Like many of the less studious young men in his village, Marcus joined the construction gang after a few unsuccessful years in grade school. These blue-collar crowds, individuals caked with earth and drenched in sweat, roamed the streets and cities, occasionally finding work but mainly causing trouble. Gangs like Marcus' were known for their quick hands and robust constitution. Which is precisely why they were called upon to serve the nation's budding colonies. Every day, hundreds of vessels would embark for the new world, upon whose decks were all sorts of vagabonds and exiles looking to start a new life. Over the hills of these new lands, hastily-wrought buildings and huts sprang up overnight, safe under the watchful eyes of town mayors who doubled as militia colonels.
Life was strict, bound by Puritan law and unbreakable codes of conduct. The word of a superior was final; consequences for disobedience were not only harsh but indeed gruesome. Marcus hated his life. What was once hope for a more settled future turned into the begrudging realization of no escape. Even after ten years of service, neither Marcus nor his comrades received one shilling extra in wage, which was in itself fixed no matter what task he performed. The few women who resided within these colonies were required by law to cover their bodies entirely, revealing only their doleful eyes. Even the colonization itself seemed flawed; Marcus occasionally felt a sense of deja-vu as he plodded upon lands that never changed, that never indicated any sign of progress.
On this day, Marcus hovered next to the town planner as he waited for instructions on his new project. This particular town was to be built on a small peninsula, bound by cold blue waters and held onto the mainland by an isthmus no wider than six bodies. Despite its isolation, the peninsula held resources that were valuable to the colonists. Marcus assumed that the planner would emphasize the construction of homes and gathering communities.
We must imagine his shock as he received his orders: to march with his fellow workers across the isthmus to the mainland and lay the foundations for a small fort. But we haven't any shelter for our weary colonists! His protests fell to deaf ears. Evidently, another group of colonists had taken shelter upon the mainland, and the mayor realized that conflict over the area's natural resources was bound to occur. Damn Frenchmen.
Marcus set for the mainland. To his either side, the gentle waters splashed against the land, forming puddles of mud along the thin coastline. Behind him, the blinking lights of town grew ever distant, finally disappearing under a hood of gray fog. Marcus remembered the fear he felt the first time he left for the wilderness; what a foolish lad he had been! After all, fear now represented the possibility of change to his routine, placid life. Fear was his only means of escape.
Hardly had Marcus began working when he was knocked to the floor by a zergling. Zerglings, what the fuck? He knew it was too late to save himself, but he sounded the alarm to his fellow SCVs. Fuckin' red changed races at the last minute... We've just been 4 pooled! The remaining workers scrambled towards base, as one lucky barracks lifted just before it could be brought down to red. Marcus knew this was probably GG, but if the SCVs at home could micro well enough, they might be able to hold back the rush and leave the zerg economically behind. Marcus smiled with his dying breath. Damn noobs...
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