In the meantime, I've got a special December story excerpt for you guys. Think of it like a little early Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever-holiday-you-celebrate gift. I got the inspiration to start writing this from playing Red Faction. Hopefully it isn't too much like that game.
Here goes.
~~~
"Mason Merc," the soldier said, looking the tall man in the brown overcoat over through his helmet's visor. "Ore miner. Demolitions, Class C permit. You're clear to go, report to Security Hangar 3369."
What Merc didn't like about "Blue" Sara-Marsa Sector was that the blues - The Sara-Marsa Defense Force (SMDF) - were so much like Nazis that unless you were absolutely perfect, you'd be tried for some lousy crime and put under Martial Law like a rat in a cage. And no cheese to feed it. What a rip-off.
It wasn't as if it was hard to find 3369 -- each and every hangar was very clearly marked, albeit a tad dusty, and some graffiti from the kids who decided to piss off the soldiers guarding the place. They were executed promptly.
Yet they still never learn... Just like the Guerrillas.
Merc remembered his time on Gara-Sarma B, and what had come of his affiliation with the Guerrillas. He had decided, after the war, to give up his life as a renegade and try to live as a civilian, doing honest work for modest pay. The only problem was, since he was wanted in every country on Gara-Sarma, he had to instead transfer to a job opening all the way across the cosmos on the desert planet Sara-Marsa. And it felt like a warmer and less fruitful version of Gara-Sarma to Merc: A quarantined world under the iron control of modern-age Nazis.
~~~
I know, it's not exactly what people like reading from me (But do I care?), but enjoy it anyhow, and don't give me slack about it because it doesn't meet your preferences. If I were writing to please, I'd have gone insane already.
No comments:
Post a Comment