USCM Dossier - Julian 'Jules' Petrov

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Georgia 525, Herculis, Chinook 91 GSO station

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AUTHORITY: 5 U.S.C. 3331; 10 U.S.C. 113, 136, 502, 504, 505, 506, 507, 508, 509, 510, 513, 515, 516, 518, 519, 972, 978, 2107, 2107a, 3253, 3258, 3262, 5540, 8252, 8253, 8257, 8258, 12102, 12103, 12104, 12105, 12106, 12107, 12108, 12301, 12302, 12304, 12305, 12405, 14 USC 351, 632; 32 U.S.C. 301, 302, 303, 304; and Executive Order 9397, November 1943 (SSN)

PRINCIPAL PURPOSE: To record enlistment or reenlistment into the U.S. Armed Forces. This information a part of the subject’s military personnel records which are used to document promotion, reassignment, training, medical support, and other personnel management actions. The purpose of soliciting the SSN is for positive identification.

ROUTINE USE(S): This form becomes a part of the Service’s Enlisted Master File and Field Personnel File. All uses of the form are internal to the relevant Service.

DISCLOSURE: Voluntary; however, failure to furnish personal identification information may negate the enlistment/reenlistment application.


1. NAME (Last, First, Middle)




3. HOME OF RECORD (Street, City, State, Country, ZIP Code)

4. PLACE OF ENLISTMENT (Mil. Installation, City, State)

302 E 23rd Ave, Anchorage, AK, US, 99503

C76, 1717 C Street, Anchorage, AK






7. I am enlisting / reenlisting in the United States (list branch of service) COLONIAL MARINE CORPS RESERVE this date for 8 years and 0 weeks beginning in the pay grade E1 of which 4 years and 0 weeks is considered an Active Duty Obligation, and 4 years and 0 weeks will be served in the Reserve Component of the Service in which I have enlisted. If this is an initial enlistment, I must serve a total of eight ( 8 ) years, unless I am sooner discharged or otherwise extended by the appropriate authority. This eight year service requirement is called the Military Service Obligation.

\ \



Name: Julian John Petrov

Name: Julian John Petrov

ID: 909BE5

ID: 909BE5

Sex: Male

Sex: Male

Age: 28 / [21580919]

Age: 28 / [21580919]

Height: 5’ 7’’

Height: 5’ 7’’

Weight: 201 lbs

Weight: 201 lbs

Physical Status: Active

Fingerprint: 93a334cbd7f907ea7d90ef72fe453011

Mental Status: Stable

Criminal Status: None

Blood Type: O-

Major Crimes: None

DNA: 481751494ccc1f89ed48c298b953cba1

Minor Crimes: None

Minor Disabilities: None

Major Disabilities: None

Allergies: None







Not a man you’d want to see in a dark alleyway, and not just because he’s very dangerous, but also because Broden Ackers is very weird. Everyone in the battalion has some off-putting story involving Broden in some way, and I think if you told him this fact, he’d be proud of it.
Some general a long time ago said that we Americans practice chaos on a daily basis, and nothing could be closer to the truth when applied to Ackers. He revels in fucked-up shit, and that makes him a damn good Marine.
He’s a witty son-of-a-bitch; get in an argument with Broden Ackers, and you’ll find yourself needing an advanced burn kit from his roasts. His comedic charisma also extends to the battlefield. Best example I can give was during a raid on some colony occupied by the Colonial Liberation Front. Ackers and I were clearing buildings one-by-one. So far that day, we weren’t finding shit, and we were eager for some action.
There was this run-down, little home at the edge of the colony. When Broden and I approached, we heard us some movement inside, and—without hesitation—Ackers kicked down the door with a rifle in hand and screamed,
“IT IS I, BWODEN WHACKERS!” and then just fucking unloaded on these two civilians—a mother and her daughter—with his pulse rifle. I mean, just fucking turned them into chunks of meat he fired so many rounds into them.
Only stopping when he heard his M41A go click, click, click, did he take the time to look around.
Broden Ackers butchered two civilians, and when he realized this, he simply turned around and said,
“Oh shit. Sucks to be them,” and then casually strolled on out.
Definitely not a man you’d want to see in a dark alleyway.


