Author Topic: Mark's Short Story Challenge!  (Read 1446 times)

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Offline Metalhead_Mockingbird

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Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« on: June 03, 2012, 05:54:48 pm »
Given the success of both of the other threads, and that I kinda need to work on my own writing a bit, I figured why not start up my own writing challenge thread! Credit goes to Jet of course for the idea n' stuff.

Same concept, post a word, I'll write a story, so on so forth. But, if I do make a short story canon to my writing, the original post of this thread will be edited to accommodate for the wash of weapons/acronyms and descriptions for purposes of brevity and flow of the writing.

(If I miss something, do feel encouraged to tell me about it.)
__________
Carnki: A race of 2.5 meter tall anthropomorphic reptillans. Much stronger than the average (unassisted) human, and possesses greater technology. Currently at war with two other races besides humanity. Since energy weapons are much stronger than projectiles, their weapons outmatch human weapons, though, Carnki body armor does not protect against any form of high-powered rifle round, leaving them open to all sorts of weapon fire.

Cascade: Hotly contested human colony world. Only Exoplanet in possession of humanity, and major production colony. Headquarters of the one of the leading defense contractors, as well as the creator of the first human FTL drive, Interspace. As of 2110, Cascade is under invasion from the Carnki, and is attempting to counter on all fronts, despite having their wings clipped in regards to modern doctrine, involving spacecraft.

UAN: United Arab Nations, combination of a majority of nations holding an Arab or Muslim majority, Most of the Middle East, and some of Northern Africa. Considered by some nation states and Treaties to be a bit of a rouge Treaty.

MV-12 "Little Hawk": Small 12-man transport VTOL, sized about the size of a Blackhawk Helicopter. Looks like someone put smaller Osprey wings on a Blackhawk helicopter frame, and messed around the tail section to also look more like the Osprey. 2 Pilots, and various armaments. Workhorse of the US Military.
- MV-12S: Stealth oriented Little Hawk, using //ERROR CLASSIFIED INFORMATION// to lower Radar Cross Section (RCS), and to allow the blades to much quieter.

A-33: Single seat attack aircraft, which replaced the A-10M aircraft. Highly armored with nano-composite armor and airframe, allowing for light self-repairing, while keeping it light and durable. A two engine design based around the A-10, with one 3-barreled 35mm EMARC, as well as 13 hardpoints for munition. The design is respectively a little bit more angular as to attempt to lower the RCS of the aircraft without sacrificing survivability, or use of expensive RAM materials.

M70: Based upon the KRISS Vector design, the rifle originally fired telescoped 6.5mm Grendel ammunition, and still can, as the rifle merely fires a 4.5mm saboted ammunition. Features a 6-position retractable stock, increased ergonomics for fires control systems, 20in barrel, and, 16in modular rail system. Replaced M16 series of rifle in the 2060s. Picture
- M7: Carbine version of the M70 rifle, 14.5in barrel. Picture
- Mk.7: 10 inch PDR version of the M7/M70 series of rifle. Sometimes used as a survival rifle in recent operations. As well as seeing use with special forces units in MOUT operations.
« Last Edit: August 04, 2012, 01:19:25 am by Metalhead_Mockingbird »
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Offline Mylo

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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #1 on: June 03, 2012, 07:04:49 pm »
Yeah! That make three! :)

I'll give you your first word: titan

Good luck and have fun ;)

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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #2 on: June 03, 2012, 07:12:08 pm »
I'll give you your second word: Sandstorm
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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #3 on: June 03, 2012, 07:45:41 pm »
And I'll propose the third.  Try one on "influence".
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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #4 on: June 03, 2012, 08:12:40 pm »
Being as I have somehow inspired this Writing Movement on Furtopia, I might as well get involved on the threads people create. Thus, I am here to offer a word. It feels really cool to know that others are inspired by my own work to do something as well. I was just expanding on an exercise we did when I was young where the classmate to your left gave you a word, and you gave one to the classmate to your right, then you write anything you want on that one word. It seems to have exploded into a so far three man escapade. Sounds like fun to me! :D

So, I know you are into war...So maybe something that may inspire a war story, or at least a battle word from myself. So what if you wrote for genocide. As I am sure you already know, keep in mind the rules of writing here on Furtopia, but I am sure you could come up with a great story based around the word genocide.
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Offline Metalhead_Mockingbird

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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #5 on: June 05, 2012, 12:22:55 am »
I'll give you your first word: titan
Phew. For my first word, this was surprisingly difficult to write, and I don't think I nailed the word down right. At all. But, none the less, thats what practicing is for, right?

