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This one's been in the works for a while. I started it when I realised none of my recent stories have been up to the quality of Newbie Menace. It'll be installment based. As usual, it has my favourite story characters in: RBS, Grix, Ant, AliBoy, Me, Vottanator, TBN, Reaper, GasMask. I'm just saying so you can avoid reading it if you just read these stories because you're in them. If you do anyway, thanks very much, I appreciate it. It'll be in installment form, as always.
--
ALL THAT WAS
Now.
The room was swarthed in heavy smoke and darkness, a murky place that harboured those who did not want to be seen. One man sat on a crate, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He exhaled, sending yet more smoke into the cloud.
It was a long time ago, longer now that I care to remember. I was young, and has no worries. You remember how that feels?
The other shadows, hidden in the darkness, moved slightly. It might have been nods.
Yes, we were carefree, but not free. A great darkness had fallen upon our land, my friends. I do not forget that, although there are nights when I dearly wish I could.
He stopped, only the bright red circle of his cigarette visible. He seemed to be hesitant, nervous, as if that which he told could still touch him. The shadows for him were still long.
Yes
The cigarette flickered and died. He moved, pulling a fresh one from a pocket.
The struggle was long, and dear. Yet, I remember every day as if it were yesterday. Ah, my friends, the land was not free and glorious as it is today. It was occupied, by the great Enemy. They came, numbered in their thousands, from the seas, in great black boats. We were helpless. Our Army was shattered. We walked the streets under fear of an imaginary presence that watched us from every window. They had eyes everywhere, fuelled by our imagination, and our fear
**
Then.
Two armed men stood outside the shop, guns clearly and intentionally visible in hip holsters. Sweeping trenchcoats covered them, and made menacing shadows spread wide in the late glare of the evening sunset. A cruel winter wind swept down from the north, chilling to the bone all those who had no cover. A beggar hunched up in the meagre shelter an alley provided, watched the men from under a large hood. They swept their eyes over the street one last time, and left, striding quickly down the road. The beggar watched them out of side, and then sprung down the alley. He knocked twice on a trapdoor, which sprung open. He hurried inside, casting off the tattered robe which covered him. Beneath were civilian clothes that covered a muscular body tweaked to perfection. It needed to be, for the fight they fought. He slipped into a chair in a dank room. Other shadowy presences sat around, some on crates, some on the floor. One man stood, surveying the crowd not numbering ten. He nodded briefly to the newcomer.
Welcome back, my friend. It has been too long.
Then the leader spun, addressing the group as a whole.
We have lived our lives in the shadow, fighting the great Enemy in whatever way we can. For that we should all be grateful. Yet alone you are weak. I have spent years discovering your identities, your lives, your activities. Relax, I am not one of Them.
He sparked up a thin cigarette, holding it to his lips.
No, I called you here to form a group. A group which will pound at the Enemy in a way he can not ignore. We can no longer live our lives in the shadow.
He turned, addressing the eight men in turn.
What have we done alone? Now, I reveal you to each other. You, Ant, you have accounted for the death of some five members of the J.A.T. Stryke, you sabotaged the tank flotilla destined to join the invasion of Prime. AliBoy, to you we owe our thanks for the continued existence of the aid line from Life. Grix, you have forged documents that allowed downed Prime airmen to return. Each of you has done something GasMask,Vottanator, Turbonutter, Reaper that deserves merit and has hindered the enemies control of our contry. Yet it is not enough!
The leader exhaled, smoke swirling around in the still air of the cellar.
And I suppose you will lead us? snorted the one he had called Ant.
Yes, I will lead you.
And does our leader have a name? Or is he a J.A.T spy, trying to kill us all? chimed in Vottanator. The others roared their support of this comment, guns suddenly visible as many rose. The leader held up his hands.
I am no spy. I am RastaBillySkank.
The silence died down in an instant.
We know of you by reputation, of course. The harsh voice of Grix cut in, suddenly. The man who killed Torax, leader of the J.A.T? The Rasta? You are considered by many the be the most dangerous man alive.
Rasta smiled, a cruel grin devoid of humour. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and flicked it away. He leaned close to Grix.
