Sui
Tank
- Joined
- Jan 15, 2004
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OK, so I wrote this today, trying out this strange third-but-first person writing style. I quite like it, what do you think?
Note: I've written three 'chapter' thingies. This is the first.
See it at Fanfiction.net here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2676341/1/
One
Darkness. Come on. Get ready. It’s time.
A slither of light, like a knife cutting through dark. Eyes heave open. Two gaping holes in the mask merge into one. Troops run ahead; SAS soldiers hunched over, scurrying along like beetles, or ants- those two glass eyes darting around the place, antennae gun waving in front. Ready your own M4. Ignore the rattle of your packs, pockets, grenades, spare ammo; ignore the weight, the uncomfortable chafing feeling the straps give you. Imagine you’re just in practice; Hawaiian shirt loosely hanging above some greasy jeans, automatic grasped casually.
The crackle of the radio starting up sounds like napalm.
Tna 1, come in Tna 1 this is Mother. Get your ass in gear, over.
The napalm fades. He can almost imagine its orange haze drifting high above silhouetted jungle. Burning the ants. He’s never been there but he watched Apocalypse Now.
“You OK?” says a firm hand clasped around his shoulder. He turns to see a gas mask like his own; in fact, he sees a reflection in a glass circle. They’re the same.
“Uh… sorry sir. First day,” he lies. The officer stares for a second; trying to fix the voice to something; but all he can see is the mask, so he nods sharply and moves on. He sighs relief.
Just a job, he thinks. Just a goddamn job. He straightens his back, hears bone click. Hunches over again. Down. Bent knees, rifle poking out, grasped in-between two hands. A rookie jogs in front; he can tell because the guy looks excited. He shouldn’t be. People die all the time- they’re not supposed to, there’s safety training, statistics that say otherwise- but he’s witnessed it. People die all the time, and it’s just a ****ing job. Just a job. These are armed terrorists; formidable enemies. People are going to die.
But he’ll be ****ed if it’s going to be him.
Legs move by themselves, but he feels the ache. He can hear the respirator suck air in through tiny holes, an unpleasant sound, like a blocked nose. His lungs inhale the second hand air. He’s panting now, as his boots crunch on something broken. A familiar glove obscures his vision for a moment; finger rubbing the grimy glass. He remembers with a feeling of idiocy that his eyes are inside the mask. Legs really hurting now.
Fire in the hole! sounds against fiery napalm. This time he sees it, in the distance; that haze of heat and fire swirling upwards into black smoke. It’s accompanied by the sound of gunfire; rapid bursts echoing far away, hollow and distant, not like the movies. He tells himself it’s real; deadly little bullets zapping past ears and shoulders, but it doesn’t register. It sounds… fake. Like on TV; the news; urban warfare.
He’s stopped running. They all have; his squad. Five people, all hiding behind masks.
You can’t hide from bullets.
He checks his ‘nades again; two flash, one HE. Feels behind; Defuse Kit ready. Left hand runs over metal chunks; three clips and a USP pistol. He hates the word pistol; sounds light and playful. Not at all a death dealing machine.
“Tna 1, take the point.” The radio cuts off just as he realises that’s him. He inhales. Rifle up; sights aligned. His feet crunch forward slowly; a sneaking pace. Passes allies; they’re leaning, crouching, aiming still; all eyes on him. Leader up ahead; points to the large, open doorway. This is it.
He looks through. Can’t see shit. Darkness.
People die.
Oh **** it, he thinks, and sprints into the unknown.
Note: I've written three 'chapter' thingies. This is the first.
See it at Fanfiction.net here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2676341/1/
One
Darkness. Come on. Get ready. It’s time.
A slither of light, like a knife cutting through dark. Eyes heave open. Two gaping holes in the mask merge into one. Troops run ahead; SAS soldiers hunched over, scurrying along like beetles, or ants- those two glass eyes darting around the place, antennae gun waving in front. Ready your own M4. Ignore the rattle of your packs, pockets, grenades, spare ammo; ignore the weight, the uncomfortable chafing feeling the straps give you. Imagine you’re just in practice; Hawaiian shirt loosely hanging above some greasy jeans, automatic grasped casually.
The crackle of the radio starting up sounds like napalm.
Tna 1, come in Tna 1 this is Mother. Get your ass in gear, over.
The napalm fades. He can almost imagine its orange haze drifting high above silhouetted jungle. Burning the ants. He’s never been there but he watched Apocalypse Now.
“You OK?” says a firm hand clasped around his shoulder. He turns to see a gas mask like his own; in fact, he sees a reflection in a glass circle. They’re the same.
“Uh… sorry sir. First day,” he lies. The officer stares for a second; trying to fix the voice to something; but all he can see is the mask, so he nods sharply and moves on. He sighs relief.
Just a job, he thinks. Just a goddamn job. He straightens his back, hears bone click. Hunches over again. Down. Bent knees, rifle poking out, grasped in-between two hands. A rookie jogs in front; he can tell because the guy looks excited. He shouldn’t be. People die all the time- they’re not supposed to, there’s safety training, statistics that say otherwise- but he’s witnessed it. People die all the time, and it’s just a ****ing job. Just a job. These are armed terrorists; formidable enemies. People are going to die.
But he’ll be ****ed if it’s going to be him.
Legs move by themselves, but he feels the ache. He can hear the respirator suck air in through tiny holes, an unpleasant sound, like a blocked nose. His lungs inhale the second hand air. He’s panting now, as his boots crunch on something broken. A familiar glove obscures his vision for a moment; finger rubbing the grimy glass. He remembers with a feeling of idiocy that his eyes are inside the mask. Legs really hurting now.
Fire in the hole! sounds against fiery napalm. This time he sees it, in the distance; that haze of heat and fire swirling upwards into black smoke. It’s accompanied by the sound of gunfire; rapid bursts echoing far away, hollow and distant, not like the movies. He tells himself it’s real; deadly little bullets zapping past ears and shoulders, but it doesn’t register. It sounds… fake. Like on TV; the news; urban warfare.
He’s stopped running. They all have; his squad. Five people, all hiding behind masks.
You can’t hide from bullets.
He checks his ‘nades again; two flash, one HE. Feels behind; Defuse Kit ready. Left hand runs over metal chunks; three clips and a USP pistol. He hates the word pistol; sounds light and playful. Not at all a death dealing machine.
“Tna 1, take the point.” The radio cuts off just as he realises that’s him. He inhales. Rifle up; sights aligned. His feet crunch forward slowly; a sneaking pace. Passes allies; they’re leaning, crouching, aiming still; all eyes on him. Leader up ahead; points to the large, open doorway. This is it.
He looks through. Can’t see shit. Darkness.
People die.
Oh **** it, he thinks, and sprints into the unknown.
