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This came about from an MSN convo I just had with Jintor. We were talking about Advance Wars and I said that there should be panserbjorn (armoured-bears) is the game and then I started writting for no apparent reason. I don't think it's too bad for something that was written at two o' clock in the morning and was made up as I went along.
So here it is, copied from my convo (and ran through Word for spell-check):
"ONWARDS!" screams Von Bolt at the top of his tired, old lungs. Even this small act exerts his crippled body. He does not let his men see this show of weakness though; the video-link closes before the signs of fatigue show. The men continue on, unable to voice their protests to their superiors.
They don't want to move into the woods; there have been rumours, horrible rumours about beasts residing there. Their moral is low but they press on, knowing the horrible fate that awaits them if they turn back. None of the men have seen an "Oozium" first-hand, but they have all heard the stories.
As they inch their way into the woods, they hear noises: Bushes rustling, twigs breaking and various animal noises. This would not be out of the ordinary, but these sounds are not accompanied by the typical symphony of the forest. There are no birds singing and no barley any signs of life around besides the men and the trees.
Something catches the men's eyes. A flash between the trees in the middle-distance. Some pause to consider what they see but their thoughts are interrupted by the sergeant, "Keep moving" he says. A soldier in the front falls over the root of an old tree. All the men hold their breath. The sergeant is about to tear him a new one, they think. "Get up and keep moving" is all that he says calmly.
This terrified the men more than anything could have at that moment. The sergeant was never calm. That soldier should have had his rations confiscated and given half the squad's gear to carry. With every step the men's anticipation grew. Something was going to happen and every man was afraid to breathe out of turn in case he set it off.
More flashes of movement among the trees and some of the men could have sworn they heard growling. Maybe it was just the wind whispering. One more silhouette, straight in front of the column of men. A gun goes off and everyone turns to look at Richards, a smoking rifle held in his hand. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, PRIVATE?!" screams the sergeant.
This calms the men. This is how it is supposed to be. But as the sergeant screams and spits into the face of the private, something, no somethings begin to circle the squad. "Sarge," yells Private Cunningham, but before he can finish his sentence, gunfire erupts from half the guns in the squad. The sergeant turns and is about to start scolding his squad for this lack of discipline when he sees them.
Huge bears; the smallest twice the size of heavy-weight boxer, their white fur barley showing through their thick, red armour. Was it the red of rust, or of blood? He didn't have time to consider as he reached for his rifle and fired non-stop into the bears.
Caught up in his terror he neglected to give his squad orders and they fell over each other, rifles blazing, shooting each other as much as the bears. And when they hit their target they seldom found the bears' thick skin (capable of absorbing a bullet with ease), such was the extent of the bears armour that only the backs of their necks and limbs were exposed.
The men had heard of these creatures (Though even the sergeant had barley believed). To be confronted with them was such a horrifying experience that one would always remember it to one's dying day (Which was the same day you encountered them, more often than not).
The bears tore through the men as easily as you or I would tear through a sheet of paper. Their horrible, magnificent claws easily splitting a man in two.
It was over in a matter of moments, and the bears, finding nothing of use among the dead, departed. Only one man survived. Unconscious under a pile of his dead comrades, the bears never realised he was there.
As he clawed his way out of the mound he looked into the bloody, expressionless faces of his brothers in arms. He had fought along side them for months, and now there were all annihilated in a matter of moments. Once he was free of the pile he attempted to stand, but screamed in pain and collapsed again. His gaze falling bellow his waste, he realised that his left leg was crushed.
It was the most gruesome sight he had ever seen, and it was HIS LEG. He fell back onto the cold snow and began to weep. He wept and wept until the cold froze the tears to his face. His dead friends lay all around him, his dead family. They were all he had and now, gone.
He reached for the nearest rifle, put it to his skull and squeezed the trigger. Click. It was empty. He left out a bitter laugh and threw the gun aside. He lay back in the snow for a minute before reaching for another gun. This one still had half a mag left. He put it to his and squeezed his fingers tightly. He'd have to hurry to catch up with the squad; they'd left a few hours ago.
