i'm mainly on tumblr, but i thought someone in here might need this, so i'm posting here as well. sometimes, i’m writing for a character and i want to make fun of them with their cute anecdote, on a dialogue, and can’t find it so easily, so here they are. this information is not on wiki’s love island the game page. hope it’s helpful somehow. sources will be linked on the bottom of the post, and in each post, i left a comment with the timestamp all of them happened. **don’t judge me, i needed some time off studying history!**
❝ season 1❞
❝ main character ❞

• runway model
• social media influencer
• trainee heart surgeon
• conceptual artist

❝ allegra ❞ 24, from swansea, cocktail entrepeneur, ‘we don’t know what that means either’
❝ erikah ❞ 20, from norwich, jobbing actor, ‘has made over 100 makeup tutorials’
❝ jen ❞ 22, from london, fashion blogger, says she has a “mega resting bitch face”
❝ talia ❞ 23, from watford, music journalist, ‘less high maintenance than her hair’
❝ jake wilson ❞ 29, from preston, chef, ‘has known heartbreak’
❝ mason❞ 24, from romford, musician and underwear model, ‘favourite food: love hearts’
❝ miles ❞ 22, from glasgow, carpenter, ‘life goal: build a house with his bare hands’
❝ tim ❞ 23, from truro, dj, ‘describes himself as “a genius”’
❝ jasper ❞ 26, from kingston, financial advisor, ‘likes fine dining, classic cars, instagram stalking’
❝ levi ❞ 26, from manchester, professional water polo player, ‘friends call him “romeo”’
❝ rohan ❞ 23, from wolverhampton, psychology student, life goal: join a circus
❝ cherry❞ 20, from suffolk, west end performer, ‘the girl next door to the girl next door’
❝ reese taylor ❞ 22, from birmingham, newsagent by day, professional wrestler at weekends, ‘finishing move: springboard moonsault’
❝ sammi ❞ 22, from london, graphic designer and artist, ‘makes all her own jewellery’
❝ lucy ❞ 25, from bristol, “adventurer”, ‘style icon: lara croft’
❝ returning miles ❞ 22, from glasgow, carpenter, believes in second chances
❝ returning jasper ❞ 22, from kingston,financial advisor, said he’d do better this time
​
❝ season 2❞
❝ hope ❞ 26, from london, brand embassador, ‘voted “most likely to become ceo’
❝ lottie ❞ 24, from melbourne, makeup artist, ‘lucky number: 13′
❝ main character ❞

• student (health and fitness, politics, astrophysics)
• musician (classical cellist, drummer, pop singer)
• charity worker (in an animal shelter, in an art museum, in rainforest conservation)
• social media influencer (i play games online, i’m a model, i make videos and streaming content)

❝ hannah ❞ 21, from st. albans, social media assistant, ‘writing her first novel’
❝ marisol ❞ 24, from portsmouth, law student, style icon: amal clooney
❝ gary rennell ❞ 23, from chatham, crane operator, favourite meal: his nan’s roast dinner
❝ noah ❞ 25, from romford, librarian, shhhh…
❝ rocco ❞ 21, from belfast, owns a “cocktails and cronuts” food truck, hugging a lion cub on his tinder profile
❝ ibrahim ❞ 22, from birmingham, gold player, mr. june in this year’s “men of golf” calendar
❝ bobby mckenzie ❞ 24/26, from glasgow, hospital caterer, brought his own apron with him
❝ priya ❞ 29, from manchester, estate agent, ‘but, like, one of the good ones’
❝ henrik ❞ 23, from isle of wight, climbing and wilderness survival instructor, won second place in a thor look alike contest
❝ lucas koh ❞ 27, from oxford, physiotherapist, once gave a girl a foot rub on a first date
❝ chelsea ❞ 23, from buckinghamshire, interior decorator, motto: “i look at things through rosé-coloured glasses!”
❝ jakub zabinski ❞ 25, from rochdale, personal trainer and fitness model, motto: no carbs after 8 pm
❝ elijah ❞ 26, from watford, hairdresser and model, ‘has been known for carrying a mirror in his pocket’
❝ felix ❞ 21, from rotherham, night club promoter, you’re invited to his after party
❝ kassam ❞ 26, from new castle, techno dj, knows a different after party that’s better
❝ graham ❞ 23, from devon, commercial fisherman, looking for his next catch of the day
❝ arjun ❞ 24, from norwich, dog groomer and influencer, prefers the term “doggy fashion”
❝ carl ❞ 29, from dublin, tech entrepeneur, thinks “love island” is the future of dating
❝ shannon ❞ 24, from dublin, professional poker player, that girl who loves true crime podcasts
❝ blake ❞ 22, from kensington, her occupation and phrase depend on mc’s choice at the beginning:

• human rights campaigner, “does good, looks better”
• graduate student, “i’ve got the brains, i’ve got the looks…”
• singer-songwriter, ‘not just here to promote her new album’
• beauty blogger, ‘claims she invented ‘on fleek’’

❝ elisa ❞ 22, from london, social media influencer, ‘bringing back 80′s blusher’
❝ jo ❞ 23, from cheshire, bmx racer, ‘paints her nails red so she goes faster’
❝ returning henrik ❞ 23, from isle of wight, climbing and wilderness survival instructor, ‘just came from a “men of mountains” calendar shoot’
❝ returning lucas ❞ 27, from oxford, still a physiotherapist, ‘just came from a “men of motorbikes” calendar shoot’
❝ returning hannah ❞ now 22, from st. albans, ‘recently promoted to ‘social media coordinator’, has a bunch of new material for her novel’
​
❝ season 3❞
❝ main character ❞

• model (bikinis, makeup, furniture)
• scientist (prevent bleaching of the coral reef, reasearch environmentally friendly plastic, inventing the scientifically perfect cocktail)
• musician (in a band, a solo artist, part of an orchestra
• athlete (footballer, runner, boxer)

❝ elladine sarabi ❞ 26, from cardiff, glassblower, ‘heard every ‘blowing’ joke a hundred times’ already’
❝ aj - anna julia - jones (surname not confirmed) ❞ 21, from bath, professional hockey player, ‘knows how to handle a stick’
❝ bill green (surname not confirmed) ❞ 24, from surrey, roofer, ‘strong opinions about sandwiches’
❝ camilo santiago flores (surname not confirmed)❞ 23, from romford, runs the family shop, ‘a blackbelt in grafting (and in brazilian jiu-jitsu)’
❝ harry zhong/mitchell-white ❞ 21, from york, business student, ‘usually wears a tie with his swimsuit’
❝ nicky horne ❞ 24, from new castle, music tutor, ‘oldest sibling energy’
❝ seb ❞ 28, from liverpool, runs a music shop, ‘owns 52 t-shirts and 1 shirt’
❝ miki ❞ 21, from cambridge, lifestyle vlogger, ‘loves it when you smash that subscribe button’
❝ genevieve aliu ❞ 26, from glastonbury, junior doctor, ‘wants to crowd surf into your heart’
❝ iona hitchcock❞ 23, from aberdeen, apprentice pylon rigger, ‘spends all day making sparks fly’
❝ tai kahu ❞ 28, from new zealand, rugby coach, ‘193 cm of love’
❝ ciaran o'connor ❞ 22, from waterford, nightclub bouncer, ‘no shirts, no shoes, no problems’
❝ yasmin douglas ❞ 23, from kent, singer-songwriter, ‘artist in need of a muse’
❝ rafi bruno/sayeed ❞ 25, from bromley, actor, ‘smooth as his chest’
❝ lily - liliana corado osorio ❞ 23, from north west london, industrial design student, ‘really good with her hands’
(( apologies if surnames are missing on the s3 characters’ list. couldn’t find/confirm the rest of them ))

❝ sources ❞

season 1: day 1, cherry and rohan, reese, sammi and lucy, returning miles, returning jasper
season 2: day 1 pt. 1, priya, henrik and lucas, chelsea and jakub, casa amor boys, shannon blake human campaigner / graduate student / beauty blogger / singer, elisa and jo, r!hannah and r!lurik
season 3: day 1, genevieve, tai/ciaran/yasmin, rafi and lily
source for s3′s mc’s occupations: posted by u/cupcakegalaxy

