Here is a teaser of the story "Traders Tales". It is set in the world of 'Twilight War: After the fall' created by Kingsley Montgomery and taken on by Smiling Gator Productions and General Computers to be put into production as an MMO game with FPS elements. This excerpt follows Calvin Lavadro and his loosely associated band of travellers as they fight to survive in the post apocalyptic world of the future.
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Trader’s Tales
Part 1 -
“Rats!”
“What’s in it?”
“Ruddy sand rats. . . Whole nest of ‘em”
Dull orange stretched from horizon to horizon, shimmering in the blistering heat of the afternoon sun, as that dun coloured orange sphere sank lower and lower in the grey dome of the sky. Even now, as the day drew to an end, the sands still burned red hot, the air was dry and uncomfortable and in the midst of this, a small group of khaki clad travellers were clustered about a hunk of twisted metal – an island of dull grey in a sea of dead sands.
“Bag a few o’ the buggers Clav, and then lets git ‘” The speaker was a towering figure, with a harsh voice, and even harsher features, though they were well hidden behind the face mask of an experienced desert traveller. He, like all the others, was wearing brown and white robes, belted at the waist. Their heads and faces were wrapped in white cloth, and they all wore thick black goggles, to protect them from the sun and sand – two things that would surely kill a man, or anything else for that matter, out here.
The man he addressed as ‘Clav’ was crouched low, leaning through a gaping hole in the side of the wreck – which looked as if it might have been a small aircraft at some point, though now it wasn’t even good as scrap. A few parts might bring some small change at the next Silic city they came across, but the metal was rusted and worn down to worthlessness by the swirling sands of the desert wastes - sands that could strip a man’s flesh from the very bone.
He quickly drew a knife from a holster at his waist in a smooth, fluid motion. The metal caught the light briefly, before disappearing into the darkness inside the twisted scrap heap. There was a high pitched squealing, and then Clav thrust his shoulder forward, twisting his arm at the elbow. Silence followed, as he reached inside with both hands. Clav came up holding the bloodied corpse of a huge desert rat, which was about the same size as your average dog. Blood ran slowly through the matted fur from a gash in its side, dripping onto the scorched earth and landing with a distinct hiss as it evaporated on the burning sands, leaving dark, dried red stains. It wasn’t getting much cooler, but then out here night was as bad as the day.
“Alright lads, lets saddle up ‘n’ be off, I don’t fancy hangin’ around – much as I like icicles I don’t fancy bein’ one.” Clav chuckled, cleaning his knife on an already bloodied rag and handing the rat to another of his companions.
The four robed figures turned to walk away from the wreck, muttering to each other. As they reached the top of the nearest sand dune, they started down towards a dry, dirt track and a rickety looking armoured truck, to join the fifth and final member of their group - who leant against the side of the battered old vehicle, cradling what appeared to be a large rifle in the crook of his arm, with the ease and comfort of an experienced soldier.
“She’s already running Clav!” He called up to them in a voice almost as gravelly as the small giant’s, “Get your heads on! We need to be off – soon.”
Clav and the others quickened their pace, almost jogging down the sandy slope. He climbed into the front passenger seat, as the other traveller hoisted himself up behind the steering wheel and the rest piled into the back. The doors slammed shut, and the driver’s foot went down, flooring the accelerator. The engine roared in response, and the truck jolted forward at a speed belying its rickety appearance.
Clav was about to make one of his overly sarcastic remarks, when he noticed that everyone was silent. The usual banter that rivalled the dull roar of the truck’s engine was absent, and his companions were staring out of the back window – concern clearly evident in their expressions.
Turning in his seat, Clav saw what had the others so concerned. The setting sun was blotted out by a huge, swirling cloud. At first glance, in the growing dark, you might have been forgiven for mistaking it for bad weather. Then again, out here in the desert there were no clouds, and no bad weather. No, out here bad weather was worse than bad, it was lethal.
The dark cloud that followed them was the front end of an unusually large sandstorm, the kind that spelled death for man, mutant and beast alike. The huge storm kicked up sand, rocks, wreckage, the sparse vegetation and people alike, creating a swirling vortex of death and destruction that would strip flesh from bones, tear down walls and toss vehicles around like toys.
“Don’t just stare at it Marv! Put your bloody foot down! Let’s get the hell out of here!” Clav yelled to the man next to him, behind the wheel.
Marv glared harshly at Clav, casting daggers with his eyes, “What the frag else do you want me to do? This damned junk pile won’t go any faster!” Marv yelled his reply as the battered looking truck hurtled across the dull orange sands.