What you have heard is but a fraction of what is.
He breathed out, sending the smoke slowly into Grixs face. The hardened resistance man blinked and coughed, ducking his head. Rasta smiled and turned.
We become like shadows, no identity, no other contact than I deem vital. The war with Prime is going well for the Enemy. I have been pressed by my contacts within the Primean Federation to do all I can to stall the advance. Hopefully, I will crush it altogether.
Crush it? snorted Stryke, laughing. We do not number even 10!
Rasta stopped pacing, and raised a finger.
I see, I see. Your dedication needs testing, does it?
He turned, fire burning in his eyes. Stryke averted his eyes.
I meant no disrespect.
Then see you mean it. You have 24 hours to destroy all human contact. Go.
**
With those parting words, they split. Across the length and breath of occupied Chat, the men spread, destroying everything that they had ever been. Documents, certificates, jobs, contacts. Everything. The Resistance was formed. It took years to set up a groundwork of double agents, contacts scum of the worst kind. Losses, oh, they had losses. Turbonutter fell defending a mother and child from a squad of newbie grunts, and GasMask perished at the Southern incident. Reaper died to blow a dam near to J.A.T stronghold of Spam. But the rest remained
--
ALL THAT WAS
Now.
The room was swarthed in heavy smoke and darkness, a murky place that harboured those who did not want to be seen. One man sat on a crate, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He exhaled, sending yet more smoke into the cloud.
It was a long time ago, longer now that I care to remember. I was young, and has no worries. You remember how that feels?
The other shadows, hidden in the darkness, moved slightly. It might have been nods.
Yes, we were carefree, but not free. A great darkness had fallen upon our land, my friends. I do not forget that, although there are nights when I dearly wish I could.
He stopped, only the bright red circle of his cigarette visible. He seemed to be hesitant, nervous, as if that which he told could still touch him. The shadows for him were still long.
Yes
The cigarette flickered and died. He moved, pulling a fresh one from a pocket.
The struggle was long, and dear. Yet, I remember every day as if it were yesterday. Ah, my friends, the land was not free and glorious as it is today. It was occupied, by the great Enemy. They came, numbered in their thousands, from the seas, in great black boats. We were helpless. Our Army was shattered. We walked the streets under fear of an imaginary presence that watched us from every window. They had eyes everywhere, fuelled by our imagination, and our fear
**
Then.
Two armed men stood outside the shop, guns clearly and intentionally visible in hip holsters. Sweeping trenchcoats covered them, and made menacing shadows spread wide in the late glare of the evening sunset. A cruel winter wind swept down from the north, chilling to the bone all those who had no cover. A beggar hunched up in the meagre shelter an alley provided, watched the men from under a large hood. They swept their eyes over the street one last time, and left, striding quickly down the road. The beggar watched them out of side, and then sprung down the alley. He knocked twice on a trapdoor, which sprung open. He hurried inside, casting off the tattered robe which covered him. Beneath were civilian clothes that covered a muscular body tweaked to perfection. It needed to be, for the fight they fought. He slipped into a chair in a dank room. Other shadowy presences sat around, some on crates, some on the floor. One man stood, surveying the crowd not numbering ten. He nodded briefly to the newcomer.
Welcome back, my friend. It has been too long.
Then the leader spun, addressing the group as a whole.
We have lived our lives in the shadow, fighting the great Enemy in whatever way we can. For that we should all be grateful. Yet alone you are weak. I have spent years discovering your identities, your lives, your activities. Relax, I am not one of Them.
He sparked up a thin cigarette, holding it to his lips.
No, I called you here to form a group. A group which will pound at the Enemy in a way he can not ignore. We can no longer live our lives in the shadow.
He turned, addressing the eight men in turn.
What have we done alone? Now, I reveal you to each other. You, Ant, you have accounted for the death of some five members of the J.A.T. Stryke, you sabotaged the tank flotilla destined to join the invasion of Prime. AliBoy, to you we owe our thanks for the continued existence of the aid line from Life. Grix, you have forged documents that allowed downed Prime airmen to return. Each of you has done something GasMask,Vottanator, Turbonutter, Reaper that deserves merit and has hindered the enemies control of our contry. Yet it is not enough!
