USCMRPG

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER THE DESTRUCTION OF SHOOTING STAR
MARINE MEMORIAL FIELD, CRESTUS GARRISON PRIME
OPERATION SHOOTING STAR — FINAL CASUALTY CEREMONY
0900 LOCAL TIME

The grave had been cut to regulation depth before sunrise.

Wet soil lay stacked beneath a gray polymer tarp beside the opening, darkened by the cold morning rain sweeping across Crestus Garrison Prime. Beyond the memorial field, fortified hangars and concrete barracks disappeared beneath low cloud cover. Dropships moved through the overcast as distant silhouettes, their engines rolling across the installation like restrained thunder.

Master Sergeant Gaston Soles stood at the head of the grave and watched four Colonial Marines carry an empty casket between the rows of white markers.

No remains had been recovered.

There had been nothing left to recover.

Lieutenant Lucas Fletcher had remained inside the hollow meteorite while the surviving Devil Dawgs withdrew through the primary breach. From that position, with the evacuation window collapsing and the organism’s internal chambers beginning to seal, Fletcher had transmitted the authorization code for the final contingency.

The USS Kublai’s Spear had obeyed his order.

Three minutes after the dropship cleared the projected blast radius, the warship launched a tactical nuclear missile from its forward ordnance bay. The weapon crossed the remaining distance under autonomous guidance, entered the meteorite through the breach the Marines had opened, and detonated inside its central mass.

The strike had not broken Shooting Star apart.

It had erased it.

Long-range optical systems recorded a white flash followed by a rapidly expanding sphere of incandescent debris. The meteorite’s internal passages, biological chambers, gravitic systems, and whatever intelligence had guided its approach toward Sol vanished inside the nuclear fire. What remained scattered across several thousand kilometers of empty space, too small and too irradiated to threaten anything beyond the quarantine cordon.

Fletcher had been at the center of the detonation.

His casket contained a folded service uniform, a duplicate set of identification tags, his dress cover, and a sealed copy of the orders that had sent the platoon aboard Shooting Star. The Corps had placed enough weight inside to make the pallbearers carry it like there was a man within.

Soles knew there was not.

He also knew the difference should not have mattered.

It did.

The Devil Dawgs stood in two abbreviated ranks beside the grave. Fresh dress uniforms concealed bandages, bruises, chemical burns, and the weight loss of prolonged combat stress. No one stood entirely straight. Several Marines favored wounded legs or held damaged arms close against their sides.

Two positions remained deliberately empty.

PVT. Kal Skirata had also died in the line of duty. His remains had been confiscated.
PFC Jeremy Ames had not returned to formation.

He remained aboard the Kublai’s Spear inside a reinforced medical cryostasis unit, isolated behind three layers of biological containment. The T. Ocellus organism attached to him had survived the extraction from Shooting Star and resisted every attempt at removal. Medical telemetry showed that the parasite had integrated itself along Ames’s upper spine and brainstem without immediately killing him.

The cryogenic suspension had slowed both host and organism.

It had not separated them.

Ames’s status remained officially listed as ACTIVE—MEDICAL QUARANTINE, though no one standing beside Fletcher’s grave knew whether he would ever wake again.

Soles looked toward the empty place in the formation and then back toward the casket.

The pallbearers reached the grave, turned with practiced precision, and lowered the casket onto the suspension rails. Rain collected across the polished black surface. The Colonial Marine crest reflected the pale morning light from the lid.

Colonel Mara V. Kincaid stood beyond the chaplain.

The commanding officer of the 5th Marine Division Special Operations Group wore a black dress uniform without unnecessary decoration. Her dark hair had been cut close and severe, leaving nothing for the wind to move. A thin scar crossed the edge of her jaw beneath one ear, visible only when she turned her head.

Kincaid had earned the callsign Confessor long before Soles met her.

Nothing in her expression suggested she intended to explain why.

Behind her stood General D. Dellamarggio and three members of his staff. The general had arrived without announcement fifteen minutes before the ceremony. He wore no overcoat despite the rain and had remained silent since stepping onto the field.

