The grim chamber had been quiet, buzzing only with the faint sounds of electrical currents and small machine parts, before the loud lock mechanism of the blast door leading into the chamber was initiated. It whirred in a series of spins, twists and clicks until the mechanism was complete, and the blast door slowly slid open with steamy white vapor rushing out due to pressure from inside the airlock. The air soon cleared, and a silhouette of a large man was seen at the mouth of the entrance. The man stepped out, shedding light onto his topless, muscular body and his ragged, orange pants, and much lower were bar-linked shackles fastened around his ankles. His head sported a crew cut, his chin was stubbly, and his face bore many scares, along with a stern countenance of a grizzled war veteran. His eyes were dark; his pupils were so large that it almost swallowed all the white, perhaps a deformity caused by prolonged cryogenic suspension. And he had a cigar in his mouth, its wispy grey smoke gently drifting in the dark, moist atmosphere of the chamber.

He had been a prisoner frozen in lifeless suspension in a cryogenic coffin. Now he was about to become a Marine.

The man proceeded to walk calmly across a catwalk and onto a round platform that was at the centre of the small chamber. There were two foot holes fixed on the platform, and the man placed both his feet inside them. As soon as he did, small robotic clamps came from beneath the platform to disengage the shackles before firmly fastening his feet to the foot holes. The clamps then disappeared out of sight, and the platform slowly rose about several feet higher before halting. The man stood idly on the round platform for a while until a pair of tendrils came down from above and grappled the man’s wrist before slowly raising them higher, draping both of his arms just above the man’s head. Soon a whirring sound was heard; it was the power turbine, charging up and preparing to initiate the assembly of the Terran Marine Power Armor.

A computer screen came down in front of the man, showing the current progress of the power suit-assembling process. The word ‘ACTIVE’ was blinking at the end of a string of commands on-screen.

Robotic arms, which were fixed around the chamber and before had been dormant, then began to come alive, retracting from the walls as they were about to start their work on the man. Several of the mechanical hands procured a set of chassis and fastened them onto the man’s torso and limbs. Others helped by placing wires, tubes and mechatronical parts around the chassis with screws and bolts before covering them by welding pieces of armor plating onto the chassis. The plates were ultramarine blue, and they suffered from small dents, scratched paint and other signs of wear, perhaps taken from an older set of armor that had been through combat a few times. The mechanical hands worked from the ground up; the man was half-way through the process, and already his lower half was fully covered with high-tech armor while the machines worked on the aegis along with the insertion of plasma cells that will provide almost perpetual power for the battle suit.

One of the hands had finished implanting an artificial spinal cord to the back of the man’s actual spine. The two rows of needles on the artificial spinal chord automatically and subsequently embedded themselves into the man’s back, making impulse signal contact with his brain He would be able to command almost full control of his power armor just by willing its movement with his mind. Next was the extension gauntlets; due to the bulky nature of the power armor, the pair of robotic gloves would serve as an extension of his actual hands by the manipulation of gyro-servo devices that was placed within his grasp before the machines welded the extension gauntlets together with the armor around his forearm.

The process was 80% in completion; almost all of him was covered with metal while several tubes were pumping cryo-fluids into the armor cooling system. The tubes dislodged themselves and disappeared after they were finished, and the tendrils that had been draping his arms came down slowly before releasing his wrists. A pair of huge, round pauldrons bearing his unit ID on the left side and the insignia of the Terran Dominion on the right side came down and were attached to his shoulders. Once it was done, two exhaust ports at the back of the power armor started to light up; the suit was testing overall system functions for optimal performance. Everything tested well, and all the bonds that constricted the man’s movement were loosened. The man was now one with his power armor.

The finishing touch; an automatic rifle was lowered from above just within reach of the man’s mechanical gauntlets. The rifle weighs 60 lbs and uses depleted uranium shell cartridges for ammunition. It can fire up to 2500 bullets per minute in both automatic and in rounds, and it is also capable of launching a frag grenade that explodes on contact. It is the standard-issue firearm for the Terran Marine Corp.

And then all was done. Standing on that platform was no longer just any man. He was now a Marine towering 8 feet tall and fully clad from head to toe in power armor 8 inches thick, armed with a powerful gun, frag grenades and other devastating gadgetry. But all the armor and firepower won’t be enough once he is in the battlefield. He might have to face against the esoteric, relentless forces of the Protoss warriors. He might have to steel himself against the frightening claws and talons of the nightmarish Zerg swarms. He might even have to battle against other Terran marines, men and women serving their own factions with guns like himself.

No, the prerequisites for being a marine are more than just mere material armor or weapon. It takes stoic courage, guts of steel, and a special kind of sanity. These qualities are both a marine’s true weapon and shield against the horrors of war that await him. Any man can slip into a power armor and go into battle, but only a few can make the return journey alive.

‘ASSEMBLY PROCESS: FINISHED’

The Marine stepped forward, embracing his new amalgamated self. He had been in cryogenic suspension for longer than he could remember, and now he stood as one amongst millions who will bring forth the military wrath of the Terran Dominion. Just as the ice had thawed from his body, the same was with his mind. With the cigar still burning in his mouth, he pondered how he had lived his life before, how he was now, and the role that he was about take in the big picture of things to come. Four words came to him, and he uttered it grimly before bringing the glass visor down to hide his face:

“Hell, it’s about time.”