"About time we went on the offensive!
-Radio silence, Coldmann.
-Just saying, since we touched down we've been hiding like pussies, it's good to be the bad guys…
-Private, didn't I just give you an order?
-Sorry, boss, stimpacks always make me…
-Dude! Shut up!" Jackson, also high on stims, felt none of the euphoria Coldmann seemed to experience. He felt rage and nothing else. Hungry, maybe… No, his digestive system was just throwing a fit, trying to find something to feed the marine's overclocked metabolism.
Both privates had set up concealed firing positions and covered both ends of the trench while Jessie and Sarge readied their explosives. It was supposed to be the other way around, with Coldmann and Jackson tossing grenades while the others took pot shots, but both privates turned out to lack the dexterity needed to pull the pin.
Sarge and James took a minute to ready themselves as they faced each-other by the pile of dead Zerg, just out of the ambushers' sight.
The NCO ran diagnostics to ensure all systems would work as they were meant to while Jessie stretched like an Olympic gymnast. Once both runners were ready, they exchanged a swift nod before warning the others by com.
"Begin operation." And begin it did; chunks of Zerg biomass were kicked out of the trench, some still flailing around, seeking a target to maul. Each runner carried a dozen frags to spread over sixty and forty meters of crevice respectively. Jessie had the long stretch and would run straight for Jackson once she reached the edge of the trench.
Things got interesting about three seconds following the last detonation, the Spectre about ten paces from the easy slope marking the trench's beginning. Zerglings exploded from that position, most of them missing limbs but very much alive and zeroed in on Jessie's skinny butt.
Eight Zerg, at most, were chasing her, but to Henry, it remained a terrifying sight, blood everywhere and the badass black operator running for her life, cowboy hat torn from her helmet along the way and trampled by the ravenous horde.
One Zergling, bigger, healthier than the rest, caught up to James halfway to safety and leapt at her, claws spread in a thorny hug.
It was blasted back mid-flight by three 8mm spikes. Another alien caught up to the Spectre and tried to cut her off, only to have its right foreleg blasted from underneath it, which sent it spinning away from Jessie.
They were now so close to Henry's position he could have communicated aggression by eyebrow signals. Instead, the Marine chose to let his Impaler do the talking. The selector groaned as it was switched to fully automatic and the whole weapon roared in response as hypersonic needles were forced out by a combination of chemical propellant and magnetic accelerators.
Shells leapt out of the gun, spinning and dancing in the wind before bouncing around an ash layer so ancient it had its own dunes and valleys.
Boots firmly dug in the ground at shoulder width and his cracked visor sealed shut, Henry hosed the Zerg down like a passive-aggressive fireman obsessed with making every droplet count.
Jessie froze at that, as she was still standing dead in between the swarm and Jackson, and shielded her eyes from the onslaught, as if it would prevent a stray bullet from ripping her head off.
Not a single round hit or even grazed her, but the private had carefully avoided targets close to her and, when she opened her eyes, it was only to be yanked back by the armored marine as he hammer-smacked an airborne Zergling with his rifle. The 'ling tried to claw its way to James, but a massive boot crushed its spine seconds before an 8mm spike was offhandedly pumped in its skull.
Jackson didn't have time to bring his gun from the dead Zerg to the live ones, so he used his free arm to whack both remaining creatures with their dead pal and, in the same motion, brought his weapon to bear.
Two burps later, the Zerg wave was neutralized and Coldmann reported success on his end as well.
"C'mon, kids, form up on me." Called the Sarge, from the opposite end of the trench.
They avoided the crevice this time, sticking on the high ground with weapons at the ready the whole way. Nothing jumped at them and they found their companions relaxed but ready; safeties off and visors down.
"You guys sure can walk the walk." Jessie spoke as she walked up to Coldmann to deliver an enthusiastic fist bump, "I sure hope we work together again one day!"
A soft whine interrupted Jackson's response. He looked up, recognizing the sound of a Terran dropship, but it was the sergeant who spotted it, merely a dot growing between two rocky pitons back the way they'd come.
They coms came alive with much parasites, relaying a calm if bored male voice:
"E Comp… is Vulture 3-6… read?" When the men looked back down, they were alone, just three marines in a sea of ashes.
It was the Sarge who reported in, as per regulation, "Vulture, E Company, we suffered heavy casualties, three survivors…" He hesitated, his eyes drifting over to where Jessie had been, and he shook his head quietly. "Over."
The transport quickly grew into a red and black blob, headed straight for them, and its pilot said nothing for almost a minute.
"E Company, Vulture 3-6, I've got a bead on your location, coming in for pick up. You guys got lost or something? This is way out in the friggin' woods…
-Long story, Vulture.
-Long trip back to base, can't wait to hear it."