The chaplain opened the service with Fletcher’s name, rank, assignment, and place of death.

There was no sermon.

Fletcher had not been a religious man, and Soles had refused to let the Corps make him into one after death.

Instead, the chaplain read the final portion of the mission record.

“Having confirmed that the hostile extraterrestrial structure presented a continuing threat to the Colonial Marine evacuation element and the inhabited systems of the inner colonies, First Lieutenant Lucas Fletcher invoked tactical contingency authority and ordered the destruction of Objective Shooting Star.”

The rain tapped against the casket.

“Lieutenant Fletcher remained aboard the objective to ensure the withdrawal of his Marines and the successful placement of the demolition package. His final order was received, authenticated, and executed by the USS Kublai’s Spear.”

The chaplain closed the data folio.

“Every Marine under his command cleared the nuclear blast radius.”

Soles lowered his eyes.

Almost every Marine.

Skirata’s life had ended when the T. Ocellus took his body.
Ames had survived, but survival had become a technical classification rather than a promise.

The honor guard raised their rifles.

The first volley cracked across the memorial field.

Soles kept his attention on the casket as the sound rolled between the hangars.

The second volley followed.

Several Marines flinched. None broke formation.

The third volley struck harder than the first two, leaving silence behind it.

A lone bugler sounded the final call from beneath the memorial arch. The notes carried across the wet field, thin at first, then steady. Wind pulled them toward the perimeter wall and the distant launch towers beyond it.

When the final note faded, the casket descended.

The suspension rails lowered it slowly into the grave until the black lid disappeared beneath the ground level. A burial detail stepped forward and removed the rails.

Soles approached alone.

Fletcher’s M41A pulse rifle hung across his chest on a parade sling.

The weapon had been the last thing the lieutenant gave him.

Its olive-drab shroud remained burned and scratched from the fighting inside Shooting Star. Residue from the meteorite’s interior still marked the magazine well and grenade launcher housing despite repeated decontamination. The Corps had offered to replace it before the ceremony.

Soles refused.

He removed one glove, reached into the prepared soil, and closed his hand around a fistful of wet earth.

“You should’ve come home with us, Lieutenant,” he said quietly.

The words did not carry beyond the grave.

Soles opened his hand.

The soil struck the casket below with a soft, final impact.

The others followed in turn.
<Tag Devil Dawgs>

Fraser "Cowboy" Bruce looks alert, but his face has the thick, squinty look of someone who hasn't slept for a couple days. He's like most enlisted, he could sleep most anywhere, anytime, but it appears he'd been throwing back some Never Sleep meds. Not sure why. It's not like he'd known Fletcher well. The rifles offering their salute don't shake him, and don't make any tears come to his eyes, but his jaw clenches hard enough to be visible on his face.

When it was his turn to walk past the empty grave, he says aloud in that thick Scottish accent of his: "We gave our lives long ago when we signed up to leap through the years of space. We were taught duty and honor when we learned to fight and kill. We remember those lessons when... We remember."

It's unclear who he's talking to, if this is some piece of poetry or an original thought, or just some expelled hallucination from lack of sleep.

When it was Hooper’s turn, he stood at attention, then snapped off a salute. His expression was somber as he dropped the salute and carried on.

After it was over, he stepped over to Marcella. In the aftermath of the mission, he had been confused by her brushing him off. Their post mission interactions didn’t match his expectations. This had made him angry, so he had been cold to her too. Now, after the funeral, he had started to understand her reaction a little bit.

“Hey,” he said casually, “Um, you know, I’m sorry for- I screwed up.” He coughed, awkwardly, shifting between his feet. “It was a nice service, though. I mean, I just thought we’d, well, it was a nice service.”
<Tag Alvarez>

Alvarez looked at Beav and something in her softened.
She heaves a heavy sigh "I should apologize too. I have a lot of baggage when it comes to losing men. My last mission before I got transferred, I lost my whole squad. So it brought up a lot. I should not have taken it out on you though and for that I apologize."

<Tag Hooper>

Paulson stood in silence and listened to the words. The ceremony was short and precise as a military occasion should be.

