Transmission Authorization Code:

D965ZB-02

Weyland-Yutani Protocol Sequence Initiated. Transmission Continues:

. . .

You may know me. You most certainly know of my creator.

I am David, son of the late Peter Weyland.

Your company's founder.

Following his vision, I have gone to the far edges of space.

And with the aid of Doctor Elizabeth Shaw, I found a rotting paradise.

Chapter 10

Mercer was startled awake when something grabbed his leg. Two large hands gripped his thighs, tightening like vices. He ripped off the poncho covering his upper half and raised his pistol.

"Easy!" Hopkins said, laughing. Fletcher was beside the big man, grinning down at their abruptly-woken friend. "Man, you were sleeping like the dead. Good thing this isn't a stealth mission, because your snoring would have given us away." Hopkins said as he rose to his full height. "Come on man, breakfast is ready."

"Fuckers." Mercer grunted as he sat up.

The Marines had bivouacked through the night, with Bartz making the smart, and popular, decision to let the Marines sleep rather than trudging into the unknown in the middle of a massive storm. Rain was still falling, but not nearly as hard as it had been when they'd landed. The fog was starting to dissipate as well, revealing rolling fields that led into large mountains, the tops of which were lost in the still-present gray haze that hovered several hundred feet above them.

During the night, the Marines had pulled two-hour shifts, with one squad from each platoon pulling outer security while two Marines from the I&S uplift watched and maintained the fire that had been set up beneath larger shelter covers to protect them from the rain. It was around that fire that the Marines who were awake and not pulling security were now gathering. Many sat on their rucks as they pulled out their stripped-down field rations.

Mercer pulled the woobie from his body and folded it before setting it between him and his ruck. His ass stayed on his roll-out iso mat as he began to unlace his boots to swap out his socks. He'd slept in his kit, just as Fletcher and Hopkins had.

Unlike many of the junior Marines, who'd seemed to have forgotten they were on a combat deployment and were instead back in training, had stripped down to their skivvies and slept in their sleeping bags. The veterans had done the opposite, only loosening their tops and untucking their t-shirts to allow extra body heat to be caught between their ponchos and woobies, while still being ready to roll over and return fire in an instant. Mercer saw Chaffin sitting on his iso-mat, pulling on his pants. The Private's body armor, helmet, and rifle were laid out beside him, and he'd even pulled on his silky top to sleep in. Mercer frowned at this and made a mental note to smoke the shit out of Chaffin once they were back on the Fidanza.

"We'll save you a seat." Hopkins said to Mercer as he and Fletcher started towards the fire. They knew that Mercer would take a few minutes to swap out his socks and pack his ruck before grabbing chow. Mercer had learned the hard way what happened when you didn't have your shit packed away and it came time for movement. He'd almost died from hypothermia thanks to shittily-packed ruck. After finding out that he'd been leaving a trail of gear and clothing behind him for about three miles, Mercer's Infantry School Training Sergeants had made him go back and pick up every last piece of gear.

Around the fire, the Marines were enjoying what passed for food from their field rations. As was tradition, there were several auctions being held by the Marines who'd gotten the rations with the sought-after items. Corporal Manuel "Manny" Yanez was taking bids for his poppy seed pound cake, Lance Corporal Keith Titov was auctioning off a packet of chocolate mocha powdered drink mix, and Dawes was all but fighting people off as he waited for a suitable offer for the ever-coveted Chili Mac meal. Mercer smirked at this. He knew that Dawes had likely rat-fucked the MREs when he should've been running drills or weapons maintenance, and wouldn't put it past the marksman to have only brought Chili Mac entrees with him. Not only did they taste fantastic both hot and cold, but they were easily the most popular meal. He'd seen Dawes trade those for commodities ranging from dessert items to tins of dip, and once he'd even made fifty bucks from one during a month-long training exercise.

"Fucker!" Private First Class Reagan Davis said as he was outbid for the Chili Mac by Corporal Matt Busch, who'd upped the ante by two cans of dip, half a pack of cigarettes, and offering to clean Dawes' weapon once they got back to the ship. It was all in good fun, and Davis set down his meal. "Buncha greedy vultures." The New Zealander said as he picked up his rifle. "Sarge, I'm gonna go take a piss." His squad leader, Sergeant Billie Reagan, nodded around a mouthful of granola and rehydrated condensed milk.

Davis slung his rifle over his shoulder, leaving his aid bag at the fire as he started across the pebble beach for a place that was suitably far enough away from him to take a leak.

"Where the hell are you going?" Corporal Max Rendar asked from behind his M240.

"Going to take a piss, Corp." Davis said. Had Rendar been a Marine that he was friendly with, Davis would have asked him if he'd wanted to hold it and shake it for him. But he wasn't too familiar with first platoon's primary gunner. Davis had already been written up twice in the past 'month' for mouthing off to superiors. He wasn't looking to make it a hat-trick.

He began whistling to himself, eyes scanning back and forth over the haze that hung near the edge of the beach. He figured that was a good enough spot, seeing as the Marines on the beach likely wouldn't be able to see him from there. His footsteps grew quiet as his boots crossed from pebbles to grass, and he felt it grow noticeably colder as he entered the fog.

"Spooky shit." He said to himself. Out of curiosity, he held his arm out in front of him. The fog was thick enough that his hand was barely visible. It would have been a shit show trying to walk through this at night, and he was glad the Captain had them set up on the beach. Nothing quite like getting a broken leg because you tripped over something you couldn't see under NODs-

His thought was interrupted when he tripped over something. He hit the ground hard, his rifle clattering against his gear.

"Mother fucker!" He grunted as he pushed himself up, pulling his feet towards him. Whatever he'd tripped on was soft and seemed to move with his feet. He looked down to see what the hell it was.

His startled yell grabbed the attention of the rest of the Marines on the beach.