Somehow our company got their hands on the new type exoskeleton and we were sent out to fight the Zarian terrorists. We had superpowers with this thing of technology. Bullets did nothing to the advanced electronics and the system for stopping the projectiles worked in a mysterious way. Even the RPG rockets would detonate before reaching the outskirts of my squad. Sgt. Mik Aldor was leading this experimental unit, while the group of scientists tracked us, just hundred feet away. They would videotape our missions, scribble in their notepads, run with us with their gear leaping on their skinny shoulders.
We were dropped from the helicopter and the rest came with Daggerclaw armored vehicles where the top was modified into an autonomic machinegun nest. Big digital eyes searched for possible assailants inside the sand houses, behind the hills and under the sand. More than few times, our visor would register wiring in the middle of the road or deeply buried in sand.
Entering the hostile town brought us in a narrow pass between the houses with no doors in them. I moved behind the Sgt. Mik Aldor, slightly bowed my head in fear of the enemy gunfire that could rain from nowhere. Our temperature was regulated by a machine we were in, so no sweat in this mission. A man in commoner’s clothes ran in front of us waving his plasma rifle and yelled “Aramon will…” when a grenade splattered his bloody remains against the wall at the boths sides of the street.
– Whoa! Damn! This shit is BAD A S S! – Mik Aldor looked at the gun that gained its commands directly from the user’s brain.
Encouraged by what he saw, he valiantly moved forward in a casual walk through the street. A man with balaclava rose from the dusty roof and pointed his sniper on the edge, when machinegun metallically stretched and bursted a short stream of bullets at the terrorist.
Now, we all got encouraged to loosely took a stroll through the town. Here and there terrorists popped up to greet us, but ended dead, blown, shredded and splattered. They ran in the civilian houses where flames shortly made they exit, burning in a turquoise fire.
– Bon Apetite! – Mik Aldor shouted before every shot, leaving a trail of smokes behind him.
Others looked at each other with a confused grimace on their pale Ildocian faces.
– Sarge! Do you know what that means sir?! – I called him, and he smiled.
– Yeah, I know. I ain’t dumb. It means “have a nice meal”. I was just telling the stray dogs bon appetit, because I am serving them meat! – he said laughing and shot the whole drum of grenades around us, – Bon Fucking Appetite! – he growled and casually moved away.
All we could do was to follow orders and wish the dogs a nice meal.