Clav frowned harshly, his brows furrowing as he turned once again to check on the towering wall of wind blown death and destruction that followed them from an all too small distance.
“Just get us back to that Silic outpost Marv, you might not like it but it’s the only choice we got.” Clav told his old friend, calming down slightly.
The sandstorm didn’t seem to be gaining on them - in fact they seemed to be moving slightly faster, but there was no way they could keep running forever. They had to find shelter, and the republic’s closest border station was the only settlement for miles around. It might be small, military, uncomfortable and all too clean for Clav’s taste, but it was better than death out here. Clav had never had his flesh stripped from his bones, and certainly didn’t plan on indulging himself in that particular pastime. Ever.
Marv would just have to grin and bear it. So what if he was a Silic traitor who abandoned the republic for personal gain? Clav didn’t see any problem in looking out for yourself, and couldn’t see why those bloody tech nutters should either. A man had to survive these days, and to do that you’d always end up stepping on some toes along the way.
Marv grunted and muttered something under his breath, keeping his eyes on the dirt track ahead, and the small black outline on the horizon that was the republic outpost OP.217B. Clav always wondered why the Silics couldn’t give their settlements proper names. He imagined that one of the prerequisites of being a republic officer was to have your personality surgically removed. Still, he didn’t dislike the Silics. As stiff and boring as they were, they did good business and paid well, and in Clav’s trade that was all that mattered.
Part 2 -
It was a price he'd promised himself he'd pay one day, but it most certainly wasn't going to be today. No way would he hang like a common criminal, swaying beneath the gallows with the guttersnipe filth, the thieves and murderers. To execute a criminal was one thing - to execute a good man was another. He'd left the republic years back once he realized he was in a dead end job. It was almost amusing - dead end job, at least that’s how he saw it. As a republic sniper he was expected to conceal himself in the wilderness for days without food and water, waiting for his target of opportunity, left alone and unsupported so that the officious bureaucrats in their tall chairs and comfortable offices could tick off names from their list of enemies, and occasionally their own men. He knew he'd die doing it, or grow old and achieve nothing with his life. He wanted to make something of himself, and make some fragging money whilst he was at it.
The republic doctrine pumped young children full of duty, honour, pride and an overwhelming commitment to the state, but as he'd grown and watched his friends shot, stabbed, blown up, eaten - killed in any number of terrible ways - he knew there had to be a better life waiting for him. How the frag he ended up with Calvin Lavadro, Marv still wasn't quite sure.
Since they had arrived back at the outpost at the head of the storm Clav - that slippery git - had talked his way past the checkpoints and into the general accommodation, and passed off Marv's resemblance to a certain wanted man as purely coincidental. Today his story was that the tall, thin, heavily scarred and battle hardened man at the wheel of his crawler went a little like this: 'Oh him? A silic? - No offence of course, but are you joking? The man's a Jeff through and through, wouldn't know a light bulb if he saw it, unless he'd been paid to kill it. Nope, of course we don't have ID sergeant, I'm a free trader and these are my associates. . .'
It went on, and on. Clav could talk his way out from the wrong end of any rifle and into any woman’s bedroom. He was the single most annoying person the soldier had ever met, but Marv sure as hell was grateful for his company. Associates he'd called them, more like paid family. Marv and the others had an odd relationship with Clav. In essence they were his hirelings, mercenaries, employee's and general dogsbodies, but at the same time every one of them would give their life for the other - even if they wouldn't admit it. A strange kind of bond kept them together, and as much as Marv thought about it he couldn't quite place it. Emotion wasn't Marv's strongpoint, though anger and rage were more or less right in his back yard, but nonetheless, there was something more than money and definitely something greater that camaraderie that bound them. They were family, he supposed, and always would be. Marv had found his place in the world, and working as a mechanic, killer and driver for the silver tongued little thief of a trader was it. It paid well, didn't often require much work and he got to kill things on a regular basis. Marv was one of those people - should 'person' apply to him, who was only happy up to the elbows in grease, buried in an engine, or up to the waist in blood, wading in it more like.
Marv looked around his room from his chair, his deep blue eyes taking in the scene. The place was small, sparsely and badly furnished and as military as military could be. A single bunk stood at the opposite side of the room with a tall metal locker at the foot. Two chairs, one in which he sat, were opposite - barely a metre away. There was a table between them, as small as practicality would allow and as mass produced as anything else in the room. Tall doors lined the small wall behind him, opening up to reveal a surprisingly spacious cupboard and wardrobe. Clav however, was missing.
