Enter Sandman
Author: emocezi
Title: Enter Sandman
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 236
Disclaimer: I do not own The Losers nor do I make a profit from this work of fiction.
A/N: I haven't given Pooch the sort of love he deserves over on losers_pwn. And he deserves to have his own turn at being awesome. Thanks to katrinbisiani for a quick beta read. :D Title is stolen from Metallica because I'm cheesy as hell.
Pooch can see it coming from a mile away. It's known by the locals as a Shamal, swirling sands in a windstorm traveling up to 50 miles an hour. He has no eye protection, and the vehicle he borrowed has no windshield. Or windows of any kind for that matter.
Driving into this is going to suck, and if it were any other day he'd stop the van and make some sort of camp to wait out the sand storm. But not today.
Somewhere out there, in the shifting sand, his team is huddled up. And from what he heard over the radio, one of them needs medical attention. The interference from the sand cut out Jensen's voice half way through a sentence, so Pooch doesn't know who it is, or how bad they're hurt.
The first blast of wind strikes at his face, sandblasting his skin with grit. His eyes start to water and he wipes his forearm across his face. He squints into the sand and it sticks to his wet cheeks, tear ducts working overtime to clear the debris from his eyes.
A quick calculation before he'd lost the signal had allowed him to triangulate his teams whereabouts to a single square kilometer, and he prays that he'll be able to find them before someone's dead.
But praying isn't enough. So he drives, spitting sand out of his mouth and cursing the desert.
Title: Enter Sandman
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 236
Disclaimer: I do not own The Losers nor do I make a profit from this work of fiction.
A/N: I haven't given Pooch the sort of love he deserves over on losers_pwn. And he deserves to have his own turn at being awesome. Thanks to katrinbisiani for a quick beta read. :D Title is stolen from Metallica because I'm cheesy as hell.
Pooch can see it coming from a mile away. It's known by the locals as a Shamal, swirling sands in a windstorm traveling up to 50 miles an hour. He has no eye protection, and the vehicle he borrowed has no windshield. Or windows of any kind for that matter.
Driving into this is going to suck, and if it were any other day he'd stop the van and make some sort of camp to wait out the sand storm. But not today.
Somewhere out there, in the shifting sand, his team is huddled up. And from what he heard over the radio, one of them needs medical attention. The interference from the sand cut out Jensen's voice half way through a sentence, so Pooch doesn't know who it is, or how bad they're hurt.
The first blast of wind strikes at his face, sandblasting his skin with grit. His eyes start to water and he wipes his forearm across his face. He squints into the sand and it sticks to his wet cheeks, tear ducts working overtime to clear the debris from his eyes.
A quick calculation before he'd lost the signal had allowed him to triangulate his teams whereabouts to a single square kilometer, and he prays that he'll be able to find them before someone's dead.
But praying isn't enough. So he drives, spitting sand out of his mouth and cursing the desert.