French Quarter

Bandit had a serious, engaged expression the entire time. He did not look particularly trustful of Mission Synthetic, nor of Ms. Orion. He had noticed her facial demeanor when the man spoke, as concisely and politely as he was programmed to do. Yet, it wasn’t uncommon for people to mistrust synthetics, either strangers or ones they were familiar with. There was still a bit of prejudice over Artificial Persons, albeit rightfully so. Every few generations, there was a mishap, either in a factory, a mine; or a battlefield, or base, or a ship. Humans died, and a synthetic was to blame. For Weyland-Yutani, that human cost was usually worth it.

“Sure,”

He’d given basic marching orders to the other Marines, who eyed Orion but said nothing as they disappeared down a hallway. Once at the Armory, his gaze had narrowed, not out of suspicion but from curiosity. When she handed him the device, he examined it momentarily before looking around, then back at her, holding the think down at at his side.

“Okay,” he didn’t question further. He didn’t comment on how it looked. He just moved to his locker and opened it, slipping it inside a pocket somewhere. He kept his own thoughts on the Droids quiet, because she was acting out a scene. Which coincided nicely when Vulkan entered. He hiked a brow at Bandit, though he tried to clean up his face when Orion glanced his way.

“Anything I can help with, Ma’am?” He asked. They were in his office, after all. Bandit spoke up.

“The XO was just making sure I was aware of how many non-lethal options we have at our disposal for this mission,” he said, his face taking a smarmy veneer while looking at her, before he glanced at Vulkan and winked, “Nothing you aren’t familiar with, Bud. But make sure we have all those options available to us in the drop ship. I want that Rapid Repeater filled with Riot Rounds. Provide extra power packs for the KSGs, and load extra bandoliers of those Spider Silk rounds, as well.”

“No problem, Sarge, but can we talk about the Hyperdyne weaponry? I know we’re tryin’ to be incognito on this op, but their shit is experimental at best and faulty at worst.”

“No. Any military weaponry we drop out there can’t be Colonial Marine exclusive. Gotta use their own weapons against them.” Bandit glanced at Orion, as if to gauge her reaction to this conversation.

Vulkan just cursed and nodded, moving about to handle his job. Bandit escorted Orion out. On the way to the elevator, he would say lowly, but not in a conspirator’s whisper.

“I know what my orders are, and I know Mr. Quint won’t understand. But just so you’re clear… I’m not risking my ass, or anyone on this ship, over a fucking guinea pig. But when that time comes, he’s your responsibility.”

When next she saw Bandit, he outside of the Spectre Stealth VTOL dropship. A sleep, black machine with a dense armor, multiple thrusters and armaments. It was a smaller, faster, more versatile beast than the Cheyenne Drop ship of old, but it did lack the firepower. Inside, between the cockpit and the crew seating, were the drop pods for the Combat Mechs. The pods were open, but the mechs were secured inside, imposing exo-skeletons that were a combination of Loader Mech and A weapons depot.

Just as in the mess hall, the Operators sat to one side, the crew to the other, with Bandit and Ace sitting closer. Mr. Quint stood in the middle, hands clasped in front of him, ready to assist at a moment’s notice.

At the mention of the UPP, Orioin experienced a minor interruption.

“Fuckin’ commies,”, said Vulkan.

“They’re Socialists. Belters are communist,” Stitch corrected.

“Lock it up,” said Bandit, and the Marines tightened their lips.

When Orion finished her portion of the brief, the fireteam did not seem happy, but there were no further outbursts. No questioning the orders. They waited until everything was laid out. As Orion handed it off to Ace, the captain stubbed out a cigarette and stood up.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” she said, “Since we’re on a time crunch, I’ll make this short. As you may have noticed, the Nellie here is working on a skeleton crew. We can hold 27 crew at max, but we can make do. She’s quick, she’s quiet, and packs a mean punch. But neither she nor we are equipped to take on any major planetary defenses, or a true Naval offensive, so please heed the XO’s Rules of Engagement so we can avoid an intergalactic incident,”

She tapped at her own tablet, pulling up a map of their ship headed towards a planet.

