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“Sulaco Actual, this is Sephora-One. Please respond. Over.”
Static was Lance Corporal Armani’s only reply. The exchange lasted exactly thirteen minutes–she was counting based off of the ticks of Private Wherradein’s motion tracker–until Cruz’ voice finally broke through with a barrage of static that could have put the USS Sephora’s point-defense turrets to shame.
“I rea…you, Lance Cor…Wha….i…our…location.”
A low ping sounded over Marcella’s shoulder before she could reply, and when she turned to investigate with inquiry in her eyes, Wherradein motioned forward with an upward jerk of her chin.
Marcella brought her eyes back to 12 o’clock, fingers tight against her Armat M41A. This was it. She had been following the conflict by radio since Rhino 2-3 had boarded the Sulaco. She had been an auditory spectator in a threeway match against bugs and Weyland-Yutani PMCs–not a single shot fired from her. She did everything short of begging just to get herself onto the Sulaco and give some in return, but she had drawn the shortest of straws and was dedicated to maintaining the most essential tasks while her ship’s reactor blew.
This was it.
She survived the reactor detonation. She survived the crash. On the way down in the dorsal segment of the ship, she humorously worried about radiation poisoning or atmospheric friction burning them into nothingness, but now they had unknown contact which couldn’t be anything but hostile.
The blips became higher pitched from Wherradein’s motion tracker, marking closer contacts for the Private to read off, but she remained silent. Armani turned again, ready to demand a sit-rep, when she saw the woman glance her shoulder, then the other, then bring her eyes back forward, mouth folded downward in a shape of boderline panic.
“Sepho…ne…I say aga…n wh…is your grid location?”
Deepest shit.

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

Made with SFM and CS6

Patreon www.patreon.com/user?u=2824470

Description

“Sulaco Actual, this is Sephora-One. Please respond. Over.”
Static was Lance Corporal Armani’s only reply. The exchange lasted exactly thirteen minutes–she was counting based off of the ticks of Private Wherradein’s motion tracker–until Cruz’ voice finally broke through with a barrage of static that could have put the USS Sephora’s point-defense turrets to shame.
“I rea…you, Lance Cor…Wha….i…our…location.”
A low ping sounded over Marcella’s shoulder before she could reply, and when she turned to investigate with inquiry in her eyes, Wherradein motioned forward with an upward jerk of her chin.
Marcella brought her eyes back to 12 o’clock, fingers tight against her Armat M41A. This was it. She had been following the conflict by radio since Rhino 2-3 had boarded the Sulaco. She had been an auditory spectator in a threeway match against bugs and Weyland-Yutani PMCs–not a single shot fired from her. She did everything short of begging just to get herself onto the Sulaco and give some in return, but she had drawn the shortest of straws and was dedicated to maintaining the most essential tasks while her ship’s reactor blew.
This was it.
She survived the reactor detonation. She survived the crash. On the way down in the dorsal segment of the ship, she humorously worried about radiation poisoning or atmospheric friction burning them into nothingness, but now they had unknown contact which couldn’t be anything but hostile.
The blips became higher pitched from Wherradein’s motion tracker, marking closer contacts for the Private to read off, but she remained silent. Armani turned again, ready to demand a sit-rep, when she saw the woman glance her shoulder, then the other, then bring her eyes back forward, mouth folded downward in a shape of boderline panic.
“Sepho…ne…I say aga…n wh…is your grid location?”
Deepest shit.

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

Made with SFM and CS6

Patreon www.patreon.com/user?u=2824470