A/N: My first fic. If I don't get any reviews I won't know what I'm doing right/wrong.
"Alright, how are we going to do this?"
The four men huddled around a table that seemed much too small for them all to fit comfortably. On it, a mess of ivory tiles, dice, and cups half-filled with unidentifiable liquids covered what otherwise would have been an elegant piece of furniture.
"Gambling is a sin, boys," one of them said, smiling wryly. He was lanky, pale, and unfashionably thin. His choice in clothing – or seeming absence of choice was revoltingly base. A pair of poorly-fitted military slacks was all that he wore, judging that it was acceptable to go shirtless in less-than-polite company.
"Christ, Ivanov, put on a goddamned shirt," the one next to him said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He was stocky, but not short – compared to the willowy adolescent next to him, he looked even more barrel-chested than usual. In comparison to the slovenly bunch which sat around the table, his well-tailored parade uniform looked hilariously out of place – more suited to an officer at a high-end club on shore leave than a marine who'd seen more violence during his short stint on a Union patrol ship than most criminals could ever hope to see in a lifetime.
"Didn't your parents teach you manners?" the man asked, jabbing a finger into Ivanov's bony chest.
"Hey, I'm not the only shirtless one here," Ivanov pointed out, gesturing at the man sitting across from him. "Shepard's in his goddamn underwear." Shepard stared back in indignation. He was closer in physique to Ivanov than to Chen, but was more filled-out than the gangly youth sitting across from him, who seemed fragile enough that a strong gust of wind could knock him over.
"It's 'cause he lost his clothing the last game," grunted the fourth man, who sat next to Shepard. He was a monkish-looking individual, the standard-regulation Union crew cut not helping his appearance, which seemed better suited for a habit than the stained wife beater and boxers that he had on. "But shit, it's hot as hell in here. Can't you do anything about it?" he asked the second man.
"I can't. Sorry, Petrovsky," the second one replied. "Omega's rationing electricity again, whatever the hell that means. Besides, the aircon broke down yesterday, no thanks to this shirtless asshole beside me, and nobody on the station has the right parts to get it working again."
"Oh, so it's my fault your crappy aircon doesn't work?" Ivanov asked.
"Well you were the one who insisted on running it all day. I warned you, but you didn't listen."
"Chen, don't you have a rich dad? Why the hell are you such a goddamn cheapskate?" Ivanov asked.
"Ah," Chen said, eyes lighting up. "I remembered something. I actually think I have a couple of fans hidden around here somewhere." The man got up, and lumbered out of the tastefully decorated living room and into one of the bedrooms which were off to one side of the apartment. He re-emerged several minutes later, carrying an armful of folding fans with him. Each was emblazoned with a differing slogan.
"Tentacle Trouble! Don't aid the Enemy – avoid consorting with Venusians! " Ivanov read lazily as he eyed the fan which Chen had given him. On it, a tentacle-haired, blue-skinned alien was pictured, brutally dismembering several uniformed infantrymen. "Christ, Chen, what the hell are these things?"
"From before our time," Chen said sagely. "Real vintage First Contact War memorabilia. Hard to get these days. My dad picked these fans up while he was serving on – Christ, Ivanov, don't do that, you'll wreck it."
He reached for the fan which Ivanov was now fiddling with as if it were an accordion.
"Ch. No fun, this guy is. Tell me, did you act like this when you were a kid, or were you born with a twelve-inch stick up your ass?" Ivanov asked as he hopped out of the chair, skipping around the apartment sprightly as Chen tried to grapple with him for possession of the manhandled fan.
"Are we gonna dick around, or are we gonna play some mahjong?" Petrovsky hollered from his place at the table. Beside him, Shepard looked on impatiently, staring at the pile of clothing which he had lost in a bet during the previous game.
"Alright," Ivanov gasped, back shining with sweat from the sustained effort of running around the stuffy apartment, as he pulled his seat out from underneath the table, and sat himself down. Chen, barely breaking a sweat from the exertion, took his seat next to Ivanov, uniform still unnaturally crisp.
"Shepard rolls, since he lost the most last round," Petrovsky said plainly.
Shepard grabbed the dice from the table, and threw them with a controlled flick of the wrist.
"Fourteen," he announced to the rest of the men.
The dice were passed over to Petrovsky, who rolled.
"Eighteen," he said smugly. "Looks like I'm east wind."
The dice were exchanged again. "Four," Ivanov read in disbelief.
"At least it's not three," Petrovsky cackled.
"Nine," Chen said.
The men shifted their positioning, so that each of them occupied one side of the rectangular table.
"I'll bet Shepard's clothes, and mine, that he'll lose again this time," Petrovsky said.
"You're on," Shepard said. "Five hundred credits says I won't."
"Now that's just highway robbery," Chen chuckled. "Steal a man's clothes, and his wallet too? Next you'll be wagering on his girlfriend. Go easy on the kid."
"I don't want your pity, Chen," Shepard shot back.
"That's right," Ivanov chimed in. "He needs it."
"Look who's talking, beansprout," Chen smirked. "And like I said earlier, don't do that."
"Come on, loosen up a bit, will you?" Ivanov said, balancing his folded-up fan in a rather precipitous position on the very edge of a cup filled with strong-smelling alcohol. "Guys, remember that one time we went to Afterlife and this hardass over here threw a hissy fit after one of the girls they had puked all over his uniform?"
