Hogsweat
21-12-2004, 14:59
OOC: if anyone wants to RP some terrorists in Hogsweat, that's okay.
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The icy cold bit into the leg of Private Anton Alaneskov but he ignored it, although his body shook from the winter freeze. He leant back against the guard post, the rifle casually in the corner of the tiny room. Glancing across to the clock, he observed the time. 4:43. What the hell was he doing at this time of night? He should be back at home with his family... Anton cursed the day he joined the Home Brigade. Late nights and early mornings at work had left tensions straining with his wife. In the corner, lay an ancient picture of him with his partner and his two little daughters. Everyone in the photograph bore large, happy smiles, reminding Anton of earlier times. The good days. As the Military had decreased, so had jobs.. but that put his working hours on the increase. Anton peered out of the window, which was cracking from the artic conditions. Snow piled up on the streets outside, and on the windowledges of the houses, lined up in one big row... No-one was outside. It was unbearable. Around about now was when it got really cold, and the clothes shops got popular. Not that the government didn't redistribute most of the money anyway. A sudden rumble awoke Anton from his misty dreams, and as he spun around, to clear the frost from the window, there was a banging. Grabbing his rifle, and swinging the door open more cautiously, his raised the aging gun to his shoulder and slowly moved outside. There was a truck; an army one, to be precise. However, the Hammer and Sickle on the front had been scrubbed off and a crude symbol had been daubed on instead - the feared Swastika. Before he could be noticed, Anton quickly darted back inside the post and grabbed the telephone. Dialing the numbers without hesitation, he paused, to find that the phone wires had been cut. The inexperienced soldier took a long breath, and dared to look outside again. They were doing something else now; sawing off the post which seperated the street from entrance into the inner city of Dorsalgrad... Checking his rifle over again, Anton leaned outside, and gave a shout.
"What are you doing? Halt at once and provide Identification!" The sound echoed throughout the previously empty street. A few seconds later, Anton edged outwards, so the two parties were facing each other. One of the men looked up, and went for his pistol instinctively. Anton realising what was happening, raised his rifle and shot a round off. In his hurry, he missed, and fiddled with the rifle's bolt, finally managing to pull it back. By this time, the man had his pistol raised, and Anton took another deep breath and closed his eyes, squeezing the trigger gently. There were two cracks, ending the silence of the night, and Anton opened his eyes. His shot had come first, by what must have been a millisecond. The Terrorist was lying on the floor, gasping for breath, crimson blood spreading over the ground and discolouring the white snow. However, his compatriots were not so unfortunate. They each wielded a luger pistol, and as Anton dived for cover they blazed away, chipping parts of the road off at Anton's feet. The snow made him sluggish, however, and as a bullet hit his foot, Alaneskov tripped. But he had made it, and he was panting for breath behind the Security Checkpoint. Remembering, re-cocked the rifle, and holding it in his right hand, the stock tucked under his arm, he pulled out his pistol, a Westenov .380. Checking the eight round magazine was secure, he leant out for a split-second, before six bullets ricocheted off the wall.
However, Anton's firefight was not unnoticed. A jeep, further down, had heard the gunfight and it's three passengers were speeding towards the site..
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The icy cold bit into the leg of Private Anton Alaneskov but he ignored it, although his body shook from the winter freeze. He leant back against the guard post, the rifle casually in the corner of the tiny room. Glancing across to the clock, he observed the time. 4:43. What the hell was he doing at this time of night? He should be back at home with his family... Anton cursed the day he joined the Home Brigade. Late nights and early mornings at work had left tensions straining with his wife. In the corner, lay an ancient picture of him with his partner and his two little daughters. Everyone in the photograph bore large, happy smiles, reminding Anton of earlier times. The good days. As the Military had decreased, so had jobs.. but that put his working hours on the increase. Anton peered out of the window, which was cracking from the artic conditions. Snow piled up on the streets outside, and on the windowledges of the houses, lined up in one big row... No-one was outside. It was unbearable. Around about now was when it got really cold, and the clothes shops got popular. Not that the government didn't redistribute most of the money anyway. A sudden rumble awoke Anton from his misty dreams, and as he spun around, to clear the frost from the window, there was a banging. Grabbing his rifle, and swinging the door open more cautiously, his raised the aging gun to his shoulder and slowly moved outside. There was a truck; an army one, to be precise. However, the Hammer and Sickle on the front had been scrubbed off and a crude symbol had been daubed on instead - the feared Swastika. Before he could be noticed, Anton quickly darted back inside the post and grabbed the telephone. Dialing the numbers without hesitation, he paused, to find that the phone wires had been cut. The inexperienced soldier took a long breath, and dared to look outside again. They were doing something else now; sawing off the post which seperated the street from entrance into the inner city of Dorsalgrad... Checking his rifle over again, Anton leaned outside, and gave a shout.
"What are you doing? Halt at once and provide Identification!" The sound echoed throughout the previously empty street. A few seconds later, Anton edged outwards, so the two parties were facing each other. One of the men looked up, and went for his pistol instinctively. Anton realising what was happening, raised his rifle and shot a round off. In his hurry, he missed, and fiddled with the rifle's bolt, finally managing to pull it back. By this time, the man had his pistol raised, and Anton took another deep breath and closed his eyes, squeezing the trigger gently. There were two cracks, ending the silence of the night, and Anton opened his eyes. His shot had come first, by what must have been a millisecond. The Terrorist was lying on the floor, gasping for breath, crimson blood spreading over the ground and discolouring the white snow. However, his compatriots were not so unfortunate. They each wielded a luger pistol, and as Anton dived for cover they blazed away, chipping parts of the road off at Anton's feet. The snow made him sluggish, however, and as a bullet hit his foot, Alaneskov tripped. But he had made it, and he was panting for breath behind the Security Checkpoint. Remembering, re-cocked the rifle, and holding it in his right hand, the stock tucked under his arm, he pulled out his pistol, a Westenov .380. Checking the eight round magazine was secure, he leant out for a split-second, before six bullets ricocheted off the wall.
However, Anton's firefight was not unnoticed. A jeep, further down, had heard the gunfight and it's three passengers were speeding towards the site..