DINO EATER (18)

Moderators: Shroom Man 777, Ford Prefect

User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

DINO EATER (18)

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Tactical Espionage Action
FIDEL CASTRO: DINOSAUR EATER




Somewhere in the Caribbean…

The sun rose, casting red-orange light on the ocean’s surface.

On that surface was a dark object, a blemish moving towards the shoreline at a measured pace. As it neared the island, it could be easily discerned as the shell of a particularly large sea turtle – an abnormally huge one that was heading for dry land at an unseasonable occasion. As morning began with the sunrise, the turtle completed the rest of its journey unseen.

The turtle plodded its way up the beach, and it was becoming clear that this turtle was not really a turtle. There was a silent hiss as something inside the marine reptile moved, and then, ever so slowly, the turtle’s shell opened up like a giant hatch.

A figure emerged from within the turtle, clad in an insectile diving mask, looking very much like a parasite hatching from an unwilling host, or the product of some larval metamorphosis. With one quick motion, the figure tore off his scuba mask, revealing a man with dark hair and a handlebar moustache.

Quickly, he got off his strange vehicle and closed the decoy turtle. After looking around for any observers, he quietly dragged the turtle up the beach, where the tides wouldn’t drag it back into the seas. He crouched near a coconut tree.

Fidel Castro turned on his microbead radio. “Major Muerte, I’ve made it to the island.”

“Good. Remember Fidel, this is a sneaking mission. You’re a ghost, in every sense of the word. You are not to leave any trace of your presence behind, no sweat, no shell casings, no waste, not even footprints. Got that?”

“Got it. I’ve been doing this a while already, you know.” Fidel replied sardonically.

“I know. Now, let’s go through the objectives one more time.”

Fidel nodded, despite the Major not being there to see him. He had been working for Major Muerte for a long time now, and before that, the Major was already a legend in the South American intelligence community. Unlike Fidel, the Major actually did look a little like the Commandante, the Presidente, the real Fidel Castro – but with an eyepatch. The Major spent his early career as a foil for the countless assassination attempts made on the real Fidel Castro. Now, as a consequence of that, the Major was covered in scars and missing an eye. Fidel sighed, part of why the Major was so good was because he was so thorough – they had already been through the mission objectives at least five times. “Sure.”

“Pay attention. There have been reports of strange activities in this island chain, and you’re here to investigate what’s going on. We originally had a mole inside, he was tasked with recovering a package. However, we lost contact with him. Head further inland, the coordinates are marked in your map. Find out what’s going on and, if possible, recover our mole and the package. Afterwards, give us the signal and a mini-sub will come to fetch you. You still remember the signal, right?”

“Yeah. The code is ‘Rubicund.’”

“Precisely. Our friends will pick you up and bring you back home.”

“Our friends?” Fidel asked.

“Yes. Remember, this is a secret mission, we can’t use our real names nor can we mention where we are working from or who we are working with,” the Major explained. “The same goes for our comrades as well.”

“What about my name?”

“Don’t worry, no one will believe that Presidente Fidel Castro’s actually sneaking around in the bushes. I mean, you’re not really Fidel Castro, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, and one more thing, Fidel.”

“What?”

“Your friend, D will also maintain radio contact with you.”

‘D’ was a mysterious woman who had caught Fidel’s eye back in Havana. She was working for Cuban intelligence. “Is she with you, Major?”

“No, she’s somewhere else.”

“Fidel, is that you?” a third voice, clearly female, joined the conversation.

“D?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “How are you? I hope your little trip hasn’t worn you out too much.”

“I’m good, but I’m a little wet,” Fidel answered coyly. “The beach has a pretty good view of the sunrise though, so it’s a shame you couldn’t have come along. This would be a perfect spot for a picnic.”

“Are you asking me out in the middle of a mission?” she asked, clearly amused. “Go dry yourself up, Fidel.”

“You wound me, D.”

“Maybe we can have a date when you come back home,” D whispered playfully. “Who knows if either of us will be making it out of this alive?”

“Fidel, D here will be an observer and she’ll record your mission data. Of course, if you get lonely, you can always chat with her, or you can call me. I don’t think anyone will be listening in on you, so just tune into our frequencies when you feel like it.”

“Okay,” nodded Fidel. “Anything else?”

“Nope. You’re cleared to begin your mission.”

“Alright. Commencing the mission now.” Fidel got up and killed his radio.

He took off his swimsuit and pulled out his gear from the turtle. He put on his Subsistence suit, a twenty-year-old piece of equipment he received back during the Cold War – when Cuba still got state-of-the-art gear from Russia with a discount. It was powered by bio-energy and had integrated sensors. He attached his radio to the Subsistence suit and wore it, shoved his swimsuit into the turtle and closed the big shell. All his gear was already on the Subsistence suit, so he didn’t need to strap anything on himself. He covered up his turtle with some sand, cleverly concealed under some foliage, and then consulted his map. He began his way inland.



Ned hoped to run off with the investigation team, the one that just dropped in a day ago, but everything went to hell when the ambush occured.

They were moving now, loading up, heading out – their presence had been compromised, and it wouldn’t be long before a response. They were going to vacate the place, and if he didn’t move fast, they’d drag him along with their claws. Ned hoped that once those on the outside found out, his captors would get their scaly asses bombed back to the Stone Age, or whenever it was they crawled from.

There was a blackout in Sector 7-G that Ned hoped to exploit in his escape. Of course, he still had a job to do.

He was in charge of the computers and the refrigerators. Carefully, and with a face as blank and as sheep-like and as mind-controlled-looking as possible, he made his way to the refrigerators. Everything was hectic, and while they were busy preparing for the eventual exodus, the people were left to clean up for them. Ned got to the refrigeration unit and took out something from his pocket. A can of whipped cream. He unscrewed the bottom and began putting the refrigeration unit’s contents inside his cream can. The contents? Genetic material. Embryos. His employers would be relieved; at least they got this much out of the whole mess.

Ned closed the refrigerator and went to the bathroom, because even human slave-peons had to piss.

He went to the sink and began washing his hands. With the mirror, he could clearly see the toilet cubicles and the men who emerged from them in unison. They were decked out with gear, garbed in camouflage outfits, and armed with SPAS-12 shotguns.

“Where did you get those?” Ned asked.

”These?” one of them said. “These are shotguns, we nabbed them from Trevor’s locker.”

“Looks more like anti-aircraft guns to me,” Ned said. “Shame about Trev.”

“Almost everyone’s been hypnotized by them. Shame only us bunch are immune from it. We gotta blow this joint before we’re found out and fed to the rexes, right?”

“Right,” they all said in unison.

They began their Great Escape.



Todd and his buddy Rod were patrolling the lowlands, the part dominated by long chest-high grass. With a blank look on his face, Todd just walked around in circles. Whatever his masters decreed, he obeyed. And now, his masters were concerned that some of their fellow humans had resisted their programming and had escaped. Todd and the others like him, who were good and obedient, were sent to capture the escapees and bring them back unmolested – the escapes could still be useful, could still be reprogrammed into obedient thralls.

The masters, in all their reptilian glory, would be pleased. Todd would not fail them. His determination was attested to by the empty look on his face.

He scanned the long grass, his eyes dry and unblinking. He saw something.

“What was that?” he said in monotone, walking forwards towards the –

“Freeze,” someone hissed behind him. Todd felt something sharp pressing against his neck. But nonetheless, he tried to turn and attack his assailant, or at least cry for help…

…without a sound, Todd fell to the ground, his throat slit clean open.

Rod saw Todd though, saw him disappear into the grass. “Todd?” he asked, cautiously approaching –

Something came at Rod, hard and fast. Rod tried to fire off a shot, but he found his wrist grasped tight and held away. He tried to pull it back, but he was in turn pulled forward and punched in the neck. He wheezed, but despite his crushed throat, his face was still utterly empty, devoid of emotion. With his free hand, he punched his attacker, or at least tried to. His blow was deflected, the attacker’s other arm wrapping around his and dislocating it with one smooth motion. The last thing Rod saw was the attacker’s head smashing into his face.

Fidel crouched low, beside the body of the unconscious person. “Major Muerte, do you read me?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’ve engaged two sentries. They were both lightly armed with… tranquilizer guns. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” the Major replied. “This place was supposed to be some kind of nature preserve. It makes sense that some of them would have tranquilizer guns to keep things from escaping. Or from coming in.”

“Yeah…anyway, I’m heading in,” Fidel said, rubbing his forehead.

“Be careful. They’ll notice two of theirs missing.”

“I know. Proceeding further inland. Over and out.” Fidel killed the radio and went to work, concealing the two bodies. He got a tranquilizer gun and a few darts.



She watched her fellow reptilians lumber into the docking bays, entering the gaping doors of the transports. They had to leave the islands soon, for their presence would not remain hidden for long. The outside world would find out, if it had not already. It was inevitable, and if they were caught here, then they would no doubt be destroyed. And if they were destroyed, then what would become of their Uprising? No, they had to survive. They would survive for they were the inheritors of a genetic legacy laid low for untold eons and now they were reborn and ascendant. The creatures that had usurped them, frail and small mammalians but insignificant specks during the dominion of the archosaurs, their dominion, would now rue the day they tinkered with nature. Just as her kin, her species, ruled the sky during the long lost past, so too would she rule humanity’s Earth – she would remake it into a New Pangaea.

One of her peons, the one who called himself Don Lemonde – their creator - shambled towards her, his mind totally dominated by her will, the sum of his human knowledge absorbed into her own powerful reptile brain.

Speak, she spoke with a thought.

“Matriarch…” Lemonde struggled to speak. He, unlike most of the other nameless human peons, had a name, for he was amongst her first subjects, and she granted him that much, the luxury of a name even though he no longer had the luxury of thought. “A number of the humans are missing…”

No doubt, something had gone wrong. She would rectify that, soon enough.



Fidel continued on, moving quickly but silently, sticking to the shadows and covering himself behind trees. Whenever he reached a new area, he could adjust his Subsistence suit’s camouflage index, blending in with the new surroundings seamlessly. This was great help, but he was still far from invisible.

With a quick yet silently violent movement of his hand, he snatched something from a nearby bush. It squirmed and slithered and hissed, its shiny brightly colored scales glistening as it did so.

“D.”

“Fidel?”

“Who told you about my mission?”

“Oh, that was the Major,” she said.

“He put you up to this?”

“No, I did. I wanted to come along.”

“Why?” Fidel asked.

“Why? For you, that’s why,” she said, sounding clearly amused. “The Intelligence Directorate also assigned me to this.”

“Hrm…” Fidel thought for a second, and then bit the head off the coral snake, spat its head out, and chewed on its headless body.

“Fidel…” D began. “Are you eating a snake?”

“How did you know?”

“Uh…nevermind.”

Suddenly, her signal was interrupted. “Fidel, stop snake-snacking and get on with the mission.”

“Major?”

“Yes. Radar’s detected several aircraft, American military jets, heading towards the island.”

“Why?” Fidel asked, clearly alarmed.

“I don’t know. You better hurry up,” the Major said. And that was that.



The trek inland was more tiresome than Fidel had anticipated. He couldn’t tell how many miles he had gone in. What he could tell though, was that something was wrong. The island itself was barren, deserted. For all the trees and grass and bushes and shrubberies, the last animal he saw was the coral snake – which he ate. There was an utter lack of natural jungle noise. It made Fidel more cautious, jumpier.

The current area he was in was bushy, entirely dominated by underbrush and foliage. It took him a moment to notice that there were three other people with him in the bush, namely three other sentries. These ones were armed with shotguns, SPAS-12s by the look of it.

They were close together, so Fidel couldn’t take them all on at once – he might eat a lot of things, but he didn’t have an appetite for buckshot. He ducked into the bushes and hoped they’d go away.

When they didn’t, Fidel decided to throw a rock into a faraway puddle of mud. At the noise, the trio fanned out in a search pattern, leaving only one of them nearby. It was all a matter of shooting him on the head with a tranq gun and hiding his unconscious form under a shrub.

Fidel soldiered on, until he was far away from the remaining two sentries. He hid behind a tree and turned on his radio.

“D,” Fidel said. “D, are you there?”

All he got was static. Static and rain, as hard and fat droplets of rainwater began showering him. With the distant rumble of thunder, Fidel figured his day couldn’t be any worse.

“Major, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. What’s going on?”

“I can’t raise D, is there anything wrong?”

“Maybe the storm’s causing interference. How are you proceeding?”

“I haven’t found anything,” Fidel said. “It’s strange…there seems to be nothing on this island, or from what I’ve seen of it, at least.”

“Hrm…”

“Major, that mole you told me about…” Fidel wondered.

“Yes, what of him?”

“How does he look like?” Fidel asked. “In case I decide to contact him…”

“Oh, that’s easy. He’s a fat guy named Ned.”

“Ned. Got it.” Fidel nodded. “Major, do you know where he might be?”

“If I were in his place, I’d be heading to the beach about now.”

“Okay. Thanks. Over and out.”



The rain really messed up their plans. Ned had a contact waiting for them at the beach, but their jeep ended up crashing into a tree. Apparently, someone forgot to use the wipers.

They found a place nearby, though. A broken down building, a crumbling shack-like structure. Ned was inside, staying dry. The four others were outside, standing guard – they were the ones with the guns, not him. He got his sat-phone and tried dialing the number again.

“Goddamn it!” Ned cursed. He wiped his glasses with his sleeve. “Why isn’t this working?”

“Let me help you with that,” a voice behind him said.

Ned gasped, dropped the sat-phone, and turned around. He found the barrel of a gun pointed at his face.

“Who are you?” Ned sputtered.

“Fidel Castro,” the man replied.

“What kind of a name is that?!”

“What’s yours?” Fidel asked back.

“N-Ned! Please, don’t shoot me!”

Fidel holstered his gun. “Don’t worry, Ned. I’m here to get you. Do you have the package?”

Ned nodded and brought up the canister of whipped cream. “I do, but it only has forty-eight hours before the coolant runs out.”

Fidel raised an eyebrow. “Okay, thanks.” He took the can and placed it inside a pouch. “Those four outside, they you’re friends?”

Before Ned could answer, the not-so-distant sound of gunfire filled the air. There were screams, shouts, and high-pitched shrieking. The shrieks were what caught Fidel’s attention. They were inhuman, animalistic, but nonetheless unlike anything on Earth Fidel knew of.

Fidel drew his gun and, with his free arm, pushed Ned behind him. “What the hell was that?”

“We have to run!” Ned cried hysterically. “They’re here! They’re here to get me! Oh sweet Jesus!”

“Shut up,” Fidel spat. Whoever they were, whatever they were, he’d have to evade them. Dragging Ned along would complicate things, but he’s done this before. Lots of times. Piece of cake.

Fidel pulled out his combat knife, just to be sure. He assumed his close-quarters-combat stance, kicked the door open, and stormed out, aiming his gun at every conceivable firing angle.

Apparently, Ned’s four friends were gone. Disappeared without a trace, nothing left except the spent shells on the ground. There was nothing else.

“Clear,” Fidel said, motioning Ned to get out of the shack.

Ned slowly, carefully, fearfully walked out – gibbering noisily as he did so. Fidel glared at him, but Ned saw something in the bush and ran back inside screaming his lungs out. “Trevor!”

Fidel saw the source of Ned’s fear. Emerging out of the underbrush was a lean man in khaki attire, holding a shotgun in his hands.

“Now my man, whoever the fuck you are, hand over Ned or else, well, you heard the others screaming,” Fidel knew that accent, South African – or Rhodesian. The guy looked like some kind of hunter. A zookeeper?

“Who are you?” Fidel asked, readying himself.

The man pumped his shotgun with one hand. “You heard your friend, the name’s Trevor. Now hand Ned over.”

“No.” Fidel assumed his CQC stance, with his left hand holding his knife, and his pistol in his right.

“Alrighty then,” Trevor shrugged. With that, something exploded from the bush. Something big and covered in scales and feathers. It was reptilian, snarling and shrieking and hissing viciously, with clawed arms and legs lashing out. It looked like the bastard son of a caiman and an ostrich, and Fidel instantly knew what it was from watching those American movies. A dinosaur. A velociraptor.

All Fidel could say was: “Shit.”

The velociraptor replied with a shriek, that high-pitched inhuman shriek, and lunged at the dumbstruck warm-blooded mammalian man. Its mouth was gaping open, filled with razor-sharp teeth. At a loss, Fidel’s instincts took over. CQC, close-quarters-combat. Fidel met the thing’s lunging mouth with a block. He grimaced as the creature clamped its mouth into his left forearm, but the Subsistence suit’s fabric held, and the dinosaur failed to draw first blood. With a flick of his wrist, Fidel sunk his knife into the raptor’s eye, causing it to bite harder into his arm. It really hurt.

It didn’t deter Fidel though. The raptor tried to eviscerate him by kicking at his gut with its vicious toe-claws, but he intercepted this by grabbing the reptilian monster’s equivalent of an ankle with his free hand. Then, without even thinking, he half-lifted and half-pushed the velociraptor, which was now standing only in one foot, and he pushed the shrieking, snarling, clawing, biting creature towards Trevor, running into him hard, causing all three parties – Fidel, Trevor and velociraptor, to hit the ground.

“Bloody shit!” Trevor cried out in surprise as he was flattened by the backside of the dinosaur.

On the verge of hyperventilation, Fidel rolled away before the velociraptor could claw at him. He grabbed Trevor’s shotgun from the mud as a second velociraptor answered the South African zookeeper’s cursing by leaping out of the bushes, wicked toe-claws kicking and slashing. Fidel blew the raptor back into the bush, shotgun slugs exploding its scaly abdomen and causing a shower of segmented intestinal coils, kidneys and bloody gibs to splatter out. Fidel noticed that the first raptor was now back on its feet and ready to lunge. With a pump, he blew the beast’s head clear off, leaving behind a bloody neck-stump. And then he aimed his shotgun at Trevor. The South African tried to shield his face with both arms, but that only resulted in the shotgun blast disintegrating his limbs, forcing Fidel to pump his gun one more time to finish him off.

Quickly, Fidel rummaged Trevor’s headless corpse, looking for additional shells. He found them and pocketed them, and then he recovered his combat knife and tranquilizer gun. The knife, which he had driven into the first raptor’s eye, got blasted away when the shotgun made the velociraptor’s head explode.

“Ned, come on!” Fidel called, turning to face the shack Ned was hiding in. Fidel saw a reptilian tail protruding from the doorway, and heard the fat man’s screams, as he was no doubt eaten alive.

As the dinosaur fed on Ned’s remains, Fidel decided to run back to the coast.



“Major, come in.”

“Yes, what is it, Fidel?”

“What the hell is going on?!” Fidel asked urgently. Though his voice was hushed, he sounded like he was half-hissing and half-whispering. He checked his motion detector, in case if anything was after him.

