this is the first chapter of a book im writing. enjoy.




Max looked out his gunner’s window toward the night sky. There were yellow-orange explosions that then puffed into black clouds. His hands were clammy with the cold and rattle of the machine-gun handle, which he had to let go to flex his hands. There was a soldier, Jim Wasilla, right beside him, sitting on a bench. He was about to put his warming palms back on the triggers, when an explosion rocked him off his chair and onto the ground of the bomber. He was face-down on the cold steel surface that encased the airplane, when an arm grabbed the ruffle of the back of his coat, and pulled him up. It was the co-pilot, Lieutenant Davin Stacey. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get back on that gun!” yelled Stacey, pushing him towards his chair.
“Hey Stacey, Come over here, and bring Wasilla with you!” came a voice from the cockpit.
“Alright, Wasilla, get your lazy ass over here, Brown needs you!”
“Ye-Yes sir” was Wasilla’s shaky reply as he clambered into the cockpit. Max could hear voices on the other side of the door as Wasilla could be heard talking to the pilot. A minute later, Wasilla emerged from the cockpit with body armor, a helmet, and an M-20 automatic rifle. He sidestepped and leaned against one of the windows next to the cabin as Stacey walked out of the cockpit, with the same equipment.
“Alright people! We’re going hit these punks right where it hurts! All marine personnel prepare weapons, armor, and your chutes! We’re going to hit the bridge two clicks south from here. There are several SAM ports, and some RIPPERs. We don’t want to screw with those things, so we’ll drop you in the bush, put those stealth skills to the test, and meet the rest at this rendezvous point.” Stacey said, pressing a button on the roof of the aircraft that produced a three-dimensional map of the area, and the rendezvous point. He walked around, handing the squad leaders a tactical map, and moved on to his next point. “Do any of you have a question?”
The four squads, adding up to twenty men total, sat silently on the steel benches protruding out of the airplane’s inner chassis. They began to unhook their heavy flak vests and M-20 rifles from the hooks on the walls, when a voice piped up. “Sir, are we going to parachute down to the LZ under anti-air fire?”
“Yeah, got any better ideas, private?” was Stacey’s reply as he checked the ammunition in his rifle.
“Are the RIPPERs are going to target us?” The RIPPER was a larger, anti-air version of the Vulcan chain gun, only worse. The RIPPER had thrice the rate of fire, half the recoil, and could shed aircraft like a wet handkerchief. What it could do to soft targets, people, was indescribable.
“Yeah, spice it up.”
“What if I don’t make it to the LZ?”
There was a quiet pause. Stacey cocked his rifle loudly, and replied, “Well then, it sucks to be you.”

It was time. The marines were all standing, death and hatred painted on their faces. The chutes were ready, safeties were turned off, and helmets strapped on. Max and the rest of the flight crew had been ordered by Stacey to stop firing, to ensure that the stealth of the craft was maintained. Except for the slow rumble of the engines, the craft was silent. The back door opened slowly, exposing an ever-vengeful battlefield every second that it opened. The door eventually stopped with a mechanic chime, and that indicated one thing: Time to kick ass. The ground seemed to come to life with hundreds of yellow flashes in the horizon, and more on the ground below them. There was an odd, blinking red dot following them. It kept blinking, faster and faster, as it caught up with them.
It was a missile. “OH SHIT! ROCKET INBOUND! BRACE FOR IMPACT MARINES! WE’RE GONNA GET HIT!” then the missile exploded. Max’s world flashed to a red tail-spin as the plane careened out of the air towards the ground. The screams of men could be heard loudly as the aircraft got closer to the ground. The rebels had just landed the first strike.