The leader exhaled, smoke swirling around in the still air of the cellar.
And I suppose you will lead us? snorted the one he had called Ant.
Yes, I will lead you.
And does our leader have a name? Or is he a J.A.T spy, trying to kill us all? chimed in Vottanator. The others roared their support of this comment, guns suddenly visible as many rose. The leader held up his hands.
I am no spy. I am RastaBillySkank.
The silence died down in an instant.
We know of you by reputation, of course. The harsh voice of Grix cut in, suddenly. The man who killed Torax, leader of the J.A.T? The Rasta? You are considered by many the be the most dangerous man alive.
Rasta smiled, a cruel grin devoid of humour. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and flicked it away. He leaned close to Grix.
What you have heard is but a fraction of what is.
He breathed out, sending the smoke slowly into Grixs face. The hardened resistance man blinked and coughed, ducking his head. Rasta smiled and turned.
We become like shadows, no identity, no other contact than I deem vital. The war with Prime is going well for the Enemy. I have been pressed by my contacts within the Primean Federation to do all I can to stall the advance. Hopefully, I will crush it altogether.
Crush it? snorted Stryke, laughing. We do not number even 10!
Rasta stopped pacing, and raised a finger.
I see, I see. Your dedication needs testing, does it?
He turned, fire burning in his eyes. Stryke averted his eyes.
I meant no disrespect.
Then see you mean it. You have 24 hours to destroy all human contact. Go.
**
With those parting words, they split. Across the length and breath of occupied Chat, the men spread, destroying everything that they had ever been. Documents, certificates, jobs, contacts. Everything. The Resistance was formed. It took years to set up a groundwork of double agents, contacts scum of the worst kind. Losses, oh, they had losses. Turbonutter fell defending a mother and child from a squad of newbie grunts, and GasMask perished at the Southern incident. Reaper died to blow a dam near to J.A.T stronghold of Spam. But the rest remained
He just flipped. Ive never seen anything like it. He was like an animal. Feral
Vottanator suddenly stopped his rushed narrative to Grix and AliBoy as Rasta walked into the room, his right hand heavily taped. He nodded to them, giving no indication he had heard what his finest troops had just been gossiping about.
Stryke is in the J.A.T HQ, in North-Eastern Spam. They have had him for just over six hours, and we can only presume they are subjecting him to torture.
He stopped to light a cigarette, the thin tube resting naturally in his hand.
Stryke has been with us since the beginning. I wont give up on him. He hasnt ever given up on us. We bring him out alive.
AliBoy grimaced.
He knows intricate details of the attack on the front line. We need to either rescue him or silence him. I fear that silencing may be the only
NO! Rasta roared, subduing AliBoy. We bring him out alive. He repeated. He glared at AliBoy for a brief moment, then stalked to the weapons cache in the next room. They heard him preparing a rifle.
We leave in ten minutes. Be ready.
**
Rasta pulled up the collar of his trench coat, and took one last drag at his cigarette, before flinging it onto the cobbles. He ground the stub into the grime that loosely covered the age-old stones, and glanced up at the imposing gates of J.A.T HQ, with its black coated guards standing rigidly outside. Rasta stepped forwards, the evening fog covered him, hiding him from the eyes he knew watched him. His right hand was tucked behind his back, fingers clenched around a hand gun. As he approached the guards he nodded slightly at them, then whipped the gun out from behind him, sending a bullet smashing into the left eye of the first guard. He smiled wryly as the two other guards tugged pistols from hip holsters, and stepped backwards, into the fog. The guards stepped forward, and another shot came from out of the murk, shattering the kneecap of one guard. Then, behind his shroud of fog, Rasta turned and ran, as shots rained down upon the wall he had been backed against.
