"Approaching drop point, ETA T-Minus 8 minutes and counting."

The announcement is met with a grunt of acknowlegement. In the dull red light of the VTOL transport bay, a squad of riotroopers sit; secured firmly into quick-ejection chairs. One, known only by his alphanumeric designation of JS-428, nods to the pilot. He flicks down the visor of his helm, his Servo-Suit hissing as its generator whirrs to life. His vision flickers, rising and falling through spectra with the same ease of breathing; settling in ultraviolet. Seven more identical soldiers, JS 423 through 430, do the same. Radio chatter floods their communications lines, before the eight switch over to a specialized JS only frequency.

424 examines his rifle, for the fourth time this flight. It's a plain thing, a dull grey rectangle, a grip to hold on to, and a simple set of optics on its top. It was something of a marksman's piece, volume of ammunition was not the way of a JS; precise, almost volleyed shots and overlapping cones of fire were what the line were known for, and tonight was not a night for PR blunders. The magazine sits flush with the stock, someone unfamiliar with the model might not realize it was there to begin with. Caseless rounds and an electronic firing mechanism make even a charging handle unnecessary; the only moving parts inside the gun were the spring that pushes bullets into the chamber, and a retracting block to seal it.. The only marking that indicated it was even a weapon at all, was a caution tape yellow arrow on its side, pointing which end goes forward. It was to make it stupid proof; in theory.

Another trooper, number 429, watches; rolling his eyes. He tosses a rolled up ration wrapper at 424, lightly ribbing his squadmate. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were getting NERVOUS, Twofor! You haven't set that damn piece down since we got in this thing, it's like you're a greenie on his first drop!"

424, or Twofor as the rest call him, glares across the bomb bay at 429, scowling behind his mask. "Nines, you and I both know how expensive one misfire can be. I'd hate to have /my/ pay docked because I can't keep my gear granola crumb free; unlike some people."

Nines shakes his head, glancing around the ship at his brothers, speaking more to the room than to anyone in specific. "Can you believe this guy? I'm glad we just share a genome; MAN it'd suck if all of us were issued sticks up our asses. Am I right fellas?"

430 looked up from the navigations suite on his forearm, chiming in. "He may be the one with the stick up his ass Nines, but you're the one with his barcode as a tramp stamp."

423 tilted his head, mumbling over the radio, only mostly audible through the static. "Zilch, aren't we ALL the one with barcode tattoos on his ass?"

Shaking his head in turn, 430 fired back, "Nuh uh! I'm from the batch right after you 20's Threedog, they moved my codes up to my shoulders!"

428 looked Zilch up and down, furrowing his eyebrows. "I've patched you up more times than either of us would care to admit, you and I both know that isn't true."

The bickering, which could've easily gone on for another hour, was cut short by a burst of communications static, and the flickering of canopy lights. The drop point was almost in range.

--

The paneling behind their safety harnessed seats opens, and one by one, each chair reclines to a laying position; sliding into their respective ejection chambers. The wall closes behind them, sealing each trooper in the breach of a man cannon.

Twofor looks down the length of his chamber, gritting his teeth. The moment just before a drop always gave him nerves. Something about that window of tension, locked in what amounts to a gun that fires people, awaiting the moment when you're suddenly hurled out the side of an aircraft at transterminal velocity without a parachute, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Just as he felt that the anticipation would make him more sick than the drop itself, the chamber flooded with green light. In an instant, he, his armor, and all of his gear, were pitched out of the the chamber, and headfirst towards the earth below. Wind whipped over his armor, the friction heating its plating to an incandescent red, threatening to boil him alive inside the suit like an overpriced lobster. In the two minutes of boost assisted descent, Twofor angled his approach towards the target, and ran over the operations plan one last time. The eight's communications relays crackled to life.

"Alright men, listen up. You were already briefed on the mission, but I highly doubt some of us were paying complete attention. The op is simple. Two hours ago, an armored van carrying trade secret doc's was hijacked by a band of corporate espionage infantry; its new drivers heading due north. Our intel tracked them out to here, and they currently awaiting a hand off with their CO's. We are to rendesvouz with the truck, intercept the trade, and recover the intel. Expect light resistance post drop. Do I make myself clear?"

In turn, Twofor was met with seven identical voices, shouting in unison a resounding, "Yes sir!"

At their current speed, any normal human would turn into a fine meat gelatin upon impact with the ground. In turn, any normal human that is in between them and the floor would be rendered a similar, if somewhat chunkier, consistency. This is intended. In the few seconds before impact, vectored retrothrusters on the backs of the JS unit's armor pushes them into a front flip, pushing them into landing square on their feet.

Time slows to a crawl, for the JS team at least.(*1) Zilch touches down first, slamming into the ground with enough force to crumple an APC, kicking shards of asphalt, dirt, and dust into the air, obscuring sightlines. His visor switches sight spectra into infrared, allowing his vision to pierce the debris. The drop point, a fortified checkpoint leading into an overpass, is occupied by some twenty soldiers, soon to be twenty eight; as one by one each JS lands with a deafening thud. Targetting reticules appear over the heads and torsoes of three of the guardsmen.



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*1) See, the problem with hard landings isn't so much hitting the ground, as it is decellerating too rapidly when you do it. Enter, the temporal parachute, or tempchute for short. Instead of decreasing the rate of one's descent via unwieldy canopies, a temp chute simply makes more time to slow down. Within their servo suits, time is quite literally elongated, stretching an instant of jarring, whiplash inducing braking into a manageable fifteen seconds. By extension, the user's perception of events elongates as well, providing a precious few moments to allow the wielder to reorient themselves following a drop.