---

Swatting at a square block of black plastic blaring obnoxious pop music, Duncan slowly opened his eyes as he entered some for of wakefulness. He looked over to his left and saw his wife peacefully sleeping in the bed next to him. Pushing himself up to a sitting position he grabbed at his phone and flipped through it for a few moments as his body began to wake up, the glaringly bright screen causing him to squint as the contrast hurt his eyes. A happy little comic character bounced around the top of his screen, blurting out text bubbles that read "Good morning!". With a huff, Duncan pulled himself out of bed and fell into the wheelchair he left at the side of his bed.

When he first started with the RIC, waking up at 10, essentially being nocturnal was no small bit of hell. It was hard for him and his wife to spend time together, he had to wake up without sunlight, he had to get into his wheelchair on his own, it was all fairly disorienting. Though now, 11 months later, he was finally getting into the swing of things. He wheeled himself over to his closet, threw on a plain shirt and a hoodie and rolled into the living room/kitchen area of their little apartment. Sitting on the counter was a cup of lukewarm coffee and a bagged lunch, alongside a plate of eggs and bacon under steam covered plastic wrap. He ate in relative silence by himself, downing his coffee and watching some late night TV before 10:35 rolled around and one of his squadmates texted him.

5 minutes later he was on the ground floor and his squadmate helped him into the car and they were off to work.

---

>LOCATION REDACTED
"The Hump"

Some half hour later, they were pulling into the heart of the Remote Infantry Corps headquarters. A closely guarded secret, this facility, better known by the members of the RIC as "The Hump" was essentially a sprawling facility deep underground. No one really knew how big it was though, all the RI-1 Operators only ever saw small portions of the base. As Duncan wheeled his way down the halls of the base, he saw the medical center off to his left, with Johnathan Tyres clutching at trash bin in the detox room visible window-walls with a bright red horizontal stripe reading "MEDICAL". Someone had been drinking too much before work. The rest of the facility were grey-white metal walls and floor, with bright white fluorescent lights. Its not like there was any point in having windows in an underground facility, unless the windows were looking into some other portion of the facility.

In the RIC Barracks/Locker room, there were already several individuals changing into their uniforms- fatigues, boots and T-shirts, less rigorous or formal than most military branches. Duncan opted to change while he was still at home- no need for the rest of the platoon to see him fumbling around in his wheelchair. Currently in the barracks were the members of the Bravo Company's second platoon, either preparing for their shift. For security, RIC operators regularly changed shifts in staggered transitions from the company level down to the squad level. The members of Duncan's squad were scheduled to switch in at midnight on the dot.

The noise in the barracks was a dull roar, with guffaws of laughter and the banging of shutting locker doors punctuating much of the chatter that permeated the room. Most members of the platoon were fairly familiar with one another, and much like highschool cliques, groups of friends all had different places they liked to hang around and chat with each other before shift. Some stayed in the locker room until the last minute, others- like Duncan, made their conversation in the 'Cryo Room'.



The 'Cryo Room', wasn't actually a room in which people were cryogenically frozen, but if you ever watched a sci-fi movie, it sure as hell looked like one. What was called the Cyro Room by the RIC operators was actually the transfer bays from which the operators controlled their RI-1 shells. Similar to a virtual reality lounger, operators would climb into these pods- or coffins, depending on how morbid their sense of humor was- from which their sense of consciousness would leave their bodies and be projected to their respective RI-1 shells in whatever hotspot they were currently deployed to. When asked about specifics to how they worked, the eggheads would either start spouting enough technobabble to make one's brain hurt, or just tell them that its above their pay-grade.

Each Company got its own Cyro Room, which meant that there were plenty of banks of coffins for you and your clique to get privacy in and chat up about their fantasy league or listen to the radio. All the while, an equal number of technicians went about the pods either preparing a row to be boarded, or preparing a row to be exited. Duncan himself preferred to hang around his squad's bay- it made it easier for him to get help getting into a pod- his first day on the job he was the last one to the cryo bay, and there was no one to help him when he fell off his wheelchair and onto the floor. He spent a half hour there before the squad realized that one of their shells weren't responding to calls or moving.

