//------------------------------// // 1 Of drinks and flying dumpsters // Story: A New Arrival // by The_Lord_of_Admirals //------------------------------// The night was shaping up to be a good one for the Marines of the Two for Flinching, doing a bar crawl on their shore leave they were enjoying the drinks. Downing round after round, and having been kicked from a few bars on the way, the troops were looking for quite a hangover, but that was for later. Now? It was time for their songs. “Oh, a man overboard wouldn’t do us any harm. A man overboard wouldn’t do us any harm.” Leading the shoal of Marines in song was a young woman, looking no more than thirty, standing on the bar with a few of the men, her clothes were already a mess, a miss-mass of Marine, Navy, and Army. Her short, multi-coloured hair held under a, stolen, black naval cap held back with gauze. And her face was decorated with rough, jagged scars. This rag-tag officer led her men through their drunken shanty as they crowded the bar counter, their loud voices filled the air. “A freebie from the bar wouldn’t do us any harm. No, a freebie from the bar wouldn’t do us any harm.” By this point the bartenders, and everyone else, had been running around trying to keep beer moving, not wanting to risk the troops running dry and finding something else to do for fun; long having given up on getting them off the counter, the commander’s persistence having beat their own. “So we’ll roll the ol’ Two-Fer’ along. We’ll roll the fightin’ Two-Fer’ along. Yeah! We’ll roll the ol’ Two-Fer’ along. An’ we’ll all hang on behind!” So lost in their song none of them noticed as a man slinked in the door, disappearing in the crowd. “Oh, a bottle a’ rum wouldn’t do us any harm. No, a bottle a’ rum wouldn’t do us any harm. A bottle a’ ru-”  “Phoenix!” The man interrupted, shouting over the Marine’s song. “-waaah!!” ‘Phoenix’ shrieked, flailing her arms as she fell from her perch. The man walked around the bar to stand over her. He was a Navy man, slate gray uniform, a pistol on his hip, and a patch on his jacket depicting a golden anchor over a dark shield. Naval Special Warfare. Instantly the men snapped to attention as they saw the four golden stripes, an Admiral. “Sunshine, what the hell are you doing?” He asked the fallen woman, who was still laying in a crumpled heap under the bar. “Three bars called the cops after you left, you drank an entire bar dry, and you were supposed to report to Anton two hours ago. So, Sunshine, what the hell were you doing?” “Uhh… drinking.” Sunshine answered from her spot on the floor. “Well you better sober up fast, ‘cause we got a situation.” The Admiral stated as he stepped back from her. “And, I want my hat back.” Being driven Code 3 through the city by an MP towards Anton Naval/Air base, Sunshine turned away from the window to face the officer and asked. “So, what’s going on?” The Admiral turned in his seat to face her. “First off, you got some new faces. Specter, she’s Naval Intelligence, then there’s Vampire, she’s Army, medical corps; kinda bullshit too.” Chuckling at her he just said, ‘you’ll see soon.’ “You’re giving me a spook? You know I have Skittles, right?” She questioned. “Trust me, she won’t have an issue with her.” He stated leaning over the front seats dropping a pair of files in her lap. “Take a look through ‘em, but on to more pressing matters. You remember Canterlot?” At her nod he continued. “Well you know the portal you talked about there? Well it turned on. Nothing came out.’ He quickly added, seeing her face. “But we’ve upped the defenses around there, the old city’s on lockdown, we’re being flown out there as soon as we make it back to base.” He said, turning back to their driver. “And do take a look at those files.” With little else to do, ‘Sunshine’ decided to give them a quick glance over. “Not much in these, eh?” She observed, may as well look at what’s here. First off, the surgeon. United Nations Defense Force. File: 001430104-22-AMC Name: Andrews, Samantha. 1st Sgt Callsign: Vampire Nation of Origin: Canada Branch: Army, Medical Corps Description: Female of average height, possesses stronger than expected body strength. Prefers her modified light armour and special carbine. Is para certified. Possesses in-depth knowledge and skills in field surgery, is considered one of the top surgical personnel. Statements: Holds no qualms about fighting those who annoy her, and is rather quick to anger. Has issues with authorities and orders she deems incompitant or “stupid”. Has little in ways of compassion to those she dislikes. Medical Report: Sergeant Andrews possesses immunity to most conventional pain killers, as well as partial immunity to common poisons. In addition Sergeant Andrews is unaffected by anesthetics and barely affected by tranquilizers, resulting in her undergoing surgeries awake; She holds a near unmatched pain tolerance because of this. Reading this, Sunshine mumbled something about having two of them now. Opening the spook’s file now, hoping for something better. United Nations Defense Force ONI