Clarkie101

What's wrong with the fact that he lives there?

Does the method really matter? I think the outcome's the only important thing. Likewise, you could say that Pollock's artwork, or Warhol's is rubbish.

Yeah, but maybe they are YKK made, just Gant branded.

English, History, Latin, Greek and Politics.

Cheers, but I literally worked myself into the ground. Congrats on yours too! What courses are you taking next year?

Double award science, mate. It's when you study all three sciences (Physics, Biology and Chemistry) , but you only get two qualifications. What makes you think I don't study Latin or Greek? :-P

Mine say Gant.

Ooh, I got mine today as well!

English Literature - A*
English Language - A*
French - A*
Maths - A*
History - A*
Drama - A
Latin - A*
Ancient Greek - A
DAS - A*, A*
Art - A*

From the Ancient Greek goddess 'Νίκη' (Nike), who personified victory.
The Ancient Greek word 'nίκos' (nikos) also means victory.

What a hero.

I live in the lovely region of Surrey, an area not normally associated with thuggery and what not. Despite this, a city near me by the name of Guildford had a riot the day just passed and, frankly, it pushes my buttons the wrong way. The riots were not began for a noble cause and now, it seems, that even that initial cause has been forgotten for the sake of anarchy. I think the police should be brutal to the risk of being Draconian and as such should send out a strong message to any would-be rioters. Anyone who condones such behavior is simply an ignorant and unbalanced individual who should be institutionalized and separated accordingly from civil society.

That's some pretty decent fiction, sir.
I've made a few changes, just so you could look at how other people might choose to right something similar. I based it on your plot, although I did change a few things, but wrote no where near as much as you did.
If you want any more help, feel free to ask. I'm quite happy to write more if you find it constructive.
This is without knowledge any of what's happening, so please let me know if I've got the complete wrong end of the stick!

Pacing down the dimly lit hallway, I spied a dark, huddled group of figures towards its end, talking discreetly amongst themselves. Approaching them, I was greeted by sceptical looks and an overpowering sense of mistrust. Introducing myself and shaking hands as necessary, they seemed to consider me less of a threat once I assured them we were fighting for the same cause. I invited them to join with me, of the four; three took me up on my offer, the other, less trusting, choosing to remain as he was, more favourable to his own plan of attack. Catching sight of a revolver’s hilt in on of their pockets, I offered him my machine gun, thinking he might need it more than me. He gratefully accepted it, and caught is clumsily as I tossed to him in the air. Continuing the ten or so meters towards to the end of the hall, we came to two large green doors, the plastic plaque above them clearly reading ‘cafeteria’. On the other side, a volley of shots thundered, mixed with angry shouts. Kicking open the left door with the heel of my boot, we saw a young, bald man diving for cover behind an upturned table. Taking cover behind the walls on either side of the doors, we recognised the characteristically dark uniform of the enemy: the Hiken.
Catching eyes with the bald man, his sense of helplessness struck me to my core and I knew I had to help him. By this point, the Hiken were aware of our arrival and had accommodated for it by taking cover behind the service counter. Counting four of them, I pushed the magazine gruffly into my pistol and, letting out a deep breath, readied myself to face them. As one opened himself to take a shot, I rounded the door frame and fired three shots in quick succession. The first two were marginally wide, one ricocheting of a pan behind him with a sonorous clash, leaving it swinging wildly. The third, however, hit him squarely in the forehead, resulting in him collapsing in a heap out of sight.
Signally to the three men I had picked up, I reloaded and whispered, on my call, to shoot. Mouthing the countdown, I reached zero and unblinkingly let off a magazine without stopping. The noise was tremendous, and as my gun made the familiar click of an empty magazine, we stood by with keen ears. One of the Hiken lay sprawled across the floor, visible bullet holes in his chest, abdomen and neck. Thinking the other one to have fled, we approached the startled man behind the table, when a moan resounded. Preparing ourselves a final time, we stepped cautiously towards the sound’s origin. What we saw was a wreck of a man, his face hardly recognisable as a curtain of blood poured forth from below his hair line, masking his face. I felt a pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach but, suppressing it, gave him a cold look of disdain.
‘Where’s the bomb?’ I asked, straining to keep emotion from my voice. The man only replied with a guttural cough. Even without any medical experience, I knew this man was beyond any help, his face whitening in pallor. Realising that he was going to be of no help, I raised my gun and pointed it squarely at the Hiken’s head. One of the men came behind me and brushed my gun away with a smirk.
‘Leave the bastard’, he said in a deep, Scotch accent, his eyes alight with the innate and unholy excitement that war can bring.

Is it said that I watched all of these?

That's a fruit.

Ah, that does indeed make sense, good sir.

Why? What does seven do?