Apache_Longbow
02-24-2004, 09:07 PM
Okay, here is about half of my competition story. I'll post the rest sometime soon, but for now enjoy what is sure to be the winner :p (actually probably not, I haven't written in a while so I'm not at the top of my game :().
Meaningless Revenge
Upon reflection, Alex Gomes realized that he really wasn’t any better than his prey. He, too, was out for revenge, and wasn’t just defending his country anymore. It was a little bit late to get sentimental now though.
Way too late.
He stood at the edge of an open doorway, flying high over the blistering cold winds of Mother Russia, the home of all things evil in this day and age. As an Allied Forces special operations paratrooper, he was about to jump into enemy airspace and risk his life, not for his country, but for himself. As he used his muscular legs to push off from the floor of the airplane and begin his free-for-all descent towards the enemy guns, intent on killing him once he got into range, he once again conjured up that horrid image in his mind. Her gorgeous blond hair, soaked in the blood left from the wounds. Her neck, slit and deep red, and the rest of her body, sprawled across the ground and swimming in a pool of blood. The sight was unbearable, and he pushed it aside and tried to focus on the mission, for some reason thinking that he could avoid the pain his dear Eliza's death had caused. Those Russian bastards will pay tonight. No one in a red uniform is leaving this base tonight, he thought in a fit of rage, still hanging helplessly in the still night sky. He looked over his equipment and decided it was about time to open his chute, which he did promptly. The parachute unfolded and abruptly retarded his fall. How he was truly a sitting duck.
Sergey Ivanovich Petrov sat at his own cold, gray table in the middle of the semi-crowded mess hall. The black bread the cafeteria was serving today was especially dry, but then again he never truly remembered, in his decade of being a conscript in the Soviet army, where the bread had even held a touch of moisture. He looked around to make sure none of his superior officers were watching, and then discreetly took a swig from the liquor flask which he always carried around in the inside pocket of his coat. The sip wasn’t much, but it kept the inside of his mouth from drying up into a desert-like state, and it was good, strong Russian-made vodka which would no doubtedly make his day go by quickly in a slightly hazy fashion. Yes, he thought as he took another bite out of the horrid bread. Just another day in the ****ty life of Sergey Petrov.
Sergey had done mostly the same thing everyday, and it had been that way ever since he had been transferred to this base a little over a year before. He had enjoyed a prosperous and happy life with his beautiful wife, who had been putting on weight steadily he remembered, but had been looking as gorgeous as she had ever been to him. She had been his companion, friend, lover, and mother of his three beautiful children.
Then the war had started. And the Americans came rolling in.
****ing Americans, Sergey thought as he scratched his beard, mostly a monstrosity of black hair – something every true Russian man should have, he thought – that was beginning to be speckled with lighter hairs, a testament to the stressful life the man had lived over the past few months. They thought that they would stroll right through our home country with their vast technology. Petrov smirked inside of himself. He knew how foolish the Yankees were. They knew nothing of the struggles that Mother Russia’s people went through, nor did they know about the enormous pride swelling in the heart of every true soviet. We showed them what this country is about. Our brave men sacrificing their lives and beating back the Allied fronts time and time again. Sergey had himself fought against the American army a few times. The last battle they met in he tried not to remember, but once it was on his mind, how could he possibly forget?
He remembered it well, too well for his own good. The deep cold that had pierced through his hands, the bullets flying all around his head, not finding their intended target despite the alleged “advanced technology” the Americans used. Sergey’s own rifle that day had been primitive, almost on the edge of obsolete compared to the weaponry of his enemies, but he had still managed to kill 10 soldiers with it. The Americans didn’t kill half as many men in his entire platoon.
Then things had gone wrong. The cowards had been retreating. They were finished, beaten down mercilessly by the valiant Russian defense. And suddenly the power had gone out. A group of Navy SEALs, a group of only FIVE DAMNED MEN! Thought Sergey as the anger spread throughout his body, had snuck inside the base and disabled power. And as the conscripts stood around in helpless disbelief, American harrier’s and swooped in and destroyed the base. When the smoke and ash had cleared and all the fires were put out, everything had been destroyed but for a handful of soldiers. Sergey had hurried back to his residence, only to wish he had died in the bombing and hadn’t had to live and see the charred corpses inside, all that remained of his dear wife and the rest of his family. He had cursed god and America and the allies and even his home country for even starting the war and causing all this to happen. Eventually, though, he realized that none of the cursing and swearing and hatred was going to bring his family back. He still kept all of those things though, because everything involved - except for Russia, he had decided – still deserved it. And every night he still wept, missing his wife more an more as the days went by, wishing he could see her smile and tell her he loved her just one more time.
He would have wept right there in the cafeteria, but he knew the only good it would do was maybe add a little bit of moisture to the bread. He took another bite, only because wastefulness was a “don’t” in the Soviet Army, and took another quick sip from his flask before finishing off his late dinner. As he stood up, he heard the emergency alarm sharply, even through the thick walls of the building he was in.
