[i]edited.[/i] [Edited on 07.09.2007 6:55 PM PDT]

Yay, European money... crap... I can't use it.

22 give me money and i'll quit counting ;)

*Repeats process with Tartan on Squirrel Dude.*

It's teh awesome.

[quote][b]Posted by:[/b] Tartan 118 Bravo, Corbec, another fine addtion to the Flood Saga. I was bemused about why I have a Northern accent, but that's clear to me now. Merely by accident.[/quote] Ah, Tartan! So good to see you! *Discretely hands wad of £20 notes and whispers:* Just keep doing the same thing and you'll see some more money, comprende? [Edited on 07.09.2007 8:29 AM PDT]

Bravo, Corbec, another fine addtion to the Flood Saga. I was bemused about why I have a Northern accent, but that's clear to me now. Merely by accident.

[quote][b]Posted by:[/b] HaloTitan wow colonel 19 posts in counting[/quote] And?

wow colonel 19 posts in counting

I like.... [Edited on 07.09.2007 7:42 AM PDT]

Right, well, that's the second chapter there. No idea at all when the next one'll show up. I've really spoiled you lot here, what with two in the same week, so I think I'll leave a large break in between this and the next one along.

[i]One Week Later.[/i] Squirrel Dude hurtled along the dusty track situated on a verdant hillside on the largest of the islands in the Jacutan Archipelago, occasionally casting worried glances out to sea. The high nature of the hill he drove a four-by-four Jeep along afforded him an excellent view. The absolutely gorgeous island slowly curving away beneath him, with small settlements nestled away beneath the thick tree canopy. Eventually, the lush forest gave way to wide, golden beaches that Squirrel Dude knew were as soft as silk to walk along. Along this coastline in sheltered bays hid two small ports, through which supplies came in small transport ships, ferrying in replacement parts, ammunition, medical equipment and food. Further out, a marvellous, turquoise sea glistened in the sun, a veritable carpet of glittering azure, puffy clouds on the horizon the only thing that distinguished where the sea ended and the sky began. A far cry from the wind and rain-lashed nightmare on which he had to kill all of his lifelong friends, all for the entertainment of a cancerous ideology. If he thought really hard and shut his eyes, he could still see the could of his best friends on his hands… He snapped himself out of the temporary reverie, glancing at The Generalísímo’s war fleet, which had now totally encircled the island chain. He’d seen this stuff before. A Naval Force preventing escape by sea or air, penning people in, and marking out a game barrier. Once again, he’d been turned into nothing more than a piece of entertainment. After an urgent drive, he pulled up at his destination: Two tents, one on each side of the narrow road. One of them had a guard sitting on a crate outside of it, smoking a cigarette with one hand, and holding a rifle with the other. Squirrel Dude had never struck as a particularly imposing figure, fairly tall with brown hair and brown eyes. Like everyone on the almost perfect island, he had a strong tan from the blazing sun, and a muscled body from the constant effort of making a life here. “I have to talk with Pyroshark.” He announced, getting out of the Jeep. “Pyroshark doesn’t want to be disturbed right now.” The soldier said without conviction. It seemed more than nicotine was spicing up his cigarette. Squirrel Dude walked past the clearly stoned guard and unzipped the canvas tent’s “door.” “I bloody well told you to keep people out!” Pyroshark roared from within. It was dark inside, but Squirrel due could make out Pyroshark, a bed, and a lady. He shut his eyes and immediately walked out. “Told you.” The guard mumbled next to him. Irritated, Squirrel Dude snatched the cigarette, took a lungful, then handed it back. “Much appreciated.” He said to the guard, slapping him on the shoulder. “What part of keep the -blam!- out don’t you get?!” Pyroshark demanded, appearing at the doorway of the tent with a blanket tied around his waist, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing the horrible shrapnel scars that decorated his right cheek and a bottle of beer in his other. “Sorry if I caught you between some-” Squirrel Dude started. But stopped, realising his mistake. “What? I didn’t hear you. Get on with, I’m busy.” Pyroshark glanced behind him and gave the woman inside the tent a reassuring thumbs up. “Umm, you really should see this.” Squirrel Dude led a reluctant Pyroshark to the other side of the road, pointing out to sea, specifically at the massing Fleet, Destroyers, Heavy Cruisers, Battleships and even Aircraft Carriers prowling the horizon. Pyroshark glugged down the last of his beer and tossed the drained bottle over the side of the hill. “So, we’re in for another Death Game, are we lad?” He asked, apparently unperturbed by this development. “It would seem so, but, what are your orders?” Pyroshark ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair, thinking. “Tell everyone to stay on their toes and be prepared for any eventuality. Who knows what’ll happen next.” Squirrel Dude remembered another important piece of news: “Osoona’s in trouble as well.” “Bollocks.” Pyroshark hissed, rubbing his temple. “What kind of trouble?” “As in, heavy shellfire, torpedo attacks and relentless bombing runs from enemy aircraft. That kind of trouble.” “Hell. Just tell him to set down wherever he can, I don’t mind if he isn’t at a port or not, I just want him and his lot safely onto the island.” Pyroshark turned around and headed back into the tent. “Tell me when he lands himself. I just have a last few things to finish up here.” Pyroshark zipped up the tent again from the inside and turned to his newly-found girlfriend: “Guess what! We’re in a Death Game!”

