Post by farcry11 on Jul 7, 2014 2:34:03 GMT
"Gentlemen," Chairman Rellyn said to the assembled officials spaced around the conference table, "I have bad news. Morale levels on the research station "Aurora" are at an all time low. The crew is largely in a state of depression, and some of them are even getting violent. Profits from said installation are going to plummet if we don't do something soon, so I want ideas, now."
"We could brainwash all of them," one official piped up.
"Too expensive," the Chairman responded, "give me a different one."
"We could send in our death squad and then replace the crew," another officer proposed.
"Again, the cover up would be too expensive. /Ideas/, people. Be original."
An official towards the other end of the table from Rellyn stood.
"Sir, I think I have just the answer to this situation. He's a highly trained morale operative- codename: Nice Guy."
------
The massive, muscle-bound man lifted the xenomorph up in to the air, throwing it to the other end of the training arena. It hit the wall with a sickening crunch, green acidic blood oozing from it's maw as it entered itss death throes. The combatant didn't have time to relish his victory, however: the creature's friend leaped at him from behind, pinning him down. It opened its mouth, ready to smash his head in with its inner maw- but he reached up, grabbed the creature's jaws with combat-gloved hands, and forced them apart until its head practically broke in two. Pushing the corpse off of him, he let out a victory roar.
At that very moment, the door to the training arena opened, and a dapper CentComm official walked in. He regarded the dead aliens, clearly impressed, before turning to the hulking mass of muscle before him.
"I see you're staying in shape, Nice Guy."
"D'aw, thanks buddy. You look pretty good too!", the man responded, dusting off his combat-fatigue cargo pants.
"You're too kind. But I'm not here to exchange pleasantries... We have a mission for you. A very serious one."
"Well, gee-whiz, champ. What is it?"
"The crew of the Aurora are suffering from a crippling lack of morale. We're sending you to the nearby CentComm station, so you can be sent there on occasion- your services are imperative to the station's positive profit margins."
"I see... Well, can I get profiles on the crewmen?"
"I've got them here for you."
The official handed Nice Guy a briefcase. When he opened it, he found it full of profiles, each bearing the name of their subject. He nodded, face grave.
------
He'd done his homework, and the situation was, to be frank, horrifying. The crew was almost irreversibly down in the dumps. Cynicism, sarcasm, morbidity and racism ran wild. There was a depressed captain with metal eyes, a polygamist security officer with a blonde mullet, multiple depressed medical professionals with speech impediments, and even some sort of space pirate with one eye and a bad temper. The crew fixated on death, and there were reportedly quite a few suicide attempts every week. Something had to be done, and fast.
"Well, golly," the commando said. He opened up his locker, wherein rested his armor. The armor was that of the average Death Commando, but with some... Modifications. First, it was painted a pleasant shade of deep green. A smiley face was painted on the front of the helmet, and the words "born to hug" were etched on the right-hand side. The armor itself looked sturdy, though there were some battle-scratches. Another, smaller smiley face was painted on the left shoulderpad.
Nice Guy donned the armor gravely, then picked up his weapons: A Mateba, an energy sword, and a modified shotgun that fired canisters of confetti- for maximum party spread, of course. He pumped the shotgun once, then strapped it across his back. With that, he left his room, and about ten minutes later boarded a shuttle that would take him to what was to be his home for the foreseeable future. As he zipped through space at light speed, one thought rested in his happy mind...
"I am Nice Guy, Friendship Commando, and I'm bringing the storm..."
"We could brainwash all of them," one official piped up.
"Too expensive," the Chairman responded, "give me a different one."
"We could send in our death squad and then replace the crew," another officer proposed.
"Again, the cover up would be too expensive. /Ideas/, people. Be original."
An official towards the other end of the table from Rellyn stood.
"Sir, I think I have just the answer to this situation. He's a highly trained morale operative- codename: Nice Guy."
------
The massive, muscle-bound man lifted the xenomorph up in to the air, throwing it to the other end of the training arena. It hit the wall with a sickening crunch, green acidic blood oozing from it's maw as it entered itss death throes. The combatant didn't have time to relish his victory, however: the creature's friend leaped at him from behind, pinning him down. It opened its mouth, ready to smash his head in with its inner maw- but he reached up, grabbed the creature's jaws with combat-gloved hands, and forced them apart until its head practically broke in two. Pushing the corpse off of him, he let out a victory roar.
At that very moment, the door to the training arena opened, and a dapper CentComm official walked in. He regarded the dead aliens, clearly impressed, before turning to the hulking mass of muscle before him.
"I see you're staying in shape, Nice Guy."
"D'aw, thanks buddy. You look pretty good too!", the man responded, dusting off his combat-fatigue cargo pants.
"You're too kind. But I'm not here to exchange pleasantries... We have a mission for you. A very serious one."
"Well, gee-whiz, champ. What is it?"
"The crew of the Aurora are suffering from a crippling lack of morale. We're sending you to the nearby CentComm station, so you can be sent there on occasion- your services are imperative to the station's positive profit margins."
"I see... Well, can I get profiles on the crewmen?"
"I've got them here for you."
The official handed Nice Guy a briefcase. When he opened it, he found it full of profiles, each bearing the name of their subject. He nodded, face grave.
------
He'd done his homework, and the situation was, to be frank, horrifying. The crew was almost irreversibly down in the dumps. Cynicism, sarcasm, morbidity and racism ran wild. There was a depressed captain with metal eyes, a polygamist security officer with a blonde mullet, multiple depressed medical professionals with speech impediments, and even some sort of space pirate with one eye and a bad temper. The crew fixated on death, and there were reportedly quite a few suicide attempts every week. Something had to be done, and fast.
"Well, golly," the commando said. He opened up his locker, wherein rested his armor. The armor was that of the average Death Commando, but with some... Modifications. First, it was painted a pleasant shade of deep green. A smiley face was painted on the front of the helmet, and the words "born to hug" were etched on the right-hand side. The armor itself looked sturdy, though there were some battle-scratches. Another, smaller smiley face was painted on the left shoulderpad.
Nice Guy donned the armor gravely, then picked up his weapons: A Mateba, an energy sword, and a modified shotgun that fired canisters of confetti- for maximum party spread, of course. He pumped the shotgun once, then strapped it across his back. With that, he left his room, and about ten minutes later boarded a shuttle that would take him to what was to be his home for the foreseeable future. As he zipped through space at light speed, one thought rested in his happy mind...
"I am Nice Guy, Friendship Commando, and I'm bringing the storm..."
We all knew this is coming.
", and took another contemplative sip of his coco. He'd be making another visit to the station, and he'd have something really big, fun, and super-awesome planned this time. It was gonna blow their socks right off...