Blades managed to smile at the gesture of kindness between stick jockeys and grease monkeys, thinking maybe she'd finally managed to find someone on this boat that didn't make her wish like hell she was still in the middle of the retreating force on the Endeavor.

Then she immediately leaned over to the other direction and threw up.

Any good doctor worth her salt and not in the middle of a hostage crisis would have seen that coming as the pilot's body reacted to the trauma of the situation and sheer force to which her body had been subjected. Needless to say, this was turning into a banner day for Mackenzie Hawkins.

"Help me up," she said in a voice that perfectly walked the line between some completely pitiful and someone you did not want to cross, "and get me back to the officer's racks."

As she upchucked, Digger leaned backwards, wrinkling his nose as the bile spewed out, and then did a double take as she asked the question. Digger raised an eyebrow, glanced down towards his missing leg, and then back towards Blades. "Askin' a cripple to walk places?" He queried. "You must be out of it."

Nevertheless, he hopped to his feet, using the crutch with an ease that told of his many years experience. Once he got himself settled, he looked down at her.

"I can't imagine that you walkin' right now is the best of ideas, Blades. Just thought I should get that on record before I get whipped by a medical professional or something."

He then offered a callused hand, down towards the Pilot Puky.

Using the man's offered hand and braced leg, Mackenzie Hawkins pulled herself to a standing position, taking a moment to grab her bearings again. Eventually, the world would have to stop spinning, she was sure of it. Considering how much of her hurt with every move, every step, every breath, every blink, the pilot knew that she shouldn't feel as, well, high-spirited as she did. Still, she was alive. That had to count for something.

"You're right. How inconsiderate of me, Chief. Why don't I see if I can't help you along. Maybe I'll even arrange to clear the deck and we'll get a wheelchair ballgame going for you?" Half leaning on Digger and half on the wall, Blades waited until things finally righted themselves before she took a step.

"The XO is gonna have my ass. Yours too just for talking to me, you know that?"

The deck chief couldn't help but let out a dark guffaw at the notion of him playing wheelchair basketball. "Lady, I have a bona fide reason not to exercise any more." He grinned, tapping the stump of his leg with the crutch, slightly changing their balance for a moment. "Why on earth would I go out of my way to ruin such a good thing? 'Sides. I'd hate to embarrass all the other cripples aboard."

At her statement, his countenance darkened considerably. "Fuck the XO." He said, simply. "With all do respect t' the man, a bomb just went off in my flight deck. So I'm not exactly concerned with protocol, or rules, or any damn thing we may be under at this time."

"'Sides," he went on, "Your a pilot. That makes ya one o' my top priorities. If you ain' happy, you'll take it out on my birds. And the last thing I need is you stick-jockeys fuckin' up any more of my girls."

"You know Chief," Hawkins said with a slight grimace as she started to walk out the soreness with every step, "one of these days we're going to find you a nice girl, preferrably one that doesn't weight a couple thousand pounds and must leave you with one hell of a chafe."

Kaito Narito, the executive officer of the Atlas, was as old school as the ship herself. Back on the Endeavor, Mackenzie had been used to the XO who was much more of a facilitator, a calm-demeanored man who conducted every exercise as though it was a business transaction. Rimmed glasses and a data pad with him all the time. Much easier to get along with.

Still, as much as she'd grown to dread every encounter with Narita, she couldn't deny that she'd much rather have the new XO in a fight. If they could find someone to fight other than each other.

"To tell ya the truth, Chief, I'm starting to get the feeling that this whole thing was one big wild goose chase. They could really use us back in the real fight back home right now."

The chief chuckled as they made their progress, stepping onto an elevator at the end of the corridor. The machine sported fresh repairs; shiny and glossy in places where it was once a uniform and gunmetal grey. "Nah. Non-mechanical girls don' interest me too much, if I'm honest. They have things called "feelings" and "expectations". I prefer my lovely ladies that soar and glide through space, you know? Especially the ones that Mr. Roamer happens to abuse most of the time. And you too, as it turns out. Where'd you all learn to fly, anyway? Culinary school?"

As the elevator began delivering them to the upper floors, taking them away from the decks, up through the levels of the ship. "Don't I know it, lady." He watched the ceiling of the car, as the elevator slowed and opened with a soft ding. "Don't I know it."

The lifting sensation of the elevator was enough to bring back all the dizziness and nausea she thought she'd left in a puddle near the match hatch combing leading onto the Flight Deck. Her mind immediately flashed back to another time she'd felt the same wrenching of her gut -- coming back from a long five-point training flight only to find that instead of Triton Station, she was greeted by a handful of escape crafts, debris, and a lot of questions.

"Better lock that up saying anything about the Station, Chief. You can't run too fast and I'm not afraid to hit ladies and gimps," she said, trying to keep her wits about her although it was clear that the color from her face was fading fast again.

An eyebrow arch. "Well, lady, I doubt in your condition you could dent something that hasn't been dented before." When the doors opened, they were on the Officer's landing - or, at least that's what Digger called it. It was filled with men and women that he'd never been in close contact with; so far above him on the chain of command that he never really dealt with them directly. Stepping out of the elevator, he made his way toward the Officer's Racks.

"How are you holdin' up, Blades? Gonna pass out on me? I ain't dragging your ass all the way over there."

The Titan-class boats like the Atlas didn't much care for luxurious accomodations or providing much more than the bare necessities needed by the "modern fighting man" in the ever-progressive Earth Defense Force. Only the most senior of officers warranted private quarters, that being the Captain, Executive Officer, and a few others that were dictated special quarters in special areas of the ship, such as the Chief Medical Officer.

Blades was used to the drill. Back on Triton Station, the gender lines had largely been erased. Of course, that had been thanks to drugs that had been used to suppress the natural sexual urges and development of the cadets during their teenage years, something that probably would have caused much more of a ruckus when discovered had it not been for the destruction of the Station and the outbreak of war. As such, Mackenzie Hawkins had been bunking next to and showering with the opposite sex for the better part of ten years now and hardly blinked an eye at the like anymore. Some of the enlisted had this idea that officers lived in a different world. They were wrong.

