User:Red Blizzard/Legs
Log Date: 2:31:56 p.m., Third Season, Seventh Day, Year 3713
Location: Karjava Desert
“So, how did you lose your leg?”
The soldier glanced up at the pilot as the chopper skimmed low over the desert, scraping the tops of Joshua trees and sending gila monsters scurrying. The pilot spat out a wad of gum that stuck to the side window and looked over at the soldier through the tinted glass of her helmet.
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
The pilot turned back around and smiled, barely glancing down at where her right leg was supposed to be. It was a question that she hadn’t heard in a while.
“I was born like that.”
“How? I thought with gene control…”
“Yeah, well, my case was different. My mom was a survivor of K-12.” The soldier nodded and leaned back in his seat. The notorious K-12 was the last and arguably the deadliest nuclear warhead launched in the Fissure War, leveling cities and contributing to the creation of the vast Wasteland just east of the Red Mountains. Those that survived and were evacuated suffered from radiation sickness, something that even now was still part of a growing list of incurable diseases. Flesh melted, skin fell off, and organs were coughed up. It was a horrible way to die, and a horrible way to be born.
“When I was born, they literally had to dig me out of my dying mother.”
The soldier shuddered. “Let’s not go into details.”
“Fine.” The pilot grinned as she checked the soldiers pale complexion in her mirror.
“Are you nervous?”
“Like hell. Remind me why we’re in this war.”
“Because an assassin wiped out nearly half the Conclave.” Typical. Even in the wake of a nuclear war, people just couldn’t get along with each other. Once a modicum of stability was established and several nations arose, there just had to be an assassin out there somewhere who was willing to kill for money or for glory or for obscure political ends. One nutcase happened to do just that. A member of the Tara Tribe had drawn a concealed rifle during a national festival for the country of Eru and drilled a hole through two members of the Conclave while drawing a red line across the face of a third as they gave speeches. The assassin was dead before he could fire another shot, killed by rooftop snipers, but the incident had been broadcasted live over the Holonet, and the leaders were mourned nation-wide before sundown. One day later, diplomatic talks broke down between the Tara and another member of the Conclave, Quaria. Two days later, Reza, the freshly-scarred, newly elected Conclave Executor, promised retaliation for the nation’s loss. Three days later, war was declared between Eru and the Tara Tribe to their south. At least they didn’t have nukes. The last nuclear missiles had been used up twenty years ago, and all knowledge regarding their construction and deployment destroyed immediately afterwards during Reconstruction. For this war, things would have to be done the old-fashioned way.
The chopper dove into a canyon that cracked the desert surface, the sound of rotors masked by the immense silence of the sandstone walls. The Tara were said to have a significant amount of forces stationed in Death Valley, the hottest, deepest place on the continent. Ambushes could be hiding anywhere, tucked away in canyons much like this one. It was their job to flush out anything they found and destroy them before their main force arrived. Their chopper came to a rest on a ledge just above the dried up riverbed on the canyon floor. “Delta Force, follow me!” The captain hopped out, followed by the rest of their 10-man force. All equipped with the latest technology and armed to the teeth. As soon as the last boots touched solid ground, the chopper took off. The captain looked up questioningly.
“I’ve got to head back to base.” The pilot shouted above the din of the rotors. “They’re short on transports, Reza’s holding most of them back for the main assault force.” As the chopper lifted up and away, one soldier turned to another.
“Did you hear that? Reza’s here! Do you think he’ll come to the front lines?”
“Of course not. Have you ever heard of a leader who leads their own troops into battle?”
The soldier opened his mouth to argue when an explosion went off right over his head. Glancing up, he saw a flaming, one-legged body tumble out of pilot’s seat as the chopper crashed into the canyon wall, raining down debris over them. The body itself slid down onto the ledge right next to him, burnt face unrecognizable.
“Take cover!” The captain barked out orders, hopping down onto the canyon floor and sprinting towards an overhang in the rocky wall. There was a loud crack, and the captain slumped over backwards, oozing blood from the head.
