Forum adverts like this one are shown to any user who is not logged in. Join us by filling out a tiny 3 field form and you will get your own, free, dakka user account which gives a good range of benefits to you: No adverts like this in the forums anymore. Times and dates in your local timezone. Full tracking of what you have read so you can skip to your first unread post, easily see what has changed since you last logged in, and easily see what is new at a glance. Email notifications for threads you want to watch closely. Being a part of the oldest wargaming community on the net. If you are already a member then feel free to login now.

With my urge to write more fiction, I decided to start this thread off and see where I take it.

Prolougue:

As the last guardsman fell to the ground, Oakley walked steadily towards the drab blast door at the far side of the corridor, autogun raised. Inside that room was an armoury vital to this outpost, which meant he could get an upgrade with his and his henchmens inferior and ageing firearms. His ragtag troops approached the door in the same manner as him, lasguns and autoguns poised at the door. When they reched it, Oakley said, "Drake, get yer explosives armed. Atton, guard us backs. We dont want anyone sneaking on us, do we?" Atton, a young boy of maybe nineteen, obeyed his commands. He was a surprisingly good technician, and had created the explosives that were about to decimate the blast doors. Drake, the resident psychopath had got to grips with the explosives. He was also the demolitions expert. Drake hefted his explosives and almost carelessly placed them on the floor. Pressing the button on the top of the barrel like explosive and pulling a lever, he shouted, "BRACE!!!" Nothing happened. Oakley hesitantly said, "Drake, wha-" BANG!!!!! Oakleys men were thrown across the room, rubble piling on top of them. Most were dead or seriously injured. Oakley struggled to stand, but that wasn't surprising if you saw the piece of shrapnel embedded into his left thigh. He saw Atton stumbling away from the wreckage and into the armoury, but Oakley shouted, "Atton! Get the 'ell back 'ere now!" His autogun had been destroyed, but luckily he had his boltpistol, a rarity among his troops. Pointing the firearm at Atton, Atton then froze, putting his hands over his head. Half of his face had burned and melted, and he looked more like a zombie than he did a human. "Get yer sidearm out and lets go, ill deal with you later. You better have a good explanation for this."
To which Atton replied with a gurgle. His vocal chords were messed up. Oakley decided to leave him behind right then, but as he turned round he saw the platoon of guardsmen in a defensive formation pointing their lasguns at him. He soon got tackled to the floor and was manacled by his hands and feet.

Oakley stared at the ceiling of his cell. It was the only thing he could do, since he was immobilised on the bed he'd been manacled to. It was supposed to prevent him from ruining the equipment that was giving him blood and nutrients, but what was the point? He didn't want to live anymore, so why couldn't he just end it now? All the government did was starve people. He could have made a better world! He heard the door to his cell sliding open and the intimidating footsteps of the sergeant which was to monitor him.
"Release him from the bed. I want him mobile in two minutes, Creed." The doctor stared at him with fascinated eyes, saying, "Yes, sir."
The sergeant left the room. Creed unlocked the manacles. Since Oakley was still very weak, no protection was needed.
Creed said, "Dont think we're releasing you. Put your hands out in front of you." Oakley obeyed and Creed pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket and attached them to Oakley. He then presented the wheelchair to Oakley and said, "sit." When he did, Creed zip-tied his feet to the chair. So much for walking. "Where am I going?" Oakley asked, not struggling at all. Creed didn't answer.