Just Talking

Posted on Thu Mar 27th, 2025 @ 4:52am by Gunnery Sergeant Roy Erbun

1,662 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Impending Midnight
Location: Federation Embassy, Rutia IV, Overwatch Position
Timeline: 5 Days Ago, 2100 Hours

ON

Walls tremble with fear,
footsteps hush, rifles are raised
the siege has begun.

Shattered glass lay strewn about the marble floor, desks lay overturned, papers were scattered chaotically across the floor. A tight cluster of hostages sat with their backs against the wall, eyes fixed on their captors. Across the floor amongst the glass and paper lay the bodies of Federation Marines, shot at point blank.

The terrorists paced with efficiency with disruptor rifles in hand. They had secured their positions near the entries and exits and around the hostages. Their leader, a craggy man with a white stripe through his dishevelled hair was distinguished by a red armband. He paced from point to point, his rifle held low but ready. He'd done this before, probably to this Federation Embassy, last time a foot soldier, now the leader. His expression remained cold as he surveyed the room and regarded his hostages.

Silence hung over the embassy, broken only by the occasional whimper of a hostage or the distant crackle of a damaged security console. Outside, the Rutian Police had secured the perimeter and left the Marines to resolve this siege. And now, there was a stillness in the air as each side waited to make their next move.

Above it all, Gunnery Sergeant Roy Erbun was directing his Marines like the embassy was a chessboard, moving each into prime position. He watched the pacing terrorists through a pair of binoculars hawkishly, by his side a pair of marksmen sat with their crosshairs fixed on the terrorists. "Overwatch, targets confirmed. Snipers in position."

Roy exhaled. The standoff was dragging, but Captain Tenison was on his way. Erbun had explained the ordeal, the way the Ansata Terrorists had beamed in, and the calculated dispatch of the Marines guarding the Embassy’s foyer. Captain Tenison seemed unfazed by the whole thing, believing he could talk the situation down. The kid was a desk jockey, a supply officer thrown into the deep end of a hostage crisis. His plan?

Fast food.

Roy clenched his jaw. Tenison thought a couple of burgers and some charm could defuse an armed siege. He’d refused to listen when Roy had tried to stop him.

There was motion at the front entrance. The embassy doors opened. Roy barely resisted a curse.

Tenison strode in first, wearing that damn confident grin. In one hand, a grease-stained fast-food bag, in the other, nothing more than his rank and optimism. Lieutenant Klix, a Bolian barely old enough to hold a gun, walked beside him carrying a tray of drinks. It was the cheap imitation of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The entire room froze.

"Alright," Tenison said with the stupidest grin. "I know things got off to a bad start, but I figured we could—"

"Stop.” The rugged, red-armbanded leader stepped forward. His rifle was lowered, but the tension in his shoulders told Roy everything.

Tenison halted, still confident this would work flawlessly.

"You bring food?" The terrorist’s voice was sharp, disbelieving. He reached out and slapped the bag from Tenison’s hands. Grease-spotted wrappers tumbled onto the floor.

Tenison hesitated. "We just thought—"

"You thought wrong," the man spat. His voice turned ice cold. "We asked for medical supplies."

Roy moved before the first shot even rang out.

Two shots.

Tenison staggered back, a red bloom spreading across his uniform. The grease-stained bag tumbled beside him. He collapsed without a word.

Klix barely had time to react before the second shot took him. His drink tray fell, drinks splattering across the polished floor.

Silence.

The red-armbanded leader looked at Tenison’s crumpled body, then turned his gaze upward, searching.

Roy slapped his combadge. "Overwatch to all teams. Go hot."

The response was instant.

The first sniper round shattered the embassy’s front window and punched through the skull of a terrorist near the hostages. A second round followed, striking another near the security checkpoint.

Chaos erupted.

Gunfire roared from all around as the Marines, previously holding their positions, opened fire. The terrorists scrambled, returning fire, but their confidence was gone.

Roy moved to join his team, followed by a Tellarite NCO, Corporal Vilka, who was assisting with communications. The two Marines charged through the Embassy Courtyard toward the gunfire. He vaulted over a railing, landing hard behind an overturned table.

He popped up just long enough to take a shot with his phaser—one of the terrorists near the hostages dropped.

Another bolted toward the back offices, dragging a hostage with him.

"Vilka!" Roy barked into his mic.

A single shot rang out. The terrorist crumpled before he reached the door. The hostage scrambled free.

