, to not assume he had the same freedom.
"Assault and CQB is my particular specialty," He continued, gesturing to his choices of weapons, his armor's over all configuration. "Seems like you've got a commander, a tech specialist, and a hell of a sniper, but that still leaves you with long, mid, and support. No one for your short range, and sure as hell no one to bring the pain when it's needed. No offense intended, of course."
Emile's family raised him with exposure to the beliefs of Haitian vodou proper, an over all very positive and morally sound religious upbringing for their children. It's lessons regarding discipline and avoiding the vices of dishonor or greed, as well as it's focus on serving the community before the self have served him well in his adult life.
Though Emile doesn't believe in the tenets of vodou, let alone practice it, he still feels a certain cultural tie to certain trappings of it - most easily identified in his skull-faced visor etchings as a stylized tribute to Baron Samedi. Occasionally, after a very long drop or arduous series of missions, if one drops by his quarters there's a white candle, a glass of rum, and two cigars set on his desk, but beyond that his observances are minimal and more a familiar personal ritual of comfort than of belief.
Carter's voice made him pause in his work, and blue eyes flicked towards the door to see his commander leaning against it's frame, arms crossed. Face hidden by the shadows of his hood, Emile could take the time to appreciate just how tired their commander looked after their last drop. How sometimes, despite only being a little older than Emile himself, Carter looked at least a decade older.
Carter's response was a simple gesture towards the current focus of Emile's attentions, as he moved into the rec room. Emile looked back to his latest art project, another helmet whose previously smooth golden visor was now etched with a carved outline that was slowly being chipped out - another ghostly, grinning death's head. Emile smiled softly, as Carter settled on the couch besides him, the reinforced frame giving a little squeak of protest at the weight of two unarmored Spartan-IIIs, but that was it.
"... Hard to explain," Emile replied, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back before he took up the blade he used for his work again, leaning forward to begin anew the short strokes that precisely whittled away at a little more of the visor's golden finish.
"Try me, Emile," Carter's voice was gentle, but tired, and as Emile glanced at the other Alpha out of the corner of his eye, he understood immediately what his superior was asking from him. Carter was rattled after their last mission, and needed someone to just talk. It didn't matter what the subject, or if it interested him, but the sound of a voice was all he needed right now, and with Kat being a less than stellar conversationalist post-mission, Jun likely occupied with his own burdens, Jorge and Thom attending a debriefing with Holland, that left the notoriously unreserved Emile as his only real solace. "I'm sure I can keep up with the explanation."
"... It's a family thing," Emile looked back to his work, continuing the short strokes even as he spoke. "My family left Earth I think... two, three generations back. Something like that. Settled in a colony with a heavy Haitian community."
"Your family was from Haiti?"
"Do you even know where Haiti is, commander?" Emile's words carried no malice, clearly playful, and to his inner relief he could hear a short chuckle escape Carter as if admitting that Emile had him there. "Island nation, settled by the Spanish and the French, who brought over slaves from Africa. Eventually there was one hell of a revolution, and my ancestors won their autonomy. Obviously it's a hell of a lot more complicated than that, but I'm not a history teacher."
"I follow."
"The African slaves were introduced to Catholicism sure, but they still had their own beliefs, and out of that came vodou, more or less-"
"Voodoo, Emile?" Carter's words bore an undertone of surprise, and Emile mock-scowled at him.
"Vodou, say it right for a start," Emile scolded. "Look, I grew up with it as a part of life, but I didn't say I believed in it. Too much faith, not enough hard evidence for me. But anyway..."
"Can't say I know a lot about it."
"Most people don't beyond pop culture and cartoons with the dolls and the zombie shit," Emile shrugged. "It's complex. There's a creator-god, but the man is busy, so you go to other spirits, loa, instead. It's complex as all hell, I think that's the other thing about it - I don't have time for this shit."
"So, how does this relate to the visor thing, Emile?"