Across from the gates, Grix raised his head, curious as he saw blood erupt from the eye socket of a J.A.T guard. Grix smiled as the other two ran into the swirling mist, and threw off his ragged coverings. He pulled a grenade from the bowl lying in front of him, pulled the pin swiftly, and hurled it at the gates. An explosion of sound and colour blossomed outwards, rending the gates from the walls. They crashed inwards, and klaxons blared within seconds. The barracks inside lit up suddenly, and Grix saw shadows against the windows. He pulled a second grenade out, and threw it expertly at the doors. He heard screams as it exploded, taking out a contingent of J.A.T men. He whipped a machine gun out from behind him and levelled it at a squad of men flooding out from the main building. He let fire, sending a rain of bullets into the fragile forms of his enemy. Grix felt a brief moment of pity for the men he impassionately mowed down. It passed as soon as a round of bullets thumped into the wood next to him. He span and kicked open the door behind him, ran through, and disappeared.
Vottanator suddenly stopped his rushed narrative to Grix and AliBoy as Rasta walked into the room, his right hand heavily taped. He nodded to them, giving no indication he had heard what his finest troops had just been gossiping about.
Stryke is in the J.A.T HQ, in North-Eastern Spam. They have had him for just over six hours, and we can only presume they are subjecting him to torture.
He stopped to light a cigarette, the thin tube resting naturally in his hand.
Stryke has been with us since the beginning. I wont give up on him. He hasnt ever given up on us. We bring him out alive.
AliBoy grimaced.
He knows intricate details of the attack on the front line. We need to either rescue him or silence him. I fear that silencing may be the only
NO! Rasta roared, subduing AliBoy. We bring him out alive. He repeated. He glared at AliBoy for a brief moment, then stalked to the weapons cache in the next room. They heard him preparing a rifle.
We leave in ten minutes. Be ready.
**
Rasta pulled up the collar of his trench coat, and took one last drag at his cigarette, before flinging it onto the cobbles. He ground the stub into the grime that loosely covered the age-old stones, and glanced up at the imposing gates of J.A.T HQ, with its black coated guards standing rigidly outside. Rasta stepped forwards, the evening fog covered him, hiding him from the eyes he knew watched him. His right hand was tucked behind his back, fingers clenched around a hand gun. As he approached the guards he nodded slightly at them, then whipped the gun out from behind him, sending a bullet smashing into the left eye of the first guard. He smiled wryly as the two other guards tugged pistols from hip holsters, and stepped backwards, into the fog. The guards stepped forward, and another shot came from out of the murk, shattering the kneecap of one guard. Then, behind his shroud of fog, Rasta turned and ran, as shots rained down upon the wall he had been backed against.
Across from the gates, Grix raised his head, curious as he saw blood erupt from the eye socket of a J.A.T guard. Grix smiled as the other two ran into the swirling mist, and threw off his ragged coverings. He pulled a grenade from the bowl lying in front of him, pulled the pin swiftly, and hurled it at the gates. An explosion of sound and colour blossomed outwards, rending the gates from the walls. They crashed inwards, and klaxons blared within seconds. The barracks inside lit up suddenly, and Grix saw shadows against the windows. He pulled a second grenade out, and threw it expertly at the doors. He heard screams as it exploded, taking out a contingent of J.A.T men. He whipped a machine gun out from behind him and levelled it at a squad of men flooding out from the main building. He let fire, sending a rain of bullets into the fragile forms of his enemy. Grix felt a brief moment of pity for the men he impassionately mowed down. It passed as soon as a round of bullets thumped into the wood next to him. He span and kicked open the door behind him, ran through, and disappeared.
Fantastic! Don't desert this story!
Rasta sat in the dimness of a shaded room in south Spam, the largest city in Chat. He clasped a pad to his cheek, that had been gashed in a shadowy conflict with J.A.T men. Grix paced sullenly in front of him, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. The bruising wouldnt recede for hours, even with the herbal bandage strapped tightly around it. AliBoy lounged on the floor, crusted blood down his cheek, matted hair around a head wound. Vottanators left eye had closed with swelling, and he could hardly stand. Grix looked around at these injuries, and felt rage well up inside him. He smashed his good amr through the thin wood lining the walls and screamed in rage.
They have Stryke! They will make him talk! He is our comrade!
Rasta dropped the pad and leapt to his feet, wrenching Grixs arm from the wood and slamming him against the other wall. He held a finger to his lips and the room fell silent. Footsteps could be heard upstairs, voices raised.
