USCMRPG

Colson still wasn't fond of combat drops. The harnesses were designed for larger men than he. He felt like a rat that had been caught by a dog with the way he bounce around on the way down. Clenching his teeth so as to not bite his tongue he suffered in silence the whole way down. When they hit smoother air he let out the breath he had been holding in.

He quickly sucked it back in when the doors opened and he was met with frigid atmo of Pluto.

Hearing his squad mates complaints he quipped "At least it isn't bloody raining." before falling into formation. A last sec mental rundown of his gear and he was ready to move.

<Roll awareness

Zita Cordeiro was as nervous as she could be during the drop. She clenched her teeth together and tried to look un-phased. As the turbulence finally died and they approached the surface she joked to cover her nerves. "That was fun! Can we go again?" she said loudly and grinned. She straightened her cap that covered her black hair, which was tied up in a bun. Once they landed, she managed to get out of her harness and grabbed her Smart-Gun from its harness. "Let's kick some ass!" she said enthusiastically and punched one of her squad-mates in the arm, leaving a painful bruise.

Mark exited behind the rest of his squad with his weapon up and at the ready. In truth, it was a cold landing and any enemies would have been picked up by the dropship's systems and eliminated before they exited, but it was policy, training and a safety measure. A few moments later, when they'd all made it out of the ship without being shot at, Mark paused for a moment to draw and adjust the setting on the motion tracker – and operation that required him to holster the pistol for a minute. Once he has happy with the settings, he drew his pistol again and steadied it on the arm holding the tracker.

"Sensor's up, ma'am."

<Motion Tracker Use>
<Tag Sam>

John, in a lot of respects, was a boot Marine. The Boot stage is, if the recruit is the larva of the Marine, the Boot is the Chrysalis. Not the fully formed grass-growing death machine, but still has a long way to go. Which is why John found out, rather quickly, that he doesn’t like combat drops.

Or rather, his stomach doesn’t like combat drops.

At the first buffeting of atmosphere and the lurch as the dropship left the cruiser, John’s stomach came up in a roaring mess. Having barely grabbed a bag strapped to his right leg, kept there for just such an occasion, John managed to have his gut empty itself into something that wasn’t the Sergeant’s nice, clean deck. Another Marine checked on him, but John nodded in the affirmative, indicating that he was okay. Tucking the puke back into the pants pocket, the burly man from L.A. took a pull of water from his water bladder attached to his gear.

John’s place in the Platoon was a rarely used one. As a Weapons Specialist, he was qualified on a great many pieces of small arms equipment and thus responsible for keeping them maintained in the armory. He wasn’t capable as a gunsmith yet, but he was slated for the training before long.

The dropship landed shortly, so his gut was only sort of under control. He filed out with the rest of third squad, his pulse rifle up and ready. The sniper rifle was slung across his back, ready for use in case long distance or precise shots were called for. They rarely were though, which made John thankful for being strong enough to carry the pulse rifle in tandem.