"I'm fine, really," she said as they stepped out, taking a moment to balance herself on the edge of the elevator door. "So this is what a girl has to do to get some rack time around here?"

Digger waited for her to gain her balance properly before continuing through the short corridor, whistling lowly to himself as he looked around. He didn't like visiting the upper decks of the Atlas - he communicated almost exclusively through radio, memos, and his subordinates; devoting most, if not all, of his time to the Flight deck. At this stage in the Atlas's flight, it was more than understood why he never surfaced; with the amount of repairs that were needed on almost a monthly basis, he'd let the face-to-face time slip a little bit, the official reasoning for it being "increased need for hands-on work."

As he stepped into the racks area, he glanced around at the various bunks, noting how similar they were to his own downstairs. "Hmph. Was picturing nicer digs." He murmured, before stepping further into the area. "Where is yours?"

Ducking down and gingerly swinging her body through the hatch combing that led into the pilot's racks, she pulled back the curtain and did her best not to completely collapse into the bed even though it was clear that the trip had exhausted her, just walking and riding in an elevating. Being knocked back thirty feet by a suicide bomber tended to have that effect on most people, she guessed.

"Home sweet home," she said, slowly lifting her booted leg up. A few pictures were stuck into the corners around the mirror, one of a much younger Mackenzie and a few others near the same age, all somewhere around eleven or twelve. Not long before SAPS would have sent her to the Station for officer training. Other than that, her area was fairly spartan. One had to be reminded that she'd barely had time to settle in to the Atlas. Unlike so many others, this place hadn't been her home from months or years.

"While you're here," she said, pointing to an upper rack on the opposite wall, "reach into that rack and get another one of those bars. He thinks I don't know about his stash." The rack of course, had the same sticker label as the fighter. Lt. Com. A. Morrow.

Diggers nodded at her advice, leaning forward and squinting at the name for a moment before grinning wildly. True to form, any opportunity to get under the young Lieutenant Commander's skin was taken with relish. Turning from her (a few second-long process, seeing as he had to manoeuvre with the crutch) he moved the short walk to the opposing bunk, reaching into it with a fishing hand, his bottom lip clenched between his teeth. Finding what he was looking for, he retrieved one of the candy bars and brought it back towards the wounded pilot, tossing it lightly on her lap.

"You earned that one." He said, grinning. He turned back, fished another from the stash, and pocketed it. Hell, maybe he'd eat it in front of the El-Tee the next time he had a chance. He turned back towards Blades, folding his hands as best he could through the crutch, his own exhaustion becoming evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Anythin' else you need from me, Gimpy? Or can I go back to work?" The faux annoyance was disrupted by the smile fighting to be shown.

The force of the four-ounce bar in a foil wrapper in her lap was actually enough to cause the young woman to moan slightly with a burst of pain. Damn, she really need to get some sleep and find a doctor willing to shoot her up with the good stuff long enough to get her back on her feet and back to the grind. From the looks of things, they didn't need anyone down for long.

"You just...you just keep thinking that..." She would have finished the sentence were it not for falling asleep mid-syllable.

Digger watched her pass out, the toil from her ordeal finally catching up to her. He watched her for a moment, just allowing himself to envy her youth, her fire, the way that she seemed to forge ahead with an idea - no matter how flawed - and see it to completion. He thought back to her stance on their being here; the belief that they were needed back home, instead of this wild goose chase.

"Don' matter where I am, Blades." He murmured, turning to hobble out of the Racks area. "So long as I'm flyin'."

Leaving the racks and the sleeping pilot, Digger then wheeled around, his eyes narrowed slightly. He began hobbling back towards his own turf, determination in his shaky steps. There was a lot to do.

And getting work reports topped that list.

Lt. Cmdr. Aiden Morrow supersecrettest

Amber watched passively as chaos rang out in the hordes of refugees below her. From her perch in the side terrace she heard the rebellious refugee's futile attempt to control the masses. From within the crowd a voice rose over the cacophany of panic. "Shutup! Shut the hell up!" When the commands went unheeded a man stepped forward and pointed his firearm in the air, firing thrice.

People stood paralyzed by shock and fear, a woman's agonized weeping was the only thing that could be heard. Amber watched as a man step forward and begin to speak. "Now I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't stand on stayin down here rottin away like trash while those scum up there get the king treatment!" He said with an angry scowl on his face.

Lieutenant Commander Delilah Medina M.D.
EDF Atlas Slums

She was at attention and yet she wasn’t. Delilah could hear her heart beat in her ears and the moans of the decapitated man behind her were fluid and blurred together. For a second she tuned back into her body, feeling the strain in her right knee of her stance. The ground weighed heavily under her feet as she kept herself in a firm position. Her feet were just wider than shoulder width apart, her heels wider than her toes. Her back was straight and her eyes continuously scanned the men who made moves to surround her. Only her heart was racing. As she checked in with herself, her attention returned to the movement of the men around her. She heard the shuffling of one behind her and immediately she pivoted on her left heel, the movement fluid given her light frame. She aimed her gun up at him, the barrel catching under his chin. She heard him inhale sharply and watched as he stepped back, her hawkish glance making him cast his eyes down. Wimp.

"Here's how this is going to work," the silver-haired man spoke, lifting his voice so that there would be no lack of clarity in Medina's ears. "Drop that weapon and give up the little fight you've got going on or I put a bullet between your captain's eyes. And that's just for starters."

The sidearm in his hands gave true aim directly at the stoic commanding officer.

"Put that weapon down. Every second you spend fighting back is a second that you're killing someone else.

How many officers did they have down here? As her eyes scanned the crowds she saw more worried faces than angry ones. As she counted weapons, she saw more of the homemade variety than formal guns. But of course the guns were in the hands of those who appeared the most aggravated. Her stomach churned as she found them severely outnumbered. It was at least 100 to 2 and the captain herself was currently in the hands of the rebels.

