A stoic sort.
She wears this pair of shades all the time and never stops working her tail off. An overachiever, unlike most of us, and she's talented at everything she wants to do; she has a really bright career ahead of her, and I'm just doing my best to help her realize her potential and keep her out of harm's way. Not that she really needs me. She's got loads of grit.
It's the kind of grit you only develop if you've lived a harsh childhood. Lyla's told me bits and pieces of her childhood but it's not something she's fond of telling others, so I don't stick my nose where it doesn't belong.
When she gets an honorable discharge I know she'll be making a good life for herself. She'll be so wealthy, so well-known, and so well-respected that when I'm sitting in the canteen trading stories with the recruits, everybody's gonna call me a crazy dementia ridden old man and nobody's gonna believe a guy like me used to serve alongside a gal like her.
That's fine by me. She deserves it.
Joey is a fun guy. He's a real blast to be around, knows the funniest thing to say to get the whole squad laughing. Him and Cowboy love to act a fool over comms. Charismatic, really. I used to enjoy shooting the shit with him.
This one operation, we were on a raid together in a colony supposedly infested with the Colonial Liberation Front, but when we turned up it was a lax operation. There were some contacts but not a whole lot, so squad comms were filled with pointless chatter and messing around. The two of us broke off from the main squad for a little to investigate this one home, a run-down little thing near the very edge of the town, with the door kicked open and a muddy boot imprint left on it. We walked in to sweep the area clear when we saw a grisly sight.
There was a thin, wiry looking man, kneeling on the floor in some engineer's jumpsuit. Probably in his late 30s; you could start to see the grey hairs in his stubble and his hair. He was surrounded by blood, and viscera- guts, gore, and long strands of hair all over the floor. It was a real mess, and his hands and clothes were soaked in crimson, and he was just not moving. There was this despondent look in his eyes as he fiddled with a golden ring, I could never forget it.
When he heard us come in, he glanced up at the two of us and asked something in Tradeband, the general language of most outer rim colonists.
Someone murdered his wife and daughter, and just by looking at the scene I knew one of the marines did it. The only thing that'll obliterate a person into chunks of meat that fine are the 10-millimeter explosive-tip caseless, standard light armor-piercing rounds we get.
He wouldn't stop asking why we did it. I didn't know what to say.
Joey had this stone-cold look in his eyes, though. His whole face was slack, there wasn't even a hint of emotion. He didn't even look human at that point. Completely indifferent to what was happening. When that father started bawling his eyes out, Joey took out a shotgun. He put it between that father's eyes with practiced ease, a skilled hand. And just like that...
With that same, stone-cold expression, he looked back at me. He looked me right in the eye and said "They're the enemy, Chance. Don't let yourself become emotionally compromised."
Once we left, I didn't say a word the rest of the operation. Joey didn't stop talking over comms, kept on cracking everybody else up.
I don't know what to think of Joey anymore. He still acts like a total nimrod, and sometimes I still talk with him. But every so often I get a chill down my spine, then I see him out of the corner of my eye. Looking my way.
Watching me.
A rambunctious, bubbly little marine with dirty blonde hair. Whenever I walk by her in the Almayer she always gives me this happy little wave and asks me how cryosleep was, how I've been, if my aches and back pains are bothering me, if I'd like to share an MRE with her and talk a little bit more before deployment... I don't tell her if I'm ever really in pain or anything, because the only thing that can bring her mood down is to see her friends hurt, and I think that's the general consensus for everybody else too.
Everyone who knew her liked her. It was like she was Delta squad's collective kid, we all took care of her.
Just being around her brightened my day. I think she sees me as some adoptive granddad, because she's so trusting and loving towards me. I love her too.
She's a face I don't see anymore. I'm glad she isn't brought out of cryo, since you can't get hurt if you never fight.
Even if the Almayer is so much more depressing without her.
Groovy.
Jackson "Shamrock" Dee is an example of a stalwart, heroic marine. He's the kind of guy you'd find movies being made of, a recipient of every damn medal the USCMC has to offer.
