Apache_Longbow
12-13-2003, 10:52 PM
Finally got off my lazy ass and started writing again!:color1:
Heres the early stages of an as yet untitled story. Enjoy, and criticism is always welcome! :D
______
The lights shone brightly, stretching through the foggy night sky and piercing the low cloud cover not even a mile up. It was a widely neglected fact that there were still large cities in existence, even in the heat of a war. The generally accepted notion of large urban areas blown into rubble by enemy bombing runs and urban warfare was still true to some parts of the country, but still there remained some highly populated spaces that were the same as always. After all, people still had their weekends, and those people still wanted to let their worries leave them and have a good time.
The figure in the shadows followed the lights, all in neatly constructed rows and columns of rectangular windows, containing office workers who had either been gone during the week and had to catch up now or ones who just plain hated the social aspect of modern times. The luminescent quadrilaterals ended abruptly as they met the top of the two-story building’s roof that lay directly in front of the man. There were windows here, too, but there weren’t as many, and they certainly didn’t give off light. Shades over the glass fixtures, or sometimes even wood, kept the light in and people out, leading them to believe it was just another structure in the city slums.
In fact, it was a booming nightclub.
It was actually one of the biggest hangouts in the whole city of New York. Known for it’s booming nightlife, even during the war, club owners many times kept the whereabouts of their restaurants secret, giving the information only to wealthy people who would bring in lots of money and lots of gorgeous women to please even more of their guests.
The man now present in the shadows of the back alley had come to know the location of the club through the word of a business partner. At least that’s what he was calling his acquaintance. The answer to whether any business would be involved would be told once the man got up the balls to walk inside. And they were coming, finally.
The figure was a husky man, standing a full six feet four inches from the barren ground. Although he was constantly eating plenty, he was still a svelte and almost unhealthy 200 pounds flat. His face was chiseled and littered with day old facial hair that he hadn’t had the time to shave, and his brow was broken up by strands of deep brown hair, which fell untidily forward to no avail. He could see out through the alley clearly though, always keeping the hair at least short enough that it never impaired his vision, something nearsightedness already did. Only weeks before he would have looked like a computer nerd or some type of smart engineer in the army, but he had ditched his thick-brimmed glasses for the more comfortable and fashionable contact lenses, clear ones so that his hazel-green eyes kept their piercing color intact. His cheekbones protruded outwards, sharpening off and dropping down into his hollow cheeks. His deeply tanned skin, fresh from his recent trip to the sunny south, pulled taught over his bony and squared of jaw line, ending up in a slight indentation that split the middle of his chin. His lips were open now, chapped from the dry winter weather but moist on the interior from the quickened breathing caused by the same frigid gusts of wind and snow. His nose was long and skinny, but none to extreme in either case. Overall, he was considered a rather attractive man by most of the female population that surrounded him, which was something he never regretted.
He leaned into the smooth and cold cement wall with his right shoulder, his gray, dirty old jacket resting on the other. He had on an everyday t-shirt under the coat, which could be seen through that shadows, and through the gap left by the opening in his coat in the middle. He new that he should really have buttoned it up to stay warm and healthy, but it just didn’t feel comfortable to him. He dug his freezing red hands deeper into his pants pockets, the well-worn denim jeans inviting them with warmth. The pants continued down his long legs until they met up with a new pair of Nikes, but only because his old pair had finally fallen apart after four years. He was a young man who enjoyed comfort more than having new things or looking good, although he never really looked that bad.
He fished through the deep pockets in his pants, pulling up a few stray dollar bills or candy wrappers before finally finding the slip of white paper he was searching for. The paper had two lines of ink writing on them, which he read to himself once again in his head. 945 Sycamore Road. Come to the back door and ask for Lynch. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen to him, but he knew it couldn’t be too bad.
Eric Hansen swallowed his fears and slowly made his way to the door. A sign hung up above the red entryway, which simply read ‘945’. A small light produced the glow needed to read the sign, although it did flash off and on every few seconds. He clenched his fist, brought it up to eye level, and told himself he had the balls to go through with it all. He hesitated, and then turned away, unsure of himself.
But in spite of it all, he turned back and knocked anyways.