“Thank you for dropping by.” Corbec started in Spanish. “Not a problem.” The Generalísímo replied, with a strong foreign accent. Doubtless Corbec had one as well for his Spanish. “Now, as you know, I’m staging a new Death Game. And, what I’m telling you now has not been told outside of a select circle of my most trusted advisors, and those involved, of course.” “Go on…” “You see the Sword Of Damocles there?” Corbec asked, pointing at the second flag on the wall from his vintage leather seat-his guest sat in another on the opposite side of a low coffee table. “Yes, why?” “In the story, a man called Damocles trades places with a tyrant for a day, and basically has a great time. At the end of the day though, he notices that a sword has been dangling over him the whole time, held in place by a single horsehair. The Sword Of Damocles is a frequently used allusion to this tale, epitomising the precarious situations that people such as you and me have to go through, and the responsibility we take on.” Corbec explained in flawless Spanish. “We’re taking on a great deal of responsibility here with this Death Game, you know why?” The Generalísímo shook his head. “This Death Game is [i]the last[/i] Death Game. And the scenario is completely different from before. My intelligence has found Pyroshark, the instigator of the recent attack in Flondon. In fact, we have a few satellites watching his every move.” The Generalísímo nodded, impressed. However, he could do nothing but look impressed. His intelligence gathering equipment and personnel consisted of two knackered old Recon Planes, and gangs of thugs in each of his cities. “He’s hidden himself, and an Army of allies in the Jacutan Archipelago, an island chain that lies in International Waters, but your country’s coastline is only a few days travel away. With this last Death Game I’m leading in two teams of volunteers to hunt down Pyroshark in his own lair. We’ll drop in by parachute or get towed in by Glider, it depends. Problem is though, we’ll need a Naval Screen to prevent him escaping by boat or air…” “Whoah, hold on. How did you get volunteers?” The Generalísímo asked, amazed that people would actually sign themselves up for a potentially suicidal mission.” “Ah. Well, figures are still coming in, but at least five hundred DCP Personnel were killed in that attack. Now, let’s say each of that five hundred people had two children. That’s 1000 potential volunteers. Basically, in one day we rounded up around one hundred of the victim’s children in secret, and interviewed them. We tested their mental resolve and physical fitness, as well as their patriotic sense of duty.” Corbec smiled at his last comment. He had always loathed patriots, and would always continue to. Before rising to the throne, he viewed them with contempt, seeing them as wretched fools, causing trouble over nothing more than which patch of land people came from. When he became Emperor, his view remained similar in many respects, except now patriots were puppets he could bend to his will without question. He hated them for their unquestioning loyalty, but similarly loved them for their unquestioning loyalty. “Ah!” The Generalísímo responded. “Patriotism! Now there’s a virtue to aspire to!” “Naturally.” Corbec lied through his teeth. “Now, we shaved that number down and took the thirty most capable candidates, asked them to volunteer, and they did. Since their parents worked for the DCP, they already hated terrorists and loved serving the Empire. Plus with the loss of their family, they’ll follow me through hell if it means killing these Forsaken people.” Corbec downed the last of his Ron Miel, then poured himself another shot. “Mother of God, Corbec, you’re a genius!” The Generalísímo said, genuinely impressed. “I try.” “But, you were saying earlier, a Naval Screen?” “Ah, yes. Your coastline is the closest one to the Island Chain in question, and I am aware that you are trying to improve your existing Navy.” The Generalísímo was surprised. Had his efforts been so obvious? If he controlled the shipping lanes in the oceans around his country, the riches he could take would be massive. “How do you know this?” He asked, suspicious. “You needn’t worry, friend. I will, however, agree to outfit all of your existing vessels with the latest technology, free of charge…” His guest’s face lit up for a moment. “As long as you provide this Naval Screen for me.” The Generalísímo sighed with exasperation. In essence, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Take the offer and prosper, or refuse it, and damage vital relations with Floodland. He caved in. “You’ve got a deal.” It was only a whole day later when The Generalísímo realised something important that he’d missed. A sentence came back to haunt him: “With this last Death Game I’m leading in two teams of volunteers to hunt down Pyroshark in his own lair.” The Generalísímo could only surmise that Corbec was joking. [i]He couldn’t seriously be supposing that he would go into the line of fire himself?