Post by kustom on Oct 16, 2007 21:00:34 GMT -5
The fire was intense as we made our way up the hill. I moved as fast as I could, weighed down by my body armor and weapons, but I had a feeling it wasn't goint to be fast enough.
I took cover behind some burning barrels, and gazed through the smoke, trying to link up with the rest of my squad. The rattling of gunfire was quickly followed by rounds spanging off my cover. Nearby, one of my guys went down, a bullet catching him in the head. He never even had time to cry out.
As I levered myself off the ground and began to run again, I realized I didn't even know his name.
Snapping off a few shots from my rifle, I made it to the top of the hill and saw a rickety shack to my left, about twenty yards away. My assault sergeant, a man who went by the uninspiring nickname of "Butters" turned and waved me forward, before firing off a blistering salvo of .45 caliber ammunition from his UMG. I sprinted forward into the shack, bullets snapping by my head like angry wasps. Somewhere up ahead there was a loud scream, and Butters let out a cry of satisfaction. As I clumped into the makeshift building, he turned to me.
"Glad to see you could make it, me and Cpt. Stebbins were wondering where you were."
I nodded, and took stock of my situation. Stebbins was hunched low, almost invisible in his Multicam, which was streaked with gore on the left shoulder, a result of a graze from a sniper earlier in the conflict.
"Well, let's move up, then," I said as I leaned out a shattered window, picking off a pair of tangoes that were trying to enter a building in front of us. I sighted in on a third and heard the dry snap of my empty mag.
"Shit."
Stebbins faired better, and brought the target down with a flurry of shots from his heavy .45.
I tossed my rifle to the ground in disgust.
"What are you gonna use now, harsh language?" Butters enqired over the din of gunfire and screams.
I reached over my right shoulder and drew my Remington 870.
"I like to keep this handy.....for close encounters."
Stebbins nodded and stood up, slamming a fresh mag into his pistol and checked the straps on his own 870 sawed-off. Butters slung his UMG and drew his SOCOM, twisting on the silencer with a sinister grin.
I racked my shotgun.
I was time.
With a burst of fire, we darted from cover towards the central building, a two-story blockhouse overlooking the transmission station where we hoped to send a message out about the atrocities in this podunk backwater country. And maybe call in some reinforcements, if we were lucky.
Butters was first in, no surprise, as he's easily the fastest of the three of us. Stebbins went down behind some barrels with a curse, and I thought he'd bought it until I heard the loud bark of his pistol.
I powered into the ground floor, shotgun at the ready. Butters came around a corner in the main room, surprising an enemy trooper into dropping his weapon. If the man had thought he was safer as a prisoner, he was dead wrong. I barely heard the pair of shots from the SOCOM, but I heard the body hit the floor, all right.
Butters has never read the Geneva Conventions.
I ducked into a room to my right and found a pair of windows looking out onto the battlefield, and the enemy swarming forwards to get to grips with us.
I couldn't see any more of our guys, but they had to be out there, as there was a spattering of fire keeping the enemy low.
The first rounds punching through the wall by my head let me know someone could see me.
By reflex, I leaned out and fired. The splatter of 00 buckshot caught an enemy trooper in the face, and he tumbled out of sight, his flailing hands framed by the window of a low bunker to the front of us. I leaned out quickly, and saw another enemy in a fire slit facing me, and the long barrel of an RPK support gun protruding out the right hand side of the bunker.
I leaned in for a split second, then leaned out with the guage, fired, and ducked back. A loud scream answered my shot, and I racked my shotgun, prepared for the next foe.
A hand fell across my shoulder and I whirled to engage this new threat.
Cpt. Stebbins stumbled into the bunker, holding on to me to keep balance as incoming fire rained splinters on us. He passed me with a nod, and fired his .45 out the window, hoping to clear a space in the madness for our crew to get to the transmission station.
Butters was next in, his silencer on his SOCOM a cherry glow in the rapidly falling dark. He was firing constantly, moving on instinct. Killing everyone.
I leaned out and saw a shadow in the firing slit facing me. I fired, heard more screaming, and ducked back. Racking the shotgun again, I could see a troper in a ragged vest running towards the transmission tower. I aimed through the smoke, led him, and fired.
The trooper tumbled foward as the shell struck him dead center. I leaned out the other window and fired again, taking someone in the head.
Stebbins swore as his .45's slide locked back, and he threw the beautiful pistol to the ground. He drew his shotgun and fired out the other window with wild abandon.