He looked above at the mountain peak ahead, staring at it. Only one hundred meters, and he would have scaled one of the tallest mountains in the world. Cold nipped at his exposed face, his muscles ached, and his tools for performing such a job were growing dull with each time he dug into the rock face. Each time he accomplished the feat of hauling himself once more up the face of the cliff brought him ever closer to his goal. Such a goal was conquered before him, but none the less difficult to all of those who attempted. Fifty meters. He only had to haul himself just that much more of a distance. Dig a pick in, dig a spiked boot in, lift self up. Repetition. Difficult repetition. Every bone ached from the cold, the bitter cold and harsh workout subjected to it to gain satisfaction, satisfaction of doing such a difficult feat that most other people of similar physical stature could not do, needing superior strength and endurance to the average human. 25 meters to go, twenty five to becoming yet another soul to make their way up to the peak. A small path diverted from the rock face, slowly worn down by previous climbers. He grinned, finally able to take a breather for the last little stint. With the ice crunching underneath his feet, and oxygen mask fogging up his goggles. Wind began to grow increasingly harsh as he ascended each foot into the sky. Thick, soupy clouds sat almost within arm's reach of the peak. He stared at the edge, cutting into the sky, with the clouds oh so close, one could almost touch them. He would conquer the mountain. A simple three meters stood before him and his glory. Everything ached, yet he pushed onward, eager to become another one of the titans who clambered their way through the rock and the ice. He kicked the ice, digging his boot into it, then his pick, so on so forth, repeating it like he did, clambering up the mountain. With each action brought him closer to his goal, the goal of finally conquering his goal, becoming one of the titans who conquered the mountain.  As he hauled himself over the edge of the small outcropping, and and fell down onto his back, exhausted. His muscles and bones ached from the bitter cold, and strenuous workout. Such a titanic effort put into his effort to climb a titan of a mountain. A titan of a mountain meant to be conquered by titans of mountain climbing.
« Last Edit: August 01, 2012, 12:13:16 am by Metalhead_Mockingbird »
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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #6 on: June 11, 2012, 10:31:45 pm »
Double postin'!
I'll give you your second word: Sandstorm
Ah, yes. Sandstorm, somewhat-canon to my writing, am considering some of the conflict mentioned to be apart of it.

Sandstorm
Part one of three.

EARTH, [REDACTED], ATLANTIC OCEAN
2110

“Gentlemen. Take your seats.” He spoke in a gruff tone. “While we’ve been working on our good friends the Canisians who are invading Cascade, right now, we’ve got a few issues brewing on Earth, which is why I had you catch the next transport here...” He brought up a map of Africa. The large, imposing borders of the UAN territory highlighted in bold black lines. “Right now, the UAN recalled all of its forces deployed on Cascade, to Earth. Why is beyond us. We currently had one of our spooks working on exactly why, working inside the deep echelons of the UAN military structure, your average for spook operations these days. But, we lost contact about a week ago, and we have reason to suspect he knew why. A dead drop was scheduled to happen on Tuesday, but, no show. Which brings us to our next bit of intel. We have been tipped off by another source claiming that he is currently being held inside this military complex.” The holographic table zoomed in on an Ex-Libyan air force base now used by the UAN for less air-force oriented activities. “We’ll have better force projections when the next satellite goes over Africa, which is in an hour. These are about two days old.” He tapped the screen on his side of the table. It zoomed out a bit more to show the units patrolling it. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about the allegations of Genocide in the area with state-funded militias doing their dirty work? They’re crawling all over the area down there, and they’re darn active, too. During the last 48 hours, they wiped a few towns off the map, according to EF intelligence estimates. Sandstorms in the area have also been disrupting drone mappings, further limiting intelligence. You’ll be going in a bit blind on this one, gentlemen.”
“Whats our infil?” Staff Sgt. Howe, the team leader asked in reply.
“Your infil is via one of our specialized MV-12s. You’ll be just inside the border, but due to the projected sandstorm in the area, you’ll be just inside. About a 10-15 click hike through the sand and militias to reach the AFB, where you’ll meet light resistance. From there, you will extract him, and the information he has via Little Hawk to the Nevada for debrief and medical attention.”
“What is our air support?”
“None, lest you start an international incident. But, if you want yer international incident, we’ll have two A-33Ns on standby.”

