A.N: I've been writing this story for a VERY long time. This is a rewrite of the live-action movie DooM that was suppose to be an adaptation of the DooM video games. I personally enjoyed the movie because one of my favorite actors is the main protagonist, and I enjoyed the concept for the plot. But I recognize it in NO way does the original games any justice. This is my take on the storyline which meshes concepts from the movie, games, and a few of my own ideas. I decided to post this after receiving a slew of feedback from username bibliophilea (I hope I spelled that right). This User was wonderfully polite and constructive, and something about their attitude and nuisance has encouraged me to comeback to this long winded story I've toyed with for so long. So thank you bibliophilea. Whether you are familiar with DooM or not I hope you find interest and enjoy this story for as long as it lasts.

For a room so base and dull, it overflowed with character and life that contradicted the cheap furniture and stainless steel bed railings, spat at the cramped, windowless space and fluorescent lighting, and mocked the drab grey walls with edge worn posters and torn-out pages of Sports Illustrated. An old battered sound system howled a popular rock song with an overpaid guitarist. The guts of an underhanded, and presumably over-ripe, orange splattered across the open center walkway of the military barracks as it collide with a metal baseball bat. In the corner a lanky young man, hardly more than a boy, lay on his bed reading a comic book, but for all his languid posture, his was sheepish and tense which was not entirely in part of the unfortunately thin mattress and rough sheets.

A dark-skinned man with a pair of sunglasses perched on his head lounged on a bunk and hooted with joy in time with the digital chirps and explosions that scratched from the speakers of an out-of-date portable video game his held in hands. Beside his bed was a duffle bag packed to bursting. Scattered duffle bags decorated the floor throughout the room.

A man, who resembled an especially grimy pale rat with greasy blond hair plastered to his scalp with gel and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, paced back and forth. Muttering under his breath, he glanced at the wrist watch he held in his hand. His impatience reached a breaking point and he slapped the watch with a loud clang on the rail of his bunk and bit out and angry comment:

"This is bullshit," He snarled, "Six months without a weekend, and the damn transport's five minutes late. That's five minutes R&R I ain't never gonna get back. "

The dark-skinned man snorted and glanced away from his game briefly.

"Relax Portman. Besides, what you doing over leave that's got you in such a hurry."

The blond man sniggered, "Second I get off that transport I'm heading straight down to El Honto and locking myself in a motel room with a bottle of tequila and three she-boys." He cackled, looking very satisfied in his Hawaiian shirt and sockless white loafers.

"You sick man."

Another orange whistled past Portman, just barely missing his head. He jumped away on reflex, and the orange struck the hand of an older, weathered man who sat quietly in his own bunk. He snapped closed a little black book embellished with a thin gold cross, and tore open the rind of the battered fruit.

"Shut up Portman," his voice rumbled dangerously "I'm sick of your filth."

Portman sneered at him, but edged away all the same. Another orange smashed into the locker next to the man thumbing at his game. Gregory Schofield was his name, popularly known as Duke in his current occupation. He flinched and mumbled a startled curse as chunks of orange and juice rained on him. He glared at the batter and his pitcher. The stout and soft-spoken Asian man Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takahashi, or more simply Mac, watched him with a blank, well rehearsed, look of innocence. A look perfected by a childhood of structured culture, and intellectual grooming, which he would, in the end exchange for the life of a soldier. The batter wad an enormous man with a broad face and large nose. Where Duke's skin was the color of pale mohogany, his childhood friend had skin that resembled varnished ebony. Roark "Destroyer" Gannon shrugged off the other man's glare. Eventually, Duke contented himself with brushing the shreds of fruit off of his lap and game screen.

Just as things settled back to the buzz of restrained boredom, there was a metallic snap followed immediately by a loud crash from down the hall that shook the walls- causing the aged stereo to cut out and clearing the way for a loud curse to echo unhindered into the room. The tense boy in the corner jumped to his feet with wide, startled eyes.

"Relax kid." came a voice with a tone like gravel. A man in his late twenties with welsh black hair and brilliant blue eyes was seated at a bench in front of a brushed stainless steel table cleaning an M24 sniper rifle. "Wolfe's just snapped the weight rack on that cheap ass bench again."

"Oh…" The young man mumbled, blushing furiously. Mark Dantalian, the newest and youngest edition to their ragtag band of merry men. Fresh off the parade ground just in time for leave. Mark assumed he'd have to wait another six months before he'd get his first call-to-action and official call sign, but the RRTS "Hellfighters" could be deployed on at anytime a job needed doing. Often a job done quick and, more than not, done dirty.

With the radio still silenced, and leaving the room with tinnitus-like ringing, the sound of heavy footsteps approached down the hallway from the source of disturbance.

