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I'm back in business. I can start writing again on the first.
Well, I'm off! Due to work, I'll be without a computer until early October. I'll be able to poke my head in off of my phone and check the status of the thread here and there (with the exception of about two weeks in the middle of the month, where I'll be completely cut off), but don't expect any posts from me until I return. I grant full control of my character to DarkRaven. Please don't kill me!
Sergeant Feng's breath was hot, and as Carrie's face was spattered with the Chinese man's spittle she stood motionless and unblinking, as if he weren't even there. Discipline and the Corps' image were everything, it wasn't a secret even to her that she was here as a statement, and besides, this was far from the first time she'd been yelled at. That being said, it was now confirmed that she indeed did absolutely hate Feng, who already openly flew the flag of prejudice. Three thoughts drifted through Carrie's head: The first was the familiar image and sounds of the ocean, which she had almost comically made it a point to visualize whenever someone started yelling, completely shutting them out. The second was that for as ugly and scarred a man as Sergeant Feng was, his breath smelled quite good. Lastly, she imagined herself jamming a Beretta down the source of that breath and pulling the trigger until the handgun clicked uselessly.
As the Captain gave his brief, the Marine wondered more and more what the fucking point of all of this was. There had to be something more, there seriously just had to, to justify the money and the international support that this program had received. Da Jun's mention of a firefight piqued her interest; if it was worth bringing up, it would have to be a possibility, and it would explain the wealth of military personnel present. But who would they be fighting? Some sort of terrorists? God damn. . Xenomorphs? Little fucking green men? She shuddered at the mention of "U.N. Headdresses", the LAPD Officer's still fresh in her mind, and after the squad's dismissal she dug through her duffel turning each item over in her hand before returning it. The armband she expected to wear, maybe even the helmet, but she'd make it a point to not wear the U.N. softcap. The she slipped the PDA into her left trouser pocket before heading towards the armory to retrieve her weapon, which she'd prefer to just leave locked up and out of mind. She'd scour the information provided on the PDA later. She might even consider a bit of small talk, being that her bunkmate turned out to be the team's leader, it might not be a bad idea to get on this Hyun-Seong's good side.
As the Captain gave his brief, the Marine wondered more and more what the fucking point of all of this was. There had to be something more, there seriously just had to, to justify the money and the international support that this program had received. Da Jun's mention of a firefight piqued her interest; if it was worth bringing up, it would have to be a possibility, and it would explain the wealth of military personnel present. But who would they be fighting? Some sort of terrorists? God damn. . Xenomorphs? Little fucking green men? She shuddered at the mention of "U.N. Headdresses", the LAPD Officer's still fresh in her mind, and after the squad's dismissal she dug through her duffel turning each item over in her hand before returning it. The armband she expected to wear, maybe even the helmet, but she'd make it a point to not wear the U.N. softcap. The she slipped the PDA into her left trouser pocket before heading towards the armory to retrieve her weapon, which she'd prefer to just leave locked up and out of mind. She'd scour the information provided on the PDA later. She might even consider a bit of small talk, being that her bunkmate turned out to be the team's leader, it might not be a bad idea to get on this Hyun-Seong's good side.
Marik said
Heh, you were right. All I had to do was add some backstory and now I’ve got a post up. Thanks, I feel like I’ve really contributed now.
Good stuff, man! None of us were trying to put you down, just trying to help you as a writer. Keep it up!
Just write what you're character sees and does, then what s/he sees and does after the commander and party enter. Let's get a few more posts up before the GMs next!
I think it's going well enough that it could be a successful hybrid.
