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[3:16 IC] Cézanne, Heading for the LZ
AlfredR
I take weekends off from the internetRegistered User regular
I take weekends off from the internetRegistered User regular
SITUATION REPORT
establishing connection with Marathon Column...
...
connection to Marathon Column established
Marathon Column, herein you will find reports relevant to the efforts of the Terran Expeditionary Force to [REDACTED] as is in-line with the military protocol 92.A.@#.z22 as laid down by the Terran Council. Compiled from military enlistment records, numerous field reports and testimonies by [REDACTED] this report aims to provide conclusive up-to-date information on the war effort, in-keeping with the policing efforts of the Expeditionary Intelligence Office and the Expeditionary Police. Included in this report you will find the records and information regarding the individuals [REDACTED] has requested, as of [REDACTED]. Given the recent restructuring of [REDACTED] Platoon following the catastrophic losses in [REDACTED], survivors from several different squadrons and even companies have now come under my command -- let the record show my disagreement with the recent inclusion of [REDACTED] in [REDACTED] squad following the tragedy at [REDACTED]. Without significant psyche evaluation, I consider [REDACTED] a threat at worst and a risk at best. Perhaps the presence of [REDACTED] will galvanize these individuals, but for now the influx and continued presence of newcomers to my ship with vastly differing experiences and long-maintained rivalries is not in this [REDACTED]'s best interest. I will be rotating out the men I can to relieve [REDACTED] of security detail at [REDACTED] -- ideally, this time planetside will cool any flaring tempers and ease transitions once back on board, while this time will likewise be spent ensuring the transferees acclimate by choice or by force. With more men planetside, there will always be more room in the brig if necessary.
[REDACTED]
Aegis Resurgent
Aegis Resurgent
connection to Marathon Column terminated
establishing connection to Rampart
...
connection to Rampart established
Be advised, we've detected a spike in electrical activity in the upper atmosphere of Cézanne; what is your status?
Romeo-Actual, please respond. Romeo-Actual, do you copy? Electrical activity in the upper atmosphere has been detected. What --
connection to Rampart lost
Candidates of Interest
SBeast wrote:Sergeant Greene >>>
Responsibility
Order 3: Follow directives issued by the Officers.
Order 4: Protect your squad of Troopers. (Can use E-Vac)
REPUTATION: Explosives, Smoldering Anger
ABILITIES: FA - 3 / NFA - 7
KILLS: 18 Confirmed
Other Gear
MandelBrite Armour, knife, hydration tablets, TRMs, medipack, backpack, combat drugs, flares, radio, and a well-used field manual.
Weapons
Hand to Hand, Sidearm(d), Slug Rifle
FLASHBACKS:
Strengths
1.
Weaknesses
2.
chiasaur11 wrote:Corporal Felix >>
Responsibility
Order 2: Maximize the kill ratio (bugs killed per Trooper).
REPUTATION: Immortal
ABILITIES: FA - 8 / NFA - 2
KILLS: 47 confirmed
Other Gear
MandelBrite Armour, knife, hydration tablets, TRMs, medipack, backpack, combat drugs, flares, mitt/ball, and a tatty field manual.
Weapons
Hand to Hand, Grenades, E-Cannon(d)
FLASHBACKS:
Strengths
1.
Weaknesses
2.
summerclept wrote:Trooper Gurney >
Responsibility
Order 1: Kill as many lifeforms as you can.
REPUTATION: She killed the Brood Lord
ABILITIES: FA - 6 / NFA - 4
KILLS: 37 Confirmed
Other Gear
MandelBrite Armour, knife, hydration tablets, TRMs, medipack, backpack, combat drugs, flares, and an unread field manual.
Weapons
Hand to Hand, Grenades, Slug Rifle(d)
FLASHBACKS:
Strengths
1.
Weaknesses
2.
Grog wrote:Trooper Alfie 'Boots' O'Hearse >
Responsibility
Order 1: Kill as many lifeforms as you can.
REPUTATION: Pretty Boy, Looks Out for Number 1
ABILITIES: FA - 4 / NFA - 6
KILLS: 22 Confirmed
Other Gear
MandelBrite Armour, knife, hydration tablets, TRMs, medipack, backpack, combat drugs, flares, and an unread field manual.
Weapons
Hand to Hand, Grenades, Energy Rifle(d)
FLASHBACKS:
Strengths
1.
Weaknesses
2.
Egos wrote:Trooper Rolan 'Zombie' Sebastian Denek >
Responsibility
Order 1: Kill as many lifeforms as you can.
REPUTATION: Oddball
ABILITIES: FA - 7 / NFA - 3
KILLS: 40 Confirmed
Other Gear
MandelBrite Armour, knife, hydration tablets, TRMs, medipack, backpack, combat drugs, flares, and an unread field manual.
Weapons
Hand to Hand, Grenades, Slug Rifle(d)
FLASHBACKS:
Strengths
1.
Weaknesses
2.
Arasaki wrote:Trooper Forman >
Responsibility
Order 1: Kill as many lifeforms as you can.
REPUTATION: Cancer Man
ABILITIES: FA 8 / NFA 2
KILLS:
Other Gear
MandelBrite Armour, knife, hydration tablets, TRMs, medipack, backpack, combat drugs, flares, and an unread field manual.
Weapons
Hand to Hand, Grenades. Select EITHER: Slug Rifle -OR- Energy Rifle
FLASHBACKS:
Strengths
1.
Weaknesses
2.
Known Associates
Capt. Stokes, commander of company d on-board the aegis resurgent
Lt. Hart, commander of third platoon on-board the aegis resurgent
Tpr. Yells, gurney's bunkmate and chaos-happy marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Jones, felix's bunkmate and eternally optimistic marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Ramirez, zombie's bunkmate and self-righteous heathen marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Bull, boots' bunkmate and mute marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Ratsenberg, greene's bunkmate and scared shitless marathon squad trooper
Sgt. Lance Hogan, commander of hastings squad -- barrackmates with marathon squad
Lt. Hart, commander of third platoon on-board the aegis resurgent
Tpr. Yells, gurney's bunkmate and chaos-happy marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Jones, felix's bunkmate and eternally optimistic marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Ramirez, zombie's bunkmate and self-righteous heathen marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Bull, boots' bunkmate and mute marathon squad trooper
Tpr. Ratsenberg, greene's bunkmate and scared shitless marathon squad trooper
Sgt. Lance Hogan, commander of hastings squad -- barrackmates with marathon squad
Current Assignments & Briefings
Third Platoon has been dispatched to Cézanne for security detail. They will descend to the planet via landing craft and support the Cezanne Corporation's standing security force to protect Terran military interests.
Contact has been lost with Romeo-actual, and presumably the Rampart has been disabled. Will try to establish contact with Cézanne Corporation and Third Platoon.
FORCE WEAKNESS (lowest rank only) [_] EMERGENCY EVACUATION (highest rank only) [_]
Contact has been lost with Romeo-actual, and presumably the Rampart has been disabled. Will try to establish contact with Cézanne Corporation and Third Platoon.
