Story Continuem

[Hellbent]

He emerged from the wreckage to see the base in ruin. Charred and mangled structures were strewn about everywhere and a thick stench of death hung heavy in the air. But not a sound could be heard and the only visible moving thing was whisps of smoke rising from toasted structures and charred flesh.....

[Zaldron]

Wrong forum.

[Zaldron]

...there you have boys, have fun.

[dsm]

Originally posted by Zaldron
...there you have boys, have fun.

I s'pose you mean you mean "there you are boys, have fun" (what you wrote means something like "you've got boys over there")

Hellbent: post something longer next time - it's difficult to judge a story properly if it's too short.

[Hellbent]

It's not for judging - it's for continuing onto. Hence the post title: Story Continuem

[dsm]

Ah, a sort of community story?

[Zaldron]

Shit.

"there you have, boys. Have fun."

OK? OK??!

[Fredrik]

No.





(this is not a spam)

[Sharessa]

Zaldron, ya ruined it...

[dsm]

Ok, trying to repair this already fucked up thread, I hereby post a continuation of Hellbent's short intro.

-

He moved cautiously towards the remains of the base. He didn't remember anything at all. Who was he? Why had the spacecraft crashed? He had so many questions and barely any answers.

The only thing he knew was that he had woken up inside the ruined craft with an ugly gash in the back of his head and a horrible headache. He had been lying there for hours until he got up and found a medical kit to ease the pain and heal the gash.

He had looked down himself and found that he was wearing a military combat uniform, so he concluded that he was a soldier. But he didn't know which kind of soldier he was and which unit he belonged to.

He had searched the ruined craft, only to find out that he had been exceptionally lucky as he had been inside the least damaged part of the wreck.

There had been no other survivors.

[Wildman]

A body lay face down a couple of yards from the wreck. Slowly, he knelt beside the fallen soldier and turned the body over. Stark blue eyes stared up at him, unseeing. A memory flickered across his mind:

Sitting in a personnel carrier, bumping along at high speed, those blue eyes looked at him from across the bay and one winked. “I’ll look after you little bro’,” the soldier said.

The memory faded, leaving only sadness.

He reached up and closed the eyes of this fallen--brother?--then fingered the dog tags around the dead man’s neck. “Samuel Brecken,” the tags read. Again, the sadness touched his heart, but he couldn’t identify the source.

He reached up and felt around his own neck, but it was bare. Unhooking the tags from around the dead man’s--Sam’s neck, he slipped them into his pocket. Somehow, it made him feel a little better.

“I need your sidearm, Sam,” he said, retrieving the pistol from the soldier’s holster. He carefully examined the weapon. It was a .50 caliber with semi and full auto settings, 12 cartridges in the clip. The letters UAC were stamped on the grip.

“UAC,” he said to himself, but the acronym didn’t stir any memories or feelings.

He stood and pushed the pistol into his belt and looked toward the burning base. He needed answers and they had to be in the base. He took one last look at Sam, then stepped over the smashed chain-link fence and into the base.