The red-armbanded leader had vanished down a side corridor. Roy went after him, moving quickly, weapon raised as he entered the dim hallway. His boots echoed in the narrow space.

The terrorist leader was ahead, moving toward a service exit.

"Stop!" Roy barked.

The man turned sharply, rifle raised. They locked eyes—one moment, one choice.

Roy fired first.

The shot struck center mass. The leader staggered backward. He fell against the wall and slid down it slowly, dropping his rifle.

Roy approached cautiously. The man’s breaths were shallow, his eyes flickering with something Roy couldn’t quite place.

"You could have brought the medicine," the terrorist struggled.

Roy tightened his grip on his sidearm. "You could have let them live."

The man exhaled sharply, then stilled.

Roy let out a slow breath and keyed his combadge. "Target down. What’s the situation?"

"Reception secured," Vilka replied. "Hostages accounted for. No more threats."

It was over. Roy turned and walked away.

|Starbase 72, Cargo Bay 420
|4 Days Later

In a random holding facility somewhere on the Starbase, Roy walked between flag draped coffins. Behind him, Vilka followed in lock-step as they inspected the plaques on each box.

Private Harry Watkins. He was a traditional country boy. He rode horses on his family farm in Wyoming but would turn his nose up at his mother’s cooking for a Hawaiian pizza. He was full of life, wore a cowboy hat and a cheeky grin when he wasn’t in uniform. He’d brag about being ‘farm strong’ when he won the wrestling contests against the other Marines.

Then there was Private First Class T’Shan. A Vulcan Marine… what a thing. She’d just had a daughter and was about to be promoted. Roy had never seen a Marine wield a rifle with such precision one moment, and share baby pictures the next. She was on the way up. The next Command Sergeant Major of the Marines.

Private Coldaran… tricky customer, bit of a hothead and loved the colour purple. They had six dogs on their homeworld of Cajitar IV that their siblings cared for. The way they talked about those canines, each with the most ridiculous names, made everyone believe they were people.

Sergeant Pat Yates. Never seemed like much of the touchy feely type. Real tough guy, built like a brick shithouse. His mother was killed Ivor Prime Disaster in 2373 and visited the planet every year in her memory. This year he missed the memorial date due to his assignment at the Embassy, but he was dating a gorgeous Rutian waitress, which softened the blow.

The last was Lieutenant Klix. The Bolian loved to eat the hottest curries the platoon’s self-appointed chefs could produce. Those dishes would make everyone sweat just by being near the pot. Klix was barely out of his teens, but he was destined to be a Marine; his grandmother was a veteran of the Galen Border Conflict, his inspiration for joining the Corps. Grammy had written to the platoon leadership to tell them how proud she was of her boy.

Each one he’d known, trained and led in battle, some since they arrived in his platoon from basic. He looked over the caskets, the brilliant blue of those Federation flags the same as the blanket that Chris Tenison had draped over him in the Starbase’s sickbay. Somehow, through the grace and mercy of God, that little bastard had pulled through when these fine young Marines were going home in a box.

Roy felt sick at the thought of it.

The doors of the storage area opened. A Marine officer walked into the darkened space. Erbun and Vilka snapped to attention.

“At ease, Gunny, Corporal. Good morning,” The man said with a respectful hush in his voice. He stepped into the space, his rank insignia catching the light. The gold reflection showing him to be a Major. The officer solemnly made his way around the coffins, regarding them as if each was one of his own leathernecks. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“What can we do for you, sir?” Roy asked, still standing with a brusqueness.

“I’m Major Kellogg, the Personnel Officer for the 85th Battalion here on the station. I’ve been asked to review the deployments for Marines across this Task Force heading out to take on that evil computer program.” The officer stuck out his arm and offered the Gunny a PADD. “I know this is short notice, and I apologise for delivering this information here, but we need you on the Missouri and ready to ship out in the next few hours. We’ve got a replacement squad ready. Hopefully we’ll arrange a new CO.”

“Yessir.” Roy responded. He took the PADD, knowing already what it would tell him. His jaw tightened a little. “We’ll be ready.”

“Semper Fi, Gunny.” With that, the conversation was over. The Major spun on his heel and marched out of the cargo bay, leaving the Gunny and Corporal in the room.

War didn’t stop for grief.

Boots march past the graves,
orders call, the dead stay mute
war does not look back.

OFF

Posting by

Gunnery Sergeant Roy Erbun
First Sergeant, 199th Marine Platoon

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