GREEN
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4296 24.31 KB 320
4296 24.31 KB 320
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Copied from a combination of archived threads and the unfinished pastebin from SpentAnon, so this may or may not be actually unfinished. Don’t hold your breath though, as I couldn’t contact him.
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As always, if he requests I take this down, I will oblige
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>”Anon, I’ve been digging for hours! My skin’s starting to peel off!”
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>Wallflower drops the shovel you gave her earlier and pulls off her gloves to reveal a pair of hands rubbed raw with the beginnings of a few blisters
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>Such is the battle waged in the trenches that you must dig
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>”Anon, please?”
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>Standing straight in the midst of the [spoiler]football[/spoiler] field, you are Anonymous
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“Wallflower, idle hands makes not a trench!”
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>”Oh, thank you-what?”
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>Leaning on your trusty Springfield M1903 replica attached with a real bayonet, you muse at her perplexion and provide her another adage
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“A proper entrenched position is not made within the confines of an hour!”
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>”Can’t we do something else?”
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>Oh you sweet summer child…
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“Nope, we went ahead and tended to your gard-ENS, and so now, we tend to my trench.”
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>”Why aren’t you digging then?”
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>Leaning off of your rifle, you stand at attention in a way that would make your forefathers shed a tear in respect
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“A commander does not dig a trench, for if he were to do such a thing, then when would he have the time to review his enemy’s positions and form plans of batte?”
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>”But there’s no enemy! Are you insane you-”
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>”You call that a trench?”
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>Turning around, you see her, the Almighty Poof with her school of guppies
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>”Are you digging a trench? I love digging trenches!”
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>Sonata jumps at Wallflower’s shovel and takes it for herself, running to the opposite end of the field to dig her own trench
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“It isn’t a trench… yet, but when it’s complete, it’ll be among the finest-”
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>”You’re the worst Anon, and so is your ‘trench.’”
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>D-Did Aria just say your trench was ‘the worst?’
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>Taking in a deep breathe, you calm yourself down
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“You can say that I’m the worst, but you DO NOT call MY TRENCH THE WORST!”
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>”Whatever Anon, your trench sucks.”
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>Before your vision fills completely red, you notice Adagio smiling at your exchange
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>”How about a little game?”
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>”Anon let’s just get out of-”
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“Quiet Wallflower, the commanders are talking.”
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>The Great Poof in front of you continues her offer
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>”We’ll both dig a trench here till dark, and whoever holds their position and captures the other’s shovel wins. Loser has to submit to whatever demands the winner makes.”
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>”Anon, don’t-”
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“Deal.”
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>Shaking her outstretched hand, you see a look of pleasure flood her face
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>”Wonderful, I’m looking forward to our date.”
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>Aria cracks her knuckles, a sadistic grin forming from her usual frown
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>As both of the remaining members of the treacherous trio make way to reunite, Aria turns around
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>“Essen scheiße Amerikaner abschaum.”
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“I’ll see you in hell, Kraut.”
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>Turning to your only ally, you feel as if a mistake was made
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>”Date? DATE!”
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>Oooooooh, you can already feel the pure fury radiating off her as you pull out of your trusty pack a footsoldier shouldn’t be without: a trenching shovel
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>Though, before you can hand her the shovel, she roughly snatches it out of your grasp
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>”I’ll show you a date you poofy haired bitch!”
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>In utter amazement, you briefly watch her hard at work digging the trench
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>She didn’t even put her gloves back on
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>With a smile, you pull out of your back pocket a schematic you meticulously designed for this very occasion
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“Wallflow-”
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>”WHAT?” she shouts at you with crazy and wild eyes as she turns up to stare into your very soul
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“Follow this to the letter, and don’t let the enemy’s prying eyes view this.”
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>Surprisingly, she takes the folded plans and salutes you
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>Satisfied, you carefully store your rifle nearby and walk off of the football field to prepare for the coming battle
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>”Welcome to the Taco Shack, what can I get you?”
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>After waiting ten minutes in line, you’re finally to the point where you can acquire an essential piece of equipment
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“I’m gonna need two twelve-packs of tacos.”
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>”Do you want any sauce?”
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“N-” and then, a mischievous idea crosses your mind, “-on second thought, give me your hottest packets that you have, and a lot of them too.”
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>The teenager working the register gives you a confused look, but sets about making your order after you pay
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>Pulling out your phone, you text Rarity ‘Are you home?’
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>By the time you retrieve your package, your pocket vibrates
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>’Of course darling!’
