Pushing McCready from behind with the palm of her hand against the middle of his back. "Keep talking. I just want to see how much father you can stick your foot in your mouth." Paxton responded politely to the drunken Marine in front of her. "Turn left here."

McCready went right rather than left. "Other left PFC Alcoholic." Paxton pulled on the back of his uniform blouse to steer the staggering McCready towards the Med Bay. With a heavy sigh and avoiding some of the night crew that were wandering the corridors between their duty stations Pax just shook her head and shrugged at those that were looking at the trio with raised eyebrows and sort of bewildered look.

Kristie watched the drunkard and the others talking, and grew mildly amused as things seemed to be quickly spiraling out of control, though her amusement was tempered, she has a sly grin on her face as she wolfed down the last of her meal. She was paying vague attention by the time she was done eating, but still had a few gulps of tea left to get through before she could head elsewhere, though to do what, she was unsure. Sleep sounded like a perfect remedy for a less than stellar meal, but she also wanted to do other things, though truthfully Kristie was unsure what she had in mind for alternate entertainment. Her day had already gone well enough, hitting the sack might top it off as being a great day.

Still watching, she couldn't help but grin widely every time the PFC tried to speak. She was leaning on her arm by this point, watching the big scene with slowly diminishing amusement, until the Master Gunnery Sergeant appeared in the doorway. She'd spotted him a moment before he spoke, but she was quick to sit up straighter and wipe the grin from her face. She was certain, relatively so at least, sure she had done nothing to earn the ire of the Master Guns in any way or form, and for now, his ire seemed to be focused on the tipsy PFC. She continued to watch the group, but lacking the amusement she'd had previously, replaced now by a sense of dread for the PFC.

By now her tea was gone, and she resisted the urge to get out of the mess hall right then and there. She decided, then, a second cup of tea might not be so bad. She stood up and headed back to the chow line to grab a second helping of water, though the current tea bag would probably do well enough, and she only took about three quarters of a cup. Kristie spun and walked back to the table and sat down again, lowering her head and letting the warm steam dancing up from her tea hit her face. She sensed motion and looked up to see Lance Corporal Schmidt literally pick up the drunk PFC pin him against a bulkhead. She straightened herself and watched, with significantly more interest, as the Lance Corporal gave the PFC a true ass chewing. She let her eyes jump to the faces of others in the mess hall, but she was quick to return her gaze to the big scene.

After the chewing, Schmidt, and shortly thereafter Corporal Paxton, escorted the drunk PFC from the mess hall. Kristie momentarily caught herself staring at the trio as they departed, and soon looked at the others still standing about. She exhaled quietly and looked back at Radley. "There's a quiet night for you." She grinned. "Never a dull moment."

Radley finished his coffee, listening to the . . . interesting exchange. McCready, the very picture of belligerence, trying to negotiate whether or not to go to medical or the bunk. The huge Schmidt, his big-armed brother in arms—as he and Radley were the monsters of the platoon—thisclose from ripping McCready apart. McCready (absolutely plastered out of his gourd) being sniffed out by Master Gunnery Sergeant Abrams—the baddest hardass of the Corps—and telling said Master Guns that he 1) was in fact drunk, and 2) stole it from the Officer’s Stock. That got Radley’s eyebrows to raise and eighth of an inch; man had balls the size of Luna when he was blitzed. Schmidt, never failing to be himself, lifted McCready off of the ground before anyone could say anything, leaving him dangling above the huge, bearlike Marine’s head as if Schmidt were trying to hang up a picture. After a long series of Philadelphian explatives that only Radley could understand it seems, McCready was dropped to the deck sliding down the bulkhead. Corporal Paxton saved the day, though, and disappeared with McCready before Schmidt could rip his arms off.

Just another day in the Corps. Or night, as it were.

“There’s a quiet night for you,” Parker said with a grin. “Never a dull moment.”

Radley nodded, taking a last draw from his coffee before killing it. “ Shoulda seen ‘im a few yea’s ago. Dis is preddy tame from dah las’ time Ah saw ‘im get dat rowdy. Need sum mo’ coffee; wan’ sum’tin' tuh go wit’ ya’ tea?” he offered.

Merric walked quietly down the hallway of the large ship taking in his surroundings.
He had just transferred into the unit and for the third time he could recall he was "reassigned" stripped of his rank and placed on the roster with a fresh ID card “Civilian” in bold where his rank was a short time ago.

