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Thread: Lv-624

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    Lv-624

    It was cold. Too cold. Blisteringly frigid as Antarctica on a bad day. The only upside to the temperature was the ‘Wake up!’ it gave you whenever you woke up from hypersleep. Uncomfortable sleep or brain damage from no hypersleep during a jump, good choices all around.
    The ‘dungeon’ as many marines (and occasionally COs) called it was lit by a cool, dreamlike blue, like waking up in the sky but if the colors were a bit too sterile. One by one, the dreamers awoke from their pods. Branco (the specialist, or the "special forces" as Nez liked to remark), Nez (the smartgunner), Swearnign (the second in command), Arnold (the medic), then Windhealer (the squad leader), and finally Blackburn (our intel officer).
    “They don’t pay us enough for this shit, man.” Branco’s sleepy voice complained over the hissing of pods opening.
    “Not enough to see your ugly face, Branco.” Nez remarked as she rubbed her eyes.
    “Eat buckshot.” Branco shot back, seemingly aware of his surroundings now that he’d been made fun of.
    Maybe it was the lack of satisfaction normal sleep would give you or the absence of comfort of hypersleep, but even if these factors were magically gone, I still wouldn’t like it. It felt a bit inhuman to sleep in these pods like little bugs ready to hatch. Maybe we are the bu-
    “Chips! You want more time in your pod? Get some later! Squad req and gearup’s in 6 and briefings in 20! Move it like you mean it!” Corporal Swearnign yelled, chomping on an expensive cigar that looked as mean as him. He was technically our second in command at the squad level, but he always acted like he was the top of the marine food chain. He certainly performed like it.
    From orbit, LV-624 looked like a green ball of death, ready to gobble you up when you least expect it to. Our ship, the USS Almayer, was orbiting that heap, at a comfy altitude of 50,000 miles.
    I was gearing up in the lockers when the klaxons first blared.
    “Tribe, gather at Alamo, don’t be late or else.”
    My rifle’s hunger for ammo was answered with a hefty slap to the bottom, responding with a satisfying chichuk when I cycled a round. My secondary, a cute sub that was so small, it could be holstered in a wallet, was strapped on my back. My rig was filled to the brim with AP and submachine gun mags, ready to be unloaded onto my enemy.
    I trotted past medical and into the dropship area, where the chunk of metal we call the “Alamo” was waiting to drop us feet first into hell. It looked like mean metal wasp, brimming with missiles, guns, and other gadgets. It was as ready for war as we were. I walked through the ramp at the back of the dropship, marines anticipating the taste of war from their seats. Our squad was mostly seated near the door, though Nez was at the back where the APC usually hung out. I took a seat in the front of my squad leader, the harness of the thing resembling something you’d see on a rollercoaster ride.
    "So who're we fighting this time, huh?", Nez asked. "Another manhunt for some poor UPP farmers?"
    "No-go, Nez. We're hunting some real aliens this time." Branco replied, half believing what he was saying.
    "No shit?"
    "No shit. Heard something about them buggers having acid blood or something. Sounds like a nightmare come to life!"
    "Well-" she adjusted her smartgunner eyepiece "-we're hired to kill nightmares, aren't we?"
    "Hell yeah, you got it, Nez!" They bumped their fists together and made a cheer. If those two were as badass as they acted, maybe I wouldn't buy it on this drop.
    Maybe.
    Last edited by dee; 05-30-2020 at 08:26 AM.

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