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>Returning her text as you start walking home, you feverishly type ‘I’ll be over in thirty’
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>Finally home, you open the greasy bag holding the key to victory
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>Now comes the fun part, making it inconspicuous
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>Taking each taco, you scoop out all of the contents taking great care not to break the shell
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>Ten minutes goes by, but with surgical precision, you’ve extracted the meat and vegetable mush
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>Tearing off multiple packets of Salsa de El Diablo’s Fuego, you squeeze as much of the liquid hell you can into the bowl
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>Some of the spicy sauce coats your fingertip, so you plop it into your mouth to sample what awaits poor Sonata
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>As soon as your tongue touches the seemingly innocuous red liquid, you feel as if flames are licking every corner of your mouth
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>Mmmmmm, caliente...
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>Mixing it all together, you inspect the mixture and determine it looks the same as before, just with a little extra ‘shine’
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>After refilling the hollow shells, you return them to their boxes and search for a suitable container to mask the true nature of this weapon
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>Can’t let anyone hostile be aware of the state’s secrets
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>Sifting through your supplies in your room, you find it
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>It’s perfect…
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>Sitting on top of your spare set of doughboy soldier clothes and tools [spoiler]next to, of course, your other sets of various uniforms from different wars[/spoiler] sits a satchel bag
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>In post-haste, you gather the spare set and bag, racing downstairs and quickly deposit the Tacos of Intestinal Destruction inside bag
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>Checking the time, you notice you only have five minutes to reach Rarity’s
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>Her house is on the other side of the town
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>But a courier doesn’t arrive late, dammit!
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>The front line needs their essential information!
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>And so, through the streets of Canterlot you dash, running in the midst of traffic and nearly getting run over three-too-many times, but you made it
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>Slowing your pace, you gradually climb her immaculate porch, approaching her point-of-entry
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>Panting and leaning over your knees, you jam your finger on her doorbell with the grace of a poorly prepared MRE
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>”I’m coming daaaarling!”
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>Standing up straight after catching your breath, you quickly dust yourself off when the door opens
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>”I’m soooo glad you came-what are you wearing!”
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>In front of you stands a good friend of yours wearing a rather revealing black dress
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>”Why, this is a crime against fashion! This simply won’t…”
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>Y’know, black really does compliment her skin tone, but the dress could be a little more tasteful
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>A weak tug pulls you from your contemplation to reveal you being guided inside her house
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>You’re thankful you’re not tracking mud inside from hoofing it all around town
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>Once in her room, she immediately gets to work, throwing various articles of clothes on her bed
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>”This one? Oh, absolutely not!”
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“Rarity.”
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>”Hmmm, maybe-no no, that would be drabby.”
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“Rarara.”
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>”What about-AH HA!”
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>With refined grace, she pulls from her closet a three-piece suit
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>”This would be perfect! You should-”
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“Rares.”
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>Realizing that she’s been in her own little world, she places a hand over her mouth
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>”I’m sorry darling, what is it that you wished to say?”
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“I need your perfume.”
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>Momentarily stunned, she blinks, and then blinks once more
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>Slowly, an impish aura begins to radiate from her as she sashays to you with a predatory smile
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>Once in front of you, she lays her hands on your chest and leans into you
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>”~I didn’t take you for a pervert darling…” she whispers hotly into your ear
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“What-no!”
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>Softly gripping her shoulders, you gently maneuver her a bit away from you
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“I need the perfume to mask the scent of this.”
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>Slinging the satchel bag off your body, you raise it to your chest and open the flap, the delicious aroma invading her room rapidly
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>”I-Wha-Why?”
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>Closing the flap, you set the bag down on the carpet
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“Trench warfare and specialized weaponry.”
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>Again, she blinks, and then blinks once more
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>”O-Ok darling… but only if you allow me to make you a proper suit.”
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>It isn’t right to question the prices you pay for in war
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“Yep, now where’s your strongest perfume?”
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>Clapping her hands giddily with a cheshire grin, she prances over to her bedside table and opens the drawer
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>”Oh thank you darling! I promise you’ll love it!”
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>After finding what she’s looking for, she comes back to you, grabbing the bag and generously spraying it down
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>Once finished, she hands the bag to you
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>Taking the bag, you notice it has a nice, strong vanilla scent
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“Thank you so much Rares, I swear I could kiss you!”
