Authors Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, 20th Century Fox, Nintendo, etc.

Because it's Halloween, I figured I'd take a stab at writing something with some horror influence (get it?). Thing is... I don't like most horror movies, unless it has Karloff or Lugosi, but there are two horror franchises where the sequels could be classified as something other than strictly a horror movie. And since I don't feel like I could really do a decent job writing Ash Williams (or top the collection of one-liners in Army of Darkness), I'm doing a story based on Aliens. Yes, there is some tech from Fireteam Elite, but most of it is from that 1986 classic.

It is a crossover, because everything can be improved with a blonde, so for those who may not be familiar with Xenos and Colonial Marines, hopefully y'all can enjoy this story too. I just ask you forgive me when I start having too much fun writing tecno-babble. A Metroid crossover just felt like it fit, and when writing it out I think it worked pretty well, be sure to leave a review and let me know what you think, and hopefully you'll be back when I post the second chapter at the end of November.


The Aagtekerke Incident

Chapter 1: Riding on the Wind

A slight tingle at his feet prompted a pair of brown eyes to slowly open; Corporal Jacob Clyde looked around one of the hypersleep bays of the USS Kearsarge. Inside the eighteen pods were the United States Colonial Marines of 2nd Platoon, A Company, 32nd Marine Assault Unit, each one starting to rouse themselves from their long nap. The sudden flood of illumination that came from the harsh LED lights overhead elicited a barrage of groans and muttered curses that filled the bay until it was drowned out by a high pitched, but fury filled, shout. "C'mon ladies, get your asses up. Who do you think you are? Army?" A five-foot five ball of fury, Sergeant Khai Minh Dao strode across the bay until she came to an abrupt halt a few bays down from Clyde's, the Marine inside having stumbled as he climbed out. "What's wrong Tiny? Your legs stop working? Or can they not support your fat ass?"

Standing up to his imposing 6'6" height and weighing not far short of 280 pounds, Private Lawrence 'Tiny' Garrison usually lugged around an M56 Smart Gun, but there was one thing he liked shooting off more than his machine gun. "You sleep okay Sarge?" he asked in his deep baritone, "'Cuase you're bustin' my balls sooner than normal."

"She sure didn't, Amigo," drawled the Marine from his bed on Jacob's right. Unlike everyone else, Pfc. Ricardo Santiago still lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. "With the way you snore, it's a wonder any of us slept at all." When Tiny flipped off the Marksman, the laid back Latino merely chuckled and closed his eyes.

Dao was, unsurprisingly, less amused, "Get it moving Santiago, I doubt even you could sleep with my boot shoved up your ass," she growled. After a second of waiting, and no reaction from Ricardo, Khai turned her glare towards Clyde, "I want him up by the time I get back Corporal."

Caught between rubbing his eyes and massaging the bridge of his stuffy nose, the Corporal managed a groaned that faintly sounded like, "Errrr," which seemed to satisfy the Platoon Sergeant. As she moved further down the bay, Jacob got to his feet, rolling his shoulders to alleviate their stiffness as he crouched beside Santiago's bed. "I'ma make this real simple Ricky, either you get your ass outta bed in the next ten seconds, or I search your gear and seize the tequila I know you smuggled on board. Rah?"

The Latin Sharpshooter's head turned to look at Clyde, "You wouldn't do that, would you Sandy? After all, I was gonna share with you."

"And you will anyways, because we're friends, you and me," answered Jacob, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smirk. "Five seconds."

"Dios mio… fine, fine," grumbled the Private as he accepted Jacob's offered hand and was pulled out of bed. "You can't blame me though, a deployment like this, to bumfuck nowhere? We're gonna need something to do!"

The Bofum Sector, or Bored Out of your Fucking Mind to those stationed there, was out on the edge of known space, the very farthest reaches of space under the influence of the United States. In it was a half-dozen agricultural colonies, and the same again mining outposts. All were sparsely populated and peaceful, but their position alone warranted the presence of at least a token force of Colonial Marines. For the next eight months, that would be A Company.

While it was far from the most glorious of assignments, Clyde wasn't too bothered by that, especially since he himself had grown up on an AgriColony, and so he knew it wouldn't be as bad as the Los Perdidos native thought it would be. "Look alive Devil Dog, there are bound to be a few farmers daughters who won't mind the safety and security provided by the close proximity of a Marine," replied Clyde, prompting Santiago to perk up.

"Si, you're probably right," admitted Ricardo as the pair filed out of the hypersleep bay and towards the locker room forward.

The pair had their lockers opened and were dressing in their PT gear when Garrison spoke up from the row of lockers behind them, "Shit Sandy, you're probably just excited because they play that hick sport you love so much out here."

"Hick sport my ass, it's America's Pastime," corrected the Corporal as he reached into his locker, pulling out the baseball he had brought with him, casually popping the ball off the inside of his elbow before snatching it out of the air and putting it back. "You should be ashamed of yourself Tiny, you're a United States Marine," chastised Clyde as he pulled on his shirt and fitted his watch around his wrist, noting the date and time with a raised eyebrow.

Garrison responded, "Yeah Sandy, that's right, I'm a Marine, not a bitcher like you were."

"Pitcher, I was a pitcher," snapped Clyde as he slammed his locker shut before taking a composing breath, "Still am, only I throw frags instead of heaters, at least for now. Soon enough I'll be on the mound for the Wolfpack with Uncle Sam footing the bill." It was pleasant enough of a pleasant thought that it put a smile on the Corporal's face before he remembered his watch. "Go grab some chow you two, I'll be up in a sec, gotta go talk to Dao, and no, it ain't about you Santiago."

