Fisticuffs

SUNCREST HEIGHTS. A simple slice of life, apartment roleplay anyone?

I'm in.

The Destined (Soulmate RP)

Humanity's Last Army

<Snipped quote by Roughdragon1>

Kalshnikov! Fucking. Called it. Come to daddy my little babushka...

@Corporal Lance

Humanity's Last Army

I hope it was alright that I made a throwaway comment about Griks smelling unpleasant. I dunno, maybe they smell like a fresh summer breeze or something.

Humanity's Last Army

"Fuckin' prick." He mumbled under his breath as a man pulled him to the front row. Apparently, his weapon had jammed. Now, he was going to be among the first soldiers torn apart by Griks. That was a less than appealing prospect. His anger towards he soldier with the malfunctioning rifle was misplaced, he knew. He should be angry at the Bulwark for having a murder-boner for humanity. He should be angry at Command, for essentially giving him a death sentence in the form of a conscription notice. He should not be angry with the man with the broken rifle. He was glad that his words had been masked by the gunfire and shots. He hadn't even heard himself.

He took his place among the line, sweat pooling on his forehead. He felt sick. The Griks charged, steady as a flood. That was the thing about floods, it didn't matter how much water you bailed out with a bucket, someone's floor was still getting ruined. Granted, it wasn't like there was a whole lot of options. All they could do was keep bailing out water, and hope it didn't rise and damage grandma's photo album.

Maybe that wasn't the best analogy.

He shook his head, and raised his rifle. If he turned back now, some meathead with a little too much zeal would cap him in the head. He had no choice. He aimed at the oncoming wave, and squeezed the trigger. Declan was not a good shot. Hell, he was barely passable. Two weeks was not enough time to become a badass. That didn't matter, when facing a Grik Charge. If you shot, you'd hit something. His first few shots pattered into Grik torsos, slowing a few of them down, but only nominally. His sixth shot hit one dead in the face. It fell, and the one dead behind it tripped over it.

Declan chuckled.

It didn't make sense. He was staring death in the face, and laughing about slapstick humor. He must've been hysterical, to laugh at an alien falling over.

He kept shooting. Three kills in total, with 15 shots. He was far from efficient. The Griks were worryingly closer than they'd been when he started shooting. He stepped back, into the crowd.

"Reloading! Someone fill in!" Sure enough, someone slipped into his spot. The air around him smelled of gunpowder. He supposed it was better than smelling sweat, fear, blood, or the rancid stench of Griks. He started reloading his weapon, noticing that his hands weren't shaking as much now. He supposed, if they kept up like this, they had a chance of holding back the Griks. What worried him was what came after. Griks were meat shields. Where were the Argon? The Brumak? God, he hoped there wasn't a Brumak. He didn't see any heavy weapons around him. He ended up next to the man who'd pulled him into the fray, the man with the malfunctioning rifle. He'd survived, so he wasn't about to hold a grudge. He wanted to say something.

Hi! I'm Declan. Please remember me if Griks eat my kidneys!

He opted instead to nod at him, hoping he looked a little less terrified than he had before.

Humanity's Last Army

I'm working on a post. Should be up within the next few hours.

Trial by Hell-fire (Panic x Fisticuffs)

There were a few attempts at conversation, while the Partisans walked toward the meeting place. They might've been in enemy territory, but they were keeping it quiet. Everytime they started to speak, however, Felix would cut them off with a phrase that Thomas knew well.

"Ferme ta gueule!" He'd hiss. "Shut the fuck up."

So, they did. The harsh silence broken only by the occasional gust of wind, and the sounds of their travel. The shifting of gravel, the just-a-bit-too-loud breathing, the shifting of their gear. They walked down side-road, and stopped everytime they came close to a patrol.

"Lot of Krauts out today." Edouard noted.

"Aye. This isn't normal. I don't think we've ever dealt with this many patrols." Thomas agreed. This was most disturbing. Perhaps whatever information the Nazis got from the Polish Partisans had them riled up. Perhaps some high-ranking Kraut was coming to meet with the Vichy, and the extra patrols. It didn't matter to Thomas and the others. All it meant was an increase in difficulty.

