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Assault on T-387A
Ricochets and explosions reverberated throughout the hallways. The interior walls of the building continually fell under the onslaught of C4 explosives and rocket propelled grenades, creating openings in the parameters that allowed for swarms of special technical forces to break through. They were dressed from head to toe in drab green, their faces covered with black masks and optical goggles that ensured their weaponry never missed. While most carried the standard issue M16 assault rifles and various assortments of submachine guns and riot shotguns, certain elite troopers carried experimental ordnance. Various molecular disrupters and neutron-based blaster devices had created horrors amongst the ranks of the private guard already. The clandestine classification of the invader’s enemy ensured that the field testing of the weapons, many which seemed like things dreamt up by a Ratchet and Clank game designer rather than military scientists and engineers, would remain classified and not subject to the international laws of engagement.
Amongst the distant siren and flashing red emergency lights, Lieutenant Melinda Barstow frantically ran down the corridors of base T-387A, trying desperately to reach the garrison’s magazine. She knew it was only time before NATO forces found T-387A, which officially did not exist and acted as a reserve station for the private military contractor RAMPART. Culling from an international sample of soldiers of fortune, RAMPART had provided mercenary services to a number of unfriendly regimes around the globe, and Melinda knew that the day would come in which the paramilitary force would have to answer to the strong arm of a legitimate military’s gun. She had hoped that day would come after she made her mint in the military contractor trade. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Barstow’s gamble did not pay off. Those who did not perish in the assault would be hunted down like dogs until their final days.
Melinda rounded the corner leading to the magazine. If only she could get her hands on a gun, she would have a fighting chance to get out of the base alive. Her money was in offshore accounts, and surely she could find a sanctuary country to live out her days in quiet opulence, away from the filthy business of guns for hire, whose only allegiance was to blood money.
The door to the magazine hung halfway open, a RAMPART casualty slumped up against the wall, a streak of lowering down to where he now sat. His weapon was missing – perhaps appropriated by the trooper who shot him dead in the first place. Pushing through the big wooden entryway, Melinda found herself in the gray, featureless weapons room. Save for two AK-47s on the racks, it had been picked clean by RAMPART personnel, grasping for whatever weapons they could to make a stand against the attackers.
Melinda grabbed one of the unloaded rifles. Her experience had always been that of an officer. While weapons training had been part of her schooling, she had never really seen combat, let alone fought against another armed person. She was behind the scenes. Making the paramilitary decisions that kept despots in power and the allied nations always guessing. But there was no time to be scared now. Lieutenant Barstow had to jump in the fire if she wanted to survive.
Turning to run towards the munitions store located at the other side of the room, Melinda was confronted with a special technical forces trooper. His M16 was slung casually to the side, certainly a bad tactical error made by a hardened and experienced soldier. While his face was covered, she could feel his mocking stare penetrate the mask. “What’s such a little girl doing with a big gun like that,” he entoned through the plastic breath holes of his face covering. The headgear made it difficult to fully distinguish his voice, but Melinda deduced that he was of some type of Western European nation.
A fight or flight moment came over the Lieutenant. With his gun nowhere near its firing position, she could use the butt of her rifle to incapacitate the trooper – such a move was at least enough to escape the room. If she actually knocked him unconscious, she could load up on the magazines in the munitions hold and fight her way to the exit. Melinda ran towards her would-be assailant, both hands on her gun, ready to swipe the linebacker-sized man across the face with its stock.
Not being required to renew her hand-to-hand combat training in the past several years, Melinda miscalculated the amount of force she needed. The trooper easily grasped the AK-47, putting his hand on the forend and holding it tightly in his grip. Dread overcame Melinda upon realizing her mistake. The man pushed forward on the gun, causing Melinda to lose hold and fall back.
Tossing the weapon behind him, the trooper mockingly moved his index finger back and forth in a tsk, tsk motion. He looked the Lieutenant up and down. She was in her mid-twenties with brown hair pulled back on a ponytail. Her complexion hinted at an Eastern European genealogy. The standard RAMPART female officer’s uniform consisted of a white blouse with shoulder epaulettes and neck tab with a tight, knee-length skirt. Melinda wore it with pride, especially since it accentuated her best features.
“I’ve lost a lot of brothers and sisters in arms because of people like you,” the trooper barked. “You’re all damn mercenaries, every last one of you! And you, you can’t even fight me off with the most basic hand-to-hand fighting techniques. You’re a sad little soldier, miss!”
The man slid his rifle further back until it was strapped across his back. Melinda felt a sinking sensation. Was this man about to rape her? He would have had a clear shot. Why wasn’t he taking it? “Giving you a soldier’s death is something only reserved for those with honor, which you clearly lack. You’re gonna get something worse…” His words sent shivers down the woman’s spine. She closed her eyes and looked away, afraid to see if he was hard.
Unclasping his hip holster, the trooper, slid out a pistol. It looked like something made from an alien’s workshop. It shone with a snow-white finish with a red, semi transparent cap along the top, ending in a square point. The man spoke, “This is a Systex Limax Undergrade Gun…or a S.L.U.G., as they are commonly referred to in the forces.” He aimed the strange device straight at Melinda. “It’s one of the new tech we’re allowed to play with. Strangely, it only works on females, and your hot, uppity mercenary tits and ass make for a prime target.”
