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Post by Septimus on May 15, 2013 21:33:12 GMT
Noon
Cycle 1, Day 1
Four miles from Castra
A tall, thin figure was crouched on one knee, surrounded by nothing but sand. Gentle wisps of beige were thrown about with the light breeze that rolled over the Nefarius Plains, but they were ignored by the man. He only waited, facing towards the East, where the city of Castra once stood tall. Now, it was a damaged, lifeless ruin, like the rest of Sapientia. A fortress that failed to protect. That is where the figure originated from; that is where he had slept for the past two millennia; that is where he had awoken from in the early hours of the morning today.
Septimus was motionless. He stared to where he had come from, playing the events from a few hours ago in his mind, over and over again. He had materialised into a large chamber, devoid of life. Supposing he had been awoken for the only thing he was sleeping for, he left the chamber, only to find an onslaught of hostile creatures. Everything was either broken or hostile: Castra, the one place he was supposed to protect, had been overrun.
He had failed. Now, it was time to fix that mistake.
His Heads-up Display told him that the time was nearing. When billions of stars in every universe would give off an identical solar-flare, all at the same time. It was predicted many years ago, and with the help of his ancestors' amazing technology, he was about to create a matter bridge, connecting a great number of universes.
It was a little selfish, but they wouldn't have a choice when they got here.
In fact, they were bound to show up any second now.
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Post by Specialist Jasper McBadass on May 16, 2013 1:39:33 GMT
Armed with a SCAR-H battle rifle manufactured by some Belgian asshole likely making more than the Ranger was making for running around the decimated remains of Washington DC in ACUs sopping with rain water mixed with soot and ash and blood that likely belonged to half a dozen people. His shemagh was serving only to collect water, the frigid fabric clinging to his flesh like a scared koala bear.
Trying to keep his footing while manuevering through the blown out ruins of yet another downtown office, the Specialist cast a glance around, a drizzle of rain dripping off the brim of his ACH thanks to the semi-swift movement.
No movement.
"It's clear," the soldier reported, lowering his SCAR-H a bit.
From around the corner, another five Rangers materialized, just as wet, dirty and battered as the soldier who checked the room. Carried between two was another soldier, blood staining his vest a muted crimson.
"Get this desk cleared off, I need room," their medic snapped, already shrugging off his pack and rooting around for the proper supplies to more efficently deal with the wounded Ranger.
The Specialist stepped forward, pushing his SCAR around to his side while he feverishly slapped the various office materials haphazardly off the desk onto the floor. When the last family photo was brushed aside, the injured soldier was laid down on the table and the medic immediately pushed past the rest and began to hover over his patient, snapping instructions to the two who'd carried the wounded soldier in.
Taking that as his cue, the Specialist moved to the window, taking a seat on the ledge. While the position wasn't too kind to his left ass check, a seat was a seat.
"Unless you're looking to get shot, I'd recommend not silhouetting yourself like a fucktard," came the voice of the last remaining Ranger, striding up with an M249 SAW slung low at the waist.
"Maybe I do," the Specialist muttered, readjusting his posture so his gear wasn't pressing down on important bits. He had a sneaking suspicion that he had had a twenty-round magazine of 7.62mm jammed into his nuts. His gaze drifted back to the destroyed city, once full of life, and now most certainly not, "Not much left to save."
"We'll rebuild," came the response, "Always do."
The Specialist shrugged, "Eh, we could always just drag the Freedom Tower down here as a stupidly tall middle finger to the Ruskies."
"Now that's more like the sarcastic jackass I know," the Ranger joked, punching the Specialist in the shoulder, "Com' on, get out of the window before somebody takes your head off."
"We should fuck some time," the Specialist deadpanned, sliding off the window ledge onto the floor. The duckface earned him another punch to the shoulder, though instead of being a friendly tap, it actually held some ire. He had his hands up in surrender before the next blow, "If we get through this, you can punch me all you want. I've probably earned it."
"Definitely," the SAW gunner agreed, hefting her SAW, "Do you think...Vin-"
Before the Specialist could open his mouth in reassurance, blinding white light exploded from the sky. The ISS had exploded, it would be said later. By the time everyone got done shielding their eyes, helicopters were raining from the sky - and the Specialist was nowhere to be seen.