"Just means more heads to put bullets in." Anna said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hideout. The Russian sharpshooter spoke with such confidence that even Thomas, the least warlike of the group, found himself almost hoping for contact. Almost. They carried on, dodging often to the side of the road to hide from the passing Wehrmacht. It was not a pleasant journey, but it passed mostly without incident.

Mostly.

---

They were nearly to the meeting place when they saw him, lying on the side of the road. Blonde hair plastered to his head by blood and sweat, his grey uniform stained red, his blue eyes full of fear. He weakly raised an arm. The Partisans looked to each other for confirmation, then stepped toward him, guns at the ready. The fallen Nazi was in even worse shape upon closer inspection. His wounds were savage and deep, as though he'd been mauled.

They expected him to ask for help. Help that they would have to deny. To their surprise, the Wehrmacht wanted no such thing.

"Tue-moi." He rapsed. It was French.

Kill me.

The soldier couldn't have been older than twenty, yet he was begging for death. Though his eyes were clouded by pain, Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that the soldier wasn't chasing death as an escape from it. Thomas frowned. Death, wounds, suffering. It was a part of war, and he was a soldier. If only that made seeing dying people any easier. Pointless suffering, borne of pointless violence.

What am I doing here? He asked himself, not for the first time. Before he could ponder further, the boy spoke again.

"Tue-moi!" Likely the only French he knew, spoken in desperation.

"We're not going to get anything out of him." Thomas said, sighing. "What's the harm in taking him out?"

"I agree." Edouard said, hesitantly. "Of all the gifts we might give to a Nazi, a merciful death is the easiest."

"He doesn't deserve mercy." Anna spat. "Would he do the same for you?"

"Maybe not." Edouard said.

"I'm not wasting one of my bullets on a fucking Nazi." Felix grumbled. "You can knock yourselves out, but hurry up about it."

Neither Anna nor Edouard moved. Gerard, the ever-silent giant of a Frenchman followed Felix as they walked up the road a few steps. Bernard remained silent.

"I don't think I can't shoot an unarmed man." Edouard said, with his head down.

"What, you want me to?" Anna scoffed.

"No." Edouaro was looking at Thomas.

"Ed, I-" He stopped, unsure of what to say.

I don't want to kill him either.

The Partisan produced his sidearm, one that had recently belonged to one of the unlucky Poles. He held it, handle-first to Thomas. The Irishman hesitated for a moment, before sighing and grabbing it. A revolver, a Nagant, if he was correct. Loaded and cocked already. He looked at the Nazi. Fear in the boy's eyes, but determination behind it.

"Bitte." He whispered. German for please. Thomas sighed. He aimed the revolver down at his head. The soldier began talking again, but clearly not to Thomas. "Gott vergib mir." Tears welled in his eyes. Thomas closed his own, then pulled the trigger. When he opened them, the German was dead, a bullet hole square in his face that looked paltry compared to the gashes across his body. He turned to Edouard, the pistol held out. The Partisan shook his head.

"Keep it."

So, he did.

---

They arrived late. Thomas hoped this wasn't to become a patern. The meeting place was quiet, and the Partisans readied their weapons. It was quiet. Felix broke the silence, calling out in English.

"Is anyone here?"

They couldn't see inside the farmhouse. Thomas only hoped that the answer wasn't spoken by a German.

The Destined (Soulmate RP)

"With the kingdom badly damaged, the queen made the ultimate decision to rob the peasants of their money by raising taxes. The peasants grew enraged by this decision, and even more pressure was placed upon Laurelin to set things right when she became queen..."

Laurelin's Sheet

That doesn't actively say "insurrection subplot," but I sure do hope that's what it's implying.

Humanity's Last Army

Personally, I'm partial to bullpup weapons. Those look badass.