Duncan wheeled himself into the middle of the bay, reaching back and pressing the power button on the radio he had tied to the back of his chair. He was, surprisingly, one of the first to the bay.

Many of the marines and soldiers of third squad, second platoon, B company, 1st RIC Battalion would stay up during the morning after their shift ended and sleep in the afternoon. Elton Ward, also known as TNT preferred to sleep early in the day and spend his afternoon and evening with other activities.

When the shift ended at 0800 hours, Elton hauled himself out of his coffin in the Cryo room, ready to brief Corporal Harrington his replacement. Elton shared the same RI-1 with the Memphis Tennessee native, Connor Harrington. Connor was a former Marine Force Recon like Elton, but also served a tour with 1st battalion, 4th Marines before his time in Recon. The two junior NCOs were cordial with one another and had a mutual trust, professionals share in regards to their duties as RIC operators.

Once his quick brief with Connor ended, Elton began typing his report. Every marine and soldier had to complete a daily after actions report (AAR) on anything and everything that happened while in the coffin. This report included any missions, actions during movement, actions on contact, exfiltration routes, performance of the RI-1 and any damage taken during the previous eight hours. Elton attempted to record his AAR in chronological order. Once complete, he e-mailed the document to his Platoon Commander, First Lieutenant Caroline Pasternack, a short blonde woman from Baltimore, Maryland.

After work, Elton gave a few of his co-workers a ride home, then returned to his apartment off Bay Rd. He parked his car in his assigned parking spot and ran up the steps to his apartment. He had gotten used to the prosthetic leg. He felt comfortable with it now after more than two years with the titanium appendage.

He changed out of his duty uniform and into shorts T-shirt and running shoe. Then headed back outside for a quick five-mile jaunt through the neighborhood. He wasn’t pushing it today; he just needed the run to vent frustrations from the work day. Although he loves his work, he couldn’t stand being cooped up in the coffin for six hours. Some days it was unbearable. At least it wasn’t an a twelve-hour shift. That would have driven Elton nuts.

During the run, his mind wandered to the events of the previous night while serving as Wombat, his tin man. He thought about his own actions and the actions of his unit. There were some aspects he liked and some he did not. He would need to address them later. At the beginning of shift, the squad leader, Sergeant Adam Lane, a native of Sacramento, CA would sit down with the squad and talk about the previous night’s actions. It was a way of getting their heads back in the game ready for the next shift and to discuss any deficiencies or areas the team may need work on. Eventually, Elton sang a running cadence in his head. It brought him back to happier moments in the Corps and helped him to relax.

When he returned home, the clock on the wall told him he had completed the five miles in under thirty-eight minutes. It wasn’t his best time, but he was satisfied it was comparable to other run times this week. After a quick meal and some television, Elton drifted off to sleep on the couch in the living room.

Unlike the other members of the squad, Elton did not wake up to an alarm clock. He slept for six and a half hours, woke to use the rest room and then take a shower. His bladder served him as his alarm clock. He ate some breakfast and dressed in his Krav Maga clothes; a T-shirt and boxing shorts. Elton hung around his apartment the rest of the afternoon, watching television or playing games on his gaming console. He also had daily maintenance to perform on his prosthetic. He didn’t like sleeping with it on, but it was a sign that he had gotten accustomed to it. Often, he would take it off when home alone just to air out his leg. He never wore it in the shower.

Around six PM, his girlfriend, Rachel came home. She was a San Francisco Native he met in Palo Alto. He had only known her for six months, but the couple got along great. He was in love with her and asked her to share an apartment after four months of dating. The first month was a bit rocky, but they have slowly gotten used to their living arrangements.

When she walked in the door, Elton stood up and hopped over to greet her. He kissed her on the lips and asked, “how was school, babe?”

She smiled at Elton. She had full lips and a lighter complexion than Corporal Ward. He thought she was beautiful. She also got into extreme sports, hiking and camping. Which meshed pretty well with Elton’s ideas of fun. “School was good. Professor Hancock went on one of his rants about the President. I wish we could go to school and remain apolitical.” She gave a knowing look to her boyfriend who stood four inches taller than her, “know what I mean?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Elton smiled at her, uninterested in getting into a political discussion as well.

