'Ello all! I return with another oneshot!
This was inspired in part by the songs We're All to Blame and No Reason by Sum 41, and also by a series of short stories we've been analyzing in English, mainly The Sniper by Liam O'Flaherty.
The night was dark, aided by the swirling storm clouds. The city lay blanketed in darkness but for the red glare of burning fires and the burning yellow of the few functioning streetlamps, giving the broken and burnt streets an even more disturbing feeling. The pavement roared with the sounds of guns and extraterrestrial weapons, causing quick, blinding, spasmodic flashes throughout the night, as the Black Arms and the human race duked it out for control of the planet.
Sitting on a destroyed car, a G.U.N soldier sat watching the chaos unfold. Beside him, an assault rifle, field pack and night vision gear, unnecessary for such lighting, lay at hand for him to grab in case of an attacking soldier. Black ballistic goggles covered his eyes, obscuring their true nature to the world. His face looked no more than 20, and this was true, as he had signed up for the forces at age 17.
He tore through the field rations quickly. He had eaten nothing since before the firefight in the morning and had been too energized to eat since then. He finished the meal and, crumpling up the packet, threw the garbage behind him into the street. He quietly slipped a flask of vodka out of the pocket of his grey uniform. Leaning back, he emptied an eighth of its content into his mouth and swallowed. He wondered if he should get behind some cover.
As if a message from a higher being, a blast of plasma shot past him, barely missing him by inches. Instinctively, he rolled behind the car, grabbing his pack and rifle in one smooth flourish of the arm.
Safely leaning against the twisted steel door, he allowed himself a quick, "Bloody fucking hell…" before drawing a knee up and peering over the edge of car, the long barrel of his weapon protruding in front. There was nothing; the aliens had blended back into the night. He snorted; trust the fuckers to use guerilla warfare when they had technological superiority.
He ended this thought as a Black Tank rumbled around the street corner. The massive machines were intimidating, able to defeat any of G.U.N's robots or tanks, despite the fact they were unusually lightly armed. G.U.N's most effective weapon against these massive beasts was to bomb them with Blue Eagles escorted by Vulcans. All infantry caught up against them was told to hightail it, as none of their anti-tank weapons worked on the monstrosities. Bullets harmlessly pinged off its armored sides for those who felt brave or suicidal enough to try.
As the soldier slinked down behind cover, he saw an Elite suddenly materialize out of midair. It waved to the turret on top, and it opened to reveal a Black Warrior, lugging up some massive alien machine gun. The Elite yelled something in the untranslatable language of the Black Arms, and gestured towards the young soldier's current position. The Warrior nodded, fixed the gun to its placement, and swiveled it around to the beaten automobile. However, it looked confused on how to fire the weapon, and the Elite yelled again, sounding increasingly exasperated.
'The stupid bastards…' the soldier swore mentally. He knew it was now or never. The moment that Warrior figured it out, he would be fried to his core. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his arm. The sight on his rifle lined up with the head of the Elite, whom he half-expected to climb up there and beat the lowly foot soldier into a pulp.
The recoil from the rifle kicked into his shoulder, as the muzzle flashed with a quick dab of yellow flame and the bullet exited with a CRACK.
The pause in between lasted for a heartbeat, a blink of an eye, a drop of water falling. The copper bullet spun rapidly as it flew, breaking the speed of sound not unlike that of Mobius' famous blue hero.
It found it's mark, and the Elite spun its head, as if turning its skull would prolong its inevitable end. Blue liquid seeped through the dime-shaped hole as the assassin's legs folded underneath him, and its body hit the ground with a sound of a weight hitting a bed.
The Warrior looked on in confusion as its superior fell to the ground, life expired. However, it had not been bred for slow reactions. The soldier barely had scarcely lined up his next target when the heavy machine gun opened up, spraying his position with plasma. Keeping his nerve, he squeezed away his second shot; the extraterrestrial soldier slumped forward dead, taking the heavy fire with it.
A shot rang out, burying itself into the wall above him. He dropped behind and swore. He reached for the rifle to his right, but stopped short when his arm bent in half in an unnatural way. The pain washed over him, numbing his senses; it looked like that alien gunner had gotten lucky. He ground his teeth, and, rapidly unsheathing his combat knife, sliced open the grey, slowly turning brown, fabric covering his arm, revealing a mess of blood and flesh where he his elbow once was. He was appalled; he had been warned in training that seeing this sort of thing would be the norm, yet the sight of his own joint in shambles nearly caused him to relinquish his meal.
Acting fast, he used his good arm to unstrap and rummage through his pack, his fingers finally settling on the handle of the medical kit. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hauled the large white box out. Popping its hinges, he grasped the bottle of rubbing alcohol and cotton bandages, and with only the slightest hesitation, stuffed one of the bandages into his mouth and poured alcohol on the rest. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the tank disappear back where it came from.