A tall red-headed woman swept into the room and snatched the MP3 player from the doc on the stereo. Her hands were wrapped in white cloth tape, and her hair was darkened to a deep auburn at the roots from the sweat that ran down the line of a severe jaw. She stuffed the music player into one of the duffel bags, clearly hers, and snatched a towel from a shelf, vigorously wiping away the sweat while she twisted and popped her neck. She yawned massively, cracking her jaw and flashing a set of straight, white teeth.

"What no song of the day Wolfe?" Duke chided amiably looking up from his game again.

Blowing out a massive breath from her nose, she paused to look at him momentarily. Her expression was blank. Without a word, she spun on her heal making to head back down the hallway. She stopped by the sound system, punchinging several buttons before hammering her fist down on to the ancient piece of scrap. Finally it sprang back to life sputtering out an over-played song on the local FM station.

She disappeared down the hallway.

"… Ok…" Duke rolled his eyes, and once more turned back to his game.

Footsteps on grated steel pulled everyone's attention to the top of the stairs off to one side of the barrack, leading to the office of their Commanding Officer. Gunnery Sergeant Asher "Sarge" Mahonin, tanned, heavily muscled, and intimidating, stood imposingly at the top with an ominous look on his face.

"Looks like leave's just been cancelled boys."

A chorus of muffled groans erupted from the throats of the Unit 6 RRTS marines.

Duke stifled a curse and stuffed his game into his, now unnecessary, duffle.

"You gotta a problem with that Duke?" Sarge demanded with a menacing edge, catching the poorly curbed derogative.

"Me Sarge? Hell no I love my job." Duke replied stiffly, barely keeping the sarcasm from his voice.

Sarge nodded, it was enough for now. "Suit up gentlemen. We leave in five." He directed his attention at Mark who was hesitated to move with everyone else "You too. Welcome to the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, the double R-T-S." The young man nodded and veritably bounced after the rest of his new team.

They filed from the room to their separate lockers in the hall. The dark-haired man was last to rise from his seat at the bench. Sarge stopped him.

"Not this time John. You're staying behind."

'John' stared at him in hooded disbelief "You're bullshitting me."

Sarge shook his head "No Bullshit. Look, just take the leave... We're going to Olduvai."

There was pause at the mention of the Scientific Research Center which only a few decades ago made history as the first scientific establishment built on the Earth's sister planet, Mars. Run by the Union Aerospace Corporation, it was the greatest scientific, not to mention architectural, achievement of the millenium so far. Sarge could see the painful memories bubbling up though his Staff Seargent John "Reaper" Grimm hid them better than most could.

"Is that an order?" he asked.

"It's a recommendation."

John nodded; a storm of conflict roiling beneath. He snatched up the rifle, slapped the cartridge in, and brushed past his C.O. heading toward the lockers without another word. Sarge could see the hesitation in his step.

Passing the rest of the unit, Sarge headed for the room they used as a gym of sorts. It was stuffed with weights and benches, an old set of barbells and punching bag; it was really only big enough for one or two people to use at a time. One of the benches was sporting a broken weight rack that looked as though it had been crudely re-welded one too many times. The matching bar for the bench was lying on the ever-so-slightly dented metal floor as a result of its recent fall.

Standing facing away from the door, Corporal Alexandria "Fang" Wolfe held her arm straight away from her side, holding up a weight, stamped with a bold '25' on the side, and slowly lowered it. When her arm was flat to her side she raised it again and repeated the motion. She breathed in as the weight rose and out as it lowered; muscles in her shoulders and back flexed tightly under the unevenly tanned and wind-burned skin. Her hair stuck out oddly from being mussed with the towel earlier, but she ignored it and kept her eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

"Wolfe."

"Yes Sarge." She said between her controlled breaths.

"You can hear from down the hall, leave's cancelled, suit up now."

She put the weight down on the rack "Sorry sir," she said calmly "I wasn't aware I was gonna be allowed on anymore missions till the hearing went through."

"Don't pull that shit with me Wolfe, go suit up before I shove your sorry ass in that damn vest myself." The large man snapped, his eyes flashed dangerously.

"Yes sir." She said, failing to flinch at his tone

She slide past into the hallway, despite her outward deference, her back was ridged, exuding defiance bordering on insolence towards the higher ranking man.

Five minutes later they were on the tarmac of the Armed Forces Base in Twenty-nine Palms California, heads turned down against the wind from the rotors of their assault and transport helicopter.

Fully suited they were an intimidating group. Black from head to toe in standard issues boot and heavy cargo pants. Long-sleeved black jackets and Kevlar vests with addition body armor consisting of Kevlar plates sewn into the collar and shoulders. They piled into the helicopter, finding their individually assigned gear on the racks beside their cramped seats.

As they picked up their assault rifles, a computerized female voice purred out their IDs when they gripped the palm reader, arming the weapon.

The weathered soldier with his little black book, Corporal Eric Fantom, picked up his first.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Goat."