When Max awoke, he had been cleared of the crash site by at least five meters. There were flaming corpses strewn across the ground, clearly killed by the impact. What Max didn’t see, however, was a group of eleven men jogging toward him, grabbing him, and pulling him away. He was about to start screaming, but he heard Stacey’s calm voice over the eerie silence.
“Get back to the crash site Mendez, take Pilla with you. If you can, tell our scouts to move back to the crash site.” It was almost methodical how Stacey did things. He was the first person to look for survivors, and the first person to scout out the surrounding region. Max wondered how he kept his cool. Max looked around and surveyed the area around the survivors. It could have had been worse.
The surrounding area was that of a moderately thick forest, but without the animals. The decent angle of the plane was clearly marked by the stumps that lined the side of the hill to the left of the wreck. There were giant roots protruding out of the ground, and then curving in again, forming little spaces were an unwary marine could get his foot stuck in, trip over, and shatter his leg. There were both thick bushes and big trees around the crash site, providing the survivors with some cover if they needed it. The highlight of it all though, was the plane.
The plane had landed at an angle, sliding downhill, probably saving their lives. The plane had rolled over at the last minute, shredding both wings, tearing the roof off, and detaching the cockpit. The fact that the plane was turned sideways provided perfect cover as some sort of long, makeshift hut where the wounded were placed. The combat radio aboard the plane was still intact, and Stacey could be seen standing near two of the surviving technicians. The radio sizzled to life and was set to the fourth COM channel, specifically meant for requisitioning air strikes and vehicles that could be towed in from the air.
“This is Lieutenant Davin Stacey, first strike force, aircraft serial E21-46-9978. We are requesting air-lift to Firebase Alpha.”
“How many craft will you need?”
“I’m not too sure, we have eleven battle-ready marines, and sixteen ones, seven are critical. I’m guessing about three choppers.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, very. Our GPA system was wrecked in the crash, and we can’t determine our position relative to our target. Could you please identify us?”
“Working on that, hold on a second, you’re right in front of your target!”
“Great.” Rumbled Stacey into the mike; he wasn’t too happy about going into combat with four-fifths of his team dead, and the other half of the survivors wounded. Before committing himself to an engagement however, he kept pressing. “Can we have the support though? Because we’re running out of- just ran out of medical supplies and we’ll need some reinforcements for this if we want to succeed.”
“There is another craft, serial tag E21-46-9984 passing over your position, I’ll send them a message to drop their men.”
With that, Stacey flicked off the mike. He stepped away from the machines and let the technicians resume their work. He patrolled the men, making sure they were actually looking out for the enemy, and not napping, when he saw Max. “Hey! You! Get up here and get a flak vest!” he shouted, pointing his finger at Max.
“Sir, yes sir!” replied Max, jogging to the supply cache that was recovered from the crashed aircraft. He dug in and grabbed a large MAC-4 combat armor chest plate on his first round, a MAC-4 combat helmet on his second round, and then the goggles to match on his third round.
Max shoved the armor down over his arms onto his chest, fastened it, and reached for the helmet. He put that on, and linked the built-in COM mike to the team’s frequency. He next got the goggles, put them over his helmet, and kept them perched on the helmet just in case he needed them. If he did, he would simply grab the goggles; stretch them out a bit, and then adjust them on his eyes. Besides, the goggles on his forehead gave him slightly thicker armor on his forehead.
The step was reaching in and recovering shoulder pads, each adhered to each other with their interlocking Velcro strips. He quickly separated them, put them on his shoulders, and then reached for a “cup”. The “cup” was basically armored underwear, except that it was worn on the outside. It reached to the point right were the chest plate ended, therefore closing the gap. The purpose of the “cup” was to prevent the many cases of men who had gotten their kidneys hit and died, or worse, hit the place where armor just didn’t cover.

After ten long minutes, Max was armed with everything he needed: a helmet, a chest plate, a “cup”, shoulder pads, kneepads, an M-20 automatic rifle, a sidearm, and two HE-3 combat grenades. Although trained as a pilot’s assistant, and not a marine, Max felt like he was a marine, and was proud. Although he was under Union command, a tiny American flag had been stencil-painted on the right shoulder of his armor, and Max loved it. Max was looking at the armor, when he heard a ruffle in the bushes.
“Who’s there? Expose yourself!” Commanded Stacey, apparently, he had heard it too.
“Hey Stacey, is that you?”
Not the answer Stacey wanted, but it was a friendly one. He put down his rifle and let out a sigh of relief.
Twenty-five Union marines, all in full combat gear, strode through the thick undergrowth, rifles at the ready. There was one, however, that stood above the rest. Max had a glimpse of the man’s helmet. SGT. LEE it said, in large, stenciled letters. Max’s helmet wasn’t stenciled, but he did have his dog tags, and hoped he would never have to use them.
“Hey Stacey, long time no see man!” shouted the monster enthusiastically, and ran up to his fellow soldier and gave him an emphatic bear-hug. Stacey was in a higher rank than Lee, but they apparently were friends, and Max was sure that the sarge could take Stacey in a fight and beat him. That’s when one of Stacey’s men, Private James Bourne, speed walked up to the two men and began socializing. “Hey sarge, he a friend of yours?” obviously, this was directed at Stacey.
Lee gave out a huge laugh. “Sergeant Stacey?” Lee laughed again. “Last time I checked, you were a lieutenant, unless you did what you did in Cairo again…”
Stacey cut him off. “For the love of god man, it wasn’t a nightclub, it was a café.”
“With poles sticking out of the ground,” finished Lee.
“It was the industrial-style architecture.” Max had a feeling that Stacey was losing the argument. Lee slapped both Bourne and Stacey on the back and began laughing. “I just love you guys so much. Anyways, what’s going down?”
“You’ll see.”
Stacey led him into the temporary base that had been established inside the plane, and laid out a plan to Lee. Max could see Stacey and Lee discussing apparently everything about the plan. “This is going to take a while.” Someone behind Max said, and they all chuckled a bit.

