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tampered2007-03-19 04:54 pm
doppelsoldat.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-03-19 04:54 pm
Log: Ongoing
When; Monday, March 19
Rating; PG
Characters; Eisern Adler/Bluthund (Currently as Eisern)![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
doppelsoldat , anyone wishing to meet him[Unknown site tag][Unknown site tag]
Summary; After leaping upon a grenade the the hope of atone for sins commited by his alternate personality, a depressed, war-weary SS trooper finds himself hopelessly lost.
Log:
Rating; PG
Characters; Eisern Adler/Bluthund (Currently as Eisern)
doppelsoldat , anyone wishing to meet him[Unknown site tag][Unknown site tag]Summary; After leaping upon a grenade the the hope of atone for sins commited by his alternate personality, a depressed, war-weary SS trooper finds himself hopelessly lost.
Log:
"Gott verdammt....."
The man managed to choke this out before spitting a blast of frothy red across the concrete. He was laying on his stomach, exactly as he'd been when he -
He had to have died. This must be the beyond. He'd FELT the concussive shock of the grenade detonating against his stomach, felt his body bathed in fire. He rolled onto his back, padding himself down. His grey uniform (if it could be called grey anymore - it was stained with blood, piss, mold, vomit, horse shit, tank grease, and dirt.) seemed no more damaged than before, and as he jammed his hand down his tunic, he felt no wounds upon his stomach. He looked beside him, and saw his Spandau, the big machine gun looking none the worse for wear. This couldn't be heaven. Surely you didn't get to take guns to heaven. It certainly didn't match his ideas of hell either. He didn't see anyone on the streets, and debated whether he should seek help, or set up a defensive position. He wanted to think my men will come for me. Apparently, it was very easy to forget that one was dead.
He looked at the heavy spandau, and wondered if he should take it. If he was already dead, did he really need a gun? Then again, he probably wouldn't have it with him if it didn't still serve some purpose. He hoisted the gun into his arms, then slung it over his shoulder. An idea sank into his head, and he searched briefly for an alleyway. Finding one beside what looked to be some sort of large concert hall or opera house, he ducked into it, and dropped to the concrete, bringing the machien gun to bear on the deserted streets. He then fished his 25mm flare gun from his suspender pack, and held it outward, so that the luminscent shell would burst above the street. Hopefully, he'd draw a crowd, and could then decide, from their appearance, if he still needed that machine gun....
He squeezed the trigger, and the red streak arced high into the sky, bursting above in a brilliant red light.
The man managed to choke this out before spitting a blast of frothy red across the concrete. He was laying on his stomach, exactly as he'd been when he -
He had to have died. This must be the beyond. He'd FELT the concussive shock of the grenade detonating against his stomach, felt his body bathed in fire. He rolled onto his back, padding himself down. His grey uniform (if it could be called grey anymore - it was stained with blood, piss, mold, vomit, horse shit, tank grease, and dirt.) seemed no more damaged than before, and as he jammed his hand down his tunic, he felt no wounds upon his stomach. He looked beside him, and saw his Spandau, the big machine gun looking none the worse for wear. This couldn't be heaven. Surely you didn't get to take guns to heaven. It certainly didn't match his ideas of hell either. He didn't see anyone on the streets, and debated whether he should seek help, or set up a defensive position. He wanted to think my men will come for me. Apparently, it was very easy to forget that one was dead.
He looked at the heavy spandau, and wondered if he should take it. If he was already dead, did he really need a gun? Then again, he probably wouldn't have it with him if it didn't still serve some purpose. He hoisted the gun into his arms, then slung it over his shoulder. An idea sank into his head, and he searched briefly for an alleyway. Finding one beside what looked to be some sort of large concert hall or opera house, he ducked into it, and dropped to the concrete, bringing the machien gun to bear on the deserted streets. He then fished his 25mm flare gun from his suspender pack, and held it outward, so that the luminscent shell would burst above the street. Hopefully, he'd draw a crowd, and could then decide, from their appearance, if he still needed that machine gun....
He squeezed the trigger, and the red streak arced high into the sky, bursting above in a brilliant red light.
no subject
The Chojin probably wasn't the best choice for a rescue. His appearance was frightening to most humans. Standing at 7 feet 4 inches, and weighing well over 350 pounds, with the strangest outfit. He looked like something straight out of a comic book.
Mars walked over to the soldier, groceries bag under one arm and tilted his head, "Uh, need help?" He asked, his voice deep and heavy with a Brooklyn accent.
no subject
"Sir! Tell me, where am I?!"
He took both hands from the machine gun, placing one upon his helmet, the other raised in greeting.