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post #11 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-14-14, 10:44 PM
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Elsen sighed, watching the Corporal vomit in the corner and feeling his anger bleeding away. There was no point in being mad at the Corporal - or even the Sergreant - it wasn't their fault that he'd been taken away from his men. It wasn't their fault that his body armor was taken away from him or that his weapons were further than arms reach. It was unbecoming of his rank to take out that on them.

He turned from the Corporal, giving the man a measure of privacy.

Turning to the Sergeant, he held out his hand. "Sergeant - I apologize. I am reacting poorly to what is happening. There is a platoon of men heading to the front lines without me right now and I'm stuck here in this room instead of leading the charge."

He looked around the room to the other PDF, "If we are destined to be anything other than what we are - so be it - but I'm not willing to abandon my duty to protect those under my command without a fight. My men, my men are fighting and dying as we speak - and I'm here. It isn't right."
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post #12 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-15-14, 08:48 AM
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Jackson had been resting against the wall, his remaining eye closed as the conversation moved around him. Many could be mistaken and believe he was sleeping, but unlike the man beside him who was faintly snoring in his sleep, Jackson was alert and awake.

At the sound of the man who had identified himself as Corporal Alaric Tiranus vomiting, Jackson opened his eye, and surveyed the scene. The lanky Corporal was still doubled over in the corner, the scarred Lieutenant holding out his hand to the smaller-framed Sergeant. However, Jackson knew that rank meant little, only the ability to control those below you. Jackson had cut open men of nearly every rank and knew that they all bled and screamed for mercy, no matter if they were a Trooper or a Captain.

However, the Lieutenant's words caught Jackson's interest.

"If we are destined to be anything other than what we are - so be it - but I'm not willing to abandon my duty to protect those under my command without a fight. My men, my men are fighting and dying as we speak - and I'm here. It isn't right."

Jackson met the man's look, and slowly rose to his own feet.

"I don't know how much any of you know about what we're all doing here, but I'm guessing from the collection of ranks and professions gathered in this room, that perhaps if it is duty and service to the Emperor we seek, we will soon be seeing it in amounts we had not previously counted on."



The Silent Lions Chapter

Winter Falls

Darkness

Give a man a match and he will be warm for a day.
Set a man on fire and he will be warm for the rest of his life.
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post #13 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-15-14, 06:45 PM
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'How many men,' Jurnal Hoyt, Chemoran Military Intelligence, always drank. He had offered Ptolemy a finger of amasec, and sighed when the young man declined. He was tapping away at a leaf of notes, looking up at the tall, blonde soldier. 'Does this report condemn?'

Ptolemy straightened, palms pressed flat against his hips. Hoyt was a right bastard - An overweight, lumbering giant of a man with too many chins and a taste for too-young girls. 'Two-thousand and fifty-three,' Ptolemy replied, corners of his mouth twitching into a sneer. After a moment, he regained his composure and added - 'Sir.'

'Don't be a bleeding heart, Ptolemy,' Hoyt growled, necking another glass of amasec. 'These men are cowards, traitors and malingerers,' Hoyt's eyes narrowed. 'You are doing the Emperor's work.'

That wasn't necessarily true, Ptolemy knew. He had written up the report himself - Read the files and service records of each individual, examining the data with an eagle's eye. Most of the men, and even a few women, were not cowards, traitors or malingerers. They were afraid. The true mutinous elements, like those that Ptolemy had dealt with, were long gone - Executed by their Commissars, gunned down by the Archenemy forces, or having slipped between the floorboards during the hectic aftermath of the War. Just last week, twelve former PDFers had raped and murdered an elderly woman in Sparrowtown - Ptolemy had led the retribution team, rounded them up, and shot them all. Dogs.

That was the true problem; the deserters, the former gangers. Even now, in Ashsmear - That terrible and poisonous wasteland - Operations were underway to destroy the remaining Archenemy foot-soldiers. The War was far from over. Insurgencies would continue, Military Intelligence knew, for weeks, maybe months. The Chemorans were stretched thin, the draftees having been discharged, the career-soldiers mauled during the War's opening stages. Ptolemy's fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palms.

'So,' Hoyt grunted, knuckling his eyes. 'Is there anything you would like to say?'

You're a fugging idiot, Ptolemy wanted to say. He anted to scream, to ram his fist into Hoyt's round, ugly face. You're a fat fug, sir, and a bastard. The men hate you. One of these days, someone is going to-

'Well?' Hoyt pressed.

