A short story about Nature's Call

[Blackwater Sniper]

This sentry was chosen on purpose; a human with a now empty canteen slung across the harness on his armor and no drones within danger range. They waited for what seemed like an eternity but was really no more than an hour. This squad was the tip of the spear in the vanguard coming shortly if these professionals did their job properly. They were chosen because they always got the job done. They called themselves ‘rangers’ even though none of them technically fit that description, but all had advanced wilderness and combat skills in addition to their normal professions of mage, psychic, thief, and a literal cyborg tank. They may not be rangers, but today the name fit: Rangers lead the way. Someone had found an old flag nearly tattered to shreds with those words and hung it in their command center.

The guard, feeling alone on his patrol, checked his chrono for the fifth time in the past half hour as he started pacing more frequently, a clear sign of personal distress. Even with the armored visor down they knew exactly what he was thinking, they had all been there: to **** or not to ****. Finally, Nature’s Call just couldn’t be ignored any longer and the guard began to prepare for relief.

“Get ready, he’s going for it,” said Ranger-One as he checked out their target more intently. There’s just something about having a psychic on the team who can read emotions that sometimes made their jobs just too easy. The other members pulled up their binos and scanned the area for potential hostiles. Nothing had changed since they took up their post, but professionals took nothing for granted. If the situation weren’t so serious, the scouts would have broken the silence with a joke or two.

The Deaths Head armor of the sentry was sealed against all known environmental conditions for several hours and was fitted with additional, replaceable filters for extended use. Even human biological waste could be contained within an absorbent diaper strapped to the soldier, but no one enjoyed urinating in their armor. First there was the smell that sometimes escaped the cheap, carbon-based filters, then the knowledge of what you were walking around in and could do nothing about, and finally decontaminating your armor before returning it to the armory.

These rangers knew the farther from headquarters the more likely a person is to break with regulations and this guard was about as far out on the perimeter as the Coalition had set patrols. He seemed to debate on what to do with his rifle and finally slung it across his back. With a barely audible hum the metallic gloves retracted within the forearms and the area around his crotch opened. He smiled as he thought that human hands on flesh were always preferable to that of cold carbon nanotubes the Coalition used to manufacture armor.

As the rocks below him began to get wet, the novice lookout had a second thought; some fresh air wouldn’t be so bad right now either. He had been breathing this recirculated air that always tasted like oil and sweat for nearly two hours now and he deserved a break. His environmental seal was already broken so he pressed the side of his helmet in a preset manner allowing the transparent aluminum visor full range of motion over his helmet. As soon as the first cool breeze hit his face, his eyes closed, and head tilted back in the ecstasy of knowing he could last the final few minutes until his another patrol arrived. He finished with a little shake and sighed.

Spat. A large caliber bullet entered just below his nose and exited the base of his skull to be caught in the helmet and roll around its interior and bounce back into his head. The guard was dead before his body began to fall, his dick still in his hand.

[taalismn]

Ouch....

As one of my high school teachers used to say: "Hold it until your teeth float!"