Section-2 CLASSIFIED  ID: 183VD-644H-1V990-2N NAME: [REDACTED] Callsign: Specter. Cpl. Nation of Origin: United States of America Branch: OFFICE of NAVAL INTELLIGENCE Description: Female, short. Proficient at gathering intelligence, will know everything. Everything. [INFORMATION REDACTED]. Possesses good CQB skills. Athletic and extraordinarily flexible. Prefers her pistols, says she likes being up close. Statements: She seems to enjoy antagonizing others around her, observation is recommended. Corporal [REDACTED] holds little restraint about infiltrating secure areas and stealing valuables or intel, regardless of friend or foe. Has a habit of cramming herself in every space she can find, and will get herself stuck, often. Corporal [REDACTED] excels at infiltration and engaging from unexpected angles. Medical Report: Corporal [REDACTED] has a prosthetic left forearm. She holds limited immunity to some conventional poisons. The corporal is missing part of one lung, not enough to majorly affect her, but still noticeable. “Wow, and I thought I had a lot of black ink.” Sunshine grumbled. “Ah, I see you read the files. Good.” The Admiral said as he sat back down. “Now get ready, we’re almost there.” And sure enough, visible out the front window were the gates to the Naval base. “The newbies should be here by now. Spit’s should have the ‘fat bastard’ up and running soon.” As the car slowed to a halt on the tarmac, the Admiral turned over to her. “Ah, this reminds me of when you were an FNG. You remember those days?” He reminisced. “Yeah, I remember those days. Back when your guys found me out in that damned ghost town.” She said, the memories coming back like they were yesterday. “Back when I first showed up, so far back I was just starting as a recruit. Never thought I’d be heading back there, not for this.” “Yeah, I remember them like they were yesterday. You spent months asleep, we didn’t know if you’d make it then. Anyway, enough reminiscing. Let’s go face the music Captain.” He told her, shoving the car door open. “Let's go see these new additions and find the Wing Commander.” Twenty minutes later found the Captain and her team sitting in the back of a large military transport as it fought for every inch of sky it could get. Specter had, apparently, disappeared a while ago, no-one knows when she did or where she went. The team of a dozen odd mixed soldiers held onto their restraints for dear life as the flying dumpster rocked, the Commanders curses, pleas, and grunts audible over the intercom as she wrestled with the plane. A highlight of her curses was when she started calling the plane a bitch, only for it to drop and for her to immediately jump to pleading with it, ‘No, no, no. I didn’t mean it like that girl.’ ‘Come on you bitch, Climb!’ ‘Climb, please?’ Suddenly the Commander spoke, calmer this time, despite the tirade of alarms going off around her. “This is your pilot spea… has this thing been on the whole time? Fuck. Anyway, this is the girl your lives depend on, we’ve reached the best altitude this fat fuck will do. Should make Alfa in ‘bout two-three hours.” A new klaxon screams for her attention. “Will you just Shut The Fuck Up! I know we have low pressures on engine three, it’s ‘cause we don’t have an engine three! Civilian craft, you better get the fuck out of my way before I ram this fucking flying dumpster fire up your ass!” Unfortunately whatever response the civies gave her wasn’t broadcast, and ‘MesserSpit’ seems to have realized to turn off the intercom. About two and a half hours later. The intercom crackled once more with the Commanders, noticeably hoarse-er, voice. “Alright chucklefucks, we’re coming in for a landing, now this bird’ll only do one kind of landing, so hold onto your teeth. The weather out there is looking like- FUCK!-” the plane suddenly dropped, “-with a high chance of hydraulic showers.” The pilot continued as if this was a normal Tuesday, and not like they were about to crash a flaming dumpster into a cement wall. A few minutes pass with the passengers clutching their harnesses as if their life depended on it, it probably did, before the plane hit the tarmac with an earth shaking ‘thud’. Almost immediately the brakes started screaming, trying to slow them; but it was all for naught, not even a second after the brakes started squealing they stopped, the team looked at each other in fear as they were pushed into their straps as the plane slammed back into the runway. For what felt like an eternity the only thing they heard were the squeals, and popping, of tires, until they finally stopped. The Commander came back on the intercom. “Thank you for flying Air Spitfire, we know you don’t have another choice of airline; so, fly again soon.” With that said she dropped the back ramp, revealing a fire engine behind them sitting on the grass. ‘Huh, guess we left the runway, didn’t even notice.’ The team, simply too happy to be back on solid ground, didn't even question the field they found themselves in, simply rejoicing in being out of the deathtrap Anton dared call ‘airworthy’.