'No, sir,' Ptolemy said, with an half-smile. 'Absolutely nothing. Emperor's work, sir. Those men, those boys and girls and greybeards, deserve everything they get.'

Ptolemy did not wait for a dismissal. He buttoned up his knee-length trenchcoat - Not dissimilar to those issued to the Commissariat - Spun on his heel, and left. He emerged into an empty lobby, the marble pillars and floor scoured clean, though they still failed to hide the pockmarks and chips. This entire building, this entire sector, had been ravaged by brutal combat.

At the end of the lobby, in jerkins of carapace and bowl-helmets, were three men. Lean, hungry-looking men, armed with las-guns and bayonets. Their uniforms were grey, unmarked. They caught sight of Ptolemy and began to advance, wearily. Oh fug.

Ptolemy wrapped a hand around his bolt-pistol, caressing the trigger with his finger.

'Who the fug are you?' Ptolemy challenged. The men halted.

'Ptolemy Kraas?' The tallest called. His accent was strange - An off-worlder, perhaps. 'Are you Ptolemy Kraas?'

'Depends on who is asking,' Ptolemy shot back, all venom.

The man saluted. Ptolemy must have looked shocked, because one of the men grinned cheerfully. 'We are Lord Phlintte's men, sir,' The tallest said, once more. 'You have been reassigned. Welcome to Project: Saviour.'

What the fug was Project: Saviour?

***

Long, tough weeks passed. He went through countless evaluations, both physical and mental - Live firing exercises, hand-to-hand combat, too many blood tests. There was a long, red line down his ribs - Where one of the Mechanicus had made an incision, for whatever reason, and it itched.

He was now sat in a room with seven others, all in featureless uniforms with numbers stitched onto them. 051 was an ugly, one-eyed bastard - Scarred and angry-looking. 272 and 013 were both unremarkable - Boring. 111 was interesting, with his bionic hand and hard, cold eyes. I know you, Ptolemy thought. He couldn't remember where, or when or how, but that bionic hand.. Hm. Such an odd collection of ranks. Claw-Hand and Ptolemy held command, as far as he could tell.

Three others were sat further along, their numbers hidden from view. One was completely hairless and had curious, unsettling eyes - Another was handsome, his mouth set in a firm line. Serious bastard. The other was asleep, curled up. Lazy bastard.

Everyone was talking. Ptolemy wasn't paying attention - Drumming his fingers incessantly against the cold, hard, metal bench. Ptolemy missed women. Before being seconded to Project: Saviour - Whatever that was - Ptolemy had been seeing a noblewoman, far younger than him. He missed her touch, her scent, her warmth. He missed being-

One of the men, 013 - Alaric, as he named himself - Hunched over and emptied his stomach. Ptolemy laughed, loudly and mockingly. He couldn't help it - It was comical, the man's bile splattering over his boots and trousers. For a moment, Ptolemy considered helping, and then smirked. Fug that. He wasn't going to get messy for him.

'Well,' Ptolemy said, eventually. 'I'm fugging bored.'

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #14 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-19-14, 07:40 PM Thread Starter
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Perhaps due to the sudden start of voices conversing, or to the smell of vomit, the individual who was sleeping wakes up, slowly sitting up straight and looking around dizzily, shaking his head some.

As he sits up he reveals his number on his clothes: 048


Suddenly a powerful voice comes into play.

"Stop your incessant bickering over rank. You're all under me."

It is the muscular red-haired candidate, number 077.

He continues, saying, "I am a captain."

The yellow eyed man across from him, number 001, smiles mischievously, still not looking at any of you but turning his face toward the floor as if he gave something away. Perhaps figuring it didn't matter, he raises his head back up in a flash and with a peculiar voice speaks next, "Yes. And I am a Colonel."

077 speaks again, "And why so worried about the 'men' of yours. They can't handle themselves against a bunch of unorganized fools trying to take advantage of anarchy in amongst the Hive's ruins? I'm sure you have all been adequately replaced, and that they are all doing...just fine."

"You should be more focused on yourselves. Your own well being." says 001.


Please continue the conversation from here, with Aiden Jere joining in. I will respond for 077 and 001 as necessary. Feel free to come up with another significant memory for your character. Keep your character sheets in mind. What kind of people they like and don't like, what they are good at, what they know, what they may have aspired to be before this, etc.