Within the next half-hour, the squad of four special operations soldiers were in international airspace, heading straight for the Libyan coast, hoping and praying the experimental stealth VTOL transport held up against domestic UAN and imported radars. Past that, they hoped that the Militias didn’t swarm them after the sandstorm. They quietly kept to themselves as they droned through the night sky at about angles 12. They soon entered UAN airspace, over what was once Libya. If the stealth adaptations didn’t hide them, the sandstorm did.

Giant barreling mounds of airborne sand flowed forth from the nearby dunes as winds kicked in.
“Did I ever tell you how much I really hate sand?” The squad support gunner, Corpral Roberts commented, looking at his HUD’s feed. “Because I really hate sand.”
“What, did your brother pour sand all over you repeatedly when you were at the beach?” The squad DM, Cpl. Locke replied with a laugh. Roberts kept his eyes glued to the feed, with Locke laughing in retort. Howe shook his head as they began to encounter the winds. “Strap yourselves in, Hunter. This is going to get a bit bumpy.” The howling winds outside made it difficult to communicate, now.
“Copy that.” Howe replied, sitting down, and hanging onto the handle under his seat. Outside, the audible sound of sand slamming against the Little Hawk began to enter the large stormfront.
“Don’t you think we could have waited a day or two to get him- what with the sandstorm and all?” Lance Corporal Owen commented.
“Nah, too risky, we need this intel, and this asset now. ‘Rather not fight through a bunch of them and find a dead body and a smashed USB drive or ripped up paper.” Howe returned.
“Good point.”

The Little Hawk dropped down low after clearing the coast, and the city nearby. The almost silent droning was cut out by howling winds as the ground shot up from under them. Each of them pulled a small mask up from their uniform, blocking their nose and mouth from the stinging beads of flying sand.
“This is your stop, Hunter. We managed to cut down the distance, thanks to the sandstorm.”
“Copy.” He radioed, then turned to his squad, motioning for them to depart. Each soldier jumped out of the Little Hawk, of which was kicking up even more sand as it idled whilst its payload was dropped off. Each of their HUDs updated with a route to the old base, of which was about 10km, a long hike still, but they were able to cut down on time. At the cost of walking right into a hornets nest.

The small group bunched together as they heard a large convoy roar down the road, shouts were barely heard in foreign languages. Foot patrols were noted as they approached, large torches on the end of their rifles casting blazing white beams through the haze of the sandstorm. Howe quickly motioned for them to split up, keeping out of the way of the patrol. Each of them passed by the soldiers, each of them unaware of their presence in the area. They were relaxed, and were using the radio to communicate jokes and stories to pass the time in between them. The patrol began to pass, and the small group of soldiers began to stand and begin to move through the night, undisturbed by patrolling hostiles.

The sand stung their exposed skin, it began to inhibit their Exoskeleton’s movement speed, and scratched their glasses. It went so far as to knock off Roberts’ mask, to which he furiously tried put it on, cursing under his breath as sand entered his mouth.
“Eugh.” He commented as he fixed his mask back on. “_______ sand.”
“Agreed.” Locke replied quietly as the group marched onward through the sand. Howe, however, had his mind on other things. Such as, resistance at the AFB, and what the war was about, and the majority of his thoughts resided to the mission objective, and what surprises it had in store.

