|
Post by mitobox on Jun 21, 2016 20:07:50 GMT
Risk Management
The beastly quadrupedal reptile gorged itself on the carcass of its latest victim. Not too much effort on the Gorgondile's part; all it had to do was give chase, tear off a chunk with its serrated fangs, and rest while the poor animal bled to death. Still, with minimum investment and maximum results, it was a beautifully (if brutally) efficient tactic, and, with the Gorgondile's lateral side markings (a healthy yellow among its glistening red scales) its merits showed.
The killer paused abruptly to listen. Yes, that was the sound of something approaching. Looking about, the Gorgondile's eyes revealed an intruder. Nature clearly wasn't treating this individual so well; its markings were a more sickly, dull yellow. With that, and the deep scar across its snout, the intruder had obviously been chased out of its hunting range days ago.
The resident moved to guard its kill, letting out a guttural rumble. The intruder responded with a hiss, showing that it was willing to fight.
The resident weighed its options quickly. The intruder may be weak from starvation, but that only made it more desperate; a fight could possibly kill them both (bleeding, infection, shock...), but the intruder had nothing to lose. Backing off was the simplest choice.
But then what? The intruder gets fed and regains its strength, while the resident has an even more dangerous rival to contend with. After all, this was a prime hunting ground, and the intruder still had nowhere to go after this encounter. The resident, even with its primitive mind, questioned whether it was any less desperate than its adversary.
The resident hissed with the force of a bear's roar, announcing its decision; no backing off. The intruder let out the same, then charged, jaws wide. The resident braced itself for half a moment, then, with the intruder a hair's length away, seized the moment and forced its way under the foe's bottom jaw. With a grunt, the resident flipped the intruder on its back. Not wasting a second, the resident lunged, clamping down on its briefly incapacitated enemy's neck. Then, it tore away, ripping out whatever it had caught. The intruder's sudden motionlessness told the resident that it made a lucky shot to the throat.
The resident huffed in relief and rested. Gorgondiles were not above cannibalism, basically meaning that, between its two kills, the resident was set for a couple days.
|
|
|
Post by Immortal_Dragon on Jun 22, 2016 3:44:05 GMT
Risk ManagementThe beastly quadrupedal reptile gorged itself on the carcass of its latest victim. Not too much effort on the Gorgondile's part; all it had to do was give chase, tear off a chunk with its serrated fangs, and rest while the poor animal bled to death. Still, with minimum investment and maximum results, it was a beautifully (if brutally) efficient tactic, and, with the Gorgondile's lateral side markings (a healthy yellow among its glistening red scales) its merits showed. The killer paused abruptly to listen. Yes, that was the sound of something approaching. Looking about, the Gorgondile's eyes revealed an intruder. Nature clearly wasn't treating this individual so well; its markings were a more sickly, dull yellow. With that, and the deep scar across its snout, the intruder had obviously been chased out of its hunting range days ago. The resident moved to guard its kill, letting out a guttural rumble. The intruder responded with a hiss, showing that it was willing to fight. The resident weighed its options quickly. The intruder may be weak from starvation, but that only made it more desperate; a fight could possibly kill them both (bleeding, infection, shock...), but the intruder had nothing to lose. Backing off was the simplest choice. But then what? The intruder gets fed and regains its strength, while the resident has an even more dangerous rival to contend with. After all, this was a prime hunting ground, and the intruder still had nowhere to go after this encounter. The resident, even with its primitive mind, questioned whether it was any less desperate than its adversary. The resident hissed with the force of a bear's roar, announcing its decision; no backing off. The intruder let out the same, then charged, jaws wide. The resident braced itself for half a moment, then, with the intruder a hair's length away, seized the moment and forced its way under the foe's bottom jaw. With a grunt, the resident flipped the intruder on its back. Not wasting a second, the resident lunged, clamping down on its briefly incapacitated enemy's neck. Then, it tore away, ripping out whatever it had caught. The intruder's sudden motionlessness told the resident that it made a lucky shot to the throat. The resident huffed in relief and rested. Gorgondiles were not above cannibalism, basically meaning that, between its two kills, the resident was set for a couple days. Brutal... (slightly)gruesome... I love it!
|
|
|
Post by mitobox on Jun 24, 2016 1:13:59 GMT
(This won't seem like a "day in the life" at first.)
