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Across the Line
What are you doing he though as he stuidied the figures moving briskly through his scopes reticle. The figures were clothed in purple silken robes, emblazoned with a flame motif along the lower hem. Imperial style flak armour protected their torsos, painted to match the color of the robes. Their faces were partially concealled by hoods drawn over the top of their heads, some with lengths of hair hanging out of the shadows the hoods cast. The appeared to be assembling for another counter offensive, probably against the temple district again. Thirty of the figures milled about the courtyard, apparently awaiting orders.
The silence brook as a transmission came over his micro-bead, "Lystat, report in." He instantly knew by the voice that it was Major Tylor of 4rth Platoon. "4C, this is Lystat. I have eyes on target. The appear to be attempting to push another counter offensive your way. Awaiting target of opportunity sir. Lystat out," he replied as he snuggled in behind the long pattern las-rifles stock. He was positioned high, three hundred and seventeen meters away from the courtyard the figures were massing in. His black cloak helped him blend into the shadows of the hab-building window. His cloak, and his standard issue Ayrian fatigues. Black fatigues trousers and a field jacket trimmed in a thin line of red to symbolized the 4rth regiment. His long black hair drapped out over the left side of his face, concealing the flesh not hidden by the rifle. He breathed in anxiously, awaiting his chance to begin working. The smoke rising from the city would make it a challenge to see clearly at his current range.
"There you are," he muttered to himself as crosshairs came to rest upon a figure similar to the others, except for the staff-torch he carried in his left hand. Lystat had been informed that the enemy officers commonly carried these items into battle, symbolizing the flames their dark master powered. Raising slightly he brought the crosshairs to the right eye of the man as he opened his mouth to speak. Gently he applied pressure to the trigger and the rifle bucked. A split second latter the officers head turned into a mangled mess of gore, his lifeless body falling backwards to the street. Derron Lystat smiled as he saw the robed figures diving incoherintly for cover. He slammed a fresh cell into the rifle and raised his hand to his ear.
"Seven Echo this this is Two Bravo Three. Support needed, fire for effect. Hab district six. Reapeat, Support needed, fire for effect. Hab district six. Corridinates seventy three point two eight, thriteen point six five, repeat, Seventy three point two eight, thirteen point six five. Bring the rain boys," he called into his micro-bead. "Affrimative two bravo three, storm is inbound, hold for effect." No sooner than the reply ended, did the dull thunk of mortar fire fill the air. A salvo of nine shots screamed into the courtyard. He watched through his scope as the so called "rain" fell into the figures posistion. Bits of rockcrete and plaster showered up into the air, along with robed bodies or pieces thereoff. One figure tried to flee from his cover when the explosions ended. Seven quick strides later he collapsed, Derron's hotshot hitting him in the right cheek, the head replaced by a puff of blood and brain tissue. Another round fell, and more dust and rubble and bodies became airbourne. With each salvo some would escape, or at least attempt. Lystat expertly dropped each fleeing figure with a single precise shot. The courtyard smoked heavily, and was littered by broken bodies and pool of fresh blood. "Seven foxtrot, cease fire, repeat cease fire. Good shooting. Lystat out."
He sighed as he prepared to move on to his next directive, but the sound of approaching feet in the nearby hall made him freeze. Clattering on street level signalled that a tank was moving in to the area, its clanks echoing down the empty street. The steps drew closer, and he heard and unoil doorhinge squeak. Two men he thought as he rolled over and drew his trusty autopistol from his thigh holster. The sound of the tank drew close now, rumbling the floor with its advance. The footsteps were just outside his door now, the handle turning. He clicked the saftey off and steadied his aim. As the door swung open his pressed the trigger.... and realsed quickly. "Dammit I about put a hole in your ugly little face Eryk. You should learn to be more quiet." The figures standing in the doorway where troopers Eryk and Tyrell, fellow scout snipers from second company. Eryk scowled, "Sarge wanted me to have you pull back." Lystat chuckled thinking about the mayhem he had just wrought upon the enemy and said, "Now why would I do that?" Tyrell slipped over to the window and gestured down, "Thats why!"
Lystat glanced down at the street and began trembeling. Below idled the tank he had heard. A purple painted behemoth, an ancient relic, a Baneblade seige tank. The pavement shuddered and cracked beneath its enourmous weight. A trail of dust and smoke filled the air from its exhaust wake, adding to the already frightening situation. Lystat stooped and picked up his kit and ran for the door as the turret of the beast swiveled and raised, pointed directly at his window. The shot fired, "Thwa-thunk."
