Only reason I still visit the forums
More New chapters Posted! Manganator's Story
Moderators: Moleman, Kwijibo, Luna
by Manganator » Fri Feb 01, 2008 3:15 am
The Story
20 Years Prior
There were just five of them in the tent. It was just one of the tents in a small clearing that they had come across a few hours before dimness turned to darkness, but it wasn’t yet lights out, and as Brian Manganator found out after just a few of their missions, playing cards in Dirt’s tent with some of the guys before lights out greatly improved the quality of his sleep.
It relieved the tension, comforted him that he would not have his throat slit in the middle of the night, and helped him keep out of the dark trap of self-pity, because it reminded him that he was suffering with brothers, and there was no doubt to the old phrase “misery loves company”.
He had been in the Marines just a year, and already he taken a full 360. He had gone from loving the Marines, to hating them, to loving them again. In fact, those were only the larger trends, Brian just wasn’t going to bother counting all the times he had gone from one mind-set to the other.
Being in the Marines was an experience that only someone who had been engaged in a tumultuous love affair could empathize with.
Indeed, the Marine core had been married into Manganator’s life. It controlled where he was stationed, what he did, who he killed, how he dressed, even how he spoke.
And the Marine corpse was a real I love you man! to boot. Not the emotional kind that freaked out once a week. The Marine corpse was a real hardcore, controlling kind of I love you man!.
“That is completely hugged, man,” Bill Hammel exclaimed, his plump face more amused then sympathetic. He had always been a bit of an chia pet, liked to screw with people, liked to make jokes at the expense of others...
“I know, man... I know...” the misty-eyed Joel Pierce said drearily, still holding the crumpled letter in a hanging, limp hand.
“Hey, you did say that you and your friend back home shared everything, didn’t you? Maybe when you get back you two can share your girlfriend,” Bill added, his round brown eyes sparkling mischievously.
Joel’s fist clenched tightly around the letter. It didn’t take a physiological examiner to see that Joel was really feeling hugged up.
Joel was the typical tall lanky country boy with golden-brown disheveled hair, who’d arrived from underdeveloped Mars eager and grinning stupidly, completely unaware of just how dumb it looked with his missing front teeth. They’d quickly forced him to get a replacement tooth, and to lose the smile, but he’d always retained just a little humorous spark in even the darkest environments... until now.
“Hammel, why do you have to be such an chia pet, you fat BBQ?” Rob finally said with disgust.
Rob was the righteous, philosophical member of the group, which was quite ironic because he was also the only atheist. A well-built Italian from New York, his features were quite distinguished, but most distinguishing of all was his poofy hair which neither fell to his shoulders, or stood straight up like Cookie’s, but rather went... out.
When the other guys visited prostitutes, shot at trees, or scratched their asses, Rob kept himself busy by reading, writing, and debating with most often unwilling opponents in the most unimportant of topics.
“Hey, I was just sayin...” Hammel said defensively, holding up his hands as if the gesture somehow distanced him from the matter.
“Ya, well just can it!” Rob shot back, shaking his head.
“Look at him man, are you some kind of dumbass. You cant see how he’s hurting?”
Joel, who was clearly crying at this point, said nothing. He only remained silent and still as a tear dripped from his eye. “I... should go,” he whispered pausing mid-sentence to noisily suck the dripping liquid from his nose.
Distraught, and embarrassed, Joel got up walking almost dreamily as if he couldn’t believe the reality of the harshness around him, and left the tent.
“Nice hugging going,” Rob snapped barely as the tent flap fell back down.
Bill, still smiling like a dope, only shook his head stubbornly, obviously thinking that he still hadn’t said anything wrong.
“Hey where’s dirt?”
The four looked around the tent for their party host, but it took them a few seconds before Rob located him passed out on the ground, in the fetal position, still holding the empty Tenthon vial in his hand.
“hugging painkillers man...” Manganator said with a frown.
The purple vialed Tenthon was the abused drug of choice in the Marines, because it was made so readily available by the U.N..
The war against the Renegades was growing more and more unpopular. The Senator’s heroic stands on supporting a new few hundred billion in funding to provide “needed medical equipment” had earned a few senators another term in their precincts, and cost some more their’s, but didn’t do much to reduce Marine casualties.
That didn’t stop the Senators from making their outrageous claims, and cooking their statistics, however.
Sure, the equipment was helpful, but generally, you don’t save a man’s life who’s had the bottom half of his torso blown off by a rigged explosive, or had a plasma shot punched through his lungs.
As always, there were two wars being waged: The grunt’s war, and the political war.
But, unlike Rob, Manganator generally tried to avoid thinking about those kinds of things. He liked to keep his mind focused on not getting killed.
There was a noise. Something if Manganator had not been attentive he would not have heard. It was a soft crack, just like some sentry had clapped in the distance. But considering that the marines were just a part of a 30 man unit in the middle of a Renegade hotbed was enough to put Manganator’s nerves on edge.
He reached to his side, feeling the smooth metal of his MA-25 rifle (Modern Assault) . He never kept it far. Hefting it in his hands, he felt the familiar lightweight frame rest in his arms like a girlfriend’s embrace, comforting and gentle.
And he thumbed the safety.
Outside, the night had already fallen, casting a permeating darkness across the forest clearing in which they had set camp. On all sides, solemn trees stood uncomfortably close, bushes rustling with small animals... or Rennies.
Most of the guys, following Manganator’s lead, recovered their own weapons, mostly MA-25's with a few PW-4's, lightweight dull-black energy pistols that could scorch their way right through body armor and exit the other side.
And they listened.
It happened at least once every night. Someone would get spooked, and the others would be on edge, but it hardly ever evolved into a real ambush.
Hardly.
Whoever had first clapped really started it up now.
And now other’s joined in. From all different directions. The tent flashed as if it were being spotlighted by someone with ADD, and Manganator, knowing that the flashes would cast shadows of anyone standing inside, dropped to the ground.
Rob, fumbling with a magazine still in a standing position, was not so observant. A whistling round tore through his leg, causing him to topple with a loud groan. Manganator could feel the splatter on his weapon, and on his face.