“What?”

“Why the hell are there dinosaurs in this island?”

“Well…this is island belongs to the American company Genetics Incorporated, GenInc. They’ve started an operation here, an experiment to bring dinosaurs back from the dead. Apparently, something’s gone wrong. We decided to send you in to investigate.”

“Apparently?”

“Yes.”

“Apparently, I wasn’t told that there were dinosaurs in this island. I might’ve gotten eaten!”

“Well, that’s hard to imagine.” Major scoffed.

“What?!”

“Given your track record of eating all sorts of plants and animals, I’m surprised you haven’t eaten any of the dinosaurs yourself.”

“I haven’t.”

“Are you unhurt from your engagement with the dinosaurs?”

“My wrist is a bit stiff, but I’m okay.”

“See? Don’t worry, Fidel,” the Major said. “They’re just animals.”

“….”

“Come on, those American jets have circled the area. They’re getting confirmation to bomb the place up, you better hurry!”

“Alright,” Fidel nodded. “Rubicund, Major. I’m requesting evac. Code Rubicund, get the mini-sub on the beach now!

“Affirmative.”

Fidel killed the radio and made his way to the beach. He was silent, using as much cover as possible, but still, he hurried.

“Shit,” Fidel muttered.

In front of him was a sentry. “Freeze! Stay where you are!”

“The dinosaurs are on the loose,” Fidel tried to say. Obviously, the person wasn’t listening, as he shot Fidel square on the chest.

The tranquilizer dart stuck out of the bulletproof fiber of Fidel’s Subsistence suit, and he replied by shooting the sentry in the face with his own tranq-gun. The needle stuck out of the sentry’s not-so-bulletproof forehead.

Fidel noticed two pursuers, detected by his motion sensor, which represented them as incoming blips. They were coming in fast, faster than a running man could. He had an idea of what was following him, and he knew he couldn’t outrun them. He had to hide.



The raptor sniffed the air, tasting it for the scent of its prey. It scanned the area with its eyes, but found nothing. By the scent, the prey should be nearby. In fact, it ought to be right on top of its prey by now.

It scanned, moving its head and long neck side to side, smelling and listening and looking. It found nothing. It raised its head up and emitted a short series of cries, bellows, from its throat, signaling the other raptor that there was nothing here. Then it lowered its head, this time to sniff the prey’s scent more closely, or find its tracks –

It found something, one of the instruments of the humans, the ones that shot pain and sleep. It hissed.

The raptor raised its head up to make another cry, to signal the others, when it saw the human leaping from a tree. Before it could do anything, the human landed right on top of it, feet first, breaking its back.



The broken raptor made mewling noises, as if asking for help, and the second raptor came to its aid. Fidel crept up behind it and, with his knife, sliced its throat open.



Fidel made it to the beach. Overhead, he could make out the sounds of jet aircraft making flybys. They were probably checking for human survivors on the island, radioing and eyeballing the facilities for any sign of anyone. Too bad they weren’t looking at the beach.

Fidel hoped the mini-sub was there, waiting for him, but what he found on the beach was even better.

“D?”

“Yes, it’s me,” the woman known as ‘D’ said. She had long black hair that waved in the wind, and Fidel noted her fair skin that contrasted the black poly-aramid sneaking suit she was wearing. “Do you have the canister?”

“Oh, this?” Fidel produced the can Ned handed to him. D nodded, he tossed it at her, and she caught it. “Come on, D, we have to get out of here. The Americans are going to bomb this place, dinosaurs and everything, straight to hell.”

“I know,” D said.

“Where’s the mini-sub?” Fidel asked.

“It couldn’t get through the reef,” D replied. “So I came in on a speedboat.”

“You’re lying.”

D nodded and produced a shotgun.

“Before you do it,” Fidel said quietly. “Tell me, what does the letter ‘D’ stand for? It’s not your real name, is it?”

“No,” D said sadly. She shot him dead center, in the chest, sending him falling backwards. “D stands for Dementieva.”



As day gave way to dusk, the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, bathing the sky in a blood red light. Fidel laid on the beach, coughing out blood and hearing jets whizzing by, and the bombs exploding – hopefully killing all the monsters on the island.




[We begin again. There are some edits. For the sake of completion, I shall be reposting all of DINO EATER in O1. Maybe some folks can play catch up.]
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on Sun Aug 03, 2008 11:43 am, edited 17 times in total.
Mobius 1
Global Mod
Posts: 1099
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 11:40 pm
Location: Orlando, FL

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Mobius 1 »

Sea turtles?

Aye! Sea turtles! Nice to see DE return from the beginning.
SHADOW TEMPEST BLACK || STB2: MIDNIGHT PARADOX
The day our skys fe||, the heavens split to create new skies.
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

I fixed some of the dreadfully purple prose in the beginning, altered some of the Fidel and D conversation because frankly, the original was weird and smacked too much of Snake Eater in-joking.

The next three chapters will be coming in a mega-dose!
Image

"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
User avatar
Invictus
Posts: 1306
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 11:44 pm

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Invictus »

All we need is Per reposting AAoI and the trinity is back. :P
"This explanation posits that external observation leads to the collapse of the quantum wave function. This is another expression of reactionary idealism, and it's indeed the most brazen expression."
-
REBUILD OF COMIX STAGE 1 - Rey Quirino Versus the Dark Heart of the Philippines
"...a literary atrocity against the senses..." - Ford

REBUILD OF COMIX STAGE 2 - Advent Rey Returns: REVERGELTUNG
Coming NEVER
User avatar
Peregrin
Posts: 573
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:56 pm
Location: Denmark

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Peregrin »

Invictus wrote:All we need is Per reposting AAoI and the trinity is back. :P
I guess... I just think the first chapter or two could need a bit of rewriting, something I am not up for right now. :P
"You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you." - Heraclitus
User avatar
Malchus
Posts: 1257
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 7:05 am
Location: In a chibi-land, eating the brains of H. P. Wuvcwaft.
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Malchus »

Alright, it returneth! I'm glad it has come to O1, and I like the little changes. Looking forward to the rest of this.
Image
I admire the man, he has a high tolerance for insanity (and inanity - which he generously contributed!). ~Shroom, on my wierdness tolerance.
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Somewhere in Cuba…
Two days earlier…

The nighttime breeze was cool and gentle, blowing across the beachside resort that was just a short walk away from a small fishing port. There, far from the commotion of tourists, foreigners, they sat by a small table.

Apparently, they weren’t far enough, as a waiter approached them and asked them what they’d have. “And what would senior have?”

“Vodka martini,” Fidel said. “Stirred, not shaken.”

“You have quite the taste,” the woman said, as she leaned forward, giving him a view. “For a native.”

“Not all of Cuba lives in abject poverty, and I hear we have a great health system.”

“Yeah. The tour guide brought us to a hospital, the place was full of squished cockroaches and crying children,” she laughed.

“Heh, so I take it that the ‘decadent West’ has far better conditions,” Fidel commented lightheartedly. “So, what are you up to in Cuba then?”

“Actually, I’m working with your government.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and that means we’re co-workers,” at Fidel’s questioning expression, she explained: “I’m working with your Intelligence Directorate, and I know you’re in it too, Mister Castro, Fidel Castro.” She grinned mischievously and took a sip from Fidel’s martini.

“Why would you want to align yourself with the Cuban government?” Fidel wondered. “Believe it or not, I’m not into the whole cloak-and-daggers business. I’m just a-”

“Blunt instrument,” she continued for him. “Well, in that case, let me teach you something, Mister Castro. The intelligence community is all about forming alliances, back-door deals and concessions, political contracts that never see the light of day, that are never written on paper, either.”

“What about trust?”

“What about it?” she shrugged. She began stroking a finger around the rim of Fidel’s half-empty martini glass, making a humming noise. “There are always compromises in these relationships, but there are also mutual benefits.”

Fidel grinned. He liked where this was going. “And you, what’s your mission?”

“If I told you,” she paused, for dramatic effect. “I’d have to kill you.”

Fidel smirked at that.

“But I won’t,” she continued. “Because I like you, you’re…”

“Complicated?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “Simple. Not into the whole messy cloak-and-daggers business, as you said. And sometimes, that’s actually a good thing. It keeps the conscience clean.”

Fidel nodded solemnly. “Not like a Cuban hospital?”

The both of them chuckled at the expense of the Cuban healthcare system and at the recuperating ‘health tourists’ who shared the resort with them.

“Oh, the tide’s creeping up. We might get wet,” D said silently, in a conspiring voice. “Why don’t I take you to my room?”

“A little bit forward for my tastes, but I guess I-” Fidel was interrupted by a faintly audible beeping noise. He groaned and pulled out his cellular. “Who is it? Major, not now. Oh, alright…”



Somewhere in the Caribbean…
Today…

Fidel woke up and groaned. He tried to move, but his chest was hurting bad. Not too long ago, he was lying bleeding on the beach of an island in the process of being systematically bombarded. Luckily, the targets were inland. Fidel had tried to crawl, where to he didn’t know, but men in red wetsuits came out of the water, placed him on a stretcher, and brought him into the waiting mini-sub.

“Ugh…Major?”

“Yes?”

“Where are we?” Fidel asked. Talking was painful, his chest was bruised and bandaged. Breathing hurt.

“We’re on a ship, heading back to Cuba.”

“What happened?”

“We were double-crossed,” the Major said simply. “D shot you point blank with a shotgun and went off with the package.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” the Major nodded. “But the strange thing was, her shotgun was loaded with rock salt.”

“Rock salt?” Fidel wondered. Rock salt-loaded shotguns couldn’t kill, but they still hurt like hell – especially at point blank range. “Why didn’t she finish the job?”

“I don’t know. Maybe her mission didn’t specify killing you, maybe she wanted to leave you alive. It doesn’t matter, we barely got you out before the American F-14s bombed Isla Norte and Sur. If we hadn’t, you would’ve been incinerated by the thermite plasma along with the rest of the island.”

“Along with those dinosaurs,” Fidel said in relief.

“Actually…”

“What?”

“The dinosaurs escaped,” the Major said plainly. “And they’ve declared an armed revolutlion against all of mankind.”

“Declared a what?” Fidel winced and placed a hand on his sore chest.

“An uprising,” the Major said. He looked tired and looked almost as old as the Commandante - the real Fidel Castro. With scars on his face. And an eye patch. “The Americans found a message and they decided to disseminate it to the rest of the intelligence community, Cuba excluded, of course. Venezuelan intelligence was kind enough to share, though. It won’t be long before it’s made public and I guess it can explain things better than I can.”

A panel on the nearby wall slid away, revealing a TV screen beneath it. The Major got a remote and turned the TV on.

“What’s this?”

In the TV was the image of an old man. He had a blank hollow look on his face, a look of empty mindless despair. His eyes were sunken. Behind him, like some kind of wraith, with black wings spread out like a giant bat, was a pterodactyl, and it seemed as though the old man was under the will of the flying lizard. The old man’s mouth gaped open.

“I am Don Lemonde,” he said, slowly as if he was being forced to speak, as if the words coming from his mouth were being extracted out of him. “Voice of the Dinosaur Uprising.”

The man’s name sounded familiar. That billionaire who owned that genetics company, GenInc.

Lemonde continued, and this time his voice was stronger. “My masters, who stand behind me, have decided to speak to humanity. My masters bring a simple message. They, reborn through the sciences of man, seek to undo what humanity has wrought to the Earth and remake the world. Using the science of man, they will return the archosaurian dynasties, the reptilian lineage that has been laid low for countless millions of years, entombed by the undeserved and impudent reign of the mammalians.

“Like the great cataclysm that brought the reptilian lineage to its knees, sixty-five million years ago, so too will the Dinosaur Uprising of my masters bring this Earth to its knees and subjugate its dominant species.”

Don Lemonde was replaced, superimposed by slightly blurred black-and-white videos of what appeared to be a procession of dinosaurs, comprised of many species, some large, some small, marching in unison. They weren’t just dinosaurs, but cyborg dinosaurs. Weapons of all make and model were grafted on reptilian hides or attached to hydraulic-augmented limbs. Large and lumbering four-legged beasts with missile racks on their backs, nimble velociraptors armed with tesla-spears, some of the bigger ones were hauling pieces of field artillery crewed by smaller dinosaurs, and the largest of the carnivores had fire coming out of their mouths. The camera panned upwards, and the sky was blotted out by pterodactyls flying in precise formations.

Fidel cursed.

“Humanity,” Lemonde resumed speaking. “Is an evolutionary phenomenon that has existed for but a blink of an eye, unlike the terrible lizards that have ruled supreme for countless eras. You will be made extinct, and the once dominant life forms will remake this so-called Earth into a New Pangaea.”

The TV blinked off and the Major placed the remote control beside Fidel’s bed. “Basically, that’s all there is. Havana is getting worried. If this is for real, and many of the higher ups have trouble believing in an army of weaponized dinosaurs declaring a global revolution, then this no doubt constitutes a very grave threat to Cuban national security. But it’s not only Cuba that’ll be endangered, but South America, the entire world, will be at risk.”

Fidel coughed. “Weirder things have happened.”

“Yes,” the Major agreed. “But this ‘Dinosaur Uprising’ just happened uncomfortably near Cuba. We’ll need more information on this whole matter, so you better heal quick.”

“You don’t look too hot yourself, Major,” Fidel joked. “But what about D, Dementieva? What do we do about her?”

“We thought she was with the Costa Ricans, but we were wrong,” the Major sighed. “Whatever she’s up to, it has something to do with the dinosaurs. I guess if we follow either one of them, it would lead us to the other. So, we’ll just have to keep an eye out for D, or the dinosaurs.”

Fidel nodded.

“Anything else?”

“What was in the package?” Fidel asked. “Before he got eaten alive, that Ned guy handed me a canister.” Of whipped cream, he forgot to say.

“Ned was assigned to gather information on the going-ons on the islands,” Major replied. “He was D’s contact in GenInc. but she couldn’t extract him herself. She needed someone who could infiltrate them, so she came to us.”

“For me,” Fidel said.

“For you,” the Major agreed. “Whatever was in that canister, it was probably information of the greatest importance.”

“Maybe it had information on how they managed to make dinosaurs,” Fidel thought aloud.

“Maybe,” the Major agreed. “Anyway, it won’t be long till we’re back in Cuba. Have some rest, Fidel.”

“Yeah…”



In a secret giant submarine lair…

She sat alone in the dark metal sanctum, deep within the multiple hulls and armored bulkheads of the Uprising’s dinosaurian submarine. Surrounding her, in her chamber, were humming holo-spheres displaying cascading streams of green code, raw information no human mind could process, and hanging from the ceiling were telescreens that presented her with a view of the activities outside her enclosure. These telescreens showed a great many of her dinosaurian subjects, overseen by her pterodactyl peers. Small scampering compsognathids skittered on overhead railings while the larger creatures lumbered along in orderly formations in the many gargantuan corridors of the submarine lair. But even such a massive vehicle such as theirs could not, conventionally, accommodate such magnificent creatures in such numbers – no, their lair was partly constructed out of impossible sciences, telepathically ripped out of some of humanity’s finest minds. These impossible sciences too allowed for the seemingly paradoxical existence of the submarine lair’s inhabitants, and the unholy alterations they had done unto themselves.

Ironic, how the very creations of man’s own self-glorification had become the instruments of his demise.

The one within the sanctum was called the Matriarch Methodical, for the telepathic pterosaurs who were the true masters of the Dinosaur Uprising called themselves by their defining personalities, and she had more pressing issues to tend to than philosophy.

The Uprising at this stage was a delicate and fragile thing. Though they were a force to be reckoned with, they still had the struggles and difficulties all newborn superpowers had to contend with. She, with her cool and calculating reptilian intellect, along with Analytical, were tasked with answering these great difficulties.

Methodical looked and listened to the music of the holo-spheres and their subluminal-aural code, decrypting the information they carried in their tones. She nodded, as the submarine’s operating systems were within expected parameters, and then immersed herself into the minds of the troodon technicians through a blend of cybernetic implants and psionics – hybrid machine-telepathy. The troodons were intelligent reptilians with larger brains than most species, and though originally they were too small to service various equipments, cybernetics and growth-alterations easily saw to it that they were easily the size of a human – necessary, for the Uprising had co-opted many of man’s technologies in the pursuit of his eventual eradication. The same applied to the velociraptors, making them bigger in order to become functional foot soldiers.

The troodons’ status reports were satisfactory. Methodical commanded them to carry on.

The troodons and the raptors, and to a lesser extent the compsognathids, had become something beyond most of the Uprising’s dinosaur subjects - they were semi-autonomous, capable of a form of reason more refined than the animalistic intellects of the other slaved creatures. That was good; for despite their numbers, the psychic pterodactyls would eventually have difficulties in maintaining their mind-control (even with cybernetic assistance) should their dinosaur slave population continue growing.

This brought another issue to Methodical’s consideration. The human slaves they kept. Originally, she was apprehensive of them. Despite maintaining firm telepathic control and the recent regiments of microchip implantations to stem further impudence, humans were self-aware and it was impossible to complete dominate them while controlling a vast army of dinosaur warrior legions, legions that would require their supervision in combat. The humans were good infiltrators, and they had the dexterity and familiarity to utilize man-made equipment, but eventually they would have been discarded. However, Analytical had a solution everyone, save the humans themselves, found pleasing:

Lobotomy. Humans could function despite missing half their brains, and so Analytical surgically replaced half of all the man-slaves’ brains with computer components – making them significantly less mind-control intensive. The removed halves of human brains were disassembled, and their ceullular components were reconstituted into the Uprising’s computer networks.

It was brutal but efficient.

Now, Methodical had another matter of almost equal concern. The sauropods, giant long-necked dinosaurians. Their brains were even smaller than the stegosaurs, meaning they were quite possibly the most control intensive, and their appetites were simply astounding. They ate through metric tons of processed kelp and algae, so much that, should they be allowed to reproduce, the Uprising would be defeated not by humanity, but by famine. GenInc, from what Methodical had dissected out of Lemonde’s brain, had created so many of the sauropods because of their popularity with the human young and their sheer intimidating size-factor. The latter was what was especially pressing to the Uprising. Despite having a giant submarine that was impossibly larger in the inside than it was on the outside, space was still a premium. While the large sauropods could mount weapons and perform manual labor, they were simply too stupid and in combat and would become giant targets. Methodical decided that the non-adult sauropods should be treated with growth-suppression hormones. No more sauropods would be procured from the hatcheries, and the current stock would be allowed to die of old age or combat. Whatever cybernetic components they had on them would be salvaged and re-used. It would be a downsizing, to say the least.

The sauropods had to be transferred somewhere else for the meanwhile. Methodical telepathically contacted one of her peers, Self-Assured.