With a friendly nudge, the pair of Marines departed the locker room, with Jacob heading the other direction to find Khai. "Sarge, I gotta ask, is something wrong?" began Clyde bluntly, leaning up against the locker next to Dao's as she pulled on her garrison cap and pulled out a small, high tech datapad.

"What makes you think that, Corporal?" she replied without looking up from the screen.

"Just that we're up four days sooner than we're supposed to," answered Jacob as he saw the date and time come up on the screen of Dao's pad. "So either the Ferry Drivers got us somewhere ahead of schedule for once, or something's FUBAR."

"I haven't heard anything Clyde, so the boat isn't about to go under," answered the NCO dismissively, but Jacob could hear the tension in her words. Tension that was, critically, not anger, so he stayed put and simply waited to hear an elaboration or a dismissal. He got the former. "Look around, who's missing?"

Craning his neck around, the Grenadier noted one locker hadn't been disturbed. "The El Tee."

Dao hummed as she closed her locker and mechanically engaged the scrambler, "Looks like we aren't going to be bored out of our fucking minds just yet."


Letting out a high-pitched, warbling cry, the plasma-ridden Space Pirate collapsed on Atraks-37C sandy ground, green blood beginning to pool beneath its shuddering form. The last survivor of their conflict strode towards the cooling corpse; smooth yellow greaves protected its legs and bracers, bright orange pauldrons blended with a crimson cuirass and helmet to protect the Power Suit. Samus Aram lowered the still-smoking arm-cannon, noting the carnage she'd wrought through the luminous green visor. She picked her way through the charred, blasted bodies, pirates felled by power beams and homing missiles until she reached the last foe, the boss of the crew

With caution, the Bounty Hunter reached down with her left hand and rolled the corpse, revealing the captain of a particularly violent band of brigands. Wordlessly, Aran looked on the dead face of her former enemy, engaging her visor's facial recognition software. It scanned despite the blood and skewed eyeballs, taking in the essential details. A few seconds elapsed before a blinking notification appeared before Samus, confirming that the creature before her was Vekron, wanted by the Galactic Federation.

Mission complete, Aran turned back to retrace her steps, heading back inside the hideout housing the Space Pirate ships in the mountain of the barren, inhospitable world. Pacing through the hanger and then further back into the infrastructure of the base, the Bounty Hunter passed yet more of her handiwork, walls painted with blood, equipment destroyed, doors and obstacles blasted clear. None of it drew any sort of emotion from the stoic woman, not after what she had seen four months earlier on Phaaze; she had seen all this, and much more besides.

After a trek out as long out as it had been in, but far quieter, Samus Aran arrived at the sewer outlet she'd used to gain access to the Space Pirate base and found her personal gunship waiting for her. The craft, in a similar color scheme to her armor, was the closest thing Samus had to a home, given the nomadic lifestyle of her profession. Approaching the craft, Aran acknowledged the sudden lowering of the access, ramp merely striding up and into the familiar surroundings of the Hunter class starship.

Once inside, the ramp closed behind her, and Samus moved towards the cockpit of the craft, the lights automatically coming on, bathing the room in carefully calibrated blue hues. "Gunship," began the Bounty Hunter, watching the console at the front of the space come to life and await her command, "Commence takeoff, proceed to planetary orbit and establish contact with the Galactic Federation Police."

"Voice print authenticated. Command recognized," replied the feminine voice of the ship's automatic system. The ship came to life around Samus, the subtle thrum of the engines as the deck vibrated with energy. As the gunship's thrusters hummed under her feet and the cabin was pressurized, the craft lifted off, but Samus paid it no mind, simply glad to be off yet another desolate ball of rock.

Once she was confident there was nothing else requiring her attention, Samus spoke another voice command, "Suit, commence operator ejection." There was a tone in her ear before her visor displayed a simple message, 'Acknowledged,' followed by a series of lights on the display before a new message appeared, 'Ready.' Taking a breath, Samus followed up, "Execute." In a flash of light that prompted Aran to reflexively close her eyes as the Power Suit dissipated around her until it was nothing but a small, oddly colored orthorhombic mass in her right hand, leaving the blonde woman in just her blue Zero Suit. Setting the hefty object down, Aran could finally relax since she no longer had to maintain the carefully trained concentration it took to wear and use the Power Suit. Seeing that the sky around her was turning from the vivid green of the atmosphere to the pitch blackness of space, the Bounty Hunter settled into the pilot's seat as she prepared to make her report to the Federation.

While she waited for the communications link to come online, Samus pondered her next move. After more than two months working a fringe sector at the edge of Federation Space, the Bounty Hunter decided it might be best to return to a hub world, if for no other reason than to refit and restock. Beyond that, she would see what work there was to be had, since few criminals had survived her extended stay in the current sector.

Before she could decide upon a destination, a light denoting an incoming transmission blinked on her console; a quick tap of a holographic control accepted the call, and the face of her Federation Police Force contact, Captain Josiah Downing, appeared. "Aran here," reported the Bounty Hunter flatly, squaring up to face the Captain.

An older man, with thinning silver hair and a bushy mustache, Downing bore the look of a veteran now confined to administrative work, and none too happy for it. "Just got your latest report. It's been confirmed, and payment has been authorized. Give it the usual galactic standard day for it to go through." There was a deep sigh from the man as he looked off to the side, "Now that that's all outta the way, what are you going to do next?" he asked and Samus answered with a shrug. "You still out on the Fringe?" questioned Downing, and this time the blonde gave a single curt nod in response, "I got a fresh job that just came in, and you're the closest. Shouldn't be nearly as tough as the last few you've taken. Interested?"

