Post by Stone, T. on Jul 3, 2018 23:09:25 GMT -5
2051 Hours, October 9, 2543 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Manson Preserve, Hat Yai, Sigma Doradus System
Pain.
It shot through his body, malignant, as consciousness overtook him. His skull pounded as he opened his eyes to a dull crimson light that, for a moment, blinded him. As his eyes adjusted to what turned out to be dim illumination, he determined that he was looking at the ceiling.
Why was he on the floor? The thought pierced through the fog of his brain like a fifty caliber round through concrete. He turned his head, and immediately regretted it. His neck cracked, causing him to writhe on the floor in agony for a moment before the pain faded. Involuntarily, he gasped from the sudden relief.
It was only temporary, he realized. Looking to where he'd been seated, he discovered the straps had broken. Somehow he'd ended up sprawled out on the floor as a result.
Lance Corporal Stone was struck with twin revelations. The first: the Pelican he and his squad had been aboard had crashed. The second: that was how the straps must have broke, and how he'd ended up on the floor. By the look of things, he'd been tossed around like a rag doll. By some miracle he'd survived.
The same could not be said for some of his comrades. Glancing to his left he saw a face staring lifelessly at him. The sight sent a chill down his spine, freezing him to his core. He recognized the man as Private Lamont, one of the new billets from Second Fire Team. They'd never spoke, but Stone had heard he'd had a good head on his shoulders.
Now all he had was a body bag with his name on it.
A noise from somewhere behind him (above him?) suddenly caught his attention. Instinct wrought from previous combat tours kicked in, compelling him to find a weapon and be ready for a fight. In the game of life and death, Stone refused to be on the losing team. Biting through the wave of pain that washed over him as he moved, he rolled over and found the closest object to him that looked sturdy enough to use as a weapon: a wrench.
Grabbing it, he lurched to his feet and held it just behind his head, ready to deliver a powerful swing at whomever that had disturbed their crash site. He saw a shadow pass by from movement outside, and carefully tip-toed his way to the rear hatch over broken equipment and the occasional body. Whether those bodies still held life or not was unknown to him, but it was a mystery he was inclined to solve once the current threat was neutralized.
Stone swung the wrench with all the force he could muster as someone rounded the corner and stepped within arm's reach. He realized halfway, to his horror, his target wore Marine green. "Shit!" he exclaimed in surprise.
The Marine whom had unwittingly become his target ducked just in time to avoid suffering a caved in skull as the wrench bounced harmlessly off the reinforced metal of the Pelican's interior, shouting startled obscenities. Stone instantly recognized the voice, and his blood ran cold.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Stone?!" barked Sergeant Michael Ward angrily. The expression that had settled on his face was chilling enough to freeze someone where they stood.
Stone stared dumbly at the NCO for a moment as his brain struggled to process what had just happened, and what he'd almost done. When his brain finally caught back up with him, he opened his mouth and said, "I thought ya was an Innie."
"Do I look like an Innie, Lance Corporal?" Ward asked.
Stone noted the rifle in his hands and began praying that he was not about to find himself at the mercy of its business end. "Negative, Sarn't," he replied quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
Much to his surprise and relief, the NCO merely nodded before averting his attention elsewhere. Thomas followed his eyes to the interior of the drop-ship, where he was able to size up the chaos of the crash first hand. Weapons and equipment were strewn across the troop bay in a mess that under normal circumstances would have warranted a terrible reprimand from their betters.
Strapped into the seats, and sprawled out on the deck, were the bodies of his comrades. Whether or not they were unconscious or corpses was yet to be determined. He decided it was best to find out for sure. "Lamont's gone," he said to Ward as he moved to check the first body.
"So are the pilots," the Sergeant responded quietly. Stone found his tone unsettling.
Coming to the first body, he knelt down. It was hard to tell if the man was breathing in the dim, crimson light. With mild trepidation, he reached his hand out and placed two fingers pressed together against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse.
Much to his genuine relief, there was one, and it felt strong. Maybe the situation wasn't quite as grim as it had originally appeared to be. Exhaling a relieved sigh, Stone went through the motions of bringing the Marine back to the land of the living. He recognized him as Private First Class Perry, another guy from Second Team.
"So what the hell happened, Sarn't?" he asked. His memory of the events leading up to the crash were fuzzy, leading him to believe he'd taken a fairly hard hit to the head.
He heard Sergeant Ward sigh from somewhere to his right. It seemed he had the same idea as Stone. "Looks like we were shot down by Innies," the grizzled NCO replied. "Which is why I was outside. I wanted to scout around to see what we were dealing with."
"And?" It seemed like a logical question.
"We got company headed our way," Ward said grimly. "Half a platoon's worth of military aged males with small arms, coming from the east. We've got maybe fifteen minutes before they're on top of us."