Sgt. Greene wrote:FINE [X] ARMOR [_] C. DRUGS [_]
A MESS [_] CRIPPLED [_] DEAD [_]
STRENGTH [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
WEAKNESS [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
Cpl. Felix wrote:FINE [X] ARMOR [_] C. DRUGS [_]
A MESS [_] CRIPPLED [_] DEAD [_]
STRENGTH [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
WEAKNESS [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
Trp. Gurney wrote:FINE [X] ARMOR [_] C. DRUGS [_]
A MESS [_] CRIPPLED [_] DEAD [_]
STRENGTH [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
WEAKNESS [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
Trp. Boots wrote:FINE [X] ARMOR [_] C. DRUGS [_]
A MESS [_] CRIPPLED [_] DEAD [_]
STRENGTH [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
WEAKNESS [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
Tpr. Zombie wrote:FINE [X] ARMOR [_] C. DRUGS [_]
A MESS [_] CRIPPLED [_] DEAD [_]
STRENGTH [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
WEAKNESS [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
Tpr. Forman wrote:FINE [X] ARMOR [_] C. DRUGS [_]
A MESS [_] CRIPPLED [_] DEAD [_]
STRENGTH [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
WEAKNESS [_] [strike][_] [_] [_] [_][/strike]
FORCE WEAKNESS (lowest rank only) [_] EMERGENCY EVACUATION (highest rank only) [_]
Current Events & Developments
- Rampart launched from the Resurgent, and went down fucking hard over Cézanne {7-21}
- Worst inspection ever! Wow! No Field Kits for Zombie, Greene, and Felix! {7-whenever}
- Looks like a last-will-and-testament kinda thing between Gurney and Zombie. {7-10}
- Felix has busted open Jones' face something vicious fierce. Wow. Fuck. {7-9}
- A report has been filed on Marathon Squad, unbeknownst to them. Just another day in the military... {7-8}
- Marathon Squad has downtime. Just another day in the military... {7-8}
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These files should be considered classified and on a need-to-know basis. Perusal without express clearance from the appropriate authority may be grounds for EIO investigation and court martial. Further tampering with these records is treason. If you believe you are of appropriate clearance to view this information and have been overlooked, please contact the nearest superior officer with clearance and they will debrief you as appropriate.
TOUR OF DUTY
REPLACEMENTS
NAME: You're going to need a name, so figure it out. Let's hear what the rest of the troopers have taken to calling you (maybe behind your back? Sucks to be you, man). Real name, last name, nickname, christian name, whatever.- REPUTATION: Give us a short, vivid phrase or word that really sums up your Trooper! Make it pop! It's how the rest of the squad probably thinks of you, y'know... and don't get me started about the higher-ups.
- ABILITIES: Total up the FA and NFA of your former character. That sum is how many points you have to split between FA and NFA for your new trooper. Again, neither can be lower than 2.
- FIGHTING ABILITY: FA is literally everything done with the intent of harm -- if the end result will hurt someone, it's going to be FA unless something in the fiction says otherwise (typically operating vehicles).
- NON-FIGHTING ABILITY: Any and everything else? NFA NFA NFA!
- KILLS: The number of creatures you've killed in your career -- I suppose technically bug (alien!) or otherwise. Creepy, that. You calculate your starting kills by roll 1d10 for each point of FA and summing them!
- FLASHBACKS: Whatever Flashbacks your former character had Used remain Used. You do not get them back, with one exception. You get a new Available Strength. In summation: Replacement Characters start play with all previously available Flashbacks and at least 1 Strength.
- RANK: Your new character begins play as either a Trooper or AT LEAST one rank lower than your previous character, your choice.
- KIT & TRAINING: All of your weapons are gone, so you'll have to start back from square one acquiring weapons and upgrades.
Conflict takes place at Ranges of Close, Near, or Far -- and different weapons work best at different ranges. Probably best to figure out what works best for your weapon.
The GM uses a pool of things called Threat Tokens to measure the progress of the current mission/planet (his call, really). Your objective is always waiting for you at the very end of those tokens, and the mission ends when the Threat Tokens are gone. The GM assigns tokens in combat sequences based on what's going on in the fiction to represent hordes of bugs, and the troopers engage the bugs to get kills. So long as your weapon scores more than 0 Kills, you remove a Threat Token from play.
This means that the number of aliens is intentionally left vague in combat! We'll find out how boxed in on all sides you are as you throw the dice and figure out how many go down under slug fire!
While we're on the subject of Kills, better explain those. Kill isn't just how many bugs you've scrubbed since you enlisted, or how many you've wasted since planetfall. Kill is also the term used in 3:16 to refer to damage your character takes. As the term evokes, a Kill is an amount of heavy damage that without care could ensure you leave the battlefield in a box... if you leave at all.
- Your character is considered FINE, normally.
- 1 Kill means your trooper is A MESS. There are no game penalties for being injured but your character is surely bloodied and beaten. Perhaps limping with dislocations and other trauma. A mess.
- 2 Kills means your trooper is CRIPPLED. Now you are crawling along or fighting through the limits of the pain barrier to stay upright. Again, crippled.
- 3 Kills means your trooper is DEAD. Dead dead dead. Dead.
There are ways to avoid this stuff though! There is Armor, Combat Drugs, Healing... I'll explain the latter at the bottom of this section, and the former in the Kit & Equipment section.The simplest way to explain Conflict without it getting bogged down and misrepresenting what is a really light-weight rules system is probably something like this...
It's important to mention Emotional Warfare. Some aliens employ this in the form of sik abilities -- psionics employed by completely alien minds -- although rumor has it there are even some siker troopers, but that's probably just nonsense... Other aliens are just terrifying and hard to deal with, and sometimes your drill sergeant or commanding officer will employ it to get their way. Regardless, means that you can use it too, though!
Note that. E-Kill from Troopers at bugs is wholly ineffective. But you can use it against other Troopers to get your way. Be it to give them an order, talk them down, or otherwise incapacitate or stop them. It's a pretty good, mediocre threat to get your way if you have to in a social situation.
Between every combat sequence, unless there is a particular reason otherwise (and believe me, those reasons do exist), troopers who are not dead recover 1 Kill Wound (from Crippled to A Mess, A Mess to Fine) and recover from all Mental/Emotional Damage.
0 -> 1 - > 1d6 -> 1d10 -> 2d6 -> 2d10 -> 3d10 -> 1d100
Note: There is a difference between "0" and "--" rating in a weapon's entry. 0 means that the weapon is ineffectual at Killing at that range. Nothing will die from your attack without weapon upgrades/serious training to improve your aim -- however, you can fire at that range technically, meaning you can use it to advance or retreat while firing (move at the end of your turn after successfully attacking). A "0" rating can also be improved between missions! "--" Ratings represent fundamentally impossible attacks, basically, and cannot be upgraded or improved, and these weapons do not qualify for "moving while firing."
HAND-TO-HAND 1/--/--
ENERGY RIFLE 1/d10/1
SLUG RIFLE 1/d6/d6
ENERGY CANNON 0/2d10/0
HEAVY MACHINE GUN 1/2d6/0
SIDEARM d6/d6/-- [rank of sergeant and above]
GRENADE d10/1/--
____________________________
Vehicles
THE DROP SHIP [rank of major and above]
DROP PODS [rank of lieutenant and above]
THE APC [rank of captain and above]
I might include other vehicles later, but for now these are the ones that matter to the troopers. The jag-offs in the Terran Navy have some goodies of their own, though...
ARMOR
Mark it off instead of taking a Kill.
COMBAT DRUGS
Mark it off to reroll an FA check; on a 10 take a Kill.