Rachel took care of her book bag. She was a student at Stanford University. She earned her bachelor’s degree in biomechanical engineering last year and was currently enrolled in the Master’s Program focusing on cybernetic or bio-synthetic prosthetics, which is one of the reasons Elton’s leg attracted Rachel rather than turned her against entering a relationship with the Marine. She has fallen in love with the man over the past six months as well.

Elton left the house for his 8PM Krav Maga class at Krav Zone in Sunnyvale. He only started four months ago and was considered a Yellow belt in their curriculum. It was similar to the self-defense training he received in the Marine Corps, but he made an effort to clear his mind of anything he learned in the Corps in order to grasp the concepts of this Israeli Self-defense system. He thoroughly enjoyed it. It was brutal and realistic stuff. Krav was more a therapy for him than anything else. He always sought out the same guy, Matt Johnson to partner with him in class. Matt is comparable to Elton in height and weight. Matt exudes confidence, but doesn’t talk much. The two are getting used to working together.

After class, Elton was soaked in sweat and needed to run home for another shower and then change into his duty uniform.

“Hey babe, did you sleep on the couch again?” Rachel asked when he walked in.

“Yea, I was watching the tube. Couldn’t help it. Never made it to bed.”

“You need to quit doing that. I bet you left your leg on, didn’t ya?” Rachel assumed a motherly condescending tone towards Elton.

“Don’t get all snippy with me, Rachel,” Elton was annoyed with this. “I ain’t your son.” He raised his voice a bit with her.

She quickly moved in close, snaking her arms around his waist and smiled up into his brown eyes. He quickly melted away forgetting why he may have yelled. “It’s OK babe, you know I love you.” He kissed her, “I need to go get ready for work.”

After helping Duncan into the car, the two rode in silence to the Hump where they worked on what was known in the Military community as a Top-Secret facility. The radio played Hip Hop tunes on 106.1 out of San Francisco. Elton always felt pumped listening to the music. He never asked Duncan what he thought of it.

After helping Duncan get into his wheelchair they went inside the facility. At one time in the past six months one of them said, ’you know we only have one good leg between the two of us.’ Elton was quick to point out, ’Yea, and it’s mine! You can’t have it!’ Elton remembers smiling at that comment. He respected Duncan Webb and appreciated the work he did with the RIC program.

Elton waited for Sergeant Lane before going into the Cryo Room. “See you in there, Duncan,” Elton called out. “Err, Lance Corporal Webb!” He added to sound like a real Marine.

"Look at them." Private Patel said, a six foot five scrawny pencil neck of a soldier said. He was leaning up against Morrison's pod as they waited for the shift to end. Alex looked up towards Patel "Who?" she asked before Patel made a discreet gesture towards Ward. "The crippled with cripple squad." Patel said in a harsh whisper. Alex looked over at Ward and to Webb aswell. "You're going to get the entire squad in shit again with this schtick again, Patel." Alex whispered back to him as she kepts her gaze away from the wheel chair bounded soldiers. Patel glared to Alex as his lips curled into a smug grin "Fuck them." He said a little louder, his eyes gazing over towards Ward's leg. His eyes filled with disgust as he breaks his eye contact with the prosthetic.

Patel just always seemed to be around, hanging around anywhere and with anyone from fourth squad. No one knew if he actually slept, he was overbearing, arrogant, racist and a purist in any and all regards. He was a fighter, a good one thats why the brass had put him to RIC. However, as of lately his antics have become more bold and crude as Patel got into a few situations with some of the african-american and jewish marines. Which resulted in him being demoted when he went too far and the squad leader yelled at for failing to control their rowdy trooper. Alex went to retie her bun as she let her blond hair fall from her previous bun. Tieing her hair up took a minute or so as she fumbled around with her blond locks of hair.

"They don't know us, and lets keep it that way." Alex said as she adjusted her sleeves which were rolled just above her bicep, Patel's were the same. "Yea they don't know us, they should. We're the best in this damn company, and the best race too!" Patel grins as Alex turns to him - deadpanning. "You know what I always say?" Patel takes a step closer to the woman "We're true Americans, we're the alphas here." The two said together. "How could I forget, we literally talk about this all the time." A tone of sarcasm echos from her words as she finishs speaking.