The minutes ticked past, and eventually the assortment settled in. Most were laying claim to their bunks:
The Asian with white hair, painfully feminine in Carrie's opinion, was stashing his carry-on and sword under the bunk. She assumed it was a ceremonial weapon, of which the practice of carrying was regaining popularity in many Eastern militaries, but something about his demeanor and the way that he delicately slid the katana out of sight denoted a sincere personal attachment to the weapon, and she wondered if he expected to use it or not. More so, she wondered if he was worth a shit with it, in the sense of swinging it around in gimmicky, ritualistic training. The thought of using it in a fight seemed out of the question, bringing a sword to a gunfight was tantamount to suicide in a modern gunfight, but you could never really tell anymore with the Asian countries. Admittedly, they'd made large strides in terms of military prowess as of late, but as far as she was tracking they still clung to tacky strategies, Banzai charges and shit like that.
The American Airman sat alone on his bunk, not attempting conversation with anyone. He was half-way through a sandwich, the sight of which made Campbell's mouth water and stomach turn. She hadn't eaten in a while, and she struggled to decide between snooping around the mess, galley, chow, whatever it was called in this place for a sandwich of her own, or sneaking off to find a place to smoke in order to subdue her hunger. The wild haired British man was pacing back and forth down the center of the room for what appeared to be no reason, and as he reached the far end of the room and turned, marching back towards her bunk, she realized that his eyes were equally wild. Though he could be SAS, explaining the thousand-yard stare, he had more the look of a mad scientist, and she thought he'd heard him loudly babbling about something or other back at the elevator. He could just be an idiot. Probably.
". . .We'll ride them someday. . ", The Stones' closing chorus played through her generic white earbuds, a song by The Misfits beginning without a pause, assaulting her ears with grating guitar and aggressive drums. She'd been on an old punk kick lately, the new stuff was too poppy for her tastes, having been turned on to it by Corporal Willis, her team leader. The Mexican woman had fallen asleep against her bunk. Campbell couldn't blame her, and considered doing the same. She recognized the ROK Army uniform, but the rank stitched onto the Korean woman's collar was about as distinguishable to her as a Rorschach. She met eyes with the Korean once, Carrie's displaying an almost harsh apathy, before the latter took a seat on the bottom bunk, the metal frame swaying with the additional weight. She'd hoped that an American would have taken the bottom bunk. South Korea was still allied with the United States, but the mutual disdain between the United States and the majority of Asian countries was contagious, and it was a distinct possibility that she'd have to endure her bunkmate's bitching and scheming. Carrie smirked, the image of her scarred knuckles drilling into the Korean's nose drifting through her mind, though maybe she was getting ahead of herself.
The doors swung open, and all of the attention in the room was shifted to the new group who entered. They carried about them an air of authority, and the two men in charge separated themselves from the others, two peons carting in bags and small furniture items. All were Chinese, a fact that troubled Carrie deeply. It was like the newfangled superpower was this shit-show's core supporter. She could see the chevrons on the Sergeant's shoulders, and though as unfamiliar with the PLA's ranks as the ROK Army's, it was obvious that he was an NCO. He appeared on the verge of frenzy, for no real reason, and Campbell instantly recognized his leadership style, a bullheaded Sergeant flexing his nuts to prove that he's in charge. Before he had a chance to start screaming in gibberish, she quickly climbed down from her perch and assumed a rigid parade rest. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands locked behind the back, right hand over left, head and eyes straight forward, face expressionless. Her uniform was crisp, her boots were clean. Despite her attitude, and as much as she already hated this asshole, who didn't look like he was very good at not getting shot, she was a Marine, and she would proudly display it. Reminiscing about her psychopathic DI's on Paris Island, the Marine stood like a statue, waiting for instructions, yelling, or most likely, both.
The Asian with white hair, painfully feminine in Carrie's opinion, was stashing his carry-on and sword under the bunk. She assumed it was a ceremonial weapon, of which the practice of carrying was regaining popularity in many Eastern militaries, but something about his demeanor and the way that he delicately slid the katana out of sight denoted a sincere personal attachment to the weapon, and she wondered if he expected to use it or not. More so, she wondered if he was worth a shit with it, in the sense of swinging it around in gimmicky, ritualistic training. The thought of using it in a fight seemed out of the question, bringing a sword to a gunfight was tantamount to suicide in a modern gunfight, but you could never really tell anymore with the Asian countries. Admittedly, they'd made large strides in terms of military prowess as of late, but as far as she was tracking they still clung to tacky strategies, Banzai charges and shit like that.
