Incoming message from Dan Preston: ___________________________________________ A cacophony of death filled my numbed mind as I sat with my eyes closed and pictured the men around me dying gruesome deaths; my only mental aide their unnatural screams. Liquid mud seeped into my boots and trousers and throbbing electricity pulsed through my imagination telling me that a killing time had begun. The chilled, steel-blue grip of my barretta filled my fist. I opened my eyes to see a green world of humidity, foliage, insects, and blood. A wild eyed man dropped from a tree above screaming incoherent syllables from a foreign tongue. He was holding a muddied AK-47. His face tensed up. That always meant that they were about to shoot. I squeezed off three rounds into his chest. Instantly I was baptized in a fountain of crimson life. Warm streams of his blood rolled off of my face, making its way to my soiled uniform. The strained muscles in his face relaxed and for a moment he gazed into infinity before collapsing on top of me. His chin hit hard on my rusted helmet. I threw him off of me and watched him disappear into the hungry mud. The phosphorus tracer bullets streamed across my vision like super-sonic glow bugs. I hadn’t seen the sky for a month. Living in the jungle could make a guy go nuts. I pulled myself up with the aid of the tree I had been leaning on, its thorns biting into my palm. Sleepy delirium flowed to my head when I stood up. Blood leaked from my clenched fist in hot, filmy streams. The buzzing faded away. I glared at my fist absently like in a dream. My mission; I had to remember my mission. I was to commandeer an aircraft in the Northwestern sector of the field. And I had every intention of doing so. The wind blew and chilled the blood clinging to my chest and arms making me feel cold. I marched along, eyes straight ahead, marching towards that Northwest sector. Why did I have to commandeer that chopper? Why? Don’t ask questions. March, left-face, march, double time, don’t talk boy, drop and give my five million, don’t ask questions. The buzzing began again, an endless siren drowning out any possibility of logical thought. My personality lowered to primal instincts. Kill, win, obey, survive. How many people I killed in my mind numbed fury I can’t recall. Endless firing pins slamming, endless bullets tearing people limb from limb. More blood than mud. My friends, my enemies? They’re all the same. Kill, win, obey, survive.
Incoming message from Steve Seybold: ___________________________________________ He woke a glanced over at the clock hanging on the wall. The arms of the reliable device seemed to tell a lie. The sun had prematurely risen with its rays shooting beautiful reds, oranges and purples against his bedroom wall. The clock said 3:27am; how peculiar. To investigate further he raised the blinds, squinting his eyes, and realized his clock was as usual, reliable. The first one-millionth of a second was especially excruciating for the young alliance fighter pilot. The third degree burns peeled away his bubbling skin and let his exposed organs get their first true breath of Spring. Before he had time to see the burning flesh fall and stain the white carpet, the less painfull pertion of death took hold. Less painful yes, but only because his nerves as well as the rest of his existance disintegrated except for the shadow print left on the wall made by the blast. The city, the county, the province, had suffered similar fates; the only difference was that our young fighter pilot saw for a small instance the fire charging and racing at him. Most had perished beneath their comforters and pillows. The samarai's brother had also seen the flash. He however is safe from the flames high above the city in his prototype fighter. "Affirmative Captain...mission objective completed, there are no survivors." The only thing concerning this now traitor to the alliance was one man; one Spaceman Spiff. The alliance space fighter was feared by all of the Tyrinian pilots. He had many kills and was renound for toying with his enemies before turning them into space debris. Yes this pilot would most certainly be after him, and most certainly be aiming for on Luxor Carpinian, the traitor...
Incoming message from Miles Jacob: ___________________________________________ My brain is looping: Data Log Entry: 156458.495a 4568 Error 57: goto Error 57: goto Error 57: goto [ERROR: 0057 Data line terminated] KD;iskolls ´ß®sha´ß£¢53i;∆ˆ˙ic;sI^7 d^67dddddddddddd>>>>>error 78: circuit close prematurely) Levels 1 & 2 brought to you by Miles Jacob...JKJjjafcaoaskl error 5: data string lost [***manual reboot required***] ***End Message***
