<strong>Lance Corporal Benjamin Mathias - 3rd Squad - APC</strong><br/><br/>"Abel's Folly.  What fuckin' idiot thought<em>that</em>was a good name for a colony in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?  They're practically sayin' it was a bloody stupid fuckin' mistake to settle down here!  On a scale of one to ten, one being mildly autistic and ten being straight up retarded, I'd put this place somewhere between<em>Paradise Falls</em>and<em>Deadman Crossing</em>," the Flamethrower toting soldier said suddenly, a potent South-African lilt to his tongue and crisp sarcasm at his lips.<br/><br/>Mathias was fully suited up by this point, face and frame hidden under a bulky flame-retardant Ape Suit (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/rcburner/FutureSoldier2.png), the mechanized joints purring softly with every motion and the sharp yellow visor set like an overturned cat's eye into the intimidating skull plate.  The man underneath all that gear hadn't seemed all that special back when the crew was dethawing like a bunch of Thanksgiving turkeys, all lean meat and burn scars and jutting ribs, and a face that would have been a pretty sort of androgynous if not for the thick scruff lining his jaw and upper lip.  Then again, they didn't issue out<em>that</em>kind of equipment to any old rookie either.<br/><br/>He'd been almost lucidly quiet up until now, saving most of his words for the cast iron cross now hidden away beneath the breastplate of his armor.  The way he'd clutched that thing one would think it had been fused to his hands, but it wasn't with the sort of nervous tension of new blood that he'd fervently prayed.  Everyone had their own rituals before a mission, even if they didn't recognize it themselves.  That's all there was to it.<br/><br/>The Lance Corporal turned back to look at the monitors, noting the eerie stillness in each one.  "Reckon there's a chance they all went for a community picnic?"