The steady rhythm of the seasoned soldier’s black tactical boots reverberated through the dimly lit corridor, their sound bouncing off the cold metal walls. Now casting an eerie orange hue, the flickering luminaries, usually emitting a bright white glow, filled the air with their faint warning hum. The low lights accentuated the shadows, deepening the darkness around the storage bunks that once lined the walls, their crevices holding the scent of stale triace containers - the backup food rations.
As long as the lights remained in their dull orange state, the soldier knew there was no immediate cause for concern. He pushed aside the worry that gnawed at him, reminding himself that the delay in their essential supplies was beyond his control.
The sound of his forceful pounding footsteps echoed, but anyone who heard wisely chose another path, avoiding his path of anger. With each step, his anger intensified, masking from his mind the metallic scent of blood dripping from his hands and splattered on his face.
He refused to dwell on the fact that he had just lost another comrade, a friend he had thrust his six-inch blade into. That same blade, now back in its holster in his right boot. Moving swiftly past metal doors and intersecting corridors, he remained fixated on his destination, his fury shielding him from the guilt and grief that threatened to consume him.
He knew all too well that allowing his mind to dwell on the blood seeping into his sock would unleash an unstoppable wave of remorse and sorrow. The nightmares would return, haunting him with the voices of the fallen. But for now, his anger acted as a shield, a necessary burden he carried to protect his team members. It was this anger that kept him from shattering under the weight of his emotions.
As a squad sergeant, Andrew Worthington, felt the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders. It was his duty to ensure their safety, training, and that missions were successful without casualties, or at least with as few casualties as possible. Ross West, known as Red because of the long, bushy red beard always bound with his five-year-old’s glitter hair tie, would join the many voices that now haunt Andy’s waking nightmares.
It took him only sixteen minutes to reach his destination from the medical holding cells, if his wrist tech was accurate. With a loud clang, he slammed the lever down and pushed the metallic light blue door open, bracing for resistance. Instead of surprise, a knowing smirk curls his lips as the door swings open.
He knows the blood staining his normally spotless uniform will damage the pristine gleam of Lieutenant Tomorrow Murdock’s nameplate. The same nameplate, bestowed upon the Lieutenant by his own father, the Sergeant General, after the Lieutenant’s promotion.
However, his satisfaction was short-lived as when the door swung open, the edge collided with the shoulder of Grace Mc’Umfry, the lieutenant of the Platoon that shared their vessel. The impact was jarring, making a loud thud that echoed in the room. Andy could almost feel the force of the collision reverberating through his own body. He watched as Grace swiftly reached for her shoulder; her face contorting with pain.
But her sneer, which threatened to twist her once-red lips, vanished as soon as her eyes met Andy’s, replaced by a look of stark horror that widened her eyes. Without saying a word, she ducked around him and left him alone with the man he was itching to unleash his anger on.
Andy’s eyes instantly took in the sight of the Lieutenant’s crumpled white shirt and unbuttoned cargo pants, which were splayed out as he sat on the leatherback sofa across the room. Andy knew exactly what he would have seen had he arrived just one minute earlier.
It was nothing he hadn’t walked in on before, but this time, he felt no compulsion to chastise his best friend. Instead, he let his anger loose, slamming his hands on the flat military panel that stood between the Lieutenant and himself.
“The fuck, Tom?!” Andy’s voice boomed with a mix of frustration and disbelief, filling the room with a wave of anxiety.
Tom sprang up from the plush sofa, his confusion and annoyance evident on his face. The sound of Andy’s hands slamming down on the panel reverberated through the small office. Metal and electronics filled the room, a reminder of the importance of the functioning panel that Andy had just almost damaged. The flickering lights illuminated the worried expressions on Tom’s face.
The lingering soft blue light that highlighted his palms reminded Andy of the past attack that had left them without a secondary panel not too long ago, bringing back memories of their struggle to escape. The leaders, too focused on other priorities, had neglected to repair it, leaving them reliant on this sole functioning panel.
Andy’s voice, filled with frustration, cut through the air like a growl. “One E-week! One fucking E-week since our last mission. We just lost two members! My team is still recovering, and to be assigned a new mission with new members?! The entire team needs to train. To learn how to fight together. You can’t just assign new members and expect them to be ready for a mission in twenty-four clicks.”
Tom could see the anger in his eyes, his raised hands trying to placate his agitated teammate. The sight of Andy taking a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, showed the effort it took for him to control his emotions.
Andy took a deep breath, the scent of metallic, musky air, and other bodily fluids he deigned not to identify, filling his nostrils, and let out an exasperated huff. “And Shay Owen? Seriously?”
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The mention of the new young recruit of one month, Shay Owen, brought a wave of skepticism. Gossip had replaced the boredom on the vessel, filling the air with rumors and speculation.Andy couldn’t help his sense of doubt about Owen’s abilities, considering the rumors of his clumsiness and lack of skill.
One popular rumor spoke of Owen’s bunkmate was still recovering from a blast that penetrated his upper inner thigh when Owen was cleaning his standard-issue laser. The grapevine also mentioned that Owen’s bunkmate was a complete ass. An inadequate investigation failed to determine if the discharge was intentional or accidental.