After a moment to ponder the offer, Samus gave resounding acceptance, meaning three whole nods. "Okay, while you were down on the planet, a Federation probe picked up this transmission," said the Captain before there was a crackle of static, and Downing's laid back cadence was replaced with a sharp, robotic voice. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is USCSS Aagtekerke requesting immediate evacuation. Multiple system failures. Multiple survivors on board. Prioritization code: Whiskey Yankee seven-four-six-three Xray. Mayday, mayday, mayday…" it said before it was abruptly cut off. "It just repeats after that, location has it just beyond mapped space, a few hours from your position," informed Downing.

"I see," answered Aran as she weighed her options. "This ship, the Aagtekerke," she said, butchering the pronunciation, "Is it one of yours?"

"Not one of ours, not one of anybody's," emphasized the Captain with a scowl before his features softened somewhat. "We just want to know what's going on. The job here is information. These people, whoever they are, sound like they're in trouble, but we don't know if that's legitimate. Investigate and report back, the more information, the more you get paid. Starting reward for this contract is expenses plus 10%, and that's just to drive out and take a look. Find out who's behind this, and that by itself is thirty k creds. If you accept, I'll send you the details."

There were more unknowns than Samus would have liked, but how much trouble could possibly be left out here? With that thought, the Bounty Hunter met Downing's eyes, "I accept."

"Great, I'll send you the intel we have. Good luck Ms. Aran, and good hunting," said Downing before Samus promptly ended the call and pulled up the info packet she had just received. Inputting the attached coordinates, the Bounty Hunter saw that she would arrive at her new destination in a little under four hours and set the gunship on this new course. As the craft reoriented itself before the thrusters propelled it free of Atracks-37Cs gravity, Aran made her way aft to get some sleep, though not as much as she had originally hoped.


"Dao, Clyde, Santiago, Garrison, Rawley, and Frye, report to the Wardroom," boomed the Kearsarge's PA system, prompting the named Marines to extract themselves from the enlisted mess and head up forwards. In the hour that had passed since their unexpected wake up, the Marines had occupied themselves by simply wasting time in the mess, enjoying the usual hearty navy meal of steak and eggs that was customarily served after hypersleep. A pool had been started on the reason for their premature awakening, helped along by the fact that neither Lawton nor Gertrude, the ships two Androids, had made an appearance.

Arriving at the autodoor for the Wardroom, it fell to the ranking Marine, Dao, to hit the buzzer and announce their arrival. The autodoor slid open, and the half dozen Marines filed into the room, lining up and standing at attention as they saluted the platoon CO, Second Lieutenant Jessica O'Keefe, a gesture that was promptly returned. "At ease people, have a seat, grab a coffee," answered the brunette woman. It was clear that the fresh officer was already struggling under the burden of her first command. Still, none of the enlisted men and women said anything, helping themselves instead to the fresh pot on the table, though they all noticed that both synthetics were present.

Clyde looked at his Sergeant and saw her subtly shake her head before sipping his coffee and looking towards Rawley and Frye, the Pilot and Crew Chief of the platoon's UD-4L 'Cheyenne' transport gunship, and saw both Marine Aviators shrug. "I'm sure you all are wondering why we're awake," began O'Keefe, the young Lieutenant getting a battery of blank stares in return before she continued, "We got new orders from regional command, they picked up a distress signal, and it just so happens we'll be passing right by. Gertrude?"

Attention shifted to the feminine android as she dimmed the lights and activated a projector to display a starmap on the wall, with the location of Kearsarge marked. "The beacon originates from here," began Gertrude as a new marker appeared on the map, in a section of notably empty space. "The area it originates from is known as 'The Abyss,' that borders the edge of known space. Since there aren't any star systems or planets there, it hasn't been colonized, but it is possible there are worlds beyond it. We received new orders a week ago and rerouted the ship, so the transit is only a six hour flight by dropship." Everyone in the room did their best to ignore the groans emanating from Rawley and Frye, before the synthetic resumed her briefing. "This is the distress call being transmitted."

"Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is USCSS Aagtekerke requesting immediate evacuation. Multiple system failures. Multiple survivors on board. Prioritization code: Whiskey Yankee seven-four-six-three Xray. Mayday, mayday, mayday…."

"The Aagtekerke is a Weyland-Yutani ship, originally a bulk hydrogen tanker; she was refitted into a tramp freighter in 2182, working mainly by runs out to the Cryosphere. She was reported missing in August 2187," rattled off the Synthetic as the schematics of the ship in question appeared. Clyde couldn't help but let out a low whistle as he glanced at the stats that Gertrude read out. "1.6 kilometers in length with a cargo hold of just under one million cubic meters, the vessel was one of the corporation's largest ships when it went missing."

"And she just turns up after 18 months in the middle of nowhere? Anyone else's bullshit detectors start going off?" asked a dubious Garrison before seeing O'Keefe and, more importantly, Dao, staring at him, "Uh… ma'am."

"No bullshit private," answered the Lieutenant, but Clyde wasn't convinced by her delivery, "Wey-Yu has already dispatched a rescue party that should be on site in two days' time, but Regional Marine Command wants a small squad out there to ascertain the situation and secure the way for them. I've selected you four. The corp intends to salvage the ship."

"Any clue what we're up against?" asked Dao, the Sergeant doing her best to sound professional.

