The lights of the Monitoring Station cut through the falling snow and grey-blue twilight. The building was tall for what it was, a wide prefabricated structure hastily but expertly assembled on a newly-built concrete foundation. Said foundation contained the station’s power source, a Janus-Hayes radioisotope thermoelectric generator designed specifically to power the station's anti-incursion system.
Surrounding the building, the pylons hummed gently, the field they generated dissolving snowflakes as they fell. A conspicuous wave pattern formed in the mist between them, giving the impression of a visible wall surrounding the compound.
Central to the building’s roof was a small watchtower, built not from the prefabricated steel of the rest of the compound, but sheet metal and wooden framing; a gabled roof gave the blind some cover from the snow and the elements, but the thin sheet metal did little to insulate it. The glow of a cigarette was barely visible on the inside, and one of the sheet metal walls was conspicuously bare of snow and ice.
Inside, a man sighed. A small puff of smoke and mist curled away from the inside of the structure and faded into the falling snow. Blinking very deliberately, he flicked away the cigarette and took another glimpse through the scope of his rifle out towards the airfield.
The scope only showed darkness. He tapped the battery compartment on the sight, and it briefly flickered to life, before going dark once more.
“Bollocks.”
Trent knew how to stop from getting restless. This was far from the first time he’d had to sit still in shit conditions and wait for something to happen. If it wasn’t freezing cold, it was unbearably hot. If it wasn’t humid and sticky, it was so dry that cracking anything close to a smile was bloody literal.
Nothing about this job was easy or pleasant, but the cash and the time away from the tedium and insincerity of the so-called real world made it worth it. Get out, get paid, use the money to get out again. It was a pattern he was used to, he’d thought. A few times he’d stumbled over the odd fuckup; too much of a conscience, or too little of one getting in the way of finishing a job. For the most part, he’d found Gardner adept at dealing with what they called image issues, and tried not to think about it. Staging accidents and smoothing out the rough edges left by people like Trent.
Suffice to say, it all seemed like a pretty shit excuse from where he was sitting now. If all of that led here, he must’ve gotten something wrong along the way.
Still fucking with the sight on his rifle, Trent tried not to twitch as he heard the hatch in behind him pop open. Denis Martin emerged, carting a small rucksack in one hand and a thermos in the other.
“See anything?”
“Fuck all. You got my IR batteries?”
A small cardboard box rattled at the corner of Trent’s vision. Still trying to keep an eye on the airstrip, he reached in and grabbed a battery from the loose collection inside.
“Sorry about the wait, eh? Dutch wanted my ear about something, I had to tell him to fuck off, we’re busy.”
“Are we now? Guess the cunt won’t shut up about the monsters?”
“Whatever. Not my problem if he gets himself, err - fired. Switch up, I got this.”
Trent obliged, his compatriot taking over the rifle as he finished installing the battery. They were both trained snipers, though Martin was far more experienced and unquestionably the better shot. Given that he’d spent more time watching the airfield, it made sense to give him a short break.
As he tightened the cap on the battery casing, the sight once again came to life.
“Finally.”
“See anything?”
“Uhh… snow. I see lots of fucking snow. Pour me a coffee, man.”
Trent shuffled over to his position, an overturned crate adjacent to a pintle-mounted M240 that neither of them expected to spend much time manning. It just so happened to be close to the electric heater that kept this blind remotely habitable. Denis scanned the landscape as Trent poured him a small cup of coffee into the lid of the thermos, and passed it over to him. He poured his own into a small stainless steel tin, and took a sip.
In contrast to his somewhat relaxed posture on watch, he noted his companion taking a keen look at their surroundings - at least, as much as could be seen through the snow. For a moment, Trent took a look through the spotting scope set up nearby, before sitting back and continuing to drink his coffee.
“You don’t feel like helping, eh?”
Trent shrugged. “You think any of them are stupid enough to be out in this shit?”
“Not worried about the guinea pigs. The Prototypes, though…” Martin shifted uneasily behind the scope.
“What about them?”
“It’s fucked up man. I mean, I’m not with Dutch, like - I don’t think it’s our business what they do with this shit but-”
“-but what?” Trent looked up, having just uncovered a collection of protein bars that Martin had no doubt pilfered from the canteen on his way back from the supply closet.
“What happens when they are? Our business, you know? What if they get in?”
Setting one of the bars aside, Trent stood up and leaned over the balcony.
“You want to know why I’m not worried about those fucking things?” He sniffed, and spat out of the opening in the blind. Martin turned from the scope, and looked to his colleague.
Holding up the protein bar until he had Martin’s attention, Trent motioned towards the nearby Fence. Almost as if he was skipping a stone across a pond, Trent threw the bar towards the misty field surrounding the base. As it contacted the field, the low hum rapidly oscillated for a fraction of a second, before the protein bar exploded with a pitiful, dull pop.
