|
|
| Line 9: |
Line 9: |
| | Also see: [[Reaper's First Drop]] | | Also see: [[Reaper's First Drop]] |
| | ---- | | ---- |
| − | '''23:04 Hours, December 9, 2012 (Military Calendar), a crowded bar, Miami, Florida, USA''' | + | '''14:32 Hours, December 9, 2012 (Military Calendar), Miami, Florida, USA''' |
| − |
| + | |
| − | ''"The United Nations is launching a formal inquiry following the events that lead to the destruction of the Russian Guided-Kinetic-Weapons-Platform satellite earlier this week. Russian military official Irvin Polaski would not comment on the increased naval and ground activity seen in response to this attack. It remains a fact that the United States is one of the prime suspects for this action, under review both by the UN and by the Russian military. Despite wide-spread accusations against the US, the White House reports that the US was not responsible for the attack and demands Russia draw back its accusations.
| + | |
| | | | |
| − | "Reports indicate that the missile that shot down the Russian satellite was launched from a remote outpost in Brazil. UN Strike Teams are organizing currently to send an expeditionary force to investigate the launch site for possible leads as to who initiated the attack. Whatever the case, we can tell you America was not responsible."''
| + | Matt Kenderson adjusted his grip on his weapon, holding his target solidly in his sights. From his position in a shallow depression sheltered by two fallen trees that made perfect cover for his ambush, Matt steadied his breathing. His target was completely oblivious, moving in a half-crouch towards the bunker. |
| | | | |
| − | "See - that - that's the kinda thing that pisses me off." Matt Kenderson muttered.
| + | Matt exhaled completely and then held his breath so as not to disrupt his aim. He timed the beats of his heart as his finger tightened on the trigger, waiting for the perfect shot. |
| | | | |
| − | "What? Shooting down some Russian Weapon of Mass Destruction from a remote outpost in Brazil so they can't shoot us?" Holly Dayne asked, tipping back the last of her coke.
| + | His target turned partway, exposing his entire, vulnerable torso to Matt's rifle. Matt waited until one beat ended and the next had yet to begin, and fired. |
| | | | |
| − | "No. Having some terrorist organization shoot down some Russian WMD from a remote outpost in Brazil so they can't shoot us and then having people think its us." Jamie Campbell corrected. "Come on, don't you know Matt at all?"
| + | His target took the round in his chest and fell back with it, grunting. Matt pumped the trigger as fast as the mechanism would allow, no longer concerned with perfect accuracy as much as quantity of rounds now that he had hit his target. |
| | | | |
| − | "A lot of things piss you off, don't they?" Scarlett Miller considered.
| + | His target fell under the half-dozen shots, completely splattered in bright, fluorescent yellow paint. |
| | | | |
| − | "This is true. Sometimes it sucks to be me." Matt nodded, laughing. "No but seriously. Why would we have shot down a Russian satellite? With things the way they are now, if we had shot it down, and it was proven that we shot it down, it would start World War Three."
| + | Matt switched the fire selector on his paintball gun to automatic and hit the dirt as retaliatory fire hit the trees above him. |
| | | | |
| − | "Or eleven, depending on how you look at things." Holly pointed out.
| |
| | | | |
| − | Matt refilled his coke. Just him and his three closest friends, Jamie, Scar, and Holly, in Miami, no parents, on Christmas break. Couldn't get much better.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "American swine." Somebody muttered.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Matt surveyed the room. "Excuse me?" He asked, scanning each face for anything out of the ordinary. The only thing mildly different he saw was a big Marine dressed in camo fatigues in one corner, nursing a beer.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "You heard me." The voice came again. Matt turned in the direction of the offender, seated two barstools down on his right. "Sorry?" He asked, deadly low and calm.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | The man turned, and Matt got a look at his face. The guy was early twenties, scruffy looking, and obviously extremely drunk. That wouldn't save him from a beating if he kept up, though.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "America has been trying to destroy Russia's space plans and military might since 1950."
