The lads were pushing up, after clearing away a chokehold south of the LZ, and by damn it was working. The bugs had kept a vice grip on the colony, the entrance tunnels to the landing zone spaceport, even to the telecoms entrance which was being held by all hands, never mind the damn miles of caves that stretch around Solaris. Private first class Ezra Bass finds himself in the middle of a war torn triage center as he steps off the dropship, and meanders to the front.
Shortly after reaching the front line, which is to say within a minute of finding the source of bullets and acid spraying, Bass shoulders his rifle, and stows a quality CMB autorevolver left alone in the fob, just waiting to be borrowed, and proceeds to join the moshpit. Rounds and explosions ring out from the telecoms entrance as a tide of bugs is held back, queen in tow. The other marines seem to have gained some confidence; the queen was reported as weakened and in critical condition, and screams at the top of her lungs to buy her some space for her retreat. The time was now or never, so waves of manpower push down through telecoms tunnel, and into the caves near virology, to push the bugs back and gain damn good ground, damn good indeed, as they had just received orders to mark a spot to bomb the bastards from orbit, and so they had to be out in the open sooner rather than later.
Ezra packed a flare belt and jtac supplies, but for the time being his only useful contribution was slung across his shoulders: a pulse rifle with an underbarrel flamer useful for self defense and terrain clearing, among other, less sanctioned uses, such as barbequing escaped livestock and lighting various smokables. Many such examples rummaged through Ezra’s mind as he pulled off from the main push and into virology, as it was a potential flank that needed some cover, and the main push was too crowded anyways.
In the darkness of the war torn virology dome, shadows mixed with the dancing lights of flares just as the acrid smell of something burning mixed with acidic bile and spent gunpowder. Ezra visually sweeped the debris and remains with his rifle, accompanied by some fellow jackbooted pawn as they watched and waited for something to jump out at them.
They expected a flame retardant ravager, a living bio tank form of a crusher, even the multi faceted jack of all trades big baddy praetorian, they were almost surprised to find a mere low ranking bug, covered in thin chitin, big nodules of some kind of liquid attached to its neck; an acid spitter, maybe, but Ezra didn’t care much for classification as long as bullets and fire did the trick. The pair of marines reached the other side of the virology hab as the floor turned black, slick, and slimy towards the dangerous creature. The spitter darted back and forth through the darkness, firing globs of something green and noxious at the marines, who were careful to dodge more than fire. Ezra himself had less ammunition than usual, swapping out his ammo belt for a flare belt he forgot to supply, and was extra careful with his shots, he was sure that the drill inspector back on luna station would be very proud.
The duo moved as a team, with Ezra culling as much of the strange weeds with his underbarrel flamer while trying to hit the creature or any of its friends in the same stroke, but was not quite lucky enough. Debate about the specific nature of the creature was put to rest when it feinted a charge, falling back to flank Ezra and nailed the texan in the side with its razor sharp claws, glistening in his lamp light with something green and horrible, before the shock of some paralytic agent reached his nervous system, and the marine collapsed on the floor. Unfortunately for the neurotoxin spitting creature, fate would ascribe his death to another cause some other time, as his friend jumped in to save him, firing off a barrage of gunfire to push back the creature into hiding, holding the line against its innate desire to attack and conquer and destroy long enough for Ezra to shake himself clear of the low dosage of neuro toxin, gibbering and stammering but now standing, as the pair decide that they’d prefer the better part of valor, and make way back to the entrance of virology.
It was a good plan, really the only plan they had that wouldn’t result in one of them dying or getting captured, but the neurotoxin spitter had other plans, and decided to gain its pound of flesh from the savior who had denied him a kill, and moved in to attack. Ezra was out of ammo, and couldn’t reliably hit it with his flamer to scare it off, so he had to play his final card to get them out: the CMB Spearhead Autorevolver. Ezra drew the revolver with gusto, and aimed it square at the bastard’s torso.
BLAM goes one round, straight through, acidic blood spilling out, but still standing.
BLAM BLAM another two rounds sing out, one piercing just above the shoulder and the other through the creature’s hip. Much can be said about the durability of xenomorph anatomy, but the sentinel is a small, somewhat frail creature, who is only useful in large numbers or with luck and boldness, not unlike the marines themselves. A final round from the auto revolver sends it reeling, scrambling, clawing against anything and everything around it, into critical condition. The neurotoxin spitter’s physiology was not able to keep up with physics, and it tumbles to the floor, barely alive but soon to leave this world with another shove.
Ezra checks his ammo, his surroundings, and his buddy, all green…
Ezra hated the color green.
A final blam resounds through the virology unit as a much louder roar from farther south resounds impossibly loud for their ears to handle. It seems that the rest of the front, unperturbed by any kind of flanking action, successfully vacated the caves and brought the hive out into the sun, where a volley of high yield cluster munitions disinfected the colony, and most of the bugs, including their bastard queen, lay dead, with the rest out east soon to follow. Ezra collapses into the arms of a medic, unable to resist the traces of neurotoxin still in his system.
Being a sentinel sucks, the marine resolves; better to let some other poor bastard do it instead while he enjoys the safety of the backlines.