He knew that he would need to get out of the tent. It was an easy target.
Hastily pulling his combat knife out of it’s sheath on his thigh, he ripped a line in the tent, and rolled into the void-like night, praying his enemies didn’t have thermal.
20 Years Prior
There were just five of them in the tent. It was just one of the tents in a small clearing that they had come across a few hours before dimness turned to darkness, but it wasn’t yet lights out, and as Brian Manganator found out after just a few of their missions, playing cards in Dirt’s tent with some of the guys before lights out greatly improved the quality of his sleep.
It relieved the tension, comforted him that he would not have his throat slit in the middle of the night, and helped him keep out of the dark trap of self-pity, because it reminded him that he was suffering with brothers, and there was no doubt to the old phrase “misery loves company”.
He had been in the Marines just a year, and already he taken a full 360. He had gone from loving the Marines, to hating them, to loving them again. In fact, those were only the larger trends, Brian just wasn’t going to bother counting all the times he had gone from one mind-set to the other.
Being in the Marines was an experience that only someone who had been engaged in a tumultuous love affair could empathize with.
Indeed, the Marine core had been married into Manganator’s life. It controlled where he was stationed, what he did, who he killed, how he dressed, even how he spoke.
And the Marine corpse was a real I love you man! to boot. Not the emotional kind that freaked out once a week. The Marine corpse was a real hardcore, controlling kind of I love you man!.
“That is completely hugged, man,” Bill Hammel exclaimed, his plump face more amused then sympathetic. He had always been a bit of an chia pet, liked to screw with people, liked to make jokes at the expense of others...
“I know, man... I know...” the misty-eyed Joel Pierce said drearily, still holding the crumpled letter in a hanging, limp hand.
“Hey, you did say that you and your friend back home shared everything, didn’t you? Maybe when you get back you two can share your girlfriend,” Bill added, his round brown eyes sparkling mischievously.
Joel’s fist clenched tightly around the letter. It didn’t take a physiological examiner to see that Joel was really feeling hugged up.
Joel was the typical tall lanky country boy with golden-brown disheveled hair, who’d arrived from underdeveloped Mars eager and grinning stupidly, completely unaware of just how dumb it looked with his missing front teeth. They’d quickly forced him to get a replacement tooth, and to lose the smile, but he’d always retained just a little humorous spark in even the darkest environments... until now.
“Hammel, why do you have to be such an chia pet, you fat BBQ?” Rob finally said with disgust.
Rob was the righteous, philosophical member of the group, which was quite ironic because he was also the only atheist. A well-built Italian from New York, his features were quite distinguished, but most distinguishing of all was his poofy hair which neither fell to his shoulders, or stood straight up like Cookie’s, but rather went... out.
When the other guys visited prostitutes, shot at trees, or scratched their asses, Rob kept himself busy by reading, writing, and debating with most often unwilling opponents in the most unimportant of topics.
“Hey, I was just sayin...” Hammel said defensively, holding up his hands as if the gesture somehow distanced him from the matter.
“Ya, well just can it!” Rob shot back, shaking his head.
“Look at him man, are you some kind of dumbass. You cant see how he’s hurting?”
Joel, who was clearly crying at this point, said nothing. He only remained silent and still as a tear dripped from his eye. “I... should go,” he whispered pausing mid-sentence to noisily suck the dripping liquid from his nose.
Distraught, and embarrassed, Joel got up walking almost dreamily as if he couldn’t believe the reality of the harshness around him, and left the tent.
“Nice hugging going,” Rob snapped barely as the tent flap fell back down.
Bill, still smiling like a dope, only shook his head stubbornly, obviously thinking that he still hadn’t said anything wrong.
“Hey where’s dirt?”
The four looked around the tent for their party host, but it took them a few seconds before Rob located him passed out on the ground, in the fetal position, still holding the empty Tenthon vial in his hand.
“hugging painkillers man...” Manganator said with a frown.
The purple vialed Tenthon was the abused drug of choice in the Marines, because it was made so readily available by the U.N..
The war against the Renegades was growing more and more unpopular. The Senator’s heroic stands on supporting a new few hundred billion in funding to provide “needed medical equipment” had earned a few senators another term in their precincts, and cost some more their’s, but didn’t do much to reduce Marine casualties.
That didn’t stop the Senators from making their outrageous claims, and cooking their statistics, however.
Sure, the equipment was helpful, but generally, you don’t save a man’s life who’s had the bottom half of his torso blown off by a rigged explosive, or had a plasma shot punched through his lungs.
As always, there were two wars being waged: The grunt’s war, and the political war.
But, unlike Rob, Manganator generally tried to avoid thinking about those kinds of things. He liked to keep his mind focused on not getting killed.
There was a noise. Something if Manganator had not been attentive he would not have heard. It was a soft crack, just like some sentry had clapped in the distance. But considering that the marines were just a part of a 30 man unit in the middle of a Renegade hotbed was enough to put Manganator’s nerves on edge.
He reached to his side, feeling the smooth metal of his MA-25 rifle (Modern Assault) . He never kept it far. Hefting it in his hands, he felt the familiar lightweight frame rest in his arms like a girlfriend’s embrace, comforting and gentle.
And he thumbed the safety.
Outside, the night had already fallen, casting a permeating darkness across the forest clearing in which they had set camp. On all sides, solemn trees stood uncomfortably close, bushes rustling with small animals... or Rennies.
Most of the guys, following Manganator’s lead, recovered their own weapons, mostly MA-25's with a few PW-4's, lightweight dull-black energy pistols that could scorch their way right through body armor and exit the other side.
And they listened.
It happened at least once every night. Someone would get spooked, and the others would be on edge, but it hardly ever evolved into a real ambush.
Hardly.
Whoever had first clapped really started it up now.
And now other’s joined in. From all different directions. The tent flashed as if it were being spotlighted by someone with ADD, and Manganator, knowing that the flashes would cast shadows of anyone standing inside, dropped to the ground.
