Editing Mercenaries and Planes: Writefaggotry (section)

===Jean Claude in St. Claire by NF===
Jean Claude had been living in the village of St. Claire for a few months, reporting on the increasingly unstable situation. He had heard word that the rebels were going to make a push, but hadn't expected them to move on this scale. As the mortars began to land he ran to the home of the family that had been hosting him in his time here. The roof was partially collapsed, Kanna, the father, was staring at a crater with parts of his wife in it. Jean Claude arrived in time to scoop up the family's two girls, 10 and 11, before they got a good view of the carnage.

"Kanna, we need to go NOW!" nothing "Kanna, your Daughters!" his grasp of the local dialect was rusty, but it shook the large man loose of his grief. Jean Claude handed him the older of the two girls, careful to cover her eyes. Kanna spoke, "To the boats, quickly."

They rushed from the still smoldering house. Jean Claude fumbled with his camera, taking shots as they ran. they hugged the alleys, waited for a few tense seconds when a technical swerved past, spraying machinegun fire into houses at random, and broke for it when it looked like the vehicle wasn't circling back.

Jean Claude heard a distant thump and turned, a pillar of flame was rising from the hospital that Doctors Without Borders had set up no more than a year ago. He snapped a photo of the acrid column and kept running. They cut out the side of the village, he swore, /swore/ he say aircraft overhead. The rebels didn't have this kind of advantage that he knew of, what the hell was going on? There was a force pushing into the village from behind them, apparently attacking the rebels. He could have sworn he heard distinctly clipped mother French.

They ran for the docks, anyone who had made it out of the village were now piling into the boats that had moments before disgorged a horde of killers into their homes. The boat was full to capacity, over flowing. He lost Kanna in the jumble. He clasped tightly to the man's daughter, Mary was her name, holding her close as the boat pulled away.

He turned back to the village, still snapping photos, and then pulled his satellite phone from a bulky thigh pouch. The jets were still strafing, multiple blooms of fire erupted from the heart of the town, he thought he saw the church go up.

He got the phone on and running, nervous fingers misdialing the home office twice. He wasn't getting a connection, the flimsy sheet metal covering of the boat was messing up his antenna, he leaned out the side for a better connection.

He got dial tone as a rocket scored a direct hit on the boat in front of him, turning it into a red hued fireball with a potpourri of limbs decorating the fringes, plopping into the water with sickening plumps.

He heard the receiver on the other end pick up when a cannon round severed his arm at the shoulder. The phone and the arm dropped into the river, hand clutching the shorted electronics all the way to the bottom. Jean had enough time to turn and throw himself over Mary, to shield her eyes and block out the screams of explosive shells disintegrating everyone around her, before he bled out.