Sales!
Niteowl
Join Date: 2002-09-04 Member: 1274Members, NS1 Playtester, Contributor
Join Date: 2002-09-04 Member: 1274Members, NS1 Playtester, Contributor
<div class="IPBDescription">First Fan Fic, Ever!</div>First attempt at fan fic. Written in the very trendy present tense. Thanks for reading!
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Sgt. Rockwell looks across at him.
"So, that's it, is it?"
"Uhm, yes, yes sir, this is what I've been talking about." Winston tries to maintain composure.
"The Ham Gee, what the fellas up in Brass have been raving about?" Rockwell raises an eyebrow like a mountain gorilla prodding new, possibly poisonous food. His voice is gravel across a corpse. A little too crumbly, a little too, well, juicy; too much liquour, too much smoke, too many dead aliens under his steel enforced jackboot. He liked his meat raw, his gambling quick, and his drugs hard. Out here on the frontier, who was to blame him, or to judge.
The little man across from the sergeant reaches quickly into his suit jacket for a bit of lip balm and applies it, somewhat oblivious to the incredulous gaze of Rockwell.
"It certainly gets dry in this station doesn't it?" Winston's voice quavers. He purses his lips, as if considering a menu.
"It's the climate controlled computers, they're a little on the fritz lately. It does the men good though, let's them know they can't trust technology." Rockwell takes another swig from his mug. Vapours from it indicate the coffee mug held anything but.
Winston gives a little nod with a deft smile. The sort reserved for a dog that fails horribly trying to do a clever trick.
"So, we, have a deal Sergeant? Shall I send this along to your superiors to rubber stamp? I should be able to get, say, three crates here in about two weeks?" he starts shuffling some papers. His movements are quick and efficient, a lightning bolt of bureaucratic efficiency (if ever there was an oxymoron); his nimble fingers flitting over forms and papers.
"Well, hey, listen, it's not that I don't think the WORLD of what brass has to say on how me and my men put our lives on the line here on the frontier. I simply ADORE every little input they have to give sitting in their leather backed chairs or between golf games. It's just that I'm not sure the men would appreciate this FINE piece of hardware you are trying to pawn off, oh, excuse me, I mean sell us."
"The TSA is not in the business of 'pawning off' as you so brutishly put it, any sort of hardware. We supply our troops with nothing but the best of what our industrial contractors have to offer."
"Huh, like the first shotguns you gave us? Might as well given us flint and gunpowder muskets, they fired so damn slow. Not a few of my men had to be put through the Infantry Portal because of that disaster of engineering.
And what about those goddamn phase gates you first handed us? Your damn scientists are doing more dope than the entire Western Battalion combined, on shore leave. What sort of crack smacked imbecile creates a transport device that the ALIENS can use for Christ's sake."
Veins start making a neat little map of Missouri's riverways on Rockwell's neck and face, his bourbon red face turning a homicidal tint.
"I understand your trepidation, Sergeant, why, I myself was in the Corps..."
"Oh, I've read up on your dossier, if you call it that. Dishonorably discharged from service right after training. You spent all of a week out here. Most of my men have been serving under me sloggin through alien scat and blood for the better part of three years. You sorry excuse for a rat's ###### would have me believe that YOU have what it takes to slog it through the long haul?!"
Winston falls silent. And for a while, his ruffling of papers falters.
"Yes, well, uhm, there were, extenuating circumstances that prohibited me from continuing my service."
"TAHOE" the sergeant blares into his comm, "TAHOE, get yer ###### in here, I got some garbage that needs to be escorted back to his frigate."
"SIR YES SIR" comes the reply.
Winston crunches his papers then shoves them violently into his briefcase. The sergeant hands back the HMG and Winston takes it, fingering the safety, to make sure it's on.
Tahoe eclipses the doorway. He's about 5 inches too short for any regulation uniform and 12 inches too wide. He looks like the lovechild of a dwarf and a tank.
"THIS WAY SIR!" apparently Tahoe's vocal volume nob is completely broken.
The thin bureaucrat follows Tahoe, who, before waiting for a response, quickly turns about face and makes double time down the corridor.
The lights dim, as if someone just suckerpunched the station's power supply. Tahoe slows in his march, and looks up distractedly.
"That doesn't happen that often.. does it?" Winston looks up, as if he could see what was wrong.
