Gothmog
02-19-2004, 08:42 PM
It was an overcast day on ghost town. Abandoned buldings line a central street. At the far end a reinforced bunker lays down a hail of paint like a vertical sea with slots in it. Taking it head on is suicide, so I flank. I sprint from building to ruined building with my Phantom VSC, barely surviving each dash, feeling the paint spatter my feet and thunder off the plywood walls behind me. As I dive around the last gritty corner, skidding on my side, I see a black belching barrel tracking my slide from inside the impenetrable bunker.
Time slows down.
I am surprised as my phantom rises on its own accord, seeming to take control of my arm, and fires its single shot through the center of the six inch firing slit. Then came the most pitiful noise I have ever heard in my life. The player was so surprised at the hit that all he could do was give a little squeaky yelp and stagger off the field. I was chuckling so much behind my mask I could barely run up and surrender the remaining players in the bunker.
A true story.
Time slows down.
I am surprised as my phantom rises on its own accord, seeming to take control of my arm, and fires its single shot through the center of the six inch firing slit. Then came the most pitiful noise I have ever heard in my life. The player was so surprised at the hit that all he could do was give a little squeaky yelp and stagger off the field. I was chuckling so much behind my mask I could barely run up and surrender the remaining players in the bunker.
A true story.