"I'm gettin' there, Carter," Emile chuckled, knowing the uncharacteristic impatience of the other man was simply an attempt to keep him talking without feeling like he was talking to a wall. "When I was a kid, my parents taught me and... Well they taught me all about this shit. Hell, I learned Creole and English at the same time - ain't that a head trip. Never gonna forget the way you moved the first time I played translator for you, with that French lady and her kids. Never seen you that surprised."
"That was something else, I admit," Carter nodded, his gaze occasionally refocusing to watch Emile's work, but otherwise staring off into space as Carter himself slowly began to relax with his unit mate's words to focus on instead of his own thoughts. "It was funnier when you had to keep repeating yourself for her to understand you."
"Well, Creole still isn't French proper," Emile grinned. "Anyway, my parents raised me knowing about all that stuff. Most of it just made interesting stories, you know? But one thing stuck with me when I was a kid - Baron Samedi. I thought that bastard was just the coolest thing ever - he was rude, crude, he screwed with people, he swore all the time, cracked dirty jokes, drank and smoked all the time, and he had a skull for a face."
Carter didn't respond this time, and Emile relaxed slightly at that. The nostalgic undertone of his voice, he figured, was helping to ease the man along.
"Baron Samedi is the loa of death, but he's also the loa of resurrection - he can choose to heal people that are on the verge of death because he's the one who decides if you're gonna enter the realm of the dead at all. And if he decides you ain't gonna die, nothing's gonna change that... but if he decides you're gonna die, he digs your grave and greets your soul on the other side. And once that grave's been dug, nothin's keepin you here."
"So I guess, in a way, this is my tribute to him," Emile tapped the visor with the tip of his blade gently. "And a reminder that I gotta keep a clear head on the battlefield as much as I want to just let loose and make everything hurt as much as you, me, everybody here has. I guess I want to believe in something, so why not believe that invoking the Baron will make sure I don't kill someone who doesn't deserve to die, yeah?"
"... Just when I think I have you figured out, Emile, you turn right around and surprise me you know that?"
Knew that couldn’t be comfortable for you. A smile graced Emile’s lips behind his visor, as he shifted his weight slightly from one leg to the other. Blue eyes flicked between the drawing being etched by the blade of his knife, to Jun, to their surroundings in regular intervals, ensuring the safety of them both and his own amusement in one.
"Comfortable enough, and yeah, it does," Emile shrugged slightly. “Far as I knew, everybody in Alpha Company bought the farm during Prometheus. I was surprised to see Carter, let alone you."
"I know." Jun sighed as he shifted, his hands resting the rifle down on the ground fully before the SPARTAN shifted, rolling onto his back to look up at the sky.
Prometheus was not something he liked to think about and every time it was brought up, bile and acid seemed to churn in his stomach, making it impossible for him to concentrate.
Thankfully he was outside and could find something to fixate on other than his thoughts.
Stop thinking, Jun. Relax. Saliva flooded his mouth as his eyes fixed on the barely visible clouds as they rolled by in the night’s sky, his breathing even and steady even though his heart was pounding a jodie in his chest.
“Pleasant surprise, I hope." It was all Jun could muster around the ever growing taste of bile and salive rushing into his mouth.
And there's one hell of a reaction, The thought carried no real sense of concern, only a detached and slightly cold sort of observation. Everyone had their own way of dealing with their burdens, and Emile's wasn't pleasant - he preferred to see what made a person tick right out the gates. It hadn't been his intent to really bring up Prometheus, the words had just slipped out the same way with Jun that they had with Carter. But whereas Carter had been military-bearing through and through, the only outward signs of his displeasure being his clenched jaw and fists, the way his blue eyes had turned stony and hardened, Jun was far more reactive.
"Very pleasant," Emile replied, still continuing his little etchings. "Sorry to bring up bad memories. Slipped out. Maybe you ought to pick the subject, yeah?"
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