At first, it was just a normal region of space. An incomprehensibly vast cloud of cosmic dust, dark and mysterious. To some, it was an interstellar cartography landmark. To more material mindsets, a rich supply of hydrogen. But to the most knowledgeable, it was the duality of life and death; a nursery for infant stars, built from the grave of their forerunner.
One day, the darkness was pierced by a pinprick of light. The little spark grew in intensity as it consumed the swirling gas surrounding it. As if in indecision, it flashed between rust red to a blinding blue, before it settled on a brilliant whitish gold.
Then, the spark drove off its shadowy cloak in a tidal wave of solar wind.
Surrounding the newborn star was a disc of residue matter. This settled into planets, some gargantuan, others small and insignificant. An unseen, judging force hurled the planetoids about. One minute, one went so close to its mother star that its surface melted to burning slag. The next, it was sent careening to the edge of the system, so far from the nurturing warmth that the very air froze and fell to the ground.
Whatever omnipotent force directing them about finally showed mercy, ceasing its ball game to focus on one individual world a good distance to and from the star. Life emerged in the churning tides, going from simple to complex, then back again. It was not unlike Earth's for a moment, then became unrecognizable before returning to familiarity.
The being was satisfied.
START NEW GAME
A cell among countless others twitched.
|
|
|
Post by Narotiza on Jun 24, 2016 17:18:09 GMT
(This won't seem like a "day in the life" at first.) At first, it was just a normal region of space. An incomprehensibly vast cloud of cosmic dust, dark and mysterious. To some, it was an interstellar cartography landmark. To more material mindsets, a rich supply of hydrogen. But to the most knowledgeable, it was the duality of life and death; a nursery for infant stars, built from the grave of their forerunner. One day, the darkness was pierced by a pinprick of light. The little spark grew in intensity as it consumed the swirling gas surrounding it. As if in indecision, it flashed between rust red to a blinding blue, before it settled on a brilliant whitish gold. Then, the spark drove off its shadowy cloak in a tidal wave of solar wind. Surrounding the newborn star was a disc of residue matter. This settled into planets, some gargantuan, others small and insignificant. An unseen, judging force hurled the planetoids about. One minute, one went so close to its mother star that its surface melted to burning slag. The next, it was sent careening to the edge of the system, so far from the nurturing warmth that the very air froze and fell to the ground. Whatever omnipotent force directing them about finally showed mercy, ceasing its ball game to focus on one individual world a good distance to and from the star. Life emerged in the churning tides, going from simple to complex, then back again. It was not unlike Earth's for a moment, then became unrecognizable before returning to familiarity. The being was satisfied. START NEW GAME A cell among countless others twitched. Amazing! Could you write more stories like this?
|
|
|
Post by Immortal_Dragon on Jun 24, 2016 18:02:40 GMT
Amazing! Could you write more stories like this? I second this.
|
|
|
Post by Aquos on Aug 4, 2016 10:13:44 GMT
He walked through the dry wasteland, the wind almost blowing away his ragged clothing and his tentacle tightly holding his walking stick. They called him Old Man Yerna, he was an old man he, somehow survived it to 80 years old. He was so old in fact, that he still remeberd the day of the Blast, he even remeberd the day hat war first broke out. But how could he ever forget that cursed day ? The sun blazed on him, and a Pertit flew over him as he thought back at that cursed day. He had a nice life up untill then, he played with his brothers and sister, he got good grades at school, and when he had nothing to do he played video games on his computer. Ah those video games, he remeberd one he was particulry fond off, it was about guiding a species all the way to space whilst evolving it and-. But that was besides the point. He was only 14 when he heard it on the TV, yes he still remeberd how the presentator said "War, the Gazorians have declared war on us !" The day after his father started building a nuclear shelter, his mother laughed at him nut, in retrospect, if it wasn't for that they would've died a lot faster. He remberd the day the first boms where dropped, the weren't Atomic bombs but rather some type of magnetic bomb wich immobilized all our technologie, rendering us vulnereble. It was only weeks after the first Atomic bombs where dropped, he remberd how they all rushed to the shelter, how his little sister and brother cried and how he and his big sister try'd to calm then. It was a horrible day. Suddenly he got jumped out his thoughs by the sound of some Xertors howling. They where probably hungry, but if it came down to it he could defed himself. So he contiued his thoughts. He remberd the day that his famly finally got to leave that wretched shelter and face the horrible world the outside had became. Everything that they loved was gone; their house, their favorite restaurant, their street, their city, even their country. From then on they wanderd through the wastelands, always in searh for food and drinkable water. And so it continued for a few years, untill that other faithfull day that they where attacked by bandits, his mohter died during th attack, and only a few months after that his father succumbed to the wounds, he himself still had the rips in his exoskeleton. From then on he and his brothers and sisters split from eachother, and he wanderd all across the world a horrible life. Or was he underestimating the qualty of his life ? Hand't he travled across dry yet beatifull wasteland without water ? Hand't he seen the ever growing snow of Nuclear Winter ? Hand't he visited the last few settlements standing ? Hand't he seen the last few places where life still thrived as it used to ? Maybe his live wasn't so bad after all.....
