Post by Kale on Feb 11, 2010 21:01:37 GMT -5
Debris fell like hailstones to either side of Aldo's Dom. Charred hunks pelted the MS; smoldering shards speared into the Earth at its feet. The air was on fire, superheated by a now-dissipated hellcloud that had scorched a forty-meter circumference out from Hugo Lethe's destruction.
Men were already scrambling to react. Medics dove to wounded soldiers, applying gauze and morphine into burn areas. One Zeon infantryman, identified only for his discarded helmet, rocked back and forth on the ground, bony hands raised to a face that was cooked muscle and a single, melted eyeball. The rocking did not last for long.
Panzergrenadiers were the lone professionals in the maelstrom. Acting on discipline, they marched up to the fallen Gundam Mass Production Ground Type that was responsible for this scene. Their leader, his right shoulder armor blasted half-off, pointed two black-clad soldiers to either side of the cockpit while he took up a position at its front. Leveling his rifle towards the Gundam's hatch, he nodded, signaling the other SS to action. They pried open the slab of luna titanium.
What exactly happened inside the cockpit, Aldo could not see. The exchange was quick; no time for a struggle. The Feddie was dragged out by his hair, thrown to the ground, and kicked towards his already corraled comrades.
Aldo looked down at his feet. Between pedals, he saw his dropped cigar. The tip was still glowing orange. He concentrated on it, staring deep into the embers, trying for a moment to think...
It wasn't to come.
"You son of a bitch!" the voice shouted above wounded cries and fading gunfire.
Aldo snapped his head back up, gaze darting from cigar to leftfield. Donny Gerard was already out of his Dom, Louisville slugger choked at mid-shaft as he marched straight for the captive Feddies.
"Get the fuck out of my way!" Gerard shouted again, this time straight into the unnerring red eyes of a Panzergrenadier. When the stormtrooper failed to comply, Donny simply bowled him over, all six-foot five inches of hard muscle pushing past the black carapace and charging towards the nearest captive -- a young boy, no older than eighteen, who stared up in horror from beneath an auburn bowl cut.
*CRACK*
Donny side-swiped the kid's chin with his bat. The Feddie rolled over onto his back, immediately unconscious. Gerard stepped over him, straddling lower stomach as he raised his signature Louisville pine -- both hands crushing an imprint into its grip -- above his head.
The Feddies didn't sit idle. One man, a giant with dreadlocks and copper skin, jumped up and tackled Donny in the gut. They fell into one another, punching and biting, kicking. The others moved to join, but were set back down by Panzerifle barrels.
"Aww hell Donny," Aldo choked back emotion. It was a mixture of desperation, sorrow, and a little bit of pride. "'At a boy..."
Lieutenant Armistad's cockpit opened. Despite recent flooding, the air was currently dry as ever in Southeast Asia. Nothing like the temperature and humidity-regulated atmosphere back on Side 3. It hit him as a wave of heat when he stepped onto the ripchord and lowered himself to the ground.
A man lay dead in the shadow of Aldo's descent. The corpse's Federation beige had been smoked to black. It was with a gratifying crack that Aldo landed on the body; he could feel ribs and burnt flesh give way and sink down beneath his bootheel.
Men were already scrambling to react. Medics dove to wounded soldiers, applying gauze and morphine into burn areas. One Zeon infantryman, identified only for his discarded helmet, rocked back and forth on the ground, bony hands raised to a face that was cooked muscle and a single, melted eyeball. The rocking did not last for long.
Panzergrenadiers were the lone professionals in the maelstrom. Acting on discipline, they marched up to the fallen Gundam Mass Production Ground Type that was responsible for this scene. Their leader, his right shoulder armor blasted half-off, pointed two black-clad soldiers to either side of the cockpit while he took up a position at its front. Leveling his rifle towards the Gundam's hatch, he nodded, signaling the other SS to action. They pried open the slab of luna titanium.
What exactly happened inside the cockpit, Aldo could not see. The exchange was quick; no time for a struggle. The Feddie was dragged out by his hair, thrown to the ground, and kicked towards his already corraled comrades.
Aldo looked down at his feet. Between pedals, he saw his dropped cigar. The tip was still glowing orange. He concentrated on it, staring deep into the embers, trying for a moment to think...
It wasn't to come.
"You son of a bitch!" the voice shouted above wounded cries and fading gunfire.
Aldo snapped his head back up, gaze darting from cigar to leftfield. Donny Gerard was already out of his Dom, Louisville slugger choked at mid-shaft as he marched straight for the captive Feddies.
"Get the fuck out of my way!" Gerard shouted again, this time straight into the unnerring red eyes of a Panzergrenadier. When the stormtrooper failed to comply, Donny simply bowled him over, all six-foot five inches of hard muscle pushing past the black carapace and charging towards the nearest captive -- a young boy, no older than eighteen, who stared up in horror from beneath an auburn bowl cut.
*CRACK*
Donny side-swiped the kid's chin with his bat. The Feddie rolled over onto his back, immediately unconscious. Gerard stepped over him, straddling lower stomach as he raised his signature Louisville pine -- both hands crushing an imprint into its grip -- above his head.
The Feddies didn't sit idle. One man, a giant with dreadlocks and copper skin, jumped up and tackled Donny in the gut. They fell into one another, punching and biting, kicking. The others moved to join, but were set back down by Panzerifle barrels.
"Aww hell Donny," Aldo choked back emotion. It was a mixture of desperation, sorrow, and a little bit of pride. "'At a boy..."
Lieutenant Armistad's cockpit opened. Despite recent flooding, the air was currently dry as ever in Southeast Asia. Nothing like the temperature and humidity-regulated atmosphere back on Side 3. It hit him as a wave of heat when he stepped onto the ripchord and lowered himself to the ground.
A man lay dead in the shadow of Aldo's descent. The corpse's Federation beige had been smoked to black. It was with a gratifying crack that Aldo landed on the body; he could feel ribs and burnt flesh give way and sink down beneath his bootheel.