Medina lowered her weapon and turned to face him, stepping towards the end of the platform of stairs. She shifted her fingers wearily, feeling the give of the trigger. “What do you intend to do? Fly this ship? Handle the 1000 officers beyond this hold? We are in the middle of fucking nowhere! No response from command! We’re in enemy territory. We’ll all die and no one will care. No one will know. If you fully expect to seize this ship and then command it with your sorry lot you are sorely mistaken. They could just as easily open the hold and dump us all out. All of us. Including the innocents, which there are clearly more of than you.”

As she uttered that threat she looked into the corner of the doorframe behind her, spying the small black bead sized camera taking video and sound surveillance of the region. “I give permission to Lieutenant Colonel Kaito, interim Captain, permission to do so.”

And with that she tilted the weapon in her hands up into the air, her hands working meticulously to break it down into as few pieces as possible, scattering them on the ground as she held her hands up in the air in surrender.

EDF Atlas CIC

"What do you intend to do? Fly this ship? Handle the 1000 officers beyond this hold? We are in the middle of fucking nowhere! No response from commander! We’re in enemy territory. We’ll all die and no one will care. No one will know. If you fully expect to seize this ship and then command it with your sorry lot you are sorely mistaken. They could just as easily open the hold and dump us all out. All of us. Including the innocents, which there are more of than you.”

The static-burst sight and sound of the young medical officer filled the CIC as the bridge officers watched with bated breath. As Medina released her weapon, she was immediately charged and secured by two men none too please with her show of heroics thus far.

"Fool girl is going to get herself killed," someone muttered from behind a dark panel in the CIC.

"If they were going to shoot Medina, they would have done so the first time she took down one of their men," Narita responded with a gruff smile. As much as he and the ship's chief medical officer dressed one another down and as much as he personally would like to take a swing at the woman, he had to admit that she would have made on hell of a Marine.

"Make a log entry. Effective immediately, I am declaring that Captain Ramirez is incapacitated and am hereby taking command of the Atlas. Note the time."

"Aye, sir."


-------------------------------------------------------------

Cargo Bay Slums

"Glad you could join us, doctor," Ramirez spoke. The area that had once served as the makeshift civilian medical clinic for the Slums was now used as a convenient way to hide away the high-profile hostages used in the impromptu attempt to take over the ship. Zip-ties bound hands together. If there was a way to escape, it certainly was doing a good job of hiding itself.

"Mr. Heldane took tough blow to the head. Lost some blood," the captain said, her eyes drifting between the crewman who'd accompanied her down into the Bay and the small exit to the curtain-enclosed area to which they'd be relegated. Two guards, both armed, including the one who'd taken the gunshot that claimed the life of a civilian, the body just on the other side of the curtain before being dragged away.

Somewhere beyond the curtain, a phone rang. The silver-haired man took measured steps toward the ringing device, making sure that his team shifted in position to compensate before he answered.

"Speak."

"This is Lt. Col. Narita. I demand to speak to the person in charge."

"You are speaking with me, Colonel."

"Very well. You know my name. Who are you?"

"You can call me Perses for now."

"The Titan of Destruction. Amusing. Very well, Perses. You are illegally holding members of my crew. I demand that you release the personnel immediately."

"You and I both know that I'm not going to do that, Colonel. Not until I get what I want from you."

"You and your crew are in an indefensible location with not alternate route of egress and surrounded by lots of very angry Marines. You aren't exactly in a position of power."

"Shame, shame, Colonel. Did you really think that the little rumble on your Flight Deck was an isolated incident?"

"You're bluffing."

"Let's test that assumption, shall we?"

Seconds later, fire alarms begin to light on the board in the CIC, causing one of the duty officers to bolt from her position and nearly trip down the stairs as she reported to Narita.

"Sir, a fire just broke out in secondary atmospheric control. I was able to shut down the system, but it's going to be offline for a while now."

Slowly, Narita raised the CIC phone back to his ear and caught the phone on the other end again.

"That was just a baby. His big brothers are attached to your engines, fire control systems, and maybe even one right under where you are standing. This is the part, Colonel, where you ask me my demands."

"...I'm listening."

"I want a group of Boomers large enough to take a group of 30 men down to the surface, packed with weapons and supplies. I want them waiting in your auxiliary hangar and ready to go within three hours, otherwise you find that your position commanding this ship becomes permanent and your first duty will be to explain the deaths of a whole bunch of civilians."

"That doesn't give us much time. I'll see what I can do."

"You do that, Colonel, and maybe I'll see about keeping these people alive while I'm waiting. Just don't make me wait too long."

With that, the silver-haired man hung up the phone and nodded to one of his associates, who took his position as the leader walked into the curtain-enclosed area and tossed a small medical kit down on the floor between Heldane and Medina.

"That should be everything that you need to patch him up," he said with a surprising sense of sympathy. "We aren't monsters, you see."

-------------------------------------------------------------

EDF Atlas CIC

Invoking the image of his predecessor, Narita pinched the bridge of his nose softly as he contemplated his options in silence. After a few seconds, he locked eyes across the table to the waiting face of his Wing Commander.

"You better get to work."

With that, Morrow bolted out of the room with half a plan and no time to waste.

"Ensign Grey, have a fire team assemble in the auxiliary hangar. And if you're not to busy, now would be a good time say a prayer."

-------------------------------------------------------------

EDF Atlas Flight Deck

"Make a hole, make a hole!"

The last time Aiden Morrow ran that fast, he'd been an Echo cadet contending for the Cup. The stakes were just a little higher now. Flying down the manual hatchway and barely touched the rungs of the ladder as he crashed onto the Flight Deck, he skidded in front of Jason "Digger" Mieczyslawa, grabbing the chief by the arm and jerking him to face the officer.

"You're with me, Chief. We've got about five hours of work and half that time to do it in," he spoke at a million miles an hour. "When's the last time you took a walk in space?"

