I got the A to the motherfuckin' K and it's ready to rip
Slapped in my banana clip
And I'm lookin', Is he in Watts, Oakland, Philly or Brooklyn?
It seems like he got the whole country behind him
"Bracket 1-2, 1-6, routine, over."
"Go ahead, 1-6."
So it's sort of hard to find him
But when I do, gotta put my gat in his mouth
Pump seventeen rounds, make his brains hang out
'Cause the shit he did was uncalled for
"Uuuh, be advised 1-2, three birds moving south your position. Check fire, these are local forces, over."
"Roger 1-6, any ETA? Over."
"Say again 1-2?"
Tried to fuck a brother up the ass like a small whore
And that shit ain't fly
So now I'm settin' up the ultimate drive-by
And when you hear this shit, it make the world say, "Damn...
I wanna kill Sam"
"Goddamnit, turn that shit down!" you snarl, then trigger the radio again. "Uh, 1-6, requesting ETA on incoming birds, over."
"Maybe five, six minutes, 1-2, check your fire, over."
"Wilco, over."
"Roger, out."
You slumped back in your seat a moment, staring up at the rough metal ceiling of the humvee, feeling the weight of your gear weighing on you. You were sweating so much it felt like your uniform might adhere to your skin, feeling caged in the MOPP suit, one of the boxes strewn around the vehicle digging into your side. Not the cushiest of ops by any means.
You banged the ceiling with a gloved fist.
"Bishop!"
Your gunner ducked out of the turret, just a pair of sunglasses under his kevlar and over the scarf he'd pulled over his face.
"Yeah, sarge?" he asked.
"Three choppers are going to be passing south, they're friendlies, so don't shoot them up," you warned lightly. After that scare with the Apache last month, the troops were jumpy, but if they were hostile it probably wouldn't matter either way. "Anything out there?"
"Same bullshit," he replied, poking his head back out. "Can I turn it up?"
"Hit it." He reached over the turret and twisted a knob, and Ice Cube came roaring back like he never left, mid-skit on
Death Certificate. You checked your watch uselessly, then fished the heavily creased copy of TIME out from among the detritus at the bottom of the footwell. It flopped open to a huge two-page ad, a lineup of historical dictators and war criminals from Stalin to Pinochet to Gaddafi. At the very end, a photograph of General Sheppard.
NEW HIGH SCORE?
"Fuckin' liberal bullshit," you muttered, almost by reflex.
You listened a short while, then decided things were too fucking quiet and you needed to check what was going on. You popped the door and stepped out, your M16 banging against the doorframe loudly as you staggered into the light, wincing as the wind blew in your face and brought with it an awful ozone smell.
Arrayed out below the hill and stretching for kilometres in every direction, was a field of bizarre green alien crystal, shining impossibly bright in the sunlight.
The geiger counter on the hood of the humvee buzzed slightly, and the two soldiers posted around it shifted uncomfortable.
"Well shit," Walker muttered, wrinkling her nose at the smell of ozone as the wind shifted. "We sure it's safe to be this close?"
"Stop bitching, MS," Conway retorted, cigarette to his lips. "Little radiation never hurt anyone."
"Shut up, Conway. It's fine, we're only here for a few more hours," you assured her, privately convinced that you had all sorts of interesting cancers in your future. "This far back, it's no worse than an overseas flight. Anything?"
"Yeah, check it. We've got a soon-to-be crispy critter at 270, maybe 450 mikes," Conway said, passing you the binoculars. You lined yourself up and squinted through it, and after a moment you caught the motion, just a little dot even through the magnification. A squirrel, maybe. "Five bucks says it burns."
"You know, enjoying watching animals in pain is an early sign of a serial killer," Walker warned.
"Fuck yeah it is," Conway replied proudly. "You in?"
"... I think it's gonna turn inside out, like that cow we saw in Poland," she replied.
"We have a taker. Sarge?"
You were distracted. You'd seen something else in the binoculars.
"Shit, that's a kid."
"What?" Conway shot to his feet, and you handed him the binoculars.
"Bearing 220, eight hundred mikes, that's a fucking kid," you said, keying your radio. "1-3, this is 1-2, come in, over."
"What is it, 1-2?" Sergeant Allen came through in his thick English accent, his grasp of radio protocol still as fucked as ever.
"1-3, there's a fucking
kid past your perimeter and almost to the-"
"What do we do, sarge?" Walker asked.
"1-2, say again, we don't see anyone. That's your sector, over." he replied, voice utterly casual. You release the radio controls with a snarl.
"Sarge?" Conway asked. You grabbed the binoculars and looked again, taking a moment's adjustment to locate him. There he was, a tiny figure darting up out of a dry riverbed, dressed head to toe in bulky clothes and with a mask tied over his face. He had a shovel and a little blue backpack, like a little school jansport.
"He's a fucking miner," you said, your mouth dry.
"Yeah, he's a kid," Conway said.
"No, I mean, he's here for the tib, and he's past the red line," you said. The red line was the twenty metre radius from any active tiberium fields you were absolutely not allowed to cross except under direct orders, the radius at which the health hazard went from possible to probable. Any closer, and you were a crispy critter in minutes. "Son of a bitch."
That's what you were out here for, to prevent anyone from getting close to the field. NOD didn't give a fuck, they'd pay top dollar for crystal off the black market, enough for refugees and other desperate people to risk their lives trying to get some. ROE said anyone who tried was de facto NOD logistics and therefore a valid target, but you were on the lookout for guys in surplus Soviet hazmat with pickup trucks, not…
"Well, shit, alright," Conway said, shifting in position a little, his gear clattering as he moved. "Sucks. Pass me a smoke."
[ ] Start the truck, I'm going to get him. (Idealistic)
[ ] Fuck. Watch him, we'll pick him up if he makes it. (Pragmatic)
[ ] Bishop, light the fucker up, put him out of his misery. (Righteous)
[ ] Yeah. Sucks. (Egocentric)