"Just wait until the next mission, we'll be hailed as heros." Patel continued to go on with his usual pro-america, anti-immigrant speech. Alex checked her watch, it was almost time for shift rotation - at least. She looked back up to Patel. "We just do peace keeping, not war waging. Just relax Patel jeez'us christ man." Alex says cracking her knuckles "Or be even fucking louder so we can get in trouble again, christ." Patel turned his head away from Alex "Whatever, here's thinking I had faith in you." He mumbled, in a rather angered tone. "Try not to cry too much over it, Private." She laughed as she got closer to Morrison's pod. Waiting for him to get out.

Waiting.

^{L o s A n g e l e s , C a l i f o r n i a || 1 0 : 0 0 P M}

---

She fought internally, her mind struggling to stay focused on the bars in front of her and stray thoughts weaving themselves in and out of the forefront. Outwardly however, she was a picture of composition. Though her body trembled, the tremors were so light that the shaking was nearly invisible to anyone aside from the one who sat right next to her. Her eyes fixated themselves to only what was directly in front of them though they were staring at nothing in particular. Her expression was blank, emotionless, lips completely still and not even a slight hint as to what she was thinking or feeling on the inside. The whir of the needle was the only sound she could focus on though the pain of the rapid-fire punctures was more apparent than she would have liked. The very thought of getting a tattoo would have been forbidden back when she still had her freedom, but once the warden locked her in her cell, the statuesque woman holding herself together on her stool purposely abandoned all prior teachings she was thought to be instilled with. Federal prison was no place for morality, after all.

"Goddamnit Vee, stop twitchin' and shit," a butch woman with a slightly deepened voice bellowed. The other women around snickered. The woman on the stool sighed.

"I told you I hated needles already... What did you expect me to be like?"

"I expected you to not be such a damn pussy!" The butch woman snapped. The circle of watching women snickered once more. The woman on the stool sucked her teeth.

"Whatever... I didn't even want this crap."

"You know the rules. If you're gonna be part of our crew, you gotta have a tat."

"I'm only part of your crew because I'm tired of getting my face stomped. Can't I just be an honorary member or something? I'm not even gonna be useful, I told you guys up front that I just want the protection."

"Oh, you'll be useful. Trust me, you're the only one small enough to do what needs to be done."

"That's only because this prison is full of amazonian women who are all six feet or taller. Where the hell is that even a thing? Five-six is average for females."

"Like I said, you're the only one small enough. Get used to it."

The woman on the stool pursed her lips and remained silent. In truth, she had been extremely hesitant to join up with a prison clique, but it was also true that there was little choice. The beatings had been getting worse and there was no guarantee that she wouldn't suffer permanent damage the next time she got caught at the wrong time in the wrong place. She felt powerless and weak having to beg for help, but she knew that there also opportunity amongst the general shittyness of the group itself. There was an opportunity to learn and for Varrina Braelynn, an opportunity to learn was the most dangerous kind of opportunity you could present her with.

"Annnd... Finished!" The butch woman exclaimed, quickly rising from her own stool and stepping back to admire her work. The other women closed in around Varrina's right arm and examined the freshly finished ink drawing for themselves. The image depicted a laughing skull with two open jack-knives in an "X" formation beneath it--an obvious play on the iconic skull and crossbones imagery. The butch woman handed Varrina a mirror to which the short woman frowned at her newly desecrated arm.

"Jesus... At the very least, can we drop the name? The tattoo is enough to show I'm part of this gang or whatever, right?"

The butch woman laughed. "Hell no, we ain't droppin' shit! Every one of us has a nickname. It's another part of being in our crew. Besides, yours fits so damn well. You think you can't be useful to us, but in our eyes your our little Jack-Knife."

Varrina rolled her eyes and abruptly stood from the stool. "Jack-Knife... So fucking stupid," she murmured.

