Here's some Fluff. I took two of my characters and added a story with the gasmask design and the walking tankss from this site. The Mystic Ghurka commission was done by Sergio Carellio.
Enjoy!
It’s 1946 and the war is still raging with no end in sight. The quest for a weapon that will end the greatest war the world has ever seen is well under way. The outcome is yet to be
determined and history has yet to be written, everyday holds something new for an
Unknown Tomorrow.
[glow=red,2,300]1946…[/glow]
Slipping through two massive, twisted chunks of fractured concrete rolled a chilling mist, seeping between every fissure and around all the debris. Barely visible beyond the fog was a commonwealth soldier, dressed in his khaki battledress, black boots, black gloves, and Thompson sub-machine gun. His weapon, nestled against his hip and forearm, had an advanced cylindrical scope etched with circuits and a multitude of blinking lights. His helmet webbed with a thin green nylon net, capped a strong face and sturdy chin.
Captain MacSorly knelt to one knee, aimed his Thompson ’46, and stared straight through the glistening fog towards their objective. He squinted, concentrating his ocean blue eyes to see through the billowing smoke left over from the concrete penetrating bomb. It was difficult for the Captain to tell which was thicker: the fog or the mist.
The fog, he thought; that bloody fog. Every time MacSorly entered its chilled, all-encompassing domain he felt a surge of energy irradiate through his chest and into the farthest reaches of his well-built frame. Fearless, confident, and determined, the Canadian army captain watched its misty white appendages sprawl towards the German bunker.
MacSorly waited patiently for the dense patch of moist air to clear the debris field and approach the bunker’s entrance. He waited: seconds seemed like minutes. Who knows what’s inside that reinforced steel hatch cradled by extremely thick, and possibly impenetrable walls. He checked his watch; they had been on the ground for several minutes; too long he thought.
From behind the stout bunker’s protruding hatch complex slid a man of enormous strength. MacSorly raised his Thompson ’46 and peered through its sophisticated lens. The man wasn’t a man; it was a tank: a walking, moving armored suit in the shape of a human being. The Captain’s jaw lowered. What could bullets do against this thing, he thought?
The mist in front of the Captain swirled counterclockwise creating a small funnel cloud above another soldier centered in its penetrating, algid air. The Mystic Ghurka rose from a crouching position, standing tall and stoic. His long, flowing white silk scarf covered most of his face up to his hypnotic black eyes. His canvas khaki-colored brim hat slouched downward over his forehead to the top edge of his eyes. The rest of his uniform was similar to Captain MacSorly’s except the Mystic Ghurka had a Kukri patch with two crossed knives over his left shoulder.
The Mystic Ghurka swirled his two Kukri knives, one in each hand, ceremoniously before crossing his arms at the wrists. The fog seemed to struggle before it disappeared into his back as if he had willed it to dissipate. MacSorly now had a clear shot. He fired a dozen bullets, one by one, but they bounced off the armored soldier’s metallic skin.
It now was the walking tank’s turn.
Its thick arms slowly rose until they reached horizontally with the ground. Each had a thin weapon fitted to the chaffed silver appendages sprouting from its bulbous thorax. The creature’s legs were swollen, partially because of the motors used to propel its heavy weight and initially to protect the Luftwaffe soldier inside. Tubes sprung out from its back and connected each limb. Hoses ran along its legs to each joint. A small pilot’s window revealed the excited expression of the loyal German soldier; he clenched his right hand, making a ball out of his armored black glove.
Energy began to sparkle from the weapon affixed to the walking tank’s right arm. A flash penetrated the dawn causing Captain MacSorly to blink several times. A brilliant orange beam erupted from the weapon. MacSorly began to dive to his left to seek shelter behind a pile of decimated concrete slabs from the wall, but the walking tank was too fast; the beam struck his left leg. The Captain screamed in agony, blood and flesh burned as he frantically tried to put out the small fire on his melting skin.
The walking tank commander smiled through his minute window near the top of his domed shell. He reveled in the intruder’s pain. He grin was demonic.
The Mystic Ghurka expended very little time before tapping his Kukri knives together, creating a spiritual green spark when the two crooked sharp edged weapons collided. The fog, contained in his mystical essence, poured onto the grounds of the German military complex constructing a dense wall between the two Commonwealth soldiers and their attacker.
The walking tank fired again, this time directly at the Mystic Ghurka, but the energy beam traveled all the way through the wall of fog and into the French countryside, missing him entirely. Inside the walking tank, the German soldier hastily checked his instruments to reset his energy weapon and shoot the Indian soldier again. He ran a series of system checks, trying to determine the targeting fault, but he took too long.
The Mystic Ghurka plunged a Kukri knife into the damp French soil releasing clouds of harmonic energy that strengthened the wall of fog. Tentacles of mist protruded from the wall engulfing the mechanical soldier. Their atomic particles seeped into the air vent release valves of the walking tank, choking off the fresh air the encased soldier was breathing. The machine stalled, paused briefly, and then froze in its tracks. MacSorly, stifling his bleeding by applying pressure on his burn, observed the walking tank’s pilot fight for air; then with a final gasp, his eyes rolled backward; the machine was dead and so was its pilot.
The Mystic Ghurka offered a hand to help his captain up. MacSorly gingerly pulled on the Indian’s arm, rising to his feet. They looked at each other, marveled by the German technology, but mused at its demise. In the distance, a platoon of heavily armed Luftwaffe field soldiers raced to the bunker’s entrance. Sleek light-grey tunics and pants covered their bodies topped off with a trim facial gasmask. MacSorly could not see any filter; the mask system was new.
“The bunker will have to wait” said Captain MacSorly.
The Ghurka did not respond verbally, he simply pointed one of his razor-sharp knives towards the French coastline where a British Submarine was waiting to extract the uncommon soldiers.
MacSorly looked back at the onrushing men. There were too many of them to handle effectively. Another day, he thought; another try at the bunker, another mission to Occupied France.
“To the sub!” ordered the Captain.
The two Commonwealth soldiers slipped quietly into the cold Atlantic, paddling their rubber raft over harsh, hammering waves, headed to the safety of the warm British submarine.