(First post updated)
« Last Edit: August 01, 2012, 12:13:38 am by Metalhead_Mockingbird »
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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #7 on: June 11, 2012, 11:41:49 pm »
I like how you've thought this whole world in such detail.  I'm going to give you another word (nice job using the various meanings of titan btw).  That word is: search.

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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #8 on: June 12, 2012, 12:13:10 pm »
Your doing well with the short stories Mark.

My word for you to use is "Water"

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Offline Metalhead_Mockingbird

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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #9 on: June 18, 2012, 04:17:01 pm »
And I'll propose the third.  Try one on "influence".

Sandstorm
Part 2 of 3

Every bone in his body ached, something was up in his right leg, a dull throbbing pain. He looked down to see it bent in some odd direction, halfway down the leg. Lucky for him, those natural painkillers were doing their job. He let out a curse, or what garbled mumbling could pass as one. All he remembered was walking down the street, on his way to perform a dead drop. All he needed to do was retrive some intel stashed in a not-so-pretty side of town. He looked at his surroundings, he was tied to a chair, and in a small room roughly akin to that of a shipping container. He licked his gums, finding several of his teeth gone or horribly cracked. Wonderful. He thought.

Outside, the roar of an sandstorm raged with sand hitting up against the sides of the container, echoing inside. Something to make him restless, annoyed, tired, so that when they come in, it’ll be a bit easier to... influence him. Soon, an hour passed after they had noted that he had awoken. Time for some influencing. One of their own spooks lifted up a cloth mask to shield him from the sand for the short walk outside. Sand stung at his exposed skin not unlike the soldiers currently inbound to their position, making it easy to evade the long patrol, the majority taking shelter inside the base structures.

He threw open the door to find the only other being inside in a deplorable, tired and broken state. He grinned malevolently, as the other looked upon him, and down to the handgun on his hip. By the looks of it, he was an American. He gave a huff, such infidels were constantly meddling in the business of the UAN, propping it for information like a child would probe something they found with a stick. Shutting it behind him, he walked up to the American, frowning.
“Tell me, American.” He spoke in English as if the words were venom. “Who are you.”
“...” He replied. Whether or not he didn’t want to speak, or, if he could speak was left up to the captor. Whom of which decided on the former.

Better to take the secrets with me. He thought. Lest these _______ do something not so good with them. He looked upon his captor, who had become slightly more angered at his silence. Now would be a good time to speak. He concentrated on his dry mouth to formulate the words in arabic, insulting his mother. To which his captor gave a swift kick to his broken leg, sending shards of pain through him, he bit down, with his breathing becoming ragged from the pain. A slight metallic taste came to his mouth, he had cut his tongue on his broken teeth. He let out a small groan as his captor walked closer, looking him in the eye before drawing his handgun, and flipping it around to hold the front of the FNS-9 clone handgun in the palm of his hand. He took one fell swing with it, jarring another tooth loose and breaking another. He spat blood, eyes staring at him with vengeance on his mind.
“Tell me who you are!”
“...” Was all he replied, combined with what could be took as a sorry excuse for spitting at someones’ shoes. Another pistol whip, combined with the kick to the broken leg.
“So, a silent one, eh?” He said, racking the handgun, chambering the 147gr. teflon penetrator hollowpoint round. “Answer my question, or this goes in your other leg.”
“Go to hell.” He croaked out. He aimed the FN copied handgun at his other leg, and a lone shot rang out.

Howe had come across the lone patrol, and he and his squad dispatched them appropriately. They entered the base, careful to watch for any hostile targets that they may come across, though most seemed to have dozed off during the early hours of the morning.
“Watch for targets, and a place where they’re holding him. We want him alive, and he’s most likely hurt. Get that stretcher ready-”
“Sargent! Container near one of the runways That might be where they’re holding him.” Roberts said, motioning towards the faint outline of the container nearby. The sound of the nearby gunshot was drowned out by the howling winds.
“Possibly. Lets move, hunter.” Howe spoke.

