This was a solo operation.

Koehler went over the seals on his hard suit one last time, echoing the words he'd heard from dozens of dive masters over the years in his head as he did so. "Check the seals, fuckwit, unless you really think St. Peter'll let your dumb ass through the gates." He might've been paraphrasing; there were plenty of variations on the phrase.

Finding them to his satisfaction, he reached over to the switch on the side of the airlock. It was a typical maintenance tunnel. He wore no uniform, and carried no traceable weapons. This was a standard - if any of them could be called standard - UPLN black op. Complete deniability. After all, who would be surprised to find a rebel leader with shard of rail slug in what little remains of his skull? Half of them were just common criminals trying to put on airs, anyway.

Koehler had been tracking the target since he'd picked up contraband off an asteroid base orbiting Barnard's Star. He made sure to mark the location down for a later sweep-and-clear. The man's ship may have been fast for its size, but it wasn't fast enough to escape a single-seater stealth cutter.

The target, a self-appointed Commander Logan Buckfield, was in transit back to his ship from the Al Azrael space hub orbiting Alpha Centauri IV. Koehler'd scoped the thing out. It was state of the art, straight from some factory on Mars. Between the thermal shielding, radar absorbing coatings and autolasers, he knew his chances of planting a charge on it were nil. Still, the fucker'd had to make a pit stop somewhere.

With one hand still gripping the switch, Koehler winked and brought up his HUD. The UPLN had crawlers in almost every computer system in the galaxy. He took advantage of those to tap the station's cams. It didn't take long to find Buckfield exactly where Koehler wanted him.

The shuttle was slowly picking its way through the docks. The things were fully automated, and not particularly fast. It was supposed to be a safety concern, but then, the safety of fugitive murderers isn't typically taken into consideration. Koehler pulled the switch, and with a rush of air, was blasted out into the path of the shuttle.

He shrugged his rail rifle into his arms, and took aim. The computer in his suit detected this, and fired RCS to hold him steady, all while interfacing with his implants to give him the best firing solution. Buckfield had only enough time to look in surprise before the first slug slammed into the shuttle, shaking a cloud of space dust loose to fill the area around it. The glass cracked, but held up to that first shot. It was designed to take regular micrometeorite impacts, after all. But it didn't hold up to the second or the third.

Buckfield desperately tried to dive for cover, but that only served to make the second slug rip across his torso, spraying blood and hamburgered organs across the sitting area. The third severed him fully in half. Not that it mattered; depressurization would have killed him anyways. I guess I did the poor bastard a favor, Koehler thought. Depressurization was a nasty way to go.

Koehler sighed and returned the rifle to its magnetic locks on his back. Buckfield's corpse was already starting to freeze over. Activating his suit's RCS thrusters, in manual this time, he quickly made his way back to the cutter. UPLN crawlers were already sterilizing the station's systems of any video evidence that the attack took place. It was almost an afterthought when they deleted the manifest stating the cutter had docked.

Koehler keyed in a secure ansible connection to command on Eris. "Softball landed," he said.

The response was quick, but not quite seamless. "Home run?"

Koehler smirked. "Out of the park." A few minutes later, the cutter's micro-reactors safely brought critical, Koehler slipped out of the docks before their emergency services even knew there had been an attack.

Declan had long since gotten used to the feel of blood. His profession kind of demanded it, he often had his hands pressed to wounds, attempting to stem the flow. What he hadn’t gotten used to was the smell.

It was sickly, which he supposed was only fitting. He had taken to wearing a half-mask, just enough to cover the lower half of his face. It blocked out some of the smell, but not enough. There was many situations in which he would have like nothing more than to flee in terror. Now was one of those times.

There were screams, coming from all around. He had been in a squad of five, though they were now down to three. There was Private Card, the soldier whose boyish, aryan face was, at present, marred by an ugly gash on his forehead as he fired blindly into the woods. The other, Corporal Wooding, though Declan had always called her by her first name, Allison, was dying on the dirt floor of the dilapidated cottage the three soldiers were occupying.

