GGocelot a dit :
Et vous les avez lu les romans avant de vous en moquer ?

GGocelot a dit :
Et vous les avez lu les romans avant de vous en moquer ?

His experiment was cut short. Four men entered the gym. They were out of uniform, wearing only shorts and boots. Their heads were cleanly shaven. They were all heavily muscled, lean, and fit. The largest of the four was taller than John. Scars covered one side of his face. John could tell they were Special Forces—Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. The ODSTs had the traditional tattoos burned onto their arms: DROP JET JUMPERS and FEET FIRST INTO HELL.

“Helljumpers”—the infamous 105th. John had overheard mess hall chatter about them. They had a reputation for success . . . and for brutality, even against fellow soldiers.

John gave them a polite nod. They just brushed past him and started on the high-gravity free weights. The largest ODST lifted the bar of the bench press. He struggled and the bar wavered unsteadily. The iron plates on the right end slid off and fell to the deck. The opposite end of the bar tilted, and he dropped the weight, almost crushing his spotter’s foot. Startled by the noise, John jumped up.

“What the—” The big ODST stood and glared at the locking collar that had slipped off. “Someone took the pin.” He growled and turned to John. John picked up the pin. “The error was mine,” he said and stepped forward. “My apologies.” The four ODSTs moved as one toward John. The big guy with the scars stood a hand’s breadth away from John’s nose. “Why don’t you take that pin and shove it, meat?” he said, grinning. “Or better yet, maybe I should make you eat it.” He nodded to his friends. John only knew three ways to react to people. If they were his superior officers, he obeyed them. If they were part of his squad, he helped them. If they were a threat, he neutralized them. So when the men surrounding him moved . . . he hesitated. Not because he was afraid, but because these men could have fallen into any of John’s three categories.

He didn’t know their rank. They were fellow servicemen in the UNSC. But, at the moment, they didn’t seem friendly. The two men flanking him grabbed John’s biceps. The one behind him tried to slip an arm around his neck. John hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin to his chest so he couldn’t be choked. He whipped his right elbow over the hand holding him, pinned it to his side, and then straight punched the man and broke his nose. The other three reacted, tightening their grips and stepping closer—but like the dropped pin, they moved slowly.

John ducked and slipped out of the unsuccessful headlock. He spun free, breaking the grasp of the man on his left at the same time. “Stand down!” A booming voice echoed across the gym. A sergeant stepped into the gym and strode toward them. Unlike Mendez, who was fit and trim and was always serious, this man’s stomach bulged over his belt, and he looked bemused. John snapped to attention. The others stood there and continued to glare at John. “Sarge,” the man with the bleeding nose said. “We were just—”
“Did I ask you a question?” the Sergeant barked. “No, Sergeant!” the man replied. The Sergeant eyed John, then the ODSTs. “You’re all so eager to fight, get in the ring and go to it.” “Sir!” John said. He went to the boxing ring, slipped through the ropes, and stood there waiting. This was starting to make sense. It was a mission. John had received orders from a superior officer, and the four men were now targets.