[b]Én vagyok most ébren
(I am awake now) [/b]

János stirred in his cot, tossing and turning as ever so slowly, consciousness began to return to hie. Where was he? What had happened? Last he recalled, they were discussing training operations in Uzbekistan, mountaineering and arid environment familiarization. The next moment he was waking up here, the air cool and almost damp. Metal surrounded him. A ship? How strange, János thought, as he swung himself out of the cot, hand immediately going to his head. "Kibaszott cigányok!" he grumbled as he pulled himself to his feet. [i]Fucking Gypsies...[/i] Stepping away, János patted himself down in disbelief. Well, at least whoever drugged him was better than those damned gypsies - liable to take everything of worth, and probably a few other things after just to piss him off.

No matter though. Wherever they were, it was for good reason. And with the words around him, and the rumble machinery - the lack of windows too - he had no reason to believe at first that they were anywhere else but at sea. Even so, something felt off. Standing perfectly still, János felt it. Rather, properly speaking he [i]had not[/i] felt it. A few months in the Indian Ocean and off the East African coast had made him sensitive to the subtle sway and roll of a ship at sea. There was none of that.

[i]What's going on? And where are we going?[/i] was János' thought, mulling the inconsistencies over as he sought out food.

[b]Az tintakefeteség
(The Inky Blackness)[/b]

The galley had been busy, but not quite crowded. It was the usual large space - burnished steel tables and benches, whitewashed walls, bright lights giving the space an almost institutional quality to it, but one he was pretty well familiar with. The Centurion PMC flag flew at one end high on a wall. He lingered only long enough to get a fresh cup of coffee, and some pastries. Five minutes there, and several more walking down long narrow corridors towards the briefing hall. 

The briefing that followed was, in a word, interesting. It was also the mildest of terms one could use. János listened, nodded. He, like many, had a moment of breathlessness as the panels peeled back to expose the brown and purple orb looming large in the window. As the various races were explained, the absurdity of it that was first there, was starting to fade. As exciting as things had been, János had to admit, fighting ill-equipped ragheads and skinnies had been growing old. This...yes, János thought...this would be very interesting. A proper fight probably. Certainly, even if they scattered, there was the novelty of the situation. If only for that novelty value, János wanted in.

The whole time, János sat near to Viktor, the rest of the team assembled along the row - there'd been no assigned seating during all of this, but by habit most had fallen in by their units it seemed. "I iz ada, my vozvrashchayemsya v kachestve sobstvennogo spasitelya Boga...yesli my vyzhivem," he answered in decent Russian. [i]And from hell, we return as God's own savior...if we survive[/i].


[b]Pink Trees, Savage Dogs[/b]

The first thing that János noted once he was on the ground was just how bright the planet felt. Sure, the sunlight on the moon wasn't exactly any brighter than he was used to on Earth -  hell, if anything it seemed to be much less sunlight. But the sheer change in color palette was an abrupt surprise, indeed. For that reason, whenever he headed out, he made sure to wear a tinted pair of goggles with his face mask. It kept his eyes from burning and feeling like he was stepping into a neon enthusiast's fantasy.  He'd been here for quite some time but even now it hadn't quite been a thing he fully adjusted to. It had taken a while for him to get used to always wearing the masks, but they weren't all that intrusive and cumbersome, and with time, he'd learned to adapt to them in a way that was much more comfortable than the days on end he'd spent with 37th Engineering Regiment, wrapped up in NBC gear during both training and exercises. 

The order to halt came down the line, and as they did so, each man freezing in place down the line. Everyone was taking up firing positions. A knee behind a gnarled rock. The top of it was just flat enough, offering a firing position as he flipped the M320's foregrip down, using the forward of the twin grips (the rear one being the trigger group for the grenade launcher) as a shooting rest, hand gripping the forward position as he swung the  rifle's sixteen inch barrel into position. Slowly, he tracked one of them, in the middle of the pack that was tracing along. To either side, he had concealment but not cover - the foliage didn't look sturdy enough to stop much more than an angry glare, but it'd make him much harder to hit. The fungal growth to one side was a little close for comfort, and he felt the thing shedding spores onto his shoulder as he tracked targets. A few tickled his neck, sliding down the collar of his tunic.

The whole while, János watched, waited, for the signal. The comms were alive with the sub-vocalized whispers of the platoon's eyes being trained in every way and at every direction upon them. [i]Let's see just how hard these fuckers are...[/i] the sergeant thought as he shifted, fingers flexing over the grips of his gun as he kept himself focused. His shooting hand flexed, the lower fingers on the pistol grip stretching momentarily, thumb and forefinger both locked to the weapon, ready to go at a moment's notice. There was going to be shooting soon. The only question that the operator wondered...was who would do it first.