Sure i have a gun, when do I get a bullet?

Posted on 27 Jul 2025 @ 12:22am by Major Emily Janeway & Private Earnes Fry

3,058 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: S04 Episode 02 The Hackers Backdoor (Incidentals)
Location: Marine Barracks and Holo deck
Timeline: Current

[on]


Ernes walked into the Marine Detachment [MARDET] Quarters, which were standard. They were the same from here to Terra. The Spartan bearthing compartment was designed to allow the greatest amount of personal freedom, all the while allowing the fastest reaction time. Clumsy people would occasionally trip over each other, especially when alcohol was involved, but getting dressed for combat would be as quick as the Marines could make it. It was not easy, but there were thousands of years of training to rely on. The heritage went all the way back to the time of the Roman Legions. All of this was carried forward, and although not perfect, it was as good as the established training matrix could make it.

There was a sense of responsibility that was rather heavy, but not a burden. For duty, it is a burden light as a feather, but strong as a bar of neutronium, and he would not be the weakest link. Besides the door was an old-fashioned clipboard, and on a chain, an old-fashioned pencil. The pencil always had a worn-down eraser; it was a requirement, for a pencil without a worn eraser was not worthy of being used by Marines. It was not a slam on the quality of the pencil, just that it had not been broken in yet, therefore was not worthy to be used by a marine.

Everything they did was practiced. Everything was done over and over again until A) it was the most efficient action that it could be, and b) not only could the person doing it, do it while under heavy fire from orbital bombardment, all the while performing other actions, and or while asleep. These were the small things, but everything was; when it boiled down to the meat and potatoes, small things.

Ernes looked on the clipboard, searching for his name. As expected, he was in the back of the compartment. Not that you were protected, it was the most important person who was usually woken up first.

You could usually tell how good a commander was by how he or she managed their company of Marines. A good marine was involved. A sound of someone coming down the hall made him look up. You could tell a combat veteran by the way they walked. Sure enough, a Combat Veteran walked in.

Major Emily Janeway had entered the barracks with a purposeful stride, she gives Fry a steady look, her tone firm but approachable. “Private Fry, welcome to the USS Tomcat. This barracks runs on precision, starting with that clipboard. Stow your gear, know your roster, and your teammates. You’re new, but you’re part of this rifle regiment now. Prove you can keep up. Any questions? Speak now.”

Private Ernes Fry looked at the clipboard again, trying to get a quick download in his memory. Sometimes he could get a photo snapshot in his memory, but Ernes was one of those people with photographic memory. If he was, his brain was out of film.

"I'll stow my gear, and no mam, I have no questions. " Ernes said to the Major.

It took all of fifteen minutes to stow his gear and look at the schedule, Most of the Marines were at chow, some were in the training gym, aka the Marine holodeck.

Ernes still had indigestion from the in-flight meal on the transport. He decided to pass on chow and headed to the gym.

Major Janeway leaned against the barracks’ bulkhead, arms crossed, one boot tapping a quiet rhythm—a telltale sign of her sizing up Private Fry. Her sharp violet eyes softened with a faint, knowing smirk, as she remembering one of her own to being as of recruits but still remembered her first day. “Private Fry, our training’s simple: PT at 0600 builds your strength, holodeck drills sharpen your phaser and tactics, and every move’s drilled till it’s instinct—zero-G or under fire. Get to the gym, sync with the team’s rhythm, and be ready for inspection tomorrow.”

She pushed off the wall, tapping her PADD with a stylus, her voice dropping to a dry, teasing edge. “And don’t skip chow again—indigestion won’t cut it for if we’re any combat situation.” With a single nod, she turned, her purposeful stride echoing down the corridor, leaving no doubt she expected Fry to keep up.

Private Fry snatched a couple of rations packs, quickly sliding them into one of the many pockets on his BDU's. Munching on a ration bar, Private Fry rushed to catch up to Major Janeway. "Roger that, ma'am", Private Fry said, "I will keep up with the team."

Major Emily Janeway paused mid-stride, glancing back at Private Fry with a raised eyebrow, her violet eyes glinting with a mix of approval and amusement as he munched on the ration bar. She flicked her stylus against the PADD, a subtle tic that betrayed her constant mental tally of her Marines’ readiness. “Good hustle, Fry,” she said, her voice crisp but carrying a trace of warmth, like a mentor testing a promising student. “Keep that energy in the gym. Team sync’s not just physical—it’s knowing who’s got your six in a firefight. Show me you’re all in at 0600.”

With a quick tilt of her head, she gestured toward the holodeck down the corridor, her boots clicking sharply as she resumed her stride. “And ration bars aren’t chow,” she tossed over her shoulder, a playful edge cutting through her authority. “

Private Ernes shook his head as he grinned, then said," Rogger that, Mam." Sometimes Privates would push a little to see how much slack they could get away with. There was none with this Major. She had a {Been there, done that" attitude and had the scars to prove it.} Private Ernes entered the holodeck / Marine Gym. He felt the gravity increase; it felt like one and a quarter gravities. Some Major's, took it to one and a half or two times Earth's normal gravity. You never knew when you were going to have to mix it up with someone on their home turf... Not all of them came from low-gravity worlds.

