I do not own Lorien Legacies or any of the characters except James, obviously. The idea wouldn't leave me alone.
Lost
All around me the crackle of M16s and the thunder of tank fire go off. It's deafening. All around me, Marines and Soldiers from the United states run, or crouch, or lay in the prone, all firing away at the targets spread around the training area. Explosions and plumes of sand shoot into the air everywhere. I can't even hear myself think. Luckily I don't need to. My military training is beaten into me, almost literally, at times. As soon as I get the signal, I sprint out from behind the tank I've been in cover behind. I raise my M16, firing and dropping three targets in rapid succession, the rest of my team just behind me. We sprint across the space between our forces and the targets. Then, we reached the building we're supposed to be trying to clear the "terrorists" out of. I kick the door open and step in, spinning right and shooting the target in the face as the next man steps through the door, shooting the target in the room behind me. The next two walk in, instantly heading up the staircase in front of us, as we have the last million times we've done this drill. And, as with the last million times, we'll be yelled at for splitting up, despite the complete success of our method. I swing left in the living room I'm in, walking around the coffee table and entering the kitchen. Nothing across the room. I spin to my left as I enter, dropping another "terrorist." I exit the kitchen, meeting up with the other member of my team from the bottom floor and we go to the stairs, announcing that we're coming up and then silently ascending the stairs.
Just as I reach the top, the building shakes, a misplaced tank shot or mortar probably falling too close to the house. I can hear our platoon sergeant swearing and screaming over the radio but I'm too busy falling backward to listen. My teammate manages to catch me, barely, and I regain my footing, grumbling something that I'm not even really able to understand, and continue up the stairs. My team split up as soon as they reached the top so make our way down the hallway, making our way to the last set of rooms that haven't been cleared yet. We pause outside them and I radio my team for support. A moment later, they're finished with the rooms we bypassed and they take their positions near us. I kick my door open, the one across the hall being kicked in by one of the other two. The moment they're open, the four of us enter, shooting the two "terrorists" in the room before getting the "hostage" and walking out into the hallway. Across the hallway, my other two teammates come out with the "VIP" and head back outside. I follow, radioing that our mission was a success. Then, we hightail it back behind the tank and the gunfire finally stops.
"Five minutes," our sergeant says, looking at his stopwatch. Then, he turns, glaring at us.
About five minutes later, he walks away, having thoroughly torn us all new assholes for separating, since we were under strict orders not too. I sigh, resting my rifle against the tank and pull out my canteen, taking a sip and grinning.
"I think he was impressed," I grin.
"Oh really James?" the team's machine gunner, Chad Chadwick, snorts. "What gives you that impression?"
"We're not going again," our team's assistant machine gunner and sniper, Jimmy "Hawkeye" Falcon, laughs.
"Agreed," the team's newbie, dubbed The Rookie, chuckles.
The Rookie is actually named Clark Wayne. Because our Team is made up of nerds, it took us five weeks to stop making Superman and Batman jokes at him. Though, his magazines all still had the two heroes' emblems painted on them. Rookie was about five five with messy black hair shaved on the side but kept longer than regulation on top, tan skin, brown eyes, and a jagged scar on his right forearm that he claims was from a knife fight. Not sure if he was telling the truth about it. Hawkeye is six five, the tallest guy I've seen except Gigante, the company's resident wall of muscle and anger. Hawkeye is Guamanian, with a raging moto high-and-tight for his black hair, thick muscles all over his body, a handsome face and smooth voice that wins over whatever woman he wants it to, and an attitude that makes him a great friend...unless he's around your girlfriend. He has a habit of getting girls into bed then paying them to never talk to him again. He's a nice guy though. Just with a lot of relationship issues. Chad Chadwick is about my height, standing at five eight with naturally bright orange, curly hair, a lanky build, an affinity for running, and a splash of freckles that seem to fade and reappear depending on the day. Sometimes the hour. Chad's a comedian, or at least he thinks he is. I'm the leader of the team, though not by choice, and therefor my sense of humor is crippled by my job of dealing with higher ups and general authority. My blond hair is shaved on the sides, though faded from lower than Hawkeye's, as are both Rookie and Chad's, and my emerald green eyes are usually surrounded by bloodshot sclerae and dark circles. Being an insomniac and being in the military don't usually mix in a good way, though they go hand in hand in most cases. Like Rookie I've got muscle but it's less bulk than Hawkeye. I go with the preference of muscle endurance over muscle power. I'd rather be able to fight for a while than win a fight in one punch. Just in case that one punch doesn't work.
