GoW: The Money Shot

[Abby]

CO-WRITTEN BY ME AND BOOMERMASSACRE

--Prologue

I studied the device before me carefully, taking cover a block away from the fighting. It was a small screen, a mobile communicator, about eight inches long and five inches across, routed into a wireless network separate from COG mainframes.

“C’mon, Jack-baby,” I whispered between tight lips. Through the communicator I could see Jack’s point of view—a large Amradillo tank, flanked by two Gears with their helmets on. Jack was taking refuge behind a shattered window on the second story of a hotel, watching and waiting for his chance. For my chance. A grub hole had erupted inside one of the buildings where the ‘Dil couldn’t take out without destroying the entire thing, so three other Gears had gone in on foot, leaving the two to guard the machine. All the other Stranded had vacated the immediate area when they heard the familiar boom of a Boomer coming out, but I stayed. Crazy? Yeah, a bit.

My target was the Lancer laying near the foot of one of the Gears, a spare for his buddy no doubt. With increased magnification I could see the bloody marks staining the chain saw, but it wasn’t human blood.

No, it was something much worse. Grub blood. It gave off a different sheen than regular ol’ human blood, and I would know—I’d seen enough of both to know the difference.

A lot of the adults I know can think back to the old days when they were just fighting each other and not the Locust. Everything, they said, was so much simpler back then. I wouldn’t know. I was born two years after E-Day—two years after Armageddon. All I know is that I have to feed my family. I have to keep them from dying. And, somehow, I have to keep myself alive, too.

Hence the part about me stealing the Lancer. They had enough of ‘em, anyway.

Time to share, buddy.

I got up, screen in hand, and left the cover of the house. With a pistil in one hand and the communicator in the other, I forced myself to ignore my rapid heartbeat, instead relying on keeping as quiet as possible while I ran. The sounds of battle got closer, and I was wondering if this really was wise.

No, of course it was. I had Reza shadowing me in the hotel complex with a shotgun, and I had my gun. I wasn’t completely defenseless.

The road I was using was the proverbial dead end. The Armadillo had stopped at the intersection and wasn’t going anywhere, and the battle was beginning to draw into the open near the dead end. I’d placed Jack there, hoping to use him as my eyes from the sky to make sure everything was going perfectly, or as perfect as it would go.

You see, the truth about the Locusts, about our way of life, is that the fighting never stops. Normally, in the entire course of a week you’d get all types of Locust coming at you—Reavers, Boomers, Maulers, and even the little grub guys that rake your face. And kryll, of course. Every night. It’s what made living life as a Stranded so unbearable—if it wasn’t the grubs killing us, it was those motherfucking pieces of shit diseases that scientists can’t fix. I’d be a Gear if I could, I really would, but that meant leaving my family. It meant leaving my friends. But it offered a chance of me killing grubs. I’d killed plenty before, and so has every other Stranded from ages seven to don’t-ask. It’s a hard way of life, what we do, and when the old guys in the crazy category start getting all sentimental about how we kids never got a chance at living life I sympathize. The others don’t agree with me—they’ve grown to love the hatred, the violence. E-Day pushed us all over the edge. The worst in humanity was brought out in us. Isn’t that sad? I think it is, especially when our own kind can’t even see it.

I was close now. Jack had me on view, near the right of the screen. Since I’m Stranded, I don’t have the luxury of radio-contact with Reza. If I was unlucky, the Gears would spot me and shoot me on sight, a reaction everybody seemed to have with the ‘goddamn Stranded.’ Everything relied on Reza’s ability to distract them enough for me to get the Lancer—if I was lucky, maybe I’d get some food rations, too.

Another thing that sucked about this war is that the Gears get more food than we do. “Helps build muscle for defending us,” Chairman Prescott had told us. Yeah, right. He just wanted his little soldier buddies to have the ability to defend his shiny ass while we starved. Freaking politicians.

I could only hope the plan actually worked this time instead of blowing up in our faces like before. I hoped that this time the Gear would leave the Lancer on the ‘Dil instead of taking it with him, even though it wasn’t practical.

