Soda Pop Soldier. Nick Cole
door opens onto a wide multilevel room. It looks like some sort of administrative complex: clean, sterile; soft blues and plastic whites. Partitioned spaces surround the perimeter of the room. Part office, part medical lab.
But that’s not the surprise.
We’re the surprise. And so are they.
WonderSoft.
Us.
Fully armed for bear, loaded with heavy weapons and explosives and separated by thirty meters of flimsy space-age office cubicles.
WonderSoft’s elite SF unit has just entered the far side of the sprawling office space. They’re still in a patrol column on the walkway that surrounds the room and leads to the lower level of administrative desks.
“Let’s rock!” screams one of the heavy gunners, and it is indeed on. There’s no time for the CommandPad. It’s old-school run and gun. In seconds, both sides are pouring into the room, firing at everyone. Heavy gunners are cutting the place to shreds, their weapon fire echoing brutally through my fragile speakers. I lob flash-bangs and slide behind a row of cubicles for cover. Paperwork and computers are exploding all around me. Several marines are already down. I hear the distinct brraaap of AwesomeSauce’s sub Mini doling out a short, unhealthy supply of bullets. I pop cover and engage a death-masked Softie with a burst that punches into his neck and head. His avatar goes down spraying fire, dropping a grenade. A half second later, the cubicle he disappears into splinters from an explosion.
Within seconds, both sides are behind cover and firing at each other from opposite sides of the room. I’m crawling toward one of the walls, hoping to start a flanking action, when I pass a row of active computer monitors showing various security cam feeds of different locations around the complex.
That’s when I see the alien.
Aliens.
Yes. It is all those things.
Gorilla.
Shark.
Scorpion.
Tiger.
Spider.
And T. rex.
On the monitors I see views of the outside of the facility. Others of some unknown part of the lab. I also see some sort of dimly lit maintenance area, and another monitor shows the hall we just came down. Or one very much like it.
Aliens are racing down it. Aliens are filling every shot. Aliens are coming for us.
All around my position, WonderSoft SF, Colonial Marines, and what remains of my squads are shooting at anything that moves, like there’s a moonlight madness special on ammo. A Colonial Marine lunges past me, auto rifle firing short bursts at some unseen foe. He goes down, slumped over another cubicle.
Team Fortress Death Match appears across my screen.
The second map has started.
In a Team Fortress Death match, both sides attempt to construct a defended position while trying to destroy the other team’s defended position. This should be very interesting, what with all the gorilla, spider, tiger, shark, scorpion, aliens running amok. Oh yeah … T. rex, can’t forget the T. rex part.
I check my CommandPad for tactical updates.
“Hey, Apone, listen up. Those things are right outside, and my guess is, they’re coming in after us. It’s a TFD match. We’ve got to find a position and fortify before those things get in here.”
“Yeah, I saw that, sir,” he says between bursts of auto-rifle fire. “Real cute of WarWorld.”
The Hispanic female gunner chick is advancing through the field of desk debris, raking WonderSoft’s positions with short bursts of her very large, heavy-caliber machine gun.
“We gotta get outta here now!” shouts someone over the chat.
On my CommandPad tactical display, I find two air shaft vents leading away from the room. One is on WonderSoft’s side; the other, on ours. That’ll lead somewhere. We can’t defend this room unless WonderSoft’s willing to stop shooting at us—which I don’t think is an option right now.
A quick look at the roster on my CommandPad tells me I’m down to just nine players again.
“Apone,” I call out over BattleChat. “Rally everyone … here.” I mark the access hatch nearest our position. “I’m popping smoke … should give us some cover.”
“Roger that,” says someone whose chat gets overrun by a staccato burst of sharp-edged weapon fire. I’m not sure if it’s Apone. Maybe he’s dead.
I hear a loud hammering sound beyond the gunfire erupting against the doors and walls. Thunderous. Sharp. Growing and turning into a thousand grasshoppers smacking into a windshield at high speed. A quick check of the security door we came through and I see why. It’s denting inward. Those things are flinging themselves into it.
“Covering fire!” yells the Hispanic chick over BattleChat. MarinePFCVasquez. An immense amount of weapons fire resounds across the cavernous room as her weapon switches into overcycle mode. She must be running the Rapid Fire Freak perk.
I pop smoke and shout “We are leaving!” over the chat.
By the time we make the access hatch, I hear the door metal tearing apart. There’s too much smoke to see anything else, and there’s nothing to block the access hatch with.
Eight of us make it into the ducting.
I’m glad to see little AwesomeSauce along with the rest of the survivors, all marines.
“Follow me,” I hear MarinePvtWierzbowski shout frantically over the chat. He must be at the head of our dwindling column inside the large air duct. Behind us we can hear screeching—animal alien screeching.
MarinePFCVasquez’s gun falls silent back in the main room.
I check the CommandPad to see who’s left. Vasquez is KIA.
I have to admit; I’m a little tense right now.
“Keep following the duct. It should lead to an area we can fortify,” shouts Apone over the in-game screeching of distant aliens and our echoing passage along the galvanized metal ducting. I hear automatic gunfire ahead of us. Behind us again. Off in the distance … then, not at all.
If WonderSoft gets taken out by the aliens, does that mean we get a default win? I’m guessing not.
“Wierzbowski!” someone screams over the chat. “They got Wierzbowski!”
“LOL … just like in the movie,” someone else says, laughing.
“Take the left fork,” shouts Apone over the chat and automatic weapons fire. Pistol shots. Behind us, on ambient, I can hear scrabbling claws and a leathery slithering against the outside of the ductwork all around us. WarWorld has gone all in on this map. The muscles in my neck feel like iron bands. I open and close my jaw to shake out the tension, then blink twice and look at the screen again.
We pass a torn-out section of the ductwork. It gapes outward, covered in dark inky blood and rising steam.
“Keep moving, Marines!” says someone not Apone.
I chance a look behind me and see an alien scrabble around a corner in the ducting. An alien. I cut loose with the M4X and hit it multiple times. Acid and tentacles explode in steam and blood. More of them are scrabbling behind the dying thrashing shrieking thing, to get over it, to get at me. To get at us.
“Anyone holding a ’nade?” I shout over the chat.
“Last one,” says MarinePvtFrost. “After that, we’re down to just the magazines we got left and some witty banter.” He laughs over the chat.
“Use it behind us, now!” I tell him.
The corridor’s tight, but he gets it behind us and destroys the ducting and some of the aliens.