[Action] Saviors of Chemorus - Page 4 - Wargaming Forum and Wargamer Forums
Roleplay Threads Strictly in character roleplay threads.

Reply
 
LinkBack Thread Tools Display Modes
post #31 of 54 (permalink) Old 02-23-14, 05:53 PM Thread Starter
visit roleplay threads!
 
unxpekted22's Avatar
unxpekted22's Flag is: USA
 
Join Date: Apr 2009
Location: Tennessee
Posts: 2,259
Reputation: 21
Default

048, 272, and 013:

As the smog continues to clear two things become apparent. The first are the broken, bloody bodies covering the floor around your feet, as all four of you take multiple lives in seconds. The second, is that the one with the number 128 printed into his chest and shoulder... has disappeared completely, no one seeing what has happened to him.

272 has one of the guards raised by the throat, interrogating him:

“…let’s start with who sent you and what your orders are.”

"Help! Help me! Aaagh!" yelled the guard, still wrapping his hands around 272's massive wrist.

"Help yourself. Tell me what I want to know."

No clear words come from the blank visor this time, merely muffled curse words and gagging sounds as he struggles for his life. A few shakes and a slight release to allow some extra oxygen in, seems to quickly bring back the focus. 272 Repeats his question, louder, angrier.

"Wha-what?! To stop...you're out early! You're not supposed to be awake yet! One of you, violent. Detain you, agh, and await, guh, further instructions! We're not here to kill you!"

"What have we woken early from?"

"Your surgery!"

"What is this place?"

"The Epsilon Complex."

"Where can we find armour or weapons? How many men like you are stationed here?"

"Help me! Hit him! Hit him!"

It is at this moment when the remaining guards who were attacking 128 have lost him and return to find their comrade in 272's grip. They instantly and relentlessly beat 272's spine, elbows and the backs of his knees. The convulsions are enough for the man to drop, who begins wheezing as he tries to breathe normally again, holding his own throat in his hands now.

013's voice suddenly rings out, "“We should fall back! Call out if you can hear me!”

272 is able to turn, intending on incapacitating these new guards. He sees 013's figure through the remaining smog, up against one of the walls defending himself. An object, a head still covered in the black of its helmet, flies past his own face coming from another direction entirely. 272 takes the second to look where it came from and sees 048 fighting as well, the headless body slumping to the floor and another in his grasp. The sound of a spine broken in two over 048's knee is perfectly audible.

The guard crawling on the floor holding his throat can be heard speaking into a comm link within his helmet.

"Second wave, second wave! We need reinforcements! All are violent!"

Another bundle of treaded boots comes running around a corner further down the hallway.

All three of you look and see a new wave of fresh guards, another 30 or so, and all of them carry weapons that don't look nearly as friendly as the batons. They hold guns, and not the dart shooting kind. Something in your memory understands this difference completely. Still fighting off the few remaining guards from the initial set, the three of you try to prepare for the coming assault.


Just as the new wave of guards begin to raise their weapons, they pass by another hallway perpendicular to them. Without warning of any kind, a salvo of bright red and purple flashes accompanied by dozens of whip-cracking sounds erupts from the hidden hallway, smothering the fresh wave of guards in blood and dust.

A handful of survivors wade through the settling dust as it clears, utterly dazed and confused; weapons held loose and hands covering wounds. They are in such shock that they don't even cry out in pain despite the blown off limbs and bleeding burn marks.

A blood curdling scream gives them no reprimand. A figure leaps into view from the adjacent hallway following the las-fire. It is humanoid, garbed in odd clothing and covered in strange markings. Three Arrows or spears of some kind are lodged into the skin of its bare back, the sharpened tips pointed outward, each with a skull skewered onto it.

In a fanatical fury, it begins tearing the survivors apart with a blade in each hand. Limbs are hacked off pieces at a time. Another being just like the first emerges from the hallway and joins its comrade, then another, and another....and another.

These are chaos devout cultists. Their robes are a blood red, with long golden arrows pointing towards the ground in various locations. None of you know what a cultist is, or what any of these symbols mean, despite all of you having fought plenty of them in the recent war. Perhaps something in your mind tells you that you should remember these symbols. By the time they are done mutilating the second wave of guards, you will have either finished off the first wave or let the remainder run off.

The cultists will immediately move in your direction next.

They are armed with las-weaponry, which you cant remember much about either but have just seen what it did to the guards, as well as swords and knives of various lengths and sizes.

You again have two options: Run or fight. Some communication might be helpful so the same thing doesn't happen that happened with 128, who disappeared when the rest of you thought everyone stayed to fight and some were left suddenly standing alone.


128:

You can't believe how easily you can run at such a speed. You told your body to move, but this was much more than you had expected in terms of output. Before you get a chance to look back, corners have already been turned and the scene behind you is a thing of the past, nowhere in sight. Your hands feel the walls and your eyes search every inch of the world as it unfolds in front of you. Its all so monotonous though.

Just as your right hand crosses over a panel by a door that actually turns blue, you hear a series of clapping bursts that lasts a few seconds, coming from the direction you fled.

The door slides open and you walk into a frigid room. Its some kind of shuttle bay, a hangar, with many empty spots and the smell of recent engine fumes. Despite the room being enclosed, you notice snow falling, fluttering about in the air. You walk closer to the remaining vessels, coming under a very large circular opening in the ceiling far above you, and with snow landing on your face you look up into a black night sky. Whoever left, or whoever was left behind, didn't bother to close the roof hatch.

You see movement at the edge of the circular portal.

Its hurried.

Its not aircraft, its people. Ropes. Far above you, dangle. They weren't there a second ago. Have you even blinked? They grow longer every moment, silently sliding into the hangar.

figures, coming in, climbing down the ropes.

Your heart had just stopped pounding from the running... two places. There is beating coming from two places in your chest as it picks back up again. No time to think about this now.

There are a few aircraft left. Two of them appear to be able to transport a small group of people. Another seems to be a pilot-only craft. You could try to take one but will it even work, or have fuel? Where would you go? Will you even know how to drive one? It may not even be a memory issue, you may have never piloted anything in the past. You have no idea. There is the door you came from. You can leave. You can try to hide and see what happens, or you can even stay right where you are and watch these figures climb down toward you, awaiting them.

111:

“Then you are not good men,” The man replied, the sweet scent of five men's blood and cordite still upon his nostrils, “Good men do not befriend monsters.”

Neither of them reply to this, but your keen eye notices a slight and sudden turn of the neck under one of their hoods.

The rest of the voyage is silent. They eventually bring you into a rather small room and lay you on a metal slab. You cannot turn your head to see what they are doing but you can feel one of them prodding you with metal instruments, inspecting your wounds. As you gaze toward the ceiling there is only white lamp light in here, presenting a break from the beating red lights of warning klaxons, but not necesarily a welcome one.

The second figure comes near the slab, but you are still unable to see his face clearly. The light above you is too bright, and his hood is still up.

He speaks to you again, "You're name is One-eleven. You have recently undergone extensive surgery. You woke up earlier than intended and fled in a violent rampage. The surgery made you much like one of us. We are part of a larger group here. We are the Obscurian Arms-men. There are others like you in this complex. All of you woke early but you were the first. They are being gathered as well."

The other turns you onto your side. You feel fingers wrap around the device in your back.

"I will release you of this paralysis. If you attack or run, the same outcome will be the result."

You feel the unnatural ripping away of the device, as if it is pulling out some of the nerves in your back, taking them with it as it is removed. You feel the flow of energy return to your face and fingertips, muscles realizing their liberation. You hear the sound of heavy breathing. The first thing you move is your neck, turning your head toward the sound.

Just inside the open doorway is a pale, horribly scarred man dressed in blood-red robes with long golden arrows pointing towards the floor on his right leg and left sleeve. You have no idea what the symbols mean. His mouth is open, his teeth are sharp. His eyes are crazed. Spiked bands wrap around his torso and neck, rusty looking blades hang at his sides.

The two Obscurian Arms-men hear it too. They turn around. The slightly shorter one who had inspected your wounds moves a hand toward something at his hip beneath his cloak.

The one who spoke to you raises his hand beneath his hood again, toward his ear. In a confused and concerned tone he says "Diatre... there's a-"

"I AM BLESSED THIS DAY! Oh god of gods, I praise thee! Your will be done! Shouts the odd man in a maddened voice. On the downbeat of the word 'done', his hand flies up, the baggy cloak sleeve sliding away to reveal a pistol that shines so brightly you're nearly forced to close your eyes. A bolt of blazing energy bursts forth from the smooth-shaped barrel, leaving a trail of blue-white wisps in the air it tore through.

The Arms-man who spoke turns away from the shot with incredible speed. The bolt burns through the section of cloak wrapped around his left arm, grazing the shoulder. The Arms-man yells in pain. The other grabbed hold of what he had been reaching for and threw it from its place on his hip to the middle of the attacker's forehead.

Only once its stuck in the attacker's skull do you see that it is a very large, serrated combat blade. One that actually suits the hands of 'your kind' unlike the one you found in the kitchen.

The red robed man, despite the blade imbedded several inches into his brain, takes a few steps forward.

"I prayed for this" he whispers, a slow, shaking hand taking hold of one of his swords. The same Arms-man pounces forward not giving him the chance, smashing him aside, sending a now broken body into the wall to break even more.

They turn to grab you, and shove you back out into the hallway. More people in the same red robes are running down the corridor in your direction. Seven to be exact. At this moment, down another hall across from you at the far end, you see a flash of beige colored clothing cross over. Its too distant and quick for you to have gathered what it was. The two Arms-men move to engage the charging psychopaths.

You can help the Arms-men fight the rest of this group. You can try to attack them again now that they have other opponents to deal with. You may attempt to flee. Do you mention the beige figure to the Arms-men? If you decide to run, do you go toward the corridor you saw this figure cross or in the only direction you have seen no movement at all?

You can never be prepared for the unexpected



Last edited by unxpekted22; 02-24-14 at 03:57 AM.
unxpekted22 is offline  
Sponsored Links
Advertisement
 
post #32 of 54 (permalink) Old 02-28-14, 05:01 PM
Senior Member
 
Deus Mortis's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jun 2009
Location: In a cell for revealing sensitive information regarding the Inquisition
Posts: 2,071
Reputation: 37
Default Saviors of Chemorus

"Help! Help me! Aaagh!" Two-Seven-Two kept his hand clamped dangerously tight round the guard’s oesophagus. The black carapace which protected the man’s fragile body splintered under the pressure from Two-Seven-Two’s bare hand and he saw hairline fractures creep up the man’s helmet from his neck. Two-Seven-Two’s eyes were pinned open as he held the man by his throat. A vicious and obscene joy rose in his chest at being able to hold such power over the guard. His lip twitched into a smirk before he smothered it. But he knew the guard had seen it, the slight crack in the façade. His voice turned softer but somehow more terrifying.
"Help yourself. Tell me what I want to know." The man’s hands were still clawing ineffectively at his wrist and arm, desperately searching for a pressure point which would release him from the giant’s murderous grasp.

