The MI moved as a single organism. They didn't run; they marched with the rhythmic thud of pressurized boots. Johnny slid into his egg-shaped pod. The darkness swallowed him, save for the amber glow of the HUD. "On the bounce, troopers!" the radio crackled.
"Keep your intervals!" Johnny shouted into the comms, his voice steady. He wasn't the scared kid from the history classes anymore. He was a piece of the Federation's shield. He squeezed the trigger, and as the first wave of Arachnids burst through the crust, he realized that while the universe was vast and terrifying, as long as the Infantry held the line, humanity had a home. ROBERT A. HEINLEIN FANTERIA DELLO SPAZIO
It was a sentiment straight out of the Federal Service handbook, but for Johnny, it wasn't just propaganda anymore. He remembered his father’s disgust when he first signed up, the lectures about the "reckless pursuit of a vote." Now, looking at the scarred metal of his suit, he understood what his teachers back in Buenos Aires never could: authority is a heavy burden, and citizenship isn't a gift—it's something bought with the willingness to stand between home and the war's desolation. The MI moved as a single organism
The sirens began to wail, a dissonant screech that signaled the "Drop." The darkness swallowed him, save for the amber
Johnny didn't look up. "Maintenance is the difference between a jump and a burial, Sarge."
"Don't know why you bother, Rico," Sergeant Zim’s voice boomed from the doorway. "The bugs’ll just cover it in ichor the minute you hit the dirt."