Kuvexian Hangar
For Carina, it had been a harrowing, jarring, and eye-opening experience. So this was war. Combat, where every second of each minute, hour, or day was brushed with hurt and death. Old 'Two Times' her drill Sergeant had even warned them. "One day, someone out there, someone you did or didn't know had a bullet. A bullet with your name on it. You wouldn't know when or where. Or how it'd happen. It just would. And that would be that. Your life would be snuffed out in an instant, or drawn out in a slow agonizing death. As the not so gentle reminder came to her whilst floating around, flailing a little in the zero-g environment of the shuttle, a hand, unbidden had grabbed her ankle, gently even as she was pulled back down. With a startled look, the young, now brooding medic looked to whom had granted her the courtesy.
Unbeknownst to Locust, it had made her skin crawl a little, gooseflesh prickled her olive skin inside of the climate-controlled environmental suit. She'd resupplied the squad's sparse supply of medical gear, even taking extra just in case. Her sidearm had fresh rounds within it, and more moon clips belted around her person in pouches. All within easy reach if she needed them on the fly. Looking to the towering, creepy female IPG agent, she mumbled her thanks, placing a hand on the other woman's and patted it in gratitude before wriggling free to join her team. Her team came first in her mind. Something that she wholeheartedly believed in and had drilled into her from months of training. 'We take care of our own!' one of her SAW instructors had bawled out. But the squat, ugly woman had waddled around their classroom reminding them that when it came down to it. And when times got tough. Prioritize those that would make it. Those necessary for survival and those without? A merciful end. That had not sat well with her. It was a rational pragmatic approach to battlefield care. But deep down in her gut, heart, and soul, Carina knew everyone's lives were not expendable. Each had their own way to contribute.
This short-lived reverie of past training and flight of fancy of those under her care had been cut abruptly short as their destination was reached. Pulling the relatively large hand cannon from its holster, Carina gave it a twirl, the grip coming to rest in the palm of her hand as the barrel was held skyward as Lulu began doing what he did best. Shooting things. As people began to disembark, the plucky young medic stayed behind a moment, letting the others file out as necessary. She was trained in combat of course. Marine training was thorough like that. SAW training had made her see things in a new light. She was a medic first, soldier second, sixteen-year-old survivalist third. When it was her turn, Carina's revolver, once shiny and new, with a silvery and nickel shine. During their stay in the caves avoiding hell on earth and just barely clinging to life, the gunwoman had begun working in dirt, mud, whatever she could find to stain the finish. To dull it. To make it stand out less and less.
The result was now evident. The once new, squeaky clean weapon now looked careworn and well used. It no longer shone or sparkled with that factory finish. It was dull and attract less attention to herself that way. Lulu's staccato clatter of gunfire ceased for a moment as he called the warning of throwing a grenade. Seeing it thrown, Carina Sanroma, daughter of an acclaimed lecherous Los Apagos native, and the adopted daughter of a naval urban legend in the medical field on NSM ships fired. A belch and an all too brief flash of fire followed by the roaring retort as a 7.7x30mm round tore through the air. The thunderous echo was short-lived, followed by another as she fired a second shot at the enemy.
While compensating for the recoil, a nifty little feature in such a large, deadly weapon was a welcome sight. What remained jarred her hand, and made her wrist quiver and ache just a little. Firing the weapon twice, in rapid succession could have such an effect. But then again, firing the loud, obnoxious gun was a hallmark of the more 'Traditional' mentality of old school Nepleslians. If it was big, and it was loud and hurt like hell to fire. Well... it meant it was likely going to fuck someone's day up if it connected. And even if it plinked against body armor or even a suit of advanced power armor of Kuvexian design, it still meant she still aimed to misbehave. And to let the fuckers know a 'true red-blooded' Nepleslian was aboard and even if she lacked the big guns and explosives to back it up. She was sure as fuck was going to make their lives miserable.
After the brief display of belligerent defiance and a giant middle finger to the enemy, Carina took a step back. The medical kit dangled from her stoneweave shoulder strap while moving and letting the big boys have their fun and get their machismo rocks off in the face of a superior enemy. After all, even in the face of overwhelming odds, when chances were slim, being outmaneuvered or the last one standing. Her people, her race were some of the hardest, most badass and daring sons of bitches in this sector of space and took no shit, or gave no fucks to anybody when it came to skirmish, battle, or warfare. That was part of the Nepleslian way of life. And one she took to heart and made it swell with pride even as stress corded her shoulder muscles, her heart pumping faster and her adrenal glands gave her that added jolt her species was all too familiar with.
This was a fight. Something every one of them who came from Planet Nepleslia and lived in its megacities was all too familiar with. And if one of them went down. She'd patch them up, kick them in the ass and make sure they could keep mowing down the enemy until either their ammo ran out, or they were cut or gunned down.
It was like a Lewis Pasco Day celebration gone awry. And these ostentatious, gold-plated gecko looking fucks were the guests of honor.
