Post by Deleted on Oct 28, 2008 19:11:36 GMT -5
The result of too many boring math classes. Its not nearly done.
The trench system stretched for nearly a mile, covering the entire gap between the two mountains. It was two layers back, containing both a frontline and support trench. The rain had been pounding the area for nearly a week, causing the firm soil that had once made the walls and ground layers of the ditches to a sticky mud. The conditions were horrid. But the conditions were those that over 3,000 soldiers of the 91st Tracian Rangers were forced to put up with.
They had been there nearly two months since they had first dug the trenches. Two months marred with constant struggles to hold the line against the onrush of the ones they once called comrades; members of the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and various other scattered companies that were based in the Tracia system before their ultimate betrayal. The traitors were desperately trying to push through the pass to reach the defenseless cities that lay beyond. You see the world of Tracia Prime is separated into two hemispheres, the east and the west, divided by a colossal range of impassible mountains. The eastern hemisphere is dominated primarily by giant wastelands sporadically filled with hive cities, perfect for the breading of decent and rebellion. On the other hand, the western hemisphere was given over to agriculture, though recently more and more small towns were beginning to spring up. The west contains only a few actual cities, particularly the capital city of the world and the entire system. This was the ultimate objective of the traitors; control the capital, control the entire world. If the world falls, its only a matter of time before the rebels take the rest of the system. Now you understand why the 91st Tracian Rangers, along with three other regiments, defend the four passes through the mountains so fiercely.
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The bullet grazed his left cheek before lodging itself in the man behind him. He risked a glance to see the damage. Private Grellin had a shocked look covering his face as he clutched at his neck, gasping for air. The stray shot had passed through the unfortunate lads throat; he would be dead in a few seconds. No point trying to help him.
He turned his attention back to the lip of the trench. Stepping back up on the muddy firing step, he brought his lasgun to bare. His long-las was heavily modified, sporting an elongated stock and barrel, and a custom scope (tailored to his personal style of aiming). He believed his gun was a functional part of him and as a part of him it had to work perfectly. Looking through the scope, he spotted his target, a burley looking man dressed in the standard black fatigues and stark red flak armor of the Tracian 1st.
Sizing him up and judging the distance, Pvt. Samiel Welk slowly squeezed the trigger and felt the kick back of the weapon slam against his right shoulder. His aim had been true and the guardsman charging at the trench line of the 91st Tracian Rangers head erupted in an fountain of crimson blood. He toppled over, revealing the shot had been better then he had imagined, the blast passing through the traitors head and lodging itself in the left eye of the man directly behind him.
Samiel readjusted the sight and zoned in on what appeared to be a lieutenant, judging by the power sword he wore at his belt and the peaked black cap on his head. Well it was on his head. The officers collection of scars and scrapes got a new addition with a burn mark directly between his eyes. The shot caused the officer to convulse, shaking medals off his chest and toppling the cap off his head.
It was his thirteenth kill of the afternoon, a formable figure though not even close to the company record. Fortunately, he had several more hours to try to surpass the record of Cpl. Gren, reportedly the best shot to ever come out of the regiment. He cocked back, this time sighting in on retreating soldier, a man franticly attempting to escape the fire they were absorbing from the trenches. Adjusting the scope and zooming out, he noticed this was a common trend among the assaulting army of bloody traitors and cut throats. They were falling back, again.
Sighing, he turned and slid down the wall of the trench into a crouching position. Glancing down the length of the channel, he saw similar patterns evolving. Men lighting up narcotics, pulling out flasks, and even a few attempting to sneak a few minutes of sleep in-between waves of attacks.
“Hey, Samiel, how d’ya shoot?” A man sauntered up and plopped himself down next to Samiel. The man needed a shave, bad; his five o’clock shadow dominating the lower portion of his face. His hair was unkempt and rather ragged, as though he hadn’t paid any attention to sense his birth. The grey sleeves of his fatigues were rolled up to the elbow revealing the multiple burn marks splattered about his arms. His name was Pvt. Drexin “Crab” Devone, a trooper assigned to a heavy weapons team in command platoon. Crab flicked open a pocket, and drew out a small packet. He glanced around neverously for a moment, cocking his head to each side to make sure the commissar wasn’t heading down the trench towards him. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he drew out two lho-smoke sticks. He held out on for Samiel.