I’ve never met anyone whose accent was so thick I couldn’t understand them. That changed the day my ears first heard Krezel Berkinson speak.
If an average Londoner took a heavy object to the head, you’d find a good comparison for Krezel. His deep cockney accent works like a filter, making only every other word sensible. Thankfully, Berkinson isn’t much a man for using conversation to get his point across: he points and shouts to relay mission-critical information. I think half of what he says are insults for the enemy—or war cries—anyway.
It doesn’t much matter, though. I just nod my head, grunt, or answer in the affirmative when he talks to me. Works with everyone in the Corps, come to think of it.


Apple Briggs is a Marine who knows how to kill shit with big weapons, and that gives him my respect, for what little it’s worth.
He has sharp eyes. An observant sort. Invaluable when your role to your squad is looking out for them. During enemy engagements, I often see him slowly swiveling his head to and fro, scanning the battlefield like a 571-C sentry gun. The man’s a hawk.
If I strapped on a helmet, and kept my sleeves down, I don’t think it’d be easy to tell us apart (well, despite my better looks). We operate the M56 smartgun in the same manner—the only manner it should be used: as a support weapon. Put our squads next to one another, and you’d see a wall of Marines pushing forward with the confidence that they have their asses covered.
A reliable Marine, through and through.


Her name is odd: Nyxia Cals. She goes by the nickname of “Bladedancer.” She also has a slightly foreign accent, so must be from a colony. It sounds like a colonial thing.
Colonists are an odd bunch; this one planet has this fad where all the men would dye their hair blue: facial hair and all! The planet Arcturus has women that willingly amputated their limbs just because their men see prosthetics as attractive! Very strange.
Cals isn’t someone I see around too often. I think we’re always placed in each other’s reserve, for I also don’t see her face in the other squads. Now that I think about it, maybe Cals is a commissioned officer. I have my doubts, for I could swear I’ve seen her alongside the enlisted.


The first time I saw Bill Carson, he reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t remember who. It took me until a shore leave to find out.
The Almayer needed a refuel, so we made a return trip from our patrol in the boonies back to Earth—the orbital dockyard near Gateway, to be exact. Command decided to let us Marines have some leisure time, so they let the platoon loose on Gateway. The station’s function is primarily for the loading of cargo for transport to and from Earth, but there’s some leisure facilities, if you know where to look. People live there, after all.
There’s this Sol Marine Space Force office I remember passing by, and—I swear to God—it had a recruitment poster with Bill Carson on it. It had him smiling and holding a pulse rifle with a caption saying,
“The Colonial Marines: Bravery before Dishonor! Enlist Today!”
Carson is a jittery man under pressure, but completely calm and collected when things are going his way. A pretty average description of someone—one that could applied to anyone, really.
Bill Carson is an exception.
I think whoever did Bill’s psyche evaluation had failed. The poster-boy Carson looked in charge of his faculties, but the Marine Carson is one open-and-shut case of bipolar disorder. I’ve seen this man with a bad case of first-combat-drop shakes during dropship flights, but the second we land, he’s moving with the purpose of a seasoned veteran. I’ve seen this man wear a war face that could intimidate an admiral… while also running away screaming on his radio for help. I’ve seen this man in moments both kicking ass and taking charge, to moments that would make a farmer-boy rebel look competent. Jarring.


A mean-lookin’ man; his arms are like barrels, and his face has this grit you only get when working with machinery. Marines call him “Biceps.”
Most times I see him, he’s wrenching in a barricade or setting up sandbags. It’s not those moments I know Noah for.
When I think of Cruz, I recall him hunched over—his heavy technician backpack weighing him down—running through enemy fire with a M56D in hand. He wears a bandana instead of a helmet, and unlike most others, he has a reason: I always see him raining down Hell on the opposition, no matter how many red-hot shells whiz past him. Sweat can fog your vision, and Noah Cruz isn’t a man to give the enemy any chances.
If I hear constant, thundering roars of a M56D in the distance, I know the man responsible.


