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Most Recent Posts
I feel like if a tech "takes over" a mech suit (I'm taking "takes over" in this context to mean he has it, but shouldn't) then that's probably where the good Sergeant and his boys get to earn their keep!
Hahaha nicely done Justric. And everyone else, as well, since I don't remember if I said that or not. I like working with talented people. We've got another good group here.
I'm glad you guys like him. He's a hoot to write, and the banter between him and Lopez (based heavily on a Corporal Lopez I served with) is fun. Reminds me of the old days.
Posted. Trying to clear out my double post, but either the Guild or my connection is going screwy, and it won't let me edit it. Sorry about that, I'm trying to resolve the issue.
In other news, I'll be posting Bill's intro after a few more people make theirs. I didn't want to give everyone a novel on the first go around.
In other news, I'll be posting Bill's intro after a few more people make theirs. I didn't want to give everyone a novel on the first go around.
Mike grunted as he finished the last of his pushups, and rolled onto his back for a breather. A quick set of 100 always helped to get his blood flowing, and he tried to do at least three sets a day. He’d always been a fitness nut, a personality quirk that meshed well with his Recon lifestyle.
Climbing to his feet with a soft hiss from his robotic leg, the Marine took stock of his cramped quarters. All of his worldly belongings had been crammed into the tiny room, the desk cluttered with papers and various objects ranging from challenge coins to photographs. One picture in particular caught his attention and he picked it up, smiling.
The snapshot was old, taken with a Polaroid camera, and showed his parents back when they’d first met in southern Liberia. His mother was the focus of the shot, clad in scrubs and giving an injection to a sick child. Her raven-black hair was tied back in a ponytail and she smiled as she worked, no doubt comforting the little boy with kind words spoken in the soft voice he missed so much. His father stood nearby, ever vigilant, his heavily-scarred face twisted in the mocking grin that somehow looked as natural there as the AK-47 he cradled in his tattoo-sleeved arms. They’d told him the story countless times as he growing up; how his Lebanese mom had left her home and traveled to the war-stricken country as a freelance nurse, then found an unlikely romance with the smartass American mercenary hired to protect her medical group. Standing beside his dad was the man Mike knew as Uncle Jouma, a Sudanese soldier of fortune who had acted as the group’s interpreter and local expert. His iconic red beret firmly in place on his shaven head, his rifle slung over his shoulder, the man was frozen in the act of kicking a soccer ball back to a group of local youths, a toothy grin plastered on his face.
Smiling at the memories, Mike pulled on the black digital-camo blouse that designated him as a member of one of the ship’s SRT teams, checked to make sure the gold Sergeant’s chevrons on his collar were in place, then tucked the photo into his left breast pocket. He checked his watch; fifteen minutes until the briefing started. Balls, he thought to himself, not pleased with the prospect of spending half of the morning listening to the Captain droning on about the last shift’s activities. With a sigh, the Marine shoved his cover on his head and left his quarters, a spring in his step as he strolled down the hallway towards the auditorium.
About twenty feet ahead of him, Mike caught sight of another black-clad figure, immediately recognizing the short, barrel-chested form of Corporal Lopez, a member of Davis’s team and fellow Recon Marine. Taking a breath, the Sergeant gave a sharp bellow.
“YUT!”
“KILL!” The obligatory response echoed in the hallway as Lopez stopped, waiting on his team leader to catch up to him. He looked miserable, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and Mike didn’t bother to stifle his laughter. He’d lucked into being one of the few crew members who was able to come out of stasis with no negative symptoms at all, and it was clear that his fellow Marine hadn’t had the same good fortune.
“How ya feelin’, devil-nuts?”
“Like I wanna suck-start my rifle as soon as it’s issued to me, Sergeant,” Lopez responded, shaking his head as his team leader clapped him on the shoulder. “How your ass is bouncin’ around like that is beyond me. You sneak some yeyo on board? Fuckin’ share, man.”
“Marine, I wake up every morning pissing pure motivation,” Mike responded with a grin. “Come on, buck up. We’re Space Marines now, Chuckles. Does that shit not get your dick hard?”
The stocky Mexican shook his head again. “The way I’m feelin’, it’d take all the Viagra on this tub to get a twitch outta me. I see they unfucked your leg. I kinda miss your cholo-walk.”
Mike laughed. When he’d gone into cryo-sleep, he’d had to remove his prosthesis and leave it in the care of the medical techs. Something about advanced robotics not responding well to being stuck in a freezer for three years. In the interim period, the power cell had been removed and then promptly lost, so he’d had to swing the thing around like a peg until they’d found a new one.