"Get your rifles ready," a gruff, pissed off, and extremely deep voice says from above me.
I groan, turning and looking almost straight up into the face of Gigante. His real name is Nokolav Yakovich and the Russian giant hates me and my team. Probably because we're always getting everyone else in trouble. Gigante stands roughly seven foot three and is a massive wall of muscle that could be spray painted green and pass as the Hulk. His hair is shaved around the side even lower than mine, even though it's not supposed to be that low, and then is messy and long at the top, brown hair falling all the way down to halfway past his ears and below his eyebrows, but strands sticking in every direction. I suppose no one says anything about his obviously out-of-regs hair because either they can't see it when they look up, or they're too afraid of what he'll do if they do.
"We're going again?" I groan.
"No," Gigante grunts. "We're leaving."
"No police call?" I grin, referring to having to pick up all of the spent casings. "Tight. I am so out of here."
I grab my rifle and my team and I dart around Gigante before he can grab us. Not fast enough, though, as I'm soon dangling by my flak jacket a foot or so above the ground, no visible strain on Gigante's face.
"Dude, seriously, what are you?" I ask as he stares at me.
"You're police calling," Gigante stated.
"Oh what?" I scoff. "You're fuckin' shittin' me!"
"Clean. Now." He sets me on my feet, and I toss my rifle to Rookie, turning and beginning to make my way around the training field, picking the spent casings up and stuffing them into my kevlar helmet.
Once it's full, I dump it into an ammo crate and hurry back to the others, not bothering to go back for the other million trips. Rookie hands me my rifle and I climb onto the chopper bound for base. The rest of my team is onboard with us and we lift off, heading for base. It's a fairly long trip, truthfully a bit longer than I'd expect. I wasn't really sure why he had to fly to far to train, especially since our base is on the coast and we do absolutely no water training, but that's the US military for you.
"Yo boss!" Hawkeye shouts. "We're comin' up on Avila!"
I blink in surprise looking out the open door of the chopper. Sure enough, the city is only a little ways off. I'm surprised we're that far already, almost a quarter of the distance. And yet, it's really not surprising at all, when I think about it. I tend to space out a lot. Suddenly the chopper shudders. I look up at Hawkeye knowingly and we both lunge for Rookie and Chad, throwing them into their seats where they begin to buckle themselves. They've never been in a chopper when it's crashed. Hawkeye and I have been in three. We both know what's coming. Hawkeye is already in his seat and buckling by the time I'm able to get Chad to stop freaking out by the chopper suddenly shaking violently to buckle him. I suppose it's fair that he's freaking out. Even in the military, they can't train you for a previously perfectly fine air craft to suddenly plummet to the ground over three hundred feet below. I reach for my seat then freeze. Three hundred feet. Fuck that.
I scramble toward the pilot, trying to shout over the alarms, warnings, grinding metal gears, and wind. I can't. I do, however, manage to point down and he nods, steering downward. Bad move. The helicopter's rear propeller breaks loos and the chopper begins to spun and enters a nose dive. I grab my seat beside me as the wind threatens to suck me out the open door. I can hear Hawkeye and Rookie screaming. Chad is silent. I look over. There's a broken piece of propeller blade sticking out of his chest. His eyes are wide open and panicked but he's lost the ability to speak, probably breath. I swear, pulling myself into the seat and strapping myself in, barely. By the time I'm done, my arms are screaming with fatigue and pain. Then, there's the sound of screeching metal even louder. My world turns crooked and I see Hawkeye's look of panic. Then, my seat tears free. As soon as I'm out, I pull the ripcord of the parachute I had had to bully the officers into giving me for my seat, the chute deploying from the carrier now secured to the seat. The chute flails above me, failing to snap open and slow my descent, as though laughing at me for being thrown out.
Below me, there's a deafening crash and explosion, a massive propeller spinning past me, tearing a gaping hole in my chute but finally opening it, for all the good it does me. I squeeze my eyes closed, praying desperately to not die in a massive heap of twisted crumpled, and probably burning helicopter parts somewhere below me. I hear a roar of wind as the ground rushes up to meet me, then, my vision goes black.
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