The Marine Corps trains us that our instincts aren’t always in our best interest—that rational thinking should come before your gut in situations not do-or-die. One of my Drill Instructors liked to use the example about snipers keeping wounded alive so as to lure enemies from their cover.
There’s one instinctual reaction I know I’ll never be free from.
There’s this feeling—I can’t give it a name—when you know you’re no longer in a skirmish. A moment of terrible realization that it’s not just your training that’s keeping you alive, but pure luck.
You’re in the suck, the shit, the meat-grinder, the trenches, the foxholes, the smoke and rubble. The only thing you’re hearing now is gunfire, explosions, and screaming—screaming from your comrades, and screaming from the enemy. It’s all the same.
It’s just right before that moment when it hits me. When this sudden weight sinks down into my stomach, and I can only do one thing. What’s the reaction?
I look for the face of Jackson Dee. And there he is right fuckin’ there. There when the engagement becomes a slog. Always.
Jackson Dee is a skilled operator of the M56 smartgun, but Marines know him more for his ferocity with the machete he always keeps hooked on his belt. Jackson smiles a lot, but give him the opportunity to charge in swinging with his machete, and he’ll already be gone. A driven man.
He never loses that grin, though. I think he enjoys both inflicting and receiving pain. For me, having Dee watching my back is also a sign that trouble is about to get a whole lot more serious.
And that’s just how I like it.


A redheaded woman with the nickname of “Spicey.” About as fiery as you’d expect.
During my time spent on shore leave, I’ve seen other battalions with their Marines doing their best to fulfill the “jarhead” stereotype. These other Marines harrass the weaker colonists, brag about their lies they call war stories, and generally make me question the state of our ASVAB. Real pieces of work.
There’s some in my own platoon that act the same, true, but many more like Madison Delaney: congenial, good-natured people brave enough to take on the strong, and smart enough to make being a Marine not seem like an embarassment.
I could just be saying this because she bought me a beer this one time when I ran out of money.
She could be a complete asshole, but she got a cold one during a shore leave, so she’s okay in my book.


He talks like a pirate. That makes him good in my book.
And, unlike Krezel Berkinson, I can actually understand him.


All Marines are at least somewhat versed in the art of kicking ass, but some Marines are truly gifted in wrecking havoc.
As for Sam Greene…
Yeah, he’s good.


There’s a man like Romeo in every barrack. No matter which branch.
He’s an avid player. The imagination he puts into his pick-up lines—along with his nonchalant style—always makes me laugh. I don’t doubt Griggs has a one-liner for every woman in the Corps.
Even if a female admiral passes him by, he’d still hit her up.
On the battlefield, Griggs’ a good squaddie in the truest sense: fighting proficiently in engagements, and securing fellow Marines in their moments of vulnerability. Expect no finer a battle-buddy you can rely upon.
I got this gut feeling the last I’ll hear of him will be in a battlefield execution after-action report.
Only so long a dishonorable discharge is the worst punishment for a security record like Solomon Griggs.


“Kyeong-ae Han?” Wait, you mean “Kestrel Han?” Her real name is Kyeong-ae?
Kyeong-ae Han’s normal state is injured beyond belief. I’ve seen this lady keep on keepin’ on with body parts bent backwards, bleeding bullet wounds, and even a fuckin’ throwing knife in her forehead. She’s a stubborn one.
Han was promoted to corporal for her actions on this terraformed world called Frontier. If you know anything about shake-and-bake planets, you’d know that they’re far from hospitable. Frontier was no exception, for it was racked with these extreme, rolling mountains cutting very sharply into deep valleys.
There was this colony—Bishop Cliff, I think—located at the edge of one such plateau. If you stood at the edge of the colony, you’d be met with one of Frontier’s many sheer drops.
Bishop Cliff was believed to be a hotbed for the Colonial Liberation Front, so us Falling Falcons were dispatched to clear it out.
Broden Ackers and I were in a gun fireteam and clearing out buildings when we received a call about a lone combat engineer being surrounded by insurgents.
When we arrived at this Marine’s location—this small, unassuming hovel—the first thing Ackers and I saw were dead Frontsmen with their legs blown off. Black scorch marks lie under the bodies where claymores had detonated.
Inside the house were more dead rebels. They were all strewn about this hallway with a 571-C sentry gun facing us at the far end. The robot gun was emitting a quiet hum, slowly swiveling left and right, and its barrel still smoking.
I remember carefully stepping around the bodies, smartgun in hand, and taking in the carnage through my head-mounted sight.
Past the sentry gun was another room, and it was there where Broden and I found her.
Hands glued to a mounted M56D pointing down an opposite hall with an equal number of blown-away rebels, was Kyeong-ae Han.
Kestrel Han.