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>”Well, I wouldn’t mind a kiss at all…”
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>And so, without hesitation, you bring a hand to her chin and tilt it to the side, providing a clear opportunity to give her a quick peck on the cheek, which you take
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>Leaning away from her, you see her blushing vibrantly
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>”O-Of course, to start making the suit I’ll need to take some… measurements darling…”
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>Glancing at your watch, you realize something
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>You’ve been away for way too long
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“Oh no. Nonononononono-”
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>”What’s wrong darl-”
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“We’ll do it another time, see you later Rares!”
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>Without looking back, you traverse the halls of her home and bolt through her door, though not forgetting to close it as you are a proper gentleman
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>You really hope there’s still time to prepare
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>Rushing back to the football field, the skies darken from the stormy clouds and the afternoon transitioning to the evening
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>It looks like it’s gonna rain, which means you’ll have better cover in raiding the opposition
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>Yet this means you’ll have a harder time seeing who is coming at you, too
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>Arriving at the field, you’re absolutely gobsmacked
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>On the opposite end, you see a full on series of trenches, bunkers, and machine gun nests complete with sandbags and proper wooden support beams
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>And at the top of their ‘command’ bunker rests the Second Reich’s flag
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>If this wasn’t something you were facing, you’d’ve creamed on the spot
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>But this, this is what you have to face?!
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>”You like the castle I built Anon?”
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>Jumping back from a randomly appearing Sonata, you hear laughing coming from behind you
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>”Anonymous, you can always just forfeit. I’d hate to hurt that pretty face of yours.”
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>Turning around to address The Poof, you notice the only one dressed for the occasion is Aria
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>It doesn’t even look like a replica!
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>”See something you like, loser?”
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>Picking up your jaw from the ground, you briefly shake your head
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“Adagio, I think it’s you who should be concerned and surrendering.”
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>Seconds pass by with silence before an uproarious laughter fills the air
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>”D-Did you just say that? W-With-HAHAHA-your ‘fortifications?’”
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>Following their pointed fingers, your eyes rest upon a simple setup: a frontline trench connected to the support through a communications trench
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>Squinting, you see a hole and realize it’s the dugout you drew up
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>You’re genuinely impressed, it usually takes more than one day to do all the work Wallflower did
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>”You’re the worst Anon! Oh, I can’t wait to have a turn with you!”
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>Calmly, you walk away from the cackling in a composed manner and retrieve your hidden rifle
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>Defeat is not an option
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>Not now, not ever…
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>Hopping into your trench, you walk through the tight corridor and inspect the construction
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>Though there aren’t any wooden supports or sandbags to speak of, the time and care put into the digging is more than prevalent
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“...not bad…”
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>”Hey *wheeze* Anon.”
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>Glancing to your right, you see Wallflower covered in dirt and grime, her hair a total mess
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>Walking to her, you clap her on the back and offer a genuine smile
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“Good work soldier, but you’re out of uniform.”
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>Slapping the spare pack into her hands, you give her a nod
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“Gear up and we’ll take a break, you’ve earned it.”
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>Watching her as she enters the dugout, you open your own pack and retrieve the glorious flag of your people
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>Climbing out of the trench, you plant the pole directly above your dugout and stand at attention, briefly saluting the setting sun as the first droplets of rain begin to splash on your helmet
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>Leaving the top, you return to your trench and enter the dugout, prepared to plan methods of attack, defense and contingencies in case of failure
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>Inside the dugout is a rudimentary table and stools sculpted from the earth, and on a stool rests your only ally wearing a uniform befitting of a proper soldier with your shovel resting on the table
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“Alright Wallflower, I’ve got a special package for you.”
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>Before she’s able to swoon at the thought of receiving a gift, you place in front of her the satchel bag
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>”What’s inside of this-” her hands dart to the cloth, lifting the fabric an inch open
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”DON’T OPEN IT!” without hesitation, your hands clamp down on the flap, keeping it firmly closed
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>Seconds pass with only the rain pouring outside
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>Considering it safe, you breathe a sigh in relief and retract your hands from the bag
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“Inside of the bag is bait. If you come across the Blue Menace, unsling this from your person and open the flap. Wait three seconds and throw it as far away from you as possible. Not a second early, and not a second late, and if you wait until five seconds, then may whatever God or Goddess have mercy on your damned soul.”
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>Nodding in affirmation, she accepts the package and its responsibilities
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“Now, we have four objectives which will be split into two categories, the offensive and the defensive. The offense needs to acquire the enemy’s shovel and replace their flag with our own, and the defense needs to prevent the enemy from doing the same.”
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>”Their shovel is as good as mine.”
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“That’s a shame,” you say as you root through her pack she left on the ground to retrieve her flag, “because you’re in charge of holding the line.”