ORBITAL BOMBARDMENT [OFFICERS ONLY; KILLS: D1000]
E-VAC [HIGHEST RANK ALIVE ONLY; ENDS COMBAT]
FORCE WEAKNESS [LOWEST RANK ALIVE ONLY; USES WEAKNESS]
3:16 CARNAGE AMONGST THE STARS
mission:encounter 1:0
aboard the aegis resurgent
Or because the radios are floating somewhere on the other side of the room.
It's been standard procedure since as early as the first of extra-orbital conflicts -- the word for "space battles" that doesn't sound like it came from some Terran cartoon show -- to ensure artificial gravity in the vital portions of the ship. That means medical for starters, and the armory and vehicle storage too, among others. Command runs G-less however, as do the corridors tracing their way up and down, crissing and crossing throughout the ship. Part of it makes sense in its own rights, in terms of speed if not efficiency in some cases -- and part of it is by necessity. Gravity on-board the frigate Aegis Resurgent is handled much as it is on other vessels its size: a series of rotating drums sped up just enough to simulate minimal gravity conditions, all connecting at critical junctures to the rest of the vessel via corridors and fly-spaces.
The amount of power and speed necessary from Power Supply/Engine Deck to create the speed in the rotating drums to fake gravity for so many flight staff, officers, medics and surgeons, technical crew, troopers is not negligible on a ship the size of the Aegis Resurgent. It was long, loud, truly industrial work full of constant spot checks and patch jobs if something went wrong in the deep dark of space without the luxury of constant supplies -- operating and maintaining, day to day, several dozen individually spinning cylinders loaded with critical equipment and personnel. Humming and droning and rattling around in the Resurgent's framework, sending their shivers throughout the craft.
All of which is to say:
It was a loud and hot month of screaming medics and screaming wounded being transferred in from the massacre at Caravaggio. It was a loud and hot week of drilling and fighting for Marathon Squad, up and down the military fly-space, gunning for one another and bots alike in orbital drop training. It was a loud and hot day of challenging Waterloo from 2nd Platoon to an unsanctioned game of Ball and Mitt when the Lieutenants disappeared for their briefings. It's been loud and hot for God knows how long, with the walls rattling around you just quiet enough to only get you if you happen to think about it -- like that damn caterpillar and his legs, or noticing that you're breathing -- like a bum radiator in a busted up apartment. And maybe, many of 3rd Platoon are hoping, maybe just maybe you'll get that beautiful, luxurious security detail that everyone knows is coming up for assignment.
The barracks are situated throughout the ship, wherever the Truth-class frigate designers could sneak in housing between their engines and control rooms and command decks, with placement generally seeming like an afterthought. The twelve members of Marathon Squad are all in one barrack, along with one other squad. You're enjoying some precious downtime, baking lightly in the warmth and metal moans of your barracks, up to whatever it is that you do. The Terran Expeditionary Force doesn't believe in gender-specific housing, so all members are present in and have for some time been sharing this delightfully just-big-enough-and-not-a-meter-more space.
What are each of you currently up to? Introduce those awesome troopers you made.
Also, let me know either in your response or in an OOC Spoiler box:
Troopers, are you a top or bottom bunk? What until-now-unnamed trooper in your squad has the other bunk? Tell me his or her reputation.
Corporal same as above, but also: how did Marathon do in the game against Waterloo earlier today? If you're not sure, you can roll a d10 for NFA to find out and tell me. Did your Lieutenant find out about the unsanctioned game? If you're not sure, you can roll a d10 for NFA to find out and tell me.
Sergeant, same as for the troopers, but also: what's the squad you share these barracks with -- the battle they're named for, I mean. Tell me the name and reputation of their Sergeant? How did your squad do in orbital drop training? If you're not sure, you can roll a d10 for FA to find out and tell me.
I look at myself in the mirror. A trickle of blood coming from one nostril. I wipe it away and when I sniff, it feels warm and thick, the same way it feels to hold in a sneeze.
Each syringe gets rinsed and cleaned, once-overed with rubbing alcohol and slipped in a hidden compartment in my backpack, lined with thin metallic alloy that keeps the scanners from picking it up. A heavy book goes over it, a book I haven't read - necessary weight. The Field Manual over that. A disposable holo-pad, good for three months until the battery dies out, then all the data is sent wirelessly to a nearby housing server. Buy another holo-pad, get all your data back.
I pat my stomach and am hungry. The bad thing about space is how far the brain can wander, screaming and bloody, but the body stays confined to a floating tunnel because we're all small lambs kept weak and motionless so our flesh will be more tender in the end.
===================
I take the bottom bunk in case there's an emergency and I need to get out of bed quick in the night. The guy on top doesn't mind. A guy in maybe his late-twenties last name Yells. He doesn't scream but he talks in his sleep sometimes about his Mom and whenever he does, the next morning he's watching himself in the mirror, stuck there, face dripping sweat in fat bulbs across the shared sink.
Any other day, Yells is hitting on me but just fucking around about it because he knows otherwise I'd bust his jaw open, but on those days when his Mom visits him in his sleep, he won't look at me or say anything.
====================
In the main hall connecting this little pocket of rooms to the vast neural lobes of the rest of the ship, there's benches every so many yards and I sit on one while a million people move around me and write on the holo-pad: "Angelina. David. Bridgette. Matthew. Liana," and add them all to the list too long to remember.
People come and go just outside of the barracks. Expeditionary Police slowly walking their rounds, technical staff arguably bounding by Gurney in the minimal gravity, and the more than occasional administrative assistant -- some kind of junior officer nonsense, fresh out of academy and "learning the ropes" or some other explanation they pull out for having not yet seen live combat -- stepping into view at different junctures in the hall before approaching a broad screen mounted on a far off wall with stylus in one hand and holopad in the other. He clicks and drags, flicks the screen and the wall changes, scrawling curls of light in the air, igniting the names of the goners and the hopeless cases like some kind of bullshit sci-fi funeral pyre writ insignificant.
And Yells is in the hall too, seated on the far end of the same bench that Gurney has staked out, letting his feet bob gently in the open air. He's quiet for a while, just sitting out there with the female trooper, sweat bubbling up on his hooked nose and rigid cheekbones before rolling down the crevice of an old scar on his chin. Then he speaks up, "You know the Captain's still not letting the ship know what's happening on Caravaggio? Total blackout on anything coming into this ship about the situation out there. Probably what the El-Tee is being briefed about, ya know? I'm thinking..."
He pauses for a bit, considering the weighty statement and rolling it around in his mouth.
"I'm thinking it's going to be a bit of Russian Roulette to see who get's security detail off of this heap, and everyone else dropping into that war zone," and his smile paints a face that'd be happy with either circumstance.
My stomach ties a knot, and I look over at Yells. When did he get here?
"What?" I ask him to summarize what he just said. Sorry, I don't say, but my innards are evaporating.
"As long as there's pay. I came here for pay." For the house, for Taylor. Fuck the GLORY OF THE HUMAN RACE. Fuck the posters of nameless white males slapping high-fives over space bugs. "But if I had to pick, I want to get dropped. It's the tension, I guess."
Maybe.
Behave, stomach.
He never exactly liked them, but they were something to focus on beyond the upcoming drop.
Contrary to the ramblings of the man above him (Named Jones, if memory served), Felix knew it was a combat drop. It always was. Parade duty, like shore leave and any number of other things that were not based around probable death, happened to other people.
He had been with Marathon longer than any other unit in recent memory, but the old detachment remained. He missed the game, some old rivalry with Waterloo or some other dumb thing, missed the humiliating loss, missed being chewed up and spewed out by the Lt.
