a short story based on 4chan greentext

[Eurobeat]

The year is 2079, and I find myself stationed on Mars, a desolate and unforgiving frontier. My purpose? To quell a rebellion that has ignited among the restless inhabitants of the Red Planet. As a door gunner on an atmospheric dropship, my role is to provide aerial support and firepower from above. But little did I know that the weapon I would be entrusted with was not the latest technological marvel but rather an old brick of a machine gun with what looked like a pipe sticking out of it.

It's a peculiar sight, this relic from a bygone era. As I secure myself in the dropship, surrounded by the metallic hum of technology, my hands grip the worn handle of the ancient weapon. Its weight is substantial, a reminder of the countless battles it has seen. I wonder what tales it holds within its steel frame.

The mission takes a sudden turn when we are ordered to extract wounded soldiers from the battlefield. The chaos of war engulfs us as we touch down near the evacuation zone. But our arrival does not go unnoticed. We come under attack from a horde of rebels armed with new plasma guns and compact rocket launchers. The deafening roar of their weaponry fills the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

With a determined resolve, I let loose a stream of bullets from the archaic machine gun. The rebels charge relentlessly, their cries merging with the rhythmic "chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk" of the weapon. It feels as if time has slowed down, the world reduced to the symphony of violence. The echoes of their pain intertwine with my duty, nearly drowning out the cacophony of battle.

As the wounded are loaded up and the dropship ascends, I steal a moment to catch my breath. The adrenaline fades, giving way to reflection. I inspect the machine gun, my hands tracing the scars etched upon its surface. Curiosity overcomes me as I discover the faded words scratched into the gun's worn metal: "Tunisia, Italy, Germany." A surge of history courses through me, connecting me to those who wielded this weapon before.

In that fleeting instant, I sense a deep bond forming between myself and this relic of the past. It has traveled across time and space, from distant battlegrounds to the hostile landscapes of Mars. And just as those who came before, I, too, have left my mark on this weathered companion. With a knife, I carve the word "Mars" next to the faded engravings of its previous battles.