It was New Years Day on the old calendar nailed to Sarge's smoke-yellowed wall. He'd had it since the old days when dates meant something. That was back in the BC, Before the Catastrophe, when the Earth still had a chance. It's axis had shifted twenty years ago after a meteor strike, about the same time his Wife had left with his Daughter. Since then Sarge couldn't give a shit what day it was.
His routine today was the same as every day. Get up, grab the bottle and take a swig, urinate and drag on in his ancient SWORD Sergeant uniform, battered, like its wearer, from years of misuse. Sarge hauled himself into his Scout 3 for the short flight across SWORD City to HQ, where he zapped his clocking-on non-standard issue dog-tags. Every other grunt had a bicep chip but he'd cut his out of his arm an hour after the op, joking with anyone who cared to listen that he'd "no chip in HIS shoulder!". The irony of it was lost on Sarge but not on his peers, who saw nothing but one GIGANTIC chip!
Sarge tramped to the canteen, where he plonked his bulk down at a free table, gripping a steaming coffee cup. A new SWORD recruit shuffled along the bench to make room. "Relax rookie, I'm not that god-damn hefty!" Sarge growled. In truth, Sarge was big but it wasn't flab. Despite his drink and cig habits, he'd managed to maintain strong muscle tone and the physique of a someone much younger through boxing and Judo, in which he was a Black Belt 2nd Dan. Add to this a bio-synth lower arm replacement, Sarge was a squat but powerful man capable of protecting himself and a crew in a tight spot, the tighter the better.
"Wonder what the Brass Tw*ts have planned for me today?" he grumbled more to himself than anyone in particular. The Ops Com screen beeped and everyone looked up to check the roster. "Anything but shit city central sweeping up Rejects and Casuals!" he wished aloud. His wish was not granted. Shit City it was.
"Sweeping up" was Sarge's euphemism for finding stray Rejects and Casuals not destined for off-world sanctuary and transporting them to refugee camps strewn across the North of England. "Shit City", as the grunts called it, was the biggest one. It was messy work as the "Jects" were holed up in the Hot Zone, an area of volcanic unrest in the foothills of the Pennines and one of many new and active fault-lines which had lacerated the Earth since the meteor hit. Left to it the 'Jects 'll band together at night and raid the SWORD food depot near the camp, which they often did.
The Top Brass weren't that fussed about a few sacks of flour and rice a week. They could go. It was the 'Jects ongoing theft of communications devices, weapons and light transport vehicles that bothered them enough to send in Sarge and his crew. Recently the outlaws had even commandeered a Scramble Bug, the second in so many months. With all-terrain vehicles like Bugs and enough ordnance, the 'Jects could mount a more serious attack on the local SWORD outpost. The Brass Hats had to nip this in the bud now.
Sarge stood up, followed by a trio of unsavoury-looking SWORD warriors: a chiseled unshaven ragtag of Nuke Marine, Task Force trooper and Ranger grunt called Hilt, Grip and Katana. These were his crew, reluctant, haggard, screwed-up but, like Sarge Sabre himself, skilled in the extreme. It was their skills Sarge needed, not their glowing personalities. "Right Ladies, move your fannies!" Sarge barked at them. They grimaced at him and the foursome, dressed in SWORD-issue battle boots, lolloped out of the mess like stirruped gunslingers.
"Which 'un today Sarge?" Hilt asked whilst lighting a thin roll-up in the Ship Yard.
Craning his neck upwards, Sarge admired the enormous ring of gleaming fuel tanks amidships. "Booster Rocket" he whispered.
To be continued.
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