Semper Fi, Motherfucker

 OOC || I was playing ESO, but now I’m here because...

|| LOL sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t mean to pull you away from your game

Fucking hell. John growled, refusing to give into the fact that there was a giant, nightmare-inducing, eight-legged freak standing before them. He’d deal with that bullshit later. For the moment, he had a job to do. And he’d be damned if he didn’t give it his all.

John had purposely stomped a little harder than necessary on the crispy-fried carcasses of the dead babies. Fuckers. It was his way of forcing the issue in his head. Of facing that goddamned phobia and giving it the proverbial finger.

He’d been proud. And he still was, although he’d refrain from celebrating until Shelaub the goddamned Queen of Nightmares was a smoking husk.

“Let’s kick some..” He growled softly, taking aim. He’d wait for Sarge’s word, of course. No one moved ‘til Sarge gave the orders. Standard Op. And while John would have loved to take the initiative and just flambe the fucker, he knew better than to piss of Sarge.

Dead spider or not, a pissed off Sarge would make the return trip home hell.

Sarge eyed the situation, one fist raised in a ‘Hold’ signal to keep his team in place. The massive spider currently perched at the center of its web had spear like legs and a pair of fore-pinchers that could definitely do harm at close range. It looked fucking fast, too. 

But large.... cumbersome. Which could work to the RRTS’s advantage. 

Turning his head, Tom caught Reaper’s eye. He glanced to the shorter man’s flamethrower and nodded, “...we draw it towards us, away from the web, then hit it with fire.” The way John’s weapon spewed flames, it was sure to light up the webbing around the Queen. 

Pointing at Destroyer, Sarge continued. “Destroyer, aim for the weight-bearing beams there--” He indicated the lair’s ceiling, a former facility now little more than rusted metal and spider silk, “--and There. Bring the fucking house down on this piece of shit.” 

“...but what if it don’t come this way, Sarge.” Portman piped up, his tone just shy of insolent. He grinned, “One of us gonna play bait?” 

Sarge lofted an eyebrow slowly, shouldering his weapon in a way that made the other Marine’s smirk falter. “Actually, Yes. And your Chicken-shit ass has ‘Bait’ written all over it, Portman, so shut your fucking mouth.” 

Gesturing once more, Sarge gave the signal for action.