Forgotten conflict
Freemantle
Join Date: 2002-06-16 Member: 783Members
Join Date: 2002-06-16 Member: 783Members
Comments
i love the n00b shouting <!--emo&:)--><img src="http://www.natural-selection.org/iB_html/non-cgi/emoticons/smile.gif" border="0" valign="absmiddle" alt=':)'><!--endemo-->
1) The affore mentioned "Newbie". How about Maggot? Not offensive, and its much more commanderish <!--emo&:)--><img src="http://www.natural-selection.org/iB_html/non-cgi/emoticons/smile.gif" border="0" valign="absmiddle" alt=':)'><!--endemo-->
2) The fact that McMann talked back to his Commanding Officer. This would never happen, unless the private in question wanted a quick trip to the floor. I'd suggest changing it, or adding Tetsua giving McMann a bit more of a chewing out (in PG form, of course <!--emo&:p--><img src="http://www.natural-selection.org/iB_html/non-cgi/emoticons/tounge.gif" border="0" valign="absmiddle" alt=':p'><!--endemo--> )
-Khaim
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Private McMann sat down to what might be his last meal. The cheaply synthesized “chicken” slid down his throat wet and clammy. It never occurred to him that this would feel like a luxury in a few short hours. Ever since the Sanji incident the TSA had been shoving crews all over the place. McMann would probably be weeks without food, relying on nanos to keep his body together. The TSA would rather pay a hefty sum to shoot you up with bots than feed you.
It was the TSA’s poverty that put his fire team of five in this position to begin with. They were chartered out to a deep space cruise liner. A getaway for the rich and elite, passing planets that didn’t even have names yet. All the marines had to do was sit back and make the passengers feel safe from UT.
Unidentified Threat, the aliens from the Sanji incident. Nobody cared to name them, and many people believe that they don’t exist. Regardless, McMann proceeded to the firing range with his three team members and commander to check out their standard issue light-machinegun.
McMann really didn’t know his crew to well. He realized he had never even met his commander, but heard enough stories to concern him. Corporal Tetsua was known as one of the most unreliable and bi-polar commanders in the known universe. Most people believed he was thrown onto this assignment to keep him away from civilization.
McMann opened the firing range’s double doors to realize that everyone was already there.
“Your late, Newbie,” spat Tetsua. He didn’t even look like a leader. The Asian stood a measly 5’5” and must have weighed less than 135 pounds. His dark complexion and short, matted hair gave him an almost Hispanic look.
“It’s McMann, sir,” he replied, trying to be as serious as possible.
Tetsua sighed audibly. “You’re a nothing, you have no combat experience, you have nothing to your name. Be honored that I call you Newbie. Now get your munitions and go through the ten point LMG check.”
McMann’s blood boiled at Tetsua’s arrogance. He sauntered to the weapons counter and selected an LMG and a pistol. He looked them both over carefully. Holstering the pistol, he began to rapidly disassemble his Light-machinegun.
“Trigger mechanism…check. Firing hammer…check. Case ejection…check. Barrel integrity… check. Pressure plate sensitivity…check. Recoil compensator…”
McMann stared at the armory clerk with a look of disdain. “This gun has been repaired from a previous use. The recoil compensator has been tampered with, I doubt it even works.”
The glared at McMann, arms crossed. “What? Not like you do-nothins got any use for a gun anyway. Besides, recoil compensators don’t do anything anyway.”
“Don’t do anything?” McMann smirked, “let me show you.” McMann brought the sights of his LMG up to his face. Aiming at a wooden target of a man, he loosed a barrage of sabot rounds that rang across the open firing range. After emptying the entire thirty round clip in a few bursts, he managed to blow three holes in the target, two in the chest and one in the head.
The clerk and Tetsua laughed. The rest of the fire team laid silent, in honesty they weren’t much better. “See?” the clerk scoffed, “you can’t hit #### anyway.”
McMann smiled and walked toward the counter, picking up another LMG. Holding the gun up in his fully extended right arm, he pulled the trigger, loosing round after round of rifle slugs. The recoil compensation computer kicked in, using controlled venting of exhaust to compensate for muzzle recoil and shell ejection. The rifle appeared to stay still, barely vibrating. McMann managed to put all thirty rounds into the target. Twenty-nine in the ######, and one between the eyes.
“Give me three clips,” McMann demanded of the armor clerk, “and a knife…do-nothing.”
Without another word, McMann left his astonished colleagues and walked out of the firing range. He stared at the space liner he would call home for the next three months. He had less than two hours till dust off. Two hours of real life left.