- Ghost 45
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- Intrepid Legendary Member
So recently, there was a writing competition on Black Water Ops. I entered (placed second) and wrote the following. It's sectioned off into about seventeen or so parts, and I've managed to fit all the parts into about ten full-length posts. So, instead of posting it all at once, I'll post it in portions and see if anyone enjoys it.
It's a bit hastily written, as I wrote it all in one night (having no time left before the deadline that was only a few hours away), but I hope you can take it for what it is and enjoy it... Or not. Either way, really.
I realize that there are a lot of holes corresponding with the Halo canon. I was required to use "UNSC" as part of the contest, and thus when I tried to post it up in the Flood I got directed here. I'm not really sure how it'll work out, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway.
Black Water Ops: The Fight for the UNSC Horizon
I.
"I'm so tired... I haven't slept a wink... I'm so tired... My mind is on the brink..." The music listed lazily across the border of consciousness and unconsciousness. The notes lifted and fell as the words continued in that peaceful voice.
"I'm so tired... I don't know what to do... I'm so tired... My mind is set on you..." A face appears among the gray clouds of sleep. A bright smile below a small nose, set between two sparkling brown eyes, piercing the bleak darkness of unconscious thought. The music continued, the face fading in and out of view.
Suddenly, the notes changed, their tone becoming louder and raucous. The dark gray clouds had changed to a light red, as if a light had been turned on somewhere in their depths. The sounds exploded into a climbing climax, an orchestra bursting from some place just beyond the view of sight. The drums set in, creating an incessant noise that grew exponentially as the violins sang their deathly chords, the timpani beating like a throbbing heart. The instruments rose as the unseen conductor commanded them behind the red clouds that seemed to pulse with the beat, and as the orchestra reached its climax, the face changed expression from a smile to a look of terror. But the mouth, beset between two blood red lips, was all that was visible.
The music peaked, the sounds drilling through the ears like nails on a chalkboard. All around the noises exploded, and then suddenly stopped. An eerie silence followed, the clouds of blank thought returning to gray as the last notes slipped into nothingness.
"Good morning, Corporal Butcher," a voice chimed. The gray clouds disappeared, a black void behind two eyelids replacing them. "It is June 12, 2118. The current time is 0430. Conditions are normal. Your cabin is a wonderful 61 degrees Fahrenheit, and outside it is 24 degrees; dress appropriately. Breakfast is scheduled for 0600. Your crew is scheduled to meet in Room 101 at 0700 for briefing and logistics."
As the voice went on, Simon's eyes opened. The glass of the sleeping tube was only a mere two inches from his nose, and he always had a slight fret when he first saw it, fearing that it would smack him in the face. But slowly but surely the glass began to slide open. Corporal Butcher sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked around, some of the music still playing quietly somewhere in the back of his mind.
To his immediate left was the glass door that served as the entrance to his personal bathroom. Small as it was, it was still his. There were still some perks to being a Black Water operative, Simon mused as he threw the blanket off and placed his bare feet on the shiny gray tiles beneath him.
The room that served as his sleeping quarters was cramped, yet quaint. Not many possessions of his own, the room was practically bare. The sleeping tube was attached to the corner opposite the entrance. A workbench cluttered with tools and scraps of metal haphazardly thrown around, evident of someone's trouble with some particular object they had been attempting to fuse, rested in the corner adjacent to the tube. A poster above it was all Simon could rightfully claim as his own.
Upon the poster was a colored battlefield, drawn by some artist, promoting the Black Water Ops. A soldier, covered from head to toe in pure black, stood like a stalwart guardian in the forefront, his assault rifle gripped in his hands tightly, his eyes shielded by a dark purple visor. His gaze seemed to be searching whoever looked upon it, judging their person; determining if they were friend or foe. Behind the soldier, a giant vessel floated above the black horizon of space, stars seemingly twinkling with bright white light in the distance. On the side of the ship, painted in big white lettering, it read "UNSC Horizon." The Horizon was the only surviving warship from the original collection, and was still in commission today as one of the most powerful in the entire fleet, and was a legend in its own right, however real it actually was.
Simon walked to the glass door, slid it aside, and stepped inside. The walls here were the same monotone color of light gray as the room before, but much more confined. The walls seemed to be hugging at Simon's sides, but he had grown used to spaces such as this, though they had once made him nervous.
He tapped a panel that had appeared in the wall with his index finger, and immediately a fine mist of water began to spray from a shower head fixed at the roof of the room, probably a foot or two above Simon's head.
The water streamed down onto his hair and back. A shiver ran down Simon's back as it touched his skin, the water cold. Soon, his body adjusted and he forgot that it was just as cold in the air as it was in the water.
As the water cleansed his body, Simon attempted to cleanse his mind. He thought back to what he could only call a dream. The image of the face was hazy in his mind's eye, but he could still remember that it had been a female's face. Whether or not it was familiar to him, he could not recall.
A ghost from his past, his mind suggested, trying to locate a reason. For all Simon knew, that could be correct. He had forgotten much of the years before the Black Water Operatives, due to minor brain trauma he had experienced on his first mission. His mind began to wander, tracing back to the very moment it could still remember.
Red and yellow lights flashed across his eyes, and his brain retched in agony suddenly. Flashing images of explosions and bright lights faded across Simon's closed eyelids. Blood dripped somewhere, and as it hit the unseen floor it pounded loudly against his ear drums. He felt a ripping sensation in his gut.
Simon heard a scream. He wasn't sure if it was his. He tumbled across the floor of the shower, the water still flowing above him and running down the drain. But to what he could see past the flashes in his skull, he saw only blood. Cold blood against his skin, though he was already detached from his person.
Only the pain remained, as one final image pierced the screaming and terrible pictures in his mind: The dark purple visor of the soldier on the poster, searching Simon's soul. But if the eyes saw him as friend or foe, Simon didn't know. He was already unconscious, the first chords of that ghastly orchestra once again floating into his mind as the gray clouds rolled in...
To be continued...
Just post any thoughts, comments, etc. All opinions and criticism is welcomed, as long as you're not too much of a jackass about it (which is hard for the Flood, I know). Thanks for reading.
- Ghost
[Edited on 04.02.2010 9:48 AM PDT]