We were talking this morning, as we frequently do before I leave for work. I have no idea where this idea came from, but Ay just stared spouting it (she’s awesome like that, btw, couldn’t wish for a better muse). Oh, yeah, now I remember. It’s because I called the laundry room Mordor. Anyway. She fed me some ideas and dialogue. I thought about them for a bit and decided it would be perfect for Tessa’s Outside the Box Blogfest. I have never written or had any desire to write (Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy reading all three when well done, I just don’t write them):

1. High Fantasy
2. War Stories
3. Fanfiction

And so I bring you:
Lord of the Rings: Black Ops

Frodo scanned the faces of the council, steel gaze studying the range of passions in the war room. Elrond stood at the head of the table, hand frozen in mid point near the map of Mordor, anger on his thin face, but no words escaping his lips.

Aragorn slammed his hands into the particle board table, the thunder rolling through the concrete bunker. “I will not allow it.”

Borimir snarled back at him, hand resting on the holster strapped to his chest, thumb hovering over the saftey of the forty-five. “It’s not your decision to make. Do you despise your own people that much that you would sentence us to this fate?”

Bedlam erupted across the room. Elves flinging insults at dwarves, humans fighting amongst themselves, and Frodo’s childhood friends watching with a combination of horror and fascination.

Still the hobbit didn’t speak. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to do. No one took notice when he stood. He climbed onto his chair, the casters threatening to steal it from beneath his feet but stabalizing at the last moment. He hoisted himself onto the table, finally bringing him to the same height as the humans and elves.

Placing his fingers to his lips, he whistled. The piercing shrill cut through the roars of anger, and all heads turned in his direction. The attention didn’t make him as nervous as his decision did. He cleared his throat. “I’ll take the ring.”

***

The C-130 circled Mordor, using the heat from the ground below to mask its radar signature. The pilot was always aware of the single eye in the middle of the barren wasteland and made sure to stear clear of it.

In the back of the plane two small figures huddled near the door. At first glance they were just children dressed in black, but upon closer examination one could tell they had the muscle and form of well-trained men. One clasped something in his hands and rocked, threatening to pull it from the chain holding it around his neck.

A soldier sat across from them, always on the alert. He motioned with his hands to catch the attention of the hobits and mouthed “Drop point in thirty.”

Frodo braced himself and stepped to the door of the plane, Samwise at his side. With a deep breath he pushed off. Hot wind rushed to meet him, blasting his face as he fell. The snap of his parachute was lost in the roar of the armies below and jarred him out of the free-fall.

The two friends drifted to their target below, feet touching down on solid ground near the firey pit of Mount Doom. They rolled with the landing, releasing their chutes before they were upright again. The two exchanged glances. Without a sound they made their way to the cliffs overlooking the raging fires below.

Frodo yanked the ring, snapping the chain around his neck. Glancing one last time at the metal glistening in the mutatated light, he dropped it and let it fall to its destruction.

He fell into step beside Sam as the two walked away, his comment all but lost in the roar of flame behind them. “And they said we couldn’t mix genres.”

Sam smirked and motioned for him to hurry. “We’d better get out of here. The nukes will be ariving in two.”