"Jackson, wake up." The sarge's voice jolted Henry back to reality. They were alone in the dropship, the darkness chewed away by a volcanic glow near the ramp.

Ashes and dust filled the sky, making it impossible to guess whether it was still day or early in the night. Jackson's suit told him he'd been asleep for three hours, however.

"Problem, sir?" The Dominion marine sucked on his cigar, behind a closed visor, then answered.

"I think so, follow me." He helped the private on his feet and walked down the ramp, Impaler armed and ready. Jackson's own rifle still stood against the bulkhead, where he'd left it. He checked the ammo count and slung the thing on his back before following his NCO.

On top of the platform, in a half circle formation surrounding the gun emplacement, his three companions watched him climb the last echelons before turning to the sergeant, who pointed to the twin Gatling guns.

"This thing worked just fine last we checked, right?" It was a rethorical question, but Coldmann still barked an affirmative. Heller just nodded and Jackson tried to keep start up diagnostic windows out of his face, in the end he gave up and lifted the visor out of his view. "Well, it doesn't anymore."

The marine sergeant squeezed both thumbs in the triggers, earning only an electrical whining. He then pulled the handles towards himself, which should have spun the turret right, but once again earned only buzzes and groans.

Heller stepped forward to inspect the weapons while Jackson flicked the safety off his rifle. Somehow, Coldmann misinterpreted and Henry found himself looking down the barrel of his teammate's C-14.

Twin twisters of ashes danced amongst the debris field, lazily sucking pipes and shards of neo-steel before dropping them in a cacophonous melody.

"Wire are fe... Wow…" Heller interrupted herself when she saw the massive marines staring each other down. Jackson had not raised his weapon, but the look in his face made it clear that would not last.

The sarge kept his own Impaler pointed down and his visor lowered. "What are you doing, private?" His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, and Coldmann's orange visor pivoted slowly to face his superior.

"It's him, he's infested…" It made no doubt in the soldier's mind, the only thing keeping him from pulling the trigger at this point was that he had not received the sergeant's go-ahead. "He abandoned his post after drop! He loaded the guns, we…"

As a marine, Coldmann excelled at his job, having earned an above average rating in marksmanship, close combat, survival and communication. Despite lacking in personal initiative, the kid had all the qualities of a good marine, whereas Jackson had below average accuracy, excellent survival skills, poor communication abilities and an average score at close combat. Neither of them seemed much more valuable than the other, making the situation even more complicated.

The sarge stepped forward, his visor rotating left and right, slowly, as he pulled on his cigar again. "That right, Jackson?" He asked, slowly.

"No! I'm not infested!" Cried the private, his mind numbed by shock and disbelief.

"Exactly what an infested would say!" Coldmann was now prodding the top of Jackson's helmet with his C-14, finger on the trigger and a round chambered.

The sergeant finally shook his head. "He can't be infected, I've been monitoring his suit since we dropped, now stand down, private.

-We can't be sure, we…

-I gave you a direct order, son! You. Will. Stand down!" The sarge stepped forward again, his index finger pointing to the floor, stressing the down. Coldmann's visor tilted aside slightly as he looked at the NCO, and that was all Henry needed to turn this around.

If questioned later, Coldmann would swear on his mother's grave that Jackson had grown three extra hands which he used to beat the poor marine senseless. How Henry found himself holding both his and Coldmann's Impaler would also remain a mystery to anyone but himself and the sarge.

Once the resoc had been pacified, Jackson flipped him on his back and helped him up, promptly batting the dust from his comrade's armor.

"How the…

-If we live through this," Henry spoke, grinning under his helmet, "I'll show you what happened."

Steel had used that technique on him once at boot camp and Jackson spent the remainder of his time in basic trying to squeeze the takedown out of the sarge. This had been the first time he'd used it on someone outside a training exercise. Worked like a charm.

It was a simple disarming move where one had to slip under his enemy's weapon, uppercut them to screw their balance and snatch their weapon in the same move, put one foot behind the enemy's and give them a good shove or headbutt.

Seemed easy enough, but getting the timing and coordination right took days of work.

Coldmann gratefully retrieved his rifle and kept it carefully aimed at the platform's slip proof floor.

"You sure this thing's been sabotaged?" He spoke, looking back at Heller and the Non-com.

Jackson just stepped up to the gun, shoving Heller out of the way and ignoring her bitching altogether.

"Possitive, kid, I don't know who did it, but my guess is we're not alone here…"

A purple goo had been injected in every barrel, every cog and gears and every single fucking hole they could find. It would take days and special tools to get these guns shooting again.

Henry scraped some of it off and brought the purple powder close to his visor, "This is biological matter…" He whispered, before repeating it aloud.

The others seemed confuse at the importance he gave that detail.

"You don't get it, guys, they didn't break the gears or jam the barrels, the clogged it up with… Something…"

The sarge kneeled next to the weapon as well and checked it out for a moment. "Of course… Shit."

He ran a quick diagnostic on both privates' suits and turned to Heller, who smiled like a cat caught eating the parrot. "You…" He whispered, dramatically. She opened her mouth, probably intent on gloating over her victory, but was cut short, literally, by a storm of 8mm spikes from Coldmann's Gauss rifle.

The severed legs gushed out purple blood and attempted to keep their balance for a few seconds, only to dissolve into that same purple goo. Coldmann stepped up to the bubbling pond and fired another burst into. He finally raised his visor and spat into the goo, his saliva mixing with the jelly in a steaming blue patch.

"Well, kids," The sarge smiled, offering cigars to both his subordinates, "looks like this is a man's party now."

Jackson took the death stick and, though he'd never even smoked before, jammed it in the corner of his mouth to be lit by the match held in the sarge's left hand. Coldmann did the same a second later, as Henry coughed up a lung.

All three turned to the deserted base, Jackson still coughing, and just waited for the Zerg to come and finish the job. When the did, they would be met by…

"Can I get one too? I could really use a smoke…"

Sitting on Henry's shoulder pad, the Spectre's shimmering form dissolved into a black bodysuit. All three marines, startled by the relaxed voice, aimed their weapons at Jackson, he himself awkwardly pointing his gun in a fashion similar to suicide victims…

She sported Raynor's Raiders' emblem, so Coldmann and the Sarge lowered their weapons instantly, but Jackson began a little dance to knock her off his back, which ended with him almost falling off the platform.

The Spectre left his suit to sit on the guns, giggling like a schoolgirl as Henry fanned his arms backward to stop himself from falling. Coldmann had to grab the front of his suit and pull him forward at the last second, only then did the Spectre speak again.

"You know, Fresh Meat, you're no fun at all, you spoiled what could have been an awesome horror scene…" She pressed two fingers to her helmet, mimicking a pistol, and lowered her thumb as though pulling the trigger, "I was looking forward to watching you meatheads eat each other alive…" She pointed to Coldmann next, "Had my money on big guy here killing everyone and shooting himself next! But since you're all not dead, I guess we might as well join up with the main forces, right?"

All three marines just stared, both at the Spectre and each other. It was Jackson who spoke first. "Who the fuck are you?!"