Rob, fumbling with a magazine still in a standing position, was not so observant. A whistling round tore through his leg, causing him to topple with a loud groan. Manganator could feel the splatter on his weapon, and on his face.
He knew that he would need to get out of the tent. It was an easy target.
Hastily pulling his combat knife out of it’s sheath on his thigh, he ripped a line in the tent, and rolled into the void-like night, praying his enemies didn’t have thermal.
-
Manganator - Posts: 1329
- Joined: Mon Jun 06, 2005 11:52 pm
- Location: Massachusettes
by dirt » Fri Feb 01, 2008 4:28 am
Awsome, at this point the enemy will think im dead if im all passed out (unless they have thermal goggles) and i may live to see another chapter :>.
Good chapter dude. ill rate it at 5 out of 5 smilies.
Good chapter dude. ill rate it at 5 out of 5 smilies.
-
dirt - Posts: 843
- Joined: Mon Jan 16, 2006 1:58 am
- Location: Not playing SGE
by Luna » Fri Feb 01, 2008 4:08 pm
Good idea going from present to past to fill in some of the background. I love knowing what makes a character tick, what trials and challenges they had to mold them into the person they become in later chapters. Dirt hopefully will stay down and quiet and he may go unnoticed. Manganator will need to get himself into a strategic position to gather intelligence on whomever shot his comrade.
Keep going this is getting more interesting with each chapter.
Keep going this is getting more interesting with each chapter.
-
Luna - Posts: 1845
- Joined: Wed May 10, 2006 6:09 am
- Location: The Galaxy of Life
by Manganator » Mon Feb 04, 2008 2:24 am
Manganator lay prone, his body as low against the ground as it could possibly go. It had been just a few minutes since the surprise nighttime assault began.
Gunfire from concealed positions continued to rake swaths up the camp, which itself was in a depressed clearing in the middle of a thick forest, surrounded on all sides by wooded hills.
Of the thirty men in the squad, Manganator had seen at least five dead.
Normally, the Rennies were never this upfront. In any conventional scraps, the Marines could simply call in surgical air-strikes which, from orbit, could calculate the difference between men twenty yards apart.
However… for some reason no air support had yet arrived.
A spray of gunfire whistled by Manganator’s head, causing him to cringe, but the shots were only a wild spray, and pattered the dirt over his shoulder.
Manganator bobbed slightly as his lungs pushed up to make room for air in his chest. His vision was narrow, and his adrenaline was giving his eye sweeps a frantic wartime ADD that kept him very confused.
He wildly opened fire into the hills, but the only thing his gunfire accomplished was to give away position, and he was forced to scramble back, crawling on his stomach as a hail of fire peppered where he had just been.
Huffing, he urgently scanned the camp for a sign of any friendly rifles. The first few men his eyes happened upon were lying dead, or wounded. It seemed the entire unit was cowering as deep within their tents, or small divots in the ground, as they could.
And that made what he saw next even stranger. Just a few yards in front of Manganator, emerging from between two tents, Joel ambled calmly, in a fully upright, slow paced walk.
Wearing no armor, and not even bothering to bring his rifle all the way to his eyes, Joel answered the muzzle flashes on the hills with careless replies. With each report and the coinciding flash, Manganator was struck by the grim carelessness in Joel’s eyes.
Were he in a calmer, more familiar state of mind, it would have struck Manganator to run forward, and tackle the man to the ground before his careless suicidal attitude led to his death, but in his panic-filled state, all Manganator thought to do was stare in amazement.
By some kind of divine intervention, the shots were still flying wide of Joel, but the swaths were getting tighter, kicking up bits of dirt at Joel’s feet, and popping small holes into the stiff-fabric tents on either side of him.
Finally one shot struck him, knocking his shoulder back slightly like a light playful tap on the shoulder. Joel, unabated, continued to fire. In the next series of muzzle flashes, Manganator could see a smile on his face.
By the time the next muzzle flash shone like a strobe across the camp, Joel was tackled to the ground roughly by a large hulking figure that Manganator could only identify as Sergeant O’Malley.
Manganator vaguely remember the earth-shattering shouts that passed from the well-toned Sergeant over coms, and wasn’t surprised that he could hear the sergeants angry voice shouting Joel into his senses even as sharp gunfire rang out around them.
Perhaps his voice was too loud.
There was an explosion of light as red and orange flames broiled from a hurled object, engulfing the Irish Sergeant and the shaken country boy in one fiery swipe. Immolated, the Sergeant began to frantically spin his large body on the ground, trying to find respite in the wet ground, but Joel’s burning body simply sank to its knees, and slumped down.
Manganator leveled his rifle, and put the Sergeant out of his misery with a clean shot to the head, ending the man’s throaty baritone yells with a sharp crack.
Manganator suddenly wondered if perhaps he had taken the shot too early. The flames had only covered a patch of his Sergeant’s body, and perhaps it could have been put out.
Then he saw a light flicker, characteristically different than a muzzle flash, and closer. It was another firebomb being lit by a Rennie, to be thrown into the camp. Probably the same man who’d thrown the first firebomb that torched O’Malley.
Manganator pivoted his rifle, aimed just beneath the flaming torch, and squeezed off five quick shots.
There was a huge explosion of blossoming flame as bomb after bomb exploded, adding to a large ball of fire which baked the screaming attacker alive.
Manganator leveled his rifle on the burning man, who continued to cry out, as if begging for a small bit of mercy, but at the last second, removed his finger from the trigger and turned his rifle into the air, watching the man’s thrashing limbs settle down into a smoldering pile.
He didn’t get long to wait before he had to begin trading fire with the other entrenched Rennies in the surrounding hills. A bullet clanged as it buried itself into a thin-metal equipment chest Manganator had been using as cover.
His adrenaline beginning to tone down, Manganator regained enough of his senses to find Terrance, a soft-spoken private, firing off shots just a few yards behind him.
But there was something strange about the private that Manganator couldn’t quite place. In a few frantic moments, he found out what had been bothering him.
Terrance was wearing his head-gear, the Hopolon Interactive Combat Visor. As rounds flew by him, Manganator patted his head, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Not only was it bulletproof, but it also tagged friendly and unfriendly contacts via satellite, and could zoom in with thermal and night vision.
