Cryosleep was the goddamn worse thing about being a marine.  No matter how many times she went through it, Gunnery Sergeant Riska Danko always felt like a freeze-dried scrap of meat by the end of it, as stiff and as worn out as overcooked bacon. She’d lay down good money that whatever spook had dreamed it up had never actually gone through it themselves, otherwise it would be a hellavu lot nicer.  The tubes were always small, the cushions hard as rocks and no computer she’d ever known could warm up the floor decently before anyone set foot on it.  Ah well, it was all part of the job, wasn’t it?<br/><br/>Sitting up, she shook the last of the cryosleep’s effects from her head and then peeled the various medical leads from her body before swinging her long legs over the side of the tube and setting her bare feet on the floor.<br/><br/><em>"Good morning... or... afternoon... or... something..." She muttered, not knowing who would hear.</em><br/><br/>Because she expected the cold it didn’t faze Riska.  Instead, she sighed a rough, "Morning," to the other woman and simply padded off towards the lockers without another word, searching for a bar high enough off the floor to do a few pull-ups.  A few minutes of exercise and her blood would be moving enough to bring her back to 100 percent.  Jumping up to a pipe that ran alongside the lockers, she began to pump out a dozen overhanded pull-ups, as the muscles of her back and biceps contracted, standing out around the lines of her standard issue A-shirt.  She continued on until her copper skin was lightly sheened with sweat without giving a fuck who was watching.  They could look all they wanted as long as they stayed the fuck out of her way.  And then she dropped back down to the floor and retreated to her locker to get into her gear.  A hurried and largely unfulfilled meal later and the members of the squad were all given time to check their equipment and gear up.  Their orders were straightforward, rushed, and there was no time to waste.  Soon, the entire squad had poured into the APC and was ready to make their drop.<br/><br/>Riska had strapped on her advanced personnel armor with care, knowing that she was likely to be wearing it for some time and it wouldn’t do to have something loose.  The last time she’d hurried through it she’d had blisters in several extremely unpleasant places for weeks.  The armor was well-broken in and fitted to her exact measurements, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t turn around in bite her in the ass from time to time.<br/><br/>Across the front of her polymer chest plate were the words,<em>Te lolirav I phuv mure ratesa, Martiya</em>.  “May my blood redden the earth, Martiya.”  A call and a challenge to the Romani spirit of the night, the angel of death to come and get Riska if she wanted her.  The last thing she put on, before strapping herself into the M56 harness was her Romani granmother’s<em>mulengi dori</em>, the dead man’s string made out of the sheet that had been used to measure the old woman’s coffin.  Seven knots were tied in the length of cloth, ready to be loosened should Riska ever have need of her grandmother’s<em>mule</em>, her ghost.  Her father didn’t like that she carried the thing, but it was all she had left of the woman that had practically raised her, and she carried it everywhere.  It was a ritual now, to wrap the thing around her left wrist and tie it off before going out on a new mission, all carried out in silence as she suited up.  And she didn’t give a good goddamn if anyone in the squad thought it was odd. It was never good to tempt fate.   Across the barrell of the gun was another reminder of her grandmother:<em>Akana mukav tut le Devlesa,</em>the gun said.  "Now I leave you with God.<br/><br/>With the smart gun in place and the safety on, locked and loaded and with plenty of ammo to spare – including the radioactive rounds that some other gunners wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole - Riska headed to the hold and climbed into the APC for the upcoming drop, trying to quell the uneasy<em>prikaza </em>feeling the crept up her spine.  The squad was hardly a tightly knit group and now they had a new Lieutenant. Fun times.  Anyway it didn’t matter.  There was no point worrying about something you couldn’t change. She’d adapt, like she always did.<br/><br/>As drops went, it was relatively easy.  Strapped in tight, Riska spent the time getting her game face on.  As the squad’s heavy gunner, she’d bear the brunt of the heavy attacks, if needed, and it was time to put up or shut up – and Riska never walked away from anything.  Several deep breaths had her cool as a cucumber, and ready to rock and roll.<br/><br/><em>"Now THAT was fun!" the pilot called out. Grinning as he did "Alright I'm bringing her in towards the LZ touch down in T minus 30 seconds. You'll be about 5 clicks from the colony......once you've disembarked I'll fly a holding patter for 3 hours then head back up to the Mitchum for refueling." </em><br/><br/>Danko acknowledged the information without commenting on the derision in the pilot’s voice.  She’d heard it all before, and he was damn good at what he did, so she was willing to tolerate his less than steller attitude.<br/><br/>“Orders, Sarge?” Riska asked, still locked into her seat.  She’d release the restraint once they were dirtside.  “Just what the hell are we in for here, anyway?”  Like everyone else, she’d read the files that were provided, but she was well aware that the Sergeant and the L.T. were privy to more intel than the rest of the squad.  She’d take all she could get if they were willing to dish it out.<br/><br/>