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SGCaper
Mar 25, 2025
In G.I. Joe
"The fence!" The shouting voice of the Green Shirt stood apart from the mayhem, attracting Spearhead's attention. With a spine-chilling creak, the fence began to collapse under the immense weight of the roiling mass of undead ghouls. The bending of the steel posts added to the terrifying noises as the grotesque figures tumbled forth, their yellow eyes gleaming with mindless hunger.
Spearhead darted through the chaos, his heart pounding as he made his way to the Green Shirt, a Specialist assigned to perimeter guard.
"Specialist!" he called out urgently. The guard fired at the writhing mass. "Specialist, we've gotta go," Spearhead said, raising his weapon and firing into the group of zombies. The Specialist briefly acknowledged Spearhead's presence as he dropped the empty magazine from his rifle and smacked another one home. The two men hustled away from the breached perimeter just as the first zombie gathered its footing, lurching forward, arms outstretched, jaw distended, eyes glazed yellow.
The growing mob advanced, their groans turning to ravenous howls. Gunfire came from every direction. Spearhead knew the threat wasn't just from the horde. A stray bullet was as much a threat.
"Watch our six!" Spearhead called out to the Specialist. He quickly shifted his rifle to the rear, ensuring nothing could sneak behind them.
"Where we going?" The Specialist called out over the bark of gunfire.
"Anywhere with walls," Spearhead replied.
The pair kept firing, reloading with practiced efficiency, working toward the nearest building.
Suddenly, the screech of tires ripped through the air, and a deuce-and-a-half skidded to a stop nearby, sending clouds of dust swirling in the air. The two-and-a-half-ton M35 had a canvas cover over the truck's bed. The driver, a rugged-looking Green Shirt clad in tactical gear, leaned out the window and shouted over the gunfire and groans, "Get in!"
The pair wasted no time, dashing toward the truck and scrambling into the back. Spearhead only took his finger off the trigger of his weapon when he reloaded.
The moment they were aboard, the driver sped off. Spearhead turned, finding the truck packed with support personnel, a mix of faces he recognized but couldn't name. All eyes were on him. He was an elite operator; these folks were office staff, paper pushers, and they'd never seen real action.
The truck's motor rumbled angrily, and the sound of crunching and squelching reached them as they bounced around the cargo compartment. Spearhead turned from the expectant stares, steadied himself, and fired at the nearest zombie. The Specialist joined him.
"Target the closest ones!" Spearhead shouted.
"Copy that!" the Specialist shifted his fire toward the infected nearest the escaping vehicle.
They continued firing until they ran empty.
The ride smoothed out shortly afterward. The last of the zombies disappeared in the distance.
Looking in every direction, Spearhead could see plumes of dark smoke rising, darkening the sky. He could hear small arms fire, even over the rumble of the truck's big engine.
The Escalante Desert in Utah was selected for the Joe Team's new headquarters following the catastrophic loss of the original base on Staten Island. The location had been chosen, in large part, due to its remote setting and sparse population. As Spearhead surveyed the horizon, taking in the number of fires sending smoke into the sky, it looked like the entire population had been infected.
Spearhead took a final look around the cargo bed of the truck before his body gave in to sheer exhaustion, and he crumpled to the floor. His eyelids fluttered closed, and as darkness welcomed him, he heard the soft murmur of whispered conversations. He also listened to the faint sounds of several people quietly sobbing.
As he sat on the hard floor, arms wrapped around his knees, he felt his body relax. The wave of adrenaline that had propelled him through the events finally flushed from his system.
He awoke with a start as the truck came to a shuddering stop. Instinct kicked in, and he whipped his rifle up, aiming out the back of the covered truck bed. The Specialist he had rescued sat across from him.
"What's going on?" Spearhead asked, his voice just above a whisper.
"Not sure," the Specialist replied.
Spearhead heard the heavy thud of the truck slamming shut, followed by the crunching of footsteps on the gravel road. "Hey, everyone out," came the driver's voice. He moved to the back of the vehicle, positioning himself so his back faced the open cargo area, his rifle aimed cautiously into the dense woods bordering the road. "We're out of gas. Gotta go on foot from here."
