EDF Atlas

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."


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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."

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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."

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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?"

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.

Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas Cargo Bay Slums

Lying still on his side, facing the blunt blandness of a plastic divider, the crumpled form of Dennis Heldane was motionless in self-imposed reverie. Internally he writhed and roiled with pain, more so from the old wounds to his soul than from his fresh one to the flesh. Wallowing in his own sorrow was a much abused coping mechanism of his. It was a way of shutting reality out, completely insulating the psyche. Heldane’s logic was that if he denied all input from the outside, well then he certainly couldn’t be expected to act within it. It was bullshit and he knew it, but suspension of disbelief was a powerful force. A coward’s trick. In this state of mind he did not deny that he was a coward and this made things much easier for him. A coward lost the right to commit to action. A coward should not act for they would do more harm than good. Dennis proved that during his outburst when he stood before an armed mob and allowed his nerves to fray. Allowed someone to be killed hereby escalating the situation. For this he chastised himself, and mercilessly at that.

“P-p-please God ma-a-ke me stone.” He begged in near silence. Dennis was not a superstitious man by nature, he had seen enough suffering in his life to deny even the most remote possibility that any benevolent deity could possibly exist. In a proper state of mind he knew this most likely denied the possibility of cruel gods too. However, Dennis was an opportunistic believer. He did not engage in religious ritual or expand his knowledge of religion beyond what he already knew in desperate times and he never thanked any would-be gods for any miracle or blamed them for any disaster. In matters of the soul however when his will is strained Dennis tends to blame the gods he does not believe in for his predicament. What god would torture him with a twisted mind and encumber him with cursed flesh? Why no mercy? For what heinous crime which he may have committed in another life he did not have, was he paying the price for now?
Such irrationality strongly appealed to Dennis’s engineered helplessness.

Dennis’s silent self-victimization was crowded out by the verbal and physical confrontation between Lt.Cmdr Medina and the renegades. It was a curious thing to hear the doctor from a different perspective. Up until now Dennis had only heard her scorn her patients and with unnecessarily cruel intent, but doing the same to an armed man who probably wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in her head was something else. It was the difference between condemnation from a position of power, and defiance from a position of weakness. Dennis wished he had that kind of willpower. Yet it was not admiration or respect that began to well in Dennis’s gut but a far more sinister emotion. The amalgam of contempt and jealousy, the most insidious of the seven deadly sins that nobody ever openly admitted to.
Envy.

His pulse quickening with that special kind of hatred, Dennis found he could not remain still. God how he craved the doctor’s power! With not-at-all friendly competition, Dennis willed himself to stir.

“Get. Up.” He growled through clenched teeth and lurched upright on his rear and bracing against the wall rose up on resistive legs. Starring at the entry to the clinic where the doctor stood before the two guards, Dennis noticed the doctor’s hands were bound. The captain was there too, and her hands too were bound.

He also noticed that his were not.

Lt. Aiden "Roamer" Morrow
Sickbay, EDF Atlas
Melchoir System

The day was shaping up to be a banner one for the young pilot. Fresh off a public berating by his Wing Commander in the middle of a briefing and pulling the glorious position of manning the alert fighter -- sitting in a ready launch tube for half the night just in case something actually happened on what was turning into the most mundane joint mission in the history of manned space flight -- Morrow brush off the sleeve of his utility dress uniform and stepped through the hatch leading down the hall toward the Atlas sickbay.

If the day wasn't bad enough, he'd been putting off his standard round of injections and was going to catch more hell if he didn't get them taken care prior to his next launch. The standard joke was that you needed at least twelve shots to avoid getting an infection just by stepping onto one of the old Titan-class cap ships, but in this case it seemed that the Chief Medical Officer running things aboard the Atlas was either short of a sense of humor or suffering from on overabundance of satisfaction in sticking flyboys with big needles. Either way, Aiden wasn't going to weasel his way out of this one.

"Just in time, Lieutenant," a voice sounded to his left as he entered the bulkhead secured sickbay, causing him to meet the figure of Nora Grey, sporting a rolled-up sleeve and a bandage covered her own arm. Apparently the command and bridge staff weren't immune to the new regulations, either.

"What's the matter, they worried that you deskchair types are in danger of some nasty papercuts?" Aiden flashed the best smile that he could manage under the circumstances, never much of a fan when it came to needles, doctors, or even being around blood and sick people.