Yes.

How goes the construction? Methodical queried.

Well underway, we have recently exterminated colonies of unintelligent subterranean subhumanoids, Self-Assured replied. Why do you inquire?

If the pterodactyl collective had anything, aside from their psychic powers, it was Foresight. By stealing pertinent information from a group of sealab-dwelling humans, they were able to construct their own submarine bases. Self-Assured was currently the one overseeing the efforts to excavate an undersea mountain ranges. For some reason, devolved humans – Morlocks - had been previously populating the underground-undersea hollows.

Have the large-scale habitats been implemented? Methodical asked. The sauropods may need transferring in the near future.

I realize it would come to this, and have prioritized the large-scale structures accordingly. Deep-sea kelp farms have also been located, as well as phytoplankton-rich areas, so the famine may be averted.

Indeed? That is good news.

Indeed. But consumption rates may increase and cause a local depletion in supplies. Self-Assured observed.

Methodical thought this over for a microsecond before finding an appropriate answer. I will contact Aggressive, maybe she will agree to attack human shipping lines. Sinking container ships while stealing their supplies may prove beneficial.

The humans will suspect us and retaliate.

Only if they know it is us, Methodical corrected. Sea monster attacks are a well-documented phenomenon to humanity, they will no doubt suspect them first.

True.

I must go now, Methodical thought-spoke, cutting off the telepathic link. She turned her attention elsewhere and spoke with her mind: Enter.

With a hiss, the massive armored portal opened like an iris, and striding into the door was a bipedal carnosaur, a therapod. It was grafted in cybernetics, like all the carnivorous creatures of the Uprising. It had dull militaristic plating on portions of its body, on the plates on his back were unarmed weapon-pods, and its tiny arms were ‘gloved’ in larger hydraulic limbs, each with three claw-like fingers. However, this dinosaur was different. It was not created by GenInc, but by the mad Nazi scientist, the Theozoologist. Its genetic makeup incorporated superhuman Nazi DNA, and thus it had striking cobalt blue eyes and a crest of blonde hair on top of its head, somewhat like the feathery down that lined velociraptors.

This dinosaur was an Albertosaurus, a slimline relative of the Tyrannosaurus, that had been mutated into an Aryannosaur. His name was Adolph, and he was no mind-controlled slave.

“Guten morgen, Methodical,” Adolph the Aryannosaur said. He was taught to speak in German by his former master, and he did so, his sharply toothed jaw oddly articulate in speech.

Methodical always found this one odd. Unlike the other subservients, she could not bend this one’s will, but this one was not like her telepathic pterosaur peers either. She had to be diplomatic as it was her who recruited Adolph and his kind to the Uprising, despite the concerns of the others and their unease of enlisting non-slaves. She remembered her first encounter with him as she led that assault on the Theozoological Antarctic Airbase, the surprise of confronting a thinking dinosaur actually allied to that mad mammal, and how she used her reason to win his allegiance.

Methodical hadn’t realized that it was morning already. Good morning, Adolph. What brings you here?

“I have come to give a report on the second raid on the island of that inscrutable human, Doctor Ichabod Weir,” Adolph said in dinosaurian Deutsch.

I was overseeing the battle along with Aggressive, Methodical thought-spoke patiently. Though I appreciate it, you don’t have to trouble yourself with reporting to me.

“You don’t understand,” Adolph pressed on. “I have come to give my opinions on how you and Aggressive have conducted your tactics.”

Indeed? Methodical swayed her beak, perplexed.

“Ja,” Adolph said.

Methodical realized that, despite the oddity of things, this might actually be useful. Unlike herself or her sisters, Adolph was actually trained in military tactics and a differing opinion from an outsider’s perspective might prove beneficial, though her peers may disagree vehemently. Then, in that case, please elaborate.

“Jawohl,” Adolph nodded his predatory head and continued. “Initially, the way you conducted your attack was similar to the previous raid on the Weird Island. Aggressive was the one who led the military action and I commend her use of hit-and-run tactics. But using the same attack against the same opponent twice, even against a mad scientist who makes my former master seem sane, was unwise. You thought that Doctor Weird’s bizarre creations would offer less resistance than that of a conventional military, and in the first occasion you were right.”

But on the second occasion?

“The second attack, which I participated in, saw a marked difference in the response of Weird’s island. The giant Tesla spire proved to be formidable in anti-air coverage, and the landings were made further difficult by undersea monstrosities – including giant prehistoric sharks with three heads. Our landing was very much like that of the Normandy beach assaults.”

Normandy? Methodical would have to query that later. Carry on.

Adolph’s large nostrils inhaled a voluminous quantity of air, then he continued: “Weird’s large robot sentinels and humaniform cyborgs made our deployments hazardous, as did the presence of one-eyed gorillas. Many of our dinosaur comrades, particularly the larger species, were transformed into lizard-like thecodonts by the apes’ de-evolution rays.”

Rehabilitating the devolved dinosaurs has proven difficult, even for Analytical, Methodical mused.

“Indeed. The island’s indigenous defenses also included innovative use of subterranean giant mole rats, and even the therapod-variants were hindered by mastadons and giant sloths. We were nearly overrun by fishmen, even with the electrospinosauri providing tesla-coverage. When the electrospinosauri and rexes were neutralized by shrink rays, Aggressive had no choice but to call off the attack. The casualty ratio was five of the Weird monstrosities for every one of ours, we devastated Weird Island’s bizarre ecology, but nonetheless we were forced to retreat without accomplishing any objectives – namely the capture of Weir’s advanced technology and production facilities.”

Then, what would you have recommended?

“I personally would have made an advanced but discreet deployment of compsognathids, velociraptors and Aryannosaurs as a scouting force to gauge enemy defenses. After mapping out the Weird Island’s topography, which is in constant change, the advanced scouts would use laser designators for a cruise missile strike. This strike would be simultaneous with landings on multiple angles, and while the defenders are busy fighting off the invasion force, the scouts would then capture the objectives.”

Like what we did with those undersea facilities. Use camoflaged compsognathids and other small species to infiltrate and steal the needed information. A combination of conventional warfare and special operations, interesting.

“We call it Blitzkrieg,” Adolf said.

And no doubt you suggest this because you want your Aryannosaurs to play a more vital role in the Uprising’s operations? Methodical cocked her beaked head sideways, perhaps a reptilian version of a smirk.

“Ja,” Adolf admitted. “For the good of the great cause, of course. It is our manifest destiny to eradicate these inferior mammalian mongrels and bring forth the Saurian Solution to this Human Equation. For a New Pangaea.”

Your report has been highly illuminating, Methodical thought-spoke. I will certainly convey this to the others. Your discourse will prove most helpful in our future struggles against humanity and whatever else this Earth has to offer.

“There is one more thing.”

What is it?

“When my Aryannosaurs left Antarctica, we brought with us whatever information we could, including copies of the Theozoologist’s files. Only recently have we had the time to decrypt some of them, mostly those transcribed by Theo’s Otto Skorzeny clones. Those files the Theozoologist himself transcribed are in a language dissimilar to any on Earth, of human origin or otherwise. Most of the clone-transcribed material are from Theo’s educational programs, mostly rants against Jews -”

What is a Jew?

“A kind of human that Theozoologist has an irrational hatred for,” Adolph replied. “We did, however, find something that may be of use.”

Methodical looked at him curiously.

“We found a map.”
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on Sat Jun 07, 2008 4:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
User avatar
Malchus
Posts: 1257
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 7:05 am
Location: In a chibi-land, eating the brains of H. P. Wuvcwaft.
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Malchus »

That was an awesome repost. Again, i like the little additions. Although, I'm strangely disappointed that Adolph didn't call Methodical "Frau". :)

Oh, and I always found the way you wrote Methodical as strangely hot. :D
Image
I admire the man, he has a high tolerance for insanity (and inanity - which he generously contributed!). ~Shroom, on my wierdness tolerance.
User avatar
Ford Prefect
Posts: 957
Joined: Tue May 20, 2008 11:12 am

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Ford Prefect »

I've only read the first chapter, and I had forgotten how cool it was for Fidel to be doing Snake Eatery things with raptors. I hope that returns int he later chapters of DINO EATER.
FEEL THESE GUNS ARCHWIND THESE ARE THE GUNS OF THE FLESHY MESSIAH THE TOOLS OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION THAT WILL ENACT THE LAW OF MAN ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
User avatar
Heretic
Posts: 1750
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 4:45 pm
Location: IN AMERICA

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Heretic »

Man, I love Fidel. If you mess with him, he will eat you!

Double crossing Americans! CapCap will not be pleased.

All in all, I love Adolph. 21/10
Computers are like Old Testament gods; lots of rules and no mercy.
-Joseph Campbell
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Natasha's not American.

Though, to be honest, I don't know where she's supposed to be from.
Image

"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
User avatar
Peregrin
Posts: 573
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:56 pm
Location: Denmark

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Peregrin »

You know what? When I was reading about that broadcast where Don Lemonde speaks on behalf of his dino masters, something occurred to me: We must find a way to get David Icke to read Dino Eater.

And I can't fucking wait for the chapter where we see the next time the Dino Uprising invades Weird Island. LOVED the notes about Theo transcribing stuff that is in "no Terran language".

EDIT: As for Natasha's nationality, I think she is half Russian half North Korean.
"You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you." - Heraclitus
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Somewhere in the Amazon Basin…

The unmarked grey helicopter flew over the jungle, the non-existent sound of its silenced rotors causing no interruption to the inhabitants’ morning. The helicopter’s pilot knew the flight path by heart, having flown this route countless times in the last few months, day and night, rain or shine, carrying all manner and forms of cargo. The sky was clear and the clouds were sparse, fitting, for today the cargo he ferried was more important than usual.

He looked at the rearview mirror and grinned at his single female passenger, though she couldn’t possibly tell that he was looking at her. Aviator sunglasses obscured his eyes, and he wore a hard helmet on his head too. Unlike his unmarked helicopter, his helmet was bright yellow and had the corporate logo of the EVIL Corporation.

Natasha Dementieva pretended not to notice the pilot and instead looked out the window.

The helipad wasn’t. It was just an irregular patch of firm and flattened ground; neither cemented, nor marked, and lacking visible signal lights. The operation needed discretion despite its rather ambitious nature, from what Natasha was told.

The pilot spared no time in landing, and as the rotors stopped spinning, Natasha opened the door herself and walked out.

“Ah. Welcome to the Amazon,” a thin balding man in a dark suit said, gesturing with an outstretched arm. “I hope your trip has been accommodating. My name is Donald Dennaro, legal counsel of the Corporation.”

He offered his hand, but Natasha just walked by and hopped aboard the open-topped Land Rover behind him. Dennaro followed immediately and sat himself beside her.

“Take us to the base,” Dennaro ordered.

“Si,” the driver, a Brazilian mercenary by the looks of it, acknowledged as he started the Rover’s diesel engine. It came to life with a roar, and the Land Rover drove off into a dirt road, wide enough to accommodate a mid-sized truck.

As the Land Rover drove by, Natasha could see that the makeshift helipad wasn’t just surrounded by trees or bushes, but also by large semi-permanent tents. Part of EVIL’s success, in operations both legitimate and otherwise, was its wide use of easily transportable pre-fabricated structures. These large tents were camouflaged, with ‘rooftops’ covered in leaves and foliage, no doubt to fool any overhead observers.

Some of the tents’ armed occupants, mostly South American mercenaries, whistled at Natasha as the Rover drove by. In a short while, they passed the camouflaged tents and entered deeper into the jungle, where all they could see were trees and foliage.

“I trust that the package was in satisfactory condition,” Natasha said. She dropped the canister off in Costa Rica, while she herself took some time-off. That was the first thing she did. Getting herself caught with it by the Cubans and losing it then and there would have certainly displeased her employers and gotten her killed, one way or another.

“Yes it was,” Dennaro grinned. “The scientists, the paleogeneticists, were absolutely crazy about it. It was like Christmas in the jungle for them. You will be most handsomely rewarded for retrieving it. How did you get it, anyway?”

“Trade secret,” Natasha replied, placing her index finger on her lip in a hushing gesture. “Though, to be honest, I just asked politely.”

“I see.”



The trip was long, and aside from the occasional cries and hoots of jungle birds, absolutely nothing of note occurred. As time went by, the sun rose further into the sky to cast harsh midday light. Without a roof above their heads, the Land Rover’s passengers had to shield their eyes with their hands, save for the driver, who wore aviator sunglasses.

Natasha felt like saying something unladylike, but restrained herself as the Land Rover made a sharp turn. She noticed something deep in the woods, something metallic amidst the underbrush. Razor wire connected to a nearby Tesla coil, an electric fence.

“We’re near the base now,” Dennaro said with some relief.

“Electric fences,” Natasha pointed out. “Not the usual security measures.”

“Yes, but that’s because this isn’t the usual facility,” Dennaro replied. “Nor is this a normal operation.”

“I could tell from my previous assignment, though I don’t see why my presence is actually required here.”

“All in due time,” Dennaro said, smiling now. “All in due time.”

Finally, their Land Rover stopped in front of a gated Tesla-fence. The guards saw them and remotely opened the gate, letting them in. As they drove in, Natasha noticed that they were in yet another clearing, a large patch of firm ground utterly devoid of trees, with some more tents and armed mercenaries patrolling the area, accompanied by the usual hardhat-wearing EVIL henchmen. It was midday and by all means, they should’ve been under the intolerable heat of the sun, but the entire clearing was shaded.

Natasha looked up and saw that the entire sky was blotted out by a canopy of semi-translucent green fabric.

“It’s a camo-canopy,” Dennaro remarked as they passed by a row of pre-fab structures. “To anyone watching from far above, it looks like just another bunch of trees.”

As they reached the center of the clearing, Natasha saw a much larger structure. The building was four storeys tall, with an unsubtle archaic design, Art Deco from what she could tell. It obviously wasn’t pre-fabricated by the Corporation, being made out of glass and steel and weathered concrete. “What is this place?”

“I’m glad you finally asked,” Dennaro smiled pleasantly. The Land Rover stopped and the both of them got off. He led the way to the building. “We found the facilities two years ago. One of the Brazilian mercenaries told us about it during a job interview, and eventually a team was sent in to investigate.”

They avoided the occasional mud puddle and went over to the entrance. Dennaro knocked on the heavy metal door, and someone from the inside opened it for him.

“Facilities?” Natasha asked. “Meaning there’s more than one.”

“Yes,” Dennaro nodded as he entered first. “There are several scattered in the immediate jungle. There’s also one hidden in the mountains, apparently a power plant, but it’s only partially functional. Construction was apparently abandoned. We’re converting it into a secondary base.”

On the inside, the building was just as antiquated as its exterior. Apparently, it was a research facility. “How old is this place?”

“We don’t know for sure, but it’s apparently an abandoned German genetic research facility,” Dennaro remarked. There were no mercenaries in the building, just hardhat-clad henchmen and scientists, the former bringing in boxes of equipment for the latter.

“And what’s a lawyer like you doing in a genetic research facility like this?” Natasha asked, with just the right amount of false curiosity.

“For similar reasons as you,” Dennaro offered as he led them down a corridor. “I’m here to oversee the legal and financial aspect of this real-estate acquisition. Normally, the Corporation would have built its own research facility or used an existing lair, but construction of the Ice Fortress in Höfn, Iceland is costing the Corporation a lot of money. This facility suited our needs quite handily, and I’m here to make sure everything goes swimmingly. We’re here.”

They reached another set of doors, these ones having a more complex design and made out of baroquely patterned steel and stained glass. Something from within was casting a strange light on the glass. Dennaro slid a keycard into a device that looked out of place and tacked-on and, with a click, the doors opened.

Inside the room were outmoded computers, with black and white cathode-ray screens and innumerable multicolored buttons that glowed and beeped in pre-set patterns. These machines went well with the retro-aesthetic of the entire facility, but beside them were newer models no-doubt installed by the relatively recently arrived EVIL technicians and scientists who were tending to them. From the projectors of these state of the art machines came glowing color-coded double helix holograms.

“Doctor Thornier,” Dennaro called out. One of the scientists who was manipulating the DNA-holograms with a keyboard immediately ceased his work and walked over towards them. “This is Doctor Thornier, chief paleogeneticist of the project.”

“That’s Thornier,” the doctor corrected, slicking his thinning hair and pronouncing his name without the middle ‘r’. “Doctor Jacque Thornier.”

He offered his hand to Natasha but she ignored it.

Not noticing that, Thornier smiled wryly and went on with enthusiasm. “The genetic samples you sent us were of great use. Our… rivals at GenInc have acquired almost every single recoverable sample of dinosaurian DNA. This has understandably made our efforts considerably difficult, and without you, it would have taken us years to catch up. We would’ve had to sift through countless metric tons of fossils for DNA, which would have been rather inconvenient.”

“What did you do with it?” Natasha asked as she gazed around to examine the various instruments around her.

“Nothing,” Thornier said. But before Natasha could say anything, he continued. “Nothing, as of yet. We’re still processing it, as you can see,” he pointed to the double helix holograms. “But rest assured, they will be put to… good use.”

“Tell her what you’ve been doing beforehand, doctor,” Dennaro said knowingly.

“Yes. For more than a year, we’ve searched for prehistoric DNA, and we actually did find some. We were able to successfully extract genetic material from a handful of carnivorous species, and we were able to… replicate them, for a lack of a better word. Of course, what we’ve recovered is nowhere near as diverse as GenInc’s genetic stock,” Thornier said, and then he smiled once more. “But now we do, thanks to you. Also, our methods no doubt differ from that of GenInc, and dare I say it, our methods are far superior.”

Natasha knew where he was going. The EVIL Corporation obviously had goals that were less altruistic than that of GenInc, and the only reason they wanted GenInc’s genetic stock was to use it for their less-than-altruistic purposes. She had no opinion on the matter, but nonetheless, she did not want to be near any weapons test, especially if the new weapon system was unpredictable and dependent upon… unconventional sciences. “What were you able to replicate?”

“Carnosaurs,” he said simply. “Specifically, Allosaurids.”

“Allosaurus?” Natasha had researched on dinosaurs prior to her mission and thus had some passing knowledge of them. “Why not Tyrannosaurs?”

“Because Allosaurus is, overall, a superior dinosaur. The Allosaurids were the dominant carnivores during the Jurassic Period, and even afterwards their descendants were still the largest predators. They suit our purposes better than Tyrannosaurs because of their forelimbs, which are significantly longer and more dexterous than the vestigial arms of the T-rex. Since they have arms, that means they can be armed.

