Game 2Game 2 Outline| Game 2 |
Game 2 Outline |
The report of a high-powered rifle is simultaneous to an astonishing force that slams into your muzzle.
You hear and feel your canines shattering as the immense force you have just absorbed whips you around and away from the suited man.
Even as you realize that you are now teetering in the center of the mall concourse, you observe the black shine of the jackbooted, brown-shirted ATF agents.
You have no cover.
The agents of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms begin to do their thing.
You remember watching the opening scenes of "Private Ryan" .
It sounds like that in here.
And now you know what it feels like as well.
The bullets slam into you like a hot Scirroco wind.
And like a sponge soaking up water, you are soaking up bullets.
They sting and then they burn.
The force of so many striking you in wave after wave is beyond any experience you have known.
Still you soak them up, without count.
You cannot endure, and yet, you cannot not endure.
When did you fall to the floor? You are unable to recall.
Even so, you are being propelled across the floor by the kinetic force you are absorbing, on a floor lubricated with your own blood.
It is so hard to think.
The thunder continues.
It goes on forever.
FOREVER.
All you can do is go with the flow.
Finally you are propelled into the side of a bubbling fountain.
You remember flicking a coin into it months ago for good luck. There you come to rest.
Good Luck, Hah, not today.
The thunder stops, save for a couple of solitary shots. And you feel each of them hit home.
You are not feeling very well.
As the echoes fade, you hear magazines being cleared from weapons, some clattering to the floor.
Fresh magazines are slammed into place and first rounds are chambered.
In your whole life, you have never hurt so much.
You should be dead many times over, you've soaked up so much lead, copper jacket and armour piercing.
But you're not, and realize now, that there is not enough ammo, even at ATF headquarters to put you down.
Even more, you are angry.
Very angry.
With a groan, you heave yourself up onto four mammoth paws.
The tiles are still slick with your blood.
Your elegant fur hangs dark, wet and heavy like a floor mop.
You can see the dark track left as you slid down the mall hallway.
Your flesh hangs on your bones like lead, you feel like lead.
God alone knows how many pounds of it you are carrying.
At the other end of hallway, there is almost total silence.
You turn your head in their direction.
The Thunder Starts Again.
Written by Midnight Thunder