Breacher

Kraken took a moment to drink in the scene unfolding around him. The smell of the harbor and the sound of small arms fire was invigorating. He chewed the stub of his cigar, rolling it from one side of his mouth to the other. He leaned his machine gun against the cargo container he was taking cover behind.

Pulling the pin from a smoke grenade he waited for the familiar pop and the start of the thick plume of green smoke. His favorite color. With a grunt, he sent it rolling out between him and the OPFOR.

Quickly the smoke cloud billowed into a thick haze. As visibility degraded, the OPFOR’s fire intensified. They always did that. With a practiced movement, he retrieved his weapon to a ready position, racking the bolt.

Spitting the chewed cigar to the pavement, Kraken lowered the ballistic visor of his helmet. It sealed into place and the sounds of combat came solely through his Comtacs.

Kraken strode through the smoke as it swirled familiarly around his body. He counted five steps and eased back on the trigger. His gun barked to life, shots tearing through the smoke ahead of him, sending empty casings spiraling in a dance of hot brass.

It’s time to get paid.