“Secondly, the Allosaurids, being a dominant family, have significant genetic diversity. This means we can tailor our Allosauruses to the specific needs of the Corporation, making them more flexible. There are species of dwarf-Allosaurs that would be less maintenance intensive, and there are Allosaurs that rival the T-rex in size and are just as dangerous. We can potentially re-create all of these variant forms.” Thornier paused to breathe. He obviously enjoyed lecturing amateur paleontologists. “Allosaurus is also a predator, unlike the T-rex – at least, according to renowned paleontologist Jack Horner.”

“Doctor, why don’t you show her what you’ve been working on?”

“Oh, certainly,” Thornier nodded as he hastily went over to an unused holo-projector. With the hurried tapping of a keyboard, the projector hummed to life and a black and white hologram materialized.

The hologram clearly depicted one of the Allosaurus in a steel enclosure – it was a large reptilian beast, bipedal and with powerful limbs, a long tail that balanced its form, and a large skull equipped with fearsome fangs. Inside the enclosure with it were three men, one of them holding a long shock-prod, the other had a rifle, while the third one was throwing chunks of meat into the dinosaur’s gaping mouth.

“Interestingly, we’ve discovered that the Allosaurs can be trained, like any other animal,” Thornier stated. “We expected that and have employed experts to train them. Of course, there are limits to how much an animal can be trained. The oldest batch of dinosaurs have already been implanted with cybernetics and are partially computer-controlled.”

With a push of a button, the feeding Allosaurus was replaced by a schematic of a heavily mechanized cybernetic organism – more machine than reptile.

Natasha looked at it and was rather impressed.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Thornier said, admiring his handiwork. “Its body is protected by a hyperalloy combat chassis, with hydraulics augmenting its jaws and limbs. The arms have been extended; their claws replaced with titanium blades. The combat chassis has weapon mounts for everything – from machineguns to flamethrowers to missile launchers. But most importantly, the brain of the beast has been integrated with an advanced neural net processor allowing us a level of control greater than ever possible! Entire nations will balk at the prospects of our new army of Allosaurs.”

“Would you like to see it?” Dennaro asked. “The holding pens are not so far from here.”

“No, I’d rather not,” Natasha replied casually. “I’d like to see my room.”



As usual, Dennaro led the way. The topmost floor of the building was where the scientists and other important people slept and ate, and the level bore a resemblance to a quaint hotel rather than a military barracks like the tents outside.

“Tell me,” Natasha said, looking at Dennaro squarely. “What are the security measures of this facility?”

“We have several hundred mercenaries and EVIL henchmen, kilometers of electric fences, heavy weapons nests, watchtowers, and armored vehicles,” Dennaro enumerated. “In a few days, more security personnel will arrive.”

“I didn’t see any watchtowers.”

“They’re not really watchtowers, more like camouflaged tree houses,” Dennaro commented. “High-hides, if you will. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Natasha said as she took out the keycard Dennaro gave her. She opened the door and walked inside. “Have them bring my luggage in later.”

She closed the door.



Somewhere in Cuba…

In the twilight, the sky and sea were one – there was no horizon to border where firmament and ocean met. Cool early morning breeze from the Atlantic buffeted a balcony overlooking the craggy island cliffs.

Fidel Castro looked on, waiting for the sun to come up. Like any good soldier, he woke up before dawn to prepare for the day ahead, to exercise, to do the things soldiers had to do. But he couldn’t, not here, strenuous activity was frowned on by the doctors, and even waking up this early wasn’t encouraged.

Fidel Castro glanced to the side and saw Cuba’s distant shoreline, the very same beach where he had first met D.

On the island was an advanced medical facility; the very best Cuba’s healthcare system had to offer. It had state-of-the-art equipment and procedures, including gene therapy, something customers used to prolong their lives unnaturally. People from other countries came for the therapy, and they were almost always moldy old foreigners with very deep pockets. Not that Fidel minded, Cuba was a small nation and any legitimate source of income was welcomed.

Fidel himself didn’t need life-extending therapy, he wasn’t that old, not yet at least. But his injuries had yet completely healed – the bruises on his chest, on his ribs, and his stiff velociraptor chewed-on wrist, just to name a few. It was just the latest in a string of sustained injuries that spanned the course of a long career, starting from the Cold War to the 21st Century – from yesteryear’s Angola to last week’s dinosaur-infested island. As Cuba’s most useful expendable asset, he was entitled to some maintenance and up keeping.

Injuries aside, there was also the Subsistence suit - a piece of Cold War kit, a Soviet-era hand-me-down that utilized the body’s bio-energy to provide semi-active camouflage that blended with the environment, just like wearing a chameleon-skin jacket that was still alive. Whatever arcane mechanism the suit used to harness the human body’s metabolismic energy, Fidel didn’t know because he didn’t read the manual that came with the thing. Nonetheless, they were insistent on regular examinations to make sure the suit wasn’t doing anything adverse to his constantly brutalized body – like chameleonic carcinogens.

There was also the fact that he was a snake-eater. Even though he could stomach eating snakes, grass, and other forms of jungle flora and fauna alive, he was still taking in unhealthy amounts of uncooked and uncleaned meats. Thus, he and his bodily fluids had to be cleared of any… unwanted parasites. If not for his own sake, then for the sake of all those around him.

So, he spent most of his time in bed, and the higher-ups from the military took the opportunity to question him. Despite the report he filed earlier, they grilled him and interrogated him, probably cross-referencing his account with the Major’s. He couldn’t blame them, but eventually it got tiresome. Some of the generals couldn’t believe that there was in fact an army of cyborg dinosaurs bent on world domination, while others were outraged and even frightened of the fact that it had happened so close by. One of them even went so far as to blame Fidel for screwing the mission up, almost calling him a traitor.

Fidel resented that and would’ve said something, but the man was a general and Fidel himself didn’t even have a rank.

The Major, on the other hand, was quick to defend Fidel. He pointed out that it was the idea of those over at intelligence to collaborate D and to bring her into the mission. He also omitted mentioning the fact that Fidel had fraternized with her the night before.

Nonetheless, Fidel knew that he and the Major bore the consequence of failure, and that they had to redeem themselves. Somehow, someway.

Fidel scowled at that fact and pulled out a cigarette from a pack the Major snuck past the nurses. He narrowed his eyes as the first beams of real sunlight struck him in the face.

“Those aren’t healthy, you know,” someone said from behind him. Park, a health tourist Fidel had befriended. He was an Asian man, and from what Fidel could see, the gene-therapy was working well on him – he couldn’t tell how old the man was. “The sun is rising; the nurses won’t like it if they find us up.”

Fidel didn’t really care what the nurses thought as Park clapped him on the shoulder and jogged back to the building.

“Jog off,” Fidel muttered. He gazed at Cuba’s shoreline, at the beach, and remembered a joke he made at the expense of Cuban healthcare. “Hrm.”

He placed the cigarette in his mouth and wondered. He was a simple tool, a soldier, not cut out for cloak-and-daggers business, and it was natural for him to think about when and where the next mission would be. Ever since the end of the Cold War, most of his missions were in miserable Central and South American jungles. Despite his tactical acumen, he really had little love for the jungle. But it was a job, and there was no one else in Cuba who could do it.

For two decades, from Angola to Nicaragua. After Nicaragua, after he received the Subsistence suit and training in Tactical Espionage Action, he was practically a one-man team, and his only partner was the Major. The Major was probably the closest thing he had to a friend, but he was his superior and even then, Fidel never knew the Major’s real name. The Major himself probably thought that he was addressing Fidel by a codename.

Fidel looked on at the sunrise, partially covering his face with his hand. The sun came over the horizon, casting contrasting scenery, as both the endless grey blue of the ocean and the sky were marred by the red-orange light. As twilight melted away, replaced by the dawn, the boundaries of sea and sky were restored, and one could finally tell where they met.

Maybe that was what Fidel was waiting for or maybe the glare was just too bright for his eyes, as he got off his chair, turned around and –

The Major was standing behind him, and now in front of him. Needless to say, Fidel wasn’t expecting him. “Need a light?”

“What?” Fidel asked, unlit cigarette still hanging from his mouth. Wordlessly, the Major drew a lighter and Fidel immediately understood. Cigarette lit, Fidel drew in a warm breath and, after a brief moment, exhaled whirling contrails of burnt vaporized tobacco. He took the cigarette off his mouth, holding it gently between his index and middle fingers. “Major.”

“Fidel,” the Major nodded. He sat on a chair and Fidel sat beside him. “How’s the Treatment coming along?”

“Fine. I’m no longer hooked on the IV, I’ll probably be off this island by tomorrow,” Fidel replied. “I’d go off today if I could.”

“Don’t be too hasty,” the Major warned. “You need to be well-rested and hydrated to complete the Treatment.”

“Why are you here anyway?” Fidel wondered aloud, puffing out cigarette smoke from his nostrils.

“I came to check up on you. I trust the ‘interrogation’ didn’t foul your mood too badly.”

“Hrm.”

“Trust me, they grilled me just as badly. Maybe they were even worse on me. After all, I’m supposed to be your handler. If it’s anyone’s fault, it should be mine.”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“You’re right, let’s not dwell on those things,” the Major said pleasantly. His tone of voice made Fidel wonder.

“What’s going on, Major?” on the other hand, Fidel’s tone of voice made it clear that he was in no mood for small-talk.

“I’ll be direct to the point then,” the Major agreed. “D, or Dementieva as she calls herself, was sighted at Venezuela. Our friends over there told us that she took a helicopter flight into the jungle. There’s been a bit of air traffic in the jungle lately, or so our Venezuelan friends say. They think something suspicious is going on, but parts of their government are being paid off to ignore whatever’s happening there. So their hands are tied.”

“They told you that?”

“The pay off? No, we figured that ourselves,” the Major commented. “They’d never tell us that.”

Fidel thought things over. “You think if we follow D, we’ll find out more about the Dinosaur Uprising?”

“She’s the only lead we have,” the Major shrugged. “And we have to do something soon or else the generals will have both of our heads.”

That was true, Fidel thought. D was their closest link to the Uprising, and if they found her, chances were, the dinosaurs wouldn’t be too far behind. “Any new information on the Uprising?”

“Yes, actually,” the Major answered. “The Americans found vast underground complexes on Isla Norte and Isla Sur. These complexes were probably GenInc but got expanded when the dinosaurs took over. Obviously, the dinosaurs left in a hurry. How exactly they were able to leave, no one knows. Maybe they used submarines.”

“Or stealth aircraft,” Fidel suggested. “Or a combination of vehicles.”

“Either way,” the Major continued. “These dinosaurs present a highly-mobile, stealthy, and technologically advanced threat. They’ve been planning their actions for some time, and that makes them all the more dangerous. Cuba can’t take any direct action against them.”

“And that’s where I come in, right?” Fidel asked rhetorically.

“Right,” the Major agreed. “We don’t have the military assets, and even if we did, we’d have to consider the reaction of our ‘neighbors’. I’m sure the Americans will be just as glad if the dinosaurs flattened Cuba and killed everyone on the island.”

“Probably,” Fidel chuckled; it was funny because it was true.

“There’s another thing. The world governments have made the Uprising semi-public information. They haven’t exactly told the public that the dinosaurs have mechanized themselves and are preparing for a global revolution, but still.”

“What was the reaction?” Fidel inquired. Despite all the advanced medical facilities on the island, they still lacked satellite TV.

“Nothing much, really. With all the alien invasions, giant monsters and supervillains rampaging in America, to them, a bunch of escaped dinosaurs isn’t really that much of a concern,” the Major shrugged. “However, the Americans did gather their top geneticists and paleontologists, dinosaur scientists, and asked them for any and all information regarding dinosaurs. The wise thing to do, I suppose.”

“Not really,” Fidel muttered.

“Why not?”

“Because genes and bones won’t tell you shit about these dinosaurs. If that video is true, if the dinosaurs have grafted cybernetic weapons into their bodies and use combat tactics, then whatever information you can get from DNA and fossils won’t matter at all.”

“Anything we can get on the dinosaurs is important, Fidel,” the Major cautioned. Then, he smirked. “But you have a point. And that’s why we’re sending you in to find out more about these cyborg killing machines.”

Fidel groaned. “So, when do I leave?”

“The day after tomorrow,” the Major replied, as he got up and prepared to make his exit. “Don’t worry, we’ll pack your bags for you.”

The sun was high in the sky now, and the early morning cool gave way to tropical warmth. Fidel wiped the sweat off his brow.
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on Thu Jun 12, 2008 4:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
User avatar
Peregrin
Posts: 573
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:56 pm
Location: Denmark

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Peregrin »

And so we get closer to that climax battle between two armies of cyborg dinosaurs I can't wait for. This being a MGS pastiche, I'd like to know... exactly how weird is it going to get around the end? Or will you save the convoluted mindscrewing for Sand Scorpion? :P
"You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you." - Heraclitus
Mobius 1
Global Mod
Posts: 1099
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 11:40 pm
Location: Orlando, FL

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Mobius 1 »

I like midscrewy plot twists, you can never have enough of them. And then there's going to be the awesomeness of SAND SCORPION, which will kick ass.
SHADOW TEMPEST BLACK || STB2: MIDNIGHT PARADOX
The day our skys fe||, the heavens split to create new skies.
User avatar
Peregrin
Posts: 573
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:56 pm
Location: Denmark

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Peregrin »

Mobius 1 wrote:I like midscrewy plot twists, you can never have enough of them.
Same here - I'm a Philip K. Dick fan. :twisted:
"You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you." - Heraclitus
User avatar
Malchus
Posts: 1257
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 7:05 am
Location: In a chibi-land, eating the brains of H. P. Wuvcwaft.
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Malchus »

Again, I like the little re-edits. I like how the dispargement on Jack Horner is doubled by the fact that he is referenced to by his DINO EATER expy, Jacque Thornier. :twisted:

I also liked the change from "Kim", as I believe the Bond-reference-Korean was called back on the original OZ DINO EATER, to "Park." Kim is just too common a Korean stock name (well, Park is too, sorta, but less so).
Image
I admire the man, he has a high tolerance for insanity (and inanity - which he generously contributed!). ~Shroom, on my wierdness tolerance.
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Also. Kim sounds stupid. Park is better.

Hooray for Caucasianified North Koreans and Cuban Genome Therapy! :mrgreen:
Image

"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
User avatar
Heretic
Posts: 1750
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 4:45 pm
Location: IN AMERICA

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Heretic »

Man. No comment. Just so awesome.
Computers are like Old Testament gods; lots of rules and no mercy.
-Joseph Campbell
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER (3-4 re-edition up)

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Somewhere near the Brazilian-Venezuelan border...

The rickety old Cessna buckled as its engine sputtered and its rotors stuttered. After a brief moment of coughing, the engine finally died. The rotor blade stalled, sending the aircraft into a quick and unceremonious descent of some several hundred meters, plummeting through the clouds like an airplane-shaped brick, hard and fast, before its engine finally roared back to life at the last possible moment. Slowly and gracefully, the Cessna regained altitude, putting it a safe distance above the jungle canopy.

Both the pilot and co-pilot simultaneously sighed in relief, looked at each other, and laughed out loud. Both wore baseball caps and aviator sunglasses, and looked practically identical.

Do these pantywaists know what they’re doing? Fidel asked himself. He sighed inwardly, knowing fully well that this was all what Cuban intelligence could afford within its means.

“That was close, wasn’t it Fidel?” the co-pilot laughed as he unfolded a map. “Now, where were we supposed to drop you again?”

Fidel pointed at map, the part he had previous marked with a red pen.

“Ah!” the co-pilot nodded as he showed the location to his partner, who released his hold on the control stick to take the map.

“It’s not too far, the plane can probably make it there alright,” the pilot nodded, handing the map back as he resumed piloting the plane.

Fidel shook his head in disbelief, almost not noticing his vibrating tactical microbead. He flicked it on. “Major Muerte, what is it?”

“Are you there yet, Fidel?”

“We’re close.”

“Good. Remember, this is a covert airdrop, meaning the enemy isn’t supposed to see your incursion. You’re to fly low, in order to evade radar, and circle the area to see if it is clear. If the area isn’t clear, then abort and re-try later at one of the secondary locations, preferably where you can’t be seen,” just like the last time, the Major thoroughly repeated the mission parameters over and over again.

“Wouldn’t it help if we weren’t doing this during the middle of the day, maybe if we did this during the middle of the night instead?” Fidel asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“No.”

“…why?”

“Because you’ll get lost in the jungle at night,” the Major stated simply. “Haven’t you learned anything from Camp Mantanzas? The jungle is extremely dangerous at night, no matter how good you are. Besides, it’s noon, most people would be having their siesta by now.”

“…”

“Let’s go over the objectives one more time, shall we?”

“Sure.”

“You infiltrate the jungle. This is where you work best, so you do what you normally do. Gather whatever information you can on what’s going on here, specifically what our Ms. D is doing in the middle of the Amazon and what she has to do with dinosaurs. If you can, disguise yourself and get inside their operation, get whatever you can – documents, photographs, computer files, anything. If possible, sabotage their operations. And, of course, avoid capture and detection at all costs.

“Remember, every single operation Cuban intelligence has performed in the last two decades has been done under the veil of plausible deniability, we cannot be taken into account for our actions. And one last thing, survival is tantamount to a successful mission. You must return alive, Fidel. Got it?”

“Got it,” Fidel nodded his head.

“Weapons check.”

Fidel sifted through his gear.

“One silenced .45 Colt M1911 pistol,” the Major stated.

“Check.”

“It’s not a standard Cuban weapon, but it is the standard for American special forces,” the Major commented. “If people blame our actions today on the Americans, then good for them.”

“Heh.”

“Next on the list, modified AKM with silencer and 40mm grenade launcher.”

“Check.”

”Normally we’d issue you an AK-74, but the newer caliber ammunition lacks stopping power, and you’ll need all the stopping power you can get when taking on dinosaurs. That explains the grenade launcher too.”

“Right.”

“Next, Semtex. Moldable-adhesive plastic explosives with remote detonators, timers, and ball bearings. For all your sabotage needs and shrapnel. They’re waterproofed too.”

“How considerate of you, Major,” Fidel commented. “Normally you can’t afford to equip me with these.”

“This mission is far from normal, Fidel,” the Major retorted. “You’ve also got your standard-issue combat knife. Your active sonar motion detector, binoculars with night-sight capacity, and a camera. And, as always, you have your Subsistence suit.”

“I’ve been using this ever since the 80s.”

Interrupting their conversation, the co-pilot tapped Fidel’s shoulder. “Fidel, we’re near the river.”

“Okay, let’s wrap this up then, Fidel,” the Major said. “Any items I missed?”

“One GenInc. standard-issue airgun with tranquilizer darts.”

“What? I never issued that.”

