By Griffin Vengance

9th Jan 2006

Major Stones grinned drunkedly, as his shoulder bore the mark of a famous smoking skull, the mark of the infamous 5th Smokers or 5th Gertinian Gaurd, who were undoubtedly the worst soldiers in the Galaxy. They had never, ever been forced to raise a weapon, and their training wasn't normal either; most military training taught soldiers the very meaning of pain.
The 5th Battalion's training taught them the meaning of boredom.
His teammate, Sgt. Jerry Terils, poured bear onto the newly made tatoo, earning himself a sharp smack on the back of the head. They were all drunk as usual, and made their stumbling way out of the tattoo parlour with laughs all round, and an edgy glance at whoever came within five feet of them.
They wre, indeed, crap soldiers.
But the pistols still identified them as soldiers, and nobody wanted to risk mingling with one armed drunkard, let alone three.
The one and only reason that the soldiers could even contemplate drinking was because that their homeworld, Gertinia, was so far away from the battle lines it might as well be a fairy tale. They were right on the fringes of the Galaxy itself, surrounded by either impeneterable darkness or the lights of allies. They were the definition of the word safety.
As was countered by the shrill battle alarm, which took the soldiers a whole minute to notice, and even longer to realise.
The three men looked at each other, and ran like hell for their mummies.

The defence platform Tarkid, with antiquated weapons and shields, was pummeled into destruction with minutes.
The planet was Imperial within a day.
And although they didn't yet know it, the Skylords were outflanked.

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