[GALLERY] Mobster's Fiction
SUCK IT ROB
Kidding. You cool. You cool.
I also have fiction to post, and your thread reminded me to post it. I'll be using this post as a springboard for any future fiction projects.
Various TF2 PSAs (Script format):
SCOUT
SCOUT PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the BLU SCOUT walks on.
SCOUT: Yo, wa’sup? Blu scout here. Ya know what people don’t care about? Freakin’ spy crabs.
A picture of a BLU SPY CRAB appears behind SCOUT. SCOUT points at it.
SCOUT: I mean, look at him! He’s cute and cuddly and… cute!
SCOUT suddenly turns serious.
SCOUT: But do you know who hates ‘em? Like wit’ the burnin’ passion of a thousand suns? This guy:
The screen changes to the ending of the first “Meet the Heavy” video, with the RED HEAVY yelling “CRY SOME MORE!” The SCOUT pauses the action and walks onscreen. He points to the HEAVY.
SCOUT: Look at him! He’s like a bear! A big, fat, hairless, spy-crab-hating bear who hates spy crabs! Look at the size of that gun! This guy is pure evil! He’s evil incarnate!
SCOUT pauses.
SCOUT: Actually, perhaps he’s not evil incarnate…
A picture of the RED PYRO appears behind SCOUT.
SCOUT: Allow me to correct myself. This guy… girl… “thing”… THIS is evil incarnate.
SCOUT points to the PYRO’s flamethrower.
SCOUT: I mean, look at that thing! Do you know what he does with that freakin’ flamethrower?
Close-up of SCOUT’s face.
SCOUT: He uses that flamethrower to kill spy crabs, roast them alive, and then eat them. WHILE THEY’RE STILL FREAKIN’ ALIVE!
Camera pans out to where it was prior to the close-up.
SCOUT: He does it to baby narwhals, too. How could you do that to baby narwhals? Me, all I do is feed them some Bonk. That’s not bad at all! That’s actually friggin’ good for ‘em! They just overdose on the caffeine and die from the radiation…
The SCOUT frowns for a moment and scratches the back of his neck. The background changes to what it was at the beginning of the PSA.
SCOUT: But that’s beside the point. The point is, please, I’m beggin’ ya… Have a little mercy on the poor spy crabs. They didn’ do nothin’ to ya. This has been the Blu Scout… Thanks for watchin’.
Fade out to the Team Fortress 2 main theme.
PYRO
PYRO PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the RED PYRO walks on.
PYRO: Mmmrph mmrph mmmurmph huh mmurmph murmmmp hudda nurm.
PYRO: Mmmrmph mrm! Mrmmm mmrm hudda hudda huh. Mmmrm mrm, mmrmph hudda mrm.The PYRO points to a picture of a train.
PYRO: Mmmrmbmr mrmphs, mrm mrrmph mmr mrm mmmrmph.The screen changes to a picture of a cake. It is moist and delicious. The Pyro looks at the cake and waggles his finger slightly.
PYRO: MMRMPH! Mrmmrm mrm mrmmph.The screen changes to a picture of the BLU SPY. The PYRO points at him and shakes his head.
PYRO: Mmmrmph! Mrm.A red X crosses out the SPY.
PYRO: Mmmrmbm mrmph hudda mrmph mm mmmrm hrmphremm mmmnph, m mmrmph: mmrmph hudda mrmph huh.The background changes to what it was at the beginning of the PSA.
The Pyro hadoukens and the screen fades out to the Team Fortress 2 theme.
HEAVY
HEAVY PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the RED HEAVY walks on.
HEAVY: I am Heavy Weapons Guy, and this… is my Public Service Announcement.
The screen changes to a picture of a store in Russia. The storefront reads: “Lenin’s Sandwich and Weapon Shop”.
HEAVY: Sale! One day only at Lenin’s sandvich and weapon shop! We have every big gun you could ever ask for, and all at low, low prices! We-
HEAVY is interrupted by something offscreen. He stops what he was saying and turns to face it.
HEAVY: What do you mean, “No advertisements”? This is my PSA, no?
There is a pause for a few moments as the voice responds. We cannot hear what it is saying.
HEAVY: But I am the one doing the PSA, I should say whatever it is I want to say!
There is another pause, a slightly longer one this time. After a brief moment, the Heavy gets an evil smile on his face.
HEAVY: Look at you, telling me what to do… You’re so tiny! Like little baby! And me… Me big. Me really big. Me crush tiny baby.
The HEAVY gets up and walks offscreen, knocking over the camera’s tripod as he does so. The camera is pointed at a fridge in the corner of the room. Various screams and cracks come from offscreen. The screen changes to the rainbow bars which indicate that there is no signal from the camera. After a few moments, the camera is reset to the way it was at the beginning of the PSA and the RED HEAVY walks back onscreen, now covered in blood.
HEAVY: I am Heavy Weapons Guy, and visit Lenin’s sandvich and weapon shop next Friday for some… (he laughs) “Killer” deals!
The HEAVY laughs maniacally as screen fades out to the Team Fortress 2 theme.
MEDIC
MEDIC PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the BLU MEDIC walks on.
MEDIC: Greetings. Tovay I am here to acquaint you wiv a new pandemic zweeping every battlefield and front line: Mad Pyro Diseaze.
Show footage of a RED PYRO taunting on 2fort. The BLU MEDIC is offscreen, providing voiceover.
MEDIC: It started out wiv a zingle Pyro on 2fort. He began behaving… “Erratically”, to zay ze least. Ze Pyro, master of suprize, abandoned any kind of tactiks and went on a flamethrower rampage.
MEDIC: Ze was killed immediately.The RED PYRO begins spamming W + Mouse1.
The RED PYRO is picked off by a BLU SNIPER.
MEDIC: But it vas too late. Ze other Pyros came down with it too.
MEDIC: Zit is only a matter of zime before dis virus escapes 2fort and spreads to Dustbowl, Vell, and all ze other battlevields. Zoon, every front line vill be completely overvelmed by ze Pyro menace.Show footage of an entire team of RED PYROS rushing the Blu base on 2fort, overwhelming the defenses.
MEDIC: I am calling on YOU to ztop this epidemic before it spreadz! If you play az Pyro, make zure to AMBUSH! Blitzkrieg iz how it’z done, dunkovs! Hovever, for full protection againzt dis Pyro menace, ztop playing az Pyro completely. Zit iz de only way to fully contain zis outbreak. Dis haz been ze Blu Medic, and zank you for liztening to my Public Zervice Announcement.Show MEDIC against the same background that was at the beginning of the video.
Fade out to the Team Fortress 2 main theme.
SNIPER
SNIPER PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the RED SNIPER walks on.
SNIPER: G’day, mate! I’m the Red Sniper, and I’m here today to give you a Public Service Announcement on “How to Camp”.
SNIPER (Quietly): Now, what most people don’t realize about camping is that you don’t rush in there like a dingo chased by a wallaby. That’s the opposite of what you want to do.Show RED SNIPER on the Red sniping perch on 2fort. The SNIPER looks down his scope for a few moments, then turns his head towards the camera.
SNIPER (Quietly): No, what you want to do is wait until the opportune moment, when your enemy is least expecting it. I don’t care how many Scouts pass under that bridge, wait until the Heavy and the Medic come out.The RED SNIPER looks back down his scope.
SNIPER (Quietly): Ah, yes, there we go! Now, what you want to do is aim for the Medic first. Aiming for the Heavy when the Medic’s right there is a no-go.A pause. The camera turns to show the bridge, where we see a BLU HEAVY and BLU MEDIC come out.
SNIPER (Louder): Now we take out the Heavy.Another pause, then the Sniper takes his shot. The BLU MEDIC falls to the floor, and the BLU HEAVY begins to panic. He fires his gun around wildly, attempting to hit whoever killed his Medic.
SNIPER: Now, while it may seem to defeat the purpose of camping, once you get two kills, move away from your spot. Come on.There is another shot, and then the Heavy falls to the ground in a heap. The camera turns and shows the RED SNIPER once more.
SNIPER: Oh, pardon me, good… Sir? Madam? I don’t know anymore.The RED SNIPER runs off, and the cameraman follows him. The camera turns into a shaky-cam as they run through the base to the spot just below where they were previously. The SNIPER bumps into a RED PYRO as he is walking downstairs.
PYRO: Mmmrmph hudda mmmrph.
SNIPER: Ah, alright.
SNIPER: See? This is why we moved.The RED SNIPER takes up position at the entrance to the base. A BLU SNIPER is on the BLU sniping perch, scanning the area for the RED SNIPER.
SNIPER: Now, we just line up the shot, and…The RED SNIPER looks down his scope.
SNIPER: Wave good-bye to your head, wanker!The RED SNIPER fires.
SNIPER: This has been the Red Sniper, and-The screen changes to what it was at the beginning of the PSA. The RED SNIPER is leaning on his sniper rifle.
BLU PYRO: HUDDA HUDDA HUH!The RED SNIPER is ambushed by a BLU PYRO and BLU HEAVY.
The RED SNIPER runs off, but the cameraman is too slow. The cameraman is knocked over and the camera is engulfed in flames. After a few moments of static, fade out to the Team Fortress 2 main theme.
DEMOMAN
DEMOMAN PSA
DEMOMAN: Hi, um… I’m… uh… I’m da… da Red Demoman, and DIS… Dis is… Dis is my… my…The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the RED DEMOMAN walks on. He is drunk beyond belief, holding a bottle of moonshine in one hand and a slide “clicker” in the other.
The DEMOMAN clicks the slide clicker a few times. As he does so, he changes the background behind him, passing a slide of several dead BLU Soldiers. It finally ends with a picture of the final statistics of the Soldier/Demoman “War”, marked up by many hand-written accusations of cheating, using various Demoman insults.
