On a wasteland within the Cinder Plains of Aiur, the deafening roar of gunfire and the shrieks of the Swarm rose and fell in succession.
"Hank, is your brain lodged in your ass?" Sergeant Koster barked over the power armor's comms channel. "If you don't want a Hydralisk to punch a giant hole in your gut and spend days rotting in a bunk, then fucking shoot the ranged units within your engagement zone first!"
"And you, Dale, you moron! If you're so afraid of dying, don't fucking wear Firebat armor," the Sergeant's spit was flying everywhere inside his visor. "Nothing there? Bullshit! That Zergling's claws were almost in my goddamn mouth while you were busy cowering next to the Marines. Get lost and go play house with your mother!"
Koster's squad was responsible for holding a high ridge on the western front against the Swarm's advance. Behind them, Siege Tanks provided a continuous stream of fire support. Suddenly, a shell slammed heavily into the ground not far from them; the massive impact even knocked a nearby Marine off his feet.
"Which dumbass crew messed up the parameters this time!?" Koster howled into the battlefield comms.
"Sorry, green crew. First time in live-fire, a bit nervous. Bear with us."
"I'll bear with your mother, you motherf—..."
Before Koster could finish his tirade, the voice of the Adjutant came through the channel: "Attention all squads: Live-fire training is concluding. Please remain in position. Cease fire immediately. The Swarm will be cleared from the battlefield in one minute for recovery. Scoring for squads and individuals will follow. Repeating: Attention all squads..."
The Sergeant grumbled as he flipped open his visor, watching Drones in the distance scuttle back and forth to haul away the mangled Zerg carcasses. He'd been stuck with several idiot recruits this time; his squad's score was bound to plummet, and his performance pay for the month would likely take a hit.
After a short wait, the Adjutant's female voice returned to Koster's comms. "Blaze Squad: Strategic Execution B+, Tactical Coordination C-, Discipline C, Individual Tactical Proficiency C. Overall Rating: C. Current Company Ranking: 9."
"Dammit. I knew I hated leading boot-campers." Koster shot a fierce glare at Hank, who was scratching his head awkwardly through his power armor, and Dale, who was suddenly very interested in the sky. There were ten squads in total; they had ranked second to last, and the only squad below them was composed entirely of recruits.
Then came the individual scores: "Sergeant Koster: Marksmanship A, Tactical Execution A, Battlefield Awareness A, Command Efficiency C-. Overall Rating: B." Koster clicked his tongue and spat to the side. It was an 'A' last time. Goddammit.
"Live-fire training has ended. All squads return to camp. Follow all directives. Repeating: Live-fire training has ended..."
Koster snapped his visor shut and said resignedly over the squad channel, "Let's go. Move out. Thanks to you lot, I'm going to get chewed out again back at base." The only silver lining was that they hadn't actually hit their casualty quota. Some idiots just have all the luck.
---
The midday sun on Aiur was unbearable. Koster had already stripped out of his power armor and was walking toward the distant mess hall under the scorching heat. He had just been reamed out by his superior—the same man who had forced the recruits onto him was now blaming him for failing to manage them, claiming his squad had dragged down the entire company's ranking.
"Hell, extra training this afternoon." Having been scolded, losing his lunch break, and facing extra drills made Koster more frustrated the more he thought about it. He decided he was going to eat his fill.
"What?! Only nutrient paste left?!" A roar echoed through the sparsely populated mess hall. Koster stared with a dark expression at the hulking cook behind the counter.
"What are you looking at? You want it or not? If not, get lost," the server said impatiently, waving him off. He muttered under his breath, "Showing up this late and still has the nerve to yell..."
"You—" Just as Koster was about to fire back, a voice he despised rang out from behind him.
"Captain!" He turned around to see that idiot recruit, Hank, waving at him.
Three minutes later, Koster sat opposite Hank, wolfing down two fried Zergling legs. They were perfectly crunchy. The recruit, meanwhile, was quite the talker. "Captain, thanks for saving me those few times in the fight. Once, a bone spike grazed right past my head."
He scratched his head and continued, "I knew the Captain would be late to eat because of me, so I made sure to grab two extra fried Zergling legs. These things are high demand. Luck was on my side; I snagged the last two. I heard tomorrow they'll have rare braised Mutalisk wings and steamed Hydralisk belly. Those are always undersupplied—I'll see if I can't snag some of those too..."
Koster swallowed the meat and let out a satisfied burp, patting his stomach. After a meal like that, his resentment toward the recruit softened slightly. "Appreciate it. Don't sweat the small stuff. Just remember to work harder in the next drill. Otherwise, you'll never make the Guards. Best case, you end up in the Garrison; worst case, they send you home."
Hank sighed, his expression turning somber. "My parents were so happy when they heard I passed initial training. They got all sorts of government subsidies and tax breaks because of it. This Governor is kind enough to give us 'under-hive trash' a chance to change our fate. But I'm just not built for fighting. And now the Guards are cutting down on recruitment numbers... I'll probably be sent home in a few months."
Koster knew exactly why the Guards were reducing the intake of ordinary recruits. During a previous drill, he had seen a few "special" squads. Their superhuman physical stats, their reflex speeds, and their uncanny, single-minded tactical coordination had left him stunned.
In that exercise, those squads had swept every top rating without question. The simulated combat that was life-threateningly difficult for normal men was a mere stroll in the park for them.
From that moment on, he knew that old soldiers like him would eventually be phased out of history. Koster didn't really care; his only goal when joining up was to get fed and stay alive.
He reached out to pat Hank on the shoulder to offer some comfort, but his pupils suddenly contracted. Koster saw them again—those warriors who were tall to the point of being freakish.
Seeing his captain's shocked expression, Hank turned to look. His gaze fell upon those figures. Even without power armor, those soldiers were as tall as an ordinary man wearing a suit. Their muscles were gnarled and thick—their forearms were nearly as wide as Hank's lower legs, looking like they were coiled with explosive power.
Their skin was a pale, sickly white, and their eyes featured golden, beast-like vertical slits. Even a passing glance from them made the hair on Hank's neck stand up, giving him the sensation of being clocked by an apex predator. They sat down at a large table in silence, ignoring the stares of the crowd.
Moments later, the kitchen staff rushed out, bringing massive quantities of meat and nutrient supplements to replenish their strength.
Looking at those buzz-cut muscle monsters gorging themselves, Koster felt no resentment. His father had told him as a child: if you want something, you have to pay an equal price. He believed those "big guys" must have paid an unimaginable price for Aiur and for humanity. This was their due.