Act on Instinct - C&C 1995 PATROL

Reader mode
[X] Fuck. Watch him, we'll pick him up if he makes it. (Pragmatic)
 
[X] Start the truck, I'm going to get him. (Idealistic)
but yeah, we should bitch about it the whole time.

NOD? Tiberium?….. I haven't heard those names in a long long time *wistful stare into the middle distance*
 
Last edited:
[X] Bishop, light the fucker up, put him out of his misery. (Righteous)

Yeah, rad poisoning is not a fun way to go. Best ot make it quick.
 
[X] Fuck. Watch him, we'll pick him up if he makes it. (Pragmatic)

Things that're in that tib field:
- slow miserable death by double-cancer,
- faster, even more miserable death by lung crystals,
- visceroids maybe (???)

Things that aren't in that tib field:
- anything worth dying for
 
[X] Fuck. Watch him, we'll pick him up if he makes it. (Pragmatic)
 
[X] Fuck. Watch him, we'll pick him up if he makes it. (Pragmatic)

Don't want to be a righteous ass.
 
0-2: W3N Coming to your Live
  • Threadmarks
    • "Fuck. Fuck!" you exclaimed, kicking one of the discarded wrappers that had built up around the humvee in your team's stay here. "Goddamn, keep an eye on him. If he makes it, we'll pick him up."

    "Sarge?" Walker asked, her voice apprehensive.

    "We can't go in, we'll fucking burn. Goddamnit, Allen, fucking screw-up." You were pissed, but there wasn't anything you could do. You didn't have the gear to go into the field, your MOPP suit might as well have been tissue paper. You triggered your radio. "Bracket 1-6, 1-2, we have a civilian past the red line."

    "1-2, why didn't you stop him?" Lieutenant Wallace's voice came back. Fucking butterbar, probably shipped to GDI so the US Army wouldn't have to deal with him. Been in-country for less than two weeks.

    "1-6, he came through 1-3's sector, we just spotted him," you replied, instantly regretting it. It would just sound like ass-covering. There was a pause on the line.

    "1-2, there's no civilians over the red line. Anyone that far is NOD logistics, how copy?"

    You tore your hand away from the controls so you could express your authentic feelings aloud in safety before clicking the line back open.

    "1-6, it's a fucking kid. A little fucking kid," you spat. The silence was much longer this time.

    "Roger 1-2. Try to get his attention and get him to turn around," he replied. "I'll pass it up the chain."

    Distantly, you heard the sound of helicopter blades to the south. Raising your binoculars back, you watched the tiny figure step up to one of the strange brown pods and plant their shovel at the base of the green crystals. They paused to convulse, probably coughing as their lungs liquified.

    "Jesus Christ…"

    ---

    Six Hours Later…

    Your bunk at FSB Fox was, after the harrowing day you'd had, the most comfortable place in the entire universe. You sprawled out onto the thin mattress and just tried to steady your breathing, not particularly looking forward to tomorrow.

    Stupid fucking kid. Fucking Sergeant Allen. Goddamn reporters.

    Your bunk was, like the rest of the base, the product of awe-inspiring modern technology, of the capacity for refined Tiberium to be rapidly transmuted into whatever substances the user needed and pressed into shape. Everything from the ceramic tiles underfoot to the steel framework of the bed to the integrated wiring powering the lines and aircon had been hastily printed into prefabs and erected in hours.

    Twenty years ago, shit, five years ago, your bunk would be an air mattress in a pit with sandbag walls and a tarp roof. Now, it was like you stepped out of war-torn Czechoslovakia and back at Fort Benning. You'd taken a hot shower, had a hot meal, taken a shit in an actual flush toilet. It was, somehow, paradise in a war zone.

    You had a fucking TV.

    It was mounted on the wall of the NCO barracks, integrated like everything else. As usual, it was set to W3N International and left there, with not much else available in English. Didn't even get AFN, seeing as you weren't American Forces anymore, technically. GDI was an international coalition, after all, which is why you all used American equipment and American protocols and American fucking kelvar.

    The news was talking about the fighting farther north in Poland, fighting you were missing so you could babysit a tib field. They weren't even harvesting from it yet, FSB Fox was drawing from a smaller captive field about two clicks south. NOD forces had set up an air defense network east of the city, and were making probing attacks against the garrison there. Short video clips flashed over the screen as Kathleen Kennedy droned on about civilian casualties and stock prices. One of them, of a Bradley IFV torn to pieces on a highway and surrounded by blurred-out shapes that were most certainly bodies, gave you pause.

    It was painted not in the GDI desert gold and green, but two tones of grey.

    "GDI spokesmen claimed that seventeen NOD combatants were killed in today's fighting, as well as three surplus military vehicles believed to be purchased from the Middle East. Once again, three GDI soldiers were killed in today's attacks , Lieutenant Daniel Summers, 24, of Mountain View, California, Corporal Finley Hawkins, 28, of Akron, Ohio, and Private Jonathan Alvarado, 19, of Mesa, Arizona. An unconfirmed forty-one civilian deaths have been reported by the Red Cross," Kennedy continued, over canned footage of A-10s ripping apart hills in a totally unrelated engagement that they loved to play whenever they had dead air.

    There they were in the thick of it, and they had you watching a field. You'd been part of Task Force Iron in Desert Storm, you had a Bronze Star for Christ's sake. Surely they could leave this bullshit to local forces and move you where the action was?

    Your qualifications spoke for themselves:

    ---
    ​
    Plan Vote​
    ​
    What is your Name? Reminder: It is 1995 and you served in the US Army in a combat role. You're a dude. And no women in disguise, Dragon. I'm watching you!!!​
    [ ] Write In​
    ​
    What is your MOS? Choose a class and one of its subclasses.​
    [ ] You're a rifleman and always have been. No special abilities, but a baseline boost to your stats.​
    • [ ] Primary Rifleman: You don't have to carry any more heavy shit.
    • [ ] Automatic Rifleman: Start with a bipod and extended magazines.
    • [ ] Grenade Rifleman: You have an underslung grenade launcher.
    [ ] You had Ranger training, and are used to being picked for scouting operations.​
    • [ ] Scout: You are better at tracking.
    • [ ] Doorkicker: You are better at room-clearing.
    [ ] You had extensive marksman training and served as a sniper at several points in your career.​
    • [ ] Designated Marksman: You just get a scope for your rifle.
    • [ ] Specialty Marksman: You have a high precision bolt action rifle and scope.
    ​
    Distribute 28 Points between the following stats: ​
    • Fortitude, for carrying capacity and physical feats.
    • Vigilance, for awareness and cleverness.
    • Proficiency, for accuracy and technical skill
    • Nerve, for bravery under fire.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • What is your Name? Reminder: It is 1995 and you served in the US Army in a combat role. You're a dude. And no women in disguise, Dragon. I'm watching you!!!
    [X] PLAN: RENEGADE
    -[X] Nick Parker
    -[X] You had Ranger training, and are used to being picked for scouting operations.
    -[X] Doorkicker: You are better at room-clearing.
    -[X] FORTITUDE: 7
    -[X] VIGILANCE: 7
    -[X] PROFICENCY: 4
    -[X] NERVE: 10
     
    Last edited:
    [X] Plan Sua Sponte
    -[X] Roger Maxton
    -[X] You had Ranger training, and are used to being picked for scouting operations.
    -[X] Scout: You are better at tracking.
    -[X] FORTITUDE: 7
    -[X] VIGILANCE: 7
    -[X] PROFICENCY: 7
    -[X] NERVE: 7
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Back
    Top