Spearhead signaled to the Specialist beside him, "Hop down, then cover."
The Specialist did as ordered, expertly lowering himself from the rear of the truck and raising his weapon, his eyes scouring the surroundings for threats.
Spearhead lowered himself down, rifle still at the ready.
Spearhead glanced back over his shoulder into the cargo area. "Is anyone else armed?" Several people raised their hands hesitantly. "Great, get out here, and let's secure the area."
One by one, they exited the truck, each gripping a pistol. "No one else grabbed a rifle?" Spearhead asked.
"No, Sir," replied a shaken-looking Private First Class as he nervously watched the treeline.
Spearhead studied the faces of those emerging: a mix of Privates, PFCs, and a Specialist. His eyes landed on the driver, a Sergeant, noting no officers were present. He turned toward the anxious PFC, "I'm not an officer, Private; I'm just a Staff Sergeant."
"Well, Staff Sergeant, you're the highest-ranking person here. I'm pretty sure that makes you in charge," the Specialist he rescued said, still scanning the area with his weapon.
Spearhead tilted his head, "I didn't catch your name," lowering his weapon just a fraction but remaining alert.
"Specialist Dube," came the reply, "most people call me Rollbar." He straightened as he said his name. Spearhead noted the display of confidence.
Spearhead turned to the driver, "What about you?"
"Sergeant Jivoin. Most just call me Switch Gears," he responded, eyes roving the perimeter.
"What were your roles at the base?"
Switch Gears answered quickly, "I was just waiting to find out if I made the Joe Team."
"Same," Roll Bar chimed in.
"Well, you're on the Team now," Spearhead said earnestly. You're my squad leaders. Shake these folks out and organize them as you see fit." Although both men were still watching for enemies, Spearhead's words had caught them off guard, momentarily disrupting their focus. "I'll take watch. You two get to work."
In response, Switch Gears and Rollbar quickly lowered their weapons, nodding respectfully at Spearhead before turning their attention to organizing the other survivors.
The two men moved swiftly, talking with each person, attempting to identify strengths and weaknesses. They wasted no time and soon had their squads assembled.
"Staff Sergeant, we've got them organized," Switch Gears declared.
"Great. Take watch," Spearhead turned his attention from monitoring for threats to assessing those now under his command: Pvt Steinberg, a motor transport operator with the unmistakable demeanor of someone who had grown up in the shadow of his father, Clutch; Pvt Smith, a unit supply specialist appeared more reserved and timid; PFC Quinn, an intelligence analyst with a sharp mind and sharper wit; PFC O'Hara, another intelligence analyst and Scarlett's niece; and lastly Specialist Williams, also a unit supply specialist.
The terror of seeing their teammates and comrades fall under the gnashing teeth of the undead had taken its toll. As they stood there, something inside them began to change as the truth settled over them. Of the six other survivors on the duece-and-a-half, only three grabbed a weapon during the chaos of their escape.
Spearhead unholstered his sidearm and handed it to PFC Quinn, and she accepted it with a nod. "Thank you, Staff Sergeant."
"It's just Spearhead," he said, reassuringly nodding. He turned to see Switch Gears and Rollbar following his lead, handing their pistols to the unarmed squad members.
When he looked at the group, all eyes were on him. The fear he had seen before was all but erased, leaving a fierce determination behind. Taking a step forward, he addressed them all, "Look, I can't sugarcoat this, we're in the shit. It's bad. We have limited firepower and even more limited ammo." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "What I need next is a complete inventory of what we have left. I want exact counts: bullets, magazines, canteens - hell, even pocket knives."
His gaze shifted to the looming figure of the deuce-and-a-half, its battered body showing the scars of their hasty escape, "I want you to strip anything we can use of the deuce. Focus on improvised weapons and anything that can be used to create shelter." Turning to Rollbar, he added, "You pick someone to work security with you. I want to be out of here in 20 minutes or less."
Over the years, the group stayed together, enduring challenges that had torn other groups apart. They became each other's pillars of strength, drawing resilience from their experiences as they navigated the brutal and unforgiving apocalyptic world. Each day was a new battle for survival; they scavenged for anything that could sustain them—food, medicine, and weapons. They honed their combat skills and strategic thinking, learning to anticipate threats and adapt to the ever-changing dangers around them.