In all the rush of the ambush, Manganator had forgotten all about it.
He wasted no time to scramble back to his tent, and launch himself inside. Rob had bandaged his own leg, and was firing deliberate aimed shots to the south, completely ignoring Manganator as he began to rummage through his bag.
As soon as he grasped it, he fumbled to secure it on his head, and soon was peering through the slightly darker view of his visor.
Feeling that it had been occupied, the helmet came to life. Manganator reached to the side of the helmet, and quickly activated the thermal viewer. The visor quickly shifted from mostly black to bits of red and orange as it began to pick up the heat signatures around him.
“This is Gamma Alpha 240-4963, hailing Hawkeye,” Manganator said into his communication’s piece, which he had set to broadcast directly to the closet supporting ship in orbit.
“Hawkeye come in, we are in need of sky support,” Manganator pressed.
“Channel’s dead,” Rob shouted, firing off a few more shots.
“What?” Manganator asked.
“The entire relay hud is down,” he explained, pointing up at a ship in orbit neither of them could actually see. “Everything that we relay through them is offline.”
Manganator narrowed his visor view on Rob, and found that Rob was not being tagged as a friendly.
Gunfire from concealed positions continued to rake swaths up the camp, which itself was in a depressed clearing in the middle of a thick forest, surrounded on all sides by wooded hills.
Of the thirty men in the squad, Manganator had seen at least five dead.
Normally, the Rennies were never this upfront. In any conventional scraps, the Marines could simply call in surgical air-strikes which, from orbit, could calculate the difference between men twenty yards apart.
However… for some reason no air support had yet arrived.
A spray of gunfire whistled by Manganator’s head, causing him to cringe, but the shots were only a wild spray, and pattered the dirt over his shoulder.
Manganator bobbed slightly as his lungs pushed up to make room for air in his chest. His vision was narrow, and his adrenaline was giving his eye sweeps a frantic wartime ADD that kept him very confused.
He wildly opened fire into the hills, but the only thing his gunfire accomplished was to give away position, and he was forced to scramble back, crawling on his stomach as a hail of fire peppered where he had just been.
Huffing, he urgently scanned the camp for a sign of any friendly rifles. The first few men his eyes happened upon were lying dead, or wounded. It seemed the entire unit was cowering as deep within their tents, or small divots in the ground, as they could.
And that made what he saw next even stranger. Just a few yards in front of Manganator, emerging from between two tents, Joel ambled calmly, in a fully upright, slow paced walk.
Wearing no armor, and not even bothering to bring his rifle all the way to his eyes, Joel answered the muzzle flashes on the hills with careless replies. With each report and the coinciding flash, Manganator was struck by the grim carelessness in Joel’s eyes.
Were he in a calmer, more familiar state of mind, it would have struck Manganator to run forward, and tackle the man to the ground before his careless suicidal attitude led to his death, but in his panic-filled state, all Manganator thought to do was stare in amazement.
By some kind of divine intervention, the shots were still flying wide of Joel, but the swaths were getting tighter, kicking up bits of dirt at Joel’s feet, and popping small holes into the stiff-fabric tents on either side of him.
Finally one shot struck him, knocking his shoulder back slightly like a light playful tap on the shoulder. Joel, unabated, continued to fire. In the next series of muzzle flashes, Manganator could see a smile on his face.
By the time the next muzzle flash shone like a strobe across the camp, Joel was tackled to the ground roughly by a large hulking figure that Manganator could only identify as Sergeant O’Malley.
Manganator vaguely remember the earth-shattering shouts that passed from the well-toned Sergeant over coms, and wasn’t surprised that he could hear the sergeants angry voice shouting Joel into his senses even as sharp gunfire rang out around them.
Perhaps his voice was too loud.
There was an explosion of light as red and orange flames broiled from a hurled object, engulfing the Irish Sergeant and the shaken country boy in one fiery swipe. Immolated, the Sergeant began to frantically spin his large body on the ground, trying to find respite in the wet ground, but Joel’s burning body simply sank to its knees, and slumped down.
Manganator leveled his rifle, and put the Sergeant out of his misery with a clean shot to the head, ending the man’s throaty baritone yells with a sharp crack.
Manganator suddenly wondered if perhaps he had taken the shot too early. The flames had only covered a patch of his Sergeant’s body, and perhaps it could have been put out.
Then he saw a light flicker, characteristically different than a muzzle flash, and closer. It was another firebomb being lit by a Rennie, to be thrown into the camp. Probably the same man who’d thrown the first firebomb that torched O’Malley.
Manganator pivoted his rifle, aimed just beneath the flaming torch, and squeezed off five quick shots.
There was a huge explosion of blossoming flame as bomb after bomb exploded, adding to a large ball of fire which baked the screaming attacker alive.
Manganator leveled his rifle on the burning man, who continued to cry out, as if begging for a small bit of mercy, but at the last second, removed his finger from the trigger and turned his rifle into the air, watching the man’s thrashing limbs settle down into a smoldering pile.
He didn’t get long to wait before he had to begin trading fire with the other entrenched Rennies in the surrounding hills. A bullet clanged as it buried itself into a thin-metal equipment chest Manganator had been using as cover.
His adrenaline beginning to tone down, Manganator regained enough of his senses to find Terrance, a soft-spoken private, firing off shots just a few yards behind him.
But there was something strange about the private that Manganator couldn’t quite place. In a few frantic moments, he found out what had been bothering him.
Terrance was wearing his head-gear, the Hopolon Interactive Combat Visor. As rounds flew by him, Manganator patted his head, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Not only was it bulletproof, but it also tagged friendly and unfriendly contacts via satellite, and could zoom in with thermal and night vision.
In all the rush of the ambush, Manganator had forgotten all about it.
He wasted no time to scramble back to his tent, and launch himself inside. Rob had bandaged his own leg, and was firing deliberate aimed shots to the south, completely ignoring Manganator as he began to rummage through his bag.
