Another significant, not to say blindingly stupid, omission were the guns with which a Local could rarely hit the proverbial barn door—not that any of the Mercs had ever seen a barn door. Fraking cavalry mounts, genetically altered to be the size of a dray horse with the hide of a rhinoceros, had also gone unmentioned. Unable to stand in the face of a charge by the humungous beasts, the Locals regularly exercised the better part of valor and ran like rabbits.
Accustomed to being fed a diet of drek, the Squad took all of it in stride. Snipe was delighted to discover a local version of football. Holler sniffed out a supply of whisky and other consumables. Scout never said anything and promptly found himself a lover. Coms took up with the Local Liaison Officer, claiming it was part of her duties to communicate. Spotter began fiddling with his unauthorized tech, trying to find a way to hit something—anything— with the local guns. Everybody grumbled, the clothes were scratchy, the food was bland...
Ani, Leader of the ten Merc Squad, paid the usual complaints no mind, except for Point's; she feared the truth of his gloomy predictions about getting an army of light infantry out of its nice, safe, defensive positions so they could invade a continent they did not want— Ani wondered who had dreamt up this mission.