Hello, all. 6th fanfic, whoo-hoo.

Don't own Freedom Fighters, though I wouldn't mind it. Um, if memory serves me correctly, EA Games owns it.

Why I'm doing this, I don't know. Truth is, I like FF, I'm going to do a BIA and FF crossfic on my website, but I felt like doing this as well.

My characters, my plot (well, not really, but you know what I mean) and… well, just read it.

Enjoy.

Chapter One: In the Midst of the Storm

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!"

Tom desperately tried to shut out Sergeant Kigner's screams as he did his best to try to patch up the gaping hole in his team leaders' stomach.

Their sector was a wreck- New York had always been one, mind, but this was unbelievable. Mortars- Tom had known there would be- but this was too unexpected. Why the hell didn't they say anything about fucking tanks? All they said was a squad of Reds- instead they ran into a squad and an entire company of armor. They had lost Reeve back there; the poor bastard never stood a chance against those iron monsters.

And now, their team leader, who was tougher than anyone they had ever met, was taken out by a sniper and was screaming his lungs empty. With no medic and no decent supplies, Tom did the best he could to patch up his wounded comrade.

"Where's Parker?" he asked Hubbs, their other teammate and the squad's machine gunner. He was covering the northwest corner with the captured Soviet machine gun he had gotten back at base, and sweating like mad.

"Haven't a fuckin' clue. When those dirty sons of bitches broke through, we got split up. Jesus, d'you see what they did to Reeve?" he stammered nervously.

Tom had, unfortunately, seen what had happened when the tank shell had hit his friend. There hadn't been a piece left of him in the aftermath.

"What the fuck are we gonna do now, man?" Hubbs was wigging out now, "Jesus Christ we're fucking screwed."

"Hold on, man, let me just- HOLD STILL!" Tom screamed to Kigner as he tried to apply the sulfa, but the man squirmed. He cried.

"Ah-how, Jesus, man, this fucking hurts. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!" he screamed as the sulfa hit.

"STOP SQUIRMING, KIG, GODDAM IT!" his corporal screamed. The sergeant tried to hold still, but he screamed and tears streamed down his face as he treated the gut wound.

"Man, what the fuck are we gonna do? How we gonna get out of this one, man?" Hubbs was getting more scared by the minute now, "Contact!" he fired a short burst at a Soviet soldier coming around the corner. The enemy dropped.

"Will you calm down? I'm thinking!" Tom shouted.

"WE'RE FUCKED MAN! WE AIN'T NEVER GETTING OUTTA HERE!"

"LISTEN TO ME!" Tom grabbed his squad mate by the scruff of the neck and brought him closer, "I PLAN ON LIVIVNG PAST TODAY! AND WHY'S THAT? BECAUSE I'M ONLY NINETEEN, I'VE YET TO FIND A TRUE LOVE, AND I'VE GOT A PACK OF BUFFALO CHICKEN WAITING FOR ME BACK ON THE ISLAND! NOW FORGET YOUR WILL FOR A MINUTE AND GET A GRIP!"

Hubbs whimpered, then shook it off and grabbed his machine gun to fire at another approaching Soviet soldier. Tom went back to tying a Compress around Kigner's wound. The sergeant winced again.

"Jesus Christ, this fucking hurts," he moaned again.

"You sure you got that sniper? I don't want him pegging me in the leg when I run across that street," Tom called back over.

Hubbs was shooting his pistol at the rush now while reloading his machine gun, but he managed to shout, "Well, if I missed, we would've known by now, right? I mean, we're not exactly behind decent cover, y'know?"

It was true; the wall they were behind was pretty much crumbling, pocketed with bullet holes and shrapnel. Any snipers for yards away would've had a clean shot at them. That guy must be dead, or at least wounded. Tom glanced at their escape route. It was only across the street, only a few yards to safety. But the street itself was one wide bitch. And, out in the open with a wounded man, their only hope would be to run fast.

"Alright, here's the deal: We grab Sarge, hightail it across the street, and get down into the sewers. I'll hold the soldiers off long enough for you and Sarge to get to the raft, and then I'll fall in also. Clear?"

"What about Parker? We can't just leave him up here, it's not safe," argued Hubbs.

"With any luck, he's already back there, drunk as a skunk and smoking his lungs dead. He's a professional, he'll be alright."

Tom didn't know if he believed that or not, but he hoped it to be true. Right now, all he was concerned with was getting him and his two remaining squad mates the hell out of there before the entire goddam Soviet army rained down on them.

"Alright," he said, "One-"

They both placed an arm under Kigner's arms.

"Two."

They hoisted him up. He shouted in pain. They got ready to run.

"THREE!"

They half-ass sprinted across the 880 yards to the other side. The sergeant, although remarkably skinny, still managed to weigh them down considerably. Halfway across the street, they heard the dreaded sound: a low humming from the air, steadily growing louder.

"Shit-"

"CHOPPER!"

A Soviet attack chopper, armed with Miniguns and rockets on the wing spaces, was the main worst nightmare for the Resistance movement. They were hard to shoot down and, if one did not have an RPG rocket launcher, then all he really had was to say his prayers.

"GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!"

They now hauled a large matter of ass across the remainder of the street. All at once, Soviet rifleman started firing their AK-47's at them. Kigner fired his SMG one handed, a real trifle, because the gun was awfully inaccurate and it jerked wildly even when held with two hands. The chopper opened up with its Miniguns. The bullets tore through the streets, geysers of street and lead popping up behind them as they ran.

"GET DOWN THERE NOW!" Tom yelled to Hubbs. As the machine gunner helped the sergeant into the tunnels, the corporal unslung his beloved shotgun and pumped some lead into oncoming Russians.

He shot one just ten feet away with a loud spread-blast that hit the man in the chest and right shoulder. The guy dropped instantly. Tom emptied the shotgun and then fired his six-shot revolver, carefully aiming his shots and dropping one each time.

As he reloaded, he saw the chopper began its turn to face him. Then he saw the other threat- a tank, heavily armored, its 88 mm cannon swinging to aim right at him. Tom reached into his pocket and looked at the grenade his hand came back with- it was his last one.

"Fuck this," he said, pulling the pin, flipping the switch, and throwing it as far as he could. It landed on the hull of the tank and exploded, barely leaving a dent. The Miniguns roared and the tank fired, but Tom ducked down and slammed the lid shut before he was hit.

Chapter one up. I'll try to get chapter two up soon. Later.