This planet was going to drive him crazy or kill him, maybe both; he really hoped it wasn't both. If it wasn't the miserable weather or the damned corporate guys (being the frustrating combination of ambitious insistent and utterly clueless), it was the brass trying to bend over backwards to meet their stupid and terrible ideas. They weren't trying to kill you, unlike everything else. The locals, well, they where a different story; if it's not some Caledonian running at with a sword as big as he is (which is big!) that can cut the best armor like a ration pack, it's a Merovingian ambush that happens fast and leaves everyone asking bad questions like "where are they shooting from" and "why isn't that APC stopping". Or you're fighting Kazaks who use enough firepower to make a Yan Hao blush, or the Americans who use enough fire that you wonder how the whole planet isn't just a scorched ember. Don't forget to toss in the mines everywhere and I mean it quite literally. Lastly, there are the real natives, Cristo Santo, he'd be having nightmares for the rest of his life about those things. They where enough to make sure he'd only ever own cats for the rest of his life.
But, honestly, the part that he never got used to was the damned noise. Every damned gun they used made it, this high pitched annoying ping and clack that you could sometimes hear even when they weren't shooting them. Apparently that's how all guns worked before combi rifles where made. How they all didn't go crazy before then, he'd never know. Urban fighting was the worst. The casing would litter the ground and make that same damned high pitched pings and clanks, around even when they were brushed aside. It was such a ... messy way to fight. They'd also shout what where rather vulgar insults at you if they got close enough, which he just considered rude; doubly so if they didn't speak a language he could understand, which was all of them. Their English was terrible, for the ones that actually spoke it.
An absurdly loud report brought him back to his senses, and there standing over him wearing an archaic gas-mask, firing an archaic machine-gun, and speaking archaic Russian, was a Spetsnaz. Then he remembered he was bleeding, stabbed while he was pulling guard duty. Now he remembered what he really hated about this planet; all the Ariadnans where sneaky bastards who never fought fair. Oddly enough, even while this thought flitted through his mind, he had to smile a little as everything went dark, 'at least it wasn't to one of those damned noisy guns of theirs.'
A note from the writer himself: "This was the first piece of fan-fiction that I decided to write for Infinity; it was just a strange thought I had while I was in taking a shower something along the lines of “how would someone who is used caseless ammunition react to firefights against Ariadnan’s?” and then that night I was bored at my job at college and wrote this in about an hour, it’s not my favorite piece by far but I have a fondness for it. This is a lesson in confidence more than anything, if you have an idea write it down, reread rewrite as much as you want but put it down somewhere. Then the hard part is to ignore all the little demons and submit it, show it to someone, whatever it is that needs to be done because you’ll never be one hundred percent satisfied with what you’ve written especially once you’ve reread it several times, but you need to know when to let go before the pet project becomes a monster in the closet. But once you do it, once you see someone else has read it, once someone likes it, and (miracle of miracles) comments; then worlds open up to you, you can explore whatever idea you have share the visions that swim in your head open, I’m running out of flowery language you get the idea. This can be a liberating experience if you let it, if you have the inclination I heartily suggest giving it a go."