“In two hours, we’ll be on the dark side of CS-576, a UPP outpost titled ‘C’tan’. Scans suggest there is a blind spot in planetary defense. While Mr. Wrench and I stay on the Nellie, Jaeger will escort the rest of you in the Spectre drop ship, where he will touch down here, on the other side of this ridge,” following a new map readout, she indicated a dot on the opposite side of a mountain range that started not far from the crash site, likely to use the terrain as cover of their descent and route.

“Should something go wrong, you will only have a short window to return to the dropship and get back to the Nellie. I am authorized to leave you if you are compromised. In the event you make it back, we just have to survive for 24 hours. The 5th Armada is ready to stage a naval Blockade of the Rylun sector if we can make it that far. So let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.

As stated, comms will be at a minimum. Jaeger will check in with me at scheduled intervals for mission integrity. Otherwise, Mr. Quint will be in charge of comms.” Ace would nod to the android before sitting down. Quint stepped forward. Without the need of a tablet, he was able to change the holographic layout to whatever he was talking about in real time.

“Thank you, Ace. Just a reminder, I am Mission Synthetic Quint, and I will be your comms specialist and Science Officer. I understand I am not the regular Synthetic Person any of you are familiar with. Just as each and every one of you are uniquely capable for this mission, so am I. Let’s get Comms out of the way: Until a secure channel can be obtained, radio transmissions will be limited. Anything that needs to be communicated to either Jaeger at the dropship, or Ace as the Nellis, can be given directly to me. My uplink with MU/TH/R can allow any messages to be transcribed to onboard HUDs. You speak, I text. Simple as that. But it means that the fireteam must stay together until otherwise directed. I am also equipped to fix any equipment malfunctions.

But above all, my directives on this mission are to assist Ms. Orion in securing the Research assets. If any of you come into contact with an asset, please allow me to take point in subduing and transporting it. But, as a precaution, you were all given training in the KSG-AL. It is an an electrostatic arc weapon capable of firing taser-level voltage, though it is more than lethal if calibrated as such. It comes equipped with a pump-action under barrel, which can be fitted with anti-riot rounds, grenades, or shotgun shells. Your primary ammunition for this, however, willl be the Spider-Silk Slugs. Each round can cover a one meter area with a thick, organic binding agent that can act as a cocoon on whatever it is shot at. Under no circumstances will any other weapon be used upon the assets we are searching for. That being said, the KSG should be able to help suppress any UPP forces, should it come to that. And for now, I’ll turn it over to fireteam leader, Bandit.”

Bandit was tapping at the tablet as the floor was handed to him, standing and making eye contact with everyone.

“Obviously we don’t want to make this an intergalactic incident. There’s no love lost between the Colonial Marines and the UPP, but we aren’t here to drop bodies. That being said, given the highly volatile nature of the situation, we cannot fully guarantee a clean exit out of here. But we aren’t walking into this with our dicks in our hands.

As Mr. Quint said, the KSG is a versatile weapon, capable of lethal and non-lethal functions. The COmpany has been nice enough to provide a variable arsenal. Mostly Hyperdyne weaponry,” That got a chuckle from a few people. Hyperdyne was the main competitor to Weyland-Yutani, and had been founded by a former WY scientist-turned UPP founder. “Vulkan, as the armorer, make sure no weapon can be traced back to us. To help with Mr. Quint’s haul of the assets, our Combat Mechs will be used to transfer everything back to the drop ship once secure. Should things turn really bad, we have the mechs to help out. But that is only if the XO declares a Broken Arrow situation. They are transport mules, not the tanks we usually use them for.

The Mechs are outfitted with cloaking technology, and we have the same privilege. Our armor for this has light-bending capabilities to keep us camoflauged with the surrounding areas. As always, the plates are water-resistant, but avoid becoming fully submerged in liquid to protect the sensor-projectors. Beyond that, you’ve heard the directives, but remain flexible when we get down there for any unforeseen changes to our projected mission. Semper Gumby, Marines. Anything else I should cover?”

Bandit would look towards Orion and Quint, see if there was a gap in their coverage.

“We both know that’s not true,” Bandit said as he set the coffee cup down. Direct eye contact was given. He knew she read all their files. If she was any good at her job, she would have. The Company wouldn’t waste sending them to babysit some incompetent suit. He didn’t antagonize any further, in case she was pettier than she made herself out to be. He may have been wrong about her, but he wasn’t wrong about others like Orion.