"They're coming on thick over here!" he yelled as bullets tore at our cover. Butters slammed in his last mag and grimaced.
"If we don't get some help soon, they're gonna bury us in bodies," he snapped as he fired out the back door, catching a tango in the stomach. The young man died with surprise on his face.
I leaned out time and time again, my shotgun lashing the enemy ranks, piling bodies around the opposing bunker.
It still wasn't enough.
I fired again, and glancing at the pile of shells at my feet, knew I only had one shot left.
Suddenly, my earbud squawked, startling the shit out of me. It was half static, but all good news.
"Say again, fr---dly forces en -----te, eta, 30 ---conds, over!"
I leaned out the back door fo the bunker, and saw a horde of armored infantry, assault rifles up and firing, cutting their way to the bunker.
"Friendlies here!" I shouted and waved, getting thier attention.
The lead seargeant nodded and waved his team forward.
I was just dropping my hand to the trigger of my shotgun when a round tore though it in a shower of blood.
I dropped to the ground with a curse, staring at my ruined hand. I tried to move it, and found that my middle and ring fingers would not respond, the tendons severed by the round that passed thorugh them.
I drew my shotgun up in my good hand and tried to reload. It was clumsy and slow, but I could do nothing else. Behind me, my squadmates blazed away, unaware of my wound and our reinforcements. I got a few shells in, then tried to stand, using the shotgun as a brace. I could see the corpsman, his white armbands marking him out, making his way to me. He eased me back to the ground and began working on my hand.
The fire intensified as our reinforcements laid in on the foe with a vengeance. I looked up at the sergeant as he approached, his battered face cracking into a rugged smile.
In one hand he held out a sinister black rifle, sleek and deadly. I stared at it, not understanding.
He flipped the weapon over.
On the reciever, over the brand new Thermold mag was the word KUSTOM.
"I think you dropped this, sir."
I took the weapon, and as I cocked the bolt back with my good trigger finger, I could hear a radio signal, broadcast in the clear, to all who were listening.
"This is Delta One, say again, this is Dela One. We have possession of the transmission uplink tower. Preparing to activate comms and transmit. Delta Two, do you copy, over?"
I pressed my PTT set with my good finger.
"Delta Two acknowledges, good work. Let's mop 'em up. Over"
This is a retelling of the last day game at the first day of FFII.
I took cover behind some burning barrels, and gazed through the smoke, trying to link up with the rest of my squad. The rattling of gunfire was quickly followed by rounds spanging off my cover. Nearby, one of my guys went down, a bullet catching him in the head. He never even had time to cry out.
As I levered myself off the ground and began to run again, I realized I didn't even know his name.
Snapping off a few shots from my rifle, I made it to the top of the hill and saw a rickety shack to my left, about twenty yards away. My assault sergeant, a man who went by the uninspiring nickname of "Butters" turned and waved me forward, before firing off a blistering salvo of .45 caliber ammunition from his UMG. I sprinted forward into the shack, bullets snapping by my head like angry wasps. Somewhere up ahead there was a loud scream, and Butters let out a cry of satisfaction. As I clumped into the makeshift building, he turned to me.
"Glad to see you could make it, me and Cpt. Stebbins were wondering where you were."
I nodded, and took stock of my situation. Stebbins was hunched low, almost invisible in his Multicam, which was streaked with gore on the left shoulder, a result of a graze from a sniper earlier in the conflict.
"Well, let's move up, then," I said as I leaned out a shattered window, picking off a pair of tangoes that were trying to enter a building in front of us. I sighted in on a third and heard the dry snap of my empty mag.
"Shit."
Stebbins faired better, and brought the target down with a flurry of shots from his heavy .45.
I tossed my rifle to the ground in disgust.
"What are you gonna use now, harsh language?" Butters enqired over the din of gunfire and screams.
I reached over my right shoulder and drew my Remington 870.
"I like to keep this handy.....for close encounters."
Stebbins nodded and stood up, slamming a fresh mag into his pistol and checked the straps on his own 870 sawed-off. Butters slung his UMG and drew his SOCOM, twisting on the silencer with a sinister grin.
I racked my shotgun.
I was time.
With a burst of fire, we darted from cover towards the central building, a two-story blockhouse overlooking the transmission station where we hoped to send a message out about the atrocities in this podunk backwater country. And maybe call in some reinforcements, if we were lucky.