He tossed the ball again, attempting a little trick he'd seen from his last sergeant, before she was devoured by bugs, rolling it across his fingers to loop in midair.
Miss.
Miss.
Catch.
The ball then slipped out of his hand and rolled under the bunk.
He leaned back. To hell with it. Not like it'd be gone when he got back.
Why I fear the ocean.
"--I'm saying is, one unsanctioned game against Waterloo... Just one! Not even a fight breaking out in the mess, you hearin' me? Just one game! Just sayin', one game isn't enough to knock all of us out of getting this security rotation, right? Right?" Jones was looking around from the top bunk where he sat in his skivvies with sweat dampening his shirt all around the neck like a permanent ring saying Idiot Trooper: Helmet Go Here, Stop Acid Maybe, No Face-y Melt-y. He smiled with eyebrows raised pleadingly for people to just get with what I'm saying, guys! A short albeit slow descent -- half glide, half hop -- from his bunk to the barracks floor on his part preceded spreading his arms like wings.
"Marathon's been up here how long, amirite? Hell -- all of 3rd Platoon! That's the real point -- We've been dutiful soldiers, amirite? I think 3rd is getting it." And as if that really was all there was to the decision, a quick kneel-shimmy-reach with his ass to the air and Jones had retrieved the ball and started tossing it in the air to himself.
Your sister squad in the barracks laughed at him, of course, but Jones doesn't realize he's the joke. And they're still sore and shaking their heads over Marathon losing to Waterloo. Really, guys? WATERLOO of all squads? And they snort and chuckle a bit, hassling a Marathon trooper here and there about the El-Tee ripping them new ones when he found out about the game. Of course, more than a couple of them do take some kind of pride in the contention between the platoons, and any loss is sure to get right under their skin, right to where they can't scratch it. And those troopers scowl at Felix when they think he's not looking -- he didn't even show up. Nice attitude, champ.
"Amirite, Corporal?" Jones chimes, pitching the ball back to Felix.
_________________________________________
Tpr. Yells
"Tension?" Yells asks, his smile screwing itself up into a stuck out lip of consideration. "You mean, to get away from the tension of waiting? Or to get to the tension of a fight? I can see both, I guess, Gurney. Really can." And he goes ahead and scoots a little closer, close enough to set off the obvious playful flirtatious vibe they seem to have going on on his better days -- or on his bad days when she helps distract him from his own mind. "Need some loud, hot metal rattling around in your hands to really get that mind clear, haha. Makes sense."
Another pause, feet kicking in the air, as more names flitter in the air at the end of the hall.
"Serious story. I've never actually done a drop, outside of basic and training exercises. I shit you not. Think about the missions we've been on before -- I've either been in sickbay, the brig, or traded off to support some other squad. I've never dealt with a real, live-fire drop scenario. I don't know why, but neither the El-Tee or the Sarge have ever used me in a drop."
"I'm going to be fine with the fighting, no matter how fucking bloody it is. Seeing all those names over there? All the doctors covered in I-Don't-Even-Know's blood? Screaming at all hours? I can deal with that -- get's me kind of pumped honestly. That we're going to swoop in, save the damn day, get medals and all that brilliant shit. I'd be so damn fine without the drop though..."
He hated being surrounded by these fucking beasts. Jingoistic, trigger happy, and hedonistic. In his mind they weren't any better than what they were fighting. And the sooner he wasn't in a cramped space with them the better. Especially that self righteous and hypocritical Ramirez, who he has the displeasure of sharing a bunk with. A man with a penchant for leading spirited rants against the broods whenever an attack occurred and then having a fuck in the showers to celebrate god knows what. Probably the reason he enlisted.
Rolan gets out of his bunk, one foot at a time. The idea of running into that smug bastard made his skin crawl. He kept the grenade pin clenched in his teeth like a toothpick. Maybe he could head down the vending area or something, as long as he was moving; it gave him some sense he wasn't stuck (even if it was a false notion).
He's already run the odds for Jones. Overconfident. Almost definitely going to die.
Oh, he'd try to keep him alive, but getting attached would be a mistake. No point in talking.
Why I fear the ocean.
Jones kept his smile plastered on after questioning Felix, even returning his ball to him. But when the only answer he got was silence, his expression collapsed in on itself quietly -- no fanfare, simply disappearing like shifting sands.
"With all due respect, sir," he began, though. "Your attitude sucks." Rolled eyes and a turn, and he's seeing Zombie in his peripheral addressing the room itself, not locking eyes with any of his mockers nor any of his own squad mates...
"Tell me that someone here, please, is not actually wanting to drop into that slaughterhouse? Someone. You've gotta be kiddin' me, guys. Killin' me. Really."
_________________________________________
Tpr. Ramirez
He glides down the corridor in long, floating strides -- arms spread wide and a self-assured smile across his squat-broad face as he moves between the security and crews, pausing only momentarily to address Yell briefly, and Gurney with singular cocked eyebrow. His hair is all wet with his facial hair trimmed close, and he smells of that weird sort of anti-scent soap the higher ups supply the troops, all hollow and surgical as it catches in the nostrils.
"I think you'll be pleased to know the Lieutenants just got out of their briefing," he says all silk and snake oil in his voice when he talks, slick and scaly in his words. "Saw them on my way back from the showers," he's passing the two on the bench, turning his body and addressing them even as he lets his voice lilt into the barracks -- in and out the ears of every trooper there. "Sounds like a serious job, boys and girls, from what I could tell. Lieutenant Hart couldn't say it out loud of course, but I think I did indeed understand him. MEN-nee," he over-enunciates that word, "many meaningful glances and nods of head let me tell you."
And he smiles at Zombie just long enough to be far, far too familiar even in the squad. "We're going down, I believe. Down, down into the devil's own lair itself," and then he's off on it. Preaching. "Down into the fire and blood and gunsmoke of Caravaggio! Down from the heavens and the stars, down into the valley of death, as it were, were I to be a poetical man."
He finishes his slow turn, and his bellowing speech to all within earshot, as he cross the threshold of the corridor into the barracks-proper, "And we will deliver a right and proper, fearsome blow to every last monstrous bugger we encounter down there... Going to blast every last one we see, aren't we Zombie? You and me, smearing 'em all across the surface, eh?" Water pools under his heels, dripping from his elbows and hair, jittering like a glass of water from an appropriately dated movie reference before it steams quietly away.
Let's get at least a few other player characters into these introductions before I tear us all out of here and into the fight. EDIT: doesn't mean people have to stop posting. I mean, I'm going to let this scene simmer until others join in, then move on.
Feel free to post and announce wanting to do/doing stuff, obviously. Some might have me responding with "Roll NFA/FA!" and some may just have me playing the people around you -- feel free to engage in PC-PC interaction too, obviously, too.
"You won't get parade duty. You'll see heavy combat, and you'll die."
He pauses.
"Honestly, you'd have better odds with desertion. They don't like killing troopers with any kind of record, looks bad for the public. They'd probably just dump you somewhere dark for the rest of your life and forget you. Might even let you out if the war ends. Not that I am or ever would encouraging desertion"
Well, he'd done all he could.
Felix picks up his field manual and idly flips through it.
Why I fear the ocean.
He looks him in the eye and smirks briefly “Yes, I'm sure it will be quite magnificent.” he smiles again.
