Young Writers Society

Very, very beginning of a short story I'm working on. There are very few main characters, though there will be a number of cameos involved. I'll let the story unfold as I write it. As you can see it is very, very rough, and there are going to be quite a few placeholders, random names and stuff till I get more organized.

Training Exercise, Day 1, 0400 hrs--Briefing

“Anyone know what this damn meeting is about?” I grumbled to my fellow marines, who were looking just as bleary eyed and exhausted as myself.

“No fucking clue,” said a massive, obviously frustrated Dan Sanders. He reached up and put a ham-sized hand on the back of his mammoth neck, intent on massaging the sleep from his bulging muscles.

I sighed and glanced around the tiny briefing room, where the eight man UNMC team had assembled. The most prominent man in the room was Private Sanders, the only person that looked the part of a marine. His six foot five, three hundred pound frame dwarfed everyone else in the room, and his black crew cut was always perfectly trimmed. Dan, of course, took up almost half a bench, forcing those next to him to either bunch together or be pushed off.

One of those, Private William Qel’Oreda, was staring off into space; he didn’t so much look tired as he did drunk. His bleached blond hair looked like it had been licked by a camel, but that was to be expected. He had a small smile on his face, which emphasized the short, vertical scar under his left eye. The combination of his eyes and the smile was a look of pure amusement. Every couple seconds he’d let out a small chuckle, like there was something hilarious that only he could see.

“What’s funny?” Private Griffin Cooper demanded. He had his face buried in his hands, obviously still not fully awake.

“Beside the fact that Phoenix isn’t wearing any pants…” Griffin’s twin sister _______ mumbled. I looked down at my bare legs, chuckled a little, and glanced to my left, where Private Samantha D’Mortel was filing her nails.

“How is it you’ve managed to jump out of bed with perfect makeup and not a single hair out of place?” I asked her.

“Lots of conditioner,” she replied without looking up. Her hair had fallen over her eyes, partially covering her face, but I could see the wide grin behind her shimmering red locks.

That's absolutely amazing.

I swear I'm not just saying that because I'm awesomely sexy in it.

Actually, I do use a lot of conditioner...

ANYWAY. I like how it's not the traditional YWS story - it's more like a story that happens to feature people we know by YWS names. Usually, YWS stories are somewhat shallow, but this... this has depth. The characters actually seem like people instead of screennames. Bravo - I can't wait to see you continue this! (And you WILL continue this, or else.)

Ha! My name is ________!

Yeah. We're going to force you to write this whether you know it or not. *plays with Crysi's hair*

>=O

And where am I? Hmmm?


Seriously, though, this was nicely constructed, and I especially liked Samantha. =]

Training Exercise, Day 1, 0400 hrs--Briefing

“Anyone know what this damn meeting is about?” I grumbled to my fellow marines, who were looking just as bleary eyed and exhausted as myself.

“No fucking clue,” said a massive, obviously frustrated Dan Sanders. He reached up and put a ham-sized hand on the back of his mammoth neck, intent on massaging the sleep from his bulging muscles.

I sighed and glanced around the tiny briefing room, where the eight man UNMC team had assembled. The most prominent man in the room was Private Sanders, the only person that looked the part of a marine. His six foot five, three hundred pound frame dwarfed everyone else in the room, and his black crew cut was always perfectly trimmed. Dan, of course, took up almost half a bench, forcing those next to him to either bunch together or be pushed off.

One of those, Private William Qel’Oreda, was staring off into space; he didn’t so much look tired as he did drunk. His bleached blond hair looked like it had been licked by a camel, but that was to be expected. He had a small smile on his face, which emphasized the short, vertical scar under his left eye. The combination of his eyes and the smile was a look of pure amusement. Every couple seconds he’d let out a small chuckle, like there was something hilarious that only he could see.

“What’s funny?” Private Griffin Cooper demanded. He had his face buried in his hands, obviously still not fully awake. He raked his fingers through his short brown hair, his lean but muscular forearms flexing slightly.

“Beside the fact that Phoenix isn’t wearing any pants…” Griffin’s twin sister Angel mumbled. She was absently rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, while simultaneously stifling a yawn. Her hair, almost identical to her brother’s, was a total mess. I looked down at my bare legs, chuckled a little, and glanced to my left, where Private Samantha D’Mortel was filing her nails.

“How is it you’ve managed to jump out of bed with perfect makeup and not a single hair out of place?” I asked her.

