Paige grunted, the only outward expression of her surprise. "Corporal, if you were an escaped section eight you wouldn't be here. Twenty six confirmed kills, huh? How many unconfirmed?" She knew that snipers kept a running tally of their kills, whether confirmed or not. "Crossbow is a good weapon, silent, accurate, deadly. And the chosen weapon of one of our enemies. What's a Cee-Bee doing getting transferred to a scout platoon?"<br/><br/>Paige used the old fashioned slang, C.B., short for "Construction Battalion", what the Engineers used to be called way back when, it being slightly less insulting that "Sap" - being short for "sapper" - or one who digs zig-zag ditches towards an enemy fortification.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Gullins managed to find the platoon's billet, although with the number of troops crammed into the small space, she figured it might actually be nearer company size, at least by Marine standards. She picked her way through the mass of bodies, some sleeping, some reading, some openly having sex without worrying about who could see them, others cleaning weapons, telling stories, eating, in fact doing just about every possible activity that an off-duty grunt could do.<br/><br/>She had responded to d'Salle's flow of words with monosyllables and grunts, not really interested in talking. The fact that Paige had saved her life, and then she had, in all probability, saved the rest of the survivors' lives in exchange, was really neither here nor there, but that glowing recommendation from the First Sergeant, together with the cryptic remark about her being one of the bridge crew, had her wondering.<br/><br/>She found an emtpy spot on the floor next to another female soldier and parked her behind in it. With a sigh, she lay back, rested her head on her kit bag and closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would come. But all she saw was the same images that had disturbed her sleep since they lost the ship: the rest of the bridge crew being raped and torn apart, the Marine Lieutenant having his head torn off in front of her face as she scurried under the communications console, his weapon falling in front of her, her grabbing the gun, pointing it and fireing blindly into the face of the orc that peered down and reached toward her. Scrabbling on the dead officer for more ammunition, reloading and shooting again, and again and again, her own cowardice, as she saw it, had resulted in a citation for bravery. She didn't deserve it.<br/><br/>She shivered, not from cold, but from reaction. Battle fatigue they used to call it, then PTSD. Now they called it combat shock, and they gave you a pill. She fumbled in her fatigue pants pocket and pulled out the blister pack, popped a pill and realised her canteen was empty. She nudged the woman next to her. "Hey, sorry to bug you, but you got any water?"