So i've finally written something here. I don't have a lot of writing experience so please tell me what you think
|
|
Skyguy98
Spacefaring
Lord of the Skies (pic found by atrox)
Posts: 1,637
|
Post by Skyguy98 on Aug 4, 2016 10:22:06 GMT
Very interesting story idea, fallouty, but also feels like something someone who survived that long would say. Keep it up aqous. And keep it up too the rest of you guys, I love reading stories and love hearing your ideas!
|
|
|
Post by mitobox on Aug 5, 2016 21:00:10 GMT
Agony. Pure agony. That was all that the miserable beast had known, and would ever know. With every step, burning pain seared through its six malformed legs, bent at unnatural angles. Its feet, each balanced on a singular toe, were broken from a weight they could never naturally support, yet the creature was forced to walk onwards. Its body, curving like a "v," was wrapped in a thin, sickly green skin, mottled with cancerous red spots from the harsh sunlight it offered no protection from. Here, too, was pain, not only from its tortured hide, but also its inner organs, a jumbled mess that tore and bled at the seams. A sac filled with digestive acids had burst, dissolving the poor beast's very insides. A long tail pitifully drooped behind, calloused from the rough sediments it was dragged on. The structure of its skeletal neck was rudimentary, a thin vertebra too weak to support its head, but just strong enough to avoid breaking, thus allowing the bombardment of pain signals to continue. Its esophagus and windpipe were crisp and dry, lacking mucus glands, thus rythmatically stinging from dry air. The throat held no vocal organs, no tools with which to scream and provide at least some avenue of pain relief. Its head resembled a stereotypical skinwrapped dinosaur's head; jaws and muscles pushed up against skin, needle-sharp, conical teeth pierced and drew blood from nonexistant gums, and three tumorous white eyes quivered like jelly. Not that the latter was too much trouble; the beast was blinded with pain as is. It was too much pain. The only thought that the tragic monster's shrivelled, gray brain could conjure was a blaring plea for sweet death. ----- Sweet mother of Belgium, what the heck is wrong with this update?!?! Yeah, apparently, there's a bug in population dynamics and Auto Evo that causes populations of creatures performing well in some arbitrary categories to grow even when the creatures themselves should be dying horribly. So, now, my planet's turned into the Belgium love child of Avatar and H. P. Lovecraft. KILL THEM BURN THEM WITH FIRE END THERE MISRY Oh Belgium, you guys, whatever you do, don't turn on non-LAWK. Also, if you have any misguided ambitions of reaching the Space Stage for bragging rights, forget it. Those communication screens are a nightmare. I Just Saw Some Of Them Doing Procedural Mating. Someone Please Give Me Mind Bleach.
|
|
|
Post by GRODOG on Aug 9, 2016 8:54:38 GMT
in 2051... making diplomancy with earth... starting war with zorkans... eating xenomorphs for bafst... yes we hunt xenomorphs for food... we made farms of them...
in 2058 still the same...
in 4768231932107894837493128 getting extinct... by lying around in holes cause we think we lived long egnouff...
|
|
The_Wayward_Admiral
Spacefaring
The_Real_Slim_Shady
Atrox drew this awesome image of the Keldori!