Responding to the other man's urgency, Digger was up, a new prosthetic attached to his leg. He wheeled around to face the other man, tapping the mass of metal and plastic on the deck floor, his eyes becoming alight with absolute interest. Despite this, he had the presence of mind to slowly push the remnants of a supplement bar wrapper deeper into his front pocket, the crinkling of plastic just one of a myriad of sounds on the busy flight deck.

"Been too damn long, boss." He said, grinning. "You have my absolute attention."

"Let's walk and talk, Chief," the young officer said, taking one last overarching glance at the intricate dance that was the full-scale relief and repair effort going on within and around the flight deck. Nary a soul on the entirety of the Atlas was off-duty at the moment, every half-able-body of a crewman work on something. About the only way to find some rack time in the middle of all this was to have been witness to a suicide bomb and take a personal flight across the deck yourself. Some people had all the luck.

"See, as the cruise director on this luxury trip around the Karas System, it's my job to make sure that all the passengers are cozy and comfortable. I've been hearing some nasty reports that the emergency ventilation shafts for our luxury Cargo Bay suite aren't up to snuff, so I was looking for someone that might be looking for a little crawling action."

Digger raised an eyebrow as he walked along, his footsteps going step-thunk-step-thunk along the floors of the ship. He nearly snorted at the luxury cruise analogy, hands shoved deep into his pockets as they moseyed along the floor. Something was up. Morrow didn't come and pluck him from the cave for just anything.

"Right, right," Digger said, impatiently. "So the ventilation shafts need to be worked over. That's fine and dandy, and I'm always into a little crawling action.

"But, as you can probably see, Morrow, there has been a bomb in my nest. The eggs are scattered, and it'll damn well take all the king's horses to put 'em back together again. Do the citizens of the luxury suite need these ventilation shaft repairs this badly?"

The crpytic conversation lasted long enough to carry the two men into the same lift that had carried Digger and Blades earlier in the same day. As soon as the door shut behind them, the man in standard bridge dress uniform turned and dropped the pretense.

"Armed civvies rushed and locked out the bay. They've got the Captain, Doc Medina, and handful of others. Claim they've got charges rigged on half the ship. XO's been trying to talk them down, but he wants something down yesterday," the pilot spoke with no breath between his sentences, waiting impatiently for the slow lift.

"This war was a lot more fun when I knew who we were fighting."

There was a slight pause as the crew chief absorbed the information.

"Well, shit. What's taking the lift so long?" He blurted, tapping his good leg as the lift continued it's achingly slow descent. "That space walk looks really good right about now."

When the lift ground to a stop, Digger immediately stepped onto it, his actions far more urgent. "Shit. Armed Civvies. As if we didn't have enough damn problems on this tug. If I find the guy who made that bomb, I'll kill him myself. What's the plan? Outside, and then down through the core shafts?"

Lieutenant Commander Delilah Medina MD
EDF Atlas Slums

While a medical professional, Delilah Medina also considered herself a marine. While she wasn’t always the one handling the gun, she sure as hell knew how to. She could blame too many hours at the shooting range, firing off rounds to keep her rage at bay. She was damn good at what she did, whether it was shooting a man dead or stitching him back together. In that instant, as she broke the shotgun down to as few pieces, tossing them in as many directions as possible – if anything to have one less weapon in their hands – she was hard pressed to let it go. The moment she dropped the barrel and shaft of the gun she tossed the trigger pin behind her praying it rolled behind the platform and out of reach. At once the men behind her seemed to regain their confidence. She held her hands in the air and kept her chin down. One burly individual stepped forward. In his hands was a rather old and brutalized looking AK-47. Duck tape appeared to hold the cartridge to the base of the weapon, something that made her sneer. Damn her for being a perfectionist. The stare offended the man who now handled her. He spat in her face.

“Pleasant,” she swallowed, leaning her cheek to her left shoulder to wipe the man’s saliva off of her face. He shoved her down into the crowd which seemed to part like an ocean around her. She connected with many angry looking rebels and behind them fearful and pitying civilians. Sure. Pity. Great. Made her day. Like she needed it.

"Glad you could join us, doctor," Captain Ramirez told her lowly. Medina looked at her Captain, a woman she’d thought batshit crazy just days before. She was in this mess because of her Captain. Now she’d do everything she could to protect the woman. Even though she was a bitch who’d thrown Delilah in over her head. She’d do her damn best, even if it meant death, to prove that the woman had not made a bad decision in sending her down her. The brunette was shoved to sit on a thin cot beside her captain. She could only keep her chin down to think. She leaned her elbows on her knees and sighed, holding her head in her hands. The plastic zipties they had used to secure her hands were too tight for her to move them without them biting into her skin. They threatened her profession by pulling such a stunt. If they stayed on too long, she didn’t want to think about what could happen. She needed her hands. She was surgeon.

"Mr. Heldane took tough blow to the head. Lost some blood," the captain announced. Delilah nodded though she hadn’t seen the man before she’d arrived in the hold. She bit her cheek as she fought to think through the mental map she had drawn of the slums. It had been organized when they’d established everyone, with families located in grids of various sizes, and walkways between family’s tents and cots the same distance to ensure that people could move freely.

Of course, with time people had come to occupy that space making it harder to move throughout the cargo bay. Two marines had complained this morning that it was becoming harder to access specific doorways. She had stood in this very clinic several times over, spoken to that damned civilian doctor. Where the hell was she? This was her space. She should be up in arms about it. Delilah knew she would be if she was in the woman’s position. As she swallowed and looked away from her hands her eyes focused on the incapacitated Dennis Heldane. She recognized him but his name didn’t come to her right away. She treated so many of them and so many resented her for her often crude bedside manner.

Delilah was shocked out of her thought process when her medical kit slammed onto the floor in front of her. Startled, the doctor rose to stand, trying to raise her hands to her face but finding herself restricted.

"That should be everything that you need to patch him up," the rebel leader told her, adding "We aren't monsters, you see."