Continuing…
SKREEEEEK!
SKRONNNNNK!
“SQUEEEeeeeeeeeEEEEE...!*
“Nah, ya’ borgus frap! To the left!” I shout.
“We’re facing the same fucking direction, so same fucking left.” I reiterate.
“OK, the other left then. Back about 2 meters…” I growl, exasperatedly.
SKKKKKKKKKKREEEEK! EEEGAH!
“OK, now just drop the sonuvabitch.” I command in a loud, steady un-Presbyterian voice.
KABLONG! fagroon…kubble…kubble…
“Perfect!” As I give the ‘OK, you meathead’ salute, one finger at a time.
“There. Marvelous. You can leave now. Yes, you may take your forklift with you.” I insist.
SHEESH.
So, now we have a rusty, old Maersk 20 foot shipping container blocking our villa’s carport.
Open ‘er up, have a look.
No contraband.
Frankly, I’m vaguely disappointed.
Some foreign bugs, properly dead. A quick sweep with the propane-powered pressure washer and tomorrow, the guys arrive to start schlepping our stuff.
One step closer to exiting the Stalag.
Still waiting on a report from Rack and Ruin.
But we have our container for our ‘personal effects’.
Esme walks out to our courtyard and looks over the situation.
“Let me guess... Going straight, right, or left was beyond their ken?” she asks and hands me a cold beer that she had found hiding in the back of my fridge.
“Chinese beer? Oh! Velly nice.” I chuckle as I drain the liter by half.
“That’s wascist!” Esme chuckles and helps herself to one of the Ukrainian beers she also found in my fridge.
See, we have several fridges around the villa.
The big one, for food and the like, is in the ground floor kitchen.
Then we have slightly smaller ones in each of the other three kitchens we have on the other various floors.
Then, due to a contractor’s inadvertent and irresolvable mistake, I have my massive, stainless steel drinks fridge downstairs, just off the alcove to our open-concept majlis.
Most would call that a living room.
My fridge doubles as a cigar humidor (instead of a vegetable crisper), glass chiller, wine rack (reds only), drinks station, and beer icer-downer.
My fridge has been suffering from a depauperate population of both cigars and liquoriferous delights of late, thanks in part to all the COVID-connected craziness.
Thanks to Mishka and his black market confederates, we’ve solved, at least temporarily, the cigars quandary.
Esme has been going through our villa, into rooms seldom visited and into storage areas even more unfrequented and lonely.
She has discovered a long-forgotten treasure trove of potent potables we had stashed for long-past parties, infrequent celebrations, the occasional in-house staycation booze-up, super-typhoon, or recovery from a particularly vexatious and nasty contract in a, particularly vexatious and nasty locale.
Long story short…(ha), my fridge had regained its usual turgor and boasted beer from over a dozen countries, dangerous, seething polychromatic liquors from six or twenty-two others, and other unidentifiable drinkables from just outside the Outer Rim; where Imperial Forces wouldn’t even bother to venture much less examine.
“Marvelous!” I exclaim to Esme as I hold her in a crushing one-armed bear hug.
I puffed on a vintage Arturo Fuente Opus X BBMF cigar and was partaking of a cold Yorshch, comprised of Polish Pre-Wall-Fall Buffalo Grass Vodka and New Zealand Steinlager.
Yes, the one-liter bottle size.
What else?
Anyways, I had the guys delivering the 20’ container leave the front dogs down and the rear dogs extended. That gave the container a tail-to-front gradient of approximately 2^0. Just enough for me to get the propane-powered pressure washer into the container and let the effluvia drain out the front, down the street and unto who knows where in a place that has absolutely no idea Climate Engineering exists as it’s applied to urban conurbations.
I fire up a fine Zuban cigar, push-prime the pilot on the propane-powered pressure washer, attach the hose, and fire up the recalcitrant little beast.