As soon as he grasped it, he fumbled to secure it on his head, and soon was peering through the slightly darker view of his visor.
Feeling that it had been occupied, the helmet came to life. Manganator reached to the side of the helmet, and quickly activated the thermal viewer. The visor quickly shifted from mostly black to bits of red and orange as it began to pick up the heat signatures around him.
“This is Gamma Alpha 240-4963, hailing Hawkeye,” Manganator said into his communication’s piece, which he had set to broadcast directly to the closet supporting ship in orbit.
“Hawkeye come in, we are in need of sky support,” Manganator pressed.
“Channel’s dead,” Rob shouted, firing off a few more shots.
“What?” Manganator asked.
“The entire relay hud is down,” he explained, pointing up at a ship in orbit neither of them could actually see. “Everything that we relay through them is offline.”
Manganator narrowed his visor view on Rob, and found that Rob was not being tagged as a friendly.
-
Manganator - Posts: 1329
- Joined: Mon Jun 06, 2005 11:52 pm
- Location: Massachusettes
by Manganator » Tue Feb 05, 2008 2:32 am
Many long hours passed before the crimson son rose in the Eastern sky of Alpha Ari III, casting a bloody glow across the devastated Marine camp. Throughout the night, the fighting had been fierce. Unable to wipe the Marines out from their positions, the Renegades had attempted to storm the encampment three times.
Each time, Manganator felt like they had only barely been repulsed, only leaving a few dead comrades to lay against the Marine positions, or decorate the barren ground with their entrails.
The Marines were hanging on by the skin of their teeth. The Renegades had them covered from all sides, with heavy MG’s, and a handful of prowling snipers. Thankfully, at least one thing was demonstrated during the night ambush: they didn’t have thermal.
But that would mean now, in the rusty glow of the rising sun, the Rennies would gain yet another advantage, and the odds were only stacking up higher and higher. Since the assault began, 13 of the 30 Marines had died. Almost no one was uninjured.
But the fleet was just overhead. If they hadn’t noticed the fight by now, surely they’d noticed when the Marine squad failed to report in.
Manganator knew he was one of the few squads on the planet that had been assigned to scout out the enemy’s processing facilities and mines to see if the planet was worth glassing. Essentially if it would cost more to expend the lives of marines like himself to seize the lucrative processing facilities unharmed, or to scorch the planet with superheated plasma and thermal-nuclear missiles.
They had approached the planet in their troop transport on the magnetic pole, to mask their descent from enemy sensors, and had barely made it a day’s march towards the planet’s main settlement, when all of this BBQ happened.
Manganator glanced over to Rob, the gaunt, black haired Italian, scruffy after just a few days without shaving, who had been obsessing over the hasty biofoam job he’d done on his wounded leg. Red blotches soaked into the material marking where the bullet had passed through. The biofoam would seal and disinfect the wound, but it had a downside. It was very itchy.
As he picked some of it away, he decided to strike up conversation.
“Why do you figure we got no air support?” he asked, his hardened foam cracking as he managed to chip some of it away.
Manganator glanced up at the wispy red clouds wistfully. “Some kind of jamming, or equipment malfunction?”
“I doubt it, man,” Rob said haughtily, the tone he always took when he felt he had a superior understanding of a debate topic.
“Well what’s your theory, wonder boy?” Manganator shot back angrily.
Rob gave him one of those What crawled up your donkey and died? Looks, and Manganator realized that maybe he’d snapped a little too hard. Bags were showing under Rob’s eyes, and Manganator figured his were equally afflicted.
Neither of them had slept, tempers were high.
As if he were revealing a great mystery, Rob preluded his theory to not one, but two strokes of his unshaven chin, and looked up at the sky.
“Well I figured that just ten capital ships was a really light load for this kind of operation,” he finally said.
“How do you figure?” Manganator asked skeptically.
“We both know that the UN high command knows exactly what they’re doing, correct?” Rob asked.
“The spooks got it to an efficiency, that’s for sure,” Manganator replied, “but I still don’t see your point.”
“Well for a battle group of ten ships, we didn’t get an Admiral to lead the fleet, which was odd. Admirals are usually assigned to fleets just five big, let alone ten. Remember the Osiris op?”
“Still don’t see your point.”
Rob shook his head impatiently. “What I mean... is that the spooks and Admirals... they look after each other,” Rob said quietly with a dark smile.
Manganator’s objections went silent as he paused to consider Rob’s point. An Admiral would normally lead up an operation of this size. The only reason why one wouldn’t come is if they knew there was some kind of danger that they didn’t relate, or some mis-step that Manganator couldn’t see intelligence making.
Rob continued, “Not to mention, operations and assaults on the Renegades have been in a lull for a while. We cease all offensive operations for a month. A whole MONTH, and the operation they launch coming out of that wait is this little poke?”
“Ten ships. Not the twenty-five of a battle group that would really be a devastating loss to the UN fleet,” Manganator slowly said.
“Just enough for perhaps... bait?”
“Does anyone know where the food is?”
Manganator turned to see Dirt crawling in behind the jostled boxes which made up Rob and his barricade. Unlike the others, Dirt had gotten a good rest.
“Got the munchies?” Manganator asked jokingly.
“Yeah, something like that,” Dirt replied lazily, not returning Manganator’s half-laugh. He parked himself next to Manganator, and leaned against the barricade.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, before Dirt. Laughed to himself and scooted away on the muddy ground. “Where’s he going?” Rob asked inquisitively, trying to crane his neck around a fallen tent.
A few minutes later, Dirt returned, dragging the corpse of a Rennie. Upon closer inspection, it was a kid no older than fifteen, shot clean through the head and multiple times in the legs. And the corpse stank.
“You throwing that over the barrier? It smells like Hammel ate some rotten eggs and ripped donkey,” Manganator exclaimed, covering his mouth.
“Na, just wanted to see if the snipers were zeroed in on this barricade,” Dirt answered indifferently.
Before Manganator could inquire as to how he would do this, Dirt, dragged the body to the edge of the barrier, and grabbed a pale clammy hand.
