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  • Subject: Story time!
Subject: Story time!

I too shall lie in the dust when I am dead, but now let me win noble renown.

Alternate Xbl enabled profile of racooon.

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I've been joshed into creating a story of some kind by various aquaintances. I'll have a stab, but I promise nothing. I've decided to write it within the theme of the Halo storyline, and I'm writing about the neglected fate of Europe. I mean Britain. I mean London. Bugger.

Anyway, the story begins in North London, where the Commons has just finished and the MPs (Delegates?) are going home. The Covenant attack is imminent...

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Ian Rogers was in his Mercedes, his chauffeur as silent as ever. The cries of the speaker vainly trying to control the MPs were still ringing in his head, and he reached into his suit pocket, and retrieved two paracetomels. He greedily downed them both, the dry capsules dragging in the thin tube of his ossophagus, eventually escaping into his stomach, acid ready for digestion.
Ian was 28, and was the youngest MP in the Commons. He had gone into politics as soon as he left the army, and had quickly been made MP of South-East London with the intent of making life easier for the poorer citizens who hadn't made it into the United Kingdom's Economic revolution by providing jobs in the recent booming Private Arms Manufacturing business. However, hopes of social reform were quickly scuppered by the war effort. He wasn't particuarly fit, but had done two tours of duty in Africa, where revolution had stirred. He had killed, a rebel who aimed an outdated rocket launcher at his APC while on patrol, and was respected amongst his men, who he had been Sergeant of.
He tapped on the glass divider between him and the driver, and Paul, after jerking in surprise, pushed a button and the divider slid away.
'Sir?'
'Paul, switch on Radio 4 please, I believe the evening play is about to come on.' Paul fiddled with the 26th Century technology, and the broadcast hummed through the speakers positioned in the back capsule of the car.
And now on BBC Radio 4, the Evening Play. Humphrey Saunders' Equilibrial Doctor
All of a sudden, the radio squawked, and an unfamiliar voice barked down the speakers;
"We bring you an urgent broadcast; Extraterrestrial Craft have been sighted near Jupiter. They are maintaining a course towards Earth, and will be within striking distance within seven minutes. Stay in your homes, keep your radio switched on, and await further instruction. Those who are registered as reservists, report to your nearest section command IMMEDIATELLY.
Paul acted calmly. Of course, Ian had heard the news half an hour ago. That was why the Commons had finished so early. He maintained his route to Buckingham palace, and the facility that lurked underneath. The Tory Cabinet were being briefed in Cabinet Office Briefing Room A (COBRA), but the rest of the Labour MPs were being bustled to SLP, Subterrenean Leadership Protection. The reservists were already at their garrisons, MA5Cs being cleaned and second-class armour donned. They were ready to die, but not before they'd taken some of the Covenant with them.
SLP had been built immediatelly after first contact with the Covenant. Six miles under ground, it had been built in the upmost secrecy, with the drills in the Rose Garden disguised as cranes. The monarch, King William the Seventh, would already be underground, unguarded. The Grenadier Guards would be preparing to make their stands in the streets of London. The Elites prowess in battle was the stuff of barrack-room horror stories, tales of men's heads pulled off and weaponry that peeled flesh off bones had circulated long ago.
The Merc pulled up outside the palace, and Ian was rushed inside. He was pushed into a pressure elevator, which rushed down 6 miles of earth. When he reached the bottom, he gasped.
He had never seen the bottom of the SLP. Only top-level staff had ever looked at its monitors, its shiny black tables that were already covered in stains from badly wielded mugs of tea. The Pungent whiff of cigar smoke filled the air, and Field Marshal Douglas McFaine stomped around, identifying possible landing sites for the Covenant. McFaine spotted Ian, and limped over, the Spiker round in his leg making itself felt. They shook hands.
McFaine had grown up in Glasgow, a relatively metropolitan city. He had joined the army, and had been Ian's CO in Zanzibar. He was strict, but always respected men who tried their best.
'It's good tae se you again, Ian, but I'm afraid I've bad news for you. The King is calling on all men with military experience to fight, and I picked you out of a list. Funnily enough, I'm going to be your Commanding Officer. Just like old times, eh?' He smiled, in the way in which men who know the other is going to suffer smile at eachother. Ian was not surprised.
'Well, you know what they say, Sir. There's no such thing as an Ex-Scot's Guard.' McFaine roared with laughter. 'That's the ticket, Captain! That's your rank, by the way. Your uniform is just over here. We're both going above ground, so I may as well wait for you... And you'll be happy to know your boots are impeccably shined.'

Ian scrambled into the Fatigues. It'd been years since he'd put the things on, and they felt much different to his usual suit. His boots were as uncomfortable as ever, but he tugged them on, the thich rubber making him feel off-balance for a moment. Lastly, he put his beret on. The motto on his cap badge, printed in latin, read 'Noone assails me with impunity'. Or, as his first CO told him in Sandhurst, 'Noone thumps me and gets away with it. The simplicity of the motto always made him smile.
Last of all, he grabbed his wargear. Firstly, he picked up an M6C and strapped it to his thigh. He then dressed his webbing. He packed two magazines for his sidearm, and stuffed as many ammo pouches with 7.62mm slips for his MA5C Rifle. Though the standard gear for the Scots Guards was usually an SA552 Assault Rifle NATO had made sure weapons and ammo had been made uniform throughout the world so armies could be resupplied easily.
Walking into the elevator, McFain had got changed also. Ian noticed he still had his swagger stick, and had a bulky handgun tied to his webbing on a lapel.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the weapon. McFain grinned.
'Lee and Jackson .45 calibre handgun. The latest in anti-shield ammunition. There are only about 50 of these worldwide. It has a 15-bullet magazine, and the recoil dampening system makes me able to empty the magazine in about four and a half seconds. I've yet to use it in battle.'
The elevator reached the top, and the two made ready for war. 'Now Ian, I've put you in command of 35 men. They're good soldiers, and they're all eager for blood. As soon as the invasion hits, which should be about a minute, you stay hidden. That's your most important order.' Ian was confused.
'Stay hidden? Why? Surely we should try to kill as many of the bastards when they come off the dropships?'
'You let the Artillery handle that, lad. If your soldiers are seen on the streets, the surrounding area will be bombed to kingdom come. This is going to be a guerilla war. Strike, move, strike, move. If you need resupply, radio in I'll do what I can.' The lift reached the foyer to Buckingham palace. They both stepped out, and Ian gazed at the works of art that belonged in a public museum, ancient statues of Hellenic Gods as they walked to the entrance of the palace. McFain stopped walking. 'This is where I leave you. You've got one Scorpion Tank, three Warthogs and four laser-type antitank weapons. Good luck.' McFain, stomped off to his command vehicle, and Ian observed his men. 35 men stood at ease in the red-stone parade ground. The tank and vehicles would be in the garage nearby. Ian made his eve of battle speach.
'From what the Field Marshal told me you're the finest fighting men in the world. When the Kingdom is under threat, his majesty expects every battle-able man to do his duty. All I expect you to do is remember your training, follow my orders, and we'll all be bloody marvellous. Are you ready for war?'
The Platoon stamped to attention as one, and the bark of 'Yes Sir'!' was that of discipline and eagerness. Ian was content. 'Then let's kill every single one of the motherfúcking wánks.'

  • 05.07.2008 8:28 AM PDT