[ Tseng is off the moment that Reno gives the signal, stalking soundlessly through the sand, crouched low. He's played hide-and-seek a few times with this crew since their high-impact arrival; this is the easy part. Getting all the gear in check before somebody notices? Now that might be an actual challenge.
He runs the line over one crate and around the next. A mortar is positioned like a flag on a sand castle, rising triumphant from the topmost crate. For good measure, he tucks a few sparklers into the nooks between each wooden slate of a box, then steps away, appraising his work.
Gorgeous, if he's allowed this moment of shameful egoism. Not that he remembers why egoism is shameful. All the better—he beams with unadulterated pride. And then he scurries away and tucks himself beneath one of the loading ramps, snapping his fingers to bring forth the energy for a big, roaring lash of Fire.
The crackers go off first, a few whimsical pop-pop-pops that call over a couple curious soldiers. Then come the rockets, shooting into the air. The mortars spew vivid flashes of color into the sky. Sparks and wheels of flame are sizzling and spinning in every direction. Dozens upon dozens of little green men are falling from the sky, drifting peacefully upon their pastel-colored parachutes.
He hears someone scream, "Fire!" and the ramp above him quakes with footsteps. A few men pass, not the ones he wants. He removes his knife from his boot and readies himself.
At the first flash of red, he strikes. His blade chews through a boot and the officer tumbles down, seething. By the time he starts kicking, Tseng has his helmet off and the point of his knife hovering a scant inch away from his eye. He whispers: ]
I'm okay. Just fell.
[ "Sir!" one of the soldiers is shouting. His hostage gets the message.
"I'm okay! Get a move on! Go go go!" And then to Tseng: "Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't call the whole cavalry over here to smoke your ass."
Tseng covers his mouth and tucks his arm under the soldier's neck until he stops moving. And then, ugh. This part. ]
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He runs the line over one crate and around the next. A mortar is positioned like a flag on a sand castle, rising triumphant from the topmost crate. For good measure, he tucks a few sparklers into the nooks between each wooden slate of a box, then steps away, appraising his work.
Gorgeous, if he's allowed this moment of shameful egoism. Not that he remembers why egoism is shameful. All the better—he beams with unadulterated pride. And then he scurries away and tucks himself beneath one of the loading ramps, snapping his fingers to bring forth the energy for a big, roaring lash of Fire.
The crackers go off first, a few whimsical pop-pop-pops that call over a couple curious soldiers. Then come the rockets, shooting into the air. The mortars spew vivid flashes of color into the sky. Sparks and wheels of flame are sizzling and spinning in every direction. Dozens upon dozens of little green men are falling from the sky, drifting peacefully upon their pastel-colored parachutes.
He hears someone scream, "Fire!" and the ramp above him quakes with footsteps. A few men pass, not the ones he wants. He removes his knife from his boot and readies himself.
At the first flash of red, he strikes. His blade chews through a boot and the officer tumbles down, seething. By the time he starts kicking, Tseng has his helmet off and the point of his knife hovering a scant inch away from his eye. He whispers: ]
I'm okay. Just fell.
[ "Sir!" one of the soldiers is shouting. His hostage gets the message.
"I'm okay! Get a move on! Go go go!" And then to Tseng: "Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't call the whole cavalry over here to smoke your ass."
Tseng covers his mouth and tucks his arm under the soldier's neck until he stops moving. And then, ugh. This part. ]