“Now I'm going to go get myself some lemon-aid before some poor injured fuck wakes up and starts screaming out for his mother.”
He raises both brows, and smiles one last time. Grenade pin still grit between his teeth.
"Now Lizzie can put on a helluva laser show, but only thing that was gonna stop the creeps comin' was if someone got those door controls wired, but these greens got blinkers on when there's a bug in sight, amirite Bull?" Boots doesn't even look up to see his bunkmate's attempt to point out his mistake, and continues. "So I give the hunk a' junk a bit of fine boot maintenance, and SLAM! Metal slabs, wide as the Aegis and half as long, come crushin' down on the godless bastards" Grinning, he adds with a nonchalant shrug "Then it was just up to me to lead a clean-up and drag that shiverin' wreck of an el-tee to the pickup."
Boots gave his hair another flick with the comb, unconsciously, while his bald friend clapped excitedly. Gotta love bunkin' with a mute.
For someone who genuinely believes that the world is a pretty okay place, and that he's making some kind of difference when his boots hit soil and his weapons find their targets -- hearing the Corporal's estimation of Jones' fate is a soul-crusher.
Ramirez? He just finds it funny and laughs at the trooper when Felix predicts Jones' death. Bull stops his flattery of Boots, because he's jerked out of it by that laugh -- sharp and loud, digging into the back of his skull. Meanwhile, Jones is just standing there, fuming.
But being tragically optimistic isn't the same as being a push-over. He's still a trooper of the 3rd Army:16th Brigade, trained and conditioned to turn every ounce of love he has for Terra into hate for her enemies. And everyone is watching already -- getting their jollies off of Jones' naivete, or scowling at Felix -- so everyone is spectating when Jones shows he has a pair.
He reaches over and grabs Corporal Felix's field manual and tears it from his hands, tossing it across the floor. Jones balls up his fists, jaw locked, teeth gritted. "Fuck you."
And the entire damn room save Ramirez is dead silent -- except for that hyena cackle, scraping the chalkboard with its nails in your ears.
Egos: Out in the hall are Gurney and Yell of course, but otherwise you're free to get up to whatever it is you'd like to get up to. Ramirez isn't hassling you any more at this point.
Grog: in the Barracks with you, you've got Jones making a scene and ready to brawl with your Corporal, and Ramirez who is too busy being swept up in blood lust and honestly he's going to enjoy it.
Letting everyone know... I'm going to push this thing forward into the mission briefing no later than Tomorrow Evening, unless something really get's going in this scene -- that gives the rest of the players time to get some establishment in and answer the questions I posed, but regardless tomorrow night will be mission Go time.
Popping some radium gum into his smirking mouth, Boots rises from his bunk and leans against the end. Without taking his eyes off the confrontation, he says to his bunkmate with a nudge "I got twenty on Felix."
It'd be interesting to see his corporal in action.
Unfortunately, Jones takes this attempt to let the matter sit as an insult (10 for dominance, yeah, that was a bad roll), and punches him in the jaw.
Felix punches him back. (6, assume that would be rolling for FA)
Why I fear the ocean.
Dominance rolls by all parties to determine any sort of ambushing or such, and find the range of the fight. Felix rolls a 10, which is terribly unfortunate. Jones mucks it up brilliantly, too -- so nobody actually has the upper hand. No surprises, just a flat out you-see-it-coming brawl. Normally, with two failures like this Range would be Far... obviously, we can tell this makes no sense in the fiction. So range is set at Close -- hand-to-hand.
Then FA rolls and actions. Jones is going to clean Felix's clock. Felix is, presumably, beating Jones' ass so hard his momma cries. Felix gets a 6. Since this roll is under his FA, that's a success. Jones gets an 8, which is over his FA and fails so sucks for him. Order of resolution is:
So, both guys go in for this fight, Felix makes Jones A MESS successfully -- of note, NPCs only have TWO boxes... So, A MESS and then DEAD. And then you just make it pretty with descriptions.
This model holds for all fights -- fist, knife, gun, wars, starship, etc. Back to your regularly scheduled fight.
Jones takes his petty swing at Felix, and it's broadcast a mile away well in advance of it actually happening. Everyone is waiting for it. And apparently, politely retrieving one's field manual is just the kind of thing to set him off -- tempers flare, he brings his fist up into Felix's jaw to no effect. No surprise, no advantage, no off-guard luck. Felix stands unmoved.
And his returned punch explodes across Jones' face, like a cannon's discharge -- sudden, violent, flashy, and enough to get all the trooper's grinning as Jones sprays blood on the floor as he scrambles to collect himself from the heap he now lay in. Legs flailing, knees buckling, he eventually gets braced up on his elbows enough to grab the nearest bunk and get to his feet, one hand stoppering the blood gushing from his mouth. If no one stops him, he exits the barracks quickly, groaning something bout gny gnucking gnahth.
And, hey, Boots just made 20 bucks off of Bull! Sucker.
He crumples.
His labored breathing is the only sign of life for nearly a minute. Finally, he clatters to his feet and drags himself out, groaning.
Felix picks up his manual and resumes his reading. He probably saved the idiot's life for a couple days, between the injuries and the charges for assaulting a superior officer. At bare minimum, he might be a little more careful in the future.
Why I fear the ocean.
"Can you do me a favor?"
I reach in my pocket and take something out of my hand and squeeze it, hard, because if this goes well I'll never see it again.
“Probably” he said after Gurney approached him , although he furrowed his brow a bit in confusion as she reached into her pocket
“What does it involve?”
As for our bunkmate squad, I like Hastings. That oughta still be in the ancient history books, right?
Hastings's sergeant is a big genial guy by the name of Lance Hogan. Large, buff, always laughing about something, genuinely seems to enjoy every aspect of his work. I think he's insane.
In drop training, Marathon was a mess. My boys fight okay, but something about the drop seems to be a problem for more than just Yells. Once the men are back on their feet and everybody's pulled together things are fine, but getting there....
Also: Man alive you guys are prolific.
"Weak hand, Felix." Sergeant Greene's voice floats down from the top bunk in the corner. "Next time a trooper takes a swing at you--or me, for that matter--leave a corpse. A good fearsome spectacle will keep the stupid ones in line." Bunch of fuckin' animals.
Little Trooper Ratsenberg, watching the fight from the bunk below Greene, stands up and peeks his head over the edge of Greene's mattress. "That true, Sarge? Are we going down?" His teeth are almost chattering already.
Greene looks over at the cowardly little man with a scowl. "You hear me say we're dropping? Did the lieutenant come in here and say we're dropping and I missed it in all the excitement?" The sarcasm dripping from that last word could stain the bedsheets. "What you hear from me, the Corporal, and the LT is truth. What you hear from the other troopers is bullshit. Keep it straight."
Greene lays back on his bunk, turning his gaze to the dull gray ceiling. Of course we're dropping, he thought with a grim little smile. LT wants me dead. Afraid I'm going to take his job. The little smile grew wide and toothy. He's finally right about something.
Me and Taylor, smiling at the camera, in a black and white field full of tall flowers.
I push it into his hands. "If you make it out alive and I don't, will you see that the owner of this gets it? The ID is on the photo inside."
The trooper found himself surprised at how quickly he accepted encapsulated photograph. It was almost an instant reflex, perhaps he knew deep down one of the greatest threats that soldiers face on the battlefield is fear. That includes fear of loss and Zombie had very little of that. So naturally his chances of survival were likely higher than those who had people they cared about waiting back home. The fact that he's died once probably didn't hurt his odds either.