You can never be prepared for the unexpected


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post #15 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-22-14, 01:39 AM
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Rather embarrassed, Alaric folded his arms and plopped himself back into his chair. He listened in quietly while the higher ranks began quelling the commotion. Duty. Honor. High stakes. Impossible odds. Watching those in the chamber who were on number 111ís train of thought speaking of whatever it was that had brought them all here. No doubt it was the war effort, an effort to stop from affront, some disaster from striking every sane human being from this cruel galaxy towards the Emperorís side.

He had to admit, there was something to like about all of it. Heroes. They could be real genuine heroes. Even if that meant receiving your praise through national memorials. In this rotten life he had been dealt, the honor, respect, and dignity that comes with exemplary service could change the fate of his family name in the span of a heartbeat. All it took was a Governorís seal, he supposed, and he had already gotten one of those.

Alaric sighed under his breath. ďHell. Why not aim for two?Ē

ďEvil is relativeÖYou canít hang a sign on it. You canít touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.Ē
-Glen Cook, The Black Company


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The sleeper - Lazy Bastard - Sat up, dark, roughly-sewn numbers showing on his chest; 048. Ptolemy eyed him up, brushing his lips with soft, untouched fingertips. There was a collection of numbers, here-- But did they signify something? Were he, and his motley companions, the only successful entrants of Project: Saviour? Were they successful? A hundred questions wormed their way into Ptolemy's head - A collision of words, mangled and incoherent, slamming into Ptolemy's pounding head. He continued to ponder, chest rising and falling, when Handsome Bastard spoke up.

Captain, eh? Well that's fugging nice, isn't it, sir?

Strange Bastard smiled, a malign and mischievous show-of-teeth, and declared his rank - A Colonel. He should be at the head of a Regiment - More likely in the rear-ranks, Ptolemy thought with a sniff, - Not sat on his arse with a bunch of misfits and brigands. And Ptolemy.

'Do you think,' Ptolemy said, aloud, after a moment. The lights were making him feel dizzy - An unrelenting, eye-stinging glare. Fug, he was starting to get irritated. He crossed his arms, pressed his head against the cold metal, and whistled between his soft, cherry-red lips. 'Rank matters, now? Don't delude yourselves, sirs,' He looked at 001, smiled, and winked. 'But, then, judging by that number of yours... You're important, aren't you?' Ptolemy laughed, just a little. 'I feel sorry for 272. Name's Ptolemy,' He tapped his chest with his index finger. 'Military Intelligence. Perhaps, just perhaps, introductions are in order.'

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #17 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-25-14, 10:41 PM
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Nicholas continued to sit with his back against the metal bench as the conversation and bickering continued. The Corporal who later identified himself as Alaric glanced over at him and Nicholas half smiled and winked at him. The man flip-flopped his position. One moment he was acting strong, standing up to 111, refusing to be cowed by the lieutenantís rank, but then it took little more than a story which Nicholas was sure was supposed to be both heart-warming and woefully heroic on 111ís part for him to offer a full military salute. The Corporal was weak willed and either a sycophant or a lickspittle. Nicholas filed that information in the dossier he had started in his mind on his fellow members of this project.

111 extended his hand and babbled something about reacting poorly to the situation before immediately getting fired up about the possibility of his men being killed in battle. Nicholas took the hand and shook it firmly and briefly. You could gauge a lot about a person by how they shake hands and Nicholas wished to show that there was power in him. His grip was firm to indicate strength but not crushing. Sending the right message in these early moments was critical and if there was to be some collaboration in later moments he wished to be considered to be invited in, if he did not orchestrate them himself, which required those he was meeting now to believe that he was worth something. However, especially to 111 with his murderous gaze and bleeding heart, Nicholas did not want to appear so strong as to display himself overtly as a threat. No, the handshake was something Nicholas had practiced and perfected so that his had just the weight and power behind it to show that he would be useful but not too much that he would be feared, although it might be wise to do so at times. But, such revelations would come much later, if they needed to come at all.