Posts: 1,011
|
Post by The_Wayward_Admiral on Aug 21, 2016 0:23:51 GMT
Entropy
Whiiiiiiiirrrrrrr
Sir Veaugh's mechanical mind came online, it's cooling fans making massive amounts of noise. He was getting old.
The quadrupedal robot gingerly raised himself up on his spindly legs, to a cacophony of groans and a faint wheeze from the primary gear assembly at his base. He creeped away from his charging station in the corner of the robotory, inching deliberately past the rusting husks of his one-time counterparts. The room, no larger than the average subway car, was packed wall to wall with charging stations and other robots that once served different purposes.
He passed a cooking robot, with a dozen arms in a tangled mess. He passed a cleaning robot, its vacuum chamber cracked open. He passed a mobile calculator, with every last button missing from its interface. He passed five more decaying machines, his legs kicking up dust all the way.
After a time, he reached the door. In days passed it would have required him to transmit the "open" signal, but the door had gotten jammed open four or five months ago. Sir Veaugh's calendar had become corrupted at some point and he wasn't quite sure of the time. Stepping through the threshold, he turned left toward the observatory.
His battery was draining fast, as it had been for weeks. Yesterday he had barely made it to the charging station in time. As he drew closer to the observatory, he could hear audio playing. He must have left the log running after inputting his data last night. He was in quite the hurry after all.
"...officially shutting down Gamma. We have identified a more suitable planetismal for your observations. The cost [unintelligible] is excessive given the permanency of the base. You are instructed to leave all equipment for a later team to disassemble [unintelligible]..."
He inched into the observatory and plugged himself in to the telescope interface. He waited several seconds for the system to recognize his input and begin sending him the information it had gathered over the night. His processor was getting very warm, and it was his fondest hope that one of the staff would take him to the maintenance bay so he could continue his tasks without the inconvenience of a hardware failure.
"...coming on the 20th. No need to shut down the thorium reactor, the lab coats want to know how long it'll take for the base to fail on its own. I guess that's valuable information..."
Sir Veaugh spent the rest of the day directing the telescope into paths that seemed promising and copying the bits as they flowed through his link cable.
"...signing off. September 7th, 2058. Say hi to Servo for me."
His battery running low, the tarnishing bronze robot slowly creeped back toward the log terminal and plugged in his cable. His battery life was at 3%, so rather than stepping into the observation deck as he used to, he headed straight for his charging dock. He had not been able to visit the observation deck for several days, he missed seeing the stars through his own photoreceptors instead of the great telescope's.
His processor was heating even more now, prompting the whine from his cooling fan to increase in pitch and volume. As he finally reached the robotory entryway, the whining simply stopped. He forced his legs to continue despite the protests from their joints. He forced his mind to focus on getting to his charging station despite the rapidly rising temperature in his head cavity. He forced his circuits to stay engaged despite his 1% battery charge. Passing the cook, the cleaner, the calculator, and the others again, he made his way deliberately to his charging station.
Reaching out his right pincer to grab the charge cable, the world began to go dark. Sir Veaugh kept reaching for a cable he could not see, and within moments fell still.
|
|
|
Post by Atrox on Aug 21, 2016 2:37:01 GMT
Wayward why the feels ;-;
Very good story, though. I loved it but it was SAD
|
|
The_Wayward_Admiral
Spacefaring
The_Real_Slim_Shady
Atrox drew this awesome image of the Keldori!
Posts: 1,011
|
Post by The_Wayward_Admiral on Aug 21, 2016 3:07:25 GMT
I honestly don't know why the feels. I tend to be a pretty happy human being, but I REALLY struggle to write happy stories well...
And thank you!
|
|
|
Post by Immortal_Dragon on Aug 21, 2016 4:11:47 GMT
I honestly don't know why the feels. I tend to be a pretty happy human being, but I REALLY struggle to write happy stories well... And thank you!
|
|
|
Post by StealthStyleL on Aug 21, 2016 7:41:48 GMT
It reminds me of the moon robot from a Wallace and Gromit episode.
|
|
|
Post by limeyhoney on Sept 4, 2016 16:46:12 GMT
Who else is reminded of Edgar Allen Poe when reading these stories?
|
|
|
Post by GRODOG on Sept 5, 2016 17:28:05 GMT
Dancing...
|
|
|
Post by StealthStyleL on Sept 6, 2016 17:43:08 GMT
Trial By Fire - Part 1
Young Janek Portarian sighed slightly, his breath slightly fogging up his visor, his arms folded behind his head. He rubbed it clean with one arm of his flight suit and proceeded to stare out the glassy Belgiumpit of his little single-seated fighter into the empty void of space. Piloting was supposed to be fun. That's why he had signed up for the Space Corps at the tender age of eighteen, an age at which only a small number joined, following in the footsteps of his late father.