DEMOMAN: Wha’ da ‘ell am I doin’ ‘ere again?
DEMOMAN: Whattya mean I’m doin’ a “PSA”? What da ‘ell’s a “PSA”? Some kinda drug?The DEMOMAN looks offscreen for help. There is a pause as an unheard offscreen voice tries to remind the DEMOMAN what he’s doing here.
DEMOMAN: So I tell da people somtin’ dey needa ‘ear?There is another pause as the offscreen crew tries to get the DEMOMAN back on track.
DEMOMAN: Alrigh’, I go’ it. Well den, let me tell ya all ‘bout de bir’s an’ da bees. When a mommy Pyro an’ a daddy ‘eavy love each ot’er VERY much, dey BEAT THE LIVIN’ CRAP OUT OF EACH OTHER, AND WHOEVER SURV-Another pause. The DEMOMAN nods a bit, drunkenly, and takes a swig of moonshine.
DEMOMAN: But dis is som’tin da people needa ‘ear!The DEMOMAN is interrupted by the offscreen crew.
DEMOMAN: Al’ight, fine. If I can’ tell ya all ‘bout da bir’s an’ da bees, den let me tell ya somtin ‘bout moonshine. Benjamin Franklin – or was it Thomas Jefferson, I don’ know anymore – Some ol’ dead guy once sai’ dat alcohol was proof dat Go’ loves us an’ wants us ta be ‘appy. And dat, mah frien’s, IS DA MOTHER LOVIN’ TRUTH. I may be a one-eyed Scottish Cyclops, bu’ at leas’ I know dat up dere, dere is a Go’ dat loves me an’ wants me ta be ‘appy, which is more than I can say ‘bout a certain “frien’” I use ta have.There is one more pause, this one slightly longer, as the camera crew explains.
The DEMOMAN clicks the button to progress the slide several times, progressing far enough to reset the background back to what it was when he first walked on.
DEMOMAN: AH, YES, I BE TALKIN’ ‘BOUT DA SOLDIERS! VERMIN OF DA BA’LEFIELD! I remember wipin’ out an entire TEAM of Soldiers WHEN I WAS DRUN’! T’was a BAD DAY to be on TEAM ROCKET.
The DEMOMAN takes a swig of his moonshine.
DEMOMAN: Dat was bac’ when I ‘ad my eye. I miss dat li’le fella.
The DEMOMAN’s eye begins to water up. He wipes the tears out of it and takes another swig.
DEMOMAN: Ba’ ta me poin’. Alcohol is-
DEMOMAN: DA POIN’ IS, IT’S GREA’!The DEMOMAN stops talking mid-sentence, takes a drink, and mutters something incomprehensible.
DEMOMAN: Whatta you lookin’ at? I’M DRUNK! YA DON’ ‘AVE AN EXCU-The DEMOMAN takes one more swig and glares at a member of the camera crew offscreen.
The DEMOMAN passes out on the floor mid-sentence. The very little amount of what’s left of his moonshine leaks out of the bottle and short-circuits the slide clicker, causing the background to change like mad. Fade out to the Team Fortress 2 main theme.
SOLDIER
SOLDIER PSA
SOLDIER: I heard that the RED Demoman has been talking about me behind my back. He has been saying that I am not a real Soldier. DO NOT BELIEVE HIS LIES.The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the BLU SOLDIER walks on. He turns towards the camera and gives a salute.
SOLDIER: Erm… What… How do I…?The SOLDIER is mystified by the clicker he is supposed to change the backdrop slide, mystified.
SOLDIER: Oh. Yes. AS I WAS SAYING. The RED Demoman is a LIAR. He is a damn dirty Scot and a damner dirtier liar. THIS is what my hero Abraham Lincoln had to say about HIS kind:The SOLDIER accidentally clicks the button to change the slide and is surprised when a giant image of Abraham Lincoln appears behind him. After recovering from his mild shock, he regains his composure and clears his throat.
SOLDIER: “Four score and twelve years ago, a POX appeared upon this nation, like a zit on the cheek of America. I am referring, of course, to the recent invasion by the black drunken Scots and their whore wives. I assure you, the Proclamation I signed DOES NOT APPLY TO THESE FILTHY SCOTS and I will NOT REST until ALL THE SCOTS ARE PUT INTO BONDAGE!”The SOLDIER somehow stands even straighter than usual to recite his recollection of Abraham Lincoln’s speech.
SOLDIER: Yes, that is indeed what Abraham Lincoln had to say about his kind, right before he crossed the stormy Delaware in his hand-built canoe to escape the Egyptian army pursuing him and sign the Declaration of Independence to establish FREEDOM AND JUSTICE FOR ALL. And it is in his memory and the memory of that stormy night that we recite those faithful words: “I pledge allegiance, to the cap of the President of the United States of America. And to any dirty Scots, stay out of our country, for it is united under God, who is invisible and securing liberty and justice for all.”The SOLDIER, finished with his speech, slouches just a tiny bit to regain his usual poise.
SOLDIER: As for the Demoman implying that I was a fraud: I reassure you, I AM NOT A FRAUD, AND I have the medals to prove it. I tired endlessly to build up my medal collection, and I WILL NOT LET THAT SACRIFICE BE IN VAIN. I was ten years old when World War II began, and I STILL FOUGHT AGAINST THE FILTHY GERMANS AND MEDICS AND RUSSIANS AND COMMUNISTS, which is more than I can say for my CANADIAN friends.The SOLDIER pauses for a moment.
SOLDIER: Yes, I’m talking to YOU, Engineer! I know what you do when you get your “alone time”, after all, your flag has a MARIJUANA LEAF ON IT. STOP SMOKING YOUR “GOOD PLANT” AND GET PRODUCTIVE, HIPPIE. This isn’t the SHIRE anymore, Bablo Biggins! Maybe you should brush your hair out of your eyes while you’re at it. BE GRATEFUL YOU STILL HAVE HAIR. I lost my hair in battle against the filthy Japs! And then we have Mr. “Demoman” who is FLAUNTING his massive afro like there is NO TOMORROW. Perhaps he should be more considerate of other people’s disabilities, although that would be a bit much to ask from a FILTHY DRUNKEN SCOT.The SOLDIER clicks the slide clicker, and Abraham Lincoln is replaced by a picture of the RED ENGINEER with a Canadian flag in the background.
SOLDIER: LOOK AT THIS PICTURE. I assure you this photograph has not been modified in ANY WAY. Look at that Demoman. HE HATES AMERICA. HE DOES NOT DESERVE TO SET A SINGLE DRUNKEN FOOT UPON AMERICAN SOIL! I bet you he probably hangs out with COMMUNISTS.The SOLDIER clicks the slide button again, changing the backdrop to a picture of a RED DEMOMAN, sporting a massive afro, strangling an American Bald Eagle with his bare hands.
SOLDIER: Look at him! He’s in cahoots with COMMUNISTS! Filthy, dirty COMMUNISTS! He spits on the American flag before breakfast, uses it as his TOILET PAPER in the bathroom, and then burns it to roast his marshmallows after dinner, all the while hanging out with that dirty COMMIE. He DISGUSTS me.The SOLDIER clicks his slide clicker button and changes the backdrop to a drunken RED DEMOMAN leaning on a RED HEAVY.
SOLDIER: I assure you, I AM AN AMERICAN SOLDIER, and THIS is my Public Service Announcement. Thank you.The SOLDIER clicks his button one more time, replacing the picture of the Demoman and the Heavy with an American flag.
SOLDIER: PLAY SOMETHING MORE APPROPRIATE.The screen begins to fade out to the Team Fortress 2 theme, but the SOLDIER suddenly interrupts and the screen returns to normal.
The screen fades out once more, this time to “The Star-Spangled Banner”, as the SOLDIER salutes in the background.
ENGINEER
ENGINEER PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the RED ENGINEER walks on.
ENGINEER: Salutations. I am the purveyor of mechanical contraptions known as the RED Engineer and this is my Public Service Announcement. I come before you today to speak on behalf of myself and my Engineer brethren and to shed light on the situation that the Engineer class has found itself in as of late.
ENGINEER: As you are no doubt aware of by now, two of my fellow classes have been engaged in a petty rivalry recently, and I have been caught up in the crossfire. I am not normally a man to choose sides in a conflict such as the one before us presently, nor am I one to preach about how it is unfair that one side won and the other lost. Those are facts of nature and fit well within the perspective of my mind’s theatre. I am here today to bring to light the side effects of this war and hopefully initiate a series of changes which will weaken the general effect which this conflict has brought upon us.The ENGINEER clicks a button on a slide-clicker he is holding to change the background to the menu screen from the Soldier/Demoman “War”.
ENGINEER: As one can conclude from the chart before you presently, the number of destroyed Sentries has risen by a factor of 742% since the time of the Soldier/Demoman update. The new weaponry granted to each class has had a significant impact on how effective the Sentry guns are. They have given the Soldier and Demoman classes a boost whilst at the same time weakening my own class, and the powers that be-The ENGINEER clicks his slide-changer once more, revealing a chart of the number of destroyed Sentries over time. There is a significant jump in the number of destroyed Sentry guns since the war update, which is highlighted.
The ENGINEER lets out a cough which sounds suspiciously like “Valve”.
ENGINEER: Sorry. The powers that be have constantly refused my requests to weaken the effect of the items known as the Direct Hit, Scottish Resistance, Chargin’ Targe, and et. al. Thus, I require some public support to bring about changes, hence the reason why I am making this Public Service Announcement. I have also perfected some new technological contraptions which are ready for deployment on the field, but once again the powers that be-
The ENGINEER lets out another cough, which once again sounds suspiciously like “Valve”.