I hid behind a car, the ‘Dil in sight. I waited, then observed my post to make sure there wasn’t any distractions. Nothing, not yet. I could feel my heart fluttering in my chest, rising up to my throat. Thirteen years of this shit and it still scared me.

I guess that’s good. F I’m scared, it means I’m still alive.

I typed in the command, and saw a white flash of light at the top of the second-story building where I’d placed Jack. The Gears weren’t looking at it, so they didn’t see it. But Reza did.

I have good hearing. You have to, if you want to survive. I heard the familiar bam-bam! of the familiar shotgun, and the Gears instantly looked up to the noise. I could see Reza on my screen, hiding behind car, looking for all intentions like she was having the time of her life. She popped out of cover, her head wrapped in a large gray turban. She raised the shotgun and blindfired towards the Gears. They took cover behind the ‘Dil, and I ran, back bent, to the next obstacle of cover while they were occupied.

They were behind the ‘Dil, giving me a sideways view of them. They’d left the Lancer beside the large wheels, exactly what I’d been hoping they’d do. I just needed them to get on the other side…


I typed in another command. Jack flashed again, a series of dots and dashes that was meant to communicate to Reza their exact position. I didn’t need to say anything—she knew my plan.

Thank God she knew my plan. I’d almost been stuck doing this thing with my seven-year-old brother.

Bam-bam!

More shots. Come on, get them already…

One of the Gears popped his head out from behind cover to take a potshot. The shot hit Reza’s grey turban, and I stiffened back a gasp. It missed her head, thank goodness.

“Told you it’d fucking come in handy,” I muttered to myself. “Ugh, look the other way, will you? Fucking smartass little—“

I continued swearing a blue street, looking around for another point of cover. The three Gears inside the building taking out the Locusts weren’t oblivious to anything, though: on Jack, I saw one of them turn their head Reza’s way, then redo his aim. We were found out.

I’d already hot keyed a command into Jack just for this moment, because everybody needed contingency plans. The white flash abruptly turned red, and Reza’s adrenaline finally kicked into high gear. She ducked away from the ‘Dil and the grubhole to her left, jumping inside one of the beaten-down houses to ascend the stairs. She’d regroup around to watch the surroundings with Jack. But she’d served her distraction time well.

I ran for it, keeping as close to the walls as I could. The Gears were still a bit shocked, and they’d started peeking around the side opposite me. This was where stealth was called—I ran, light as possible on two feet, beside the ‘Dil. I picked up the Lancer—

--and barely missed getting my head blown off. Without thinking about it, I swung my pistil around and shot the Gear who’d located me, the one nearest. The round hit his shoulder, but didn’t penetrate.

Damn it.

I ran, legs pumping hard, into one of the other windows. A burst of fire barely missed me, and then I was safe with the Lancer. Or so I hoped.

I continued my way up the stairs, breathing hard from exertion. I sent a message to Jack, relaying it to Reza when she got to him. Got it run! I jumped through the window near the back of the building, then climbed a ladder up the side of another. I got to the roof and jumped on to another rooftop, absorbing the shock with my legs. I looked behind me—the ‘Dil was nowhere in sight, but it wouldn’t stay like that for long. Hopefully they’d stay there, away from me and with no thoughts of pursuing me. Hopefully.

Likely, too. I doubled back a few times to shake off anyone that might be following me, then returned back to the Stranded camp fifteen miles west.

Reza met me there, shotgun strapped casually over her shoulder. She wore her trademark belt, trophies from her kills hooked on to it. One of the most prominent affects were the Boomer finger that was strung over her hip and the Wretch foot next to it. She raised her eyebrows casually as I approached, out of breath. She didn’t seem fazed. “Well…” she said.

“Well,” I answered.

“That was fun.”

I revved the chainsaw, spraying bits of grub that never got to cleaning. “Gotta love the bits.”

She snorted. “You okay?”

I nodded, glancing over my shoulder. “Yeah, you?”

“I still got the bullet that gave me a headshot. Wanna see?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure, c’mon. Dinner cooking soon—grub stew. Want some?”

“Wouldn’t that be like cannibalism?”