So the Americans are coming eh? Perhaps I will be able to get a little revenge tonight. Sergey grinned, and hoped that the extra dose of vodka wouldn’t throw off his aim too badly.
Meaningless Revenge
Upon reflection, Alex Gomes realized that he really wasn’t any better than his prey. He, too, was out for revenge, and wasn’t just defending his country anymore. It was a little bit late to get sentimental now though.
Way too late.
He stood at the edge of an open doorway, flying high over the blistering cold winds of Mother Russia, the home of all things evil in this day and age. As an Allied Forces special operations paratrooper, he was about to jump into enemy airspace and risk his life, not for his country, but for himself. As he used his muscular legs to push off from the floor of the airplane and begin his free-for-all descent towards the enemy guns, intent on killing him once he got into range, he once again conjured up that horrid image in his mind. Her gorgeous blond hair, soaked in the blood left from the wounds. Her neck, slit and deep red, and the rest of her body, sprawled across the ground and swimming in a pool of blood. The sight was unbearable, and he pushed it aside and tried to focus on the mission, for some reason thinking that he could avoid the pain his dear Eliza's death had caused. Those Russian bastards will pay tonight. No one in a red uniform is leaving this base tonight, he thought in a fit of rage, still hanging helplessly in the still night sky. He looked over his equipment and decided it was about time to open his chute, which he did promptly. The parachute unfolded and abruptly retarded his fall. How he was truly a sitting duck.
Sergey Ivanovich Petrov sat at his own cold, gray table in the middle of the semi-crowded mess hall. The black bread the cafeteria was serving today was especially dry, but then again he never truly remembered, in his decade of being a conscript in the Soviet army, where the bread had even held a touch of moisture. He looked around to make sure none of his superior officers were watching, and then discreetly took a swig from the liquor flask which he always carried around in the inside pocket of his coat. The sip wasn’t much, but it kept the inside of his mouth from drying up into a desert-like state, and it was good, strong Russian-made vodka which would no doubtedly make his day go by quickly in a slightly hazy fashion. Yes, he thought as he took another bite out of the horrid bread. Just another day in the ****ty life of Sergey Petrov.
Sergey had done mostly the same thing everyday, and it had been that way ever since he had been transferred to this base a little over a year before. He had enjoyed a prosperous and happy life with his beautiful wife, who had been putting on weight steadily he remembered, but had been looking as gorgeous as she had ever been to him. She had been his companion, friend, lover, and mother of his three beautiful children.
Then the war had started. And the Americans came rolling in.
****ing Americans, Sergey thought as he scratched his beard, mostly a monstrosity of black hair – something every true Russian man should have, he thought – that was beginning to be speckled with lighter hairs, a testament to the stressful life the man had lived over the past few months. They thought that they would stroll right through our home country with their vast technology. Petrov smirked inside of himself. He knew how foolish the Yankees were. They knew nothing of the struggles that Mother Russia’s people went through, nor did they know about the enormous pride swelling in the heart of every true soviet. We showed them what this country is about. Our brave men sacrificing their lives and beating back the Allied fronts time and time again. Sergey had himself fought against the American army a few times. The last battle they met in he tried not to remember, but once it was on his mind, how could he possibly forget?
He remembered it well, too well for his own good. The deep cold that had pierced through his hands, the bullets flying all around his head, not finding their intended target despite the alleged “advanced technology” the Americans used. Sergey’s own rifle that day had been primitive, almost on the edge of obsolete compared to the weaponry of his enemies, but he had still managed to kill 10 soldiers with it. The Americans didn’t kill half as many men in his entire platoon.
Then things had gone wrong. The cowards had been retreating. They were finished, beaten down mercilessly by the valiant Russian defense. And suddenly the power had gone out. A group of Navy SEALs, a group of only FIVE DAMNED MEN! Thought Sergey as the anger spread throughout his body, had snuck inside the base and disabled power. And as the conscripts stood around in helpless disbelief, American harrier’s and swooped in and destroyed the base. When the smoke and ash had cleared and all the fires were put out, everything had been destroyed but for a handful of soldiers. Sergey had hurried back to his residence, only to wish he had died in the bombing and hadn’t had to live and see the charred corpses inside, all that remained of his dear wife and the rest of his family. He had cursed god and America and the allies and even his home country for even starting the war and causing all this to happen. Eventually, though, he realized that none of the cursing and swearing and hatred was going to bring his family back. He still kept all of those things though, because everything involved - except for Russia, he had decided – still deserved it. And every night he still wept, missing his wife more an more as the days went by, wishing he could see her smile and tell her he loved her just one more time.
He would have wept right there in the cafeteria, but he knew the only good it would do was maybe add a little bit of moisture to the bread. He took another bite, only because wastefulness was a “don’t” in the Soviet Army, and took another quick sip from his flask before finishing off his late dinner. As he stood up, he heard the emergency alarm sharply, even through the thick walls of the building he was in.
So the Americans are coming eh? Perhaps I will be able to get a little revenge tonight. Sergey grinned, and hoped that the extra dose of vodka wouldn’t throw off his aim too badly.