The second the white, smooth fabric of healing met the red, chunky reality of injury, the pain increased by a thousandfold. The soldier slammed his head into the crumpled door of the car, eyes clenched tight, a few stray tears streaming down his face, teeth tightly clenching the bandage as he fought nausea from taking away his hard-earned meal.
After what seemed like an eternity, the pain receded, sending out little clinging tendrils to remind him of what had happened to him. He checked his arm, then, taking a broken steel rod, wrapped the bandages to create a temporary and makeshift splint. He would have to get some Quickclot to fully stem the bleeding, however. For now, he simply re-buried the kit in his backpack.
He knew the enemy soldier was out there. Remembering a classic ruse, he removed his helmet, revealing standard military-cut black hair. He carefully placed the grey helmet over the end of his rifle, and, with his uninjured arm, slowly lifted it above the hood of the car, in plain sight of any enemy sniper.
Almost instantaneously, a violet streak smashed into it with a force like a freight train. He allowed it to wobble on the end of the rifle, and then let it slowly fall in an arc. It clattered to the floor, and he heard a jabber of excited alien language in the following seconds.
He cautiously peered over the edge of the vehicle, and saw another Elite holding a rifle in one hand, and the other raised in a victory gesture. He carefully drew his semi-automatic from its holster and lined up the sight with the alien's head. His hand was shaking as he slowly lost blood from his wound, but also from the adrenalin of having killed two invaders in the space of ten seconds. He could scarcely see the figure in the dim twilight, yet he was determined to make every last Black Arms member pay the price for intruding on Mobius.
The pistol cracked, jerking back into his hand. Flame leapt from its barrel, as the spent cartridge was ejected and flew off into the night. The recoil nearly knocked the soldier over. The Elite jerked his head back and fell to the ground, blue blood pooling from the hole in its cranium. The soldier whooped, jumping up. Three kills in five minutes, and two of them were Elites! When he got off guard duty-
Another blast whizzed by his ear, and he threw himself to the ground. "GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK!" the G.U.N soldier screamed, pounding his fist on the car in frustration. How much longer could it go on? No matter how many of the invaders he took out, another took its place.
His eyes fell to the pistol, by far one of his easiest and lest painful tickets out. A single tightening of the finger, one quick flash, and he would be out of this hellhole. Away from the invaders, the broken streets, the strange lights, the rotting flesh, the blood, the violence. Away from-
He paused, remembering he had a family to go back to. His mother's apple pies when he was younger. His dad's particular way of throwing the ball when the two played catch, before his father lost his job and turned to the drink and eventually, the gun. His sisters' annoying habit of stealing his clothes without permission, then never returning them. His old black Labrador, probably sleeping even now, as the war for the planet raged on.
Agonized and frustrated, he threw the gun to the ground. The concussion of impact caused the barrel to once again belch flame, and he felt the bullet whiz beside his head. The sudden shock jerked him out of the fog of remorse and back into reality, and, with eyes burning, he grasped the gun and slid it into its holster. He slipped the only functioning hand in his possession into his pocket, drawing out the vodka and emptying more of it into his system. The jolt woke him up, dulling his pains, as he felt the fire burn down his throat. Feeling wide-awake and energized, he was reaching for the rifle when he heard the screams.
His heroic instinct kicked in. He rolled over the top of the car, grabbing the rifle and pack, and hit the ground running towards the building where the screams had originated. Maybe building was too much; pile of rubble surrounding a steel skeleton was more accurate. An alien machine gun opened up not to far away, sending chattering bullets all across the shattered pavement. He reached one of these piles, breathing heavily from the adrenalin and effort.
He attempted to hold his assault rifle, but his arm prevented him from getting a good grip. Cursing the heavens, he slid out the automatic and checked it. 5 bullets left, more than enough. Crawling to one side of the massive pile, he peered around.
He saw two shapes, engaged in melee combat, trying to knock each other to the ground. They seemed to be around the same height, but the soldier was too excited to care. Steadying his hand, he lined up the sight of the automatic with what he thought was the shape of a Warrior.
The pistol cracked, flames belched from within it and the figure doubled over, and then slumped to the ground. The other seemed to cast a glance his way before running off into the night.
The soldier yelled out a battle cry, drew his knife, and rushed over, expecting to be able to claim another Black Arms trooper for his record.
The young girl's dying eyes followed her killer every step of his approach.
There you have it. He's got human blood on his hands. I think I know where one of the remaining four bullets is going to go.
For those of you with lack of inspiration, the assault rifle was the SIG 550, this pistol was the Glock G21. The Blue Eagle is supposedly based upon the SU-34 (NATO reporting name "Fullback").
Leaves your interesting and insightful comments in the review section below…