"Something like that," the young communications specialist said with a nodding, slipping on the jacket of her duty uniform and sliding off the examination table where she'd been seated. Black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail behind her, giving way to exceptionally clear skin and bright blue eyes. "Althought I think they saved and extra long one just special for you."

"Well damn, thanks," Morrow shot back with a glare before Grey offered a smile and headed back down the same way from which "Roamer" had come just moments before. Good to know that some people were having a good time with getting filled up to their eyeballs with god-only-know what kinds of drugs. It wasn't long after the officer allowed his eyes to trail Nora Grey walking again that the technician fielding all of sickbays vistors for the shift was before him and checking another name of the clipboard.

"Lt. Moor-oh," she said, mispronouncing the name with all the concern and care of a leaf blowing on the wind, "last curtain to your left. Take off your shirt and have a seat, the doctor will see you in a moment."

"Right, thanks," he said dismissively, but not before the technician had already dismissed his presence and moved on down the line. Aiden was beginning to feel like a cog in a machine, just another running on the assembly line. Still, he found the curtained-off "room" and dutifully removed his jacket and shirt and waited with a long sigh.

On the other side of the curtain, someone was puking their guts out into what sounded like a bucket. Or a flight helmet.

A banner day.

Lieutenant Commander Delilah Medina MD
EDF Atlas MedBay

Previously...

“Are you sure this is proper? To be offloading so much of our supplies?” a nurse quipped. Delilah found herself standing in the primary medbay’s pharmacy, peeling off tabs and counting off additional vials of antiviral vaccinations. “If everyone gets sick, then we’ll be in trouble. Right now we’re not and we can prevent that trouble from coming. Keep shooting them up,” she instructed. The brunette was quite focused on the slew of vials before her but no sooner had the nurse left with a shrug than her fingers started shaking. The lieutenant commander exhaled deeply and set the vial of vaccine in her hand in a basket with twelve others. Gripping the edge of the steel table on which she was working, she tried to brace herself for the panic that seemed to continuously re-emerge. She was the bitch who ran things now, what with their chief of staff dead along with their direct Medbay CO. That left her unofficially in charge and making this decision.

Vaccinate as many as possible. If there’s an outbreak of anything we’re all dead out here. I have next to nothing in terms of formal drugs to dole out. All I have are vaccines. I had better use them. Her decision had been within perfect rational action in her mind. Yet all of her staff were barely following through with the protocol, including that last nurse. The woman was the ninth person that day to ask her the same question. Should we really be doing this? The vaccines were meant to prevent illness. They were also in foreign space, facing foreign bacteria and illness. The change in environment would be hard enough for some, even though the EDF Atlas itself hadn’t altered. Given their complete lack of supplies in the face of disease, even battle, she didn’t know what else to do.

“Ma’am?” one of the nurses asked. His name was Brad Dawes she remembered quickly. Delilah blinked twice and turned her head viciously to face one their male lieutenants. He was one of the few staff she had that hadn’t yet pressed her nerves and better yet, he was good with the patients. They call that bedside manner. Oh Lord how many times she’d been told she didn’t have any.

“Mhm?” she hummed, sighing again as she collected the basket of vials and moved beyond the storage area to their main medical area, designed much like standard Earth Emergency Rooms at the moment, providing curtained off areas for every patient in their cue. Apparently they don’t want the officers seeing each other shirtless.

“Nurse Hale is off duty. We’re now short staffed,” Brad announced. “I’ll be on the floor now. Have to make sure things are getting done now anyways,” Delilah half smiled, moving a gloved hand to her hair to brush the wavy locks from her eyes. Her most recent haircut was proving troublesome. The woman had called it layering, making her cheekbones more pronounced. Instead, half her hair refused to stay in a ponytail. She’d have to bug one of the other lieutenants for bobby pins or whatever she could to keep it out of her face. If she wore her surgical cap around everywhere, now, when she was trying to convey confidence in what she was doing, would likely only disturb any of the officers coming in for this. Not to mention the aggressive campaign she had planned for any of the passengers who weren’t crew, given that they were eons away from EDF health standards.

Brad nodded in response to her comment and moved, discarding his old latex gloves to retrieve a fresh tray set up with the prescribed doses and vials. Under his arm he maintained a tablet which flashed the information of the latest lieutenant to check in.