Trial by Hell-fire (Panic x Fisticuffs)

It was a grisly scene. Three dead Nazis, two dead Poles. One cabin with a bunch of bullet holes, and three surprised partisans (five, if one counted the dead Poles). Thomas sighed. He and his companions, Édouard and Bernard, were supposed to meet two members of the Polish Partisan Resistance. Apparently, they had information relating to a very disturbing discovery that the French Partisans had made recently. Thomas didn't know too much about it. Felix, the leader of his cell, had been rather tight-lipped about the whole affair. He'd heard from some of the others that it had something to do with Nazi Research. Thomas had heard the horror stories, monstrosities stalking the battlefields at night, undead soldiers who felt no pain. He didn't think it was true. Or, at least, he hoped it wasn't true.

"Damn." Édouard said, finally. "It's a good thing we arrived late. We could've ended up like these poor bastards." He spoke in accented English, for Thomas's benefit. The Irishman could speak French, but not fluently. Much to his embarrassment, most of the cell could speak fluent English.

"I don't think they would agree with you." Thomas slung his rifle's strap over his shoulder. It was bolt-action, and of German make. He'd lifted it off of a dead Wehrmacht, not too long ago.

"How many Nazis do you think there were?" Bernard spoke in French. Thomas took a second to translate.

"At least three." He said, slowly, in heavily-accented French. Bernard chuckled, and Edouard cracked a smile.

They searched through the pockets of the dead Poles, and of the dead Nazis, to no avail. Whatever intel the dead Partisans had either died with them, or had been recovered by the Nazis. They looked around for anything useful. The Nazis had been smart enough to take the weapons of their dead with them, when they left. They'd left behind the sidearms of the dead Partisans. Bernard and Edouard pocket the guns, and they left, feeling defeated.

---

The hideout of Felix's Partisan Cell was near Bordeaux, and was little more than a glorified campsite. If nothing else, it was comfortable. The French Partisan resistance was low on manpower, weapons, ammo, and information, but they had plenty of tents and blankets. Concealed by trees and hills, the hideout was as safe as they were going to get. The concealment was aided by size. There were only twelve Partisans in Felix's cell. Seven Frenchmen, one Frenchwoman, two Poles, one Russian woman, and Thomas, an Irishman.

Thomas woke up to the familiar sound of Edouard shaking his shoulder.

"Come on, you filthy Irish bastard! Wake up!" The harsh words delivered with humor. Edouard was his best friend. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd fought and bled together, but he felt closer to him than he did to any of his friends back home. Thomas sat up and followed him out of the tent.

The hideout was against the rather sheer face of a hill, that served as a good wall. The tents formed a sort of semi-circle off of it. In the middle of that semi-circle were crates of ammo, a fire pit, and a rickety wooden table with a map of the region on it. Most of the cell was already gathered around the table. Chief among those gathered was Felix Chastain, an imposing Frenchman with a sharp, severe face and a wicked scar across the bridge of his nose. Thomas and Edouard weren't the last to arrive at the table, but they were close. When the cell had gathered, Felix started speaking.

"We suffered a failure last night." He began. "The Polish Partisans were dead before Thomas and the others got there, because they were late." It was hardly Thomas's fault that they were late, but Felix glared at him anyway. "Their information is lost, and now we have to hope that the Americans still want to help us." He sighed. "We're meeting them soon, about three miles east of Bordeaux." He spoke in French, likely to spite Thomas. "There'll be a squad, and they're following our lead. We were going to attack a research facility North of here, but now we don't know where that's at. As such, we'll have to either search for it, or figure out a way to acquire its location." He paused. "I'll go to meet the Americans. Bernard, Edouard, Thomas, Anna, and Gerard will come with me." He looked around. "The rest of you will stay here." He paused. "Are we clear."

"Yes sir!" They chorused.

---

Thomas stared at his reflection in the river near the camp. A head of messy, brown hair. Pale green eyes so wide that he looked perpetually surprised. A stubble that threatened to grow into an unfortunately patchy beard if he didn't shave soon. A nose, just a bit crooked from being broke one-too-many times. He splashed some water on his face, as he did every morning after the briefing. In part to wash the dirt off, partly to wake him up, and partly out of habit. He stood, and for a moment, he looked at his full reflection. Tall, thin. He sighed, grabbing his rifle from the dirt and slinging it over his shoulder. Edouard was calling for him.

There was work to be done.