"Fuckin' prick." He mumbled under his breath as a man pulled him to the front row. Apparently, his weapon had jammed. Now, he was going to be among the first soldiers torn apart by Griks. That was a less than appealing prospect. His anger towards he soldier with the malfunctioning rifle was misplaced, he knew. He should be angry at the Bulwark for having a murder-boner for humanity. He should be angry at Command, for essentially giving him a death sentence in the form of a conscription notice. He should not be angry with the man with the broken rifle. He was glad that his words had been masked by the gunfire and shots. He hadn't even heard himself. 

He took his place among the line, sweat pooling on his forehead. He felt sick. The Griks charged, steady as a flood. That was the thing about floods, it didn't matter how much water you bailed out with a bucket, someone's floor was still getting ruined. Granted, it wasn't like there was a whole lot of options. All they could do was keep bailing out water, and hope it didn't rise and damage grandma's photo album. 

[i]Maybe that wasn't the best analogy.[/i]

He shook his head, and raised his rifle. If he turned back now, some meathead with a little too much zeal would cap him in the head. He had no choice. He aimed at the oncoming wave, and squeezed the trigger. Declan was not a good shot. Hell, he was barely passable. Two weeks was not enough time to become a badass. That didn't matter, when facing a Grik Charge. If you shot, you'd hit something. His first few shots pattered into Grik torsos, slowing a few of them down, but only nominally. His sixth shot hit one dead in the face. It fell, and the one dead behind it tripped over it. 

Declan chuckled. 

It didn't make sense. He was staring death in the face, and laughing about slapstick humor. He must've been hysterical, to laugh at an alien falling over.

He kept shooting. Three kills in total, with 15 shots. He was far from efficient. The Griks were worryingly closer than they'd been when he started shooting. He stepped back, into the crowd. 

"Reloading! Someone fill in!" Sure enough, someone slipped into his spot. The air around him smelled of gunpowder. He supposed it was better than smelling sweat, fear, blood, or the rancid stench of Griks. He started reloading his weapon, noticing that his hands weren't shaking as much now. He supposed, if they kept up like this, they had a chance of holding back the Griks. What worried him was what came after. Griks were meat shields. Where were the Argon? The Brumak? God, he hoped there wasn't a Brumak. He didn't see any heavy weapons around him. He ended up next to the man who'd pulled him into the fray, the man with the malfunctioning rifle. He'd survived, so he wasn't about to hold a grudge. He wanted to say something. 

[i]Hi! I'm Declan. Please remember me if Griks eat my kidneys![/i]

He opted instead to nod at him, hoping he looked a little less terrified than he had before.