After that, Nicholas mainly kept quiet and merely listened. 111 clearly had very powerful emotions and that was something that Nicholas could use in future potentially. Alaric was not much better, but his reasons for cowing to easily to the lieutenant were not entirely clear to Nicholas yet. It could be out of respect for rank, but given how he had initially stood up to someone who out-ranked him, he guessed not. More likely it was some form of admiration for those who were sacrificial or noble in nature. Perhaps he had an intrinsic trust and respect for those who could tell stories of bravery. Nicholas understood that the line between bravery and stupidity was usually dependent on the results, but if that was what Alaric valued then as long as Nicholas could present a task in such a light, he could possibly be persuaded. He would need more time to observe him before he put anything concrete down, but it was a note in Alaricís dossier. 51 stood up and said something noble about service the Emperor. Not relevant. 128 regarded him briefly with a look of vague contempt and declared he was bored. That made Nicholas smile. What did he expect them to do; produce juggling balls and perform a routine for him. Still it could indicate a short attention span and a need for excitement, something that might be exploited.

The difference between Nicholasís evaluation of his comrades and 111ís was that 111 saw them as enemies. Nicholas was certain of that much. 128 regarded him with contempt, but not as a threat. 111 sized each of them up at the start trying, probably anticipating an inevitable conflict. Nicholas knew that this was entirely the wrong thinking and actually more likely to provoke conflict than prevent it. The best course of action was to try to make allies, so that if there was a conflict then you did not stand alone. If everyone is your ally, then you donít have enemies to worry about as long as your allies stay your allies. However, the more allies you gather the easier it is to convince others to become allies because of superior strength, wealth, numbers, resources, whatever was needed. If not that, then an in-depth evaluation like the one Nicholas was trying to do simply by listening rather than looking everyone in the room up and down would allow you to apply pressure to resolve conflict without violence. Only if everything else failed would someone with a comprehensive analysis of those around him have to resort to violence and if it did come to that, someone with an in-depth analysis of his opponents would be able to resolve the conflict as quickly and with as little spilt blood as possible. Thatís why Nicholas listened and evaluated rather than stared obviously at those around him like a cornered wolf.

The one who had been sleeping and revealed his number to be 48 stirred and shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. They were all tired, but Nicholasís experience was that fleeting moments of sleep would do more harm than pushing through the exhaustion until you could get at least one full REM sleep cycle in. Suddenly a voice which Nicholas could admire for its sheer power came into play, followed by voice which was just as peculiar as its owner. Number 77 and 1 had ceased there internal discussion and decided to join in with the rest of them. Alaric sighed something about aiming for two and Nicholas wondered what he meant by that until 128 made some joke about his number being lower than all the rest of them. Nicholas figured that they were likely randomly assigned, given that the ranks thus far had no correlation to the value of the numbers on their clothes. Still, it would look strange if he remained silent after being directly referenced. ďDonít feel too sorry for me Ptolemy. Iím the only one with a higher number than you, so we arenít so far apart.Ē Nicholas smiled at the man although he looked unimpressed, but Nicholas was quickly getting the impression that he was rarely impressed by anything. ďAlternatively, perhaps my number being the largest means Iím most important. You never know!Ē Nicholas breathed deeply and his lips settled in the curves of a very slight smile. ďSince weíre doing introductions Iím Nicholas, but most just call me Nick.Ē Whilst they were all getting acquainted on a first name basis, Nicholas suspected whatever they faced next would try to beat their origins out of them. After all, if they were going to refer to them all by name they would have printed those on these clothes, not serial numbersÖ

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post #18 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-27-14, 03:08 AM
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Quote:
Suddenly a powerful voice comes into play.

"Stop your incessant bickering over rank. You're all under me."

It is the muscular red-haired candidate, number 077.

He continues, saying, "I am a captain."

The yellow eyed man across from him, number 001, smiles mischievously, still not looking at any of you but turning his face toward the floor as if he gave something away. Perhaps figuring it didn't matter, he raises his head back up in a flash and with a peculiar voice speaks next, "Yes. And I am a Colonel."

077 speaks again, "And why so worried about the 'men' of yours. They can't handle themselves against a bunch of unorganized fools trying to take advantage of anarchy in amongst the Hive's ruins? I'm sure you have all been adequately replaced, and that they are all doing...justfine."

"You should be more focused on yourselves. Your own well being." says 001.
128 glared through his obvious hangover and spoke , 'Do you think, rank matters, now? Don't delude yourselves, sirs,' He looked at 001, smiled, and winked. 'But, then, judging by that number of yours... You're important, aren't you?' Ptolemy laughed, just a little. 'I feel sorry for 272. Name's Ptolemy,' He tapped his chest with his index finger. 'Military Intelligence. Perhaps, just perhaps, introductions are in order.”