He'd been gone for some time, and the others were making themselves at home for the night in neighbouring rooms, but Marv had been waiting for Clav for hours. Apparently, word was that he'd been summoned to see the station commander to be offered a job. Naturally, you couldn't refuse such offers. The money wasn't that good, though it wasn't bad, but there was always some weighting factor - whether it was impending execution, or the suspension of a trading licence, neither were really much of an alternative to doing the dirty work the republic wouldn't do itself.
God dammit, he hated them.
Part 3 -
The sun was low in the sky, rising slowly as it began to peek over the edge of the walls of the Silic outpost, casting long shadows over the desert. In one corner of the massive compound two figures stood, their faces briefly illuminated by the light of their smokes. They were leaning against the grey plascrete walls, one with his legs crossed, the other with his heel resting casually on the wall.
"What the frag is Clav up to? He's been gone all night, what the hell is he getting us into this time" The first muttered, pausing between sentences to chew on the thick cigar he was rolling around in his jaw.
"Don't ask me Marv, how the hell should I know? I mean It's not like we've not been through stuff like this before is it? Relax mate, I reckon Clav's got it sorted - no worries." The second replied, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to blow a cloud of smoke out into the cold dawn air.
"Bill, you know as well as I do that the Republic isn't to be trusted - so stop telling me to relax. I'll fragging relax when we're out of here. Full stop."
"Sheesh, bite my nose off why don't you captain hookbeak."
"Call me that again and you'll loose a finger, dopebrain."
Bill Simply laughed in reply, a broad grin spreading across his narrow features in the dim light. Marv smiled briefly, before returning his attention to his cigar, chewing some more and puffing out smoke rings into the still morning air.
William 'Wild Bill' Dallas was another of Calvin Lavadro's associates, once more with his own particular place in their little 'family'. Bill was similar in stature to Marv, if just a little shorter, but much thinner. His nose was small and sharp and he almost seemed to be grinning constantly. In actual fact he looked similar to a weasel, having the same cunning eyes - eyes that showed some sign of great untapped intellect.
Lank, greasy black hair framed his face, falling down to his neck with all the grace of wet sawgrass. Looks were one thing that was most certainly not part of Bill's vast repertoire of talents, though he never seemed to care. In fact he seemed to take delight in his unkempt appearance, adding that it helped him blend in to the crowds. After all, who takes notice of a drugged up vagrant? Not many people apparently, and even if they did it seemed it was only to cast a sneer in his direction - and that only ever seemed to happen in Silic and Samuran settlements. Not surprising when you consider that most everywhere else was slums and shanty towns nowadays, after the fall of man and the rise of anarchy.
Still, the man was, by all accounts, a genius. However, he was a Vagan, and any Vagans with more than half a brain were either gamblers, chemists or drug addicts. Bill was all three. His own contribution to the trader's little clique was far ranging, but in essence, it was his sharp ears and eyes and his nimble fingers that set him apart. Bill was able to blend into most crowds, and thusly able to quietly assimilate a lot of local information, disguising his face with the glazed look of the eternal addict. Most often that was acting, but sometimes it was down to the man's wicked concoctions. He could pick locks, see for miles, brew poisons and antidotes, distil fuel for the crawler, even perform major surgery cleanly and efficiently - not your average Vagan by half. Unfortunately he spent much of his time stoned up the eyeballs, swearing that each time he was he'd killed a few more brain cells. Perhaps, but it didn't seem to have much effect on his vast intellect - once he was clean and sober.
He liked to joke too, trying on an awful attempt at humour on most every opportunity that arose. Only he seemed to laugh, but occasionally he hit the mark and the others collapsed into laughter - save of course for Marv and Kira. The two of them were almost incapable of expressing emotion, but at least Marv smiled once in a while. Kira on the other hand mostly just threatened to kill him in his sleep. Oh well, you can't please all of the people all of the time Bill supposed. He remembered hearing the saying somewhere, though it was somewhat longer, but nonetheless he truly appreciated its meaning - even if no one appreciated his sense of humour, except for Clav maybe.
Bill flicked away the burnt out remains of his cigarette then deftly lit another. The butt bounced and rolled underneath a nearby jeep, disappearing from sight.
"You know Bill, eventually someone's going to move that thing and they'll not miss your little cigarette graveyard."
"So what? We'll be long gone by then, after all. . . - Hey! Isn't that Clav coming out of that door over there with Kira and Thor?"
