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PERSONAL
Gender: Male
Kit: Techno
Location: America
AFFILIATION
Alignment: Hero
Team: Solo Hero
VITAL STATS
Strength: weak (rank 0)
Agility: standard (rank 1)
Mind: standard (rank 1)
Body: standard (rank 1)
Spirit: (rank )
Charisma: (rank )
RECORD
Fame Points: 0
Personal Wins: 17
Personal Losses: 22
Team Wins: 0
Team Losses: 0
Tourney Wins: 0
Tourney Losses: 0
STATUS
Status: Active
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force_echo
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There's so much power in the word we. Sometimes, humanity takes unity for granted, and as the saying goes, you never realize how important something is until it's gone.
"Airborne drop trooper 4-LOM, is that your designation?"
"Yes." I winced as the lamp on the desk shined in my eyes. I did not raise my hand to cover it, I did not blink. The psychiatrist was swathed in shadow, much like the rest of the room. I hardened myself against the penetrating stare of the psychiatrist, of the piercing lamp light. I had stared into worse things than a faceless shadow. When you're a soldier, you learn to stare back.
"Do you understand that you're here for pre-combat deployment psychological analysis, and that everything you say here will be recorded and added to your military dossier?"
"Yes."
"Alright then, let's begin. Are you nervous about stepping outside these walls soldier?"
"What?" Why would he ask me such a stupid question?
"You've never been outside facility alpha one-niner, how are you feeling about combat deployment?"
"This is what I was made for sir. To combat these alien bug things. If I was nervous right now, I would suck it up anyway, for my country, and for my squad."
"Aptly answered soldier, but are you sure those words are your own?"
This guy was pissing me off. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Never mind it. Let's talk about your squad. How do you feel about them?"
How could one explain it to a civilian? I was genetically engineered to fight monsters, a breed of aliens left behind by the 1st and second alien invasions beneath the Earth. That was the one purpose of my existence, and my squad was my tool to ensure that. That was the answer he wanted to hear. But they are so much more than that, they are me, and I am them. When you're born from a test tube, and raised with 3 other people for the entirety of your life, how would you explain such a bond to a civilian, a man who forms marginal friendships, and hallow relationships. I wouldn't even call the bond I have to my brothers as a relationship. A relationship is between two separate entities, we are 4 parts of a whole being. Even the personality of one man has been split into each of us separately. The funny, the serious, the murderous, the insane, the psyche has been evenly distributed so that each one of us, while separate, is a static cliché, but when put together, forms a complex, very human, mindset. Aimed at one goal. Never as unity become so deadly, never has a brotherhood been knit so tightly. It’s ironic though. This meshing together of ourselves strengthens our individuality. Niner is the insane, killer mentality who has a caustic dry wit. Always verbally sparring with his direct counterpart 03 (we call him tres, cause he kinda looks Hispanic), who is the joker of the group. Heh, they always say that opposites attract. Azian (Tres coined the name, don't ask me how) is the intelligent father figure. And I... what am I? Crap, no time to think about that, I had kept the poor man waiting on his answer. "Sir, tactical insertion team Theta-72 is the Swiss army knife of the military resistance, designed to eliminate any threat to the US homeland and her allies."
"You didn't really answer the question 4-LOM"
I remained silent.
"Very well. Tell me about your time here, your childhood, your history."
Childhood? History? Who the *vulgarity* was this guy? "The only memories I have are with my squad sir. And they aren't pleasant ones, nor are they indicative of a 'childhood'," I sneered.
"Interesting, tell me, the bonding process to your squad, has it-"
"Sorry to interrupt doc, but boarding for the mission is in three minutes. I hope you have analyzing my complex psychology, that is, when you're not accepting bribes from mentally healthy soldiers to tweak their mental reports so they get to go home."
I left the stunned psychiatrist in his chair as I walked out of that hideous lamp light, into the shadow of the room and out the door.
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We're a new breed. The airborne unit used to be full with half-insane psychos, the potheads, the petty criminals, the dropouts, the rejects of society, more akin to Bad Company than a hardened breed of shock troopers. That's because anyone who came in the unit was suicidal, crazy, or too damn stupid to know what they were getting into. That's before top brass started seeing the potential of the unit. Fast insertion, anywhere into enemy territory. If you survived the drop. So then we were made, people were smart enough to know that a single man is dead as a doorstep on the team, so they made small, squad based units of four. We were the first, the "alpha series" if you will. The rest were still maniacal boneheads, but they weren't that bad, just scared. They saw us as just as alien as the enemy they were fighting, though. It's hard to make friends when you're genetically engineered to be better. They know they're being replaced. Whether they care or not, I don't know. But I do know that they're just as scared of us as they are of the drop. And that's fine with us. As long as they don't get in our way. I stepped out onto a launch platform. It was nighttime, but there was a heavy storm. The heavy rain pelted the sleek metal platform suspended over the ocean, the inky black sky illuminated by lightning flashes, and set into motion by the thunder from the sky. I could feel the rain landing on my head, with a sustained patter; I could feel the raindrops running down my face. It was refreshing, but I had work to do. The door to the platform opened and my brothers filed out. Each of us was going into a different dropship; we would reunite on the ground, dead or alive. "Well boss, I guess this is it; I can feel the fluttering in my stomach!" Tres rang out. "That's that freaking horseshit you tried to feed us for dinner tres," Niner retorted. "Hey now," Azian warned. "Whatever Niner, you're just sour cause that pile of horseshit was just about as handsome as you are," Tres rang out as he ran towards a descending dropship, "See you on the ground boss!" "Boy, you're gonna be dead meat before you even make it out of the ship," Niner grumbled, jogging towards his own ship. Azian turned towards me, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the idling engines, "here Boss, you forgot this, I think you'll need it". Azian hands my helmet, designated with orange stripes for a team leader. Azian saluted, executed a perfect about face, and ran to his own ship. I looked up at the black sky one more time, seeing raindrops fall towards me. I looked down, into my helmet's visor. Who am I? The question rang through my head. I'm the leader of my squad, and that's all I need to be. I put on the helmet, hearing the pressurization clamps hiss into place. The laser cleaning surface wiped away raindrops from the visor. I turned to the waiting dropship, and calmly walked towards my destiny.