*****
The door flew into the room and hit the opposite wall with a noise loud enough that it hurt the soldiers’ ears as it connected with the solid wood construction. Brady Miller paid no attention to the slight ache though. He glided through the entrance to the building, fighting through the thick cover of dust that had been kicked up by the flying projectile that used to be a door. He was fully concentrated on rescuing the prisoner within. Miller stepped forward, looking right down a long and narrow hallway. Nothing. Brady then turned his glance left to check the opposite hallway for any hostile forces. After seeing that the coast was clear, he motioned his team to advance through the hall and to the next room. He turned the corner before any of his team members, looking into the room to see light pouring inside through poorly boarded up windows. The light reflected off each and every miniscule floating piece of dust, dropping visibility down and giving the enemies within an added advantage. Despite all this, Miller was the first to see the terrorist in the corner. His mind worked fast and his fingers worked even faster, knocking the man to the floor before he had any chance to put his AK-47 to use. His team filed into the room behind him, working efficiently as a single unit. Men called out orders, which were followed exactly. Before long, three team members had put their weapons to use, planting pieces of metal inside of the corpses of former men. The room was clear.
As the dust settled to the ground and the soldiers began to take off some of their protective gear and assess the finished job, a voice echoed through the room.
“It was good, but not quite quick enough. If this would have been real I would have a bullet two inches into my brain, or possibly have my brain smeared on the floor,” commented the ‘hostage’ as he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
Miller ran his hands through his sweaty hair and let his gun sling down towards his hip. He couldn’t help but grin as he listened to his boss. The man wasn’t afraid of anything. Most people wouldn’t sit in the middle of a room during a live-fire drill for a million dollars. For Dennis McKeon, it was a daily happenstance, almost a ritual.
“You guys worked more fluently as a team this time, but that meant that it wasn’t as quick. You didn’t improvise as well. That could cost you an innocent life in a real combat situation, maybe even your own.” The men in the room nodded in comprehension, and then listened to their seasoned veteran of a leader for a few more minutes before packing up and heading their respective ways.
Miller decided he’d visit the shooting range to get his pistol grip right again after having to deal with the broken hand for so long, and then go on a nice run through the nearby woods before heading home. Being a special operations soldier in the Allied Army wasn’t all fun and games, but he was one of the best, and intended on getting better.
Heres the early stages of an as yet untitled story. Enjoy, and criticism is always welcome! :D
______
The lights shone brightly, stretching through the foggy night sky and piercing the low cloud cover not even a mile up. It was a widely neglected fact that there were still large cities in existence, even in the heat of a war. The generally accepted notion of large urban areas blown into rubble by enemy bombing runs and urban warfare was still true to some parts of the country, but still there remained some highly populated spaces that were the same as always. After all, people still had their weekends, and those people still wanted to let their worries leave them and have a good time.
The figure in the shadows followed the lights, all in neatly constructed rows and columns of rectangular windows, containing office workers who had either been gone during the week and had to catch up now or ones who just plain hated the social aspect of modern times. The luminescent quadrilaterals ended abruptly as they met the top of the two-story building’s roof that lay directly in front of the man. There were windows here, too, but there weren’t as many, and they certainly didn’t give off light. Shades over the glass fixtures, or sometimes even wood, kept the light in and people out, leading them to believe it was just another structure in the city slums.
In fact, it was a booming nightclub.
It was actually one of the biggest hangouts in the whole city of New York. Known for it’s booming nightlife, even during the war, club owners many times kept the whereabouts of their restaurants secret, giving the information only to wealthy people who would bring in lots of money and lots of gorgeous women to please even more of their guests.
The man now present in the shadows of the back alley had come to know the location of the club through the word of a business partner. At least that’s what he was calling his acquaintance. The answer to whether any business would be involved would be told once the man got up the balls to walk inside. And they were coming, finally.
