Mike grunted as he finished the last of his pushups, and rolled onto his back for a breather. A quick set of 100 always helped to get his blood flowing, and he tried to do at least three sets a day. He’d always been a fitness nut, a personality quirk that meshed well with his Recon lifestyle. 

Climbing to his feet with a soft hiss from his robotic leg, the Marine took stock of his cramped quarters. All of his worldly belongings had been crammed into the tiny room, the desk cluttered with papers and various objects ranging from challenge coins to photographs. One picture in particular caught his attention and he picked it up, smiling.

The snapshot was old, taken with a Polaroid camera, and showed his parents back when they’d first met in southern Liberia. His mother was the focus of the shot, clad in scrubs and giving an injection to a sick child. Her raven-black hair was tied back in a ponytail and she smiled as she worked, no doubt comforting the little boy with kind words spoken in the soft voice he missed so much. His father stood nearby, ever vigilant, his heavily-scarred face twisted in the mocking grin that somehow looked as natural there as the AK-47 he cradled in his tattoo-sleeved arms. They’d told him the story countless times as he growing up; how his Lebanese mom had left her home and traveled to the war-stricken country as a freelance nurse, then found an unlikely romance with the smartass American mercenary hired to protect her medical group. Standing beside his dad was the man Mike knew as Uncle Jouma, a Sudanese soldier of fortune who had acted as the group’s interpreter and local expert. His iconic red beret firmly in place on his shaven head, his rifle slung over his shoulder, the man was frozen in the act of kicking a soccer ball back to a group of local youths, a toothy grin plastered on his face.

Smiling at the memories, Mike pulled on the black digital-camo blouse that designated him as a member of one of the ship’s SRT teams, checked to make sure the gold Sergeant’s chevrons on his collar were in place, then tucked the photo into his left breast pocket. He checked his watch; fifteen minutes until the briefing started. [i]Balls,[/i] he thought to himself, not pleased with the prospect of spending half of the morning listening to the Captain droning on about the last shift’s activities. With a sigh, the Marine shoved his cover on his head and left his quarters, a spring in his step as he strolled down the hallway towards the auditorium.

About twenty feet ahead of him, Mike caught sight of another black-clad figure, immediately recognizing the short, barrel-chested form of Corporal Lopez, a member of Davis’s team and fellow Recon Marine. Taking a breath, the Sergeant gave a sharp bellow. 

“YUT!”

“KILL!” The obligatory response echoed in the hallway as Lopez stopped, waiting on his team leader to catch up to him. He looked miserable, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and Mike didn’t bother to stifle his laughter. He’d lucked into being one of the few crew members who was able to come out of stasis with no negative symptoms at all, and it was clear that his fellow Marine hadn’t had the same good fortune.

“How ya feelin’, devil-nuts?” 

“Like I wanna suck-start my rifle as soon as it’s issued to me, Sergeant,” Lopez responded, shaking his head as his team leader clapped him on the shoulder. “How your ass is bouncin’ around like that is beyond me. You sneak some yeyo on board? Fuckin’ share, man.”

“Marine, I wake up every morning pissing pure motivation,” Mike responded with a grin. “Come on, buck up. We’re Space Marines now, Chuckles. Does that shit not get your dick hard?”

The stocky Mexican shook his head again. “The way I’m feelin’, it’d take all the Viagra on this tub to get a twitch outta me. I see they unfucked your leg. I kinda miss your cholo-walk.”

Mike laughed. When he’d gone into cryo-sleep, he’d had to remove his prosthesis and leave it in the care of the medical techs. Something about advanced robotics not responding well to being stuck in a freezer for three years. In the interim period, the power cell had been removed and then promptly lost, so he’d had to swing the thing around like a peg until they’d found a new one. 

“Am I not gangsta enough for you to take orders from?”

“Nah. Just felt like I was back on the block, is all.”

“Yeah, your barrio ass would.”

“Pinche gringo.”

“Ibn himaar.”

The two bantered easily back and forth, trading insults in their respective mother-tongues, until they reached the entrance to the Auditorium. As the door slid open, Mike gave a low whistle. He gazed in wonder at the digital forest that surrounded them, smiling like a child. The marvels of technology never failed to amaze him, and this simple act of turning a boring auditorium into forest paradise seemed to reaffirm what he’d known all along; humanity may be down, but they certainly weren’t out. They would adapt like they always had, and crawl out of this new primordial ooze to evolve into something grand.

“Shit, Sergeant. Your lyin’ ass told me this was a briefing. What the hell are we doing in a jungle?” Lopez muttered, removing his cover as they crossed the threshold.

“My bad, Devil. Next time I’ll give you a gear list, let you feel like a field Marine again.”

Surveying the scene, Davis picked out Abby’s ACUs easily. A few rows ahead of her were the black-uniformed figures of Decker, Sullivan, and Sczruba, the three Army Rangers who comprised the rest of his team. Lopez spotted them at the same time, and the two headed their way.

Grinning, Mike took a breath and boomed in his best parade-ground voice.

“OOHRAH, First Sergeant!”

Heads turned his way in irritation, but the irrepressible Marine laughed away their frustration as he took his seat, greeting the soldiers under his command as enthusiastically as he had Lopez.

“Good morning, killers. I’m glad to see the miseries of cryo-recovery haven’t been able to keep you three down.”

The men chorused a tired greeting, all of them looking resentful of their team leader’s evident amusement at their discomfort, and Mike chuckled as he settled into a chair to await the beginning of the meet.

It was going to be a good day.