The American Airman sat alone on his bunk, not attempting conversation with anyone. He was half-way through a sandwich, the sight of which made Campbell's mouth water and stomach turn. She hadn't eaten in a while, and she struggled to decide between snooping around the mess, galley, chow, whatever it was called in this place for a sandwich of her own, or sneaking off to find a place to smoke in order to subdue her hunger. The wild haired British man was pacing back and forth down the center of the room for what appeared to be no reason, and as he reached the far end of the room and turned, marching back towards her bunk, she realized that his eyes were equally wild. Though he could be SAS, explaining the thousand-yard stare, he had more the look of a mad scientist, and she thought he'd heard him loudly babbling about something or other back at the elevator. He could just be an idiot. Probably.
". . .We'll ride them someday. . ", The Stones' closing chorus played through her generic white earbuds, a song by The Misfits beginning without a pause, assaulting her ears with grating guitar and aggressive drums. She'd been on an old punk kick lately, the new stuff was too poppy for her tastes, having been turned on to it by Corporal Willis, her team leader. The Mexican woman had fallen asleep against her bunk. Campbell couldn't blame her, and considered doing the same. She recognized the ROK Army uniform, but the rank stitched onto the Korean woman's collar was about as distinguishable to her as a Rorschach. She met eyes with the Korean once, Carrie's displaying an almost harsh apathy, before the latter took a seat on the bottom bunk, the metal frame swaying with the additional weight. She'd hoped that an American would have taken the bottom bunk. South Korea was still allied with the United States, but the mutual disdain between the United States and the majority of Asian countries was contagious, and it was a distinct possibility that she'd have to endure her bunkmate's bitching and scheming. Carrie smirked, the image of her scarred knuckles drilling into the Korean's nose drifting through her mind, though maybe she was getting ahead of herself.
The doors swung open, and all of the attention in the room was shifted to the new group who entered. They carried about them an air of authority, and the two men in charge separated themselves from the others, two peons carting in bags and small furniture items. All were Chinese, a fact that troubled Carrie deeply. It was like the newfangled superpower was this shit-show's core supporter. She could see the chevrons on the Sergeant's shoulders, and though as unfamiliar with the PLA's ranks as the ROK Army's, it was obvious that he was an NCO. He appeared on the verge of frenzy, for no real reason, and Campbell instantly recognized his leadership style, a bullheaded Sergeant flexing his nuts to prove that he's in charge. Before he had a chance to start screaming in gibberish, she quickly climbed down from her perch and assumed a rigid parade rest. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands locked behind the back, right hand over left, head and eyes straight forward, face expressionless. Her uniform was crisp, her boots were clean. Despite her attitude, and as much as she already hated this asshole, who didn't look like he was very good at not getting shot, she was a Marine, and she would proudly display it. Reminiscing about her psychopathic DI's on Paris Island, the Marine stood like a statue, waiting for instructions, yelling, or most likely, both.
Darkraven said You know what's the catch guys? Echo Quarters refer to a bunk that the entire squad shares :D And your characters aren't the the only Echo soldiers as the rest would be coming over, quite particularly the CO and sergeant major of the squad.That said, I think it would be great if you guys amend your posts a little bit, replace the settling down in the characters' rooms with a bit of disappointment at seeing this huge hall with numerous beds in it
Noted and edited. Looking forward to your post tomorrow.