“Lots of conditioner,” she replied without looking up. Her hair had fallen over her eyes, partially covering her face, but I could see the wide grin behind her shimmering red locks. The fact that her tank top was rather low cut didn’t escape my attention; but then again, not much with Sam did. “How is it I had time to get dressed and do my hair and still make it here on time, when you didn’t even pull on some pants and were late?” she retorted.

I laughed again, then raised my wrist to eye level, where my ever present watch glowed softly in the dim room.

“Wasn’t this an EMERGENCY meeting?” I asked with a yawn.

“It WAS, Private; but as you can see, the General isn’t here yet.” The voice of Lieutenant Jack “Firestarter,” Jarlson came from the corner of the room, where he was standing non-chalantly, observing his men.

“That’s CORPORAL, sir,” I corrected, craning my neck to look at the Lieutenant. He smiled slightly and shook his head, then went back to his silence.

“Yeah, well. Corporal is still below Sergeant, you know,” a voice in my ear whispered. I turned and looked to my right, where Sergeant Gwennan Alberi had shoved William out of the way to sit next to me. Knowing Gwen, she had probably pulled rank on him, rather than physically pushing him out of the way.

“Very true, SERGEANT…but I think ‘Expert Marksman’ has a better ring to it than…what was it again? Oh, that’s right; ‘Competent Marksman.’ Who was the expert again?”

“Yep, that’d be Phoenix,” Sam said absently, still concentrating fully on perfecting her nails.

I grinned at Gwen. “Oh that’s right. It WAS me, wasn’t it?” She scoffed a little and shook her head, her short, brown hair tumbling around her face. Gwen looked more like she belonged on a stage than anywhere near a M9A1 Pulse Rifle; with her pixie-cute face and her small, lithe frame, she looked about as hardcore as Tinkerbell in a too-too.

Another army YWS fic! XD I like the fact I'm an officer, that's always kick-ass. I guess one favour to another? I make you one, you make me one.

Well...I more base it on the fact that you're an admin here on the site XD

Haha, I like my retort. So me. Although (and here's my actual CRITIQUE), it IS a bit wordy. Read it out loud - it sounds a little awkward to me.

I like all the bantering that's going on. Very amusing.

Great so far!!!!! Gotta love those YWS stories...

Wiggy

intent on massaging the sleep from his bulging muscles.

this sounds weird. a stiff neck makes more sense... ya know?

hair looked like it had been licked by a camel

I like this. made me smile 'cause your hair looks like that sometimes.

“Very true, SERGEANT…but I think ‘Expert Marksman’ has a better ring to it than…what was it again? Oh, that’s right; ‘Competent Marksman.’ Who was the expert again?”

you are to funny.

Love ya babe.

I gotta learn to check these literary forums more often. If you hadn't put this in your blog, Hunter, I would have missed it all together.

But this is me, coming in and making up for the fact that I don't think I've honestly given anybody a decent crit since last spring.

First off, love the idea. Marines, starting off by telling us where and when we are - army style... and the characters. They rock. Whether they're actually accurate to us, I'm not sure yet, but they're all thier own person and I can picture them all in my head; that's what stood out to me most.

Phoenix wrote:“No fucking clue,” said a massive, obviously frustrated Dan Sanders. He reached up and put a ham-sized hand on the back of his mammoth neck, intent on massaging the sleep from his bulging muscles.

That last sentence sounds awkward. We've got a "ham-sized hand" a "mammoth neck" and "bulging muscles". He's a big dude. We're about to get told that in the next paragraph. We get it. I don't think that we need to be told that many times. I think you should consider dropping one or two of adjectives.

Phoenix wrote:I sighed and glanced around the tiny briefing room, where the eight man UNMC team had assembled. The most prominent man in the room was Private Sanders, the only person that looked the part of a marine. His six foot five, three hundred pound frame dwarfed everyone else in the room, and his black crew cut was always perfectly trimmed. Dan, of course, took up almost half a bench, forcing those next to him to either bunch together or be pushed off.

Great image. I can just see this big hulk of a guy sitting there with a couple of other guys trying to stay on the bench on his far side. Good job.

Phoenix wrote:One of those, Private William Qel’Oreda, was staring off into space; he didn’t so much look tired as he did drunk. His bleached blond hair looked like it had been licked by a camel, but that was to be expected. He had a small smile on his face, which emphasized the short, vertical scar under his left eye. The combination of his eyes and the smile was a look of pure amusement. Every couple seconds he’d let out a small chuckle, like there was something hilarious that only he could see.

