Post by nirvash on Feb 1, 2010 20:42:05 GMT -5
Gwazines, as the 501st RAEG Corps discovered, are excellent places to smoke. The air mixture filling the halls and rooms was far from the enriched oxygen environment some ship operators prided themselves on maintaining, but was instead closer to something like the ass end of a
highly urbanized colony. The ass end of highly urbanized colonies also happened to be an environment they excelled at performing in, feeding off of the industrial exhaust and frustrated blue collar rage that saturated the air, like a fucking jet engine or some shit.
Down one of those awesome corridors, and inside one of those bitchin' rooms, Sarge (the few people who ever learn his name usually end up forgetting it anyway) and Corporal Aram Chaos, who had been performing some small clerical duties at Luna II, sat at a card table, lit by a lamp some people would recognize as an interrogation tool hanging from the ceiling. Those people who would recognize the lamp as such, incidentally, are either interred somewhere between Earth and Side 3, or they're currently helping agricultural growth in Side 4.
Sarge was chomping on a dingy old cigar behind a newspaper, probably the sports section, but Corporal Chaos couldn't really tell with the dim light being the only source of illumination. The fact that he was still able to disassemble and clean a particular firearm in that low light, wearing sunglasses all the while, was a testament to his intimate familiarity with his weapons. And now that he was back with his company, it was time to clean his weapons twice daily instead of once, and there was no better place to do it than in the company of a man who can taste how many people a gun could kill just by being in the same room as it.
Or so one of the guys said. There were lots of rumors about Sarge, and most of them were probably true. This was one was.
Sarge sniffed and turned a crinkling page.
"Chaos, where are you from." It wasn't so much a question as much as it was a demand, or an
announcement.
"Mars, sir." The light hanging over the folding table illuminated eddies of thick smoke and
a dissected shotgun in Corporal Chaos' hands.
"Marrrrrsss...." He rolled the word around his mouth like the bouqet of a pre-war vintage
plucked from the twitching hands of an eviscerated Zeek.
"
Yes, sir." Corporal Chaos inspected his shotgun from a new angle and clicked another part
back into place.
"Where on Mars, Chaos." Another plume of smoke dissipated in the dark room, thickening the
atmosphere even more.
"Aram Chaos, sir." The Corporal used a greasy cloth to wipe the excess lubricant from
another piece to his favorite impliment of 12-guage; that was met with a sudden visceral halting.
"That's your name, son." An eye peered over the newspaper, quizzical, yet furious in
restrained essence.
"Yes, sir, it is." Aram polished his gunstock. The awkward silence returned with a vengeance.
"Eagles are winning." Sarge sniffed again. "Get the fuck out."
"...Yes, sir."
Corporal Chaos found his way to an old marine buddy - Tracer Magnum. Private Magnum, as it were, he was an asshole, and a had a bit of a hard time following orders, even when he got the job done. He was- somehow- tipping back a can, probably a beer from a six pack he had somehow stashed away, and was watching something in the hangar.
Aram leaned up against the wall next to Private Magnum and they gave each other a friendly nod of the head. Looking into the hangar, it was immediately apparent what was so entertaining. It was also apparent, when Corporal Chaos shifted his foot, that Tracer had a whole 12-pack with him. Most of the cans were empty. Ignoring the cans, his jaw dropped when he saw a guy in marine fatigues chasing after a mechanic. Unfortunately for him, it didn't look like he was too good in a 0g environment.
"Who's that?"
"That's Huckleberry. He joined us right about after we dropped you off at Luna II. Used to be in the same unit. "
"Why'd you get transferred to this unit?" Aram grabbed a can and drank from it expertly.
"Anger issues or some stupid shit like that. Ridiculous, right?"
Aram nearly choked on his beer and his eyes shifted back and forth.
"Yeah, real unbelievable. He here for the same reason?"
"Nah, his unit's just been combined with ours, unfortunately, he's the only dude left in it. Got routed by some faggo Zeekies. At Side 4. None of them saw them bastards coming."
"How'd he survive?"
"He was sleeping or something, I don't fucking know. When he woke up, he killed all the Zeeks, Panzergrenadiers."
"How many?"
"Fourteen."
"I'm pretty sure we've all killed our fair sh-"
"With a boot."
"He wh-"
"And an air rifle."