After fixing all the leaks in the system that hasn’t been used in over 5 years, I get it purring like a well-oiled kitten (now there’s an image) and venture into the back of the container.
After grappling with the 250 psi(g) pressure washer and only getting smacked in the head twice by the custom-built Power Wand!, I begin hosing off the debris accumulated from hundreds if not thousands of trips on the high seas. It was a weird odor, that of propane exhaust, my cigar, and all the schmoo and such now being peeled off the metal walls and being sent to the land of evanescent wind and spirits.
Of course, when there’s water of any depth present in this desert nibbana; the local critters try, with unflinching determination, to make certain they get their fill.
Now, I don’t mind the vinegaroons, camel spiders, or whiptail scorpions; but I draw the line at Saw Scaled Vipers.
I mean, that last batch is just plain ornery.
Plus, their bite can prove fatal to non-ethanol fueled organisms; such as Esme.
Therefore, I have to ask, in a most straightforward, ill-mannered, and direct manner, that they must take their leave of the area.
Immediately.
If a good shot of the propane-powered power washer isn’t enough to dissuade them, then a couple of loads of birdshot from my .44 Magnum usually suffices.
Plus, as a bonus, it gives the Egyptian Buzzards something for lunch.
Such handsome little neodinosaurs.
Flappy-flap.
Anyways, I’m hosing out the 20-footer and getting slightly giddy from the fumes as it appears this container spent some time over in northern South America. The propane-powered pressure water effluent is now a milky white. I do believe we have some remnants of a batch of Peruvian Marching Powder that resided for a longish time right here in this very strongbox.
Or it’s anthrax. Either way, I’m feeling a bit on the more-than-usually-loopy-side.
After kicking the final saw-scaled viper to the curb, I make certain the doors to the big metal box are propped open so they can dry during the 50⁰ C night.
I toss in a couple of smoke grenades which I’ve wired to cans of Pif Paf Bug-be-Gone. The snakes and mice hate the smell of the mercaptans in the Pif Paf as well and I hope, by morning, the smell will have dissipated.
Really doesn’t matter, as everything is going to be packed in bubble wrap, cardboard, or metal boxes and sealed in the house with tough, shipping-grade vinyl wrap before they hit the container.
I return to the villa, strip, toss the smelly work clothes in the wash and wander upstairs for a shower. Since our water chiller croaked right around the time the first wave of COVID hit, we have no water chiller for the shower.
Taking a shower any time other than right at first light or well after sunset is a clear invitation to second-degree burns, steam injuries, and bubbling flesh.
Happily, Es had some other ideas, so that I was well insulated from the possibility of a skin-bubblingly hot water shower. An hour or two later, it was almost positively tolerable.
The next day, over bagels and coffee, we’re waiting for one Chettur Goyal, the moving crew chief, and English speaker. He and his crew of Eastern Expatriates start to show up to begin packing up and trundling out all the kit we’ve determined that without which, we certainly cannot live.
We decided that a couple of his team, depending on English skills, will work with Esme on the ground floor level of our villa.
Our house has been described as being decorated in a style called “Early Museum”.
Well, when you’ve lived on over five continents for the last 35 or so years, you tend to generate some eclectic collections.
We’ve developed an easy tag-out method for our perhaps less than 100% literate friends doing the schlepping for us. Green tag means pack the cabinet and everything contained within. Red tag, everything stays, as Esme and I have already cleared the internals and sorted them by desirability. A yellow tag means as Chettur, Rock, or Esme after all the green tagged furniture and bits and pieces have been packed; will make decisions on what goes and what stays, if anything.
In all truth, we probably have a couple of 40-foot containers-worth of material; definitely, if we decided to take Es’s Land Rover and/or my Isuzu Trooper.
Alas, they’re being donated to the American School.
Neither Esme nor I have the time, inclination, nor patience to put them up on the local “Used Car” board only to deal with shifty locals or whiny expats lusting after our wheels.
The former one will waste your time and finally strike a deal, only to show up on the fateful day 2,000 or 3,000 rials short.
“It’s all I have, sahib.” They’ll say.
They know full well you’re on your way out and don’t have time to waste telling them to ‘get fucked’. Besides, doing that might bring a visit from the Royal Ostrich Pluckers. So, usually, the expat gives in just to get rid of the fucking vehicle.
With the other expats, particularly the Eastern variety, pulling a sobbing, snuffling, wailing scene as you’re trying to get everything packed and into the container; is also most unwelcome.
They’ll try and wheedle and cheese a deal. Ridiculous for you, splendid for them, in the hopes you’d rather just get the fuck out of Dodge and the hell with the car, where are the fucking plane tickets?
Either one is a monumental pain in the ass.
So, donated to the American School they are. We receive thanks, a receipt, and a healthy deduction on our next-years taxes.
But I still miss that Trooper.
Fuel-injected V-8 with little pollution control crapola. M8274-S 10K WARN-winch upfront on the huge bespoke Bull Bars. Massive Hankook all-terrain tires. Custom 11-speed transmission. Skid plates where skid plates should be, transmission intercooler, and holy fuck, wait…
I run after the tow truck driver just before he drops his vehicle into “Tow: low”.
I retrieve a Colt 1911 .45 caliber pistol I won in a poker game from one of the several secret compartments I had personally TIG-welded into, onto, and under my erstwhile vehicle.
I have the tow truck driver sit tight and smoke one of my cigars as I go through the vehicle, trying to remember where I had placed all the ’secret stash’ hidey-holes.
I found several knives I had thought were lost or stolen, a couple of small caliber handguns, some very dusty ammunition, a Ziploc measure of Mexican agricultural pharmaceuticals for the treatment of my chronic back pain, a box of blasting caps, and a small electronic detonator I’d completely forgotten about; batteries totally corroded and weepy of alkalinic shmoo.
I also found those half-dozen large ampules of Ketamine and hypo I kept in case I found a horse or ox or Utahraptor in obvious distress during my travels.
Anyways.
Wouldn’t that be fun on American School Driver’s Education day when one of these compartments popped open and a .25 caliber snub-nose dropped into the lap of the novice driver?
Well, in my defense…I’ve been busy lately.
Ahem.
Anyways.
Back to packing.
Es was going to take care of watching over and answering questions down on the ground floor.
I decided it would be best for me to go up to my office/lab and direct the packing of some of the more esoteric items I had living with me up on the third floor.
“OK, Mr. Chettur, I don’t know how well your charges speak English, but I want you to translate for me verbatim.” I asked.
“Yes sir. I can do that for you.” Chettur replied.
“OK, guys. Gather around. Comfy? Good. Now, this is my office and laboratory. I’ve taken to dismantling and packing of some of the more delicate instruments as far as I can. Yes, you may smoke up here; hell, I do and am. But if I find one cigarette or whatever the hell those nasty things are butts on the floor or packed in with some cargo, well, I’m sure you can all get along just fine with one working kneecap.”
I waited until that was translated and for the horrifying looks to subside.
“OK, now we’re on the same page. If you drop, smash, or destroy anything, well, kneecaps aren’t everything my friends.” I said.
Again the looks of horror.
“Now, guys. This is just my way of impressing upon you that some of this stuff here is very, very delicate. Some of it’s very old and parts are probably not available. Some of these things are very, very heavy and that could take out a kneecap or scrotum easily by themselves as well; if ONE IS NOT CAREFUL!. We green?”
“Green?” Chettur asked.
“Yeah. Green. हरा (hara). Green as in ‘go’ because we’re on the same page and we understand each other explicitly. Green as in the color of the grass that’ll cover you if you fuck up with my stuff. Green as in You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
“AH. Ha. Hara. Green. Yes. We understand.” Chettur smiled finally getting the crux of my gist, noting the motion toward which I’ve drifted.
“No, you might Chettur, but the rest of this crowd? Please interrogate and explain.” I asked.
After some bad noise and a promise they could help themselves to anything in the kitchen fridge, an agreement was sorted. Extra care and damn the time clock. We’ve got a huge job in front of us and if it takes 4 days instead of two, so be it. I’ve got a lot of kit I’ve accumulated over the years, and most of it’s irreplaceable.
“OK, now we’re all nice and green, let me take this time to quickly go over what you’ll be packing and transporting for me. I already have a list of the material for which I want special transport insurance. But, beforehand; let’s have a smoke, go get a coffee, tea, or whatever, and get back here all nice, refreshed, and attentive in 10 minutes. Shall we? We green, gentlemen?” I ask.
“HARA!” was heard, as well as “Akhdir, as I had a few had Arabic language skills. All I know was ‘Jebel Ackdar’ means ‘Green Mountain’, so I guess that will suffice.
I lit a new Cohiba #9 Oscuro cigar and made note of the strategically placed ashtrays around my lab and office.
I dropped an extinguished Lucifer into one of these ashtrays and pointed to the receptacle.
Chettur knew I meant for his charges to follow suit. It’s a bit bothersome moving furniture with only one functioning kneecap.
I toured quickly with Chettur and gave him the highlights.
He was amply impressed.
I asked him to convey that same sense of wonder to his charges.
A few ticks later and the crew had returned, obviously mistaking my fridge for the kitchen fridge. Instead of juices and water bottles, there were bottles, cans, and bags of beer.
“OK by me,” I said, reminding everyone of the less than two functional kneecap penalties if anything’s ruined.
“OK,” I say before we begin, “Most of this will not mean anything to most of you guys, but as I explained to your boss, these are delicate scientific instruments. Treat them as if they are made of very heavy and easily fucked-up glass.”
They all nodded and got the idea.
“OK, gents, follow me” I motioned to pile number one in my lab.
“This”, I said, pointing to the bits and pieces before them, “Belongs to my eldest daughter. It is a Russian telescope; oddly enough from Magnitogorsk, Russia. It is a Stargate-500p syn-scan 508mm (20”) f/4 parabolic truss tube computerized go-to Dobsonian telescope and I don’t understand what the fuck all that was any more than you do. I do know it, in total, with clock drive and tripod weighs in at around 125 kilos. So, let’s be very careful here.”
They all looked, goggled a bit at the intricacies of the instrument, and chattered among themselves.
“Next on the parade is one of my reasons to live. It is my JEOL JSM-7000F Field Emission Scanning Electron Microscope, and I’m one of the very, very few private citizens to own a working one. I’ve had this for years, and it’s taken me all that time to accumulate all the cryogenic and vacuum equipment as well as the gold evaporator and carbon sputter coaters. Just for grins, an elemental aluminum stub to which I affix a specimen costs $950 each.”
They all jabber and recoil in shock at the costs.
“Of course, I didn’t spend that kind of money on them, but it gives you an indication as to the expense of this particular piece of scientific equipment. It’s insured for over US$1 cool million. At least, that’s what I place on replacement cost. Handle accordingly.” I smile.
They all smile agreeably.
OK”, I continue, “Next up is my trinocular polarizing petrographic microscope. It’s an Olympus Microscopes BX51 Pol-Polarizing with BF/DF and Trinocular Head, refitted with custom-made Zeiss optics. As you might imagine, it’s old, and one of a kind. It’s also got a lot of glass, mechanicals, and other parts that are easily broken. I would be most unhappy if something happened to it or any of the peripheral equipment you see here. Green?”
“HARA!” was the answer.
They were actually getting good at this.
Then I pointed out my 9 Halliburton aluminum camera cases. These were chock full of Canon, Nikon, Zenit, Rubinar, Kyiv, and Smena 35-millimeter camera equipment. Lenses, power winders, a FS 122 PhotoSniper, flash equipment, both digital and film. They were already armor-plated, but I wanted these characters to take it easy on this stuff as well.
Next, we went into my petrology/lap (lapidary) lab.
Aside from all the rock saws, tumblers, wax stations, and assorted petrological equipment, I had everything necessary to create thin sections. That is slices of rock affixed to glass slides anywhere from 30 µm (= 0.03 mm) to 10 µm (= 0.01 mm).
Included in that were my lap table and vibratory lap polisher.
My lap table was a hunk of cold-rolled and hardened tool steel, some 3 centimeters in thickness, 1 meter wide and 3 meters long. Luckily, it broke down into 1-meter sections, each about 215 kilos in mass.
It had to be that heavy as the surface was hand-polished to an unevenness of perhaps a thousand of a millimeter across not only the connections but from one end of the table to the other. I spent days and days going over this table getting it as close to ultimate horizontalness as possible. The weight also helped to dampen vibrations.
The flatness tolerance defines a zone between two parallel planes within which a surface must lie. Since flatness is applied to an individual surface, this tolerance does not need to be related to a datum. Flatness is usually used on a surface associated with a size dimension, acting as a refinement to the size requirement to ensure proper function of a part or to promote even wear.
I was aiming to get flatness to less than one one-thousandth of a millimeter over a piece of steel three meters by one meter by three centimeters in thickness.
Most said that was impossible. However, the more I worked at it, the more Rick Sanchez and his moody grandkid dropped by for a look and a few cold ones. When his grandkid almost refused to leave because he was reveling in the flatness of my table, I knew I was nearly there.
Still, there was much consternation a the weight of the individual sections and the fact we’re about 10 meters above ground level.
No matter, I sealed the deal by showing them my hydraulic-pneumatic suspended 6.5 cm (2.55”) thick, heat-treated, Rockwall 66 hardness, 1.2 meters (3.93’) diameter Vibra-lap.
It is another piece of heavy steel kit that polishes rocks flatter than flat by gyratory, Earth independent, shimmying; similar to this, but larger and heavier.
It was driven by a smallish 220 VAC electric motor and was covered with various degrees of diamond dust and mineral oil. An already flat hunk of rock was set down on the Vibra-lap, it switched on and the huge mass of the lap table began to vibrate, but at very low hertz, or cycles per second.
It was all accumulative, as the longer you left the Vibra-lap run, the finer and finer these vibrations got and the flatter and flatter the rock face you were polishing became; down to thousands of a millimeter difference over the face of a sample.
That’s a bit of the problem. The hunk of steel that makes up the working surface of the machine weighs in at about 340 kilos
Or around 912 pounds for the American crowd.
There was a bit of an inconvenience when I decided to assist in its initial removal and moving.
True, it’s a heavy piece of kit; one who’s relocation should be attempted only by three strong men and a boy.
Well…
Viswarupa thought Chakravarti had it. Chakravarti thought Madhavacharta had it. Madhavacharta thought that I had it.
And therein lies the problem.
The lap plate was let go of by three of the four characters moving it.
I was the last to let go.
The plate hit the marble floor.
Luckily, it was insulated from the total impact by the fingers of my left hand.
Luckily.
My middle finger and ring finger of my left hand are already artificial, titanium-tungsten-osmiridium alloy, and were just fine.
My index finger, also artificial, was out of the line of contact.
The well, little pinkie finger of my left hand was not so lucky.
It got sort of, well, mashed.
“Oh, fuck.” I noted.
I’m no stranger to manual injuries.
Yep, that pinkie finger is hosed. Busted in at least 3 or four places.
But, no matter. No time for a hospital or doctor, especially during these strange times.
I have Esme retrieve one of the many finger splints we keep around for just such an occasion. With a liberal application of gauze, surgical, and duct tape, we’re back in action.
In case you were wondering, yes, it stung a bit. However, my left hand is so fuckered from burns, scarring, and the like, it wasn’t debilitating. In fact, I was off growling at the movers within a half hour.
Continuing:
There was a bit of an almost instant insurrection when I noted this piece was, in fact, one-piece and needed to be schlepped to the container as is; just let me mop off the blood.
“OK, cool out,” I said and opened a door to the outside balcony.
I had installed a gin pole and electrically-operated crane for just such an emergency. It could handle about 2 metric tons, so the lap table and the Vibra-lap posed no problem.
OK, a little problem. They still had to manhandle the thing out the door and onto the bloody balcony. Then, once on the ground, into the container.
But hey, that’s why they were making the big money.
Right?
But of course.
Several days, and a significant dent in my fridge’s state of turgor later, the 20-foot container was nearly full. Now since shipping via container relies on volume rather than weight, we made certain all of our heaviest kit was packed throughout the container, instead of being stuffed in one end or the other, or one corner or the other.
Still, it required a second crane, a larger one, to lift our container onto the flatbed semi that was going to overland this for us to Dubai,. Then onto a container ship and finally to New Jersey, if we were unlucky, or Chicago, if our luck held out.
Then, once through US customs, it would be trucked to my eldest daughter’s place in central West Kansanebraskistan. Then we’d all have a grand reunion as my youngest and her latest paramour trundle down from Baja Canada to become repatriated with the gear we’ve been holding for them for the past 8 or 12 years.
Like Christmas in December; we hoped out container appeared sometime in November.
The jury's still out. Kind words and goods thoughts appreciated.
But first, we had to make the agonizing decisions of what went and what stayed. Remember, there’s no coming back for us; this was the final exit out of the Sultanate, and as things stood, we’re leaving a shitload of machinery, electronics, and furniture behind.
Virtually all my electronics, such as televisions, stereo, and such were 220 VAC.
The US is 110 VAC.
In my experience with voltage inverters, they simply prolong the departure phase. They are not clean enough, nor fast enough to prevent fuzzing, frosting, and frying of delicate electronics. I have to replace all the motors on my petrology equipment and SEM with equivalent 110 VAC devices when we return home.
The same goes for most all my small hand tools. All 220 VAC. Easier just to replace them when we get home than drag them halfway around the world. But I’ll still miss my Dremel sets, electric beaver (German wood carver…a gift from my Mother-in-law), and some of the big electrical motors I got for a song that ran my larger rock saws.
As for home electronics, we left the 75” television. Simply no room and truth be told, we weren’t’ watching that much TV anymore. We left the WiFi gizmo, modems, and other Internet goofiness as we’d get that for free at University.
But the furniture.
The furniture.
Pure volume.
Keep the dining room table and six chairs or take two china cabinets and everything within them?
Keep the gabbro TV stand, which takes up a fair amount of room and weighs some 220 kilos, or take the bedroom suite?
Esme and I wrangled with decisions like this for weeks.
Finally, after a lot of give and take and some tearful decisions, we got everything absolutely necessary into the 20-foot container.
Luckily, I dropped a few of my things with some military buddies out in Thumrait who were about to rotate back. We found enough room for Esme’s two hand-built Rosewood cabinets and her living room coffee table made from an old Omani window.
Still, we were leaving a shitload of expensive furniture and gobs of household bits and pieces.
Wouldn’t be the first time, though. And it’s taken time, but we realize we either ship it and essentially pay for it again, or leave it, buy new and enjoy the new furniture and old memories.
But it’s still a pain in the ass to do, no matter what the logic.
So, we finally got everything packed into the container that we’re going to ship. The few bits-n-bobs like clothes, my computer, and some other unleavables were coming with us in our luggage once Rack and Ruin figure a way for us out of this place.
So, the first crane couldn’t lift the container because of the mass. So, we had to wait on a second crane. Of course, the lorry sent to transport our kit to Dubai was then, of course, too small; so we had to wait on another more robust prime mover.
The old fridge took a serious dent during all the waiting.
To be continued…