“Well I can’t do fucking much with my hands like this can I?” she spat back, stepping over Heldane and throwing her hands in the face of the rebel leader. That earned her a slap and a good one across the cheek. She turned to glare at him, her eyes angrier. “You want me to do something about him, I need my hands, Sir,” She sputtered, her words laced with hatred. She turned over her shoulder to look at Heldane and to look at him good. His temple was swollen, split open but not too deeply. The swelling looked superficial but he likely had a concussion if they had walloped him good. All of this was surface interpretations however and from her stance a meter away. You never knew what a patient had in store for you until you were right there at their side.

SgtMjr Miles Lee Dyson

Time: 0100

EDF- Atlas Training Hall

Miles stood attentively while Master Chief Petty Officer Jacob Pierce of the Atlas' naval crew, instructed his Marines on the precautions and sighting in their weapons--many of the slick sleeved sons of bitches suffered 'slide bites'. The pinching or abrasions of the hand was caused due to holding a semi-automatic pistol too closely to a recoiling slide. Though they were technically the same rank level, Miles held seniority because of the date at which he had achieved his rank was prior to that of the Master Chief's. Therefore he could instruct the Chief and he could then instruct the Privates on their conduct.

Many were shocked when Miles came aboard the Atlas, the large noticeable scar covering the entire breadth of the right side of his face. It was hard not to notice, what looked like half his face had been removed and reattached. Regardless, his countenance remained stoic despite some of the looks of disbelief and admiration at one of the most highly decorated veterans of the war. "The Hammer" was paradigmatic of what a soldier, a Marine should be. Tall, muscular and very menacing to look at his uniform was 'crisp' in appearance; for his unparalleled standards of professionalism and uncompromising personal conduct and appearance. It was Marine's duty and personal obligation to maintain a professional and neat appearance. Any activity, which detracted from the dignified appearance of the Marines, was unacceptable.

The personnel aboard the ship quickly had learned that the "Iron Mike" was no advocate of jokes; he was a shit in the dirt-old school sergeant that would openly teach the lessons needed to be taught. This would often have an impact on the flow of injuries ranging from minor concussions to broken bones. He had even reputedly told many lieutenants who expected a salute from him--pointed to the star in between the three chevrons and four 'rockers' and told the lieutenants who tried to force his respect that until they had more stars than the one he carried he wasn't saluting shit. Those that endured his mental, physical and even at some levels--emotional castigation became highly trained and very efficient. Not like these slick sleeved bastards before him that hardly knew how to aim a weapon.

"Fire!" Master Chief Pierce called out. His hands clasped behind his back past his waist. He was a man that believed in...More orthodox teaching strategies. Strategies that didn't involve breaking a soldier's mentality--and definitely didn't storm the sick bay slapping every Marine that suffered from things like dehydration and insomnia. These things the Chief Petty Officer tried to get the Captain to see his "mistreatment" of the troops before today but the decision was yet to be adjudicated by the ship's Captain as she was the highest ranking commissioned officer.

However, as the Master Chief continued to instruct the group of Privates, The Sergeant Major remained in the back staring out with a thousand yard stare. An unfocused gaze of a battle-weary service member; a characteristic of post-traumatic stress disorder was a symptom of battlefield stress and exhaustion. It became named so during World War II, because the victim would become unresponsive and stare "a thousand yards off". The despondency of the Sergeant would go unnoticed as the men continued sounding of with their side arms.

Miles' mind ventured back eight months ago, but made no mistake of leaving his body vulnerable. Every hair on his arms and face became like an antenna to receive any change in the atmosphere mean while his ears were left open for such keywords as "dismissed" or the call to attention. His memory recreated that day at Proxima Centauri. The sounds of utter silence where there once was a thriving metropolis. The taste of dryness in his mouth and throat, the rawness that it contained because of his dehydration. He could smell burning flesh all around him as the unadulterated scene unraveled before him. The rounds exploding from the ranks were akin to those that the squad he was with sounded like.

A ringing came searing through Dyson's brain, filling his ears. Then, all he could see were the faces of his comrades fighting for not only their lives, but the lives of the civilians they had left to defend. Everything was muted yet time seemed to persist. Exhaustion slowed him down then, four days without rest he could remember how his body trembled then. Still, adrenaline and urgency carried him on its broken back. He then felt the back of his skull become increasingly hotter as he relieved the mere moments of active consciousness. He could hear his heartbeat, throbbing in his ear drums. Variegated colors; the world was black and grey and his own blood a brilliant carmine as he slumped to his knees, his body losing all sensation. He watched the world become topsy-turvy as the memory of him fell forwards and ceased the progression of the dream.

"Well done for today. You have yourself a small semi-circle on the clock to rest and prepare for the obstacle course. If you have been shown any faults, work on them." He heard the Chief call out, making Dyson's ear's twitch. What the hell was this shit? This wasn't the Navy, the Marines had standards. Pussyfooting was not among them.

"Belay that order." Dyson said sharply, his eyes scanning the floor before his head turned to the side to glance at the Chief before he continued forwards, tying one hand around the wrist of his opposite arm. He did so behind his back and below the small of it. He carefully and slowly marched from one side, pivoting sharply 180 degrees on a dime and faced the exact opposite way. “You all care to eat, you will earn your meal in MY beloved Corps."

Dyson stepped casually stepped forwards, being a few paces out from the squad-formation. He walked until he was in-front of the center Private." Squad, Atten-tion!" He called out stressing the command so much that it bellowed as it was vocalized. The result was that the seven man fire-team 'snapped' to. Standing perfectly upright with no slouching, looking forwards intently with their arms and their with heels together, feet forming an angle of 45 degrees. Their chests were raised. Allowing their arms to hang naturally— thumbs along their trouser seams and fingers joined and in their natural curl. Keep their legs straight, but not stiff at the knees. They directed their heads and eyes to the front, keeping their mouths closed, and pulling their chins in slightly. When called to attention, they brought the heel of their left foot to the heel of their right foot in a singular motion that ended with an audible 'click'.