At the end of the elevator's descent, Carrie's hopes were dashed as quickly as they had been bred. As they were toured through, likely to their living quarters, it became quickly and blatantly clear that the facility was largely incomplete, probably built for some other short-lived purpose and abandoned. And now it was the headquarters of UNXIPU, which Carrie's opinion of was quickly swaying back towards that of a joke. Through room after room of dysfunctional machinery and electronics her and the rest of the group followed the Malaysian's instructions, letting the signs guide them.
Her first sight, through a viewing window in the computer graveyard marked "Mission Control" was that of the hanger, partially filled with familiar Osprey VTOLs, and an aircraft the likes of which she'd never seen sitting on a pad of its own. Whatever it was, it was clearly advanced, and she hoped that if they ever actually had a mission, she'd ride in it instead of the MV-22C Ospreys, which she found perilously uncomfortable and noisy. Ushered down a dusty hallway, the group neared the barracks.
It was in better shape than the rest of the unfinished facility, but it wasn't hard to tell that facets were missing here and there. Swept away, small rocks and dust from excavation efforts lined the walls, which themselves sported exposed lengths of thick, multi-colored wires. The small staff of cooks and attendants present looked just as bored and disgruntled as the security staff outside the warehouse. At least the "Mess Hall", as denoted by a sign, didn't look half bad, Carrie noted, passing the double-doors that led to a room filled with tables and serving lines. The steel bulkhead walls were missing here and there, revealing rock, and the fact that this place wasn't even completely excavated yet. Nearing her squad's quarters, she maintained her position near the rear of the group as they passed the admittedly imposing armory, never mind the miserable look on the fatigued men guarding the vault from behind sheets of thick, bulletproof glass. She wondered if her machine gun was already stored in there, or if it would arrive in a later shipment of equipment, not that it mattered, that place was locked down tighter than Fort fuckin' Knox.
Finally arriving at their little slice of the labyrinth, she sighed at the bay, quickly laying claim to a top-bunk in one of the corners of the room and looking for a place on the ceiling from which she could hang a poncho or blanket to afford herself more privacy. Climbing up onto her bed with the knowledge that she'd likely have a minute or two at most before the group would be called for a brief, she placed her earbuds back in, keying up the Rolling Stones' classic Wild Horses as she watched the rest of the group settle in.
Her first sight, through a viewing window in the computer graveyard marked "Mission Control" was that of the hanger, partially filled with familiar Osprey VTOLs, and an aircraft the likes of which she'd never seen sitting on a pad of its own. Whatever it was, it was clearly advanced, and she hoped that if they ever actually had a mission, she'd ride in it instead of the MV-22C Ospreys, which she found perilously uncomfortable and noisy. Ushered down a dusty hallway, the group neared the barracks.
It was in better shape than the rest of the unfinished facility, but it wasn't hard to tell that facets were missing here and there. Swept away, small rocks and dust from excavation efforts lined the walls, which themselves sported exposed lengths of thick, multi-colored wires. The small staff of cooks and attendants present looked just as bored and disgruntled as the security staff outside the warehouse. At least the "Mess Hall", as denoted by a sign, didn't look half bad, Carrie noted, passing the double-doors that led to a room filled with tables and serving lines. The steel bulkhead walls were missing here and there, revealing rock, and the fact that this place wasn't even completely excavated yet. Nearing her squad's quarters, she maintained her position near the rear of the group as they passed the admittedly imposing armory, never mind the miserable look on the fatigued men guarding the vault from behind sheets of thick, bulletproof glass. She wondered if her machine gun was already stored in there, or if it would arrive in a later shipment of equipment, not that it mattered, that place was locked down tighter than Fort fuckin' Knox.
Finally arriving at their little slice of the labyrinth, she sighed at the bay, quickly laying claim to a top-bunk in one of the corners of the room and looking for a place on the ceiling from which she could hang a poncho or blanket to afford herself more privacy. Climbing up onto her bed with the knowledge that she'd likely have a minute or two at most before the group would be called for a brief, she placed her earbuds back in, keying up the Rolling Stones' classic Wild Horses as she watched the rest of the group settle in.
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