Quint and Ace didn’t travel very far. The android followed the captain to the coffee dispenser, each getting a refill as they went over basic flight status and capabilities. Given the opportunity, they would make their way to the elevator to check the cockpit.

Bandit finished his coffee, standing up and collecting his things. “I’ll see you in there. Just be as straight with us as your authority allows. The less bullshit, the better we can do our jobs. Ma’am,” he nodded, walking to put his items in the dirty bins before heading to the elevator himself, headed for operations. The rest of the crew took their time with their meals, smoking or just soaking up the hum of the ship until about five till showtime.

The USCM was a viable, respectable job amidst the Galactic Frontier. A steady paycheck and benefits most civilians outside of Earth could hope to have. Yet, despite the numerous recruiting stations across the moons, a dirty secret of the Corp was that most of their enlisted ranks had been drawn from prisons and penal colonies. Orion likely knew that. She likely had read Bandit’s file, and knew that his callsign was very much tied to his forced enlistment. He wasn’t alone. Weyland Yutani rewarded excellence and loyalty. Why not? It gave people the impression they weren’t expendable. Everyone on that ship had been on clandestine missions that showed just how expendable most people were to The Company. But the checks always cleared. He had a condo on the moon with a view of Earth.

The Marauders Vulkan, Deadeye and Stitch sat caddy corner to Orion, Quint and Bandit. There were looks given as their team lead joined the XO, but he did outrank them. They mostly just talked about what dreams they had while eating their food. They were taking in as much as they could. The ship’s wardens Ace, Jaeger and Wrench sat at the opposite end of the XO’s table. Ace nursed coffee and a cig, seemingly talking about business already with Jaeger, who nodded along agreeably over his food. Wrench shared bits of his well stocked plate with Felix, half listening to the Captain.

Bandit, likewise, had no shame in curing his famous as quickly as possible. But he seemed attentive enough to her, and parsed his words out when he wasn’t chewing.

“Pretty sure I should just keep a barf bag in the chamber,” he replied, shrugging nonchalantly and scarfing another mouthful. The plate was emptied quick, washed down with coffee.

Ace got up from her stool and walked by the three of them, speaking up after Orion, though directly at Quint, “Speaking of… Mr. Quint, can I borrow you to talk about my ship before the brief?”

“Gladly,” Quint said, giving a polite nod to his breakfast guests before standing and walking off with Ace.

Bandit would push his plate away, leaning forward on his elbows holding his coffee mug. “We don’t normally get pulled from our unit like this. We usually have a different Company Handler, one we’re familiar with, and… we usually have a different synthetic. All that’s to say… we’re grumpy, but it’s nothing personal. We’ll get over it, and do our jobs.”

The crew began filing out of their chambers with varying degrees of alertness and speed. Cryo-Fatigue was hard to shake off, even for some Synthetic models. Special Forces Operators were no different. The members of the Marauders were all bionically enhanced in some fashion, and were administered the cutting edge of performance enhancing drugs in order to enhance performance, boost recovery and metabolic functions, even get better sleep in shorter spurts. While such drug cocktails were rather commonplace amongst Infantry Marines, they were a means to an end. For the Marauders, it was an investment into well honed assets utilized by the United Americas and The Company. While still expendable assets, Weyland-Yutani was less eager to throw away specialized veterans of their black-ops campaigns.

The cyborgs had to ween themselves off of the PED cocktail a week before prolonged stasis, so as not to crash out while in transit. Once they had eaten, they could be administered again in time before they set off on their mission.

Bandit tossed Ace her lighter back. She was late 30s, dark brown hair pulled back into a messy pony tail, her face hardened and handsome.  the pilot climbed out, padding towards the lockers as the cigarette hung out of her mouth. “You heard her, ladies. Deficate, exfoliate, and masticate.”

Jaeger, her co-pilot, tall, lean, Nordic, had walked past Orion to the locker area, reaching up to the pull up bar with minimal effort and letting himself hang, having to draw up his knees to clear the ground. He smiled goofily at them all.  “But do not masturbate.”

