Introduction by Timothy the Talking Cat. Mr Atomic is OK I guess. He tends to disrupt my sleeping, which is not cool but he has been known to refill my water bowl and empty to my magic poo tray. He said he had a story already written ‘in his head’ and so I got him to type it out. I didn’t have to fix anything in the story and he says it is based on a true story involving some jelly-vodka shots.
Clean Up on Gamma-6-Gamma
By Mr Atomic (Your Mechanical Household Pal)
They send me in alone. I’m the elite. The best of my kind. A titanium behemoth built with one job in mind. In war you need someone like me - somebody who can get the dirty jobs done, the jobs nobody else can take. They know I’m the only one who can handle the psychological trauma, the stench, the stain of conflict.
I crack open the triple sealed bulkhead door. The outpost still has power. I have my own thermonuclear back-up generator but I’ll make use of whatever erg-source I can find. An operative like me has to take what we can find. Improvise. Adapt. Survive.
Get in and get out. When I’ve gone there will be no trace that I was ever there.
There are scorch marks on the walls. Plasma bolts have charred the concrete. I track the line of fine and asses the damage. The wall is secure but the damage is structural - not my field. I’ve got bigger worries.
The enemy hit the outpost hard. A breach into the gymnasium near the where the bunker interfaces with the living wrong. Smart. Sealant foam around the breach to stop pressure loss.
I scan for life signs. Nothing. This place is a tomb. Doesn’t matter. They don’t send my kind to mourn the dead. There will be enough time for weeping widows later. I have to focus on mission priorities.
I follow the schematics. The officer’s quarters are past the secondary bulk heads.
In the vestibule before the Base Commander’s office I find the bodies. A Squirm - the green, gelatinous inhabitants of the Borealis Nebula. An inverter grenade sucked it inside out, blew it apart and baked the remains. The walls and floor are covered in it. I know what I have to do.
“Sergeant Atomic - sit rep asap copy over.”
“Its bad captain” I reply, my eyes narrowing as I assess the damage.
“Grue dammit Atomic, you knew what you were getting yourself into.”
“Captain, this carpet…it’s silk, Grue dammit. Silk!”
Silk. When will HQ learn? Didn’t I warn them? A synthetic fibre or even wool - that I could clean just with the careful application of a detergent, warm water and some methodical scrubbing. But silk? In what grue damn upper-echelon puke’s mind did silk carpet sound like a smart idea?
I extrude the diamond tip needle effectors onto my forelimbs. I’ll need to pick off each fragment of Squirm remains from that carpet - piece by grue-dammit piece.
I’m the elite. The best. The enemy whispers my name - they call me THE CLEANER.
Behold the Valiants
Introduction by Timothy the Talking Cat. Flappypants wrote this. I checked it for suspicious stuff but it looked safe. Lots of shooting and manly heroes, just like I asked for.