Round ID: 21367
Map: New Varadero
Staffwho: 0
Players: 56
Operational Time: 01:54
Round Time: 00:11
God, I fucking hate my job.
Archibald licked his cracked lips in a futile attempt to moisturise them, his tongue dry as bone. How long had he been standing in this god-forsaken line? How the fuck did he get to be surrounded on all sides by the United America’s most intellectually impaired?
Behind him? The entirety of delta’s body odour and cyro-induced vomit. Ahead? The equally revolting body odour, but slightly less vomit-covered uniforms of alpha and bravo.
“I swear to fucking god, if req doesn’t open the shutt-“ The deltard PFC in front caught himself mid-sentence, seeing the MP Cadet supervising the line raise an eyebrow. “I’ll M2C the entire fucking req line”, he continued, muttering under his breath.
Seconds later, an alphoid was forced out of the opposite req line, followed by the distinctive click of the shutters opening. Everyone collectively groaned, as is characteristic of whenever a CT opens the wrong line, before evacuating Line 2. Archibald sighed as he leapt over the railing, fighting to secure what little lebensraum remained in Line 1. The alphoid unleashed an unholy stream of choice gamer words and rude gestures at the CT before being flashed by the MP Cadet and dragged off, screeching until their curses no longer echoed off the Almayer’s hallways.
Fuck. I’m even further from the front here than I was in Line 2. Gurgh.
Archibald mentally prepared himself for yet another eternity of waiting, made even more agonising by the clearly new CT, who whimpered and struggled to vend anything under the increasingly impatient demands of the marines, howling and screaming to express their discontent.
Fucking animals.
After an excruciatingly long wait, Archibald finally found himself at the front. The desk was littered with ammo requisition papers from specialists who’d probably kill themselves 5 minutes after drop. The CT looked like they were at death’s door, pale and sweating. A woman fresh out of basic training, thrust right into the worst, most thankless and unforgiving job in the corps.
Yep, seems about right. That’s the US Colonial Marine Corps for you.
“Large mag, MK1, MH and some AP mags please.”, said Archibald.
“R-Right. Uh- What’s that, sorry?” the CT had long given up on deciphering the cryptic moon runes used by the marines.
Archibald sighed. “Large magazine pouch and the MK1 Pulse Rifle, middle vendor. Mag harness, west vendor. AP magazine for the MK1, east vendor.”
“Er… we’re out of the uh, pouch… and the MK1… no AP left, either…” the CT replied, trailing off.
“And the harness?”
“U-um… sorry.” the CT slightly cowered as they apologised, as if to blunt the impending wave of vitriol.
Archibald was too tired to give a shit.
Yeah, figures.
Archibald shuffled back to his prep, ignoring the brutal fistfight raging on Charlie’s breakfast table between them and Delta. The floors were sticky, covered with some horrendous substance that had never been cleaned since he was assigned to the Almayer. Every step required conscious effort to break free of the grimy floor. Archibald opened the stuttery doors leading to the joint Charlie-Delta prep, and vended out his gear, slamming an extended mag into a MK2.
“MEDICS TO BRIEF NOW.” His comms stuttered to life, as a stream of screams and excited chatter erupted shipside. “ACTIVE SHOOTER.” “SO REAL.” “BASED SCUNT.” “F-F-FUCKING D-DELTARDS!” “OFFICER STOP IT HE CAN’T BREATH!”
Archibald turned his headset off.
God, I fucking hate this ship.
COMMAND ANNOUNCEMENT
Briefing at 0208 in 6 minutes, briefing hall.
SL attendance mandatory. Delta scout is to be arrested for attempted murder, assault, resisting arrest, and DASO.
Signed, Major Jakob Aaberg.
Classic deltards.
Archibald walked briskly out of prep towards briefing, carefully dodging bloodstains caking the floor. He took a glance towards the Charlie breakfast table- Or well, what was left of it. Half of it was disassembled, the rest covered with blood and riddled with bullet holes. Tofu meal trays with their characteristic French flags lay scattered across the table, in stark contrast to the metric tonnes of MRE food and grape souto littering the floor- It was obvious who’d won. The MPs formed a perimeter around the bloodbath, hopelessly trying to block off access to a group of Charlies attempting to reach the blood-soaked foodstuffs within.
