Anselm grimaced, "we left a lot of good people dirtside, Mayhew, we're going to wind up leaving a lot more behind as the battles hit bigger population centers... and the Mishhu keep coming," the marine looked up at the medic, studying her features, "I'm sorry, this isn't appropriate for your morale; we'll kill them, every last one, and your friends and family will be safe," the pep-talk was simple, childish, and grandios, but the clone hoped it was enough to return Alexandra to good spirits.
The marine stood up and flexed his raw stump, little more than some meat attached to an elbow and capped by a crude metal socket; Anselm reflected on it and dredged up better words. "We might be injured and hurting, Miss Mayhew, all of us, mourning for that which is lost, but we will rebuild no matter how badly they try and hurt us; Nepleslia doesn't die easy and neither do her children," the conviction of purpose was etched on his scarred features, what purpose the marine still wasn't sure of, but at least he knew it existed.