How's it going? I hope everybody had a nice Spring Break or is having a nice Spring Break, whichever the case may be. This is a revised repost of Chapters 1&2 of my first work here, "WArPeD," which I originally posted to the FFML2 a few weeks ago. As always C&C, flames, etc. are welcome. This particular effort is dedicated to all the current or retired members of the Armed Forces on the FFML, (I know you're there) from an Air Force Academy cadet dilligently awaiting a day two years hence, when he'll pin on 2nd Lt. in the USAF. -Dino- (Chris DiNote) -------------------------------------------------------------------------- --- (DISCLAIMER*) Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the disclaimer, that's right, the disclaimer, that sacred American apple pie institution designed to protect the author from lawsuits and copyright infringement. Note that this author is not making any money at all from his efforts, indeed his only purpose is writing for the sheer enjoyment of it and love for the characters of GAINAX, Harmony Gold, Rumiko Takahashi, Hayao Miyazaki, Antartic Press, Kenichi Sonoda and Adam Warren. If author insertion bugs you, do not try this at home or at all, and if this somehow offends you, then just don't read it :) (Spoken by Jello Biafra of the Dead Kennedys, music by The Offspring) -------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---- "In the beginning...." The New Ageists were right. The ending of the Millenium activated the vast reservoirs of psychic energy within the earth. The spawning of the vast energy vortices under the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs combined with the gene-altering effcts of the radiation from he nuclear warheads stored there. The result: the four thousand cadets of the cadet wing were empowered and transformed into something more human than human....(yeah!) (20th Century Fox Fanfare) An Over-caffenated Production USAFA Non-Motion Pictures Presents WArPeD: Part 1 Chapter 1 Copyright @SMD Publishing, tm (Chris DiNote and Co.) (Thunderstruck: AC/DC) "Gold will shine in '99! Gold will shine in '99!" Over and over again Chris chanted his class's oh-so-cool mantra as he stood at attention with 1100 other fourth-class cadets (4 degrees, SMACKS, doolies) of the U.S. Air Force Academy's class of 1999, class color gold, in the huge auditorium of Arnold Hall. Cheers and yells filled the air as the Soldiers Minus Ability Courage and Knowledge (see, SMACKS!)s' first Basic Cadet Training superintendent, Cadet 2nd Class Harmon H. Barlow walked accross the stage. Like the four degrees, he wore BDUs, but unlike them, his sleeves were rolled up, and he was not wearing a web belt with canteen, and his clothes were free of wrinkles and sweat stains. He thrust a clenched fist into the air and a shout rose from '99. The music switched from the class of '97's AC/DC, to '98's "Alive" by Pearl Jam, then to '96's "Dreams" by Van Halen, and finally to '99's own "1999" by Prince and the Revolution. Barlow spoke into the body mike as he posted the freshmen (a post being a 2 finger signal, index and middle finger straight up in the air, that means "SHUT UP NOW!"). The room fell quiet and the cadre paced the room, insuring that all eyes were on Cadet Barlow. "How's it going '99?" (Cheers, stopped by Barlow's post). "Are you ready for Recognition?" "YES SIR!" 1100 voices answered as one. "I've watched you since BCT (pronounced "Beast"). I've seen a lot of good things, things that impressed me. You seem motivated and enthusiastic. Are you ready to finish the 4 degree year strong and proud?" "YES SIR!" "You've made it through the first day of Recognition '99, but the hardest is yet to come...." Chris's mind wandered. This was it, he thought to himself. I've made it through the whole damn frosh year. I can't believe I'm almost done with this shit. No more running around at attention, no more room and uniform grades, no more "sirs," or "ma'ams," I get my first name back! (Hey Chris, you'd better start paying attention to the speaker before you get trained! *Oh yeah, hey thanks future me!*) Chris tuned back into the stage. Barlow had left, and in his place were a line of twenty of the biggest men and women Chris had ever seen in his short life. They were football, hockey, soccer and baseball players. They all wore BDU pants and shirts which read, "Pain is Temporary, Pride is Forever." They all wore black berets, signifying them as assault courese, or in this case, obstacle course cadre. Except for one huge gentleman who wore the red beret of USAF special forces. Combat Control Teams. The leader of the pack screamed into a megaphone turned up so high it squeaked and squeeled. Chris remained quiet, but inside, he screamed. He knew those cadre were just waiting to beat the living hell out of his 5'6'' 130lb. frame, not to mention every other four degree they could lay their hands on. He really hadn't been able to decipher much of what the cadre was saying until he heard: "And now freshmeat, a taste of things to come on MY obstacle course, brought to you today by my cadre, the fine men and women you see before you who have the minds of Aristotle and the bodies of Adonis." He blew his whistle "Cadre fall out and make corrections. Freshmen, get in the 'attack position' now!" Chris separated his legs about shoulder width apart, squatting and positioning hands like he was holding a rifle. The cadre poured off the stage, training, screaming, whistles blaring. Chris could swear the leader was coming straight for him, black beret sucking in all light save the glittering silver prop and wings over his left eye, glaring like a third eye. The cadre raised the megaphone to his mouth. "Get ready for up-downs freshmeat!" Whistle blowing, over and over again, Chris dropped flat on his stomach and stood up, and again, and for what seemed like forever, sweat pouring down his already exhausted body. "Get you knees up frosh, move!" More whistles, Chris jogged in place, bringing his knees up to touch the open palms of the cadre, held waist high, while the cadre applied the pressure Chris would have to perform under if he wanted prop and wings of his own. "You're weak frosh!" "No SIR!" Chris was sure as hell not going to give up now. "If you want to survive my course, you'd better start putting out now! Grab a pair and show some effort!" More cadre and more whistles joined him, forming a ring around Chris... ------------------------------------------------ Who woke up still hearing those damn whistles. Actually, it was just his roommate's REALLY ANNOYING Alarm Clock(tm), which, coincedentally, sounded a lot like Lynn Minmei singing "We Will Win." No wonder the Zentraedi lost, he mused, swinging his legs over the top of his bed, on to his step ladder and down to the feezing cold floor below. He hated it when he dreamed about last year, it made what little sleep he actually did get almost worthless. He looked at his clock: 0630 in the goddamn-it's-too-early-ning. Through his door he could hear; nothing? The frosh weren't calling minutes*. No announcements over the PA from Ops Center, no nothing. Peeking outside his door, he noticed how unearthly still and quiet Vandenburg Hall seemed this morning. The cold wasn't unusual, but, damn, it was eerie. Better play it safe, he thought. He started to undress while calling to his roommate. "Jon. (No repsonse) Jon. (muffled swearing) Hed, wake the fuck up." "What Dino? (Dino being Chris's nickname) came the muffled reply. "I didn't hear the frosh call minutes for anything, besides dumbass, it's Saturday, March 1st. Ring a bell?" "Well, you gotta go march tours* anyway, besides, I'm hungry." "Snort. Grumble Grumble First tour is optional anyway. Screw it man, there's no inspection this morning or anything. The Saturday Inspection and parade were cancelled, and they'll inspect us Monday moring anyway. Go back to bed or shut up or something." With that Hed used his remote control to turn on his stereo, which usually meant that he planned on getting up eventually. (Soundgarden: Pretty Noose) To Be Continued.....Don't worry the Established Anime Stars come out soon...plus a few surprises