Author's notes: Firstly, I apologise for subjecting you to my imagination.
If you survive, please review. Secondly, I don't own any of the characters,
placenames, or concepts I freeloaded from to create this story, and this
goes for ALL the chapters. Thirdly, this is my first post to
FanFiction.net, so I hope it doesn't screw up in any way. Fourthly, this
story is rated R for frequent use of four-letter words. If you care about
the applicable laws which you might break, you'd be best off clicking the
'Back' button on your browser now. Fifthly, keep watch for the
corresponding story I will soon write and post in the Harry Potter section
of this site, which is the same story but told from Harry's point of view,
which will clear up some of the questions this one leaves open as well as
adding new narrative of Harry's experiences during this story. Sixthly, to
place these pieces of fanfic in context, imagine that the Black Mesa
incident never occurred and that this story occurs sometime in the middle
of Harry Potter no. 5, except that Harry has already been told about Prof.
Trelawney's prophecy. Haven't read HP no. 5 or played H-L:OF? Your loss! Go
find out the plots from somebody.
The corporal sitting in the cargo bay ('meat pack' being the army slang) of the military transport aircraft, callsign Goose 2, was just like any other corporal right at that moment. Being dragged off by his superiors without a clue where or why, to do some job when he got there. It didn't occur to him that the upcoming job would push him beyond the limits. He stared serenely out of the open side of the low-flying aircraft, getting a pretty nice view of a forest below and an identical aircraft some hundred metres out, callsign Goose 3.
"So where the hell are we, anyway?" demanded a deep-voiced, assertive grunt.
"Well, if we thought we were going to your mother's house, so far this all looks familiar!" the resident tactical engineer shouted back over the sound of the rotors. This was witty and made everyone laugh. That is, the first time it was said, some six months ago.
"Yeah, that's real cute, Jack." the grunt answered back.
"Anytime, anywhere!" Jack the redneck engineer cried back in glee.
The radio crackled into life. The message which spouted from it was so unclear that the corporal doubted that even his superior officer, standing right next to the radio, could make it out. No one replied to whatever the message was.
At this time the corporal still had no clue that within hours he would be forced to choose between the mission and his own conscience. Nor did he realise that this op would redefine 'Fubar'. And neither did he care, for he was busy patting his pockets for a light to his cig.
"Do you smell that?" the assertive grunt piped up.
"Smell what?" the redneck intoned nasally.
"Smells like... smells like another babysittin' job to me, man." answered the grunt.
Jack laughed, "No shit, man!"
A virgin soldier shouted back from way down the line, "Babysitting job my ass! This job has training mission written all over it! Why else would they have kept our orders from us for so long?"
"Yeah, what the hell's that all about?" the grunt boomed.
"Do you have a problem, private?" the southern commander yelled back cuttingly. "I will give you your orders when we reach the LC!"
The grunt was no idiot. He knew full well what the only thing he could say here without being punished was, and he said it: "Sir, yes sir!"
The radio spoke. "Does anyone have a clear view of the LC yet?"
"Copy that, Ghost Rider. Negative so far." came an answer on the radio.
"I don't really care what we're going in for, as long as I get to kill me something." Jack announced.
"I heard that!" cackled the virgin soldier, just about audible.
Then Jack and the deep-voiced grunt began the twentieth of their bickering matches since they'd taken off from Iraq. But the corporal paid even less attention than usual. He rubbed his eyes and slapped himself. Unless he was mistaken, that was some kind of Pegasus flying alongside Goose 3. Except it was dead and rotting, too. The corporal was captivated by its ethereal, graceful yet revolting outline. Its hollow eyes were fixed on the plane's fuel cells. Madly, the flying horse put on an extra burst of speed and bit down into the fuel line. Fuel began spurting out of the wing, finely mixing with the air. Then the horse thing moved and bit down on the electricity cables. At once the horse thing was frazzled, the electricity being transferred to the body of the aircraft, then some sparks hit the fuel spray. The entire plane disappeared in a massive fireball. The commander stared at the fireball in wonder, then turned to the platoon and began issuing rapid-fire orders.
"Oh shit! Goose 3's down, Goose 3's down!" shrieked some hysterical radio operator.