[/i] He thought, becoming increasingly worried. [i]Surely not. But what if he was!? Doesn’t Corbec know how valuable he is! Corbec is possibly the most vital part of the entire Floodian Empire![/i] The Generalísímo finally, clearly understood what Corbec had meant about The Sword Of Damocles now, and could almost feel it hanging precipitously over his own head as well. JS lay on his bed, deep in thought. He had been a loyal soldier to the throne for a decade now, and yet he had resolved to turn his back on the Emperor. Why? Because of the Death Games. In spite of everything beforehand, JS had always felt that his work was in the name of justice and order. Cementing the very foundations for Corbec’s Empire that would last for a thousand years, and ensure the safety of all it’s citizens for that entire length of time. He honestly believed that only through strict control, and the maintenance of strong armed forces, could the prosperity, well being and security of a country’s citizenry be assured. And up until the Death Games, Corbec had assured JS through his actions that he was the key to the Floodian Empire’s well being and prosperity. But then came the Death games, and his trust in Corbec had been shattered, in secret of course. He dared not show his true opinion in public. About three years ago, The Forsaken came to him in secret, making an offer. They proposed that they would launch an attack intended to destabilise Corbec’s control, at which point JS-as the highly influential leader of Special Forces-should contact friends in the General Staff. With Xbox Halo Guy losing all credibility in the attack, if JS and some Generals launched a [i]Coup d ‘etat[/i], then they could be controlling the Empire with no political opposition at all. Problem was though, it hadn’t gone at all like that. A month or so before the attack, one of the Forsaken idiots got into trouble with the Police while carrying important information ascertaining to the planned attack. Roaring drunk, he proclaimed that he was a high-ranking member of The Forsaken, and had several loops of C4 around his waist beneath his jacket. A media frenzy erupted, and the Police had to cordon the drunkard off as he stumbled around, vomiting for the next fifteen minutes. JS had to rush down himself and shoot the man in person, since the information he knew and carried not only involved the upcoming attack, but him as well. If that information became known to anyone, then he was as good as dead. JS took the information there and then, and destroyed it later on by lighting a gas fire in his office. The supposed “accidental explosion” removed any incriminating evidence, and The Forsaken assured him that the attack would not take place anymore. But they lied, and now countless lost lives weighed down his conscience each day. The Forsaken called him to an old warehouse two days after the attack, and wanted to know how Corbec planned to respond. He stormed out in a rage, swearing and shouting at them. How dare they use him like this! How dare they! They lie to him and still demand his help!? Where did JS stand now, then? He still was of the opinion that if Corbec was removed, then the Empire would be better off. But now, he was soon to be sent into combat against the very people he had helped. He owed no allegiance to either side, as far as he was concerned. So he developed a plan. He would kill Corbec while out on this Island he planned to storm with only thirty people, while wiping out as many of The Forsaken as possible. He would escape the island alive. Surely in the wake of Corbec’s death, a struggle would break out to see who his successor could be. With Sniper McGee dead, and Xbox Halo Guy disgraced after the terrorist attack in Flondon, JS had high hopes. All he had to do was make agreements with friends in the General Staff to win over Army support, then launch a Coup. With that, he and his friends could rule over the Floodian Empire, but do away with those bloody Death Games. Worryingly though, JS had learned that a commission investigating the run up to the attack had been ordered by Corbec himself! What if they discovered JS had tampered with the Gas pipes in his office? What if the loss of the information was made known to the public? Even if his temporary alliance with The Forsaken wasn’t discovered, then he could still lose his job. That made Corbec’s death all the more important. If he was dead, then the Commission would be forgotten and JS could quietly have it swept under the rug.