Dee is the very soul of Delta. He's the reckless marine with a passion for kicking ass and ferocious comraderie. A prophet of Unga, as some have called him, he has also introduced several of us to the fine art of jacking cryogas from hypersleeps and huffing it - don't knock it 'til you try it!
Jackson is also a grizzled veteran. He's been through it all. When you're lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding out, and coming to terms with your death, Jackson Dee will sprint through hell itself to save you, pull you out of danger with one hand while firing an SMG or a rifle or a shotgun with the other, all while giving you that signature little grin of his and a "Heya, laddie!"
If he weren't so empathetic and friendly to his fellow marines then you might think he was a maniac with how happy he seems on the battlefield.
Best of all, he's a gifted medic. After having saved your life once he'll then save it a second time, just for good measure. In one moment I'm blacking out, and the next I'm slowly waking up again with all of my gunshot wounds mysteriously missing. He doesn't give me the time to say thanks, though. By this point, he's already ran back into the frontlines of battle, yodeling as he goes.
I tried keeping track of how many times he's saved my life by marking little tallies on the inside of my beret. There's too many to count.
I walked into bunks and saw Ducky kickin' it with a female marine, just the two of them. He looked up at me all friendly and offered a silent wave when he saw me, but the chick he was with just ignored the sound of the door opening. The instant I noticed she was still staring at his muscles without any regard for my presence, I instantly turned around and left him to his business.
I've never seen so many women chasing after a single guy all at once. Cracks me up!
Normally most of the womanizers in the USCM are major pussies, but Duckyworth ain't no coward. He puts bullets down range just as well as he can put moves on the ladies, and this one time I plucked the comb out from his afro and used it for my beard without him complaining too much, so he's a fantastic marine in my book.
Bright orange hair that falls down past her shoulders. Despite such a glaringly blatant, flamboyant appearance, she's reserved and quiet. A real kickass marine.
It's amazing how humble she is. At the end of an operation, where we're all boasting to each other and chatting about the things we did, she never talks. Never.
Hand her any gun and put her in any situation and she'll perform admirably. I'm proud of her and all the progress she's made.
One time I heard her say that she's considered dying her hair pink, just like I dyed my beard pink. I don't want her to do that.
USCM regulations on hair and clothing technically don't allow it, but manpower is just so low right now that regulations and rules as tiny as that never get enforced. Command's desperate for as many marines as they can get their hands on, and they're not going to turn someone away just because they have a gigantic afro or funny orange hair or a stupid looking pink beard, especially if they're any good on the battlefield. That's not why I'm concerned about her dying her hair.
Annie might not think it, but she's damn good.
She deserves to stand on her own achievements, not just stand by my side and bask in my glory. I'm old and decrepit, but her and the marines I serve with are the future.
Who is Pierce Jackson?
I have to explain something a little odd about marines first. It's only when people are dying around you that you start to appreciate the people you do have.
You develop a special bond with the faces that manage to stay alive from operation to operation. Camaraderie. But it's when you're surrounded on all sides trapped in hostile territory that you see the real companionships form. When you're more than ankle-deep in it, you're neck-deep and there's absolutely nothing you can do but try to survive, that's when the real bonds are forged.
Eight years ago Pierce was moved onto the USS Almayer. I chatted with him from time to time and we got along fairly well, getting into all of the little shenanigans us ungas get ourselves into. Somewhere along the way I recognized he had the potential to be one tough hombre, and I stuck by him, taught him all he knows. But it wasn't until we found ourselves in these suicidal charges, just the two of us, that we really become brothers.
In many such operations the two of us would turn to each other. There was no other marine I could have ever wanted by my side.
Those were the moments we shined the brightest.
You could call it a mentor and mentee relationship, strictly business, but us military goons quickly get sentimental over our squadmates. My friendship with Pierce is no exception. I've grown into so much more from everything we've been put through. The experiences shared have made me into a true marine and into a better person, too. There is little I wouldn't do for Pierce, and all he has to do is say the word. I know he'd do the same for me.
