1LT Arturo Maxwell - Training Day

[Iain Turnbull]

((OOC: Just a bit of somethig to flex the auld writing muscles))

((Deck 9, Running Track, USS Octavia E. Butler))

His breathing was steady.

His feet pounded the running track as he beat out a furious pace, not once bothering to look back at the dozen Marines strung out behind him. Most where gasping for air as they tried to keep up, a few were holding a buddy upright as they ran and all were drenched in sweat. Every now and then a gasped curse could be heard about the ancestry of the officer out front.

He paid them no mind, focusing only on the curve of the track and maintaining his speed. The twenty-kilo pack on his back wasn't a massive weight to carry, but was plenty when combined with the punishing pace that he had both set and maintained for all four laps of the track so far.

There was a curse and a thud from behind as one of the runners legs gave out and they crashed to the ground. A couple of those behind managed to make rather ungainly leaps over their stricken comrade, and a couple more failed to do so. Joining their exhausted comrade in a heap on the floor, still a couple more slowed to aide them to their feet.

“Leave them! They're done the day!”

Reluctanly those who had slowed kept right on passed their exhausted brothers and sisters-in-arms and continued on after the group leader. Rounding another corner, there was a near pile-up as the officer had come to a halt next to the entrance to a Jeffries tube. He yanked the hatch open with his free hand, and secured his carbine before diving in and beginning to crawl.

Gasping for breath, the Marines looked at each other before securing their own carbines and one-by-one following suit. Two junctions down, the officer stopped just long enough to glance back before climbing rapidly down an access ladder to the deck below. For those behind, the crawl felt like it lasted for hours as they passed juntions and exit points one after another after another until their leader hit another ladder and began to climb.

Up, and up they went.

For any that had the energy to count, it was three decks followed by another lengthy crawl well away from what was their next destination. As the officer baled out of an access hatch, he released his carbine and gripped it once more as he set off up the corridor. The pace was just as before all the crawling and one of the Marines simply shook his head, refusing to go any further.

Slumping down against the bulkhead and pulling free his water bottle, the Marine watched the others pound away down the corridor and out of sight.

Bursting through the doors, the handful of Marines still with him were only half-surprised to find themselves on the phaser range. The group leader already had his carbine up into his shoulder, putting shots down range.

“I'm expecting at least a thirty-eight from each of you!”

A flurry of looks between each other and the Marines took post in the firing booths. Moments later, shats began to hammer down the range, punctuated by the occasional 'blarrt!' of a bullseye indicator.

Eventually the firing came to a halt, and the Marines about-faced and came to attention just outside the booths. Their group leader stalked back and forth, eyeing the score markers above each booth with narrowed eyes. Eventually, he came to a sharp halt before one of them.

Eyeing the Lance-Corporal, he looked up at the glowing '40' again.

Maxwell: Corporal Ruye, straight forty. That's a mighty fine score as a medic.

Ruye: Thank you, sir!

Maxwell: You been squeezing in a little range time, aye?

The medic nodded, and Max replied with a firm nod of his own.

He turned to address the group as a whole.

Maxwell: Anybody with less than a thirty-six, thank you for your attendance and efforts. Well done. You are dismissed. ::A pause.:: The rest ae you, congratulations on passing your pre-training assessment for the SARS team.

--

1st Lieutenant Arturo Maxwell.

Marine Officer, 4/73 Marines.

USS Octavia E Butler: NCC-82850.

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