Rob and Manganator watched as he slowly raised the dead boy’s hand above the protection of the barrier, and rested it on the top. All three waited in anticipation to see if a shot would ring out.
Five seconds passed and nothing.
“Ok that’s enough, now get that stinky little-“ SPLAT. Manganator hadn’t heard the gunshot, but the bullet cracked the air around them and slammed into the hand, splattering thick blood onto the three.
“You chia pet!” Manganator cried out.
Each time, Manganator felt like they had only barely been repulsed, only leaving a few dead comrades to lay against the Marine positions, or decorate the barren ground with their entrails.
The Marines were hanging on by the skin of their teeth. The Renegades had them covered from all sides, with heavy MG’s, and a handful of prowling snipers. Thankfully, at least one thing was demonstrated during the night ambush: they didn’t have thermal.
But that would mean now, in the rusty glow of the rising sun, the Rennies would gain yet another advantage, and the odds were only stacking up higher and higher. Since the assault began, 13 of the 30 Marines had died. Almost no one was uninjured.
But the fleet was just overhead. If they hadn’t noticed the fight by now, surely they’d noticed when the Marine squad failed to report in.
Manganator knew he was one of the few squads on the planet that had been assigned to scout out the enemy’s processing facilities and mines to see if the planet was worth glassing. Essentially if it would cost more to expend the lives of marines like himself to seize the lucrative processing facilities unharmed, or to scorch the planet with superheated plasma and thermal-nuclear missiles.
They had approached the planet in their troop transport on the magnetic pole, to mask their descent from enemy sensors, and had barely made it a day’s march towards the planet’s main settlement, when all of this BBQ happened.
Manganator glanced over to Rob, the gaunt, black haired Italian, scruffy after just a few days without shaving, who had been obsessing over the hasty biofoam job he’d done on his wounded leg. Red blotches soaked into the material marking where the bullet had passed through. The biofoam would seal and disinfect the wound, but it had a downside. It was very itchy.
As he picked some of it away, he decided to strike up conversation.
“Why do you figure we got no air support?” he asked, his hardened foam cracking as he managed to chip some of it away.
Manganator glanced up at the wispy red clouds wistfully. “Some kind of jamming, or equipment malfunction?”
“I doubt it, man,” Rob said haughtily, the tone he always took when he felt he had a superior understanding of a debate topic.
“Well what’s your theory, wonder boy?” Manganator shot back angrily.
Rob gave him one of those What crawled up your donkey and died? Looks, and Manganator realized that maybe he’d snapped a little too hard. Bags were showing under Rob’s eyes, and Manganator figured his were equally afflicted.
Neither of them had slept, tempers were high.
As if he were revealing a great mystery, Rob preluded his theory to not one, but two strokes of his unshaven chin, and looked up at the sky.
“Well I figured that just ten capital ships was a really light load for this kind of operation,” he finally said.
“How do you figure?” Manganator asked skeptically.
“We both know that the UN high command knows exactly what they’re doing, correct?” Rob asked.
“The spooks got it to an efficiency, that’s for sure,” Manganator replied, “but I still don’t see your point.”
“Well for a battle group of ten ships, we didn’t get an Admiral to lead the fleet, which was odd. Admirals are usually assigned to fleets just five big, let alone ten. Remember the Osiris op?”
“Still don’t see your point.”
Rob shook his head impatiently. “What I mean... is that the spooks and Admirals... they look after each other,” Rob said quietly with a dark smile.
Manganator’s objections went silent as he paused to consider Rob’s point. An Admiral would normally lead up an operation of this size. The only reason why one wouldn’t come is if they knew there was some kind of danger that they didn’t relate, or some mis-step that Manganator couldn’t see intelligence making.
Rob continued, “Not to mention, operations and assaults on the Renegades have been in a lull for a while. We cease all offensive operations for a month. A whole MONTH, and the operation they launch coming out of that wait is this little poke?”
“Ten ships. Not the twenty-five of a battle group that would really be a devastating loss to the UN fleet,” Manganator slowly said.
“Just enough for perhaps... bait?”
“Does anyone know where the food is?”
Manganator turned to see Dirt crawling in behind the jostled boxes which made up Rob and his barricade. Unlike the others, Dirt had gotten a good rest.
“Got the munchies?” Manganator asked jokingly.
“Yeah, something like that,” Dirt replied lazily, not returning Manganator’s half-laugh. He parked himself next to Manganator, and leaned against the barricade.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, before Dirt. Laughed to himself and scooted away on the muddy ground. “Where’s he going?” Rob asked inquisitively, trying to crane his neck around a fallen tent.
A few minutes later, Dirt returned, dragging the corpse of a Rennie. Upon closer inspection, it was a kid no older than fifteen, shot clean through the head and multiple times in the legs. And the corpse stank.
“You throwing that over the barrier? It smells like Hammel ate some rotten eggs and ripped donkey,” Manganator exclaimed, covering his mouth.
“Na, just wanted to see if the snipers were zeroed in on this barricade,” Dirt answered indifferently.
Before Manganator could inquire as to how he would do this, Dirt, dragged the body to the edge of the barrier, and grabbed a pale clammy hand.
Rob and Manganator watched as he slowly raised the dead boy’s hand above the protection of the barrier, and rested it on the top. All three waited in anticipation to see if a shot would ring out.
Five seconds passed and nothing.
“Ok that’s enough, now get that stinky little-“ SPLAT. Manganator hadn’t heard the gunshot, but the bullet cracked the air around them and slammed into the hand, splattering thick blood onto the three.
“You chia pet!” Manganator cried out.
-
Manganator - Posts: 1329
- Joined: Mon Jun 06, 2005 11:52 pm
- Location: Massachusettes
by Zavrith » Tue Feb 12, 2008 12:23 am
*crawls on the floor, clearly bloodied. What must have once been clothes arrange themselves around what can be vaguely called my body, and I rasp out a single word in a little rattle..."update!"*
-
Zavrith - Posts: 1382
- Joined: Mon Apr 24, 2006 11:51 pm
- Location: Kanadorea
by Manganator » Tue Feb 12, 2008 1:10 am
A heavy white blanket of fog had settled over the battered encampment. It was now mid-day, about twelve hours since the attacks began. What left of the encampment’s structures was strewn on the ground as a part of one of the makeshift barriers, or smoldering from firebombs.