Part 1 -
“Rats!”
“What’s in it?”
“Ruddy sand rats. . . Whole nest of ‘em”
Dull orange stretched from horizon to horizon, shimmering in the blistering heat of the afternoon sun, as that dun coloured orange sphere sank lower and lower in the grey dome of the sky. Even now, as the day drew to an end, the sands still burned red hot, the air was dry and uncomfortable and in the midst of this, a small group of khaki clad travellers were clustered about a hunk of twisted metal – an island of dull grey in a sea of dead sands.
“Bag a few o’ the buggers Clav, and then lets git ‘” The speaker was a towering figure, with a harsh voice, and even harsher features, though they were well hidden behind the face mask of an experienced desert traveller. He, like all the others, was wearing brown and white robes, belted at the waist. Their heads and faces were wrapped in white cloth, and they all wore thick black goggles, to protect them from the sun and sand – two things that would surely kill a man, or anything else for that matter, out here.
The man he addressed as ‘Clav’ was crouched low, leaning through a gaping hole in the side of the wreck – which looked as if it might have been a small aircraft at some point, though now it wasn’t even good as scrap. A few parts might bring some small change at the next Silic city they came across, but the metal was rusted and worn down to worthlessness by the swirling sands of the desert wastes - sands that could strip a man’s flesh from the very bone.
He quickly drew a knife from a holster at his waist in a smooth, fluid motion. The metal caught the light briefly, before disappearing into the darkness inside the twisted scrap heap. There was a high pitched squealing, and then Clav thrust his shoulder forward, twisting his arm at the elbow. Silence followed, as he reached inside with both hands. Clav came up holding the bloodied corpse of a huge desert rat, which was about the same size as your average dog. Blood ran slowly through the matted fur from a gash in its side, dripping onto the scorched earth and landing with a distinct hiss as it evaporated on the burning sands, leaving dark, dried red stains. It wasn’t getting much cooler, but then out here night was as bad as the day.
“Alright lads, lets saddle up ‘n’ be off, I don’t fancy hangin’ around – much as I like icicles I don’t fancy bein’ one.” Clav chuckled, cleaning his knife on an already bloodied rag and handing the rat to another of his companions.
The four robed figures turned to walk away from the wreck, muttering to each other. As they reached the top of the nearest sand dune, they started down towards a dry, dirt track and a rickety looking armoured truck, to join the fifth and final member of their group - who leant against the side of the battered old vehicle, cradling what appeared to be a large rifle in the crook of his arm, with the ease and comfort of an experienced soldier.
“She’s already running Clav!” He called up to them in a voice almost as gravelly as the small giant’s, “Get your heads on! We need to be off – soon.”
Clav and the others quickened their pace, almost jogging down the sandy slope. He climbed into the front passenger seat, as the other traveller hoisted himself up behind the steering wheel and the rest piled into the back. The doors slammed shut, and the driver’s foot went down, flooring the accelerator. The engine roared in response, and the truck jolted forward at a speed belying its rickety appearance.
Clav was about to make one of his overly sarcastic remarks, when he noticed that everyone was silent. The usual banter that rivalled the dull roar of the truck’s engine was absent, and his companions were staring out of the back window – concern clearly evident in their expressions.
Turning in his seat, Clav saw what had the others so concerned. The setting sun was blotted out by a huge, swirling cloud. At first glance, in the growing dark, you might have been forgiven for mistaking it for bad weather. Then again, out here in the desert there were no clouds, and no bad weather. No, out here bad weather was worse than bad, it was lethal.
The dark cloud that followed them was the front end of an unusually large sandstorm, the kind that spelled death for man, mutant and beast alike. The huge storm kicked up sand, rocks, wreckage, the sparse vegetation and people alike, creating a swirling vortex of death and destruction that would strip flesh from bones, tear down walls and toss vehicles around like toys.
“Don’t just stare at it Marv! Put your bloody foot down! Let’s get the hell out of here!” Clav yelled to the man next to him, behind the wheel.
Marv glared harshly at Clav, casting daggers with his eyes, “What the frag else do you want me to do? This damned junk pile won’t go any faster!” Marv yelled his reply as the battered looking truck hurtled across the dull orange sands.
Clav frowned harshly, his brows furrowing as he turned once again to check on the towering wall of wind blown death and destruction that followed them from an all too small distance.
“Just get us back to that Silic outpost Marv, you might not like it but it’s the only choice we got.” Clav told his old friend, calming down slightly.