I'm not quite sure what you were going for here. I like the idea how showing how different people react to lack of sleep, but here... I think you may have gone just a little too far. From the description I would believe that he was drunk, or maybe more on the insane side. Tone it down a bit?

And I don't understand why it is to be expected that he look like he just got licked by a camel. Is there a camel nearby? Does he have a pet camel? Do camels randomly pop out of the wood-work and attack him? More explanation please?

Phoenix wrote:“What’s funny?” Private Griffin Cooper demanded. He had his face buried in his hands, obviously still not fully awake. He raked his fingers through his short brown hair, his lean but muscular forearms flexing slightly.

I'm not sure you need to say that he was "obviously" still not awake. You could drop the "obviously" and I don't feel like anything would be lost.

Phoenix wrote:“Beside the fact that Phoenix isn’t wearing any pants…” Griffin’s twin sister Angel mumbled.

Ha ha. Love it! Though I gotta say, I would think a skilled marine like yourself would be able to jump out of bed and get into his pants even before an emergency meeting. It's a nice touch, but I'm not sure it holds up under scrutiny.

Phoenix wrote:“Lots of conditioner,” she replied without looking up.

I've GOT to borrow her conditioner sometime. *shakes head*

Once again. Nice touch.

Phoenix wrote:“How is it I had time to get dressed and do my hair and still make it here on time, when you didn’t even pull on some pants and were late?” she retorted.

When I first read this, this line seemed out of place. She said
make it here on time" and I didn't get it. Up until this point, it really hadn't been brought to my attention that we weren't still in the barracks. If I had thought about it, I would have realized that since we had girls and guys together, it was logical that we were elsewhere by this time, but it hadn't been shoved in my face. I think the location should be better established earlier in the piece, just so those that get confused easily *coughmecough* don't get lost.

Phoenix wrote:“It WAS, Private; but as you can see, the General isn’t here yet.” The voice of Lieutenant Jack “Firestarter,” Jarlson came from the corner of the room, where he was standing non-chalantly, observing his men.

You don't need a comma after "Firestarter".

Phoenix wrote:“That’s CORPORAL, sir,” I corrected, craning my neck to look at the Lieutenant. He smiled slightly and shook his head, then went back to his silence.

The last bit sounds slightly awkward. I'd say "slipped back into silence" or "sank back into silence", might even venture to say "went back to silence", but I don't think I'd say "his silence".

Phoenix wrote:“Yeah, well. Corporal is still below Sergeant, you know,” a voice in my ear whispered. I turned and looked to my right, where Sergeant Gwennan Alberi had shoved William out of the way to sit next to me. Knowing Gwen, she had probably pulled rank on him, rather than physically pushing him out of the way.

“Very true, SERGEANT…but I think ‘Expert Marksman’ has a better ring to it than…what was it again? Oh, that’s right; ‘Competent Marksman.’ Who was the expert again?”

“Yep, that’d be Phoenix,” Sam said absently, still concentrating fully on perfecting her nails.

I grinned at Gwen. “Oh that’s right. It WAS me, wasn’t it?”

Ha ha... very me. very nice.

But I gotta say, it took me a second reading to get that you started out talking to me, that she butted in and then you WENT BACK to talking to me. I'm not quite sure how to clear that up, but once again, for us slow people, it might be nice.

Phoenix wrote:She scoffed a little and shook her head, her short, brown hair tumbling around her face.

Just a comment: short hair doesn't tumble. It doesn't barely move. *growls* Something I didn't realize when I cut it this short, but seriously, it might flip a little, but it's not gonna tumble anywhere.

Phoenix wrote:Gwen looked more like she belonged on a stage than anywhere near a M9A1 Pulse Rifle; with her pixie-cute face and her small, lithe frame, she looked about as hardcore as Tinkerbell in a too-too.

Ha Ha. Nice. Very true, as well.

And I may be mistaken, but I'm fairly certain that "too-too" should be spelled "tutu". Anyone that would care to correct me on that, feel free to do so.

Other than that, very nice. I'm enjoying it. I'm not quite sure who everyone is (I've got most of the names, but not all), but I'm still really enjoying it. Keep it up.

*hands Dusky her conditioner*

It's wonderful. Try it.

Danke danke! *runs off to wash her hair*

Good start...

I of course am not in it, since you hate me. But it's still a good start.

