Department of the Colonial Navy
United States Colonial Marine Corps
Name: Schiefer, Timothy Randall
Birth Certificate: 7/9/2214 Age - 30
Sex: Yes, please.
Background Check: Born just outside of Chicago, Illinois to a family who owned a whiskey distillery. When Schiefer turned 11, his parents were killed while on board a luxury space cruiser on their wedding anniversary by a unique gang of space-faring outlaws. The responsible party was never brought to justice for the murder of 274 other passengers and crew aboard. It was at this point a family friend was appointed head of the distillery, and once Schiefer turned 18, control would then be turned over to Schiefer. Schiefer's younger brother became a manic depressant and would often get into trouble and threatened suicide more than once. When Schiefer turned 15, he, in his words, 'beat the holy livin' hell' out of his brother after a 3rd suicide attempt and proceeded to string his brother up by his "tackle", referring to his brothers penis and testicles, leaving him over a boiling vat of whiskey. After 4 hours of excruciating pain, his brother pleaded for him to cut him down. Schiefer was brought before a family court hearing after being turned in by certain employees that saw the beating and subsequent suspension over cooking whiskey. He was reprimanded for a year in a juvenile home, though his brother testified in his defense which was the only reason he was not tried as an adult. After serving the year, he was released back to his home. His brother had left to attend a school for business management. Schiefer took control of his family's company upon his 18th birthday, and ran it the best he could for 2 years. It was at this time his brother, Jack, graduated and returned home. Schiefer, deciding the suit and tie was too demanding, happily turned control over to his brother. Schiefer immediately signed up for the Colonial Marines. The night before his departure, he and his brother sat in their office in the distillery, both polishing off a bottle of their family's whiskey. Jack posed a question to him on why he beat him senseless, to which Schiefer replied; "Because you were being a whiny little cunt. Someone needed to kick the black and pink out of your hair." Upon leaving basic, Schiefer was assigned to a patrol that saw light combat for the first 3 years he was in. After being promoted to Corporal, Schiefer was assigned to a now defunct Special Forces group classified by it's call sign 'AXOD'. During a mission on Mars, Schiefer took fire and was wounded in his stomach and shoulder. He made a full recovery and rumors still circulate to this day that he walked 9 miles to receive medical attention, though it is only rumor.
--DD502 Medical Evaluation
Weight: 248 lbs
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Scars/Marks/Tattoos: One healed bullet wound scar on his right shoulder, one healed bullet wound scar on the left of his stomach. One tattoo on his right arm depicting a standard issue helmet with a saying above and below it; "Into Fire You Can Send Us, From The Fire We Return"
Physical Description: Built like a linebacker, broad shoulders, barrel chested and a thick neck. Defined, but not entirely muscular. His frame is his best asset.
Personality: Calculating. He lets his face do all the talking. Socially adept, though has been known to be described as 'cranky' sometimes. Has been known to feud with authoritative figures, though quietly, and some superiors have accused Schiefer of defaming their character to other subordinates, but evidence is never seemingly at hand to prove as much. Despite such claims, many superiors have spoken highly of his character and qualities.
Medical Record: Has been shot twice, both wounds healed. The shoulder occasionally nags him.
--DD213 Equipment Receipt
Primary Weapon: M41A Pulse Rifle
Modifications: QD Suppressor
Location on Body: Wielded
Secondary Weapon: Colt 1911 A6 Pistol
Modifications: Nickle-plated with pearl grips, and a representation of the planet Mars on the grip
Location on Body: Right leg holstered
- M4 Combat Armor [w/ leg and thigh protection, groin protector, and forearm protection, shoulder mounted spotlight, kinetic battery, and wireless PRC 490/1/1 Squadlink Radio]
- "It's Morphin' Time" scrolled on back of armor
- M5 Integrated Marine Combat Helmet [With mounted camera, spotlight, thermal/nightvision optics, and PRC 490/1/1 Squadlink Microphone and Receiver]
- "Will Kill For Food" written on left side of helmet followed by an iconic yellow smiley face
--USCMC Service Record Jacket
Designation: Request in red lettering.
Rifle Marksmanship Qualification:
Deployments: Eiridos 9620, B561 T, Lyubov Minor, Mars, Sudan skirmish
*BEEP BEEP BEEP*
-="Rise and shine all you devil dog's out there. It's 6 AM Standardized Time and it's time to get your rear in gear. It's a brisk -290 degrees out there in the void. If you're hearing me now, you're not in cryostasis and that's always a plus. We got a red hot show lined up for you today, including a guest speaker from the USS Coffey, and as always, an entire vault of moldy oldies to keep you in killing form. This is your smooth talking embodiment of badassery, Lance Corporal Figgs, throwing another lyrical brew your way. This is Loser, by the always classy and immortal 'Beck'.=-
*As the song began to play, Schiefer clenched his eyes. The lights in the barracks had begun to flicker to life. He slowly drifted towards consciousness. A line of 5 beds rolled down the over sized hall that was Barracks Room C. Schiefer started to cough up some wretched flegm monster that had bred inside his lungs during the 'night'. He slowly rolled his lazy bones upright. He continued to hack up lung butter, and suddenly he felt an open palm connect with the back of his head, in a none too pleasing manner of 'friendly slap'.*
"Aww... you're such a twat, Law. Goddamn." Schief grunted.
