Hello everyone, WHS72 here! Usually I find my writing focused on games and such, but I decided to take a crack at the Regular Show niche. I had a few ideas and decided to spring on them as soon as I could. With my creative process flourishing at the moment, this story should receive a few updates rather quickly, so stay tuned!
WARNING: This chapter will contain some rather detailed descriptions of gunshot wounds, and I feel I'm stretching it on the T rating. If that disgusts you or is not your thing, the section is in the second italicized section. Please let me know if this construes my rating at all, as I'd rather like to keep to the proper set standards.
Note: This story is starting out rated T, but will more than likely be bumped to M later on. I'll explain why towards the bottom, but until then, Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned characters below aside from those I've created in my little, twisted mind. Regular Show is the property of J.G. Quintel and Cartoon Network.
"Don't worry, we're gonna get ya outta here!"
"Incoming!"
"Watch the flanks, left side! Left side!"
"Outlaw 2-1, pull back. Close air support is gonna level that area. TOT 30 seconds."
"Ryan! Ryan!"
"Ryan?" His eyes snapped back at attention at the sound of his name, looking at the man across the desk from him with a bit of a dumbfounded expression.
"Yessir?" There was silence for a moment, and Benson took the moment to eye the young man through his glasses. Relatively tall, fit build. Short brown hair that rose slightly to the front and side in wisps with a short, scruffy beard to match. A button down, worn "cowboy" shirt and faded jeans. An old pair of boots that nearly paired well with the color of his hair. There was nothing in particular about the room that could draw his attention away, unless he favored the stained, cracked paint of the walls around him over the prospect of employment. The ceiling fan spun slowly, a decrepit contraption that did little to alleviate the sweltering summer day. The window was open to the outside world but there was little to observe aside from a few passing cars and the back of the concession shack. The look though hadn't been of distraction; he appeared to be lost in some far away place, like a trance set upon by a magician. His eyes were locked on the park manager now, two orbs of blued steel focused intently on his response. Benson coughed and settled back into his chair.
"Anyways, why exactly did you want this job again?" The man thought for a moment, subconsciously tracing a prominent crease on the worn Georgia Tech ballcap in his lap.
"Well sir, I like workin' outdoors. I figured I might as well help out while I do it." Benson nodded and focused on the resume again. Short and to the point. That had been the majority of the interview, most of his answers a sentence or less.
"I see you've fought overseas. Thank you for your service." Those words came out a bit nonchalantly, a bit more careless than Benson would have wanted. Ryan simply gave a slight smile and nodded, seemingly unfazed by the offhand comment. The gumball machine glanced over the paper for a few minutes, leaving the would be candidate to wait patiently in silence. Despite the weather forecast being in the hundreds and the house's A/C unit being out of commission, he showed no discomfort at the miserable conditions. Benson folded the piece of paper back up, removing his glasses in the process and wiping away what he perceived as smudges with a cloth.
"I'm gonna be quite honest with you Ryan; I have over a dozen applicants that are probably just as qualified as you, if not more. Why should I give you this job?" The man looked down at Benson's desk to contemplate, taking note of the chips on the outside of the wood that the gumball machine had yet to notice, as well as the motley assortment of stacked books that had done little more than collect dust. He coughed and pulled at the collar of his shirt nervously.
"Well, frankly sir, I ain't got a good reason for you to hire me. Like I said, I'm good at working outdoors and I'd prefer to be a part of a public good in the process. I ain't askin' for a whole lot." Benson mulled over the response a moment. He seemed like a good kid, and given his background, he could probably teach the rest a good bit of discipline to boot. He could see the boy mentally kicking himself for the rather lackluster response, wondering why he hadn't come up with some ground breaking mission statement to sway his possible employer.
"Well, given your employment history and past performance reviews..." Ryan's heart sank. This had been the 12th job interview in the past two weeks, he now could only await the final nail in the coffin. His military service record had been enough to sway most businesses away from hiring him; the work force was especially hard on veterans this year. He didn't know why, he couldn't explain it. Rumor had it that his past employers had not been courteous with the way he handled his work either. He simply gave that defeated look to Benson as he continued.
