[B][U]Falling Star[/U]
Joshua 'Gunner' Evans[/B]

“Weapons check!”

The repetitive thump of the rotor muffled the clapping bolts. A dozen men and women lit in red lined against the walls of the helicopter readying their weapons. Half carried the old military standards, the rest held stockpiled arms from wars long past. All but one sat garbed in digital camouflage utility vests, their shirts and pants likewise coloured. That one man sat in a worn, forest camouflage vest with black fabric clothes stitched heavily with leather. He sported a dented, early nineties Delta helmet. In his hands a weathered Vietnam classic M-14.

“All good El-Tee,” the squad reported. 

Slender despite the extensive Kevlar armour, the lieutenant walked between his squad. His helmet was an off putting grey-green tint that made his black balaclava pop. 

The lieutenant eyed the group one by one until lingering on the black sheep. “Mackinac is believed to be defended. Drop any sivs who approach. Hit’em hard,” the lieutenant exclaimed, crouching to meet the black sheep’s gaze. “Gunner takes point!”

Sharp metallic pops broke the trance of the rhythm. Like that the lieutenant stood, head cocked, knees bent. He stood over the pilot in flash and pointed down with a thumb. Other than a deep scowl the pilot did not protest.

“Some pissheads want an early taste. Get ready for blood!”

One of the squad approached the mounted gun on right wall. Despite the opening to allow clear visibility, they crouched behind the machine gun and took aim. Gunner eyed the belt of rounds, mostly tracers, feeding into the base of the gun. Fired in bursts, he expected thirty seconds. Half a minute to scare the foolhardy bunch. Part of him hoped they saved themselves and ran off. The gun rattled a burst of three shots. Like thin bolts of lightning the glowing rounds flew down toward the earth. If the bunch ducked back and hid, Mackinac wouldn’t last. They’d never realize the hell at their doorstep. 

Gunner watched the coloured streaks glisten against the twilight sky. Beautiful, a sight Simon might paint, but he felt uneasy. The helicopter had lowered to fifty feet by the second burst. He set a hand on the machine gunner’s shoulder and managed half a word before the gun rang a third time. Gunner heard something like a bag of flour hitting the floor. He caught a glimpse a moving light as he rushed to a seat. 

The world reduced to a haze of lights and sirens. All the night’s blues and violets blended. A big shining mash spinning round like days passing too soon. Days cast against red light. And then, as soon as Gunner began to catch on, the world stopped. No spinning. No light. 

He felt a breeze. Small chilled drops speckled his face, tingled on his lips. He systematically tested each finger, toe. Every muscle from toe to his ears seemed fine, if restrained. They called him Gunner. His name was Evans, Joshua. Sergeant in the United States Army until Fallujah. The memories streamed by at will, so good enough on his mind too. Hard part next.

Joshua inhaled slowly while opening his eyes. He was hovering above a heap of mangled metal and meat. Straight across the aisle, below him, the top half of a the machine gunner. The straps held enough that his head hung lower. He glanced over himself. Blood, but no surface wounds. Before Zed he might ignore the smell and give into stress-induced sleep. Now, however, his fingers ran along the buckles. A brief fall later he found himself rolling off the gunner. Cords hung from buckled panels, Joshua only cared when they began to spark.

After escaping the wreckage he stumbled ten yards out and collapsed. Smoke billowed high despite the falling mist. Joshua vomited, then crawled a bit further before reaching a van-size boulder. Finally, he unholstered the pistol strapped against his hip and waited.