Corbec gave JS a hand up and helped him along as he limped toward an exit. “Still, look on the bright side, JS. At least all the swelling from that hit I landed on you’ll make those balls of yours bigger. From what the ladies tell me, the-” “Yes, that’ll do sir. I‘d appreciate it now if you just stopped talking.” JS mumbled through a combination of terrible pain, humiliation and indignity. Before long, the two friends reached one of the exits to the Simulation Arena, and a group of the contestants in the coming Death Game. This Arena was actually one of four disused Aircraft Hangars requisitioned for the upcoming Death Game. The sloping roof had been hacked away, allowing sunlight to flow inside and further simulate the reality of jungle warfare. The three others all catered for different things, one for swimming with full kit on and water survival techniques, another for clearing out rooms in urban combat, and the last was used as a firing range. Each one was fairly large, but the Jungle Warfare one was easily the most impressive. An actual tropical garden had been planted inside this hangar, and during the day was open to the elements, allowing rain and wind inside, almost making a real-life rainforest. Of course, it had to be covered over during the night and heated, otherwise everything inside would die from the cold, even in the middle of summer. Across the abandoned airfield were the barracks, where the thirty competitors were temporarily staying. When not training inside the Hangars, they were taking parachuting lessons or learning how to pilot gliders-a vital part of their training. As for the group around the exit, all been shot with paintballs, and in fact Corbec recognised a couple as those he’d hosed down with gunfire a few moments before. They were all young, around the age of sixteen to eighteen, some boys, some girls. They noticed him and immediately snapped up a salute: “Hail Corbec!” They shouted as one. “You lot enjoy the paintball game?” Corbec asked, and was met with a storm of boasts, stories and laughter. This had been a training session, teaching the volunteers how to fight in jungle terrain and use it to their advantage, but they still found time to enjoy it. JS just groaned some more. “You should have seen it, sir!” Boasted a blue team girl, who went by the name of Girly Spartan. “I hid at the top of a tree and waited for people to come by. Half a Dozen red team people went by without them even knowing I was there, even when I started picking them off!” “Quite the sniper then, hmm?” Corbec asked. “Definitely sir!” Girly replied enthusiastically. She wasn’t that tall, coming in at around five feet, five inches, so still had to look up at Corbec. But then, when shrapnel starts flying, having a smaller target to get into cover wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She had hazel eyes and brunette hair that she had permanently tied back in a Pony Tail. In addition, she personally described herself as “lanky.” Though no-one could discern why. In fact, it was quite clear that she had the affection of every boy who volunteered for the Death Game. They seemed to find something attractive about a girl who could strip down a rifle. “I practice every Free Period in the Target Range, sir.” She continued. “That’s the spirit! Keep on at that, and you’ll be a winner in no time.” In a normal Death Game, the contestants would never be so enthused about fighting to the death, let alone receive training or talk to Corbec himself so jovially. But then, this was no ordinary Death Game. “Hola, sir.” Greeted a man from the small knot of people. It could be only one: Tartan 118. Anyone could tell just by listening to his voice. Many had commented that Tartan could: “Only have come from the grim, post-industrial doomscape of a Northern Mining Town.” Such was his heavy, North-Floodland accent. Tartan was a veteran MI5 agent, and had played once as Corbec’s double for the truce meeting with Septagonia years ago. And while Tartan was somewhat similar to Corbec-he was only a little smaller, and his hair a shade darker then Corbec’s blonde, his accent made him something of a dubious choice. He too was dressed in the same type of combat fatigues as Corbec, and his mask-complete with a blue stripe, was held in one hand. “¡Hola, Tartan!” Corbec replied. “¿Qué tal? ¿Dondé está el Generalísímo? ¿Tengo un reunión con él en cinco minutos, sí?” he replied in perfect Spanish. Tartan was dumbfounded. “Sir, Hola is the one word of Spanish I actually know.” He replied. “I wanted to know where the Generalísímo is. I have a meeting with him in five minutes, right?” “Um. Yeah, but are you sure you can go like that?” “I’m sure, yeah. Look, just take me to him already. And you, JS, get yourself to a medic.” With that, Corbec followed Tartan away, leaving JS to grit his teeth against the pain of his battered manhood. “Ah, Generalísímo! How nice to see you again!” Corbec exclaimed as he entered his quarters. Well, to say quarters was something of an understatement. To put it more accurately, his own entire building-Corbec’s residence was one of the two officer accommodation buildings, located next to the main barracks, where the volunteers slept. The Generalísímo was the self-appointed leader of one of the foremost Oil Producing countries that Corbec had befriended. He stood with two bodyguards in the reception room of Corbec’s spacious accommodation. On the wall opposite the entrance, two flags had been secured, the first being that of the Floodian Empire-a blue background, overlaid by a golden Eagle grasping a lightning bolt with it’s claws and wings spread wide. Next to it was another flag. This one consisted of the Sword Of Damocles pointing downward, a bright white against the black background. The Generalísímo wore a dark green parade uniform, with a red stripe running down the outer side of each leg to denote his rank of General in the Armed forces. His chest was positively festooned with an absurd number of awards, ribbons and medals, each of varying fabrics or precious metals. They were a source of great pride for the Generalísímo, and he often talked about how he received each. He was in most respects the exact opposite to Corbec. Certainly, each was a dictator, but while the Generalísímo was a larger-than-life character, boastful and brash in almost everything he did, Corbec liked to see himself as somewhat more refined and businesslike, quiet and studious. They shook hands, smiling and joking, while Corbec talked in Spanish and the Generalísímo responded in Corbec’s native tongue, each as expert in the them as the other. With introductions out of the way, Corbec poured a glass of [i]Ron Miel[/i] for each of them. It was a personal favourite of both the Generalísímo and Corbec, a sweet kind of drink made from Rum and Honey, best served at an Ice Cold temperature. It had a unique flavour, but was backed up with a warming sensation was it flowed down your throat, almost like Brandy. [Edited on 07.09.2007 4:35 AM PDT]