They have eyes everywhere whispered AliBoy, a thin note of fear evident in his weary voice. The footsteps grew louder. Rasta moved to the window. A raised voice, then the door of the block was flung open and a man raced down the street. Rasta cursed, and shot to the door of the room. He yanked it open, and saw a woman crouched, listening. He grabbed her, and threw her bodily into the room.
What is he going to tell them?
She cringed, crying, fear almost radiating from her. Vottanator grabbed his hand as it rose to strike.
Rasta, now is not the time. An informer has our location. The enemy has Stryke, possibly to kill him. We need to flee.
Vottanators head snapped round at a cry from the street. Ten J.A.T men were storming down the street. Rasta cursed, and threw the women out of the door. AliBoy lurched to his feet and Grix threw** him a gun. They burst out into the street. The J.A.T men, heavily armed, skidded to a halt. Rasta nodded, and the resistance men unloaded a round of bullets before Grix levered up a manhole and they dropped into the extensive sewers of the town. They were hardly away before a volley of machine gun fire echoed. The J.A.T men were in the sewer.
That way! yelled Rasta, beckoning to a tunnel. Grix, take AliBoy and go that way!
He ran towards the opposite tunnel, nodding to Vottanator to come with him.
We rendevous at House 4 in five hours! Be secret, be safe!
Then Rasta was gone, echoing footsteps in the labyrinth of tunnels. Vottanator splashed after him, but risked a glance backwards. The J.A.T squad hardly hesitated, and split, four men to each tunnel.
Rasta! We got 4 elite boys double speed!
Perfect. To the bars.
The bars were the pipes that lined the roof of the tunnels of Spam sewers, used frequently by the Resistance to travel leaving no mark. They swung up, positioning themselves perfectly. As the squad passed, they both shot once, dropping a man each. Then they swung down, feet firmly landing in a J.A.Ts stomach. Rasta dropped to the floor, giving in to the anger that had been swirling inside him since he had seen Stryke carried off for torture. He landed a massive blow to his opponents stomach, doubling him up. Then he landed a cruel fist to the mans cheek, opening a wide gash. The man screamed again in pain as Rasta thrust his head into the mans nose. The fight was all, for Rasta. He wasnt even aware of the struggle between Vottanator and the J.A.T man. All he wanted now was to drive his fist again and again into the soft bag of flesh in front of him. Again, and again
Vottanator grabbed Rasta by the shoulder, pulling him backwards. Rasta blinked and stared at his fist. It was soaked with blood. He looked slowly down at the man in front of him. No, not man. Corpse. Rasta had demolished his face and skull with one fist. Then reality came storming back and Rasta dropped to the floor with the pain of four broken fingers. Vottanator grabbed him, and ran forward.
Now is not the time. We have a man to rescue and we need you. We all will need you now.
Rasta felt Vottanator drag him away, while he stared in wonder at his fist, still dripping with another mans blood. What had he become?
**
They have Stryke! They will make him talk! He is our comrade!
Rasta dropped the pad and leapt to his feet, wrenching Grixs arm from the wood and slamming him against the other wall. He held a finger to his lips and the room fell silent. Footsteps could be heard upstairs, voices raised.
They have eyes everywhere whispered AliBoy, a thin note of fear evident in his weary voice. The footsteps grew louder. Rasta moved to the window. A raised voice, then the door of the block was flung open and a man raced down the street. Rasta cursed, and shot to the door of the room. He yanked it open, and saw a woman crouched, listening. He grabbed her, and threw her bodily into the room.
What is he going to tell them?
She cringed, crying, fear almost radiating from her. Vottanator grabbed his hand as it rose to strike.
Rasta, now is not the time. An informer has our location. The enemy has Stryke, possibly to kill him. We need to flee.
Vottanators head snapped round at a cry from the street. Ten J.A.T men were storming down the street. Rasta cursed, and threw the women out of the door. AliBoy lurched to his feet and Grix threw** him a gun. They burst out into the street. The J.A.T men, heavily armed, skidded to a halt. Rasta nodded, and the resistance men unloaded a round of bullets before Grix levered up a manhole and they dropped into the extensive sewers of the town. They were hardly away before a volley of machine gun fire echoed. The J.A.T men were in the sewer.
