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Alright, I'd say I have about...one eigth of this story done so far. I need critique.

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Bullets flew out of the rifle, one after another, pumping lead into the soon-to-be-corpses of the soldiers. The leader of the 4-man platoon collapsed, blood pouring out of his hole-ridden chest.

"They got commander Vicks!" yelled Private Joseph Redd.

"No, really? I couldn't tell by the corpse!" yelled Colonel Terry Vivin back as he dived for cover. Terry looked back, seeing Private Redd frozen in fear.

"Move, private, move!" Sergeant Christopher Uri demanded. Private Redd, barely thawing from his fear-induced freeze, stumbled behind a rickety pillar. Pulling up the pistol, he ejected the clip and put in a fresh clip, all the while staring at the cold, dead, potato sack that they once called commander.

"I'm going to teach this sniper a lesson!" Shouted Colonel Vivin. Lugging up his heavy assault rifle, he rolled out of cover and opened fire on the crumbly building the suppresive sniper fire was coming from. However, his effort was fruitless. His brain was blown into bits by a scrap metal projectile.

"Terry!" Screamed Sergeant Christoper, still ducked behind cover. Chris pulled the shotgun off of his back and balanced his feet. Jumping over the wrecked brick wall he took cover behind, he dashed towards the building. But it was no use. The bullets from the rifle wore him down, and he approached the building limping. As he was about to open the door, a bullet entered his chest, piercing his lung, and coming back out through the back. He fell to the ground, barely breathing.

Private Red remained behind his cover, seemingly the most rational of the group. He stared at the corpses, blood pooling. He was the only survivor. His comrades were all dead. He was on his own now.

Sergeant Bain Moore was on one knee, rifle in hand, aiming out the window. He lost the fourth member of the platoon. Either that or that crack in his scope was obscuring him. Either way, neither of them could see eachother. Bain scratched his head as he put his rifle back, pushing the hammer forward as to prevent it from firing.

"This place is a dump..." He mumbled to himself, looking around. Tables, chairs, filing cabinets, pictures, and rubble were scattered. Looks like this was more out of World War II than a seemingly ancient building in Spain. Broken windows lined the floor he was on. Either way, it was still the ultimate snipers hideout.

"At least the decor matches my rifle..." He mumbled once again to himself, examining it. Not only was the scope cracked, but due to the fact that he repaired it all himself, it was mostly held together by gum and hot glue. Bain stretched his arm. That other member of the platoon would die soon enough. Bain turned his head sideways, looking out the window. He then laid flat on the ground and closed his eyes.

The year is 2011. Europe is going through a full-scale Civil war, and everyone in Europe is a soldier for one of the two sides. One wants to go to war - the other wants to open trade routes. Suprisingly enough, this started out as a small political debate, but escalated to this level. Either way, it didn't matter now. All that mattered was the war, which was what one-half never wanted to get into. Either way, neither side may get what they want if most of the people in Europe are dead by the time the war is over.

Private Red rounded a corner, pistol shoulder-even, loaded, and cocked. Every second his heart thumped faster, and faster, and faster. He had to get back to the jeep before he was trapped in Spain. The border was highly patrolled, so there was no way he could get through on foot without being shot to death. Private Red unhooked his radio from his belt and ducked behind a brick wall. As he flipped through the frequencies, he subconciously noticed a voice. A few seconds later, he realized and switched back to it. He could only make some words out over the static.

"Help...no survivors...Wayra Marcko...Help..." Was all he could make out of the mans words. After that, the transmission shut down. He knew he couldn't help him. He had to escape, that was first priority. He sighed, flipping through the frequencies once more. Finally reaching the jeep operators frequency, he spoke into it.

"Carlos, are you there? Carlos, do you read me?"

"Loud and clear, Joseph. Wait, why are you calling me? The mission isn't over, is it?"

"Not exactly, Carlos. We tried to jump a platoon but it turns out they jumped higher. Listen, I'll fill you in on the details once you pick me up."