A woman constantly wearing this smug, shit-eating smile. I don’t think she’s capable of looking really pissed off; when she gets angry, she still grins, but in a different sort. I’m not sure what to call it. Sharkish?
You’ll hear Evelyn before you see her, for she hefts around this big RPG on her back. Its weight gives her footfalls this heaviness you only hear with heavy weapon operators. It’s an intimidating sound. Like a walking tank stepping up to you.
In combat, Harlay operates the M5 RPG with a surprising amount of dexterity. I’ve seen her brandish and swivel her rocket launcher about as fast as a Marine with their pulse rifle. Come to think of it, I’ve never paid attention to her arm muscles, but—needless to say—even I wouldn’t want to brawl with this lady: carrying such a heavy weapon all the time affords the user some impressive arm strength, I’m sure.
She likes to call people different kinds of pastries. Éclair this, cupcake that, tart over there. It’s endearing, really. Charming.
I’ve come to learn I don’t want charming, endearing comrades.
It makes it harder to forget them when they’re gone.


A quiet Irishman—not something you see everyday. Similar to John Murry, he usually responds with short sentences or by grunting and shrugging.
A real representative of the Corps’ silent majority: the Marines that get shit done and don’t waste time filling the air with useless chatter. You have to respect Marines like Healy.


I could learn something from this man, if I paid careful attention. Bex Jackson is a man fond of overkill. He has to be, for every time I see him on the battlefield, he’s rocking a decked-out weapon. He always has something in his hands that would make a gun nut drool.
He’s had a heavy pulse rifle kitted out with a quickfire adapter, a barrel-charged M41A/2 battle rifle, a recoil-compensated tactical shotgun, and vintage firearms like the the M16 and Desert Eagle. I wouldn’t be surprised that if the military police raided his locker, they’d find a fucking minigun. Bex probably has some war crime armaments: triangular bayonets, dum-dum bullets, and chemical weapons, to name a few.
Jackson isn’t a man I’d stand next to if he were shot up. He might have sonic, electronic ball-breakers on him ready to blow.


There’s an improper uniform crime that exists in the United States Code of Military Justice.
This law, however, gets bent when faced with Alan Jones’ style. I constantly see Alan sauntering about wearing these fly-as-fuck civilian kicks. I don’t know where he gets them, but damn am I jealous.


She’s blonde and usually floods my headset’s heads-up display with frivolous announcements (well, usually frivolous announcements).
I don’t know which is worse.


I don’t usually trust people who find it normal to conceal their face, but Mark is an exception.
I’m pretty sure Mark Kesserline tampers with his cryogenic pod, for every time we’re awakened for an operation, I’m still in my cryo-wear, and he’s already geared up and either raiding oxygen lockers or hassling maintenance technicians for a breath mask.
Not that I blame him; the standard-issue MOPP gas mask is a bitch to see through. Maintenance breath masks only cover the mouth.
He’s good at shooting bad guys to shit, but even more so skilled in the age-old tactic of going around the enemy to shoot them up. You’d think something as simple as performing a flank should be a standard tactic in Command’s repertoire, but you’d be wrong.
Kesserline is another in the long list of smart Marines victimized by the injustice of honor-stealing commanding officers. Too many times do I hear absolutely dog-shit orders given to me by my superiors, but then in comes Kesserline, his voice muffled from his breath mask, saying,
“Fuck that, follow me, guys,” and then leading us on a enemy-crushing, tide-turning flank. And who do you think gets the credit for these flanks nine times out of ten? The commanding officer. I’ve once told Mark that it’s bullshit he’s being scammed like this. I remember him looking at me through his ballistic goggles and just nodding. Humble.
I don’t know where the Corps would be without Marines like Kesserline. I know where’d I’d be. My grave.