So, who is Pierce Jackson?
Pierce Jackson is my battle buddy. He's my friend.
He's my son.
A hero to the marines and an inspiration to us all. Never has there been a squad leader so well beloved by his men as he, the most iconic leader of Delta squad.
He struck a unique figure despite his otherwise normal military appearance. You could pick him out of a crowd with ease. He was dressed in the standard squad leader gear, with a breath mask that covered everything but his furrowed brow and beady eyes. Outside of a combat operation he was usually calling everybody gay and cracking jokes with the men under his command, keeping a cool and joking demeanor, and in combat he kept us mobile and moving around at all times.
Unlike most squad leads he didn't believe in getting stuck in these meat grinders that'd chew up all of his men and get them killed. He believed in hitting hostile positions hard and fast, which resonated well with the marines under his command. Time and time again he'd take a look at Charlie and Alpha squad getting eviscerated by tangos, simply shake his head, and gesture us to follow after him before walking off into the dark. If you wanted to stay alive you stuck with him.
Through and through, there is nobody else I would've been happier to serve under than he.
You ever hear of the phrase "No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness"? I came up with that line, so you can thank me for it. It's true! Buck Montes is the most blatant example of this that I can think of.
Buck is a rabid beast. He's always screaming about the top of his lungs. His indoor voice is about as loud as Charlie screaming for their life, except unlike a Charlie he doesn't sound like a feminine girly boy when he screams, he sounds like a man.
My most vivid memory of Buck was an operation where I was getting pinned down by CLF. Anybody who knows me knows that I am an aficionado of the shotgun. Normally I wouldn't put myself in this kind of position in the first place, but they got the jump on me and so I wasn't quite able to defend myself against this fire this far down range. I was almost certain I was a goner, but then I saw Buck leap out from the doorway of a building with a metal bat.
You're probably thinking: "There's no way. A baseball bat?"
Yes, a metal baseball bat. You see, Buck is a master tactician. Where everyone is thinking about how they can use their gun well, Buck thinks about how he can use everything in his general proximity as a weapon. He realized the metal baseball bat he found inside a home would be the best weapon at his disposal, and it was. With his footsteps muffled by the sounds of gunfire, by the time they even realized he was there, they didn't stand a chance.
Any other person would've blown their cover and started blind firing in their general direction, probably while screaming something stupid like "SUPPRESSING FIRE!" before getting a bullet lodged in their skull, but Buck is not a stupid person. He knew that a strong, solid blow from his massive gorilla sized biceps would be all he needed to knock them unconscious.
By the time he was done, I glanced out from behind cover and saw his eyes scanning the horizon for any hostiles. When it was all clear he roared and started slamming his baseball bat into their sides, just absolutely brutalizing them with the bat. It's like he regressed from this calculating strategist to an animal in front of my very eyes.
So whenever you see Buck Montes, be awed. You're witnessing a truly mad genius.
An absolute idiot. But sometimes you don't need a special operative with a list of successful raids bigger than the CMP's ego, you just need an idiot with a gun and the willingness to get shit done.
He's that idiot.
Murry is the stereotypical representation of what civilians expect a marine to be. He's quiet, only speaking when truly necessary, and fights with death-defying bravery. Even when mangled, battered, and beaten down at every possible turn, there's something behind those wise eyes of his that convinces him to fight on and on, something that drives him to go into the dark and do what must be done despite the risk to his own life.
People think of him as the mascot of Delta for a good reason. At our best, Delta is the strong and competent vanguard of the USS Almayer, and Murry is the most courageous vanguard of us all.
This guy is good for the soul. Dropship rides into hot spots of conflict are nerve racking, as you never truly know if your dropship is going to get blown sky high, but the inner peace within him and self-confidence he exudes turns the fearful around him into the brave.
He hosts sick movie nights. I don't even know where he manages to get real popcorn and real butter from.
One fat mother hubber, got a dad bod the likes of which you wouldn't believe. He's from Australia but unfortunately he's also from Charlie squad.