Tom let out a defeated sigh, the sound echoing through the room, and his shoulders slumped in resignation. The tension in the room remained thick, almost tangible, as Tom began to explain the situation. Andy’s jaw clenched tightly, his gaze fixed on the unopened triace containers tucked away behind Tom.
Owen, despite his questionable reputation, was the first volunteer in four earth rotations to join their team for tomorrow’s mission. The unchanged regulations since the creation of the Infiltration Support Team, the IST, added to the uncertainty that hung in the air. Tom’s explanation, while understandable, did little to ease the frustration and disappointment that radiated from Andy.
With a grunt, Andy ran a hand over his head, feeling the prickly sensation of his hated short crew cut against his palm. Tom, on the other hand, had always been exempt from the standard requirements, his golden locks flowing slightly longer. Except for that one time when they got piss-ass drunk back on Earth during the anniversary of the death of Tom’s mother. They spent all night out in the woods, screaming and howling at the moon, their laughter and drunken shouts blending with the darkness and the only source of light.
Decisions made in hindsight often appear sensible, but the morning after brings a shocking sight. The memory of that one time he woke up to the sight of Tom’s freshly shaved hair and razor burns marking his skin lightened his mood a bit. Tom’s complaints fade away as they discover the sympathy it earns them from young women. His reminiscences shattered when Tom gathers scattered manila folders on his desk.
Tom, ignorant of the grief radiating off Andy, says, “You have two clicks before the debriefing. Get some rest, and maybe a shower. I’ll have one of the other sergeants assigned to watch Red.” The metallic scent of blood wafting off Andy reminded Andy of his hands and now likely on the back of his head. Andy knows he can’t break down here, not in front of people, especially not in front of Tom, but Tom needed to know about Red.
“No need. He’s gone.”
Flabbergasted, Tom’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened, and he could only open and close his mouth a few times before he could finally speak. “Shit, I’m sorry. Does Trish know?”
The memory of Trish’s grief-stricken screams filling the air, a haunted sound that still lingered in Andy’s ears. It wasn’t the knife through Red’s heart that caused her anguish, but the moment Red, strapped to a white clinical gurney, succumbed to the neon green poison coursing through his veins.
The bright pulsing of the poison was a vivid sight, matching the glow in Red’s eyes as he turned them towards Andy. Trish knew, even before he looked their way, before the body that once pressed over three hundred pounds daily, broker free of the straps and lunged.
Andy wasn’t ready when Red’s a massive figure slammed into him with a bone-crushing force. The impact sent him sprawling onto the smooth floor, knocking over a tray filled with medical instruments. As the syringes shattered, their sound echoed through the room, adding to the chaos. The shrill screams from behind the one-way mirror on Andy’s left pierced his ears, creating a cacophony of fear and panic.
Despite that, Andy’s instincts kicked in. He swiftly reached for the knife concealed in his boot, feeling its cold, solid handle in his hand. The urgency of the situation was palpable; any moment of hesitation could cause death, either for him or someone else. With determination in his eyes, he charged towards Red, his heart pounding in his chest.
Using the weight of his body as leverage, Andy thrust the knife into Red’s massive frame. The impact sent shockwaves through his arm, a surge of power coursing through his veins. He could almost feel the resistance as the blade broke through the tough, fleshy cavity. With a swift motion, he pulled the knife out, watching as Red collapsed to the ground.
Time seemed to stand still as Andy witnessed the life drain from Red’s eyes, the darkness consuming him. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the scent of fear and adrenaline. The sight of the gaping hole, blood slowly seeping out, was both stupefying and terrifying.
As the reality of the situation sank in, Andy relaxed his tense muscles, his body finally releasing the adrenaline that had fueled him. But even in the aftermath, the screams continued, a constant reminder of the immense grief that will linger for a while. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the lifeless body before him, watching as Red’s final bodily functions played out.
“Andy!” Tom called out.
Amidst the chaos, a voice cut through the noise. “Andy!” Tom’s urgent call startled him, his eyes meeting Tom’s gaze. It took a moment for Andy to regain his clarity, to focus on the present. Tom repeated his question, his voice filled with concern. “Does Trish know?”
“Yeah, she knows,” Andy replied, his voice tinged with resignation. Without wasting a moment, he swiftly turned around, his footsteps echoing out the door and down the corridor as he made a hasty retreat. The air was heavy with a mix of tension and sorrow, as if the walls themselves were holding in the weight of his grief closing in on him. The urgent need to reach his bunker consumed him, as he focused on reaching his destination. His breath came in shallow gulps as he tried to contain his the all encompassing emotions.
As he navigated the maze-like corridors of the UVN Tranquility, Andy noticed the stark contrast between this civilian vessel and the military war vessels he was accustomed to. The ambience of calm atmosphere littered with laughter and friendly conversations filled the hallways, a testament to the ship’s civilian nature. Instead of tactical containers filled with weapons and ammunition which lined the walls of the war-vessel Vahala, testimony to the dangers they faced, triace containers normally filled the walls of civilian ran ships.
The further Andy ventured from the war rooms, the more crowded the corridors became, the sounds of bustling activity filling his ears. His pace quickened, his footsteps blending with the others against the metal floor as he passed by delicate dark-blue paintings that adorned the walls. Each stroke of color added a touch of vibrancy, a reminder of the creativity and innocence of children that thrived even during chaos.