"Gotcha, I'll be right there. Hey, wai-..." All that was heard after that was a scream and an explosion. Someone must've carbombed him, or shot his gas tank.. It looked like he was out of options. Wait, what if he found Marcko? Maybe he had some means of escape. The problem is, he didn't know which side he was on. But it was a risk he had to take.

Private Red walked aroung, almost giving up all of his hope in escape. But then he heard a voice identical to the one he heard earlier on his radio through a wall.

"¿Dónde está él? Algún warmongerer está alrededor aquí, yo lo sabe." Said the all too familiar voice. But who was the voice talking to? With many attempts, Joseph broke down the wall seperating him from the voice. A few people, all with masks covering their faces, marched down. They were the enemies! Drawing his pistol shoulder-length, Private Red fired into the crowd, hitting a soldier in the center, who tripped onto another soldier. The soldiers quickly drew their assault rifles off of their backs, aiming them towards Private Red. One approached especially close. The private prayed to god this move would work - it was rarely used but often practiced. Now he knew why. To the approaching enemy, he kicked him in the side and attempted to grab his gun. The other soldiers opened fire on him, which interfered with Private Red's plans, but it gave him and idea. He ducked under the gunfire and pushed the soldier forward, ramming multiple bullets into the enemies back, causing him to lose his grip on his gun and fall to the ground. He stood up, assault rifle in hand, aiming it around. The soldiers stopped for a moment, but then they simultaneously put their fingers on the triggers. Before they could start firing, Red leaped over the wall. The gunfire sent bricks flying anywhere and everywhere. Just as Private Red thought it was safe and looked up, a brick fell and knocked his face into the floor.

"Despierte...Despierte..."

Was what Private Red faintly heard as he awoke from his painful sleep. He saw a lone soldier of the opposite side standing over him, shaking him. Private Red, instead of being thankful, struck him across the face, sending him to the floor. Mounting him, he walloped him across the face. The soldier didn't seem very happy about it, as he punched back.

"¡Hey! ¡Hey! ¡Idiota!" Yelled the soldier as he punched him to the ground, taking off his mask, revealing he was a caucasian male, with brown hair leading halfway down his neck.

"Me llamo Wayra Marcko. You speak Spanish or English?" Said the man who now confirmed who he was. It was, indeed, Wayra Marcko.

"I speak English, Marcko." Private Red mumbled back, wiping his now-bloodied nose.

"Okay, then. Listen, I didn't want to hurt you. I'm a Spanish villager who lives here. Those idiots came along. I killed a soldier that crossed me and blended in with them. Did you hear my distress call?" Said Marcko, finally speaking plain English now.

"Okay, I believe you, for now. Yeah, I heard your distress call. You know any way out of here?" Private Red inquired back.

"Yeah, I have a truck. I think it should be enough to mow through those soldiers." Answered Marcko.

"That's good. Let's get out of here. This place is too dangerous." Replied Private Red, suprisingly calm. Marcko started walking, and Private Red attempted to get up. However, as he got up, extreme pains shocked his right leg, and he fell to the ground screaming. Marcko ran over.

"Hey! You alright?" Marcko inquired.

"Do I look alright?" Private Red sarcastically inquired back. Marcko shook his head and helped Private Red up. Private Red swung his arm over Marckos shoulder, and Marcko aided Private Red in walking, letting him lean all his weight on him. Marcko was a little larger than Private Red, which was a good thing for this situation.

Eventually, the duo arrived at Marckos truck. Marcko helped Private Red into the passengers seat, and Marcko himself got in the drivers seat.

"Okay, we should be at the border in ten minutes. What happens then is another story entirely." Marcko informed Private Red, pulling out of the driveway. "You must've gotten shot in the leg when you were facing that group, but the adrenaline kept the pain out. Either way, you were lucky I was there. I falsely informed them you were dead."

"Thanks, but why are you helping me?" Private Red inquired.

"Because the last thing I want is this war to destroy Europe..." Marcko informed Private Red.
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