By the time Spearhead stumbled upon another member of the Joe Team, his two squads were fine-tuned combat veterans. These were no longer the frightened individuals they once were; they had faced innumerable hordes of ravenous zombies, fought off wild-eyed marauders, and lived to tell the tales.
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SGCaper
Mar 25, 2025
In G.I. Joe
Claymore had finally carved out some much-needed rest and relaxation amid the lush landscape of Southeast Asia. For several days, he had reveled in the sun-kissed paradise, lounging on the warm, golden sands of a secluded beach. With a refreshing tropical drink in hand - complete with a tiny paper umbrella - he let the rhythmic sounds of the waves wash away the burdens of his past missions.
The tranquil scene, however, was abruptly shattered when, from the corner of his, he noticed a figure stumbling down the coast. At first, he thought it was just another drunken tourist. However, as they drew closer, he could see blood staining their bare chest. He watched as the blood-soaked man latched onto another unsuspecting guest and sank his teeth into his throat. Claymore's adrenaline kicked in, and he sprang into action, sprinting down the beach to assist.
He immediately attempted to arrange a flight back stateside, but the sudden crisis had grounded all flights. He hurried to the embassy, where he was given a place on an evacuation chopper along with other military members who had been in the country. The helicopter was headed for an army base, where they would take a transport home. However, their journey came to an abrupt end when their helicopter was suddenly targeted and shot down, plummeting from the skies.
When he regained consciousness hours later, he awoke to a nightmare. The world around him was spiraling into total collapse. What had taken weeks or months to unfold in other regions of the globe had descended upon this small country in a dizzying whirlwind, unraveling the fabric of society in a single, horrifying day.
It took him years to finally complete the arduous journey back home. When he finally arrived, the United States was unrecognizable. It appeared as a hollow shell of its former self. The vibrant cities he knew were now in crumbling ruins, the shadows alive with the undead, searching for their next victim. As he stood amid the destruction, his heart sank with the cold realization that his family had vanished, swallowed by the turmoil that had overtaken the nation. Though he wouldn't admit it, he clung to the fragile hope that they were out there, maybe even in the protection offered by New Springfield.
The government had disintegrated, leaving power vacuums and feuding factions that fought for control over resources. G.I. Joe was nowhere to be found, and everywhere he turned, chaos reigned. Lawlessness and desperation were the rules of the land.
In a last bid for survival, he trekked deep into the wilderness, away from population centers. He stuck to the shadows, the path less traveled. Still, despite his best efforts, he crossed paths with other refugees who shared similar ideas on surviving in this new world.
During these brief moments of peace, while sitting around small fires, he heard tales that offered purpose—stories of people he recognized as Joes standing up for the weak. Other times, he heard rumors of cures.
As a military officer, he took it upon himself to take on a new mission.
Find other Joes.
Find the cure.
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SGCaper
Mar 25, 2025
In G.I. Joe
Muskrat had been immersed in an intense training exercise with the Brazilian military deep within the heart of the Amazon rainforest. Due to a complete communication blackout, they were cut off from the outside world, leaving them unaware of the growing global unrest.
In the days leading up to their operation, the unit Muskrat was training watched as sporadic news reports detailed localized rioting and civil discontent in various regions. Although concerning, these disturbances were unsettling yet not entirely unexpected in certain parts of the world. With years of experience dealing with similar issues, the Brazilian troops dismissed the reports as ordinary occurrences.
His first indication that something was wrong came when a seemingly disoriented and frantic group of people burst out of the dense undergrowth. They stumbled over gnarled roots and thick branches, their clothes bloody and torn, and their faces contorted in anger. But what captured Muskrat's attention was their erratic behavior. Upon seeing Muskrat's men, the disoriented mob turned. Their arms reached out, their fingers grasping at the air. They let out growls that raised the hair on the back of his neck.