The man didn’t speak for a few seconds, just more scratching, more struggling, more gagging. The fog around them was dissipating fast and Two-Seven-Two was growing impatient. “Who sent you? What are your orders?” Two-Seven-Two repeated his voice louder and more commanding, as if he needed that to intimidate this ‘human’. A realisation sounded like a tolling bell in the back of Two-Seven-Two’s mind. He saw a clear difference between this frail body in his grip and himself. They bore many similarities with one another, but the cascading revelation worked its way into every corner of Two-Seven-Two’s consciousness; He was superior and these humans were inferior. He tried to lightly shake the man, but the force his new body exerted was greater than he anticipated and he heard the man’s spine crack awkwardly and he was certain that if his subject survived this interrogation, he would have neck and spinal damage to live with.

However, a combination of this, his voice lacing every word with murderous promise and his towering physique loosened the man’s tongue finally. "Wha-what?! To stop...you're out early! You're not supposed to be awake yet! One of you, violent. Detain you, agh, and await, guh, further instructions! We're not here to kill you!"
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” Two-Seven-Two remarked with a dry laugh. There was no time to dawdle on what might have been if they had not brandished weapons and charged their group. The man was talking and Two-Seven two would extract every ounce of information he could.
"What have we woken early from?"
"Your surgery!" Well, he had guessed that much, but at least it was confirmed that they were not always like this. It was their re-birth.
"What is this place?"
"The Epsilon Complex." The name meant nothing to him, but it might be useful if he could access a computer terminal or information of some sorts.
"Where can we find armour or weapons? How many men like you are stationed here?"
"Help me! Hit him! Hit him!"

Two-Seven-Two dropped the man, his body crumpling into a heap as he held his own damaged throat. Two-Seven-Two’s body sprang into action, ready to meet his next opponents. A group of three guards were almost on him, their batons already swinging. The blows connected with his elbow, back and knee. The spasms forced him to grunt in pain. The guards wound their arms back, ready for another punishing series of blows, but Two-Seven-Two was already moving. A flat-palmed strike caved on of the guard’s chest-plate and knocked the man onto his back, the armour that was supposed to protect him cutting into the meat of his chest and making breathing torturous. Thirteen’s voice carried, asking for verbal recognition. Before he could respond a severed head, violently torn from the rest of the body, flew towards Two-Seven-Two. It struck one of the guards, the impact and shock of the projectile staggering him. There was an audible crack and he knew that Forty-Eight had broken some poor bastards spine. At least they could fight.

Two-Seven-Two wasted no time capitalising on the loss of one combatant. A powerful strike to the gut of other guard broke more armour and burst internal organs from the force of it. Two-Seven-Two grabbed the man’s shoulders and brought the guard’s face crashing into his knee. The force of the impact broke the man’s jaw and snapped the neck back to an unnatural angle. He let got and the man’s limp body fell to the floor. The other guard had just got over the initial shock of being hit by a comrade’s head when he had to face Two-Seven-Two. The man froze. Most of his friends were dead or painfully incapacitated. Two-Seven-Two didn’t attack him. “You don’t have to die here.” He said, his eye fixing the man to the spot. “Lay down your weapons and we can end this. No one else has to die.” The guard’s grip on his weapon faltered and began to drop to a passive stance.

Two-Seven-Two could hear the foot-falls of the second wave of guards coming towards them. The guns they brandished were not the docile dart guns their comrades had wielded. These were violent weapons meant for nothing other than to maim and kill. At the guns-sights of thirty men began to line up on them, Two-Seven-Two began to think that Thirteen was right and One-Two-Eight had already thought the same. However, Two-Seven-Two knew these men wanted them and they wanted them alive. His interrogation had told him that much. He wouldn’t die here, but there was no guarantee that a worse fate did not await him.

As the second wave passed a corridor perpendicular to them, something totally unexpected happened. Absolute carnage ensued. Multiple lances of red and purple beams decimated the carefully ordered ranks of guards. Blood and ash smoothed the survivors as they waded disinterestedly through the cloud of death around them. Their eyes glazed over in shock and their feet kept moving although their minds seemed to have forgotten their purpose. A maniac issuing a demented screech launched himself from the hallway, the blades in his hands taking the guards apart. The screaming maniac was covered in strange clothes and odd symbols, something in Two-Seven-Two’s mind knew he should remember them and be repulsed by them. And yet, their cursive strokes and voluptuous curves were more alluring than Two-Seven-Two would feel comfortable admitting.

One of the last guards from the first wave staring in abject horror as this madman and those that followed him tore his comrades and friends to pieces with savage glee. “Run, you fool!” Two-Seven-Two barked at the man, the guard’s attention snapping back to him. “Run, and tell your superiors we won’t attack unless attacked first. That might have saved many lives today.” The man paused for a moment and then his frail legs took him as far and as fast from the erupting madness as they could. “I think you’re right Thirteen; we shouldn’t stay here. Forty-Eight, let’s move!” Two-Seven-two asserted out of some inherent idea that he could wield authority although no one had given it to him.

Two-Seven-Two picked up a limp corpse from the charnel-house floor. Making two full revolutions with the corpse in his arms, like some macabre school-ground game, Two-Seven-Two let the body fly into the approaching hoard of maniacs. It spun in the air and ploughed into the screaming hoard rushing towards them, absorbing several hits from their laser-based weaponry, before knocking four or five off their feet under its dead weight. As it spun, Two-Seven-Two was already running towards the group. One tried to rush him with its swords bared. Two-Seven-Two sidestepped the first of the slashes before grabbing the arm. He twisted it violently so it dislocated, causing the madman to drop the weapon and make a noise approximating a dying animal.

What was a sword in the human’s hand resembled a mere dagger in Two-Seven-Two’s but that didn’t make it any less effective at cleaving through the man’s throat. He kept pushing through, slashing not to kill but to clear a path. Severed limbs were all he left in his wake. One man charged him, brandishing a laser-pistol and another sword. Whatever madness possessed him wasn’t enough to let him ignore a sword cleaving through his abdomen. The strength robbed from his body, both sword and pistol fell from his grasp. Two-Seven-Two scooped up the pistol from the floor and continued his bloody path through the crowd. His hand naturally guided the pistol to deadly shots, another talent left over from his previous life.

Two-Seven-Two burst out the other side of the jabbering ecstatic hoard and kept running, expecting Thirteen and Forty-Eight to follow. If they had been armoured, they could have one that fight, but almost naked as they were, it would be suicide to fight against a foe with apparently nothing to lose and only seemed to revel in pain. If they followed them, then the guards could call reinforcements. At least they weren’t trying to kill them, and they actually knew what had happened to him and what his purpose was. That made them an ally, and hopefully the one he let go would relay his message. Two-Seven-Two fired shots behind him as he ran, still able to drop foes despite the difficulty of the shots. He tore down the corridor, expecting to easily outstrip the mere humans and be left with only his peers…

My contribution to the Renegades saga. Check it out

My growing IIIrd legion stuff:

17th Millenial (Homebrew Fluff) - "Children of the Emperor, death to his foes!" (Project Log)

Also my 30k tacticas, for those of you interested:

Crusade Army List tactica - Individual Legion tactica

Quote:
Originally Posted by Angel of Blood View Post
And for two fucking grand, I could buy enough rum and hookers to 'artistically' recreate the better part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Last edited by Deus Mortis; 03-21-14 at 12:29 PM.
Deus Mortis is offline  
post #33 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-01-14, 05:52 AM
Senior Member
 
dark angel's Avatar
dark angel's Flag is: Wales
 
Join Date: Jun 2008
Location: Wales
Posts: 2,996
Reputation: 11
Default

He was running, running, running. Walls melted and blurred, the floor became a featureless, grey spread. So quick, so impossibly quick. The pain in his body, the smoldering in his muscles, in his lungs and heart and throat, had cooled into a gentle ember. One-Two-Eight's fingers reached out, brushed against a door panel - It bleeped, turned red, and remained closed. He growled, frustrated, and rammed his fist into the metal. Everything was sterile-white, here. The stink of disinfectants had returned, replacing the stench of blood, of murder, that clung to One-Two-Eight like a cloak.

One-Two-Eight continued onwards, twisting around corners, crossing gangways, entering storage bays. Empty storage bays, ones that had been cleared of equipment and left to time's inexorable grasp. Strange, One-Two-Eight mused, as he left the room, still running. He was attempting, and succeeding, to place as much distance between the hostile forces and himself as possible. What of the others, his triumvir of giants, his momentary companions? Had the enemy beat them black-and-bloody? Had they captured them? Were they dead? Had they escaped?

Who knew? Who cared?

Another access panel. One-Two-Eight's hand danced across it, and it illuminated. Blue.

There was a noise behind him, one that he knew instinctively - Bouncing off of the walls in the direction which One-Two-Eight had fled - Gunfire He smiled, he couldn't help it. Those poor, brain-dead fools. They should have run, much like One-Two-Eight had, until there was a labyrinth between the black-clad assailants and themselves. Instead they had stayed, fought on, and paid for it dearly. One-Two-Eight was sure, as he entered the cold, dimly-lit chamber, that their blood now warmed the flooring, ran through the gratings in bright, sticky rivulets. A pity, he had started to enjoy the company of Two-Seven-Two.

This chamber was massive, lighted by lume-strips on the ceiling and walls, though many now flickered and struggled. It stank of promethium, of other, more obscure fuels. There were vehicle-cradles lining the walls, access ladders and tool carts surrounding them. Some had been tipped over, shattered. The entire area, however, was bloodless - A good sign. No-one had died here, which meant, if temporarily, One-Two-Eight was safe.

He leaned over, gripping his knees, and spat on the floor. There was a throbbing in his chest, pounding like a pair of drums- Pair? One-Two-Eight furrowed his brow, placing a palm against his muscular breast, and cringed. Something wasn't right, there were two beats, but he had no time to worry about that, now. He had no idea how long it would take for those men, those murderous pursuers, to catch him. He still held the electro-rod, like a baton, in his other hand. It shimmered, blue light dancing along its length, hissing and spitting as it touched the air.