A combat medic there to get the job done, no exceptions. I have a great respect for Marines like Star Langston.
I usually see Langston running around the area of operation nabbing wounded and ferrying them back to safety for him to patch up.
He wears a brown bandana instead of a helmet, and it’s evident by spending ten minutes with him that he needs it. Stress leads to nervousness, which usually leads to sweating that clouds up the eyes. The screams of agony from the multitude Star deals with every operation, and the fact that he’s the man responsible for getting them back on their feet, is stressful.
A part of me thinks Langston doesn’t need it, however. He always seems completely in control.


A face I don’t see too often anymore.
I remember spending a night with him in a foxhole out on some random-number world. We shared jokes and life stories.
I think if I looked hard enough on my ship’s memorial I’d find his name.
I don’t like looking at my ship’s memorial.


I smile when I see Raz McSky pass by, or hear him on my headset. We speak similarly, so he reminds me of my hometown and old friends.
But enough of that sentimentality. McSky is one cool dude. Always sporting shades and an old-style, earmuff headset, I normally see Raz moving with confidence and accomplishing his tasks with self-assuredness.
Not overtly cocky, I view Raz as a real all-American type. He certainly talks like one, anyway.
My best memory of Raz McSky would be when we both dealt with this military police officer. We had one of our squaddies in the brig, so McSky and I both put our heads together to devise a scheme for busting him out. What was our brilliant plan? A logical approach would be to hack our way in, or to try and bamboozle the cell’s MP with a lie about an officer needing him. An even more logical approach would be for us to not make a jailbreak attempt in the first place.
McSky and I aren’t that clever. Our plan was to charm this stone-cold woman—the Chief of Military Police—with enough compliments to convince her to let our buddy go. We even forged us some fake medals to help impress her and win her over.
Needless to say, McSky’s and my own security record showing we’ve been brigged for “Attempted Jailbreak” and “Stolen Valor” shows how well two unga-dunga Marines’ plans play out.


I can’t say I know many maimed people in my life. Surprising, I know, given my line of work. If I did, I wouldn’t know it, given the wonders of modern prosthetics.
There’s one person I know that wears their disability proudly.
Heinz Meuller is an intimidating man. Standing at 6’ 6’‘, Meuller towers over people. Besides his height, I’m sure most others know him for the scar running over his right eye—the eye he keeps covered with an eyepatch. He could easily get a replacement implant, but he doesn’t. Probably due to sentiment from the Tientsin Campaign, for he’s usually seen wearing its participation medal.
There was this operation which had him, Noah Cruz, and myself hunkered down in a foxhole under enemy fire. Colonial Liberation Front on some no-name world in a sector out in the middle of no-where, and us three Marines holding the line: Cruz scrambling up barricades, firing his mounted MG, and Meuller screaming on the radio for reinforcements, channeling his Teutonic fury and gunning down encroaching rebels. We kicked ass that day, and someone called us the “Three Bungateers” for it. I think it was Aestel Wellick. Us Falling Falcons like calling each other cavemen.
After my service is up, I’d probably be sitting in some bar alone and see his Cyclops-lookin’ mug on the television, addressing a conference as Skymarshall of the USSF.
I’d turn, point, and say, “hey, I fought alongside that man.” Wouldn’t be anyone there to hear me but myself.


Similar to myself, Philip Murray is an idiot.
Charging into battle with only a red headband to keep what small brain he has inside his skull, Murray is a brave fighter. I think he tries to emulate all the classic action-movie heroes we all grew up with.
Not that I’m one to judge him for it, for I do the exact same fuckin’ thing. Murray and I tighten our headbands enough to cut off the oxygen to our brains. We have to, for there’s no way anyone not brain damaged would charge down armed hostiles willingly without a helmet. Combining dumb guys with overkill armament smells like Colonial Marines to me. The top Brass, too—actually. Why else would you see so many of us in the Corps and kickin’ ass?
We’re fearless.
We’re fearless because we’re too stupid to know any better.


“Wait a second, John Murry’s still alive?”
Every mission I’ve been on alongside this man, he always ends up splayed out on the ground unresponsive from his injuries.
Countless times have I seen John Murry make suicidal charges against the enemy—fading away into the darkness or disappearing around a corner—only to hear him scream out and exchange gunfire before going silent. Every time this happens, I think, "This has to be the one. No way he survived THAT*!"*
Then, after the mission is over and the time comes to reenter cryogenic stasis, there I’d see him. Every time.
Standing in mess hall for post-operation chow, and then sitting down to eat his beans in his cryo-wear. Casually winding down for cryo-sleep.
And every time I say,
“Wait a second, John Murry’s still alive?”