Manson Preserve, Hat Yai, Sigma Doradus System
Pain.
It shot through his body, malignant, as consciousness overtook him. His skull pounded as he opened his eyes to a dull crimson light that, for a moment, blinded him. As his eyes adjusted to what turned out to be dim illumination, he determined that he was looking at the ceiling.
Why was he on the floor? The thought pierced through the fog of his brain like a fifty caliber round through concrete. He turned his head, and immediately regretted it. His neck cracked, causing him to writhe on the floor in agony for a moment before the pain faded. Involuntarily, he gasped from the sudden relief.
It was only temporary, he realized. Looking to where he'd been seated, he discovered the straps had broken. Somehow he'd ended up sprawled out on the floor as a result.
Lance Corporal Stone was struck with twin revelations. The first: the Pelican he and his squad had been aboard had crashed. The second: that was how the straps must have broke, and how he'd ended up on the floor. By the look of things, he'd been tossed around like a rag doll. By some miracle he'd survived.
The same could not be said for some of his comrades. Glancing to his left he saw a face staring lifelessly at him. The sight sent a chill down his spine, freezing him to his core. He recognized the man as Private Lamont, one of the new billets from Second Fire Team. They'd never spoke, but Stone had heard he'd had a good head on his shoulders.
Now all he had was a body bag with his name on it.
A noise from somewhere behind him (above him?) suddenly caught his attention. Instinct wrought from previous combat tours kicked in, compelling him to find a weapon and be ready for a fight. In the game of life and death, Stone refused to be on the losing team. Biting through the wave of pain that washed over him as he moved, he rolled over and found the closest object to him that looked sturdy enough to use as a weapon: a wrench.
Grabbing it, he lurched to his feet and held it just behind his head, ready to deliver a powerful swing at whomever that had disturbed their crash site. He saw a shadow pass by from movement outside, and carefully tip-toed his way to the rear hatch over broken equipment and the occasional body. Whether those bodies still held life or not was unknown to him, but it was a mystery he was inclined to solve once the current threat was neutralized.
Stone swung the wrench with all the force he could muster as someone rounded the corner and stepped within arm's reach. He realized halfway, to his horror, his target wore Marine green. "Shit!" he exclaimed in surprise.
The Marine whom had unwittingly become his target ducked just in time to avoid suffering a caved in skull as the wrench bounced harmlessly off the reinforced metal of the Pelican's interior, shouting startled obscenities. Stone instantly recognized the voice, and his blood ran cold.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Stone?!" barked Sergeant Michael Ward angrily. The expression that had settled on his face was chilling enough to freeze someone where they stood.
Stone stared dumbly at the NCO for a moment as his brain struggled to process what had just happened, and what he'd almost done. When his brain finally caught back up with him, he opened his mouth and said, "I thought ya was an Innie."
"Do I look like an Innie, Lance Corporal?" Ward asked.
Stone noted the rifle in his hands and began praying that he was not about to find himself at the mercy of its business end. "Negative, Sarn't," he replied quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
Much to his surprise and relief, the NCO merely nodded before averting his attention elsewhere. Thomas followed his eyes to the interior of the drop-ship, where he was able to size up the chaos of the crash first hand. Weapons and equipment were strewn across the troop bay in a mess that under normal circumstances would have warranted a terrible reprimand from their betters.
Strapped into the seats, and sprawled out on the deck, were the bodies of his comrades. Whether or not they were unconscious or corpses was yet to be determined. He decided it was best to find out for sure. "Lamont's gone," he said to Ward as he moved to check the first body.
"So are the pilots," the Sergeant responded quietly. Stone found his tone unsettling.
Coming to the first body, he knelt down. It was hard to tell if the man was breathing in the dim, crimson light. With mild trepidation, he reached his hand out and placed two fingers pressed together against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse.
Much to his genuine relief, there was one, and it felt strong. Maybe the situation wasn't quite as grim as it had originally appeared to be. Exhaling a relieved sigh, Stone went through the motions of bringing the Marine back to the land of the living. He recognized him as Private First Class Perry, another guy from Second Team.
"So what the hell happened, Sarn't?" he asked. His memory of the events leading up to the crash were fuzzy, leading him to believe he'd taken a fairly hard hit to the head.
He heard Sergeant Ward sigh from somewhere to his right. It seemed he had the same idea as Stone. "Looks like we were shot down by Innies," the grizzled NCO replied. "Which is why I was outside. I wanted to scout around to see what we were dealing with."
"And?" It seemed like a logical question.
"We got company headed our way," Ward said grimly. "Half a platoon's worth of military aged males with small arms, coming from the east. We've got maybe fifteen minutes before they're on top of us."