Losing a limb in the military can be career-ending. Losing one in Spec Ops can be life-ending. Losing one in S.E.A.T. however, you get something damn good in return. I lost my left arm in ’97, and I got a plasma shotgun/rifle combo in exchange. They worked alright, but I couldn’t go out into the general public with it or snipe nearly as good as I once could. It was a somewhat fair trade when I thought about it, but still took many of my freedoms and abilities away at first. Over time however, it changed into a combative advantage rather than a social disadvantage. My aim improved and I became an ambidextrous war machine who could rule the battlefield and still be somewhat tame. Spring of ’03 though, that change for the worse; far worse…
A deep growl came from my muzzle as I propelled myself along the ground, one foot planted in front of the other and dust being kicked up behind them. Countless corpses littered the ground around me, but were no concern of mine. Zombies were something I not only enjoyed killing, but had an abundance of to kill. Hopping over limbs, heads, and torsos as I sprinted, a voice came into my ear. “Goddamnit Cubo, where are you going?!” The voice belonged to my commander, Jameson, and was both loud and deep. I slowed my pace and raised a paw to my pointed ear, a small snarl building in my chest due to the ignorance my C.O. possessed. “Cubo?!”
“What?” My tone conveyed my annoyance a tad more than I intended, and it showed in the blaringly-loud response I received.
“Where the fuck are you going you feline scum?!” It took all I could do not to scream profanities into the mic located on my furry cheek; I hated his insults and he knew it.
“A tango got away, I am pursuing on foot.”
“Use your hoverboard, dumbass! We’re on a timetable and you know it!”
“Insult me again and waking up tomorrow will be the least of your concerns, and my hoverboard will not work. Your goddamn pirated A.G. devices don’t work well enough to get me over all the bodies.”