Roark Gannon picked up his next, a large chain gun draped in belts of ammunition.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Destroyer." He nodded to himself, and his face split into a broad grin.

"Daddy's home."

Corporal Dean Portman.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Portman."

Tech Specialist Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takahashi.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Mac."

Sergeant Gregory Schofield.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Duke."

"Say my name baby." He said with a smile, admiring the rifle.

Corporal Alexandria Wolfe.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Fang."

Private Mark Dantalian.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. The Kid."

"The Kid?" his face fell with disappointment, and he flopped into his seat with a sigh- hanging his loosely between his knees.

Gunnery Sergeant Asher Mahonin.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Sarge."

The C.O. turned and addressed his team and the pilot. The doors began to slide shut.

"Alright men let's get this sh-."

He cut off as hand caught the door.

Fully suited, Staff Sergeant John Grimm, climbed silently into the helicopter and took his own assault rifle off the rack.

"RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Reaper."

He took his seat. Sarge continued as though nothing had happened.

In a lull of the conversation, Portman caught a very nervous looking Kid, and allowed himself a little smirk. Unable to resist, he leaned toward Kid and beckoned him closer, his face twisting into a yellow-toothed grin.

"You know couple days ago I asked the Sarge for some pussy. The next day he brought you on."

Kid snapped back, a look of shock bordering on horror crossing his face and Portman cackled, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Reaper shifted his gun managing the perfect mix of casualty and threat.

"Don't give me an excuse Portman." He warned "No one will miss you."

Portman sneered at the higher ranking man for few moments before giving a snort, and leaned back in his seat without a care. Several silent moments passed before Kid's curiosity worked against his better judgment. He leaned toward Portman, and in a hushed voice said;

"If you wanted… you know… why not…" He finished his statement by twitching his chin toward the stolid red-head, and the only female any of the unit had seen in six months.

Portman turned his head lazily to leer at the woman seated a few spots over in the corner of the fuselage. Catching her icy stare he turned back with a knowing smirk, and leaned forward as he spoke.

"How's 'bout you go try tappin' that ass. And if you come back with your balls still attached, let me know. Maybe I'll give it a whirl."

Having not considered the idea, Kid glanced tentatively over in the Fang's direction. She lounged with a leg up against the metal frame of the helicopter, her rifle laid across her chest. When they made eye contact, he met a pair of steely grey eyes that narrowed dangerously in his direction.

He blanched and looked away hurriedly. After a moment he swallowed, and plunged in to dangerous waters:

"How do you even know she likes… you know-?"

"Hey Kid."

The voice was quiet, but Kid cracked his head on the metal braces of the fuselage anyway. With a hand vigorously rubbing the rising lumped he looked toward Fang with panic rising in his throat.

"I go both ways, and if anyone here has a problem with that I'll knock his ass back to 2000 where his bigoted sentiments can rot." She said all with eyes that dared anyone to step up to her challenge.

Kid, heeding the warning, just nodded quickly and prayed Fang never found any excuse to point that rifle in his general direction.

The helicopter took off with the rotors screaming for purchase in the air. It whooshed over the barren desert, breaking the silence of the night with the heavy thumping of its motorized blades.

On board Sarge launched into an en transit briefing over the mission. Calling it a quarantine and retrieval mission, he began with a video sent from the UAC. The video was poor-quality at best. It showed and old, balding scientist between intermittent bursts of static who sagged with abject terror and sweated visibly even through the dim lighting. His eyes fluttered and blink nervously as he spoke into the camera. Behind him crashing sounds and screams came from the only door within the frame.

"This is Doctor Carmack at Classified Research, Olduvai. ID 6627." His voice shook with fear. A snarl erupted from behind the door at his back, accompanied by a massive bang. The metal shrieked in protest.

We have a level five breach. Implement quarantine procedures now, I repeat, implement quarantine procedures now!"

There was a thunderous crash followed by a horrific scream before the screen went black; Sarge removed the disk from the console, and turned to his team, looking them over. He brimmed with confidence and surety that some would say reminisced arrogance.

"UAC has shut down the facility at Olduvai. We need to locate the team, eliminate, and secure the facility."

Kid inquired as to the threat, Duke ready responded with a sarcastic remark that turned the very green Private's ears a bright shade of crimson.

Done with his briefing, Sarge took his seat across from Reaper. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His expression was intent, and his eyes showed a clear note of weighing evaluation.

"How long has it been?"

Reaper waited before responding, scrutinizing his C.O.'s cause for asking.

An ulterior motive was obvious, Sarge wanted to know if he could handle himself in a place where his life once fell apart, but he could find no way to avoid such a direct question. So he obliged an answer.

"Ten years."

"You sure she's even still up there?"

Without pausing to consider, the brooding man nodded

"Yeah… I guess you gotta face your demons sometime."

To Be Continued