“Only if you’re a grub… Actually, I dunno what’s in the soup. Dizzy’s making it.”

Reza made a face. “Oh jeez.”

“Time to show off our new toy. C’mon, let’s go find a toothbrush and clean the bits out before dinner. I don’t want any getting in my food.”

“I wonder if Dizzy’s a cannibal,” she asked lightly.

I gave her a look, then just shook my head. “Yeah, let’s go eat.”

I’d said before that war was hard, but that only made the good people stand out even better. Anybody that can still joke around in times like these deserves a medal. Seriously. I would’ve shot myself long ago if it wasn’t for the good guys in this world. I hoped none of us died in this war, or if we did it better be fast. I can’t live with myself thinking of prolonged torture by those grub-babies. And I knew they couldn’t live with themselves if it happened to me, either.

Reza was my friend. And I her’s. I hoped it’d always be that way.

Besides, nobody can cackle like a goddamn evil genius when she’s shooting Boomers like she can.

[Rain]

Great work

For some reason it reminds me of RJ

[Reza]

iz it that terrible to cackle like a goddamned evil genius while killing boomers? i'm only insane.

"i still have the bullet that gave me a headshot! wanna see?"

[Abby]

LOL nice XD I thought you'd get a kick out of it.

I'm starting on chapter 2, got 5 or so pages so far.

[hk47fan]

Ooooh from what I read, it looks good!

[Rain]

Feb 17, 2009 23:12:52 GMT -5 Abby said:

LOL nice XD I thought you'd get a kick out of it.

I'm starting on chapter 2, got 5 or so pages so far.

How many pages you aiming for per chapter?

[Abby]

I dunno yet. 14's my normal for all my fics, but I guess we'll see.

PREVIEW of C2:

SPOILER: Click to show

Chapter 1

”Patience.” – Tai Kaliso

--

One month later

Aren Sanders moved with quick, confident steps through the Stranded encampment. Her shoes, sensible CoG issue boots wrapped with cloth, made no sounds as she made her way down the busy sidewalks. Her bulky winter jacket, unneeded in this hot summer weather, was making her sweat, but she kept it on anyway—if there was anything that came in handy in a fight, it was armor, however makeshift. She’d left her backpack, a tattered, patchy poor thing, at the bookstore where she lived. In an effort to escape the heat, she’d tied her short hair back with a piece of rubber, but it was having almost no effect, much to her chagrin.

It was about an hour after noon, and all the Stranded were out near the broken buildings, huddled in small groups and talking amongst themselves. Most kept their doors closed and stayed out of the sun’s glare, but those who preferred to stay out occasionally looked up at she came down, drawn by the movement in their peripheral vision. Some nodded to her; a few of the younger ones even gave her an enthusiastic wave. To each she replied in kind.

Only about a handful were people she truly and genuinely liked, and their relationship was close. She’d even stayed in more than a few of their houses once to escape the krill… if you could even call them houses. Most of them were old stores and such, barely bigger than an apartment. Dizzy was one of those people.

Dizzy was approaching fifty-seven, and like most people in the era of war, he looked like twenty years older than that. Aren was in her early teens, only thirteen. A bit on the tall side, she was athletic-looking and very fit, a testament to years of hard life. Her chin-length strawberry blonde hair was lighter with summer. If it wasn’t for her dress, she might’ve looked like a normal person in Sera before E-Day. If it wasn’t for her eyes, she corrected herself. She expected she had that same haunted, frantic look most of the others did. They were a pale, pale blue that seemed almost gray and nearly always bloodshot.

Just a year ago, her mom had a drug overdose and died while Aren watched. With her mother dead and no real father, Aren had turned to the drugs, red rocks, to give her a boost during raids on Gear campsites, careful enough not to give herself an overdose. The telltale signs of red drug use was always the bloodshot eyes, the slight sheen on her teeth—when she used it, it turned the world a cheerful, rosy color. When Reza and her little sister Ginny moved in after their own parents died, Aren had found it extremely hard to hide the drugs from them. Reza already found her out, though, so there wasn’t much point. Maybe she just didn’t want to subject Ginny to the drugs, Aren mused. Maybe that’s why Reza kept it a secret.

