Prelude: Operation Shooting Star

[Pale Rider]

INT. USS HEIMLICH – HOLD – NIGHT

The Marines sank into their seats, breath ragged, armor scorched. Outside, the ship climbed through smoke and night toward orbit.

Then, through the deck plating, a distant rumble built—deep, growing, unstoppable.

A flash lit the sky behind them. The shockwave reached them moments later, rocking the ship gently—like the afterthought of a god’s fist.

TORRES
(laughing, exhausted)
Woohoo! Mission successful!

SKIRATA
(grinning, wiping grime from his face)
And not a second too soon.

Soles leaned back against the bulkhead, closing his eyes as the comm chatter filled the cabin—status reports, relief, the sound of survival.

For the first time in hours, no one screamed.

Outside the viewport, the planet’s surface bloomed with fire.
The hive was gone.

FADE OUT.

INT. USS HYPERION – DEBRIEF CHAMBER – LOW ORBIT OVER LV-178

A cold, sterile light fills the room. The hum of the ship’s systems thrums underfoot. The surviving Marines of 2nd Squad sit around a metal table, still in scorched armor, the smell of smoke and burned resin clinging to them. Their helmets rest beside half-empty hydration packs.

Colonel Yates, the Regimental XO, stands at the head of the table with a datapad. His jaw is tight, his tone clipped.

COL. YATES
You disobeyed the extraction window by four minutes. The nuke wasn’t cleared through Colonial Command authorization protocols.
(pauses)
And yet—LV-178 Hive One is gone.

A long silence. Master Sergeant Soles stands behind his squad, arms folded, face unreadable.

SOLES
We did what needed doing, sir. No more eggs. No more colonists down there waiting to die screaming.

YATES
(stares him down)
And if that detonation had gone off under the APC?

SOLES
Then we’d be names on a plaque and you’d still have one less infestation.

A thin smirk tugs at Yates’s lips despite himself. He scrolls his datapad.

YATES
The survivors are being transferred to Gateway for quarantine and questioning. Weyland-Yutani has already lodged a formal inquiry. You can expect to see black-suits in your nightmares for the next month.

CPL. HENNIGER
(sarcastic)
Can’t wait. I’ll shine my boots for ‘em.

LCpl. GIOSSO
If they want samples, tell ‘em to go dig through the crater.

TORRES
Yeah—bring a shovel.

The squad chuckles darkly. Even Yates can’t suppress a short exhale.

He closes the datapad.
YATES
You’ve earned forty-eight hours downtime. After that, you’ll report for reassignment.
(beat)
Rumor says we’ve got a derelict hauler inbound from the Zenus Cluster. Long-range scans show movement aboard.

A murmur runs through the room.

SKIRATA
(sighs)
And here I thought I’d get to sleep in a bed for once.

SOLES
(to the squad)
Enjoy the downtime, Marines. You never know when it’s your last.

He turns to Yates, voice low.
SOLES (cont’d)
Next op—give us a clean slate and a bigger boom.

Yates nods.
YATES
Dismissed.

The Marines rise, exhausted and grimly proud. The door hisses open, spilling bright corridor light across their faces.

As they step out, the camera lingers on the datapad screen—
MISSION REPORT: OPERATION BLACK HORIZON – STATUS: SUCCESSFUL. CASUALTIES: ACCEPTABLE.

A soft alarm tone echoes through the ship—an incoming transmission from GATEWAY STATION.

SHIPCOM (V.O.)
“Unidentified object approaching at high velocity… requesting immediate intercept authorization.”

The Marines exchange glances.

FADE TO BLACK.

[SpectralDragon87]

Marcella "Grim" Alvarez walked down the hall of her new assignment, duffel thrown over one shoulder, trying to take everything in. She arrived about an hour ago but had yet to make it to her room. She had been tied up with health checks and paperwork, things ment to prove she was healthy enough to die.

She dropped her duffel bag into her room, her other things already delivered, and went in search of her new squad for briefing. Best not to give herself to much time to dwell on how she got here. That was relegated to her nightmares apparently.

[eyeball]

Stuck in med bay Paulson had nothing to do but lie there as some high tech internal 3D printer rebuilt his foot from the inside out. he was unable to move that leg and was frankly board already dispite it being less than 12 hours.
the expected treatment would be done soon and he was informed it would be stronger than an original joint but he had his doubts, when did the military ever get anything right.

on the plus side he knew he had missed the debriefing so that was good. keeping ones mouth closed when higher ups critize what you just sweatted buckets surviving had aways proved to be challenging for him. thats probably why he had only just made squad leader recently.