Don't tell anyone, but this one time I got some beer and burgers with him at a random pub. Yes, despite the fact that he's a Charlie.
He just never stops messing with Broden in the req lines. Hasn't he learned his lesson the past dozens of times we've beat his ass senseless?
There was this one time Sleepy and I kicked the absolute shit out of each other in the Delta medic prep room. Neither of us were medics; don't ask how we managed to get in there. So we're kicking the absolute shit out of each other and also Murry, too, when a Delta medic still in his skivvies opened the door, loaded a revolver, and fired six shots into the room. Don't ask me why he decided that was a good idea.
Not a single one of those shots hit us.
We still kept beating the absolute shit out of each other.
Don't ask me why we're still marines, 'cause the answer is obvious as hell! It's because when we aren't kicking the absolute shit out of each other for absolutely zero reason whatsoever, we do a damn fine job of kicking the absolute shit out of anybody who's preventing us from kicking the absolute shit out of each other.
If I held up a picture of Julian and some Neolithic man side by side, you'd probably be confused why the caveman was dressed in blues instead of the human.
He's generally not much of a conversationalist unless you make him talk, and he seems like he's always staring off with an empty look on his face. Honestly, if you saw him you might think he was a little bit of an idiot.
All that time spent staring off into space and fiddling with his equipment is time spent ruminating on how to do what he's supposed to be doing. How best to fulfill the next mission objective, maybe, or on how he's supposed to use that big old smartgun he lugs around and operates with uncharacteristic finesse. Even if he isn't the smartest cookie, he more than makes up for it with all of that hard thought. If he decides to put forth the monumental effort to speak in English instead of some ancient rock-smashing caveman speak then you just know it's worth listening to.
It's bad for a marine to dwell so much on everything that happens. Every operation that passes by makes him just that little bit quieter, which ends up giving him more time to think.
As much as I think he would make for an excellent leader, it's for his own good he isn't an officer. If all of his men died under his command he would never forgive himself.
Marines spend so much time preparing and getting ready for combat. We're training for weeks and months, lifting weights and building endurance for intense drops, thrown in cryosleep to keep our strength at its utter maximum for combat, and we get the best, most nutritious meals to keep our bodies working at peak efficiency. But when shit hits the fan, with all the gear we have to carry around and the intense physical exertion, we tire fast and get sloppy. At that point the only thing that matters is the training in the back of our heads keeping us alive, the drills we were forced to do, with little conscious thought of our own.
Masamune is the exception to this rule. Watching him doesn't feel like watching a tired and sluggish jarhead, but more like watching a tactical operator. He's got this clever look in his eye and a stoic, determined expression. Polite, calm, and resolute, and with unmatched precision.
He probably descends from some ancient Japanese sword master waaaay back in the feudal era. I don't know if he worships that bushido crap or his ancestors like other Japanese people do, but I'm sure if his folk could see the way he fought, they would have considered him a noble hero worthy of the lineage.
Stick by this marine's side if you don't want to learn how to brawl like a thug, but to mercilessly and efficiently slaughter the opposition.
She's a total lunatic who really loves to use knives.
She somehow hasn't died though, so something that she's doing has gotta be working. That alone is worth some major props.
A brother of different skin yet the same blood. We swore an oath of true companionship one day while pinned down hard inside of a colony bar - can't forget it. Shiva's Snowball was a real bitch. After swearing that oath together we rocked that colony hard, mowing down hostile colonials by the dozens.
Ever since that singular operation, we've been good friends. He gets himself into trouble all the time, while I mostly watch from the background. No way in hell this guy could ever be the Captain of his own vessel; HC would thrash him six ways to Sunday for all his dumb cultural bullshit. Good thing he's still just an enlisted.
Swinging that machete around and talking about taking scalps ain't gonna fool me. This man is a lover and peacemaker at heart.
We were securing a research facility and this guy asked me to drink something from a test tube on a dare this one time. It was flesh melting acid, and ever since that day I've lost the ability to taste anything.
On the plus side, I now have an extra fifty bucks I didn't have previously.