“Hey, Ally, come on.” Declan was trying hard to keep the fear out of his voice as he pressed both hands to the gunshot wound in her abdomen. “You gotta stay awake.”

She coughed. It sounded like there was some blood in that cough, but in the darkness of the cottage, Declan couldn’t tell. His only light source was a flashlight he held between his cheek and his shoulder, dimly casting blue light on the wound. She mumbled. Declan only caught the word “tired” and “hurt.” A bullet from one of the insurrectionists rifles flew past Card and landed in the dirt next to Declan.

“Keep ‘em off me, Card!” He cried desperately.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Do it better!” He turned his attention back on Allison. The commotion seemed to have roused her a bit. Her face was pale and her eyes had a feverish sheen.

“D-deck.” She said weekly. Declan dug furiously through the hard case attached to his pants, searching for a coagulant.

“Tha-.” His voice broke. “That’s me.”

She laughed, but it quickly turned into a coughing fit. “I’m scared.”

His heart broke. Six years he had served with Allison Wooding. They had trained together, and been on more missions than he cared to remember. This outing to some backwater moon was hardly the most dangerous thing they’d attempted. Not once had she ever been scared.

“Hey now,” He tried to keep the tears out of my voice. “I’m scared too, okay? No pint in both of us being scared, just leave the worrying to me.” He found the coagulant, spraying it onto the wound. The bleeding slowed. Too little, too late. The realization came suddenly.

He couldn’t save Allison Wooding.

No truth had ever been so harsh. His ears were ringing. The insurrectionists outside were whooping and hollering, and Card’s gunshots echoed loudly throughout the stone shack. Everything sounded muted except his own ragged breaths. His stomach churned. The smell of gunpowder blended with the stench of blood and the decay from their body of their squad leader, lying in the corner.

She gripped his hand, he half-notice he couldn’t feel her skin through the blood.

“Deck, I-” She coughed again, a thick burst of blood coming from her mouth. “I don’t want to die.”

Declan let out the sob he had been choking back. Drowned out by an explosion. One of the insurrectionists had loosed a rocket and blown apart the wall of the cottage. A large piece of stone had brained Card, he lay spasming. His ears rang at a deafening volume. He screamed, but he couldn’t hear it. He laid on the ground. He had been blown a few feet away from Allison, who was now buried by rubble. He could only see her hand, which twitched once before falling into stillness. He saw the insurrectionists march into the remnants of the cottage. There were twelve of them. They were garbed in farmer’s clothes, and were holding civilian weapons.

They scattered about, one of them shooting Card in the head, he must’ve still been breathing. That same rebel stood over him, and level a revolver at his head. His breath caught. Declan closed his eyes. The bullet never came. When he forced his eyes open, it was not a rebel who stood over him, but a federation soldier. His hearing was beginning to return, and he heard the soldier shout to unseen comrades.

“This one’s still alive!” As they picked him up and put him on a stretcher, Declan was only mildly surprised by the fact that his left arm was no longer attached to his torso. There was another, more pressing realization.

He couldn’t smell the blood.

It was her first day in Moisey's house. The Russian's very own Lazarus project had come to an end.

The cartoon figures danced across the static-ridden screen. It was classic anime of Japan, which of course was not broadcasted on any of the Russian channels. It was a recording that Moisey managed to get his hands on while shopping the black market. Momoko giggled as the ridiculous figures interacted, drawing a hand upwards to cover her mouth. Immediately, she felt a hand on her shoulder. A chill washed over her robotic body. "I'm glad you like this," Moisey whispered to the android, "Momoko - you - always said how much you liked anime. And you have her laugh my god - you have her laugh. It's like you..." Moisey trailed off, unwilling to finish his thought.

"I remember this show," Momoko offered, her words slow. It would take some getting used to, talking. "She watched it with her sister. Naomi."

Moisey pulled away as if Momoko had bitten him. "You watched it with your sister. You are Momoko." His lip began to quiver. "You are Momoko, and you are my wife. We're..." he grabbed her hand in a swift motion. Momoko tried to pull away, in shock, but the Russian was too fast. "We're in love."

