War Stories

[Syntac]

((This will be a series of entries in some unnamed marine's audiojournal.))

[ 13:12, Feb 15, 1672 ]
Maaann, it's bad out there. Can't see the walls for blood and ichor and bugshit. *sound of mass driver* Low on ammo too. Fuck.
AAAAAHHHH FUCKING FUCK DRETCH AAAAHHH KIIILLLLL IIIIT AAAAAHHHH FFUUUCK
*sound of dretch being roasted*
Thanks man, that one almost got me!
Dunno where we'd be without Ted. Guy's amazing with a FUCK FUCK FUCK MARAUDER AAAAAAGGGHHH
*zapping, static*
[ End ]

((Don't worry, the poor sod's not dead yet... ))

[mooseberry]

huh

[Syntac]

[ 14:01, Feb 15, 1672 ]
Right, got me a new recorder gizmo. Stupid marauder fried the old one.
...
It's quiet out here. We've been on watch for the last half hour and not one alien has come in sight. I wonder what those sneaky motherfuckers are up to.
...
*MD firing*
Whoops, false alarm, sorry 'bout that.
...so tired...
...
...
WAKE UP YOU LAZY MAGGOT!!!!
Gaaaaahhh!! I'm awake sarge!!
...
...bastard.
[ End ]

((Woo yeah, I got a "huh" out of mooseberry!))

[Syntac]

[ 16:37, Feb 15, 1672 ]
Yeehaw, fucking shift's finally fucking over. Goddamn aliens.
...hungry...synthburger...
Man, these burgers suck.
You got that right. Hey, you still got your audio thing turned on.
Oh right. *clunking sound*
[suddenly muffled] Fuck, that's another recorder out of service. Fucking ketchup.
[ End ]

[ 16:42, Feb 15, 1672 ]
Gots me a new recorder. Stupid quartermaster's a dick though. What's the deal with those godawful requisition forms anyway? Seriously.
...
Oh crap, my dick just slipped out. Gotta fix that. Stupid army trousers.
...
Heheh, dicks are funny.
[ End ]

[Knowitall66]

1672 (Sounds a bit historic or do you something other then AD)? Would be better if it were describing the action, rather then some random screaming.

Oh crap, my dick just slipped out. Gotta fix that. Stupid army trousers.
...
Heheh, dicks are funny.

...

[your face]

wat

[Syntac]

1672 came after 9999. They were afraid of Y10K.
It is intended to be a little ridiculous, seeing as it's a game we're talking about here.

[Bissig]

Whos gonna make those come to life and record them?

[Syntac]

Dunno. I can't because screaming things like "FUCK!!!!!!" is liable to get me evicted.

[ 2:12, Feb 16, 1672 ]
...mmm...yeah...that's how I like it...yeah...harder...
Duh huh wha?!
Oh, I fell asleep. Musta left the recorder on.
...let's see...pants on first, then underwear...wait, that's not right...

Right, time to go on patrol. Battlesuits. Finally got the new APU-170s in...yeah...awesome.
I wonder how you adjust the crotch on these things? Damn tight.
*heavy metal stomping*
Now...need a gun...lessee...one lucifer cannon left...mine.
*more stomping*

I wonder why space stations are always full of vents, I mean seriously. It's like they're inviting the aliens in. Idiot architects. Hey look, a granger, die. *zap* Fat little bugger. Mmm, smells like hot dogs.
Hey, it was building something. Looks like a sort of...mushroom...
GAAAHHH IT'S A HIVE *zap splat*
[ End ]

[Syntac]

(Switching to written entries for the time being.)

[ 2:20, Feb 16, 1672 ]
The moment I got back to base, I knew something was wrong.

Was it the eery silence (apart from the humming of the reactor) or the lingering smell of ozone in the air? Regardless, the base was peaceful — too peaceful. No one in sight. It was a few nervous moments before I saw Ted.

He was slumped over a game of solitaire. Dude always falls asleep when he plays cards, it's like a sedative or something. "Ted, you awake?" I poked him with the suit's heavy gauntlets. No response. I poked him again.