Private Ernes walked over to where half of a squad was duking it out, they were not pulling punches. Private Ernes walked around the mat, observing the lay of the land. One of the women had commenced to bring a whupping on her training partner. He was totally playing defense... till he wasn't. Then, just as suddenly as the tide had changed, it changed again. Both were sweating up a storm. Neither was willing to give an inch. Private Ernes looked around for a medic, found him ready with a medical tricorder in one hand and a medical kit in the other. This must be normal. He had not seen anyone playing quite this ruff and tuff, since basic, when a bunch of farm boys tried to impress their company commander. That being said, that same company commander had wiped the floor with them in less than 30 seconds. As Private Ernes watched, he almost felt too close, like he would get caught up in this mix-up, if one of the two combatants missed a blow. The power displayed was impressive. Private Ernes felt he could hold his own on any slum or dangerous situation. But this was on a totally different level. It seemed liek half the gym was gathered around the matt. Private Ernes circled to get a better view. Then, faster than one could see, a powerful blow sent one of the two combatants flying. Private Ernes tried to get a better view, but the view was blocked by the medic, shoving people out of the way to treat the person lying on the mat.

Major Janeway stood resolute at the holodeck’s edge, her combat-style laced boots—scuffed durapoly evoking leather, bound tight with microfilament laces—anchored firmly in 1.25G, their nano-grip soles and gravity stabilizers humming like the steady march of Roman Legions. Her Marine uniform, a black jumpsuit with grey shoulders and green accents, bore the insignia of the USS Tomcat’s Second Officer and third-in-command of the Corps, its reinforced fabric a modern echo of legionary armor. Flicking her stylus against a glowing PADD, she fixed her violet eyes on Private Fry amid the sparring Marines, her voice ringing with the fire of a centurion rallying her cohort. “Fry, stand tall like the Legions of old! Our training forges iron—0600 PT carves your strength, holodeck drills temper your phaser and will, until you can face Borg or Jem’Hadar as one unbreakable line. Join the fight, prove you carry our standard!”
Her boots creaked as she stepped forward, their micro-shields glinting faintly, a testament to Marine heritage from Terra’s ancient fields to this sector’s stars. With a fierce grin, she nodded at the battling Marines, her tone sharp yet inspiring, like a Roman vexillum raised high. “Second Officer or not, I lead as third-in-command with Legion honor, Private. Swap ration bars for real chow, or you’ll scrub these boots before a Klingon sim tests your steel.” She turned sharply, her boots’ echo a clarion call as she keyed a zero-G Dominion assault into the holodeck, her command a beacon in the 24th century’s frontier.

Private Fry was used to the right hand of god treatment from the Sargent Majors; It was the facts of life. You didn't backtalk, ignore, and or disregard their pearls of wisdom. Their rules wre normally written in blood. That meant someone somewhere had paid the ultimate price for that rule, and the rules kept you alive. The rules also helped make the universe behave. It was not that kind of thing, but strange things happened when Sargent Majors made statements out loud. It was almost like the Universe knew better than to argue with a Sargent Major.

"Note to self!", Private Fry muttered to himself as the holodeck changed into a combat scenario. "Keep a package of Tum's on your person at all times!" The holo-program looked like a standard attack scenario. But that was when the change-up always happened. This Sergeant Major was just like all Sergeant Majors; she liked to be tricky. Complacent, not allowed here, anyone looking complacent would soon be struggling for their life, as most safety settings were either anything up to and including unconscious was allowed, broken bones would mend, incorrect combat techniques would get you un-alived. The Starfleet Marine Corps put a lot of time and energy into making the Marines the Best...Period! Anything less than exceptional performance meant even longer hours of training.


"This is fun!" Private Fry yelled, "When is the Good part going to start?" Private Fry realized he might have made a mistake, telling the Sargent Major that he was bored. That tended to bring out their creativity. The wall by his right arm disappeared suddenly, and four very angry-looking Gem-Hadarr were on him. "Boot's and Saddles" was all that Private Fry had time to yell before both arms were grabbed. But this was good, that meant that the two Gem Hadarr with weapons pointed at him, currently had their kill zone blocked by the two Gem Hadarr gorillas trying to rip his arms off. But this was to his advantage
Being a Farm boy was good, being raised in a 1.25 gravity world meant that he had denser bones and muscles. The drawback was that when he got hurt, it was really bad, painful and otherwise trouble. Private Fry, tried to bear hug both of them, Wrapping both of them in a hug was dangerous, but it became a contest of strength. Private Fry put all of his frustrations, bad feelings, and all his energy into one thing... Intimidation...As Private Fry was squeezing the life out of the Gem Hadarr, he whispered into their ears, " I am the Night. I come for you. You are the Weakest Link. You are found wanting!" In their language. The effect was instantaneous; their struggle with him ramped up a notch, and they began to really try to do him harm.