It had a nice flow...

Ok all...here's a bit of an update to what you've already read. I editted it a bit, and added a ton to it. Enjoy! Anything separated by a line of dashes are separate scenes that will take place later in the story, depending on how I organize it. So...basically you can critique the scenes separately and not as part of the same piece of work.

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"Cooper is down! Repeat God damn it, Cooper is DOWN!" William was yelling into his comm while bullets flew overhead and crashed into the barrier that he, myself, and Private Samantha D'Mortel had our backs against.

I looked away from William, back at Sam, who as to my right. She was already looking at me, and though her face as a blank as a sheet of paper, I could tell she was holding back tears. Bullets hammered the cement barrier, and I knew our attackers would be advancing to our position at any moment.

"Where's Bekah?" she asked, her voice perfectly clear in my earpiece despite the roaring gunfire.

"I don't know; I lost track of her when the bullets started flying," I told her, meeting her gaze evenly. A flash of concern was the only emotional response she gave me. The plasma rifle in my hand was still cold, despite the searing heat of the desert wastelad we'd been dropped into.

"What do we do?" she asked. I looked down at the experimental piece of shit in my hand, unable to look her in the eye.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because—lookit me dammit!" Suddenly Sam's voice was full of ferver and power. I raised my head and looked into her eyes. "Gwenan is dead. Jack…I don't know where Jack is. You're the only other ranking soldier in this outfit, damn you. Act like it."

Since the moment I'd joined this team, Jack, Gwennan and Caldwell had always called the shots. I was just a soldier; I never considered myself any higher up than the rest of the team, who were all Privates, First Class. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to think like Jack. Somehow, he always managed to make the right call at the right time, and everything worked out somehow. And now he was down…maybe dead.

"Okay. Here's the deal," I said. Staying in my crouch, I spun on my heel and slapped William on the top of the helmet. He turned, mid yell, and nearly screamed into my face in frustration.

"Stow it, Private. Listen and listen good! We have one chance, and one chance only to do this right." I looked from Will to Sam, and back to Will. "Give me a suppressive fire; we're going to make our way, one by one, to the complex. Once we're there, Sam's going to get us inside and we'll make our way back to Alpha."

-----------------------------------

Training Exercise, Day 1, 0400 hrs--Briefing

"Anyone know what this damn meeting is about?" I grumbled to my fellow marines, who were looking just as bleary eyed and exhausted as myself.

"No fucking clue," said a massive, obviously frustrated Dan Sanders. He reached up and put a ham-sized hand on the back of his mammoth neck, intent on massaging the sleep from his bulging muscles.

I sighed and glanced around the tiny briefing room, where the eight man UNMC team had assembled. The most prominent man in the room was Private Sanders, the only person that looked the part of a marine. His six foot five, three hundred pound frame dwarfed everyone else in the room, and his black crew cut was always perfectly trimmed. Dan, of course, took up almost half a bench, forcing those next to him to either bunch together or be pushed off.

One of those, Private William Qel'Oreda, was staring off into space; he didn't so much look tired as he did drunk. His bleached blond hair looked like it had been licked by a camel, but that was to be expected. He had a small smile on his face, which emphasized the short, vertical scar under his left eye. The combination of his eyes and the smile was a look of pure amusement. Every couple seconds he'd let out a small chuckle, like there was something hilarious that only he could see.

"What's funny?" Private Griffin Cooper demanded. He had his face buried in his hands, obviously still not fully awake. He raked his fingers through his short brown hair, his lean but muscular forearms flexing slightly.

"Beside the fact that Phoenix isn't wearing any pants…" Griffin's twin sister Angel mumbled. She was absently rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, while simultaneously stifling a yawn. Her hair, almost identical to her brother's, was a total mess. I looked down at my bare legs, chuckled a little, and glanced to my left, where Private Samantha D'Mortel was filing her nails.

"How is it you've managed to jump out of bed with perfect makeup and not a single hair out of place?" I asked her.

"Lots of conditioner," she replied without looking up. Her hair had fallen over her eyes, partially covering her face, but I could see the wide grin behind her shimmering red locks. The fact that her tank top was rather low cut didn't escape my attention; but then again, not much with Sam did. "How is it I had time to get dressed and do my hair and still make it here on time, when you didn't even pull on some pants and were late?" she retorted.

I laughed again, then raised my wrist to eye level, where my ever present watch glowed softly in the dim room.

