 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
This is My Rifle. . .
Posted By: Archangel 7<arch.angel_7@yahoo.com>
Date: 2 March 2007, 6:42 am
Read/Post Comments
|
This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
He unleashed another torrent of fire on the advancing enemies. Burst by burst, the rounds perforated the Grunts' fragile armor, piercing their innards and breathing apparatuses with sheer unfeeling destructive force. He could hear their squeals as life seeped from their bodies, but he could also hear the valiant war cries many others, each waiting for their chance at the firing line.
My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
He had never been a particularly religious man, but he had always attained a sense of peace when the subject of death arose. It was more of a feeling than an actual belief; the concept had never fully coalesced in his mind, but neither did he want it to. He always thought there was another plane of existence beyond this, the impassioned but ultimately meaningless cycle of mortal life. Not heaven, in any sense, but an astral plane, entirely different and separate in experience from the bloody struggle he now endured. In due time, however, he would find the answer to the question of its existence; the supplies of food and ammunition continually ran shorter and shorter.
My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will. . .
The heat of the blue-white plasma overhead could be felt through the thin titanium plating dividing his head from certain death. The platoon of Grunts had been joined now by a unit of their towering leaders, the cunning warrior race so feared by his brothers in arms. Waves of plasma streamed toward their entrenched position, cutting down several men in a spray of blood as they desperately attempted returned fire. Their ends emblazoned him into new heights of malice. He felt no rage toward his enemy, only the cold, calculating will to end their lives. He leveled his rifle, the instrument of death granted to him, and him alone, and pulled the trigger.
My rifle and myself know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit. . .
Lead projectiles spattered from its shielding, restricting its movement but harming it no more than the smoke drifting across the field. The being charged, sprinting rapidly down the slope as it unleashed a hellish stream of fire. He could feel the skin redden and blister, but he held his weapon tight and fired another burst at the advancing target. Few men realized how powerful their rifles were in the face of such a fearless enemy, but it needed nothing more than a dedicated and disciplined man behind it to kill.
My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes and my heart against damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will. . .
The ammunition counter fell to "00." He ducked behind the clay entrenchment and raced to jam another clip into the receiver. The shadow of the creature loomed over him, at long last bringing his desperate need for survival to the surface. "No," he mouthed, "Please, no. . . don't let this happen. Not now. . ." Finally, he felt his hand bring back the bolt, the dear choreographed motion embedded in his unconscious mind, so loading another round into the receiver. He silently thanked fate for his profound fortune, and, with tears streaming down his face, twisted to level his weapon at his foe. Pulling the trigger, he felt each thunderous blast as the rounds exited the barrel. Finally, the protective bubble surrounding the Elite failed, exposing the warrior to the only instrument that could spell its end.
Before God, I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of Humanity. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.
|
