{{#ifeq: User |User| Death and Rebirth | ShadowWolf/Death and Rebirth}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| Death and Rebirth | ShadowWolf/Death and Rebirth}}| ]] {{#ifeq: | |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }} | |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}} | ||
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}| ]]
}} |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}} | |
Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}| ]]
}}
}} |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }} | |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}} | | Authors: ' |
Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}]]
}} |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}} | |
Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | {{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| ShadowWolf | }}]]
}}
}}
}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}
Life was simpler before blowtorch fever and TFOR came into the picture. There were no "talking animals", "anthro's" or any of the other strange forms that teefers take. Nope, just humans. But then, there wasn't the NAR, the Republic of Texas was just another political division within a country called the "United States of America". But technology was booming, people were everywhere and the Internet just worked.
But you aren't here to listen to an old wolf ramble on about how things were before the collapse. Not you, kid–other kids in your class might find it fun to hear about those stories, but you want to hear about the collapse and the Unification War. So, why'd you pick me? No–don't answer. The reason you picked me out is because you've done your homework and figured out that I'm Captain Scott Summers Jameson of "Havoks Hounds". Well, kid, don't let it get around. Do you know how hard it was to find a place where I wouldn't be hounded by people that wanted to treat me like some sort of celebrity just because I did my job?
Anyway, I can't have a kid fail their Republic History class because of me. Well, kid, I can't just tell you about the battles—that wouldn't be fair to you and knowing the laws of this country it'd probably get me in trouble for "corrupting a minor" or some stupid shit. Hrm... Ever been in love, kid? Again–don't answer. You're to young to have experienced true love. So I'll frame this as a love-story—about the only woman I've ever loved.
{{#if:r|{{#if:The NAR Comes to Town|
The NAR Comes to Town
|}}|}}
January 10, 2010
It was cold, but with fatigues over my fur I was warm. The camp was located high in the Appalahians, overlooking what had been the border between Pennsylvania and New York. Prime Skying country, as evidenced by the ski-lodge that had been turned into the company headquarters for the first special operations command. On New Years Eve there had been a guerilla attack on a nearby town, the forces coming out of New York and crossing back over the border. We'd lost important food and fuel supplies–and the town had lost it's doctor.
"Damned idiots! American Pride my Ass! The second something happened that weakened Washingtons grip the country shattered." The words came out more venomous and a lot harder to understand than they should have. Six months ago I'd left my job with PP&L, college and my pacifist ideals behind when a gang of looters had hit the dorms and killed everyone that they even suspected of trying to attack them. Including the ones that had walked out under a white flag to tell them that they could take what they wanted with no violence. One month ago I got hit with the Torch and "Went Teefer" – winding up the coal-black anthro-wolf I am today.
"Cool it, Scott. We all feel the same way, but the US is gone. CO wants you out at the range working on the accuracy of those fireballs for tonights raid. We're gonna hit the guerillas and get some information at the same time." Jackson Jeffries, another recent teefer and probably my best friend at the time chided. His scent didn't match the emotion in his voice, but he's an arctic fox and his nose would tell him the same thing about me. Sure I was a little pissed about the Guerillas, but I was happy that the US had collapsed. In the years before the collapse it had gotten so corrupt it was pitiful—invading countries over suspicions that they possessed powerful weapons and bullshit like that.
Not wanting to spoil my mood I didn't reply–if I had Jack would have been trying to get me to calm down even more than I had already. Instead I turned and started a ground-eating lope that would have been impossible before teefers had twisted my body. About ten minutes later I was in a concrete and steel room that had been hastily put up to give me and other teefers that had superpowers a place to practice. Twenty yards away were five targets roughly the size of a human head arranged in patterns representing the position of various weak spots in enemy vehicles. But before I could reach inside and call forth the flames that would let me destroy them there was a cough behind me.
I spun, snapped to attention and saluted, recognizing the scent of my commanding officer before he even spoke.
"As you were, corporal. I wanted to see this myself–you've always been careful to only practice when you're alone." The words hit me hard, but I held position, training dictating that I hold the salute until it was returned. Finally noticing the predicament Capt. James Strunk returned the salute and waited for me to begin. Turning back to the targets I stepped on the button to start the timer and delivered five fast-ball style pitches—when I started my hand was empty, but as I finished a ball of roiling plasma leaped to life and sped from my hand at supersonic speeds.
The targets, each made of carbon-fiber and armored steel flared brightly as my projectiles impacted. A few seconds later I followed up with a second round, these delivered side-arm style and with more power behind them. Again they were deadly accurate, but this time the targets exploded into hot, metallic vapor. Behind me the Captain was silent, but the scents of his emotions rolled over me and told me he was really impressed. But it was time to clear out–gaseous carbon and steel is not something you want to breath, so I grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room.
"Sergeant, that was... amazing. I've seen a lot of these "powers" demonstrated but you've got a unique delivery. There's a pair of operations going on tonight–one to take out the guerilla group thats been raiding the nearby towns for supplies and the other to get rid of an armored company that the New York Army is moving into the area. I'd like you to lead the attack on the armored company."
"Sir, I'd rather..." finally it hit me that he'd just promoted me on the spot. Before I could have done what I wanted in regards to the mission, but now... Sergeants both give and take orders–most importantly, though, they are expected to accept any mission given to them. "Capture or Destroy, Sir?"
"Capture if possible. Destroy what you can't bring back. And no one-man crew in those tanks."
Prologue 
|
Prologue 