We all love to read stories about big wins and imagine ourselves in the shoes of those winners. But, have you ever thought about what happens at that very moment after successfully beating the slot machine? Usually, the slot machine locks up and, in most cases, you hear the music and see the flashing lights on top of the machine. But one of the first questions every player asks is whether they have to pay taxes on casino winnings? Well, you’re about to find out!

Taxes on Slot Machine Winnings in USA

In the USA, when a lucky player hits a jackpot, there’s the option of receiving the winnings in cash or check. In case it’s a large sum, it’s usually paid by check. However, the IRS only obliges the casinos to report winnings that are larger than $1,200.
Of course, all winners are obliged to show a proper identification— a valid ID or passport. When the casino checks for your identification they also look at your age to make sure you are officially and legally old enough to play. As the minimum legal age for gambling varies from state to state, be sure to check it out before you decide to play.

Do I Have to Report All Winnings?

All gambling winnings received from slot machines are subject to federal taxes, and both cash and non-cash winnings (like a car or a vacation) are fully taxable. Apart from slot machines, the same applies to winnings from lottery, bingo, keno, poker or other games of chance. So, if the amount won on a slot machine is higher than $1200, the casino is required to report it. In other words, all your gambling winnings have to be reported on your tax return as "other income" on Schedule 1 (Form 1040), line 8.

Slot Machine Winnings in W-2G Form

In case it happens to you and you snag that big win (which we hope one day you will), it’s useful to know that casino or other payer must give you a W-2G Form, listing your name, address and Social Security number. So, if the winnings are reported through a W-2G Form, federal taxes will be withheld at a rate of 25%.
If, however, you didn’t provide your Social Security number (or your Tax Identification Number), in that case the withholding will be 28%. Either way, a copy of your Form W-2G should be issued, showing the amount you won alongside the amount of tax withheld. One copy needs to go to the IRS, as well.
Aside from slot winnings, Form W-2G is issued to winners of the following types of gambling activities like:

• bingo (for players who win $1,200 or more),
• keno (for at least $1,500 worth wins)
• poker tournament players (for the $5,000 win or more).
• a horse track (if the winnings are 300x your bet)

However, not all gambling winnings are subject to IRS Form W2-G. For instance, W2-G forms are not required for winnings from table games like blackjack, baccarat, and roulette, whatever the amount. You’d still have to report your winnings to the IRS, it’s just you won’t need to do it through W-2G Form.

Are My Slot Losses Deductible?