"Boys and girls," Dyson called out, looking from left to right. "You want to stick your cock in her, you want to caress her with your wet lips--well listen up and listen good. The only way to get into her secret garden is through me. Any other way--" He looked back at the Master Chief and smiled coyly. “We’ll let the Navy handle that." He returned his hawkish gaze back to the raw recruits. "Squad leader!" He bellowed. “Front and center!" Dyson commanded.

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" A wiry, redhead female--Corporal Kaiya Evans stepped forwards, turned and marched to her commanding NCO. She stopped in front of him, turned to face him and immediately snapped to parade rest. That was to say, she spread her feet about 12 inches while bringing both of her arms behind her back interlocking her hands. The back of the left hand rested against the back. The back of the right hand rested on the palm of the left, with the left thumb locked over the right hand and the right thumb locked over the left thumb. Her eyes stared straight ahead.

"Corporal, what is your name?" He inquired, but having looked at the dossier which held all of their names, he knew her name already.

"Sergeant Major, my name is-" She was suddenly cut off.

"It doesn't matter what your name is Corporal! If I call you hits in the mud, you will answer to shits in the mud, am I understood?" The Sergeant called out abruptly, causing the young woman to jump. She quickly reasserted herself.

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" She shouted.

"I can't hear you." Dyson called out, extending the emphasis on the latter part.

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" She shouted in response, becoming even more vocal yet remaining rigid.

"That is better Corporal, instruct your squad to attention and then to the push-up position. We will do PT until 0300." He told the Corporal before doing a perfect left face and pacing the ranks.

"Yes Sergeant Major!" The Corporal shouted before returning to attention, doing an about face and looking out at the remainder of her fellow squad mates. "Squad, Attention!" She called out causing the recruits to stand upright with their hand and arms down at their sides following the flow of the seams along their pants. "Squad, push-up positions!" The ten man team fell face first catching all their weight and the rounded ends of their boots front ends and their palms. With their feet placed together. Their bodies then maintained generally a straight line all the way down and all the way up. "Waiting for further instruction Sergeant Major!"

Miles stalked all the way around the group, stepping methodically around them with his hands at the small of his back."We will do ninety nine push-ups Corporal." The Sergeant Major replied to the Corporal status of ready. This was much to the quiet lament of the group.

"Ninety nine push-ups!" The Corporal called out. "One!" All the Marines then dropped their bodies while the Sergeant began a cadence to keep them in line.

"I left the sky in the middle of the night," Miles called out, completing a circuit around the room, hands still tied behind his back.

"I hit the deck and I'm ready to fight. " The group called out.

"Colt .45 and Kabar by my side," Miles then sounded.

"These are the tools that make men die. Hail, hail, infantry queen of battles, follow me Marine Corps life is the life for me cause nothing in this life is free. "

"Here I lie in this foreign land," Miles shouted from adjacent of the perfect row of flexing bodies. By now they had done thirty push-ups.

"Bleeding on this foreign sand."

"Ground around me turning red,” Miles shouted with heart.

"By the time they find me, I'll be dead. Hail, hail, infantry queen of battles, follow me Marine Corps life is the life for me cause nothing in this life is free. " The Marines proudly responded. Sixty reps; their arms tired significantly but the sense of camaraderie preventing them wanting to fail.

"In the middle of the night in the drizzle and rain,” Miles sounded off.

"I packed my chute and ran to the plane." The Marines responded.

"Mission top secret mission unknown,”

"We do not know if we're ever comin' home. "

"Stand up buckled up shuffled to the door,”

"Jumped right out the plane and shout MARINE CORPS! " The whole row shouted louder than before.

"If my chute don't open wide,”

"I've got another one by my side. "

"If that chute don't open round,"

"I'll be the first one on the ground. Hail, hail, infantry queen of battles, follow me Marine Corps life is the life for me because nothing in this life is free. " The men and women called out struggling with their ninetieth push-up.

"Tell my mama not to cry,"

"Cause in the Corps it's do or die. "

"Pin my wings upon my chest ,"

"Tell my loved ones I've done my best. "

"Place a Kabar in my hand. "

"I'll fight my way to the promised land. Orraaahhh! Blood and Guts. Orraaahhh! Everywhere, blood and guts everywhere! We're lean and mean, We're the EDF Marines! Orraaahhh! Semper Fi! Cause int the Corps we're do or die! Hail, hail, infantry queen of battles, follow me. Marine Corps life is the life for me, cause I'm Marine Corps infantry! " They called out, like a battle cry, like a prayer recited each night. Stopping on their ninety-ninth push-up; quivering arms exposed everywhere, yet not one of them leaned or bent downwards. From behind the group Miles nodded to the squad leader causing her to spring to her feet.

"Squad!" She declared. "Attention!" She called out, making the remainder jump to their feet in a similar fashion. Miles in the meanwhile stepped around to the head of the group. The Corporal snapped to and did an about face. Lifted the right foot from the hip just enough to clear the ground. Without bending the knees, place the ball of the right foot approximately half a shoe length behind and slightly to the left of the heel. Distributing the weight of the body on the ball of the right foot and the heel of the left foot. Keeping both legs straight, but not stiff.

Miles looked out at sweat drenched faces and olive green shirts. Their MARPAT jackets left off for the physical training. He saw the tiredness in their eyes, yet it covered something else entirely--an intensity. They weren't ready just yet, but they were on the precipice of what a soldier should be. He stepped past the Corporal, eyes forwards. He then walked off to the side; he picked up a long, flexible rod he had carried on board. It was made of a taut balanced wood.

"Corporal, it has come to my attention that if would care to resume the role of a junior NCO, you must first earn your blood stripe." Blood Striping was a form of hazing where fellow NCO's inflict damage to the outer thighs of a newly promoted Corporal to simulate the scarlet trouser stripe worn on the blue dress trousers, awarded to Marine officers and NCOs due, according to legend, to their high fatality rates in the Battle of Chapultepec. " Do you care to resume your employment as Corporal, or should I find another here who is more worthy of the rank?" Miles questioned soberly.