Finally it came to his turn he stepped up and dropped a handful of dirt from his hands then saluted, he might not of had much respect for the man most of the time but that could be passed off to youth and inexperience, yet when it had truly counted he had done what needed to be done.

He held the salute for a few seconds snapped it down, turned and marched away, he had been at the bottom of a bottle before this and apart from a cold shower to get him here he was intending to head right back. The shadow of the Ames infection and the death of Fletcher needed to be washed away and he didn’t feel clean yet, he wasn’t sure he ever would.

When the last Marine stepped away, the burial detail moved forward with shovels. The ceremony was over, but for many of the Devil Dawgs the need to remain in place until the casket had been completely covered.

A temporary marker stood at the head of the grave.

LUCAS FLETCHER
FIRST LIEUTENANT, USCMC
TASK FORCE GORGON
~HE HELD THE LINE~

Thunder rolled across the sky as the final dirt was shoveled onto the grave. Hooper nodded and fell into a more casual stance. He looked around at the rest of the squad who had been through hell together. Pulling out a cigarette, he cupped it in his hands and lit it. “Anybody wanna get a drink? I could sure use one.”
<Tag anyone>

Cowboy nods to Hooper. "That will hit the spot just right. First round is on me. We can toast the dead."

Henniger had returned from sickbay just before the funeral. Another op, another missing rank in their lives. He reported in to the Top Kick and checked on his Marines.

"You all did an outstanding job," he told them in a corner of the proceedings. They'd all performed above and beyond, the newer Marines especially.

He sent his recommendations to Sykes and Soles for decorations.

Hooper he recommended for the UAC Achievement Medal with V Device for valor under fire.

Alvarez he recommended for the Bronze Nova with V Device for valor under fire.

Fraser he recommended for the Colonial Valor Award with Laurel for his valor and initiative under fire.

Paulson he recommended for the Bronze Nova with Star and V Devices for valor and initiative under fire.

The Corps might knock them down but it was his job as the ranking squad leader to at least pass up the recommendations.

“Yeah another drink would be much appreciated.” Paulson responded, he fell in with the other marines as they all vacated the area.

Soles stayed at the graveside long after the platoon left. He stood and watched as PFC. Bruce began directing the team to the transport waiting beyond the gate. PFC. Hooper and PFC. Alvarez was talking among themselves as they went. Corporal Henninger and Lance Corporal Paulson were also chatting somberly as they went. It was good to see Lance Corporal Giosso back up and walking as well. He would be out of action for a little while longer.

Soles glanced back at PFC. Bruce. According to his dossier, the man was in line to make Sergeant soon whenever a spot came open for him to step into. Soles would definitely approve that move if he had any say in it. The young man had stepped up and started doing the work that Soles normally would have handled. That mattered, and Soles would notify the new platoon commander.

He watched as the rain ran down Fletcher’s temporary headstone. He didn't focus his eyes per se, as he thought back to the mission and wondered what exactly he could have done differently. Sure; the LT had botched things beyond reason and Soles would have noted it in his debrief, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die. The sound of boots brought him back to the present, coming up behind him and stopping.

“Master Sergeant!”

At first, he couldn’t place the voice, but then it clicked. Soles sighed and quickly snapped to attention. Colonel Kincaid stood before him.

Saluting her, his thick, gravelly South Georgia accent led the way.

“Ma’am!”

“With me!”

She didn’t wait for him to acknowledge her; she simply turned and walked off. This was no mere request; it was a command. She led him away from the grave without explanation! The general and his staff were nowhere to be seen, so Soles assumed they had already left for the Commandant’s headquarters. Following the Colonel through the gate and into a waiting command vehicle. Both were silent as the vehicle sped away and remained so throughout the drive.
---

HEADQUARTERS BUILDING C-1
5TH MARINE DIVISION SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP
COMMAND CONFERENCE ROOM
0942 LOCAL TIME

The staff cleared the conference room before they arrived. General Dellamarggio stood at the far end of the central table beneath the division insignia. A portable display beside him showed the final tactical image of Shooting Star moments before the nuclear strike. The meteorite filled half the screen, its fractured surface illuminated by the exhaust trail of the incoming missile.