"What?! Didya say somethin'??" The butch woman bellowed once more. Varrina shook her head and offered a half-smile. This was what had to be done if she hoped to survive the length of her sentence.

Her eyes opened slowly, the familiar speckled, white tile ceiling greeting her awakening. Varrina elected to lay in bed and stare upwards as the chime of her smartphone alarm went off on the adjacent nightstand. An arm lazily reached out and hammered the surface of the nightstand, looking for the smartphone in vain. Finally, it fell on the device with decent show of force and the sound disappeared. Varrina sighed heavily and pulled herself into an upright position against the headboard. "If you're gonna be staying the night, you can't be trying to break my phone when I have to leave," she said to the man laying next to her.

The man grumbled something unintelligible and Varrina cursed under breath--both because it was somehow already ten o'clock and this was not the first time her phone had been viciously attacked by this particular individual. Swinging her legs over the edge of her mattress, Varrina stood and took a brief moment to stretch before a chill caused her to fold up and hug herself. The temperature had dropped, but then again she also dressed in a t-shirt and panties. A hand ran through a forest of brown hair as the still somewhat groggy Corporal trudged towards her bathroom. "I'm gonna take a shower," she announced to the man who was still laying her bed, "be gone before I get out." The door closed and the man moved after a minute or two. He knew quite well what would happen if he even thought about staying longer.

Varrina was in and out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes. Steam wafted into the air, escaping from the bathroom as she walked out more alert and energetic than before and headed to her closet. Her uniform was already ready to go thanks to some prior preparation the day before and her hair was already tied back and pushed up into a high ponytail. In spite of her personal time activities, the old military discipline was still very much indoctrinated into the laid back woman. With a quick stop at her mirror and a pocketing of keys and phone, Varrina quickly beelined for her front door and exited her studio apartment with a rigid gait, long stride, and solid frown. She hated working in the middle of the night.



^{T h e H u m p}

---

The Hump was still as secure as ever. Being in the military meant one grew used to showing ID and adhering to security measures everywhere on a base, but The Hump was secure to the point of annoyance in Varrina's perspective. All the bio-metric scans, locks, ID cards, card keys, armed soldiers, and even more was too much for the Corporal to be able to just grow used to whenever she had to report for work. Though her visage never betrayed her inner emotions, suffice it to say Varrina always gritted her teeth just a little as she went through all the security just to even enter the building. Of course, it made perfect sense considering the RI-1 shells were more expensive than any one individual could possibly comprehend, but that didn't stop the whole procedure from seeming just a touch ridiculous.

Varrina bypassed the locker rooms as she marched her way down halls and corridors towards the Cryo Room. Truth be told, she didn't care one way or another about changing within the public facilities, but she found it easier--and a way to sneak in just a bit more sleep time--to simply change in the convenience of her own home. She swiftly moved down the longer sections of the facility, giving salutes or returning them as she passed the odd solider here and there and glanced their respective rank. It wasn't long before she finally arrived in the "coffin bay", as she and some friends called it, and found that she was probably one of the last to arrive. Even when you leave early, you're still late, fuck, she thought as she moved a stray strand of hair behind her ear. With a nod to some of the soldiers in the bay, Varrina finally made her way over to her specific coffin and took a stance next to it, folding her arms.

Now all she had to do was wait.

"Evening Corporal." Private Patel says as Varrina strides past the two soldiers, Alex turns her head avoiding eye contact with the older Corporal. After she had left the two's vicinity Patel turned to Alex. "Who is that chick?" Patel pratically barked in Alex's face as he closed the distance between the two of them. "What? Do you think I know everyone here, do I look like the meet and greet of the RIC you fucking NJP magnet." She said spitting back at him. Patel started to laugh, turning towards the direction Varrina had just walked his eyes running up the Corporals body from afar. He then turned back to face Alex with a shit eatting grin "Hey, rate her." Throwing an thumb over his back towards Varrina.