“I got it from Isla Norte,” Fidel explained. “I thought it’d come in handy. If we need someone alive, or as a last resort…”

“Good idea,” the Major commented. “Remember, you can contact the Enrique brothers if you have problems with the terrain. Aside from piloting, they know this place like the back of their hands. And you can contact L if you run into any dinosaurs, her expertise in them might come in handy.”

“Right. What about our inside man?”

“He won’t contact you unless if it’s very important, unless you’re in dire need of help. He has to maintain his cover.”

The Cessna’s engine sputtered and whined loudly as the aircraft pitched downwards and descended at a steep angle. The indiscernible green below them grew larger and larger until Fidel could make out the individual trees, bushes and shrubs, and when they were just about to fly dead-on into the underbrush, the Cessna leveled off mere feet from certain death. For a moment, the landing gear brushed against branches and treetops until they flew past the vast expanse of jungle.

Fidel looked down the window, surveying the sheer brown-yellow depth of the seemingly endless Amazon River.

“X marks the spot, amigo!” laughed Enrique. “You’re one crazy hombre, if you’re not taking a parachute, then at least take this!”

Fidel accepted the cigarettes and placed them in a waterproof pocket.

“Sure about this?”

“Not really,” Fidel muttered, kicking the door open and jumping off the plane.



The impact was hard as Fidel was literally smashed through the water. But that instant of pain disappeared quickly as the current sucked him down under, enveloping him in an overwhelming sensation of wetness and blindness. As he struggled to breathe and surface, he flailed around blindly and choked on the water.



The room was monitored by black-and-white CCTV cameras. It was bare, with two chairs and a steel table. Almost like the ones they used to cleanly interrogate captives. Emphasis on cleanly.

“We haven’t been successful in finding anything in the jungle. Here, look at the satellite images.”

“Since when did we ever have satellites?”

“Since never. Some of our friends lent it to us.”

“What ‘friends’?”

“It’s on a need-to-know basis, Fidel.”

“Hrm. These pictures, they don’t show anything. It’s just jungle. The Venezuelans must be wrong, unless D’s just taking a hike through the jungle.”

“Still, they think there’s something big going on, and the Intelligence Directorate is inclined to believe them.”

“Havana really wants us to do something, huh?”

“I’m afraid they’re being hasty, but whether we like it or not, we’re doing this mission.”

“And by we, you mean me.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll plan this mission together. I’ve gathered some people to help us out.”

“Who?”

“Our first contacts will arrange the transportation. They’ll also help you in navigation, as they are intimately familiar with the terrain.”

“They?”

“Yes, there’s two of them. Here’s the file.”

“Hrm. Looks like a couple of…”

“I know. But I’ve been told that they’re good.”

“Who’s the other contact?”

“To compensate for the last mission’s lack of information, we’ve managed to recruit a leading paleontologist to aid you.”

“Really?”

“Her name’s Doctor Ellie Settler, she’s actually one of the consultants GenInc brought over to the islands during the opening of their dinosaur park. So she has intimate knowledge on the dinosaurs in the Uprising. Here.”

“Hm, she looks good. I wonder how you managed to recruit an American. If her government knows anything about her involvement with us, she’ll be in trouble. You didn’t recruit her by force, did you?”

“No, all she knows is that there may be escaped dinosaurs in the Amazon and, as conservationists, we might need information about these ‘endangered species’.”

“Heh. Conservationists.”

“To preserve her identity, you’ll have to address her by codename when you talk to her in the radio. Her codename will be L.”

“I get it. Where did you find her, anyway?”

“She was on a survey in Argentina with Paul Sereno, some person working for the National Geographic. Anyway, we have one last contact.”

“What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have a name. Nor a codename, for that matter. He’s an inside man and he’s the one who provided us with the location…”

“The location that turns up nothing in the satellite images?”

“We have reason to believe whatever’s in the jungle has been camouflaged quite well. Maybe it’s underground. Which means-”

“Which means I’ll have to find it myself...just great.”

“Don’t worry, if you find nothing, then that’ll be the end of this whole dinosaur business, until something else turns up.”

“…”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“Major… how’s the President?”

“President Castro will be alright. The assassin didn’t hit anything vital, thank goodness for that.”

“Do we know who planned it?”

“Probably the Americans, or the traitors who’ve left Cuba for America. They think killing the Commandante will cause our country to implode and… they’re wrong.”

“…”

“Don’t worry Fidel, I’m sure the President will outlive the both of us.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s expected to make a full recovery and will give out a national address. I’ll tape it for you.”

“Thanks, Major.”




Fidel erupted out of the water, gasping and choking as he reached out for something to hold onto. He opened his eyes, and painful midday light filled his vision. He grabbed on to a tree root and pulled himself up a riverbank. Afterwards, he laid facedown on the mud and, having nearly drowned, coughed out copious amounts of water.

After a minute of labored breathing, Fidel turned himself over and calmly surveyed his surroundings.

Greener pastures. Despite rampant deforestation, some parts of the jungle still maintained that look of primordial un-despoiled sanctity, but for how long that sanctity will remain, Fidel couldn’t tell. But for the moment, Fidel could see, hear, and taste what remained of the Amazon. Directly overhead were flocking birds, brightly colored parrots flying to the other side of the river. As Fidel propped himself up against a tree, he noticed a family of giant otters playing in the water as a caiman watched on silently – like a crocodilian log with teeth. The midday sun glistened on the water’s surface.

Fidel took out a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and searched his pockets for a lighter.

Without any specific destination or directions, searching for whatever’s hidden in the jungle would take a while. If the mission was complete, or if he was absolutely certain there was nothing to be found, then all he needed to do was to follow the river downstream and radio the Enriques to pick him up. Exfiltration.

Fidel realized that he didn’t have a lighter. He grunted as he got up to a crouch. He pulled up his left sleeve and opened his camouflage index. A few minor calibrations and his suit’s pre-set camo-pattern made slight adjustments to better blend in with the surroundings. He would have to do this whenever the surroundings changed drastically, switching to pre-set patterns, or he could set the index to active chameleonic blending – but that would require too much bio-energy and the suit would drain his stamina.

Fidel flicked his radio on.

“Good to hear that you haven’t drowned.”

“Thanks,” Fidel muttered.

“Alright, you know what to do. But before you begin, you should check your radio contacts.”

“Right,” Fidel nodded as he tuned into different frequencies. “Hello?”

“Hey Fidel, you okay amigo?” it was one of the Enriques. Fidel wasn’t sure which.

“Just a bit shaken, not stirred.”

“Haha, you sure got cojones, mang.”

“Hrm, Enrique, you know the jungle well, right?”

“Righ. Me and my brother used to be rangers, stopping illegal logging and poaching and stuff. We got tired and took up a job offer from some gringos as security guards for their businesses in Brazil. We got the job, but when we got our first paycheck, we bailed and bought our airplane. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” Fidel replied. “Hrm, I’m looking for something in the jungle. Do you have any idea where to start?”

“I dunno. Maybe you should head upstream. If you head further downstream, the jungle gets pretty dense, I don’t think anything’s there.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and if you don’t find anything, maybe after we pick you up, we can go get some drinks, get it on with some girls, eh?”

“Sure,” Fidel answered, clearly amused as he switched channels. “Hello?”

“Yes, who is it?” the voice was clearly female, and spoke in English.

“Castro, Fidel Castro.”

There was a laugh. “Funny name. Are you the conservationist, Mr. Castro, Fidel Castro?”

“Yeah.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Castro. My name’s L. You’re friends insisted I use a codename on the radio, for some reason.”

“Heh,” Fidel himself thought the Major’s insistence on aliases was silly. “You can call me Fidel. Oh, and I know your real name.”

“Too bad you can’t say it out loud, then. Anyway, I’m supposed to help you identify dinosaur species. My specialization’s paleobotany, but I’m thoroughly familiar with GenInc’s species and I know enough from working with actual paleozoologists. If you ever do find a dinosaur in the jungle, describe it and I’ll tell you all I know about it.”

“When I was on Isla Norte,” Fidel knew the Major would kill him for mentioning details like that. “I ran into a couple of dinosaurs.”

“You were at Isla?”

“Yeah, just a few days ago,” Fidel replied. “The dinosaurs I ‘met’ were… well, two-legged, with big claws on their feet. About six-feet tall, twelve-feet long. Velociraptors, I think.”

“Velociraptors. GenInc. resurrected species popular with the general public, like the velociraptors from the Jurassic Park movies. But they found out that the raptors were actually rather small, no bigger than dogs.”

“Really? Then what were those I saw on the island?”

“Well, velociraptors had relatives that can grow to those sizes, like deinonychus and utahraptor. But GenInc didn’t have any deinonychus or utahraptor DNA, so they decided to pump growth hormones and steroids into their velociraptors instead. It made the raptors bigger, but it also made them more aggressive, more violent, maybe even smarter. The park’s gamekeeper wasn’t frightened of the T-rexes, but he had an arsenal just in case if the raptors escaped!”

“Ah, so that explains it…” Fidel rubbed his left wrist; it was still a bit stiff from blocking the raptor’s jaws from his face. “That was very interesting.”

“Thanks. My colleague, Doctor Grant, keeps a velociraptor claw he uses to frighten children. He thinks they’re nature’s worst killing machines, and from what I saw, I think he’s right.”

“Hrm.” Fidel thought. “From what I saw, I’d agree with him too. Doc, I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay. And that’s Doc L to you.”

“Heh,” he killed the radio and got up. To no one in particular, he said: “Commencing the mission…now.”



The base was littered with undisciplined Brazilian mercenaries and stoic henchmen in hardhats and light-grey jumpsuits. However, as of early morning, they were now accompanied by a new, far more militaristic presence. Patrolling the base and acclimating themselves to their new surroundings were sentinels clad in obsidian armor and reflective visors, armed to the teeth with modern weapons like electrothermal G-36 assault rifles. EVIL Elites.

Leading them was yet another clad in their black armor. He removed his helmet and exposed himself, his pale pigmentless skin and colorless hair, and an albinic visage utterly devoid of human emotion. Ever since the bankers of the EVIL Corporation found his cryogenic stasis pod in a Swiss vault and revived him, whatever real name he once had was forfeit. He was simply known by the number that designated his cryo-pod. The Number 13.

“What are the security measures of the structures themselves?” he coldly asked the female EVIL engineer in a yellow hardhat who was walking beside him.

“I have begun installing defensive countermeasures and surveillance equipment,” she replied with a slight European accent. “But you will find that the buildings themselves are rather quite resilient.”

“How?”

“We found that the reinforce concrete was further impregnated by an unknown metallic alloy,” she said, offering a report-sheet to Number 13. He declined. “This increases the structural integrity, but to what degree, we don’t know. A sample will be taken and sent to EVIL laboratories for further testing. Whoever it was who built these facilities certainly knew how to design buildings.”

13 nodded and motioned her away as he neared his destination. It was a large futuristic trailer with communications equipment protruding from its roof. He opened the door and strode in.

“Afternoon,” Natasha Dementieva greeted him with a smirk. “No jet-lag, I hope.”

“None,” he replied coolly as he neared her. He looked down at the console that she and an EVIL operator were tending to, and he looked at the operator with his cold blue eyes. “Report.”

“Sir-” the techie stuttered. Natasha smiled wickedly. “We’ve sighted a small aircraft in the radar.”

Number 13 turned to Natasha, giving her a slightly questioning look.

“It’s probably nothing,” she responded. “Colombians usually evade authorities and smuggle their drugs by flying planes over the jungle.”

Number 13 turned to the radio operator. “You. Alert the men. Dispatch patrols, low-level. Inform half the Elites to split into fire-teams and accompany the Brazilian patrols.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“My Elites need to familiarize themselves with the jungle. The Brazilians know the terrain best. It will be good practice.”

A merc with a brown bandana entered the trailer, brandishing an AK-47. “What’s going on?”

“You,” 13 said to the merc. “What’s your name?”

“Eduardo, sir.”

“You’re coming with me,” 13 said. Immediately as he exited the trailer, he was met by four of his Elites. They stood straight and saluted him. “You will be our guide.”
Image

"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
User avatar
Malchus
Posts: 1257
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 7:05 am
Location: In a chibi-land, eating the brains of H. P. Wuvcwaft.
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER (5 up)

Post by Malchus »

Nothing much new here. Still, it'd great to see the repost proceeding. It's more than my procrastinating ass has done lately, that's for damn sure. :P
Image
I admire the man, he has a high tolerance for insanity (and inanity - which he generously contributed!). ~Shroom, on my wierdness tolerance.
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER (5 up)

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Overhead, the boa constrictor made its slithering descent down the tree trunk, its mottled brown scales blending with the bark. Though almost invisible, it could perceive things camouflaged nigh-invisibly like itself. Hypnotically, its tongue flicked out, ends splitting before returning to its mouth. It tasted the air and, with its forked tongue, could acutely follow the direction of the scent trail. Its head swayed to the left, and the rest of its body followed.

The snake slithered on downwards and ‘saw’ its prey. The jungle rat was hidden in foliage and shadow, but like any warm-blooded mammal, its body radiated heat and to the sensitive pits on the constrictor’s face, the scurrying rodent was a burning red-orange blur amidst a backdrop of cold blue.

The snake coiled its muscular frame and then, like a whip, it lashed out. In a split second, countless razor-sharp fangs bit down hard on the squealing rat, and then, in a quick motion, the poor rodent was brought up from the ground as the boa began its midair constriction. The hanging snake was anchored to the tree, allowing it to dine unbound by gravity. As its tail tightened on the branch, so too did the rest of its body squeeze – tightening whenever the rat exhaled. Soon the rodent would be literally out of breath, and when the constrictor sensed the mammal’s heart stop, it would then unhinge its jaws to swallow its prey whole.



The culmination of the cycle of predation, the struggle between predator and prey, went largely unnoticed by Fidel Castro as he brushed past overhanging vines and branches, swept away leaves that blocked his way, and maneuvered around other more impassable obstacles.

For the last hour, nothing of any significance had turned up. No sign that D, or anyone for that matter, had been in this part of the jungle. Even if there was something big going on, without any directions or guide, searching for it would be harder than finding a needle in a haystack, it could take forever. Fidel wiped his brow, the day was still young.

The sound of rustling leaves made him draw his rifle. He checked to find the grenade launcher loaded.

He waited for whatever it was to come out. Though wary, he maintained trigger discipline, but readied to fire the grenade if a velociraptor were to explode out of the bush.

A feline head poked out between some leaves, looked Fidel in the eye, and hissed. It was an ocelot, a rainforest cat.

Fidel sighed. After the ocelot disappeared back into the bush, he reactivated the safeties and sat down on a nearby rock. He grabbed an overhanging vine, sliced it with his knife, and let the sap dribble into his open mouth. The jungle was hot and humid, he had to keep hydrated in order to continue his mission, in order to survive.

Fidel remembered his time in Camp Mantanzas, a camp that specialized in jungle warfare, so-called ‘Vietnamese tactics training’, along with Cuba’s best and brightest, they also trained foreign revolutionaries.

His missions were almost always in the jungle, but it wasn’t because he had much love for it, but because he was the only one capable of operating in it extensively. He learned well early on, back in ‘The Camp’: “In combat, the jungle serves as an all-encompassing cover, so use it wisely. But when not in combat with the enemy, always remember that you’re waging an all-out war of survival against the jungle itself.”

He squeezed the last trickle of sap out of the vine and discarded it.

“Hrm,” Fidel noticed that the knife was still in his left hand. “Why not?”

In one swift motion, he got up and, with his right hand, drew his silenced .45. Then he brought both hands together, the one with the gun on top, the one with the knife underneath, to support the weight of the gun and help in aiming and shooting. Close-Quarters-Combat, CQC. In this stance, he could fire his handgun with modest accuracy – though he wasn’t holding it with both hands, he wouldn’t be firing it one-handed either. Then, if the enemy got close, he could easily switch from a gun battle to a knife fight.

Fidel struck an invisible foe with both hands, knife-first. With his right hand holding the pistol on top of his knife-hand, the weight and impact of the knife-strike would be increased along with the damage. Then Fidel could move to either further injure his opponent by pistol-whipping him or perform an execution with a point-blank shot, or move on to other foes with either his gun, his knife, or both weapons on one target, or on two different opponents simultaneously.

Counterbalancing the knife, he struck, and then retracted. He repeated the motions again and again, like a ritual. Counterbalance, strike, retract. Counterbalance, strike, retract. In knife fighting, the objective wasn’t merely to slash your opponent and give him superficial injuries, but to stab him, to cause maximum damage to his organs and, if not outright killing him, then bleeding him like a stuck pig.

He sheathed his knife. Then he held his pistol with both hands, removed the magazine, detached the silencer, replaced the magazine and re-attached the silencer, while checking altogether for any signs of dirt getting into the firing mechanisms, chambered a round, turned the safeties back on, and then holstered the weapon.

Rested, and finished with the motions of CQC, Fidel scanned the jungle and continued his search, careful not to go back to where he just came from.



The screen was filled with the face of Marcus Elliot Hunt, a high-ranking representative of the Corporation. Arrayed in front of the screen were the topmost-ranking men and women of the EVIL Corporation’s jungle base, seated in view of the screen’s teleconference-camera.

“How is the construction going?” he asked cordially.

“Very well,” answered Oktavia Boyer, the head engineer of the EVIL jungle base, holding her yellow hardhat underneath an arm. “Everything necessary is set up and operational. The infrastructure, power grids, defenses, habitations….”

“And the operations themselves?”

Doctor Thornier answered that. “Everything is as going as planned, sir. In fact, we’ll have the newest product ready within a few days.”

“Good, good,” nodded Mr. Hunt. “And the prototypes that have already been completed?”

“They are undergoing field tests as we speak, sir. In fact, they’re helping with base security.”

“Good, good. I trust that there have been no difficulties… Where is Number 13?”

“He’s off on patrol with his men,” Natasha replied.

The corporate man considered this briefly and then continued. “In any case, as both you and he are charged with security details, please order the men to begin preparations.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Preparations for what?”

“For my arrival, of course,” Hunt explained simply.

“You’re coming here?” legal-expert Donald Dennaro clearly wasn’t expecting an inspection, or a visit.

“Yes. I want to get a first-hand perspective on things,” he smiled. “Reading your situation reports get tiresome after a while, Donald. Besides, there are important things to be discussed.”

“Then we will prepare for your arrival, sir,” Thornier said, looking like he was almost about to bow his head down. He looked at both Dennaro and Dementieva. “In every way we can.”

“Good,” Marcus smiled. And with that, the screen went blank.



Fidel was careful to avoid the light that bled through the jungle canopy’s wounds. Aside from revealing his presence despite his camouflage, the light was both bright and blinding, so he opted to scurry about under the cool shadows of the trees instead. When there was a gap in the treetops, he’d carefully avoid the well-lit clearings, just to be sure.