“Am I not gangsta enough for you to take orders from?”
“Nah. Just felt like I was back on the block, is all.”
“Yeah, your barrio ass would.”
“Pinche gringo.”
“Ibn himaar.”
The two bantered easily back and forth, trading insults in their respective mother-tongues, until they reached the entrance to the Auditorium. As the door slid open, Mike gave a low whistle. He gazed in wonder at the digital forest that surrounded them, smiling like a child. The marvels of technology never failed to amaze him, and this simple act of turning a boring auditorium into forest paradise seemed to reaffirm what he’d known all along; humanity may be down, but they certainly weren’t out. They would adapt like they always had, and crawl out of this new primordial ooze to evolve into something grand.
“Shit, Sergeant. Your lyin’ ass told me this was a briefing. What the hell are we doing in a jungle?” Lopez muttered, removing his cover as they crossed the threshold.
“My bad, Devil. Next time I’ll give you a gear list, let you feel like a field Marine again.”
Surveying the scene, Davis picked out Abby’s ACUs easily. A few rows ahead of her were the black-uniformed figures of Decker, Sullivan, and Sczruba, the three Army Rangers who comprised the rest of his team. Lopez spotted them at the same time, and the two headed their way.
Grinning, Mike took a breath and boomed in his best parade-ground voice.
“OOHRAH, First Sergeant!”
Heads turned his way in irritation, but the irrepressible Marine laughed away their frustration as he took his seat, greeting the soldiers under his command as enthusiastically as he had Lopez.
“Good morning, killers. I’m glad to see the miseries of cryo-recovery haven’t been able to keep you three down.”
The men chorused a tired greeting, all of them looking resentful of their team leader’s evident amusement at their discomfort, and Mike chuckled as he settled into a chair to await the beginning of the meet.
It was going to be a good day.
Climbing to his feet with a soft hiss from his robotic leg, the Marine took stock of his cramped quarters. All of his worldly belongings had been crammed into the tiny room, the desk cluttered with papers and various objects ranging from challenge coins to photographs. One picture in particular caught his attention and he picked it up, smiling.
The snapshot was old, taken with a Polaroid camera, and showed his parents back when they’d first met in southern Liberia. His mother was the focus of the shot, clad in scrubs and giving an injection to a sick child. Her raven-black hair was tied back in a ponytail and she smiled as she worked, no doubt comforting the little boy with kind words spoken in the soft voice he missed so much. His father stood nearby, ever vigilant, his heavily-scarred face twisted in the mocking grin that somehow looked as natural there as the AK-47 he cradled in his tattoo-sleeved arms. They’d told him the story countless times as he growing up; how his Lebanese mom had left her home and traveled to the war-stricken country as a freelance nurse, then found an unlikely romance with the smartass American mercenary hired to protect her medical group. Standing beside his dad was the man Mike knew as Uncle Jouma, a Sudanese soldier of fortune who had acted as the group’s interpreter and local expert. His iconic red beret firmly in place on his shaven head, his rifle slung over his shoulder, the man was frozen in the act of kicking a soccer ball back to a group of local youths, a toothy grin plastered on his face.
Smiling at the memories, Mike pulled on the black digital-camo blouse that designated him as a member of one of the ship’s SRT teams, checked to make sure the gold Sergeant’s chevrons on his collar were in place, then tucked the photo into his left breast pocket. He checked his watch; fifteen minutes until the briefing started. Balls, he thought to himself, not pleased with the prospect of spending half of the morning listening to the Captain droning on about the last shift’s activities. With a sigh, the Marine shoved his cover on his head and left his quarters, a spring in his step as he strolled down the hallway towards the auditorium.
About twenty feet ahead of him, Mike caught sight of another black-clad figure, immediately recognizing the short, barrel-chested form of Corporal Lopez, a member of Davis’s team and fellow Recon Marine. Taking a breath, the Sergeant gave a sharp bellow.
“YUT!”
“KILL!” The obligatory response echoed in the hallway as Lopez stopped, waiting on his team leader to catch up to him. He looked miserable, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and Mike didn’t bother to stifle his laughter. He’d lucked into being one of the few crew members who was able to come out of stasis with no negative symptoms at all, and it was clear that his fellow Marine hadn’t had the same good fortune.
“How ya feelin’, devil-nuts?”