Manganator was just one of the eight still alive. This realization was enough to justify a sigh of relief. As long as I’m alive, there is hope.
But Manganator was holding his breath.
1... 2... 3... 4...
He timed his shot perfectly, making sure to aim for the farthest man in the back of the enemy formation. The shot popped like the snap of a rubber band.
Struck by a high-velocity round, the enemy in the farthest back of the formation fell, clutching his bladder. Because of his rotating hips, his location in the column, and Manganator’s flash suppresser, none of his friends would know where the shot had come from.
The shot was a fatal one. The only difference was that it was a slow death compared to a headshot. But it was slow enough and debilitating enough to lead the Renegade’s friend to try to pick him up and bring him to safety. As his friend hefted him over his shoulder, Brian put a round into his knee.
The two fell like a sack of bricks.
The enemy squad, now knowing that they were the targets of directed fire, decided against saving the two men, and fled, disappearing into the fog, and quickly disappearing from Manganator’s thermal viewer. One paused in moral indecision long enough for Rob to put a shot through his head as Manganator finished the man who’s knee he’d wounded.
It was the first prod they had attempted in Manganator’s line of fire for a while, and it had cost them three men, and it had cost Manganator three rounds of ammunition in his MA-25.
“I only have twenty-three shots left,” Manganator grumbled.
It wasn’t their ammunition that was the problem per se. It was the fact that their flash-suppressors were grained for only their own MA-25's threads. If they used another weapon, the muzzle flash would alert them to the many snipers lurking above the fog, which was essentially a death sentence.
Manganator had been deprived of a night’s sleep, which would have been fine if it had been a battle, but it had turned into a waiting game, but apparently, no matter how long they waited, help would never arrive from the sky.
Sleepy, grumpy, and without any kind of bathing or showering, Manganator was a complete mess.
But he was a focused mess.
Still boring his eyes down the length of his barrel, he turned in surprise as he heard movement behind him. It was Kat, the only female Marine in their unit. She was laying down on her stomach, apparently having crawled across the camp.
Like many other females in the corps, when it came to her appearance, she had made no attempt to present herself as a sex object. She had a neatly trimmed head of short hair, which she had died black, but was a lighter blond at the roots, and dark hazel eyes. Of course, he could see none of it because of the polarized visor on her head, but the swell at her chest gave it away.
She had soft features compared to the guys that one might even be able to define as “cute”, but she made up for it with the fights she picked.
She had made it quite clear in training that she would not tolerate anyone slapping her donkey. Jerry had gotten a strangulated testicle to attest to that fact. When Manganator had asked him about it, he’d only replied with a few well-placed words “Steel toed boots hurt”. He didn’t talk about it much, but the point had been made, regardless.
“What’s goin on guys, I heard the shots,” she whispered.
“A probe, five strong, three down,” Rob grunted back, talking in short choppy thoughts. For him, the pain of the wound on his leg had gotten worse. The biofoam had now stained through red, and it had begun to smell of infection.
Kat nodded. “We got a poke a few minutes back as well, we downed one.”
She was cut off by a few blasts of machine-gun fire. The three ducked their heads to the ground as rounds whistled above them. “Wild shots,” Manganator said, talking in near conversation volume to be heard over the rattle.
The firing subsided, only to replaced by a man in the distance shouting curses violently, although unintelligibly.
“Lost a friend, perhaps,” Manganator wondered.
“Undoubtedly,” Rob said.
In between shots, Manganator her soft pat pats in the crisp ground as another person slowly walked in from where Kat had crawled.
Brian quickly identified the man as Dirt. He was holding his helmet in one hand and his weapon in the other, scratching his short, brown hair with the muzzle of his gun.
“What is it Dirt,” Manganator asked in a hushed whisper. He ceased the scratching, and seeing that nothing was going on, thumbed on his safety.
Dirt replied in his normal tone, which was noticeably louder. “Nothing, just heard the shots, figured I’d come to see the action.”
“Will you keep you voice down?” Kat hissed.
“Why?” His eyes sagged down at her and then up again, as if eyeing some undesirable mess he didn’t feel the need to clean.
“Whatever guys, I’m sure Hammel is shitting his pants without me to keep him company,” Dirt muttered, shouldering his weapon.
Kat muttered at him as he walked, curses muffled behind her visor, which, like all the other visors, was deprived of the long range communication’s device because there were no ships in orbit to relay the signal.
Manganator had no sooner returned his eyes to his sights, when, without the sound of a weapon’s discharge, he heard a single round streak overhead. There was a dull splat sound as it slammed into Dirt’s chest.
He stood steady, looking down as if he couldn’t tell what had happened. Then as he went to speak, blood began to spurt from the hole in his chest, and from his mouth.
He slumped to his knees as another shot struck his shoulder.
“DOWN!” Rob shouted, fully moving himself behind the barrier. Kat threw herself with them. The three were huddled behind the small barrier, and watched Dirt as he struggled to move.
There was no way that they’d be able to fit Dirt behind the barrier as well. It was too low, and too narrow. And Manganator knew that the sniper was waiting to finish Dirt off. He was waiting for one of them to stick their hand out to pull him in.
Dirt stopped, and looked to Manganator, chuckling softly.
“I got…” he began, coughing up some globs of blood only for his smile to return to his face “I got seven of them last night, even though I was high… I wonder how many.. I would be,” another fit of coughing overtook him, before he continued, “I would be worth… if I was sober.”
No one said anything.
Dirt didn’t seem to mind, and just stared up at the sky. “Hey guys,” he finally said. “If I see a light, I’ll blink my eyes.”
He died moments later with his eyes wide open.
Manganator was just one of the eight still alive. This realization was enough to justify a sigh of relief. As long as I’m alive, there is hope.
But Manganator was holding his breath.
1... 2... 3... 4...