An hour later, they both emerged from the plane, and laid out the plan. It was a simple plan, with thirty-six men in total; they would split into two groups. One of the groups had ten men, armed with rocket launches and called fireteam Alpha, would attack from behind, draw the defender’s attention, and keep them busy while the other team of twenty-six moved in from the bridge and destroy the defenses. The bridge itself was littered with rubble from the bits of a destroyed chopper whose turret was still intact, and several wasted Union Messengers, an advanced, lighter version of the humvee that was once incredibly popular. This would provide fireteam Bravo with enough cover to advance safely.
After the men were informed, Lee pounded his fist into an open hand. “Does anybody know what time it is?”
“I DON’T KNOW SIR, WHAT TIME IS IT?” asked the marines. This was a standard cheer that all the marines knew by heart.
“Are you sure?” asked Lee, getting an even louder response.
“I DON’T KNOW SIR, WHAT TIME IS IT?” hollered the marines, sounding like some sort of drunken, crazed cheer gone wrong.
“IT’S TIME TO KICK ASS MARINES! GET TO IT!”
The entire platoon shouted and whooped as they rushed to their positions and readied for the eminent attack. No one had cared to check though, if the enemy had been listening. That would cost them dearly.

Great job.
But you should complete most of the book and then Make it a e-book or just sell it.

But still, great job.

Quote from Wtf

Great job.
But you should complete most of the book and then Make it a e-book or just sell it.

But still, great job.

thanks, im halfway through the second chapter, but ill post it if you want

No, don't.
Complete it first.

its almost finished. page and a half. but if you insist...

CHAPTER 2

WESTERN RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL, FEBRUARY 21 2087

