Note: This is was drafted in response to a writing prompt It's absolute crack. What exactly was the prompt? "Cut from the curling team, Jacques thinks he has nothing left to live for. Marco thinks Jacques is right -- but there's nothing that says waiting for death has to be unpleasant...There you go, champ. Have at it. For extra points, work in sci-fi marines having sex in an airlock when the whole dang ship goes code red. And a duck. A rubber duck -- a blue rubber duck. After all, any old smut monger can work with a yellow rubber duck. But a blue faux fowl? That's special."
*
"How could a freaking hobby put me out of the marines?" Gunnery Sergeant Jacques LaMonte slammed the button to close the airlock to the BEQ. The com added a static overlay to his complaint. Marco hated these environmental suits... hot, stuffy and just plain nasty. Plus the coms were always full of feedback. "I'm career. I've been here too long. What else have I got? What am I going to do, ride a desk into death?"
"It's just a speed bump." Marco glared through his helmet. "It could be worse."
"Worse? Worse? If I fell on my ass and ripped the ligaments in my knee on a mission I'd get a fucking brag-rag." Jacques banged his helmet on the lock door. A metal on metal clang rang through the space, and reverberated in Marco's ears. "I fall on my ass at a squad curling practice and wrench my knee out of joint and I'm screwed. Fuck, I've been through surgery, muscle grafts and in a suspension cast for six weeks and now the doc tells me, I'm too old and it hasn't healed right. That's EAS for me. I have no career and no hobby. What am I going to do... plant flowers on the moon?"
The blue rubber ducky key fob swung from Marco's suit. He fiddled with the tiny mascot of their company. Gunny LaMonte was his idol. He'd been the NUG, a fuck up, a wash out, transferred from unit to unit waiting for his tour to end. Gunny had taken him under his wing, found where he fit. He was what they called the proficiency expert, the "Proff." When their gun covers went missing, Marco always seemed to know where to get another set. Never you mind that the serial numbers were freshly painted. The covers were there and they passed inspection. Need to call home because you'd just got that Dear John on the com, Marco knew who wanted that vintage Donald G. Duguid card that could be traded for pipe that could be traded for 15 min of true-hot-time on the link.
"Riding a desk is not death." He tried to sound convincing. "I mean, it's not glamorous or exciting, but it serves the cause." The stat bar went from blue to white to red as they talked.
Jacques ripped the seal on his suit and popped the joint on his lid. A whoosh of canned air, and the helm hit the floor. Marco sucked in his breath. That square jawed face inspired both fear and fantasies. Magnetic green eyes flared. Gunny's bronze hair was shaved short on the sides, but wild on top. A red bar code tattoo stained the skin under his left eye. He was no sim-set but full combat clone. Born for death, hazed through combat, Gunny was the kind who needed the adrenalin coursing through his veins to survive. Literally. Without the flight or fight response pumping pheromones through his system, Jacques's heart would eventually seize.
Marco was natural. They'd never deny a natural the chance to serve, but when you were up against the GE it was a loosing battle. Most Nats ended up serving time as cooks and clerks in supply. Thank stars Gunny had found a use for him that didn't involve punching buttons on a Wave.
"What am I going to do to main-line?" Gunny's voice was desperate.
Marco didn't have an answer. He slipped the helm from his own eviro and shrugged. "Don't know Gunny." As a Nat everything about him was Plain-Jane. Mouse brown hair and hazel eyes -- nothing about him was special. His face was a-sym, not bred for intimidation, interrogation or confidence. "You're a born flip-top, you'll figure it out." Hell he had to hit early shift just to train... spending hours in the trainers just to keep up with the phys specs required of marines. He packed cal 'till he was sick. Marco's station was set with treds for power just to keep the log miles up. Someone like Gunny put him to shame catching Zeds.
That's why the rest of the unit had volunteered Marco to baby-sit Gunny on his doc hops. He would have stepped forward for that.
The lock unit hadn't spun yet. That was odd. Marco stripped his enviro. It left him in just his standard issue sling and he squirmed. The mesh pocket was there only to keep things from swinging. DUs were stored on the other side of the lock. If you wore your DU under the enviro the sensors wouldn't connect and tons of RT data would be lost. Still, born on the lotto, raised Nat, Marco wasn't used to the nudity GE's took for granted.