"Jasper?"
---
When Specialist Jasper Owens recovered from seemingly the brilliant orange and white of whatever had just occured, what greeted him was not the destroyed ruins of a downtown DC office complex with a bloody friend laying on a desk with the rain soaking everything and a pitch black sky up above. No, under his boots was sand. In front of him, was sand. All around him was sand. Hell, if he didn't know better he was back in Afghanistan.
Except for the weird guy in the suit he stole from Cyborg Ninja from Metal Gear Solid. This day officially went from sucking complete and utter asshole to being totally batshit insane - and so the FN SCAR-H snapped up into a firm ready position, the safety snapped off, and the red dot fell on the Cyborg Ninja's chest.
Soppy wet, in the middle of the desert, with his rifle trained on some weird vaguely ninja-dude. Things had certainly taken a turn for the weird.
And as much as the words, "Who the fuck are?" burned at his throat, Jasper held his tongue and let the muzzle of his rifle do all the speaking necessary.
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Post by brianholcomb on May 16, 2013 22:30:27 GMT
It had been quite a long day for Brian Holcomb, better known as Outcome-4.
As always, Rio de Janeiro was bustling with activity. Down in one of the many favelas of the city, people went about their daily lives. However, being on the poorer end of the spectrum, it wasn’t quite a magnificent life. It was a life of hardships, wondering if they would make it to the next day to put food on the table for their children and praying that some punk didn’t shoot them dead in an alleyway for anything they might be carrying on them. It was just another day in the life, and they were living it as best as they could.
And then came along Outcome-4 sprinting down the packed street full of people. His breath was ragged as he pushed several people out of his way in his mad dash. Eyes turned to follow him, angry words shouted in Portuguese in his direction. Once they’d recovered from the surprise and would turn shaking their heads to continue on their path, another man forced his way past them. None of them would ever know what was going on, but for those involved it was a matter of life and death, betrayal and survival.
Survival.
“He’s heading west! Anybody got eyes on?” The man said in the middle of running, the figure pushing through the crowd ahead of him slowly disappearing from sight. They’d been briefed of the capabilities of these Outcome operatives, but they’d never seen anything like this. It took an entire team to keep up with him and make sure they didn’t lose him.
“I got ‘im,” came another voice over the comm frequency. Up above the street, a dark-skinned male stood near the edge looking down onto the action. He could see both the Outcome operative as well as the man chasing him. Right after speaking the words, he broke into a run across the rooftop and took a running leap to clear a five foot gap between the two buildings. The chase was on.
Brian Holcomb weaved through the crowd of pedestrians in his attempt to escape his pursuers. He spared himself a look back to check how close the man on street level was, and his eye caught the movement of the black man up on the roof top. These guys had been tracking him for a while, and had only recently exposed themselves when they tried to execute him. They’d underestimated his abilities, though, and he’d escaped. Now it was open conflict, right in the middle of the favela.
The man planted his foot and turned into an alleyway between two buildings. As he sprinted down the narrow alley, he could hear the man’s heavy footfalls behind him. He couldn’t spare a glance backwards at this point, he just had to keep moving and use his enhanced abilities to go where these guys couldn’t. On his left was a simple wall, but a long thin window ran across the right side that led into a small diner. It was large enough to fit a man through, but clambering through it would be tough. Brian went a little wide in his course to get the right angle on the window, turning and throwing his back towards the wall sort of how a high-jumper does during a track & field meet. His arms slipped through and grabbed a hold of the edge, pulling the rest of his body through and twisting as he came out of the other side. When his feet met the ground, he changed direction and went straight up a flight of stairs.
He’d already noted that the place had one ground level entry, which the man behind him likely would use. Brian could hear a curse in English as he took the steps two at a time, powering up two flights before finding himself on a balcony. Running out back into the sunlight, he hopped over the alley below onto another rooftop. There was a ghetto looking garden on top sitting in the sun and Brian pushed the planets aside as he fought to put as much distance as possibly between he and his pursuers. Coming out of the small jungle, he stopped at the edge of the roof to get an idea of his possible routes. In seconds, he processed several different avenues he could take and chose the one that would be hardest to track. Turning his feet, Outcome-4 powered himself along the edge of the roof top until he came to where it met the wall of another building. He put one foot on the face of the wall and pushed himself up, turning forward momentum into vertical movement as he grabbed the edge of the concrete to hoist himself up.
Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned just in time to see the dark-skinned man stop and raise a pistol at him. Brian reacted immediately, turning and stepping off of the rooftop. One foot collided with the other side of the narrow alley he’d dropped into, and his other leg curled up and pressed against the opposite wall, slowing his fall as best as he could. Once he’d dropped enough altitude, he released and landed on his feet before breaking into a sprint down the alley. The exit was only a few meters ahead, but just as Brian was about to reach it a figure stepped into sight with a pistol raised directly into his face.
His instincts and conditioned training went to work, a hand coming up and slamming into the back of the weapon hand. He kept moving forward, the pistol and arm going over his shoulder. Brian brought his opposite hand up from the one sliding down the man’s arm and drover the heel of his palm straight up into the man’s nose, capitalizing on the man’s lost balance as the same arm came up and over his shoulder to push the man’s balance even further off. A foot slipped behind one of the man’s legs, and then it was a simple matter of letting gravity take him to the ground. Brian landed one knee on the concrete and sprawled out with his other foot, his hands coming up and grabbing the weapon hand that still held the pistol. With a twist, he broke the man’s trigger finger and raked it out of his hands, driving a punch straight down into the wetwork operative’s throat. The impact crushed his trachea and cut off his ability to breathe. Rising out of the crouch, Outcome- 4 ran a few meters down the street and turned into another building. This one wasn’t so crowded, and he was able to travel up to the roof with no real problem. And then, a gun shot rang out and a bullet whizzed over his shoulder, smashing into an already cracked and broken pot on a nearby balcony. Turning, Brian ran and jumped across several short gaps between buildings. Another one of them was on his ass.
Looking out at the edge of the building, Brian saw two possible routes. One was a short detour that would require several vaults, maybe a cat-leap onto the edge of another building to get higher, and then dropping down onto a balcony that led into what looked to be an old barber shop. But Brian, being the superior human he was, saw a more direct route that wouldn't be able to immediately follow him through. The CIA Assassin would have to take the detour. So Brian sped up, and threw himself from the edge of the building, aiming for the window ahead. He tucked himself in the air, and his shoulder connected with the glass, breaking it and sending him into the barber shop.
He hit the ground and rolled, losing his balance slightly due to the force of the impact with the window. Brian rolled and came up with a slight stumble. To his left were a set of stairs leading down to the lower floor. The Outcome agent ran forward, jumped over the edge, grabbing the railing and swinging down into lobby as he skipped the set of stairs.
Screams and shouts echoed through the building, but Brian ignored them. A door ahead of him led out into the street, but instead he turned into a back entrance and sprinted out into a dirty back-alley. He looked left, then right, and chose right.
His lungs were definitely working, but he could go a lot longer. The CIA agents probably could too, though Holcomb still had an advantage. The only thing Brian was on the losing side of was being on the defensive.
Outcome-Four saw the end of the alleyway coming, and took all the pieces in play into mind as he planned his next move. The alley went straight into a dead end, though the shacks that he passed started to develop more and more back doors into the alley, along with a side route out into a street that he sprinted past. At the end, a dumpster was placed against a concrete wall, which wasn't a building, but the underlying of a road. he could see the top of a rusty truck as he approached, though is was quickly leaving his view as he moved toward it.
Holcomb jumped, landing one foot on the top of the dumpster and pressing the other into the side that he jumped from to keep him from falling or sliding off if he lost his balance. Pushing his other foot up, he ran forward and shoved his foot into the side of the concrete, converting forward momentum into vertical momentum and grabbing the ironic safety rail to pull him up over the rest of the way.He sprinted forward across the street, ducking as another shot passed just over his shoulder. Several slow-moving cars hit the brakes and honked their horns, unaware of the dire situation between the two trained men.
Reaching the other side of the street, and another safety rail leading down into a muddy ditch, Brian quickly calculated which direction would be optimal.
Up.