“They’ve got snipers that can get through our shields!” One soldier lost his head completely and ran around in circles. Two more cracks, and he fell over as well, along with another soldier. The seven that remained made a rush for it, some forging ahead while others retreating behind. Those that ran forward were subjected to fire of all kinds, ranging from automatic weapons to high-explosives. Only one made it to the overhang, sliding in under the sandstone while bullets pinged into the rock all around. He glanced back at his comrades, breathing hard. Four more bodies now littered the riverbed. In the distance, he could make out two that made it to safety around a bend in the canyon wall. Looking ahead carefully, the soldier could make out muzzle flashes coming from a ledge far up ahead. One of them threw a small, black shape that clattered down the canyon walls and exploded a good distance away, shrapnel scattering at his feet. At least their grenades couldn’t reach him. Reaching behind his back, he drew a GX-2 gauss rifle. A gun that was so new it was still shiny from the factory where it had been made. He fiddled with the scope for a bit, then took aim. There was a loud crack as a sniper bullet hit the floor between his legs, and he jumped so hard his head slammed into the overhang. Thankful for having a helmet, the soldier took aim again. Through the scope, he made out twelve, no, thirteen dark shapes on the opposite canyon wall, clinging to various ledges. Identifying the ones with the rifles, he fired off three shots in rapid succession, allowing his gun to overheat in order to take out the sniper threat. One enemy figure retaliated by taking out an oversized high-explosive guided missile launcher. Tara guided weapons were notoriously inaccurate, but they made up for that with a big explosion. Swearing, the soldier sped out from under the overhang as the missile slammed into the canyon wall, sending several tons of rock crashing down where he had just been.
Moving fast with electrically enhanced reflexes, the soldier stowed the gauss rifle and drew two sub-machineguns from side holsters. Above him, the remains of the ambush peppered him with automatic fire. The smaller bullets were deflected from his body with light blue pulses as his electromagnetic shielding went into action. Effective against bullets up to .50 caliber and impervious to energy-based weaponry, he could effectively stand still, point, and laugh at his enemy now that their snipers were gone. But, conserving his dignity, he chose instead to retaliate with his own guns. Opening fire, he swept back and forth with his twin automatics, dropping two from the canyon wall. The rest immediately hunkered down, their thick metal armor absorbing the damage. One slipped as he tried to make himself a smaller target, and slid down the rocky wall, crashing into the riverbed in front of the soldier. He immediately pounced on the fallen enemy and filled his face with bullets. Then, he looked up at the remaining enemy, protected, for now, from damage.
He could try to call in air support, but then again, he didn’t know whether they had air superiority yet in the area or even if the higher-ups would bother responding to such a small threat. Gritting his teeth, the soldier debated on what to do. Suddenly, he heard a low rattling and buzzing in the distance, echoing off canyon walls towards him. Within seconds, a strange bike came roaring into view, sporting massive, bladed treads. The soldier groaned. He had heard stories concerning Tara Chopper Bikes, and had prayed not to see one in action. Now, as two gatling guns opened fire on him, the soldier leapt to one side, sheathing his guns and grabbing onto the sandstone wall. His finger stuck as the electromagnetic field expanded slightly to include the sandstone, and he scaled the wall quickly, the low buzz of two more chopper bikes zooming by below. For a moment, he wondered what had become of the other two soldiers he had left behind. Glancing over, he saw the gatling guns of the first bike open up on one of the two soldiers as they came out from hiding to engage them. The soldier’s electromagnetic shield held up for about half a second. Then, the bullets overloaded the shield, and he took hits, bullets polka-dotting his front. As he dropped, the second one raised a rifle to his shoulder and fired at point-blank. The enemy fell off, but the bike kept going, mowing the soldier down and nailing him to the canyon floor with its bladed treads. Gorgeous. Of all the things humanity could have dedicated itself to in the wake of a nuclear war, it chose to spend time advancing technology that could kill people faster. At the rate they were going, they wouldn’t need nukes in about fifty years.