[b]Preparation and Anticipation.[/b] [i]Two Weeks Later.[/i] Corbec dived aside, squeezing the trigger of his rifle as he did so, crashing through the jungle foliage while his shots found their mark. The two targets crumpled and dropped flat, crushing undergrowth beneath them. Momentum keeping him sliding along the wet grass, Corbec thumped into a tall tree, provoking a quick shower of heavy leaves from its boughs. Scrambling upright, he ducked again when he heard shouts to his right: “There he is!” “Get him!” “Take him down!” Dashing away as fast as he could and sparing only quick glances behind him, Corbec rushed between palm trees and through bunches of Canna plants. A burst of shots split the air above his head and whistling on into the view-obscuring flora around him. Feeling almost slighted by this, Corbec wheeled on the spot, snarling, and hosed the area behind him. Bushes of tropical plants shook as the rounds passed through them, and saplings shivered when stray shots impacted into them. Corbec gripped the trigger hard until the rifle clacked empty. He hit the eject button and the drained clip released automatically and tumbled lazily to the floor. In a flash, Corbec reached to his belt, grasped a replacement and slammed it into place with a satisfying [i]click[/i]. Panting, Corbec remained standing and squinted as he scanned the seemingly harmless tropical growth for movement. Of course, it seemed utterly harmless, but what Corbec had recently come to learn was that this type of arena could conceal many threats. The Forest Canopy above was still, allowing only irregular but bright shafts of light through to the ground, covered in dead leaves and dropped branches. Eventually that dead, rotting plant material would release nutrients into the soil, which would in turn feed the hungry tree it came from. The cycle of life here in the jungle. Life came and went, and the survivors gorged themselves on their fellow’s remains. Slowing his breathing down, Corbec listened hard and licked his lips. Nothing. Quiet. But perhaps too quiet. Corbec dug his heels in and tensed, preparing to face his foe. Suddenly, he heard a twig snap behind him. Without thinking, Corbec threw himself to his left and went into a roll, finishing in a crouch behind the wide trunk of an old evergreen tree. Meanwhile, the ground he stood on only a moment before was riddled with gunfire, dead leaves thrown around as if the wind was playing with them. Corbec risked a glance out of cover. He couldn’t see a bloody thing. The jungle foliage was just too thick. He ducked back inside just as another brace of shots puckered the tree he hid behind. Corbec thought about returning fire, but came up with an idea instead. “Ahh, my bloody leg! Bollocks it hurts! Ahh!” He cried, calling his opponent’s bluff. Occasionally crying out a salty curse, Corbec stayed still, listening intently for movement. Midday sun shone brightly through a gap in the canopy, throwing Corbec in a stark contrast to the comparatively dark surroundings. He wore a jungle camouflage fatigue, heavy-duty combat boots and a full-face mask of black plastic, complete with two clear plastic squares for vision. Along where Corbec’s forehead would be on the mask, a line of blue tape had been applied. He wore an ammunition belt around his waist and two bandoliers, one over each shoulder. After what felt like an age of tension, something finally stirred out there, and Corbec listened even harder. “No! Not now!” One voice hissed vehemently. Corbec never clearly caught the second, but he fancied he heard: “Relax.” Corbec remained stationary for two more heartbeats to make sure that his targets had come forward into view, then sprang to his feet. Corbec swung out of cover and sprayed one man with half a dozen shots, sending him thumping to the floor. Gun-butt raised to his armpit, Corbec jogged forward, passing his most recent victim along the way. Still nothing else to be seen. Aggravated, Corbec almost crushed the trigger as he vented his frustration-and ammunition-on the jungle around him. He circled as he fired, blitzing every stretch of space he could see. Eventually, all that answered him when he held the trigger was: [i]Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack.[/i] As if on cue, however, at least two figures tumbled from their perches on tree branches. It was almost comedic, and Corbec started to laugh at the situation. It was ironic though, considering that things weren’t over with, a fact Corbec was reminded of when more gunfire headed his way. Swearing at the top of his lungs, Corbec fell on his stomach and scrambled as fast as he could into cover. He found himself once again under fire, and once again cowering behind some god-forsaken tree. Heck, the shooter was probably the same one as he’d just tried to deal with a moment ago. Cursing his position, Corbec fumbled for another clip to replace his empty one and got to his feet. But, just as he got a hold of a new magazine, his rifle was smacked form his hands with a savage blow. Corbec whipped around and faced his assailant, a man dressed as he was with combat fatigues and boots, with an identical mask but for a stripe of red tape in the place of blue. He held a long, straight branch of some hard wood with a sharpened point in both hands. Corbec realised that the gunfire had stopped completely-this man was clearly the gunner who’d pinned Corbec for so long. Corbec lashed out a kick, connecting with the man’s midriff and forcing him back for fear of receiving another rib-cracking attack. Cursing, the staff-wielder swept downwards, narrowly missing Corbec, who had stepped backward. He immediately shifted his grip on the impromptu weapon and tried to catch Corbec with a slash from the back of the staff, also barely missing. The attacker launched himself at Corbec again, lunging the staff forward in a stabbing motion, the pointed end first. Corbec sidestepped barely in time, and the attack left this newcomer dangerously overbalanced and open to a counter-attack. Corbec acted quickly, snatching the staff from his enemy’s hands by grabbing the end intended to spear him, forcing that end downwards. The sudden and strong downward force made the staff slip from the attacker’s hands and the blunt end veered upwards like a see-saw into his chin, cracking the plastic mask where it struck. Hands holding his chin, the man stumbled backwards and gave Corbec another opportunity to strike. He swung the staff around in his hands, bringing the blunt end of the staff around by three hundred and sixty degrees and, all in one movement, smacked it into his assailant’s crotch with an audible, agonisingly painful [i]‘thwack!’[/i] “AHHH!” He screamed, hands dropping from his chin to his balls, the nerve endings in which sent electrical messages to the brain telling it that something had just gone terribly wrong and with painful consequences. He tried to back away, doubled over in pain, he tripped on a root sticking out of the ground and fell on his back, moaning in pain. Corbec nimbly twirled the staff for dramatic effect, forever the showman, and finished with the display with the pointed end a mere centimetre from his defeated opponent’s throat. Suddenly, the end-game siren blared, and Corbec broke out into a cackle, throwing the wooden staff/spear away. [i]“All Death Game volunteers are to exit the Simulation Arena via the nearest designated exits.”[/i] A flat, monotone machine voice boomed from recessed speakers. [i]“All volunteers are reminded they are to visit the showers before reporting to their quarters for their one-hour free period. That is all.”[/i] “Looks like I just screwed your precious Red Team over single-handed, JS!” Corbec observed. “To say nothing of you!” He pointed at the prone body in front of him, still clutching his wounded manhood. “Up yours.” Came a response, muffled through the mask. He paused, then added: “Sir.” “Ah, you’re just a poor sport.” Corbec replied, taking off his mask and running a hand through his fine, blonde hair. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