Most Marines get angry after getting pranked, but as for me, it’s a breath of fresh air, and—
who the fuck am I kidding? Vanchenka, give me back my Goddamn boots, you bitch! I catch just a fucking second of shut-eye during briefing and you just swoop in and—


I consider Natalia Quiroga a bad omen. Or, maybe a blessing—I’m not too sure. What I AM sure is that an operation with Natalia Quiroga will somehow involve me lying splayed out on the ground, half-conscious from some grievous wound, and her dragging my sorry ass from what put me there. This happens nearly every operation with her and I. It’s like a bad running joke at this point.
A guardian angel and a grim condemnation. I can recall every moment I’ve had with her. Hard not to when you have scars for each one.
Besides being a prophet for my demise, Quiroga, like Uriel Turner, is a Marine that more so cares about not losing her comrades than most others. Or maybe it’s just me—I don’t know. There’s much I don’t know about Natalia.
It’s more healthy for me if it stays that way.


Tal Ravis wears sunglasses, even when indoors. What a cool dude.
I also hear that Japanese women love him. I don’t remember who told me this, and I also don’t recall ever seeing him with any Asian woman. Still a cool dude.


Jack motherfuckin’ Roc. Keep on eye on this guy when there’s enemies nearby. Turn, and you might miss this crazy bastard go absolutely bonkers on the opposition.
Even if he’s been disarmed, Jack always has an ace up his sleeve.
Absolute madman.


An intimidating woman.
If she tried hard enough, I think she could kill people with her glare.


I don’t believe in superstitions, but—I swear to God—some kind of mystical, otherworldly force is keeping this Marine alive.
There has to, because whenever I see him on the battlefield, he’s charging directly through machine gun fire and explosions, his red headband fluttering behind him.
In my civilian life, most Asians I met were quiet, soft-spoken, and courteous.
Turns out, give one a gun and an enemy’s direction, and they’ll be gone before you can order them to charge, usually screaming out in Japanese or Chinese or what-have-you. Banzai, you crazy son-of-a-jap. Banzai!


An Asian woman—Korean, I think, from Earth. Not the kind of person you’d envision when told of her merits.
So-Hee is a squad leader. Every time we’re on the same operation, I’ve seen her Marines—normally unruly people—all formed up and following her exact orders with a discipline like they were in the army. I used to wonder how this smaller, Asian woman turns her group of unga-dunga jarheads into such professional soldiers. It didn’t take me long to find out.
Park So-Hee is a survivor. She makes survivors of her glory-hound Marines. During pre-deployment briefings, all the faces I’d see in Park’s squad are all faces I’d see at the end of the those deployments. All alive.
“It’s not fair to pin that accomplishment solely on one person,” a reasonable person might say, but—I swear to God—I’ve been on operations that’d made mincemeat of the platoon. The real suck. Meat-grinders where you’d see haggard NCO’s desperately trying to get a grip on their shattered forces.
Except Park So-Hee.
During those operations’ exfiltrations, I would look around to see all the squads missing a noticeable amount of people. Then, I’d look over to see Park and her Marines. Nearly all alive. Every operation.
Park So-Hee is a stern woman. The Corps needs more like her.


A Marine in the loosest sense of the word: undisciplined, physically weak, and blind as a bat. This man needs to go back to the School of Infantry, or—better yet—Boot Camp to learn how to shoot straight; this retard hits more friendlies than enemies.
Every operation, I see this dumb fuck blast some poor Marine away with a shotgun, sweeping the guy off his feet and shattering his bones.
Cabal is chaff from us wheat. Cut people like Shephard from the Corps, and you’ll see us truly shine.