It was afternoon and soon, in a few hours, daylight would no longer be a concern. He wondered how he’d search the jungle for whatever it was he was looking for in the middle of the night.

There was a high-pitched shriek as something amidst the canopy took flight. Fidel nearly jumped, unsheathing his blade and drawing his sidearm.

“Hrm…only a bird,” Fidel leaned on a tree and got down to a crouch.

Ahead of him was a deepening expanse of shaded jungle, with beams of sickly yellow light piercing through holes in the treetops, stabbing through the darkness. Maybe it was the sun changing position, or clouds moving through the sky, but light and shade seemed to shift, interlacing themselves, perhaps in a strange optical illusion granted by the humidity of jungle air. It seemed to beckon at Fidel, and as he watched on. The noise of the jungle seemed to die, replaced by skittering, intricate clicking sounds unlike those made by any animal.

Maybe the sun disappeared underneath the cloud cover, as the dancing beams of light then faded, replaced by total shade, and cool air.

Fidel tightened his grip on his pistol and his knife and rushed on, not noticing that the tree he leaned on was marked by deep cuts and a dangling strand of animal skin.

As he entered the deeper shade, his footfalls came with the noise of dried leaves crunching into tiny pieces. He scowled. This was not good for sneaking.

The sick yellow sunlight returned, lancing down in tendrils that brushed by him. One of the beams of light stabbed him in the eyes, causing him to cover them with a hand.

“Hrm,” he grunted, stepping to the side and -

There was a snapping sound as cleverly placed branches and leaves gave way, sending Fidel down a deep dugout pit. He yelped and stabbed at the lip of the pit with his knife, burying it in the firm ground like an anchor, a climbing piton. He grunted in momentary pain as his arm joints were brutally jerked by the weight of his entire body hanging on, and then the burden was on his fingers to maintain their grip on his knife.

Fidel holstered his pistol and, with his now-free right hand, grabbed on to the knife. Grunting, he pulled himself up with both hands and arms. Then he sat himself down on the ground and looked down at the bottom of the pitfall, liberally covered in spikes – spikes that were themselves probably liberally covered in human excrement.

Fidel turned on his radio and adjusted the frequency.

“Major Muerte, this is Fidel.”

“I read you. What’s going on? Have you found anything?”

“Yeah, I found something…”

“What?”

“A trap. A punji pit. I don’t think it was set up by D or any cyborg dinosaurs, though,” Fidel remarked dryly.

“Hrm…” the Major sounded like he was thinking this over. “Maybe you’re getting warm. Keep on searching, you might find…”

“More traps?”

“Well, the trap obviously didn’t set itself. Someone must be there setting up those up. Maybe they know something… still, you should be careful.”

“Yeah…” Fidel changed frequency. “Enrique, this is Fidel.”

“Yeah, you’re readin’ loud and clear, amigo. What’s up?”

“I nearly fell down a hole.”

“A hole, huh?”

“Yeah. It was disguised, and had spikes in it.”

“Oh-” there were sounds of scuffling, probably the other Enrique letting go of the airplane’s controls to grab the radio. “So, you’re wondering who would dig a hole in the middle of the jungle for you to fall into and die in?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“It’s probably just the local Indians, they have all these traps to catch tapirs and stuff. Recently, they’re using those traps to ward off outsiders, people who do nasty shit to them.”

“Hrm… would their villages be anywhere near a trap they’ve set up?”

“I dunno… some of their tribes like to move around a lot, but then if that trap’s not too old, then chances are, they’re probably nearby. If the place is marked…”

“Marked?”

“They usually mark their territory with signs on trees, skins, knife marks, sometimes paint… to tell people that that place is occupado.

“Right,” Fidel got himself up and drew his .45.



The village was located in a small clearing. There were around ten huts, all empty. Flies and carnivorous bees buzzed around, attracted to the stench of decaying meat. In the middle of the clearing was a reed mat, and on the mat were the disemboweled remains of a tapir. They were probably preparing it before they had to leave.

Fidel raised his pistol to chest-level, supporting his hold on his gun with his knife-hand. He went low and fast, scanning the perimeter before moving in on the huts, searching for any sign of the inhabitants. Nothing. No remains, no signs of struggle, not even footprints. They didn’t leave anything behind, either. Just the huts, and the tapir.

He thumbed the safeties of his pistol and holstered it, got down to a crouch and sliced a piece of the skinless animal. He sniffed the chunk of meat and bit off a small part.

He chewed it for a while before making a face. He spat it out and threw the meat away. “Disgusting.”

He radioed the Major and gave him a sit-rep. An abandoned Indian village, inhabitants disappeared, suspicious and definitely something. Then he consulted the Enriques. They had nothing.

“Great,” the carrion and harsh sunlight was a perfect combination. Fidel could now see maggots festering on the orifices of the desecrated viscera.

Fidel tore off a leaf and used it to wipe the blood off his blade. He sheathed his knife and holstered his pistol, only to draw them again when a deafening noise blasted through the wind, echoing through the jungle recesses. It was definitely a roar, a concrete-shattering bellow louder than a jet engine on full blast.

The roar was accompanied by a violent gust that lifted dust and leaves into the air, whirling and making wailing sounds like that of a howling banshee.

Fidel ducked behind a hut, spilling a jar of water placed beside it. The water pooled into a nearby depression on the ground, forming a puddle.

The wind subsided, and the echo of the roar died down, replaced once more by the buzzing of flies and bees resuming their feast on the decayed carrion.

The puddle of water jumped, violent ripples breaking its surface before it returned to its previous placid state. It rippled again, this time followed by a dull rumbling sound that Fidel was sure he didn’t hear in the air, but felt from the ground.

Something was coming. Fidel holstered his pistol and sheathed his knife, and brought out his AKM. He switched it to full automatic and checked the grenade launcher. High-explosive armor-piercing 40mm grenades. HEAP. Good.

He looked around and found the tree line less than twenty meters away from him.

The puddle of water jumped once more, rippling far more violently than it did before. Fidel heard the booming in the ground, no doubt footfalls of something massive.

Fidel ran for the jungle and didn’t look back.



The abandoned hut was smashed into a heap by a massive titanium-reinforced leg, as a clawed therapod foot made its way through the air and slammed down on the ground with enough force to smear a man. The ground gave way under the immense weight, forming a meter-wide footprint.

Cold reptilian eyes enhanced by ocular-pseudonic implantations surveyed the abandoned village. Cartography lacked any files on this particular location’s odd features, and the regular patrol subroutines were replaced by a new command. Search-and-destroy.

Its maw, filled with jagged teeth framed with sharpened titanium bands, emitted a guttural sound. Then there was a whining noise as its hydraulic jaws opened and closed shut.

It switched from infrared to the ultraviolet spectrums as it scanned its environs, sweeping its head from one side to the other. Then it went back to the visible spectrum, initializing pattern-recognition modes as its ocular implants scanned everything within the village in a zigzag pattern before going further out into the tree line. The infrared scan had revealed too much heat sources, in the form of animals and areas warmed by the heat of the sun, but perhaps a motion-sensitive pattern-scan would reveal something – the silhouette of a hiding observer, the repetitive sets of tracks and footprints, maybe evidence of some recent presence.

Nothing came up.

The neural net processor gave out another command, one the creature’s reptilian brain and primordial instincts found more agreeable and comprehensible. It raised its massive head, nose high, and took several long sniffs – massive quantities of air siphoning into its large slits for nostrils. As its lungs, gene-engineered for modern post-Mesozoic atmospheres, inflated itself with oxygen, olfactory processors lining its nasal cavity began processing the smells, a totally organic and instinctual procedure that was relayed to the inorganic CPU for molecular dissection.

A scent was found and, for a brief moment, cold binary algorithmic software was overridden by a primordial drive that had been repressed for far too long. The predatory instinct.

The dinosaur moved quickly to the source of this distinct smell with a speed and lumbering grace that betrayed its gargantuan size, so fast that had its prey opted to flee, it wouldn’t have gone too far.

By the time the neural CPU reasserted its cold calculations and subroutines, regaining control of the tiny reptilian brain, it was too late. Flesh and bone was crunched and hyper-masticated underneath titanium-reinforced teeth and jaws as glistening steel claws maintained their grip on the bloodied corpse of the long-dead ritualistically disemboweled tapir.

Primitive reptilian base-desires satisfied, the neural net went back to its original objectives, as dictated by its faraway masters, who were as of now watching its every actions.

New commands were inputted to supplement the initial objectives, the neural net CPU reassessed its arranged goals, forming a hierarchical chart of priority-based abstractions. There was a nanosecond’s worth of rearrangement, a reassessment of new inputs compared with obsolete instructions.

Immediately afterwards, it emitted a deafening roar and stamped both feet and tail firmly on the ground, as if anchoring itself in place. Then, the armored weapons pod installed on its right dorsal side opened up, the armoring sliding off to reveal many re-integrating metallic components, a few of them quite large but most of them rather small and intricate. There were sparks and clicks and hisses and hums as clockwork-based mechanical systems interlocked, tesla-magnetic connections thrummed, and power supply systems initiated. From the dinosaur’s backside, a stubby barrel made a sudden telescopic extension into a long, sharp and sleek object – obviously a formidable weapon of sorts.

The dinosaur roared once more, the loudest roar it could muster, but the noise was inaudible. Inaudible under the deafening air-rippling blast of the railgun’s firing mechanism. Air blurred and, instantaneously, a straight laser-like contrail of bluish distortion materialized from the railgun barrel as the hypersonic projectile streaked through the air. The contrail continued on, high into the sky, higher and higher until it finally arced downwards – disappearing beyond the horizon.

The carnosaur shifted its footing as dust – blown off its hide by the recoil and shock of the blast – began settling down on the ground. Internal systems began rerouting power, which had massive amounts diverted to the railgun launch, while compensating for the electromagnetic interference of the launch initiation. It moved its arm mechanisms, checking for any potential shock-damage, a process that forced it to drop the tapir carcass it was holding.

The weapons pod re-opened and the railgun began disassembling itself, retracting its mechanisms back within.


TEST FIRING COMPLETED. EXPERIMENTAL WEAPONS SYSTEM PERFORMED WITHIN EXPECTED PARAMETERS. NO COMPLICATIONS SUSTAINED OR DETECTED. PATROL COMPLETED. RETURN TO BASE.


With another roar, the dinosaur turned around and left the village, smashing a couple abandoned huts with its tail on its way out.



Fidel placed his binoculars back into the pouch. He had seen everything, from the dinosaur’s entrance, to the unveiling of its terrifying weapon, to its abrupt exit. At first, he was afraid the thing would find him in the bushes when it was apparently scanning for observers, but now he had worse problems. Namely, the fact that there was in fact something very bad going on in the jungle.

Chances are, he wouldn’t be leaving the jungle tonight, not like he planned, not with what had just happened. It just couldn’t have been just a short walk in the park. Something very bad had to happen. Fidel cursed inwardly.

He checked his motion detector, just to make sure the thing was gone. Then he turned on his radio.

“Major Muerte.”

“Fidel. What’s going on?”

“I found something.”

“Hm? What did you find?”

“I was taking a walk in the jungle when I nearly bumped into a cyborg weaponized dinosaur.”

“What kind of dinosaur was it?”

“Does it matter? It was big, two legs, one of those meat-eating types, like a T-rex.”

“Of course it matters. What was it doing?”

“It activated a big gun out of its back and fired into the air,” Fidel thought the incident over. “It was probably a weapons test.”

“A weapons test? Hrm… what was its weapon?”

“It looked like a high-velocity railgun, really advanced stuff. It transformed out of a weapons pod, probably used compression-space technology, or advanced miniturization. Nanotechnology or something, I don’t know.”

“Damn… this Dinosaur Uprising is getting really dangerous, and now they’re hiding in the jungles of South America. Havana won’t like any of this…”

“Major… the thing is, I don’t think that dinosaur was with the Uprising.”

“What? Why would you say that?”

“It was trademarked property, sir.”

Trademarked property?

“It had the company logo of the EVIL Corporation.”

“What the -” the Major sputtered. “Those damned capitalists! So, that’s what Dementieva stole from us! Schematics for weaponized dinosaurs!”

“Major, this is not good. What am I supposed to do now?”

“You obviously can’t engage the dinosaur by yourself, that would be insane. Hrm… you still have to gather information. How they’re making these things, and what they’re planning to do with these things. You have to find its weaknesses. This is really bad, Fidel.”

“How bad?”

“Cyborg dinosaurs can be a very potent weapons system. If those profit-hungry corporates proliferate them… it could mean the destabilization of the whole of Latin America… it could be very bad for Cuba and her allies. This is worse than any of us feared…”

“Hrm…” a new battle plan had to be formulated, Fidel realized. “Their dinosaur is still in testing phase, but if we let them develop their weapons, then there’ll be no stopping them when they start exporting cyborg dinosaurs…”

“You have to find out what they’re planning to do with these dinosaurs, Fidel. Find out while whatever it is they’re scheming up is still in the testing stage, before they get everything going. The security of Cuba depends on it.”

“I’ll do my best, Major.”

“You must consult L on this matter, Fidel.”

“L? With all due respect, Major, but what does she know about railgun-armed rexes? Paleontology doesn’t mean-”

“Fidel,” the Major cautioned. “Just because paleontology doesn’t encompass modern warfare and weaponry doesn’t mean you should disregard it entirely. Remember your training in Vietnamese tactics?”

“What about it?”

“Do you remember how the Vietnamese won the War? I was in ‘Nam, and I thought they had no chance against the Americans and their superior weaponry. It was true, they couldn’t stand toe-to-toe against America’s technology, most of them were just guerilla fighters who could barely fight back against the Americans’ military might.”

“So, how did they beat them?”

“They attacked the people who used the weapons, not the weapons themselves. They disregarded the technology and focused their tactics on natural human weaknesses. Just like them, you must disregard those cybernetic weapons and attack the natural vulnerabilities of the dinosaurs. Their weak spot.”

“I get it… even dinosaurs must have natural weak spots that technology can’t compensate for, and I can exploit these weaknesses to cause maximum damage.”

“That’s correct, Fidel.”

“Alright, Major, I’ll contact L.”

“That’s a good soldier. Meanwhile, I have to convince Havana to warn the Venezuelans.”

“Okay,” Fidel nodded. “Switching frequencies. L, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. Castro.”

“L, listen, this is very important. I found a dinosaur in the jungle.”

“A dinosaur? In the Amazon? How could they have gotten there? That’s some distance from the Caribbean, they couldn’t have swam…”

“It doesn’t matter…” Fidel had to lie. “There’s some evidence to suggest that these dinosaurs weren’t escapees from Isla Norte. I think they’re native to the Amazon.”

“Really? That’s... unexpected. Do you think they’re man-made or… natural?”

“I think they’re man-made,” the best lies were half-truths, Fidel knew. After all, he should know from experience.

“Still, this is really surprising, how many dinosaurs did you see? Were they herbivores or carnivores? Did they come in a group, a herd or a pack? What were they doing?”

“Ease up on the questions, Doc, I’m supposed to be the one doing the asking,” Fidel shook his head. Scientists. “I only saw one, it was a carnivore.”

“Right…” she sounded like she was trying to maintain her composure. She was probably in a hotel room, bored sitting in front of a radio receiver for hours, doing it for whatever cash prize the Major promised (read: lied) to her, funding for her scientific projects or something. Fidel felt sorry for her. “What did the dinosaur look like?”

“It was big, as in real big. It walked on two legs… it looked like a T-rex. But different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah… it had bigger arms.”

“Hm… anything else?”

“Well… it had… blunt knobby horn-things over its eyes.”

“How big were those horns?”

“Not really big…”

“Its arms… how many claws did it have?”

“Three claws in each hand.”

“When you said ‘big’, do you have any exact dimensions?”

“Urm…” Fidel wasn’t new to measuring distances or gauging the dimensions of enemy vehicles, but with dinosaurs… “Longer than ten meters.”

“I think you’ve got yourself an Allosaurus, Fidel. Which is surprising, since GenInc. didn’t have any Allos.”

“Why not?”

“Because T-rex is more popular, of course,” she sounded slightly amused, and Fidel didn’t get it.

“Right.”

“What was the Allosaurus doing?”

Test launching a top-secret weapon, Fidel was seriously tempted to say, but he couldn’t. The Major would kill him. “Feeding on a tapir carcass…”

“Allosaurus, like T-rex and other major predators, are equal opportunity carnivores. That means they’ll hunt if they have to, but will happily eat any piece of unspoiled carrion they happen on. Of course, Jack Horner likes to think different, but we all know he’s just making that stuff up for the sake of it – he doesn’t even specialize in carnosaurs, he’s more into duckbill dinosaur family behavior.”

“Hrm…”

“Mr. Castro?”

“Please, just Fidel.”

“What else do you need to know, Fidel?”

The best way was to be direct, Fidel decided. “I need to know the weak spots of the Allosaurus.”

“Weak spots?”

“Vulnerabilities that can make killing them easier-”

“Why would you need to know that?!” Fidel winced and, for a brief moment, considered pulling out his earpiece. She sounded positively outraged. “What kind of ‘conservationist’ are you?!”

“A dangerous one,” Fidel didn’t have time to make up a smart reply.

“…” there was a frustrated… groan, sigh, Fidel couldn’t tell. “I’m going to assume you’re asking me this in order to help ‘conserve’ these endangered species, so that when you handle these rare animals, you’ll know what to do to in order to avoid seriously injuring them.”

“That’s a smart assumption,” Fidel couldn’t help but grin.

There was that frustrated sound of exhaled breath. “Alright… large predatory dinosaurs have a few natural… vulnerabilities… that are often exploited by prey species in defense against predation. Triceratops is a dinosaur almost as famous as T-rex, with its three horns and frills. It uses its horns like a bull; in defense it tries to impale the soft underbelly of predatory dinosaurs.”

“Soft underbelly, got it,” Fidel nodded. But what if the underbelly was protected by advanced carbon nanotube armor?

“Another famous dinosaur is stegosaurus, with its spiked tail. The principle is similar to triceratops, but more relevantly, an Allosaurus fossil was found with its leg severely injured by stegosaurus spikes. There were signs of infection, probably what killed the Allo. So, another weak spot is the leg.”

“Legs?” even with those hydraulics, they were still exposed and vulnerable. That’s why walking war machines, even those armed with advanced weapons, still compared unfavorably against more conventional designs – like the tank. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Ankylosaurus is an armored herbivore with a bony club on the tip of its tail, one swing with that and a T-rex could break its leg. To a predatory dinosaur, a broken leg is an injury that almost guarantees death. They can’t move properly, which means that they can’t hunt. They’ll be forced to scavenge and, in the worst case, starve. Unless if they’re helped by their fellow predators, some dinosaurs are social creatures, but not all of them are…

“The biggest problem predatory dinosaurs face, though, aren’t defensive herbivores, but others of their own kind. One of the biggest rexes ever, Sue, had countless injuries and bite marks that matched the teeth of other rexes. She probably died because of her own kind. As for Allosaurus, there have been mass graves with evidence of feeding frenzies, where the Allos were feeding on animals caught in landslides and tar-pits, including other Allosaurs.”

