"To activate your Jump-Jets, simply press your tongue to the roof of your mo -"

I jabbed my tongue into the receiver in my mouth, setting my Jets roaring, and ascended to the rooftop ahead of me. Snow crunched under my feet as I slid to a graceful stop, hands gently holding my carbine.

"Very good," the sultry voice added. "Now, jump off the building and perform a brief Jump-Jet burst to land safely."

I did a slight bunny-hop off the lip of the roof, touching my tongue to the device to set my Jets once more to rumbling, but not soon enough. I turned my fall into a roll at the last second, white powder swirling around me, but it wasn't enough to please the Sergeant.

A door whispered open a few meters to the right, accompanied by a blast of warm air and the silhouette of a hulking man. "What the fuck was that, Whittaker? You think this is some fucking acrobat show? The Council paid good money for those Jump-Jets, so use them!" The silhouette yelled, solidifying into a man. He was big, made still larger by the trench coat he wore, with a small round face almost buried beneath an ushanka.

"I am, sir. I was just half a second too late -" I tried to argue.

"That half second cost you four seconds on the ground, rolling in the dirt like a pig! Do you know how much buckshot a rebel shotgun can pump into you in four seconds?" He roared, the snow that was accumulating on his hat coming off in clouds as his head shook.

I was too aware, really. My first live drop was in four days, and those Rebs' wouldn't be shooting blanks. It made me queasy to think of the womb-like interior of that drop-pod, and what it entailed. But instead of arguing further, I brushed some snow off my visor and walked back to the track start.

"To activate your Jump-Jets, simply press your tongue to the roof of your mouth."

-:O:-

"Hey, heard you bungled that Jump-Jet track something awful, huh." Rogers put it in as he shoveled down his potatoes and gravy. He looked at me from across the table, looking up from his tray expectantly.

I sighed, looking around the Mess Hall, at my own cooling tray of potatoes, and finally back at him. "I didn't do so poorly, it's just that Sergeant's a hardass who won't let you make a single mistake."

"That bad, huh?" Rogers shoveled another spoonful of potato into his mouth, smiling. "You do know we have to use them on our drop Saturday, right?"

I pursed my lips, as this wasn't a topic I wanted to dwell on. "I don't see why he won't let me use a Nanite Overshield, at least then I won't get ripped to shreds in mid-air." I would feel much safer ensconced in a shimmering suit of nanites than I ever would on an open rooftop. It defied all the basics of cover. Anyone could see me and shoot me on a rooftop!

"I hear tell that the Council feels we have too many heavies on the ground. Too much ammo expended, and such. Shit's cheap, but not that cheap. They feel Jump-Jets are 'the key to a modern, efficient strike force'." He replied, wiping a missed chunk of potato from the corner of his mouth. "I have Rifle Drills in ten. Catch you later, flyboy."

With that, Rogers stood up and smoothed his pants, then grabbed his tray and walked away. I stared after him, my mind still stuck on that empty drop pod.

-:O:-

"Whattaya think of this Whittaker kid, Top? He seems bright enough."

"His aptitude tests are well in the norm, and his three-dee perception is excellent, but his jet control is lacking. He's decent enough, I suppose. What're you gonna do with him?"

"I was thinkin' the Third."

"Major, you can't do that; he's just a recruit! The Third's a specialized strike force! He'd only slow them down anyway."

"You may be right. Let's wait till his drop's done."

A/N: That's it, the first (almost) chapter of "More than a Pod" Feel free to leave reviews with criticism, advice, and comments.