He turned to the podium, home to a host of unimpressed CIC staff. The XO looked almost as fed up as Archibald was. The briefing hall was essentially devoid of marines, except for a group of enthusiastic (and likely bald) gas-masked alphoid PVTs smothering their SL.
What few deltards were in their seats were covered in bloodstains, sporting shit-eating grins as if they’d just accomplished the most meaningful thing in their mediocre lives.
The fobbits of course, were completely absent save for a single engineer blankly staring into space, drooling profusely.
Well then. We’re fucked.
Archibald took his seat next to the only Charlie not in surgery or grappling with the MPs.
The chair was rigid and cold. It creaked with every movement Archibald made. He shuffled uncomfortably for a few seconds before finding a semi-tolerable position.
“Hey, uh- Archibald, right? Is it true that turning off IFF increases your damage?” asked the charlie marine. He was sporting a smartgun- The SG of the squad.
Archibald rolled his eyes.
“N-“
“Of fucking course it does, kid. Why else would the button be there? In fact, turning off IFF doubles the damage! You should test in on the req line, you’ll see how fucking hard it goes.” cried a blood-stained deltard.
“Shut up blueberry, th-“ Archibald was interjected once again.
The deltard took out his platinum medal and shook his finger in front of him, as if wagging a tasty treat to a dog.
“Who’re you gonna trust, kid? The guy with over 750 hours of experience, or this bronze-medaled nerd? Trust me grape, ALL the robustos are in delta. I know my shit.”, the deltard smirked.
“Well, er- thanks man! I uh, appreciate the help!” The Charlie SG flipped a switch, and before long, briefing was filled with the perpetual pings of his motion detector.
Archibald sighed.
The long wait until briefing was only interrupted with the distant shots of disabler guns and screams.
Before long, most of Delta and Charlie entered briefing from the direction of med bay. The Deltard SL and his entourage were greeted with rapturous applause and cheers from the other blueberries, and looks of dread exchanged between the SOs. The XO looked at his tablet, frowned and set Charlie’s SADAR as aSL, much to their chagrin. The promotion of Bravo’s lone engineer (and likely sole marine) was met only with slightly more voluminous drooling.
COMMAND ANNOUNCEMENT
Briefing is starting in briefing hall.
Charlie SL is still recovering in surgery, thus Charlie spec will be aSL for the time being.
Signed, Captain Theodore Anderson.
“Right, Falcons. We’ve intercepted a distress signal from Wey-Yu’s colony of New Varadero, and so we’ve diverted from returning to base to check it out real quick. Operation Typhon’s Tackle took out most of Platoon 1, along with our supplies and armoured vehicles, so we won’t have access to most of our heavy firepower for the time being. Th-“
The XO’s announcement was cut short by the rising chanting of the deltards.
“Free the spec! Free the spec! Free the spec!”
“THE SPEC DID NOTHING WRONG!”
“He’s essential to the operation! You can’t just brig him! LET HIM GO!”
The XO sighed, before making a quick motion to the CMP, who nodded and pressed a button.
Archibald groaned as his retinas were blinded into uselessness.
Guess I’m getting cataracts 2 years early.
The alphoids screamed. The fobbit drooled. The deltards went apeshit. Having long adopted BiMex shades to counter MP reprisals, they began relentlessly beating the reinforced podium with loose 10x24mm ammunition and machetes.
BANG!
The CO’s mateba deafened briefing as the shot hung in the air, blessing briefing with the gift of tinnitus.
“Delta SL, you will keep your squad under control. Is that clear?” the CO’s voice was crystal clear in the aftermath. He stared daggers at the deltard SL, who likewise retaliated. For a moment, Archibald thought- All hell was to break loose. Yet, the SL would back down as fast as he escalated- Averting his eyes and slumping his shoulders. With a quick wave of his hand, the deltards sat back down, faces scrunched as if the CO’d just pissed in their birthday punch.
“Continue, Captain Anderson.”, the CO said.
The XO gave a quick nod, and started where he left off.