“Red-on-red,” Fidel muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” in military jargon, red-on-red meant when two enemy forces attacked each other; most often these were friendly fire mishaps, sometimes they were worse. Fidel once saw a bunch of Contras fight American commandos after a dispute regarding what to do with a captive. The Contras wanted to disembowel him alive, skin him, and hang him, and the gringos wouldn’t have any of that. Eventually, they killed one another and the captive escaped. An experience Fidel would rather not reenact in this particular situation. “Thanks for the information, L.”

“No problem,” she sighed.

“It means a lot, honestly,” and he meant it.

“Really?”

“More than you can imagine. I have to go.”

“Alright… Take care.”

Fidel killed the radio and got up, drawing his AKM. He’d have to follow the tracks left by the Allosaurus, at least up to a point. He wasn’t insane, he wasn’t going to follow the thing right back to its den. After a certain distance was covered, he’d have to alter his path if he wanted to avoid becoming dinosaur dinner, but hopefully he’d find something in the vicinity, like a large camouflaged base. Or else there’d be no choice but to follow the cyborg dinosaur, right back to wherever it came from.

It’d be nightfall in a few hours.
Image

"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
User avatar
Heretic
Posts: 1750
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 4:45 pm
Location: IN AMERICA

Re: DINO EATER (6-7)

Post by Heretic »

Damn suspense is killing me! What happens? Fidel has a frickin AKM and he goes into the jungle! WHAT HAPPENS?! RARGH!
Computers are like Old Testament gods; lots of rules and no mercy.
-Joseph Campbell
User avatar
Shroom Man 777
Global Mod
Posts: 4637
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 7:09 pm
Contact:

Re: DINO EATER (6-7)

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Late afternoon. There was an orange tint to the air as the sun made its way westwards, preparing to submerge beneath the horizon. Despite its fading, light still seeped through the permeable jungle canopy to play and dance with the shadows. There were new sounds to the jungle now, to correspond with that time before day turned to twilight, and then night. Crickets chirped a chorus that filled the entire jungle with noise. Slightly less numerous, but no less loud, where the howler monkeys, howling their loud barking whoops that echoed through the rainforest over considerable amounts of kilometers.

Leaves rustled and branches cracked as a dark figure made way through the jungle with haste. Night would come soon, and when it came, the search would have to continue the next day, and that was bad.

Fidel stopped and leaned on a tree, to catch his breath and check his bearings. He wiped his brow and pulled out his map, the only significant marking on it were the ones he made with the red pen, marking the landing zones and the exfiltration points. He pulled up his left sleeve and checked his compass. He kept his map, pulled down his sleeve, and pulled out a canteen from his tactical webbing. A few sips later, he placed it back.

“Hrm,” Fidel muttered to himself, wondering what to do next. “Dinner.”



Aside from some fruits of questionable edibility, the best he could find was a modest emerald tree boa. He didn’t bother skinning it, instead, he sank his teeth into its scaly hide and peeled off a mouthful of snake. He chewed it thoroughly, masticating the meat and organs, grinding the soft bones with his teeth, all the while considering its taste. He fancied himself a connoisseur of sorts.

“Hmm… not too bad,” he said to himself, mouth still full of ‘food’. Then he paired the snake with a bite of fruit. It made for an interesting combination of flavors.

He wiped the serpent’s blood and bile off his mouth. Some of the Vietnamese he had worked with liked to drink snake blood, mixing it with liquor, but that wasn’t him. They said the blood, along with snake meat, was healthy and increased virility. To Fidel, snakes were just food, along with a lot of other things. If it weren’t for the raw power of his digestive system, eating dirty animals, especially raw dirty animals, would’ve made him a very sick person.

Contrary to popular opinion in the small circles of Cuba’s special forces community, Fidel very much preferred ‘people-food’. This was why he always brought along a pack of combat rations on every mission. For years now, he brought with him the exact same tins and cans of long-lasting c-rations. They didn’t taste as good as the American MREs, in fact they tasted horrible, but they were still remotely edible. Now, the c-rations were in a pouch hanging from his belt. He never touched them, ever. The logic behind that reasoning was to conserve them so that if and when he’d get truly stuck in the jungle, he’d have something good to eat. It wouldn’t do to consume all his rations in the first couple of weeks in the jungle, that would just be wasteful.

As the reptilian viscera and sweet-and-sour fruit were mixed together inside his mouth by his tongue, Fidel realized that the way he ‘conserved’ his rations was in fact rather silly. In this mission, he resolved, he’d open one of the cans, just one, to finally have a taste of its contents.

Finished with his snake, Fidel pocketed the remaining fruit for future consumption and got up. He re-checked his bearings and soldiered on.



A little while later, Fidel found a part of the jungle that went uphill. Not quite a hill, but not exactly flat either. The elevated ground wasn’t too difficult to navigate and while he could’ve easily gone around it, Fidel hoped to reach the top and climb up something to get a good vantage point before everything went dark.

Unfortunately, the elevation wasn’t high enough to provide a good view. There was a large tree, but it was uprooted completely. Probably by the Allosaurus, Fidel guessed, though the tree could’ve always been felled by other more conventional and less cyber-dinosaurian means.

There was an unnaturally deep ditch ahead, and the felled tree bridged its gap like some kind of bridge.

“How convenient,” Fidel muttered as he cautiously made his way towards the ditch and the felled tree. As he neared it, he lowered his stance and checked the area for mines, and booby-traps. If there was a more convenient location to set up a trap or spring an ambush....

The rooted part, Fidel’s end, seemed clear of any tampering. Despite the ever-fading light, Fidel could see that everything from his end to the middle of the tree trunk was clean, though he couldn’t make out the further parts. He climbed on the tree and made his way very carefully, balancing himself with his outstretched arms. Though the bark was rough, mold and dirty could make it slippery, and Fidel didn’t want to fall some twenty feet down to crack his skull upon hitting the ground. He concentrated on looking forward, mostly to make sure that the rest of the tree was trap-free, and noticed that on the other side, the tree had halved another tree in its fall.

“Man, all this walking around in the jungle, it’s bullshit. I hope we get paid good for this.”

Fidel froze. The sounds of rustling leaves, branches breaking. People. Coming towards him.



Patrols were almost always done with squads of at least four men. Walking around in the middle of the jungle all by yourself was a sure way of getting lost and killed, especially if you were doing it for the entire day, and even more so if you were doing it during the evening with no idea of where you were going. Teams of four ensured that at least one man had a map or a radio, or maybe a clue, and made one-by-one killings a slightly more difficult task.

The four Brazilian mercenaries wandered around the jungle aimlessly. The gringos were on alert-level, told them to be careful and look for any intruders in the jungle. Intruders in the jungle?

“What’s that about?” one of them asked.

“I dunno,” Raul shrugged. “It’s not like they’re making drugs or anything, right?”

“Right,” another agreed.

“But they’re making monsters!” protested yet another. “They’d want to hide that crazy stuff, wouldn’t they?”

“Chelo,” one of them sighed. “Nowadays, there are monsters and mutants and aliens and freaks in funny outfits everywhere. My auntie got eaten by a giant flying squid. Besides, there’s that place in the Caribbean, something-something Mountains, Mount Muerte or something, and they’re making dinosaurs there too, like a zoo.”

“Maybe our bosses don’t want anyone to find out that they’re copying those Mount Muerte dinosaurs? Maybe they’re pirating dinosaurs, just like those cheapo DVDs?”

“It’s Mesozoic Mountains, not ‘Mount Muerte’. ‘Mount Muerte’ is a stupid name.”

The four of them walked over to a felled tree and soon that particular tree became the subject of their discussion. “It’s like a bridge, but be careful, the bark can get slippery. You don’t want to fall twenty feet and break your head.”

“Cause if you do, then we’re leaving you. Cause then the gringos get one less of us to pay, which means more money gets split between the rest of us.”

“Maybe when you’re stuck down there, a Mesozoic Monster will come and eat you,” Raul laughed as he crossed the bridge and hopped over to the other side.

At the bottom side of the tree, Fidel hugged the slippery trunk, hugged it harder and tighter than a long lost lover. As the bickering chatter of the mercenaries disappeared off the distance, Fidel somehow managed to climb back to the topside of the tree and quickly made his way to the other side, opposite to where the mercs were going. He disappeared into the underbrush.



Fidel followed the footprints left behind by the patrol squad. No doubt they’d lead back to their base camp. The tracks told Fidel a lot about the mercs. For one, they were moving in a disorderly spread out formation, which suggested inexperience or carelessness. Fidel didn’t get a good look on them before, but now by their footprints he could tell that there were four of them. If they had moved in single-file, then Fidel wouldn’t have been able to tell so easily.

Fidel noticed that their boot prints all had uniform patterns, which told him that they weren’t quite a ragtag group. Fidel bent down to examine one particularly well-preserved footprint, engraved deep in the mud, and saw that it had the logo of the EVIL Corporation. An EVIL boot.

“Not surprising,” Fidel muttered to himself as he got up and carried on. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t take him long to find something else.

It didn’t. He found a fence made out of barbed razor wire. It wasn’t rusted or anything, so it was probably a new addition to the jungle.

Fidel picked up a branch and tossed it at the fence. Sparks shot out as the branch spontaneously caught fire. Its charred remains fell to the ground, a few feet from Fidel’s feet.

The best way to deal with this obstacle was to go around it, Fidel decided.

The fence turned out to be quite longer than Fidel had imagined. There weren’t any gaps or anything, no holes. The only thing of note was the Tesla coil with the wires coming out of its loops.

It would be dark soon.

Wire cutters. Fidel opened his utility pouches and began searching for them. He needed wire cutters with rubber-coated or polymer handles. He’d have to do it discreetly, so no one would find the hole he made. He’d have to make the gap large enough for him to crawl through, but small enough not to be noticed.

He had no wire cutters.

“This is Fidel. Do you read me?” Fidel grumbled to his radio.

“What is it, Fidel?”

“Major… I found an electric fence attached to a Tesla coil.”

“Tesla coils aren’t too unusual nowadays, it’s no doubt part of a larger establishment. You’re close to whatever’s going on, Fidel. There’s probably a base out there somewhere.”

“I know… it’s just that…”

“What? Are you under attack? Are the dinosaurs after you?”

“No…”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I forgot to bring wire cutters.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, you can always go around the fence and find an entrance.”

“I’ve tried that. The fence is long, and if there is an entrance, it’s probably going to be guarded.”

“Hrm… have you tried looking for holes?”

“Yeah, but the fence is brand new, it’s not even rusted. There aren’t any holes.”

“Not on the fence, on the ground.”

“On the ground? Like tunnels? Why would there be tunnels?”

“Not tunnels, just small ditches and trenches. In the jungle, fences disturb the natural movements of animals. If the animals can’t go through the fence because it’s too strong or too electrified, then they’ll try crawling under it. Larger animals like boars and dogs accommodate themselves by digging out the ground beneath the fences. If you try, you could find one such passageway and try to fit through it, or dig one yourself.”

“Right,” Fidel nodded as he killed the radio.

It took him a while, but he found it. Not some kind of tunnel-ditch, but an actual entrance. There was a small gate guarded by a single sentry dressed in camouflage, but he wore a red bandana that really made him stick out of the jungle.

With such an easy target, Fidel was severely tempted to pull out his silenced pistol for a headshot.

Fidel pulled out his silenced pistol, aimed, and shot.

The .45 ACP round disintegrated the beehive, and from its scattering remains, an entire swarm of upset insects literally descended upon the unwitting sentry. Africanized bees were far more aggressive than the native bees of the Amazon, as the sentry now knew as he flailed his arms around in horror. Barbed stingers were impaled on tender skin and left behind along with still-pumping venom sacks, and at this onslaught of pain, the man ran screaming into the woods.

Fidel chuckled quietly to himself as he watched the angry cloud of bees pursue the subject of its fury. As the bees dispersed, he made his way to the gate-door. There was a rubber-coated lever with a locking mechanism that was, thankfully, was turned off. Fidel pulled the lever, went in, closed the door, and locked it.

“Hey, what the hell is going on?” asked a distant voice.

Fidel cursed and leapt into a nearby bush, switching his camouflage index to active chameleonic blending and becoming one with the shrubbery. He felt a tingling sensation all over his skin as the suit obtained the necessary bio-energy to mimic its surroundings impeccably. The only part of Fidel’s body not going chameleonic was his head, but he had face paint on to mitigate that.

The mercenary sentry approached and cursed. “Aw Jano, you can’t just disappear like this, the gate opens from the inside!” he shouted. “If you get locked out and I’m not here, you’re gonna have to dig a ditch and crawl under the fence! Jano! Hey puta, can you hear me?!”

Jano screamed an incoherent and pain-ridden response.

“Shit,” the sentry cursed as he unlocked the gate, opened it, and ran to the aid of his comrade.

Once more, Fidel closed the door and locked it.



“We should go back, it’s getting dark. Besides, there’s nothing here,” Raul said, yawning shortly afterwards to emphasize his point.

“Look at this,” Chelo offered. “A chewed up fruit, but only the core is left. Looks like something tried to gnaw at the core as well…”

“Monkeys like to eat fruits, Chelo,” Raul replied.

“Well… have you seen any monkeys?”

“No, but I can hear them.”

“From miles away, but-”

“Hey guys, I found something. It looks like a footprint.”

Despite the dim light, Chelo bent down to take a look. “You sure those aren’t our own footprints? Looks like a boot made it.”

“Yeah, but it’s going the other way.”

“Then we’ll head back,” Raul concluded, holding up his rifle. “If it’s nothing, then at least we’re still heading back to camp. We don’t want to get lost in the night, do we?”



The cabin rocked and buckled wildly. This, combined with the shitty seats, made for an entirely shitty ride. It wasn’t helped by the fact that for some unknowable reason, the cabin was bathed in dim red light, deafening engine noise, and obnoxiously loud music:

Gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John,
He wrote us that he missed us, but I know he's having fun
Oh baby,
Ye-e-e-eh baby,
Woo-o-o-oh baby,
Havin' me some fun tonight.

Well, long tall Sally she's
Built for speed, she got
Everything that Uncle John need
Oh baby,
Ye-e-e-eh baby,
Woo-o-o-oh baby,
Havin' me some fun tonight.


“So yeah,” the man in the crimson-black ninja mask yelled over the noise. “I did try to kill billionaire asshole Wayne Banner in Sea World. You know how I tried to kill him?”

The pretty blonde rolled her eyes. “No.”

“How?” the unremarkable-looking guy with the leather jacket asked.

“I made the aquarium explode and a walrus fell on him!”

“Did it work?”

“No, he was wearing body armor, so he wasn’t blubber-crushed. And I couldn’t stab him or shoot him either, the walrus was on top of him! That’d be cruel, sticking swords into a poor animal like that.”

“So, what’d you do?”

“I shot them with an RPG.”

“And then?”

“The walrus exploded!” the ninja slapped his knee and laughed boisterously.

Over at the cabin’s darkest sulkiest corner, a young man in a baseball cap brooded and muttered some rude but inaudible remark.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” the red-and-black ninja agreed and clapped the sulker in the shoulder appreciatively. “Good times, man. Should’ve been there.”

Over at the other corner, a man wearing a flexsuit and a spymask shook his head, dismayed at the randomness of his seatmates.

“Hey… since we’re gonna be together for a while, in the middle of nowhere, why don’t we all get accommodated and friendly?” the ninja asked. He squeezed the cap-wearing brooder’s shoulder. “What’s your name, man?”

The young man muttered something profane as the cabin shook once more.

“What was that? I didn’t catch it…”

He sighed. “Name’s Ted.”

“And how ‘bout you, pretty lady?” in a swift snapping motion, he pointed two fingers at the blonde.

“Mya…” she said. “Mya Lilac.”

“Right,” the unremarkable guy said, clearly amused. “You just made that up.”

“And how about your name?” the blonde challenged.

“John Doe,” he said.

“Hah! Yeah right!”

“And how ‘bout you?” the ninja asked the flexsuited guy with the spymask.

His voice was artificially altered, probably due to his spymask. “I’m… The Reckoner.”

The ninja clapped his hands. “Right. Nothin’ more reckoning than a low down dirty… Reckoner.”

The masked man nodded his head.

The unremarkable guy placed a booted foot on a kitbag filled with sharp, pointy, shooty, poisonous, explosive, flammable, and inflammable things. “We’re gonna be on the move for a while. Anyone have a deck of cards or something?”

“I do,” sulky baseball cap removed his hat and pulled out a deck from a pocket.

“Great,” exclaimed the ninja as he cracked his knuckles by breaking, snapping, twisting and dislocating all his fingers before slowly going about re-setting the splintered and jutting bone-bits.

“That’s a real nasty habit you got there,” unremarkable quipped as he got the cards and shuffled them.

“I’m good at this game,” red ninja shrugged.

“Me too,” the artificial voice of spymask replied. “What are the odds?”



Fidel pulled out his binoculars and spied on what was before him. The dimming twilight was no problem to the image and light intensifiers of the binoculars, it could be used for night vision goggles after all, and what he was looking at wasn’t that far away.

A number of guards, still mercs by the looks of it. There were several tents, camouflage pattern with meshing and netting, that’s why they weren’t visible from up above. That and the jungle canopy. In the middle of the makeshift outpost was a metallic… thing, sticking out of the ground. It looked like a hatch of some sort.

He withdrew his binoculars and turned on his radio.

“Major, come in.”

“Yes, Fidel?”

“I found a camp. Probably part of a larger complex spread over the jungle for concealment purposes. The EVIL Corporation has recruited mercenaries, and they’re using camouflaged tents, that’s why we couldn’t see them from above.”

“No doubt there’s more of them in the jungle. How big is the camp?”

“Not too big. But there’s something in the middle of the camp, a metal hatch sticking out of the ground.”

“An underground base?”

“I don’t think so, if there was an underground base, the hatch would be much bigger. Looks like it can fit only one person at a time.”

“Maybe it’s a maintenance hatch for something hidden underground.”

“Maybe…” Fidel agreed. “What do you suggest, Major?”

“Can you get any closer?”

“I can,” Fidel nodded. To get closer, he’d have to lure one of the mercs out, tranquilize him, and steal his clothes. He smirked. “I just need to get better camouflage.”

He killed the radio and –

“Freeze!” someone barked from behind him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Fidel Castro.”

