The gale hurled rust-red dust against the armor, sounding exactly like a torrential downpour pounding on a metal shack. It always dragged him into memories. The sound reminded him of the rainstorm he had endured in the slums as a child. The sky that day had been just as dim as it was now. In the distance, the gaudy neon sign of a motel flickered weakly. Rusted wheel rims and shredded tires lay atop cracked ground stained by motor oil and plastic. Every drop of rain falling from the shack roof carried the cold scent of rust. He had pressed himself against the window, staying away from his mother behind him, who had choked on contraband-induced vomit and was slowly rotting alongside a similarly rotting sandwich. With his eyes wide, he had stuck out his tongue to taste the splashing raindrops, trying to fill his empty stomach.
He tasted the chemical scent of regenerated oxygen.
"If you could turn on the noise-reduction function, our tactical squad Communication Channel would be a lot quieter." The cold voice in his headset yanked him back. Endless marching easily made people lose focus, especially in this damned place, upon this cursed red sand. There were no landmarks as far as the eye could see. The only thing capable of keeping them alert was the immense thunderstorm flickering faintly within the towering red sandstorm less than two hundred kilometers away. They were not those mechanical freaks from Olympus Forge. They did not regard Mars as holy ground, only as a dull planet of dust. "If you lose focus, I'll give you a proper beating." The squad sergeant spoke in his distinctive dry, injured voice. "Mars drop training does not allow lapses in attention. We must reach the extraction point as quickly as possible."
He let