The sandstorm didn’t seem to be gaining on them - in fact they seemed to be moving slightly faster, but there was no way they could keep running forever. They had to find shelter, and the republic’s closest border station was the only settlement for miles around. It might be small, military, uncomfortable and all too clean for Clav’s taste, but it was better than death out here. Clav had never had his flesh stripped from his bones, and certainly didn’t plan on indulging himself in that particular pastime. Ever.
Marv would just have to grin and bear it. So what if he was a Silic traitor who abandoned the republic for personal gain? Clav didn’t see any problem in looking out for yourself, and couldn’t see why those bloody tech nutters should either. A man had to survive these days, and to do that you’d always end up stepping on some toes along the way.
Marv grunted and muttered something under his breath, keeping his eyes on the dirt track ahead, and the small black outline on the horizon that was the republic outpost OP.217B. Clav always wondered why the Silics couldn’t give their settlements proper names. He imagined that one of the prerequisites of being a republic officer was to have your personality surgically removed. Still, he didn’t dislike the Silics. As stiff and boring as they were, they did good business and paid well, and in Clav’s trade that was all that mattered.
Part 2 -
It was a price he'd promised himself he'd pay one day, but it most certainly wasn't going to be today. No way would he hang like a common criminal, swaying beneath the gallows with the guttersnipe filth, the thieves and murderers. To execute a criminal was one thing - to execute a good man was another. He'd left the republic years back once he realized he was in a dead end job. It was almost amusing - dead end job, at least that’s how he saw it. As a republic sniper he was expected to conceal himself in the wilderness for days without food and water, waiting for his target of opportunity, left alone and unsupported so that the officious bureaucrats in their tall chairs and comfortable offices could tick off names from their list of enemies, and occasionally their own men. He knew he'd die doing it, or grow old and achieve nothing with his life. He wanted to make something of himself, and make some fragging money whilst he was at it.
The republic doctrine pumped young children full of duty, honour, pride and an overwhelming commitment to the state, but as he'd grown and watched his friends shot, stabbed, blown up, eaten - killed in any number of terrible ways - he knew there had to be a better life waiting for him. How the frag he ended up with Calvin Lavadro, Marv still wasn't quite sure.
Since they had arrived back at the outpost at the head of the storm Clav - that slippery git - had talked his way past the checkpoints and into the general accommodation, and passed off Marv's resemblance to a certain wanted man as purely coincidental. Today his story was that the tall, thin, heavily scarred and battle hardened man at the wheel of his crawler went a little like this: 'Oh him? A silic? - No offence of course, but are you joking? The man's a Jeff through and through, wouldn't know a light bulb if he saw it, unless he'd been paid to kill it. Nope, of course we don't have ID sergeant, I'm a free trader and these are my associates. . .'
It went on, and on. Clav could talk his way out from the wrong end of any rifle and into any woman’s bedroom. He was the single most annoying person the soldier had ever met, but Marv sure as hell was grateful for his company. Associates he'd called them, more like paid family. Marv and the others had an odd relationship with Clav. In essence they were his hirelings, mercenaries, employee's and general dogsbodies, but at the same time every one of them would give their life for the other - even if they wouldn't admit it. A strange kind of bond kept them together, and as much as Marv thought about it he couldn't quite place it. Emotion wasn't Marv's strongpoint, though anger and rage were more or less right in his back yard, but nonetheless, there was something more than money and definitely something greater that camaraderie that bound them. They were family, he supposed, and always would be. Marv had found his place in the world, and working as a mechanic, killer and driver for the silver tongued little thief of a trader was it. It paid well, didn't often require much work and he got to kill things on a regular basis. Marv was one of those people - should 'person' apply to him, who was only happy up to the elbows in grease, buried in an engine, or up to the waist in blood, wading in it more like.
Marv looked around his room from his chair, his deep blue eyes taking in the scene. The place was small, sparsely and badly furnished and as military as military could be. A single bunk stood at the opposite side of the room with a tall metal locker at the foot. Two chairs, one in which he sat, were opposite - barely a metre away. There was a table between them, as small as practicality would allow and as mass produced as anything else in the room. Tall doors lined the small wall behind him, opening up to reveal a surprisingly spacious cupboard and wardrobe. Clav however, was missing.
He'd been gone for some time, and the others were making themselves at home for the night in neighbouring rooms, but Marv had been waiting for Clav for hours. Apparently, word was that he'd been summoned to see the station commander to be offered a job. Naturally, you couldn't refuse such offers. The money wasn't that good, though it wasn't bad, but there was always some weighting factor - whether it was impending execution, or the suspension of a trading licence, neither were really much of an alternative to doing the dirty work the republic wouldn't do itself.