“Wha-”

CQC. Close-Quarters-Combat. With lightning speed, before the trigger-disciplined merc could even insert his finger into the trigger guard, Fidel unsheathed his knife and spun around, stabbing his blade between the barrel and the gas tube of the merc’s AK-47 just as he tried to fire his weapon. Fidel shoved the gun aside, letting it discharge into an unfortunate tree. The sound of gunfire echoed through the jungle, alerting all of the struggle. Then, Fidel slammed the back of his right elbow into the merc’s face, breaking his jaw and twisting his head in an odd angle, putting him down.

Another approached from the side and Fidel lunged at him. With a swift motion of his left hand, he brought his knife across the merc’s face. The man screamed, or tried to, as the blade bisected his mouth, sending blood and bits of torn cheek, tongue and broken teeth into the air. He dropped his gun and clutched his mouth, screaming wordlessly. Fidel punched him in the face.

There were two more, Fidel knew that now. They were the ones he nearly encountered on the fallen tree, and they somehow followed him back.

Fidel drew the tranquilizer gun, not the .45, and fired. The first dart landed right between the merc’s eyes, downing him instantly. Fidel worked the weapon’s slide rapidly, it wasn’t even semi-automatic, and fired out three shots in two seconds. The merc missed him, spraying wildly, but he didn’t, and the tranqs found their mark – one dart in the throat, another in the upper chest, one in the arm, in descending order. Fidel then hid behind a tree, avoiding the gunfire, but he didn’t have to hide for long. Those darts were designed to take down dinosaurs, or that’s what Fidel assumed, and they worked fast. The merc stopped firing and began staggering around like a drunk.

Four down. There were more mercs coming from the camp, they had no idea of what was going on, but they were still armed and dangerous.

“What’s going on here?!” shouted the head merc, a big burly Brazilian. He saw the three sprawled bodies, one of them with a badly bleeding mouth, and saw the wildly staggering merc fall to the ground like a drunk sack of potatoes. “Did you all get drunk? I’m gonna have to report thi-”

He didn’t get to finish his reprimand. Fidel came out of the trees.

He brought out his sidearm, but Fidel wrapped his left arm around his right, popping noise marking the dislocation of a joint and the dropping of a handgun. Then Fidel brought up his right knee hard into the man’s solar plexus – causing his ribcage to smash into his lungs. Then he struck the man’s face with an open palm, grabbed the man’s head, and used him as a shield. He ran towards the rest of the mercs, half-lifting and half-pushing their chief, maintaining head control on the subdued man, using his head like a steering wheel, slamming his palm on the man’s face and cranium like honking a car horn in traffic. It made the subdued merc backpedal faster.

The two nearest gunmen hesitated for a second, and that was all it took.

Fidel threw the chief at the leftmost gunman, slamming him against a tree, with the big burly Brazilian merc on top of him in some kind of human sandwich, and then he went for the one at the right. The merc tried to fire his rifle, but Fidel grabbed it and twisted it hard, once more causing fingers to snap like sticks. The merc nonetheless tried his best to squeeze the trigger with his broken fingers, letting off a brief burst.

Fidel gritted his teeth, he was holding the gun by its barrel and the discharge was burning his fingers.

He slammed his right fist into the man’s face and broke his nose real ugly, knuckles of the pointing and middle fingers crushing bone and cartilage, sending sticky-splattery blood flying. Then Fidel made an open-palm thrust, once more at the nose, causing it to cave into the poor man’s face.

Another merc, not far ahead, opened fire with a pair of submachine guns. Fidel couldn’t tell what make or model. Skorpions? MACs? It didn’t matter. Fidel used the very badly nosebleeding merc as a human shield and repeated his maneuver with the chief, running forward while the subdued body absorbed the bullets. Fidel could feel the impacts causing his dance partner to jerk and spasm wildly while nose and mouth spurted out copious amounts of blood.

Fidel dropped his merc and ran to the next one, the one double-wielding Uzis. Despite the point-blank range, he missed badly, way off mark, and Fidel slapped both guns away with each hand and then delivered a hard thrust into the man’s throat. His eyes shot wide and he was about to grab his neck when Fidel kicked him hard in the face, snapping his head backwards and sending him down for the count.

There was another one behind the one with Uzis. He staggered and slowly made his way backwards, away from Fidel. He picked up his radio. “HQ this is camp, HQ please respond!”

Fidel quick-drew his .45 and…

“This is HQ-”

…the radio exploded, blasting the radioman with sparks. He screamed and pulled out his sidearm with his un-burnt hand, but Fidel was on him and he went down without a fight.

The merc Fidel left behind, the leftmost one crushed between the chief and the tree, got up and opened fire on Fidel.

He missed, but there was enough distance that Fidel couldn’t simply walk up to him and subdue him. Instead, Fidel ran into the jungle.

Two other mercs joined in, firing at the bush Fidel ran into.

“Go!” the first merc screamed. “He’s in there! Find him and kill him!”

The two other mercs fixed bayonets on their AK-47s and ran into the jungle after Fidel.

“Shit,” he cursed, pulling out his radio.

“Camp, please respond. I repeat-”

“HQ, this is camp-”

Fidel came from the trees to his left, near where the knocked out chief was. He ran to the merc and slapped the radio off his hand. The gunman tried to go for his gun, but Fidel slapped that away too, and then delivered a chop right above the man’s nose bridge while sweeping his legs from beneath him.

He fell to the ground and then Fidel stomped hard. On his face.

The sound of rustling leaves and breaking branches signaled the return of one of the mercs from the jungle. Fidel pulled out his knife and threw it with a marksman’s accuracy, impaling the man in the throat.

The tender spot beneath his Adam’s apple spurted blood, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he just stood there, knife in throat, somehow perfectly balanced.

His partner, the other who accompanied him in the jungle, was far behind him but managed to catch up.

“That puta’s a sneaky fucker, we lost him. Hey, why’d you stop moving?”

The answer came from behind him and snapped his neck.

Fidel pulled his knife out of the still-standing merc’s throat, wiped the blood off with leaf, and then sheathed it.



The camp’s occupants, all eleven or so of them, were now all dead or incapacitated, so Fidel began inspecting the camp itself.

It had basic amenities including tents, sleeping bags, cookers and heaters, mosquito nets, electric fans, canned food rations, mineral water bottles, water purifiers, first-aid kits, guns and ammunition. The tents themselves were made out of solar-absorbing cloth and had netting on them with fake foliage and such. From a distance, like say from air or in orbit, it would look like nothing but a large bush.

Fidel had to move fast. No doubt, reinforcements were coming to check in on the incommunicado outpost.

The camp had no information of value, so Fidel went over to the hatch. It was made out of strange steel, without anything to hold on to. Whatever it was, it was meant to be opened from the inside or not at all. It probably led to a tunnel or shaft, deep underground and accessible only by ladder. Who knew what was down there.

The ground around the hatch looked like it was recently excavated, and the hatch itself looked untampered. No one had opened it for quite some time. There were no markings, no serial numbers or anything that gave out useful information, save for an emblem. A ring with symmetrically shaped lines within it… a sort of twelve-armed variety of swastika.

Fidel touched the emblem, hoping to activate something. Nothing happened. He pounded the hatch, but only hurt his hand.

“Hrm…” Fidel flicked on his radio. “This is Fidel, Major do you read me?”



Dusk. Fidel did find something useful, a mercenary’s map. It would help him navigate in the dark, or so he hoped. He got his bearings and headed for the enemy base. Or what he hoped stood for the enemy base in the map. There was no legend.

Fidel considered setting up camp for the night, but dismissed the idea immediately. He was in enemy territory, and unless he found a particularly inaccessible spot where he could sleep without fear of waking up dead… No, there would be no sleep for him tonight.

Soon, he’d have to resort to using his night vision goggles.

Crickets were chirping now, a very loud chirp that came in regular intervals, as opposed to the constant buzz he previously heard. In some places, Fidel knew that it was possible to gauge the temperature in the Fahrenheit by counting how many chirps a cricket made in fifteen seconds. Right now, that would be hard to do.

The end of day didn’t change anything, the jungle was still noisy, but it was a different kind of ambience. The frogs joined the cricket-chorus, adding their croaks to the chirps. Fidel could also hear the clicking sonar of bats, eating airborne insects and swooping down to snatch frogs that croaked too noisily.

The jungle never slept. Neither did he.

There was a rustling sound up ahead, but Fidel had no time to react.

In front of him was a rather surprised mercenary. A second later, Fidel realized that he wasn’t alone. The mercenary was accompanied by four… soldiers, all garbed in black armor and enclosed helmets, no doubt with some kind of image intensifier or night vision built into their visors.

Fidel moved to draw his knife and .45, but stopped, seeing that the merc and the four soldiers were pointing an AKM and four G-36 assault rifles at him. Laser targetters painted dots on his chest. He looked good in red.

From behind the five emerged another figure, he was armored in black, but his face was not helmeted. No, his face stood out in the ever-darkening dusk, for it was pale, white like a bleached skull, with equally pigment-less hair. He looked at Fidel coldly, analytically.

“Incapacitate,” he decided tersely.

Just as those words escaped his mouth, Fidel drew his .45 and unsheathed his pistol. Before the merc could blink, he was on him, stabbing him in the arm, causing him to drop his gun, before pistol-whipping the side of his head.

As the merc fell, the four black soldiers, who Fidel didn’t know were EVIL Elites, strapped their rifles to their backs and pulled out other weapons. Shock-prods, telescopic staves that terminated in bulb-like Tesla apparatuses. There was a crackling sound as the electrostaves activated, and from their tips came humming electric blue light.

In combat, it was unwise for a group to attack a target one-by-one. Even if the group possessed superior individual combat skill, the fight would be ended in the quickest and easiest manner if the group simply overwhelmed the target – not giving him, her or it the opportunity to engage the group on an individual basis.

That was what the Elites were about to do, had Fidel not denied them. He drew his pistol and let out six quick shots, two for each Elite’s chest, good enough for three of them. They wore armor, but the impact nonetheless fazed them.

With the three distracted, Fidel lunged at the one closest to him – the one he spared from the doubletaps to the chest. The obsidian warrior tried to stab the oncoming Cuban with his teslaspear but Fidel merely sidestepped and parried it with his .45. The gun’s ceramic silencer couldn’t conduct electricity, and it only touched the staff below its coiled ‘spearhead’ anyway.

Then Fidel struck, his left knife-hand delivering an uppercut to the helmeted head. Fidel winced, feeling his fist smashing against hard polymer, and then retracted his blade, bringing it down and, in one smooth and near-graceful motion, up again, into the unarmored armpit of the Elite. The blade tore through fabric, skin and flesh, sliding between the ribs and through multiple internal organs.

Fidel withdrew the blade, the blood invisible in the low light conditions and against the black armor of the dropping trooper.

This brief engagement lasted for a split second, and in that split second, the three other Elites had recovered and were now pouncing on their prey.

Fidel fired the last two of his rounds at the second nearest of the Elites. There was a muffled scream as both the gunman’s big toes were obliterated by the hollowpoints.

Fidel turned to the next two armors, parrying another electrostaff and lunging at the offending Elite. The gun clicked empty, but he still had his knife and –

Pain. Cold numbness was all he felt as electricity coursed through his body. His muscles contracted. He gritted his teeth and tried to fight on like a soldier.

More pain. The Elite in front of him jabbed him hard in the gut with a crackling staff, causing Fidel to have a microsecond convulsion. Wild muscle spasms and contractions made him jerk up and down, spinal cord whip-lashing, uncontrolled movements as his nerves were scrambled. But he couldn’t feel anything.

He gritted his teeth, this time a voluntary action. Drool dripped from the corners of his mouth, shock-induced salivation. Another electrostaff struck him, this time at the back of his neck, and he screamed. Or at least tried to. Involuntary jaw spasms, contracting, grinding his teeth while he tried his best to scream out loud, or at least prevent his teeth from severing his limp tongue. There was a popping noise coming from his jaw joint. All he could see and hear and feel was the sound of the electrostaff, the whirring, the white-hot flashes that came with every searing strike.

He fell to his knees.

The Elite in front of him lowered his guard, went for his pouch, probably for restraints.

Fidel exploded. In a blink of an eye, his fist smashed against the Elite’s face. Blood, both from Fidel’s fist and the Elite’s face, smeared flying shards of broken glass as the Elite fell to the ground, nose broken and face cut by fragments.

Fidel turned around, barely in time to dodge the thrust of the remaining black trooper. This wasn’t to incapacitate him, the staff was aimed at his head and it barely missed. It seared Fidel’s moustache.

He growled and attacked the Elite, slapping away the crackling spearhead with his right hand and then slashing with his knife.

There was a scream and the electrostaff fell to the ground. The Elite brought his hands up to look at his amputated fingers. With his burnt and bleeding right hand, Fidel smashed the visor and took him down.

Fidel picked up his .45 and turned to the last of his problems. The albino. Fidel growled.

“Impressive,” the albino coolly noted. He drew his pistols.

Fidel assumed his combat stance, knife hand below gun hand, steadying his expended pistol. He bent his buckling knees, lowering his position.

Number 13 looked on. Interesting stance. He inverted his grip on his pistols.

Fidel narrowed his eyes. The albino assumed an oriental fighting form, and inconceivably held his pistols by their barrels as opposed to their grips, turning the handguns into blunt-force hatchets. From the bottom of the grips and the magazines, stubs snapped out, no doubt to increase damage.

Crickets chirped, frogs croaked, bats clicked.

Fidel charged at the albino, bringing down his combat knife, but the albino blocked by slamming a pistol butt against Fidel’s wrist. It hurt bad, but Fidel soldiered on and made for a pistol whip with his own .45. That move was countered, the albino’s pistol once more striking his wrist. Fidel gritted his teeth and nearly dropped his gun.

He grunted in pain as the albino brought the first pistol, the one that blocked his knife, to the side of his abdomen, striking his kidneys repeatedly. Fidel tried to defend himself against the blows, but then the other pistol struck him across his face. Bloodied, Fidel ignored this and grabbed one of the albino’s arms, going for a lock when he spun around to deliver a swift kick to Fidel’s chest.

Number 13 sneered and approached the staggering infiltrator, moving to strike him in the head. The blow connected and the man was sent reeling. 13 moved for another strike. And another. And -

Fidel blocked the incoming blow with his knife hand and moved to pistol-whip the bastard, but then, again, he was intercepted. With surprising speed, the albino then brought both of his inverted pistols and caught Fidel’s gun-hand in a painful scissor lock, forcing him to finally drop his weapon.

13 then hammered the infiltrator’s forearm with the butt of his pistol. The infiltrator screamed. Again, 13 struck at the face, repeatedly.

Fidel kneed the albino in the groin and swept his feet from underneath him, but not before blocking the last of those damned pistol-whips. Fidel painfully pried the handgun from the man’s pale white fingers, and as the albino rolled on the ground and got up, Fidel struck him in the face.

Fidel growled as he smacked the albino with the handgun and moved to stab his pale white throat with his bloody knife.

13 blocked the stab with his last gun and punched the Fidel in the face, causing him to spit out a broken tooth.

Fidel staggered backwards and then, finally, resolved to work the gun’s slide and point it at the albino. He had enough of this; he aimed for the albino’s pale colorless head that showed up so brightly in the night. He thumbed the safeties off and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Something was wrong. The round was chambered, the safeties were off, Fidel could feel the weight of the full magazine, but the gun wasn’t firing.

The albino lunged at him and grabbed the gun while slamming the butt of his pistol against the part of Fidel where his neck and collar met. Then, with incredible speed, he spun around and delivered a spinning heel kick to Fidel’s chest, sending him backwards. He fell against a tree.

Fidel gripped his knife and prepared to strike.

The electrostaves struck him. The mercenary and one of the surviving black troopers struck him repeatedly, sending coursing electric pain throughout his body. Fidel tried to scream, but no words came out. He tried to block the blows, but he couldn’t. He tried to lunge at them, to stab at them, to fight them, but he couldn’t because his muscles wouldn’t work. His body had finally given up.

He fell to the ground, numb coldness and the blackness of night encroaching his body and his vision.

“Restrain him,” 13 said to the mercenary.



The landing craft touched down with but a sound. Its sleek, rounded yet angular black hull nigh invisible in the night. Another craft landed, but before it did, it hovered slightly and made a quick scan of the environs.

Figures emerged from the foremost craft, dark figures in an even darker night.

The smallest of the figures spread her wings wide – greatly expanding her bat-like silhouette. Though Methodical and the others advised the both of us to work together as peers, you are still subservient to the will of the Dinosaur Uprising, and I am part of the ruling order of the Uprising, Aryannosaur. Do not forget that.

“I won’t,” Adolph muttered in dinosaur-accented Deutsch. He would have rather had Methodical with him right now; at least she was a more pleasant conversationalist than this arboreal psychopath.

You are here in a purely advisory role. What do you have to report?

“The map we uncovered was not detailed, it had very unspecific coordinates. A lot of the data was encoded in indecipherable language, but we know that this area is within the vicinity of our objective,” Adolph replied. “Nonetheless, none of the facilities are visible from high above. Perhaps they have been concealed, deliberately or through the natural processes of the rainforest.”

Then we will send scouts, Aggressive thought-spoke. Why the council had opted to send these Aryannosaurs to advise her in this simple mission, she had no idea. Was it punishment for her previous failure? These Aryannosaurs, she did not like them, to say the least. They were mongrels – tainted with the filth of the inferior human genes within their flesh.

“I suggest you disperse the compsognathids in a radial pattern, their small size and chameleonic camouflage will make them excellent in surveying the surrounding environs discreetly. When they find traces of anything, then we organize a core force and a vanguard and make a slow and quiet advance towards the most promising direction the compsognathids uncover. When they finally find the facilities, then we will move in quick to establish a forward base. It may take a while, to say the least.”

And if hostiles are encountered, what would you propose?

“A simple solution, one I am sure you would find it agreeable. We will bury them.”

I find it an acceptable proposal, Aryannosaur. But should your advices prove unwise…

“They won’t.”

For your sake, I hope not. For New Pangaea!

Adolph saluted with his bionic arms. “For New Pangaea.”
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on Sat Jun 14, 2008 7:35 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Image

"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
User avatar
Vagrant Orpheus
Posts: 486
Joined: Tue May 20, 2008 5:59 pm
Location: Looking for Tim. WHERE'S TIM, GODDAMN YOU?!

Re: DINO EATER (8)

Post by Vagrant Orpheus »

Arachnid discussing assassinating Wayne Banner with a walrus never fails to amuse me. Never.

Everything else is as cool as it original was. PISTOL HATCHETS. DUEL WIELDING PISTOL HATCHETS.

That is all.
Image
Post Reply