Dropship

T+00:04:44 The metal floor vibrates in a constant uneven shudder making your teeth rattle. Restraints dig into your shoulders; the webbing is stiff and unyielding. Through the small thick window, the sky outside is a roiling vortex of bruised purples and ominous blacks, broken by flashes of lightning that illuminate the churning clouds. A greasy film coats the inside of the viewport, blurring the already indistinct shapes. The air tastes stale, metallic, with a faint underlying chemical tang. "Easy, Dunn," a gravelly voice calls out from your left. You glance over. A hulking marine, his face obscured by the harsh red light of the status indicators, tightens the straps on his pulse rifle. "Don't want to drop that pretty thing." Dunn grunts, checking the magazine. "Wouldn't dream of it, Sarge. Just... feels like we're riding into the ass-end of nowhere." Ahead, a younger marine fidgets in his seat. His knuckles are white as he grips the restraint bar. "How long til we hit the AO?" he asks, his voice tight. "Few more minutes, kid," the gravelly voice answers, this time with a hint of reassurance. "Just remember your training. You'll be fine." The dropship convulses violently, slamming everyone forward against their restraints. A chorus of curses fills the air. The metal groans under the strain. You feel your stomach drop. The ship plunges sickeningly to the side, then crashes back with a bone-jarring thud. Someone yells, "What the hell was that?" "Turbulence," comes a clipped reply from the front of the cabin. "Brace yourselves, people. It's gonna get rough." The red lights pulse faster. The groaning of the ship intensifies, a mechanical beast straining against gravity. The deck bucks and twists beneath you, each movement a reminder of the immense forces at play. The tension in the air is thick and heavy as the smell of ozone, as the dropship hurtles toward its destination.