"Ivanov, I don't think anybody would be calm after getting puked on," Shepard pointed out.
"Are we gonna shit-talk all day, or are we gonna play? I'm not getting any younger here," Petrovsky said impatiently.
"Alright, alright," Ivanov said, raising his hands defensively.
Just as they began shuffling the tiles, however, the ringing of a chime was heard.
"Christ, what is it now?" Petrovsky exclaimed exasperatedly.
"Somebody's at the door," Chen stated matter-of-factly. "I'll get it," he added, getting up and walking over to the entrance. Pressing a button, the two halves of the door bifurcated smoothly, revealing a uniformed figure.
"Hello, boys," the visitor said warmly. "A bit early in the day to be gambling, isn't it?"
"There's no day-night cycle on Omega, sir," Chen said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. "What brings you here today?"
"Why the hell is Captain Jiang here?" Ivanov asked curiously, thinking that he was out of earshot of the captain. As Chen heard his friend ask, he cringed subconsciously.
"Do you want the good news, or the bad news, son?" the captain asked in a louder voice, addressing Ivanov, who turned in surprise.
"Bad news, sir," Ivanov said, panicked, as he stood at attention.
Captain Jiang strolled leisurely into the apartment, and both Petrovsky and Shepard joined Ivanov in standing at attention.
"At ease, boys," the captain said, sitting down on the expensive-looking leather couch which was turned to face the makeshift mahjong table where the four men sat. "I've been out all morning, so please excuse me," he said gingerly, massaging his thighs. "My legs aren't anything like they were when I was younger."
"Please, make yourself at home, sir," Chen said. "I'll get the tea brewing."
"Chen Weiming, was it?" the captain asked.
"Yes, sir."
"No need for the tea, son. I won't be long," the captain said, raising a hand in protest as Chen exited the living room in search of the kettle. "This isn't a social visit, though I do hold occasional correspondence with your father. Please, send him my regards."
"Will do, sir."
"Down to business, now. Where was I?" the captain thought aloud.
"The bad news, sir?" Ivanov chirped in.
"Ah, yes. And you three are?"
"Seaman Pyotr Ivanov, 1412th Naval Infantry Battalion, sir."
"Seaman John Shepard, 1412th Naval Infantry, sir."
"Fedor Petrovsky, sir," Petrovsky stated. Captain Jiang said nothing, waiting for him to finish his statement. "1412th Naval Infantry," Petrovksy added curtly.
"Wonderful," the captain said, consulting his omnitool. "Looks like you're all attached with the USV Vladivostok, anyways, so it works out just fine."
"Why, sir? Is it something classified?" Ivanov asked.
"Awfully talkative, aren't we, son?" the captain said, smiling. "Oh, I don't mind, of course," he added quickly, seeing Ivanov cringe upon hearing his pronouncement. "It's almost like you speak more to make up for the fact that your two friends behind you don't speak nearly enough. But I digress. Where was I again?" He smiled.
"The bad news, sir," Ivanov said.
"Ah! Of course. The bad news." The way in which Captain Jiang spoke was completely uncharacteristic of one delivering bad news, instead seeming more like a tone worthy of disseminating nothing but idle gossip. "We're shipping out again this afternoon. Got an emergency hail from one of our listening stations near the mass relay, something about aliens – an Avian patrol, more specifically. Considering that Omega is at the heart of our territories in the Terminus, that's a tad bit troubling, isn't it? So, brass decided that they'd dispatch a cruiser to check out the situation. It's classified, by the way, so don't go telling your lady friends anything when we leave. We don't want the public to know that our borders are so porous that aliens can make it all the way to Omega without being detected."
"What?" Petrovsky sputtered. "But I thought we had shore leave until next week!"
The captain sighed apologetically. "I tried, son. It pains me to do this to you fine young souls, but it really can't be helped."
"What about the Cherry Blossom? That damn thing spends all year docked on Omega and doesn't do anything else! Couldn't they send them instead?"
"The Union brass, sending the Fourteenth's crown jewel on a patrol run? A dreadnought on a patrol run, a bit overkill, isn't it? Besides, it's too high-profile for our job."
"What about the Minsk?"
"Look, son, I tried, I really did. Do you want me to list out all the ships I tried to get them to send in our place? The Minsk is still at half-manpower thanks to the goddamned four-eyed pig bastards launching a surprise raid on one of our border colonies. The Samara is due for repair and retrofit next week, since she's still packing armament that hasn't been updated since the First Contact War. The Hong Kong's captain, bless his poor soul, blew his brains out when he found out his wife was cheating on him and his son wasn't actually his, and they're still looking for somebody qualified to command a cruiser fitted with hell knows what experimental weaponry they've decided to test on that ship. The Pyongyang is tied up with patrolling the border regions, along with practically all the other cruisers in the Fourteenth. We're one of the few ships that could take the job, and the closest one at that."
The captain sighed, and stood up. "We'll be embarking at 1300 hours, sharp, boys. Be there on time."
"Well, this is a whole load of horse shit," Petrovsky swore as the captain exited the apartment. "Time for one last game?"
The four men sat back down at the table, and began shuffling the tiles, spirits dampened by the news.