“That’s why.”
Martin watched the pieces of protein bar fall with the snow to the ground, the wrapper fluttering in the wind. To a point, the Fence and the increasingly intense blizzard were rendering their role here somewhat redundant. Much and all as he relished the opportunity to put a bullet into some freak of nature Janus-Hayes had probably spent far too much money cooking up - or some idiot college student - he’d much rather stay warm and shoot the shit with Trent.
Sitting back from the rifle, Martin finally picked up the coffee that Trent had set down beside him. Trent sat back down and grabbed another protein bar, this time unwrapping it and taking a bite.
“Yeah. Okay. Nothing’s getting through. Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to shoot those fucking things. Tabernac, did you see -”
Trent motioned for Martin to stop, shaking his head and cutting him off. He pointed to the array of listening devices, cameras, and antennae on the roof of the building beside them.
“Denis, mate - we’re the night watch. So you and I don’t see anything except what’s out there, that’s what we get paid for. We don’t get paid to see anything else.”
Replying with a nod, Martin set down his coffee and turned his eyes back to the airfield before them.
FUBAR
Private
Moderator: SOTF U Staff
*whizzt*
*thunk*
The thermos hopped. It rolled around on the deck, coffee leaking from its new orifice.
*thunk*
The thermos hopped. It rolled around on the deck, coffee leaking from its new orifice.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
Trent flinched, only hearing the shot a fraction of a second after the thermos tumbled to the floor. Training and instinct took over, and he quickly emptied his hands and scrambled to the spotting scope.
Martin scanned the airport with the rifle, in the back of his mind frustrated that he hadn't caught the muzzle flash. No time for any thoughts that didn't pertain to a ballistic trajectory, now. His comrade radioed to their commander.
"Contact! No visual, but we're under fire, over."
"Copy. Standby."
There wasn't anything the team inside the base could do; they were under orders not to leave the station, without express authorization from the ship - and it was currently unreachable.
At the edge of the airfield, Martin noted a shape out of place. It had to be from there.
"Got him. Range to tar-"
The next bullet cut him off. It ripped through the scarf wrapped around Martin's neck, through his windpipe, tumbled through his spine, and exited out other side in a burst of blood, lead, and twisted copper.
The mercenary crumpled to the ground, knocking the rifle down with him. He tried to grasp at the wound in his neck, but found his limbs unresponsive. All he could do was stare blankly at the sheet metal ceiling as the life rapidly drained from his body.
It took Trent only a moment to register that Martin was completely fucked. Another to realize where he'd be if he didn't force their attacker to keep his head down. Rushing to the pintle-mounted M240, he began returning fire in short bursts towards where he thought - hoped - their attacker was.
Martin scanned the airport with the rifle, in the back of his mind frustrated that he hadn't caught the muzzle flash. No time for any thoughts that didn't pertain to a ballistic trajectory, now. His comrade radioed to their commander.
"Contact! No visual, but we're under fire, over."
"Copy. Standby."
There wasn't anything the team inside the base could do; they were under orders not to leave the station, without express authorization from the ship - and it was currently unreachable.
At the edge of the airfield, Martin noted a shape out of place. It had to be from there.
"Got him. Range to tar-"
The next bullet cut him off. It ripped through the scarf wrapped around Martin's neck, through his windpipe, tumbled through his spine, and exited out other side in a burst of blood, lead, and twisted copper.
The mercenary crumpled to the ground, knocking the rifle down with him. He tried to grasp at the wound in his neck, but found his limbs unresponsive. All he could do was stare blankly at the sheet metal ceiling as the life rapidly drained from his body.
It took Trent only a moment to register that Martin was completely fucked. Another to realize where he'd be if he didn't force their attacker to keep his head down. Rushing to the pintle-mounted M240, he began returning fire in short bursts towards where he thought - hoped - their attacker was.
Underneath his makeshift canopy, Gunny Kowalski's lips were peeled back into an ice cold grin, revealing each and every tooth underneath his mustache. His eyes stared unblinking.
He hated to acknowledge it, but the way that bastard dropped when he took a round to the grape was satisfying. He had to wonder if any of those guys were the ones who roughed him up on the boat. Had to wonder if they knew who was shooting back at them? He adjusted his aim for his second target. That little guard tower was nothing more than a killbox for those two. They'd have had better chances just eating shit on the roof than hunkering down in there.
No where to run, nowhere to hide. They were trapped in what looked like a little sheetmetal coffin.
Kowalski flinched as muzzle fire flashed from the tower, and as rounds whizzed above him. Damn, they had an MG too! He readjusted his aim, hands were shaking now. You could never get used to them shooting back at you. That, and the cold. Breathe, breathe, 123, wrap, 123 squeeze.