The first person attacked was the medic assigned to the unit. They had approached the nearest injured person, a woman covered in dark ichor. The medic had reached out when the woman sank her teeth deep into his hand. Muskrat watched as the medic faltered, a distant glaze overtaking his eyes. The transformation happened quickly; the medic became disoriented and aggressive, his body jerking uncontrollably. Within minutes, the medic had succumbed to the virus that coursed through his veins. In a contagious frenzy, he bit his assistant. From there, the virus spread like wildfire.
Muskrat escaped into the jungle, the howls of the infected following him. When he finally came to a tributary of the Amazon, he dove in. The undead sloshed into the water behind him. The cold, dark waters slowed the ghouls enough for Muskrat to make his escape.
Once he had escaped the immediate threat and fought back to civilization, Muskrat found himself in a similar situation to Claymore; all flights were grounded, the Embassy staff and military personnel had been evacuated, and pandemonium was all around. Muskrat decided to retreat into the dense jungle and head north.
By day, he trudged through the steamy jungle, working his way home, while at night, he sought refuge in the canopy of the towering trees. More than once, he watched from his hiding spots as horrid undead creatures ravaged nearby villages, their terrifying shrieks mixing with the panicked sounds of the living.
Eventually, the lush greenery gave way to changing scenery and civilization. The cities of Central America had become death traps, overrun by the undead. He made sure to provide the towns as wide a berth as possible, even if it did add time to his escape.
His journey led him to the harsh expanse of the desert. The sun beat down on him mercilessly during the day, while a bone-chilling cold took hold of him at night. He would not have made it if he had not stumbled upon the rusted pick-up that miraculously started right up. Scavenging fuel became a critical mission, occupying his time, helping him traverse the vast emptiness of the desert, and putting him closer to home.
Crossing into Texas, he had hoped the situation was different in the Land of the Free. However, what he found was the Land of the Undead. Every border town was overrun, and the millions of firearms in Texas had done little to stem the tide of the zombie infection. He headed east, towards Louisiana. Arriving in his hometown, Muskrat was heartbroken to find it overrun and unrecognizable, the populace swallowed by the nightmare creatures.
Turning to his training, Muskrat sought refuge in the swamp. The threat of snakes and gators seemed quaint compared to the horrors of the undead.
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SGCaper
Nov 27, 2024
In Heroes
The atmosphere at the Bizzaar buzzed with energy, an energetic tapestry of noise and excitement. The air thrummed with the raucous cheers of fervent spectators, their voices drowning out the animated shouts of vendors hawking their wares. The enticing aromas of sizzling mystery meats wafted through the air, mingling with the rich, fragrant spices of various dishes. Above, an array of brightly colored banners fluttered in the breeze, each representing one of the fighters who would soon clash in The Ring.
The monthly fights had evolved into a cornerstone of the Bizzaar's allure, pulling crowds from all corners of the wastes. As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden hue over the scene, the excitement in the air intensified, reaching a fever pitch as the Announcer strode confidently into the ring. His presence commanded attention, and he took a moment to soak in the crowd's collective energy, reveling in their cheers and chants that echoed like thunder. The Announcer raised his hand, silencing the jubilant uproar; the crowd gradually fell into a hush, their excitement fading to a low, eager murmur.
"Welcome one and all to the Bizzaar!" he boomed.
In response, the crowd erupted into loud applause and cheering. The Announcer raised his hand again, signaling for silence in the venue. Gradually, the clamor subsided until a hush settled over the crowd.
Taking a deep breath, the Announcer projected his voice, "Welcome to Friday Night Fights!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the audience responded with an earth-shaking roar, a sheer explosion of sound reverberating across the Bizzaar. The vibration of their cheers reverberated through the Bizzaar, momentarily drowning out the distant groans of the encroaching zombie horde. The wall guards, stationed strategically to keep unrest at bay, felt the icy grip of fear run down their spines as they remained vigilant. Their main task was to hold back the attracted undead, drawn by the overwhelming noise of excitement.
With a hand raised to quell the growing roar for a third time, the Announcer stood taller, his voice commanding, "Now, making his way to the ring, standing at an imposing 6 foot 5 inches and weighing in at a solid 250 pounds, the fierce and legendary former heavyweight champion, WILDCAT!"
