Snippet #2617547

Off to the side of the room stood a man of monstrous proportions. He towered over everyone else in the room, even a pair of several of them might not have stood in equal measure.
He was dressed in a black long coat worn under a heavy breastplate. Several grenades were attached to the plate, along with a large rifle, billy club, and an almost archaic bayonet that doubled as a sword belted to his waist. His helmet was burnished black and the tinted lenses set over the eyes were a black mirror that reflected the room he was currently scanning.

Sergeant Markus Creed was all but in name, the man in charge of this section of the ship in terms of the patrolling soldiers and law enforcement. Very little made it past his notice, and much of the illicit things that were seemingly unnoticed were often simply allowed since being effectively trapped aboard a ship was a nightmare without some form of entertainment other than what their curt captain allowed. Markus himself was the ship's reigning arm wrestling champion, so he was lenient, as well as stern.

His attention was caught as a large, brutish man, by normal comparison, began yelling at another recruit over a spot to sit down.
Markus knew those types, willing to fight over anything just to prove they were stronger, and therefore better, but Markus also knew the difference between strength and simple aggression. He despised the large man instantly, and was mildly impressed when the smaller one dodged aside and made it away from the area before the melee went on in full.
His men moved to subdue the quarrel in an instant, but the Sergeant held them back with a motion of his hand and watched as a dozen or so recruits began pounding into one another.
After a minute or so, seeing that none of them would cease of their own accord, Markus went into the maelstrom himself, drawing his club as he went.
The first of those he came across was a thin man in the same worn garb most of the rest of the recruits wore. He was snarling and trying to tear the shirt from a woman who was screaming and trying to fight him off. Attention fixed on his prey, the man took no notice of Markus until he swung his club and shattered the man's arm. Now it was his turn to scream as he fell back holding his ruined hand.
Meanwhile the Sergeant shoved another man out of the raving throng, struck one woman in the solar plexus, stunning her, and simply stepped over one poor sod that had hit the floor.

Finally coming to the center of the storm, Markus pushed another frothing recruit off of the large, yet smaller, man that had started the commotion. The large man himself, whose name tag read, "Ericson", whirled, fist connecting with the solid breastplate the Sergeant wore. One broken knuckle and a headbutt later, he was staggering back, into the arms of the soldiers who were now pulling other people apart and cuffing those that wouldn't cease.

"Get those that are wounded to the medbay, and the big one... And that skinny bastard patched up and take them to the brig. Solitary for them both.", he commanded, his deep voice like a shattering mountain booming through the room. "Give them half rations for the next two weeks, and I want the names of everyone else involved and their rations cut by a third for the next week."

The skull-like visage of his onyx helm turned towards the man and woman that had more easily dodged out of the fight and pointed towards them.
"The same goes for the girl and the man over there.", he added with a dark finality.