"Unknown, could be mechanical failure, but it could also be Pirates, or the Chinese," replied O'Keefe. A quick glance around told Jacob that he wasn't the only one not bothering to appear convinced by that. "In either case, I want everyone fully armed, armored, and in the hanger in 30 minutes for final prep. Drop is in an hour. Any questions?" When Clyde saw Santiago's hand go up in the corner of his eye, he had to fight to suppress a smirk. "What is it Private?"

"The Aagter... Agtek… whatever, what's the crew complement?" asked the Sharpshooter.

"Seven hundred and fifty-four," answered Lawton, the Android standing behind O'Keefe.

"Okay," returned Santiago, "How many women?" Jacob started to lose the battle to his smiling muscles as he figured where this might be going.

The Android clearly did not, however, and answered seriously, "Ninety-six."

"Uh huh… and of those, how many are swimsuit models?" asked the smugly grinning Ricardo. All he got back from Lawton was a tilt of the head, with O'Keefe looking at Santiago with a shocked expression and Jacob strategically rubbing his chin to cover the smile on his face. "Or glamour models? I'm not picky."

"All you're gonna get is a plus-size bitch," quipped Tiny, eliciting a slight chuckle from Clyde.

"Lock it down, both of you!" snapped Sergeant Dao, prompting the two Marines to straighten in their chairs. "I hear that shit again and you'll be pulling latrine duty for a month, ooorah?"

"Errah," chorused back both Marines morosely before Santiago looked at O'Keefe with feigned sheepishness and said, "No further questions ma'am."

The officer chewed on her lip for a moment, "Very well," she said after an awkward pause, "Dismissed." Finishing their coffee, the enlisted Marines all stood and saluted before filing out of the Wardroom, trashing the Styrofoam cups on the way.

They all retraced their steps through the Kearsarge, heading back down to the locker room when Tiny appeared beside Jacob, the Smart Gunner towering over the 6-foot 3-inch Clyde, "Yo, Sandy, what's your bet? Technical issues or a stand-up fight?"

Santiago appeared on the other side of Garriosn, "Could always be a bug hunt amigo."

"Just an excuse to get first leave boys," replied Clyde as they arrived to gear up, each going to their individual lockers. The Cheyenne crew donned their flight suits while the ground pounders changed into their Battle Dress Utilities, consisting of Multi-Cam camouflaged polycotton trousers and shirt. Then came the M3 pattern Personal Armor, starting with the padded abdomen piece, Clyde pulling the straps over his shoulders tightening it in place before slipping the cuirass-like vest over the pads. The graphite-composite carbon fiber backed boron carbide resin provided ballistic protection, while the ultra-light titanium-alumide alloy outer layer would degrade the effects of directed energy weapons. The innermost layer was a liner comprised of 1,500 denier Venlar fibers to dissipate any residual energy that made it through the bulk of the armor. This same composite sandwich made up the armor each Marine fitted to their legs, the greaves providing protection from ankle to knee, with separate knee pads meant more to stop scrapes that shrapnel. The last piece of protection was the M10 helmet with similar construction, if less effective due to its lighter weight. Packed inside the helmet were the electronics for the PRC 489/4 Personal Data Transmitter and AN/PRC-296 radio built to the Multi-wave Architecture for Reinforced Security (MARS) specification. Integrated into the helmet were the earpiece and microphone for the radio, as well as a camera, helmet light, and deployable eyepiece that linked to the IR mode of the camera.

Despite it being against regs, each Marine had customized their armor. Clyde had the number '32' on his back and the phrase 'Instilling Fear' written in script on his chest opposite the 32nd MAU logo, a rattlesnake coiled around the numbers. Tiny had a bullseye painted on his chest and back, while Santiago's armor merely read, 'Caution: Hot!' Even their Sergeant had etched 'PSALM 23:4' into her vest with her knife. On top of the armor was their web gear and Individual Marine Packs, each Marine had a slightly different setup to carry what he or she valued most. Common items were a knife, first aid kit, batteries, canteens, and nutrition bars, as well as pouches to carry ammo for their respective weapons.

Once dressed, the six Colonial Marines made for the hanger where they split up, the two aviators went to prep their Cheyenne, Foehammer, while the infantry went to the armory. "Alright baby," drawled Tiny, the big man rubbing his hands together, "Come to papa." All at once, the others got out of Garrison's path as he barreled into the armory and made straight for his beloved M56 Smart Gun, denoted by the phrase 'Get Some!' scribbled across the guns receiver. Like its wielder, the 17.7 pound belt fed, air cooled light machine gun was the biggest and most imposing weapon in the Colonial Marines arsenal, able to dispense a thousand 10x28mm High Explosive Armor Piercing rounds every minute. The gun was part of an integrated system with the M56 Individual Operator Gun Mount, an additional harness over the standard M13 armor that supported the articulate stabilizing arm for the weapon, as well as the power supplies, quantum microprocessors, and additional ammunition. The last component was the Head mounted Infra-Red Search and Track (HIRST) eyepiece, which linked to the sensor on the front of the gun and allowed the operator to see what the gun 'saw' before firing. With all these elements combined, the M56 was capable of detecting, acquiring, and tracking any living thing, with the operator merely having to lug the thing around and then pull the trigger to pump it full of lead.

Clyde went to a rack and pulled out the Colonial Marines' best friend, the ever-reliable M41A1 Pulse Rifle. The electronically actuated pulse action that gave the rifle its name utilized a series of electro-magnets built into the stamped sheet alloy receiver to rotate the circular breech block mechanism, enabling the conveyor system of the magazine to fee the next 10x24mm caseless steel jacketed, explosive tipped round to be fed into the gun. A remarkably simple action with few moving parts, there was little that could go wrong, with any cartridges that failed to fire simply being ejected up and forwards by the next round in the magazine, which had a deep capacity of 99 rounds, and that was a great comfort. That capacity came with a cost: weight, and a loaded magazine took the M41A1's mass up to 5.1 kilos from 3.4.