“Behavior unbecoming of a Jarhead,” [/I] said Vulcan in a rumbling baritone, a catcher’s mitt of a hand simulating the motion. Vulcan was large, six-five and muscular, a mix of  hispanic and native with black hair kept in typical Jarhead fashion. As he stood, the servos in his cybernetic leg whirled.

“You’re not a marine, you’re a bear we found on Ursa Prime,” from Deadeye, a Korean-American woman with short cropped hair, throwing the comment over her shoulder as she walked to her locker, pulling out her own caddie.

“I didn’t know you were into bestiality,” Stitch said, touching the tips of each finger to the pad of his thumb as if checking his motor functions. They moved at blinding speed after a few passes before he stretched them out, shaking them loose. The team’s medic was of medium build, bronze skin and a well trimmed beard on an handsome face.

“Not even with your dick.” Deadeye gave a finger over her shoulder as she shut her locker.

Bandit followed Orion with his light blue gaze, then stood, taking a drag of his cigarette and stretching his arms over his head. His right was a sleeve of tattoos, some crude and faded, similar to gang ink or prison tats. Others were more professionally done, and military related, matching a few more on his person. His left arm was devoid of any ink, but instead had what looked like tech and electrical ports. The flesh over the arm looked real enough, but on close inspection of his shoulder, a jagged, yet faded scar around the cap showed a slight different in pigment. In fact, they all seemed to have numerous battle-wounds and surgical scars.

Wrench had ignored Orion to focus on a black and gray lump in his bed. Felix the cat breathed deeply as the mechanic pet him, the animal’s eyes heavily lidded and unfocused. The older, mustachioed black gentleman pulled an unlit cigar from a ball cap, putting on the hat and the cigar in his cheek. He whispered softly to his pet while the others moved about.

Ace sat at a consul, idly smoking her cigarette and looking at various readouts while the others filtered into the latrine. Deadeye being first barely suppressed a snort as she caught Orion trying to hide her mess. She placed her bag in front of a mirror at a sink, pulling out an eye dropper and tilting her head back, giving a few drops into each. A sniper and tracker, she had ocular implants that increased her eyesight and provided a wide vision spectrum range.

Bandit came up beside Deadeye, stubbing his cigarette out on the stainless steel. The sniper offered him the eye drops, and he took it, putting a few droplets into his right eye only. He blinked a few times, then slapped the side of his temple. An amber shimmer flashed over the iris, and he looked through the mirror towards the XO before walking towards a urinal.

Everyone went through their own routine, washing up and grooming themselves to a somewhat presentable state. They fell into a rhythm with each other, bantering, but paying little mind to Orion. She likely wanted away from them as much as they did from her.

Bandit only gave her cursory glances, but tried to focus on remembering the pre-mission brief as he got dressed.

A research vessel crash landed onto a planet somewhere in the Chthonic sector. Intel suggested the planet in question was possibly a manufacturing hub for the United Progressive People’s backwater colonies. A company of Colonial Marine Raiders had been sent as escorts for the vessel. No contact had been established with the crew, if there were survivors. Likewise, the UPP had not made news of the crash in their domain known, either to the public at large, the USCM, or The Company.  Given the bloody history between the United Americas and the UPP, Weyland-Yutani could only assume that they were taking advantage of the situation given the intergalactic ramifications of a military presence aboard the USS Calypso.

——————

At breakfast, everyone was dressed in black fatigues with gray shirts, a departure from the green and tan of the standard Marine uniform, devoid of identifying patches or rank. The meals themselves were not bad. The MRE Bio-printer created synthetic organic, nutrient dense meals that resembled bacon, sausage, eggs, breads, fruits, and beverages to the crew’s desires. One of the many perks of specialized warfare units: real food, or as real as it could get in deep space.

Mr. Quint would sit next to Orion with only a mug of coffee. He gave her that default smile of his, before looking up to see Bandit munching a piece of bacon, taking the seat across from the XO. He nodded once, to be polite, before he salted his eggs and stabbed his fork around the plate.

“Do you normally get sick after a ‘deep freeze’, Bandit?”

“Every time. Sorta expect it now. How about you, Boss lady?”

He glanced up from his meal idly. Quint turned to examine her answer, sipping his coffee politely.