Nearby, built into the wall, was a suit of grav-armour. It was midnight-blue, streaked with scarlet, all reflective surfaces. There was a faceless, bulky helmet on a shelf nearby - The mouth and nose replaced by a large, grilled rebreather. Auto-pumps and cardio-centrifuges, to compensate for a pilot's circulation, were attached to the grav-amour. It allowed the pilot to perform wilder, more daring aerial maneuvers - Without causing the body serious harm. How, or why, One-Two-Eight understood this, he could not tell.

Idling nearer still, were a pair of vehicles. His salvation.

One was large, bulky, with folded wings and open hatchways - Some form of shuttle.

The other caught One-Two-Eight's eye immediately. It was sleek, angular, painted the same, handsome colours as the grav-armour; with swept-back wings, like a falcon, and a tinted dome. Teeth were painted over the prow of the vehicle - Some form of interceptor - As were eight tiny, golden Aquilae. Kill-markings, the pride and joy of some pilot, One-Two-Eight concluded. He started towards the interceptor, staring up at the falling snow. A large, circle entryway was carved through the rock of the mountain, or wherever One-Two-Eight lurked.

And then he saw them. Ropes, unfolding like serpents, and then dark, bulky figures. There were over a dozen of them, probably more, each rappelling downwards. Friend or foe, One-Two-Eight wondered, as he stared up at them. He didn't care. He wasn't about to take the risk.

He spun on his heel, two great leaps bringing him upon the grav-armour, and began to assemble it around his body. His fingers were deft, unfaltering, clicking parts together, checking over seals, lowering the helmet over his head. He was in the fighter within a few seconds, sliding onto the hard, uncomfortable seat. His newly acquired grav-armour integrated with the interceptor, and the vehicle became an extension of One-Two-Eight. He gripped the controls, a single rod, and felt the engines roar into life.

One-Two-Eight tested the fighter, spinning it around. He rested the interceptor's prow upon the shuttle, stroking the firing stud. What kind of weapons did this thing have?

Attention: Target found...

Target found...

Target found...

One-Two-Eight snapped out of it. There were men coming down through the hanger's roof, potentially hostiles.

And he would rise to meet them, on wings of death.

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?'
dark angel is offline  
 
post #34 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-02-14, 01:00 AM
Senior Member
 
Myen'Tal's Avatar
Myen'Tal's Flag is: USA
 
Join Date: Sep 2009
Location: Tennessee
Posts: 626
Reputation: 58
Default

Thirteen remained in a defensive stance, looking for some sign that anyone had heard him. When the gas clouds cleared, he estimated the body count somewhere around eighteen. Forty-eight, Two-seventy-two, and himself stood triumphant over a mound of dead sprawled across the floor in various, unnatural angles. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and began wheezing with hysterical laughter. “We won? Maybe we could take on a few dozen more…”

"Help! Help me! Aaagh!” He stepped forward to join Two-Seventy-Two, who had a guard’s neck caught in a steel-vice grip. Soft words of interrogation filled the halls once choked with the cries of battle. The guard quivered and desperately struggled against the larger man’s grip. Thirteen kept his silence, observing the dramatic scene run its course expectantly. The whimpering human spilled his guts in the span of a couple breaths.

The strangled man was beginning to panick. “Detain you, agh, and await, guh, further instructions! We're not here to kill you!"

Two-Seventy-Two cackled lamely. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it. What have we woken early from?"

The guard spat through a rapidly closing throat. "Your surgery!"

"What is this place?"

"The Epsilon Complex."

"Help me! Hit him! Hit him!"

A fresh wave of adversaries rushed into the struggle, too late in Thirteen’s opinion. Three of them split off to strike down Two-Seventy-Two, while others assaulted Forty-Eight somewhere in the chaos. He fell back on the heel of his foot, visibly dislocating the foremost attacker’s head from the neck with a high kick. The corpse fell back into his comrades, who tripped over themselves trying to maneuver around the spasm-stricken corpse. Thirteen pressed his advantage, slid to his left, and smashed the helm from an assailant’s face with a haymaker. The kinetic force behind the blow was enough to throw him back first onto the floor, weeping blood from his mouth and nostrils.


The last man willing to brave certain death feigned an over the shoulder strike, cracking his baton over Thirteen’s overextended knee as he tried to dodge. Thirteen nearly collapsed trying to regain his balance. The lone security guard leapt on him with a flurry of blows, each connection with the steel edge of the baton leaving black bruises along his biceps and skull. He didn’t shout out in pain, instead bore the wave of spasms shocking his muscles through bared teeth. His attacker proved relentless, hammering down repeatedly as if he were striking an anvil.

Thirteen leapt off his good leg and swept his kneecap into his foe’s own. He leaped over the baton wielding guard the moment he collapsed. He brought his elbows down repeatedly over the thrashing man’s chest and stomach until he fell from consciousness. No more immediate attacks around him, the giant picked himself up, and wiped the sweat from his brow.



A stampede of more facility security came rushing into sight, armed to the teeth with more than just batons and tranquilizers. He braced himself into a combat stance, knowing it would give him no advantage over that amount of firepower. Thirteen nearly screamed, “brace yourselves!” before an abrupt tirade of destruction swept through the detachment. Thirteen winced at the carnage, laser fire pouring through an adjacent path the guards needed to cross to capture their targets. The security teams went down in a matter of seconds, by strangely robed figures, adorned with wicked looking symbols and icons. Crazed men and women wielding knives and daggers charged headlong into the survivors. None could stand up to them. Neither could the three giants, Thirteen surmised, unless by some miracle the enemy began slaughtering each other.


The moment they finished with their initial prey, the horde immediately turned to the three astartes. Fanatics stormed the halls, close quarter weapons catching the wine red light that basked the corridor. Thirteen braced himself to receive their charge, hands raised to intercept the first cleaving strikes. Then Two-Seventy-Two appeared before him, hefting somebody’s corpse. He watched Two-Seventy-Two whirl around twice, mustering momentum, before he flung the fallen foe into the seething press of bodies.

Two-Seventy-Two bolted into the gap he had made, soon getting lost in a tide of bodies and thrashing arms. He didn’t think twice, Thirteen ran hard after the trail his comrade forged with unseen blows and irresistible force. He glanced over his shoulder, colliding into the motley rabble. He shouted at the missing brother. “Forty-Eight, come on!” With bio-engineered strength, Thirteen stiff-armed half a dozen weaklings at once. The odd dare devil writhed and screamed, their organs minced with hasty blows quickened by a sense of urgency. The further he pushed, the more Two-Twenty-Eight’s trail seemed to vanish.

Thirteen cursed himself in a breath. “Just keep forward, Thirteen.”

Last edited by Myen'Tal; 03-03-14 at 10:14 PM.
Myen'Tal is offline  
post #35 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-06-14, 05:24 AM
Senior Member
 
Join Date: Mar 2010
Posts: 446
Reputation: 11
Default

He truly wanted to hate the men who had taken him – it seemed like the proper thing to do – but he couldn't find it within himself to muster the necessary vitriol for the men. To have been defeated so utterly in such a miniscule period of time was utterly shameful. The indignity of being captured by the two soldiers was as nothing to the sheer shame of being sat down like a petulant child and lectured on his poor behavior.

The first man spoke , "You're name is One-eleven. You have recently undergone extensive surgery. You woke up earlier than intended and fled in a violent rampage. The surgery made you much like one of us. We are part of a larger group here. We are the Obscurian Arms-men. There are others like you in this complex. All of you woke early but you were the first. They are being gathered as well."

It was possibly a lie but it would hardly matter – he had no frame of reference to gauge the truth of it. They seemed roughly proximate to him in size and musculature, though he could nary divine the particulars of their faces. 111 wasn't a normal name for a man to have – that much he knew – but in the absence of choice he would accept it.

The other turns him onto his side. He feet fingers wrap around the device crippling him.

The man spoke again, "I will release you of this paralysis. If you attack or run, the same outcome will be the result."

111 growled in irritation at the jibe, but knew that it was true. He was not fast enough or strong enough to subdue the pair of them.

The man removed the device, a blissful sensation of freedom washing over 111 all at once as his body was once again his own. He shuddered in exaltation at finally not being powerless any more. He would have his retribution someday, but he could wait. He was patient. A time would come.

He whipped his head around at the sound of heavy breathing, discovering the most strangely clothed man he'd seen in his admittedly short memory. A pale, horribly scarred man dressed in blood-red robes with long golden arrows pointing towards the floor on his right leg and left sleeve grinned with a mouth full of cracked and pointed teeth.

The presence of the man had not gone unnoticed by the Arms-men. The shorter man spoke in apprehension, “Diatre.... there's a -”

It was at that moment that a curiously dressed man cloaked in crimson robes chose to interrupt any attempts 111 might have made at gathering information to fire at the Armsmen. "I AM BLESSED THIS DAY! Oh god of gods, I praise thee! Your will be done!”

The Arms-man who spoke turned away from the shot with incredible speed. The bolt burned through the section of cloak wrapped around his left arm, grazing the shoulder. The Arms-man yells in pain. The other grabbed hold of what he had been reaching for and threw it from its place on his hip to the middle of the attacker's forehead.

Only once its stuck in the attacker's skull did you see that it was a very large, serrated combat blade. One that actually suits the hands of 'his kind' unlike the one he found in the kitchen.

The red robed man, despite the blade imbedded several inches into his brain, took a few steps forward.

"I prayed for this" he whispered, a slow, shaking hand taking hold of one of his swords. The same Arms-man pounces forward not giving him the chance, smashing him aside, sending a now broken body into the wall to break even more.

They turned to grab him, and shoving him back out into the hallway. More people in the same red robes are ran down the corridor in his direction. Seven to be exact. At this moment, down another hall across from you at the far end, he saw a flash of beige colored clothing cross over. Its too distant and quick for him to have gathered what it was. The two Arms-men move to engage the charging psychopaths.

111, naked and covered in the dried blood, blinked in momentary confusion as the Obscurian arms men charged the robed septet. Laughing like an absolute loon, 111 reached down to the mangled remnants of man-flesh splattered across the corridor to pull the blade from the fragmented puddle of skull and grey matter. The blade fit snugly in his hand, wet from fresh gore and seemingly begging for the keen edge to find new prey. It was like finding a lost part of himself – he ran his augmentic fingers across the edge, letting off a small shower of sparks where flinty imperfections met cool adamatine enforced steel.