He was dead. Upon closer inspection, I realized the table was covered with blood. Ted's blood. The back of his combat suit was blown open, a none too gruesome sight. I recognized it from the training vids — he'd been shot by a mass driver at point-blank range.

Suddenly, I could smell the blood, the vaporized MD bullet particles, the insects that even now were feasting on Ted's flesh. I could see the heat distortions in the air where the bolt had passed. I would've thrown up right then were I not distracted by a sudden movement. Spinning around, I saw Sarge standing in the exit. The only exit.

He was holding an MD limply by his side, a beatific smile on his face. Slowly, he raised the gun and let off a single shot directly into the chest of my suit.

The impact was incredible. I was amazed it didn't rip the armor to shreds. The electronics kicked out for a long, long second; when my vision came back, Sarge's deliriously happy visage was only a few feet away. He raised the gun, preparing to strike.

There was only one thing I could do. I rammed my luci into his stomach and fired. Blinding yellow light flooded the room, accompanied by an immense thunderclap. Electricity backlashed into my suit; most of it was dispersed, but the rest went straight into me. Fuck, it hurt so much, it was like getting a full-body circumcision. Without anesthetic.

When I came to, I was sprawled at the base of the wall amidst a scattering of blackened body parts. In front of me was Sarge's skull, on top of which was lodged the twisted remains of a dretch. So that was it — it had possessed him, drilled into his brain, fed him visions of paradise, turned him against us. By the time he'd gotten to me, little remained of his mind. I hadn't killed a person, but a dried-out husk of one.

It was no longer safe here. I had to find the others. If they were still alive.
[ End ]

[mooseberry]

I know you didn't ask for this, but I'm bored, what the hell.

blown upon?

MD doesn't shoot plasma, but I guess that's personal "preference."

I've never noticed "waves in the air" from an MD, but again, if you like.

"Would've thrown up right then were it not for a sudden movement. I spun around." These are not good sentences. Try "I would have thrown up right there had I not spotted a sudden movement to my right. Spinning around, I came face to face with the Sarge." OR "I would have vomited instantly had I not been distracted by the sudden movement to my left; turning, I saw the grinning face of Sarge." The first one is better, but whatever.

The next part is a bit confusing logically. You go from saying: "My brain went from somewhat drowsy and wandering to intensely focused." to "MD hung limply by his side, a beatific smile on his face. Slowly, he raised the gun and let off a single shot directly into the chest of my suit." If he really was so intensely focused, it is doubtful he would have allowed this man to slowly aim his gun at his chest.

"I knew the only thing keeping the titanium shell from ripping to shreds..." It took me a while to figure out what you were talking about here. You don't have to explain all the technology, (for example the ""electromagnetic shield generator"" works fine) but this one broke the flow of my reading. (Hey wait, the MD doesn't shoot titanium.. wait maybe he meant...)

Try turning the sentence that reads: "He had the gun raised over his head, preparing to strike; I couldn't have made a dent in the suit, but this guy had absolutely enormous muscles." Into something less passive, with more action, and split it into two sentences,  eg. "Gripping his mass driver, he raised the gun over his head and prepared to strike. I couldn't have made a dent in the suit... etc" (Plus I don't think you really need this sentence, I would just scrap it, but keep it if you like.)

Again, I don't believe the luci shoots plasma, but whatever.

Full body circumcision... if you really like that term go ahead. Just a bit strange.

I don't think the gun would be a few feet away from him, guns seem to be mounted into the suit, so the only way to have his gun to be lying near him would be his arm getting blown off.

"There were some body parts scattered about." -- Take out some, it makes the sentence weak.

Husk of a shell of one is a bit repetitive. Try just "a shell of a former man", something like that.

Overall, nice work, your best one yet, so keep it up.

Wow, I just realized I think I wrote more critiquing your story than you did in the actual story itself. 

[Syntac]

You should really pursue a career in literary criticism. I'll get right on it...