“FOB is Pontoon LZ. Alpha will be on FOB duty with Bravo’s sole comtech and marine, whereas Charlie will move to comms in Cargo, West of FOB. Delta will scout south to Medical and B-Ball. Once comms is up, Charlie will join Delta and push south to Bar and then Crashed Shi-“ The XO spoke, before being cut off by the CO.
“No. Change of plans. Delta will be on FOB with Bravo, while Alpha will scout south.” The CO stared at the Deltard SL, as if to say ‘You brought this upon yourself.’. The Delta SL gave a thin grin. It seemed as if the deltards were about to erupt into a full-blown mutiny once more, before the SL motioned for calm.
“Of course, sir.” The SL’s smile did not reach his eyes.
The CO knows that they’ve just doomed the operation, right?
The XO sighed as he corrected himself. “Right. Delta on FOB with Bravo, Charlie on comms, Alpha scouts south. The CO has stated that they will deploy with Alpha on their scouting mission south, and rally you all groundside, along with the SOs.” The XO sounded exasperated.
Being left alone in CIC to lead this dumpster fire would probably do that to anyone.
“DISMISSED!”
The marines erupted, charging their way to the hangar. Archibald made a mental note of the fact that the further away he got from delta’s prep, the less sticky the floor became.
Entering med bay, the contradicting smells of antiseptic and blood hit Archibald in the face. Wriggling his nose, he walked to the MarineMed and grabbed some splints and gauze. The charlie medics in the chem-line looked borderline suicidal, as the poor nurse manning the station appeared chronically overwhelmed. The CMO was stuck tending to a bloody, unconscious deltard next to a shattered window, a wheelchair and extinguisher in close proximity.
Great. Effectively no engineers, and barely any medics either. Incredible.
COMMAND ANNOUNCEMENT
Drop at 0211.
Signed, Captain Theodore Anderson.
Operating on autopilot, Archibald walked past the CMO and into the Alamo.
The Alamo was significantly more crowded than briefing ever was. Sleeping alphoids, charlies and deltards populated the seats.
Archibald took a glance at the floor. It was covered in gray shells. OT grenades.
ATTENTION: ORDNANCE TECHNICIAN BEAK “BUTTOCKS” SLAMVECTOR HAS ENTERED CYROSLEEP.
Fuck me.
Deltards stared with mild amusement at the Alpha PVTs eagerly snatching HE maxcaps from the Alamo’s floor as if collecting candy, oblivious to the horror they would unleash. Archibald scanned the Alamo.
The sole bravo engineer was being dragged in by the Alpha SL, who stared blankly and drooled at the Charlie medics desperately trying to make them hack the Wey-Med.
The CO looked like they wanted to give a rousing speech, but the continued knife-like stares from every deltard onboard seemed to shut down most of the confidence they had behind the ultra-reinforced glass in briefing. Archibald sat down on the closest free seat he found.
The jump-seats were more comfortable relative to brief, but the stench more than offset this. A seat untainted by a deltard’s odour was rare. Indeed, Archibald would spend the rest of his time until drop scouring for a seat that had not been sacrilegiously defiled- Which would unfortunately only exist next to the vegetated fobbit. Time passed, only interrupted by the distant sound of stun prods and screams. The pings of the Charlie SG’s MD appeared to signal every second’s passing.
The deltard treated by the CMO arrived in the Alamo on the clock, bound in a wheelchair.
“Fear not, damsels. The elite para-troopers have arrived! Get it?! OORAH!!!”
Archibald groaned in agony.
“Alamo launching. Hold on tight, apes.” The Alamo intercom crackled.
COMMENCING OPERATION TANGO-BEAR.
02:13
We’re so fucked.
There was only one engineer in the platoon, and Archibald swore their glazed eyes hadn’t blinked in over 10 minutes. The only person in Charlie with engineering experience was the SL, who was still in surgery. Alpha was filled with literal chrome domes useless in combat. Bravo didn’t exist. Charlie had no way to complete their objective. Delta was Delta.
Holy shit. We’re so, so fucked.
The dropship slammed into the lower atmosphere of New Varadero, sending jolts from Archibald’s feet to his skull. The fobbit drooled. Hard rain crashed into the Alamo’s roof, peppering it like bullets. The fobbit drooled. The Alamo’s PO didn’t install any fucking engine upgrades. The fobbit drooled.