Coldmann took a long look around, trying to figure out what was missing, before finally exclaiming, "Hey, where's the psychic at?"
Henry sighed and waved harder at the approaching ship. The thing barely stroked Char's surface that all three marines were aboard and strapped in, the ramp closing behind them like the mouth of a toothless sea animal.
Henry squeezed his gun in a wall rack and blinked his whole helmet open. He enjoyed the cool air blown by ceiling fans as it brushed his shaved scalp and kept his eyes closed for a full minute. Then the Sarge smacked his left pauldron from his seat, across the vessel.
"Still want those discharge papers, son?" He questioned, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
Jackson shook his head and the NCO nodded before turning his attention to the pilot, an Asian man in medic armor and short black hairs. He was curious about the squad's story and so the sergeant obliged.
Coldmann had also removed his helmet, sitting at Henry's right, and was looking around. Other marines were also seated in the troop bay, all weary and battered looking. They sported E Company's colors; survivors from the forward base.
Coldmann, the Sarge and Jackson were reaching the end of their rope and they'd been late to the party, whereas these guys had been the main fuckin' course. Humbling, in a lot of ways…
The ride was uneventful, they were redirected to the DNS-828, a fresh, as of yet unnamed Battlecruiser used as a field hospital by Warfield troops. Orders were to report with Colonel Douglas for re-deployment, seeing as E-Company's standing forces could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and many of these boys were missing some fingers.
As the dropship awaited clearance a lieutenant nicknamed Rider, nothing more than a disembodied voice in their coms, filled them in on the situation:
While the Zerg were busy chewing on E's ass, Raynor's Raiders made a push against the Queen of Blades' main hive and used some wizard shit to take her down before shipping her off to the Hyperion. The Emperor himself then showed up aboard his new flag ship to cry like a spoiled brat, demanding Kerrigan be handed over to him.
Whatever happened next could only be described as 'Clusterfuck' and 'Daddy-issues.'
Sarge and Jackson traded a perplexed eyebrow raise at the man's analysis of the current socio-political climate.
"See what I meant? Some people are meant to be whiny bitches and govern Dominions, others are meant to be real men and roll around in the dirt.
-And a few of them just get a job and don't bother to boast every five seconds." The other man, a Reaper Corps sergeant, leaned forward from the back of the ship to look at the marines. "Don't recall seeing you guys on the ground, how comes?"
It was Jackson who answered, "Base was overrun by the time we landed, we thought no one else…
-Shut up, private, I didn't ask your opinion." The man's blood red optics fixed Henry in his seat, earning a discreet sneer from the Sarge and a fumbling apology from the private.
"It's like the kid said," the marine sergeant growled, chewing harder on his cigar, "place was a mess, coms were down, we just held the landing pads until we were sure no one else would come…
-Then you just took a stroll in the desert?"
Coldmann smacked Jackson's shoulder and frowned, seemingly asking what that guy's problem was, but Henry had not the slightest clue. He shrugged and mouthed 'Sergeants' as though it were the most obvious answer.
"Seek and destroy, we were hunting down remnants of the Zerg force." The sergeant's story made no sense; at no point had they intended to chase down enemy forces, they were merely trying to save their own skins.
The other NCO nodded, his gas mask clicking softly as he thought about it. "Yeah, makes sense…" Was all he said before leaning back against the hull.
The dropship had barely powered off that a Navy officer, an ensign with clean brown hairs and rosy cheeks, jogged up to its groaning ramp.
The thing was still two feet above deck when the man hopped in. "Welcome aboard, soldiers," he called, looking around the survivors with an air of intense focus, "You, you, you there and the guy out back," he pointed to four unharmed Reapers, including the sergeant from earlier, "drop the jets and grab some stretchers, we'll need help getting those wounded to the sick bay." he turned to the Sarge, the highest ranking Marine on board, and gave a quick glance to a data slate in his hand.
"Right… Sergeant Ulman? You and your men have been transferred to Naval Military Police, effective immediately." Henry and Coldmann exchanged a glance. Ulman? Military Police?
"So… We're not… Can they… Sarge, can they do that?" Coldmann turned to his superior for guidance, but the old NCO just blew out a stream of smoke, pondering the question for a moment. He then rose from his seat and looked down at the Ensign.
"Says who?
-The Emperor himself." He offered his data slate, which the Sergeant carefully picked.
Mengsk wanted to rebuild his fleet ASAP, that meant pumping out fresh vessels faster than breeding rabbits and staffing these ships with whatever rabble they could grab. Promoting a marine to MP was pretty much the same as promoting a police officer to firefighter. Close, but not exactly the same job.
The Sergeant turned to his men with a disappointed frown, "Well, Jackson, looks like someone up above likes you…" He then added, to himself, "And hates my guts."