About "blown upon": I had a fit of dyslexia. Weird things happen to my brain when I'm tired.

[Hendrich]

You should really pursue a career in literary criticism. I'll get right on it...

About "blown upon": I had a fit of dyslexia. Weird things happen to my brain when I'm tired.

Nope, your just a sick fuck who decides to write replies while getting a headache from the psychotic drugs you took to ease the pain of suffocating a rock down a child's throat for pleasure. 

He was dead. Upon closer inspection, I realized the table was covered with blood. Ted's blood. The back of his combat suit was blown open, a none too gruesome sight.

Suddenly, I could smell the blood, the vaporized MD bullet particles, the insects that even now were feasting on Ted's flesh.

He was holding an MD limply by his side, a beatific smile on his face.

Sarge's deliriously happy visage was only a few feet away.

I rammed my luci into his stomach and fired.

Fuck, it hurt so much, it was like getting a full-body circumcision. Without anesthetic.

When I came to, I was sprawled at the base of the wall amidst a scattering of blackened body parts. In front of me was Sarge's skull, on top of which was lodged the twisted remains of a dretch. So that was it — it had possessed him, drilled into his brain, fed him visions of paradise, turned him against us. By the time he'd gotten to me, little remained of his mind. I hadn't killed a person, but a dried-out husk of one.

You scare me.

[mooseberry]

no comment

[Syntac]

Hendrich:

New entry coming soon. I'll be sure to proofread it more.

[Hendrich]

Yays, moar plz!

[mooseberry]

You should really pursue a career in literary criticism.

-- I'm a link.

[Syntac]

xkcd is awesome.

[Syntac]

(No more dates, because I'm lazy.)

It was quiet, and I was scared shitless (not literally, though, 'cause not even APU-170s have built-in toilets). I was far from the comforting ambient sounds of base. You know how when it's totally silent, there's this sort of ringing in your ears? Kinda like that, but amplified tenfold by absolute gut-wrenching terror.

I now had two guns, Sarge's and my own. I'd have taken more, but the weapon lockers had been ripped apart by the aliens and the munitions within destroyed.

Amazingly, I hadn't seen a single alien in ages. Either we'd finally killed them all, or they were waiting. Or maybe they were toying with me, the bastards.

I turned the corner and was frightened half to death by a movement. Just a flickering light strip. I relaxed.

"Gaaahh!" I nearly tripped over a corpse. It was definitely human, although so savaged I could barely recognize it. Looks familiar... Hey, it's what's-his-face. Ed. Poor guy. Just a greenhorn straight out of the academy. He was still holding a standard-issue blaster. Most useless weapon in existence.

I said what few religious words I knew, then moved on. Being a soldier, I wasn't particularly pious — living this life, you soon learn there's no one on your side but your fellow soldiers and your own common sense. But perhaps Ed had been a religious man. Hopefully, my short speech would help him enter the afterlife, assuming one existed.

Just as I was about to turn the corner, I heard a rustling noise. I spun around. Ed was moving... Oh dear Lord, not again. I could just make out the dretch buried in his mangled head. As the twisted corpse struggled to rise, I walked up to it, pointed Sarge's mass driver at the alien, and fired. It blew apart in a cloud of ichor. Very slowly, the body collapsed, for what was hopefully the last time.

There are worse things than death.

[player1]

maek moar plox

[Syntac]

(Okay!)

There were still no aliens to be found.

I mean seriously, what the fuck? This place was frickin' full of them and I still hadn't seen any (well, apart from the dretch that had taken over Ed's corpse...damn creepy). Here I was, a lone human, and I was being allowed to roam the station unharmed. Perhaps it was because of the battlesuit, which I must admit was pretty intimidating. Oh, and the two enormous guns. But other than that, I was basically free food on fragile legs.

There were more savaged bodies lying around, none of them possessed. Blood was spattered all over the walls, still drying. The smell was like burnt tin dipped in a bath of rotting flesh. Not even the suit's filters could purge that from the air.