He launched off the rail like a springboard, turning in mid-air and aiming backwards at the black male giving chase. Brian pulled the trigger twice before turning his torso back to the front and landing on another road. One car swerved to avoid him and crashed into another, pushing it into a guard rail. Down the road, a man appeared out from around a corner running towards Brian. This one was of hispanic descent, if Brian would have actually gotten a chance to look at him. It seemed that just then, the sky lit up like a super nova and flashed. Brian was still running on adrenaline, however. And as the flash of orange and white light blinded him for a moment, he was already dropping down off the other end of the road into an alley. Or so he thought. To the man who was following him, he disappeared as soon as his feet left the railing.
- - -
Where he thought his feet would meet cracked and dirty pavement or dirt, instead he seemed to land in what seemed to be sand. His mind processed this as his body instinctively rolled forward to absorb the impact. And if that wasn't strange enough, when he came up out of his roll he found the barrel of a SCAR-H in his face. Brushing the barrel of the weapon away, he drove a fist across the jaw of the weapon holder. Following through, his arm reached over the stock of the rifle and took hold of it, turning and twisting to tear it from the man's hands.
Brian brought the rifle to bear, leveling it at the man's chest. It was then that he noticed the man was decked out in military gear. Army, from what he could tell. Wait, he was in the desert. Since when did Rio de Janeiro become a fucking desert? And why was there Army personnel? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the strange figure. Breathing hard from the chase, he turned and put the barrel on the armored figure. It was sitting there in a crouch, staring off into the distance. Brian spared a glance out across the still inexplicable desert and saw what looked like giant emerald shards rising out of the ground. He went back to the Army soldier. Then to the armored figure.
What the fuck was going on?
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Post by Septimus on May 17, 2013 2:02:38 GMT
"There seems to be a weapon, albeit primitive, trained on you."
"I know, Lyla. Thank you." Septimus spoke, his voice silent to the two behind him, though very much audible to his artificial-intelligence construct. She was less of a computer, though; Lyla was more of a preserved soul, living inside of his suit. They had known each other before the Great War and he had saved her by inputting her conscience into an AI-crystal. At first, she hated the prospect, and in turn, him. When she realised that he would have been the last of his kind, however, she had forgiven him. In fact, they had grown to be great friends, moreso than they were before the war.
Septimus looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with the one aiming at him, despite the fact his own were shielded by his helmet. He held the stare for a little under five seconds, before returning his attention to Castra's pretty buildings, four miles off. Though they looked pleasant from this distance, he knew they were truly broken, with a different creature around every corner.
It was going to be difficult if these were the weapons his ancestors were bringing. They were definitely his ancestors, originating from Sodalis, no?
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Post by Specialist Jasper McBadass on May 17, 2013 14:05:33 GMT
As if robot ninja man wasn't enough of a point of confusion, ANOTHER random individual popped up. Judging from his attire, well, he just looked like an average dude. And semi-reasonably the guy pushed the barrel of the battle rifle out of his face, but considering the guy had decided to teleport in right in front of Jasper's gun - it wasn't entirely the Ranger's fault he was violating that one rule of gun safety.
The punch to the jaw was quick, savage, and very much so unexpected. For an average joe, the guy punched like his fist was made of bricks, and by the time the Specialist was about to deck the guy for bitch-slapping him the clasps on his sling ripped loose and now average joe was branishing an FN SCAR-H.
For a long moment Jasper was half-frozen waiting for bullets from his own gun to rip through his chest and drop him to the sand in a pile of worthless flesh and dirty kevlar and UCP.
Somewhere in there, something clicked for average joe because he whirled around to lock his gaze, and Jasper's SCAR (sadly enough) back onto robo-man.
As much as he wanted his rifle back, the Specialist settled for letting the new guy steal it for the intervening duration - he'd get the jackass back for it later.
So with a huff for his loss of dignity in losing his rifle to a seemingly untrained random guy, Jasper drew his Beretta from his thigh holster, and after a half second to consider capping the new arrival in the back of the head and taking his rifle back, Jasper settled his aim on Mr. Roboto.
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Post by sbishop on May 17, 2013 16:08:30 GMT
Fairport. Auburn District
2009
He was falling. Somewhere within the blackened ruins of what was an American city, Operative Samuel Bishop lay dying. Blood seeped from multiple gunshot wounds in his chest where his armour failed him and he was- wait, ow did he land in this crater.