His ears rang, and he let out a cry of pain, though unheard to him as the ringing assaulted his ears. After a few seconds his hearing began to return to him, with the interrogator moving to kick in to the ground. He flew backwards, and felt his fingers get caught underneath the metal chair backing as it hit the ground. The wiplash sent his head back into the ground, causing an audible clunk as it collided with the rustic metal flooring, opening up a small gash. As far as he was concerned, tetanus was the least of his worries.
“Who are you, what are you doing in the UAN. You will tell me or I will put the next through your head!” He yelled. And, to think, only ten minutes ago, he had just entered. Quick to temper, eager to kill. Not a very good interrogator. The door flew open, clanging against the side of the container.
“How about one goes through yours.” Howe said, raising his M70 rifle, and firing off a shot. The weapon shot out a muffled cough, firing the telescoped 4.5mm saboted rounds, though the sound overridden by the clicking of the action of the rifle.

“Staff Sergeant Howe! United States special forces! We’re here to get you out!” Howe boomed inside the container. He heard a knife click from its holster. “Sir, I’m going to need your name.”
“My name is Samuel Cavez.” He coughed as he was brought back up, and ties were cut. Howe looked down at his legs.
“Roberts! I need you in here to stabilize him! Hunter, set up a defensive perimeter, we move as soon as Mr. Cavez is stabilized, how copy?”
“Copy that, moving to set up a defensive perimeter.” Roberts rushed by him, pulling out a stretcher and his medical kit. Despite being the squad support gunner, he also doubled as a medic of sorts, given his EMT training prior to becoming a special forces operator.
“Mr. Cavez, we are in need of that intel.”
“What intel?” He croaked out as Roberts hooked up an IV line to him.
“The intel you were destined to make a dead drop at on Tuesday, where is it?”
“Its... its in the Outskirts of some old city, I can give you the coordinates.” He replied with a slight grin as he read off the coordinates he memorized.
“Copy that.” Howe said “Overlord, this is Hunter 0-1. We’ve got our package. Meet us at Exfil point Alpha for MEDEVAC to the Nevada. We will be securing UAN transportation, and will be retrieving the data as soon as you MEDEVAC the package.”
“Roger that. Hawk 0-1 is inbound.”
“Locke, we’re securing transportation, move.” Howe barked over the radio.
“Copy, moving.” He replied.

The group secured the small Chinese built truck within 15 minutes, and moved Cavez onto it. They started off into the night as the sandstorm began to die down, with Roberts working hard to keep him stable. They approached the LZ within the half-hour, and began to load him onto it.
“You guys got a medic?”
“Negative!”
“Roberts! Keep our guest stable. We’ll get the intel.”
“Roger that!” He replied as Locke helped him load the now-unconscious spook onto the ‘Hawk.
“Hunter, lets go get that package.” Howe ordered. “Back on the truck, we’re oscar mike!”

(First post updated)
« Last Edit: August 01, 2012, 12:14:01 am by Metalhead_Mockingbird »
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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #10 on: August 01, 2012, 12:12:36 am »
Wow. I haven't posted here in a while. Heh, I almost completely forgot about it, with a complete overhaul of my writing once more. I'll modify the information above, and delete the stuff thats' no longer cannon, and all that good stuff. However, I'm not continueing the Sandstorm stuff. I didn't quite like it, and the few times I did attempt a part three to fit the word Genocide, they either were horrid, or were too graphic. That being said, I think I got this one kinda right, as it only mentions the Genocide, and not describes it. I guess it works.