The Arms-men, his supposed allies, charged their foes with a preternaturally clinical elegance in staunch defiance of their broad physique. The wounded man and Diatre were predators in their own right. 111 watched in curious approbation as Diatrie grabbed one of his attackers by the wrist, planting a hand below the mans elbow and yanking upward in a greatly satisfying squelch of cracking bone. It should have been enough to subdue the man but they too possessed of the mad fervorous power which sustained the first of their ilk. It took Diatre grabbing the man's head by the jaw and twisting a full 180 degrees to subdue the man, and even lamed upon the ground he continued to gargle in mad glee as he slowly suffocated.

Yes. These men were predators – fellow monsters, fellow murders. And these – things – had deigned to try and kill him? 111's mad cackle bubbled from his lips again, “It seems an education is in order.”

Bounding down the corrdior, 111 ducked beneath the scimitar of a crimson figure. Catching the blade along it's cross guard with his metal forearm he brushed the weapon aside digging the blade up from groin to gullet. He jerked back in surprise when – contrary to all logic – the man continued to swing his blade even as he stepped upon his own mangled bowels, gurgling some sort of feverish prayer. He planted his foot in the man's bisected torso and kicked him towards the figure standing to the smaller Arms-man's wounded side.

The charging figure shouted in surprise as 150lbs of bleeding carcass collided with him, knocking him to the side as he attempted to fire a pistol. A whip-crack of ionized air sailed over the Arms-man's head as he used his combat blade to fillet a robed man, disarming his blade grabbing him by the wrist and simply cutting the sword arm from the robed man's torso. He was decapitated in short order.

111 leapt upon the prone man, knocking the wind from him even as he climbed from beneath his compatriot's bleeding carcass. He grabbed the man's scalp and sliced his throat, taking care to sever the spine to make sure the bastard actually died. He howled in annoyance as a whip-crack of light clipped his shoulder, searing a centimeter hole through his bicep.

He was robbed of his retribution by Diatre's pistol shot to the robed man's cranium, splattering his brains across the annoyed faces of the remaining duo of robed figures. The pistol packing pair fired upon the trio of giants only to find empty air where they had once been. As Diatre fired another shot through a man's cranium 111's talons found their way around the naked throat of the last surviving member of their attackers. He slammed the man to the ground, crushing the man's left wrist with one hand as he severed the fingers of the right hand with the other. A swift second swipe of the blade into the man's groin, twisting up and inward to break the spine, and his legs ceased to flail as well.

He ignored the lamed man's impotent struggles for freedom as he looked up at the Obscurian Arms-men. Digging deeply in the man's throat with his talons, 111 asked Diatre. “Any reason to keep this one alive for questioning or are we just planning on going after the one who got away?”
Todeswind is offline  
post #36 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-10-14, 04:57 PM
Reaper of Souls
 
Santaire's Avatar
Santaire's Flag is: United Kingdom
 
Join Date: Feb 2011
Location: England
Posts: 1,303
Reputation: 4
Default

I noted 128 ruffling through the robes and cloaks of several of the bodies, presumably looking for a weapon. He appeared to find nothing of significance, at least from where I was standing. The corpses didn’t look like those of warriors. At the same time 272 moved over to the other tank and rapped on the glass and 013 also examined it. The figure inside didn’t move.

When 128 finally stood from his rummaging through the dead, he was holding a mechanical arm that appeared to have been ripped from one of the dead bodies, probably one of the red-robes. A club. I also examined the bodies but found nothing else that could serve as a weapon. Looked like 128 would have the advantage if it came to a fight. He and 272 made to leave and after a moments consideration I followed, as did 013. Both sides of the room had a double door entry, one locked and sealed and the other wide open. The doors were thick and metal, armoured it seemed. Armoured to keep us in or something else out?

They remained in their open position as we slipped through into a large open corridor though even before we did so the sound of pounding feet on metal gratings was obvious. The next sound to assault my senses was a series of thuds. The red warning lights on the can-shaped projectiles that landed lit up and the canisters started violently spewing gas

I instinctively covered my eyes but soon realised that the gas seemed to have had no effect beyond a tiny blurring of my vision. Why did I cover my eyes? I remembered nothing of these canisters but the instinct was still there to protect my eyes from them. I had a feeling that somewhere inside of me I still knew, but that the knowledge was almost hiding itself from me. My thoughts were disturbed by a single word from beyond the gas. “Fire.”

The command was distinctive and was immediately followed by dozens of tranquilizer darts piercing the gas clouds. Several struck me, injecting their payload but I was unaffected, ripping them free and dropping back into a stance I instinctively knew was designed to give me the maximum amount of options against a foe. I paced forward alongside the others into a thinning area of the smog where we were immediately charged by a roughly two-dozen black armoured men wielding batons.

The first to reach me swung his baton and caught me on the right forearm. I hissed in shock as electricity coursed through my body but even as the man raised his baton to strike me again my left fist took him in the gut, my right foot swept his feet out from under him and my right elbow sent him crashing to the floor, definitely unconscious and quite possibly dead. Another man charged me and took a four fingered strike to the solar plexus that punched through his flesh even as 013 shouted “We should fall back! Call out if you can hear me!” I drew my hand out, my fingers dripping with blood and spun, kicking him in the chest and sending him flying back.

I caught his falling stun baton in my right hand and smashed another black armoured figure across the head with it. The result was not quite what I was expecting. His head was smashed clean off, flying to where 272 had turned to fight another few men who had been fighting 128 before the other man ran.

I grabbed another by the shoulder and the hip and flipped him up, bringing him cracking down over my raised knee and shattering his spine. The sheer power of my body was incredible and I revelled in what I could do, shoulder-barging a man back so that he flew into a group of three of his fellows. All four climbed to their feet soon after, but I found it easy to recognise signs of fear and that they were winded.

I heard another voice then. "Second wave, second wave! We need reinforcements! All are violent!"

I looked and saw another wave of guards, at least thirty and every single one of them carried weapons that looked no-where near as friendly as the stun-batons and dart guns carried by their predecessors. Smashing the head of another guard off the wall so hard that the front of his helmet and presumably his skull within went flat I prepared for the coming assault.

But it seemed this new wave of reinforcements would be short lived as the running guards were gunned down from a side corridor, swathed in blood and dust. The few survivors staggered dazed and confused form the carnage but a blood curdling scream was easily audible and a barely human figure leapt from the corridor from which the gunfire had come. The creature, three arrows or spears of some kind lodged into the skin of its bare back, the sharpened tips pointing outwards, each with a skull skewered onto it promptly began to tear the survivors apart. It was followed by another of its kind and still more of them ran screaming into the main corridor to flense the men who had withstood the wave of gunfire. Their robes were a blood red, with long golden arrows pointing towards the ground in various locations.

The robes seemed familiar, something in my mind telling me that I should remember the symbols but whatever memory it was, it was just out of reach.

Gazing in abject horror at the creatures, I let the remainder of the first wave of guards flee. The creatures were armed with las pistols, a weapon I couldn’t truly remember anything about short of the name and what they had done to the guards. They also carried swords and knives of various lengths and sizes.

272 was the first to speak after this new development. “I think you’re right Thirteen; we shouldn’t stay here. Forty-Eight, let’s move!” The man seemed to assume command, something that I felt somehow unhappy about, my hackles rising. Why would I resent someone taking charge? Who had I been before this? “Aye,” I agreed anyway. “We need to run, now. We can’t kill all of these things.”

I prepared to charge the men, knowing instinctively that I could simply retreat down the corridor. They would gun me down before I’d gone twenty paces. No, I needed to go through them. “Stay apart,” I growled, loud enough that the others could hear me. “If we stay together, they’ll swamp and butcher us.”

Not knowing whether they had listened I sprinted forward.

A body flew past me, thrown probably by 272 as I noted the man pounding alongside me in the corner of my eye. 013 was close behind 272, following the other man into the gap the thrown body had made. “Fool,” I hissed. “Even if 272 gets through they’ll jump you.”

I hit the line of creatures like a battering ram, charging shoulder first and carrying the lead one back, deep into the blood-thirsty rabble. The spears on his back skewered several of his companions and I snatched the pistol from his grasp. My first shot took a cultist in the face as he swung a sword at me, my second and third ones sent the cultist directly before me to his knees as I blew first his right and then his left kneecaps out.

Kicking him in the face I dropped the pistol and stepped over his mangled, headless body, continuing to pound through the enemy line. I broke out after 013 and 272, sprinting after them as hard and as fast as I could.

We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment - and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.
— Flemeth

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.
Santaire is offline  
post #37 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-10-14, 11:08 PM Thread Starter
visit roleplay threads!
 
unxpekted22's Avatar
unxpekted22's Flag is: USA
 
Join Date: Apr 2009
Location: Tennessee
Posts: 2,259
Reputation: 21
Default

048 272 and 013:

While barging through the initial group, all of you are hardly able to notice that still more of these men emerge from the side corridor they originated from

048 and 013 sucessfully manage to push through the first wave and begin to follow 272's desperate footsteps.

You are all successful in quickly putting distance between yourselves and these madmen. Those of which were not toppled or killed, as well as the newcomers, take quick advantage of this, having much experience in the field of war.

They raise their twisted looking las-guns (both pistols and rifles) and open fire.

All of you feel several blazing lacerations sear into your backs, arms, and legs. The pain, on top of the pain still felt from your bodies trying to compensate for the surgeries and the early tank release, is simply too much to bare.

All three of the giants fall to their knees. Ash-like holes appear in your flesh in the middle of bloodless las-wounds.

Looking behind you, you will see an entire crowd of red-robed madmen advancing toward you, some laughing now as they do so, walking over their dead without a care in the world; blood-lust in their eyes. Dozens of las-rifles are aimed at you.

One of these crazed men walks up calmly beside 272's shaking form, dancing his fingers over the muscly fore-arm. The small hand makes its way to the las-pistol he had stolen.

"I'm pretty sure I just saw you steal this from my dead friend over there." He points with his other hand. His voice turns into a monstrous snarl, "Thief! How dare you put your disgusting hands on something that belongs to us. Thief! Scoundrel! Kleptomaniac!"

Droplets of saliva, are showering 272's jawline...

the man snatches the pistol from 272's hand, too weak to fight him off.

Another one speaks as the first holds the pistol to 272's temple,

"The Lord of Change watches over us, and it is to him that we give these grand gifts,"
In his peripheral, 272 notices that 048 and 013 have pistols held to their own heads as well.