That way! yelled Rasta, beckoning to a tunnel. Grix, take AliBoy and go that way!
He ran towards the opposite tunnel, nodding to Vottanator to come with him.
We rendevous at House 4 in five hours! Be secret, be safe!
Then Rasta was gone, echoing footsteps in the labyrinth of tunnels. Vottanator splashed after him, but risked a glance backwards. The J.A.T squad hardly hesitated, and split, four men to each tunnel.
Rasta! We got 4 elite boys double speed!
Perfect. To the bars.
The bars were the pipes that lined the roof of the tunnels of Spam sewers, used frequently by the Resistance to travel leaving no mark. They swung up, positioning themselves perfectly. As the squad passed, they both shot once, dropping a man each. Then they swung down, feet firmly landing in a J.A.Ts stomach. Rasta dropped to the floor, giving in to the anger that had been swirling inside him since he had seen Stryke carried off for torture. He landed a massive blow to his opponents stomach, doubling him up. Then he landed a cruel fist to the mans cheek, opening a wide gash. The man screamed again in pain as Rasta thrust his head into the mans nose. The fight was all, for Rasta. He wasnt even aware of the struggle between Vottanator and the J.A.T man. All he wanted now was to drive his fist again and again into the soft bag of flesh in front of him. Again, and again
Vottanator grabbed Rasta by the shoulder, pulling him backwards. Rasta blinked and stared at his fist. It was soaked with blood. He looked slowly down at the man in front of him. No, not man. Corpse. Rasta had demolished his face and skull with one fist. Then reality came storming back and Rasta dropped to the floor with the pain of four broken fingers. Vottanator grabbed him, and ran forward.
Now is not the time. We have a man to rescue and we need you. We all will need you now.
Rasta felt Vottanator drag him away, while he stared in wonder at his fist, still dripping with another mans blood. What had he become?
**
Lovely.
Another great start to a story. Keep it up coz it has potential.
heh, this is a great story so far! Wish I could write stories as good as this one is so far (practice makes perfect :D)
This one's been in the works for a while. I started it when I realised none of my recent stories have been up to the quality of Newbie Menace. It'll be installment based. As usual, it has my favourite story characters in: RBS, Grix, Ant, AliBoy, Me, Vottanator, TBN, Reaper, GasMask. I'm just saying so you can avoid reading it if you just read these stories because you're in them. If you do anyway, thanks very much, I appreciate it. It'll be in installment form, as always.
--
ALL THAT WAS
Now.
The room was swarthed in heavy smoke and darkness, a murky place that harboured those who did not want to be seen. One man sat on a crate, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He exhaled, sending yet more smoke into the cloud.
It was a long time ago, longer now that I care to remember. I was young, and has no worries. You remember how that feels?
The other shadows, hidden in the darkness, moved slightly. It might have been nods.
Yes, we were carefree, but not free. A great darkness had fallen upon our land, my friends. I do not forget that, although there are nights when I dearly wish I could.
He stopped, only the bright red circle of his cigarette visible. He seemed to be hesitant, nervous, as if that which he told could still touch him. The shadows for him were still long.
Yes
The cigarette flickered and died. He moved, pulling a fresh one from a pocket.
The struggle was long, and dear. Yet, I remember every day as if it were yesterday. Ah, my friends, the land was not free and glorious as it is today. It was occupied, by the great Enemy. They came, numbered in their thousands, from the seas, in great black boats. We were helpless. Our Army was shattered. We walked the streets under fear of an imaginary presence that watched us from every window. They had eyes everywhere, fuelled by our imagination, and our fear
**
Then.