The good news is that you can deduct your slot losses (line 28 of Schedule A, Form 1040), while the bad news is gambling losses are deductible only up to the amount of your wins. In other words, you can use your losses to compensate for your winnings. So, let’s say you won $200 on one bet, but you lost $400 on one or a few others, you can only deduct the first $200 of losses. Meaning if you didn’t win anything for a year, you won’t be able to deduct any of your gambling losses.
In order to prove your losses, you need to keep good records and have suitable documents. So, whenever you lose, keep those losing tickets, cancelled checks and credit slips. Your documentation must include the amount you won or lost, a date and time, type of wager, type of your gambling activity, name of each casino/address of each casino you visited and the location of their gambling business. You may as well list the people who were with you.

Do State and Local Taxes Apply Separately?

Yes, you are required to pay your state or local taxes on your gambling winnings. In case you travel to another state, and snag some huge winning combo there, that other state would want to tax your winnings too. But don’t worry, you won't be taxed twice, as the state where you reside needs to give you a tax credit for the taxes you pay to that other state.
Keep in mind though that some states like Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Ohio don't allow gambling losses.

Online Slot Taxes

Whether you usually spin the reels of your favourite casino games in land-based casinos in the US, overseas casinos, or online casinos, all income for the citizens of the US is taxable. As a US citizen, you are required to send Form W2G for all winnings from a slot machine (not reduced by the wager) that equals to or is more than $1,200.

Taxes on Slot Machine Winnings in UK

As a resident of the United Kingdom, your gambling winnings won’t be taxed. Unlike the USA mentioned above, you’ll be allowed to keep whatever it is that you have won and earned in Britain, even in case you are a poker pro. Then again, you won’t be able to deduct any losses you might collect.
It doesn’t really matter if you win £5 or £5 million playing online slots, your winnings will be tax-free as long as you reside anywhere in the UK, be that in England, Wales, Northern Ireland or Scotland.

Taxes on Slot Machine Winnings in Canada

If you are a recreational player who lives in Canada, we have good news for you. When it comes to gambling, you don't have to pay taxes as your winnings are totally tax free. According to laws in Canada, gambling activities don’t fall under the category of constant source of income, therefore your winnings will not be taxed.
Canadians don't even pay taxes on their lottery winnings. The only exception here are professional gamblers who make a living from betting and are, therefore, obliged to pay taxes. Keep in mind though, this is the current situation - laws in Canada change frequently, which may also include tax laws.

Taxes on Slot Machine Winnings in Australia

In case you reside in Australia and like to visit casinos from time to time, you’ll be happy to find out that your winnings in Australia will not taxed and here are 3 core reasons for that:

• Gambling is not treated a profession (it's treated as a hobby)
• The government doesn’t see profits from gambling activities as income, but as a result of good luck
• The Australian government taxes casino operators and lottery organisers instead.

Of course, taxation varies from state to state.

Taxes on Slot Machine Winnings in New Zealand

Unlike in Australia, where even professional players can claim they are recreational, in New Zealand slot machine winnings (and any other winnings from casino games) are considered taxable income, in case the player has little income from other resources.
But, apart from professional gambling, it is very unusual for winnings to be taxed in New Zealand. Most often, gambling is considered recreational and not income, so players can enjoy their gameplay as they do not have to pay taxes on their winnings.