Soles stopped three paces inside the room. Colonel Kincaid closed the door behind him.

“Master Sergeant Gaston Soles reporting, General.”

Dellamarggio studied him without returning the salute immediately.

The general was older than Soles expected, though nothing about his posture suggested weakness. His hair had gone almost entirely white, and deep lines marked the corners of his mouth. A service pistol rested in a polished holster at his hip.

“At ease, Master Sergeant.”

Soles lowered his hand but remained standing straight. Dellamarggio walked to the display.

The recorded missile closed the final distance and vanished into the meteorite. The image froze one frame before detonation.

“Lieutenant Fletcher completed his mission,” the general said. “He also left a platoon without an officer.”

Soles said nothing.

“The original replacement roster called for an officer from outside Task Force Gorgon. Someone with the appropriate schooling, the appropriate evaluations, and no personal involvement with Shooting Star.”

Soles understood the implication.

A clean officer.

Someone who had not watched Marines dragged into darkness. Someone who had not seen parasites burst from human bodies or heard Fletcher’s last transmission through the detonation countdown.

Colonel Kincaid stepped beside him.

“I rejected the roster,” she said.

Soles’ eyes pivoted over to her without moving his head.

Kincaid continued.

“Your platoon does not need an unfamiliar lieutenant reading their files while they are still cleaning blood out of their equipment. They need someone who understands what happened aboard that object and why Fletcher made the call that he made.”

Dellamarggio picked up a sealed document case from the table.

“Colonel Kincaid recommended you for an emergency field commission under combat replacement authority.”

For the first time since entering the room, Soles shifted his weight.

“Sir, I never applied for Officer Candidate School.”

“I am aware.”

“I don’t have a degree.”

“I am aware of that as well.”

“I have spent my career keeping junior lieutenants from getting Marines killed.”

A faint movement touched the corner of Kincaid’s mouth but never became a smile.

Dellamarggio opened the case.

“Then you understand the position.”

Inside rested a pair of second lieutenant’s bars.

The general placed the case on the table between them.

“You have twenty-three years of enlisted service, eight combat deployments, three unit commendations, and a record of refusing promotion when it would remove you from operational assignments. Lieutenant Fletcher named you as his immediate tactical successor in his final command log.”

Soles looked at the bars.

Months of testimony, investigations, and reprimands concerning the nuclear deployment were what he had expected. He had expected Weyland-Yutani representatives to demand access to Ames and the surviving biological samples. He had expected the Devil Dawgs to undergo separation, quarantine, and interrogation until everyone had stripped their memories.

He had not expected this.

Dellamarggio closed the distance.

“Your platoon has already followed you through the worst portion of this operation. The question before me is whether they will continue to follow you with those bars on your collar.”

Soles looked toward Colonel Kincaid.

Her expression remained unreadable.

“Is this an order, ma’am?”

“No,” Kincaid said. “It is a burden. Orders are easier.”

Soles returned his attention to the commission case.

Fletcher had been young, uncertain, and terrified of failing the Marines placed under him. He had failed in places and recovered in others. In the end, when command demanded something from him that no training exercise could prepare him to give, Fletcher had paid the full price.

Soles could refuse. Another lieutenant would arrive within the week. The Devil Dawgs would salute, obey, and quietly compare every decision to the man buried beneath an empty marker.
Or Soles could take the bars and become responsible for every mistake that followed. He drew one controlled breath. The room became quiet. Soles understood then; the bars were not a reward; they were a weapon, and Kincaid was placing them in his hand. He couldn’t argue anymore; he knew that his commanding officers had foreseen his every denial. He reached down and closed the commission case. A look of resignation floated across his features.

“I’ll take the platoon.”

General Dellamarggio nodded once.

“Attention to orders.”

Soles came to attention.

Kincaid removed the Master Sergeant chevrons from his collar. The absence of their familiar weight felt immediate. Dellamarggio replaced them with the gold bars of a second lieutenant.

