Sirrin City:
Chapter One
By: Devon Eisele
The shoddy automobile bounced and hiccupped through the well-trodden dirt road, its wheels only just gaining enough traction to keep it moving. The somber rain washed and poured through the gloomy country-side, covering everything in a slick shine that glimmered through the night. The headlights were off, even if the passengers wished the long busted bulbs to sparkle to life, it would endanger their assignment. Water dripped into the car through projectile holes and places where shrapnel from explosives and shells had ripped the car apart, rendering it very normal looking. The driver had complained when he had first laid his keen eyes on it, but he knew that a civilian wouldn’t be driving anything like what they had left in their garages, which consisted mainly of 21st century builds and some older tanks.
Not that the rebel engineers had done a bad job, the small and battered thing was reaching speeds in an excess of 110 miles per hour, but no one inside felt safe. It was hard to feel safe, anyway, in this area. As the car raced forward, shakily, one of the passengers’ hearts sunk.
“Push through their ranks!” a threatening voice thundered over the gunfire, “Cut the rebel swine down!” The man whose enraged voice boomed wore the “captain” SCMP suit. A black and seemingly slick uniform, covered with larger metal plates. The plates were welded to a flexible rubber that was the underbelly of the uniform and also shown through the cracks in the plates. Two tanks that fed gas through hoses clung to the back of the uniform, welded in place, and not expected to leave. His suit, which differed from the rest, as his was adorned with a dark red insignia that resembled a splatter, except more evil and symmetrical on his left shoulder. Obviously, he was of higher rank than the men in the back of his military unit, for they were all struck by fear in his presence, and kept their distance well. His face was obscured by a helmet that covered his entire head, and was connected to the back parts of his uniform by two thin, yet wide tubes that fell from the sides of his exaggerated facial helmet. He was a Sirrin City Military Police captain, and he had gained his position from being “brutal” in combat. Immediately, the Sirrin Command Center had put to work his fierce ruthlessness and efficiency on the ground. Around him, men adorned in the same type of uniforms held automatic assault rifles and fired them with frightening accuracy. They were skilled with their guns, and even with the heavy rain and mud, could check targets from up to 150 yards away. Each would yell out a number whenever an enemy he shot dropped. They were the SCSF, or the Sirrin City Special Forces.
A man in a less bulky suit ran from the back of the firing line, towards his captain, who was always leading the charge.
“Sir! SCC just gave us permission to use bunker charges! Should we blow’em, Sir?” The captain looked forward and fired seven rounds from his MP022 rifle into a doorway, and was rewarded with the dying scream of an obviously young rebel.
He used the same voice and yelled, “Pull back! We’re loading charges!” Immediately, in an almost perfect shift, every soldier had fallen back exactly 30 feet, and still held rank in the same firing positions as before. A man in light armor ran to a position a few feet behind the Captain, holding a thin tube with much wiring. The man pulled the cap from the tube, and dropped a cylinder the size of a thumb into the tube. He flipped the cap back down, and twisted. Immediately, he started linking the wires into his own suit, which seemed more advanced. Where the normal helmet was, a lighter, older design stood. It had an open face mask, and a small visor on the right side that could display information. The man looked up for a second, for someone had yelled
“Hurry up, techie”. He didn’t seem amused. He turned to his left lower arm, and delicately pressed a button.
A jet flew over head, and a light smile played across the Captain’s face, as he heard the unnerving explosion of a bunker charge lighting the rebel base they were assaulting, burning it into almost complete oblivion. The warm orange glow only lasted for a second before supports and a light breeze swayed much of what was left into the wind, erasing most trace of a resistance even acting there. The screams of the rebels died down, and he spent a couple of his rifle rounds into the air. He clicked a button on the side of his helmet, and ordered some rookie SCMP troops to finish off survivors and find Intel. The Captains radio clicked, as he fumbled with it. “SCC, Mission Accomplished. Base number 13 has been cleared. Their expected losses are sixty-two, we only lost fourteen…“