[quote][b]Posted by:[/b] Colonel Corbec Actually, I imagine I'll have the next chapter up by tomorrow, if not the day after.[/quote] *Throws exploding shuriken in the air for fireworks* Woohoo!

[quote][b]Posted by:[/b] Colonel Corbec Actually, I imagine I'll have the next chapter up by tomorrow, if not the day after.[/quote] This is good, as I need uplifting. Stupid 360 crapping out on Bungie day after I say other peoples' only break because they don't take care of them. I hate how the universe has a grudge against me...

Actually, I imagine I'll have the next chapter up by tomorrow, if not the day after.

Oh, goodie. I love these stories.

Great. I other words, no chance I get to read the next chapter... >:-(

Cheeto likes teh story!

My mind is absolutely clogged with myriad ideas at the moment. I have plans for all sorts of stories, this one and others as well. Production for the second chapter is running very smoothly, and it should be out by Saturday for sure. Chances are that it'll even be out sooner than that! (Oh, and the story's first gunfight can be found in this next chapter.)

*random* SWWEEEEEEETTTTTTTTTTT! I'm mentioned in there at one point, but I love your story. Please, DON'T STOP WRITING....EVER!

STORY TIME!

[quote][b]Posted by:[/b] und3rTaker what about me! What, I'm not good enough? Just kidding.[/quote] OK. Did you read the chapter?

[quote][b]Posted by:[/b] Colonel Corbec *Smacks head repeatedly on wall.* I launched a whole viral campaign to raise awareness, and two people respond. Where have I seen this before?[/quote] what about me! What, I'm not good enough? Just kidding.