[h2]Space, The Final Frontier[/h2]
He sat up rapidly, a sharp gasp escaping him as he traced the details of this new environment closely. "The fuck am I?" He muttered to nobody in particular, throwing his feet to the side and making to his feet. The effects hit him all at once. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth and stretched, yawning rather loudly.

His first thought drifted to the word "ship" as he rose and wandered about. The change into his MCCUUs was sluggish and efforted, and when the call for assembly came, he dragged himself forth to the destination ahead.
[hr]
[h2]Above My Paygrade[/h2]
He certainly didn't anticipate they were in fucking [i]space[/i], nor that they were working for Invader Zim and Co. His surprise definitely took even more hold when the word 'multimillionaires' was uttered. His sluggishness was overcome by eagerness, by motivation, potentially even by greed. One does not pass up millions just daily, and they certainly don't carry out their task like a zombie.

The mention of jungles did not concern him in the slightest. What was a jungle, even if pink and purple, compared to that of Okinawa, of mainland Japan, of Australia? He anticipated the end of the briefing eagerly, and began preparations immediately. The pink and purple uniforms offset the feeling slightly, but he followed.

Clad in his new uniform paired with the equipment of which he had brought, he prepared for planetfall.
[hr]
[h2]Out of the Frying Pan...[/h2]
He wasn't anticipating what met him there. It had all been wrong. Everything he thought before, all wrong. It was hot, not just 'a summer day' hot or 'a freshly made pie' hot. It felt as if Satan himself was pissing molten lava down his back the entire time, from the second he set foot on the God-forsaken planet in question.

He rasped through the respirator and, while he was attempting to conserve the water he had, he found himself again and again going to the Camelbak strapped to his ruck. The sweat made the gloves he wore insufferable, and the cotton socks paired with the boots unbearable. He just hoped they'd be back up on that luxury cruise they called a transport soon.
[hr]
[h2]Into the Fire...[/h2]
To make matters worse, enemies. He fumbled with the M203 and planted one big smooch on the primer of a 40mm HE, slamming it into the chamber and shutting it with a quiet click. He moved with his squad, sticking close to his team lead. It was time to engage. He had moved into position as told, and just waited for the moment.

[i]"Weapons free!"[/i] was all he heard. Next thing he knew, those around him were emptying their weapons into the foe, and he did as well. First sailed forth the 40mm and it impacted with a roar which must have been deafening for the enemy and displaced a fair amount of dirt. His next course was to empty short bursts into the targets acquired. Pop pop. Pop pop. All he heard through the noise-cancelling headphones was the dull pop and crack of the rifle as it sent forth hot lead. He found himself pumping with adrenaline, and accompanying his fire was that infernal cry. One that anyone who knew the culture of the South could place. It was the rebel yell.