“You know if that bastard Sheyn sees you without your helmet he’s gunna flip.” He chuckled while reaching out to grab the illegal narcotic. The stuff was real light, able only to slightly dull the minor senses and the mind. Yet, it could serve the purpose for which it was to be used perfectly; to dull the pains of war. Lighting up, he took a puff and let the wave of relaxation rinse over him. Every man he had ever killed left his memory, or at least until the end of his “high”. Unfortunately, the end of his high was walking towards him.
“Ah, s***, its Sheyn.” Crab muttered, quickly extinguishing his lho-stick and sliding it back into the container. Sheyn, or Commissar Agren Sheyn as those under his command (or jurisdiction as it was more common too) referred to him, was a tall stocky man, coming from the upper class of Tracia III (a lush rich world within the system). He had little experience in war, this being his second combat station, though from the way he ordered everyone around it would appear as if he had been doing it for decades. The man wore every symbol of authority he could find, from old medals that he obviously never earned too his four navy service stars which, according to rumor, had belonged to his father. Overall, the man was an arrogant jerk, too bent on retaining his power to care about those he crushed in the process.
“You! Trooper Devone! Why is your helmet not securely on top of your head. The damn enemy is at the door step!” The commissar spat at Crab eyeing him from head to toe. He furrowed his brow as he noticed several infractions with the mans uniform. “And where is your lasgun trooper?”
“Sir, I’m heavy weapons, I don’t need one of those flashlights.”
“You will talk to me with respect trooper. I am your superior and you shall never forget it. Now I shall ask again, where is your lasgun trooper.”
“I think I left it somewhere around here, not sure where though.” Crab smirked, revealing his slowly yellowing teeth.
“One more remark like that and you’ll be on the firing line!” Sheyn’s face was turning a slight shade of red as his anger took control of him. “In fact, I’m going to make an example out o…”
“Incoming!”
The trench system stretched for nearly a mile, covering the entire gap between the two mountains. It was two layers back, containing both a frontline and support trench. The rain had been pounding the area for nearly a week, causing the firm soil that had once made the walls and ground layers of the ditches to a sticky mud. The conditions were horrid. But the conditions were those that over 3,000 soldiers of the 91st Tracian Rangers were forced to put up with.
They had been there nearly two months since they had first dug the trenches. Two months marred with constant struggles to hold the line against the onrush of the ones they once called comrades; members of the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and various other scattered companies that were based in the Tracia system before their ultimate betrayal. The traitors were desperately trying to push through the pass to reach the defenseless cities that lay beyond. You see the world of Tracia Prime is separated into two hemispheres, the east and the west, divided by a colossal range of impassible mountains. The eastern hemisphere is dominated primarily by giant wastelands sporadically filled with hive cities, perfect for the breading of decent and rebellion. On the other hand, the western hemisphere was given over to agriculture, though recently more and more small towns were beginning to spring up. The west contains only a few actual cities, particularly the capital city of the world and the entire system. This was the ultimate objective of the traitors; control the capital, control the entire world. If the world falls, its only a matter of time before the rebels take the rest of the system. Now you understand why the 91st Tracian Rangers, along with three other regiments, defend the four passes through the mountains so fiercely.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bullet grazed his left cheek before lodging itself in the man behind him. He risked a glance to see the damage. Private Grellin had a shocked look covering his face as he clutched at his neck, gasping for air. The stray shot had passed through the unfortunate lads throat; he would be dead in a few seconds. No point trying to help him.
He turned his attention back to the lip of the trench. Stepping back up on the muddy firing step, he brought his lasgun to bare. His long-las was heavily modified, sporting an elongated stock and barrel, and a custom scope (tailored to his personal style of aiming). He believed his gun was a functional part of him and as a part of him it had to work perfectly. Looking through the scope, he spotted his target, a burley looking man dressed in the standard black fatigues and stark red flak armor of the Tracian 1st.