For those occasions when a stream of 10mm being served up at a rate of nearly 900 rounds per minute wasn't enough, then the underslung U-1 pump action 30mm grenade launcher usually was. With an integrated four-round tube, Clyde would get three more chances if his first shot went screwball, and he could get them out as fast as he could work the pump. The only changes for the A1 model were the new barrel shroud featuring Picatinny Combat Attachment Points (PCAPs) that allowed for the use of tactical lights, laser pointers, and other accessories, and the Integrated Lightweight Unit Holographic Sight (ILUHS) that replaced the antiquated 'iron' sights with a reticle projected from the weapon's carry handle.

Integrated into the lower receiver was a small power pack for the weapon comprised of a lithium-ion battery that powered pulse action and was good for approximately 10,000 rounds. The ILUHS and LED ammo counter on the side of the rifle were also powered by this same battery. However, the rest of the gun was less computerized, with the 10.1-inch barrel having been chrome lined and hammer forged to improve reliability and accuracy respectively, while the collapsible stock was a simple stamped and spring-loaded affair, yet with ergonomics good enough to allow for a good cheek-weld from any stock position.

While the M41A1 was supremely versatile, Jacob wasn't content with just the Pule Rifle, any room left on his webgear was taken up by a mix of M91 Fragmentation, AN-M27 TH3 Incendiary, and G2 Electroshock grenades. The latter was a Marine favorite, informally referred to as 'Sonic Electronic Ball Breakers' due to the way the sphere's launched themselves up about three feet before unleashing their 1.2 gigavolt charge.

Slinging the Pulse Rifle over his shoulder, Clyde strode over to a second rack where he saw Santiago. Ricardo was already carrying his array of sensor grenades and PUPS drones to improve the squad's battlefield awareness while looking over an M240 Incinerator Unit, his face had a look that Jacob usually saw the Latino send towards women. The fact that it was being directed at a flamethrower was more than a little off-putting. "You can't be serious Rico."

"Don't give me that amigo," snapped the Sharpshooter defensively, clutching the Flamethrower to his breastplate. "Besides, we're gonna be in close quarters."

"Exactly," returned Sandy, "Meaning you're gonna burn us all to a crisp along with whoever we're fighting, what you need," began Clyde as he pulled a gun off the rack, "Is one of these." The Corporal brandished a M1216C, the rugged weapon that had earned a reputation as the Corps premier 'Deck Broom.' Gas operated and semi-automatic, the shotgun was fed by a unique magazine arrangement, four tubes around a central shaft, each holding four shells, with two controls on the gun to allow the user to rotate the magazine to bring the next tube into use. Unlike a traditional shotgun, the whole assembly could be swapped out to reload, and Clyde grabbed a pair of spare magazines loaded with a mix of 00 buck and slugs, strapping them onto his gear along with the six extra mags for his Pulse Rifle.

Sergeant Dao arrived, her back now supporting a collapsed UA-571C Automated Sentry Gun, and took a brief look at Santiago. "No," she said simply, snatching the M240 out of his hands, "That shit's not gonna fly, not again Santiago." While Clyde smiled at his friend's bewildered expression, the Sargent pulled out the Latino's assigned weapon, an M42A2 Scout Rifle chambered in the same 10x28mm rounds as the Smart Gun and scooped to provide accurate fire out to 1000 yards. Unceremoniously thrusting the Marksman weapon into Ricardo's hands just as Garrison marched up, Dao looked over the squad. "We got a job to do sweethearts, we're gonna give these Wey-Yu shits their boat back in one piece, not burned down to the keel. Keep those weapons tight, and eyes sharp, Ooorah?"

"Rah," chorused back the three men.

The Sergeant then grabbed her own weapon, a compact M39 SMG. Dao's main job was to maintain and operate the Robot Sentry she hauled around on her back, and the handy bullet hose, as well as the big Kramer .50 AE pistol on her hip, were just to use when she wasn't busy with the -571C. "On me, let's get this show on the road."

With that, the oriental woman turned and made for the hanger, with Garrison, Clyde, and Santiago following close behind. Off to his right, Jacob could hear Santiago mutter, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing inside a Wey-Yu ship?"

"Swing it like a baseball bat," answered Jacob without missing a beat as the squad arrived at the hanger, the sounds of the Cheyenne dropship spooling up met their ears upon entry, warning lights flashing from each corner of the hanger. To the uninitiated, the UD-4L 'Cheyenne' was an unsightly beast, with odd protrusions and bizarre angles spoiling any sort of sleekness the 35 ton dropship might've had; but it was always a Marine's favorite sight, since its appearance was soon followed by a rain of hellfire on the enemy, or a ride home.

"Get on the ready line Marines!" roared Dao as the three enlisted men jogged over to the space near the entrance to the Cheyenne. "Equipment check!" barked the Sergeant as the men stood shoulder to shoulder. "Independent battlefield sensor array?" she asked, eyes going towards Santiago.

The sharpshooter tapped the pack he wore, "Check!"

"Tactical smart missiles?"

A pod on Tiny's left shoulder extended up from the M56 harness he wore, the red indicator light blinking, "Check!"

Now Dao looked towards Clyde, "Phase-plasma pulse rifle?"

The Corporal pulled back on the charging handle that manually cycled the rotating breech before letting it slam back forwards with a metallic thunk. "Check!"

