Note everyone is wearing a gas mask, unless otherwise stated. This story will be jumping back between characters and teams. This is part one . Please enjoy
In the year 2014 the world was laid to ashes and dust in the war to end all wars. The remaining civilians banded together with only one goal. Survive. In Senzavova city 100 years later, groups of survivors have banded together into teams. Green: The remnants of the Army. Blue: The unsmart, but resourceful Airforce. Yellow: Tankers and explosive maniacs. Red: war mongers with only one goal. Domination. The factions are in a stale mate, but when the bold new Red General decides the city belongs to him. And several new non-teamed freelancers appear the balance of power may be dramatically altered. And the cruel fate of black team may finally be revealed. Who will rule….THE CITY OF SAND!
City: ?
Zone: 15
"Sand, too much Goddamn sand", The Operative growled as he tried to get a hand hold in the loose rock that made up the sand dune. The area around him was nothing but rolling hills of sand as far as he could see, which was about a 500 feet in each direction. Visibility was normal, but storm clouds began to form over The Operative's head."Shit", he said bitterly when he saw the clouds. He continued to climb the dune another fifteen or sixteen feet until he reached the top. Struggling under the weight of his own equipment he barely managed to pull himself over the top. The Operative was dressed in a large grey trench coat . He dropped his rifle a couple feet away and rolled over on his back panting. He stared at the beige sky while he caught his breath. After thirty seconds of rest The Operative rolls over and stumbles to his feet. The wind begins to blow harder and throw the sand around.
The Operative takes the binoculars from around his neck and starts to search the area for any signs of life. A couple hundred feet away from where he is standing he sees the image of two men kneeling over what appeared to be a corpse. Both men have their faces concealed by gas masks and tribal headbands. They wear no shirts apart from the worn leather armor that covered their torsos and arms. Skins of animals and what appeared to be human faces served as barbaric kilts."Fucking animals", he thought. The Operative set down the binoculars and set up the bipod on his CX117 Concussion rifle. The rifle was 5 feet long from tip of the barrel to end of the stock. The rifle fires by shaving a bullet the size of a grain of sand off a dense block of metal stored in the rifle, decreasing its mass with a CX energy field, and firing the projectile at supersonic velocities.
The Operative lined the scope up on his target's head. The one he was looking at was going through the dead man's pockets. The raider looked up and The Operative fired. The bullet ripped through the air and smashed directly above the raider's eye. The kinetic energy behind the bullet sent the man's skull flying in all directions. Blood and brain matter rained over the area and the headless raider slumped backwards. The other raider jumped up and started firing a pistol wildly that he had concealed. The Operative smiled at the blood and fired again. This time the bullet landed in the center of the raider's hand, knocking the pistol to the ground. The Raider swore and grabbed his hand, which was now gushing blood. The Operative fired two more times. These bullets struck the Raider in both knee caps. The raider crumpled into a pile soaked in his own blood. The Operative smiled and slung his rifle over his shoulder, and then he started climbing down the other side of the sand dune. When he reached the ground he walked slowly toward the bodies. He walked slowly smiling beneath his gas mask, he wasn't feeling rushed. Due to the brewing storm the first Raider was almost completely buried in sand. The Operative walked up to him,"Eww, might wanna look at that it looks infected". He kicked sand on the Raider's face and walked over to the second one. The second Raider was not yet dead. He was hyper-ventilating and immobile. The sand around him was painted dark red. The Raider turned his head and stared at The Operative with a look of pure loathing. "I'll kill you", he spat," I'll cut yer dick off, shoot you in the fuckin head, and fuck the hole". "Sure", the Operative smiled and pulled a nine millimeter handgun out of his waist holster. He cocked it, pulled back the hammer, and aimed it at the crippled Raiders head. "Any last words", the Operative jokes. "Fuck yer mom", the Raider spat. "I'll work on that", The Operative responded and shot him in the head. The Raider's head jerked back and his face imploded, and blood leaked out from beneath him. The Operative re-holstered the pistol, and started rummaging through his pockets. When he found nothing of use he walked casually back over to the man the Raiders robbed.