The large group in the background repeats this, much like a choir over the still sounding alarm filling the corridor

"We do His work in this place, as we emit change into the plans and lives of others. Others with-"

The speaker's body becomes pulverized, as do those holding the weapons to your heads. The two of you look up, finding four figures covered in pitch-black cloaks. They step past you, the immediate threat clear, and reveal bulky, large barreled guns from beneath their clothes. In the corridor, their firing is deafening. Much louder than the las weapons. The crowd of madmen is decimated, blown apart by the ammunition in seconds, soaking the entire section of hallway in gore.

The three of you keel over, passed out.

-----------



128:

You feel the engines of the interceptor engage in a hovering maneuver, making the cockpit shiver. You see the walls and objects around you begin to shrink away, and almost immediately, the prow of your vehicle is peppered with bullets. Soon after come las-rounds, but your plane manages to keep ascending toward the open portal in the roof. Fire begins striking the fighter on all sides, you stretch your neck in the tight compartment you have placed yourself in, turning it, seeing enough to realize that your new enemies dangle above you in a giant circle amongst the falling snow. It appears they have stayed their ropes, keeping in place so they can fire at you.

Sooner than you would have expected, and likely them as well, you rise to meet them. You become level with the first of them, and can now see they were at various timings in their descent. You look at the weapons screen again. One says bolt cannon and another says twin-las. You notice you can cycle them with your thumbs on the drive controls. The buttons on the tops of these sticks... well one could only assume.

You may open fire on them, but may only use the las-cannons twice. As you ascend you will keep becoming level with enemies who hadn't gotten as far down yet. If you begin firing, you may notice some of them put their guns away and begin to scramble, continuing to go down or back up.

Near the roof hatch, A body lands on the prow. Thick brown boots, and red robes beneath a blood soaked over-coat, most of it dried. The person wears a large face mask and a fur-edged hood. Fat hoses run from the mouth area of the mask down to the collar bones and over the shoulders under the coat into something on his back, you guess. On each of his shoulders is a yellow oval with an eye in the center and eight arrows pointing from it, the bottom most arrow continuing all the way down each arm past the elbow.

He looks straight at you and yells something muffled. He brings an auto-stubber to bear and opens fire. The outer layers bullet proof glass burst apart, shattering like ice with the torrent of close range fire. Some start to make it through, the clashing of the guns mechanisms never ceasing. Rounds strike your shoulders and chest. Bursts of blood fly out of the grav-suit.

The man stops firing and through the glass you see the magazine drop and fall off the side of the prow. As he begins to put in another one, someone else drops onto the prow directly behind the first, causing the engines to give a bit, ceasing your ascent. A spinning saw blade tears clean through the gunner's torso, drenching the entire front half of the fighter in blood. Then a cybernetic arm punches through the glass, its owner's head coming in with it. The only part of its face that is flesh is the upper right section from the eye upward.

"Please land this craft Savior. There is no where for you to go out there. The complex will be safe soon. These Oracle devils have succumbed to our counter strike."

This strange being notices you are weakening, and with one arm and backwards takes the controls from you and helps land the fighter.

Moments later you will be back out of the fighter standing in the freezing hangar. The temperature not seeming to bother these red hooded robot men in the slightest, who know stand around you in the dozens. They bare a Skull insignia on their forms, half bone and half mechanical in design. They will mutter some things you wont hear very well. Then you will be walking towards the doorway you entered from, the group seeming to guard you, and then you will blackout.

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


111:


The Arms-man in front of you, looks his hidden face into yours and says simply, "He won't be a problem."

On the mark, shots are fired from around the corner where the last cultist had fled. Emerging in his place come a group of eight beings that are also wearing red robes, but are mostly mechanical. They hold various weapons, both long ranged and melee, some of which seeming to be fully integrated to their bodies as extra limbs. Though thinner than you and the Arms-men, they are roughly the same height as you. They all wear a common symbol: a half bone, half mechanical skull on top of a cog.

The apparent leader of the group approaches without hesitation, nodding towards you, saying, "This is the one that made it outside?"

"It is," says one of the Arms-men, "He wasn't conscious when he did it, though."

"Perhaps that makes it more impressive, then?" replies the cybernetic individual through a grated vocalizer, "Imagine what he could do then, once trained and conscious.

His voice turns rather dark for a moment, and you can't quite tell because of his mechanical tones, but it sounds angry, even, when he says to the Arms-men, "Use your brains."

"I see he did fine in killing these little minions as well," he indicates the dead men splattered about the hallway, unless this is the fine handiwork of just you two."

The other Arms-man replies this time, "A clever thing, removing your tongue before anyone could cut it out from your weeping mouth."

The cybernetic being seems to chuckle. "Thank you, Grenadiv, it was clever wasn't it. I used my brain, you see?"

The shorter Arms-man speaks again, seemingly more level-headed, "We don't know how many entered the complex. Will you need our assistance in mopping up the rest of them Tanerius? We must bring this one to Diatre as soon as possible.

Tanerius responds once more, "There are many, but we will handle it. Go to Diatre. If you see anymore on the way take them out, of course."

He then turns to his squad, blurting out some kind of code language, and the group marches past you down the corridor.

The shorter Arms-man turns to you, holding out his hand. He takes his blade back. Perhaps you didn't want to give it up, but just like with the release of your paralysis...you know fighting them would lead to nothing.

They walk with you, guiding you towards their destination. Eventually they walk you into a chapel room. You are the first of your kind here. Over various intervals of time, five others like you are brought into the chapel room by more of the Arms-men.

While you wait for something else to happen, the same Arms-man who inspected you before goes to work trying to repair the damage done to your arm. You will it impossibly hard to move for the time being.


-----------

500:

Several days prior (to the rest of the update)

Your eyes open, barely. You lay on a medical table or chair of some kind. It is in the middle of room surrounded and filled to the brim with medical equipment: hoses, bundles of wires, single wires, lamps, trays of utensils, etc.

Hovering around where you lay, are two figures. One is a man in a white lab coat. The other is a robotic figure, with a dark red hood draped over most of its face. Glowing lights shine out from its shadowed facial features.

The red-hood speaks, "There were only 341 candidates, were there not? Why is this one labeled as 500?"

The white-robe replies, holding up a digital file of some kind, "There were several candidates that yielded particularly unexpected results, who were deemed may still be of some use depending on how the rest of the project went. These were relabeled starting at 400 and going up in intervals of ten. This one is 500. Turns out he was too big. The skinner guys did much better with the surgeries for the most part. But this fellow also had a lot of Stimm in his body. Repeated use over along period of time...we weren't sure how it'd go. It didn't go well but some how he's still alive. The Lord Governor and Cyyrik saw that as a valuable asset."

"He seems to only be alive due to the work of my kin,"

The white-robe laughed at this softly, not bothering to try and reply to that.

"What went wrong, exactly?" asked the red-hood.

"I know you guys are all about detail but uh, his muscles burst apart."

He continued on, "Anyway, since such a small number of the candidates have survived the surgeries and implantations, we've been told to get this guy up and running if we can."

"Affirmative." is the red-hood's short response before you pass out again.

Two days prior

Your eyes open, barely. You're in the same place. Several lamps are above you and lit. Two red-hooded figures are directly over you. There is a much larger figure standing over them, a huge black-hooded shape, but any true detail is hard to decipher from the bright light in your eyes.

They are all completely silent, working diligently on your body. You begin to feel pain, and a muscle reacts. One of the red-hoods turns its ugly face yo yours, seeing your narrowly opened eyes.

"He keeps waking up"

A powerful voice comes from the shadowy figure above them, "Increase the dosage."

A few moments later you close your eyes again.

The current day

Your eyes open, barely. You're in the same place. The place is on fire. shattered glass and broken equipment is everywhere.

A mass of bodies stand around you, looming, giggling.

Your eyes open wider this time. Blood red robes, and yellow arrows, bloody swords and daggers in their pale veiny hands. Sharp toothed maws and black eyes, scarred and inked flesh. A smell you have never smelt before, something so entirely unnatural it seems to slide over your brain.

They're taking their time. They think you can't move.

You manage a finger. Then you manage a fist.

And then you manage to swing your arm and get up. You will not be very coordinated at all and will likely stumble on legs with little blood flow in them. But it will come together quickly. These are chaos cultists but you have no knowledge of this.

There is something over your nose, attached to a large metal device fused with your back. Two tubes are adjacent to each other, lodged into your chest with thin hoses connecting to the back device as well.

Your body is even bigger than it was before. You're taller too (size of an Astartes). But something seems off about your muscles. There are thin metal strips and wires all over them, going in and out of the skin, and there are clear color differences between the skin near your bones and where the mass of muscles are.

There are six of these men. You may kill three at most. The rest will back you into a corner with their blades.

A giant the same size as you but garbed in a rich-looking black cloak, bursts through the alreayd broken down doorway. He raises a large pistol to the back of one's head, blowing it clean off, not hesitating for a moment to fire the weapon. A single sweep with a blade cuts the midsection of both the other enemies, dropping them as well. The Cloaked figure puts his weapons away and says to you, "You're name is 500. I don't have much time to talk here, but if you follow me, everything will be explained."



Everyone

For those of you brought here unconscious, you all wake up to find the same thing as the ones who came here on their own two feet. You find yourself sitting on a stone bench with no back support. At the front of the room is a set of podiums before a giant picture of detailed a golden Aquila. Depictions of glorious conquest dreamily sewn into its shape. There are rows of stone benches here, two sets of them in fact. You sit on the front row. The level of detail in this place is stunning. Pictures of a corpse sitting in a throne are engraved into the podiums and side walls. Portraits of men who must be important lines the walls as well, lamps hanging above them. Cables criss cross the floor, many fo which are attached to strange hooded beings doing various tasks. Some maintaining the chamber, and others maintaining...you, and the others like you. There are three of you on the front row of both sets of benches.

013, 048, and 272 are on one side. 128, 111, and 500, are on the other.

Your upper bodies are bare. 013, 048, and 272 still have their beige cloaks which are wrapped and hung at their waists. They all recognize the face of 128, despite his own beige cloak being replaced by what appears to be a dark-blue and red flight-suit. No one has met the one next to 128 who has the number 111 on him and a mechanical arm and eye piece. Nor has anyone met the monster sitting opposite him. He is the bulkiest by far, but his muscles seem...false. Every feature of him just seems, out of place. He breathes heavy, with wires and cables sinking into his skin in several places. His limbs are lined with thin metal devices. There is a metal tank or device of some sort fused into the flesh of his back. There are two two tubes adjacent to each other plunged into his right pectoral, and a mask piece covering his nose and mouth area that all seem to be connected to the device on his back. On his bulging chest and shoulder is the number '500'

The men in the black cloaks who are about the same size as all of you...are here too. Or some of them at least. Two of them are on the stage-like area. One is behind the central podium, reading a giant tome. Another is knelt before a metal container, seemingly going through its contents. There is a third. He is behind you, moving from one to another, working on the damage done to your bodies from the fighting.