He timed his shot perfectly, making sure to aim for the farthest man in the back of the enemy formation. The shot popped like the snap of a rubber band.
Struck by a high-velocity round, the enemy in the farthest back of the formation fell, clutching his bladder. Because of his rotating hips, his location in the column, and Manganator’s flash suppresser, none of his friends would know where the shot had come from.
The shot was a fatal one. The only difference was that it was a slow death compared to a headshot. But it was slow enough and debilitating enough to lead the Renegade’s friend to try to pick him up and bring him to safety. As his friend hefted him over his shoulder, Brian put a round into his knee.
The two fell like a sack of bricks.
The enemy squad, now knowing that they were the targets of directed fire, decided against saving the two men, and fled, disappearing into the fog, and quickly disappearing from Manganator’s thermal viewer. One paused in moral indecision long enough for Rob to put a shot through his head as Manganator finished the man who’s knee he’d wounded.
It was the first prod they had attempted in Manganator’s line of fire for a while, and it had cost them three men, and it had cost Manganator three rounds of ammunition in his MA-25.
“I only have twenty-three shots left,” Manganator grumbled.
It wasn’t their ammunition that was the problem per se. It was the fact that their flash-suppressors were grained for only their own MA-25's threads. If they used another weapon, the muzzle flash would alert them to the many snipers lurking above the fog, which was essentially a death sentence.
Manganator had been deprived of a night’s sleep, which would have been fine if it had been a battle, but it had turned into a waiting game, but apparently, no matter how long they waited, help would never arrive from the sky.
Sleepy, grumpy, and without any kind of bathing or showering, Manganator was a complete mess.
But he was a focused mess.
Still boring his eyes down the length of his barrel, he turned in surprise as he heard movement behind him. It was Kat, the only female Marine in their unit. She was laying down on her stomach, apparently having crawled across the camp.
Like many other females in the corps, when it came to her appearance, she had made no attempt to present herself as a sex object. She had a neatly trimmed head of short hair, which she had died black, but was a lighter blond at the roots, and dark hazel eyes. Of course, he could see none of it because of the polarized visor on her head, but the swell at her chest gave it away.
She had soft features compared to the guys that one might even be able to define as “cute”, but she made up for it with the fights she picked.
She had made it quite clear in training that she would not tolerate anyone slapping her donkey. Jerry had gotten a strangulated testicle to attest to that fact. When Manganator had asked him about it, he’d only replied with a few well-placed words “Steel toed boots hurt”. He didn’t talk about it much, but the point had been made, regardless.
“What’s goin on guys, I heard the shots,” she whispered.
“A probe, five strong, three down,” Rob grunted back, talking in short choppy thoughts. For him, the pain of the wound on his leg had gotten worse. The biofoam had now stained through red, and it had begun to smell of infection.
Kat nodded. “We got a poke a few minutes back as well, we downed one.”
She was cut off by a few blasts of machine-gun fire. The three ducked their heads to the ground as rounds whistled above them. “Wild shots,” Manganator said, talking in near conversation volume to be heard over the rattle.
The firing subsided, only to replaced by a man in the distance shouting curses violently, although unintelligibly.
“Lost a friend, perhaps,” Manganator wondered.
“Undoubtedly,” Rob said.
In between shots, Manganator her soft pat pats in the crisp ground as another person slowly walked in from where Kat had crawled.
Brian quickly identified the man as Dirt. He was holding his helmet in one hand and his weapon in the other, scratching his short, brown hair with the muzzle of his gun.
“What is it Dirt,” Manganator asked in a hushed whisper. He ceased the scratching, and seeing that nothing was going on, thumbed on his safety.
Dirt replied in his normal tone, which was noticeably louder. “Nothing, just heard the shots, figured I’d come to see the action.”
“Will you keep you voice down?” Kat hissed.
“Why?” His eyes sagged down at her and then up again, as if eyeing some undesirable mess he didn’t feel the need to clean.
“Whatever guys, I’m sure Hammel is shitting his pants without me to keep him company,” Dirt muttered, shouldering his weapon.
Kat muttered at him as he walked, curses muffled behind her visor, which, like all the other visors, was deprived of the long range communication’s device because there were no ships in orbit to relay the signal.
Manganator had no sooner returned his eyes to his sights, when, without the sound of a weapon’s discharge, he heard a single round streak overhead. There was a dull splat sound as it slammed into Dirt’s chest.
He stood steady, looking down as if he couldn’t tell what had happened. Then as he went to speak, blood began to spurt from the hole in his chest, and from his mouth.
He slumped to his knees as another shot struck his shoulder.
“DOWN!” Rob shouted, fully moving himself behind the barrier. Kat threw herself with them. The three were huddled behind the small barrier, and watched Dirt as he struggled to move.
There was no way that they’d be able to fit Dirt behind the barrier as well. It was too low, and too narrow. And Manganator knew that the sniper was waiting to finish Dirt off. He was waiting for one of them to stick their hand out to pull him in.
Dirt stopped, and looked to Manganator, chuckling softly.
“I got…” he began, coughing up some globs of blood only for his smile to return to his face “I got seven of them last night, even though I was high… I wonder how many.. I would be,” another fit of coughing overtook him, before he continued, “I would be worth… if I was sober.”
No one said anything.
Dirt didn’t seem to mind, and just stared up at the sky. “Hey guys,” he finally said. “If I see a light, I’ll blink my eyes.”
He died moments later with his eyes wide open.
-
Manganator - Posts: 1329
- Joined: Mon Jun 06, 2005 11:52 pm
- Location: Massachusettes
by Luna » Tue Feb 12, 2008 2:40 am
R.I.P. Dirt... 
Glad to see at least ONE token female in this story. Good effort once again Manganator. Who will be next to die? I love reading these. Gives me something other than Spam and flaming to look forward to. Keep up the good work.
Glad to see at least ONE token female in this story. Good effort once again Manganator. Who will be next to die? I love reading these. Gives me something other than Spam and flaming to look forward to. Keep up the good work.
-
Luna - Posts: 1845
- Joined: Wed May 10, 2006 6:09 am
- Location: The Galaxy of Life