The figure was a husky man, standing a full six feet four inches from the barren ground. Although he was constantly eating plenty, he was still a svelte and almost unhealthy 200 pounds flat. His face was chiseled and littered with day old facial hair that he hadn’t had the time to shave, and his brow was broken up by strands of deep brown hair, which fell untidily forward to no avail. He could see out through the alley clearly though, always keeping the hair at least short enough that it never impaired his vision, something nearsightedness already did. Only weeks before he would have looked like a computer nerd or some type of smart engineer in the army, but he had ditched his thick-brimmed glasses for the more comfortable and fashionable contact lenses, clear ones so that his hazel-green eyes kept their piercing color intact. His cheekbones protruded outwards, sharpening off and dropping down into his hollow cheeks. His deeply tanned skin, fresh from his recent trip to the sunny south, pulled taught over his bony and squared of jaw line, ending up in a slight indentation that split the middle of his chin. His lips were open now, chapped from the dry winter weather but moist on the interior from the quickened breathing caused by the same frigid gusts of wind and snow. His nose was long and skinny, but none to extreme in either case. Overall, he was considered a rather attractive man by most of the female population that surrounded him, which was something he never regretted.
He leaned into the smooth and cold cement wall with his right shoulder, his gray, dirty old jacket resting on the other. He had on an everyday t-shirt under the coat, which could be seen through that shadows, and through the gap left by the opening in his coat in the middle. He new that he should really have buttoned it up to stay warm and healthy, but it just didn’t feel comfortable to him. He dug his freezing red hands deeper into his pants pockets, the well-worn denim jeans inviting them with warmth. The pants continued down his long legs until they met up with a new pair of Nikes, but only because his old pair had finally fallen apart after four years. He was a young man who enjoyed comfort more than having new things or looking good, although he never really looked that bad.
He fished through the deep pockets in his pants, pulling up a few stray dollar bills or candy wrappers before finally finding the slip of white paper he was searching for. The paper had two lines of ink writing on them, which he read to himself once again in his head. 945 Sycamore Road. Come to the back door and ask for Lynch. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen to him, but he knew it couldn’t be too bad.
Eric Hansen swallowed his fears and slowly made his way to the door. A sign hung up above the red entryway, which simply read ‘945’. A small light produced the glow needed to read the sign, although it did flash off and on every few seconds. He clenched his fist, brought it up to eye level, and told himself he had the balls to go through with it all. He hesitated, and then turned away, unsure of himself.
But in spite of it all, he turned back and knocked anyways.
*****
The door flew into the room and hit the opposite wall with a noise loud enough that it hurt the soldiers’ ears as it connected with the solid wood construction. Brady Miller paid no attention to the slight ache though. He glided through the entrance to the building, fighting through the thick cover of dust that had been kicked up by the flying projectile that used to be a door. He was fully concentrated on rescuing the prisoner within. Miller stepped forward, looking right down a long and narrow hallway. Nothing. Brady then turned his glance left to check the opposite hallway for any hostile forces. After seeing that the coast was clear, he motioned his team to advance through the hall and to the next room. He turned the corner before any of his team members, looking into the room to see light pouring inside through poorly boarded up windows. The light reflected off each and every miniscule floating piece of dust, dropping visibility down and giving the enemies within an added advantage. Despite all this, Miller was the first to see the terrorist in the corner. His mind worked fast and his fingers worked even faster, knocking the man to the floor before he had any chance to put his AK-47 to use. His team filed into the room behind him, working efficiently as a single unit. Men called out orders, which were followed exactly. Before long, three team members had put their weapons to use, planting pieces of metal inside of the corpses of former men. The room was clear.
As the dust settled to the ground and the soldiers began to take off some of their protective gear and assess the finished job, a voice echoed through the room.
“It was good, but not quite quick enough. If this would have been real I would have a bullet two inches into my brain, or possibly have my brain smeared on the floor,” commented the ‘hostage’ as he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
Miller ran his hands through his sweaty hair and let his gun sling down towards his hip. He couldn’t help but grin as he listened to his boss. The man wasn’t afraid of anything. Most people wouldn’t sit in the middle of a room during a live-fire drill for a million dollars. For Dennis McKeon, it was a daily happenstance, almost a ritual.
“You guys worked more fluently as a team this time, but that meant that it wasn’t as quick. You didn’t improvise as well. That could cost you an innocent life in a real combat situation, maybe even your own.” The men in the room nodded in comprehension, and then listened to their seasoned veteran of a leader for a few more minutes before packing up and heading their respective ways.
Miller decided he’d visit the shooting range to get his pistol grip right again after having to deal with the broken hand for so long, and then go on a nice run through the nearby woods before heading home. Being a special operations soldier in the Allied Army wasn’t all fun and games, but he was one of the best, and intended on getting better.