Paulson tried to itch his leg subconsciusly then remembered he couldn't yet. he looked at the timer, fifty eight minuets till he was cooked, it couldnt get here soon enough, he couldn't imaginge how people coped when it took weeks at a time to heal these kind of injuries.

[Pale Rider]

Marcella "Grim" Alvarez walked down the hall of her new assignment, duffel thrown over one shoulder, trying to take everything in. She arrived about an hour ago but had yet to make it to her room. She had been tied up with health checks and paperwork, things ment to prove she was healthy enough to die.

She dropped her duffel bag into her room, her other things already delivered, and went in search of her new squad for briefing. Best not to give herself to much time to dwell on how she got here. That was relegated to her nightmares apparently.

Master Sergeant Gaston Soles stood at the head of the table, one hand resting on a stack of hardcopy mission briefs, the other nursing a cup of coffee that smelled strong enough to peel paint. The moment Marcella stepped through the hatch, the low murmur of voices died down.

Every set of eyes in the room turned toward her — wary, appraising. Marines didn’t smile much when new blood walked in.

Soles didn’t speak at first. He just studied her — boots, posture, eyes. Then he gave a slow nod, as if confirming a suspicion.

“Alvarez,” he said, voice like gravel in a metal drum. “Grim, right? Welcome to the kennel.”

He motioned with his mug toward the rest of the squad — a rough-looking pack of combat veterans lounging around the briefing table, half in uniform, half in the act of pretending to be.

“These degenerates are the Devil Dawgs — what’s left of First Squad, Third Platoon, Free Legion.” He gave a tight, humorless smile. “We’re not the prettiest, but we bite hard and don’t let go.”

He walked a slow circle around her, like an old wolf sniffing a new one.

“I read your file. Said you were good under pressure. Said you don’t scare easy. Good. You’ll need both.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the bitter coffee and gun oil on him.

“Listen up, Grim. Out there, it’s not medals or rank that keeps you alive — it’s the Marine next to you. You screw up, we all bleed. You pull your weight, we’ll bleed with you. Simple enough?”

He turned to the squad. “Devil Dawgs, meet your new sister. Try not to eat her before we hit dirt.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, rough and genuine. Soles took a sip of his coffee and nodded toward the chair beside him.

“Grab a seat, Alvarez. We’ve got a rock to kill, and I’d rather you die knowing what the hell you’re dying for.”

<Tag Alvarez>

[Pale Rider]

Stuck in med bay Paulson had nothing to do but lie there as some high tech internal 3D printer rebuilt his foot from the inside out. he was unable to move that leg and was frankly board already dispite it being less than 12 hours.
the expected treatment would be done soon and he was informed it would be stronger than an original joint but he had his doubts, when did the military ever get anything right.

on the plus side he knew he had missed the debriefing so that was good. keeping ones mouth closed when higher ups critize what you just sweatted buckets surviving had aways proved to be challenging for him. thats probably why he had only just made squad leader recently.

Paulson tried to itch his leg subconsciusly then remembered he couldn't yet. he looked at the timer, fifty eight minuets till he was cooked, it couldnt get here soon enough, he couldn't imaginge how people coped when it took weeks at a time to heal these kind of injuries.

The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, cutting through the low hum of the med bay’s equipment. Pope stepped in, still wearing half his combat rig — chest plate unbuckled, helmet tucked under one arm, the faint smell of gun oil and ozone clinging to him like incense.

He paused just inside the door, eyeing the diagnostic lights dancing across the 3D bioprinter cocooning Paulson’s lower leg. “Huh,” he muttered, voice carrying that lazy drawl that somehow made mockery sound like small talk. “Didn’t know they were rebuilding you from spare parts, Corporal. You gonna come out of there chrome-plated or just shinier than usual?”

Paulson didn’t look up right away. “Go to hell, Pope.”

“Already been,” Pope replied with a grin, stepping closer. “Whole squad was there with me. You just got the express ticket back.”

He dragged a stool over with his boot and sat, leaning his elbows on his knees. His usual smirk faded as he studied the reconstruction process, the slow lattice of tissue forming under the transparent field.