Momoko was quiet for a moment. "I know you loved her," she whispered. "I'll try and make you happy, husband. I'll try and be her." Moisey's expression turned neutral, and then to one of disgust. He slapped her across the face, hard. Momoko cried out, but was only slapped again.

"You're not her. You're not her!" Moisey shouted. "My god, she's dead! My Momoko is dead! And you... you will never replace her!" He spat in Momoko's face. In the next motion, he kissed her. Momoko tried to pull away, but Moisey grabbed her face. The Russian sobbed as he dragged her down onto the bed.

Six months later

Momoko sighed as the same anime figures appeared on the screen. The tape Moisey got six months ago was the only Japanese anime he could find in Russia, and so they watched it whenever Moisey was trying to be romantic with her. As one of the characters told the same joke, Momoko laughed. As she always did. She knew that Moisey, who had his arm wrapped tightly around her, would be watching for her laugh.

"I love the way you laugh," Moisey smiled at her. The Russian's beard had grown out, as had his hair. The man had only gone outside once or twice in this past month.

"Thank you, husband."

"I was walking the streets today and I heard tell that the Russo-Japanese conflicts could end within the year, if we're lucky. Would you like to visit Japan together, if that happened? We could finally have a honeymoon!" Moisey laughed and squeezed Momoko tighter.

"I'd love to!" Momoko squealed, then paused, terrified. Was she too over-eager? Did she seem unappreciative?

Moisey studied his wife for a moment before breaking out into a giant smile. Momoko breathed a sigh of relief. "Then we'll go! Husband and wife! We could visit the place we first met."

"Yes, of course. The flower garden. I was with my sister. We were cloudgazing, when you tripped over my leg." Momoko repeated the story ad-nauseum. Momoko knew how Moisey wanted it retold. "Naomi asked you if you fall for every girl so easily."

"And I said it was just you," Moisey finished with a warm smile, and leaned in to kiss her. For a brief second, Momoko withheld, and she felt Moisey tense up. He pulled her away, looking into her eyes, as Momoko looked into his. What she saw terrified her. Anger, fear, mistrust - as if they were on the edge of a canyon, and Momoko was threatening to jump.

Momoko quickly kissed the man, and she felt his tension melt away. "I'm going to go make us some dinner," Moisey got up slowly, his joints stiff. "Be back shortly, love."

Alone, tears began to roll down Momoko's cheeks. She just wanted to be out of that room. Out of this life. She tried to remember her sister, but it only made her cry harder.

She couldn't remember what her sister looked like.

Name: Neil Edwards

Rank: Sergeant (And ranking Engineer)

Physical attributes: Of Average build with short dark hair, Neil isn’t exactly the most unique specimen. He is fit but not noticeably so. He isn’t big at all, but he is also not small. He has dark eyes and very dark brown hair, enough to be considered black. He's about 5'10 and 165 pounds.

Augmentations: None

Psych Profile: Neil is considered eccentric, with a mental disorder no one has been able to pinpoint. He tends to view life as if it's a game, or a fun movie he gets to be apart of. He'll talk and treat people genuinely, when the situation calls for it. But he never acts as if he is in danger, and sometimes he revels in it. He'll joke, make quips, be inappropriate and act like a complete liability. But in truth, he's quick and dangerous, does his job with surprising efficiency and is a fine engineer.

History: Born to a lower class family on a backwater planet, Neil had two big sisters and two loving parents. He grew up going to school, working in the local mech repair shop, and thieving occasionally. When the call to join the UPN arrived, he literally had nothing better to do. He was seen as an exemplary talent and mind, but his drill intructor/staff sergeant's worst nightmare. Seemed odd fate that he rose in the ranks to become one.

Armor: Has a standard special operations armor suit he had pieced together himself when it had been damaged almost beyond repair, and he uses it for space missions and when under heavy fire. Mostly, he wears his civilian clothes with a flack jacket and utility belt with a built in holster.

Weapons: Standard 45. Caliber Sidearm, and Pump Action Shotgun, Blow Torch, Wrench.