[ Just a note. I don't own the Rambo characters or anything like that. This
is just for peoples enjoyment, so, don't sue me! Thanks.]
Dust flew up from the great gusts of wind made by the helicopter. As the force of the gusts became steadier, the helicopter inched its way down to the ground. The sun shone in the cloudless sky and beat down on the hot, dry desert. It felt as if it was almost 120 degrees, and there was no wind.
A shadow cast about the desert as a well-built man made his way to the helicopter. His short, thick jet-black hair was ruffled and flowing slightly with each rotation of the chopper. This man wasn't very tall, but his muscles and ruggedness paid up for it. Not only was his appearance a bit intimidating, but his dark brown eyes stared hard at everything he looked at. He went by the name of Rambo. His real name was John, but most people he knew (which wasn't a lot to begin with) called him that. Rambo's dark bronze, vein-ridden arm went to his face to shield the blinding sand from his eyes as he got closer.
Some how, he managed to be able to see through the sand and to the door, where he finally hopped in and was greeted by a two people in the back. Both had on headsets and large guns in their hands. One greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. He had a mustache and sunglasses; he looked a bit older. Another and poked his head out to look about the desert. This one looked quite a bit younger and had dark brown hair. Rambo gave a nod to both men as he sat down on the open space in the back of the military helicopter. As he lowered himself in the corner, he pushed his legs up and rested toned arms on his knees. Rambo looked down at the ground in thought.
' God, I'm so glad I'm getting out of here. Back home I go. '
As he thought to himself silently he put his head back and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. He was so glad to finally be able to go home. Although he had no family that he knew of, he was sure that he'd manage to find a place to live.
'I've spent almost all of my life alone-what's gonna make a difference if I spend the rest of it that way?'
As his head lay against the walls of the chopper, he felt his sore and tired body relax slowly. Those hard brown eyes slowly shut, and his breathing became steadier.
The younger brunette man looked to the fully relaxed body in the corner. He glanced to the man beside him and whispered softly.
"So. That's John Rambo, eh?"
The other man nodded as he fixed the strap of his gun.
"Yeah. That's him. I think he's finally gonna settle down. I heard that he's been a Green Beret for almost 10 years. The man is a legend!"
The younger man's eyes widened as he looked to Rambo and then quickly back to the elder man.
"Are you serious?!"
The older man gave a nod, and went back to fiddling with his gun.
With a shrug the younger man looked out a small window at the desert floor below.
Rambo continued to rest, starting to slip into a light sleep. He'd just rescued about a dozen Afghans about a day ago, and he was more than ready to relax. Soon, he'd be back in the US, where he'd start a new life. He hoped this would be better than what he had experienced before.
The powerful gusts of wind escaped through the cracked door, the warm, dry air pushing into his face, his jet-black hair rustling about. This woke him up, his head perking up quickly. He sighed softly, rubbing his eyes as he muttered a few curse words under his breath. He had never wished so badly to see a bed before.
The younger brunette man looked at Rambo from the window, seeing his quick jerk-like movement.
"It'll be a quite a few hours. You might as well try to take a rest."
Rambo looked to the man, but didn't seem as if he were acknowledging him or anything. He looked way too tired to care. Now, he usually wasn't this ornery, but he was so exhausted, that he didn't have enough energy to be nice to anyone at the moment. Rambo nodded and pushed his head against the wall, slowly closing his eyes once more . . .
* * * *
It'd only felt like he had just closed his eyes when someone shook his shoulder. His eyes opened quickly and quite abruptly. It was the older man who had woken him up. Although he was still a little groggy, he felt fully energized.
Rambo rubbed his eyes and then stood up, stretching his arms out. As he rested his arms to the side he looked out the window and expected to see an American landing strip of some sort. But instead saw an old, long pavement of tar that they must have landed on, and a small building quite a few yards away from it on the side. Behind the building there were old weeds and shrubbery growing wild. This place looked like it hadn't been used in a few years.
"Where the hell am I? I'm supposed to be in America!" He exclaimed as he looked to the pilot and the two men.
"I'm sorry, but we've had strict orders from Sargent Trautman that we were supposed to be landing here." Replied the pilot.
Rambo bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling. He slid the helicopter door open, hearing the door shake behind him when it hit the side of the helicopter as he jumped out. He'd never felt this angry before.