Janek hit his computer with disgust at himself. If only he hadn't mucked up on his first big manoeuvre; a training exercise involving the deployment of fighters from large battle cruisers deep in space. There'd been an incident during the space jump and Portarian had fallen out at the wrong destination, with his hyperdrive damaged no less. Embarrasingly, he was pretty much stuck. He had been instructed by Command to wait for a recovery team, and so was left with nothing to do but stare into the inky darkness and wait for help. Easily bored, his mind began to wander.
The manoeuvre itself was a nervous result of the increased tension between his own planet, Mallackan, and the Craj Empire. Word in the airfield was the Empire was looking to expand again and Mallackan was a likely target. Janek realised his fists were clenched and shaking with fury. He would die before he let that happen. He thought of his mother and five younger siblings...no, there was no way he'd ever let them become slaves to the Craj.
Janek sighed again and kicked his feet up on the dashboard, accidentally knocking a lever. He grumbled to himself as the windscreen wipers were activated and began to squirt soap over the window; they swiped around, squeaking irritatingly. At least his fighter would be clean when the recovery people picked him up, he thought bitterly. Just as Janek watched the last patch of soap be washed away, he thought he spotted something in the dark, a light. If there was someone out there, it sure was a coincidence.
Janek suddenly became alert and strapped himself properly back into his pilot's seat. Whatever it was, it was moving closer and his natural curiosity got the better of him. He had to find out what could possibly be travelling through his neck of the woods, in the middle of space. He turned on the computer, "hello master," and ignited the main engines, which, thankfully, were still working. A minute later, Janek and the computer had gone through all the correct processes (well, most of them) and were flying towards the bright object in the distance.
Janek and the strange object were moving closer together, but as the object turned it's trajectory slightly, Janek was able to identify it, with a gasp. What? No, it couldn't be- not a missile. His first thought was that his eyes must be mistaken and that it would turn out to be something else when he got closer. But as he approached, it became apparent that it really was a missile, the bright light being the rocket which powered it through space. Janek could hear it's faint roaring, just penetrating the Belgiumpit. The Craj...
Hoping to God, his worst fears would not become a reality, Janek fumbled unsuccessfully with a red communication switch. He was letting the panic get to him. But how could he not - a missile like that could kill thousands, if not millions. "Let me master," the computer happily offered. Within seconds, the voice of Command, garbled by the poor reception came through. "Cyclid Six, gimme a sitrep, over." "Uh, Command this is Cyclid Six. Uh, I have eyes on a possible bogey." "Can you determine what sort of bogey we're dealing with here, over?" "Yeah, it's uh - it's, uh, a m-missile...over." Silence. Then, the voice crackled again, sounding distinctly more urgent. "Cyclid Six, say again. Did you just say missile?"
"Yep, I'm looking at a missile." The realisation brought on by actually saying those words quickly sunk in. "Oh my God, I'm looking at a missile. I'm looking at a bloody missile!" The deep, reassuring voice of Command rang through his headset. "Cyclid Six, keep your head out there! We're going to scan your sector, standby." There was silence again that stretched on into minutes. The missile was still arcing through space and Janek was drawing closer. Panic turned to frustration; where the bloody hell was Command? He needed instructions, he couldn't just sit here like a lemon. Just when he was about say to hell with it and fire at the missile, Command came back. It was about time!
"Scans confirm that the bogey is in fact tipped with a nuclear warhead and the trajectory suggests the target is Mallackan. The missile is Craj made." Janek wondered how Command always spoke with such calm, when all he wanted to do was scream and swear. He assured himself this missile, a nuclear one, would not hit his home planet. "Orders, sir?" asked Janek, surprised how levelheaded his voice sounded. "Cyclid Six, what's your current load out, over?" Janek checked the computer. "Four rockets and plenty of machine gun ammunition." "Copy. The machine gun will have no effect on the missile, use your rockets to take it out. Try to stay clear of the consequent blast, Six."
