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5/26/2025, 2:54:11 PM
Your mind is in a dark place as you stalk back in the direction of the Vinehound Squad bivouacs. You unconsciously play with your technicolour bracelet, or perhaps it’s the opposite and your fidgeting is all to conscious. They aren’t bad folk, these League of Dis rebels. You’re a long way from calling yourself a friend to the alien, but even the xenos types in their ranks have done nothing you know of to deserve what’s coming. These escaped slaves have just had the ‘verse deal them a shitty hand, that’s all. It’s not like you’re looking forward to making it even shittier before the end. But you’ve made your bed and your voiddamn going to lie in it, especially since that’s the bed that maybe sees you and your people get out of this mess alive.
"It ain't Goddamn right!"
A tense edge to the tone of two slightly raised forces up ahead serves as a welcome distraction to your troubles. You can see Corporal Crane and Trooper Bones facing each other by the camp showers, occasional lukewarm showers being one of the few perks of setting up shop in a pre-established smuggling den. Both men are in out of their combat gear for once, Crane in short PT shorts and a folded towel over his shoulders and Bones much the same but with an old Earth Republic army shirt on top. Bones is one of the physically fittest soldiers in your platoon, once you discount cybernetic or genemodded freaks like yourself, and you’ve always thought that Crane’s canvas of full-body ink complemented his lean physique rather well. A girl might have been minded to ogle for bit and perhaps dish out the customary crude remark or wolf whistle.
But something in the sharp tone and hard stares the two men are giving each other gives you pause, enough for you to dismiss your first instinct to engage in some squaddie banter and instead straighten up and put on your sergeant face. Although the two men are still a fair distance away when they spot you approaching, your preternaturally enhanced hearing can pick up the angry mutter of Bones as he storms off in the opposite direction.
“We’ll fragging see about that!”
Crane watches the Trooper disappear around a corner with his typical silence before turning his impassive face back to you.
[2/3]
"It ain't Goddamn right!"
A tense edge to the tone of two slightly raised forces up ahead serves as a welcome distraction to your troubles. You can see Corporal Crane and Trooper Bones facing each other by the camp showers, occasional lukewarm showers being one of the few perks of setting up shop in a pre-established smuggling den. Both men are in out of their combat gear for once, Crane in short PT shorts and a folded towel over his shoulders and Bones much the same but with an old Earth Republic army shirt on top. Bones is one of the physically fittest soldiers in your platoon, once you discount cybernetic or genemodded freaks like yourself, and you’ve always thought that Crane’s canvas of full-body ink complemented his lean physique rather well. A girl might have been minded to ogle for bit and perhaps dish out the customary crude remark or wolf whistle.
But something in the sharp tone and hard stares the two men are giving each other gives you pause, enough for you to dismiss your first instinct to engage in some squaddie banter and instead straighten up and put on your sergeant face. Although the two men are still a fair distance away when they spot you approaching, your preternaturally enhanced hearing can pick up the angry mutter of Bones as he storms off in the opposite direction.
“We’ll fragging see about that!”
Crane watches the Trooper disappear around a corner with his typical silence before turning his impassive face back to you.
[2/3]
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