So here it is, copied from my convo (and ran through Word for spell-check):
"ONWARDS!" screams Von Bolt at the top of his tired, old lungs. Even this small act exerts his crippled body. He does not let his men see this show of weakness though; the video-link closes before the signs of fatigue show. The men continue on, unable to voice their protests to their superiors.
They don't want to move into the woods; there have been rumours, horrible rumours about beasts residing there. Their moral is low but they press on, knowing the horrible fate that awaits them if they turn back. None of the men have seen an "Oozium" first-hand, but they have all heard the stories.
As they inch their way into the woods, they hear noises: Bushes rustling, twigs breaking and various animal noises. This would not be out of the ordinary, but these sounds are not accompanied by the typical symphony of the forest. There are no birds singing and no barley any signs of life around besides the men and the trees.
Something catches the men's eyes. A flash between the trees in the middle-distance. Some pause to consider what they see but their thoughts are interrupted by the sergeant, "Keep moving" he says. A soldier in the front falls over the root of an old tree. All the men hold their breath. The sergeant is about to tear him a new one, they think. "Get up and keep moving" is all that he says calmly.
This terrified the men more than anything could have at that moment. The sergeant was never calm. That soldier should have had his rations confiscated and given half the squad's gear to carry. With every step the men's anticipation grew. Something was going to happen and every man was afraid to breathe out of turn in case he set it off.
More flashes of movement among the trees and some of the men could have sworn they heard growling. Maybe it was just the wind whispering. One more silhouette, straight in front of the column of men. A gun goes off and everyone turns to look at Richards, a smoking rifle held in his hand. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, PRIVATE?!" screams the sergeant.
This calms the men. This is how it is supposed to be. But as the sergeant screams and spits into the face of the private, something, no somethings begin to circle the squad. "Sarge," yells Private Cunningham, but before he can finish his sentence, gunfire erupts from half the guns in the squad. The sergeant turns and is about to start scolding his squad for this lack of discipline when he sees them.
Huge bears; the smallest twice the size of heavy-weight boxer, their white fur barley showing through their thick, red armour. Was it the red of rust, or of blood? He didn't have time to consider as he reached for his rifle and fired non-stop into the bears.
Caught up in his terror he neglected to give his squad orders and they fell over each other, rifles blazing, shooting each other as much as the bears. And when they hit their target they seldom found the bears' thick skin (capable of absorbing a bullet with ease), such was the extent of the bears armour that only the backs of their necks and limbs were exposed.
The men had heard of these creatures (Though even the sergeant had barley believed). To be confronted with them was such a horrifying experience that one would always remember it to one's dying day (Which was the same day you encountered them, more often than not).
The bears tore through the men as easily as you or I would tear through a sheet of paper. Their horrible, magnificent claws easily splitting a man in two.
It was over in a matter of moments, and the bears, finding nothing of use among the dead, departed. Only one man survived. Unconscious under a pile of his dead comrades, the bears never realised he was there.
As he clawed his way out of the mound he looked into the bloody, expressionless faces of his brothers in arms. He had fought along side them for months, and now there were all annihilated in a matter of moments. Once he was free of the pile he attempted to stand, but screamed in pain and collapsed again. His gaze falling bellow his waste, he realised that his left leg was crushed.
It was the most gruesome sight he had ever seen, and it was HIS LEG. He fell back onto the cold snow and began to weep. He wept and wept until the cold froze the tears to his face. His dead friends lay all around him, his dead family. They were all he had and now, gone.
He reached for the nearest rifle, put it to his skull and squeezed the trigger. Click. It was empty. He left out a bitter laugh and threw the gun aside. He lay back in the snow for a minute before reaching for another gun. This one still had half a mag left. He put it to his and squeezed his fingers tightly. He'd have to hurry to catch up with the squad; they'd left a few hours ago.
