“Heeeyyy, Mathilda!  You promised you’d show them to me.”

                “What, here?”

                “C’mon, there’s nobody around.  I already showed you mine; just whip ‘em out!”

                “Fine…but no touching!”

Mathilda grasps the zipper on her duralumin vest and pulls down, exposing the treasures that her compatriot seeks.

“Whoa!  Awesome!  Let me hold ‘em!”

“I already said no!”

“Awwww.  Can’t you tell me about ‘em or somethin’, at least?”

“Fine.”

She reaches to the left one, flips a strap, and cradles it in front of her.

“Whoa.”

“This is my custom Colt Single Action Army.  (Were you expecting something else?)  The whole thing’s been changed up to use a .800 Nitro Express round; the original .45 Long Colt’s too weak.  So, it’s not really a SAA, but it still kinda looks like it.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Not surprised; the original’s over two hundred years old.”

“Wow, that’s cool!   ...Wait, .800 Nitro Express?!  Those are for RIFLES!”

“Super-strength ain’t just for punchin’ and jumpin’, Clyde.  But, you’re right, it’s kinda overkill, so it’s my backup.  My main gun is this.”

She reaches past her right breast and pulls out another beautiful revolver.

“A Webley-Fosbery Self-Cocking Automatic Revolver from 1895.  Not quite as old as the SAA and it’s British, so it’s a more polite way to kill people.  The original .455 round is too damn slow, so I use .44 Magnum rounds with a small sabot so they fit.”

“Another old gun.  You like your men old, too, I take it?”

“Pff.”

With a twirl, both revolvers return to their holsters and in a single, smooth motion, she straps them back in and zippers up her vest.

“Well, nice set of guns, Mathilda, but they don’t stack up to my automatic heavy flechette rifle.  Hundreds of those babies flying atcha at ultrasonic speed, yer boned.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Go stroke your big gun some other time; we’re late for the meeting.”

The two pistoleros continue down the hall.  Mathilda, leader of the top fireteam in their platoon, shines in her duralumin armor, clinging to her like skintight latex.  Clyde, occasional buffoon of the second fireteam, follows closely behind, taking advantage of the view.  Ahead of them lies the meeting room for the Durandal, the highest skilled platoon stationed at Normandy Square, a massive secret base located at a secret location of which its location is secret.

They enter the room and split up, each taking the space reserved for them.  Each of the fireteams chats amongst themselves about topics too few to mention.  In front of them is the big board, awaiting a chance to display mission information in glorious 5400p.  In front of that stands the commander of the Durandal, Gregory “GUTZ” Grimoire.  A gigante of a man, Mathilda notices he has a cigar in his mouth.  A bad sign, she thinks, their commander doesn’t smoke.

               “ALL RIGHT MARINES, SECURE THAT SHIT AND LISTEN UP.”

He’s lost his mind, Mathilda thinks, we’re not Marines.  Ooh, I know this one, Clyde thinks.  No one else thinks.

“AH, ANOTHER GLORIOUS DAY IN THE CORPS! A DAY IN THE MARINE CORPS IS LIKE A DAY ON THE FARM. EVERY MEAL'S A BANQUET! EVERY PAYCHECK A FORTUNE! EVERY FORMATION A PARADE! I LOVE THE CORPS!”

Still don’t follow, Mathilda thinks.  I’ve got it, Clyde thinks.  Everyone else doesn’t know what to think.  Clyde raises his hand.

“WHAT IS IT, PRIVATE?”

He’s not a private, Mathilda thinks.

“HOW DO I GET OUT OF THIS CHICKENSHIT OUTFIT?”

Oh no, Mathilda thinks.

“YOU SECURE THAT SHIT, HUDSON!  …Nice work, Corporal Clyde!”

Damn, he was quoting Aliens, Mathilda realizes.  Clyde beams with pride.  The rest of the platoon curses their failure.