Chestnuts roasting on another planet...
"Oh, for crying out loud," mutters Church. The hold music coming over his comm unit is ingratiating. He fucking HATES having to ask Command for anything directly. He taps his fingers on the table impatiently. It seems like hours before the music finally shuts off and is replaced by a nasally voice.
"This is Blue Command, answering your query. What can I do ya fer?"
"It's about time," growls Church before he opens the outgoing frequency of his unit. "Vic, this is Private Church in Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha. I'm gonna need an off-the-record shipment from you."
"Off the record? Sounds kinda shady, dude. Whatcha need?"
"A coupla bottles of happy juice, man. If you can spare some Bach's and Snowdrop, I'd be much obliged. And maybe some REAL food- even that cheap-ass spaghetti sauce and a bag of noodles would work."
"Hey, now. You know I can't just cart that kinda stuff around like it's my job or somethin', dude. I don't think I can-"
"Oh, for Chrissake, Vic!" whines Church. "I know what you ship off the clock. It's Christmas. C'mon."
"Dude, you know it's against regs. Can't have you sotted on the battlefield, know what I mean?"
"Come off it, man. I practically have most of he fucking red base wrapped around my little finger. Nothing can go wrong the way things are." He grins a little. "Seriously, man. I'm begging here."
"...What's in it for me?"
Church snorts. "My undying gratitude. Maybe half of my holiday bonus."
"No way, dude. For that, I'd roll up my sleeve."
"Fine... a full three grand in credits. That good enough for ya?"
~Next Morning~
"Oh, HELL yeah!" whoops Church, echoing through the canyon. Having come outside for patrol, found the drop and unlocked the casing, he's greeted with four neatly packed bottles, a large ration of cookable pasta, a jar of generic tomato sauce, and even a freezewrapped loaf of bread and a girly magazine. He lets out a low whistle, and a silly grin spreads over his face. He's gonna have give Vic an extra-big tip this year. He pulls out one of the bottles, running his thumb over the wintery patterns on the label. Turner's Snowdrop Classic Warm, he mouths quietly. He hasn't had a decent drink in years. This'll make for a nice, quiet Christmas. Hell, at two each of this and the included Bach's butter rum, it'll make for a nice, quiet winter, period. Not that winter fucking happens around here, but still. He's gonna have to find a place to stash all this- sharing this kinda loot too early would be a sin. He twists the top off the bottle in his hand and takes a deep whiff, still grinning. Never has mint vodka smelled so good.
"This is Blue Command, answering your query. What can I do ya fer?"
"It's about time," growls Church before he opens the outgoing frequency of his unit. "Vic, this is Private Church in Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha. I'm gonna need an off-the-record shipment from you."
"Off the record? Sounds kinda shady, dude. Whatcha need?"
"A coupla bottles of happy juice, man. If you can spare some Bach's and Snowdrop, I'd be much obliged. And maybe some REAL food- even that cheap-ass spaghetti sauce and a bag of noodles would work."
"Hey, now. You know I can't just cart that kinda stuff around like it's my job or somethin', dude. I don't think I can-"
"Oh, for Chrissake, Vic!" whines Church. "I know what you ship off the clock. It's Christmas. C'mon."
"Dude, you know it's against regs. Can't have you sotted on the battlefield, know what I mean?"
"Come off it, man. I practically have most of he fucking red base wrapped around my little finger. Nothing can go wrong the way things are." He grins a little. "Seriously, man. I'm begging here."
"...What's in it for me?"
Church snorts. "My undying gratitude. Maybe half of my holiday bonus."
"No way, dude. For that, I'd roll up my sleeve."
"Fine... a full three grand in credits. That good enough for ya?"
~Next Morning~
"Oh, HELL yeah!" whoops Church, echoing through the canyon. Having come outside for patrol, found the drop and unlocked the casing, he's greeted with four neatly packed bottles, a large ration of cookable pasta, a jar of generic tomato sauce, and even a freezewrapped loaf of bread and a girly magazine. He lets out a low whistle, and a silly grin spreads over his face. He's gonna have give Vic an extra-big tip this year. He pulls out one of the bottles, running his thumb over the wintery patterns on the label. Turner's Snowdrop Classic Warm, he mouths quietly. He hasn't had a decent drink in years. This'll make for a nice, quiet Christmas. Hell, at two each of this and the included Bach's butter rum, it'll make for a nice, quiet winter, period. Not that winter fucking happens around here, but still. He's gonna have to find a place to stash all this- sharing this kinda loot too early would be a sin. He twists the top off the bottle in his hand and takes a deep whiff, still grinning. Never has mint vodka smelled so good.