Allanea
17-02-2005, 21:22
Poligon-666, Near Vigvar
The BMP advanced slowly, it’s tracks grinding small rocks into dust as it approached, an unstoppable icon of death and destruction. Slowly, slowly it came forward. It seemed it was power itself – knowing no regret. No remorse. No mercy.
Then, suddenly, two people leapt out of the bushes in front of the craft. They were not wielding grenade launchers or heavy weapons – just a couple of rifles. No uniforms – just jeans and faded T-shirt. The onlookers gasp as the younger between the two kneeled only about thirty meters from the approaching monstrosity, reaching in his back pocket for a magazine. He loaded the rifle, hearing the behemoth come nearer, feeling the bolt grip the small white cylinder and jam it tight into the chamber.
He took aim – the approaching belly of the steel monster obscured the entirety of his optical sight, aiming was a joke, really – pulled the trigger. Observers could see the unusual white cartridges fly in the air as the burst tore through th armour as if it was paper and into the engne of the vehicle. Then, the man jolted to the left, out of the path of the rolling monstrosity. As he fled, he noticed his partner hold a long, three-second burst of fire on the BMP, the high-velocity darts fired by the weapon piercing the engine like Swiss cheese. Then, the other man dodged out the path of the vehicle – just as the useless hulk of metal ground to a halt.
But the young man’s job was not done yet. He took the magazine out of the rifle, and replaced it with another, marked ‘AP-I’. The plastic cylinders were now not white, but red. Now, he put several shots on the bottom of the turret where the vehicle apparently held ammunition.
The explosion was most satisfactory.
As the roar subsided, he noticed that his partner has removed the stock and carrying handle of his arm, replacing it with what seemed another, bigger weapon, and loading it with much, much bigger cartridge. He held his rifle at shoulder, aimed at a rock at the top of a nearby hill. He pulled the trigger, and another explosion – though much smaller – erupted there.
Suddenly – or perhaps not as suddenly as it seemed – a rabbit suddenly erupted from nearby bushes. It only took the older man a second to swtich the bigger magazine for another, marked in a different colour. Even before the rabbit got to cover, a shot rang – and the twenty-millimeter shotgun shell meant a wonderful dish for the Taraskovyan officials watching the demonstration.
The BMP advanced slowly, it’s tracks grinding small rocks into dust as it approached, an unstoppable icon of death and destruction. Slowly, slowly it came forward. It seemed it was power itself – knowing no regret. No remorse. No mercy.
Then, suddenly, two people leapt out of the bushes in front of the craft. They were not wielding grenade launchers or heavy weapons – just a couple of rifles. No uniforms – just jeans and faded T-shirt. The onlookers gasp as the younger between the two kneeled only about thirty meters from the approaching monstrosity, reaching in his back pocket for a magazine. He loaded the rifle, hearing the behemoth come nearer, feeling the bolt grip the small white cylinder and jam it tight into the chamber.
He took aim – the approaching belly of the steel monster obscured the entirety of his optical sight, aiming was a joke, really – pulled the trigger. Observers could see the unusual white cartridges fly in the air as the burst tore through th armour as if it was paper and into the engne of the vehicle. Then, the man jolted to the left, out of the path of the rolling monstrosity. As he fled, he noticed his partner hold a long, three-second burst of fire on the BMP, the high-velocity darts fired by the weapon piercing the engine like Swiss cheese. Then, the other man dodged out the path of the vehicle – just as the useless hulk of metal ground to a halt.
But the young man’s job was not done yet. He took the magazine out of the rifle, and replaced it with another, marked ‘AP-I’. The plastic cylinders were now not white, but red. Now, he put several shots on the bottom of the turret where the vehicle apparently held ammunition.
The explosion was most satisfactory.
As the roar subsided, he noticed that his partner has removed the stock and carrying handle of his arm, replacing it with what seemed another, bigger weapon, and loading it with much, much bigger cartridge. He held his rifle at shoulder, aimed at a rock at the top of a nearby hill. He pulled the trigger, and another explosion – though much smaller – erupted there.
Suddenly – or perhaps not as suddenly as it seemed – a rabbit suddenly erupted from nearby bushes. It only took the older man a second to swtich the bigger magazine for another, marked in a different colour. Even before the rabbit got to cover, a shot rang – and the twenty-millimeter shotgun shell meant a wonderful dish for the Taraskovyan officials watching the demonstration.