“I'll make sure to keep it safe.”
He places his drink on the ground and then unbuttons a patch pocket on his vest located on his right chest. He looks at the ball momentarily and places it gently inside. Latching the button back into the place, Zombie picks up his drink again. He looks at the woman in front of him and smiles for a moment. It's a closed smile and there is a bit of sadness in his eyes. Rolan is trying to be reassuring but he is well aware that no one can be in this situation. He quickly removes his gaze and nods, back to business it would seem.
Not a problem. I full expected people to be busy on their weekends. Just glad to have you on-board!
Also, good stuff to know about Hastings, Hogan, and how much Marathon sucks at drops -- Thanks!
Also this is me sucking at posting "by tomorrow night at the latest."
EDIT: Best most serendipitous Top of Page. So, have some montage music.
Tpr. Bull, Ramirez, Ratsenberg, and Yell
The barrack was alive with chatter in the aftermath of that spectacular fiasco between Jones and Felix: Bull pulling out a small folded up plastic card, the color all run from the digit "5," and sliding it down to Boots as he signed in broad terms that it's all he's got, when Ramirez keep winning at cards. The nine fingers that he still had whipped through the shapes of the words quickly so only Boots could make out the topic of conversation -- and that asshole, still cackling and getting his jollies off of Jones' ass-kicking, running through a cartoonish re-enactment of the whole escapade to the laughter of Hastings squad's troopers like a recycled Terran holo-comedy.
"That kid's a joke," Ramirez sputters out as he wipes a tear from under his eye, his sides aching. He leans himself against his bunk and shakes his head, flashing a mouth full of pearly whites with a greasy smile.
"I've got to agree with Sarge on this, Corporal. I do BUH-Leeve you would have done Marathon quite the pretty little favor if you'd done him proper," and while he's saying this he's talking about Jones but he's locking eyes with and nodding indicatively at Ratsenberg. If there were a way for Ramirez to think to death the troopers he hated, you can see that he'd put them through it for a long time in the way he smiles. One or two troopers who see this exchange thank their lucky stars that sikers are just ghost stories and buggers.
He does this while Ratsenberg is puffed up, listening to Greene's words -- his spine going rigid and his posture snapping to perfection. Ratsenberg was a pretty perfect soldier overall. He knew orders and he followed them to a tee and he deferred to superiority on everything. He was a MandelBrite's gauntlet swinging wherever the head directed it. "No, sir -- No, sir -- Yes, sir -- Yes, sir -- I will, sir." So when he's taken his licks from the Sarge and Ramirez starts up with his glaring and his bad dog routine, Ratsenberg does exactly what you'd expect: "Ramirez, shut that bullshit up before I tear your teeth out."
And that's enough to get Bull clapping his hands excitedly once more.
And then Yell comes in -- maybe followed quickly by Zombie and Gurney, who knows -- running full tilt, his boot coming down on the goddamn reservoir of blood pooling where Jones went down and nearly sending him sprawling into the floor himself. He staggers, collecting himself after a moment and dashing to the hazard that is his bunk, "El-Tee's here!"
_________________________________________
Platoon Leader Lt. Hart & Platoon Sgt. Fuller
Right on the heels of Yell and too soon for his announcement to be worth a damn to anyone, boots are clattering in the hall, as loud as the crack on a slug rifle. First in the door is Platoon Sergeant Fuller, former Sergeant of Marathon and a mountain of a man who has seen his share of combat and paid more than it in flesh. He crosses his arms behind his back when his foot cross the threshold; the arm he has left -- tattooed up and down with the Trooper Skull, banded in Marathon's 'wings of victory' and stamped with NIKE across them -- in the grip of his metal one, all clicking and buzzing like a fist of hornets. "Troopers! TEN-HUT!"
Some if not most of the troopers in Marathon had served with Fuller at one time or another -- either since his reassignment or more probably in his long career of leading Marathon himself. Regardless of their individual experiences though, not a one was unfamiliar with him and his duties at this point: to enforce the day to day platoon regimen. And so, when he steps into view and bellows -- every Hastings in the room is on his feet at his bunk, and every Marathon knows he's expected to beat them to it.
And then he starts doing his checks, painstakingly examining every troopers bunk and kit. Slow and steady, steel-toed boots ringing when they settle on the floor with each step -- and they lock in place, as he's sure to stop and question everyone not up to his standards. Yell is the first to get this, torn down verbally in front of everybody and by the end of it he's agreeing that yes, only a stupid git doesn't know how to make his bed, sir yes sir. And then Fuller sees the blood.
"Troopers, what is this? TROOPERS. Why is there BLOOD on this barrack floor?" For a second it almost seems like his voice drowns out the never-ending grating and rumbling of the ship itself.
The Lieutenant doesn't enter and he doesn't intervene. He remains just outside, dressed in the army's service blacks -- jacket bearing the glimmering blood red diamonds of his position, and medals of missions, kills, and wounds. Each one worn with pride and dedication to his 15 years of service. Paperwork in his hand, he thumbs through it briefly. He wastes no time and is exacting: and as soon as everyone is in position for inspection, he calls out; clearly, calmly authoritarian.
"Sergeant Greene, Sergeant Hogan: I would speak to you." And he withdraws a pair of sheets from his reports and holds them out to each man when they join him.
Sure he may have lost his combat drugs in a bet, his field manual had been used as canvas for some particularly fruity artwork concerned with the female anatomy, and heck knows where he'd gotten two mitts from. Glancing at Ball when the sarge had passed, he smirked on the other side of his mouth. Guess we're even on that 20 then.
running out of variation on Bull nooo
Greene rolls out of his bunk and onto his feet, saluting but makes no attempt to explain the bloodstain, instead barking "Platoon Sergeant on deck!"
Too late, he remembers that his backpack is sitting open on the floor and the knife is missing. If Platoon Sergeant Fuller's feeling inquisitive, he might notice that the knife is up on Greene's bed, unsheathed and stained with dried blood that hasn't been cleaned off yet. Maybe he won't notice, Greene thinks hopelessly. He knows better than that. If there's one man in this army he genuinely likes, it's Fuller, and a lot of that has to do with his intellect and attention to detail. Maybe he'll at least not ask too many questions in front of the men....
Apparently saved by Lt. Hart's voice ringing from the hall, he steps out of the barracks quickly, saluting and waiting for the hulking wall that is Sgt. Hogan to join him.
Yells comes running down the hall, slowing but still moving backwards, saying, "Ell-tee!" and I get my ass up and follow him through.
Chaos afoot. Testosterone. Something to prove. Never mind that bullshit. Use it to filter your xenophobia.
I get in line and do the ritual - respect, attention, volume - and thank fucking God I chose to do everything this morning. Cleaning and chores help me think. Yells calls me a housewife, says I'm setting the gender back a million billion years by offering to clean his shit, but whatever. Maybe it does make me feel motherly.
Maybe.
It calms me down and I dig it, so everything's clean and ready to go. It's what I do when I need to think. Money, life, where to go when this is all over. I don't know anything about my place in the universe but that's nobody's goddamn business except my own.
The nausea's going down. My stomach growls. Blood warming. No one will ever know.
Felix doesn't even bother getting up. His field manual is beaten to hell, he still hasn't replaced the knife he stuck sixteen inches into a bug on the last drop.
Or the flare he stabbed into another bug's eye.