Alex looked up at Patel before shaking her head, she crossed her arms under her mid section. "I don't rate girls you weirdo, and besides I didn't even look at her. My eyes were on my boots Patel." Alex began to inch away from Patel as they stood incredibly close, too close for her comfort obviously. Patel groans out in disapointment as he puts his hands on his head "No fun, at all. I say she is like a solid eight, she looks nordic - right?". Patel let out a sigh as he took his hands off his head "She looks really tiny to me, I dunno about Nordic maybe your aryan-vision is acting weird." Alex quipped as she stepped forward flicking his temple a few times as Patel swatted her hand away from his face.

"Fuck off, it isn't aryan-vision it's just my fuckin' primal alpha instincts at work." Patel jeered as he went to flex his meagre muscles, as the words echoed nearby some heads turned. Alex put her head in her hands as the second hand embarassment blew right into her, it would be only a matter of moments before some staff sergeant would come up and give them a hard time about yelling in the cyro chambers. If only there would be a shift where Patel could act normal or where no one could fuck up, the stress of it all seemed to weigh hard on Alex as she tried to keep things together. Most of the time, atleast. Patel looked around before he dropped his arms "Caught you staring there Lance?"

"No, the day you catch me staring is the day the President gets JFK'd" She blows hot air towards him as she exhales, sighing once again in annoyance. "JFK!? Hey don't talk about the president like that, no one knew that he would get shot. Besides, that day could come soon." He grins stepping closer again which resulted in Alex stepping away. "I really doubt it, you're more likely to get into your shell kill the entire company than get anywhere with me." Silence cut into the two's conversation as neither spoke for what would be an awkward minute between the two. "I dig the SS bolts on your shell, I'm thinking about getting two on my throat when I get out, heh."

"You do know those are Bentley's right, not mine. Y'know the second shift operator you're trying to pose as. I hope he wakes up, maybe I should wake him. I want to see you guys fight, like badly." Alex goes to look behind her, to the exit of the cyro chamber. Could she just leave? No, the shift was about to start anyway and if Bentley was up he'd crush Patel but the MPs would probably crack the entire squad, maybe the platoon aswell. She turns back to face Patel who has his chest puffed out, arms crossed and shoulders up. "Who - Bentley? You mean that pussy is trying to impersonate me. Sometimes I wonder if he is hiding out here somewhere, you know, I'm always around if he wants to settle things off base."

"Sometimes I wonder if there's something better than this." Alex mutters leaning up against Morrisions pod. If only it would open and decapitate Patel. Would the paperwork be worth it to see that? That train of thought was broken by Patel again. "I know you're a hardcore nazi, Blond hair, Aryan, German? That's three for three, Lance." Patel begins to crack his knuckles now as he looks around anxiously "Fuck, fuck I just wanna jump in - plug me in now! Fucking hell why can't we start earlier." He yells banging on Morrisions pod, again some heads turn to the two.

"I really love the night shift." Alex sarcastically remarked as she looked into Morrisions pod, and back to Patel. "That your boyfriend?" He smirks at her as she looks back to him. "Yea man, I like guys quiet and asleep."

Webb shot a look over at a pair of soldiers over in squad two's bay and rolled his eyes. Patel was making noise and faces as usual. Not the most like man in the platoon, he still managed to keep his spot in the RIC because he was good at what he did. The fact that there was plenty of just as able replacements waiting in the wings made Webb wonder why on earth the man still had a job. He was aggressive, arrogant, and his apparent distaste for non perfect humans was strange- especially in a unit that had an almost 40% population of 'crippled' soldiers.

Still, Duncan did his best to ignore him as he downed a bottle of water and popped half a dozen nutrient supplement pills the techs handed them. 8 hours in the tube was a long shift, and the men and women of the RIC got no breaks while they were on shift, and even though they spent 8 hours not moving, it could still be fairly taxing on the body. The on-staff doctors always reminded the soldiers to get a big meal in before they hopped in the tube, but that never stopped many of them- Duncan included from coming out the tube ravenous.

"How's the lady, Ward?" Duncan asked as his squadmate joined him in the coffin room. He asked the same question every day, it had become a bit of a ritual for him at this point. Their entire squad was fairly close- when you spent 8 hours a day with the same few people- their voices quite literally in your ear for much of it, you learned to get along with, or ignore most people.

