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| Topic Started: Oct 29 2009, 11:20 PM (91 Views) | |
| anon | Oct 29 2009, 11:20 PM Post #1 |
 
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A .32 round spanged off the chassis of a car as he zigged around it. Others, a mixture of 10mm and .32, spakked from the tarmac and took fist-sized chunks out of the yard-wall he dove behind. Dust showered onto his head. "Behind wall," he heard grunted. Another grunt: "Frag him." Though he didn't rate the aiming quality of a Super Mutant he was unwilling to bet his life; Ricochet got to his knees and slid his hunting rifle through a gap in the wall, taking aim, and let fly a round at the brute about to hurl a grenade at him. He ducked back down hastily as the wall he was taking cover behind began to be chewed away by accurate, determined fire. One of his attackers was the proud owner of a minigun, it seemed. A loud boom echoed around the street. The grenade had gone off, probably still in its owner's hand. Squeals of pain and roars of anger rose from the Super Mutants. Ricochet used the distraction to prop himself against the wall. He glanced out into the street. Two large, bulky yellow-skinned figures in leather armour, each carrying a long wooden rifle, were standing in the street waving their arms around. Another, carrying a smoking minigun, stood further away. He took his chances; threw himself into a sprint, zagging from side to side in an attempt to make himself a harder target. Seconds later .32 rounds whizzed past him, snicking as they bounced off the floor at acute angles, domming against a letterbox, thokking something close by that he couldn't identify right then. The light-footed Wastelander threw himself behind a wall, fished out a mine, primed it, dropped it, and began crawling. Luckily those Super Mutants weren't very fast on their feet. About forty paces down the street he took refuge behind a rusting car, resting his hunting rifle against the bonnet, and waited patiently. He kept his sights trained on where he guessed to be roughly Super Mutant head-height; about seven feet from the ground, and tried to slow his breathing. One of the brutes came into view, moving slowly, traversing its head like a gun turret in search of its prey. Ricochet held fire. He adjusted his aim upwards a fraction. The first Super Mutant triggered the frag mine, disappearing in a cone of fire and smoke. Ricochet heard the gratifying sound of a monster in pain. The second Mutant approached with more caution, ignoring the cries of its comrade, and actually took advantage of the cover to hide itself from his sniper's viewpoint. Ricochet whispered a curse. Now what? he asked himself. Still that guy and one more to go. Can't take chances with a minigun. Gotta try and lure him out, or change position. The Wastelander dropped to all fours and began crawling across the street, keeping as low as possible to avoid being seen. The rifle he held in one hand, being careful not to bash it against anything, and he kept his body tense, ready to react at any moment if he should come under fire or be otherwise discovered. He made it across the street and tucked himself into a small yard fronting a dark, wrecked building. Peering over the wall he could see he still needed to move right to bring the enemy into view. He did so, and slid his rifle carefully into a hole the size of a dinner plate that gave him a good view of the ruins. Ricochet eased his breathing, settled the sights on the Super's head, and squeezed the trigger. A spark ignited on the wall against which it was leaning. A miss! The Super Mutant looked around wildly, clutching its rifle to its shoulder in preparation to fire. He reloaded, ejecting the spent casing and priming another with the bolt action. Again he took aim, this time lower, at the Mutant's vast body, and this time he was awarded with a hit. Blood exploded from a wound that had ripped off most of the meat of its shoulder, though it wasn't enough to drop the beast. Spotting his muzzle flash it staggered to its feet and lumbered towards him, wielding its hunting rifle in one hand like a club. Ricochet's magazine was out of ammunition. Fine! he thought. Come get it, you bastard. He dropped his rifle and slid his kitchen knife from his belt; twelve centimetres of dulled, razor-sharp steel that sat in his fist like a promise. Abandoning all stealth he hopped up onto the wall with ease and took his stance, crouched, the knife held out away from his body with his free hand pointed palm-out at the enemy. As the Mutant came within striking range it swung its makeshift club with a roar of effort. The wooden stock shattered against the wall. Ricochet landed on its shoulders, a foot on each. His free hand pushed at the brute's forehead, angling its head back, and the fist holding the knife flashed forward, embedding it in the Super's eye socket up to half its length. Goop and blood squirted, spraying Ricochet, who ignored it and twisted the knife savagely, and all the while the Super Mutant screamed a deep bellow of mortal agony. At last it realised it was dead, and it fell to the floor. Richochet stumbled onto his knees and remained there for a moment, gasping, and wondered just why he had the feeling he'd forgotten something important. He hated this feeling at the best of times. A burst of 10mm rounds chewed up the tarmac right in front of him, and their mag-brothers began eating their way towards him. Stray shots, wide of the mark, actually impacted around him; one nicked his leg, sending spikes of pain shooting up his thigh. Adrenaline and survival instinct threw him into a sidewards roll that took him behind the wreck of a car, which began to shudder under the impacts of roughly a thousand minigun rounds hitting it in the side. What now, genius? he asked himself. Sweat made his tentacles itch. He'd left his rifle in a yard which was now about twenty paces away over open ground, and at some point he'd dropped his knife. Ricochet searched the ground for it and realised after a few seconds of frantic searching that it was still embedded in the dead Mutant's eye. So much for that, as if a kitchen knife could beat a minigun anyway. The wreck began to shudder anew. Obviously his enemy had reloaded. Ricochet kicked himself for missing a golden opportunity to run and wondered what the hell he could do to survive this. And then he heard a noise he really, really could have done without hearing. A crackling, popping sound, close, but with a hint of metallic echo. The engine of the car he was sheltering behind had caught fire. Which meant he had a matter of seconds to act before being reduced to radioactive ash. Measured against that, death by minigun seemed like a good choice. Ricochet abandoned his cover and ran, hell for leather, straight away from the vehicle. The Super Mutant must have been surprised at his sudden break from cover, for it took the beast a few seconds to realign its aim and begin spraying rounds in his direction. As his lungs burned and his muscles began to ache he felt sharp stinging in his left arm, in his hip, and in his lower torso. He kept running. And then he was thrown forwards violently by a warm and brutal wind, so hard that he was unable to cushion his fall; he cracked his head off a chunk of rubble and collapsed into unconsciousness, feeling the pain fade even as tendrils of darkness crept into his vision from every angle, submerging him first in the shallows before dragging him down into the depths of oblivion. - OOC: If you want to join you can. Helps if you've played Fallout 3 before. |
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| RabidChoco | Oct 31 2009, 01:46 AM Post #2 |
18th Seat
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While the minigun-toting mutant was staggered by the explosion, it had survived to hear a distant short train whistle, after which a railroad spike sailed through the air, into its misshapen head and finished the job. The man who'd launched the spike jogged up and started lugging Ricochet into a nearby Metro tunnel, his weapon (it almost couldn't be called a 'gun,') now strapped tightly to his back. Ricochet would end up awakening on a cot in a side chamber of one of the tunnels, with a roaring fire built within one of those rusted metal barrels, his savior in Talon-issued armor, name of Darrin, leaning against the side of the doorway out into the tunnels. He attempted and failed to stifle a yawn. |
| Ramblings of a birdbrain #2: Some people just won't see sense... | |
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11:07 AM Mar 10
