Post by ghost on Jan 19, 2009 4:49:27 GMT -5
A Gears Of War Transposition By Ghost
Prologue
Freedom
Freedom
The bars to the window of his cell door cringed, his captors who were usually eagle-eyed to hear so much as piss splash in a toilet were unnaturally quiet today, as was the prison itself. His block was certainly troubling, the eerie vile narcissism it felt, keeping its secrets buried within the littered lot of corpses strewn about the halls. Most had holes burned into their skulls by 5-wide gas powered rounds, and others, had been brutally mauled and mashed by things extinguished from Sergeant Rage "Chaotic" Blood's mind.
The last couple of days had been rougher than the last, the jailers seemed intent on getting their last few scum-covered boots in his ribs as if they were destined to die the next day. It didn't sound so unbelievable anymore, and as the realization that today was Tuesday came to him, so did the knowledge that something was approaching his cell. The cover obscuring the rusted steel bars slid open.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he mumbled, groggy from a restless night of plotting defensive strategies for tomorrow's early beatings. The heavenly light that should have been there was less than he'd expected, but it was more than enough to blind him. A shadow entered his line of vision, the bully-armored figure of Private First Class Streak Allo invaded his prison cell, a giant, dufflebag in his right hand.
Streak tossed it in front of Rage, who promptly flipped it open to see a fully-correct set of armor. In the darkness he clawed off his muddy, besmirched body sheathing and broke in the armor, the gloves fit on like he'd already worn them before. He stepped out moments later, meeting Streak's unimpressed stare as he tossed him a rifle, a powerful M-16, jacked up on heroin, effectively double the "everything" of what he was used to.
From the hammer to the clip size, to the ammo width to the scope and trigger, everything about this M-16 made him feel like he was holding the of future successor to the weapon, like an M-32 or something.
"Obscene." Blood whispered, fumbling an "over sized" magazine into the cumbersome gun's receiver.
"Just the way we like it." Streak sneered, pumping in a fresh clip like a professional huntsman. "Now come on, I'm busting you out of here."
"You could get into a lot of trouble for doing this-"
"Spare me." Streak stopped him, jeering him in a sour tone, "Times have changed since you were last gearing up, old man. Colonel FourArms pardoned EVERYBODY.
Rage ignored the sarcastic comment, checking the additional bolt before pumping the forearm and smacking it toward his ribs confidently. He shoved Streak aside, no happier to see him than he was to hear the next few words out of his mouth, "Welcome back to the army soldier."
"Shiit..." he replied.
Brawls Of War
"Alright, we have two options. We can go back the way I came through the guard's quarters. It takes longer but it's safe. Or we can head through the prison blocks, and get right into the action."
The question posed two sides of Rage's personality, both against each other's inner sense of logic. On one hand, the precise rage he'd built up for use the next time the warden opened up his cell could not be expelled on Streak or any other COG soldiers. That would cripple him, giving up the chance to drop some rage into combat before departing. On the other hand, he was inexperienced with his newly-variated version of the standard M-16. A little practice never hurt.
"Let's take the prison blocks. I'm ready to kick some ass..." he said, firing an individual shot at the wall for good measure. The hole formed small cracks into the cement wall, smoke and steam sizzled off the blackened surface.
"Hell yea. Let's do it, old timer." Streak yammered, stomping forward proudly with his rifle aimed low. Forty-five years of his crap, and still, Rage appeared unfaded and trekked onward behind him, swiftly adapting his muscles, arms, and reflexes to the handling of this bigger, executive weapon.
They entered into a courtyard where Streak tapped on his COM, signaling whatever methods of evacuation he had planned for them. Rage could tell something had gone awful, the stint in Streak's eyes changed from a cool blue to a shrieking ivy poison, he whipped around just as a violent rumbling tore up the ceiling above them. He covered his head, rolling out of the path of some stray glass shards, some landing in his back, others smashing into the ground and then to nothingness. Streak rose with him, yelling at the pilot who'd sweeped them to cease his attack route.
