War Games: Revival

Before the war, things were different. Hell, back then, we were just making our daily living, doing our jobs, drawing our paychecks, and stabbing our fellow men and women in the back. We had no idea how bad things would get. We were fat and happy like maggots on a dead animal. There was enough sporadic violence-rebellions and revolutions and balky colonial governments-to keep the military going, but not enough to really threaten the lifestyles we had grown accustomed to. We were, in retrospect, fat and sassy.
And if a real war broke out, well, it was the military's worry. The marines' worry. Not ours.

"Get down the line!" A voice yelled. Whom it belonged was hard to tell, with the explosions in the night sky leaving soldiers blind.

Were it not for the mangled corpse falling flat infront of him, upper torso violently removed by shrapnel, Merrik Klains, soldier for the Kelgan Confederacy, would have sat right in his hole till the battle was over and the enemy had won. Scared, alone and drugged up with stimpacks, the soldier grabbed his rifle and pulled himself from the hole. Gauss spikes whizzed over head. Around him, men and women cried out, death slowly consuming them. Soon they would be silenced, whether it be the cold embrace of death, or the hard hit of stimulants hitting thier bloodstreams. Sprinting, Merrik's own slugthrower pulled to his chest, the last of the stimpacks did thier job. Fear no longer found itself in the pages of his mind. Emotions vanished as if stars of a magic trick. The only thing left were his orders. Get down the line, kill all enemies.

Welcome to war. Welcome Zadius Prime; Red planet of the Armstrong Galaxy; Hell.

As his destination approached, a pile of rubble and corpses along with a machinegun emplacement, Merrik dove. Nano-reinforced steel collided with red-brown dirt and slid. Stopping short of the gun, the marine crawled, explosions everywhere followed by screams of pain. Medic seemed to be the word of the day. There was a prick in the back of his neck as a needle shot him up with another stimulant pack. With that last stimulant, killing became as easy as breathing for the young vetran. Merrik pulled himself up, his practiced hands already racking a bullet into the chamber of the MG-782. The hydraulic system in the gun whinned loudly before there came a spray of bullets.

The carnage of war is not something to take lightly. Throughout the course of history, both the old times and now, grotesque things have always happened. One such thing happened when Merrik J. Klains lined up the first man before the onslaught of bullets came forth. Words cannot trully describe the violence that happened to the poor bastard caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Enemy Arkarian soldiers all on the front lines stopped mid-stride to look at the lump of remains that layed were thier comrade once stood. And before even the next step was taken by any man, ally or enemy, a massacre was on the hands of Merrik Klains. Taking an old quote 'They were dead before thier bodies hit the floor.' Dozens dropped left and right. He heard cheers coming behind him as his allies charged forward. Where it not for the stray bullet of a private still learning how to conrol his weapon, Merrik's killing would have been the turning point of the battle.

Armor from his right leg ripped away with ease as the high caliber spike ran through. Pain racked, Merrik's body. The soldier felt none of it, however, so drugged up on stim-packs it was suprising the man had not died of OD, something that contributed to many field deaths. As his leg gave out, and Merrik toppled backwards, his bulky suit of armor hissed, sealing off the wounded area and applying a tournacet(sp*) to the leg. Medical stimulants now began to shoot through the wounded marine's body and darkness was hurridly creeping in. Realisation of the wound struck him, and one word escaped his lips before unconciousness took hold.

"Medic."

Source: http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/RolePlayGateway/~3/iZ0fvDFBROM/viewtopic.php

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