As that helpful little bar near the top of my screen has kindly informed me, I have not posted on these forums in several weeks. So, I decided to take a few moments and put up the latest exhibition of my artistic expression, which is what I call it when I throw some shit together and put it on a plate.
C&C is appreciated, I will keep writing as long as you keep criticizing.
The airplane was a rickety relic. Her proudly painted hull displayed a sea of tallies representing successful drops. Its crew and regular passengers fought appeals for her decommission as often as they fought the Emperor’s enemies.
Gunnery Sergeant Prowl stood on the shaking deck of the plane. A red light illuminated the Spartan interior of the creaky craft. Bolted seats lined either side of the deck. These chairs were filled with grim faced soldiers, some quivering in fear, others bristling with confidence.
“Right then,” Prowl began, “For many of you, this first drop will be your last. Now if you want it to just be your first, don’t worry about it being your last.” He grinned wolfishly.
“Twenty seconds to go. Now, when you jump,” He had to compete not only with the sound of the engines, now, but also with the terrifying crack of flak guns, “What do you do?”
“Grab your trousers, tuck your chin!” The soldiers intoned, more or less in unison.
“That’s great,” Prowl said, watching the red light, watching as it suddenly changed to an eye-smarting green, “See you on the ground!”
With that, Prowl jerked the forever-stuck door of the airplane open and dove out head first.
Bruce Jamison listened in shock to Prowl’s casual dismissal of their lives, trying again and again to steel himself against the fear creeping up his legs. He clutched his autogun tightly with cold, white-knuckled fingers. He had thought rather optimistically about his first drop. He had reminded himself it was an opportunity to sit across from Emily’s bouncing bosoms for two and a half hours. He looked across to the seat in front of him. It was Master Corporal Briggin, her deformed face and disgusting, dermatitis-covered skin filling his sight. He gagged loudly at the thought of her.
“You alright Jamison?” The unmistakeable voice came from beside him. Emily had leant her head back, her eyes closed, and was taking methodical deep breaths.
“I’m alright, thanks.” Bruce decided to take Emily’s lead anyway. He too closed his eyes, began breathing deeply. It didn’t help.
He dimly heard Prowl’s shout, “What do you do?”
By the Emperor’s golden chamber pot, Bruce Jamison hadn’t the slightest idea, and the men’s response was drowned out by the raucous engines and flak guns.
The red light promptly turned a gaudy green that stung his eyes. He shut them and stood, groaning as pain flashed through his head. He heard Prowl yell. Then he was jostled along and, just as he opened his eyes, shoved out of the door.
The night sky was truly beautiful: the cloudless, starry canvas stretched on forever, broken only by the flashing horizon. Unfortunately, Bruce had no time to contemplate it. The bark of anti-aircraft cannons resounded in his ears as he tumbled through the air. He felt his grav-chute automatically deploy and suddenly regretted watching Emily throughout the training exercises instead of listening to his instructor.
The grav-chute, attached to his belt via a series of clips and hooks, sent his legs flying up over his head, which flailed wildly before smashing into the chute. Disoriented, upside down, and in great pain, Bruce descended to the ground. Meanwhile, on the battlefield below him, all hell was breaking loose.
Its crimson skin bulged wildly, unable to contain the unnatural muscles beneath it. It lifted its lip in a snarl, before flinging its tusked snout to the sky to howl madly. It had four wings, stretched flaps of skin between its limbs, its eyes saw only blood, and its claws could bring only death. All around the monumentally large daemon, men fought each other in a hectic jumble of blades and flesh.
Emily landed square on her feet and was immediately jumped by a bald, tattooed freak of a man wielding an electric pickaxe. He swung wildly, and landed a glancing blow on Emily’s head, knocking her helmet off. She fell to the floor and rolled out of it, tugging a long knife from her boot. Growling like a tiger, she leapt at her assailant, batting his weapon away with her arm and burying the knife into his neck.
She looked up, kneeling on her victim and was tackled by a similarly tattooed freak, who rolled her onto her back and was about to stab her with a wicked knife. Then the man screamed in pain as he was shot in the side. Prowl ran up and kicked the freak off Emily, pulled her up by the arm, and dashed away.
As she capitalized on her first spare second to pick up her autogun from the ground, she looked around to see that Prowl had disappeared somewhere.
“Convenient,” She remarked.
Equally convenient was Bruce’s descent from the heavens. He floated gently down seeming, in complete contrast to the daemon’s magnificent display of carnage, to be at complete peace. No one noticed him as he landed lightly on the scarlet beast’s shoulder, least of all himself.
Dazed, he sat upright and noticed the bloody red, uneven, shifting floor he was sitting on. He looked to his side and saw the daemon’s terrible head and yelped in a most womanly fashion. Quavering, he fumbled for a knife in his trousers. Upon retrieving it, he shuffled closer to the beast’s neck and busied himself finding the biggest artery he could. Then, he stabbed as hard as he could; whooping aloud as blood came gushing out.
Roaring angrily, the beast thrashed wildly, dislodging Bruce from his surprisingly stable perch. Bruce fell and was accidentally swatted in midair by a mammoth, red, clawed hand and sent flying through the window of a residential building close by.
Emily seemed to have been forgotten about by the enemy. She was on the outskirts of a large open square, where a massive melee was taking place, with bodies swirling chaotically in vicious combat. The centrepiece of this picture was the gargantuan red thing kicking and stomping and roaring at everything.
Then she watched, amazed, as Bruce landed masterfully on its unsteady shoulder. Then, fearlessly, Bruce tugged a knife from his pocket and after locating the beast’s jugular, he stabbed it. He stood triumphantly on that precarious spot as the daemon flailed around a bit. Finally, with the bravado of a Necromunda gunslinger, Bruce dove off the thing and used its waving hand as a springboard to launch himself to the safety of a nearby apartment block.
The thing appeared not to have been affected at first, but then it cried a terrible death cry and fell dead.
She was simply astounded by the ridiculous display of heroics.