Two armed men stood outside the shop, guns clearly and intentionally visible in hip holsters. Sweeping trenchcoats covered them, and made menacing shadows spread wide in the late glare of the evening sunset. A cruel winter wind swept down from the north, chilling to the bone all those who had no cover. A beggar hunched up in the meagre shelter an alley provided, watched the men from under a large hood. They swept their eyes over the street one last time, and left, striding quickly down the road. The beggar watched them out of side, and then sprung down the alley. He knocked twice on a trapdoor, which sprung open. He hurried inside, casting off the tattered robe which covered him. Beneath were civilian clothes that covered a muscular body tweaked to perfection. It needed to be, for the fight they fought. He slipped into a chair in a dank room. Other shadowy presences sat around, some on crates, some on the floor. One man stood, surveying the crowd not numbering ten. He nodded briefly to the newcomer.
Welcome back, my friend. It has been too long.
Then the leader spun, addressing the group as a whole.
We have lived our lives in the shadow, fighting the great Enemy in whatever way we can. For that we should all be grateful. Yet alone you are weak. I have spent years discovering your identities, your lives, your activities. Relax, I am not one of Them.
He sparked up a thin cigarette, holding it to his lips.
No, I called you here to form a group. A group which will pound at the Enemy in a way he can not ignore. We can no longer live our lives in the shadow.
He turned, addressing the eight men in turn.
What have we done alone? Now, I reveal you to each other. You, Ant, you have accounted for the death of some five members of the J.A.T. Stryke, you sabotaged the tank flotilla destined to join the invasion of Prime. AliBoy, to you we owe our thanks for the continued existence of the aid line from Life. Grix, you have forged documents that allowed downed Prime airmen to return. Each of you has done something GasMask,Vottanator, Turbonutter, Reaper that deserves merit and has hindered the enemies control of our contry. Yet it is not enough!
The leader exhaled, smoke swirling around in the still air of the cellar.
And I suppose you will lead us? snorted the one he had called Ant.
Yes, I will lead you.
And does our leader have a name? Or is he a J.A.T spy, trying to kill us all? chimed in Vottanator. The others roared their support of this comment, guns suddenly visible as many rose. The leader held up his hands.
I am no spy. I am RastaBillySkank.
The silence died down in an instant.
We know of you by reputation, of course. The harsh voice of Grix cut in, suddenly. The man who killed Torax, leader of the J.A.T? The Rasta? You are considered by many the be the most dangerous man alive.
Rasta smiled, a cruel grin devoid of humour. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and flicked it away. He leaned close to Grix.
What you have heard is but a fraction of what is.
He breathed out, sending the smoke slowly into Grixs face. The hardened resistance man blinked and coughed, ducking his head. Rasta smiled and turned.
We become like shadows, no identity, no other contact than I deem vital. The war with Prime is going well for the Enemy. I have been pressed by my contacts within the Primean Federation to do all I can to stall the advance. Hopefully, I will crush it altogether.
Crush it? snorted Stryke, laughing. We do not number even 10!
Rasta stopped pacing, and raised a finger.
I see, I see. Your dedication needs testing, does it?
He turned, fire burning in his eyes. Stryke averted his eyes.
I meant no disrespect.
Then see you mean it. You have 24 hours to destroy all human contact. Go.
**
With those parting words, they split. Across the length and breath of occupied Chat, the men spread, destroying everything that they had ever been. Documents, certificates, jobs, contacts. Everything. The Resistance was formed. It took years to set up a groundwork of double agents, contacts scum of the worst kind. Losses, oh, they had losses. Turbonutter fell defending a mother and child from a squad of newbie grunts, and GasMask perished at the Southern incident. Reaper died to blow a dam near to J.A.T stronghold of Spam. But the rest remained
--
ALL THAT WAS
Now.
The room was swarthed in heavy smoke and darkness, a murky place that harboured those who did not want to be seen. One man sat on a crate, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He exhaled, sending yet more smoke into the cloud.
It was a long time ago, longer now that I care to remember. I was young, and has no worries. You remember how that feels?
The other shadows, hidden in the darkness, moved slightly. It might have been nods.
Yes, we were carefree, but not free. A great darkness had fallen upon our land, my friends. I do not forget that, although there are nights when I dearly wish I could.
He stopped, only the bright red circle of his cigarette visible. He seemed to be hesitant, nervous, as if that which he told could still touch him. The shadows for him were still long.
Yes
The cigarette flickered and died. He moved, pulling a fresh one from a pocket.
