losthellhound

Been working on this one for awhile.. I wanted to get the right mood, with the music and the background radio chatter.. Not sure if Ive made it there yet though

On Angels' Wings - Prologue

The beginning strains of music drifted slowly and calmly, enveloping the small space around him, and he closed his eyes. A small sly smile drifted across his face. The opening bars were low, melodic, and from a long forgotten instrument called a piano.

Second line secured, code is orange, lines are good to go in 5

The second movement started with a heavy rush of notes, and the smile disappeared. The piano became a monster, pouring forth with a thousand cries of anger and rage. Yet, the counterpoint could be heard, dancing above all. He ran a gloved hand through his short cropped hair and waited, drinking in the music.

Second line penetrated, all codes are red, lines are good to go in 2, 1...

He was pushed violently backwards as he rushed forwards through the darkness. The music stayed with him though, steady and pounding. Around him he saw nothing, then a burst of light, and again, nothing. A bank of lights on wither side flared to life, and his hands went involuntarily to controls in front of him. The music flared for a moment at its peak as he was pushed forth into freedom, and hell.

Rho wing launched, all codes are red. Second line has failed, inner defences activated. Wing commanders collect and organize sorties in green sector.

With steady movements he deftly moved his craft into formation and looked at a screen in front of him that flashed with a thousand angry red dots, steady green lines and calculations that appeared and disappeared. Seconds later he had the information he needed, and made the decision. Reaching over he flicked a small switch with his thumb and waited for silence on the line.

"Rho wing, this is Lt. Marcus. To me. Form up in green two alpha and prepare for run. Mark hostile Ion frigate in blue four delta as target and light her up."

He waited for silence; there would be no discussion, no arguments. With a glance over his shoulder he could see four fighters form up around him. The craft were beautiful, and deadly. Almost twenty feet long, five feet across, and sleek as knives. The music flared once more and drifted off, leaving the counterpoint. Pushing the controls forward, his craft banked and he swung around to settle into an attack run. All around him ships of various size twisted and fought. Searing blasts of energy and explosions flashed by but he remained on course. Glancing at a screen to the left of him he took note of the target: a beast of a ship bristling with weapon ports.

“Rho wing, this is Lt. Marcus. Break formation, wait for lock confirmation and fire at will.”

The fighters veered off from formation in all directions and entered their own attack runs; Marcus was struck by the beauty and grace of the ships as they sped off.

All codes red, inner defences failing. Alpha, Beta, and Gamma wings regroup in blue sector. Activating final measures.

Marcus counted to five and mouthed a prayer he had heard as a child, and then pressed triggers on both the control rods in his hands. Two openings on his wings burst with plasma and he watched his shots arc across the emptiness of space towards the capital ship in front of him. From either side similar shots were being flung forward from his wingmen. The plasma struck the hull and burst into fireballs, ripping portions of the plating off the mammoth. A second later gun ports on the ship trained on the incoming fire and returned it in kind.

“Rho win, break, regroup, and bring her down.” Marcus spoke into the radio.

Pulling his craft into a steep climb relative to the enemy ship, Marcus evaded the plasma blasts aimed at his craft and rolled. He noticed the damage their last attack run had caused, the ship was listing to the port, and several internal explosions were evident near the gaping hole they had created. Marcus targeted the main engines and armed a torpedo. As he spun his craft around he finished the prayer.

“And may he cradle us who walk into the halls of God. And may he forgive us who tarnish the stars with blood and ash.”

With another press of the triggers the torpedo burst out of his craft, arcing with a long bright trail towards the enemy ship. He marvelled at the stunning beauty of it for a moment before it impacted against the engines, bursting into an explosion that hurt his eyes. When his vision cleared the once mighty warship was a twisted hulk of burning metal, a tin can split open by a giant’s hand.

“Amen.” He finished.

__________________
"Life is possible only with illusions. And so, the question for the science of mental health must become an absolutely new and revolutionary one, yet one that reflects the essence of the human condition: On what level of illusion does one live?"
-- Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death