Turning back to the task at hand, the soldier kept climbing, going up to where the remains of the ambush was still hunkered down in their defensive position. Not bothering to reach for his weapons, the soldier slid over to the first enemy and gave him a firm kick. The enemy lost balance and tumbled into three of his comrades. Together, they fell, limbs flailing, into the canyon, where they were met by a chopper bike. The blades ground right through their bodies, but the armor provided a tougher job. Lined up four in a row consecutively, their bodies clogged up the treads and halted all movement, overheating the bike’s engine. There was an explosion, and a road block was created. The soldier resisted the urge to chuckle as he hopped over to the others and gave them all a push into the abyss. They were so oblivious to the situation while shut up in their defensive position that he could’ve danced in front of them and they wouldn’t have noticed. All except the last one, who stood up as he neared him. This one took out a rather nasty-looking, oversized gun and pointed it at him. With no time to think, the soldier leapt off the ledge and into the canyon, bullets singing behind him. In midair, he yanked out whatever gun his hand reached first and fired off a half-dozen shots. He smiled as one shot collided with the enemy’s forehead, and he staggered. But then, his jaw dropped open as the enemy seemed to brush off the bullet and continue to fire down on him. What was this guy on!?!?!? Wasting no time, he emptied the rest of his clip into the enemy’s face, then grappled onto the opposite canyon wall. His electromagnetic shield went to work, halting his descent just inches from the ground. He could feel his joints straining to the point of popping, but his arm held, and he hopped off feeling good about himself as the enemy’s body crashed into the ground behind him. He shouldn’t have panicked, should’ve remembered that the Tara had dabbled in bio and bionic enhancements for their soldiers, including stronger bone structure in vital areas such as the forehead. He would have to make extra sure his enemies stayed dead from now on. Then he thought about the chopper bikes that got through. His roadblock had halted enemy movement for the moment, but he could already hear their voices muttering on the other side, discussing how to remove it. There were probably soldiers climbing over it, or soldiers on the edge of the canyon looking down on him, or more soldiers pouring in to stop what they must have known by now to be the vanguard to an invasion force. And the buzzing in the distance told him that those chopper bikes were still busy.
Suddenly, the buzzing stopped. The soldier scratched his helmeted head, looked around, and saw a dark figure approaching from behind, flanked by a column of soldiers. Eru soldiers. The man in front wore a black commando suit and was bare-headed (why do all heroes go bareheaded these days?). But for the tactical shades that he wore, tinted with a green sheen from an HUD projected on the inside, the soldier could have instantly recognized the man with his level expression, dark grey hair and goatee. Reza Steelheimer, Conclave Executor and leader of Eru. Leading his own troops into battle.
Gently, almost casually, Reza drew a silenced pistol from his jacket pocket. He pointed it in the air and fired off a succession of quiet shots. Glancing around, the soldier watched in envy as several Tara soldiers, just finished scaling the roadblock, fell over backwards one after another, bullets perfectly placed in the back of their mouths. Then, the soldier flew backwards, half-covering his face, as the roadblock exploded. His ears and eyes heard and saw nothing for several seconds in the aftermath of the explosion. Blinking, desperate to know what was going on, the soldier looked up to see a massive, armored figure blocking up the entire canyon, almost a roadblock unto itself. Sitting in its center, behind a pane of bulletproof glass, was a swarthy, bearded man, cigar protruding from his lips. Speaking of bionic soldiers…this one was a jewel. Arms and shoulders were stuffed to the brim with gatling guns, gauss rifles, missile racks, rocket pods, and just about anything and everything ever invented for shooting. Everything finished reloading in half a second, and the soldier let loose again, filling the air with fire and death.
The soldier was close enough for the brunt of the attack to be well passed him before the explosions went off, but his ears and eyes still took a barrage, and he could barely make out Reza running up a canyon wall several seconds later, escaping the blast with enhanced reflexes, each step pulsing with blue light. He had a pistol out in each hand, and was busy picking off soldiers that had followed the bionic monster into battle. Reza’s own troops were smeared, red or smoldering, across the canyon walls. Half an army gone on each side. The soldier couldn’t follow his leader into battle as Reza ran down the canyon wall on top of the bionic man, firing down through the bulletproof glass upon his enemy. The two struggled for several seconds in the middle of the field of carnage. Then, there was a third blast. This time, the soldier was sent flying, and when he landed, he heard the rumble of rock and stone as the canyon collapsed upon him.