Also, there's blood on everything.
Another routine inspection.
Why I fear the ocean.
4 is 4 Failure
He's making his rounds, giving every kit the once-over twice over as he marches with resolution from Hastings trooper to Marathon trooper and back. Today more than any other day it looks like he's out to make examples -- almost as if he'd heard Marathon became shit at orbital drops and Ball/Mitt with his absence. His steps echoing with a metallic ring after every step, like someone running their finger on the edge of a glass, he approaches Boots briefly. "How are you doing today pretty boy? All prissed up and ready to take those bugs out for a night on the town? Yeah, you heard me Trooper -- I'm asking if you're some kind of bugfucking sicko, with all the time you're putting in front of the vanity. You'd have to be, since apparently --"
And he pauses to rotate on his heel and shout this: "-- LOOKING PRETTY FOR THE ENEMY IS IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO BUNGLE A ROUTINE DROP SCENARIO." And he almost looks like he's ready to keep questioning Boots as his token example when he stops himself and all the scars on his face bunch up around his flaring nostrils when he scowls at Bull, fly undone -- and then he's distracted and Boots gets off the hook like some-goddamn-thing is looking out for him. Poor Bull though has to stand their with his mouth shut when Fuller starts dumb this and piss-in-your-ears that, wondering why the squad mute -- unable to fucking coordinate with the rest of Marathon -- somehow came out of training with the top score.
He glides to the next bunk so smoothly it surprises everyone when he stops, planting himself suddenly and throwing open Zombie's field kit there on his mattress. A drawn out pause in the Platoon Sergeant's tempest is just the eye of the storm, and his prosthetic hand -- all steel and gunmetal grey, rivets and red lights -- produces his field manual... brown, pages stuck together; a wet brick of paper, the ink running out the spine of it, "Ah, well here it is then -- here we are gentleman, our star trooper really."
He takes the book and holds up it right in Zombie's face, curling his lip up: "You seem to have become confused, so allow me to clear this right up. This. Is. A. Book. You might have seen them before trooper -- it's the thing an educated trooper uses to lead a squad but you seem to have mistaken it for either a cup or a latrine!" He lets the bundle of moist pages tumble down to the floor and collect in creased heap.
During this whole venture, no matter who he is facing or what way he's inventing to tear the squad down, he is never once letting eyes settle on the ramshackle mess that is Sergeant Greene's bag and belongings. First thing he did when Greene was called out was kick his bag under the bunk as if he were clearing the path for the mechanical hand of god to come down on each trooper's skull.
Fuller moves on from Zombie then, but he never really lets up on Bull -- of all people -- who becomes the example in place of Boots or Zombie. Every kit he examines, every bunk he checks are all compared and graded on the Platoon Sergeant's ad hoc stupid git scale with Yell on one end and Bull on the other. You're either too dumb to have an answer or too busy flapping your gums to listen, as far as Fuller is concerned. And then he reaches Felix, coming to a hard stop on the heel of his boot in front of where the Corporal sits, and he's fit to burst.
"Corporal, is there a reason that you are not at attention? Have I interrupted a very busy schedule of dicking around?" Fuller drags out the kit, or what's left of it at this point and he snarls. "Maybe you are deep in thought as to what a kit is supposed to look like, Corporal, as you clearly have no damn clue. The mute has a full kit, Corporal, and he can't even ask for replacements what is your excuse."
"Trooper Gurney!" The only proper way to describe the way he calls her name is like a bear trap snapping shut and shattering what's in its jaws, sending bits of bone spinning through the air. "Your Kit! Over here, Now! Show the Corporal what a proper field kit looks like, Trooper."
_________________________________________
Platoon Leader Lt. Hart
Hart pays a modicum of attention to Fuller's episode in the barracks. He had known it was coming, and as far as the Lieutenant was concerned it was exactly what Marathon needed if it got them into shape. His eyes snap back to the meeting before him and Hart salutes politely once Hogan and Greene are assembled. "At ease, gentlemen. I have your copies of the platoon's assignment, here."
And then he's handed out the pair of sheets -- ink printed on sleek plastics, no paper to be found anywhere in this quadrant -- each one stamped with the seal of the Captain himself and the insignia of the Expeditionary Intelligence Office, talking about the world Cézanne and the Cézanne Corporation located on its surface. It was the security detail. "3rd Platoon is going down to relieve the 1st so they may be rotated back onto the Resurgent. We're looking at a 15 week detail -- at minimum."
Cézanne and the Corporation were well known among the troopers -- listed in the registry and field manuals as PT11A021, the planet is a tiny blue marble and the first conquered in this system when the 3:16 jumped this far out. Promptly bought out in a military contract bid by the Corporation, it was immediately transformed into a cutting edge weapons testing/production site. This planet was responsible for the production of a variety of vessels on its surface, including the Resurgent itself -- the shipyards made possible due to the planet's own low-gravity. As detailed to the tiniest measurement on the report, a light atmosphere exists -- breathable for now but likely gone in 40 to 45 years and then the planet finally goes arid. Till then, enough moisture is present in the air to satisfy the indigenous animals kept on site for use as test subjects and research materials by the Cézanne Corporation.
"We'll be acting as security for the site until such a time as we are relieved by another platoon. Your squads will assist the Cézanne Security force in their day-to-day sweeps, maintain peace among the workforce, and guard against any bugger assaults that may occur," the Lieutenant explains as the Sergeants review the reports given to them. "But I don't think I really have to explain any of this. Seems the squads have been talking about this mission for some time."
Hogan, the report clutched and wrinkled up in his meaty fist, scratches his head and wonders aloud why they're getting shit detail -- as he calls it. Why the hell are they being given this when Caravaggio is chewing up men and spitting them out wholesale?
Lieutenant Hart knits his forehead and his lips part in a pug dog's growl. "The Captain claims he doesn't see fit to drop a platoon that's going to get blasted out of the sky before they even break atmo. If the troopers can't even die jamming the cannons of our enemy, they should get out of the way for the real troopers. So here we are. Security detail. Questions, Sergeants?"
And if you as a player are expecting security detail to be as dull as it ought to be, you are wrong.
I snatch the kit up together and bring it over to Fuller, unsure of exactly what he wants me to do with it. I kind of display the contents and I know there's this big-eyed look of "please don't eat me" going on, looking at everyone, begging them to compliment my kit or applaud or... or fucking something, do something, I'd rather be in battle right now than this.
Being in front of crowds makes me want to overdose and trip out into a calm glaze and I never abuse anything I have, just use it when the prescription says to, but I mean every single word of that and none of it is an exaggeration.
With Trooper Gurney now on one side of Fuller, the two stand shoulder to shoulder -- as best they can, standing at different heights and Fuller towering over most insignificant troopers by a full head or more. She snaps open her kit and stands there, on display, contents all agleam and neat and tidy and arranged in Format 21Q as described on Page 107, although she probably just saw the picture and thought Gosh That's Swell rather than do any real reading. Fuller let a hope for this Trooper flare just momentarily -- before tempering it absolutely, cutting it off at the neck. A wall of military humiliation, surrounding Felix and too close for comfort.
"Trooper Gurney! Walk the squad through your field kit! You will show them all which item is which! You will hold the item above your head so the whole of Marathon may see! You will explain each of the items in your kit to the Corporal, and you will speak slowly and you will use very, very small words."