"A what?"
"You know, a BB gun, but with little plastic shits instead of little metal shits."
"Damn."
"Yep."
It was good to be home.
highly urbanized colony. The ass end of highly urbanized colonies also happened to be an environment they excelled at performing in, feeding off of the industrial exhaust and frustrated blue collar rage that saturated the air, like a fucking jet engine or some shit.
Down one of those awesome corridors, and inside one of those bitchin' rooms, Sarge (the few people who ever learn his name usually end up forgetting it anyway) and Corporal Aram Chaos, who had been performing some small clerical duties at Luna II, sat at a card table, lit by a lamp some people would recognize as an interrogation tool hanging from the ceiling. Those people who would recognize the lamp as such, incidentally, are either interred somewhere between Earth and Side 3, or they're currently helping agricultural growth in Side 4.
Sarge was chomping on a dingy old cigar behind a newspaper, probably the sports section, but Corporal Chaos couldn't really tell with the dim light being the only source of illumination. The fact that he was still able to disassemble and clean a particular firearm in that low light, wearing sunglasses all the while, was a testament to his intimate familiarity with his weapons. And now that he was back with his company, it was time to clean his weapons twice daily instead of once, and there was no better place to do it than in the company of a man who can taste how many people a gun could kill just by being in the same room as it.
Or so one of the guys said. There were lots of rumors about Sarge, and most of them were probably true. This was one was.
Sarge sniffed and turned a crinkling page.
"Chaos, where are you from." It wasn't so much a question as much as it was a demand, or an
announcement.
"Mars, sir." The light hanging over the folding table illuminated eddies of thick smoke and
a dissected shotgun in Corporal Chaos' hands.
"Marrrrrsss...." He rolled the word around his mouth like the bouqet of a pre-war vintage
plucked from the twitching hands of an eviscerated Zeek.
"
Yes, sir." Corporal Chaos inspected his shotgun from a new angle and clicked another part
back into place.
"Where on Mars, Chaos." Another plume of smoke dissipated in the dark room, thickening the
atmosphere even more.
"Aram Chaos, sir." The Corporal used a greasy cloth to wipe the excess lubricant from
another piece to his favorite impliment of 12-guage; that was met with a sudden visceral halting.
"That's your name, son." An eye peered over the newspaper, quizzical, yet furious in
restrained essence.
"Yes, sir, it is." Aram polished his gunstock. The awkward silence returned with a vengeance.
"Eagles are winning." Sarge sniffed again. "Get the fuck out."
"...Yes, sir."
Corporal Chaos found his way to an old marine buddy - Tracer Magnum. Private Magnum, as it were, he was an asshole, and a had a bit of a hard time following orders, even when he got the job done. He was- somehow- tipping back a can, probably a beer from a six pack he had somehow stashed away, and was watching something in the hangar.
Aram leaned up against the wall next to Private Magnum and they gave each other a friendly nod of the head. Looking into the hangar, it was immediately apparent what was so entertaining. It was also apparent, when Corporal Chaos shifted his foot, that Tracer had a whole 12-pack with him. Most of the cans were empty. Ignoring the cans, his jaw dropped when he saw a guy in marine fatigues chasing after a mechanic. Unfortunately for him, it didn't look like he was too good in a 0g environment.
"Who's that?"
"That's Huckleberry. He joined us right about after we dropped you off at Luna II. Used to be in the same unit. "
"Why'd you get transferred to this unit?" Aram grabbed a can and drank from it expertly.
"Anger issues or some stupid shit like that. Ridiculous, right?"
Aram nearly choked on his beer and his eyes shifted back and forth.
"Yeah, real unbelievable. He here for the same reason?"
"Nah, his unit's just been combined with ours, unfortunately, he's the only dude left in it. Got routed by some faggo Zeekies. At Side 4. None of them saw them bastards coming."
"How'd he survive?"
"He was sleeping or something, I don't fucking know. When he woke up, he killed all the Zeeks, Panzergrenadiers."
"How many?"
"Fourteen."
"I'm pretty sure we've all killed our fair sh-"
"With a boot."
"He wh-"
"And an air rifle."
"A what?"
"You know, a BB gun, but with little plastic shits instead of little metal shits."
"Damn."
"Yep."
It was good to be home.