ENGINEER: Sorry, suffering from a case of vasomotor rhinitis. As I was saying, once again the powers that be have indefinitely delayed their deployment onto the field, and thus I am forced to work with my ineffectual and outdated pieces of equipment until they say otherwise. In the meantime, I have another issue which I feel needs to be brought before the attention of the public.
ENGINEER: This little doohickey right here has caused a right bit of trouble for me and my fellow brethren. A secondary item on my agenda for appearing before you today is to try to persuade the opinion of those powers that be to making this unobtainable item or something similar obtainable in one form or another for me and my fellow Engineers. We may have engaged in some disreputable activities on some disreputable battlefronts, but I do not feel that such activities should withhold me nor any of my comrades from being granted an item. I am from the way of thinking that dictates that if an item is obtainable for some, it should be obtainable for all. I do understand that granting those who were doing these disreputable activities an item known as the “Cheater’s Lament” may be a smidge ironic, which is why I put all my brainpower towards devising this little doodad before you right here:The ENGINEER clicks his slide-clicker and changes the background to a picture of the “Cheater’s Lament” hat.
ENGINEER: With the help of the members of the public watching this Public Service Announcement, I am hoping that my design will enter into consideration the minds of the powers that be. I am hoping that they will review my design and grant it to those who were not given an exclusive hat, as such an action would quall many disagreements in our little community.The ENGINEER clicks his slide clicker and changes the background to a picture of “Cheater’s Lament”-style devil horns.
ENGINEER: I hope that this Public Service Announcement has been able to sway your opinions towards those held by yours truly. I am all for a more consistent style of play and I hope that an agreement is reached soon which will ensure more enjoyment for all parties involved wherein. I am the RED Engineer, and this has been my Public Service Announcement. Thank you for watching.The ENGINEER clicks his button one more time, changing the background to what it was at the beginning of the PSA.
Fade out to the Team Fortress 2 main theme.
SPY
SPY PSA
The words “PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT” appear on the screen. After a few moments, the RED SPY decloaks and fades into view.
SPY: Gentlemen.
SPY: I come before you today in response to the Sniper’s allegations that I am not polite. It is my argument that it is the Sniper who is not polite. He married a kangaroo, lives in his van, and pisses in jars, which he then throws at people. If that is not the very definition of impolite, than I don’t know what is. And yet he still insinuates that I am not the epiphany of politeness. I am very polite. You can just ask his mother.The SPY lights a cigarette and puts it into his mouth.
SPY: Or, if her opinion doesn’t persuade you, then ask the Scout’s mother, Heavy’s mother, Engineer’s mother, Soldier’s mother, Medic’s mother, or Demoman’s mother.The SPY clicks the slide-clicker he is holding with a devious smile and changes the background to a picture of the SPY and the SNIPER’S mother.
SPY: In fact, you can ask the mother of any class… except the Pyro. The Pyro’s mother has been the only woman who has ever rejected my advances, and it depresses me so.As the SPY is talking, he clicks his slide-clicker repeatedly to change the background to pictures of him and the women he is talking about. Once he is done talking, a picture of the SPY and DEMOMAN’S mother takes up the background.
SPY: That was this morning, actually. I had the BLU intel, I had just got done mail-ordering the brand-new fireproof Spy suit from Mann Co., and I was being my usual polite self in general, whe-The SPY flicks his cigarette in shame.
PYRO’S MOTHER: HUDDA-HUDDA-HUH!The SPY is interrupted by a noise which sounds like a PYRO. PYRO’S MOTHER barges into the room, dressed in a blue fire-retardant suit and holding a flamethrower. A flower is taped on her gas mask where her ear would be.
SAXTON HALE: Hello there, ladies and gentlemen. Pardon my appearance, I just wrestled a bear inside the burning PSA studio. I am Saxton Hale, president of Mann Co. I regretfully inform you that our main broadcasting facilities have been destroyed and our Public Service Announcer has been… barbequed. We are currently relocating all equipment to a subsidiary of Mann Co. that makes curtain rods, so check back next week for a final PSA. In the meantime, I recommend passing the time by buying some of our new Mann Co. products! Pyros got you down? Do you keep losing your disguise to the flames, or is your invisibility made useless by fire? Then try the new Mann Co. fire-proof suit! It uses the latest Spytech technology to make it completely impervious to fire, while still remaining elegant and fashionable. Just call 555-5555 and tell ‘em Saxton sent ya!PYRO’S MOTHER ignites the SPY and sets the set for the PSA ablaze. The fire quickly spreads until it consumes the camera and changes the screen to a notice which reads, “We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.” After a few moments, the screen goes completely white and Saxton Hale walks onscreen. He is shirtless, and has some deep scratches on his face.
Saxton Hale walks offscreen. We can hear him smashing a window and jumping onto a nearby helicopter as the screen changes to the Mann Co. logo and fades out.
Coming attractions:
??? (Coming 5/4)
War? (Poem):
War?We stormed the beaches that day.
Hundreds of my comrades died.
Young and valiant, I lived.
Do we have to fight on?
Once, you flew the jets overhead.Weapons firedExplodingKillingIncinerating.Louis’ father stormed NormandyLouis’ cousin fought the Vietcong.Our family is a bunch of pillagersUnraveling humanityRelishing the chance to kill.Our son’s sweat fell from her browWeeping for the sorrow he causedNo, he was right in hisKilling.
Is this
Not what you
Designed
?As the screams of Angels turned Demons roared overheadBombingOvertakingMurdering.Is this what you want?Now, Lucifer’s child falls from the skyAdvancing
Torturously
It hits the ground
Overtaking all in a mushroom.
Now World War IV will be fought with
Sticks and stones; which may break our bones, but words will never hurt usOr will it be fought with our blood? And the blood of ourFamilies?Man
As we know him
Now lies in ruin.
A few of you may remember an immensely horrible couple of chapters I posted about six months ago. What you guys saw was the second draft; this is the fifth draft. Since then, I've actually finished the novel, which clocks in at about 300 pages. I've also totally redone what you guys DID see in the past, so it's not even recognizable anymore.
I'm not posting the entire novel, but here's a taste. Unfortunately, the formatting was not kept when I transferred it from Word to here, and I can't seem to figure out how to get the paragraphs to show up once more:
Chapter I: The Beginning
Some people in this world were meant to do great things. Some people were meant to climb the highest mountains, swim the deepest oceans, soar to the furthest reaches of the universe and have their names immortalized in the history books of the world.
Our story is not about those people.
Our story is the tale of Bob Guy, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed young American of medium height and a sun-kissed complexion. Bob was extraordinary, not because he had exceptional intelligence or exceptional strength, but rather because there was a discernable lack of any redeemable quality about him.
Bob had been conscripted into the army on the side of the fascist “Blue” government when war broke out four years ago. His mediocrity and expendable nature made him the perfect candidate for extended military testing. When Washington, D.C. fell in The Battle of the Hats, the military finally couldn’t finance any more tests, and so Bob was sent to “Charlie” Company in order to defend the new capitol of Los Angeles.
After a few days, Bob’s new Commander requested to get Bob transferred to another unit. “Bob is like a slinky,” his note read, “He’s completely useless, but fun to push down stairs. I dread the day the Red Army presses their attack. I don’t want to entrust my life in his hands. Send him to ‘N’ Company. He doesn’t belong here.”
“Bob’s new base is his home,” wrote back Blue Command, “We’re standing by our decision. Whether or not you agree is none of your business.”
Unfortunately for Bob’s Commander, the Communist Red Army decided to press their attack the very next day.
Alarm bells rang and troops scurried about to mount a defense.
Bob, meanwhile leaned against a wall, staring at the ceiling.
Bob heard an annoying voice in the room today. It was unlike the voices he had heard in the past in that it seemed as if it was coming from everywhere and nowhere, and Bob had made it his personal mission to discover where it was coming from and tell it to shut up.
Bob stopped leaning against his wall and began pacing the room, searching for the source of the voice. He checked every nook and cranny, he searched the room which used to house the generator, he checked up by the catwalk, but he simply could not identify the source of the voice.
It was as if it were following him, never growing any louder, never growing any quieter. He had turned around several times to try to surprise the voice, but all that did is earn him a few funny looks from his fellow soldiers.
The voice was driving him crazy because it was talking about him. Every time he paced the room, it would narrate his actions. Every time he turned around, it would inform him that he had turned around, always in the past tense and always in the third person.
I must be crazy, he thought, I must have finally snapped.
Suddenly, Bob screamed, scaring the living daylights out of the soldiers around him. The voice had just infiltrated his thoughts, too, speaking them aloud for everyone to hear. That was the final straw.
"COMMANDER!” Bob shouted, “THE VOICES IN THE SKY ARE TALKING ABOUT ME AGAIN!"
Bob’s Commander groaned when he heard Bob’s voice. "Did you wake up and begin talking to yourself again?”
“It’s different this time!” Bob cried indignantly. He looked confused for a moment, as if the voice in the sky had just used a really big word that he didn’t quite know the meaning of.
His Commander raised one of his eyebrows. “Did you, Bob?”
Bob sounded as if his voice gasping for air inbetween every sentence. “Well, yeah, only the other me was a zombie this time. And he tried to talk back to me. And it was scary. And then there was another guy. And then he tried to talk to me, too. And he scared me, but that wasn’t what I was going to talk about!”
His Commander paused for a moment to take in this information. “You’re crazy, Bob. C-R-A-Z-Y. Crazy. Loco. Insane. Not right in the head. A few marshmallows away from a hot chocolate. Three fries short of a Happy Meal. Take some pills and ignore the voices, and they'll go away."
"Ok,” Bob said after a sigh. He turned his head skyward, his best judgment for where the voice was coming from. “Mr. Voice, can you go bother someone else?"