Janek felt like an anvil had just dropped on his stomach. He, he Janek, was supposed to take out the missile. The same guy who had dropped out of an exercise manoeuvre, his first one? "Command, are you sure there are no other units that can-" "Negative Cyclid Six, all other units are too far to reach it in time. Planetary defence systems are still being developed and 1.2 million casualties are estimated. You have to take it out, Cyclid Six. You can take it out!"
Steeling himself for the task, Janek gulped and turned on the weapons system. "Hello sir," came the odd, mechanical voice of the computer, which he hadfondly nicknamed Steve. "What weapon would you like today?" Janek selected the rockets and primed them for launch. He'd done this hundreds of times at the airfield, but simulations could not prepare you for the real thing. A crosshair appeared in Janek's state of the art visor, and he held his breath as he fired.
|
|
|
Post by StealthStyleL on Sept 8, 2016 13:20:44 GMT
Trial By Fire - Part 2
Note: Just so you know, Cyclid is Janek's call sign and his species. Just in case there is any confusion. And sorry for the double post.
Janek Portarian felt his small craft shudder slightly as the rocket shot out of it's tube and sped towards the chugging missile. His heart was pounding, aching to be burst out of his chest, as he watched the rocket with anticipation. It flew right at the missile , like a dart, but at the last moment it skimmed harmlessly inches above the missile. "Damn!" Janek pounded his dashboard in annoyance before he primed another rocket. Three chances left...
As he lined up the shot, he realised he was shaking with fear and trepidation and that was likely to be the reason he missed the first shot. Janek took a deep calming breath and momentarily closed his eyes. Alright, don't panic, just take your time and line it up. Feeling oddly at peace, Janek opened his eyes again, cautiously aimed the weapon and tapped the computer display with a gloved finger.
A harsh beep sounded and no rocket left the fighter. "What's going on?" Janek muttered. "There is a malfunction with the selected rocket, sir," explained Steve the computer, mechanically. "It shall have to be ejected before it can cause any damage." Janek sighed. Today was just not his day. "Alright Steve, I'll eject it." He pressed the flashing eject icon on his computer screen and watched as the rocket floated uselessly away, another chance at saving his people floating with it.
"Time for my second to last chance," Janek said to himself. For the third time, he primed a rocket and lined up the shot with painstaking patience, that caused Janek to surprise himself. He pressed the launch button and almost expected to hear another ominous beep. The ground crew would be in for a rollicking when he returned, then he'd probably buy them all a beer.
Whoosh! The second rocket again streaked out of his fighter, following it's computer-guided nose along the track set by the pilot. It closed the gap within seconds and smashed into the side of the missile, with a tremendous explosion, which shrouded the missile. A surge of jubilation joined the adrenaline in Janek's system, sure he had just saved his home planet from the ominous nuke.
But he had to make sure; it was lucky he did, for as the cloud from the explosion dissipated, the deadly missile could be seen to be still stubbornly making it's way. This time Janek did not react with anger; the situation was too precious for that. He used something he hardly ever did; logic. "Command, this is Cyclid Six, over." "We read you loud and clear, over." "The rockets are having no effect on the missile. Are there any suggestions you can give me?" "Standby." Janek could hear a muffled discussion on the speaker, as Command obviously pooled together their ideas. It sounded like a lot of people had joined Command. Little did Janek Portarian know, but the inexperienced eighteen year old was currently the star and centre of the Space Corps. All the top officials had arrived to oversee the situation and were fighting with each other to get their opinions' heard.
A short while later, Command came back on the speaker. "Cyclid Six, do you copy?" "Roger." "The main body of the missile is protected by a strong force field that will prevent your rockets from doing any damage. However, the warhead itself has no such protection or it wouldn't detonate on impact. A rocket to the warhead will cause the missile to explode. Do you copy?" "Copy all. I got it, Command." Steeled with a new sense of purpose, Janek felt ready for this task. He knew he could stop the missile. Janek noticed the blue speck he called home, just appearing in the distance. He was running out of time...
Pushing the small engines as fast as they would go, Janek brought himself parallel with the missile and alongside the warhead. He found it hard to imagine that such death and destruction could be caused by an uncaring machine, with no emotions whatsoever. Once again, Janek primed the rocket and trailed the crosshair over the warhead, preparing for his final chance.