By this time the wind has picked up even more speed. Visibility was reduced to 25 feet all round him. The dust storm was coming soon. The man laid sprawled out with sand piling up on him. He wore a black leather tanker's uniform. He wore the same breathing apparatus that the Raiders did, if not in better condition. The man also wore a grey world war two German helmet with the letters "YC" printed on the side. On his arm was a yellow armband that was also embroidered "YC". The Operative knelled beside him "you're one unlucky bastard". As he started to stand up the man convulsed. The Operative whipped out his pistol and pointed it at the man's head. "You killed them?", he asked weakly looking up the barrel of the pistol. "Dead as the sand they now sleep in. You alright", The Operative asked, slowly holstering his pistol. "I think my leg's broken. The bastards ambushed me and knocked me out. Thanks for the save by the way".
"Not a problem, but a guardian angel doesn't come cheap"
"Ah, that's understandable my name is Colonel Dunbar , Yellow Team".
"Yellow Team? Sounds like a bad sci-fi novel"
Colonel Dunbar laughed "you're new to Senzavova aren't you"?
"I don't even know where the hell I am".
"My base is about a mile that way", he pointed with his left hand. "Help me get there and my superior will give you a reward. The Operative stood in thought for a moment. He didn't like not being paid up front, but the storm was getting worse and he would need a place to stay and food. "Fine, but I'm not a cheap merc this is gonna cost ya".
"Fine fine, help me up". The Operative helped Colonel Dunbar to his feet and placed his arm over his own shoulder and they started to walk fast. "By the way I don't think I caught your name", Dunbar asked as he limped along. "I never gave it", came the response from the Operative.
With his left hand the Operative adjusted his gas mask and flipped on his emergence oxygen. "You do have a name don't you", Dunbar persisted.
"I'm The Operative."
"You're an Operative?"
"Not just an Operative THE Operative."
The banter between them continued like this until the storm became so severe they could hardly see at all. "How far to this base of yours", The Operative yelled over the roar of the wind. "It shouldn't be much farther, actually it should be about" Colonel Dunbar was cut of mid sentence as he was struck in the chest with a sphere shaped object. The Colonel collapsed and started gasping for air. The Operative picked up the rubber ball and examined it for a minute. "What the hell", he thought then a voice on a mega phone cut through the wind. "You have entered Yellow Team territory that was a warning shot identify yourself or become a burning pile of meat. "What the fuck? I've got an injured man here. His name is Colonel Dunberry he says he's one of you". There was silence for a moment. Colonel Dunbar regained enough breath to mutter "my name is DunBAR you idiot".
Four loud booms in rapid succession sounded. "Umm what was-", an artillery shell landing 5 feet away from the Operative stopped him mid word. "Son of a bitch", he cried and jumped to the left. Another shell landed a couple feet to his right, the energy knocked him to the ground. "Stop shooting", he screamed, but another shell landed a couple inches from his left foot. The explosion blew his leg off all the way to the knee cap. His leg flew, in pieces, fifteen feet away and landed in a sand pile. The Operative howled in agony and grabbed his stump, which was gushing blood unto the sand. The Operative's vision was blurring and fading fast. He was losing blood at a fatal rate. Through the sand and his spinning vision he saw fifteen or twenty soldiers appear in front of them and huddle around Colonel all had gas masks and wore the same leather uniform as Colonel Dunbar. "It's the Colonel stupid he's gonna have our ass for this," one of the men said.
"It's in the middle of a sand storm and this guy yelled the wrong name", another retorted obviously distressed, "check the other guy" "He's gone his leg is off", another yelled walking over to the Operative. As the soldier approached he saw the Operative squirming and grasping his leg. "Hey he's still alive", he hollered," We need to get them to doc". The Operative was still thrashing as the soldier check him for a team tag. "Welcome to Sand City", he laughed and punched the Operative in the face, knocking him out.