“Like I wanna suck-start my rifle as soon as it’s issued to me, Sergeant,” Lopez responded, shaking his head as his team leader clapped him on the shoulder. “How your ass is bouncin’ around like that is beyond me. You sneak some yeyo on board? Fuckin’ share, man.”
“Marine, I wake up every morning pissing pure motivation,” Mike responded with a grin. “Come on, buck up. We’re Space Marines now, Chuckles. Does that shit not get your dick hard?”
The stocky Mexican shook his head again. “The way I’m feelin’, it’d take all the Viagra on this tub to get a twitch outta me. I see they unfucked your leg. I kinda miss your cholo-walk.”
Mike laughed. When he’d gone into cryo-sleep, he’d had to remove his prosthesis and leave it in the care of the medical techs. Something about advanced robotics not responding well to being stuck in a freezer for three years. In the interim period, the power cell had been removed and then promptly lost, so he’d had to swing the thing around like a peg until they’d found a new one.
“Am I not gangsta enough for you to take orders from?”
“Nah. Just felt like I was back on the block, is all.”
“Yeah, your barrio ass would.”
“Pinche gringo.”
“Ibn himaar.”
The two bantered easily back and forth, trading insults in their respective mother-tongues, until they reached the entrance to the Auditorium. As the door slid open, Mike gave a low whistle. He gazed in wonder at the digital forest that surrounded them, smiling like a child. The marvels of technology never failed to amaze him, and this simple act of turning a boring auditorium into forest paradise seemed to reaffirm what he’d known all along; humanity may be down, but they certainly weren’t out. They would adapt like they always had, and crawl out of this new primordial ooze to evolve into something grand.
“Shit, Sergeant. Your lyin’ ass told me this was a briefing. What the hell are we doing in a jungle?” Lopez muttered, removing his cover as they crossed the threshold.
“My bad, Devil. Next time I’ll give you a gear list, let you feel like a field Marine again.”
Surveying the scene, Davis picked out Abby’s ACUs easily. A few rows ahead of her were the black-uniformed figures of Decker, Sullivan, and Sczruba, the three Army Rangers who comprised the rest of his team. Lopez spotted them at the same time, and the two headed their way.
Grinning, Mike took a breath and boomed in his best parade-ground voice.
“OOHRAH, First Sergeant!”
Heads turned his way in irritation, but the irrepressible Marine laughed away their frustration as he took his seat, greeting the soldiers under his command as enthusiastically as he had Lopez.
“Good morning, killers. I’m glad to see the miseries of cryo-recovery haven’t been able to keep you three down.”
The men chorused a tired greeting, all of them looking resentful of their team leader’s evident amusement at their discomfort, and Mike chuckled as he settled into a chair to await the beginning of the meet.
It was going to be a good day.
Preparing to begin posting...preparations...
Dear God, nobody say "bourbon" again. I drank more than was safe, or necessary. I swear to God, I'm never touching liquor again...
Dear God, nobody say "bourbon" again. I drank more than was safe, or necessary. I swear to God, I'm never touching liquor again...
Secondary character is up.
Name : Michael Davis
Age : 27
Rank / Grade : Sergeant / E5
MOS : 0311 Infantry Rifleman
0326 Reconnaissance Man, Parachute / Combat Dive Qualified
Occupation : Security Team Leader, Special Response Team Bravo
Description : 5’11, 183lbs of lean muscle. Black hair, green eyes, olive skin. Has an advanced prosthetic replacing his left leg above the knee, due to injuries received during the Sino-Korean War.
Personality: Michael is a perfect blend of his sarcastic, joke-cracking American father and his compassionate Lebanese mother. He takes his work seriously, but manages to lead his men with a wink and a grin, rather than through volume and aggression. Managing to find humor in even the bleakest situations, he is popular with both his command and his subordinates, and even most civilians find him easy to get along with. When he isn’t on duty, he can usually be found at the gym, keeping himself battle ready.
Fun Facts : Fluent in both English and Arabic, both written and spoken. Has several tattoos, including a motorcycle V-Twin engine on his left bicep, a black Eagle, Globe, and Anchor on his right inner forearm, and “meat tags”, his dog tags with all pertinent information, on the left half of his ribcage. His largest tattoo is a blend of his heritage, and takes up most of his back; a skull wearing a USMC eight-point cover, with the words of Psalm 144 in Arabic. “Blessed is the Lord my God, who trains my hands for war and my fingers to fight.”
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