Rage fired blindly into the sky as the next helicopter shot over their location, the bullets were redesigned and new to him which was why he was careful to make his shots misguided and pointless. The red plume of fire emitted from the gun cooled, Streak gave him an unsettled glare.
He said nothing and ran forward, stopping only as Streak pointed to their only exit: a door at the south most end of the prison, now engulfed in yellow-orange moths, unlikely Terran equipment. The blade was visible, it grinded through the thick steel like wax as it carved out a suitable path for the hostiles on the other side. Rage immediately ducked behind a rounded slab of cement raised in the ground, its purpose had originally been for restraining and punishing prisoners, but now, it was just as good as any ordinary sandbag.
"BELIEVERS." Streak cried, scooping up some grenades that had left discarded on the ground. It was obvious that this wasn't the first breach the prison had suffered.
Blood mounted the cover with his M16 aimed at the door. The fissuring process continued only for a few seconds, and as Streak prepared a grenade, the door shot itself in a fiery explosion. Shadows ran out beneath the cover of smoke, but Rage refused one of them passage. The hostiles were familiar, during his years after the Weekend War, the Believer Army was instantly recognizable by the strange, thumb-sized helmets they wore on their fists, and the peculiar emblems they were badged with. They obscured their faces with polarized green helmets and, depending on rank, shelled out various catchphrases. Most disturbing, however, was an intense belief that humanity was not worthy of owning the Planet Earth, or any other planet. The Believers had emerged from the Earth's darkest, sickest depths, and they had already pronounced too many deaths to be forgiven otherwise.
At first, the Sergeant had only found pleasure in it because he was saving the White Void from narcissistic scum like these. But here, in this depressing jail with blood splattered everywhere, he squeezed the trigger purely out of hatred for their species. He decked the first bunch with clean shots to the head and chest, their armor soaked up some of it but the rounds penetrated their scaly, decrepit flesh, while the grenade Streak had sent cleared the rest into a sloppy mess of white-red paste.
"Move out." Streak exclaimed, charging over the bunker of cement tables and breaking for the outside. Rage followed closely.
ooo
Rage Blood. Internal Detention Number 1150292008. No more.
He hugged the nearest wall, slamming the new clip and forcing down the bolt manually before bashing the gun's barrel into a stray Believer's chin. Bullets desecrated the Believer's face, making Rage calm before running for another cover spot. Streak alerted him to hostiles sprinting down the next hallway, he waved him to choke them at 2' while he provided cover fire.
Fla. Fla. The sounds of their careful footsteps drew them closer into his line of fire. Rage exhaled before he rose once more, over the barricade of sandbags placed in the open field and into the eyes of the startled Believers, mopping up the last pack of them with a hail of combined fire. The bolt of his weapon crackled, he tossed it as Streak ran up behind him, kicking over one of the Believer's corpses and smashing in its shoulder.
"Necrophilia?" the question made Streak glare at him.
A sound roared over them, the blades of a King Raven helicopter tore up the skyline as it ran over their position, landing in a muddy yard just a few meters before them. Needless to say, the two soldiers hightailed themselves out of the prison lot, hurtling over whatever debris blocked them as the ground began to shake.
"Hurry it up, Delta Two. We've got seismic tremors on your position. Most likely a-"
"LEECH!" Streak screamed, vaulting into the copter right after Blood.
The ground flittered upward into a fine green powder, the creature that emerged gradually ascended from the shadows beneath the dust it raised and hearkened a dreaded roar, the force of it's vocal cords shot a heated wind at the helicopter, pushing them back and forcing the soldiers inside onto their feet. It lurched, hopping briefly on its tiny, disproportionate legs before cratering the ground below. Rage leaned into the seat of the copter as the Leech and the oncoming Believer forces slowly dropped out of reach. But the memory of the creature's gaping, circular mouth reaching out for his soul, would never leave his train of thought for the remainder of the ride.
COMING 3/1/09
