Just another NS fanfic. The Survivor
A story of one man's brush with the Kharaa.
As John McPeterson sighed. He was stuck patrolling the United Free States Waystation 759 darkest and most crime ridden slums again. A member of the
UFS watchmen he had to deal with crime everyday. Prostitution, drugs, gangers, domestic violence, smuggling and racketeering, he saw it all every single day.
His only weapons in this struggle for control were a flashlight and a Cx-10 pistol, his defenses were quick wits and a dodgy vest.
"I don't get paid enough for this." he grumbled.
It was an all too common complaint in the overworked and underpaid watchmen. One that had many of his fellow employees taking bribes to overlook the crime.
Here crime paid well.
He walked through the gloom, stepping over the piles of litter that were heaped everywhere. Neon signs blinked on the walls, advertising bars where the only redeeming feature is cheap alcohol, greasy spoon cafes selling food fatty enough to cause a coronary, semi-legal stores and 'masseuses'. People looked away as John passed, hurrying about their business seemingly oblivious to his presence.
But John knew better. He could feel eyes staring at him from the darkness. Eyes that belonged to the local crime-lords' men, as well funded as the legendary TSA, and as well armed.
John's radio came alive, “All Units, Control. Radio check, over.”
“2-11 reads, over.”
“2-9 reads, over.”
“This is 2-14, I read you command, over.”
John keyed the send button, “2-13 reads, over.”
“2-10 reads, over.”
Static filled the air. John waited for unit 2-12, his best friend Matthew, to report in.
“ Unit 2-12, Control, Radio check, over”
“Unit 2-12, Control, please report in, over”
So what do you think so far? Worth continuing?
"PEOPLE'S WHOLE LIVES DO PASS IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES BEFORE THEY DIE. THE PROCESS IS CALLED 'LIVING'" --Death, in The Last Continent by Terry Pratchett.