The ultimate rocket zoomed toward the missile in a cloud of smoke. The trail cut through space, zipping ever closer to the metallic behemoth. Janek watched it's journey; if he missed this...closer and closer the rocket went, approaching the missile's volatile warhead. The crucial moment arrived and went. The missile had missed. Janek was frozen in horror, not being able to believe that he had gone wrong. He had just doomed 1.2million of his people to a horrible death. He thought of his family again, smiling and waving happily as they dropped him off at the airfield. He would not allow this missile to hit...at any cost. Janek knew what he had to do.
"Cyclid Six, give us a sitrep, over?" Janek did not want to reply and feel the shame of being judged a failure again. "Cyclid Six, come in." "I failed. I missed." "Say ag-" "Actually, I just missed. I won't fail. The missile will not hit Mallarckan." The stony determination in his voice said it all. "Cyclid Six, I can't ask you to do that." "I don't want you to ask. I'm doing this myself. Thanks for all your help Command." It was sincere. Command's calm and thoughtful voice was a source of comfort. "Portarian, your father would be proud."
The engines crumbled and complained loudly as Janek worked all the speed he could out of them. He felt like his craft might fall apart at any moment as he raced towards the nuclear missile. He was going to end this once and for all and there was only one way: Janek was going to drive his fighter into the warhead.
As he hurtled towards it, the nuts and bolts of the aircraft loosening and falling out, Janek was calmer than he had ever been in his life. It was simple; either he hit the target, or they died. His smiling family visited his mind again as Janek envisioned them being able to live their lives free of missiles. Perhaps when his siblings grew up they might join the Space Corps like him...actually, hopefully not. "I estimate our chances of survival are 0.0000000001%, sir," chirped Steve, happy as always. "Have you checked your life insurance recently. I promise it will only take five minutes, sir." "Thanks Steve but that's okay." As the moment came closer he briefly wondered how his father died and hoped he would get to meet him. They would laugh and catch up on each other, perhaps watch some football or their family growing up.
The moment came and Janek felt no different. His crumbling fighter hit the warhead at an astonishing speed and the warhead exploded with a earsplitting bang. The nuclear material spilling out like a poisonous cloud over the once pristine velvet carpet of space. Janek did not hear the noise nor see the cloud. He did not feel anything. He and the fighter had completely disappeared within seconds.
Back in Command, the large throng of senior military commanders cheered loudly for their saviour as the missile went offline. A small wiry man, with balding grey hair and moustache, flicked a switch, hoping to hear his young friend, who he had only ever called by his name once. His instincts were true however. There was no reply. The celebrations were long and the people of Mallarckan partied in the streets. They had been saved from certain death. Janek Portarian, a rookie eighteen year old fighter pilot, became a legend, who was spoken highly of for decades to come. A statue was unveiled for his family, who were saddened by their loss but proud of Janek. Immortality wasn't bad for a day that started with Janek having to bail from a training exercise.
|
|
|
Post by Atrox on Sept 8, 2016 16:20:50 GMT
Aw Stealth these were awesome! One of my favorite stories on this thread definitely!!
|
|
|
Post by StealthStyleL on Sept 11, 2016 15:12:02 GMT
Rising Sun - Part 1
The excruciatingly bright sun reflected off the hard-packed sand. The wind whipped grains across the largest desert on the planet, Terronia, like a wave in the sea. Kam Bal shielded his heavily lidded eyes with a skeletal hand, and scoured the western horizon. Kam Bal was the chief of one of the largest tribes in the deserted and his desert-chiselled features displayed wizened features. He was just passing middle age for his species, Gragafs.
Kam Bal was average looking for a Gragaf, except for a long scar that ran vertically over his face. Gragafs were tall humanoids with a thin body; their mass was minimal so that they didn't have to use as much energy, which was hard to find in the desolate desert. Few creatures called it home. Their sandy skin seemed to be stretched tight over their extended skeleton, except for at one point. Their heads, complete with snout and small eyes, had a bulbous top, that expanded to store more fat when times were hard, which was most of the time nowadays. It was seen as rude to not cover this top with a turban.