Max tread carefully on leaves, branches, plants, and basically anything that got in his way. He was fifth from the front of the formation, walking in a disorganized cloud. COM traffic had been reduced to a minimum, although one of the technicians made his own safe channel that the platoon had adjusted to. Fireteam Bravo had just stopped at the base of the bridge, the point where the bridge met land. Max was, along with his M-20 rifle, armed with a HPS long-range sniper rifle that he held with warm hands.
He looked in through the scope, and saw misty figures walking around the barricade on the other side of the wall. Strange, he thought, there weren’t supposed to be reinforcements. He quickly pushed that thought away when he heard the rattle of automatic weapon fire. A minute later, a green pillar of smoke rose from behind of the barricade, signaling the attack of fireteam Bravo. He could hear the snapping and cocking of weapons being reloaded and checked, and checked his own rifle. A copper round was neatly in its place, ready to take somebody’s life in the blink of an eye.
Max checked the scope once more. He was confused. The rebels were actually getting onto the 50 caliber machine guns, as if they were oblivious to the fact that a strike team of ten heavily-armed men were behind them, holding their own. Max thought that eventually they would leave, and with his sniper rifle, he could make those MGs vacant again. He got up and began running onto the bridge. Max could see what looked like the outline of a Magach 7 Israeli combat tank, barrel facing the bridge.
The Magach 7 was a formidable tank, old, but formidable nonetheless. The rebels seemed to like this breed of tank, with its intimidating design, and two passenger-operated 50 millimeter machineguns on its head. The problem with this tank though, was the fact that it was mostly outclassed by any of the Union’s more modern tanks.
Max thought that the tanks hadn’t spotted him, so he ushered the men behind him to advance. There were about ten marines in front of Max when the tank fired. The round flew towards the back of the formation and exploded loudly. Then the two recoilless cannons, two 50 millimeter machineguns, and a section of rebels fired upon the invading marines. The two machineguns on the tanks opened fire as well, and five of the marines on point were erased out of existence. Max sprinted up a bit, and slid behind a flipped Messenger, and shouted over the COM. “Get to cover! Now marines! We’ve got a tank!”
“I need a medic!” was one reply.
“Set up on that chopper Rick!” was another.
The COM was complete chaos, with men screaming in agony, others just swearing into the mikes, and some pleading helplessly into the COM for a medic. Max was in the process of shoving another clip of ammo into his rifle, when he realized that he hadn’t used any ammo yet. He shoved his original clip back into his pocket and stood up for a good shot. He brought his rifle up and fired in bursts of ten rounds, which left him out of ammo in four bursts, if he did it correctly.
He was in the process of reloading for the second time when he noticed something to his left. He turned and saw two marines, running up to the barricade in full flame-thrower armor, but never got there. One was hit directly by the recoilless cannon and exploded in a puff of fire and gore, and nothing was left of him. The other was hit by machine gun fire, but summoned the strength to jump into the barricade and explode. The sand bags flew into the air, launching one of the recoilless cannons off the bridge and into the water, destroying the other and one of the 50 caliber guns, and killing the gunner of the other machinegun. The battle seemed to stop when this happened, and the gunfire slowed to a stop. That’s when a maneuver team of three AT troopers ran out of cover, holding LE “boomstick” rocket launchers. They got on one knee, and aimed. One of the rebels in the barricade opened fire and nailed one of the AT soldiers in the kneecap, downing him. The other two fired successfully, and twin rockets slammed into the tank.
They popped, and a white haze began spreading onto the tank and the barricade, doing nothing to the tank or the enemy soldiers. Max began to wonder if the rocket launchers were any good, and then the white smoke ignited into a massive explosion that consumed the tank and half the barricade. The entire tank was lifted off the ground, encased with fire and missing its turret, and then slammed back onto the bridge. The turret flew into the air and landed in the water.
Then there were two more explosions, one right after each other, but behind the tank that fireteam Bravo just put out of commission. This boosted morale among the marines, and they charged into the flaming wreckage of the tank, shooting madly. A higher authority must have had found out, because the next thing that Max knew, a rebel Apache was circling around them, vomiting bullets sloppily as it ripped marines apart with it’s heavy duty machineguns. The ground seemed alive as dust flew into the sky in a line, up to a marine, and then moved on. Four men, including both of the AT troopers were killed within seconds.
The chopper flew down the bridge, towards fireteam Bravo, launching rockets and spitting out bullets. The helicopter downed three more marines when it reached the end of the bridge, spun, and was about to come in for another round when something smashed into it from the opposite side of the bridge. It produced a white haze which the helicopter couldn’t maneuver through, and exploded into a rose of fire and death. Bits and pieces of the helicopter landed onto the bridge, including the cockpit, which was in the middle of the bridge.
There were no high-fives or cheers, just a shuffle of feet as both the taskforces, Alpha and Bravo, met where the rebel barricade once stood. Sergeant Lee could be seen reloading his rocket launcher slowly, but Stacy was nowhere to be seen. The leading officer of fireteam Bravo, Corporal Jack Pilla, walked up to Lieutenant Lee and gave his casualty report.
“We lost seventeen guys on that raid sir, and five critical.”
“We lost six guys, and one is slightly wounded.”
“How wounded is he?”
“He lost his thumb and index when the chopper flew by. He won’t be able to operate a rifle for a while.”
The exchange was a miserable one. With twenty-three casualties total, only thirteen soldiers remained alive, but with five critical and one unable to fight, that meant that only seven marines could fight. The line of survivors was stretched as men roamed around, probing that battlefield for their friends and weapons. Max panicked for a couple minutes, trying to grasp Stacey’s death, when he heard a familiar voice. “Hey! Rookie! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It was Stacey.
“Stacey! You’re alive…” Max’s words trailed off as he saw Stacey. Stacey had a big, black eye patch over his left eye, and his face was battered up. Stacey, however, was wearing a large grin that stretched from ear to ear. Stacey being around seemed to brighten up the situation, since the marines knew that if he was happy, something good was going to happen.
“So, marines, let me lay it straight! Uncle Sam was pretty happy with the show you all just put on, because he’s demanding an ENCORE!”
The crowd of marines was silent with sheer terror of what had just been asked of them. Although a battle raged overhead and around them, this was different. Stacey took a hint at the despair of the men, but continued.
“There is a rebel bunker half a kilometer from here, so that puts us real close. But we have two advantages. One, we have the higher ground, so that should put us at an advantage, Second, there are going to be three infantry battalions, a flight of bombers, and a company of tanks. Yeah, so we’re going to have to stay together, get over it. We have a new codename; Fireteam Hedgehog.
“But here’s that catch. We are not facing a simple bunker. This is the real shit boys. This bunker leads to others scattered throughout the forest, and is believed to contain WMDs, which is bad news, very bad news, so we have to go in, make space for our ten to twenty tanks, and kick some ass!” Stacey pounded his fist into an open palm and walked away, but he felt bad. He never told them that, according to their “sources”, an entire corps of rebel troops hid inside the tunnels, armed with determination, and Hedgehog were taking point.

