Mulligan stood in the drop ship. Well, he didn’t so much stand as he was suspended from the clamps that held his suit, allowing his feet to dangle off the ground a few inches. If he moved his feet, he could just scrape the floor of the ship with the toes of his boots. He felt like he was hanging in an Asian laundromat. He wondered why experts in the martial arts would work and own laundromats. He figured this was self-inflicted punishment for allowing Chuck Norris to shame the whole continent. Keep in mind, his whole understanding of race was from old earth videos the Scroxians had forced him to watch. His brain had been bombarded and crammed full of so many videos that it had left him a little unhinged. Fortunately, he was so unhinged already that this made little difference in his outside appearance.

Rauzchek sat next to him, slapping himself on the side of the helmet. Mulligan noticed his feet were flat on the ground. Strike one, you tall motherfucker.

“You okay, buddy,” Mulligan asked.

“Yeah, this is going to be the first action I’ve seen. Just trying to psych myself up.” The guy looked over at Mulligan, who was swinging his feet and jerking his body around like he was being hung from a gallows pole. “How about you? You doing okay?”

“Not really. I’m trying to take a poop, but my dick is shoved so far between my legs that I’m fucking myself. It’s like a screwed up tug-of-war down there.

Rauzchek’s mouth gaped open behind his helmet. He was pretty sure that there were tubes and stuff that took care of that business, but he wasn’t wanting to delve into those questions right now.

It was about then that the bomb bay doors opened and their magnetic locks released from the hull, giving them more freedom to swing about.

A voice came over their internal comms. “Okay, men, you know what to do. Red team, Blue team, you stay behind fodder team. Let them cut a trail into the city while you work to evacuate the citizens.

Mulligan wasn’t sure what team he was on. Maybe they had told him during the briefing. Unfortunately, he hadn’t payed attention and had been preoccupied with bitching out Tobey Maguire for making Spiderman 3. He wasn’t too worried about it. He figured Dago and Straight would tell him when he got to the ground. He looked around, trying to find them as the clamps holding him pulled him from the side of the ship and lined him up to be dropped from the air. Oh, that’s right. They’re not here. His stomach lurched, and he felt alone. As the conveyor dropped them from the ship, two by two like dirty prom dresses.

Then he was alone, really alone. Just falling through the sky unwanted, unloved, and upside down. He wasn’t sure about the last part. Then he wasn’t sure about anything, as something struck him viciously from the side. Visual cues came in the form of an arm and a hand as they grasped at his face and arched it backward.

“Rauzchek?” Mulligan squeezed out through his inverted throat.

“Oooo, uhhh” was his only reply. Which didn’t sound good considering Rauzchek had somehow managed to wrap himself around as if Mulligan was a bronco and Rauzchek was going to ride him to the crater in the ground.

“Rauzchek,” Mulligan repeated.

“I don’t want to die!”

Mulligan could feel the other soldier’s eyes upon him, burning, judging. Then he wondered if this was karma for face raping Dago. What the fuck, karma? Rape amongst friends was one thing, but he hardly knew this guy. Not cool.

“Get the fuck off me, dude.”

“Don’t let me die. You have to promise me. I don’t want to die. I only joined up to fuck foreign bitches and drink beer. We haven’t even been to war since we went to war the last time and that was only so we wouldn’t have to go to war. We shouldn’t be at war.

He was rambling now. If Mulligan’s altimeter went off and this guy was still on his back, Mulligan would be screwed.

“Look man, no one here want’s to get face raped by the grim reaper, but if you want to live I need you to slip around in front of me,” Mulligan said.

Rauzchek hesitated.

“Do it now, soldier,” Mulligan screamed in his best drill sergeant voice.

Rauzchek scuttled around until they were falling and tumbling arm in arm like two lovers on a ballroom floor.

“Now take your left hand and put it on your hip,” Mulligan said.

Rauzchek let go, only to grab Mulligan’s arm even harder a moment later.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Mulligan assured.

Rauzchek did as he was told.

“Now take your other arm and position it like you 're flexing.”

By now, Mulligan’s hands were grasping both sides of Rauzchek.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you go,” Mulligan said.

Rauzchek raised his shaking arm with fear.

“Now say, I’m a little teapot.”

“Huh?” was all Rauzchek could say before Mulligan kneed him between the legs. Rauzchek’s hands went to his balls, forgetting all about being a little teapot or self preservation.

Mulligan patted him on the shoulders and spoke to him like he was a small child. “Be free, little one. Be free,” he spoke as he pushed him away and into the solitude of free-fall. For seconds, or what seemed like an eternity to Mulligan, he watched Rauzchek flail about like a cartoon character. Then their chutes opened.

If Mulligan thought the free-fall was taking a long time, he was even more agitated with the slow-ride the chute was providing. His current meds didn’t leave much for down time. He had to be moving constantly, or he started to freak out. First, he twiddled his thumbs, then checked his gear, took inventory of squad mates, counted them, realized counting was not one of his strong suits, and then emptied his pistol into the parachute in an attempt to make it speed up, it didn’t work. It was like the military had planned on the dang things getting shot at. Mulligan figured he must not of been the first to attempt this. If he only had his boom-stick, he thought to himself. Then he attempted to pick himself up by the parachute cords and then drop himself in the hopes that the sudden jolt would make the decent speed up, but after a few attempts he realized he was making no progress in catching up to those below. Then he decided to spit on them, picked a target he thought he could hit and let it fly. He couldn’t see where the spit went. He tried again, same thing. Okay, maybe he needed to spit up because they were falling down. He aimed at Rauzchek and let it fly. He still couldn’t see where the spit had gone. He could feel a bit on his chin. Aiming upward hadn’t been the best idea. He reached up to wipe it off his chin. His hand bumped into his helmet. That’s when he noticed the spittle dotting his visor. “I’m sure that will dry,” he thought to himself.