"...and the fact that you're the one candidate to be rather upfront with me, when can you start?" He was taken aback by the statement and stammered out a retort.
"Uh, I-I could start today if you need me, sir." Benson glanced at the clock. It was one in the afternoon on a Sunday in the middle of Summer, even he didn't have the urge to scrape together an effort to finish the hedge trimming at the edge of the pond...
"You'll start tomorrow then. Come back around six and we'll have another chat. Dinner's on me and I'll have Skips get you up and up on your living arrangements. You may have to take the couch for the time being." Ryan nodded and stood up from the chair, shaking Benson's hand excitedly in the process.
"Yes-yessir, thank you sir. I'll be sure to be on time. And the couch sounds fine by me." Benson shifted in his chair slightly, giving a slight smile, or what he thought was one.
"It's Benson from now on. We can hammer out the rest of this at Supper, but I'll see you at six. If you want, most of the guys are down at the coffee shop if you'd like to meet them. You can't miss em."
"Yes sir, I think I might just do that. Thank you." Ryan walked out of the room with a smile, his boots clacking on the wooden floor of the hallway as he made his way to the front door. Benson heard him greet Pops on his way out and looked out the side of his office window which gave a fairly decent view of the front porch. The young man placed his hat back on his head with a quick tug and started his way down the stairs of the park house, tipping his hat at Skips as the yeti made his way up the stairs. It wasn't long before the large creature made his way to Benson's office, eyeing the old muscle car as it drove away from the center of the park.
"Who was that?" The yeti seemed to ask out of politeness rather than genuine interest, and Benson flipped back to the first page of the résumé.
"Ryan Bennett; 26 years old, ex-army, and possibly a full time park employee once I get some details and a background check ironed out." Skips eyebrow cocked at the candy machine, taking the paper from his hands. The document displayed a copy of the boy's drivers license and a neatly typed résumé, albeit a little roughed up from its apparent frequent use. He had been quiet, soft spoken, and polite. Probably another reason his job search had come up short so far.
"Ex-army huh?" Benson nodded at the inquiry.
"Yep, three tours in Afghanistan. Medically discharged about six months ago and sent back home. Purple Heart and Silver Star recipient. The kid's got a hell of a service record." Skips handed the stapled papers back across the desk, sitting in the leather chair in a rather comical fashion. His expanse of white fur seemed to swallow the burgundy leather, giving him the appearance of floating above the floor.
"Are you worried about how he'll work? Considering he got a medical discharge?" Benson waved the questions away and withdrew a second sheet of paper from his desk.
"Passed his latest physical with flying colors. Excellent physical health and sufficient mental capacity. He's smart too." Skips swiped the paper out of Benson's hands, nodding at the chart results before laying it back on the stack of books. The gumball machine glanced sternly at his friend and employee.
"Until he gets the ropes down, I'm trusting you to watch out for him for a little bit."
"You seem to think awfully high of him..." Benson let out an exasperated huff.
"He's the only job applicant who didn't try to feed me a line of shit as to why I should hire them. He's honest, and I like that. I'm not gonna let that go to his head though." Pops' round head poked in the doorway for only a moment, a look of disdain on his features.
"Watch your language, Benson. Leave that vulgar speak for outside these walls." The gumball machine waved the lollipop man away from the door, standing up from his leather office chair. As much as the man from Lolliland protested, the usual string of curses or "vulgar speak" often slipped the lips of Benson or others around the house. Skips and Pops had been the only two he had yet to hear utter a single "naughty bit". The kitchen held a tip jar that required a dollar every time Pops heard any of it, often filling to the brim and used for necessary park equipment or repairs. Or pizza, whichever was pertinent to the situation at hand.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's go. We need to pick up some supplies for tomorrow, and the others'll be back soon. I told Ryan to be back early so we could finalize everything and get him sorted out. You driving Skips?"
The yeti nodded with cart keys already in hand, following Benson into the scorching summer heat.