The man squeezed the trigger, unleashing forth a focused beam of red light that stopped inches from the Lieutenant, before engulfing her in a red, opaque cocoon. The woman grabbed herself once the ray subsided. Being a weapon of survival indended to incapacitate its target, the S.L.U.G.’s effects were immediately felt by the helpless Woman. She gasped like a fish thrown from its watery habitat, her chest rising and sinking deeply with every breath. Her rack looked as though it would burst from her uniform top at any moment. Sweat…or some other watery substance…began rising from her pours, soaking through parts of Melinda’s uniform.
Her military-issued black pumps creaked and moaned while her feet swelled into featureless blobs of flesh. Toned leg muscle boiled and convoluted underneath Melinda’s dark pantyhose, runs streaking across the nylon like undirected water from a broken dam. The Lieutenant grunted and moaned. How was she this easily defeated? All of RAMPART’s training and this was going to be her fate?
Melinda’s uniform began to feel tight. Small divots appeared around the buttons of her blouse as it began to strain at its weakest points. Her skirt started to ride up her ass, tightening around it in a most inappropriate way for an officer, making her panty lines embarrassingly visible. Her top untucked itself from the skirt, showing hints of the officer’s stomach taking on a bulbous appearance, and her boobs seemed to get pushed outwards and together in a way that could only be described as dick-teasing. The Lieutenant’s legs tore through much of her pantyhose, the flesh giving way to a slick, semi-translucent appearance.
“You…you bastard,” Melinda croaked. She grasped outwards in an effort to try to strangle the technical special forces trooper, her mind not registering that he stood at least 10 feet away. Her sense of balance, ebbing away, only caused her to fall back against the wall in between the empty gun racks. Such vengeful action would do little good, anyhow; the skeletal structure in her hands was dissolving while her fingers congealed into globular masses. Agony and terror flooded Melinda’s mind. Her breasts spasmed, pushing outward and sending heavy, gold buttons to the floor. But her boobs weren’t simply enlarging. They were mutating into mucus-y uncontrolled growths that spilled over the tops of her beige, Triumph bra cups.
“Oh gawd, no,” the Lieutenant cried out as pressure exerted on the intimate region between her legs. Her skirt tented in the front, showing the strong outline of a growing member – sliding over the waistband of her panties and rising underneath the taut wool fabric of her skirt - the hermaphroditic sexual feature of a slug taking hold. She pitifully cried out, “I’m not a woman anymore!” At the same time, her vagina burned with warmth as its physiology changed into the female organ of an overgrown mollusk.
The gunfire outside did not matter anymore. The fact that the base was being overrun was the furthest concern from Melinda’s devolving brain. She was only focused on the immediate situation that she was quickly transforming into one of the most pathetic animals imaginable: A slug!
Her trunk shaking once again with an eruption of swelling that left her upper body more featureless, Melinda’s blouse tore completely off. Unable to hold herself up any longer, she slid down, leaving a trail of slime on the gray wall, until she sank to the floor. Her shoes had fallen apart in the process, her legs seeming to unconsciously find one another and become bound into a single appendage. The gap between the fusion filled with smooth and wet tissue until she was left with something resembling a fleshy tail.
Crawling on the floor, Melinda reached out with one shortening arm. The straps of her undersized bra snapped off of her disappearing shoulders. Her eyes began to bug out. Pink rods grew from her eye sockets, becoming stalks upon which eye bulbs sat. Each rod traveled further up her head while her brown hair receded, leaving her softening cranium shining under the smoky magazine room’s lights.
Her skirt tearing off from the bottom of its back slit, Melinda’s lower body erupted into a blubbery sack. Her ass crack engulfed the back of her panties before tearing it off as the crevice between her buttocks sealed up.
Bra tearing off, Melinda’s breasts disappeared into a flattened, ventral surface along with her swollen tummy. Her arms having fully receded, the Lieutenant could only crawl along the floor on her underside.
The woman’s voice completely mute by now, her lips merged into the rest of her facial skin. The bone structure of her cheeks and jaw sunk into slug-y oblivion, robbing Lieutenant Barstow of her human visage. Her neck expanded, fusing with her fat and slimey mollusk head. Her nose began to thrust forward, becoming part of the smooth, simple features of her new face.
While Melinda’s new body continued to expand and palpitate into that of a giant slug, a voice came across the trooper’s shoulder radio: “This is Foxtrot Leader 3, Foxtrot Leader 3, the base has been taken and the parameter is secure. All known enemy combatants have been destroyed. Over.”
Lighting a cigarillo to celebrate another Mission: Accomplished, the tech trooper looked at his former adversary crawling on the floor, like the bloated slug she now was – like the worthless slug she always was. “Au revoir, Lieutenant.” The man turned and ran from the room to join his comrades.
Out of the corner of her eyestalk, Melinda saw another of her kind sulk past the magazine doors. A part of the slug’s ruined uniform fell to the floor as the bloated sack crawled down the hallway. Moving past the magazine door, using what was left intact of her human mind, Melinda could deduce from the epaulette of the tattered military blouse that the other slug was Colonel Anna Ivanov…or at least what once was Colonel Ann Ivanov. Melinda knew that her and her female compatriots were now a new breed of giant slug – the result of a cruel act of war. There was only one thing left to do: procreate. With that realization imprinted upon her simple, mollusk mind, Melinda began to follow the slime trail left by Colonel Ivanov.