((Ok, this is my little retelling of a real training exercise that I was in, told from my point of veiw. I figured that it would be perfect for the challenge, once I tweeked it a little bit. I put it in the present tense, just so you all can get a picture of what a blank fight is like.))
The heavy machine gun in the top floor of the building thunders as we raced through the street, lighting up the night. The even bigger gun attached to the top of White Four fires back with revenge, almost deafening me, making the small pops of my carbine seem like piss in the ocean. My heart pounds, my lungs burn, adrenaline making me sick to my stomach, it feels like my entire chest has been cut open and flogged. It's just a game, I remind myself. Despite the thunderous fire, there are no bullets flying. Casualties are determined by some guy in with an armband, not by a hail of hot lead. No, this not a real battle. It's just a game. The carnage will be a bunch of guys lazing around in the back of a truck, or trying to shut off that damned buzzer on their shoulder. They cries of the wounded will only be complaints of how the OCs are stupid, or how the OPFOR”˜s cheating. No, today is far cry form Omaha Beach. But still, it's damn exciting.
We charge on, ducking behind barriers, stumbling over piles of rubble, finally reaching the wall. Our first ”œcasualty”