[WARNING: Graphic sequence ahead]
Had the horrid conditions had any effect of him, you wouldn't have been able to tell by his calm and focused demeanor. He felt his heart pounding against the rock and shale underneath him, only contending with the roar of metal and rumbling of tank treads below. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and settled back behind his scope with deliberate movement, wary of making his presence know so early. The setting sun cast wicked shadows across the rocky landscape, an almost picturesque contrast between a muddy brown and brilliant caramel. He couldn't take time to admire the view though. He steadily scanned the opposite ridge line, hunting for any movement among the crags and crevices. Then he saw it; it wasn't much to look at but he could see the white and brown pattern of a shemagh poking out behind a jagged boulder. He checked the rough sketch behind him he had drawn earlier: 240 meters. He dialed in his scope, watching the fabric intently for any sign that he might be taking out a hapless sheep farmer instead of a target. He spent a solid ten minutes focused on the scarf material, his eyes barely leaving the optics before him. He could feel the sun taking it's effect; chapped and cracked lips, windburned skin, and cottonmouth were all begging him for a sip of his canteen. Too bad that canteen had expired long ago. He was about to relax his gaze when he saw the material rise, the barrel of a Russian RPK now evidently aimed at the convoy trapped below. He checked the safety on his Mk. 11 and slowed his breathing, timing the shot to release in between heartbeats. The reticle of his scope was focused on the center of the shemagh.
Breathe...
Breathe...
Breathe...
...Now.
He squeezed the trigger and watched the gasses released explode from the end of the barrel. The 7.62 NATO round traveled the gap and slammed into the target's head, reducing what the shemagh was covering to little more than a bloody pulp. With more muzzle velocity at 1000 meters than a 9mm at point blank range, calling the shell anything less than devastating was an insult. He watched the spray of red and pink as the RPK fell from the figure's hands to clattered off the rocks and to the ground below, drawing the attention of the men around the stalled Abrams. Ryan had cycled the next round of his rifle before the Russian LMG hit the rocks, watching the casing fly to the side and eyeing the now blood stained body across for any sign of life. He noticed the men below looking at his perch and at the rock face above them.
"You're good 2-1, just taking care of some skinnies, over." He smirked slightly as he saw a couple of the soldiers below motioning a thumbs up or a wave up the hill to his right. They were courteous enough to not completely give away his position.
"Roger that 3-1, thanks for watching our backs." The engineers went back to work, currently trying to remove the armament and tech from the nonfunctional tank. Ryan was about to drop from the perch when he saw the glint, the wisp of smoke, and the 7.62x39mm Russian round that slammed into the rocks beside him. The broken shale shot into his face as he dropped behind his post, pulling his sighting sketch and his rifle down with him as dust rained on his head. Thank God he had decided on his multicam fatigues instead of the regular ACU pattern; the disruptive shirt he had on seemed to work enough to give the sniper a general area of where he was at, but not enough to hone in on him.
"2-1, I'm taking fire. Get your boys in cover under the ridge, over." He could see the green ACU fatigues of the engineers scramble into the cliff face out of the corner of his eye; he could also see Marcus across the way already scanning the ridge opposite. He switched his radio over in his pouch and peered from behind the boulder.
"Whatcha got Marcus? That asshole just about gave me haircut." His spotter scanned the ridge until he saw the wooden grip of a Russian SKS rifle jutting out from a small hide under a fallen tree. The enemy sniper was position in between two rocks under a long forgotten, rotting pine. His position offered only a single route through, with the sniper's back to a third rock. This had been a game the three had played for the past few days now, each finding a new position to fire from but not hitting the other.
"Under the dead wood at the edge of the tree line, that's about..." The spotter referred to his range sketch as the sniper interrupted.
"450-460 meters max?" He could hear the man scoff on the other end of the line. His spotter was positioned out of the field of view of the sniper's hide, covered in beige, ghillie netting on the same ridge as Ryan.
"He's dug into his hole tight, it's your call if you want to take a crack at him." He contemplated the situation for a moment, clicking the range adjustments on his scope once more and bringing it up just below the peak of the rock in front of him.