The one behind the podium, does not have his hood up. He appears to be in good looks, comfortably aged with short brown-gray hair and beard. His eyes are somewhat small in appearance, and rather darker. Not much sclera to be seen.

He looks up, with a face that speaks of both concern and confusion, and says with a wave of his hand, "Speak. Discuss your thoughts. You are not prisoners here." He goes back to reading the book in front of him. Though he says this, there are two more of his kind standing at the doors in the back of the room. "We will only be a moment."

You won't be much aware of it, but one of the substances that the black-cloaked man helping to mend all of you injects into your spines, will jump-start your previous personalities/memories.

Once in this new room with the others, and after the man at the podium says his words, what do you say or think? You may speak to anyone, even the NPCs who I can provide replies for. During this time, you will feel odd and rather painful sensations on your backs and other wounds while they are being mended by the Cloaked man and the servitors. At any period during this part of your post, your character will receive the shot that begins to restore their memory. With this new body and new life, reverting back to your old self is not really necessary, but this is not a conscious decision that can be made just yet. The first memories that come back to you will be from the time before the war with the oracles of change and their cultist followers ever happened. Certain things you absolutely cannot remember at this time are your name, exact age, family, names of any friends, or birthplace. Mostly, I imagine, recollection of being in your previous military roles will come back to you at this time.

You can never be prepared for the unexpected



Last edited by unxpekted22; 03-10-14 at 11:24 PM.
unxpekted22 is offline  
post #38 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-14-14, 06:42 AM
Junior Member
 
Grogimus's Avatar
 
Join Date: Mar 2014
Posts: 16
Reputation: 1
Default

Quote:
Originally Posted by unxpekted22 View Post
Several days prior (to the rest of the update)

Your eyes open, barely. You lay on a medical table or chair of some kind. It is in the middle of room surrounded and filled to the brim with medical equipment: hoses, bundles of wires, single wires, lamps, trays of utensils, etc.

Hovering around where you lay, are two figures. One is a man in a white lab coat. The other is a robotic figure, with a dark red hood draped over most of its face. Glowing lights shine out from its shadowed facial features.

The red-hood speaks, "There were only 341 candidates, were there not? Why is this one labeled as 500?"

The white-robe replies, holding up a digital file of some kind, "There were several candidates that yielded particularly unexpected results, who were deemed may still be of some use depending on how the rest of the project went. These were relabeled starting at 400 and going up in intervals of ten. This one is 500. Turns out he was too big. The skinner guys did much better with the surgeries for the most part. But this fellow also had a lot of Stimm in his body. Repeated use over along period of time...we weren't sure how it'd go. It didn't go well but some how he's still alive. The Lord Governor and Cyyrik saw that as a valuable asset."

"He seems to only be alive due to the work of my kin,"

The white-robe laughed at this softly, not bothering to try and reply to that.

"What went wrong, exactly?" asked the red-hood.

"I know you guys are all about detail but uh, his muscles burst apart."

He continued on, "Anyway, since such a small number of the candidates have survived the surgeries and implantations, we've been told to get this guy up and running if we can."

"Affirmative." is the red-hood's short response before you pass out again
500 heard things from far away, he couldn't get anything to move, though his voice seemed to come from something far away, mechanical to his ears, and he wondered if anyone heard him, wondered if why he woke people knew what was going on. "It is better to die for the Emperor than live for yourself"

This seemed to get the attention of the man with glowing eyes, who turned and looked down at the man, and 500 heard the words, Interesting. before his mind fled, the pain was more than he could control, something flowed through him. This one would make a great Tech Marine in time, perhaps now is the time to implant the knowledge needed."

Dreams of the Imperial throne, the emperor shaking his head, "Your duty is not over yet" so many things happened in his drug addled mind that there was no way of knowing what was real and what wasn't. There was simply too much information coming through, pain, loss of control, so many thing. There was information that he couldn't make sense of something was blocking his mind, keeping the information secret so that nothing, and no one could force it from his mind. There wasn't any way of figuring out what was going on, other than the sudden pulling sensations, his psyke wasn't used to the feeling and he merely stomped it down, keeping it away. Something pulled at him, then he rebuffed it, well something inside 500 rebuffed whatever was being done to his mind. "The God Emperor gave me this mind to serve him, now away from me!" Then nothing for what could have been years, or merely days.


Quote:
Originally Posted by unxpekted22 View Post
Two days prior

Your eyes open, barely. You're in the same place. Several lamps are above you and lit. Two red-hooded figures are directly over you. There is a much larger figure standing over them, a huge black-hooded shape, but any true detail is hard to decipher from the bright light in your eyes.

They are all completely silent, working diligently on your body. You begin to feel pain, and a muscle reacts. One of the red-hoods turns its ugly face yo yours, seeing your narrowly opened eyes.

"He keeps waking up"

A powerful voice comes from the shadowy figure above them, "Increase the dosage."

A few moments later you close your eyes again.
The pain woke 500 again, woke the sleeping giant, and this time he could move parts of himself, this was new. For in the past he could move nothing, but this time.Yes this time he could move his right arm, and that is simply what the Giant did. The pain was indescribable, it was like parts of his body were tearing apart by simply lifing his arm, and grabbing the red robed figure. "The Emperor spoke to me, told me my Duty was not done yet. You must fix me, make me closer to perfection, you must do this for me. Prayers cleanse the soul, and Pain cleanses the body, and yet the flesh is too weak to serve the All Mighty God Emperor. Fix....Me..."
The figure in the darkness spoke of increaseing the dosage,and with the last bit of strength that caused something to whine and pain to increase to an almost intolerable level the Giant spoke one last time, "Only in death is your duty done, and I do not wish to to stop serving my Emperor."
With that spoken he fell back into the darkness, once again feeling pain, and feeling something push into his mind, whoever he was he had been indoctrinated into the Imperial cult to such a degree that even when everything about him, from his personality to his personal memories, was stripped from him he still clung to the dogma that had been drilled into him. His Training Commisar would have been proud.

Quote:
Originally Posted by unxpekted22 View Post
The current day

Your eyes open, barely. You're in the same place. The place is on fire. shattered glass and broken equipment is everywhere.

A mass of bodies stand around you, looming, giggling.

Your eyes open wider this time. Blood red robes, and yellow arrows, bloody swords and daggers in their pale veiny hands. Sharp toothed maws and black eyes, scarred and inked flesh. A smell you have never smelt before, something so entirely unnatural it seems to slide over your brain.

They're taking their time. They think you can't move.

You manage a finger. Then you manage a fist.

And then you manage to swing your arm and get up. You will not be very coordinated at all and will likely stumble on legs with little blood flow in them. But it will come together quickly. These are chaos cultists but you have no knowledge of this.

There is something over your nose, attached to a large metal device fused with your back. Two tubes are adjacent to each other, lodged into your chest with thin hoses connecting to the back device as well.

Your body is even bigger than it was before. You're taller too (size of an Astartes). But something seems off about your muscles. There are thin metal strips and wires all over them, going in and out of the skin, and there are clear color differences between the skin near your bones and where the mass of muscles are.

500 woke again, this time there was no mechanical robed figure, there was only creatures, vile things. Possibly mutants, most likely heretics, whatever they were the Emperors commands rung through his head, "Burn the Witch, Kill the mutant, destroy the unclean" 500 for that was what was tattoo'ed on his chest and arm, moved off the table the was laying on, and his knees buckeled, but with a whirling sound and gears grinding, he stood on shaky legs. With a deep breath he heard the hiss of the machines.
Breath in, Breath out, Breath in, Breath out, the sound was dark and felt somehow wrong, but that couldn't be write, this was how 500 was supposed to be, wasn't it.
His arm snapped out faster than he expected grabbing the closest creature with the strange mouth full of sharp teeth. The creature squirmed once but was still as the muscles in his overly large hands snapped the things neck, and threw it into the fire, looking at the advancing creatures he spoke in a cold metallic tone, "There can be no rest while the wicked live" This time the creatures were a bit smarter but it didn't stop 500 from grabbing two of them, grasping shoulders hard enough to break them, and with a swift move slammed both of thier head together, causing them to squirt blood and grey matter all over the mostly naked form of 500.
The remaining 3 stabbed out with swords, cutting into the flesh of 500 arms, but bounced off of something black under his skin, thick metal ran the length of the gashes that he had underneath his skin, it made him smile as he moved backwards, waiting for them to provide an opening, though when his back hit a corner wall, he knew that he was about to have to try something desperate. That was until someone burst into the room.

Quote:
Originally Posted by unxpekted22 View Post
A giant the same size as you but garbed in a rich-looking black cloak, bursts through the alreayd broken down doorway. He raises a large pistol to the back of one's head, blowing it clean off, not hesitating for a moment to fire the weapon. A single sweep with a blade cuts the midsection of both the other enemies, dropping them as well. The Cloaked figure puts his weapons away and says to you, "You're name is 500. I don't have much time to talk here, but if you follow me, everything will be explained."
500 merely looked at the man, and spoke in that maddenly calm metallic voice, There are too many to slay this day, it is time to regroup and rout them, let us leave and slay all in the Emperors name."

Quote:
Originally Posted by unxpekted22 View Post
He looks up, with a face that speaks of both concern and confusion, and says with a wave of his hand, "Speak. Discuss your thoughts. You are not prisoners here." He goes back to reading the book in front of him. Though he says this, there are two more of his kind standing at the doors in the back of the room. "We will only be a moment."
500 merely sat there, breathing in and out as the people around him, fixed the skin that had been damaged in the fighting, for it had taking some chunks out. Though the man sat still, holding his rosary that he had found, it had a strange symbol on it, something he saw on some of the machine workers, he had asked if he could keep it, the stranger he had asked had merely nodded and hadn't spoken about the machines on and in him, merely allowed him to pray and to as he willed.
*Chhhhrrr*"Will you explain why we are sitting here instead of killing those that the Emperor would have us kill?"Something sunk into his back, and peered around, and felt something stir in his mind, something strange, memories perhaps, tactics for sure, and ways to make sure the Guard followed. One thing stuck out in his memory that he grasped, "Fear me, but follow" Some kind of motto, something that sounded right. But what of the machines, he was part machine now, was he always like this, or had someone made him better for a reason.