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>”WHAT!?”
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>Being wise, you expected this outburst
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“You are full of ferocity and strength, I’ll give you that. But you’ll be more fit to defend this position.”
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>”But why! You said that you’re the commander! Aren’t soldiers supposed to do the dirty work?”
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>Silence permeates the room as you think of a proper response
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“Defending not only our flag, but our shovel, too, will be the hardest task, and I believe the perfect soldier for the job is you.”
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>Finally finding the flag, you shove it in your own pack which, much to your chagrin, is filled with smoke canisters of varying colors
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>A note resting on top of the canisters says ‘Good Luck Nonny!’
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>You’ll need to talk to Pinkie about messing with your supplies
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>”Y-You really think so?”
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>Cinching your pack closed, you stand up, taking the shovel with you
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“I don’t think so,” firmly opening her hands, you place the shovel in her possession,”because I know with utmost certainty that you. Will not. Fail.”
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>A smile creeps across your face at seeing her eyes fill with a rare type of happiness
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“Your first objective is to protect the shovel at all costs. If we lose the flag, that is fine.”
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>Confusion replaces her state of serenity
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>”But Anon, if we lose the flag-”
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“Not all is lost.”
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>Patting her back, you reassure her and clear her of any doubts
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“As long as I can accomplish one of our goals, it’ll either result us in winning, or force a stalemate.”
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>Wallflower nods in understanding
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“That being said, your secondary objective is to defend the flag. If we can keep it, it’ll be for the better.”
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>Checking your rifle for any defects, you walk to the opening of the dugout
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>”But Anon, how can I defend the shovel without a weapon?”
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>Grinning like a madman, you turn your head and look over your shoulder
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“You’re carrying it.”
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>And with that, you walk out into the pouring rain, unaware of what horrors lie in the great beyond
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>Walking within the confines of the tight, muddy walls, you soon find yourself at the frontline trench
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>Peering over the top, you can barely see within ten feet
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>A moment passes and lightning strikes, briefly lifting your obscured vision to reveal a truly harrowing sight
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>Across the field lies a sea of barbed wire, scattered in higher concentrations amidst points-of-interest, and at the end you can see a faint silhouette where your objectives will most certainly be
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>No Man’s Land, a place no man would ever wish to be
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>And most certainly a place where no man could survive for very long
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>Calming yourself down by breathing, you take off your pack and pull out a pair of bolt cutters, holding it firmly in one of your hands
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>Returning your pack to your back, you position yourself lying on the ground in front of a slope exiting the trench
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>Then, you begin crawl
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>Seconds turn to minutes, and the minutes start to extend to hours as you gradually thrash your body through the mud, remaining still when lightning would appear without warning
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>This is your life now, an endless loop of creeping an inch and halting your movement
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>But this will not be your home
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>After what seems like a lifetime, your vision begins to fill with tangled and jagged imagery
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>The Gates of Hell, and you’re the one to open it
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>Carefully positioning the barbed wire into the mouth of the cutters, you commence the laborious process of snipping a large enough hole for not only entry, but a fevered retreat
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*CHHK*
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>Another cut
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*CHHK*
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>And another cut
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*CHHK*
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>While time has lost its meaning, you somehow are able to remember within this moment
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>Was this really what your forefathers endured?
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>A constant blanket of dread from the possibility of being shot at any point?
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>Shaking your head slightly as you crawl through the large opening, you’re thankful you have the cover of rain where most did not
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>Continuing the process of slinking, sliding, cutting and clipping, you feel as if you’ve made no progress at all
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>But you know better than to think that
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>And thankfully, what better way to be proven wrong than to see a trench?
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>Grinning wide, your face unable to handle the strain of pure joy, you rapidly writhe to get closer to the lip, dragging your worn and tired body along
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>As you quickly close the distance, light shines across the field from a flash of lightning, soon followed by a cracking thunderous sound, and you immediately fall to stillness
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>...
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>...
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>Maybe they-
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*TUNG* *TING*
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>Abandoning reason but keeping composure, you hasten your advances at speeds you never thought were possible
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>fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-
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*PING*
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>Did that just hit your head?!
