War Games Arena, the Anarchist, March of 163 AL.
"Did I ask your fucking opinion, Williams?"
Gunnery Sergeant Andrew Hoster's voice barked across the prep room as he strode up to the taller man. Hoster was a good head shorter than Alex, and Mr. Mohawk would've found the (unfortunately familiar) sight of Gunny screaming at him comical if he weren't so terrified.
"Sir no sir!" Alex replied, but Gunny was already talking over him.
"What was that sergeant?" Hoster screamed, spittle landing on the taller man's cheek. "I didn't fucking hear you!"
"Sir no sir!" Alex repeated, "You didn't ask my fucking opinion!"
"That's right, cupcake!" Hoster screamed, almost smirking at his subordinate's sass, "When I want your fucking opinion I'll give it to you! Get back in line, or I'll leave a boot shaped hole in your ass!"
Alex Williams backed up hurriedly, rejoining his squadron as Gunny returned to the front of the room. Grizzly Platoon was arranged in squadrons facing the front of the gym where marines prepared for war games; the Anarchist was outfitted with a fully functional training arena to keep their troops in top shape. The marines faced a large reinforced window overlooking the arena, though they didn't have time to focus on much other than Hoster's screaming.
"The infantry commander on the Heretic sent over a few platoons of his shinies; they're fresh out of basic, and today we'll be showing 'em the ropes!" Hoster shouted, marching back and forth in front of his platoon, "In case you hadn't heard yet, or you're all just fucking stupid, the giants are back; we need to make sure our newbies are up to snuff, and there's no better way to do that than to show 'em ourselves!"
Several soldiers smiled or whistled quietly, but they fell silent as soon as Gunny's eyes darted their direction.
"In case you'd forgotten, you are SHOK infantry!" Hoster continued, "You are the hardest, meanest, baddest sumbitches in the whole godsdamn Empire, and today you're going to show those newbies how it's done; we'll be playing King of the Mountain today, and I expect you to eat them alive, am I understood?"
"Hoo-hah!" The marines screamed back at him, earning a puny smile from their sergeant.
"That's what I like to hear," Hoster stopped at the front of the gym, "In case you numbskulls are as stupid as I remember, here's the rules; out there is an arena. In the middle of the arena is a hill, at the top of the hill is a bunker, and in the bunker is the cradle. You'll be given rifles loaded with stingball bullets and a package. Your objective is to put the package in the cradle, or eliminate every member of the other team."
Hoster pointed to a table near the front of the room. Lying on top of it between a rifle and armor was a large metal canister with handles on all sides. It looked for all intents and purposes like a bomb, because it was in fact a bomb.
"You have twenty minutes to put the package in the cradle, earning fifty points for your team," Hoster explained, "If you don't deliver the package quickly enough it'll explode, and each one of your team hit by the rubber pellets will cost your team three points. Each member of the other team you eliminate with your rifles earns you two points, and every member of your team knocked out costs a point. Long story short, don't be the fucking disappointments your mamas expect of you; get that bomb into the cradle and hoof it back to your command post without getting shot. Any questions?"