Finally, with a big hiss, the tubes of third squad slid open, from which their operators groggily climbed out of. A few stumbling, the newer pilots unused to standing with their own legs after standing on virtual ones for 8 hours, and others clutching at their stomach. "Evenin' Webb. Good god I my stomach is digesting itself." Complained Ray Gilligan, the second shift pilot of Duncan's shared RI-1.

With some help from his squadmates and a tech, Duncan was lifted out of his wheelchair and lowered into the coffin like tube that served as their interface. As each squad member made themselves comfortable inside their tube, a technician went around, smearing some translucent blue gel over their forehead and temples before sliding their interface headset onto them. The thing looked like a bit like one of the old Occulus Rift type headpieces, except it was a full face mask and was hooked into the back of the tube. For a moment, Duncan couldn't see anything, and was only vaguely aware of the tube shutting with a thunk before the hiss of gas filled his ears as the pilots were submerged in some chemical cocktail gas.

The first time, Duncan was terrified, but by now he was used to it, and settled in his tube as he felt his grip on reality slowly leave him.

---

Like waking up from a dream, Duncan opened his eyes with a deep inhale. Only now he wasn't breathing, he was kneeling in the middle of a ruined city inside the shell of his RI-1. Unblinking mechanical eyes scanned his surroundings, and saw sand, dirt, ruined buildings, and an army of six and a half foot tall robots. His squad, gathering their bearings were currently surrounded by first, second, and fourth squad- facing outward, as they covered the transitioning soldiers. His vision wasn't 'clean' like a normal human's vision, it was currently cluttered with an overwhelming amount of information- Gilligan liked to clutter his viewscreen as much as possible for god knows what reason.

Quickly resetting his HUD to his own preferences- Shell integrity and other important vitals in the top left corner, ammunition and gear counters in the bottom right, squad frequency lists on the bottom left, and data-stream in a small box in the top right, leaving the center of his view completely clear. He held his glove covered hand in front of him and flexed it before grabbing at his weapon.

"Squad, report in." barked the voice of Sergeant Lane, third squad's leader. His voice projected directly into his ears- while the RI-1 Shells had external communication projectors, they were mainly for civilians and non RIC personnel they ran into. Most communication happened over a variety of platoon, squad, fireteam, and private communication frequencies, with higher level ones often playing overtop of private channels.

"Duncan Webb, ready to roll." he reported in as he checked the magazine of his weapon and pulled the charging handle. As the rest of third squad finished checking in, they would change places with fourth squad, who still needed to transition.

“Elton, tell me about your team,” Sergeant Lane asked the B Team Leader. “When we were crossing that road under fire, it appeared your SAW gunner hesitated.”

“It appeared to me she was looking for an opening before displacing. She didn’t slow down the squad any. Jack Knife is a good soldier. I would trust her with my life. If there was an issue, I’ll go to bat for her,” Corporal Ward responded to the squad leader.

“Ok, Ok,” the squad leader accepted the team leader’s response. Then he turned to Corporal Moss, the A Team Leader. He eventually addressed issues with the C Team as well before breaking up their meeting and heading to their Cryo pods.

As Elton walked into the room, Lance Corporal Webb greeted him with his daily question, "How's the lady, Ward?"

“She is superb, Duncan, thanks for asking,” Elton smiled answering his Designated Marksman.

As the technicians helped Duncan climb into his pod, Elton pulled himself up and over the edge with his arms and dragged his body into the plush interior of his cryo pod, which connected him to his RI-1 unit. The technology was amazing to be able to interface with this massive combat fighting machine on the other side of the planet; ten time zones ahead. Even though they were occupying their RI-1s at Midnight, it was already 1000 hours where their tin men stood.

Elton drifted off as his mental awareness occupied “Wombat” in a debris strewn neighborhood in the Middle East. He knew from his briefing from Corporal Ray Mallory of Athens, GA that the unit was somewhere in Damascus, Syria.