The boy was nervous. No, nervous wasn’t the word. The word was terrified. His heart beat in his head, his thoughts gave away easily, always leading to the same one;
“Who am I?” he was utterly lost. One minute, the sound of an explosion, the next yelling. He had crawled from the burnt wreckage of an old truck, filled with the bodies of other refugees who had tried to escape the wrath of the city. As his head poked out, he had heard an angry and gruff cry of a man yelling “Fire”. Bullets sprayed the area around him, and he darted inside with a quick gasp. Bullets rained through the upturned truck, lodging loose supplies, and a couple even hit the bodies, sending gritty blood flying into the air. The boy was completely confused; he didn’t understand any of it. All he knew was that at some point the bullets stopped, and these men had come to help him.
Dressed in little more than a few rough dark green military outfits, they didn’t seem to be able to match the power of the SCMP, but somehow they had overcome the stronger enemies, and were now picking through the corpses of destroyed trucks shooting any survivors who had popped up, wishing to die in glory with a bullet wound than with their bodies charred in the flames. The boy by now had curled up and started shaking, all he heard were the light steps of some men and some bursts of rifle rounds. He looked frantically in the cab of the truck, which was a very old military transport class, searching for something to defend himself. He spotted a slight glisten, and grabbed at it. A pistol revealed itself in the black ash, and as he grabbed he gasped a little. He didn’t seem to remember exactly how it worked, but he had a rough idea. He searched around the grip, and found a small lever labeled “safety”. He flipped it in the opposite direction, and put his hand through the pistol. Several thuds sounded out from end of truck, which startled the boy. His hands lifted the pistol towards the direction of the door, and he aimed with satisfaction. His heart rate went up, his concentration became absolute. The flap lifted open, slightly, and a rifle barrel slowly made its way inside. Satisfied, the rifle seemed to lower a little, and become a little less threatening, while more of it came through. A pair of arms and hands followed the rifle through, seemingly disarmed. The boy thought “Gotcha” as a face appeared. It didn’t seem threatening, but that didn’t calm his nerves. He let three rounds fly through the air, each missing by a little more.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he ended up there, but he was being held down by three men outside of the trucks door-like flap, each berating him to calm down.
“Calm down boy” a solemn voice commanded. The boy stopped immediately in fear, his senses rushing back to him in one fell swoop. It was disheartening, he didn’t remember anything.
A man stepped out of the truck, looking over a clipboard with a gritted sheet, and announced “The boys name is apparently, uh, William.” The larger, more commanding man shot him a venomous look. The boy looked up in confusion, his name wasn’t William. His name was… He didn’t know. He couldn’t think of it, panic surged through his every being. He had no idea about any bit of his being. His name, his family, his life, It was all a blank. The commander looked down at him, “Your name’s Michael, right?”
The boy looked down, embarrassed. “I… I can’t remember.” The commander made an exasperated noise, and walked away. Two of the men who were holding him down backed off, the last one remaining, still angry that he may have died from merely a boys lucky shot. The men started mumbling among themselves, stealing glances at the boy. He started feeling uneasy, more uneasy than he should have. The man finally let go, freeing the boy.
He thought about running, he knew he could outrun these weighted soldiers, but he knew he couldn’t outrun bullets. He kept on the ground, staring at the sky. For awhile, everything seemed peaceful, but soon the quiet his stirred mind provided stopped, he heard the many sounds of the skirmishers preparing a camp. The commander of the group stepped slowly closer.
“Come with me” He said in a more… normal voice. At first his head filled with one thought: No. Run. He resisted, and he fought the thought back.
“O-okay.” He whispered. The man led him to the mud-covered car, its pitiful engine making a low hum in the night.
“Get in” he commanded. Again, the thought flooded back, but he denied it with confidence this time. He got in.
The commander explained as they drove. “You apparently don’t remember anything, so I guess it’s up to me to explain.”

I is confused, hopefully the next one will explain things better. The transition between the opening scene of the Rebels in the "normal" car to the SCMP was awkward.

Also, is the kids name Michael or Wilson?

It's pretty good, needs more double-checking and editing.

Erm.. Why did they guess his name?

For all they know he could be called Tiergan or something. (no really Tiergan is a real name)

He apparently had a clipboard... but it still doesn't explain how he has two names.

I love how only one person gave any criticism beyond NAME LOL?!

It will be explained.

Isn't it criticism to say it confuses us?

Though maybe it would be easier to point out things like this when it's over so they aren't explained for us later.

Really cool story. Cant wait for the next one.