He still managed to hang onto his signature set of Multicam BDU’s with combat boots. This particular set was minus a name, rank and branch designation, befitting his new status. His walk was confident but, not arrogant and only the most seasoned of combat veterans would see the slight limp from his left side. The lack of a .45 caliber pistol in its drop leg combined with an old injury to the leg created a barely perceivable limp.
He never did understand what the company was attempting to do with him. Ever since the project was shut down, he had been sent out to front line units as a “civilian”. Each time however he, seemed to be placed into the thick of the nearest suicide mission. The tactic in that was obvious. Too expensive an investment to trash outright, he was instead placed in harm’s way, facing imposing odds until the inevitable happened and he was damage beyond salvage. The “why?” of the program’s sudden shut down was his biggest question. Lately he seemed to always have more questions than answers.

One advantage of his new status was the time he was allowed to simply “observe” those around him. The experimental programming had broadened his sense of self and until he was wounded, most people would never have thought that he was in fact a synthetic. He appeared to be a white male average athletic build, 6’0 190lbs, with brown hair and green eyes. A vertical left of his left eye, from his temple over left cheekbone ending in line with level of his mouth.
Rounding a corner he came upon a lounge area with several personnel grabbing late meals.
Merrick entered the area, went to the nearest dispenser and ordered a small corn bread and coffee. Placing his items on a tray he found an unoccupied two person booth in a far corner and sat facing the entrance.

He didn’t actually need the food or coffee to function but, had picked up the habit during his time abroad. He sipped at the coffee and began watching the other occupants quietly. Absently, he wondered when his file would come across the platoon leader’s desk, assuming he had the clearance.

Still seated and observing those around him Merric, thinks back to his last mission.
-------------------------

:: Bright flashes of light :: -- Muzzle flashes in a darkened corridor. In each flash a frozen moment in time.
Flash one. The lead member of Merric's squad CPL Jones crashes to the deck clutching at his chest armor. His shoulder lamp was on but the crash seemed to have knocked it off line.
Flash two. PFC Jenkins fires a return shot at the previous muzzle flash. Two other members of the squad rush forwards to Jones.
Flashes three, four, five. Jenkins provides steady cover fire in the direction on threat. The two other members of the team are dragging CPL Jones, by his armor, back around a bend in the corridor. They pass by Merric on rear guard. CPL Jones's face is twisted in pain but, he doesn't utter any sounds. He holds his right hand over his chest, his left hand clutches his rifle by the barrel. Between Jones's fingers running down his armor and bubbling at the corners of his mouth is white "blood".

Merric turns from his position as rear guard and faces forward bringing his rifle around with his good arm. One of the two team members now takes up rear guard as the other works on CPL Jone's injury.

Merric steps forward and taps PFC Jenkins on the shoulder. Without looking Jenkins moves forward rifle raised in the direction of the threat. Merric takes a step to the right and also covers forward with his good arm shouldering the rifle.

Merric and Jenkins pass the point where Jones had been shot. As Merric moves forward his right foot bumps into something metal producing the distinct sound of a shall casing rolling around the deck. Glancing down Meric see's what his hear already knew, it is a spent shell casing of an unknown caliber. Most likely that of the shooter.

A moment later Merric's world turns into a white light and somehow Merric is laying face down on the deck. He registers minor scuffs and cuts over his body though nothing penetrated his armor. As his mind catches up to the situation a word phrase crosses into his thoughts "Improvised explosives" Merric pushes himself up and rolls into a sitting position back against the nearest wall. Looking to his left he can see the two squad mates who were working on Jones still holding position. mind Looking right he see's Jenkins also, recovering from the blast.

A detached part of Merric's mind takes in the fact that is must have been a shaped charge built to direct it's energy in a direction while spreading it over a surface wide enough not to create too much structural damage to the ship itself.

Merric watches Jenkins get to his feet and, taking up his rifle, moves back towards him. Not seeing his rifle within sight Merric reaches out with his left hand and draws his .45 from his left thigh rig. When Jenkins reaches Merric he offers a hand, hoisting him back to his feet. As Merric stands he notices the the wound in his leg has started to bleed again and it will need to be looked at this time. A few feet back down the hall, they come across Merric'c rifle. The right side of the weapon is blackened, from the force of the explosion and the barrel is bent slightly to the left making it useless to him.

Merric slings the useless rifle and continues limping pack to his squad.

A short time later the Squad is ordered to scrub the op and allow another team to go in.

Debriefing, the team is patched up but still in their armor complete with filth and grime. A man with grey hair and grey eyes comes to the front of the room and, simple states.

"Project Spear Tip is deactivated. You are all reassigned. Effective immediately." With that the man walked from the room.

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

Merric comes back to the present and see's an obviously intoxicated drunk man being lead away by a woman in a lab coat.

He continues to sip his rapidly cooling coffee and thinks about his missions. He wonders what exactly is left in his file to read. Most of it should be blacked out in the current version for this line company he is attached to. Many of them seemed the same. A pirate ship or seemingly abandoned privateer craft. A squad goes in. All hell breaks loose. Casualties, casualties, casualties.