"Yes, this one would like to resume her position of junior NCO Sergeant Major!" The red headed woman responded.

"Strip down Corporal, and prepare for your lashings." Miles commanded. This being a unisex conformation, no one spoke a word as the woman unbuttoned and unzipped her pants and let them fall to the floor exposing her bare, pale skinned thighs. Miles flexed the wood in between his hands, bowing it upwards several times as he walked about. Tapping it on his palm, he moved about the woman slowly before he conferred to the rest of the group.

"To become a Corporal, you must earn the blood stripe with blood. It is proof that you will give it all on the battlefield. Both for the EDF and for you fellow soldiers. You will be the first one into battle, and the last one to leave should a Sergeant or higher not be with you." He turned sharply towards the Corporals flanks, striking the backs of thighs until he drew several lines of the thick, carmine expulsion from the tender flesh along the outer side of one thigh. The strikes would come as painful 'cracks' against her flesh like a whip.

The Corporal's face contorted, but it was unseen to the rest of the men and women as she--like them--was faced forwards. Miles could see her eyes welling up with tears and her lips twinge as if to break the silence with a scream or cry. He quickly directed the bloody rod.

"Don't you cry on me or I will have your ass swapping the decks with the rest of the seaman on boards this here fine vessel, is that understood Corporal? I won't have a weak Corporal!" He shouted, raising the elevation of his voice to punctuate the severeness of his command.

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" The woman would almost choke on her words but her determination didn't wane through exposure of amplified pain levels. Miles snapped off a small portion of the bendable baton. He stepped up to the Corporal.

"Open up." He commanded her. Kaiya opened her mouth without question and Miles placed the small bit of wood in her mouth laterally against her teeth. Once his fingers retreated she bit and gritted her teeth like a pit bull locking its jaw. "Marines show no weakness!" Miles shouted to everyone, even to the Master Chief. "They take no prisoners--you want people alive, keep them the fuck out of our way! We are killers, ladies and gentlemen. Born and bred and highly trained killers. We don't ask what our orders are for--we just follow them to the letter. Our sole purpose aboard this ship, are the welfare and protection of its crew and occupants from all threats." Miles continued to lash Kaiya's legs with each and every word. The blows became ever harder. At one point her knees slackened from the pain and writhing and he slapped her ever harder making her upright once more.

"We have no weaknesses. I will not tolerate any weaknesses in MY marines. You want to be weak, you join the Army. Them fucks aren't ready for the Marine Corps yet." His voice was as sobering as ever, but by the time he had fulfilled his orbit around Kaiya, her legs looked like raw hamburger and the rod he carried--looked as if he had just impaled someone with it, the blood even had gotten on his hands. He stood in front Kaiya, but a few paces back.

"Corporal Kaiya Evans, you may redress, and fall out your squad--and keep that small bit for your Corporal once you are of rank. You have earned your chow time, recon at 0600. Dismissed." Miles about faced and head away from the group, in the background he could hear Kaiya fall out the squad as commanded. The ovation and admiration for Kaiya were of note.

SgtMjr Miles Lee Dyson

Time: 03:31:42

EDF- Atlas Weight Room

" Two-hundred and ninety-eight..."Dyson lowered himself back down having just performed one of the last in a set of pull-ups. His shoulders flexed with visible muscle mass, mass that was not shown through the uniform despite how form fitting it was. His shoulders, shoulder blades and upper back in general looked like the vast Rocky Mountains with its curvature and contours. Miles' biceps flexed powerfully, full encompassing the task of lifting his heavy body up from a stationary hanging position. In this case he was using an arm fly machine itself as there was no higher altitude for him to grasp given his height. Attached at the ankles of his feet were twenty pound dumbbells. Each time he would perform a pull-up, lifting himself up over the bar and nearly to the bulkhead--he would then draw his bent knees up to his chest while hanging, ten to twenty times before he would lower himself back down in a controlled effort.

"Two-hundred and ninety-nine...Three hundred..."

All Wing Commanders are required to support their flight data and recon report to the Captain immediately to prepare for surface insertion. All surface units are to prepare for duty by 0400.

That being said Dyson released the large bare which he had been performing the mainstay of his exercise for that day, go and landed with a loud clatter on the metal armored deck. The crew looked back at him as he panted unstrapping the two weights from his ankles--they being held to his bod by durable bands of rubber that could also be used for stretching out. Sweat was pouring from every pore on the man’s face; it looked as though he had recently walked through a waterfall or shower. His bare chest which rippled with slight cavities and bulging muscle heaved deep gulps of air into his lungs. He quickly wiped the towel over his face and slid on an olive green shirt to cover him before he sauntered out of the room, grabbing his dossier along the way.

The dossier notified him of Jacob taking a squad of Marines. Miles' eyes moved across the name that requisitioned his marines. Jacob Pierce. His eye reflexively twinged in animosity. He would have to get to the bottom of this. He began marching down corridor after corridor, brushing past anyone in his way stiffly. He came to a computer kiosk, he typed in his name, rank and access key code.

Dyson, Miles
Sergeant Major
1, Alpha, 2, Whiskey, 4, Sierra, 6, Oscar

Entering...
Login complete

"Computer, who gave Pierce the order to requisition Marines for a topside landing?"

"Captain Ramirez, Sergeant Major Dyson."

There was an unexpected rumble, a groan in the belly of the ship that made even a vet who was used to working on rock, unsettled terrain like Dyson was grab the wall to brace himself as the ship was rocked by an explosion from within. Rather it was inside or outside, Miles didn't know for certain until he could ascertain the damage himself or be debriefed by a higher authority. One thing was for sure though, the men and women aboard this vessel were no idiots, they knew how to make her sail smoothly. They had to have been under attack. They were in Thalian airspace after all.