Sizing him up and judging the distance, Pvt. Samiel Welk slowly squeezed the trigger and felt the kick back of the weapon slam against his right shoulder. His aim had been true and the guardsman charging at the trench line of the 91st Tracian Rangers head erupted in an fountain of crimson blood. He toppled over, revealing the shot had been better then he had imagined, the blast passing through the traitors head and lodging itself in the left eye of the man directly behind him.
Samiel readjusted the sight and zoned in on what appeared to be a lieutenant, judging by the power sword he wore at his belt and the peaked black cap on his head. Well it was on his head. The officers collection of scars and scrapes got a new addition with a burn mark directly between his eyes. The shot caused the officer to convulse, shaking medals off his chest and toppling the cap off his head.
It was his thirteenth kill of the afternoon, a formable figure though not even close to the company record. Fortunately, he had several more hours to try to surpass the record of Cpl. Gren, reportedly the best shot to ever come out of the regiment. He cocked back, this time sighting in on retreating soldier, a man franticly attempting to escape the fire they were absorbing from the trenches. Adjusting the scope and zooming out, he noticed this was a common trend among the assaulting army of bloody traitors and cut throats. They were falling back, again.
Sighing, he turned and slid down the wall of the trench into a crouching position. Glancing down the length of the channel, he saw similar patterns evolving. Men lighting up narcotics, pulling out flasks, and even a few attempting to sneak a few minutes of sleep in-between waves of attacks.
“Hey, Samiel, how d’ya shoot?” A man sauntered up and plopped himself down next to Samiel. The man needed a shave, bad; his five o’clock shadow dominating the lower portion of his face. His hair was unkempt and rather ragged, as though he hadn’t paid any attention to sense his birth. The grey sleeves of his fatigues were rolled up to the elbow revealing the multiple burn marks splattered about his arms. His name was Pvt. Drexin “Crab” Devone, a trooper assigned to a heavy weapons team in command platoon. Crab flicked open a pocket, and drew out a small packet. He glanced around neverously for a moment, cocking his head to each side to make sure the commissar wasn’t heading down the trench towards him. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he drew out two lho-smoke sticks. He held out on for Samiel.
“You know if that bastard Sheyn sees you without your helmet he’s gunna flip.” He chuckled while reaching out to grab the illegal narcotic. The stuff was real light, able only to slightly dull the minor senses and the mind. Yet, it could serve the purpose for which it was to be used perfectly; to dull the pains of war. Lighting up, he took a puff and let the wave of relaxation rinse over him. Every man he had ever killed left his memory, or at least until the end of his “high”. Unfortunately, the end of his high was walking towards him.
“Ah, s***, its Sheyn.” Crab muttered, quickly extinguishing his lho-stick and sliding it back into the container. Sheyn, or Commissar Agren Sheyn as those under his command (or jurisdiction as it was more common too) referred to him, was a tall stocky man, coming from the upper class of Tracia III (a lush rich world within the system). He had little experience in war, this being his second combat station, though from the way he ordered everyone around it would appear as if he had been doing it for decades. The man wore every symbol of authority he could find, from old medals that he obviously never earned too his four navy service stars which, according to rumor, had belonged to his father. Overall, the man was an arrogant jerk, too bent on retaining his power to care about those he crushed in the process.
“You! Trooper Devone! Why is your helmet not securely on top of your head. The damn enemy is at the door step!” The commissar spat at Crab eyeing him from head to toe. He furrowed his brow as he noticed several infractions with the mans uniform. “And where is your lasgun trooper?”
“Sir, I’m heavy weapons, I don’t need one of those flashlights.”
“You will talk to me with respect trooper. I am your superior and you shall never forget it. Now I shall ask again, where is your lasgun trooper.”
“I think I left it somewhere around here, not sure where though.” Crab smirked, revealing his slowly yellowing teeth.
“One more remark like that and you’ll be on the firing line!” Sheyn’s face was turning a slight shade of red as his anger took control of him. “In fact, I’m going to make an example out o…”
“Incoming!”