Genocide
Genocide

The small child played the sandbox outside the backyard of his home. To him, the world as at peace as he created structures out of water-laden sand. After an hours’ work he took back brushed the sand off his legs and hands, and looked down at his work before turning around and running inside to retrieve his parents to show them his proud work. With all his strength, he pryed open the semi-rusted back door his father had never gotten around to fixing. He romped inside, yelling for them, tracking sand and mud inside. His mother groaned at the mess whilst his father quickly began to usher her outside, as to not disappoint the small child. As they left the building, all stations on their TV quickly flickered to news stations and emergency broadcast warnings, all telling them of the incoming invasion. The child quickly ran outside, a wide grin upon his face.

Above them, the colonial defense fleets, poised to fight each other, not defend against hostile attackers began to mobilize. Vast scores of Exo-atmospheric fighters began to lauch out of the freshly evacuated hangars. Massive SMAC cannons began to charge up, selecting their ammunition load as per the ships’ CO’s discretion. As the numbers came in on the hostile ships, each officer that knew of the number knew it was naught but a loosing battle. Tight beam quantum entanglement transmissions were sent out to Earth, warning the treaties of the extraterrestrial incursion. As soon as the fleets came within firing range of one another, they opened up with energy weapons, each firing off in to the distance of space, each of them firing off towards them. Guided plasma and semi-guided projectiles traveling at a fraction of the speed of light quickly intersected each other, damaging each fleet respectively.

The invaders fared much better than the decimated human fleets above the planet. There were few survivors amidst the tens of thousands already dead within the first hour of fighting. They would be picked up to be studied by them soon enough. At least they bought the ground force time to ready ground to space cannons as well as mobilize forces to meet the hostile ground forces deploying down to meet them. Massive chunks of destroyed warships began to plummet towards the ground, flanked by drop pods containing hostile troops, and hostile vehicles amidst them.

The small family, who was alerted to the invasion far too late, spending time chatting with their neighbors, and enjoying the weather instead of evacuating the city via dispatched military transports or fleeing to the countryside, escaping the terrible grasp of their hand of death for that much longer. Any time abided by them, military or civilian was extremely valuable. The family instead of fleeing, resided to their home, huddled in a closet in the master bedroom. The child once enjoying the sandbox he played in was now huddled in a corner, waiting for death to come with his family. The father received his shotgun, his competition shotgun. He loaded it with his buckshot, and began to wait.

The town was a mess, emergency services darting every which way to come to fires started by rioting citizens. The hour passed by, and they watched as the streaks of fire around them got closer, each other striking terror into the onlookers’ eyes. As they reached closer, light scouting reinforcements began to arrive from the local National Guard garrison. However, a quick airstrike solved that problem very, very quickly. The simple LTV transports were no match against the heavy plasma cannon fire.

Finally their time had come. Drop-pods, followed by dropships impacted and ground and hovered, respectively. Hostile forces flowed forth from their positions, flanked by massive towering mechs standing 50 feet in height, along with tanks and light armored vehicles. Plasma weapons quickly slaughtered the fleeing peoples. Some stood in righteous defiance of their newfound foe, staring down death, staring down the heated barrels of their energy weapons, and grinning right back, bringing their own weapons to bear. Men and children fit to fight stood at arms, but all was for naught as they systematically eliminated like the rest. Their numbers were too surmountable to formulate a decent resistance against in the time that they had, bought by the tens of thousands of dead above.

Charred bodies began to fill the streets as the reptilian enemy advanced, marching, clearing, fighting. To them, compared to their other two enemies that they held at stalemate, this was a walk in the park. Primitive creatures utilizing projectile weapons, and had no defense against plasma and laser fire from weapons. Builds were cleared in the city centers. There were a surmountable amount of casualties as they greeted the close quarter weapons humanity had. Things such as the Shotgun. Their body armor did not protect against projectiles, so the buildings were a slaughterhouse. After losing so many amidst the buildings, they switched tactics. They brought in their vehicles and began to fire upon every single building, bringing each down in a wash of dust and debris.

Every innocent life they took was another added to the toll of casualties. Actions considered to be naught but genocide. They killed everything in their midst. Panicked families, pets, children. Everything fell victim to the burning pain of weapons fire. A total killing of all peoples they met. Across Cascade, each of the enemy soldiers began to open up, each killing more and more. The planet was to be void of all sentient life to make room for whatever abhorrent matters they decided they wanted to cook up.