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The Drop
 Energy Wave Surfing: standard (rank 1)
Acceleration warrior. The term was coined by ordinary ground troops. At least, that's the nicer name they call us, the more commonly used one, is Death Junkie. The first one definitely sounds better, but I think the second one is more applicable. See, people say that war is horrible, and it is, because war is the bigger picture. War is the whole process of humans killing other humans in a rather gruesome way, but combat, combat is like sex with guns. Combat is an inescapable thrill, and drop combat is regular combat on steroids. You ever see anyone who actually lives past their first drop (and trust me, there aren't that many) and they're hooked. You can't resist that sheer amount of adrenaline coursing through your veins. It's just like a junkie trying to get his next fix, or so I'm told. I was bred for this, engineered for this, some people might consider me lucky, and some people might feel pity for me. Me, I don't feel either way. It's my job, and as long as me and my brother's make it, I could care less what anyone else thinks. I look around the drop area, it's a long rectangular area with one row of seats against the right and left walls, it's flooded with red light, and it's crowded. We've been on this damn ship for 6 hours, and noone's even blinked. We're all damn scared (the guy to the right of me must have thrown up like seven times), but it's me whose the most uncomfortable. They've been staring at me like I'm some kinda God or something. Their savior that will lead them into salvation. I wish they were right. "T-Minus 30 seconds until drop boys, good luck." The static voice came over the PA system. Everyone got their surfs ready, it was time to roll. The transparisteel windows went from opaque to transparent, letting harsh sunlight into the drop cabin. I looked outside, it was chaos. Exploding black clouds mushroomed everywhere, and countless number of aircraft and helicopters were being taken down from ground artillery or air forces. The dropship next to us exploded in flames and spiraled downwards. The guy next to me threw up again. The gate leading to the sky, at the end of the rectangular drop cabin opened up, and rushing wind gusted in the cabin. I nodded at my fellow soldiers, unstrapped from my seat and activated my surf, it's a small disk with a handle, but when activated, forms what looks like a snowboard made out of green energy. The energy attracts to special plates on the bottom of my boots, and voila, my drop apparatus. Much more efficient than a parachute and less likely to get shot in midair. Or so they tell us. I looked out the end of the cabin holding onto the edge of the exit, I was surveying the carnage below. We were several thousand feet above ground, an oxygen apparatus in my helmet helped me breathe in these conditions. I readied myself, and stared downwards. They say when you stare hard enough at something, it stares back. It did, but I didn't blink. I wasn't afraid, I was ready. BEEP! A sound in my helmet went off, signaling I was above my designated drop area. I leaped out of the rear exit and into the awaiting sky.
.50 Beowulf weapon system
 Piercing Weapon: superior (rank 2)
I was freefalling all right, and I'm not gonna lie, it's nothing like any simulation could ever hope to replicate. The thrill was unimaginable, I swerved in midair on my energy board to avoid fire from enemy aircraft and ground fire alike. The enviromet was chaotic, full of loose bullets explosions and flak clouds, not to mention the ever imposing ground speeding towards you a little faster than you would think. I shot through a flak cloud, but a ship had spotted me on my right. It opened up with its machine guns and I twisted so my energy board would deflect the shots, I then took my weapon off my back, a heavily modified .50 weapons system, and opened fire. The bullets pierced the engine housing and the ship disengaged. However, it left me a little present, an alien bugger on a jetpack. He shot out after me, and I evaded a missile, hoping that it would hit him behind me. Unfortunately, he evaded it also, so I twisted in midair so I was facing him and opened fire. A few bullets ripped into his skin, but these aliens were tough. I had to try something different.
Defense Measures
 Armor: superior (rank 2)
My armor allowed me to finely manipulate my flight with plasma jets, along with being a deterrent to things (like bullets) which would kill me otherwise. I engaged antithrust and slowed down, spinning to stabilize my flight. Looking down at my former pursuer, I put a clip of .50s into his jetpack, the thing exploded and he went flying to his death. I was approaching the drop point, and I slowed down accordingly, it was phase 3 in The Drop. I looked around me; people were getting torn up by aircraft and buggers alike out here. I had to forget about them, had to focus on my mission, not only for me, but for my brothers.
The Shot
 Marksman: superior (rank 2)
This is where my genetic engineering comes into play. The fine motor skills and calculation centers of my brain are extremely developed. I looked down the scope on my rifle, and targeted a platoon of ground buggers. Taking accurate shots while your tactical advisor is yelling in your ear, while you're dropping at a humongous rate from several thousand feet, and trying not to get killed by the hundreds of threats swarming the air is quite an accomplishment. But it's something I can do with deadly accuracy. Within 30 seconds the entire platoon is downed, from the air is the best place to snipe, you're totally ambiguous, and there's no place the enemy can hide. A message prompt from my tactical advisor flashed on my screen, "BEGIN LANDING PROCEDURES" in big red letters. As if I didn't know. I placed my rifle back on my back and straightened out against the air flow. I then activated my armor's plasma jets, preparing to come to a stop. Now for the fun part, I said, as I grinned to myself.
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