"Autonomous surveillance drones?" called Dao, eyes going back to Ricardo.

"Check!" he called as he tapped a bag on his belt.

"Who has our sonic electronic ball breakers?"

"Check!" responded Clyde as he patted the G7s on his rig.

"Just be prepared to use one on Santiago if he pisses me off," growled Dao before barking out, "Knives?"

All three Marines tapped their K-Bars, "Check!"

A small smile crept across Dao's face. "Sharp sticks?"

"Check!" chorused back all three.

"Uh huh, state of the badass art indeed!" she answered before pointing up the ramp, "Pack it in marines!" The men of 1st Squad jogged up the ramp and into the cargo bay of the Cheyenne, the space where an APC or cargo might be carried left open to let the Marines stow their kit and settle down in the cheap folding seats lining each wall. The aircrew as well as Lieutenant O'Keefe were already aboard and strapped in as the ramp was raised behind them and the cargo hold bathed in dim red 'battle lights.'

"Hang on back there Jarheads, fasten your seatbelts and stow your tray tables, we're dropping in ten," warned Rawley as the Cheyenne shuddered ever so slightly while it was lowered out of the hanger bay. Adjusting his grip on the harness, Clyde peered down to take a peek at O'Keefe and saw the Lieutenant had her eyes screwed shut as she squirmed in her bolstered command seat. "In three… two… one… mark!" The clamps holding the dropship let go, the Cheyenne tumbling free as the craft's stabilizers fought to keep it level in the vacuum of space before the engines hummed above the Marines and the UD-4 lurched forward. "Alright folks, we're cruising now. Next stop: a lost Wey-Yu freighter, ETA: six hours, thirteen minutes. But because you guy are my favorite passengers, I'll let you listen in to Radio Rawley."

"Aw fuck," muttered Santiago from the seat next to Clyde's as the Corporal closed his eyes and began to drift off.

"Up first is a classic, the kind even Ricky will like," said the pilot of Foehammer with a small chuckle as the opening drums filled the cargo bay, "Enjoy."

"Some folks are born made to wave the flag. Ooh they're red, white and blue…."

Clyde had fallen asleep before the song ended.


Now back in the pilot's seat of her gunship, a rested Samus Aran took in the sight off her craft's nose. It was a ship, the Aagtekerke since her ship was picking up the same distress signal that had been played for her. However, the ship was unlike any she had ever seen before, a true leviathan, longer than all but the most powerful Galactic Federation capital ships yet lacking their clean lines and smooth curves. In a way, it almost looked more like a Space Pirate vessel with its jagged lines, hard edges, and numerous protrusions, but it had no visible weapons, which was in stark contrast to every Space Pirate vessel the Bounty Hunter had come across in her short but distinguished career.

"Gunship," spoke the Bounty Hunter, seeing one of the lights on the dashboard flicker, "Scan unknown vessel for life signs." The instruction was duly carried out as a holographic display of the ship before her appeared in front of Samus, along with a representation of her ship's scan moving aftwards from the bow of the Aagtekerke. It wasn't long before small blue dots appeared, and Samus was surprised to see numerous human life signs appear on her scans since her attempts at hailing the unknown ship had gone unanswered.

"Forty-Four life signs detected. All stationary," intoned her Gunship's computer as the Bounty Hunter pursed her lips and pondered what that could have meant. It joined the long list of things unusual about the ship before her. At the top of that list was the fact that it was dead in the water with engines cold, yet had no signs of damage. A pirate raid was unlikely, but judging from readings indicating that atmospheric, power, and communications of the Aagtekerke were all still functioning, there seemed to be no major mechanical issues.

Narrowing her blue eyes, the blonde Bounty Hunter weighed her options regarding the ship before her. The situation matched none in her previous experience, and with no obvious signs of hostilities having taken place, Aran made her decision. "Gunship, locate a docking point and plot a course."

A few seconds passed where the only sound was the idle thrum of her Gunship's engines before the computer spoke. "Destination located, course prepared. Awaiting confirmation," returned the machine's voice.

"Authorized, engage autopilot," ordered Aran, the Gunship shifting beneath her as it turned onto its new course. Even as she leaned over, Samus maintained her balance as she headed aft and took a calming breath, summoning the willpower to don her Power Suit. A feeling of electricity prickled her skin through the form fitting blue Zero Suit she wore before a flash enveloped the Bounty Hunter and, when it faded, Samus felt the familiar weight of armor on her shoulders, and the bulk of the cannon encasing her right forearm. Her feet were lifted by slight heels in the armored boots, but that allowed for a system of magnets that kept Samus planted to the deck as her ship rolled inverted before a metallic clatter rolled through the Gunship.

A vibration followed as Samus passed through the next door to find the ventral door open to reveal a door that must have belonged to the unknown ship if the drab grey color and odd shape of the line that bisected the metal was anything to go by. A second inspection revealed that some sort of automated docking umbilical had formed a pressurized seal between the unknown vessel and Samus' Gunship. Taking a tentative step forward, Samus pressed the sole of her boot to the metal part of the umbilical, noting the symbols painted on it but unable to discern their meaning. Once her weight was on the alien floor, she put her other foot forward and approached the door. The Bounty Hunter spied a control panel on her right and pressed the green button.

Aran leveled her arm cannon at the opening door, eyes narrowed as she scanned for any detail she could glean through the ever growing crack in the dull metal. Stepping forward, Samus saw the dim yellow lighting that filled the hall, barely illuminating the grey walls that featured numerous exposed pipes, wires, and ducts that the Bounty Hunter could only speculate at the purpose of. The smack of metal slamming together prompted Samus to spin around and see that the airlock door had closed, sealing her inside the unknown ship.