At long last, the Alamo’s twin engines roared as they set the dropship upon the colony.
The marines collectively cheered as they quickly disembarked, right into the screaming tropical storm outside.
“GET THIS FOB SET UP! ALPHA, ON ME!” screamed the CO, disappearing into the rain. Enthusiastic alphoid PVTs saluted and sprinted after him, competing for the biggest ass-kisser medal.
“Errr… where’s comms? Where are we going?” asked the Charlie aSL. His MD was drowned out by the thunderous clash of titans in the sky above.
Archibald sighed. “It’s west. Comms is west of here, in Cargo. Follow me.”
The rest of his squad hurried after Archibald like ducklings, eager to find shelter from the storm.
The cargo megastructure was pitch black. Archibald lit up a flare, carefully navigating through the scattered piles of crates and detritus. His squad mates did the same, the darkness quickly retreating under the assault of the warm red glow.
“Right. We can’t fix this shitty comms tower until the SL gets here, cause the bravo engineer is fucking out of it. Also- SG, turn on your IFF. The deltard was fucking with you.” Said Archibald.
The SG glumly complied.
One of the medics piped up. “Can’t we just get the Delta SL to fix comms? I mean, he’s in FOB anyways. He’s basically right next to us.” She had a point.
“Good idea, actually. Yeah- let’s do that. SADAR, everyone else- Stay here. SG, with me.”
The SG nodded.
Stepping back out into the howling thunderstorm, Archibald could barely make out anyone on the FOB. In fact, the FOB didn’t even exist. No cades, no deltards, no Alamo, no bitches.
“SG, you got mesons and thermals- See anyone?”
“Er- Just the Bravo engineer. He’s staring at that wall. Where’s… everyone else, though?”
“Fuck. Hello? Bravoid? Fobbit? You uh- you there?”
The engineer doesn’t respond. Archibald inches closer, cautious.
“Huh. Hey engi, you dropped your helmet and scarf.” quipped the SG.
Archibald’s eyes flicked down. He was right. The engineer was staring into blank space, with his head gear on the floor. It was hard to tell the drool apart from the rain on his face.
“Gurgh. Let’s get him inside cargo. It’s not safe out here.” Said Archibald.
“But where’s delta?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Delta delta’d. They fucked off, probably to the frontline.” Archibald paused. “Well, if there’s even a frontline.”
“I guess we’re not fixing comms, then…”
“No shit, Sherlock. We’ll need to rely on the XO to know what’s going on. Let’s bunker up in comms and wait. Cover me.” Archibald grabbed the fobbit, and began making his way back to cargo. The torrential downpour only grew stronger, his footsteps muffled under the crackling of the skies. The SG wasn’t far behind, their eyes darting around wildly, chasing every shadow.
Charlie squad sat in silence. Huddled behind a hastily cobbled line of tables, their backs against the wall, guns pointed towards the abyss.
Was that an explosion? A maxcap? Or was it just thunder? Was that gunfire, or rain striking the roof? It was impossible to differentiate in the wailing monsoon.
They waited for the XO to do something. Give information. Say anything. The silence was palpable.
ALERT. POWER BUILD UP IN SW WALKWAY COMMS UNIT. ENERGY LIKELY USED TO GENERATE NEW BIOMORPHIC ENTITIES.
“What the actual fuck? The first fucking announcement we get since touching down, and it’s THAT?” Archibald seethed. What in the actual hell was command doing? Was the XO asleep? Was he just fluoride staring at OW consoles? Was the fucking SL STILL in surgery?
“Uhhh, guys- The bravoid- ERRR…” the medic sounded afraid.
Everyone turned back. The fobbit engineer was convulsing on the floor. His drool was mixed with blood. His chest began to contort and crack in all the ways it shouldn’t. In a final explosive performance, his chest cavity ripped apart, the head of a xenomorph larva eating it’s way through.
“REEEEEEEEEEE!!”
“REEEEE!” “REEEE!” “REEEEEE!” “REEEE!” “REEEE!” “REEE!”
The larva, smothered in fobbit viscera quickly slithered out and into the abyss, before anyone could process just what had happened. The marines stared at one another.
XX-121. Why the fuck did it have to be XX-121?
The rain intensified.
The SG was the first to talk.