"What the hell's going on up there?" Ghostrider screamed from the ground.
The corporal did up all his clasps securely and loaded his weapons, paying no attention to his commanding officer. After all, so far his only combat experience had been with the Iraqis, and at no point during the war had the Iraqis been well equipped enough or ballsy enough to fire at a transport. Here some bizarre mythical creature had just selflessly killed a platoon of soldiers and itself, so he had a right to be scared. Plus he was pretty sure he was dreaming, in retrospect a few seconds later, and he felt no need to listen to a dream-commander's orders.
Suddenly an explosion rocked the side of Goose 2, and the corporal saw out the window that they began to lose altitude. They weren't very high up, so he knew he'd have some chance of surviving, and held tight. The commander thought differently. He shouted, "God save me!" and hurled himself out of the aircraft.
When the plane smashed through the canopy of the trees and impacted the forest floor, the corporal lost consciousness instantly.
He regained consciousness less than a minute later, but to him it seemed like a nanosecond later. His eyes snapped open. Carnage met his eyes. Half a dozen of his fellow soldiers stood behind inadequate cover, firing dozens of rounds at an advancing troop of centaurs. The centaurs stepped over the bodies of their fallen and fired arrows at will. Jack leant around his tree and fired three times rapidly with his Desert Eagle weapon, knocking two centaurs backwards dead, and was then stuck in the throat with an arrow.
The corporal blinked and automatically reached around his back for his M-16. It wasn't there. He stood up and looked around a panoramic area. In the little clearing their landing had created were ten soldiers firing at advancing hordes of centaurs. The plane itself was mangled beyond recognition, with about two dozen charred bodies in the inaccessible meat pack. The corporal reached for his backup weapon, a Desert Eagle. It was gone too. He scanned the floor for dropped weapons, and saw his personalised (i.e. graffitied) assault rifle lying near Jack. He charged towards it, dodging an arrow, when an explosion went off behind him and knocked him flying. He was unconscious again before he hit the ground.
He became semi-conscious again. He felt himself being dragged over stone, and dropped onto his front. Painfully he craned his neck and forced himself to look up. The world was pretty hazy and blurry. He sensed that there were at least three other American soldiers in a small room with him. The door behind him was shut, and the door in front had been opened. He looked out into what seemed to be a courtyard inside a castle. A soldier ran down a path leading into the courtyard urgently.
"Get down!" one of the soldiers next the corporal advised in a yell. There was a flash of green light and the soldier flopped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The soldier next to the corporal cursed and ran out the door, assault rifle blazing. Then the darkness enveloped the corporal once again, and this time he didn't fight it.
The corporal sitting in the cargo bay ('meat pack' being the army slang) of the military transport aircraft, callsign Goose 2, was just like any other corporal right at that moment. Being dragged off by his superiors without a clue where or why, to do some job when he got there. It didn't occur to him that the upcoming job would push him beyond the limits. He stared serenely out of the open side of the low-flying aircraft, getting a pretty nice view of a forest below and an identical aircraft some hundred metres out, callsign Goose 3.
"So where the hell are we, anyway?" demanded a deep-voiced, assertive grunt.
"Well, if we thought we were going to your mother's house, so far this all looks familiar!" the resident tactical engineer shouted back over the sound of the rotors. This was witty and made everyone laugh. That is, the first time it was said, some six months ago.
"Yeah, that's real cute, Jack." the grunt answered back.
"Anytime, anywhere!" Jack the redneck engineer cried back in glee.
The radio crackled into life. The message which spouted from it was so unclear that the corporal doubted that even his superior officer, standing right next to the radio, could make it out. No one replied to whatever the message was.
At this time the corporal still had no clue that within hours he would be forced to choose between the mission and his own conscience. Nor did he realise that this op would redefine 'Fubar'. And neither did he care, for he was busy patting his pockets for a light to his cig.
"Do you smell that?" the assertive grunt piped up.
"Smell what?" the redneck intoned nasally.
"Smells like... smells like another babysittin' job to me, man." answered the grunt.
Jack laughed, "No shit, man!"
A virgin soldier shouted back from way down the line, "Babysitting job my ass! This job has training mission written all over it! Why else would they have kept our orders from us for so long?"