"SIR, I"M NOT AT LIBERTY TO DISCUSS DAY TO DAY OPERATIONS TO A CIVILIAN SIR!"
Winston grips the gun handle of the HMG. He feels better wielding it more like a weapon and less like a valise. It brings back ruddy memories of his time in the Corps. Memories he'd just as soon push to the back of his mind.
Tahoe leads him into a large room, the cargo hold. The flashing LED message strip over the doorway assures Winston that his shuttle to take him back to his frigate will be along shortly.
Winston relaxes and looks about, at ease since he'd soon be off the station. Something didn't seem right, he thinks, there are far too many marines in here, far too well equipped. They are all arranged defending the door. Winston traces their line of fire. They are all aimed at that ... wall.
BA-DOOM. baa-DOOM. The wall buckles. As if on cue a roar thunders behind the wall.
A gaunt marine points at Winston and Tahoe, "SIRS STAY BEHIND THE BATTALION!" Tahoe and Winston dutifully fall behind the marines. Most wielding light machine guns, the odd soldier with a shotgun.
BA-DOOM.
Everyone checks and rechecks their weapons, hands out ammo, hand grenades, and a few position for better cover.
Ba-DOOOM. The wall contorts, like a tin foil wall giving way to a sledge hammer.
A grim silence falls over the men.
KEERRRAAAAAck. The wall topples and a massive onos thundes in. Tusks whipping and head bucking, a thermonuclear powered wrecking ball. She's greeted by the buzz and scream of weapons fire.
Over top, three fades suddenly fly in, silent, a tiny purple mist following their path. Each one zones in on a lone marine without cover. The scrape of claws through armor joins the screams from the victims as they fall backwards, to side, or drop to the floor in two pieces.
As fire refocusses on the fades, they quickly blink out, leaving the marines spraying bullets at purple mist. The first onos who breached the wall slowly limps towards the men, enraged from the pain. Once again all the fire is redirected. She falls. WHAA-UUMP. Her body sprays a crimson sheen on the first line of rines.
The acrid gunpowder smoke cuts through the air as a single unrelenting scream rushes from a disemboweled rine, not yet dead.
Winston crouches low behind them all, his fingers in his ears. He leans agains the wall to keep his knees from shaking too much. His time as a grunt aboard the Agora flit throught his mind. He bites down hard, and tries to keep from looking at the rolling dead eyes of a marine not 2 meters from him.
"WHOO WHEE! That them there is ONE HELL of a fire fight, wouldn't ya say Pointdexter?" Tahoe gives a heavy thump to Winston.
"They'll never survive, not with that many fades with a clear exit. They can't inflict enough damage to it while it's retreating. It will just regenerate. And then return." Winston chokes out his words.
The three fades blink in again. There is a sharp intake of breath from all the rines. Then the rattle of weapons fire again. The air is thick with blood and fire, smoke and panic. The chaos is over so quickly Winston doesn't even notice he has started to shake violently all over. As the marines regroup, two more of them lay dead. Their blood creating small rivers and ponds on the heavily scored metal floor. The swagger of the younger marines is replaced with a blank grimness. The veteran marines have not changed their still, desperate expression, holding tightly to their weapons.
The fades continue their onslaught, each time bringing down a few marines. Soon, the battalion is reduced to a ragged handful. Winston is lying on the floor now, shuddering. Tahoe lies, bleeding a torrent from a gash in his leg, his face white as death, his lips dry and silent.
Tahoe looks over to Winston, "You sir, hold too tight to life. Let it go."
Winston is fighting the fear of fades as the memories of his week at Agora try and drown him. He struggles to a sitting position. A scream starts at his stomach but won't come any further. He looks blearily around the cargo bay. The memories wash up. Calling him to fall back a bit, let himself swim a bit in their waters. He blinks. Hard. The only desire is for anything to push back the unending onslaught of fear.
The fades blink in again.
Winston stands, and flips off the safety from the HMG. A paltry rattle of fire goes up, more in defiance from the rines, than in any real attempt to kill. Winston hefts the weapon to his shoulder, and squeezes the trigger. The rage of the weapon blots out all noise. It rends a hearsplitting through the cargo bay. He can see the other marines start from the sound. One fade falls dead, trying to escape. A second falters and is clipped down by focussed LMG fire. Winston is screaming, shutting out all the noises and whispers that are beckoning him to madness.