God dammit, he hated them.
Part 3 -
The sun was low in the sky, rising slowly as it began to peek over the edge of the walls of the Silic outpost, casting long shadows over the desert. In one corner of the massive compound two figures stood, their faces briefly illuminated by the light of their smokes. They were leaning against the grey plascrete walls, one with his legs crossed, the other with his heel resting casually on the wall.
"What the frag is Clav up to? He's been gone all night, what the hell is he getting us into this time" The first muttered, pausing between sentences to chew on the thick cigar he was rolling around in his jaw.
"Don't ask me Marv, how the hell should I know? I mean It's not like we've not been through stuff like this before is it? Relax mate, I reckon Clav's got it sorted - no worries." The second replied, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to blow a cloud of smoke out into the cold dawn air.
"Bill, you know as well as I do that the Republic isn't to be trusted - so stop telling me to relax. I'll fragging relax when we're out of here. Full stop."
"Sheesh, bite my nose off why don't you captain hookbeak."
"Call me that again and you'll loose a finger, dopebrain."
Bill Simply laughed in reply, a broad grin spreading across his narrow features in the dim light. Marv smiled briefly, before returning his attention to his cigar, chewing some more and puffing out smoke rings into the still morning air.
William 'Wild Bill' Dallas was another of Calvin Lavadro's associates, once more with his own particular place in their little 'family'. Bill was similar in stature to Marv, if just a little shorter, but much thinner. His nose was small and sharp and he almost seemed to be grinning constantly. In actual fact he looked similar to a weasel, having the same cunning eyes - eyes that showed some sign of great untapped intellect.
Lank, greasy black hair framed his face, falling down to his neck with all the grace of wet sawgrass. Looks were one thing that was most certainly not part of Bill's vast repertoire of talents, though he never seemed to care. In fact he seemed to take delight in his unkempt appearance, adding that it helped him blend in to the crowds. After all, who takes notice of a drugged up vagrant? Not many people apparently, and even if they did it seemed it was only to cast a sneer in his direction - and that only ever seemed to happen in Silic and Samuran settlements. Not surprising when you consider that most everywhere else was slums and shanty towns nowadays, after the fall of man and the rise of anarchy.
Still, the man was, by all accounts, a genius. However, he was a Vagan, and any Vagans with more than half a brain were either gamblers, chemists or drug addicts. Bill was all three. His own contribution to the trader's little clique was far ranging, but in essence, it was his sharp ears and eyes and his nimble fingers that set him apart. Bill was able to blend into most crowds, and thusly able to quietly assimilate a lot of local information, disguising his face with the glazed look of the eternal addict. Most often that was acting, but sometimes it was down to the man's wicked concoctions. He could pick locks, see for miles, brew poisons and antidotes, distil fuel for the crawler, even perform major surgery cleanly and efficiently - not your average Vagan by half. Unfortunately he spent much of his time stoned up the eyeballs, swearing that each time he was he'd killed a few more brain cells. Perhaps, but it didn't seem to have much effect on his vast intellect - once he was clean and sober.
He liked to joke too, trying on an awful attempt at humour on most every opportunity that arose. Only he seemed to laugh, but occasionally he hit the mark and the others collapsed into laughter - save of course for Marv and Kira. The two of them were almost incapable of expressing emotion, but at least Marv smiled once in a while. Kira on the other hand mostly just threatened to kill him in his sleep. Oh well, you can't please all of the people all of the time Bill supposed. He remembered hearing the saying somewhere, though it was somewhat longer, but nonetheless he truly appreciated its meaning - even if no one appreciated his sense of humour, except for Clav maybe.
Bill flicked away the burnt out remains of his cigarette then deftly lit another. The butt bounced and rolled underneath a nearby jeep, disappearing from sight.
"You know Bill, eventually someone's going to move that thing and they'll not miss your little cigarette graveyard."
"So what? We'll be long gone by then, after all. . . - Hey! Isn't that Clav coming out of that door over there with Kira and Thor?"
-----------------------------------------
There's more to this fan fiction, but as my faith in Twilight War dwindles so does my enthusiasm for the story. Even though I've already become fairly attached to Marv and 'Wild' Bill already, writing them into the world of TW only seems to remind me that the game and concept has been butchered by a company non too concerned with its fans and followers.
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