A dude with this wicked long, blonde hair and mustache. People call him “Thor.”
A man that likes to get up close and personal, I’ve seen Thor blaze trails through enemy fire just to blast some poor bastard at point blank. I think he actually enjoys being sprayed with blood.
Similar to Lisa Taylor, this Marine likes to stealth his way around enemy lines solo to score some surprise attacks. Very dangerous, and very effective. It takes some balls to willingly distance yourself from allies and safety to embed yourself amidst people trying to kill you. Balls, and a whole lot of stupid. Not like I’m one to judge.
We’re all stupid for enlisting in this God-forsaken Corps.


Out of every one hundred, ten shouldn’t even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one.
One is a warrior.
I don’t know why Lisa Taylor is in the Falling Falcons: she’s more skilled then any of us.
I’ve seen her clear out enemy positions solo. I’ve seen her disable armored vehicles with only a single grenade. I’ve seen her make even the most stalwart POW’s reveal their secrets using only a clown mask and a bikehorn.
Her talent is wasted by being here and not on, say… a team of special operators.
Give the Colonial Marines a few hundred Lisa Taylors, and all we’d need to do is spread them out like tacks across the galaxy. The United States would be unstoppable.


A solid leader with a firm commitment to his men. His conviction for his squadmates weighs him down sometimes, I feel. It’s in his eyes when you look closely: the usual Marine-mix of anger and despair.
Not a very healthy habit, trust me.
He’s one tough son-of-a-bitch, so he’ll do alright. If he doesn’t have plans to climb the ladder, I think he’ll ease back into civilian life well enough.


Very young; I recall some Marines say she’s only seventeen. Too young to be mixed up in this business. She doesn’t speak much, which is surprising given she runs about with neon-purple hair and a bright-red beret. I think she simply doesn’t know English.
She looks like one of those European-types.
When she does open her mouth to talk, it’s usually to meow like a cat. I don’t know how she made it past recruitment in that regard.
I think the Brass must be looking the other way because of View’s medical experience. I’ve seen Marines get wheeled to her looking like Hell with broken bones, bleeding wounds, and crying for their mothers. Give Charlotte five minutes, and she’ll have those same Marines charging the enemy lines with their war faces completely restored.
The Brass has the right idea, honestly. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth no matter how much it meows.


She shot me in the arm with a heavy pulse rifle twice on the same operation. Same arm. I’m surprised I still have it.
I still cringe when I see the scars; It hurt like a motherfucker.


He wears a Marine cap that doesn’t quite fit right over his hair, and he sports thick shades even when indoors or at night. During briefings and shore leaves, he genuinely seems like a laid-back man, but this is an act—something transient. It’s like a switch when we’re deployed: suddenly, Westinton is a coiled spring, tensed up and ready to jump into the fire. I like to believe it’s out of camaraderie.
A name I expect to see in a memorial—probably with graffiti from people who owe him a beer.


A requisition officer.
Without maintenance resupply, the ship wouldn’t last a year. Without food and water resupply, the battalion wouldn’t last a month. Without fortification resupply, an operation wouldn’t last a week. Without ammunition resupply, a combat drop wouldn’t last a day.
Winterson is someone who understands this.
I don’t personally know Rain, for my service doesn’t include cargo bay work. Her first name leads me to believe her parents are hippies. Only hippies name their children “Rain,” so she’s probably a hippie herself.
Maybe it’s best I don’t know her personally.
I don’t like hippies.


Saying that you’re suspicious of Kate Wooley would come across as a joke to most Marines, but I’m not most Marines. Wherever she goes, Wooley wears these heavy, black shades. I’ve never seen her eyes, and I think most in the Corps can say the same.
She carries this air of… I don’t know, mystery? about her. Indecipherable. I could swear I’ve seen her during operations deployed wearing standard M3 armor. Just another Marine, right?
Yet, during those same operations, I would later see her in civilian clothes, acting like a whole different person. Everyone else doesn’t seem to notice this behavior; it’s like she’s not even there.
I think she secretly works for another organization. Maybe she works for another branch in the government, or maybe for a whole different government altogether. If I had to guess, I’d think Kate’s actually a PSYOPS agent, or some other shadowy, vague G-man.
I predict Kate Wooley will simply vanish at some point, and that that day won’t be last the Marine Corps will have to deal with her.


This is without a doubt one of the best dossiers I have laid eyes upon


Great dossier. Makes me sad looking over the list of gone players.

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Now this truly is one the best unga’s to have around