Bob received no answer from the voice, as I didn't have a reply. I am, after all, the narrator. I simply narrate what goes on in whatever story I am assigned to tell; it’s my job and, like it or not, I have to do it.
"Commander! The narrator voice from the sky says he doesn't have a reply, then he said that he wasn‘t going to go away!"
"Bob. Take some pills and ignore it. It'll go away soon enough, trust me." He turned to one of his other soldiers, a Lieutenant whom had just returned from running some calculations through the base’s computer.
The Lieutenant was frowning and hiding his face behind a stack of papers he was holding.
This was not a good sign.
“How bad are the casualties so far?” the Commander hissed.
“It’s not looking good, sir.”
The Commander frowned as well at this news. “Where the hell’s Chad?”
The Lieutenant continued to stare at his chosen spot as he said, “Computer says he’s on vacation, sir.”
“Didn’t he just get back from vacation?”
“Not according to the computer, sir.”
“We’re screwed,” the Commander said. He sighed a deep, prolonged, exasperated sigh, patted the soldier on the back, and walked over to speak to Bob. "We're losing men, and fast,” the Commander said to his least favorite soldier, “I would send you out there, but um… You have... ‘Special needs’."
"That's what my mommy told me!" Bob said with a bright and vibrant smile on his face. He liked thinking of his mommy. She was nice.
The Commander paused. "We need you, though."
"Need me for what?" Bob asked innocently.
"We need you to stay the hell out of everyone's wa-” The Commander started, then rethought what he was about to say. He had been given a wise piece of advice when he was a child: before you insult a man, walk a mile in his shoes. That way, when you insult him, you'll be a mile away, and you’ll have his shoes. After a few moments, the Commander’s thoughts seemed to arrive at some form of equilibrium. “Rather, we need you to play ‘Watch the Base’. It’s a game.”
Bob’s face lit up. “I wanna play!”
Bob’s Commander did not share the same enthusiasm as his Private. “Good.”
“How do you play?” Bob asked, extremely excited, “How do you win?”
“You just look at something in the base until I get back, and you win by not touching anything. If you can go without touching anything the entire time I’m gone, then you win the game!”
“Can I touch the floor?”
“Yes, you can touch the floor.”
“OK! That sounds like fun!”
“But Bob, if you touch anything at all, especially any red buttons, you lose the game.”
Bob looked around for any red buttons and quickly found one near a large computer display. Above the button was a warning which read, in a very large font which was clearly designed to be noticed, “CAUTION: SELF-DESTRUCT”. Above the self-destruct warning was an extra-large sticky note with some writing hastily scrawled onto it.
"You mean buttons like this red button with the BIG sticky note above it which has 'DO NOT PRESS THIS, BOB' written on it?" Bob inquired.
His Commander nodded. "Yes, that one. Do you understand?"
"Yep!" Bob said with a big grin.
"I need you to repeat what I said, Bob. What did I say?"
"I need you to rep-"
"NO, NO, NOT that!"
"NO, NO, NOT that!"
"Repeat what I said the first time."
Bob thought for a moment. "What I said the first time.”
“Bob. Repeat after me: I will NEVER hit any red buttons."
Bob paused, took this information in for a moment, and replied with, "I will NEVER hit French toast before bedtime."
The Commander paused and sighed, a sigh which one typically used when they had seen enough for one lifetime. He had no clue which part of Bob’s brain THAT had come from, but he knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with him this way. He felt as if he were driving retards to the zoo, and said retards were trying to lick the windows and stick their heads out of the bus the whole way. "Umm... Yeah. Let's go with that. I'm going to back away slowly, and you're NOT going to hit that button."
“Even if Sky Voice says I did?”
“Even if Sky Voice says you did.”
"OK!" Bob said cheerfully.
The Commander slowly backed away to bark at his other troops, and soon Bob was left alone.
"Never hit French toast before bedtime?" the Private muttered quietly to himself, "Does he mean an entire loaf of French toast, or just a slice of it? Whatever. It’ll be hard, but I can manage it.” He stared at the nearby display, focusing all his energy on staring at it so he could win his game of “Watch the Base”.
The display was running the latest version of Windows, an operating system which, despite the seven or so decades that it had existed, still thoroughly sucked, but was better than anything else out there. Even the latest version still suffered routine failure and the blue screen of death on a regular basis.
Below the display was a shiny red button, and so Bob began to play “Watch the Base” with that. “Ooooh... What's this shiny red button thingy?” Bob asked. He read the note attached to it. “Do... Nut... Press... This... Bob... Donut press this Bob? IF I PRESS THIS, I GET A DONUT? Sweet." Bob proceeded to press the red button, satisfied. Just as his finger lifted up once more, he remembered something very important, and he suddenly grew very sad. “I just lost the game.”
A sultry female voice echoed through the halls via the base’s loudspeakers. It had just a slight metallic tinge to it, enough to remind you that there were not actually any girls present in the facility and that this was just a computer talking. This was apparently not apparent enough to a poor marine named Lance several months ago, who, in a fit of romantic desperation, attempted to make out with the machine that generates the voice.
He was promptly electrocuted.
He fell into convulsions and died almost immediately, but his dying words were, "That girl was the best girl I ever kissed." The entire fiasco was actually rather depressing.
"This base will self-destruct in 60 seconds,” said the sultry voice, “Free coffee is available in the command center if needed. Have a spectacular day."
"That lady is very nice," Bob said, "she wants me to have a spectacular day! HAVE A SPECTACULAR DAY, TOO, NICE LADY!"
The computerized lady didn’t reply to Bob’s compliment, for she had locked up with the blue screen of death.
Bob calmly left through the main entrance and strolled past the intense firefight that was occurring between his team and the enemy’s. Bob spotted his Commander taking cover behind a smashed bit of a wall. The Commander poked his head above the wall, fired a couple of rounds into a Red soldier, and then dove back beneath his cover once more.
"See ya later, Commander!" Bob said, casually strolling past the intense battle. A bullet whizzed past his right ear, but he paid no mind.
The Commander turned, smiled, and waved good-bye. "Bye, Bob! Wa- Wait... Bob! I need you! Come back!"
Bob paused for a moment. "I think it's very sweet that you feel that way towards me, Commander, but I prefer my relations with women."
The Commander was stunned as Bob began walking away from the battle. He called out to his deserting Private, "Bob! Come back! This is insubordination!"
Bob stopped and looked at his Commander for a few moments, surveying the military uniform his Commander was wearing. "I really don't care about the 'in' status of whatever subordination is, but I do agree, that 'subordination' outfit does indeed look very good on you,”
Satisfied, Bob jumped into one of the nearby empty military “Chupa” jeeps and tore off down the beach.
Surprisingly, no one shot at Bob, possibly because half of the other team had died of laughter, and the other half couldn't stop laughing long enough to hold their guns straight. The tide of the battle seemed as if it were about to turn in the Blue Army’s favor when a massive explosion ripped through the military facility set off by a red button pressed sixty seconds prior.
The only survivor was Bob, who drove casually out of the explosion and towards his old friend Ian in a nearby town. Shortly later, he was stopped by a pair of military policemen, who dragged him off to the Admiral of the area, but almost decided to shoot him anyway because he wouldn't stop asking if they were there yet.
A short while later, Bob was in the interrogation room of the Admiral’s facility. The place was stark white, lacking all furniture except for a single desk in the center and a chair for the Admiral to sit upon. On the opposite side of the desk sat Bob, who was sitting in a chair of his own. The room’s lighting was dimmed, except for a very bright spotlight shining down upon Bob.
"...You were responsible for the loss of ALL OF ‘CHARLIE’ COMPANY!" the Admiral screamed. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality to it, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
"I wasn't,” Bob said, waggling his finger, “My finger was."
“I cannot let this go unpunished. I am going to authorize your late Commander’s orders and send you to noo- Err... ‘N’ Company,” he said. He adjusted the inflection in his voice to sound almost, but not quite, sarcastic, a favored trick of the Admiral’s, as it screwed with the heads of people he wasn’t very happy with. “It’s the absolute FINEST of all of the companies under my command!”
Bob began to smile at this prospect, ever-so-slightly. He stifled it before it became too noticeable. "Will I be able to meet some new friends?"
The Admiral paused for a moment to think about Bob’s question. "Yes,” he said, slowly, “Yes you will."
Bob‘s eyes lit up, and the smile which he had been stifling quickly expanded into a grin which filled his entire face. "Awesome! Will I get a mouse? I‘ve always wanted one! Can I get one, please? A widdle white one! It‘ll be sooo cute, and I‘ll play with it every day, and give it all the cheese it will ever want! It’ll be SOOOOOO happy! So, can I get one? Can I get one? I’ll take care of it every day! Pweaaaase?"
“No,” said the Admiral sternly.
Bob made the cutest face he could manage as he stared right into the Admiral’s eyes. "Can I get a cute widdle pony then?"
"No."
"Pweaaaase?"
"No."
Bob was pleading at this point. "Just one widdle white mouse? I'll name him Mister Squeaky, and he will be MY MISTER SQUEAKY, forever and ever and ever!"
"No. Take him away."
"Take who away? DON’T TAKE AWAY MISTER SQUEAKY! NOT MY MISTER SQUEAKY!"
Bob was going to continue his statement when two uniformed guards burst through the door, picked up the unfortunate Private and whisked him away, taking him down the hallway to the van that was waiting to take him to his new desert outpost.
Some places had high strategic value, and if they were to be taken, they could turn the tide of any war. Sidewinder was not one of those places.
“Are we there yet?” asked Bob.
“No,” said his handler. This same question had been asked every few seconds for the last hundred miles, and the handler was growing more irritated by the second as the truck turned on the access road which lead into the main part of Sidewinder’s canyon.