Omg, it's about Max.

Well, you're good at writing.

That out of the way, I wouldn't buy it. I probably wouldn't even illegally download it.
Not because the writing sucks or anything, but because it's just shallow. It's just reading the thing and that's it. Nothing you really have to think about, nothing you could analyze and interpret. Just... shallow.

thank you schall, that makes me feel better.

actually, im going to throw aliens, robots, and zombies. thanks for the "supportive critism" though. really, i mean it.

heres the third chapter. enjoy it punks.

CHAPTER 3

WESTERN RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL, FEBRUARY 22 2087

Max gripped the machine gun now harder than he ever had. The Messenger was about to get to the “entrance” to the bunker that was just way too damn important. Fireteam Hedgehog, although cut down to seven guys at one point, had received eighteen more marines, boosting their numbers up to twenty-five. The Messenger could hold five guys; one driver, a gunner, and three passengers. This meant that there were five Messengers that were part of Hedgehog, but there were three tanks that belonged to Platypus. The first tank was at the front, and the other two were at the back, with the remaining thirty Platypus men in two APCs, and two Messengers.
The formation was clearing the forest, and getting to the bunker, when Max realized how huge the structure was.
It was a huge plate in what appeared to be a crater, with one side descending steeper than the rest into closed, steel doors. Max could see ripped-up chain fences around the bunker, and several destroyed guard towers as the crowd of Union soldiers and armor regrouped around the entrance. A voice spattered over the COM as the Diplomat heavy tank smashed out of the bush and into clear view.
“Please report your vehicles’ tags and the squads you belong to.”
“This is Hedgehog and Platypus squads reporting for the attack on the bunker,” was the static-filled reply of the lead tank man as machinery whined in the background. “Have we missed anything yet?”
“Not yet, but you came just in time. Glad to hear from you Steve.”
“Lucky me, Tell me Ray, how’s your wife?”
“None of your dammed business Steve, God, how’s the farm holding up?”
The conversation turned into a personal chat, talking about their families, their homes, and if they would make any plans once their tour was over. Max felt sorry for the two men: None of them would probably ever be getting back. Max found it strange how a human being could produce such anger, such rage, to kill another man. But before he could continue thinking, an explosion shook the ground as twenty-seven tanks opened fire on the door.
The half-meter-thick steel shattered inward as the impact ripped the gate to tatters. What was left of the once terrifying door was sprayed onto the ground, clearly marking where the shells had hit. The tanks and other vehicles then proceeded to enter the door in neat, tight lines. Different teams were assigned each their own COM, which meant that the rebels couldn’t track them all on one channel, but would have to check every channel.

Half an hour passed before Max’s section was cleared to go. The lead tank grumbled back to life, and the column started moving. Max eased his finger onto and off the trigger as Union forces moved unopposed inside the bunker. Something isn’t right, nagged Max’s conscience. We’d be ambushed by now. Max shrugged off the feeling. The convoy was approaching the opening, and Max needed all his concentration for what was about to happen inside. Blackness swallowed the main tank, then the Messenger in front of him, and soon, darkness washed over his head and he descended into the bunker.

