I’m Kent4987, a Special Operations Sperm, the elite of the elite. In order to pass Selection and get badged as an SOS operator, I had to carry twice as much as DNA as those bozos in the Spermatazoic Marine Corps, and endure a thousand times more pain. Many try, but few succeed. The final test in SOS Selection is a grueling field exercise where we don’t sleep, eat, and swim through the testes for days on end.
You may think of that as pointless cruelty, but the final product is an insanely motivated, superbly conditioned sperm cell that can crack the toughest egg in the harshest conditions. One time, the eggheads up in Kent’s brain miscalculated an SOS platoon’s drop zone—big surprise, I know—and shot the operators onto a woman’s perineum. Even though they were carrying a full nanogram of mitochondria between them, they managed to traverse hostile terrain, reach the objective, and make it to the egg. That balls-out mission established our unit motto: “Impregnation through heinousness or anuses.”
Our platoon commander walks in to the team room, where we’re shooting the shit and playing Call of Duty. “Hey guys, we just got a mission.”
Everyone stops what they’re doing and listens up. That’s how we are; we’re either chill as fuck or we’re in 10th gear.
“Brains wants some guns-up sperm for their next mission, so they’ve asked us to step up. We leave in five. Get your shit together and stage at the urethra.”
Hot damn! Some guys train and train and train…and they NEVER get to deploy! This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for.
In a few minutes we’re kitted up in plasmic armor, stacked up and ready to go. Normally, it takes billions of sperm to fire up the erectile tissue, but we’re SOS operators; we get special treatment.
“REEE! REEE! REEE! OPERATORS, PERFORM YOUR FINAL GEAR CHECKS. LAUNCHING FROM THE HOST BODY IN 5…4…3…2…”
B’KOOM! Our platoon goes flying out from the glans and no one says a word. Rule number one of special ops: Always Look Cool. Rule #2: Never get lost. Rule #3: If you get lost, then look cool.
As we fly through the air, my gut tells me something’s wrong. This isn’t the warm, wet hole we were expecting; we’re surrounded by tile and metal. If I don’t crack an egg today I’m gonna be seriously pissed—
“EYES UP!” Our team sergeant screams. “HOT WATER!”
An ominous hiss sounds from above, and as I splat down on the grouted floor, I realize where we are.
Kent Wayne jerked us off into a fucking shower. MotherFUCKER!
Steaming liquid splashes down on my teammates. They instantly die, howling in agony. I want to help them but I’m busy racing between tiles, trying to avoid a tide of oncoming death.
No options left. I reach into my mitochondrial rig and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I teleport back into Kent’s balls and start swimming. Once they spot me, they’ll know that I aborted the mission and somehow made it back. They’ll send hunter-killer cells after me, and unless I stay on the move, I’m fucking dead. No way I’m gonna let that happen.
First stop’s the armory. Then I’m going after those shitbags in Brains, who think it’s perfectly acceptable to waste my platoon.
They’ve just fucked with the wrong sperm.
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