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>Unable to contemplate what just happened, a loud whine hisses throughout the air coming in your direction
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>Oh shiiiiiii-
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>Thankfully unharmed from the shrapnel of the explosion behind you, your body, however, was propelled forward by the sheer concussive force, landing with a prompt thud against the wooden braces of the trench nearby
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>Falling onto your hands and knees, you involuntarily expel the contents of your stomach onto the ground, contributing to the sludge beneath you
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>As your head starts to throb in pain, a welt beginning to form, so too does the rest of your body
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>When there’s nothing left to vomit, you continue to dry heave, adding to the exponential pain you’re enduring until you collapse onto the ground nearby
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>The machinegun fire howling above you starts to fade away, becoming a calming, yet frightening, lullaby
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>I-If you go back up there, y-y-you’ll surely-
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>A nearby explosion jolts you from your daze
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>Y-You can’t stay here, but you c-can’t go over the top without a plan...
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>’Come on Anon, pull yourself together!’
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>Slapping yourself on the face, your senses return to you
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>’If you don’t figure something out now, you won’t be able to figure anything out soon enough’
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>Pushing yourself up against a wall, you quickly investigate your injuries
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>Besides all the mud and stinging, there’s no blood on your uniform
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>Breathing a sigh in relief, you remember something that makes you sick
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>Isn’t it possible to internally bleed after being so close to a blast?
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>Glancing to the puddle of your making in front of you, nothing of note is noticeable other than the color of bile mixing with brown
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>Reassured that you haven’t endured any lasting wounds, you slip off your pack, frantically running through your head to find a solution
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>How the hell are you going to-WAIT!
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>Shifting the flag aside as well as a couple MREs, you see a familiar note, but not with the same words as before
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>’You’re welcome -Pinkie <3’
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>Taking only a moment to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, you scream to the heavens
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“I LOVE YOU PONK!”
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>Shoving the note in one of your pockets, you remind yourself to relent to her begging and bake with her more often
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>Pulling all of the cans from your pack, you count them
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>...5-6-7...
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>Seven will have to be enough then
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>After securing all the cans on your person, you decide to also affix your people’s flag onto a small extendable pole
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>If you’re going to be running into the valley of the shadow of death, you won’t be going alone
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>During the time you were preparing, the blasts of mortars transitioned from loud booms to a near deafening ring followed by the tumbling crumbs of the earth
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>It’s now or never
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>Standing tall amidst the lonely trench with only your uniform, your pack and your flag, you pull out one of the colorful party canisters from your chest pocket and detach the pin
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>With a courageous battle cry, you lob the homemade smoke grenade high into the air and watch it disappear past your line of sight
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>In moments, pink smoke starts to billow over the lip and to your feet
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“HOOAH” you scream to the top of your lungs, going over the top and charging into the vast unknown
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>Sprinting through the pink mist, a flurry of bullets conducting their rampant ballet all around, you fail to recognize the trench beneath you as you exit the fog, landing flat on your face
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>Shaking yourself off, you stand back up and resolve to do better
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>Taking the time to peer over the top, you estimate the distance from the remnants of the football field markers
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>Ten yards, multiply by three… thirty feet
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>Now knowing what to expect, you grab another canister and lob it over, waiting for the fog to flow into the trench to run
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>As the yellow cloud begins to touch your boots, you vault over the top, once again at death’s door
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>Rushing onward, you can hear the whine of the bullets gradually centering in on your position
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>Diving to the ground avoiding a possible makeover including the bifurcation of your torso from your legs, you crawl the remaining gap and tumble into the next trench
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>That was much closer than you’d’ve liked it to be
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>Again, you peer above the top and determine that not only is the bridge between you and your salvation sixty feet, but the trench ahead of you connects to their series of tunnels leading to the promised land
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>You can do this, you know you can
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>Closing your eyes, you breathe a couple breaths, clutching your flag ever closer to you
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>For America
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>Retrieving four cans, you throw two of them in different directions, orange and blue fiercely melding together into a cohesive haze, blanketing the field in smog
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>Before you have the chance to vault over the top, a blue blur bolts from nowhere, leaping over your head
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>...
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>What in-
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>”SONATA, YOU STUPID-UGH!” echoes faintly in the distance, masked by the heavy rain pelting the ground
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>Shaking the confusion from your mind, you hoist yourself over the lip and charge, pounding the muddy ground with reckless abandon
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>Believing to be near the end of the cloud, you throw the last two cans as far away from each other as possible, waiting a few seconds, and then running into one of the plumes of smoke
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>The purple miasma is slightly intoxicating, and you start to feel faint, yet you continue your fervent march as the deafening bullets whiz past you, occasionally leaving to pursue the other cloud
by MemeMasterAssBlaster
by MemeMasterAssBlaster
by MemeMasterAssBlaster
by MemeMasterAssBlaster
by MemeMasterAssBlaster