"Up and at'em Corporal. Another glorious July morning in the Corps, boy." Law retorted.
"It's April, Sarge." yawned a freshly up Graves.
"It's whatever I say it is kids. Oh, God...DAMN Schiefer, rocking some real solid morning timber there..." Law laughed.
*Schief looked down at his crotch and acknowledged the erection.*
"I'll take care of it in the showers."
"I'll help." Graves said, patting him on his shoulder, walking past him on his way to the head.
"Thanks babe." Schief replied.
"Damn, you two are total homo's." Law chimed in.
"That's politically incorrect, Sergeant, and I now have the right to sue you for harassment based on Specialist Graves and mine sexual orientation."
*Law throws a clean towel in Schiefer's face.*
"Shut the fuck up and hit the showers, fatty. Assembly at zero seven thirty."
"I'm not fat, I'm classically built." Schief hit back.
"Yeah classically built my Scottish ASS!" Law said through a grin, cracking Schief in the back of the thigh with his towel as Schief walked by.
*As Graves and Schiefer stood in the showers, practically sleeping, Graves groaned out a question.*
"You get that R-and-R approved for after this mission?"
"Uhh... I think so. I think it's still on Abrams' to do list, but, he didn't stick his finger in his ass and sign the paperwork with shit this time, so... I'm guessing it's good."
"Nice. It'll be great to abscond for a few."
*Graves suddenly had a confused look wash over his face, he looked around, then asked:*
"Where are we?"
*Schiefer walked out of the beautifully hot water and over to a panel just inside the entrance to the shower room, swiped a few options out of the way, then selected an option. Suddenly a wall sized panel opened behind them, revealing the serene beauty of space. A planet was steadily approaching, or at least that's how it looked.*
"Oh yeah..." Graves yawned.
*They stood quietly in the shower for the next few minutes before Law entered and started a shower head. The trio remained quiet for another few minutes.*
"... ... ... so uh... which of you were going to take care of this for me?"
*Law quietly moved a couple of shower heads over. Graves and Schiefer snickered to themselves.*
*** *** *** *** ***
*On the parade deck, the whole platoon was assembled. They had just finished being briefed about the mission they were about to take on.*
"There you have it, ladies. Any questions?" Abrams barked.
*No one moved.*
"Good, cuz I don't give a fuck. You have your orders. I expect this to go down as clean as my momma's freshly washed dishes. Any of you nimrods even think about fucking up this perfectly laid out plan, I'll have you scrubbing the latrines around the fucking clocks till the porcelain is wore down to goddamn ceramic. Is that under-fucking-stood?"
"UNDER-FUCKING-STOOD MASTER SERGEANT!!" the whole platoon shouted back in unison.
"Ooh-rah. Fall out maggots, I want prep work for the mission completed by zero nine-forty. Dismissed."
"OOH RAH!" the platoon shouted.
*As the Marines spread out, Graves and Schiefer headed towards the armory to ready the weapons with PFC Casey. Once in, they began to prep the weapons they've seen a thousand times, fixed and cleaned a thousand times, and started to chat about the drop they were about to undertake in less than 2 hours.*
"Fuckin' leave it to Weyland-Yutani to find a way to dick up a multi-billion dollar installation with their mutated lab rats. And this close to home? Forget it. These guys need to be loaded into a cruiser, and disintegrated by a particle beam phalanx."
"I know you guys hate it when I bring up the Lord, but, even I sometimes question how He could allow people like them to spread out amongst the heavens."
"Amen Rev. Well all I know is it sounds like it's gonna be a quick in and out in Haven, so, you can count your blessings on that. Besides, if it were really something concerning the Company enough, they'd have sent in their merc flunkies to take care of that shit. Remember them cunts, Graves? Fuckin' poppin' off rounds all over the place, not aimin' at nothin', shootin' from the hip like they're Wyatt Earp."
"I remember. I remember bagging up their bodies too." he added.
"Are they really that ignorant?" Casey asked.
"Untrained fuckin' military wash out stooges with no leadership."
-="Alright Marines, I got a special request going out to our boys on board the USS Omaha, being sent your way courtesy of PFC Capps, and it's a good one. Here's Coolio with 'Gangsta's Paradise'!"=-
"Yeah... this one should be a piece of cake." Casey said.
*The Conestoga Class ship eased it's way into the orbit of the red planet. The drop is to Mars. It's funny how the darkest of days always start off so routine.*