Post by Terraformer on Jan 12, 2010 7:13:37 GMT -4
Dust blows across his prone form, each grain skipping across the surface like a pebble being pulled downstream by the current of a river. He blinks under his dark glasses, never taking his eyes from his target. The scope of his rifle inches from his eye as he stares. Focused, waiting for the order to crackle through his radio.
“Steady lad,” comes the whisper from his spotter, invisible by his side, as both men hide under their sandy covers.
“We’ve been watching these pricks for hours,” he retorts, “Can’t wait to get stuck into ‘em”
“Aye mate, but ye gorra remember, tha’ lassie o’ his is’n too bad, Ah’d go as far to say I can watch for a wee while longer” The obvious Highgrish accent flowing from under the cammo.
“Maybe for you, ya’ bloody pervert, but I’ve to keep my eye on this nonce.”
“All stations, standby” Erupts the crackle in their ears
“Oh, your husband wants ye.” Whispers the spotter.
“Piss off you clown,” he hisses through his teeth in response,
“Standby”
“About bloody time too!” Utters the sniper as he shuffles slightly, his finger itching for the kill. A slight bead of sweat tumbles down his face as the cross-hairs fall into line on his targets face. A ‘general’ in the Al-Beluga Magi organisation, a mage responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people. A war on ‘their’ northern countries, ha! Nothing but a bunch of cowards hiding their hatred behind ideals of their “free Magi ideals”. Men now branded freaks. Once feared throughout the land, once proud. But that was before the discovery of gunpowder.
“Go!” Bellows the crackling voice in his ear
His trigger finger flickers, and the turning point of the war kicks into play. From the soldiers point of view, everything is serene, a kickback from the rifle, and a soft “tack” sound is heard, followed quickly by the sight of a pink mist where there was once a mans face. The sniper whips his rifle around to the left slightly, taking aim once more on another magician hurtling his way towards the door, “tack” goes the .50 cal again.
“Goodnight” mutters the sniper as the target’s chest erupts in a cloud of blood and shattered organs, before he tumbles to the ground, stone dead.
“Control this is Alpha team, we are moving in to secure the target I repeat, we are moving in to secure the target, over”
“Roger Alpha team, proceed as planned, over.” Comes the reply from Control.
As one the two men lunge from their cover, the Spotter leading the charge. A short, stocky middle aged man, with slightly grey stubble, dark brown eyes and yellowing teeth. Although he was born James Cliff, “Rainbow” was the nickname he’d received, nothing to do with the various shades of his body, more to do with his ‘colourful’ personality. An old school Templar Sergeant, been in the unit for years, and went through the ‘old’ selection, where the reason you didn’t pass, was because you didn’t survive, and if you did make it, your first mission included fighting with your body still riddled with burns, cuts, and the mental scars that burn deeper than any flame. A man of “red blood” as he’d call himself, perverse with women, and short tempered with other blokes. A damn fine soldier.
Chris Archer is the sniper, a tall, stocky guy with dark hair shaved around the edges, his stubble joining his hair leading to a short Mohawk down the middle. Always keeping a stern look on his face, with a sterner man underneath. The man is loyal to the death to his unit, and even more so to his friends. Usually a calm man, but once his uniform goes on, the winged cross causes the fire in his heart to erupt, burning his killer instinct into him.
As they hurtle across the soft desert sand towards the compound, the low growl of distant engines becomes an all out roar, as a formation of fighter jets scream by, blue coronas billowing from their engines, as they loose their precious cargo, 2 missiles each. As the jets pull away the rockets erupt into life, screaming towards their targets with deadly accuracy, to no avail.
From somewhere inside the base, mages begin to defend themselves. Anti-air magic is a strange thing, involving either sucking air to, or away from a certain area, causing a void, sucking the air from the flight path of a plane, causing its engines to stall, and the plane to plummet earthbound, killing the plane in the process, or a cushion of air powerful enough to stop a bullet, or in this case, 3 of the 6 maverick missiles. The few that are halted tumble hastily to the ground, uneventfully. But the 3 that remain battle on, mushrooms growing on impact with a shower of flames and dust and body parts.