Wildcat strode out to the ring confidently, towering over the crowd. He moved with purpose, ignoring the cheers and jeers that surrounded him. As he approached, a ring hand opened the gate of the chain-link fence encircling the ring. Wildcat stepped inside, his broad shoulders squared and muscles rippling, heading straight for his corner, showcasing the spirit of a seasoned fighter ready for battle.
"And his opponent, the behemoth of the night, standing at an astonishing 7 feet tall and weighing a monstrous 300 pounds, fearsome and relentless, we present to you ROMULOUS!"
Wildcat's opponent, Romulus, entered the ring with a whole entourage. His hands sported wicked-looking claws that glinted in the firelight of torches. A wild mane of hair cascaded down a dark like a dark waterfall, shrouding his face in deep shadow.
As he stepped into the ring, the tension escalated. He moved like a wild animal, settling into his corner while his piercing eyes locked onto Wildcat, brimming with an intensity that sent shivers down the spines of lesser men.
The Announcer seized the moment, cutting through the crowd's murmurs with his voice. "Ladies and gentlemen," he bellowed, regaining their attention. The rules for tonight's showdown are straightforward. No killing," he declared, directing a stern gaze at Romulus. Beyond that, anything goes. The only way to victory is to remain the last one standing." The audience roared with approval at the declaration.
The fight was a thrilling spectacle that lasted late into the night. Romulus took the lead early, using his size and strength to his benefit, pummeling Wildcat to the mat with devastating blows, then lifting Wildcat and repeatedly tossing him into the chain link fence. He battered Wildcat with vicious elbows that Wildcat tried desperately to defend against. Romulus was bigger, stronger, and more brutal than any opponent Wildcat had faced.
What Wildcat possessed was a keen strategic mind and exceptional skill.
He also could take a beating.
Wildcat opened his eyes to the sterile whiteness of the infirmary inside the Bizzaar. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, he saw the nurse standing at his bedside.
"You've been unconscious for several days," she said gently. As she continued, a smile blossomed on her face. "But you have some good news: you won the prize."
Wildcat's eyes went wide. The nurse continued, "You've earned $1000 in Dollar Deb Dollars, a thousand rounds of ammunition in the caliber of his choosing, and as much fuel as he could haul."
The nurse went on to tell him how Romulus had broken the first rule of the ring, using his vicious claws to eviscerate Wildcat in a barbarous display of ferocity.
Wildcat recovered entirely within days. After collecting his winnings, a small fortune in the wastes of the ZomPoc, he turned his back on the bustling chaos of the Bizzaar.
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SGCaper
Nov 05, 2024
In Cobra
The Sand Scorpion forces are a clandestine project developed as part of an experimental program orchestrated by the notorious Dr. Mindbender, aimed at creating more formidable and effective warriors for the COBRA legions. This secretive initiative seeks to engineer an elite fighting force capable of thriving in the harshest desert environments.
The backbone of the Sand Scorpion troops consists of specially selected Cobra Sand Vipers. These elite soldiers undergo a radical transformation where their DNA is expertly recombined with that of their arachnid counterparts, the scorpions. This genetic alteration not only enhances their physical capabilities but also endows them with unique adaptations, including tough scales that coat the sides of their bodies, enabling them to breathe easily in sandy terrains. However, this adaptation comes at a cost, as the scales create discomfort, making all Sand Scorpion troops emerge from their sandy hideouts in a foul mood and primed for a fight against anyone who crosses their path.
Completely buried beneath the surface of the shifting sands, the Sand Scorpion soldiers exhibit a remarkable capacity for patience, lying in wait for unsuspecting victims. They possess a heightened sensitivity to vibrations traveling through the dense desert floor, allowing them to detect the approach of potential targets even from a considerable distance. When the moment is right, they unleash their attack, erupting from their concealed positions with surprising speed and ferocity.
To enhance their offensive capabilities, each Sand Scorpion operative is equipped with a bio-mechanical scorpion mounted on their back. These formidable constructs are armed with razor-sharp claws capable of inflicting severe injuries and possess the ability to spit a potent venom that can incapacitate foes swiftly. The Sand Scorpions are not only heavily armored but are also trained for speed and agility, making them exceptionally dangerous adversaries in close combat.