Semper Iratus
Grogimus is offline  
post #39 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-14-14, 10:22 PM
Senior Member
 
dark angel's Avatar
dark angel's Flag is: Wales
 
Join Date: Jun 2008
Location: Wales
Posts: 2,996
Reputation: 11
Default

The interceptor trembled in his grip, emitting a low, throaty purr. One-Two-Eight's red-stained face broke into a grin, his eyes never leaving the descending, dark figures. They began to twist, turning their attentions, their rifles, downwards. It started to rain fire, hard rounds and bright, scintillating las-blasts. The interceptor shrugged it off, continuing to rise, unperturbed by the enemy's - How could One-Two-Eight be in doubt, now? - Feeble attempts to halt it. Outside, the first of the dark, menacing figures became level with the interceptor's long, graceful snout. He saw rheumy, bloodshot eyes behind a tight, leather mask. A targeting reticule flashed over One-Two-Eight's vision, circling the figure. The detail was astonishing - One-Two-Eight could see yellow, grime-encrusted fingernails, flayed lips, torn, fluttering fabric.

Attention: Target found...

'Goodbye,' One-Two-Eight laughed, depressing the firing stud. The fighter's frame shuddered, rounds hurtling forth from the under-slung cannons. The warrior - Though, such a description was insulting - Burst. One-Two-Eight watched him come apart, flesh pulverised by the mass-reactive rounds, blood filling the air in a fine, glittering mist. One-Two-Eight was already rotating the interceptor, searching, hunting. His veins were pumping with adrenaline, with blood-lust. These bastards, he reminded himself, had fired first. They deserved nothing but death.

He continued to rise, to kill. They were panicking, wrestling with one another as ropes tangled, crying out silently. Sporadic fire was still bouncing off of the hull. One-Two-Eight paid it no heed, as he blasted away with murderous glee, a killer's grin, a knife-slit of teeth, upon his face. The walls were crumbling, blood running down them in scarlet waterfalls, raining shards of bone, flaps of skin and chunks of muscle. His limbs were aflame, his head was pounding. But he ignored it, immersed in this act of butchery. And then, something landed on the fighter. The entire vehicle bucked, before One-Two-Eight regained control, panicking. There was a man crouched before the cockpit blister, a fugging man with a fugging gun.

He was tall, wearing a bloodstained coat, fur trimming the cuffs and hood. He wore a mask, fashioned in the visage of a raven, and hateful, golden eyes shone from within. Thick, coiling pipes twisted from the raven-mask's beak, disappearing over the man's - Though, One-Two-Eight suddenly doubted this thing was a man - Shoulders. There were symbols of eyes, of arrows, golden and red-flecked, all across the beast's body. He raised a snub-nosed rifle, shouted something that made One-Two-Eight's ears bleed, and fired.

The canopy broke. Rounds pierced it, cracking the entire thing like it was nothing, and hammered into One-Two-Eight's upper body. He felt his grav-armour deform, and then with shocking clarity, break. Rounds bit into his flesh, but One-Two-Eight continued to stare, eyes wide in disbelief. He was powerless, at this beast-man's mercy, and getting killed. Pain blossomed across his body, and then the man's gun clicked - Empty. One-Two-Eight laughed through his grimace, lifted one hand - Middle finger pointed to the heavens.

'You have failed, bastard,' He sneered, vision tunneling. 'I'm still alive.'

And then the man reached to his side and grabbed another magazine.

'Oh, fug you,' One-Two-Eight groaned, though he was not sure where that word - Fug? - Came from.

He was going to die. Cornered, in a seat, like a coward. It envenomed him, drove fiery spikes into his heart.

There was another impact upon the hull, another figure. One-Two-Eight's luck had finally run out, he was counting the seconds left of his life.

The man-beast died with a whir. A saw, viciously toothed, erupted from his chest. Blood jetted everywhere, an impossible amount, a tide of red. One-Two-Eight leaned over, gasping. It felt like someone had poured acid down his throat, into his lungs. The wounds that peppered his shoulders and chest felt insignificant in comparison.

He watched the bifurcated figure fall away, trailing intestines, and smiled at his saviour. Through the spiderweb of cracks, he could see a bronze skull and a red, clacking eye.

When he spoke, it was in a voice utterly devoid of emotion. It sounded like knives sliding together.

'Please land this craft Savior. There is no where for you to go out there. The complex will be safe soon. These Oracle devils have succumbed to our counter strike.'

The words were drowned out by the pounding of blood in One-Two-Eight's ears. His grip was slackening on the control stick, his breath ragged and wet. The figure punched through the canopy, peeling One-Two-Eight's fingers from it, and began to descend. One-Two-Eight leaned over, feeling the safety harness bite into his shoulders, and wheezed. He was spasming, uncontrollably, succumbing to the pain. What was happening?

With a pneumatic hiss, the fighter touched down. One-Two-Eight snapped back to reality, straightening. He lifted the shattered canopy, striding out. There were dozens of figures in the once-vacated hanger, all scarlet robes and shining, bronze skin. Red eyes, whirring and mechanical, watched One-Two-Eight. All of them held weapons, rifles and blades and axes. Some were injured. All stood, impassively, untouched by the biting chill.

They spoke. One-Two-Eight didn't hear, but allowed them to lead him away. He wasn't a prisoner, he realised. They were an escort.

I must be pretty import-

One-Two-Eight's vision faded, and his helmet kissed the floor.

***

His eyelids pulled apart, slowly. He was laying on a bench, staring upwards at a pair of figures - One, garbed in sunlight, long, silken hair flowing around his dark, handsome face. He clutched a flaming sword, his other hand occupied by a vast, scissoring claw. The other was wide, wearing sea-green armour, his features broad, noble, centered around a dignified nose. He held a mace, standing back-to-back with his fellow, surrounded by corpses of huge, lumbering Greenskins. The resemblance was uncanny - A father and son, the greatest of the great. One-Two-Eight averted his gaze, pulling himself up. His grav-armour had been pulled away, everything above his rib-cage discarded. His skin was pockmarked, stained brown with dried blood.

There were other giants here. Two-Seven-Two sat opposite him, his flesh scorched. One-Two-Eight's eyes widened - The bastards had survived. He had abandoned them, and now they were here, sitting opposite him. They, too, had had a battering, he concluded. They looked haggard, weary, injured. One-Two-Eight grinned, wetting his lips. He was hurting, he could barely think past the veil of pain. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving his hands trembling, his pupils dilated.

One-Two-Eight was sat besides two monsters. One had a claw for an hand, much like the roof-painted angel, but was terrible where the latter was beautiful. He was gaunt, a corpse-thing, his claw stained. He was scarred, like a slave, and his sole remaining eye leaked bitterness, animal intelligence. The other, broader than broad, looked wrong. As if his skin didn't fit, One-Two-Eight decided. His movements, the subtlest readjustment, was sickening to witness. Five-Hundred was scarred into its chest, and One-Two-Eight took an immediate disliking to this glued-together thing. Oaths were scripted upon it, praising the Emperor - Whoever the fug that was.

'No Emperor of mine,' One-Two-Eight sniffed, clenching his hands. His fingers were stiff and unresponsive, aching.

A cloaked man, as large as One-Two-Eight, was administering medical aid to the group; swabbing wounds, knitting flesh together, injecting them with a strange, glowing liquid.

He knelt before One-Two-Eight, brandishing a needle.

One-Two-Eight's hand shot up, seizing the man's wrist and yanking him closer. His fingers were like steel clamps, his eyes glittering.

'If I'm not dead now, I won't be in an hour.'

The man had frozen, shock written in his features. He was unaccustomed, and unappreciative, of being touched. No-one was supposed to touch him, he was the healer here, One-Two-Eight decided.

After a moment, the medical man spoke - 'This not for healing your body. It is a serum that will help heal your mind from the intensive, long-term state of surgery and unconsciousness. It will speed the process of your brain awaking from slumber, which should aid in your memory returning to you.'

'Well, thank you very much,' Ptolemy hissed, low enough so that no-one else heard. 'But, look around you. Everyone else has taken your serum,' He spat the word, like a curse. 'So, I will decline. Move on.'

The man straightened, stood. 'I couldn't care less,' He drawled, and moved on.

One-Two-Eight looked up, at his original three companions.

'Ah,' He said, cheerfully. 'Friends, you still draw breath,' He feigned concern, smiling that broad, handsome smile of his. 'I had doubted you, but perhaps I was wrong.'

He raised a hand, pointing at their blistered, burnt flesh.

'Did it rain fire?'

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?'

Last edited by dark angel; 03-15-14 at 07:49 AM.
dark angel is offline  
post #40 of 54 (permalink) Old 03-16-14, 08:12 PM
Senior Member
 
Deus Mortis's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jun 2009
Location: In a cell for revealing sensitive information regarding the Inquisition
Posts: 2,071
Reputation: 37
Default

Two-Seven-Two’s feet pounded furiously as he ran with all his strength towards the end of the corridor. He had stopped firing behind him using his arms to drive him forward at a greater speed. He needed to get clear of this charnel house. However many there were of those madmen with the bizarre alluring symbols branded into their flesh and sewn into their robes there were, Two-Seven-Two could not face them all and survive. Not with a child’s knife and a comically undersized pistol and as good as naked. His only option was to flee and he felt no shame in that.

His head throbbed and ached in time with his rapid foot-falls. Despite the vast quantities of adrenaline currently coursing round his blood-stream, Two-Seven-Two knew that the moment this world of blaring lights, death and noise fell silent, as it surely must, he would be in agony. His muscles ached in ways he did not remember experiencing and it was only the survival instinct that forced his brain to ignore such concerns so that it might live to worry about them later.

But, such blind determination would only allow him to ignore certain pains and as powerful he had become he was not invincible. He heard the click of the foes he had left behind and his run became more frantic, desperately trying to reach the end of the corridor where the corner was and he could be out of the firing line. The distance between him and safety was closing fast, but not fast enough. Two-Seven-Two knew that the laser beams he had just seen decimate the guards would soon be hunting him. The best he could hope for was that some miracle saved him and whatever malady affected his foes minds translated to their aim.

