The Garrison.
Obliterate.
Argh, my head. It feels as if I've missed half of the fi- Wait. I have! Oh fu- Neskar rose sharply from the floor, his head rang as sonorously as an iron-clad bell and he felt dead. Not from bullets, just from the sheer disappointment of
missing the fight.
Stay off the wodka, I think. A corridor. Long, and filled with bodies.
Explains it. He groaned, rather loudly. Voices.
"Check that out. He can't be alive." A commanding voice echoed from an adjacent corridor.
Oh, they do me too much honour. With a smile under his heavily-armoured guise, he glared down the corridor and slowly rose to a knee - only one, mind you - and kept a steely gaze down the corridor, to the sounds of crunching boots and rumbling thunder.
They're making a mistake. I'd say something meaningful but I haven't the time! His equipment dully clanked against his armour as he rose and Neskar looked around hurriedly for a weapon, any weapon! But there was nothing close, except his own rifle, which was strewn on the floor at about ten paces from his current location.
Easy enough... But the time was cut short, a volley of blaster shots sounded at the end of the corridor. Instantaneously he dived towards his rifle, the lasers soaring above his body, a close call. He slammed onto the floor, his hands grasping for the stock and the barrel of the rifle, bringing it to his person quickly. Luckily for him, the amount of dead bodies plastered on the corridor floor provided ample cover from the incoming fire, and Neskar shoved one of the poor fellows up onto another so it allowed him to effectively shoot. And shoot he did. Poking the rifle above the cover, he fired off a round of four shots, all that was indicated on the side of the rifle that was left. There were five troopers though.
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. They fell quick and easy, with a thud, a sizzling hole between their eyes, where previously their mother had told them they were awfully handsome. Moving away from weirdly poignant statements, Neskar rose sharply from his makeshift cover, now a desolate red pulp. The last trooper, temporarily shocked by the sudden departure from the mortal plane by his allies, had stopped firing, just for a moment, a single second, to look at his side to his fallen comrades.
And a second is all I need. In a single, fluid movement, Neskar's hand fell to his hip, drew the
beskad, and flipping it around so the tip was in his hand, and
hurled it. It soared through the air as a predatory, solitary hawk, eyes drawn on a single prey that was
just so open. And it struck. An arc of blood erupted from the wound, where the blade impaled itself deep inside the throat of the trooper, and spurted on the metallic floor. In spasms, the trooper fell, and died quickly. Blood ebbed out from the wound, and then was still.
Time seemed to had stopped, when Neskar finally moved his limbs so he could move to retrieve his blade. On the way, he quickly knelt and picked up his rifle, inserting a new magazine and displacing the empty one. The barrel was still smoking. He flicked the blade so the blood was no longer on it. He sheathed it. He walked on. And he smiled.
<< Now, I'm seeing smoke. It can't be. You can't have smoke without the fire. Open the doors, let the fire back in, baby. Neskar out. >>
