Life After Death
Posted: Sun Sep 28, 2014 6:14 pm
Planet: Jordania
Location: Ikzian City
Date: September 9th, 2214
The entry vehicle shook, rocking with every slight turbulent that hit it. It was not a smooth ride by any means, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Smaller shuttles tended to feel the effects of bad atmospheric conditions far more then larger ones. And for the task at hand, speed and precision was the only real option, not a massed landing.
Sitting in one of the many chairs along the walls of the small craft was a man in his fifties. He had trimmed whiskers that wrapped to form a small beard and a graying tone to his thinned hair line. He was in good physical shape and kept his head back.
Leaning back he took a drink from a flask that was in his hand, a hard burning wash of ‘Homebrew’ whiskey running down his throat. But he was long since immune.
“Shit Morse.” A younger man that was sitting across from him said. “Fumes off that are gonna make me black out.”
”Git yer ass a set a balls n’ maybe you won’ be worryin’ bout havin’ em bitch problems.”
“Boss isn’t gonna like it if your drinking makes your fire too friendly.” The younger man said.
”At’s what this is for.” Morse tapped on the eyepiece to his Smartgun, his weapon of choice for nearly forty years.
The ICC had very specific laws against operating and owning military grade weaponry for people that counted as civilians. But the one constant of Morse’s life was simply that he did not care. And his times of listening to anything the Interstellar Commerce Commission had to say were gone the moment his discharge papers from the United States Colonial Marine Corps came through.
“One minute till we hit the dirt.” A voice came over the intercom.
”What a fuckin’ joy.” Morse said, moving his weapon up onto his lap. It was not the newest model of support weapon that was for sure, the dated weapon still carrying all of his various trinkets and memorabilia all over it.
But in spite of the weapons age, to say nothing of the man holding it, there was a lot to be said about someone who had been in the greatest military fighting force in the galaxy as long as he had been.
“Alright team. Everyone up and at the ready.” A man at the front of the craft said, walking towards the back where Morse was.
Morse got to his feet, and adjusted his harness a moment. His camouflage pants and boots were dirty and dated just like he was. He still wore a flak vest, though the green color had been replaced by a gray. And every bit of him had the look of a grizzled old veteran.
A Confederate flag, somewhat torn, still clinging to the side of his weapon, the dog tags of a few dead friends hanging off his arm, various writings all over his clothing and weapon harness, and a look in his eye that said he’d seen and done things that most wouldn’t imagine.
He appeared to be just as much of a misfit as the rest of his rag tag compatriots however. All of them seeming to be garbed in what they found to be the peak of combat efficiency. Some wearing advanced combat harnesses and weapons, while others had a more traditional soldiers attire.
“Up front, Morse.” The man in charge said.
”Ardy up.” Morse replied, moving to the back door which he knew was about to swing open.
The man behind him then stopped, and sniffed the air.
“Jesus Morse, you been drinking?” The man asked with a sort of sarcastic tone.
Morse didn’t look back, just stared at the door as they felt the small shuttle touch the ground with a thump and a shake.
He moved his hand to the side of his face, moving his eyepiece to hover over his right eye. Then he reached to the side of the weapon and pulled the priming lever, which armed the weapon.
”Every damn day.” Morse grumbled back.
The back door then opened quickly and Morse charged out quickly with others directly behind him.
Location: Ikzian City
Date: September 9th, 2214
The entry vehicle shook, rocking with every slight turbulent that hit it. It was not a smooth ride by any means, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Smaller shuttles tended to feel the effects of bad atmospheric conditions far more then larger ones. And for the task at hand, speed and precision was the only real option, not a massed landing.
Sitting in one of the many chairs along the walls of the small craft was a man in his fifties. He had trimmed whiskers that wrapped to form a small beard and a graying tone to his thinned hair line. He was in good physical shape and kept his head back.
Leaning back he took a drink from a flask that was in his hand, a hard burning wash of ‘Homebrew’ whiskey running down his throat. But he was long since immune.
“Shit Morse.” A younger man that was sitting across from him said. “Fumes off that are gonna make me black out.”
”Git yer ass a set a balls n’ maybe you won’ be worryin’ bout havin’ em bitch problems.”
“Boss isn’t gonna like it if your drinking makes your fire too friendly.” The younger man said.
”At’s what this is for.” Morse tapped on the eyepiece to his Smartgun, his weapon of choice for nearly forty years.
The ICC had very specific laws against operating and owning military grade weaponry for people that counted as civilians. But the one constant of Morse’s life was simply that he did not care. And his times of listening to anything the Interstellar Commerce Commission had to say were gone the moment his discharge papers from the United States Colonial Marine Corps came through.
“One minute till we hit the dirt.” A voice came over the intercom.
”What a fuckin’ joy.” Morse said, moving his weapon up onto his lap. It was not the newest model of support weapon that was for sure, the dated weapon still carrying all of his various trinkets and memorabilia all over it.
But in spite of the weapons age, to say nothing of the man holding it, there was a lot to be said about someone who had been in the greatest military fighting force in the galaxy as long as he had been.
“Alright team. Everyone up and at the ready.” A man at the front of the craft said, walking towards the back where Morse was.
Morse got to his feet, and adjusted his harness a moment. His camouflage pants and boots were dirty and dated just like he was. He still wore a flak vest, though the green color had been replaced by a gray. And every bit of him had the look of a grizzled old veteran.
A Confederate flag, somewhat torn, still clinging to the side of his weapon, the dog tags of a few dead friends hanging off his arm, various writings all over his clothing and weapon harness, and a look in his eye that said he’d seen and done things that most wouldn’t imagine.
He appeared to be just as much of a misfit as the rest of his rag tag compatriots however. All of them seeming to be garbed in what they found to be the peak of combat efficiency. Some wearing advanced combat harnesses and weapons, while others had a more traditional soldiers attire.
“Up front, Morse.” The man in charge said.
”Ardy up.” Morse replied, moving to the back door which he knew was about to swing open.
The man behind him then stopped, and sniffed the air.
“Jesus Morse, you been drinking?” The man asked with a sort of sarcastic tone.
Morse didn’t look back, just stared at the door as they felt the small shuttle touch the ground with a thump and a shake.
He moved his hand to the side of his face, moving his eyepiece to hover over his right eye. Then he reached to the side of the weapon and pulled the priming lever, which armed the weapon.
”Every damn day.” Morse grumbled back.
The back door then opened quickly and Morse charged out quickly with others directly behind him.