By now the ground had crept up on him and at this altitude the speed that it appeared to do so was more interesting than specs on a screen. He was still following his squad. His training had taken care of that, even without him realizing it. But now he wasn’t so content with landing in that open field. He figured if he could land in the play ground he might be able to get some use out of the swings before the rest of the team hit the ground, maybe even the slide. He landed next to his commanding officer, crushing all his hopes and dreams.

Behind him, Rauzchek landed in a flourish of arms as he frantically tried to disconnect himself from his parachute, as if his life depended on it. The chute let go, caught by the wind and toppled on top of some nearby children, who had started to gather at the appearance of soldiers.

Mulligan glanced over at the playground. He narrowed his eyes realizing the swing, the slide, hell, even the little wooden castle with the steering wheel were completely abandoned.

Rauzchek rushed over to help the children, who he now felt responsible for ensnaring. His hand grasped at the fabric and pulled it back.

A small boy’s head emerged from underneath, his eyes bright and his dark hair tussled. “Let go of it, ya fucking faggot,” the kid fired off.

Rauzchek froze. He must have heard the kid wrong. Another kid popped up, this one blonde and a dirty face, oh yea, and a switch blade. “This is our parachute now, motherfucker.”

Rauzchek knew kids loved parachutes, but this was getting a little extreme. He looked around for some parents nearby and found them not caring. He also found his squad leader shaking his head.

“Just let the kids have it,” the officer instructed.

“Yeah, do as your boyfriend says,” said another kid, jerking the parachute from Rauzchek’s hands.

A small girl stood up in front of him, recently uncovered by the retreating cloth. He looked down at her and smiled. She was the picture of everything that’s right in the world. She clutched the fabric in her arms, fear in her eyes.

“It’s okay, kids, you can have it. Have fun,” he said.

“Good,” the little girl replied. “Go away. Go back over there to your fuck buddies and finish your circle jerk.”

At a loss for words, Rauzchek backed away from the children.

Mulligan looked at the kids and then at the playground, and then back at the kids. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to play with them, given the chance. He figured Dago still would, though. Goddamnit, he missed that pedo bastard.

“Okay team, fall in,” a gruff voice snorted. “Red team, Blue team, you’re with me. Fodder team, you’re out in front.

Rauzchek raised his hand. “What team am I on?”

The sarge looked at him, not immediately responding. “What color is your armor?”

“I don’t know,” Rauzchek replied.

“You don’t know? Well, why don’t you look down and tell me?”

“I’m color blind.”

“Color blind? You must have been amazing in team training.”

Rauzchek didn’t respond. What was he to say? Admit that on more than one occasion, he had shot his own teammate, thinking they were a different shade of gray.

The sarge placed his hand on the side of Rauzchek’s head and leaned in close “You’re in green armor, dipshit. FODDER TEAM!” When the sarge let go, he took a quick glance at the soldier. “How the fuck did you get that armor? Did you show up fucking the guy’s daughter or did you not have the decency to give him a reach around?”

“I requested it. I thought it looked cool,” Rauzchek said.

There were some laughs from red and blue team.

“You requested that ancient piece of crap. No wonder they put you on fodder team.

Rauzchek looked down, picking at a piece of loose paint revealing the original black coating underneath. It must have been painted over twenty times, but he still thought it was cool. No matter how old it was.

The sarge looked over fodder team, but thought better about giving them any shit. They were designed to take a bullet for them, so best not to piss them off before they did that. Wait two? Where the fuck were his other two. He looked around and found a straggler. Mulligan was standing with Blue team.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get the fuck over here.” The sarge grabbed him and threw him toward the other rejects. “You’re on Fodder team.”

“No. I’m on Blue team. I have blue armor,” Mulligan replied.

The sarge’s eyes cringed as he took in a deep breath, then exhaled before speaking. “Yes, you’re wearing blue armor, but you’re not wearing the same color blue armor as the rest of Blue team. Notice how all of Red team are wearing the same color of red? Now notice how you’re not wearing the same color of blue as Blue team? They’re all wearing blue while you're wearing more of a robin’s egg, almost sea-foam.”

The sarge looked at Mulligan, who made no motion in response.

“Jesus Christ, I hate Fodder team. Sorry, sorry,” he said, throwing up his hands and backing away from his last statement. “I love you guys. It’s just that I’ll be happy when you’re dead.” He said, patting a third member of Fodder team on the shoulder. “What’s your name? You know what? You don’t have a name. You’ll be dead soon enough, and it won’t matter..” The soldier hung his head. “Now where the fuck is our last guy?

“I think that’s him over there,” said a member of Red team, pointing toward a dead body on the ground, a bullet hole through his face plate.

The sarge let out a sigh and shook his head. “He must have thought that his gun was made out of licorice. I lose more Fodder team members that way.”