The U-shaped box canyon’s cliffs were made of the red-orange rock which is common in the Colorado/Utah/Arizona area. There was a single opening at the midpoint of the canyon, through which passed a single access road, used by every new recruit sent to the canyon.
The system seemed designed for failure, as if the government wanted the recruits who had been sent there to die, in transit or otherwise. The jeeps which dropped off the new recruits were always totally undefended, the perfect targets for an ambush.
“Are we there yet?” asked Bob.
“Not yet,” growled his handler.
At the opposite end of the canyon from the access road was a cave network. The two teams within Sidewinder both agreed that using the caves as a base would grant an unfair advantage, and since they had come to an agreement that they were going to fight a man’s war, hiding in caves was out of the question.
“Are we there yet?” asked Bob, who stared at the mouth of the cave entrance as the jeep drove past it and hung a right.
“No,” said his handler. He closed his eyes and began to count to ten, something which his doctor told him would keep his blood pressure in check. It didn’t seem to be working.
Instead of hiding inside of cave networks, the teams operated out of their bases, two nearly-identical man-made structures at either end of the canyon, both as far away from the main access road as was physically possible without tunneling into the canyon itself.
The Blues had built one of the two bases in the canyon; the Red team built the other. Each base existed just because there was a base on the other side, creating a pointless front line and eternal stalemate, since neither side wanted to use heavy weaponry to demolish the other team’s base.
Both of the structures were circular, and both had a basement level below ground, a middle level at the same height as the ground around it, and a roof level which both served as the roof and a nice spot to hold barbeques and picnics. Both teams unknowingly used the exact same building contractor when it was time to construct their bases within Sidewinder, and thus the Red base looked exactly the same as the Blue base, save for a few more red colored lights.
The Red base was nearly always in the sun, much to the displeasure of those who enjoyed not being burned by the hot Colorado Desert sun when holding a picnic on the roof of their base.
The Blue base, meanwhile, was in the perfect place to be shaded by the canyon walls most of the day, much to the pleasure of those who enjoyed not being burned by the hot Colorado Desert sun when holding a picnic on the roof of their base.
“Are we there yet?” asked Bob.
“No,” said his handler, who was coming closer and closer to punching the Private he was supposed to handle in the face.
Coincidentally, both the Companies serving in the canyon were given the designation “N” Company, and the same joke was going around both teams that the “N” stood for noob, computer slang for moron.
Secretly, the “N” really DID stand for noob, but the official statement issued by each team’s command center said it was just a coincidence, and not by any means an insulting name which was meant to imply the very low skill level of whoever was unfortunate enough to be sent to this particular company.
The only people who actually believed this statement were the people of “N” Company. Everyone knew that this canyon was where both teams sent their rejects, and the Blue's Commander, Commander Pie, was just another reject. He worked his way up the ranks by proving his worth in the simulators, but when he was actually called upon to fight, his team was always wiped out by either friendly fire or a suspicious jeep crash involving a 500 foot cliff and a well-timed bailout by the driver, who was always Commander Pie. The Commander had never won an actual battle in his life.
But, the Blues realized, he was very good at teamkilling, even if it was all accidental, and so they sent him to command “N” Company, the one place where they desperately wanted to take soldiers’ names off of the payroll, at any cost.
“Are we there yet?” asked Bob.
“Yes,” said his handler, who threw open the door and Bob at Commander Pie, who was standing outside of the Blue base. “He’s your damn problem now.”
Pie nodded and brushed his shaggy hair out of his face as the jeep drove off. Pie helped the trooper up to his feet and extended his hand in greeting to the new recruit.
"Hello…” Pie paused, using his free hand to check the notecards he was holding, “…Bob, welcome to ‘N’ Company."
Bob got up, dusted himself off, and looked at Pie’s outstretched hand, confused. "What does the ‘N’ stand for?"
Pie kept his hand extended, forcibly smiling. "Don't ask.”
Bob’s blue eyes met Pie’s brown eyes, and Pie grew suddenly uncomfortable.
"Don't Ask doesn't start with ‘N’,” Bob said, smiling, “It starts with a ‘D’!” He looked at Pie’s still-outstretched hand, perplexed as to why it was still being offered out to him. He spit on it and looked back at his new Commander, satisfied.
Pie stared at his hand, and then dried it off on his pants with a shrug. "The ‘N’ doesn’t stand for 'Don't Ask'."
"Then what does it stand for?" Bob said, confused.
"It's a French word, pronounced 'Nub'. Most people go and say 'Noob', but that's butchering the name. Completely butchering it."
"You sure that's French?"
"Of course I'm sure! I was at the top of the bottom of my class in French! Bon Jovi Mouse-your! That's French."
"French for what?"
"I… I don't really know."
Bob smiled blankly. "I learned something today."
Pie took Bob into the main room of Blue base. It was brightly lit, with standard-issue concrete making up the walls, standard-issue concrete making up the ceiling, and standard-issue military-cliché grey plating making up the floor.
In one corner was an obviously smart man, reclining in an IKEA office chair. He was in his late twenties or maybe early thirties, and he was playing with a small replica of a military Longsword-class bomber, making tiny “whooshing” noises as he did so.
Sitting on the ground was another man, this one very British-like in appearance, complete with bad teeth and the general air of Britishness which is commonly associated with people from Britain. He was unshaven and his dress uniform was in tatters, which was odd because the team hardly ever wore the dress uniforms.
"Anyway, here are your squadmates,” Pie said, pointing to the man playing with the small metal bomber, “This here is Kyle Andross. We call him 'Flyboy' or 'Fly’ for short, mainly because he meant to check the 'Air Force' box when he signed up for the Army, but he checked 'Marines' by accident. It was sad."
"Hey Fly."
Flyboy glanced up. "Hey."
“Flyboy has a tendency to think that he’s good with the ladies,” Pie said, “But he isn’t, and he’s been single as long as I’ve known him, so humor him, please.”
“I deplore that comment. I am not single, sir, I’m ‘romantically challenged’.”
“Whatever, Flyboy, just keep telling yourself that,” Pie said. He pointed to his next soldier, the overwhelmingly British member of Pie’s crew. "Next we have Joe. Joe was a Hobo who came to America once the Commies took over Britain and enlisted in our army. Joe enlisted in the army, that is, not the Commies.” Pie narrowed his eyes. “Damn dirty Commies. Anyway, since he always insists on wearing ripped clothes EVERYWHERE, we call him Torn. I don’t know exactly WHY he rips up everything around him, maybe he likes it, maybe it’s some hot new fashion trend going on with the teenagers these days, I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t look like a teenager, but he sure likes to blow stuff up, if you know what I mean."
Flyboy gave Pie an awkward look. “Erm… No, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Just… Just forget it. It was a lame attempt at a joke,” Pie said.
"How are ya, Torn?" Bob asked.
Torn’s accent did not betray his appearance in that it was thick and British. "Well, I'm-"
Bob cut him off with a smile. "That's nice."
"And finally, we have me, Apple Pie, Commander of the finest company in this god-forsaken canyon."
"Your name is Apple?" Bob asked.
Pie sighed, the kind of sigh which one sighs when they are telling themselves Oh no, here we go again. "It's an Irish name."
"It is, sir?" Flyboy asked.
"No,” Pie said, not amused, “I just had two idiot parents who thought they were being funny by naming their only child after a fruit. If it makes you feel better, my mom has a twin sister who named their only child ‘Vanilla’. He’s had self-esteem issues ever since."
"Oh." Flyboy said with a nod, and he resumed playing with his Longsword.
"Anyway, everyone, off to your posts!” Pie said, “C’mon, go, go, go! Flyboy, go draw up some attack plans. Torn, guard the entryway from the Reds. Bob... Umm... Bob, why don’t you protect Flyboy. I'll be in my cabin reading the articles from Playboy magazine. Don't disturb me."
Pie walked off to his cabin, and everyone went about their duties. Flyboy grumbled to himself as he went to his office chair to draw up Pie’s plans. He set the model Longsword on his desk, shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Nobody ever just ‘reads the articles’..."
Chapter II: The Part Which Comes After the Beginning
Flyboy sat at his desk, his pencil flying across his paper like a mouse which scientists overdosed on cocaine. Bob, standing at attention behind the feverish worker, couldn't stand being a silent guardian anymore.
"Whatcha doin’, Fly?"
Flyboy didn’t even glance up from his work. "Drawing up plans to go capture the Red's flag."
"Someone on the Red team has a fag? Like a cigarette?”
"No, the flag. We want it."
"Why do we want a fag? Unless... Flyboy... No... You're not gay, right? Because I thought my last Commander was straight, but a comment he made to me right as I was leaving revealed his true feelings for me and made me HIGHLY uncomfortable."
That finally got Flyboy to stop working and look over at Bob. "Don’t panic, Bob, I'm straight,” Flyboy said. He lowered his voice to a hush. “Sometimes, I steal Pie's Playboy magazines and… erm… ‘Read the articles’.”
"I thought you said no one ever reads the articles?”
Flyboy’s voice was incredulous as he stared at the imbecile in his presence. “I don’t actually read the articles.”
“You just said you did.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Then what do you do with them?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Well, now I’m curious.”
Flyboy sighed and placed his forehead in the palm of his hand. “I do naughty things. Very naughty things”
“Oh. But why do you want to kidnap the Red team's fag? So that you can smoke it? If you’re taking it from the Red team, the Red Commander’s mouth has touched it. You don’t want his germs. He has nasty germs. Nasty Red team Communist germs. You don’t want those, trust me."
Flyboy threw his pencil violently down onto the desk in frustration. "NO! No, I said the FLAG."
"Oh,” Bob said, “The flag." There was a pause, a moment of silence in which you could hear a pin drop, or a zombie apocalypse virus spreading, or maybe even the distant thunderclap of a team of ninjas being unleashed upon a pirate ship sailing the seven seas. Bob went on: "What flag?"
