[B][U]The War is Over. Go Home[/B][/U]
[B]May 21st, 1968[/B]
Lawrence ran. He’d been running for over 20 minutes, trying to shut out the words inside his head.
“The war is over. Go home. Go home. Go home...”
The news had arrived that morning to the shock of everyone at RED. The news had been delivered by the Administrator via telescreen in her usual blunt manner.
“The war is over. Go home.”
6 words. 6 words that had hit harder than any long winded speech could have done. Only seconds after the screen had shut off Lawrence ran, with only a lacklustre attempt by Albert to stop him. Go home... he had no home. 2Fort was.. had been... his home, just like fighting and killing had been his life. And now... He kept running, fighting back the urge to collapse onto the baked soil and scream obscenities to the sky until his throat was raw.
He’d left everything. His cherished Bonk! Helmet he'd gotten on his birthday, the scatter gun that’d saved his ass a thousand times over... everything,everything apart from the dented aluminium bat he’d been given on his very first day on the job.
[B]Club Beta, Boston, Massachusetts, 2 years later...[/B]
“’nother shot...” murmured Lawrence, pushing his shot glass over in the vague direction of the bartender, a dirty $5 bill clasped in the same hand. Silently the man behind the bar poured out another shot of cheap whisky, taking the crumpled bill and putting it in the till. Lawrence took the shot, eyes watering slightly as the foul burning liquid drained down his throat, shaking his head rapidly as it hit his stomach. His head rested in his right palm, eyes glazed over, thinking back to earlier that day. He’d won another gold medal at some track event, beaten the competition by a clear second, and had once again been selected for and passed a ‘random’ doping test. Lawrence had long since stopped caring how many gold medals and trophies he’d won; it didn’t matter to him if he had 10 or 10,000, none had been difficult to win. He never felt the same adrenaline rush as he had when he’d run for his life when 2 bullet spewing heavies had turned the corner, or when he’d ran past 2 level 3 sentries, or... He sighed. It didn’t matter now. Not much matter- He whipped around suddenly at the sound of a glass smashing somewhere behind him, two men starting to throw punches at one another. Before anyone could stop the pair Lawrence bounded from his seat, throwing himself into he fray as he always did when a fight broke out.
“Take this ya dumb knucklehead, and this, and this!” he yelled, his pulse starting to pound as he laid punch after punch into the larger of the two men, who towered a clear foot over Lawrence. Before he could do more however, a pair of arms got behind his own, dragging him away.
“This ain’t your fight kid!” yelled the man keeping a firm grip on him, his accent a thick, gruff Texan. He dragged Lawrence to the door, who could only struggle angrily as he watched the two brawlers, now separated, yelling unintelligibly at one another. Seconds later Lawrence found himself on the street, rain hammering down as the man who had thrown him out slammed the door shut.
“Let me fight them you bastard! LET ME FIGHT!” roared Lawrence, already half soaked, running back and ripping open the door. He was met with a left hook to the side of his face, knocking him for six; the bouncer had evidently anticipated his move. Hoisting him back up, he threw Lawrence out again, this time standing in the doorway, watching him stagger back up to his feet, hand clutching the right side of his face.
“Alright I’m going, stupid fucking c***...” Lawrence muttered, walking off into the enveloping darkness, the feeling of complete hopelessness never having felt stronger.
*****
[B]May 21st, 1968[/B]
Charles couldn’t believe his ears as he listened to the news. He removed his mask slowly, barely registering the opening and slamming down the respawn door as he turned to the rest of his team, the silence deafening. The silence hung in the air for a few moments before he spoke.
“Is this... a very bad joke?” he said slowly, his rich English accent thin and cultivated, turning from one member of the team to the other. He was met with stares of disbelief before Albert responded.
“Zie wavelength of zie message... the coding frequency... all correct” muttered the doctor, his expression blank, still disbelieving. “This was not a fake. The war... it must be over.”
The group lapsed back into silence. Charles looked down to his right hand, his fingers laced tightly around his trusty flare gun, suddenly noticing how tight his grip around it has become. He lifted his head up again.
“Guess we’d all better start packing...” he muttered, turning slowly and heading off to his quarters, his mind suddenly buzzing with innumerable questions.
[B]Davenport Mansion, Surrey, United Kingdom, 2 years later...[/B]
Charles looked out of the window into the dreary autumn sky, his face filled with a deep sadness. At forty five, he looked seventy, his hair prematurely grey and thinning, his face filled with lines and wrinkles formed from 2 years worth of frustration and sadness. Nothing had gone right since he had returned nearly 2 years ago to this day.
He had intended to surprise his wife when he returned- instead, she had surprised him, as he found her sleeping in his bed with another man. He had thrown her out and, despite her pleas, had filed for divorce, a supposedly simple process that eventually became extremely mucky and had all but drained his bank account as he fought to keep his ancestral home. Most of his remaining funds had gone to financing his only sister’s drug treatment, who had contacted him two months ago, begging for support as she lay dying, unable to afford the medication that could cure her of her leukaemia. He rubbed his tired grey eyes; he had just returned from her funeral. The drugs he had paid for had only served to extend her wretched existence for another 6 weeks. It was all gone. His parents who had died whilst he was away, his wife, his money, and now his only sibling. Childless, and after being separated from his only 8 friends, what was there to live for now? He paused, his eyes suddenly turning to a locked cupboard in his sitting room. No. No... There was one more thing left to live for. And Charles Richard Davenport would be damned if anyone took this away from him. He opened the grandfather clock next to the cupboard, reaching for an old rusted key sitting at the bottom of it.
Charles’ eyes were alight for the first time in 2 years. All around him his house burned, the shag carpet burning fiercely, his antique chairs reduced to cinders. Despite being clad in constricting asbestos and an optical gas mask, Charles had never felt freer, his trusty flamethrower clasped in his trembling hands. His old flare gun and barbed axe were clipped onto the suit's belt, the old brigade helmet he’d worn all the time back in 2Fort perched ironically on his head. The adrenaline coursing through his veins, Charles couldn’t help himself. He hoisted the flamethrower over his head, roaring with maniacal laughter as the world burned around him.
To be continued.
I think I overestimated FP's ability to join the dots.
What dots are their to join? I can't really see any, only an interesting story.
:aaa:
hellava good read, keep it up.
Yeah, I especially like the Pyro story. You should really make at least one of the guy's stories not depressing.
Like the Sniper's or Spy's.
Congrats, great story.
[QUOTE=SkinkYEA;21469595]Yeah, I especially like the Pyro story. You should really make at least one of the guy's stories not depressing.
Like the Sniper's or Spy's.[/QUOTE]
That is the plan I had. Few bad stories, few neutral ones, one or two decent. Watch this space.
Thank you for making the Pyro an older british man. Someone needs to break from the sea of bland failure that is most Pyro-personality depictions.
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