He never sees the third fade. And then all the sounds are silenced.
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Sgt. Rockwell looks across at him.
"So, that's it, is it?"
"Uhm, yes, yes sir, this is what I've been talking about." Winston tries to maintain composure.
"The Ham Gee, what the fellas up in Brass have been raving about?" Rockwell raises an eyebrow like a mountain gorilla prodding new, possibly poisonous food. His voice is gravel across a corpse. A little too crumbly, a little too, well, juicy; too much liquour, too much smoke, too many dead aliens under his steel enforced jackboot. He liked his meat raw, his gambling quick, and his drugs hard. Out here on the frontier, who was to blame him, or to judge.
The little man across from the sergeant reaches quickly into his suit jacket for a bit of lip balm and applies it, somewhat oblivious to the incredulous gaze of Rockwell.
"It certainly gets dry in this station doesn't it?" Winston's voice quavers. He purses his lips, as if considering a menu.
"It's the climate controlled computers, they're a little on the fritz lately. It does the men good though, let's them know they can't trust technology." Rockwell takes another swig from his mug. Vapours from it indicate the coffee mug held anything but.
Winston gives a little nod with a deft smile. The sort reserved for a dog that fails horribly trying to do a clever trick.
"So, we, have a deal Sergeant? Shall I send this along to your superiors to rubber stamp? I should be able to get, say, three crates here in about two weeks?" he starts shuffling some papers. His movements are quick and efficient, a lightning bolt of bureaucratic efficiency (if ever there was an oxymoron); his nimble fingers flitting over forms and papers.
"Well, hey, listen, it's not that I don't think the WORLD of what brass has to say on how me and my men put our lives on the line here on the frontier. I simply ADORE every little input they have to give sitting in their leather backed chairs or between golf games. It's just that I'm not sure the men would appreciate this FINE piece of hardware you are trying to pawn off, oh, excuse me, I mean sell us."
"The TSA is not in the business of 'pawning off' as you so brutishly put it, any sort of hardware. We supply our troops with nothing but the best of what our industrial contractors have to offer."
"Huh, like the first shotguns you gave us? Might as well given us flint and gunpowder muskets, they fired so damn slow. Not a few of my men had to be put through the Infantry Portal because of that disaster of engineering.
And what about those goddamn phase gates you first handed us? Your damn scientists are doing more dope than the entire Western Battalion combined, on shore leave. What sort of crack smacked imbecile creates a transport device that the ALIENS can use for Christ's sake."
Veins start making a neat little map of Missouri's riverways on Rockwell's neck and face, his bourbon red face turning a homicidal tint.
"I understand your trepidation, Sergeant, why, I myself was in the Corps..."
"Oh, I've read up on your dossier, if you call it that. Dishonorably discharged from service right after training. You spent all of a week out here. Most of my men have been serving under me sloggin through alien scat and blood for the better part of three years. You sorry excuse for a rat's ###### would have me believe that YOU have what it takes to slog it through the long haul?!"
Winston falls silent. And for a while, his ruffling of papers falters.
"Yes, well, uhm, there were, extenuating circumstances that prohibited me from continuing my service."
"TAHOE" the sergeant blares into his comm, "TAHOE, get yer ###### in here, I got some garbage that needs to be escorted back to his frigate."
"SIR YES SIR" comes the reply.
Winston crunches his papers then shoves them violently into his briefcase. The sergeant hands back the HMG and Winston takes it, fingering the safety, to make sure it's on.
Tahoe eclipses the doorway. He's about 5 inches too short for any regulation uniform and 12 inches too wide. He looks like the lovechild of a dwarf and a tank.
"THIS WAY SIR!" apparently Tahoe's vocal volume nob is completely broken.
The thin bureaucrat follows Tahoe, who, before waiting for a response, quickly turns about face and makes double time down the corridor.
The lights dim, as if someone just suckerpunched the station's power supply. Tahoe slows in his march, and looks up distractedly.
"That doesn't happen that often.. does it?" Winston looks up, as if he could see what was wrong.
"SIR, I"M NOT AT LIBERTY TO DISCUSS DAY TO DAY OPERATIONS TO A CIVILIAN SIR!"
Winston grips the gun handle of the HMG. He feels better wielding it more like a weapon and less like a valise. It brings back ruddy memories of his time in the Corps. Memories he'd just as soon push to the back of his mind.