Flyboy sighed and turned his office chair around to point at a large tattered blue flag, emblazoned with a giant "N".
"See this flag?” he said, “Torn used it as a blanket for a little bit, but the Reds have one just like it. We want to capture the red version of that flag and bring it back here."
"If they have one just like it, why do we need it?" Bob asked, confused.
Flyboy struggled for words. “I had never thought about that, actually. I guess… Because... Well... IT'S JUST THE FLAG!"
Bob nodded, slowly. "But we already have one just like it. Why do we need another?"
Flyboy gave him the best answer that he could come up with off of the top of his head. "It's just a sign that we’ve captured their base or something.” Flyboy sighed and ruffled his hair. “Here. If we get it, then they have to surrender. That's just the way this thing works."
"But what if they don't surrender when we capture their flag?"
“They have to surrender,” Flyboy said, “It’s the rules.”
“Oh, OK,” Bob said, and he fell silent once more.
Flyboy reached for his pencil to resume working, and he frowned when his pencil wasn’t on the desk. After a few minutes of searching, he realized that it had ricocheted off of the desk when he had thrown it down in frustration and landed on the floor, so he picked it back up and resumed working. The only sound in the room was the scratching of a pencil as Flyboy scribbled new plans down on paper.
After a few moments of nothing but pencil-scratching and peacefulness, Bob peeked over Flyboy’s shoulder and said, “I was never very close to my dad. He worked a lot.”
"Go bother Torn or something."
The Red team’s ATV had been making funny squeaky noises for the past few days when it was being pushed around with its motor off inside of the Red garage, and today Nate, the battle-hardened tough-looking hyphen-inducing dark-skinned Commander of the Red team’s “N” Company, was going to take a look at it.
He stared at the thing for several hours before he was forced to conclude that he had no clue why the ATV was squeaking. Sometimes he could swear that it was making squeaking noises even when he wasn’t pushing it around, and that puzzled him. It was as if a mouse had made a home inside the engine, something Nate made a mental note to investigate further.
He had a companion, Dennis "Ducky" Montague. Ducky was a “ladies’ man” of sorts, in that he was five parts dumb and one part handsome. Before he was stationed here, he could be found in bars all throughout Red territory, telling tales of his “exploits” and generally capturing the hearts and minds of women everywhere despite his overwhelming stupidity. His nickname’s origin tended to change every time you asked him about it, one time he said it originated because a rubber duck was his good luck charm, another time he said that he had earned his nickname in basic training after ignoring several orders to get out of the pool, and still another time he said that it was a nickname which had been bestowed upon him by a beautiful lady which he had “censored slightly for the kids”.
One night, Ducky was at a bar in London, drinking to celebrate the Red Army’s victory over England. A woman walked up to him, he hit on her, slept with her, and found out in the morning that she was the General’s wife.
The very next day he was assigned to “N” Company.
While he had been by Nate’s side for far longer than his teammates, his shortcomings on the intelligence end of the spectrum led to him being constantly overlooked when it came to promotions in favor of his cohorts, Puma and Cake, who were currently managing affairs within the Red base itself.
Puma's real name was a mystery. He always went by his internet handle, “Puma”, even going so far as to sign up for the Red army using the online username. He typically served his function as the base’s resident computer genius, and he looked every bit the geek he was: pale skin, square-rimmed glasses, and at any given time, the sounds of him hammering his palms on his computer’s keyboard were audible from anywhere on the base.
Unfortunately for Puma, females tended to shy away due to the odors emanating from his armpits, and consequently the sound of him hammering on his keyboard was replaced by the sound of a different kind of hammering once the sun had set.
Cake's real name was Vanilla Cake. He was Pie's cousin, and their twin mothers both had a sad sense of humor. Growing up, Cake had always hated Pie’s guts. If he could, Cake would have murdered Pie and used his entrails as party favors, something which he had made attempts to do on many occasions.
All of Cake’s attempts on Pie’s life ended in failure until Cake heard that Pie had joined the army. He quickly learned what side of the war Pie was fighting on and immediately joined the other side, just so he could get the chance to finally fulfill his dream.
Nate, meanwhile, didn’t like to tell anyone about his past, or the failure which forced him to be assigned to this dead-end post in the first place.
The failure had begun when he made an attempt to “pull a Ducky” and hit on his female Admiral back when the Red army allowed girls into their ranks.
The failure ended when said Admiral was attacked by fierce and vicious alligators.
Nate shuddered at the thought of it, and was quickly brought back to Earth by an incessant whining noise.
"Nate,” Ducky pestered, “Can I drive now?"
"No." Nate insisted.
Ducky frowned. "Now?"
"No."
"What about now?"
Nate clenched his fists. "NO."
Ducky paused for just a moment. He noticed that Nate was getting rather mad. Oh well. "Now?"
"Ducky, if you ask me ONE more time, I will get that Rocket Launcher we have in the base, and I will fire it at point-blank range at your face."
"What if I duck and you miss your shot?"
"It has two shots in it just for that reason."
"But… Umm… Firing that at point-blank range… Wouldn’t ya kill yourself?"
Nate smiled. "You'll die, too, so it'll be worth it."
"What’ll Puma and Cake do without us?"
"They’ll do the exact same thing they're doing now. What are they doing now?"
Ducky tilted back a little bit so he could see inside the base. "They’re doin’ a pole dance with the flag." Ducky replied.
"WHAT?"
A smile crept onto Ducky's face, but he managed to stifle it before it became too noticeable. "I think they're runnin’ a strip club."
Nate crawled out from underneath his military ATV, his dark face grease-covered and mouse droppings in his hair. He got up and stormed off towards the base, growling, "Alright, I'm going in there to stop this."
As soon as Nate was inside the base finding out that there was no pole dancing going on and thus punishing the pair inside accordingly, Ducky crept over to the lonely-looking ATV and started it up.
Its engines sputtered a bit at first, as if something that had made a little home inside was now meeting a sad, bloody end, and then the engine suddenly began to rev very nicely, like a large cat purring if said cat had a 500cc motor built-in.
Ducky cried out in joyful excitement and went on a joyride across the box canyon.
Only a few moments later, Nate stormed out of his base. He was very angry about being lied to and ready to punish everyone in sight. The pair inside the base were already doing one-armed pushups, and now it was Ducky’s turn to do the same.
"No, they weren't doing any pole dances, Ducky, and you’re in- Ducky? Ducky? Where'd you go? Oh well, time to get back to working on the..." Nate paused when he noticed that the ATV he was working on was missing was gone, but his tools were still there. After a moment of thought, he realized where it was Ducky and the ATV had gone. "DUCKY!!!"
He went inside to grab their experimental laser-type weapon, the Anti-Vehicle Model 6 Grindell/Galilean Nonlinear Rifle, as it said in the instructions which had come with it. He had been meaning to test their new weapon, which he affectionately called the "Big Shiny Laser Beam of Doom", or “BSLBD”. He was quite proud of the name which he had come up with.
Ducky hummed a nice little song to himself as he went on his joyride. He couldn't figure out why the squeaking noise had stopped. After a few moments he considered the fact that maybe Nate had fixed it, and a pang of sadness hit him. He missed the squeaky noise and had grown rather attached to it. It was almost like getting the pet mouse that he had always wanted, except you can't really take care of or play with a noise like you can a mouse.
"This'll teach him to mess with me..." Nate said. He set his laser’s sights on one of his troops, and his laser slowly began to build up to its full power with a menacing charging noise.
Ducky suddenly perked up and noticed a small patch of flowers next to him. They looked beautiful, and he wanted to frolic in them.
"OH LOOK! A FLOWER!" Ducky cried as he rushed off his ATV and ran to the flower garden. A laser raced across the canyon, destroying the ATV and leaving a gigantic scorch mark on the ground, turning it to glass. Nate let out a whoop.
"OH MAH GOD!" Ducky’s voice cried, "A BUNNY!"
Ducky raced over to play with a little white bunny rabbit which was peacefully hopping around the canyon, oblivious to the smoldering hulk of what was formerly a military ATV.
And oh, how much fun they had for the thirty seconds in which they knew one another! That bunny was Ducky's new best friend, the companion that he always wished he had. They frolicked in the flowers together, they frolicked in the grass together, they were going to be friends forever…
That is, until Nate brought his beautiful dream to an end with another shot from his laser. It grazed Ducky’s chiseled body, but it hit his poor, poor little white companion, vaporizing the little bunny.
Ducky burst into tears instantly. "NOOOOOOOO!” he lamented, “MR. BUBBLES!" He ran away from the remains of the ATV as fast as his legs could carry him, searching for the nearest computer so he could complain about this day on the internet. Nate, out of battery for the BSLBD, decided to go back inside his base to put it on the charger.
Bob, meanwhile, was taking a brisk jog around the canyon, under Pie’s orders. He thought they were odd orders considering no one else was jogging, but he was told it would help to build his muscles and thus went along with it. As he jogged, Bob was mildly surprised when he ran into his old friend Ducky, who seemed very depressed indeed.
"Hey Ducky!” Bob said, happy to see someone whom he hadn’t seen in ages, “Long time, no see!"
Ducky looked up, tears in his eyes. "Oh, hey Bob. I lost my best friend today.”
“How?”
“A superheated laser shot."
Bob frowned. "Sorry to hear that. That's how I lost my pet turtle. Poor, poor Speedy." A tear formed in Bob's eye and he could feel the good times he had with his pet turtle manifesting themselves in the form of a massive crying spree. "Anyway, before I break down and cry, any plans coming up?"
"Yeah, I got plans. I heard my teammates say they’re gonna take a flag somewhere."