Kowalski wasn't sure about getting another clean kill. He couldn't just sit here and let the guy keep shooting, those rounds will find him eventually, and Kowalski had nowhere to go, he was flat on the ground.
Fuck it.
He decided to put that sheet metal to the test, and fire off a round just below the muzzle flashes. Maybe it punches through, maybe not. Maybe it just scares the bastard. Either way, it'll buy him some time to line up his next shot.
He hated to acknowledge it, but the way that bastard dropped when he took a round to the grape was satisfying. He had to wonder if any of those guys were the ones who roughed him up on the boat. Had to wonder if they knew who was shooting back at them? He adjusted his aim for his second target. That little guard tower was nothing more than a killbox for those two. They'd have had better chances just eating shit on the roof than hunkering down in there.
No where to run, nowhere to hide. They were trapped in what looked like a little sheetmetal coffin.
Kowalski flinched as muzzle fire flashed from the tower, and as rounds whizzed above him. Damn, they had an MG too! He readjusted his aim, hands were shaking now. You could never get used to them shooting back at you. That, and the cold. Breathe, breathe, 123, wrap, 123 squeeze.
Kowalski wasn't sure about getting another clean kill. He couldn't just sit here and let the guy keep shooting, those rounds will find him eventually, and Kowalski had nowhere to go, he was flat on the ground.
Fuck it.
He decided to put that sheet metal to the test, and fire off a round just below the muzzle flashes. Maybe it punches through, maybe not. Maybe it just scares the bastard. Either way, it'll buy him some time to line up his next shot.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
The plan had been to interdict them on the way to the airfield. Warning shots, then kill shots if they got too close or started doing something stupid with a rocket launcher.
At no point, Trent supposed, did they figure that someone they'd recruited was going to make accurate shots at over four hundred yards in a fucking blizzard.
They were trying to account for the most likely scenarios; like wearing a plate carrier - you can't protect everything, but you can protect the most likely place to get hit. Complacency on his part and the presence of a goddamn marksman on the other end hadn't factored in enough. Now they were paying for it.
None of this was registering as a particularly conscious stream of thought, though. Several days of discomfort and
The sight on the M240 caught a tiny flicker of heat further out, followed by a muzzle flash. He heard the sound of a bullet piercing metal, and felt the wall of the shelter rattle.
"Fuck! There you are."
Squeezing the trigger, he was able to fire off a single burst from the M240 at the muzzle flash before the next round struck him dead in the chest. The impact knocked him back to the ground, debris from the impact to his plate carrier cutting a path through any fabric or flesh it could find.
The breath had been taken from his lungs; Trent attempted to push himself back up off of the ground, but found his hand slipping on blood. A mixture of Martin's - and his own.
The first shot hadn't missed, he just hadn't noticed where it landed. Looking down, he could see a red stain rapidly spreading through his pant leg from the ragged hole torn through his thigh. First came the warmth, and then cold, and finally - pain.
After catching his breath, Trent reached for his radio, but found himself only able to let out an anguished cry to the wind as the agony of his situation finally set in.
At no point, Trent supposed, did they figure that someone they'd recruited was going to make accurate shots at over four hundred yards in a fucking blizzard.
They were trying to account for the most likely scenarios; like wearing a plate carrier - you can't protect everything, but you can protect the most likely place to get hit. Complacency on his part and the presence of a goddamn marksman on the other end hadn't factored in enough. Now they were paying for it.
None of this was registering as a particularly conscious stream of thought, though. Several days of discomfort and
The sight on the M240 caught a tiny flicker of heat further out, followed by a muzzle flash. He heard the sound of a bullet piercing metal, and felt the wall of the shelter rattle.
"Fuck! There you are."
Squeezing the trigger, he was able to fire off a single burst from the M240 at the muzzle flash before the next round struck him dead in the chest. The impact knocked him back to the ground, debris from the impact to his plate carrier cutting a path through any fabric or flesh it could find.
The breath had been taken from his lungs; Trent attempted to push himself back up off of the ground, but found his hand slipping on blood. A mixture of Martin's - and his own.
The first shot hadn't missed, he just hadn't noticed where it landed. Looking down, he could see a red stain rapidly spreading through his pant leg from the ragged hole torn through his thigh. First came the warmth, and then cold, and finally - pain.
After catching his breath, Trent reached for his radio, but found himself only able to let out an anguished cry to the wind as the agony of his situation finally set in.
The shots stopped as suddenly as they'd arrived.
There was nothing but silence.
Kowalski spoke to himself, scope trailed on the guard shack, his kill box, as he waited for the second, or maybe even the third head to pop up. "Come on you bastards... Get up here. Earn your fuckin' pay."
He'd heard a faint cry in the distance.
Yeah... He'd be waiting for a third head to pop up, not a second. One for Reinette, one for Chevy.
