Shelled Shitless (Original Greentexts)

>>"I-I'm too young..."
>"A real man would find a way."
>Your stepmother's frigid glare leaves no room for argument.
>Then again, it never did.
>Because you were incapable of being right.
>Because you didn't have the brains, the looks or the charm like your father or brothers.
>Because you were nothing special.
>Which is why you were sat here at the table, a stack of papers before you.
>Because you couldn't let this moment pass.
>Because it'd be over soon.
>Because it was your only chance to do something worthwhile.
>But...
>"I... don't want to go."
>She leans forward, jackal ears folded back as a snarl forms on her lips.
>"You don't have a choice."
>"...Anon..."
>Her paws grasp your wrist like a vice and forces the pen into your hand.
>"Anon."
>In one swift motion, your hand is slammed down on the table.
>"ANON!"

>Your kitchen table in your warm family home melts away into mud and barbed wire as you shake yourself awake... or rather, as your Sergeant's grip on your shoulder does it for you.
>Sitting up and taking the cigarette she offers you, you've barely struck the match when the lizard speaks again.
>"It's time."
>Taking a long drag, you give her a rueful smile and stand, grabbing your rifle and kit as you go.
>He hand claps down on your shoulder a few times as you get in position beside her.
>You don't want to go.
>You really don't want to go.
>But now, as ever, you don't have a choice.



>The shuffling of feet, the squelching of the mud beaneath them and then... quiet.
>Absolute silence in the trench, save for the rumbling of distant guns, and then...
>"FIX BEYONETS!"
>On mechanical reflex, you went through the motions and called out the command as it came down the line.
>More silence.
>The approaching squelching of more boots and... running water?
>A quick glance to your right confirms what you already know; the Holstaur next to you is pissing all over herself and shaking so much that the you can hear the rattling coming off the horn-holes of her helmet.
>She takes a single step back, and on instinct your hand is immediately on her arm pulling her back into line.
>You can't describe the the quiet, wretching sound that escapes her as she turns to you with the wild eyes of a caged animal, frankly you don't care to.
>"Get. In. Line." You hiss under your breath as the approaching footsteps noticably pick up their tempo.
>For an instant, she looks ready to lash out at you, but whether it's the cold edge to your voice, or the look on your Sergeant's scarred face as she leans forward to see who's fucking up, she finally relents.
>"Fucking kid..." The Lizard growls under her throat. You, being probably a year or two younger than the "Kid" in question, didn't say a damned word.
>Finally, the twin pairs of approaching footfalls stop directly behind you. The Sergeant Major, you can tell without even looking, has her P'orcish eyes locked onto the Holstaur and her hand on her revolver, while the Captain is busy eyeballing her pocketwatch as she brings the whistle up to her lips.
>And then... she pauses. Burning her Elven eyes into the back of your head, no less.
>"Corporal O'Nymas."
>"Ma'am." Came your robotic response
>"Are you ever going to pick up your bloody mail?"
>"Sorry Ma'am."
>You can tell that answer left her less than happy, but she didn't exactly have the time to ream you out right now anyway, bringing the whistle to her lips instead.
>And with the shrill cry of a glorified child's toy, the battle begins.