That the slurring foul-mouthed lout was a member of military intelligence spoke volumes about the irritating, often conflicting, and seemingly irrational reports he'd been relying upon. Small mercy that his network of informants allowed him alternate routes to obtaining necessary intel.

111 let go of Elsen's hand, a slight quirk to his lips hinting at a smile but lacking any mirth behind it, “Don’t feel too sorry for me Ptolemy. I’m the only one with a higher number than you, so we aren’t so far apart. Alternatively, perhaps my number being the largest means 'I’m' most important. You never know!” Nicholas breathed deeply and his lips settled in the curves of a very slight smile. “Since we’re doing introductions I’m Nicholas, but most just call me Nick.”

Snapping into a hasty salute, he faced his apparent commanding officer. “ Lieutenant Elsen Strab Von kerg, reporting for duty sir.”

None of his compatriots followed suit – a fact that troubled him deeply. Elsen was becoming increasingly convinced that he'd been roped into a suicide mission. Apparently neither gifted with any sort of respect for rank or burdened with even the slightest modicum of common sense. These seemed less and less like the best and brightest of His Imperial Majesties PDF and more like the dregs most easily disposed of when the chips went down.

With any luck his reputation would be enough to subdue some of their apparent distaste for authority. Elsen went to great lengths to keep his more interesting exploits under wraps but even he could not stop all rumors. His tenure in the northern provinces alone was the sort of thing troopers would tell each other around the campfire to scare new recruits.

It was common knowledge that he'd skewered a dozen men on pikes and left them to rot in the sun, drinking his tea in their shade as he watched them die. They'd be heretics and traitors who'd butchered children but the vid-capture of him at afternoon tea on blood soaked earth left an impression. It was the only publicly captured moment of his own brand of justice but far from the most colorful.

He was not ashamed of anything he'd done but the Imperial Code of Military Justice might have alternate interpretations of the proper conduct for a military officer. Burying his quartermaster alive for rape, shooting a Commissar between the eyes for executing a retreating soldier, or any one of a thousand other snap decisions would be cause enough for his summary execution.

“Sir,” He addressed the Captain, trying not to dwell on precisely what the Captian's definition of 'just fine' or 'acceptable losses' might be. “Why are we here?”
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Raucous laughter fills the chamber as 077 throws his head back, theatrically, and claps his hands together one time.

001, his yellow eyes still staring at seemingly all of you at once, says, "Apparently, 272 is the smarter one."

"Sit down fool!" yells 077. "Our associates told us the remaining numbers were all cunning individuals. I see now, they are so cunning that they can't even pick up on obvious sarcasm! not to mention queasy-belly over here! There is no way of telling what rank any of us really are. The only reason I know you're actually a lieutenant is because of your reputation among the ranks, Kerg. I know your face." He points to his own with his index finger as he says this.

"272 is right," he continues, "rank is meaningless here. They left us no way of designating it."

Suddenly, raising a long arm pointing two fingers, one of them at 051, and the other at the still awaking 048, 001 abruptly changes the subject saying, "These two...I bet these two don't make it."

Ptolemy looks over to him, becoming a bit stunned to find those intense eyes staring straight into him, as a hissing noise erupts from the walls and gas begins spilling into the chamber. Even as the cloud of gas begins to fill the air, 001 never breaks his stare with Ptolemy. Not even a blink.

All of you feel the effects within seconds, your bodies weakening and unable to respond to your brain's commands. Soon enough, there is enough gas in the room that seeing your hands in front of you is difficult. Some short moments afterward, everyone in the room is passed out cold.

-----------------

128's consciousness comes back to him first. Through glass-like material and bluish colors, he sees a dark figure in front of him, but it seems hunched over. There is no face to see, it being covered by a black cloak. Behind it, further on the floor below, a handful of other figures run across the floor, seemingly toward an exit. They are all large humanoids.

The figure in front of your glass suddenly stands up, and seems to notice that you are already conscious, swiftly turning away and following the others before you can get a good look.

128, 013, and 272:

The other two wake now as well, also seeing little but blue fluid and glass in front of them. All of you feel enormous amounts of pain. The fluid begins to drain toward your feet, and a countless number of cables detach from your bodies. Needles exit their insertions, and the rebreather-like device over your mouth and nose cutting off its function. There is no noise but the draining fluid, until another loud hiss hits your ears. The glass panel in front of you begins lifting and with it comes the pounding noise of an alarm. The room that unveils before you is dark, with red lights beating like a heart.