Taking a breath to calm her nerves, Samus steeled herself and pressed on, eyes and arm cannon passing over every door she encountered just in case one of them opened. On occasion, she would try a door and find that they were locked down tight, so she was left to press deeper into the ship, wandering through the halls. The symbols were still beyond her comprehension, but she soon found some labels in Galactic Standard characters, even forming words she recognized, and Samus found herself following the labels for 'bridge' that were painted onto the floor. It was a good thing they were, because Samus soon realized that the ship was laid out like a labyrinth, corridors splintering off in every direction, with ladders and stairwells all leading to different places if their labels were to be believed. Considering the gargantuan size of the vessel, the Bounty Hunter judged that searching even the barest fraction of it would be an impossible task for anything less than a company sized group.

Taking care to mark every turn on the map her suit automatically generated the further she pressed into the Aagtekerke, the Bounty Hunter held her course. With each step, Samus' unease grew; she saw nothing amiss, no sirens, warning lights, nothing that offered any hint as to why this unknown ship was drifting at the edge of Federation Space. Reaching a door, the Power Suited woman stepped up to it, expecting it to automatically open like those previous, but it did not budge. Raising an eyebrow, Samus saw a similar control panel to the one she had used to get in the ship and pressed the same button, only for the red light to blink angrily at her. Taking a step back, the Bounty Hunter leveled her arm cannon and manipulated a control inside before squeezing the trigger. A missile streaked out of the cannon in place of the usual beam shots and slammed into the metal, the resulting explosion reverberating through the hallway as smoke obscured the door.

Arm cannon still up and ready, Samus pressed into the smoke and found the hole her missile had blasted in the steel before slipping through, having to turn sideways to coax the bulk of her shoulder pauldrons through the gap. Once inside a pitch-black elevator shaft, Samus activated her helmet light and cast the beam over the door and quickly noticed something odd. The monolithic steel door had not been merely closed or locked, but sealed and welded shut. That revelation elicited a raised eyebrow from the Bounty Hunter as she pondered just what might have drawn such an action from the ship's crew.

Undaunted, Samus scanned the shaft and looked up before flexing her knees and throwing herself up as the High Jump Boots urged her armored form up more than twenty feet to land on the flat floor of the cargo elevator. Yet she looked up to see the label of 'bridge' another fifteen feet higher and so jumped again, reaching the top floor and finding another door that had been welded so thoroughly the center seam was deformed on the outside. Placing an armored hand on the metal, Samus engaged the Scan Visor, allowing her to see that this door was even thicker than the last, and too thick for her to use her missiles again. Looking around the room, the Bounty Hunter spied an alternative, striding to the wall, Samus' foot lashed out in a powerful kick that deformed the grating over a ventilation shaft, allowing her to wrench it away with her left hand.

Now facing a four foot square opening, Samus crouched down and rolled forward like a gymnast doing a floor routine, her Power Suit reforming around her to transform into a Morph Ball as her momentum kept her rolling forward and into the vent. Trundling through the shaft, the Bounty Hunter pinballed off the walls before hitting a right angle turn and slamming to a stop before shifting her weight to get herself rolling again, making another turn before she was out of the vent and returned to her full height.

Looking around, Samus was greeted with what looked like a starship bridge, rows of control consoles, displays, and even a chart table filled the space. Yet as she made her way to that table, Aran took note of everything wrong, the disarray, the holes in the walls, the shattered screens and spots on the floor where it seemed the metal had been melted through, turned to slag by some sort of lava or acid. Yet there were no bodies that Samus could see, despite the blood that was pooled and streaked across the floor. There had been a fight here, but between whom, and with what outcome, Samus could not tell.

Coming to a stop at the center of the room, Samus Aran scanned the room, looking and listening for anything, but all was still and quiet. Lowering her arm cannon, the Bounty Hunter noted that she was in the midst of all the information she could need for the Federation Bounty, and so she set to work.


A jostle roused Clyde from his slumber, the Corporal opened his eyes to see Santiago grinning down at him, "Rise and shine amigo, we're almost there." Nodding, Sandy undid the buckles for his seat and stood up to grab his stowed gear as the other Marines did the same. He took note that Rawley's music was no longer playing, confirming that they were minutes from the stricken Wey-Yu ship as he picked up his pulse rifle and then donned his helmet before syncing up to the Cheyenne's comms channel.

"What do you mean they aren't answering our hails?" asked Lieutenant O'Keefe over the channel. "They're still sending out that distress call, aren't they?"

"Yes ma'am," answered Rawley in her distinct Carolina drawl, "I'm getting the automatic receipt ping back from the Aagtekerke but no reply."

A sniffing from behind Sandy prompted him to turn and see Garrison, the massive Smart Gunner's nose scrunched up. "Anyone else smell that? Fresh bullshit."

"Stow it, Tiny," snapped Sergeant Dao, the woman's glare as deadly as the SMG she cradled in her arms. "Or I'll kick your ass so hard you'll have to unbutton your collar to shit."

"Understood, do you have a visual on the ship? Anything amiss?" asked O'Keefe, the officer blissfully unaware of the remarks made by the enlisted Marines.

The response from the Cheyenne pilot was immediate, "Nothing damaged that I can see. Ship looks intact, engines are cold, but I'm picking up secondary power signatures from the reactors, so the lights are still on inside. Wait… wait I see something… it looks like there's a small craft docked on the forward port quarter of the Aagtekerke. I don't recognize the type. Definitely not one of ours though."