With red alert alarms blaring, the decks temporarily went dark and only with a gradual ease back into normal function dis the lights illuminate the armored decks. Dyson marched down the halls towards the stern of the ship, but not before stopping in his own quarters to strap on his EDF uniform that consisted of the same digital camouflage pattern as his pants, a woven in ballistic ceramic plate and layers of woven or laminated fibers, capable of protecting the wearer from small caliber handgun and shotgun projectiles, and small fragments from explosives such as hand grenades. The ceramic plates ceramic plates could be used with a soft vest, providing additional protection from rifle rounds, and metallic components or tightly-woven fiber layers can give soft armor resistance to stab and slash attacks from a knife.

He grabbed his handgun, a massive .460 Revolver that was once used to hunt even large game, strapping it to his thigh. He slid a metal container out from under his bed, pulling the case up on the mattress he flipped the locks and popped the lid to reveal the FR-27 Fletchette Rifle. An experimental weapon that was thought lost on Artemis. The “Sanction” as it was called was a fully automatic combat rifle. But instead of firing bullets, the FR-27 SFR fired flechettes; a pointed titanium-tipped projectile, with a vaned tail for stable flight. These .303 caliber fin-stabilized ‘darts’ separated from a discarding sabot, the flechettes that it uses are faster and more powerful than conventional bullets an effect of being larger, heavier rounds, these rounds were fin-stabilized and fired by a smoothbore barrel. This power comes with a cost though as only 20 rounds can be held in a single magazine.

The reloading procedure was most unusual; the entire forward section of the rifle hinged near the muzzle to expose an internal loading port, into which the magazine is inserted. The feed direction appears to be upwards, meaning that despite appearances, the combat rifle is not actually a bullpup layout. Following loading, the rifle is closed up and the cocking handle on the left side is rotated clockwise. He did just that after slipping a stripper clip, he pushed the clip down into the breech before letting it align with the barrel and pop out the clip itself while keeping darts intact. Upon cocking the weapon, chambering one of the many deadly projectiles he immediately went out of his room.

In a matter of minutes he had gone down several flights and came out on the aft deck. He pushed past people aggressively, nearly knocking more than a few on their asses due to his sheer size alone, without adding the force behind it. Running into him, was like running into the side of the ship itself. You weren't going anywhere but down. To these individuals the scarred and battle-hardened vet stepped over without much of a ruckus. He opened the large metal door and stepped inside. Immediately someone called "At ease" but Dyson was quick to rectify.

"Get your asses locked and loaded, some poor fuck just made the biggest mistake of their lives, they attacked my captains ship and now their assess belong to me." He shouted vigorously, almost seeming bloodthirsty as he clapped his hands further to convey the meaning of short time. Fourteen men and women including two Sergeants, two Corporals and a handful of Privates all readied their battle gear in just a few short minutes. They had different rifles than Miles, they had Hk416's. It used the same platform as the American M4 carbine with many changes, most notably a new gas operating system, piston driven. The piston operating system significantly reduces malfunctions while increasing the life of parts. The proprietary gas system was derived from the HK G36, replacing the direct impingement gas system of the standard M16/M4; short-stroke piston driving an operating rod to force the bolt carrier to the rear. This design prevented combustion gases from entering the weapon's interior, a shortcoming with direct impingement systems. In turn, reducing heat and fouling of the bolt carrier group increases the reliability of the weapon and extends the interval between stoppages. It also reduces operator cleaning time and stress on critical components. It had an adjustable multi-position telescopic butt stock, offering six different lengths of pull.

The shoulder pad could be either convex or concave and the stock features a storage space for maintenance accessories, spare electrical batteries or other small kit items. Its trigger pull was a little over seven pounds. It was a heavy pull, but it kept most civilians who weren't used to weight and awkwardness of the platform to actually pull off a round without actually and deliberately squeezing the trigger. To an experienced hand, it was second nature. To a naive one it would almost have a lingering moment of just when was it about to expel the bullet from the chamber leaving one all the more frantic in a battle zone. He had seen it more than a dozen times; civilians panicking, grabbing the first weapon they can just to have the illusion of resisting to be cut down when they realized too late that they didn't understand the operation and subtle technicalities of it.

Once the two man fire teams of seven were loaded for bear, Miles lead them from the room. The decks were frantic with bustling life. The 'blood' of the ship, the red cells to stem the tide of damage while he and his men were the white cells to fight of any foreign bodies that be. As such, the able-bodied seamen, ensigns and midshipmen cleared a way for Miles and his men while they swarmed around them. In times of peace there was an unwritten biased from one to the other. The Marines believed the Navy to be too lenient, too lax and therefore weak by nature. The Navy in that same mindset, thought the Marines to be brutish thugs with nothing else on their minds than their hands on their swinging dicks and a thirst for blood. However, if one was to raise a hand against one, they would only further raise it against both as they coalesced. They were a fighting force, but they fought battles decisively differently.

The only services that did not truly intermingle were the Army and the Marines. There was simply much testosterone between them. That created a scenario reminiscent of a blood-feud. However, the Army branch held many of the land based vehicles, while the Marines, well, they were as Miles put it "Born and bred killers". They fought in the air, in the water, on land--they fought on distant worlds and he was damn sure they fought on the home world. They could tap into the mechanized but they were mostly infantry based where even senior NCOs, which could act as advisers--doubled as field commanders of battalion-sizes and lower. They got down to the nitty-gritty shit and mud with their fellows. Many of the other services did house their own infantry, but none were so trained as the EDF Marines.

The fourteen soldiers climbed their way to the bridge, flooding the stairwells in a sea of double-timed stomps that rang throughout the corridors due impart to the metallic substance in which they were constructed. He was met part of the way as he made his way towards the bridge. Each additional deck added to a likening of a growing frenzy in him. It was never a part of human nature to enjoy such violent things as this. But his nature had been radically altered from the start and only fed on the blood and the desire to wage wars. Between Dyson's breasts, beat a singular heart. Yet, it was a heart long forgotten to the whims and vagaries of a stone-cold killer.