Coughing he winced in pain. Blood streamed from his face and nose from the gashes left by the flying glass shards. His back ached from the not so gracious landing he had made. His chest hurt horribly as he breathed, obviously having sustained a few broken ribs. He opened his eyes, struggling to bring them into focus. A dull ringing was all that he could hear. As his vision cleared he remebered what had taken place moments before.
Just as he ran from the room, the shell had impacted. The outside wall of the hab-building had exploded with such force that he was thrown through the adjacent rooms door, and out a window on the opposite side of the building. He glanced up in amazment and saw where he had exited the building. Smoke was rolling from the windows twelve meters above. Somehow he had landed on a nearby building roof. A few meters from him lay the body of Tyrell, obviously dead. The corpse was twisted and broken, soaking in a large pool of blood. There was no sign of Eryk anywhere. With a gasp of pain, Lystat sat upright.
Amazingly he realized that his body had keep his rifle safe, aparently unscratched. His autopistol lay near his left foot, and he bent and picked it up. After clicking the saftey back on, he slid it into his thigh holster. Looking over himself he noticed his fatigues where ripped and bloody, and his cloak was tattered from the shards of glass. Reaching to his face he grabbed a sliver of glass that stuck in his cheek. With a moan he jerked the shard out, allowing more blood to flow from the wound. Time to get out of here before that thing finds me again, he thought as he struggled to his feet.
The ringing in his ears had left, allowing him to hear the clatter of the tank treads again, distant sounding now. His slid his rifle onto his shoulder and walked towards the access ladder across the roof. Carefully he peered over the side, revealing an alley that was empty except for a few crates and barrels. Slowly, because of the immense pain, he started down the ladder. When his boots touched the saftey of the ground he pulled his sidearm and limped off to the east, where the manufactorium district, and the Ayrian mobile outpost lay. He neared the end of the alley, and scanned the intersecting street. No sign of life, or that blasted tank. As quickly as he could he hobbled acroos the street and into an open doorway. Scanning the dark room he slid down onto the floor. This will do he thought.
Nows as good a time as ever. He stepped into the doorway and rescanned the street. It had been three hours since his encounter with the beast and he had hidden in the vacant hab-building, bandaging his wounds and planning his escape. The pain reliever was helping, leaving only a tinge of discomfort. Four time he had to evade companies of robed soldiers as they pushed towards the front lines of the combat zone.
He stepped out and jogged up the street, darting into an alley further down. With the pain not hampering he was able to move in a very fast, very quiet manner. Each step brought him closer to saftey.
About halfway to his destination he stumbled across a pitched battle in a adjacent street. A dozen purple robed figures had three Ayrians pinned behind the rubble from a collapsed building. He knew they needed his help or they would be slaughtered. Drawing his short combat blade, he started towards the enemy, silent as a light breeze. The enemy would have easily killed him when he broke cover, had their backs not been facing him. Reaching around, Lystat drove his blade into the throat of the nearest figure. Gurgling arterial blood spattered over the other figures nearby, causeing them to turn. Bang, bang,....bang..bang. Three of the now alerted men collapsed as they tried to turn. Two of them had recevied a shot through the forehead, the other taking two rounds into the chest. Reacting quickly he jerked his knife from the throat of the first victim and kicked the corpse into two more of the figures, causing them to fall backwards from the suprise. A flurry of shots ripped out of the rubble of the building, cutting down five more of the flanked enemy, the Ayrians rushed towards the fray. With amazing speed Lystat leapt to the side and fired, dropping the last standing man to the ground. As his fellow Ayrians finishe off the two prone figures, Lystat smiled largley. "Glad to see meee....;" A shot rang out and his world collapsed into darkness.
A great read but why you killed him ?
Otherwise he would have had to write more to satisfy you.
Hey no offense meant but,i really wasnt expecting to read a whole novel here!
It's just kind of sad really
Sorry guys, I cant take it that you guys are sad, so ill let you in on something. Lystat isnt dead. I just needed a good resting point, and that seemed to hold the suspense. Looking forward to posting more or lystat this week.
good maybe we just need to pry his body off of the Medicae's hospital bed. (PS didn't waant to seem mad or judgemental!)