Butters was first in, no surprise, as he's easily the fastest of the three of us. Stebbins went down behind some barrels with a curse, and I thought he'd bought it until I heard the loud bark of his pistol.
I powered into the ground floor, shotgun at the ready. Butters came around a corner in the main room, surprising an enemy trooper into dropping his weapon. If the man had thought he was safer as a prisoner, he was dead wrong. I barely heard the pair of shots from the SOCOM, but I heard the body hit the floor, all right.
Butters has never read the Geneva Conventions.
I ducked into a room to my right and found a pair of windows looking out onto the battlefield, and the enemy swarming forwards to get to grips with us.
I couldn't see any more of our guys, but they had to be out there, as there was a spattering of fire keeping the enemy low.
The first rounds punching through the wall by my head let me know someone could see me.
By reflex, I leaned out and fired. The splatter of 00 buckshot caught an enemy trooper in the face, and he tumbled out of sight, his flailing hands framed by the window of a low bunker to the front of us. I leaned out quickly, and saw another enemy in a fire slit facing me, and the long barrel of an RPK support gun protruding out the right hand side of the bunker.
I leaned in for a split second, then leaned out with the guage, fired, and ducked back. A loud scream answered my shot, and I racked my shotgun, prepared for the next foe.
A hand fell across my shoulder and I whirled to engage this new threat.
Cpt. Stebbins stumbled into the bunker, holding on to me to keep balance as incoming fire rained splinters on us. He passed me with a nod, and fired his .45 out the window, hoping to clear a space in the madness for our crew to get to the transmission station.
Butters was next in, his silencer on his SOCOM a cherry glow in the rapidly falling dark. He was firing constantly, moving on instinct. Killing everyone.
I leaned out and saw a shadow in the firing slit facing me. I fired, heard more screaming, and ducked back. Racking the shotgun again, I could see a troper in a ragged vest running towards the transmission tower. I aimed through the smoke, led him, and fired.
The trooper tumbled foward as the shell struck him dead center. I leaned out the other window and fired again, taking someone in the head.
Stebbins swore as his .45's slide locked back, and he threw the beautiful pistol to the ground. He drew his shotgun and fired out the other window with wild abandon.
"They're coming on thick over here!" he yelled as bullets tore at our cover. Butters slammed in his last mag and grimaced.
"If we don't get some help soon, they're gonna bury us in bodies," he snapped as he fired out the back door, catching a tango in the stomach. The young man died with surprise on his face.
I leaned out time and time again, my shotgun lashing the enemy ranks, piling bodies around the opposing bunker.
It still wasn't enough.
I fired again, and glancing at the pile of shells at my feet, knew I only had one shot left.
Suddenly, my earbud squawked, startling the shit out of me. It was half static, but all good news.
"Say again, fr---dly forces en -----te, eta, 30 ---conds, over!"
I leaned out the back door fo the bunker, and saw a horde of armored infantry, assault rifles up and firing, cutting their way to the bunker.
"Friendlies here!" I shouted and waved, getting thier attention.
The lead seargeant nodded and waved his team forward.
I was just dropping my hand to the trigger of my shotgun when a round tore though it in a shower of blood.
I dropped to the ground with a curse, staring at my ruined hand. I tried to move it, and found that my middle and ring fingers would not respond, the tendons severed by the round that passed thorugh them.
I drew my shotgun up in my good hand and tried to reload. It was clumsy and slow, but I could do nothing else. Behind me, my squadmates blazed away, unaware of my wound and our reinforcements. I got a few shells in, then tried to stand, using the shotgun as a brace. I could see the corpsman, his white armbands marking him out, making his way to me. He eased me back to the ground and began working on my hand.
The fire intensified as our reinforcements laid in on the foe with a vengeance. I looked up at the sergeant as he approached, his battered face cracking into a rugged smile.
In one hand he held out a sinister black rifle, sleek and deadly. I stared at it, not understanding.
He flipped the weapon over.
On the reciever, over the brand new Thermold mag was the word KUSTOM.
"I think you dropped this, sir."
I took the weapon, and as I cocked the bolt back with my good trigger finger, I could hear a radio signal, broadcast in the clear, to all who were listening.
"This is Delta One, say again, this is Dela One. We have possession of the transmission uplink tower. Preparing to activate comms and transmit. Delta Two, do you copy, over?"
I pressed my PTT set with my good finger.
"Delta Two acknowledges, good work. Let's mop 'em up. Over"
This is a retelling of the last day game at the first day of FFII.
