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| | [[Category:The Frontier War]] | | [[Category:The Frontier War]] |
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| − | = WELCOME TO THE CORPS =
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| − | '''''“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!”'''
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| − | '''—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 helmet to your skull, while bioweapons turn your insides out and pulp you into a quivering mound of black jelly.'' |
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| − | 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 monster just split your head open and crawled inside your dreams.'' |
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| − | 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.
| + | ''Sometimes you’ve gotta wonder what the hell it’s all for.'' |
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| − | 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 no one pays you to ask why, only to follow orders. 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.'' |
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| − | 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.
| + | [[WELCOME TO THE CORPS]] |
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| − | {| class="wikitable"
| + | [[HISTORY]] |
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| − | | THE ROLE OF THE COLONIAL MARINES. Before we discuss what exactly it is you’ve gotten yourself into, let's take a look at what the USCMC does. The amended National Security Act describes it as follows: “The United States Colonial Marine Corps] is an integral part of the United Americas Allied Command (UAAC) that is tasked with maintaining the collective security of all United American (UA) signatories and their recognized interstellar colonies within the Frontiers of the Network.”
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| − | We are the first line of defense against any attack on a UA colony—that means any world belonging to the United States, Canada, Latin America, and any other member of the UA. That definition has sometimes been broadened to include the colonies of UA ally nations like the Three World Empire.
| + | [[ORGANIZATION]] |
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| − | “Working closely with colonial administration and local governments, the Colonial Marines are a first response threat assessment group designed to handle most armed conflicts and natural disasters within the colonized boundaries of the 20 Parsec Limit.”
| + | [[MAKING MARINES]] |
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| − | If there is any problem a colony can’t handle on its own, the UA throws the colonial marines at it to see if they stick. That means you, marine.
| + | [[GEAR]] |
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| − | “Under the purview of the UAAC, the Colonial Marines coordinate with the Colonial Armed Forces, Colonial Navy, Aerospace Forces, and the Defense Fleet to execute any extended peace or wartime extrasolar engagements and operations necessary to protect the integrity of the colonial United Americas.”
| + | [[A HARD LIFE AMONGST THE STARS]] |
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| − | Sound’s boring, I know. What it means is that the Colonial Marines can be backed up and augmented by the other armed forces to ruin the day of any asshole who thinks they’re better than us.
| + | [[GOVERNMENTS & CORPORATIONS]] |
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| − | “In the event that the Secretary of Defense and the UAAC High Command should become incapacitated, deceased, resign, or be removed from office, the highest-ranking officer of the USCMC shall assume command of an advisory council representing the other branches of service. This interim UAAC Command shall control the nation’s military might under the President of the United Americas until such time as the vacant roles can be filled.”
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| − | Right after the UAAC, the USCMC has superiority over all other branches of the UA military—and deservedly so. The other services can only accomplish co-dependently what the colonial marines can do on their own. If everything goes to hell during war time and we lose UAAC Command, the USCMC leads the charge against the enemy. Finally, there’s this bullshit amendment:
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| − | “Co-financed by Colonial Administration and the Weyland-Yutani corporation in order to offer technologically superior protective services to joint venture colony worlds, the USCMC can also be activated as a corporate security force tasked with protecting short-term company interests.”
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| − | In layman's terms, sometimes we’re the badass gallant heroes riding in on a dropship and a prayer to protect life, liberty, and the pursuit of paychecks—and sometimes we’re just Weyland-Yutani’s bitch.
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| − | == A LIFE IN THE CORPS ==
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| − | Let’s talk about your part to play in this shitstorm. I’m not going to pussyfoot you—a life in the Colonial Marines is damn hard and you get little reward. Sure, you get money to send home and keep the family afloat. You get instant friends, a sleep pod of your own, and three squares a day. Better yet, you not only get to shoot that gun your recruiter mentioned, but you get rewarded for shooting it. Just make damn sure you shoot at the things they tell you to shoot at and try not to grease any civilians—an important distinction when hoping for that reward.
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| − | === HAVE HYPERSLEEP POD, WILL TRAVEL ===
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| − | First, you are going to sleep a lot. Even with our fastest displacement drives, it still takes almost three months to get from one side of claimed space to the other. Try to get there on something slower than a cruiser or frigate and it could take three years. That’s hypersleep time in a freezer pod doing nothing but dreaming. Because of this, your tour is going to take a few more years than you probably thought it would. The good news is that while everyone else you grew up with is getting old on some mining asteroid, you’ll still be young and kickin’ when your tour is up.
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| − | Now, all that shit about visiting exciting new worlds? Well, all the other Outer Rim colonies are just as boring as that lump of space rock you call home. Planets, moons, asteroids—it don’t make no difference. Every world’s got a sunrise and a sunset or two—but on the Outer Rim, they are always “too” something. Some are too wet or too dry, others are too hot or too cold—and every one of them is looking for a way to make you all too dead.
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| − | Hell, most of the colonies you’ll deploy to ain’t even real breathers—they’re shake and bakers. That processed canned air stinks just as bad on every one of ‘em—they all got that cheap metal taste. Why? The O2 there is just as recycled as the shit on your home ball. If there were a ton of worlds we could breath on, do you think the company would be cranking out those big ass air scrubbers again? The colonies have got an overpopulation and overcrowding problem. Humanity needs breathing room—and there ain’t no more left. That long-ass American Arm has got to grope just a little further into the void and hope nothing out their gnaws its fingers off in the dark. That’s why they’ll be dropping you and your squad’s asses on the Frontier—to secure new planets and moons on the ready line of known space.
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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 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 monster just split your head open and crawled inside your dreams.
Sometimes you’ve gotta wonder what the hell it’s all for.
But no one pays you to ask why, only to follow orders. 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.
WELCOME TO THE CORPS
HISTORY
ORGANIZATION
MAKING MARINES
GEAR
A HARD LIFE AMONGST THE STARS
GOVERNMENTS & CORPORATIONS
