Difference between revisions of "The Frontier War (Alien: Colonial Marines)"
| Line 9: | Line 9: | ||
'''—MASTER SERGEANT AL APONE''' | '''—MASTER SERGEANT AL APONE''' | ||
| + | |||
| + | Armor piercing rounds sizzle through raw flesh as plasma beams sear swollen retinas. Acrid smoke chokes down your throat before you realize what’s burning is you. Chemical attacks melt your armor, simmer your eyeballs, and fuse your warped helmet to your skull, while bioweapons turn your insides out and pulp you into a quivering mound of black jelly. | ||
| + | |||
| + | Welcome to war on the razor edge of space, marine—where nukes are yesterday’s news, pulse rounds are cheap and a human life is only worth its weight in stock options. It’s a living hell—but none of that’s as bad as the flashes of gnashing metal teeth that terrorize you every time you try to close your eyes—like some goddamn monster just split your head open and crawled inside your dreams. | ||
| + | |||
| + | You joined the Corps because you wanted to see the stars—well, that and because you wanted to shoot at things. You believe in duty and honor. You believe in the Corps. You've made your best friends for life here—and watched plenty of them get cut down by shrapnel or claw for no good reason at all. Hell, sometimes it feels like God doesn't want you out in space anymore than the Devil does. A nuke never cares whose side you’re on—both heaven and hell are always looking for new recruits. | ||
| + | |||
| + | But enough of that philosophy crap. You get paid to follow orders, not ask questions. You’re just a grunt—no offense. So lock and load your pulse rifle, marine—you’ve got a job to do. Protect and serve the citizens of the Outer Rim colonies—no matter what the cost. | ||
Revision as of 16:23, 2 November 2021
Welcome to the Corps
“A day in the Marine Corps is like a day on the farm: Every meal’s a banquet. Every paycheck’s a fortune—every formation’s a parade! I love the Corps!”
—MASTER SERGEANT AL APONE
Armor piercing rounds sizzle through raw flesh as plasma beams sear swollen retinas. Acrid smoke chokes down your throat before you realize what’s burning is you. Chemical attacks melt your armor, simmer your eyeballs, and fuse your warped helmet to your skull, while bioweapons turn your insides out and pulp you into a quivering mound of black jelly.
Welcome to war on the razor edge of space, marine—where nukes are yesterday’s news, pulse rounds are cheap and a human life is only worth its weight in stock options. It’s a living hell—but none of that’s as bad as the flashes of gnashing metal teeth that terrorize you every time you try to close your eyes—like some goddamn monster just split your head open and crawled inside your dreams.
You joined the Corps because you wanted to see the stars—well, that and because you wanted to shoot at things. You believe in duty and honor. You believe in the Corps. You've made your best friends for life here—and watched plenty of them get cut down by shrapnel or claw for no good reason at all. Hell, sometimes it feels like God doesn't want you out in space anymore than the Devil does. A nuke never cares whose side you’re on—both heaven and hell are always looking for new recruits.
But enough of that philosophy crap. You get paid to follow orders, not ask questions. You’re just a grunt—no offense. So lock and load your pulse rifle, marine—you’ve got a job to do. Protect and serve the citizens of the Outer Rim colonies—no matter what the cost.