Given their formidable attributes and combat skills, these warriors are best confronted from a distance. Tactical analysts recommend utilizing laser-guided missiles to counter the Sand Scorpion forces effectively, as their quick movements and armored bodies make direct engagement a perilous endeavor. With their unique attributes and lethal prowess, the Sand Scorpions embody the height of Dr. Mindbender's ambition to craft an unstoppable force within the COBRA army.
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SGCaper
Nov 05, 2024
In Cobra
Cobra Desert Vipers are meticulously trained to withstand the extreme conditions of the desert environment, where they face sweltering heat during the blistering daytime hours and bone-chilling cold when night falls. Their training encompasses not only physical endurance but also crucial skills in water and food acquisition, enabling them to survive in an unforgiving landscape where resources are scarce.
As a specialized subsection of the Cobra Range Vipers, each member is equipped with a unique set of gear tailored to their operational needs. They carry a variant of the AK-47, chosen for its remarkable reliability and durability in arid climates, which is essential for maintaining combat readiness in such environments.
When the need for new gear arises, these elite operatives have been known to resort to audacious tactics. They conduct raids on military outposts, ambush supply convoys, and even launch direct attacks on training units, showcasing their commitment to maintaining their operational capabilities and securing the resources necessary for their missions. This strategic approach underlines their adaptability and skill in navigating the formidable challenges posed by their desert surroundings.
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SGCaper
Nov 05, 2024
In Cobra
Sand Rats are a unique group that have transitioned from the humid, murky realms of the swamp to the harsh, arid expanses of the desert. Formerly known as Swamp Rats, these individuals sought new challenges and environments, trading their familiar, dank surroundings for the relentless heat and vastness of the desert landscape.
To adapt to their new conditions, they undertook the rigorous Desert Viper training, a program designed to equip operatives with the skills needed for survival and efficiency in desert warfare. However, during this transformation, the Sand Rats often found themselves marginalized by the conventional Desert Vipers, who viewed them with suspicion or disdain.
Understanding the value of their previous experiences, the Sand Rats have creatively adapted their gear, integrating elements from their time in the Swamp Viper Unit. This customization reflects their commitment to blending the best of both worlds, incorporating features suited for the desert while maintaining a connection to their swamp origins. Their unique approach not only aids their adaptation but also sets them apart as a distinct and resourceful faction within the broader tactical community.
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SGCaper
Nov 05, 2024
In Cobra
The Sand Vipers represent Cobra's premier desert infantry unit, specifically trained to thrive in the harsh conditions of desert warfare. This specialized group excels in small-group tactics and covert operations, employing strategies that leverage their training and the unforgiving terrain to their advantage. Each Sand Viper trooper is outfitted with cutting-edge armor that integrates a unique base layer system. This advanced gear not only regulates body temperature to combat the extreme heat but also features innovative technology that recycles lost water from perspiration, ensuring hydration is maintained during long missions. Additionally, the armor is designed to conceal the wearers' heat signatures, providing a tactical edge against enemy detection and improving their effectiveness in stealth operations.
Troopers who enlist in the Sand Viper corps are fully aware that they are about to embark on a grueling and arduous journey through searing heat and relentless adversity. The path ahead promises to be a relentless trial, one that tests their limits and resilience at every turn. Yet, despite the daunting challenges that await, these warriors wouldn't dare choose a different fate; the thrill of facing hell itself is what drives them forward.
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To hold the rank of Sergeant within the Sand Viper Corps, troopers must demonstrate exceptional skill and dedication, having served in the ranks of Cobra for no less than five years. This experience is crucial, as Sergeants are tasked with leading their units through complex operations, drawing on their extensive knowledge of both the environment and combat tactics gained through years of service.
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At the highest levels, Officers in the Sand Viper Corps are a select few who have made a lifelong commitment to Cobra’s cause. These individuals find a unique sense of purpose and belonging within the desolate beauty of the desert, where they cultivate a deep bond with their team and the challenges they face. With an unwavering allegiance to their mission and unit, they embody the spirit of the Sand Vipers, drawing strength from both their past experiences and the unyielding landscape around them.
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SGCaper
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