The drugs were her biggest secret, but not everything could be hidden. Red rocks were easy to make and some of the adults were already using them. The only one that seemed surprised about her was Dizzy’s wife, if anybody could call her that. “Shameful, that is,” she’d said angrily while stirring up a stew for dinner. “Can’t afford to feed the family, kids are getting addicted to hell knows what. Stupid and shameful, and you’ll be right to remember it, little girl.”

She did. Always.

But that never made it easy to quit. She didn’t want to—the drugs kept her from seeing the dead faces in her mind, and it wasn’t killing her. One of the old college med books in the bookstore even said that the ingredients she’d put in the red rock mixture weren’t dangerous. Sometimes she debated quitting, just to see if she could do it, and chickened out. You couldn’t fail if you didn’t commit.

Probably for the best, Aren thought to herself. Let her have her fun, wash away the memories. It wasn’t like she was an alcoholic. Besides, she had plenty enough to do around the settlement than worry about her drug needs.

She pushed thoughts of red rocks aside as she reached her destination, a gas station. The absence of the Gil in the lawn chair was unnerving, but she steeled herself anyway. People died—it was a fact of life. She rapped twice on the door, struggling to think of what Nick must be feeling.

“Come in,” a young boy’s voice grudgingly called out, and she opened the door.

Nick lay on his back in his bed, scowling up at the ceiling. He was twelve, twelve somewhat small for his age. Despite this, there was an air of something about him—an almost unconscious air of arrogance and cruelty—that marked him as the bully rather than the victim.

Aren stepped in and closed the door behind her. Nick stubbornly refused to looked over and acknowledge her presence, but his eyes were red: he’d been crying. A beer bottle, still unopened, was clasped in his hand. It was obvious he wanted to make himself drunk.

“If anything happens to me, you gotta take care of Nick,” Gil had said once. He’d cornered her away from the others and her family. She remembered being afraid, being so close to a stranger like this. She’d never spoken to him even once before, but now it seemed silly to be afraid of him. To be afraid of a dead person.

Gil turned out to be a nice enough fellow. He’d never explain his reasons for anything, though. She didn’t know how he died or what happened but she hoped it was quick.

So now Aren just sat in the corner near Nick’s bed, which must’ve once been his father’s. “You don’t want to drink that,” she said quietly. “It’s a bad habit to get into when you’re sad.”

“Who says I’m sad?” he retorted. “Dad was an idiot so I got the place to myself.” He didn’t sound so smug about it. If anything, he sounded like a scared, lost kid trying to put on a good front.

Aren carefully took the bottle from his grip, and met none of the expected resistance. “Yeah, all to yourself,” she said quietly. “Watch the people get the gas, all alone, trying to keep them from stealing it. Then go back to bed at night and hope the krill don’t find you—or worse, the wretches.”

“The Locust never come this far into town,” he mumbled.

“The Gears say they’re on the move again further north, and we’ll be close to it.”

It was a true fact of life. Locusts were everywhere these days it seemed, or maybe it was just her getting into tune with the world. They were the causes for a multiple of things, including the death of civilization. The normal grub was about six-foot-skyscraper with leathery green spotted skin and a face like a smushed baby, so maybe they could be tried for general ugliness, too.

For the first time, the short boy looked over at her. His brown hair lay in a mop around his head, acne waging its’ own private war on his face. “So they’ll come here anyway. Even with all the Gears.”

“Nobody will let them in,” Aren replied. “We’d die first. They won’t take this place from us.”

Nick muttered something too low for her to hear and turned his back towards her. She stayed there, silently picking at her dirty fingernails. “You’re not the only one who’s lost somebody,” she said finally.

He didn’t answer.

“Look, you can’t stay here with everything going on. Dizzy’s offering to take you in. I think you should accept.”

“Why should I go?” he asked. “I’m only gonna die anyway.”

“Now there’s a bad attitude.”

He rounded on her. “No, it’s fucking not. It’s realistic. We’re all gonna die. You should fucking know that by now.”