Delilah moved over to her primary nurses station, a circular hub close to the middle of the MedBay’s layout. Drop screens projected information as to who was in what curtained area and which staff were on the floor and who was off and how long they had before they would return. The new programming was something she’d just instituted but it was helpful to know who was on and off the clock and for how long. Delilah set the signed out vaccinations into a rolling trolley of other vials and supplies. When each officer checked in at the door, their information would allow a nurse to draw up the specific doses. Depending on their field and station they would face specific vaccinations. The more exposure they had, the more they got. As Delilah began to schedule in the next round of shifts it popped up on the touch screen that Lieutenant Commander Aiden Morrow checked in. “I thought we had covered all of the flight deck personnel,” she clucked, touching her finger to the corner of Morrow’s name to drag it to a tablet on the desk to her left. She set aside what she had been working on and the screen returned to normal. Delilah picked up the tablet and Brad came to look over her shoulder absently.

“He’s late,” he answered her, pointing to the stamp date in the corner that indicated when he had been initially called for his round of vaccinations. As the pilot walked by, Delilah watched him exchange words with another crew member, his eyes lingering more than she would have thought appropriate. “I’ll take this one,” Delilah smirked at Brad. “Be nice!” the lieutenant quipped. Delilah rolled her eyes. “Enough of that. Get back to work, all of you,” Delilah barked and at that came the loud struggled noises of vomiting from curtain three.

Delilah pulled a white doctor’s coat over her black scrubs, taking the tablet with her and a tray of several vials and pre-loaded syringes loaded to Morrow’s specifications. The doctor was quick and she didn’t doubt that he had been in the curtained off area for long. Part of the program required them to be fast on their feet. They had a lot of people to see and she had a rule with her staff on how long they could allow a person to wait. Delilah knew it would be ill of her to break her own regulations and so she was fast, whipping the curtain open and stepping inside the small area. Morrow was seated and shirtless. She bit her lower lip, glanced at him and moved quickly to close the area again.

“Lieutenant Commander, I’m Dr. Delilah Medina,” she introduced herself though she didn’t look directly at him. The brunette kept her back turned to the pilot momentarily as she fished through a small cart for a pair of fresh gloves. Snapping them over her hands, she stood tall and turned to him, flicking her head so that the loose strands of hair remained out of her eyes.

“So, what’s kept you Morrow? I have twice the reason to give these vaccinations to you in a less than pleasant way,” she taunted him, glancing up from the tray as she moved to withdraw specific doses. The tablet with his information was set next to the tray of vaccinations and she eyed his weight and height, mentally crunching the numbers on the fly before she stabbed the caps with the syringe tip and withdrew the appropriate amount. Three needed to be prepared, the other two were spring loaded needles measured predetermined doses. Apparently, on top of her vaccination scheme he was due for regular shots as well. Fun for me, not for him.

“Unfortunately because you’re a pilot and you're overdue, you get twice as much as the others but from the looks of you,” and here she paused momentarily to let her eyes take in his physique, “I’d say you’re no baby and you can take it, but I’ll pin you down if I have to.”

Unfortunately, Delilah couldn’t say why she was rambling off the way she was. When she looked up in his eyes, she saw charm. For a pilot, he lacked that rugged look that accompanied most of the flight deck crew. Instead he was well kept and, unlike herself, appearing well slept and fed. I need a break and I can’t even take one.

“Just remain seated upright,” she instructed, moving to his side and pulling the cart with her. She pulled a stool from the corner of the curtained off are and took a seat. Delilah pulled a handful of cotton balls into her lap before she took his right wrist with her left, gently guiding his hand to face palm up to quickly check his circulation. “At least one of us has been eating,” Delilah commented, seeing the healthy blue of his veins trailing up the length of his forearm. Dropping his hand she proceeded to wiping the skin of his forearm with an antibacterial swab. Here, she dropped her bedside manner completely. She focused on his arm the shots before her. Were it some other medical officer attending to him, Delilah didn’t doubt they would try to take to him to distract him. Delilah didn’t feel that kind, especially seeing as he was late. Instead she pulled the first syringe into her left hand and pulled the skin tight with her right on his arm. “Deep breathe,” she instructed before she stabbed the tip through his skin and into the muscle of his deltoid. The spring loaded mechanism in the first clicked audibly and she didn’t doubt that he felt it. “Exhale,” she instructed, swallowing herself and discarded the used syringe into a bucket of medical waste. “Four more to go.”