The suburbs around the city were next after the city. The families remaining there wailed, hearing the weapons fire. Once more, they armed themselves as they day began to turn to night. Dusk was upon them as they were invaded, killed outright.
His competition shotgun sat clenched in his arms. His wife pointed a handgun at their door as they heard the door kick down. The child had cried out all of his wails earlier, fearing for his life. More doors kicked down, searching the area for anyone. The sounds of boots got closer.

Bam.

The door came crashing down. Splinters flew everywhere. The young boy quickly darted forth as the gunfire from the two raged. His father stopped as the first few fell. They were suprised to see him run past at such a quick speed. His survival instinct told him to run, get out of there. Two others were dispatched to deal with the youngling. The rest of the squad began to rake the room with plasma weapons’ fire, starting several fires as they pierced the walls. The boys’ parents now lay dead, more casualties to be added to the growing list.

Crickets chirped outside weakly as the child tried to flee. But everything soon became out of his control as he was quickly picked up and thrown several feet by his pursuers. He came crashing down atop his creation, his proud creation formed naught but an hour ago. The sunlight waned, beautiful shades of red began to show throughout the sky. The boy cried out, as the last thing he saw was the boot of a Carnki soldier stomping out his life.
« Last Edit: August 01, 2012, 12:15:26 am by Metalhead_Mockingbird »
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Re: Mark's Short Story Challenge!
« Reply #11 on: August 04, 2012, 01:17:21 am »
Whoo, triple post. This one is Search. To be completely honest, I think this one feels a little bit too fast paced, and a little rushed, and the ending is kinda meh at best, but hey, it was fun to think out the storyline at least. Next up is Water, which might be pretty fun.

Search

The lone F/A-40 Fastback fighter streaked over the battlefield, the valley consumed below by fire. He had survived almost a month past the first contact with the race. His veteran skills were of great tactical use, and had him allocated to several very secret special forces missions to fly air cover. A similar fate was granted to his flight, though they now laid in ruin, more slag adding to the surmountable amount of scars to the landscape.

Below Major Hawking was the meat-grinder known as the Gorkhov pass, one of main passes between European Federation, Russian and US territories. A very key area to hold. Even with orbital strikes for over a month now, the defenders had thwarted every offensive attempt the Carnki threw into the grinder. Hawking had been assigned to pull some air cover for a resupply drop for the allied forces in the area. They had been lying in ambush, and he was the last one alive from the group.

G-Forces tugged at his consciousness as the fought for his life. The 2-D thrust vectoring flared as the trailing forces closed in. He opened up to a corkscrew maneuver, sickly green lances going every which way. He popped flares, each of the small objects burning brightly in the darkened night sky.

The sickening sound of metal being turned into slag was heard to his right. The tip of the wing quickly flew off into the far off distance. He’d had this happen before, no matter. The reinforcements that were on their way were soon to arrive. He breathed out, stealing his underlying panicked state of mind. He felt vibrations come from behind him. He tapped a screen, alerting him to what was wrong with the aircraft. As he did so, the aircraft flickered out of life, systems ailing with the melting of wires and the engines falling out the back. He began to slow, with the hostiles shooting over him. He cursed, and pulled the eject lever. Right behind enemy lines. He was surely a goner.

With a loud hiss the canopy of the aircraft flew off, shooting away behind the falling aircraft. Then, with G-Forces that nearly blacked him out, he ejected into the night sky, heat from the rockets on the ejection seat searing into his legs and flight suit. He gritted his teeth from the pain that soon subsided as the rockets fell away from his seat. The parachute fell out, and opened as per regulations. He sat back in his chair, and looked out at the skies above. He could still see the stars through the smoke, just barely. He looked down towards the battlegrounds. Green plasma and orange-white tracers arced every-which way, with the plasma weapons easily betraying their operator’s positions.