"Good!" Private Fry said, "Now I don't have to feel bad, I hate to see you meet your end without trying your best." The insult that one had not been trying their best was almost as bad as calling them a coward. It was guaranteed to motivate them.
Private Fry was not Klingon, but he was really eager to work out his frustrations on these willing test subjects. This was almost therapeutic. Private Fry was confident he had the upper hand until the two Gem Hadarr started pulling apart. "Great!" Private Fry muttered, "Upgrades!" Private Fry loved a challenge and began to put his all into this contest of strength. As he did this, Private Fry began a growl deep in his chest. At the same time, Private Fry shoved back with all his strength. A surge to shove these two back into the others. This would open an access point for his brothers and sisters, who were probably getting pissed that he was hogging all of the fun. They had his back, so it was only fair they got to have fun too.

Janeway’s violet eyes narrowed as Private Fry locked two Jem’Hadar holograms in a bear hug, his 1.25G muscles straining in the holodeck’s Cardassian station sim. Her dark uniform, green collar sharp under the gold insignia, and sash with its star emblem gleamed as she stood at the console, boots’ nano-grip soles humming in the enhanced gravity. Fry’s taunt—“This is fun! When is the good part going to start?”—had triggered her escalation: four Jem’Hadar swarming him, two more flanking 20 meters back with polaron rifles primed. His grit was raw, but his lone stand needed discipline.

A brief smirk flickered as she assessed his resolve, then her voice cut like a phaser blade. “Private Fry! No solo stunts—fight like a Marine or break!” She tapped the console, lowering safety to 80% for real impact, and a plasma conduit sparked 10 meters away, testing his focus. “Prove your spine!”
Stepping onto the mat, her boots’ micro-shields flared as she shed her phaser for hand-to-hand. A Jem’Hadar lunged at Fry’s flank;

Janeway intercepted, driving a Marine Strike Point 3 elbow into its midsection, then twisting its arm into a hyper-extension lock. With a sharp crack, she snapped its tertiary joint, flipping it over her hip to crash into its partner—clearing Fry’s line. “This is Starfleet combat, Fry!” she barked, stance steady. “Lock an arm, strike the joint, throw—do it!”

Private Fry spent half of a second processing the orders before switching tactics. Wrestling with Gem Hadarr was easy. They did not have flexibility. They were designed to use brute force. They were shock troops. Humans were trixy. Humans were flexible. Humans adapted to new and strange things. Private Fry shifted his feet, grabbed the Gem Hadarr on the right by the forearm, ignoring the one on the left. Twisted behind the two Gem Hadarr in front, coiling up like a spring, he tried throwing the object formally known as a Gem Hadarr warrior at the two Gem Hadarr in the Back. Although not perfectly timed, it seemed to work. When Private Fry released the arm, this one hundred Kilo missile sailed into the Gem Hadarr in the back with Rifles. It was like bowling. a Seven / Ten split. Turning, Private Fry used his elbow to strike the remaining Gem Hadarr in the back of the head. Private Fry then performed a wrist lock, followed by a crescent kick to the side of the head. Mixed martial arts was fancy, but if it got the job done, then it was not stupid. Private Fry turned to deal with the pile of Gem Hadarr, which were trying to get to their feet. This was a good warmup. Private Fry felt better when he exercised his demons.

Janeway’s violet eyes flared as Fry’s crescent kick dropped a Jem’Hadar, the holodeck’s 1.25G pulse shaking her nano-grip boots. Her black uniform, green collar sharp with her Second Officer insignia, glowed under the nebula backdrop as she stepped up, her raspy voice—ragged from Cardassian neurotoxin scars—grating like a disruptor’s edge. “Fry, you’re hammering Jem’Hadar like a farm boy smashing droids at the 2396 muster!” Her gravelly laugh rolled out, warm with Marine grit. “But training’s no solo gig. Holodeck sims and squad drills are where we forge you—adapt or get torched. That wrist lock? Solid, but yell to your crew before you play lone gun.”
She stabbed a finger at the fading holo-mat, her raspy tone slicing like a plasma blade. “Precision’s our backbone: lock, strike, throw—drill it till it’s reflex, zero-G or Dominion hell. 0600 PT on July 22, 2396, will harden you, but bonding’s the fight’s core. Hit the mess after—real chow, not that ration sludge. Swap a war tale, take a jab, weld your unit tight.” Her stylus rapped her PADD, a steady cadence like a Marine march.

“Exorcising demons? Bring that fire to the squad tomorrow. Move as one, or I’ll have you polishing my boots with a Jem’Hadar’s hide!”

With a rogue smirk, she turned, her raspy growl barking, “Klingon sim’s live, farm boy! Train with your pack, or I’ll drill you Marine-style!” She keyed the console, her rough voice echoing across the holodeck 3

Private Fry stood at attention, breathing heavy. "Yes, Ma'am," Private Fry said, "A Quick shower, then proper chow!" After waiting for the Boss to leave, Private Fry hit the showers. Real hot water hit the spot, washing away pain and soreness. After drying off, Private Fry quickly dressed and headed for the chow hall. Good food, now that would improve his outlook, and fix his grumpy stomach.

With a final nod, Major Janeway turned to leave the barracks, her eyes scanning the area one last time before she stepped out into the corridor, heading towards Her MCO office.


[OFF]




Private Earnes Douglass Fry
Rifleman

 

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