"Toss a smoke to the South of my hide, let's see if we can draw him in." He held his breath and wiped the red dirt from his hair and cheeks, the arid dust turning into a paste after mixing with the sweat accumulated on his brow. He watched the tin can tumble down the decline below and explode into a thick cloud of white, fluffy vapor. He waited for the cloud to disperse a while before inching to edge of the rock face. The blood in his veins turned to ice at what he saw. The sniper had stepped from his little fort to peer down at the growing smokescreen, his rifle carelessly at his hip. Ryan tried to go through the same thought process as before but couldn't do it. This man wasn't wearing a shemagh. Hell, he could barely consider the target a man. He was a young coyote, at most 18 or 19. Short dirty hair with the makings of a beard and two coal black eyes all set under a dirty, mustard yellow cap. He evidently thought that Ryan was dead, as he showed no interest in the opposite sniper's position. Rookie mistake, and surely to be his last. Ryan centered the crosshairs on his scope over the center of the boy's chest, watching the heaving of the cloth as he slowed his breathing.
Breathe...
Breathe...
Breathe...
Why hadn't he pulled the trigger? He spurned his digit to pull the mechanism that would end it all, but he couldn't. It had been the first time he had hesitated to take that shot in the past three days. It wasn't that he hadn't seen the face of someone he had killed before, but he had yet to see the face of what he had considered to be a worthy opponent. There was just something about that coyote that compelled him to lower the scope. That begged him to just fire a warning shot. He closed his eyes and let the sound of the gusting wind drown out for a moment, the rest of the world fading away. The hit to his system that brought him back was the crackle of his radio.
"It's now or never man!" His eyes shot open in time to see the boy's eyes wide in shock, fumbling with the SKS as he locked gazes with Ryan. He realized now he had been holding his breath, and let it out in an exasperated gasp.
Now.
He pulled the trigger and saw the animal jerk back, the rifle round tearing through his upper chest in a brilliant spurt of red to the left of where his crosshairs had been. He saw the spray coat the wall of the alcove a dark crimson and the body fall, slumped in a heap against the side of the rock. Judging by the entry wound, the 7.62mm round had impacted just below the heart. Based on an extensive lesson on terminal ballistics and basic anatomy, the round would have torn through the upper part of his diaphragm and the wall of his thoracic cavity, hitting his sternum and major organs in the process. Definitely a kill shot. The force of the shell was enough to roll the coyote's eyes back into his head, the two black orbs now glazed over white and his mouth agape with a fine trail of bright arterial blood already flowing down his chin. Ryan watched him for a few seconds, his crosshairs still focused on the red splotch where the round had entered that was now spreading across the dark fabric of his tunic. The wind in and around the canyon had ceased, leaving a chilling silence across the landscape. He felt as though his heart was about to explode from his chest, and he pressed his forehead down and cradled his head in between what seemed like quivering and pained breaths.
"3-1, are we all good down here?" The radio crackled in his pocket and he pressed his mic with hesitation.
"Yeah, yeah we're- we're good." He could see the engineers below waving to him as they loaded the last bit of the equipment from the tank into the Humvee and pile in. Glancing back at the would-be sniper one last time, he grabbed his rifle and pack before sliding down the wall of the canyon below, hopping from rock to rock before making it to the awaiting engineers. Marcus had already made the descent, climbing to the Mk. 19 mounted on the swivel turret. He hit the roof of the vehicle as Ryan climbed inside.
"You did good man, you did good." He absently nodded, his gloved hand subconsciously going for the pendant around his neck. Good? He had been out here for God knows how long. He had felt good before, taking pats on the back and handshakes with a laugh or a smile. This wasn't one of those times.
A/N: So, there be the first chapter! I'd like to make it very clear that I am excited to be writing about Regular Show, with my own little twist of course. If you don't know, I'll tend to include little quirks or details about most firearms in any of my stories. Guns are one of my passions and I'll be damned if that doesn't come across enough. ;) I will go ahead and throw this out there as well: Ryan, my OC, will be struggling with PTSD in later chapters. It is a touchy subject and a concept that I have seen explored rather well in other fanfictions, but I'll try to add my own flair to it. His ways of coping with his demons will be the primary factor that will bump this up to M, as well as some other stuff (The descriptions of his time on deployment will more than likely be the other deciding factor as well). Feel free to leave a review or comment, any and all criticism is welcome, even flames (they keep my house warm in the winter and make me a better writer), and I hope you continue to read even after it dons the Mature rating. Until next time, take care everyone! o/