- A Fat Bell End
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- Senior Member
Chapter One
It was supposed to be a simple mission, thought Mendoza ruefully to himself. Seconds ago, a blast of invisible energy tore through the air, mere centimeters above his head, the smell of searing iodine etched into his senses.
Never would the day come that he would forget that smell, not after today.
They huddled in the small rift, six suited figures straining against the burning sunlight and oppressive gravitational pull of this world. And they were pinned, hard.
"Sir, where the hell is he?!" shouted a broad figure beside him. It was the pilot's voice, Mendoza knew. In a transport he was a master of his craft; an artisan in every sense of the word. Here, however, in this blistering rift, the smoldering hulk of their craft looming miles away, he was completely out of his element.
He's never even fired a pistol, for Christsakes, thought Mendoza silently. Aloud, he replied, "Your guess is as damned good as mine, Dooley. But if that fool isn't dead, I am sure as hell going to kill his wise-ass when I see him."
Mendoza spat. He sent Sturgis to reconnoiter the enemy's position the better part of an hour ago. Why he had sent Sturgis; chose him specifically out of the five capable figures huddled before him, he hadn't the faintest idea.
Well, that wasn't true, not exactly. The truth was Sturgis was pissing him off and Mendoza couldn't wait to get him the hell out of the trench, even for a minute.
But this wasn't a minute, and grating as he was, Mendoza didn't like the thought of any of his soldiers in harm's way. He shook his head. He should have known. For 'Sturg to volunteer for anything was a damned red flag. And it wasn't until he had left that Cruz noticed the block of plastique missing from his satchel.
"Damned idiot," said Cruz from somewhere behind Dooley's bulk. "Whatever the hell he's up to, it 'aint recon."
Mendoza peered over the rift, straining his eyes against the harsh sunlight. "And whatever he's up to, it sure the hell isn't productive."
"Never know, Sir. Wars have been won and lost over crazy -blam!-s before."
Mendoza didn't have to look to find where the voice came from. It was Smart, a small waif of a girl barely out of her teens. She was Dooley's co-pilot, and as far as flying went, she was damned near as good as him. Mendoza found her, squatting beside Cruz, her mouth twisted into a vicious grin.
She knows 'Sturg as well as any of us, Mendoza knew.
"I'm willing to guess that more wars have been lost that way..."
"Aw, come on, Corp. I'm sure he's performing acts of unrivaled heroism."
As if in answer to her quip, an bone-shattering explosion rocked the earth beneath them, coupled with something... else. Beneath the earth-shaking blast and the sudden hail of gun fire that followed, another sound could be heard, faint at first but approaching the rift, fast. All six figures pressed their ears, straining to hear the sound over the renewed hail of gun and laser-fire.
Mendoza threw his head up, bullets be damned. He knew that sound. Surrounded by the harks and cries of battle, it was as alien as the sun above them, but nevertheless, there it was, clear as day. Laughter.
By the time Mendoza pinpointed it's source, it was too late. He looked up just in time to see the wiry form of a suited figure sprinting toward him at full pelt. Before he could so much as move his feet the figure dove into the trench, successfully taking each one of the six huddled figures to the ground in the process.
And all the while, that hysterical laughing.
[Edited on 11.27.2011 9:52 PM PST]