OAS gunnery officer Eric Jackson sat down for a drink at his post, overlooking the South American continent. He sipped the coffee and reattached the cap onto the top of the mug. Although the station’s central section, the one that housed the Railgun’s operation staff, rotated, light objects still had a tendency to get up and start to float once in a while. The spinning section provided the crews a small center of gravity, which was enough to keep people on their legs and walking, which was far more convenient than floating in zero-gee. Jackson was about to unscrew the lid to take another sip when a female’s voice came in over the COM.
“Jackson, are you awake?” The voice was Captain Amy Wong, the lead officer onboard the UWS Pennsylvania, one of many Union combat space-stations. The stations were equipped with three Railguns, which could be aimed at the surface and fired upon ground targets from space. Anyways, Jackson grabbed the mike and muffled back a response.
“Yes ma’am, this is gunnery officer Jackson, reporting for duty. What seems to be the problem?”
“Nothing really, just contacting all the gunnery posts about the fire solution on Janeiro, but the task got switched of to the Nagasaki. Turns out they’ve got more shells than we do.”
“Oh, I thought we were actually going to talk.”
“Oh,” there was chuckling on the other side, and then Wong continued. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, I would have had found out by now.” Jackson sighed.
“Anyhow, please patch the message onto your men Jackson, thank you, Wong out.”
With that, the conversation came to an abrupt halt as the COM line was severed. Jackson leaned back in his chair and thought about the Captain. He definitely had a certain liking towards her, but he wasn’t sure if she understood him. He pushed the thought back to the recesses of his mind as he straightened himself, and patched another message to his crew. “Hey everyone, The Nagasaki’s outfit is taking care of Rio for us. Stand down.”
“Oh, understood Jackson, un-loading Railguns.”
“Go ahead with that, and make sure that the targeting…” Jackson’s voice trailed off as he saw an object appear on the other side of the surface, facing him. “What the hell is that thing!” shouted Jackson as he jumped out of his chair for a better look. The space craft was huge, definitely not human, but huge. Jackson’s head went crazy as he saw the object move towards the Pennsylvania and the Nagasaki.
The craft looked like a giant shark, with massive ventilators where the gills would be and swept-back bubbles of alien craft where the fins would be. It had an incline where the mouth of the shark would be, but it was the “cockpit” of the ship. A massive clamp sat atop of the hull, spinning on a section of craft, slightly defined by a pale, dark line. Jackson would have had ordered a radiation check and re-armament when the alien craft opened fire.
A spear of light shot out of the cannon as if it were a giant welding torch, and sliced the Nagasaki in half. There was a clear line where the laser came out of the cannon and connected with the station, like a massive sword cleaving through a man. The Nagasaki’s hull echoed several small explosions, and then blew up in a fireball of sparkling lights and metal. This had never happened before. A Union space-station had never been lost, but this was different.
The bits of the vaporized multi-trillion dollar station floated towards the Earth, and then burned up in the atmosphere. The laser stopped, but the cannon was turning to face them. Then Jackson snapped to attention. “White, get your guys down to missile bays one through thirteen, and arm them. Ali, re-calibrate the target reticule right on that alien bastard.”
“Targeting reticule re-calibrated, missiles firing.”
The twenty-six missiles fired out of the holes along the round, outward-facing solar panels on the Pennsylvania’s hull, flying towards the ship. The missiles impacted, but the strength of the explosion and shrapnel flew away form the ship.
“Sir, the aliens seem to have some sort of super-magnetized barrier around them, which overrode the missile commands and made them explode.”
“Do we have anything we can throw at them?”
“No, we don’t. We’re defenseless.”
Jackson didn’t want to hear that. Being defenseless in space was the worst thing that could happen to him. He actually had thirty-seven more missile pods that he could launch at the alien craft, but he saved his breath. Then he thought about something else. He had fired the first salvo without consulting Wong, which he should have had done, seeing that she was the captain of the station. Well, thought Jackson, They can accuse me of treason when this tub rains out of the sky. Jackson gripped his seat harder than ever before as the alien craft took aim. The interior of the station remained silent as the barrel lighted up, and launched a spear of energy at the Pennsylvania. Jackson remained silent as the laser impacted, and the Pennsylvania exploded into a fiery blossom of red, and began its tumble back to Earth, back home.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanything?

Super powers are always a good idea.

needs more tits and a love interest