Hello all! This is the Final Part in my Dramatic Epic, Tactical Humans! The original prompt that this was written in response to can be found here. Part One can be found here, and Part Two is here.
Read, enjoy, and don't forget to leave any criticism in the commen.......
​
“WE INTERRUPT YOUR SCHEDULED BROADCAST TO GIVE YOU THIS BREAKING NEWS UPDATE!”
​
The image on the holo-screen was replaced by the familiar Federal News logo. The logo faded away and the face of the news anchor appeared.
“The Department of Federal Defence issued a statement a few moments ago saying that Federation forces have broken through the Imperium Defensive line and are assaulting the Inner Worlds, which include the home planets of several former slave races,” said the anchor.
“Federal Authorities believe that the Space Force will be able to capture the Va’mr Capital World within the next year,” he continued, “Our thoughts and prayers are with our servicemen as they continue to fight for Democracy, Freedom and Humanity itself.”
“In other news, President Forest’s speechwriter, Harry Turtlegull, is being investigated by the Department of Federal Security on charges of plagiarism,” he reported, “Also, United States President Ronald Dump has proposed a ludicrous scheme to, quote, ‘Build a wall around the United Federation, and make the Va’mr Imperium pay for it’, unquote. President Forest declined to comment on the American’s scheme.”
***************************************************************************************
USSS Richard M. Nixon, Va’mr Imperium Inner Space, 2254 A.D. Four Years after Renewal of Hostilities.
Brigadier General Holland stared out the window of the US Space Force’s flagship. His azure-blue eyes surveyed the enemy fleet that stood between him and his next targets.
The Va’mr ships were deployed in a straight line stretching across the vastness of space. A straight line. In space, where there were literally infinite vectors that needed to be defended. Holland sighed, shaking his head. Not only were the ships arranged in a line formation, but they were manoeuvred so that their side-mounted plasma cannons were facing the incoming Federal fleet.
They planned to use a broadside attack on the Federation. IN SPACE!
Their ships were nothing fancy, looked like beached whales with large, bulbous hulls. The Federation spacecraft, in stark contrast to this, looked like upscaled versions of aquatic naval vessels, with the traditional conning tower removed and the bridge buried deep within the superstructure. The Space Force’s formation was more embracing of the 3-dimensional aspects of space, with ships approaching the enemy fleet from all kinds of directions and vectors.
The view he was seeing was actually a feed based off of long-range sensor data, projected onto a holo-screen. The Federation fleet was thousands of kilometres away from the Imperium defenders. The intention was for the craft to eliminate the Va’mr ships with long-range plasma, then move in and occupy the planet.
The planet they were assaulting was one of the so-called Core Worlds of the Imperium. The planet had a large civilian population and was defended by an impressive force of Va’mr soldiers. Or, at least, they would be impressive if they could actually use proper tactics. Nonetheless, the occupation would have to be done differently.
The worlds the United Federation had already liberated were heavily industrialised, with automated infrastructure and a few labour camps for alien slaves. All the Space Force had had to do in those circumstances was to free the slaves, kill the Va’mr guards, and take off again. They would then either bombard the planet from orbit or re-purpose the factories for their own use.
The Inner Worlds were different. The Federation couldn’t bombard civilian cities from orbit. They would have to move in, clear out the Va’mr defenders and leave behind an occupying force to keep the peace and try to make the Va’mr citizens understand why their government was evil. That would mean that after every invasion, they would have less manpower.
But when the invasion force had 10 billion humans serving in it, it didn’t really matter.
“Sir!” reported Colonel Thomas Anderson, “All Space Force elements report they are in firing position.”
“Good,” approved the General, “Give the order to fire,” he instructed.
“Yes sir!” acknowledged Colonel Anderson.
The order was passed on via the communications officer, and the fleet opened up on the unsuspecting Va’mr. Plasma lances, thousands of degrees hot, slammed into hulls. Hulls that were unshielded due to a false sense of security. Ship after ship burst into chunks and fragments as the lances hit home. Ships that weren’t destroyed in the initial bombardment raised their shields, but the powerful Federation weapons cut through them like hot pokers through paper.
“Enemy formation destroyed sir,” reported Colonel Anderson after the last ship blew into interstellar dust.
“Excellent. Prepare the troops for drop.”
***************************************************************************************
Corporal James Clarkson and the members of his Royal Marine fireteam, Richard May and Jeremy Hammond, were lounging in their barracks aboard the Royal Space Force carrier HMSS Margaret Thatcher. Hammond had just finished telling the others about the ‘fantastic’ hovercar he had bought on Proxima Centauri C before the War. James himself was more concerned about the fourth member of their fireteam.
The soldier wore white fatigues and body armour, indicating he was part of the Federal Army Driver Corps. James had never heard him speak, and the man wore a helmet with a blast-shield that concealed his face, making it impossible to tell if he was actually male, or even human.
No-one seemed to know much about their mysterious companion, who had been nicknamed the team’s ‘tame tank driver’. Some said that he was a clone of the most skilled mercenary in the Federation. Others still said that he was a Xeno that had been captured and put under ‘corrective surgery’ in an attempt to make it more human.
All anyone knew was…
He was called The Steg.
An alarm blared somewhere in the bowels of the ship, and their C.O, Sergeant Major ‘Ghost’ Riley, walked into the cabin.
“All roight, ya know the music, lads,” he said, “It’s time to dance!”
***************************************************************************************
“All hands, this is the Captain!” spoke a voice on the P.A, “Prepare for Drop! T minus three minutes and counting!”
Soldiers and marines scurried about the vast hangar towards CV-277 dropships. The dropships were shaped like an old CH-47 Chinook helicopter, minus the rotor blades. Clarkson’s fireteam rendezvoused with the rest of their platoon and boarded a nearby transport.
As the Crew Chief raised the rear ramp, the platoon’s lieutenant, Jean Rasczak, turned and gave the Federal infantry a brief speech.
“We are going in with the First Wave!” he bellowed over the noise of the activating engines, “When you get down there, you smash the entire area! You kill anything with more than two legs, you get me?”
“WE GET YOU SIR!” shouted back the platoon. The dropship took off from the deck and flew towards a nearby launch bay. Three other transports crowded into the bay behind it. The inner door hissed shut, the bay depressurised, and the outer doors opened.
The ships flooded out of the bay and rocketed to the surface. Fighters, shuttles and bombers followed the massive fleet of landing craft as they deployed from the carriers in orbit. The fighters and bombers streaked on ahead to attack enemy fortifications, while the shuttles stayed close to the dropships, as they carried armoured vehicles to support the infantry in their assault.
Swooping down through the atmosphere, the aircraft came across a vast plain. Patrols of Va’mr soldiers fired at the craft with their plasma rifles, but the superior Federation equipment deflected their bolts without a second thought.
The landing ships gently touched down in the purple alien grass. The ramps lowered and hundreds of marines stormed out of the transports.
James and the others followed Lieutenant Razczak as he led them out of the transport and onto the plain. Shuttles touched down and offloaded vehicles and materials to build prefab structures. Combat engineers were racing around, trying to build a base out of the chaotic mess. Fighter jets roared past on a bombing mission while more transports and shuttles landed.
Eventually, the base was set up with barracks, a mess hall, command building, motor pool, a prison complex and landing pads.
James, Richard and Jeremy were examining the armoured vehicles in the motor pool, with The Steg tagging along behind them.
Richard May stopped by one of the new M11115s, which was basically a space-Humvee. The jeep, like all cars of its type, was square, boxy and camouflaged. In this case, it was camouflaged for desert terrain, as no self-respecting infantryman would be caught dead in a purple vehicle. And like all military vehicles, it used wheels, despite the popularity of anti-grav vehicles used by civilians.
“Now this, this is a real beauty,” enthused Richard. Jeremy Hammond looked disdainfully at it.
“It’s just an armoured jeep, May,” he said, practically oozing interstellar smugness.
“Yes, but look at the sleek lines, the sheer power in that engine compartment,” enthused Richard.
“Well, if you want engine power, all you have to do is look at that IFV over there,” Jeremy pointed to one of the powerful M2567 Stormbreaker IFVs.
This went on for quite some time.
“You know,” piped up James, “All we need to do is hand it over to our Tame Tank Driver…”
“Yes,” agreed Hammond. But before The Steg could oblige them by testing each vehicle, an alarm sounded.
“All personnel to Defensive Positions. All personnel to Defensive Positions,” chimed the P.A.
“Come on, let’s go,” called May. The three marines and their stoic driver rushed out of the motor pool and to the network of trenches ringing the base.
***************************************************************************************
The U-120 Spy plane silently circled above the alien force, its cameras and scanners working overtime. The two pilots double-checked their readings to make sure what they were seeing was true.
“No doubt about it,” said one of them, “They’ve actually changed their tactics!”
“Yeah,” agreed the other, “They’re now using wave assaults instead of parade marches,” he said sniggering.
The first pilot reached for the radio.
“Mothma, this is Bothan. We have a large build up of enemy forces headed your way. They are using wave assault formation, over,” he grimaced.
“Who comes up with these call-signs, anyway,” he muttered. The radio squawked as ‘Mothma’ answered.
“Roger Bothan,” replied the person on the other end, “Keep us updated, out.”
***************************************************************************************
James Clarkson peered over the top of his trench at the incoming Va’mr. Apparently, they were going to try and rush the base in a massive wave assault. It was his and every other infantryman’s job to ensure that didn’t happen. B-520 and B-580 bombers circled over the base, ready to drop their ordinance as soon as they received the go-code, while artillery and tanks were on standby to pound the aliens into paste as soon as they were in range.
“All units, this is Mothma,” called command in the radio, “Enemy forces are in range. You are cleared to fire.”
All Hell broke loose. The bombers pulled out of their circle and began flying menacingly towards the aliens, while the artillery and tanks began warming up their cannons.
Sergeant Riley pulled out an M2 Browning machine gun and began firing at the alien swarm. Jeremy and other marines fired their assault rifles, felling multiple aliens. Snipers perched in guard towers began sniping at anything that looked like a Va’mr officer.
The bombers flew in low and began dropping their ordinance. Whole battalions of alien soldiers were swallowed by the explosions. The artillery and tanks began firing, destroying more Imperium units. Machine guns mowed down troops by the score as bombs and shells continued to rain down.
Eventually, the surviving aliens turned around and retreated. James couldn’t understand them. They had plasma rifles, anti-gravity technology and interstellar starships. In the 20 years since the failed invasion of Earth, the Federation still hadn’t unlocked all their secrets, the stuff was so advanced.