Sadly, no such luck or divine intervention was forthcoming. Two-Seven-Two saw the first couple of laser beams miss him entirely and thought he might make it. But the flux density of the beams increased and a micro-second later Two-Seven-Two felt the first of the searing beams scorch a hole into his back. It staggered him but he fought his body’s protests and stumbled another few steps, his balance off but he was still moving. Another beam struck his shoulder and the involuntary flinch caused him to spin and begin to fall. Two more beams struck him, one vaporizing a cylindrical hole in the side of his leg and another boring into his pectoral muscle.

As he fell Two-Seven-Two forced his arms to extend at his sides, preparing to meet the ground that was rushing up to meet him. His arms and back met the floor with a loud thud and the force of the impact knocked the breath out of Two-Seven-Two, as well as splitting open many of the cauterised wounds which proceeded to leak blood slowly through thin cracks in the ashen flesh and charred muscles. Two-Seven-Two’s break-fall helped to dampen the worst of reverberations that would normally occur after a fall like that, but the fall and the wounds he sustained was too much for his body to take. He willed himself to get up, even just to crawl but his muscles responded with a resolute no. They had been pushed past their limit and convulsed wildly as he lay there helpless.

About the extent of his control over his body was to stare helplessly at the crowd of fanatics approaching him, Thirteen and Forty-Eight. The words fanatic just fell out of the depths of his mind, but it seemed more appropriate than anything else. They certainly were fanatical, but about what Two-Seven-Two didn’t know. He doubted even if he could force himself to rise that he would get very far. Now there were dozens of laser rifles trained on each of them. Two-Seven-Two’s breathing slowed. He was going to die here, scarcely born, and there was nothing he could do about it.

As the crowd approached one let his hand dance carelessly across Two-Seven-Two’s forearm, the muscles still twitching under the flesh. "I'm pretty sure I just saw you steal this from my dead friend over there."
“If he wanted it back, he should just ask for it.” Two-Seven-Two mockingly snarled. He was going to die but he wouldn’t go quietly.
"Thief! How dare you put your disgusting hands on something that belongs to us. Thief! Scoundrel! Kleptomaniac!" The fanatic spat out the words and goblets of spit showered Two-Seven-Two’s face. Two-Seven-Two twitched his nose, deliberately drawing attention to the gleaming drops of saliva. Two-Seven-Two mustered all the saliva he could and spat it back at the maniac. By fortune it landed in the man’s eye and he hastily wiped it away, more disgusted with Two-Seven-Two than before. He snatched the pistol from Two-Seven-Two’s limp hand and the proceed to hold it to Two-Seven-Two’s head as another droned on about serving some Lord of Change. The phrase echoed in Two-Seven-Two’s mind, subtly changing every time he heard it resound. Two-Seven-Two noted in his peripheral that his comrades also were on the floor with guns to their heads. At least he had not failed where others had succeeded. He was going to die here and of that much he was certain. His body would not respond to his commands, and if it would he doubted he would have gotten much further than killing the man who seemed so eager to end his life. As pain and spasms wracked his body he stared into the barrel of the weapon that would end his life, determined to meet it with dignity.

Suddenly, it didn’t all end as Two-Seven-Two was expecting. The din of heavy gunfire resonated down the corridor and the men lording the power of life and death over them were themselves blown apart by its explosive cascade. Two-Seven-Two’s mouth twisted into a horrendous compromise between a smile and a snarl. The remaining fanatics were scythed down by the approaching men armed with bulky, noisy guns and covered in swirling black cloak. Perhaps not swirling, but in that moment, the sheer euphoria of salvation combined with the pain wracking Two-Seven-Two’s body, everything was swirling. As the seizures became more violent, his vision blurred and the noise and gunfire dimmed until his body became still and his senses black.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++

It was the sensation of falling that woke him. His head and torso drooped forward and then his eyes were explosively open and awake. He snapped up straight for which he was rewarded with a searing pain from the wounds in his back and shoulder. Two-Seven-Two let out a low groan of pain and screwed his eyes shut. Clearly unconsciousness had not helped him greatly, but then he imagined it was just his body stopping his condition from deteriorating rather than making anything better.

As if summoned by his thoughts, men moved over to tend to his form. He noticed that he was the first among those he had fought alongside to regain consciousness, although he was sure they would stir soon. Opposite him was One-Two-Eight, garbed in what might have once been a flight suit but which had been torn in half to reveal his chest which was peppered with bullet holes. Clearly abandoning them had not favoured him more than it had them.

Moving on, Two-Seven-Two took stock of the two new faces to him, designated One-One-One and Five-hundred respectively. The first was clearly grizzled, although none of it was recent. Although the bionic of both his eye and hand were exquisite, or at least Two-Seven-Two recognised them as being so in his subconscious without having anything to compare them to, the ugly, ropy scar tissue around the points where the skin and the metal fused said that these were not surgical augmentations. The coarseness of the man’s body showed in his face and Two-Seven-Two could tell there was a darkness to the man which he was comfortable and familiar with and more than willing to exercise it.

The second was simply wrong. Everything about him bled falseness. His skin made Two-Seven-Two think more of a cadaver, or perhaps more appropriately several cadavers nailed crudely together and then made to dance on the end of strings like a parody of life. It was a bastardised form of life this broad monstrosity lived, not truly alive but also not dead. Perhaps whatever surgeries they had endured had started with this crude masque that was anything other than sensibly proportioned.

As all these thoughts crossed Two-Seven-Two’s mind, the men around him worked on fixing up his wounds. They sometime mumbled things as the worked and more of the human-machine hybrids from the birthing chamber shuffled around to assist. His thoughts were periodically interrupted by shooting pains of injections before his body calmed itself and let him continue his musings. However, as his fellows began to stir the men in cloaks administered one final injection to the base of his spine. By the time it took effect, they had moved onto the others, but Two-Seven-Two was unprepared for what followed.

It was as if entire swathes of data were being up-loaded into his brain in a matter of second. His eyelids began to spasm and his eyes twitched in random directions as his brain struggled to compartmentalise the knowledge it was remembering fast enough. Scenes of several operations and battles played out in exquisite detail, his mind recalling every part of the even until the memory would abruptly end as if the machine capturing the footage suddenly and inexplicably stopped working.

Several things became apparent as events gone by played themselves out in Two-Seven-Two’s mind. He realised he had been a Sergeant of a group of specialists who were primarily deployed in scouting engagements of guerrilla warfare, which explained the silent footwork. In these segmented memories there were numerous testaments to his skill as a marksman. However, the most basic information such as his name was still lost to him. He also noticed that his memory only worked extremes. He either remembered everything about an even in perfect detail or the memory was blank, as if someone had closed the door to that section of his mind. Somehow Two-Seven-Two began to get even more of an impression that having no memory of certain things was somehow more wrong for him than it would be for anybody else.

One-Two-Eight grabbed one of the medical personnel and muttered something to him that Two-Seven-Two couldn’t make out and the shape of the man blocked One-Two-Eight’s lips. The medic stood up straight and moved on. The man behind the podium encouraged them to speak and assured them that they were not prisoners. Two-Seven-Two found this hard to believe when their only exit was being blocked. However, Two-Seven-Two kept his features blank at this reassurance, suddenly consciously aware that he was burying his emotions from those around him. He was also aware that at some point still lost to him he had learnt this was the wisest course of action and so continued to push his true emotions deeper into his core where only he could observe them.

Five-hundred blurted out a question in a voice that was just as unnatural as the rest of him. Two-Seven-Two noted a fervour in the thing’s voice for this ‘Emperor’, an absentee character who was mentioned by never seen in Two-Seven-Two’s memories, that bordered on the same fanaticism that he had heard in the voices of those who had tried to kill him and his comrades. Perhaps the best course of action with such a brute was to point it as that which you wished disposed of and let it run rampart. Perhaps this beast was the ‘violent’ one that the guard had spoken of. He certainly seemed more likely to fall into a red haze rampage than One-One-One and if his faux muscles were as powerful as they were made to look, he certainly could break through the glass of one of their birthing pods. However, Two-Seven-Two wondered if the parasitic machine on his back would work immersed in fluids. Perhaps it was the man with a dark soul and the wicked talons who has caused their earlier confrontation to come to blows.

One-Two-Eight feigned concern over their safety. He was slippery bastard and Two-Seven-Two decided in himself that he would have to watch him closely, as he flashed a half smile that was identical to a genuine one. “Funnily enough no. Turns out the Epsilon Complex spa isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He said with a slight chuckle and a grin at the end, his gaze not breaking from One-Two-Eight until a moment after he had finished speaking and it moved to surveying the artwork on the walls.

Two-Seven-Two knew that those in the black cloaks knew what this place was and he possibly knew he had interrogated a guard for that information so such knowledge would not impress them. But, especially if they didn’t know how he had obtained such information about his whereabouts, his resourcefulness in obtaining such information might impress them, or if the perceived him as arrogant then they might underestimate him. Either way, the most pressing question of their purpose here still remained unanswered, but given that Two-Seven-Two suspected such an answer was forthcoming ‘in a moment’, if one of his comrades didn’t bleat it first, he remained indifferent, content to make it appear he was content to simply survey the impressive artistry of the room which the found themselves in…

My contribution to the Renegades saga. Check it out

My growing IIIrd legion stuff:

17th Millenial (Homebrew Fluff) - "Children of the Emperor, death to his foes!" (Project Log)

Also my 30k tacticas, for those of you interested:

Crusade Army List tactica - Individual Legion tactica

Quote:
Originally Posted by Angel of Blood View Post
And for two fucking grand, I could buy enough rum and hookers to 'artistically' recreate the better part of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Deus Mortis is offline  
Reply

  Lower Navigation
Go Back   Wargaming Forum and Wargamer Forums > Fiction, Art and Roleplay Game Discussion > Roleplay Threads

Quick Reply
Message:
Options

Register Now



In order to be able to post messages on the Wargaming Forum and Wargamer Forums forums, you must first register.
Please enter your desired user name, your email address and other required details in the form below.

User Name:
Password
Please enter a password for your user account. Note that passwords are case-sensitive.

Password:


Confirm Password:
Email Address
Please enter a valid email address for yourself.

Email Address:
OR

Log-in










Thread Tools
Show Printable Version Show Printable Version
Email this Page Email this Page
Display Modes
Linear Mode Linear Mode



Posting Rules  
You may post new threads
You may post replies
You may not post attachments
You may not edit your posts

BB code is On
Smilies are On
[IMG] code is On
HTML code is Off
Trackbacks are On
Pingbacks are On
Refbacks are On

 
For the best viewing experience please update your browser to Google Chrome