I don’t know when the last time I saw grass outside of the tower was. I don’t even suppose I will, unless our squad is sent out to Venus. The last vestige of hope I have left lies with Quentin, what a fine man indeed. Very spiritual, no doubt about that, probably what makes him such a fine Warlock. I never see him out and about without some dusty old tome, or some handbook by his side, he is always taking notes in that god awful notebook of his as well. The amount of times I have had to turn back and face off another ten or so grunts so Quentin can get that book is just absurd. “You know we’re not leaving here without losing another man, right?” That was Sigmund, always the cynic. Sigmund was our hard-core support unit. I have never seen someone shoot so well, other than several other hunters out there; but we don’t talk about them. His helmet was in his hands, and he seemed entranced by the flickering UI dancing in the subtle light of Earth. Quentin grunted in response, he also seemed to be enraptured by something, although what it was, I’m not sure. Probably some warlock trickery, hopefully, the idea of opposites attracting is true, because I’m certain Sigmund and Quentin were opposite sides of the spectrum. I didn’t say anything. Things were still moving slowly for me; everything seemed to be paced out, details seemed to jump out at me, but I was a state. My brother; Myles McLant was the captain of his own fire team. ‘Squad 403 at your service’; he always said. What utter crap that turned out to be. I don’t know how many men’s heads I have seen explode into a shower of blood and gore, but family just has that edge to it, that makes things a little more personal. So here we were, sat against the rusting remains of an old warplane, waiting for a flood of Hive beasts or Fallen to scourge through this place. I faced death many times before, but never with open arms. I don’t plan on starting today.