So how the devil were they so bad at military strategy?
A few hours later, another attack came. This time, instead of wasting precious ammunition, the army stood back and watched as plasma lances shot down from orbit, obliterating the assault in an instant.
***************************************************************************************
United Federation of Earth Territories Military Headquarters Building, ‘The Octagon’. New York D.M., United States of America, Earth. 2254 AD.
President Forest strode into The Octagon’s war room, flanked by his guards. The Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Federal Defence and Vice President Rick Kenny were all waiting for him.
Forest sat down at the head of the table.
“Well?” he asked, “What’s going on?”
General Ripper spoke up.
“Mr President,” he began, “We have received reports from General Holland that the Army and Marines have begun their assault on the world of…” he paused to check the name, “Pernach.”
“What’s resistance been like?” asked Forest.
“Two assaults were repelled,” Ripper said, consulting his report, “One was repelled by the planet-side forces, while the other was glassed from orbit,” he reported, “Estimates of both assaults have their numbers to be at approximately a million each.”
The President raised an eyebrow.
“Are you telling me we’ve managed to kill two entire armies of aliens?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” replied Ripper, “Apparently both formations wee using wave tactics, instead of their parade-ground formations.”
“Well… I suppose that’s an improvement,” said the President with a slight chuckle.
“What happens next?” asked Vice President Rick Kenny. The General turned to him.
“The army is marching on one of the planet’s larger cities. Let me see… Ah, it’s called ‘Pernekt’.”
***************************************************************************************
Imperium Inner World Pernach. 2254 A.D.
The space-Humvee bounced around, throwing its occupants around like potato sacks. The Steg was swerving around boulders and other obstacles like it was going out of fashion. James Clarkson, sitting in the jeep’s turret, held on for dear life as they made their way to the outskirts of the city of Pernekt. Other jeeps, IFV’s and tanks were driving along with them. Their unit was tasked with approaching the city from the Western plains, where there was no road, only a planet’s worth of rocks and small hills. The Yankee marines would be approaching from the North road, The Russian Naval Infantry from the south road, and the Chinese marines from the eastern hills.
As the vehicles crested a low ridge, the metropolis came into view. It didn’t seem all that different from a city on Earth, the one major difference being the wall that ringed the city. The Air Force was busy correcting that, with bomber after bomber flying overhead. The noise from the massed explosions was deafening. Long range artillery pounded the city from all sides, bringing down buildings and more of the wall.
The ground vehicles reached the city. The IFV’s fired their machine-guns and autocannons at the defending Va’mr troops. The aliens were just flooding the streets, mindlessly rushing the human army.
As the ground force moved further into the city, they came under fire from Va’mr soldiers arranged in their much-favoured line deployment.
“Ambush!” cried a marine. The plasma bolts whizzed past, striking the armour of the vehicles. James opened fire with the jeep’s minigun, sawing through the formation. Once they had cleared out the infantry, the convoy moved past a small group of high-rise buildings. Suddenly, they came under fire from the towers. James ducked through the turret’s hatch and closed it. A pair of plasma bolts hit the turret where his head had just been.
The tanks aimed their guns at the building and fired, destroying several floors.
“Come on, out of the jeep!” yelled Sergeant Riley, “We need ta get off this street! Now!”
The Steg stopped the jeep and the marines piled out. Other units were disembarking their vehicles and making their way inside the buildings.
“We need to split up!” decided Riley, “James! Take teams one and two. Clear out this building. I’ll clear out the other with teams four and six!”
“Yes sir!” acknowledged James.
The marines split up and moved into the buildings. It was quite easy to clear them. Although the enemy commander had had enough imagination to set up positions in the towers, he hadn’t had the foresight to place any of his troops to defend his positions, instead committing all his forces to the assault. Most of those troops had been killed by the tanks, but there were enough still alive to give the vehicles a headache.
The marines cleared through each floor, tossing flashbangs into rooms and sweeping them for hostiles. Most of the time though, they only found frightened civilians. Eventually, they reached the room that the aliens were located in. James slowly inched the door open and surveyed the interior. The aliens that weren’t dead were lying prone on the floor, taking potshots at the vehicles. Every once in a while, the answering gunfire would cause one of them to scream in pain, flail around and die.
James reached for his belt and snapped off a flashbang. Pulling the pin, he tossed it through the door. Closing the door, he heard a muffled ‘bang’. Throwing the door open again, he stormed into the room, the others right behind him.
“Go go go!” he shouted, firing his M455. The room echoed with gunfire as the confused aliens were shot mercilessly.
“All clear, sir!” called Hammond.
“Good,” replied James, “Sergeant Riley, this is Corporal Clarkson. We’ve cleared out our building, awaiting further orders, over,” he spoke into the radio.
“Roger Clarkson,” answered the sergeant, “Return to the convoy. Good job, Team.”
The marines turned and trooped back through the building and onto the street, where they boarded their jeeps and trucks. The Steg put Clarkson’s jeep in gear, and the convoy rolled along again. A pair of attack helijets escorted them through the streets.
They came under fire again from some buildings a few blocks down, but the helijets fired their chain-guns and rockets into the floors. After a few minutes of saturated fire, the alien guns fell silent.
Eventually, all the marine elements rendezvoused in the city square. The City Ruling Council Building, a mouthful of a name if James had ever heard one, stood towering ominously above the rest, it’s bulky shape and Nazi-esque banners looking almost cartoonishly evil.
The vehicles surrounded the tower. The tanks aimed their cannons while the infantry dismounted and took up firing positions. VTOL’s dropped snipers off on nearby high-rises to provide covering fire. A pair of attack helijets hovered threateningly over the thick metal door.
“Attention Va’mr City Authorities! This is the United Federation Marines! Open up!”
There was no response.
Lieutenant Razczak looked through a pair of binoculars as he stood next to Sergeant Riley.
“Riley,” he said after a while, “Take a look through these, and tell me if you see anything,” he handed the sergeant the binoculars.
“I don’t see a thing, sir,” reported Riley after several moments of looking.
“Send in a drone,” ordered the Lieutenant.
“Yes sir,” the Sergeant-major replied, “Someone get me a drone!”.
The drone, which was a small robot with tank treads and a mounted minigun, was found and presented to Razczak.
“Check out the building!” he ordered the marine with the control. The marine nodded and drove the small robot up to the imposing door.
“Clarkson!” Sergeant-major Riley whispered, “Get up there and stand by!”
James, Hammond and May ran up to the door, stacking up on the left side.
The robot extended a small laser and began cutting through. The smell of melting metal permeated through the air as the marines waited with bated breath. After several tense minutes, the robot finished cutting through. The door fell inwards with a loud clang. A hail of plasma bolts erupted from the exposed doorway, slicing through the poor drone. One of the nearby tanks fired its cannon into the doorway, cutting off the stream of energy. James’ team and other marines stormed into the building. Finding themselves in a long corridor, they began clearing through rooms. If they found soldiers, they fired, but they left any civilians alone.
James’ fireteam cleared the ground floor and moved up the stairs to the first floor. There was a barricade of furniture at the top of the stairs, but the marine’s frag grenades blew right through it. Throwing flashbangs into doorways, they breached and cleared each office. Muffled gunfire from outside indicated that the upper floors were being cleared by the attack helijets and VTOL gunships. James’ team and the other marines kept moving up until they eventually reached the top floor.
The top floor seemed to be dedicated to just one office, presumably the highest-ranking official. There was a short corridor leading from the stairway to the office. What might have been a secretary’s desk stood in ruins outside the large, iron studded door. Tramping down the corridor, their hobnailed boots clacking on the broken, slightly off-white tiles, the marines surrounded the office.
Jeremy Hammond placed a breaching charge on the door, while the others took cover. A whirring sound denoted the presence of an ever-vigilant attack helijets hovering ominously outside the building. Jeremy blew the charge. Before the dust could settle, Richard threw a flashbang inside to add to the confusion. The marines rushed into the room.
The room was laid out like any politician’s or official’s office. A large window was at the opposite end of the room to the door, with an over-sized desk sitting in front of the window facing the door. The particular desk had an overweight Va’mr Higher Superior cowering behind it in fear, while a small group of guards held their tentacle-arms to what James assumed were their ears, screaming in pain.
He fired his M455 at the guards, killing them instantly. The fireteams crowded around the desk. James pointed his rifle at the blubbering alien.
“Get on your feet,” James snapped, disgusted at this snivelling fool. The Smart-Wrist^TM translated his command into the barking clicks that was the Va’mr language. The alien cowered even further at his words.
“NOW!” he yelled.
Jeremy yanked the alien slime to his feet.
“What shall we do with ‘im sir?” he asked.
“Get him outside,” answered James. Facing the alien, he began addressing him.
“Higher Superior, you are under arrest by the United Federation of Earth Territories. You do not need to say anything. Anything you do say can be used against you in a Court of Law,” he said, “Take him away!” he directed the last remark to Jeremy who, along with two other marines, dragged the now weeping alien out of the office.
***************************************************************************************
Official Residence of the President of the United Federations of Earth Territories, former United Nations Building, New York D.M, United States of America, Earth. 2254 A.D.
“Mr President, General Holland reports that the Marines have captured the city of Pernekt and are moving to assault the other major urban centres,” said General Ripper.
“Good,” replied President Forest, “My Secretary of Federal Defence tells me that you are planning to use Pernach as a staging ground for further invasion forces.”
“Yes sir,” said Ripper, “We are planning to split the Space Force into several sub-fleets. Each fleet will then assault a different system. It will be faster that way, and should reduce enemy morale, because they will have no way of knowing when we will strike next.”
“Right,” pondered Forest, “And General, remember, we don’t want to invade too far into Xylem territory. We have liberated their slave camps and smashed their WMD production facilities, achieving the goals we set out to do. Let’s not prolong this any more than we have to.”
“That makes sense sir,” agreed Ripper, “But when should we stop?”
“We could stop now,” suggested Vice President Kenny, “Pull out from Pernach. It would be unfeasible to maintain control on their Inner Worlds anyway, with the sheer number of them. The army would be run ragged.”
“Ok sir,” said Ripper, “I’ll give the order now. We’ll pull back to the Outer Worlds. That way, we’ll be close enough to make them uncomfortable, but not too close.”