"Yeah, what the hell's that all about?" the grunt boomed.
"Do you have a problem, private?" the southern commander yelled back cuttingly. "I will give you your orders when we reach the LC!"
The grunt was no idiot. He knew full well what the only thing he could say here without being punished was, and he said it: "Sir, yes sir!"
The radio spoke. "Does anyone have a clear view of the LC yet?"
"Copy that, Ghost Rider. Negative so far." came an answer on the radio.
"I don't really care what we're going in for, as long as I get to kill me something." Jack announced.
"I heard that!" cackled the virgin soldier, just about audible.
Then Jack and the deep-voiced grunt began the twentieth of their bickering matches since they'd taken off from Iraq. But the corporal paid even less attention than usual. He rubbed his eyes and slapped himself. Unless he was mistaken, that was some kind of Pegasus flying alongside Goose 3. Except it was dead and rotting, too. The corporal was captivated by its ethereal, graceful yet revolting outline. Its hollow eyes were fixed on the plane's fuel cells. Madly, the flying horse put on an extra burst of speed and bit down into the fuel line. Fuel began spurting out of the wing, finely mixing with the air. Then the horse thing moved and bit down on the electricity cables. At once the horse thing was frazzled, the electricity being transferred to the body of the aircraft, then some sparks hit the fuel spray. The entire plane disappeared in a massive fireball. The commander stared at the fireball in wonder, then turned to the platoon and began issuing rapid-fire orders.
"Oh shit! Goose 3's down, Goose 3's down!" shrieked some hysterical radio operator.
"What the hell's going on up there?" Ghostrider screamed from the ground.
The corporal did up all his clasps securely and loaded his weapons, paying no attention to his commanding officer. After all, so far his only combat experience had been with the Iraqis, and at no point during the war had the Iraqis been well equipped enough or ballsy enough to fire at a transport. Here some bizarre mythical creature had just selflessly killed a platoon of soldiers and itself, so he had a right to be scared. Plus he was pretty sure he was dreaming, in retrospect a few seconds later, and he felt no need to listen to a dream-commander's orders.
Suddenly an explosion rocked the side of Goose 2, and the corporal saw out the window that they began to lose altitude. They weren't very high up, so he knew he'd have some chance of surviving, and held tight. The commander thought differently. He shouted, "God save me!" and hurled himself out of the aircraft.
When the plane smashed through the canopy of the trees and impacted the forest floor, the corporal lost consciousness instantly.
He regained consciousness less than a minute later, but to him it seemed like a nanosecond later. His eyes snapped open. Carnage met his eyes. Half a dozen of his fellow soldiers stood behind inadequate cover, firing dozens of rounds at an advancing troop of centaurs. The centaurs stepped over the bodies of their fallen and fired arrows at will. Jack leant around his tree and fired three times rapidly with his Desert Eagle weapon, knocking two centaurs backwards dead, and was then stuck in the throat with an arrow.
The corporal blinked and automatically reached around his back for his M-16. It wasn't there. He stood up and looked around a panoramic area. In the little clearing their landing had created were ten soldiers firing at advancing hordes of centaurs. The plane itself was mangled beyond recognition, with about two dozen charred bodies in the inaccessible meat pack. The corporal reached for his backup weapon, a Desert Eagle. It was gone too. He scanned the floor for dropped weapons, and saw his personalised (i.e. graffitied) assault rifle lying near Jack. He charged towards it, dodging an arrow, when an explosion went off behind him and knocked him flying. He was unconscious again before he hit the ground.
He became semi-conscious again. He felt himself being dragged over stone, and dropped onto his front. Painfully he craned his neck and forced himself to look up. The world was pretty hazy and blurry. He sensed that there were at least three other American soldiers in a small room with him. The door behind him was shut, and the door in front had been opened. He looked out into what seemed to be a courtyard inside a castle. A soldier ran down a path leading into the courtyard urgently.
"Get down!" one of the soldiers next the corporal advised in a yell. There was a flash of green light and the soldier flopped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The soldier next to the corporal cursed and ran out the door, assault rifle blazing. Then the darkness enveloped the corporal once again, and this time he didn't fight it.