"They've been boarded," surmised the Lieutenant, her voice trembling ever so slightly. There was a pregnant pause as all the Jarheads shared a look and checked their weapons. "We need to get on there too. Foehammer, find us a LZ, transmit the override codes if you have to, just get us on that boat ASAP."

"Roger that, L.T., finding us a stall," drawled Rawley as the Cheyenne maneuvered, prompting the Marines to brace as the dropship nosed up and accelerated. It was clear the pilot was having a little bit of fun before she came back on the radio. "Alright, I got us a parking spot, secondary cargo bay, up near the bridge on the dorsal side. Close as I can get you to our new friend."

"Copy, good work," answered O'Keefe, "Sergeant, once we're down, I want your squad to secure the bridge and ascertain the situation. I'll stay here and monitor the situation."

"Rah," replied Dao as they all felt the Cheyenne began to slow and then steadily descend. "We're going in! Get tactical Marines!" The small talk and smiles were replaced by weapons checks and scowls as the four man fire team moved to the rear ramp, two Leathernecks against each side of the cargo bay. Grip tightening around his M41A1, Clyde felt the Cheyenne's hydraulics hum through his boots as the landing skids deployed, followed soon after by the grating sound of metal on metal as the dropship came to a jarring halt. The moment he regained his concentration, the Corporal saw the ramp lower before them, revealing the small, dimly lit shuttle bay the Marine Cheyenne had landed in. "Go! Go! Go! Secure a perimeter!" barked Dao, and the squad rushed down the ramp, making no effort at subtlety as muzzles and helmet lights swept over the space.

The squad moved with practiced ease, each Marine moving to a different corner of the dropship before pushing out, eyes and weapons scanning for any sign of trouble. It wasn't long before calls of "Clear!" went out over the radio.

"All clear, form up,"ordered Dao as the Colonial Marines rallied at the nose of the Cheyenne."Where to L.T.?"

"Go to the bridge, let's see if we can't figure out what's going on here. I'm plotting a course now, wait one… Okay, left side of the drop ship, there's a door. Head through it and down the hall, 20 meters, and down the stairs."

"You heard the lady," said the Sergeant, "Move it out, Sandy, you have point."

Clyde answered with a curt "Rah," and moved towards the door with Tiny, and his Smart Gun, behind his left shoulder. On his other shoulder and slightly behind Garrison was Dao, and judging from the electronic pulsing Clyde could hear, she had deployed her M314 Motion Tracker, the handheld gadget pinging for any sort of movement through the bulkheads of the ship. In the trail position was Santiago, his DMR covering their six as the squad moved forwards, reaching the stairs and descending.

"Down two floors, left, immediate right," ordered O'Keefe as the Marines reached the exit and stacked up on the door. With a nod from Dao, the Corporal rushed out of the stairwell and was quickly followed by the rest of the squad, arriving on one of the main decks to find it well lit, and fairly clean. "Advance uh… 80 meters."

"Something ain't right," rumbled Tiny as his Smart Gun scanned across the tight corridors, the gunner's finger poised on the trigger.

"Picture's clean, move it out," ordered the Sergeant. Clyde felt a tap on his pauldron and shouldered his M41A1 before following the Lieutenant's instructions, turning left then right and heading forwards. The sounds of bootfalls echoed off the passageway walls as the squad advanced, Clyde noting the arrows pointing towards the 'Bridge' on the walls, indicating that, unlike his previous Lieutenant, O'Keefe could at least read a map.

Their advance was interrupted by a faint, but high pitched 'ping' that emanated from Dao's Motion Tracker. "Hold!" she hissed as Clyde came to a crouch, tensing as he pressed his eye to his weapon, seeing the holographic gunsight flicker to life as he took aim. Beside him, the muzzle of the colossal M56 gently wavered on its mount, eagerly looking for a target. The only noise came from the Motion Tracker, it's pings repeating, but at the same, slow cadence. "Signal's faint, looks like a single contact, range, 22 meters, at our 10 o'clock," rattled off Dao as all the Marines looked at the blank bulkhead and wondered what was on the other side.

"That puts it in the Bridge," answered O'Keefe, "You should be about 15 meters from a side entrance. Breach and enter, find out what that is. Check your fire, we don't want to kill one of the crew."

"Copy that," answered Dao, "Let's move it out, and watch our six Santiago, I don't want to get shot in the ass today."

A chorus of quiet "Rahs!" came back as Clyde swallowed hard and advanced, fighting his building heart rate as he moved closer to the bridge. Their pace slowed, with Jacob not feeling up to charge headlong into whatever was waiting for them.

Sandy noticed a door on his left and came to a halt, taking a knee as Dao looked it over, "Welded shut, I'll have to cut it," she announced as she exchanged her motion tracker for a ME3 Hand Welder. "Cover me," ordered the woman as she set to work, the harsh light of the cutting torch filling the hallway, forcing Clyde to squint as he watched for any signs of trouble. After twenty tense seconds, the light faded and Dao stepped back. "Stack up" ordered the Sergeant, "Sandy, put a shocker through the door, Tiny, you're in first, check your fire but if you're engaged, light 'em up."

For once, the big man had no verbal response, just nodding as he took up his position and Clyde prepared one of the G7s. Behind him was Santiago, and Clyde could hear how hard his friend was breathing as they waited for the signal from their Sergeant.

"GO!"


Closing Notes: Hopefully y'all enjoyed that, leave a review if you have any thoughts because feedback is welcome... unless you're upset about the cliffhanger. If you want to see how that goes, you'll have to come back at the end of November, when the next chapter is slated to go up.

Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.