Groaning, he wiped away grit and dirt that flecked his face and struggled to grab his assault rifle. A shadow suddenly fell on the ground; his breath caught in his throat as he could hear whispering in his head. Glancing up, he noted a young girl in a blood red dress, her black tresses hiding her face.
Alma Wade. The catalyst of the Fairport disaster and his original squad's target. A squad that had been cut down by roaming Replica forces or torn apart by this young psychic's sheer rage.
And yet, she made no move to attack Samuel, who even now fumbled to grab his assault rifle. Why?
Before he could answer any questions that flew around his brain, the operative felt himself being dragged from this time and space, as if his soul was being torn from his body ...
And vanished.
Wait, where the fuck am I?! Samuel inwardly raged, staring at the blank void surroundung him. His breathing and heartbeat were unusually pronounced - was he hallucinating? Dead?
He had no time to think on this as he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Rounding sharply on the source, he noted, with surprise, the elven figure that stared back at him in a relatively blank expression. Brow furrowed, white hear falling over pointed ears and wearing an outfit that seemed to leave very little to the imagination, the elf seemed to regard Samuel with relative indifference. Despite her relativly primitive armament of a heavy bow and a sword and buckler, the woman made no move to draw either weapon.
What is going on?
At length, and having still not said a single word, the elf extended a hand towards Samuel, as if beckoning to him. Samuel took a step back, still unsure as to who this woman was or why he was here.
Despite his reconsideration, the elf still kept her hand extended; it was clear that she was not budging.
Deciding at last to take the woman up on faith, Samuel walked forward and took hold of the woman's hand with a gauntlet ...
Just as his world faded out once again.
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Post by Septimus on May 17, 2013 16:40:47 GMT
"Four subjects. Is that enough?" Lyla asked, her voice soft, kind. She always had been, being one of the less active medics in the war. Septimus wasn't even sure if she had ever held a gun, let alone shot at someone. Or something.
"For now, let us hope so." he replied, slowly getting to his feet. Without looking, he felt the firearms trained on him: they seemed confused as to why they were here, considering him hostile. In fact, they were a little under-dressed for the occasion, so to speak. They didn't look as if they were ready to take on the deadly contents of Castra, or rebuild the planet, as they were supposed to be doing.
"Welcome," he nodded as he turned to them: three males and a female, all armed. "to Sodalis. Follow me."
He turned slowly again, is tall figure of 6'6 heading East, towards the gleaming towers.
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Post by Alan Mathis on May 18, 2013 3:21:04 GMT
Kandahar Province, Afghanistan
2001
Private First Class Mathis wandered through the loose sand of Afghanistan's Kandahar Province. It was simple for him, one foot after the other, follow the soldier in front of him, make sure there weren't any contacts on the horizon, and try to ignore the sweat beading on his forehead. His Squad was currently on a eight mile patrol from their PB, a beat they'd walked fifty times since setting up in the area, so Alan knew the place like the back of his hand.
The soldier sighed out, lifting his M16A2 just a little bit; tugging on his ammunition webbing, before tucking in the magazine of his rifle into the vest. He kept one hand on the stock, but mostly the weight was off his arms. His left hand reached up to wipe some sweat from his upper lip, squinting around through his sunglasses. The nine soldiers were walking along a small footpath through a field, channels on either side that led to a small irrigation ditch. The path was part of a large loop, that led a good distance around the Patrol Base and back again. October's Brigade would often poke their heads up along the trail, sending small arms fire and the rare RPG towards the PB.
Of course, it was always indirect and inaccurate. Aside from two minor injuries, none of them had been hit. Though the insurgents were definitely getting more aggressive, two days before it'd taken mortar fire to shake them loose from their holes, much more than the few M249 bursts that had worked previously. So, the Lieutenant wanted to increase patrols, to try and keep them from setting up and launching more attacks.
This wouldn't have bothered Alan, if it hadn't meant that he had to walk the trail three times more a week than he had been. While he wasn't one to shy away from time outside the wire, it was hell on his feet.
"What time is it, Ray?" The Private called up ahead, towards his Fireteam's Sergeant. The large African-American looked over his shoulder at Alan, rubbing a glove against his nose and sniffing, before glancing at his watch.
