Jackson just nodded weakly as the two of them took their leave; even still, as he tried to lay down and sleep he just couldn't. Why? He was dead tired; his eyes closed of their own damned volition too, so why couldn't he sleep?! "Maybe I'm still paranoid...Still, something's not right" he mused, still unaware of how Punff had assaulted him in the bathtub. Even though his mind was trying to warn him about what happened, the effect of the Weresheep's wool combined with the exhaustion he'd had at the time blanked the majority of his memory of that timespan.
After about ten to fifteen minutes of trying to fall asleep, he tried to just void all thought; his mind was too cluttered from everything. First he'd been on the run for god knows how long, and now he was being treated - in his mind - like royalty. They fed, bed and (apparently) washed him...All without even asking. It was mindboggling. No, just relax, he told himself; finally he felt himself start to slip and didn't bother to stop it. Soon, he felt himself slide into the land of dreams....Where Earth was for him. Back with his family, his friends, and Kayla most of all. It was a glorious dream; they were all at the beach. Glad that he was back from that hellhole; and judging by how he and Kayla were kissing each other, they had made up. He saw his little brother again....His squadmates were there too. It was something he wished he could stay in forever.
However, as with all good things...An end must eventually come. Jackson's eyes slowly opened to see the few rays of light peak over the horizon; hot fuck I was out for a while, he thought to himself. How long had he been sleeping? Longer than eight hours, if the difference between the sun cycles here and on Earth were any indicator. Little did he realize that the golden-fleeced Weresheep had visited him several times to see if he was alright.
"Earth...." he muttered, letting his head rest against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling; did anyone even miss him? Kayla probably hated him, even if the farewell he'd asked his squad to give her had been heard. Their last conversation wasn't on a happy note; on top of that, per standard protocol, his name would be stricken from the record after a standard honor ceremony. No names would be given, only that soldiers had been lost. However, he'd seen a few soldiers identify lost souls by name when they took the podium to speak; while not expressly forbidden, he knew the brass was never happy when someone did as such. For obvious reasons.
Still, he couldn't help but wonder what was happening back home...Knowing he was still stuck here with no means to make contact for the foreseeable future; all he wanted was just to reach them. But maybe it was better if they thought he was gone…Even if he could make contact, he didn’t know for sure if there was a way off this planet. No…Better to just move on and take care of it himself.
*Location: Sol System, Earth. Date: Friday, September 19, 3648. UNSC Memorial Grounds. Honor Ceremony for Jackson Whitelock*
The grand ceremony for all the soldiers and civilians lost was fairly spectacular; for once, the brass seemed to realize the gravity of its error. And after exerting tremendous pressure and many phone calls, the Generals of the UNSC even seemed to get the colonization agencies to chip in for the expenses; after all, it was technically their fault they had to send so many soldiers there in the first place. In any case, all squads were deemed to be available for funeral detail if the families requested a service. Of course, that meant jumping through another set of hoops, as details had to be assigned and arrangements made; but this was something he deserved. Something every soldier deserved.
Today was such a day; the only shame was that there was no body to bury, as was the case for many of the soldiers’ individual funerals. A tent stood over a six-foot hole in the earth, the place where Jackson’s coffin would be set forever to rest; a grey cinder headstone reading “Jackson B. Whitelock. Delta Force, Hunter Squad – 1st Lieutenant. Born April 20, 3624. Died August 10, 3648” sat at one end, forever cementing that he was well and truly gone. Soon, he would join his other brothers and sisters-in-arms in whatever lay beyond. The green, freshly-manicured grounds were incredibly silent and barren, save for some families who came to wordlessly visit the fallen themselves; wind gently caressed the memorials, causing the flags flying overheard to whip with little ‘pop’ noises and the sound of the fabric rippling in the breeze.
