"All right, numbnuts," The sergeant barked, pacing the smooth grey hallway. flanked by two long lines of privates. "Today - Today is your first drop." At that, there wasn't a head in the room without a bead of sweat trickling down it, except maybe the sergeant's smooth dome. "Don't fuck up."
Now that sure set the privates to worrying. They knew the Sarge was a man of few words, but everyone was hoping for some word of advice. This brief pseudo-threat of "don't fuck up" was less than everyone was expecting.
Murmurs washed over the room like the tide as the sergeant strolled back to the head of the corridor, his movements just as snappy as his uniform. Reaching his command position, he about-faced to look down the long lines of greenhorns under his command. "SQUAD! One step forwards, MARCH!" Every private extended their left leg, sliding into position beside one another. "Ready, FRONT!" Every cadet turned to face the Sarge. The sergeant performed one more about face, pivoting to stare down the long hall of the battleship, towards the ready-room. "Forward, MARCH!" With a rhythmic beat that would put clockwork to shame, the privates marched down the hall, their red and black boots clomping off the metallic floor.
-:O:-
So this was it, the death march. As I stomped along with the other cadets, I understood how the death-prisoners of Earth must feel, tramping down the hall to the surgeon's venomous needle. "Dead man walking!" The stomping of the boots seems to whisper. "De-EAD man walking!" I could feel sweat trickling down my back, then stop, halted by the pressure of the jump-jet upon my back. It was a familiar weight, the jetpack, but now brought to mind the gallows, the weight of it pulling my windbreaker up to form a noose about my neck.
The sergeant led us into a spacious, well-lit room, with triangular hatches on both sides of the room, a dozen, and a final one in the far back. In the middle of the room stood a long, low row of metal shelves, upon which rested a series of carbines, repeaters, and chainblades.
"Squad, halt!" The sergeant ordered. The cadets slid to a stop, their nervous eyes fluttering around the room. "Form two lines, grab your equipment, and stand by the hatches." Every soldier moved mechanically, their conscious thoughts overrun by panic, snatching up equipment and snapping it onto belts, then moving to stand stock-still at the right of hatchway.
"Alright," The sergeant muttered almost inaudibly, having picked up his light machine gun and nanite overshield - the lucky bastard - he walked to the end of the room, where it culminated in the final hatchway. "When we touch down," he shouted. "I want to see every man on his feet immediately. None of this kissing-the-ground bullshit. Understand?"
"Sir yes sir!" Came the echoed reply, laced with the slight pitch-change of nervousness.
With a pointed look at me, the Sarge said "Now get in your pods."
That was it. That was the sentence that signed my death warrant. Though the room was full of the pneumatic hiss of pod doors, the only sound I heard was the beating of my own heart, pumping faster, as if trying to make up for the fact that it may soon stop. With my jaw quivering, I turned and pulled open the triangular door, its own pneumatics giving a hiss, like an Indarian canyon-snake, ready to strike.
Climbing in, I shut the door, eliciting another startled rush of air from the pneumatics, and climbed down into my seat. Pushing the straps closed around my torso, I looked at the small panel just to the right of my cheek, with a glowing blue circle spinning over a red-hued map, white letters depicting "West Highlands Checkpoint - Controlled by the New Conglomerate"
"Oh boy" I thought, recalling what Sarge had said about buckshot.
A/N: For story purposes, I will depict the continents as far larger than they are in-game, as well as completely remove respawning.