"1300 hours, we'll be back inside the wire by 1600." The man replied, before continuing forward.
"Fuck, man, my knees are gonna go out by the time I'm twenty."
"Sucks, dude, how you gonna pay the bills then?"
"Fuck you, Vincent." Alan replied to the team's Automatic Rifleman, tossing a glance at him over his shoulder. The pair had bonded well since they met nearly a year ago, and he didn't get along with anyone in the entire Platoon better. They were always tossing quips at each other, but never let each other down in combat.
"Hahaha, don't hate me, hate the game."
"I don't hate you, I hate patrol." Alan tossed back, before he heard a sharp snap from Sergeant Ray, shutting up both soldiers before it could continue. The Private First Class walked in silence from then on, until he felt the bottom of his boot scrape against something solid; something other than sand.
Pausing, Alan looked down. He could barely see the glint of metal through the thin layer of sand, but it was very clear what it was.
"IED!!!"
But it was too late. Mathis felt a heavy, hot wave of energy slam into his legs, and his vision went white.
---
Alan felt his body smack into the sand, knocking the air out of him. He'd clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the worst to come. He didn't know what it'd be like, the shrapnel tearing through his body, his limbs being ripped off while his insides were liquidized. But he couldn't feel anything, no pain, nothing. The soldier opened his mouth, taking in a deep breath, before sputtering as he inhaled a thick cloud of sand.
The PFC opened his eyes, his sunglasses caked in a coating of dust. There was a thick cloud around him, of sand, no doubt from the IED. He couldn't see where he was, nor the position of the rest of the Squad. Mathis coughed hard, trying to clear his throat of the sand, before calling out, his voice hoarse. "Vincent!"
Realizing he hadn't checked himself for wounds, Alan glanced down. He felt along his legs, amazed by the lack of injuries. How had that happened, had the IED been a dud? "I'm alright! I'm alright! The IED didn't get me!"
He couldn't hear any members of his Squad responding, which was downright unnerving. Fearing the worse, Mathis shakily pushed himself to his feet and rushed through the cloud, quickly reaching the other side, just as the dust from the IED was beginning to settle.
Much to his surprise, the scenery had very much changed. Now it was a flat plain, just desert, more like Iraq than Afghanistan. In the distance was a city, and much closer, were several figures.
They weren't with him, not his Squad. Instinctively, the PFC lifted his M16A2 and dived into the sand, settling his iron sights on the nearest contact. He nearly froze from what he saw. It was a massive, metal being. Something straight out of a sci-fi movie, what the hell? Alongside it were what appeared to be two soldiers, although he couldn't identify their uniforms. Wait, one had a Ranger patch? That couldn't be right, that wasn't any BDU he recognized. The second was completely unidentifiable, and there appeared to be two more civilians next to them. What the fuck was going on? Where was Ray, and Vincent? What the hell was he supposed to do?
Was that man a Ranger? It didn't appear that they'd noticed him, although he couldn't tell with the cyborg thing. The Private First Class did the first thing that came to his mind, an age-old sign and countersign that anyone in the U.S. military worth his salt would know.
Lifting his head up from the M16A2, Alan called out, "Flash!"
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Post by sbishop on May 18, 2013 3:55:20 GMT
"Fuck. Get down!" Bishop hissed to the others, hearing someone bellow out from behind the group. He turned to the elf, but she was already on one knee, an arrow already notched in her bow.
He hissed to her, "Look, I dunno who the hell you are, why I am here or whether you can understand me, but don't fire unles I say so. Clear?"
The elf said nothing in reply, despite the glare she gave the operative, but lowered her weapon in a rough ready hold.
Trying to rack his brains for the watch reply, Bishop readied his PK470 (in the off-chance that someone would botch matters) and called back, "Thunder!"
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Post by brianholcomb on May 18, 2013 4:10:08 GMT
Brian was freaking out. This had to be some sort of hallucination, or a dream. But that was impossible, he could still see the edge of a Brazilian favela building in his mind from right before the flash of strange light. He didn't remember taking a bullet, didn't remember any pain other than the burning of his muscles from the chase. Now, he was surrounded by an Army Ranger and some strange armored figure that looked like it was out of a video game. Just as he was about to open his mouth and address the strange situation, two more figures showed up out of nowhere. One looked like some form of military, and the other was wielding a bow.