The struggle was long, and dear. Yet, I remember every day as if it were yesterday. Ah, my friends, the land was not free and glorious as it is today. It was occupied, by the great Enemy. They came, numbered in their thousands, from the seas, in great black boats. We were helpless. Our Army was shattered. We walked the streets under fear of an imaginary presence that watched us from every window. They had eyes everywhere, fuelled by our imagination, and our fear
**
Then.
Two armed men stood outside the shop, guns clearly and intentionally visible in hip holsters. Sweeping trenchcoats covered them, and made menacing shadows spread wide in the late glare of the evening sunset. A cruel winter wind swept down from the north, chilling to the bone all those who had no cover. A beggar hunched up in the meagre shelter an alley provided, watched the men from under a large hood. They swept their eyes over the street one last time, and left, striding quickly down the road. The beggar watched them out of side, and then sprung down the alley. He knocked twice on a trapdoor, which sprung open. He hurried inside, casting off the tattered robe which covered him. Beneath were civilian clothes that covered a muscular body tweaked to perfection. It needed to be, for the fight they fought. He slipped into a chair in a dank room. Other shadowy presences sat around, some on crates, some on the floor. One man stood, surveying the crowd not numbering ten. He nodded briefly to the newcomer.
Welcome back, my friend. It has been too long.
Then the leader spun, addressing the group as a whole.
We have lived our lives in the shadow, fighting the great Enemy in whatever way we can. For that we should all be grateful. Yet alone you are weak. I have spent years discovering your identities, your lives, your activities. Relax, I am not one of Them.
He sparked up a thin cigarette, holding it to his lips.
No, I called you here to form a group. A group which will pound at the Enemy in a way he can not ignore. We can no longer live our lives in the shadow.
He turned, addressing the eight men in turn.
What have we done alone? Now, I reveal you to each other. You, Ant, you have accounted for the death of some five members of the J.A.T. Stryke, you sabotaged the tank flotilla destined to join the invasion of Prime. AliBoy, to you we owe our thanks for the continued existence of the aid line from Life. Grix, you have forged documents that allowed downed Prime airmen to return. Each of you has done something GasMask,Vottanator, Turbonutter, Reaper that deserves merit and has hindered the enemies control of our contry. Yet it is not enough!
The leader exhaled, smoke swirling around in the still air of the cellar.
And I suppose you will lead us? snorted the one he had called Ant.
Yes, I will lead you.
And does our leader have a name? Or is he a J.A.T spy, trying to kill us all? chimed in Vottanator. The others roared their support of this comment, guns suddenly visible as many rose. The leader held up his hands.
I am no spy. I am RastaBillySkank.
The silence died down in an instant.
We know of you by reputation, of course. The harsh voice of Grix cut in, suddenly. The man who killed Torax, leader of the J.A.T? The Rasta? You are considered by many the be the most dangerous man alive.
Rasta smiled, a cruel grin devoid of humour. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and flicked it away. He leaned close to Grix.
What you have heard is but a fraction of what is.
He breathed out, sending the smoke slowly into Grixs face. The hardened resistance man blinked and coughed, ducking his head. Rasta smiled and turned.
We become like shadows, no identity, no other contact than I deem vital. The war with Prime is going well for the Enemy. I have been pressed by my contacts within the Primean Federation to do all I can to stall the advance. Hopefully, I will crush it altogether.
Crush it? snorted Stryke, laughing. We do not number even 10!
Rasta stopped pacing, and raised a finger.
I see, I see. Your dedication needs testing, does it?
He turned, fire burning in his eyes. Stryke averted his eyes.
I meant no disrespect.
Then see you mean it. You have 24 hours to destroy all human contact. Go.
**
With those parting words, they split. Across the length and breath of occupied Chat, the men spread, destroying everything that they had ever been. Documents, certificates, jobs, contacts. Everything. The Resistance was formed. It took years to set up a groundwork of double agents, contacts scum of the worst kind. Losses, oh, they had losses. Turbonutter fell defending a mother and child from a squad of newbie grunts, and GasMask perished at the Southern incident. Reaper died to blow a dam near to J.A.T stronghold of Spam. But the rest remained