He glided slowly through the treetops before landing neatly onto the ground. The parachute almost comically landed right over him. After detaching it and attempting to remove it from over his head, he clambered out of the seat, and looked over his survival supplies. A Mk.7, several 40 round magazines, a pack of survival equipment like flares, a radio, and other things, and a thigh mounted pack to hold his magazines. He strapped it on, stuffed the four mags in, and clacked the fifth into his gun. He racked it and slung the survival pack over his shoulder. The sound of Carnki dropships were amidst the air, and were soon closing. He took off, running away from the incoming sounds.

Above him, the dropships quickly searched for him, shining large flashlights every which way, trying to five the small human, who evasively escaped their grasp every single time they went after him. With his aircraft gone, and only a small amount of munitions amidst him, there was no escaping, even a mile from the frontlines.

With fear growing inside of him, like pressure building inside his chest, wanting to escape. Adrenaline pulsed through his body, despite his training, instincts to survive took hold, trying to divide and take over his mind, force him to take the wrong maneuvers and eventually lead to his death. No. He fought control over his mind, forcing himself to breath heavily, steeling himself as the dropships neared. He crouched down into some tall brush, huddling into the side of a tree in an attempt to blend in with his surroundings. He still breathed heavily, but as he noticed the light fall upon him, he held his breath, biting his tongue endlessly, waiting for his end to come, waiting for it all to end.

But it passed away, passing over other areas in another search pattern. He breathed out, sighing a sigh of relief. He stood slowly, and began walking towards the front lines once more. He trudged through the underbrush, quietly making sure that there were no such forces nearby. He skidded down a trench, and came up sprinting, seeing the other allied units nearing.

Movement flickered in front of his eyes, and the towering Carnki squad leader barked orders at his minions. They complied, and moved forth, helmet lights flickering on into the darkness. The human was close enough, he could almost smell the putrid thing. Swallowing in their holes and pitiful vehicles, how dare they defy the Empire in such a matter, relying on primitive technology to get by each battle. The putrid things couldn’t even fight a normal Carnki in hand to hand combat, though some of them sufficed with odd contraptions build around their bodies which added to their strength and speed, which seemed like they would be marginally harder to kill. No matter, he could just snuff it out with his rifle or by crushing its skull. He smiled at the thought of doing that again to another one of them, watch it plead for its life.

Wilson saw the lights, and quickened his pace, opening up his stride, letting himself grow sloppy. The boots messed with his stride, forcing him to heel strike, sending large prints into the soft Cascadian ground. The rifle felt heavy in his hands as he knew the pressures approached. He leapt over another tree, making another bit of large prints into the ground.  His breath was short, and his lungs cried out, protesting against his actions. He kept going, kept moving. They were everywhere, searching for him. Everywhere.

He started off upwards towards the hill, but saw the flashlights drawing near. His vision narrowed as panic took hold, and he searched to a spot to hide, hoping he did not be found, and surely killed by them.

They quickly thudded closer drawing nearer with every second. Their helmet lights shown every which way, trying to find him. He resided to a large bush, seeing as it was his only option. Lights flickered over his position, though distantly, he was not able to see their reactions. He hoped they hadn’t seen him. They walked closer, keeping in radio contact with their superiors. Part of his training kicked in, and he knew who he would kill first if there was an ensuing firefight. The squad’s radio operator talked loudly over the radio, noise betraying their positions, as if the lights were not enough. In a stroke of luck, he watched as they spread away from him, moving in other directions, splitting apart into fire teams.

The walk took several days to complete. Wilson was a battered man, cursing himself every step of the way for making the sprint towards freedom. His energy was shot, and had to sleep in short naps in surely safe areas. 30 miles behind enemy lines sure was a difficult task to slip through, especially with hostiles everywhere, each Carnki soldier wishing nothing more than to gut him. By the time he reached an allied patrol, a European Federation scouting party, it had been a whole week of laying in wait, and slow movement, certainly learning his lessons about evasion, and not to run around, letting panic take hold of his thoughts.
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