"Wasn't this an EMERGENCY meeting?" I asked with a yawn.

"It WAS, Private; but as you can see, the General isn't here yet." The voice of Lieutenant Jack "Firestarter," Jarlson came from the corner of the room, where he was standing non-chalantly, observing his men.

"That's CORPORAL, sir," I corrected, craning my neck to look at the Lieutenant. He smiled slightly and shook his head, then went back to silence.

"Yeah, well. Corporal is still below Sergeant, you know," a voice in my ear whispered. I turned and looked to my right, where Sergeant Gwennan Alberi had shoved William out of the way to sit next to me. Knowing Gwen, she had probably pulled rank on him, rather than physically pushing him out of the way.

"Very true, SERGEANT…but I think 'Expert Marksman' has a better ring to it than…what was it again? Oh, that's right; 'Competent Marksman.' Who was the expert again?"

"Yep, that'd be Phoenix," Sam said absently, still concentrating fully on perfecting her nails.

I grinned at Gwen. "Oh that's right. It WAS me, wasn't it?" She scoffed a little and shook her head, her short, brown hair tumbling around her face. Gwen looked more like she belonged on a stage than anywhere near a M9A1 Pulse Rifle; with her pixie-cute face and her small, lithe frame, she looked about as hardcore as Tinkerbelle in a tutu.

It was then that Commander Nathaniel Caldwell decided to make an appearance. The second the door slid open and Caldwell's face came into view, Firestarter verily jumped to attention and shouted "Attention!"

Instantly, the room fell silent and we all sat just a bit straighter.

"At ease," Caldwell said, almost casually. He let a smirk work its way onto his face, and continued, "Though I see you already are." Nathaniel Caldwell was a tall, broad shouldered man, with kind looking eyes and a goofy, if rarely seen, smile. He wore the standard blue uniform of he UNMC, with the exception of the Commander's Bars stitched to his shoulder. Close behind him strode a tiny woman flanked by two white-coated men. As one, our heads all turned to the side and looked down at the diminutive woman.

"Dude, it's like…Munchkin Land or whatever," Dan muttered to me. The lady was no more than four and a half feet tall, with piercing grey eyes enlarged behind thick, rimless eyeglasses. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she stood pole straight with her hands clasped tightly behind her back. She wore a formless white lab coat, with plain grey scrubs underneath. She wore an ID card clipped to her coat, which identified her as Head Researcher for the Science Department's Research and Development Team. Her name was in small enough print that it was illegible to me.

"This is Doctor Smaur, Research and Development," Caldwell began. "She'll be briefing you on your next assignment. Smaur, you have the room."

Dr. Smaur stepped forward, her hands still clasped behind her back and her eyes narrowing even further--had I not seen it with my own two eyes, I would not have thought it possible.

"I am Doctor Denise Smaur, Head Researcher of the Research and Development Weapons Division. Smaur will suffice." We can read that, sir, I wanted to tell her. Luckily for me, I managed to keep my big mouth shut and listen to what she had to say.

"Ooh, Big Shot," Dan muttered to me. I stifled a laugh and kept my expression neutral, knowing better than to laugh at a superior officer. When he was running the show, Commander Caldwell was very lax in terms of military conduct. When someone else was in command, however, he would have no bullshit.

"Stow that, Sanders," he ordered sternly, though a slight twinkle in his eye gave away his amusement.

"Sorry sir," Dan said.

"Doctor Smaur, you have the room," Caldwell said, taking a step back behind her.

"Thank you Commander." Smaur took a step toward us, and then continued: I am Doctor Denise Smaur, of Science Division's Weapons Development Team. Smaur will suffice." She paused for a moment, as if she expected us to say something. I almost considered saying "'Lo Smaur," like the Alcoholics Anonymous groups that were so prevalent during the earlier years of the century. Sam and I looked at each other, shared a shrug, and then looked back to Smaur.
"Have you been briefed as to why you are here?" she asked us, her voice very sharp and to the point.

A chorus of Nuh-uhs and No sirs followed her question.

She looked mildly annoyed at our lack of proper UNMC response, but continued regardless. "You're here because you are the most effective unit in the UNMC. Your war record stands out as the best seen in decades. Twenty missions on four battlefronts, with over 500 confirmed kills--"

"Twenty Official Missions," Grif piped in. Dan laughed in agreement and lifted his hand up to Grif, who promptly slapped it enthusiastically.