“Steady lad,” comes the whisper from his spotter, invisible by his side, as both men hide under their sandy covers.
“We’ve been watching these pricks for hours,” he retorts, “Can’t wait to get stuck into ‘em”
“Aye mate, but ye gorra remember, tha’ lassie o’ his is’n too bad, Ah’d go as far to say I can watch for a wee while longer” The obvious Highgrish accent flowing from under the cammo.
“Maybe for you, ya’ bloody pervert, but I’ve to keep my eye on this nonce.”
“All stations, standby” Erupts the crackle in their ears
“Oh, your husband wants ye.” Whispers the spotter.
“Piss off you clown,” he hisses through his teeth in response,
“Standby”
“About bloody time too!” Utters the sniper as he shuffles slightly, his finger itching for the kill. A slight bead of sweat tumbles down his face as the cross-hairs fall into line on his targets face. A ‘general’ in the Al-Beluga Magi organisation, a mage responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people. A war on ‘their’ northern countries, ha! Nothing but a bunch of cowards hiding their hatred behind ideals of their “free Magi ideals”. Men now branded freaks. Once feared throughout the land, once proud. But that was before the discovery of gunpowder.
“Go!” Bellows the crackling voice in his ear
His trigger finger flickers, and the turning point of the war kicks into play. From the soldiers point of view, everything is serene, a kickback from the rifle, and a soft “tack” sound is heard, followed quickly by the sight of a pink mist where there was once a mans face. The sniper whips his rifle around to the left slightly, taking aim once more on another magician hurtling his way towards the door, “tack” goes the .50 cal again.
“Goodnight” mutters the sniper as the target’s chest erupts in a cloud of blood and shattered organs, before he tumbles to the ground, stone dead.
“Control this is Alpha team, we are moving in to secure the target I repeat, we are moving in to secure the target, over”
“Roger Alpha team, proceed as planned, over.” Comes the reply from Control.
As one the two men lunge from their cover, the Spotter leading the charge. A short, stocky middle aged man, with slightly grey stubble, dark brown eyes and yellowing teeth. Although he was born James Cliff, “Rainbow” was the nickname he’d received, nothing to do with the various shades of his body, more to do with his ‘colourful’ personality. An old school Templar Sergeant, been in the unit for years, and went through the ‘old’ selection, where the reason you didn’t pass, was because you didn’t survive, and if you did make it, your first mission included fighting with your body still riddled with burns, cuts, and the mental scars that burn deeper than any flame. A man of “red blood” as he’d call himself, perverse with women, and short tempered with other blokes. A damn fine soldier.
Chris Archer is the sniper, a tall, stocky guy with dark hair shaved around the edges, his stubble joining his hair leading to a short Mohawk down the middle. Always keeping a stern look on his face, with a sterner man underneath. The man is loyal to the death to his unit, and even more so to his friends. Usually a calm man, but once his uniform goes on, the winged cross causes the fire in his heart to erupt, burning his killer instinct into him.
As they hurtle across the soft desert sand towards the compound, the low growl of distant engines becomes an all out roar, as a formation of fighter jets scream by, blue coronas billowing from their engines, as they loose their precious cargo, 2 missiles each. As the jets pull away the rockets erupt into life, screaming towards their targets with deadly accuracy, to no avail.
From somewhere inside the base, mages begin to defend themselves. Anti-air magic is a strange thing, involving either sucking air to, or away from a certain area, causing a void, sucking the air from the flight path of a plane, causing its engines to stall, and the plane to plummet earthbound, killing the plane in the process, or a cushion of air powerful enough to stop a bullet, or in this case, 3 of the 6 maverick missiles. The few that are halted tumble hastily to the ground, uneventfully. But the 3 that remain battle on, mushrooms growing on impact with a shower of flames and dust and body parts.