"Whoa,” Bob said, suddenly happy, “No way! That sounds awesome!"
"Yeah... But I can’t go. This one redhead chick asked me if I could go on a date that day. I had to reschedule a couple dates with a blonde and a brunette, but I managed to work it into my schedule. Anyway, the plan is my teammates are going to bring the flag to another area for one reason or another, I don’t know, I wasn’t listening to Nate drone on about it. He can talk FOREVER, you know.”
Bob nodded.
“But yeah. Cake and Nate and all them are going to be moving the flag somewhere else, and I’m gonna be with a ginger, so I’m happy. I may take her back to the base and rub my buddy Puma’s face in it afterwards,” Ducky said with a laugh, “He can’t get any. It’s really sad, and kinda funny, really.”
"Yeah,” Bob said nonchalantly, his mind now somewhere completely different, “Anyway, I gotta go. See ya later, Ducky!"
“See ya,” Cake said with a smile.
Pie was on guard duty outside the Blue base when Bob ran up to him. Pie preferred to get someone else to be on guard duty for him, but, at the moment, there was no one else available. He looked at Bob, but really didn’t want to talk to the Private, so he let his mind drift a bit.
He thought back to the day when he had talked to the Admiral about being the only survivor of a Chupa accident involving his whole company and a 500 foot cliff. The Admiral told him it was his fault, but apparently respected him enough that he decided to assign him to the finest company under his command, “N” Company.
Pie couldn’t help but wonder if there was any sarcasm in his voice. If he were to go back in time and ask the Admiral again about it, he would have taken the time right now to find a time machine so he could go back and find that Admiral and ask him.
He couldn’t find where the Admiral now and ask him because that would be far, FAR too easy. It needed to be more complex than that.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a time machine, and thus that plan was ruined.
He shrugged, and his thoughts turned to his wife back home. He desperately wanted to see her, just one more time.
He would see her when the war was over, he told himself.
The question was: how much longer was this war going to last?
He saw something breathing heavily in the corner of his eye and, finally, he remembered about Bob, who was still slightly out of breath from his brisk jog and had been patiently waiting for Pie to finish his internal monologue. "Pie!” he said excitedly, “I heard the Reds say that they're going to take a gay guy somewhere!"
"What? And why aren't you leaving all of us alon- I mean, going for a nice jog?"
"I said, the Reds are going to take a gay guy somewhere! And I got tired of jogging, it's exercise!” Bob frowned, then continued childishly, “I don't like exercise."
"So the Reds are going to take a homosexual somewhere. Riiight. And I’m going to travel through time.” Pie considered for a moment how he could make this scenario even more improbable, then he added, “And then, I’ll meet my wife inside a future version of Red base which had been turned into a café for some reason or another. How about you go ask the Reds where they’re taking this ‘gay guy’? If they let you live, maybe we can follow them."
"That sounds like a great idea!" Bob cried, and he hurried off to the Red base.
Nate, meanwhile, was on guard duty outside of the Red base. He had a feeling that he was going to have an unexpected visitor sometime soon. He didn't know why he knew that; he just KNEW, and so he wasn’t surprised in the least bit when a stranger in the Blue’s armor walked up to him.
"Hey, where are you guys taking the gay guy?" the Blue asked.
"The what?"
"The gay guy."
“We have a gay guy among us?” Immediately, thoughts of Nate’s worst fears confirmed went through his head: He was trapped in a base full of gay guys. Billions of different scenarios whizzed through his head, each more horrifying than the last, then he suddenly realized that the reason why this stranger was in the Blue's armor: he was on the Blue team. He thought about shooting him... But that was too easy. He needed to kill the guy in a crazy, roundabout way, the way a true villain would do it. "I don’t know about that, but I DO know that we'll be in Sniper Country soon. Like, as next Friday soon.” Nate paused to see how he could work the situation further into his advantage. “We’ll have the flag, too. Go tell your commander about it. Say I told you.”
"Okay! Thanks," the Blue replied with a smile.
"No problem." Nate said, watching as Private Bob Guy left to tell Commander Pie of his news. “Idiot.”
Chapter III: Wait! We Can't Stop Here! This is Sniper Country.
Sniper Country was a barren, desolate hell of a place. They said that when God was making the Earth all those years ago, Sniper Country was one of the last places He made. In fact, by this time, God was so thoroughly tired of making the planet that He just said, "Screw it. You know what, just… just screw it." And thus Sniper Country was born.
The result was miles of God-forsaken desert, with a red haze in the air which made the entire place look like the red surface of Mars. On either side, there were two gigantic mesas, towering above the perfectly flat expanse around them. Blue had carved out one of the mesas and converted it into a system of tunnels once war broke out. The Reds, seeing that the Blues had set up a base somewhere, did the same to the other, and yet another pointless front line was born. On either side, snipers lined any opening to the outside world, watching the broad expanse of desert and waiting for someone wearing different-colored armor to venture into their scopes.
There was a common saying in the army about Sniper Country, a proverb of sorts: "Doing *blank* is like trying to bring a shotgun to Sniper Country." In accordance with this wise proverb, Bob brought along his shotgun for safety.
The Chupa that they were traveling in paused for just a moment in the middle of this broad expanse of desert. Pie looked around in the driver's seat, scanning the area for any members of the Red team.
After a long silence and continued staring, Pie finally spoke. "I think I see a Red."
"I don't see anything."
"Bob, get out and check."
Bob whined like a ten-year-old who had just been asked to clean his room. "But whhhhhhhhhhyyyyy?"
Pie's unflinching gaze was directed fully upon Bob. "That's an order."
Bob sighed deeply as he slowly climbed out, the same ten-year-old angst put into each one of his movements. He slowly began to scan the area, taking his time in advancing towards the area that Pie had marked for him just to piss him off.
There was a deafening crack as forty-two separate sniper bullets ripped into Bob's chest from all angles. The Private fell to the ground in a heap, miraculously intact.
Doctors, when asked for a statement as to any particular reason why Bob's body survived, collectively shrugged and guessed that maybe forty-two was a magical number or something.
Pie stopped scanning the nearby area for Nate and his pals and looked over at Bob, who was now struggling to stay conscious. "Nope, not a Red. I guess that it was just a fox or something. C'mon, Bob, get up, stop being such a lazy bum and get back in."
"I can't." Bob groaned.
"Why not?"
"My legs don't work anymore."
Pie sighed in frustration. "Don't be stupid. You were shot in the chest, not your legs. Your legs should work fine."
"Did you SEE the number of bullets that hit me? It's a miracle I'm still alive."
Pie considered this for a moment and was taken aback; Bob was actually using logic for one time in his life. He considered this for a moment, remembering that even a stopped clock is still right two times a day. "Alright," he said reluctantly, "I'll go get you some help."
In a cloud of red-orange dust, the Chupa spun its tires, fishtailed a little bit, and headed off into the distance.
Back in Sidewinder, the Red team received a knock at their door. Nate opened the door to the base slowly to reveal a mercenary, clad from head to toe in midnight black armor. The only slight variation of color came from the silver shine of the helmet's visor, which reflected the sun onto a nearby wall. The helmet looked out of place in comparison to the state-of-the-art armor below it, as if it were a very slightly modified paintballing helmet which had been converted from civilian use into something which was battle-ready.
"Inferno here, at your service," said the mercenary. It had a booming deep voice, the sort of voice which could land one a job as an announcer for a late-night radio program.
Nate was most pleased that the mercenary which he had ordered off of ineedaweapon.com had arrived.
"Did you bring the mech?" Nate asked happily.
"The Mythos walker is parked out back, as per your request. We are loaded up with 700 high-energy anti-matter charges and ready to go."
"Good," Nate said, smiling, "Good. Warm her up. I have our first target."
"And so," Pie said, "After the flying monkeys attacked us, we-"
"SHUT UP AND TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO BOB!" Flyboy yelled. He paused for a moment. "Sir."
"Flyboy, you're lucky there's no one else traveling with us, otherwise I would reprimand you for embarrassing me in front of my troops."
Flyboy's tone dropped to something which was more sympathetic, almost pleading. "Please sir, tell me where Bob is."
"Fine, fine. He's over there." Pie said, stopping the Chupa next to Bob's body.
Flyboy rushed out and felt for a pulse. "It's no use, sir. Bob's dead. Kaput. Gone. Poof."
"That-"
"Missing. Gone forever."
"Tha-"
"On the other side. No longer with us."
"Th-"
"Slaughtered by the many bullets of an angry and wrathful God, never again to walk among the living!" Flyboy screamed. His voice was slowly rising in intensity.
Pie stared at him. "Are you quite finished?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. AS I WAS SAYING, that sucks. Poor Bob, he will be missed, blah blah blah blah blah," Pie said, his voice devoid of all sympathy and emotion for the Private. "Oh well, time to send in another recrui-"
Pie was once again interrupted, this time by a quite large explosion behind him. He slowly turned around in the driver's seat to view it in its majesty. The explosion was circular and colored a bright baby blue, slowly darkening and dimming as it expanded beyond the point of impact. The light from the explosion was scattered at its far reaches, forming a fuzzy circle around the farthest reaches of the explosion. It left a distinctive smell in the air, not unlike the smell of poop from a newborn baby.
The smell of this newborn baby poop lingered as the explosion faded away, leaving a massive 100-meter radius crater. Pie continued to stare, stunned by this new development. A fuzzy purple blob was slowly fading from the insides of his eyes and his hair was a mess from the sudden air blast left by the shockwave. He flattened it down to the best of his ability with his hand. "Well."
Flyboy quickly leaned over the center console of the Chupa, put his elbows in Pie's lap and grabbed the steering wheel. "GAS IT, SIR!" he cried, "GO, GO, GO!"