Tahoe leads him into a large room, the cargo hold. The flashing LED message strip over the doorway assures Winston that his shuttle to take him back to his frigate will be along shortly.
Winston relaxes and looks about, at ease since he'd soon be off the station. Something didn't seem right, he thinks, there are far too many marines in here, far too well equipped. They are all arranged defending the door. Winston traces their line of fire. They are all aimed at that ... wall.
BA-DOOM. baa-DOOM. The wall buckles. As if on cue a roar thunders behind the wall.
A gaunt marine points at Winston and Tahoe, "SIRS STAY BEHIND THE BATTALION!" Tahoe and Winston dutifully fall behind the marines. Most wielding light machine guns, the odd soldier with a shotgun.
BA-DOOM.
Everyone checks and rechecks their weapons, hands out ammo, hand grenades, and a few position for better cover.
Ba-DOOOM. The wall contorts, like a tin foil wall giving way to a sledge hammer.
A grim silence falls over the men.
KEERRRAAAAAck. The wall topples and a massive onos thundes in. Tusks whipping and head bucking, a thermonuclear powered wrecking ball. She's greeted by the buzz and scream of weapons fire.
Over top, three fades suddenly fly in, silent, a tiny purple mist following their path. Each one zones in on a lone marine without cover. The scrape of claws through armor joins the screams from the victims as they fall backwards, to side, or drop to the floor in two pieces.
As fire refocusses on the fades, they quickly blink out, leaving the marines spraying bullets at purple mist. The first onos who breached the wall slowly limps towards the men, enraged from the pain. Once again all the fire is redirected. She falls. WHAA-UUMP. Her body sprays a crimson sheen on the first line of rines.
The acrid gunpowder smoke cuts through the air as a single unrelenting scream rushes from a disemboweled rine, not yet dead.
Winston crouches low behind them all, his fingers in his ears. He leans agains the wall to keep his knees from shaking too much. His time as a grunt aboard the Agora flit throught his mind. He bites down hard, and tries to keep from looking at the rolling dead eyes of a marine not 2 meters from him.
"WHOO WHEE! That them there is ONE HELL of a fire fight, wouldn't ya say Pointdexter?" Tahoe gives a heavy thump to Winston.
"They'll never survive, not with that many fades with a clear exit. They can't inflict enough damage to it while it's retreating. It will just regenerate. And then return." Winston chokes out his words.
The three fades blink in again. There is a sharp intake of breath from all the rines. Then the rattle of weapons fire again. The air is thick with blood and fire, smoke and panic. The chaos is over so quickly Winston doesn't even notice he has started to shake violently all over. As the marines regroup, two more of them lay dead. Their blood creating small rivers and ponds on the heavily scored metal floor. The swagger of the younger marines is replaced with a blank grimness. The veteran marines have not changed their still, desperate expression, holding tightly to their weapons.
The fades continue their onslaught, each time bringing down a few marines. Soon, the battalion is reduced to a ragged handful. Winston is lying on the floor now, shuddering. Tahoe lies, bleeding a torrent from a gash in his leg, his face white as death, his lips dry and silent.
Tahoe looks over to Winston, "You sir, hold too tight to life. Let it go."
Winston is fighting the fear of fades as the memories of his week at Agora try and drown him. He struggles to a sitting position. A scream starts at his stomach but won't come any further. He looks blearily around the cargo bay. The memories wash up. Calling him to fall back a bit, let himself swim a bit in their waters. He blinks. Hard. The only desire is for anything to push back the unending onslaught of fear.
The fades blink in again.
Winston stands, and flips off the safety from the HMG. A paltry rattle of fire goes up, more in defiance from the rines, than in any real attempt to kill. Winston hefts the weapon to his shoulder, and squeezes the trigger. The rage of the weapon blots out all noise. It rends a hearsplitting through the cargo bay. He can see the other marines start from the sound. One fade falls dead, trying to escape. A second falters and is clipped down by focussed LMG fire. Winston is screaming, shutting out all the noises and whispers that are beckoning him to madness.
He never sees the third fade. And then all the sounds are silenced.
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Comments
I liked the first part of the story, poking fun at the older versions. however, in the later part, I didn't think the fighting was well-written. It was kinda boring. Maybe use more sophisticated language.