“I fucking hate Conflict Worlds,” I said to nobody in particular, hunkered down in what was left of the bunker. I didn’t have anyone else to say it to because they were all spread around the area doing a passable impression of a strawberry smoothie, with the bits in.
I’d been shot in the tit and it fucking hurt. There was a gaping hole in my breastplate which, honestly, at this point should just have been called a ‘plate’. I was out of just about everything right about now, ammunition, hope, armour, medical kits and even drugs.
A Frother without drugs. That was a bad joke right? I mean… our blood courses with the fucking stuff. We were born high and we die high. Isn’t that the motto? I’m old school, highland clan, and I’m not going to die curled up in a bunker, sober, like some sanctimonious straight-edge cockbag. If I’m going out I’m going out high as a fucking kite and spitting in the face of my enemies.
What did I have left?
A quick inventory of the smoking crater that used to be a bunker turned up this short list.
- A bunch of dead friends.
- A power claymore.
- Broken armour.
- One tit.
- One bent cigarette.
- A double dose of Alice, my recreational drug of choice and fuck-all use in a ruck.
I sighed deeply and tapped my mic.
“Control, this is Operative Keen. I’ve found the renegade Genocide Suits. Any chance of claiming the completion fee now and putting it into my LAD account?”
The cunts put me on hold. I was buggered if I was going to go out to tinkling muzak so I tore my helmet off and gulped back the Alice, letting it take me away on a warm wave of strange as I dragged my claymore up and used it as a walking stick, scaling the crater wall to face the bastards.
The custard smelt of elderberries and coughed butterflies in my marzipan as I danced to the tune of distant drums.
“It isn’t so bad.” Said the elephant in the kilt as the hornets nested in my hair and whispered that they wanted to mate with my television.
He was not wrong. Not wrong at all.