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "And I suppose you think that the Cold War never ended, and that you're a KGB spy, working for the USSR?" Holly spat in her best acidic voice.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Matt stood, fists balled, as the man slid off his stool and straddled the one next to Holly's. Three guys, about the same age and size as the first, followed after him.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "You trying to start something, hon?" He asked, breathing in her face. Holly tried gagged and fought the urge to punch the guy in the face.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "I wish, but we wouldn't want to send anyone to the hospital." Holly retorted.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | The Russian considered this for a second, then seemed to brush it out of his severely impaired consciousness. Instead he reached a hand forward and tried to put it on Holly's chest.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Matt's fist flew in and landed on the Russian's jaw only a half-second after Holly's broke the guy's nose.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Screaming curses in Russian, the guy toppled from his stool and hit the back of his head on the counter, holding his bleeding nose with his hand.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Matt spit on the ground next to him. After a second of stunned silence, the bar erupted into screams and cheers as the three other Russians jumped forward.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Jamie stood, sidestepped one's wild swing, and smashed the guy in the face with a glass pitcher. Blind and cursing, the guy stumbled backwards, then sat down on the ground, lungs heaving, when Scar's foot caught him in the chest.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | The first Russian stood again, still clutching his nose, and yelled every Russian curse under the sun at Matt.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | The third Russian charged Matt. Matt kicked out the Russian's knee but flew around when the Russian's fist hammered into his face. The fourth Russian wrapped his meaty arms around Matt's and slammed him into a wall, once, twice.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | The third time, Matt walked his feet up the wall and pushed off, using every ounce of his strength developed from years doing football, wrestling, and soccer. The two of them together fell onto the floor, Matt on top. The Russian let go when they landed, and Matt turned and threw a few punches before he was thrown to the floor again.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | The fight devolved into a wild grapple, as it always did in Matt's experience. The whole Hollywood punching and kicking didn't really happen a lot. It was mostly shoving and trying to slam people into objects until someone had the advantage.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Matt shrugged off and twisted out of one guy's bear-hug, then spun around with his fist going at the Russian's face.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "Ah, ''yes'', that felt good." Matt grunted, surveying his bleeding knuckles and the Russian's missing teeth.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | "Watch out!" Holly screamed, and Matt instinctively ducked, barely twisting out of a guy's stranglehold.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Holly stepped in and threw a punch at the guy that had taken a shot at Matt. The guy spun around and was caught in Matt's hold.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Holly threw punch after punch into the Russian's exposed gut. Maybe not very ladylike, but it worked.
| + | |
| − | | + | |
| − | Jamie's face was oozing blood from a glass cut on his cheek, and his teeth were bleeding, but he and Scar still held their own.
| + | |
| | | | |
| | | | |
The second chapter of the series.
I've done some switching around of chapters, and a bit of off-line work, which brings this chapter into play.
Matt Kenderson adjusted his grip on his weapon, holding his target solidly in his sights. From his position in a shallow depression sheltered by two fallen trees that made perfect cover for his ambush, Matt steadied his breathing. His target was completely oblivious, moving in a half-crouch towards the bunker.
Matt exhaled completely and then held his breath so as not to disrupt his aim. He timed the beats of his heart as his finger tightened on the trigger, waiting for the perfect shot.
His target turned partway, exposing his entire, vulnerable torso to Matt's rifle. Matt waited until one beat ended and the next had yet to begin, and fired.
His target took the round in his chest and fell back with it, grunting. Matt pumped the trigger as fast as the mechanism would allow, no longer concerned with perfect accuracy as much as quantity of rounds now that he had hit his target.
His target fell under the half-dozen shots, completely splattered in bright, fluorescent yellow paint.
Matt switched the fire selector on his paintball gun to automatic and hit the dirt as retaliatory fire hit the trees above him.
