Bad Day in Hell

Starprowler, what a fitting name for an exploratory vessel. The starship itself is huge. Too bad for you almost ninety-five percent of its volume is put to use carting fuel and supplies. For the last two months you and your fellow grunts have had to make do with little more than a hallway flanked with bunks. The science team--bunch of sorry bastards--requisitioned the only "spacious" room in the whole damn vessel for a makeshift lab, as if they didn't already have their instruments packed into every other available nook and cranny. At least the pay's good. Real good. The United Terran Expeditionary Force takes care of its own.

You glance down at your chronometer and frown. You've got another twenty minutes to get your kit ready, and then it's show-time. Winston, a lanky bean-pole of a Corporal, flashes you a smirk as he slams a magazine into his sidearm. "You gonna sit there with your thumb up your ass or what, Private? Grab your gear or Sarge'll string you up by the short-hairs."