The reference to her mother couldn’t have stung more than if he’d slapped her. “I do.” It was an effort not to make it a snarl. “Don’t think you’re special because of this. We know what you’re going through.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Sanders. You ain’t know nothing.”

“Man if you find somebody that knows everything please tell him to find me, will you? Fact of life, stupid: nobody knows it all, else the Locust would still be downstairs and not upstairs, got it?”

She uncrossed her legs and stood, but before she could make her exit, Nick raised himself up from the mattress and stood before her. Eyes clouded in anger, or perhaps something else, Aren realized, nearly too late, what was to come next.

She heard it before she saw it—the rustle of stiff fabric betraying the angle of the punch. She stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the fist to her nose, and glided smoothly under his arm, lifting her arm under his armpit and pulling his hand down low. As soon as she felt him go to his toes with the discomfort, she stepped foreword, pointing towards the bed with both hands. He flew to where she aimed, collapsing in a heap beside it.

“Hitting me won’t solve a fucking thing, asswipe,” she snarled. “He’s still going to be dead! At least you have somebody offering to take you in—I had to live all by myself ‘till Reza’s parents croaked, too. You’re lucky, because there are a lot of sadder cases out there than yours. You either do or die, kiddo.”

Fists clenched, prepared for another attack, she waited, legs evenly spread apart. Nothing. Nick lay on the mattress, curled up in a protective ball. It took only a second for her to realize he was sobbing. Slowly, as to not startle him, she crept closer. “Look,” she said softer, “he would’ve wanted you to stay at Dizzy’s.”

No answer.

She came closer. “We’re all in the same boat here, Ni—“ A foot lashed out, quicker than expected, and caught her in the gut. She gasped for air, choking and bringing her hands up to defend herself. Then Nick was on her, hitting her with punch after punch, left and right. When the first one hit her head, she ran foreword, head down, and caught him in the chest, pushing him backwards. He was half her height, about a quarter of her weight—she could take him.

She kicked him—hard—and he slammed into a wall. “Godammit!” she screamed as soon as distance was created between them. “Stop hitting me!”

“Leave me alone!” Nick screamed, and he aimed her pistil at her.

Her heart skipped a beat. She raised her hands, face white. It was her gun. He must’ve swiped it from her during their brief scuffle. “Nick, no, you don’t want to do that.”

His face was dirty, except for the two twin tracks of tears running along either side of his face. “I hate you!”

“Nick—Nick, listen to me,” she said softly, trying to keep a cool façade. “You can’t do this Nick. There’s another way.”

He cocked the weapon.

“Why?”

“Because I hate you. I hate everybody!”

“Why do you hate us?” He didn’t answer. She decided to try again. “You want somebody to kill you, don’t you? Because Gil’s dead. I can’t promise that, Nick—we need to stick together. But I can promise that you’ll be welcome at Dizzy’s. You’ll like it there, and you’ll be right across the street from me.”

“I don’t want to go to Dizzy’s,” he choked out. “I wanna stay here! I want Dad back!”

She swallowed. “I can’t do that,” she whispered. “I want my folks back, too, but I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

He swallowed, too. “I guess you have to die, then.” His faltering voice didn’t match his words—his eyes were wide, sweat dripping down his face. She waited, heart beating, wondering inwardly is this what my life has come to?

Nick dropped his arm. The pistil fell to the floor. Her heart fluttered in relief. “Nick, I—“

“Go home, Sanders,” he mumbled. “Get outta here.”

He kicked the gun to her, and she took it, watching him warily. Somehow, she knew normal conversation wasn’t going to reach him now. She hoped he could survive the week—she was loath to leave him alone. She took the pistil and put it back on her sheath, mentally noting to carry a spare and a knife at all times if she could find some. When Nick made no other move, she left, legs trembling.

[Rain]

14 O.O

I only managed 8 in my first chapter is circle of fire!!!

[Shadowblade]

WHOA

That is all. (But seriously though, if the novels are this compelling, then you may just get me to read the GoW novels. Before this though, I viewed it as just a well executed third person shooter.)