Today, like most days, Kam Bal's face was grave and concerned; he was only happy around his large family of multiple wives and children. But he was plagued by worrisome news. The local Tyyrd army was planning to send a unit out in the desert, to wipe out their bustling community.
The Tyyrd's were the only other sapient species to reside on Terronia and once upon a time, it had been the Gragafs who were dominant. Thousands of years ago, the single continent was almost entirely desert, a habitat that the Gragafs were well-suited to. The Tyyrds had been limited to the shores. However, unbeknownst to the primitive Gragafs, the tide was turning: high global temperatures caused the seas to expand and rise. The continent was dwindling. Soon, it was little more than lush tropical islands that the Tyyrds were well suited for.
Between 2 and 3 foot tall, the diminutive Tyyrds had bright green scales, webbed appendages and abnormally large, dark eyes for sight underwater. They were well adapted to fishing off the coast, and as these began to become more frequent, their population skyrocketed. The Gragafs, on the other hand, were decreasing, losing ground to the ocean and the Tyyrds. There was tribal infighting and wars with the Tyyrds. Gragafs were dropping towards extinction and Kam Bal knew it. That was what led to the current day's predicament, on the largest island. The technologically advanced Tyyrds had multiple cities across the planet, all led by a single fascist dictatorship. Many Gragafs joked flatly that they were compensating with their ruthless rule and nicknamed them the Little Generals.
Bringing himself back to the present, he spotted a squadron of specks disappearing off into the desert. He knew instinctively it was the Chuckabarrans that he had sent on an important errand, the names that were given to those who rode Chuckabarras, one of the few creatures that they shared the desert with. Chuckabarras were squat, quadrupedal beasts that moved at decent speeds. They had thin, straight beaks that were used to pierce Bulba plants and suck out all the goodness.
Kam Bal shook of his thoughts and motioned to his band of warriors. They too climbed aboard their Chuckabarrans and shouldered ancient assault rifles whilst gripping reigns with the other hand. Kam Bal climbed aboard his personal steed, Mohmi, who he had named after his first and favourite, but sadly late, wife. Jado, his son by that wife, joined him on the ridge of the village. As was customary, Kam Bal showed little emotion and his farewell to those waiting in the village was a curt nod. He whipped the reins of Mohmi and they sped of with a terrifying war cry into the desert. Kam Bal did not look back.
A couple of hours later, they reached the ridge of a dried up riverbed, courtesy of a Tyyrd-built dam, that was to be their ambush point. There, they waited, Kam Bal's lieutenant going over the plans for the men, whilst Kam Bal stared intently to the west. The people were always in awe of his silent power, and he felt they followed him better if he talked only when necessary. Kam Bal was certain the enemy would travel along the river bed to reach their village; the Tyyrds were complacent and predictable and it was the path of least resistance. They didn't care that it was an obvious ambush point.
Sure enough, after a period of waiting, a distant plume of dust could be seen approaching along the groove of the riverbed. Tanks. Kam Bal signalled his men to lay low and stay out of sight and then made his way to the edge of the ridge. He felt a hand grip his wrist and snapped around, furious at who would dare pull him back. His anger slackened. "Jado..." "Father, you can't honestly go down there yourself. You know what they are like, they'll slaughter you," Jado pleaded. "You must learn to understand Jado, that a single movement can inspire a village. The enemy fight with tanks, we must fight with our hearts." "But at least let me come with you..." Kam Bal turned and began walking down the slope again. "I cannot allow it. You may need to lead the men and our people, if I don't survive. Return to the troops and do not embarrass yourself again."
Kam Bal loved his son, even if it was hard to tell, but survival of the village was more important, and he had to teach him the harsh truths of leadership. And so, Kam Bal made his walk alone until he stood right in the centre of the riverbed, resting against a beaten old staff. He looked pitiful and old but appearances were deceptive. He stood calmly, as a deep rumble began to penetrate the ground around his feet and loose pebbles were vibrating. The ominous cloud came closer and closer until a grey eight-wheeled armoured vehicle turned the bend, showing no signs of stopping. It was shortly followed by a squadron of similarly patterned, desert-worn tanks. They trundled facelessly towards Kam Bal. The sun had risen to it's highest and most devastating point in the sky. The time was right, thought Kam Bal.
|
|