Dust flew up from the great gusts of wind made by the helicopter. As the force of the gusts became steadier, the helicopter inched its way down to the ground. The sun shone in the cloudless sky and beat down on the hot, dry desert. It felt as if it was almost 120 degrees, and there was no wind.
A shadow cast about the desert as a well-built man made his way to the helicopter. His short, thick jet-black hair was ruffled and flowing slightly with each rotation of the chopper. This man wasn't very tall, but his muscles and ruggedness paid up for it. Not only was his appearance a bit intimidating, but his dark brown eyes stared hard at everything he looked at. He went by the name of Rambo. His real name was John, but most people he knew (which wasn't a lot to begin with) called him that. Rambo's dark bronze, vein-ridden arm went to his face to shield the blinding sand from his eyes as he got closer.
Some how, he managed to be able to see through the sand and to the door, where he finally hopped in and was greeted by a two people in the back. Both had on headsets and large guns in their hands. One greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. He had a mustache and sunglasses; he looked a bit older. Another and poked his head out to look about the desert. This one looked quite a bit younger and had dark brown hair. Rambo gave a nod to both men as he sat down on the open space in the back of the military helicopter. As he lowered himself in the corner, he pushed his legs up and rested toned arms on his knees. Rambo looked down at the ground in thought.
' God, I'm so glad I'm getting out of here. Back home I go. '
As he thought to himself silently he put his head back and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. He was so glad to finally be able to go home. Although he had no family that he knew of, he was sure that he'd manage to find a place to live.
'I've spent almost all of my life alone-what's gonna make a difference if I spend the rest of it that way?'
As his head lay against the walls of the chopper, he felt his sore and tired body relax slowly. Those hard brown eyes slowly shut, and his breathing became steadier.
The younger brunette man looked to the fully relaxed body in the corner. He glanced to the man beside him and whispered softly.
"So. That's John Rambo, eh?"
The other man nodded as he fixed the strap of his gun.
"Yeah. That's him. I think he's finally gonna settle down. I heard that he's been a Green Beret for almost 10 years. The man is a legend!"
The younger man's eyes widened as he looked to Rambo and then quickly back to the elder man.
"Are you serious?!"
The older man gave a nod, and went back to fiddling with his gun.
With a shrug the younger man looked out a small window at the desert floor below.
Rambo continued to rest, starting to slip into a light sleep. He'd just rescued about a dozen Afghans about a day ago, and he was more than ready to relax. Soon, he'd be back in the US, where he'd start a new life. He hoped this would be better than what he had experienced before.
The powerful gusts of wind escaped through the cracked door, the warm, dry air pushing into his face, his jet-black hair rustling about. This woke him up, his head perking up quickly. He sighed softly, rubbing his eyes as he muttered a few curse words under his breath. He had never wished so badly to see a bed before.
The younger brunette man looked at Rambo from the window, seeing his quick jerk-like movement.
"It'll be a quite a few hours. You might as well try to take a rest."
Rambo looked to the man, but didn't seem as if he were acknowledging him or anything. He looked way too tired to care. Now, he usually wasn't this ornery, but he was so exhausted, that he didn't have enough energy to be nice to anyone at the moment. Rambo nodded and pushed his head against the wall, slowly closing his eyes once more . . .
* * * *
It'd only felt like he had just closed his eyes when someone shook his shoulder. His eyes opened quickly and quite abruptly. It was the older man who had woken him up. Although he was still a little groggy, he felt fully energized.
Rambo rubbed his eyes and then stood up, stretching his arms out. As he rested his arms to the side he looked out the window and expected to see an American landing strip of some sort. But instead saw an old, long pavement of tar that they must have landed on, and a small building quite a few yards away from it on the side. Behind the building there were old weeds and shrubbery growing wild. This place looked like it hadn't been used in a few years.
"Where the hell am I? I'm supposed to be in America!" He exclaimed as he looked to the pilot and the two men.
"I'm sorry, but we've had strict orders from Sargent Trautman that we were supposed to be landing here." Replied the pilot.
Rambo bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling. He slid the helicopter door open, hearing the door shake behind him when it hit the side of the helicopter as he jumped out. He'd never felt this angry before.