"Fascinating," Smaur said dryly, and continued: "With more than thirty medals scattered amongst the members, a 100% success rate, and only one casualty and four injuries to show for it, you are easily the most qualified unit for this assignment. Your bravery in battle, your competence in the field, and your coolness under fire has brought me to pick your unit for this mission."

While her words were true, there was more than a little bitterness in them. Sure, we were amazing on paper; we were the best. Our kill count was uncontested, our success rate unbeatable, and our injuries were among the lowest in the Corps. However, there was only one problem; the casualty. On one of our last missions, we'd lost a member of our squad to a rogue bullet fired from a dying Insurgent in New Pakistan. Ivy Hawthorne took the bullet in the side of the head, and succumbed to that wound en route to base. That loss weighed heavily on all of us, even to this day. Ivy was the spirit of the team; she was a dear friend to all of us, a lover to Grif (who took it harder than anyone) and like a sister to me.

In the big picture of war, one death is nothing. To this unit, it meant failure.

Caldwell must have noted the uncomfortable silence in the room and the grim looks on our faces at the mention of out lost comrade. "Continue," he aid to Smaur.

She nodded curtly and said, "We want you to test a new weapon we've been developing," she said.

At the mention of the words "test" and "weapon" in the same sentence, William jumped o his feet and said "You mean we get to blow shit up in a brand new way?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jack drop his face into his hand.

"Down boy," Smaur said without flinching. He held her hand out t one of her assistants who, handed hr a rather large steel briefcase. Smaur set it on the table in front of her, then reached down and fiddled with the lock a moment. We all leaned forward in our seats a little, despite ourselves, and waited. With a click, the case opened slightly. Smaur spun it toward us as it flipped open, revealing the new weapon.

"Prototype M9A1-XP. The original model was the standard issue M9A1 Pulse Rifle, and it has been modified to fire a superheated, electrically charged, super-concentrated bolt of gas. The XP suffix stands for 'Experimental Plasma.' The standard 5.56 caseless ammunition has been replaced with a rechargeable battery pack…" she ejected the magazine and held it out to us. It looked much like the normal banana clip of our Pulse Rifles, but many gadgets and windings had been added to the exterior. A small, vertical gauge sat in the center of the thing. "…which can be charged using almost anything that uses electricity as a primary power source. The technical specifications are detailed in this handbook," she continued.

She snapped her fingers and her assistants held up the manuals for the rifle.

"In 90% of our tests, the ammunition was very effective against light armor and both unarmored and armored infantry. There is little to no penetration, so all the rounds fired from this weapon are to be considered 'safe'."

Even as she finished the sentence, Grif's arm shot into the air, as if he was still in high school.

"What is it, Private?"

"Cooper, sir, Private First Class."

"I couldn't care less. What do you want?"

"How is…that the ammo is 'safe' but still effective against armor?" Grif asked, slightly put down by Smaur's coldness.

"Upon impact, the superconcentrated gas explodes slightly, burning flesh and melting away layers of armor. The penetration results only from the burns, not from the impact, which is negligible," Smaur said.

Still holding the rifle and the magazine, she slid the clip back into the gun and pressed a button above the trigger guard. A small indicator light flashed briefly green on the magazine, then the vertical gauge lit up a bright green.

"The weapon is now "on." Notice the ammunition indicator on the side of the magazine. The bar will light up in different segments on the bar, and in different colors, to represent the various amount so ammunition in the rifle. Each of the ten segments represents 10 shots, for a total of 100 rounds per load. However, there is a slight flaw in the technology used to charge and convert the energy of the weapon. With each successful charge, one bar of battery life will be lost. Therefore, after 10 charges, the magazine will be useless. A new pack, however, would solve the problem."

Something about this briefing didn't seem right to me.

I looked to Caldwell for answers. He didn't seem the least bit interested in the new technology, seeming to be more concerned with shooting daggers from his eyes at the scientist standing before us.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" I asked of Caldwell, rather than Smaur. I'd nearly interrupted the woman, who had opened her mouth to continue her monologue. She hesitated a second, then opened her mouth again to say something else. An emphatic "no" I would have guessed.

"Granted," Caldwell almost grunted.

"This sounds all well and good, but I don't think you have made a big deal about secretly meeting to do a routine test of a new technology here at the base," I said to Smaur. A vein slowly throbbed at her temple as she clenched her teeth before speaking.