Pie didn't gas it, but instead stared unhappily at Flyboy. After a moment, he slapped Flyboy across the face. "That was gay," he said, "Get out of my lap, and never, ever, ever, EVER, touch me again."
Flyboy slowly and shamefully took his hands off the wheel and put them back where they belonged. Pie glared at him, hit the gas, and the Chupa tore down the desert. As soon as they had gotten out of range, another explosion hit where Bob's body lay and the Chupa rocked with the shockwave.
"Well, he's dead for sure, now," Pie remarked, happy with the way this mission was going. He grinned and drove his Chupa into a door in one of the nearby mesas.
Pie nearly hit several snipers as he entered Blue team's mesa. Every opening to the outside was lined with members of Blue team's "S" division (naturally, according to Standard Naming Procedure, both teams had given their divisions based in Sniper Country the designation of "S" division, as the usefulness of not naming divisions based off of their purpose had been lost over the years). Pie and Flyboy tore past many more surprised snipers and finally parked their Chupa in a hangar full of bombers.
Flyboy was quiet for a moment as he surveyed the hangar bay. Finally, he said, "Sir, do you ever think that we're just two fictional characters in a story written by some random, possibly insane author? And have you ever gotten the feeling that you have just experienced an elaborate plot device for some insane machination of his mind?"
Pie smiled and pulled out a set of keys. "Speaking of elaborate plot devices…"
He causally hit a button on the keys and one of the Longsword-class bombers in the "S" Company's hangar bay chirped.
"Be careful," Pie said as they climbed inside the bomber, "I still have five years' worth of payments on this thing. I wouldn't want to be making monthly payments and not have anything to show for it."
Flyboy admired the matte-black blocky, V-shaped bomber as if he had encountered a wonderland of some sort. As they walked up the boarding ramp, he touched all the dials and twisted all the buttons he could get his hands on. As he explored the cockpit, he was as giddy as a Japanese schoolgirl when she's learned that she is going to be the voice actor for a new, certifiably-insane Japanese anime cartoon.
"You never told me you had a bomber, sir!"
Pie shrugged. "You never asked."
"Sir, you have to understand! We could use this to win the war against the Reds right away! One strafing run on their puny little base, and they're history!"
"No."
"Why not, sir? It's what you bought this plane for, isn't it?"
"I bought this plane for external engagements. Ones which take place OUTSIDE of Sidewinder."
Flyboy sat down in the pilot's chair as Pie began to raid the bomber's fridge. "Then why can't we use it in Sidewinder, sir?
"We might damage the Red team's flag."
"That's a load of BS, sir."
"Rules are rules, Flyboy. We have to capture their flag for us to win. It's why we can't just sneak in at night and kill all the Reds, it's why we can't nuke their base from orbit, et cetera. You know that."
The cockpit was silent as Flyboy considered this. After a moment, he had an epiphany. "Sir, why don't we just shred our flag so that they can't capture it? It would make a lot more sense, wouldn't it? No flag, no capturing."
Pie waved the matter away and walked towards the plane's onboard galley. "Just get us out of this hangar and into the air."
Flyboy nodded and turned the engines all the way up. He giggled like a schoolgirl as the engines warmed up and they began to gain speed. He pulled back on the yoke and seemed to be experiencing a type of ecstasy, of sorts. "She's slow, sir," he said, casually caressing the bomber's control console as they began gaining altitude, "but she can blow the hell out of anything she wants to. Virtually limitless missile supply, bay full of mini-nukes…" He sighed happily. "I love you, Longsword."
The onboard computer let out a single, casual beep, as if someone had pushed a button somewhere by mistake.
Flyboy smiled. "Aww… That's so sweet!" He attempted to give the plane a hug, rather unsuccessfully.
Pie's voice rang out from the galley. "I just restocked this damn place with food, where the hell did all of it go?"
"SHUT UP!" Flyboy said like an angsty teenager going through puberty, "You don't know what she and I have been through! We love each other, and we always will! You wouldn't understand, sir; you CAN'T understand! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"
Pie stared back at him, not quite expecting his comment to set off such a violent reaction. After a mild pause, Flyboy blinked and went back to caressing the Longsword's control panel as if nothing had happened. He ran his finger up, down, and around the buttons, giggling as he did so. A large explosion rocked the Longsword, and Flyboy's romance with the plane was lost as he jumped onto full alert. When he got frustrated with trying to figure out where the shot had come from manually, Flyboy pressed a little square blue button. A green grid lined the viewscreen as a computer built-in to the Longsword displayed the projected trajectory of the Mythos' next shot and gave Flyboy a target, which lit up with a nice red square.
"They missed us, sir, but it's only a matter of time until that thing brings my baby down." Flyboy said.
Pie cleared his throat, quite loudly. "Whose baby?"
"Your baby, sir."
"That's better," Pie said. He abandoned his quest for snacks in the kitchen cabinets and moved on to the fridge to check it a third time for any kind of food.
Flyboy sighed and glanced at a rapidly-ticking countdown timer. "Distance to target is 10 kilometers, sir. Short-range missiles will be in range in ten seconds."
Pie didn't even glance up.
The overwhelming smell of newborn baby poop began to drift through the Longsword's cabin as the entire viewscreen was obscured by a bright blue explosion.
Flyboy flew straight through the explosion as if nothing had happened. He relished a chance to demonstrate his flight prowess, and so he turned to look at Pie's reaction. He frowned when he saw that the Commander hadn't even glanced up from his quest for food to admire Flyboy's flying skills.
However, the inflated monstrosity which was Flyboy's ego was quickly put into its place, for the shockwave from the explosion managed to catch up to the plane and rocked it violently nonetheless. "We're in missile range," Flyboy said quietly, attempting to nurse his bruised ego back to health.
"Fire," Pie said half-heartedly, saddened by the lack of food available in the plane's pantries. "It would seem that my search for food in the galley…" Pie said as he put on a pair of sunglasses, "came up fruitless." Pie smiled slightly to himself and elbowed Flyboy in the ribs gently. "See what I did there?"
Flyboy nodded slightly, his ego still bruised. He pressed a button and the Longsword shuddered as it launched a sudden hail of little white missiles at the Mythos.
Flyboy watched the little white streaks of death race towards their target and began to try to get the Longsword's outdated version of Windows to play Won't Get Fooled Again by the Who.
Inferno had finally finished getting the Mythos' built-in Macintosh to boot up its internal copy of iTunes and begin to play some of heaviest metal sort of heavy metal which the mercenary had on hand. "An Apple a day keeps the Windows away," Inferno said, then continued as the music began to blare, quite loudly, "Nothing like the classic stuff for an epic battle."
Nate groaned. "Inferno, I'm trying to sleep. Can't you change it to something a little more… Decent?"
"No."
There was a terrific succession of bangs as the Mythos' hull was riddled with explosions from a hail of little white missiles. The mech groaned, but seemed to hold together despite the amount of firepower which had just been pumped into it.
Inferno checked the computer screen and reported, "Hull integrity is standing at 62%. Antimatter charge ready."
"Fire." Nate replied, half-asleep and trying very hard to ignore the heavy metal which was pulsing throughout the cabin.
The Mythos began to tremble violently as another shot raced out of its large top-mounted cannon. The heavy metal music blared loudly, not quite loud enough for the mercenary, so Inferno leaned back and turned it up some, much to Nate's chagrin. The Mythos' cabin let out a few beeps to let Inferno know the Antimatter charge had missed once again.
"Damn, they dodged it." Inferno said as a black V flew out of the blue explosion.
"Inferno, it's a giant bomber," Nate said, his eyes half-closed, "How the hell could you miss something that big? It's HUGE."
Inferno, not very happy with Nate's tone, leapt up from his seat and pulled out a pistol. "What the hell did you just say?" The mercenary leveled the pistol with Nate's unprotected head, and Nate quickly abandoned any attempt to try to sleep.
"You wouldn't, Inferno."
Inferno took the safety off of the pistol with a click. "I'm warning you, friend. I am a dangerously insane individual. I've been through a lot over the last 4 years. You don't even want to get me started on it," Nate felt as if there was a smile which was slowly spreading over Inferno's masked face as the mercenary continued, "Let's just say that on the journey of life, I choose the psycho path. And, let me tell ya, the worst brands of psychopaths are the ones which know they're insane," Inferno said, laughing like a maniac.
Nate sighed slightly. "If you do it, you won't get paid."
Inferno slowly lowered the pistol, face scowling behind the visor. The Macintosh behind him paused the music suddenly and let out a cheery beep, the kind of cheery beeps which sadistic operating systems make when something which could not go wrong just went horribly, horribly wrong.
"Hull integrity at critical levels," it said cheerily. It sounded like an excited flight attendant, a profession where it was often hard to find something to be excited about. There was another cheery beep signifying the conclusion of its cheery message and heavy metal filled the cabin once more.
"Hell," Inferno said, grabbing Nate by the collar. "C'mon, let's get the hell out of here." Inferno dragged Nate out of the Mythos, pausing to retrieve the sniper and flamethrower mounted in the Mythos' gun rack. Nate was thrown into a nearby sand dune as the mercenary jumped out of the door and dove into a combat roll to get away from the inevitable explosion.
It took a moment before the Mythos finally exploded, lighting up the sky once more with a light blue explosion as the remaining supply of antimatter charges met matter. Debris from the mech flew in every direction, and when the dust cleared nothing was left of the death mech but a slightly-smoldering hulk of twisted wreckage.
Nate pulled himself up and dusted himself off. He smiled when he saw that he was perfectly okay in every regard. "That wasn't so bad." Nate looked over at Inferno, who lay still on the ground, the only movement coming from the steady breathing of the mercenary's chest.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do from time to time, and ripped through Nate's legs, sending him tumbling to the ground. "Never mind."
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