Suddenly, I heard a sort of growling sound. Then I felt something hit me in the back. Spinning around, I saw a granger trying to flee. "Forget you," I muttered, splattering its fat guts across the floor with an MD shot. Stupid things can't even fight properly. Like a blob of tar is going to hurt me. Or even slow me down.

I hate aliens.

[Hendrich]

Granger hater!

[Syntac]

wut

[Syntac]

As I went deeper into the bowels of the station, it started to get a lot more cramped. Some idiot apparently decided big curved pipes are a useful architectural feature. Gonna kill that bastard.

The floor here was strewn with miscellaneous debris. That, along with the scorch marks on the walls, contrived to suggest a firefight. Mmm, I love the smell of fried dretch in the morning. It's sorta like a cross between curry and hamburger. Oh, and there was a hint of ozone. Looked like this was recent.

Searching under the wreckage, I discovered a couple of napalm grenades. Fiery death in a bottle. These are gonna come in handy. [Hey, I never said this was canonical Tremulous.]

There was nothing else to be found except scrap metal and dried blood, so I moved on, stepping over savaged corpses to reach the other end of the room. The kids back at home think war is a game. Let's see them have fun out here.

[Syntac]

I'd found the others. They were camped out in one of the station's cargo bays, protected by a scattering of sentry turrets. Originally there were forty-six of us — now just twenty.

"He's back!" shouted a corporal. I didn't know his name.

"Yep," I muttered. "Report?"

"They got Sarge, we know that. He killed Ted. We lost seventeen and most of the weapons when the aliens overran the base. Ed cut and ran, we're not sure what became of him. The rest died covering our asses."

"They got Ed too," I sighed.

The corporal nodded and was silent. Then: "Orders, sir?"

"I'm not your commanding offi—" I started, then paused. After Sarge, I was the next highest up. The survival of these men was in my hands now. "We need to...we need to get to the Tremor and evacuate. As soon as possible." The Tremor was the ship on which we had arrived; it was a hastily-converted civilian freighter.

"But sir, our orders were to—"

"...eradicate the aliens, I know. But we don't have a chance. We're outnumbered, even more so now. It would be better to get out and destroy the station from space." I had originally been a domestic exterminator. Rats and such. The basic principle was the same: if you can't get rid of them, burn the building.

"Yessir." The corporal turned to the pitiful remnants of our detachment and relayed my orders. "Pack up and move out!"

[Syntac]

The evacuation was a swift process. Not having many soldiers to coordinate, my orders were relayed much faster. In barely a minute, we were leaving the cargo bay.

We came across several more corpses. None of them were members of our group; they seemed to be the station's residents. All had been ripped practically to shreds. Strangely, there was no blood to be seen.

Behind me, someone threw up.

It was a private. One of the greenhorns Command had assigned us as what must have been their idea of a joke. He could shoot, but that was pretty much it. "Steady son," I reassured him, "they're just bodies. Nothing to be afraid of."

"N-no sir, this one's...different..." he coughed.

I regarded the body. It was a woman, savaged like the others. After several seconds' examination, I realized something: she hadn't been killed the same way. Her wounds were too clean and straight. Almost like...a knife...

"Oh shit." I stepped back. "At arms! Now!"

The men raised their weapons. "Sir?"

I stared at the body. "Our problems just got worse. Much, much worse."

[Syntac]

"Pirates," I said. "Deep-space scum. They board defenseless stations like this one, rape and kill everyone on board, not necessarily in that order, and clean the place out. So far we haven't seen anything missing, so that must mean they haven't gotten around to loading their ship. We are in the deep shit. If they find us, we're gonna have one hell of a firefight."

"Maybe the aliens got them?" suggested the private who'd thrown up earlier. "They cut us down by more than half, and we're trained soldiers..."

"Training don't mean shit out here," growled the tallest member of our group, an enormous man we knew only as Yurt. "It's how many innocent people you're willing to kill to get what you want."

With those words ringing in our heads, we half-marched, half-sprinted for the Tremor.

[frazzler]

Your Writing Is the Bible & I am Your disciple.