..."Gonna need to trade a lot more for the rest of us though." Kowalski replied to his own thoughts.
There was nothing but silence.
Kowalski spoke to himself, scope trailed on the guard shack, his kill box, as he waited for the second, or maybe even the third head to pop up. "Come on you bastards... Get up here. Earn your fuckin' pay."
He'd heard a faint cry in the distance.
Yeah... He'd be waiting for a third head to pop up, not a second. One for Reinette, one for Chevy.
..."Gonna need to trade a lot more for the rest of us though." Kowalski replied to his own thoughts.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
When injured, until someone got to you, it was best to just let it out. No sense trying to be a big man when you were bleeding all over the place.
"Status?! The fuck is going on up there?"
No time to respond. Once he'd let out what he had to, Trent found himself fumbling for the tourniquet on his chest rig. Wrapping it around his leg was difficult, given the state he was in. The round to the chest probably broke something; every breath was agonizing. The cold temperature of the air he drew into his lungs seemed to linger, as if he couldn't stay warm anymore.
A hand met his own, gripping the lever on the tourniquet and tightening it until he felt it nearly digging through his skin. They grabbed him by the straps on his chest rig and dragged him through the hatch in the floor. While they took great care to bring him back in safely, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Martin's body being practically thrown down the ladder as his comrades withdrew from the nest.
His vision faded. John Trent's world went dark.
---
Commands were shouted to the dozen men who manned the station. The researchers who tried to involve themselves were silenced by terse words and at least one violent shove.
From the side entrances of the structure, more mercenaries emerged. They took cover behind the steel walls of the building, attempting to find cover to lay down fire from. The field created by the fence limited their visibility, enough to cause some measure of frustration in their commander. Orders were questioned, and shouting could be heard in the distance.
The point wasn't accuracy, that much was clear.
As the mercenaries began to lay down suppressing fire with their automatic weapons, a small slot in the top of the building opened. A drone emerged, and began scanning the area for heat signatures.
"Status?! The fuck is going on up there?"
No time to respond. Once he'd let out what he had to, Trent found himself fumbling for the tourniquet on his chest rig. Wrapping it around his leg was difficult, given the state he was in. The round to the chest probably broke something; every breath was agonizing. The cold temperature of the air he drew into his lungs seemed to linger, as if he couldn't stay warm anymore.
A hand met his own, gripping the lever on the tourniquet and tightening it until he felt it nearly digging through his skin. They grabbed him by the straps on his chest rig and dragged him through the hatch in the floor. While they took great care to bring him back in safely, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Martin's body being practically thrown down the ladder as his comrades withdrew from the nest.
His vision faded. John Trent's world went dark.
---
Commands were shouted to the dozen men who manned the station. The researchers who tried to involve themselves were silenced by terse words and at least one violent shove.
From the side entrances of the structure, more mercenaries emerged. They took cover behind the steel walls of the building, attempting to find cover to lay down fire from. The field created by the fence limited their visibility, enough to cause some measure of frustration in their commander. Orders were questioned, and shouting could be heard in the distance.
The point wasn't accuracy, that much was clear.
As the mercenaries began to lay down suppressing fire with their automatic weapons, a small slot in the top of the building opened. A drone emerged, and began scanning the area for heat signatures.
SOTF: U
Evan Keane: "I guess my world was always gonna end, somehow."
SOTF Supers:
August Hanlon - "This never felt like much of a Gift."
Evan Keane: "I guess my world was always gonna end, somehow."
SOTF Supers:
August Hanlon - "This never felt like much of a Gift."
It got loud again. Carl took about two shots at the men who exited the side doors, before he decided to withdrawl. He could stay here. He could for sure kill at least one more, maybe two. But at the end of the day self-preservation won out, only if just to fight another day. If he died out here that'd leave this rifle behind and out of the fight for someone else to use.
He'd made his point....
Eh, one more will do it.
He targeted the outerleftmost batch of dancing muzzle flares, and sent his final shot to it's owner, before the rounds whizzed by much closer than the watchtower team's did. With the introduction of what looked like a drone flying out, Carl knew he couldn't stay here any longer. He low crawled backwards as snow in front of him erupted, then turned and slid down the berm, transitioning into a full dead-on sprint back into the darkness of night.
Temporary as it was, tonight was still a victory.
((Carl Kowalski continued elsewhere.))
He'd made his point....
Eh, one more will do it.
He targeted the outerleftmost batch of dancing muzzle flares, and sent his final shot to it's owner, before the rounds whizzed by much closer than the watchtower team's did. With the introduction of what looked like a drone flying out, Carl knew he couldn't stay here any longer. He low crawled backwards as snow in front of him erupted, then turned and slid down the berm, transitioning into a full dead-on sprint back into the darkness of night.
Temporary as it was, tonight was still a victory.
((Carl Kowalski continued elsewhere.))
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.