Everything gets held up, slow, over my head while I describe it, and it's not clear if I should feel stupid or the Corp should. My voice gets dry, deeper. "Medipack. It... fixes you up if you're hurt." Then the volume comes, the military roar: "Hydration tablets. They make water." Practically telling. "Field manual. Big, important book that can save your life," - as if I've done more than read what's required - "Flares."
I put everything right back where it came out, like pulling apart a puzzle and holding each piece up to the light. Some kind of holy offering. Inside the medipack are illegal narcotics from back-alley doctors. The special zipped compartment, holding the setup. Displaying any part of this fucking kit is an invitation to get my ass kicked, so I'm fluid and fast.
I hold the flares up, another holy offering. I picture those old era paintings of messiahs, the suns rising just behind them, the angelic light in the atmosphere. "They light up the sky."
Sergeant Hogan follows on the tail of Greene with a No Sir, flipping the plastic sheets over between his fingers as he reads along. The Lieutenant glances between the two of you briefly, before continuing -- bringing his hands down to his sides and tucking folder and clipboard under an arm. "Very good. We're scheduled for departure as soon as the Resurgent is in position over Cézanne. By current estimates, that should be at 1800 hours. However," and he sighs, tightening his jaw and popping his neck on one side.
"The Resurgent is still receiving wounded out of Caravaggio -- meaning command refuses to spare her a moment longer than necessary. She will not be synchronizing with a planetside transceiver -- she will not be guiding us in on our descent. Our Landing Craft will be deployed into the atmosphere and the pilots will have to take us in manually." Lieutenant Hart looks to Greene now, and for as much as he might hate the notion that he may take his job -- and as much as he might even have something against the Sergeant's attitude or the man himself -- ultimately, Hart wants things to run smoothly for everyone. Smooth means no problems. Smooth means no dead troopers on his watch. Smooth may even mean advancement.
So, Lieutenant Hart looks at Greene and raises his brow, lowering his voice just a hair. "Means little-to-no engine firing on descent -- otherwise we'll never touch down, given the planet's gravity. It won't exactly be a drop, Sergeant, but it's something close to it. It's a chance for your men to sort out whatever issues they've been having, I think."
He waits for an answer and -- whatever it is -- he then salutes the two men before him, snapping one hand up to his brow and then back down to his side with the recoil and pristine execution of weapons fire. "The other squads have already been informed, and they are suiting up presently. As soon as Platoon Sergeant Fuller has completed his inspection, instruct your men to collect their things and hit the armory -- then Hangar 42. The LC will be ready to board and drop. Dismissed, gentlemen."
_________________________________________
Platoon Sergeant Fuller
"That was very good, Trooper Gurney -- that will be all," and she is dismissed back to her bunk with a wave and clitter-click-clack of his prosthetic hand. He turns on his heel to scan the entire room, his eyes hovering over every member of Marathon Squad as he speaks: "And for those of you seemingly intent on following in the illustrious footsteps of your Corporal, judging by the sorry-as-shit conditions of your kits... I am happy to oblige you your wish."
In the hall, the Lieutenant salutes Sergeant Greene and Sergeant Hogan as he concludes his briefing. Fuller glances out to them before returning his gaze to the room -- stepping away from Felix to address everyone from the center of the scraped-and-scratched metal floor. His flesh fist balls up, and he jabs a finger out at Zombie and Felix as he addresses the room at large once again. "None of you will be restocking before your deployment." He turns to leave but stops suddenly and whips back around, spitting out "--you've got shit detail, you don't fucking need it. Leave the supplies for the real troopers, not the piss poor excuses in this squad."
"I'm disappointed."
Remember, at any time an NFA roll can be attempted with the proper tools as long as you attach it to an actual action happening in the story -- to do it, do it. So, using a tool kit on your armor -- Roll NFA and succeed? Future Bonus. Digging a trench -- Roll NFA and succeed? Future bonus. Tool + Fiction = Future Bonus.
Speaking of which... on a failed NFA roll, it is my responsibility to bring the hurt. So.
EFFECTS CURRENTLY IN PLAY:
Fill out this resupply form in triplicate...
Effect: Gurney and Boots are the only members of Marathon (that we care about for not being NPCs) with complete field kits. Until the end of this mission (or a successful series of NFA checks to get a hold of replacement stuff) Zombie, Felix, and Greene may only use the equipment listed under Kits with the express permission of either Gurney or Boots. How this permission is attained is up to you! Orders and violence are totally valid, but so is asking nicely. A successful NFA check could just fucking steal the shit from them. The kit can only let one person at a time try to get a bonus though -- that's why every trooper has one. This doesn't apply to Combat Drugs because wow I'm not that big of a dick.
"I'll see that they do, sir." Greene replies. Whatever trouble may be in the near future between him and Hart, he knows they're ultimately on the same team: Team Let's All Not Die, Shall We?
He fires off a crisp salute in response to Lt. Hart's, and then another as Fuller passes him on the way out of the barracks. Reentering the barracks, he barks "That was embarrassing, maggots! And your constant failures have finally come around. Looks like we're babysitting on Cézanne, because that's all command believes that we're capable of. But there's good news: We get to drop to the surface." Some of the troopers, Ratsenberg included, go positively white at this. Greene pushes on. "You lot are getting one last chance to man up and show you belong in this army before command cuts you loose and leaves you to the bugs. You will NOT screw this up. Understood?" It wasn't really a question, and he didn't wait for an answer before marching back out into the hall.
Greene heads from the racks to the resupply station. The young requisition officer working the desk eyes him with the quiet malice of one who suspects that he is about to be made to do work. Greene puts on his intimidating commander face.
"I need a field kit, soldier."
"Requisition form?"
Shit. Greene sighs with frustration. "Clearly I am not carrying a form. I am, however, carrying officer bars. Are you going to make me go back for the paperwork for a simple field kit?"
The requisition officer narrows his eyes. "I am, Sergeant...?"
"I'll be back," Greene lies, turns on his heel, and storms out.
He still has the spare knife (always good to have a second knife), food, water, the combat drugs (seal unbroken), and his tatty old field manual. If the mitt and ball are still on Jones's bunk, that probably would be enough for the trip to...wait.
Felix paused, realizing Marathon would never go for a combat drop without full kit. Security detail?
He'd beaten the shit out of Jones for nothing. On the other hand, that meant Jones ducked the inspection. Call it even.
Also, it meant Cézanne Corporation was going to go to hell. Felix had parade assignments once or twice before. They usually went bad.
Well, no point in thinking about it. Felix sealed his kit.
Why I fear the ocean.
"Ok...according to the Sergeant of my Platoon. I use my training guide as a latrine."
Zombie raises the training guide and opens it up for the young officer behind the desk to see
"But as you can clearly see the stains are of a tan-ish hue. An ochre if you will."
He furrows his brow
"That's because it is coffee..and not urine."
He looks at the unblinking officer
"Since the Expedition Force prints untold thousands of these , I was wondering if I may be able to get a replacement?"
Silence
"...."
Still silence
"OK, I'm going to take that as a "No"."
Zombie just bites down on his lip and takes closes back his stained manual
"I'll just be taking this and be on my way then.."
8
Just hangin' out here with my kit.
Then it dawns on me that pee-boy and Sir Sullen are my back up, are in charge of keeping me alive as I them, and my eyes go wide and I look through my shit to see if I have any spare bandages.
What I do have, though, is six months worth of illegal medication to keep me nearly rail-thin and to fight back the nausea.
Should be fun.