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Hours later. The soldier awoke coughing up blood. He couldn’t remember who or where he was. Well then, what had he done that day? He couldn’t remember. What was he fighting for? Couldn’t remember that either. Wait…fighting…The soldier looked around and saw a leg, about ten yards away. It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone. But the sight of it brought everything back to him. He tried to haul himself up, but he was pinned to the ground by a rock that covered his left side. Not heavy enough to flatten him, but not light enough for him to lift. Something hurt down below. Looking down, the soldier found his right leg missing. Just gone, blown off a little below the hip. Probably knocked off by that one bionic soldier’s blast. Where were they now? He couldn’t hear anything, not the sound of fighting, not anything. Maybe the wind whispering, but that was all. He craned his neck, trying to look around without having to shift his body. What he saw made his stomach do flips from where it was pinned by rock. He had to get out of here. The soldier felt about, trying to regain control of his body. He could move his right arm, and tested it experimentally. It was cut by shrapnel in many places, and dried blood crusted it. Banging it against the rock that held him, the soldier saw no blue pulse. His shield was gone then. Feeling around a bit more, he could sense pain coming from his left arm and leg. At least he had those. But he couldn’t move them. The rock held him there, keeping him from going anywhere fast.
He sighed. It was hot. Here, in the hottest place on the continent, he could feel the heat even though the sun was setting to the west, its last rays painting the canyon redder than it already was. In a few hours, he would wish it was still hot. The desert got cold fast. The soldier thought about the questions from before. Why were they in this war? Because some assassin had shot two of their leaders and scarred a third. Because diplomatic relations broke down right afterwards, and the country swore to retaliate against a freshly-declared enemy. The soldier stopped thinking, and looked over at the leg, ten yards away. He couldn’t tell whose leg it was. It had been burned black by the explosion, though it was still clad in uniform and boot. It could belong to either side, though more likely it belonged to some poor Eru soldier caught in the blast. It might be his. It looked about the right length for it, though all familiarity had been lost quite a while ago. He couldn’t recognize his own arm, what could he say about that leg? Did his miss his leg? Maybe. He just wanted to get out of here right now. The sun had set now, he couldn’t see any rays. A chilling wind blew through, and he shivered, despite assurances that his uniform would protect him from 40-below temperatures. He blamed the government, he blamed the assassin for pulling that trigger, blamed whatever genius it was who had pressed the first button years ago, launching the first nuke that triggered the Fissure War. No, that was going too far. He settled with just blaming himself for joining the army in the first place, hoping to go somewhere with his life. If he could only stand again, he would walk away from this battlefield without looking back. But he couldn’t. He was pinned under a rock in some desolate canyon and it was getting cold. He began to panic. In a few hours, he would be dying of thirst. A few hours after that, he would be dead because of it. He was going to die here. The soldier began to struggle weakly, trying to wriggle out from under the rock.
There was a crunch, somewhere far off. Then another one. Closer. Footsteps! The crunching seemed to drag on at uneven intervals, sometimes coming closer, sometimes moving farther away. Someone was out there, that much was certain. Maybe they would come would come and rescue him! He called out.
“Hey, help! Somebody, please, help me!” The crunching stopped. There was a series of uneven footsteps, rapidly approachign his position. Then a shadow fell over him. Help me, the soldier thought, but the thought died in his throat. A young woman stood over him, balancing herself by using a rifle as a crutch. The reason was obvious. Her right leg was a stump, leaking blood through fresh, makeshift bandages taken from an Eru soldier’s uniform. But the symbol of the Tara Tribe was emblazoned over her ruined armor, chunks of which had been blown away by hard fighting, revealing wounded, bronzed skin underneath that was typical of her race. The soldier could barely make out a dark eye staring down at him through a chip in her broken helmet visor, bloody, matted hair sticking out from the back and along the sides of her head. Her expression was mixed, but it was too dark to tell for sure what she was thinking. As the soldier looked at her, wondering what his own face looked like, the woman sank to the ground, sliding down the length of the rifle with her hand. Once on the ground, the woman adjusted the rifle so that it was pointed at him, her finger on the trigger. No point in arguing while staring down the length of a gun barrel.
“Are you going to kill me?”
The woman blinked, and took off her helmet. The soldier tried once more to discern her expression, but all he could make out were dark, glittering eyes. That had to count for something, right? He half expected her to answer his question. But then he wondered whether she actually understood him. As he opened his mouth to ask the question again, she took aim, closing one eye. He changed the question.
“So, how did you lose your leg?”
She looked up from her gun sights, both eyes open. Then she shot him.