"…You're right. You're to test it on the battlefield; not here. Although technically it's still a prototype, we at the Science Division think it is ready for a real test. A combat test."

"Now that we understand one another, I can actually begin to brief you. Your mission will be divided into two individual segments over the course of one week; the first four days of your mission will be an evaluation of your abilities with the XP. Whoever is best qualified, will be tester of the weapon." Again with that odd silence that followed statements with prompted no response from her audience. "The final three days will be planning, preparation, and deployment, respectively. Any questions so far? No? Good." Granted, she gave us no time to actually ask any questions, but she continued anyway.

The first four days of your assignment will be as follows. Day One; Today, we will distribute to you the Operations Manual for the XP. You will have the rest of today to study it and learn about the operation, and technical specifications for the rifle. Tomorrow, starting at 0800 bright and early, you will be given a personal evaluation of your knowledge of the weapon. At the end of the session, you will be given a working model of the XP, sans battery pack, to familiarize yourself with it physically. Day three will consist of a second evaluation, on your knowledge of the parts and workings of the XP. At the end of that session you will be given ammunition for the rifle, and the entirety of day four at the range to practice firing it. Final evaluations will be announced Day Five, and the testers will be announced. The testers will be the ones to physically operate the rifle during the mission. Now…any questions?"

We were ready for it this time; the second the word "question" popped out of her mouth, the room exploded into pandemonium.

"What kind of--"

"This is bull--"

"How long are we--"

"When do we--"

"Quiet!" Jack said, calming the torrent of questions spouting from our mouths.

"Sanders, what is your question?" he said, more quietly, to Dan.

"What aspects of the rifle will we be expected to know?" Dan asked.

"Everything covered in the handbook. Whoever knows the most and performs the best, will test the rifle."

"And I think we all know how that will be," William boasted, that goofy grin spreading across his face. As the newcomer, and, worse, Ivy's replacement, he had a lot to live up to. Nothing but an uncomfortable silence followed his joke, if it was indeed a joke.

Will's grin faded when he realized no one was laughing with him. After a moment, Grif patted him on the shoulder and smiled at Will despite himself.

Surprisingly, it was Grif who had taken to making friends with William after he replaced Ivy. We all thought he'd resist anyone joining the team after Ivy's death, figuring he would think no one could replace her, but he caught us all off guard by extending the first had of friendship to the newcomer. This time in the briefing room was really only the second time I'd had the chance to speak with the guy. We had yet to see Will in a real combat situation, and frankly I couldn't see how he could wield a machine gun effectively with those two sticks he called arms, but he came highly recommended and Caldwell, the pickiest critic of us all, had approved him, so he had some worth.

"You bore me," Smaur said coldly. She snapped her fingers, and her two assistants began distributing the paperwork amongst the team members.

-------------------------------------------

Private William Qel'Oreda stood with Nathan Caldwell within the UNMC armory.

"I'm really glad you could make it on such short notice, William. Ivy's death was very sudden, and…well, there's already another mission lined up for the team."

"Sir, I'm glad to be here, sir. I heard you guys are the best, and I've wanted to be a part of the team ever since I heard about your success in North Korea."

"You can get rid of the 'sir's around me, William. Call me Nate, or Caldwell, or 'Chimpy,' as the guys have taken to calling me lately. Around here, we're not just soldiers. We're a family. We've been fighting together for about a year now, and I can't think or any unit I've commanded or observed that has better chemistry. Part of that chemistry comes from the fairness with which we run this unit. Sure, I give orders and they follow them, but they know it's only because I'm the most knowledgeable and experienced of the group. It's the same for Firestarter over there; he's not the oldest of the team, but his judgment under fire is undeniable. That's why he's my lieutenant." Caldwell laughed, realizing he'd gone off topic. "In any case, welcome to the team."

"Thank you, sir," William said. Caldwell smiled and then pointed to the tallest and leanest member of the team who was leaned over a table that had been covered with various maps and thick, leather-bound books.

"Lieutenant Jack 'Firestarter' Jarlson. Good man, good soldier. Some of the best judgment calls I've ever heard have come form his mouth under a hail of bullets in the middle of a sandstorm. I've known him for about five years; he and I were in the same unit back when I was just a Sergeant. He's our strategist , and my eyes and ears on the battlefield. Originally, he was part of the British Army, but he transferred to an international terrorist squad that would later become the UNMC. He graduated out of Oxford before he came over here, making him the most educated out of all of us," Nate added with a laugh.