Dying is terrible. It isn't the actual death part that's bad if one could finally find some semblance of peace its coming back. That and there was that little issue of crying. A man is allowed some damn tears after experiencing death, but no not a single moment of peace when clone number.... something teleports into the Galaxy troopship before someone notices the pitiful sobbing.
"Holy Shit! Wake up guys! Sisyphus is crying!"
"WHAT?!"
"YO CAPTAIN! SISYPHUS IS CRYING!"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP ASSHOLES! I'VE GOT THE RECORDER GOING!"
"Spill it dude! Its been freakin months!"
By all the gods in the sky he hated them. Ever since he joined the New Conglomerate army Sisyphus had this really nasty habit of uncontrollable crying when he experienced a new kind of death. In the beginning he was crying all the time seeing as war had a plethora of terrible ways to die. As time marched on though his bouts of weeping grew farther and farther apart until he was counted among the veterans. It was a combination of both his nickname and the tears that made him something of a distraction for everyone else.
A horrifying reality they all shared and learned to laugh at. All he could do was lean forward and cover his face with his hands until the shakes subsided.
"Now now guys, give him a few seconds to recover. Let the guy have a good sob before heckling him."
"I.... I hate.... All of you...."
"Awww come on sugar lump! Tell us how you ate shit and maybe we'll leave you alone the next time your sorry ass gets cloned!"
"I was in a tank! I got hit by C-4 and the tank blew, but I was still alive! It rolled off of a cliff and split in half.... I went one way and my legs went the other."
The collective hissing and shuttering quieted the bastards down as they imagined the scenario play out. Some of them pulled out small squad trackers and offered their condolences when they saw his previous vitals report. Sisyphus didn't die from the explosion or the trauma, he died from the subsequent blood loss. As a part of the nano recorder implanted into each of their brains their experience was recorded, transferred, and subsequently loaded into an awaiting clone up until the very moment of expiration.
A stark reminder of how they died and hopefully a lesson to keep the soldiers from repeating their mistakes, but traumatic in ways that drugs and therapy couldn't even begin to fix. It wasn't for a lack of trying on the Conglomerates part in the first aspect at least. As much as his unit wanted to dwell in the new death the sound of something exploding against the drop ship and blaring klaxons ushered in a sudden sense of falling.
Whatever they got hit by was enough for the pilot to jettison them all into the nothingness of open space and the impeding dread of the ground rushing up to meet them. His preferred method of decent would be with a light assault kit that included a nifty little jet pack to drift safely to the ground, but of course he was outfitted in his normal heavy assault equipment and plummeting to assumed safety. It was supposed to be safe bailing from a Galaxy and it was supposed to sheath those falling in an inertia dampening field.
That would be the nice thing to happen, but Sisyphus didn't seem capable of receiving nice things that day. Falling to your death was actually a preferred way of dying as the impact killed you instantaneously.
Oh sweet painless death I've missed you so.
Then he felt the pain of being put back together by some sick medic. Dear god, he was going to shot him in ways that would ensure a slow bleeding demise, but at the moment his legs were making the slow transition from being lodged in his torso to their normal position. He'd scream if he could, but the vocal cords wouldn't come back for a while and his lungs had been turned to pulp.
When the pain finally subsided Sisyphus managed to sit up with his Jackhammer clicking ominously off safety and looked around the darkened woods. This was a problem seeing as there weren't any thick woods on the continent he was on along with the distinct lack of medics. The only thing he could hear was a subtle low growling in his general vicinity and static on his com piece...
All the large hostile animals on the planet had been wiped out ages ago from target practice...
The things that did step out of the woods weren't like anything he could recall. It was definitely dog shaped, but the damn things looked like they were made out of wood and he couldn't think of any animal that had glowing green eyes. One got a bit too close and was promptly shot. Unfortunately the rest of them took that a reason to attack in mass.
He had lots of bullets in his mag, and he was able to hold them off for a few moments as his ammo cycled closer and closer to empty, but there were just too many of them to deal with. He couldn't reload the damn thing fast enough, and when he did click dry he pulled his commissioner revolver out and blew another six of them away at point blank. The smart thing to do would have been to pop his over shields and reload, but terror had a way of screwing that up and instead he activated both grenades at his waist and used one as a bludgeon while he waited for them to detonate.
That didn't save him from experiencing his throat being viciously torn out or the grenade hand he was using to be torn clean off.
Sisyphus had died three horrible times in the last 15 minuets, yet once again he felt the hated touch of a medic piecing him back together after just being partially eaten. It was bad enough having to die a new way a second time so soon after the first, but now he had to endure it in reverse. When his eyes opened he was lying in a small crater made by the grenades, his gun and side arm lying at his side looking up at the sky.
There he wept, cursing and shaking as he hiccuped and sniffled.
