You know that the platoon is doing routine maintenance this morning, starting in about ten minutes. You realize just how eager you are to see them all, and, grabbing a ration pack from your shelf, you munch down a quick breakfast as you head through the ship.
The lift whisks you down to the lower decks of the massive invasion ship. You step through the reinforced doors to the strike deck, breathing in the heady smells of metal and oil. The line of drop ships along the side of the deck has some gaps, and most of the craft bear scars from the recent engagement. You stroll past two other platoons before you recognize your own troopers spread out in a gaggle on the deck, rifles in various stages of disassembly as maintenance is performed. Or at least, what's left of them. Fifteen men and women were either killed or seriously injured in the last mission, leaving your platoon at about two-thirds strength. Sergeant Shah spots you and rises to his feet, ordering the troopers to attention. They instinctively snap into upright positions, arms straight at their sides.
"Relax, everyone," you say.
Shah offers a crisp salute, which you return. The Sergeant's face is mottled with bruising and you can tell he's favoring his left arm, but his gaze is as stern as ever. But, perhaps, there's a glimmer of respect there too.
"Fifth Platoon conducting weapon maintenance, sir," he says. "How can we serve?"