As Elton woke up as Wombat, he took inventory of his HUD displays and his surroundings. He put up the ACE report on the right side of his screen. This gave an inventory of the fire team’s Ammunition, Casualties and Equipment. Ammunition was in the green meaning the team had at least 90% of their basic load of ammunition (BLA). Casualties was a term used when humans went on combat operations personally. The term remained the same for the tin men, only this time, it referred to units that required some maintenance. Private First Class Dave Lambert of Houston, TX, the team’s grenadier had a slight leak in a hydraulic line under the left arm. It was taped up but would require maintenance as soon as the unit pulled back to a secure zone. The injury was not enough to request a maintenance contact team to come forward to take care of the issue. Equipment for the team was at 100%. B Team was in the green.

Corporal Ward could see the squad frequency listed in the lower left corner and his unit’s vital statistics in the upper left corner. The center of the screen was clear with a small red dot laser point available for targeting.

"Squad, report in." Elton could hear his squad leader’s voice in his ears, but knew no one in the building could hear him. Only those monitoring the squad frequency could hear Sergeant Lane.

“Corporal Ward, ready to Rock. B Team is Green,” Elton responded to the commo check from the squad leader.

Once he completed his HUD and check-ins with his superior, Elton then turned his attention to checking the equipment Wombat carried. He pulled the magazine out of his carbine and checked the underbarrel grenade launcher. He preferred not to carry a round in the chamber for the grenade launcher, instead inserting one when he needed it. He would allow the situation to dictate the type of round he used.

Once the squad was acclimated to their units and surroundings, the team moved forward to take the 4th squad’s position in the platoon perimeter. This allowed the fourth squad units to move into the middle of the perimeter in order to prepare for their transition.

The platoon consisted of fifty-five RI-1 units. The Platoon Commander, Lieutenant Pasternack stands 5’ 1” in real life, but her 6’4” Tin Man more than made up for her diminutive size. The Platoon Sergeant was a by the books Staff Sergeant and the platoon guide, another Sergeant fresh out of the NCO Leadership Academy. Each of the squads were made up of experienced veteran soldiers from either the US Marine Corps or the US Army with at least one tour of duty with a TO&E unit. A human USMC platoon has a Radio Telephone Operator, two Machine Gun teams and two anti-armor gunners. The RIC platoon did not need an RTO and the units in the squad carried their own machine guns and AT weapons. Therefore, the platoon had only a three-man headquarters section and four 13-man squads.

Corporal Ward was locked and loaded. His team scanned their portion of the perimeter for possible threats, taking cover while waiting for orders from the LT.

It didn't take long for Alex to jump into her pod, as Patel moved to his as fourth Squad prepared for deployment. Morrision finally was woken up as his pod began to eject, the skinny and short man who donned glasses was pulled out of the pod. His face glazed with sleep as he slowly rose from the pod, whilst being hoisted up by few med-techs. The man found himself stretching out on the floor as he couldent find the energy to stand, Patel took the time to give him a playful kick in the ribs. "Welcome back to the land of the living!" Patel exclaimed to Morrison as he picked himself up, finally. Morrision grumbles about something and begins to stumble off, Patel chuckles to himself as the squad begins to enter the pods on their own with Patel entering the pods last.

Alex quickly pulled herself into the pod, entering the technological cocoon as she strapped herself in. The woman found herself drifting from her consciousness in The Hump and soon found herself in Syria where the rest of her company was. It was day time for sure, just a few hours before lunch as Alex looked up to the sky. The blue skies in Syria was uncommon, since there was so much conflict, so much death it was unimaginable to see a respite in such a now torn and gloomy country. She looked around and saw she was around her squadmates, and she was standing as "Slayer". It took a few minutes to go over the ACE, it seemed very little ammo and action was seen during the last shift. Some rebels were engaged but ultimately they got away, they got the message not to mess with the Tin Men. However, it felt as if they might come back.

Shaking off the concerns of another attack, Alex walked up to her squad mates who were briefing for today's shift. After the briefing and a comms check the group went to regroup with the other squads. Alex checked her M240B, making sure the belt was feeding properly into the machine gun. It didn't take long for Elton's squad to meet up with the fourth, there was tension between the group and Alex definetly felt that as she awaited further orders from the Lieutenant. The sun blasted down on the troopers, good thing they coulden't feel it but the ground definetly looked like it was on fire. The area was rather quiet as the troopers settled in, a sign of whats to come.