“Doc says you’ll be back on your feet in two days,” Pope said, quieter now. “Soles says three. I’m betting five — ‘cause you’re a lazy bastard.”

Paulson cracked a grin. “Lazy gets me outta briefings.”

“Yeah, well, you missed a good one.” Pope leaned back, balancing the stool on two legs. “New blood joined up. Alvarez — callsign Grim. Looks like she bites.”

He watched Paulson’s expression, waiting for a reaction.

“She’ll fit right in,” Paulson said finally.

“That’s what Soles said too,” Pope replied, his tone softer now. “He’s already talking about another drop once you’re patched. You know how he gets when Command throws us a chew toy.”

Silence hung for a moment — the rhythmic pulse of the printer filling the gap.

Pope finally stood, tapping the edge of the pod with his knuckles. “Don’t make me drag your ass outta here next time, yeah? You’re the squad lead now. Gotta look the part.”

He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “Oh — and Paulson?”

“Yeah?”

“If they screw up that printer and you come outta there with a robot leg, you’re still buying the first round.”

Paulson snorted. “Deal.”

Pope flashed a crooked grin and slipped out, the door sealing behind him. The med bay returned to its quiet hum, leaving Paulson staring at the ceiling, the ghost of a smile lingering as the countdown ticked on.

<Tag Paulson>

[eyeball]

the medics got paulson up at two days as planned and man did he curse them. the foot looked ok and felt mostly ok but it was stiff and ached. 24 hours of rapid physio and he was kicked out of sick bay and fit for duty.
he smiled to himself as he left thinking "surprise surprise Soles was right as usual."

Paulson made his way from med bay to his locker and got changed into new combat fatigues he immediatly felt better strapping boots on gave him extra confidence that the ankle really was back to full capabilities. finally dressed again he looed up to see that it was only five minuets to lunch, if he hustled he might get reasonably near the front of the que.

He wasn't, it seemed that most people had had the same idea, he grabbed food and made his way over to the already sitting first and second sqauds.

[SpectralDragon87]

Marcella "Grim" Alvarez walked down the hall of her new assignment, duffel thrown over one shoulder, trying to take everything in. She arrived about an hour ago but had yet to make it to her room. She had been tied up with health checks and paperwork, things ment to prove she was healthy enough to die.

She dropped her duffel bag into her room, her other things already delivered, and went in search of her new squad for briefing. Best not to give herself to much time to dwell on how she got here. That was relegated to her nightmares apparently.

Master Sergeant Gaston Soles stood at the head of the table, one hand resting on a stack of hardcopy mission briefs, the other nursing a cup of coffee that smelled strong enough to peel paint. The moment Marcella stepped through the hatch, the low murmur of voices died down.

Every set of eyes in the room turned toward her — wary, appraising. Marines didn’t smile much when new blood walked in.

Soles didn’t speak at first. He just studied her — boots, posture, eyes. Then he gave a slow nod, as if confirming a suspicion.

“Alvarez,” he said, voice like gravel in a metal drum. “Grim, right? Welcome to the kennel.”

He motioned with his mug toward the rest of the squad — a rough-looking pack of combat veterans lounging around the briefing table, half in uniform, half in the act of pretending to be.

“These degenerates are the Devil Dawgs — what’s left of First Squad, Third Platoon, Free Legion.” He gave a tight, humorless smile. “We’re not the prettiest, but we bite hard and don’t let go.”

He walked a slow circle around her, like an old wolf sniffing a new one.

“I read your file. Said you were good under pressure. Said you don’t scare easy. Good. You’ll need both.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the bitter coffee and gun oil on him.

“Listen up, Grim. Out there, it’s not medals or rank that keeps you alive — it’s the Marine next to you. You screw up, we all bleed. You pull your weight, we’ll bleed with you. Simple enough?”

He turned to the squad. “Devil Dawgs, meet your new sister. Try not to eat her before we hit dirt.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, rough and genuine. Soles took a sip of his coffee and nodded toward the chair beside him.

“Grab a seat, Alvarez. We’ve got a rock to kill, and I’d rather you die knowing what the hell you’re dying for.”

<Tag Alvarez>

Grim looked at the faces around the table, faces she was now responsible for helping to keep alive. Faces with names and families. She could do this. She forces her heart to slow and nods to the group. She simply takes the offered seat not bothering with niceties there will be time to talk later.