All three of your tanks open simultaneously and you can see the other two stumbling out of their own across the room from you, the white overhead lights in the tanks the only noticeable change in scenery from the red lights and shadows. None of you have any idea who the other two are. Automated servitors begin their apparent tasks, spraying you each down with chemicals of some kind, robotic arms swinging in to check you, and assisting in cable disconnection as the fluids stream down your legs, over your feet and down into the drain lines placed in the floor panel you now stand on.

There are five other tanks like the ones you just emerged from in this room. Two of them are at the far end, clearly already open with the white lights inside of them still shining brightly. Another is empty, but the glass panel has been violently shattered, and several ripped cables dangle out from the wreckage. Two tanks have yet to open, cast in a blue glow, still being filled with the fluid. You can make out figures inside of them, but cant gather any details. They mostly appear as shadows inside the fluid. One of them seems calm, as if simply not awake yet. However, the other one is struggling harshly; its hands and feet pounding soundlessly at the glass panel, to no avail.

You stand, shivering, looking over a walkway full of murders as a machine places a simple beige cloak over your form. Upon the grated walkway that meets your feet as you descend the short ramp leading away from the fluid tank lay several dead bodies. Some are humans in white medical uniforms, and others are heavily cybernetic individuals in dark red robes.

111:

When you come back into a state of consciousness, the first thing you feel is extremely intense heat. The burning hell of a hot poker going through your eye and moving around on the inside of your skull. Then all you can feel is cold. You manage to raise your head out of deep snow, and find your whole body half sunk into it. Its night here, windy beyond reason, and still snowing furiously, though most of it feels like tiny shards of ice. As you go to stand up, your legs fail you and you fall again. You notice large gashes and cuts on your red washed hand and arms. Frost has collected quickly on the parts of your mechanical limb, sticking to the drying and freezing blood. Your only clothing is some form of undergarment.

Some ways in the distance behind you is a bright light, coming from an opening in what appears to be a large structure of some kind. You can hear a thrumming siren coming from the building, and see only your footsteps in the snow leading from it.


All of you: You now have, for all intents and purposes, the body of an Astartes. However, you can hardly recall what your body was like before. In fact, you can hardly recall anything from before. Like most cases of amnesia, you will still understand the basic world around you. You can still talk and recognize the world around you and such, but your personal memories are pretty much blank right now. Your numbers are laser burned into your chest and shoulders. You are free to do what you want within reason but are limited to the spot I placed you in. If you choose to leave or go somewhere you can declare your character is heading in that direction but I will reveal if thats happens or where it leads in the next update. For example, 111 could choose to go back towards the building, but it would end there, todeswind not knowing what would be inside. Your post should include your character's reaction to the end of the scene in the white room, their point of view when regaining consciousness and the following decisions:

272, 128, and 013: Do you try to help the figures still in the tanks? How so? I will determine if this is successful based on whether or not Romero or Santaire let me know they still plan on posting. Regardless of that though, you can still have your character try to get them out.

Do you communicate with the other two at all? Do you interact with them at all? (remember to be careful when interacting with another player's character. Its easy to god mod with that. Check with me and the player before deciding if they actually touch the other player, and to see how the other would or would try to react. This always includes NPCs as well, as a side note).

Do you decide to stay in this room and figure out what the hell is happening or leave toward one of the exits on either side of the chamber? If you decide to leave, will it be at a slow and steady pace or a darting run?

111: Even though 077 says he is familiar with you, you know you have never met him before. Once you wake up and muse over the observations given, do you decide to try and continue your venture out into the snow storm and away from the building, or do you decide it would be smarter to head back? Your cybernetic parts have been adequately enhanced to accommodate for the changes in your biology.

You can never be prepared for the unexpected



Last edited by unxpekted22; 01-27-14 at 10:49 AM.
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post #20 of 54 (permalink) Old 01-27-14, 07:04 AM Thread Starter
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Before anyone can approach the tank with the struggling figure, its mechanisms finally give way.

048 comes out similarly to the rest of you, though shorter of breath and in seemingly even more pain than the rest of you.

You all can still choose to inspect the remaining tank with someone in it if you wish.



048, you're update is now the same as 128, 272, and 013's

You can never be prepared for the unexpected


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