“The announcement- SW walkway comms… isn’t that literally just outside Cargo?”
Yes. Yes it was.
The charlie medic’s voice shook.
“Wait. That- That’s not- The rain’s not getting louder. Those are gunshots getting closer.”
Somewhere in the abyss, something moved.
Archibald didn’t know who fired the first shot, but everyone else sure as hell followed afterwards. Their faces fueled by fear and illuminated by gunfire, streaks of hot lead whizzed into the darkness to be swallowed by it’s gaping maw, the barrage only interrupted by the beeps and clicks of empty magazines.
Archibald heard something- something distinctly annoying, grating and punch-worthy. It echoed from the abyss, and it was pissed.
“F-FUCK! WATCH YOUR FUCKING FIRE, YOU BRAINDEAD SHITSTAINS! G-GOD DAMMIT!”
A figure emerged from the darkness behind a crate, dragging something. Archibald adjusted his suit light. The figure shielded their eyes, recoiling. Light danced on the distinctive sheen of platinum.
“WAS STERILISING ME NOT ENOUGH?! DO YOU HAVE TO GIVE ME CATARACTS TOO?! FUCK OFF!”
Punchable face. The voice of an asshole. A bleeding bullet hole in their groin.
Great. It’s this fucking guy again.
The deltard was armourless. Helmetless. Blood and splints coated every inch of their body. An M37 was slung over their back. M4 in one hand, lifeless alphoid PVT in the other. Their eyes surveyed the squad, sizing everyone up. He sighed and smiled with mocking disapproval.
“Of fucking course. Leave it to the charloids to shoot up anything that moves in the scawy scawy shadows.” He slowly clapped, unimpressed.
Archibald sighed.
“Ok, we get it. Now, are you gonna stand there jerking your microschlong or are you going to get the fuck inside the tables?”
The deltard glared.
“Well well well, you’re a real fucking comedian, aren’t you? I can tell we’re gonna get along fine already.”
He dropped his smile, before pointing at the medic and back at the alphoid.
“Whatever. You, femstatic charloid. Get this dumbfuck PVT back up.”
The medic looked like she was going to let the PVT perma to spite the deltard, before swallowing her pride.
Wouldn’t blame her if she did.
The deltard leaned against the broken comms unit, staring at the bursted fobbit. He raised an eyebrow. “Well… that explains why we had no comms all op. I put my expectations real low, and you guys still underperformed. How did you grapes screw up guarding one guy that badly?”
Archibald fired back. “You and I both know he was bald. Maybe if you smoothbrained inbreds and your SL actually stayed on FOB instead of fucking off, we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation.”
The deltard chuckled, before pulling out a flask and gulping it down. He seemed almost proud.
“That’s the CO’s fault, not ours. Them pretentious fuckers see SL experience as a minimum hurdle for their shiny list. They ain’t got any clue how ground-side actually works. And well- what can I say? Delta deltas. Every good CO knows that.”
The SADAR piped in. “Where is the CO, anyway?”
“Decapped. Push was going well, until the alphatards started bringing out HE maxcaps and wiped the front. CO was blown into the xenos and got their head sliced clean off. Pyro didn’t know his UE existed, so woyers threw half the force into blue fire. Just- you know, the usual.” The deltard shrugged.
Yep. Classic.
The deltard smashed a wooden crate, before sitting it aflame with a flare. Wiping his hands, he sat down on a small box, spreading his legs as much as he physically could.
“Well?” The deltard waved Archibald to sit down. “Sit. We can roast marshmallows and eat the dirt off the floor or something. Shit, we can even sing happy fucking birthday.”
Archibald sighed, shaking his head as he sat down.
ALERT. UNAUTHORISED TAKE OFF FROM OPERATIONAL AREA. DROPSHIP ON COLLISION COURSE. CRASH IMMINENT.
The denizens huddled around the campfire barely flinched at the announcement, too exhausted to respond.
The deltard popped a s’more into his mouth, relishing the taste.
“Now THAT is what I’m fucking talking about, baby.” he cried, smacking his lips loudly.
Archibald closed his eyes.
God, I fucking love New Varadero.
all names used are intended to be fictional, hopefully I didn’t accidentally use someone’s actual character name
