These are the Untold Stories of Operation Greenstone.
Ghost Recon: Breakpoint fan fiction series.
Explore the possibilities of behind the scenes or non-player character incidences that complete and may fill the gaps for large jumps in the man game's...
The retched smell brought me back to consciousness.
The bitter assault of burnt sulphur, charred wood, and scorched flesh on my nostrils kicked my eyes open. Sucking in a deep breath I coughed out dirt and my vision came spiraling in as the darkness gave way to the outline of seductive shapes silhouetted against the flickering of flaming orbs and macabre shadows dancing and swaying.
Where was I? What happened? Was I in Hell?
Coughing, tasting dirt and blood in my mouth, pain rippled down my back to my knee...W-T-F is wrong with my knee...more harsh, acrid smoke drifted by and every sensation in my body came alive as agonizing panic slammed hard through me, gasping, it took my breath away...pulling the balaclava covering my face upward, mouth agape, unable to catch my breath as I coughed more acidic air, panicking, struggling for air...gasping, spitting, chest clamped tight...then...trying to force a big gulp of burning air, it hung, unsuccessful...emptily forcing back another, my throat sharp, constricted, stabbing pain in my chest, panic rising...all I wanted was a breathe...
...gasping, a strained lungful of air invaded and then another one, and another, my chest heaving fast, over and over. With relief emerging, I realized the dancing shadows were smoke and the rhythmic sway was a broken canopy of trees moving that revealed a dark clear sky speckled with unfamiliar stars of the South Pacific.
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MH-53E Sea Dragons carrying JTF-Auroa on infiltration
Huffing, cheeks ballooning, I blew out a hot, labored breath and pinched the chin strap release of my Crye FAST high-cut maritime ballistic helmet. Attached by rails and pushed against my ears were Peltor radio headset mufflers and thumbing them to pop off, my helmet tumbled down and noting the night-vision goggle arm attached to the helmet mount was snapped, its dual-tubes missing, the battery pack attached to the rear was intact but ripped halfway off with its wires hanging frayed, and the infrared strobe on the very top was smashed: no wonder my neck was sore.
Pulling my black balaclava off, my low-riding auburn ponytail popped out and shifting my hips, my head and back were sore and the discomfort of being on cold damp, wet ground was squelched out by a knee screaming at me, tensing, strained and not wanting to look, tilting my head forward, expecting to see my leg a mangled mess of gore and bone, I saw instead a heavy body impaled by a half-buried contraption laying across my leg.
Thankfully that body was not mine, however it was firmly holding my lower leg in place and as I tried to pull it out, my kneecap shifted to the edge of dislocation, clicking then rebounding as I twisted back and a spike of agony bounced between my knee and back.
Breathe. Breathe. As the pain subsided, my chest heaving for new breaths, hyperventilating, feeling helpless...this is no good...what am I going to do...take more deep breaths...that's what I'm going to do.