Black chairs arranged in multiple rows of eight with the aisle coming between the fourth and fifth seats; in them were the families and loved ones of Damon Richards, Dmitri Bolsov, Adam Kinsey and David Williams. Jackson’s own family stood at the front, his father Johnathon Ray Whitelock having his arms around his family. The former Captain of Delta Force Echo Squad, the six-foot-six, brown-haired man was sidelined late into his career when a rocket from insurgent forces shredded both of his legs on a rescue op as he was guarding an evac chopper, forcing him to undergo bionic surgery after and effectively earning him an honorable discharge from Delta Force. Even though the surgery granted him movement…He couldn’t keep serving. And now his son couldn’t either; this was so damned wrong. He should have been dead before his son…No parent should have to go through this.
Jackson’s funeral detail stood at the ready in their dress uniforms, watching with solemn faces as the back door of a vehicle in the shape of the old-world hearse opened. His squad members, being assigned to be their comrade’s funeral detail, both anticipated and dreaded this day; to have to bury a comrade like this, it was insane. Of all of Hunter Squad, no one expected their Squad Captain and their First Lieutenant to be the ones to go. Even worse was that they couldn’t even bury his body; it seemed…insulting almost.
When the conveyor inside the hover-hearse rolled the coffin out, the flag of the United Nations of Earth covering its lid, the four squad members took their positions and grasped the side rails. “Company…Take hold” commanded an elderly-looking gentleman in full UNSC stripes and tan dress attire; this was General Graves, one of the more respectable members of the brass. His face showed no emotion, only a cold hardness prospective of one who’d seen a lot of shit he’d like to forget; snow-white hair lay hidden beneath his cap, decorated with Earth as its symbol. “Company….Forward” Graves added; lifting the coffin from the conveyor, they marched towards a bronze-clad platform and stopped yet still marched in place. “Company…Halt” said the General; Hunter Squad stilled their legs and lowered the coffin onto the platform, then marched away for the gun salute. At this the members in attendance were then ushered to seats beneath the portable tent to block them from the harsh sun; naturally, Jackson’s family was seated at the very front, with others following suit behind them. His own father sat in the aisle, directly in front of his son’s empty coffin.
Another unknown officer then commanded as they stood by their weapons, “Company…Take arms”. Weapons were picked up. “Company…Aim” Weapons were shouldered and raised to the sky, their alignment perfect despite the sadness weighing on their hearts. “Fire!” Shots rang out, the echo of muzzle blast loud in the dead-silent environment. “Fire!”, followed by a pause, then again “Fire!” A final volley rang out, the report slowly fading to the wind. And as if to preserve a tradition that withstood the test of time, a younger soldier in dress uniform started to play Taps on a rather impressively-maintained set of bagpipes, the chanter and drone polished to near-perfection. That old familiar song that brought a tear to even the most hardened soldier’s eyes. That song that definitively stated “This soldier is dead…God rest his soul” and that song which in its own way helped families find closure. One might think it odd to have such an old instrument survive this long…But certain traditions were simply not allowed to be another of history’s victims.
As the song played, the detail then began the work of folding the flag; the low hum of the drone seemed to add a certain weight to the whole thing, as many could be seen wiping away the tears that threatened to stain the dark clothing they wore. As the final corner was tucked into the triangle and the edges smoothed, the song ended; Williams, now the flag-bearer then turned and presented the flag to the father. Stepping back, he then saluted and said, “On behalf of the UNSC and the Delta Force regiment, we thank your son for his unlimited bravery in the face of battle”. Next came Damon Richards, who placed a wooden plaque with several medals on the flag then joined his comrade in saluting, “For his valorous defense in the face of overwhelming odds, the UNSC awards First Lieutenant Whitelock with the United Nations of Earth Medal of Honor. For his unrelenting courage, he is also awarded the Meritorious Combat Medal and the Chancellor’s Citation for Exceptional Service”. Only when his father returned the salute did they lower their arms and return to the coffin.
General Graves then stood in front of the soldiers facing them and giving a crisp salute,“Gentlemen, your duty is complete. You may now joined your loved ones for the eulogy requested by the family”. Returning the gesture, the four soldiers then went to sit next to their loved ones; Bolsov himself sat next to his beloved. Even though he would not overly express his sentiments and make things potentially sour, his hand soon found its way to his girlfriend’s and squeezed. The rest of the squad joined their families…It was now time for any who wished to speak on Jackson’s behalf to do so.
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