I'm back, sorry 'bout the long-ish wait, but I've been mulling over where I want to take this story, who I want to include, what message I want to get across. That, and the fact that I'm in the process of staging a massive (as in, including people from Marvel Comics to a fictional pirate saga) crossover for Halo Fanfiction-abit similar to Planet Terror, if you've ever had the fortune to read it.
Anyway…this chapter will feature coarse language, and (I would put a spoiler tag here, but if you've got this far you're obviously going to finish the story :P) computer-generated violence.
I can't recall whether or not I outlined it last chapter, but just to clarify, public opinion of Benders in this time is on par with that of normal people's of mutants in the X-Men franchise.
Oh, if a passage is italicized like this, then it symbolizes what the character we are viewing through is thinking. If it's single word, then it is used to signify the sound that word makes. Anything in between…I'm certain that you have the intelligence to decipher it's meaning there.
So…let's get on with the show!
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Whether it be Halo, X-Men, King of the Hill, Call of Duty, 1984, and especially Avatar.
Chapter Two; Other Sides of the Spectrum.
The world around Harley Smith exploded in a kaleidoscope of browns, grays, and lots of smoke and shrapnel.
Ducking, he tried to cram himself as far down in the trench as possible as another artillery shell impacted nearby.
Swearing under his breath, he viewed his options, and what he had to work with. There were four other men pinned down near him, for the most part unscathed-except for some bumps and bruises. Each of them had the training-issue assault rifles, cut-down, lighter versions of their military counterparts. This imposed a stark contrast to the bulky, dull-colored armor worn by the trainees.
There's nothing we can do here…not enough guys to give covering fire; it's way too hot to turn anywhere…we'll have to charge 'em.
Upon this last thought, Harley (Carl to almost everyone except for his mother) called one of the other soldiers-in-training over to him, and gave the order to charge on his count.
Seeing the situation similarly, the other man, what was his name…Raynord? Ah well, not like it really mattered…to have grenades ready, and to throw them towards the enemy artillery as soon as each man had cleared the trench.
Mentally counting down from three, Carl popped up, vaulted over the trench, and hurled a grenade from his right hand towards unsuspecting troops, along with the other four men on his sides.
He then unclipped his assault rifle, and charged towards the opposing forces, gun blazing, backed up by his colleagues.
At this point, with the enemy dropping like flags, Carl was certain that he would go on from here to receive promotions, both socially and rank-wise, for his decisive charge in the training session. He would be the shining jewel of his class, the cream of the crop in the social ladder.
But it was not to be.
Tripping over an upturned rock, Carl's rifle-trigger still firmly held down under his finger-turned abruptly to the left, sending several dozen rounds into the head of one unfortunate Wesley-the man's last name escaped him-and their rag-tag firing position collapsed on itself.
Raynord, seeing his leader fall, attempted to turn back and help him, but the ground beneath his feet erupted into a miniature Saint Helens, and he was out of the battle. The other two fools were mowed down-one by the detonation of his own grenade-promptly.
Struggling to his feet, Carl could only cringe as an enemy soldier marched towards him, sidearm in hand.
The nondescript soldier pistol-whipped Carl on the jaw, his teeth crunching together like so many blocks of plaster.
Falling backwards, he was firmly seated against a boulder, and the opposing soldier lifted his gun to Carl's face, seven feet away.
Two words escaped the lips of the war-hardened soldier:
"You lose."
He pulled the trigger.
But, as his finger twitched to trigger the firing mechanism, the man's feet lost color-they morphed into a bizarre vertical graph, and slowly-at least, that's how it seemed to Carl-dissipated into thin air, along with the rest of the landscape, the tanks, and the entire army behind him. The startling effect continued up his body until only his torso, right hand-holding the gun-and head were left intact.
While this marvelous process was taking place, the bullet had been tearing a path towards Carl's left eye.
As the rest of the figure's body disintegrated, so too did the bullet.
An inch away from Carl's face, the bullet disappeared, and a combat training instructor pulled him from the ground.
All was serene in the neighborhood. Ordinary citizens stood outside, seemingly obsessed with their property, mowing, watering, preening their lawns. Middle-aged men washed equally aged (though in slightly more pristine condition) sports cars, with one unlucky soul hosing down a small red pickup, several of his friends nearby muttering variations of "yup" in a seemingly orchestrated fashion.
At least, that's how it would have been without the furious mob cascading down the cul-de-sac.
They had a singular target; a young man, now revealed to be an Earthbender, who had 'accidentally' collapsed a subway terminal.
Speaking of this 'young man', whose name happened to be Hai Kan, ducked just enough to avoid a brick thrown through the front window of his house. Angry shouts filtered in, and faces morphed in seeming agony peered in through the windows.
Kan ran down the hall, his bare feet staining the soft carpet, and skidded to halt as a resounding boom heralded an attempt at breaking down his front door. Turning to the left, he grabbed a parcel of bread from atop the toaster, and stuffed it into his school-issue backpack. He proceeded to the refrigerator (another boom accompanied his movement) and he grabbed a few water bottles, and a block of frigid cheddar.
Not having time to spare a glance, he could only hear the mob chanting, and a sudden volley of objects of all shapes and sizes crashed through the windows of his house. At this point he grabbed a package of sliced ham, and tossed it into his pack.
Suddenly, the door splintered and several men-one brandishing a handgun, another a wooden bat-poured into the house, the shrieks of the mob outside escalating.
Realizing it was time to go, Kan sprinted out the hall, his knee bashing painfully to the doorframe. He hurried to the back door, but mid-flight, he heard a coarse shout, and suddenly someone began shooting at him.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," was all he could flounder to say as bullets impacted the wall behind him, reducing the oak shelf to sawdust and splinters.
He reached the laundry room, and the brilliant green of his backyard rose to meet him. Reaching for the door, it exploded as another bullet hit the windowpane, exploded into an incoherent cloud of smoke and superheated glass.
Diving through the door's remains, Kan somehow managed to raise an eight-foot wall of stone behind his exodus, which halted his pursuers in their tracks.
Pausing slightly to examine his surprising handiwork, Kan, now breathing quite heavily since the adrenaline left him, clambered up and over the wooden fence separating his family's property from their neighbor's.
Suddenly, a whining siren sounded in the air, as alien to this quaint neighborhood as the violent mob gorging in the street.
Several minutes of seemingly aimless walking later, Kan looked at the ground in front of his feet.
There was a manhole cover in the sidewalk.
"If the stories are true…" Kan murmured to himself, but then looked around. Seeing no one, he hefted the cover on it's side, and lowered himself into the tunnels below, bag in hand.