And that might have been the end of it too, if it weren’t for an overly bright Va’mr starship captain.
***************************************************************************************
Kepler 186f was a small colony, home to about 4 million people. It was close to the border, but not so close as to make the population feel worried about the Xeno threat. Nonetheless, the Home Guard Fleet kept an ever-vigilant watch on the colony, keeping a close eye on their scanners and sensors.
Which made it all the more surprising when a Va’mr spacecraft dropped out of warp right on top of the colony, towing a large asteroid behind it. The Home Guard, spread out among the system or on the wrong side of the planet, could do little but watch as the asteroid was catapulted by anti-gravity technology at the planet, impacting it at high speeds.
While the offending spacecraft was obliterated in an instant once a human ship got close enough, it was too late for the colony. The asteroid impacted the planet, the shockwave killing all life on the colony instantly and leaving a massive dent in the crust.
***************************************************************************************
The ever-present holo-ads were replaced by the United Federation flag. Commuters on the polluted streets of Earth looked up as the smog-filled sky took on a red tinge. Pedestrians in the sparkling clean corridors of Mars and the gleaming white avenues of New Auckland looked in interest as the comforting Black Eagle on its red background appeared on screens across human space.
The flag faded away and President Forest appeared.
“Citizens of the Federation,” he began in a voice with an undertone of sorrow, “A few short hours ago, our colony on Kepler 186 was destroyed by the Va’mr Imperium,” the sorrow was replaced by a cold fury.
“They have attacked an unarmed colony with asteroids and murdered 4 million defenceless, innocent and peaceful citizens of the United Federation,” he paused to let that sink in.
“This is no longer War. This is cold-blooded murder. Until now, the War has been conducted with honour and bravery. With the ideals of truth and justice, and the best traditions of mankind, until this moment. My fellow citizens, the endless catalogue of atrocities which will inevitably ensue from this appalling act must, can and will be terminated!”
A crowd of supporters off-screen roared their support.
“Death to those who would conspire to bring harm to our women, and our children too! Death to the despicable Va’mr Imperium,” he gripped the sides of his podium, his hands white with fury, “Death,” he called, his eyes burning with rage “Death! DEATH!” he almost screamed into the camera to the evident delight of the crowd.
“Forest! Forest! Forest! Forest!” the crowd chanted.
“I have been given Emergency Authority by Congress in light of this tragedy,” announced the president, “I have used this authority to order the Federal Defence Force to enact General Order 7. The vengeance of the United Federation will fall like a hammer on the Va’mr Imperium, and we will not rest until their once-great empire is reduced to ashes!” he concluded, to thunderous applause.
The national anthem of the Federation began playing as the President walked off-camera.
***************************************************************************************
“In an inspiring speech today, President Forest announced an escalation of hostilities with the Va’mr Imperium,” announced the anchor a few hours later, “The destruction of the colony on Kepler 186f will be mourned by all in the Federation,” he said, “The President informed our reporters that he had just given the order to stand down the military following their impressive victory over the Imperium on Pernach before the news was brought to him.”
A recording of the president played on screen.
“It’s sad,” he was saying, “I thought that since we had completed our goals, namely destroying Va’mr WMD production and liberating their slaves, that we were finished and could withdraw back to what were their Outer Worlds and keep an eye on them,” he sighed.
“But this had to happen. If I had given the order a few hours earlier, maybe those colonists would still be alive. But, as they say, no use crying over spilt milk.” He turned and walked away from the news camera. The screen cut back to the studio.
“Some individuals have claimed that the President copied his speech from the 1984 motion picture ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’. Those treasonable maggots have been denounced as ‘Xeno sympathisers’ and interred in Planet 101. To all our brave men and women in uniform, good luck. You have the full support of the Federation in what you are doing. God Bless.”
***************************************************************************************
With General Order 7 given, the Space Force abandoned their efforts to invade the Inner Worlds and instead started systematically destroying the planets. Crusts were melted by plasma lances; cities were flattened by Antimatter carpet bombing and the worlds that weren’t glassed were rendered uninhabitable by Nuclear fire.
With the one atrocity committed by the Imperium, the thin veneer of civility the Federation had held themselves in check with vanished. Despite the Va’mr pleas for mercy, the Space Force grimly pressed on, killing millions, if not billions of Va’mr. The slogans ‘The only good Bug is a dead Bug’, ‘Nuke the site from orbit, it’s the only way to be sure,’ and ‘Purge the Xeno’ became immensely popular with servicemembers.
What was most memorable was a Federal soldier telling a FedNews reporter:
“I’m from Kepler 186f, and I say KILL ‘EM ALL!”
That cry was taken up by the ten thousand million men and women of the United Federation Defence Force as they pressed closer towards the Va’mr capital.
***************************************************************************************
Va’mr Capital World, 2255 A.D.
The building shook with the vibrations caused by distant explosions. The Highest Leader of the Va’mr Imperium watched as wave after wave of Federation aircraft dropped their deadly payloads on his capital city. The explosions were complemented by the low rumble of human battle wagons as they brought the vast Federation army into the city.
The Va’mr scouts had reported that the Federation had an army of 1 billion. The Highest Leader had initially thrown the report away in disbelief but hearing the now-deafening noise made him realise what he had gotten his race into.
When the Starcraft captain had told him of his plan to destroy the Human colony with the asteroid, he had initially dismissed it, for he found it dishonourable. But he had been talked round into supporting the plan. Evidently the Humans, for all their lack of honour and decency, had found it repugnant as well. And now he was paying the price for his lack of vision.
The battle wagons slowly emerged from the dust and ashes of burning buildings. Human aircraft hovered like angry insects and soldiers disembarked from the wheeled battle wagons. The tracked battle wagons fired their powerful cannons at the building.
The palace shook as the projectiles impacted and destroyed the wall surrounding the building, allowing the human troops to enter the forecourt of the building. The staccato barks of their rifles mixed with the high-energy whine of plasma fire. The whines fell silent after a while, betraying the fact that the defenders were dead. And still the humans kept pouring into the city.
***************************************************************************************
Captain Sylvester Stone, US Army, fired his rifle at an alien, killing it with a headshot. He moved up from his cover, firing at more aliens. Other soldiers, from all divisions of the Federal Army, were moving up behind him. There were British, Australian, New Zealand, Martian, American, South African, Alpha Centaurian and other nationalities fighting side-by-side as the Federation forces pushed the remaining Va’mr defenders back inside the Imperial Palace.
The palace was an odd structure, not being as high as some of the nearby buildings. It looked very similar to the White House on Earth, albeit a reddish-grey instead of white. Va’mr banners with their fascist-invoking crest were draped down the large walls of the building, while the official motto of the Imperium, ‘Death to All Else,’ was inscribed on the top of an overhanging roof.
By the time the army reached the steps leading up to the wide, imposing entranceway, some xeno with a degree of intelligence had thought to shut the heavy steel blast doors, sealing off the building.
While the troops took cover, the tanks fired their main cannons at the door, while the hovering attack helijets fired their missiles.
The door stood fast. Sylvester then had an idea.
“All Tank units, this is Captain Stone, US Army,” he spoke into the radio, “Concentrate your fire on the walls next to the door.”
“Roger,” replied the tank commander.
The armoured death machines fired volley after volley at the walls of the building. At first, the re-enforced blocks held. But they soon started to quiver. Then the cracks began to appear. The cracks got wider, and wider and soon after that large chunks of masonry were falling from the walls.
Helijets fired their guns and rockets at the emerging holes, widening them until the walls next to the massive entranceway were non-existent, allowing the soldiers to stream through.
“Come on you apes!” called Captain Stone to his men, “You wanna live forever?” he gestured to the wall. The soldiers charged the building, firing their assault rifles. A few dazed Va’mr guards tried to stop them, but they were brushed aside. Storming into the vast main corridor, the army began the exhaustive task of clearing the various rooms. Most of them were empty. Some contained a few hiding palace functionaries, who were left alone, while others had holed-up Va’mr squads, who were summarily dispatched.
***************************************************************************************
The doors to the throne room shook with every far-off explosion.
“Highest Leader, we need to get you to safety!” urged one of the guards as the explosions came nearer. The dictator brushed him off.
“There is no need,” he said, “The humans will never breach this room. We will be quite safe when they arrive.”
The doors suddenly evaporated in a fiery cloud. The Highest Leader was tackled to the ground by one of his guards. The bark of human assault rifles filled the air. The guards tried to protect their Leader but were cut down mercilessly.
Standing shakily to his feet, the Highest Leader tried to run, but the way was barred by two burly human soldiers wearing those face-concealing masks he had heard of. Their glowing red eyes and almost artificial breathing unnerved him. One of the humans in the room, presumably the leader, stepped towards him.
***************************************************************************************
“Highest Leader Graltmerk,” Sylvester spoke to the alien Emperor, “You are under arrest by the United Federation of Earth Territories in accordance with the rules of warfare laid out by the Geneva Conventions. You are arrested on the charges of: Indentured Servitude of other sentient races, with a sentence of twenty years; the construction with intent to use of Weapons of Mass Destruction. Sentence: 60 years.”
The alien stood silently as Sylvester kept listing the charges.
“And finally, the murder of 4 million unarmed Federation citizens. Sentence…”
The alien finally spoke up.
“Let me guess: Life?” he sneered. Without warning, he rushed the doorway, shouldering past the two guards and ran out into the corridor. Sylvester pulled up his M455 and shot him in the leg, felling him. Walking up to the alien writhing in agony, he pulled out his M1911 sidearm.
“Death,” he said simply, shooting him in the head, “Court’s adjourned.”
With the evil alien dictator dead, the soldiers marched up to the top floor of the building. Opening an access hatch, they strode out onto the roof overlooking the once-great city.
The Va’mr flag defiantly billowed in the breeze.
“Take that thing down,” ordered Captain Stone.
The soldiers enthusiastically complied, pulling down the hated banner. One of them produced the Federation’s flag and strung it up on the flagpole. The soldiers stood at attention and saluted as the soldier raised the glorious red flag with the Eagle protectively embracing the Earth.
​
(Continued in comments)