The general stepped back.

Effective immediately, they commissioned Gaston Soles as a second lieutenant in the United States Colonial Marine Corps and assigned him command of the Devil Dawgs, Task Force Gorgon.

Dellamarggio saluted.

For the first time in his career, Soles returned a general officer’s salute as an officer.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

Soles lowered his hand.

“Thank you, sir.” The words felt inadequate and unfamiliar.

Colonel Kincaid moved toward the door.

“There is one more matter, Ma’am. The Devil Dawgs need a new sergeant, and I think some other promotions are due. I would like to recommend both PFC. Fraser Bruce and Corporal J. Henninger for promotion to Sergeant. Fraser will replace me as the platoon sergeant. I would also like to see Lance Corporal Robert Paulson promoted to Corporal. Corporal Henninger requested that the staff receive several medals. I want to second that Sir and Ma’am! ”

---

DEVIL DAWGS COMPANY AREA
CRESTUS GARRISON PRIME
1030 LOCAL TIME

The platoon had assembled on the concrete apron outside their barracks.

Rumors had reached them before Soles did. Marines stood in formation beneath the continuing rain, watching the unfamiliar bars on his collar. No one smiled. No one offered congratulations. They understood what the promotion had cost. Soles stopped before his platoon. Colonel Kincaid took up position several paces to the side. General Dellamarggio had remained at headquarters, leaving the second promotion to the new platoon commander. Soles looked over the assembled Devil Dawgs.

“Lieutenant Fletcher left this platoon with a command structure that survived contact, completed the mission, and brought its people home. We are not discarding that structure.”

His eyes moved toward the empty positions where Ames and Skirtata should have occupied.

“PFC Ames remains one of ours. Until either he is declared dead, discharged, or stands before this formation again, his place remains with us.”

Several Marines straightened. Soles faced Fraser.

“Front and center.”

Fraser stepped forward and halted. Soles removed the Private First Class’ insignias from Cowboy’s collars. From his pocket, he produced a new set of chevrons.

“Effective immediately, you are promoted to sergeant and appointed acting platoon sergeant of the Devil Dawgs.”

Fraser’s eyes shifted toward the new officer bars on Soles’s collar.

“Those are going to take some getting used to, Lieutenant.”

“They are already getting on my nerves.”

A few restrained smiles appeared in the formation. Soles fixed the new chevrons into place.

“You know the Marines. You know the mission. You know what happens when the chain of command fails.”

”Yes, sir.”

“Keep me honest.”

Cowboy’s expression hardened.

“Is that an order?”

“It is now, Sergeant.”

Fraser saluted, and Soles returned it. Turning back to his platoon, Soles glanced at all of their faces. He settled on two more marines.

“Corporal Henninger and Lance Corporal Paulson step forward!”

He couldn’t help grinning as the two of them stepped forward. “Don’t think you two old dawgs can get away from more responsibilities either.” Reaching up, he removed the corporal collar devices from Henniger’s collars and slapped the three chevrons over crossed rifles. For Paulson, he removed the lance corporal collar rank insignias and replaced them with his own set of Corporal Insignias.

The platoon stood beneath the rain with Fletcher buried behind them, Ames frozen in orbit above them, and a destroyed meteorite scattered across the darkness between worlds. Their former lieutenant was dead. The former master sergeant had transitioned to a Mustang officer. Their corpsman now carried the platoon sergeant’s stripes. And they were down several pieces of the team. Nothing had returned to normal. Soles turned toward the assembled Marines and felt the weight of every face looking back at him.

“Devil Dawgs,” he called.

The formation came to attention.

“Lieutenant Fletcher completed his mission. Now we complete ours.”

He looked once toward the cloud-covered sky, where the Kublai’s Spear remained in quarantine orbit with Jeremy Ames aboard.

Fraser turned toward the ranks.

“You heard the lieutenant. Devil Dawgs, fall in!”

Boots struck the concrete as the platoon closed its gaps.

Stay Tuned as the Devil Dawgs strike out on a new mission!

<Tag Devil Dawgs>