Outcome-4 started to take several steps back, keeping the entire group in his sight. He still held the Ranger's SCAR-H, the barrel switching between targets every few moments. Again, another figure appeared on the other side of the group, but the soldier dove into the sand.
"Flash!" He heard. The old call to identify friendly forces. The others turned to the soldier, the newest arriving military figure speaking directly to the elf. Brian hollered out the reply with caution.
"Thunder!"
He continued to swap between targets, mostly the elf-like fucker and the armored figure. Said armored figure had started to walk away.
"Welcome to Sodalis. Follow me."
"Stop!" Brian shouted, his trigger finger prepared to put rounds straight into someone's chest at the sign of aggression. There was no way in holy hell he was going to disappear from Brazil, end up inexplicably in some unfamiliar area, and follow a big dude dressed in metal on a whim. That wasn't how it worked.
"Identify yourselves! Starting with you!" The operative said, the barrel trained right on the armored man's chest.
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Post by Specialist Jasper McBadass on May 18, 2013 4:46:09 GMT
Jasper's gaze snapped from the metal man when someone suddenly shouted, "Vincent!" Followed by a string of dialogue referencing his being alright and the IED possibly being a dud. Judging from the dust cloud, that was where said voice was coming from - which meant more 'friends'.
He didn't have time to shift his M9 to the new individual but was quickly able to assess that the guy was wearing a desert uniform topped off with a gawdy woodland vest.
Nobody wore that stuff anymore outside of Blackhawk Down. And the ANA.
The Specialist shivered at that thought.
And then old-school camoman issued the age old challenge, "Flash!"
And Owens opened his mouth to give the return, when somebody else entirely heeded the call. And it wasn't the guy who stole his gun, since he was still grimly sighting in on Robocop.
Glancing to his opposite side, he instead saw a guy in navy blue/black utilities with some sort of assault rifle, and a chick with a bow. Owens had no idea who this guy was, but he knew the countersign, which honestly just meant he knew his Hollywood cinema.
The M9 shifted to the new arrivals. Because if somebody was taking the time to have them identify themselves with countersigns, then he wasn't planning on shooting anybody just yet. And gun-stealer guy had plenty of opportunites to chase Owens' check and didn't, so he wasn't overtly hostile aside from the punch to the jaw.
After the SCAR-toting gun thief hesitently gave the correct countersign, it was Owens' turn, who responded with an exasperated, "Thunder!"
Silence fell for all of half a second before mysterious metal man welcomed them to some place Jasper had never heard of, and asked them to follow him. Except he didn't pose it as a question, just a statement. Jasper once more made an attempt to speak before gun thief sounded his discontent.
Fuck. If this turned into a gunfight, Jasper was firmly under the impression he was fucked. He didn't have his rifle, just a vest filled with ammo for a weapon he didn't have. So presently, every magazine of 7.62 in his vest was just more dead weight. The dude with his SCAR didn't seemingly have any armor of any sort, so a few quick shots from his M9 might be able to take him down - of course, then he'd still have to contend with the guy hiding in the dune and the guy in tactical gear with the archer chick. Archer chick didn't pose too much of a challenge in his mind, she wasn't heavily armored and her bow probably wasn't much good against modern ballistic protection. The guy in tac gear had a rifle though, which gave him a range advantage over the Beretta in Owens' hands, and his armor looked like it could take a few hits. Likewise, Duneboy was a mixed case. Jasper had only managed a half-glance at the guy as he took to the sand like a worm, so he couldn't judge equipment or anything. Hell, the guy could have a Barrett light fifty for all the Specialist knew.
And then their was armored guy who liked to crouch. Without even having to think about it, Jasper knew his piddly Beretta didn't have the power to punch through whatever that dude was wearing.
Goddamn that jackass who stole his SCAR-H. Goddamn him to hell to get anally violated by Satan's spiked penis.
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Post by Septimus on May 19, 2013 0:59:31 GMT
"Identify yourselves! Starting with you!"
Septimus stopped at the sound of the hostility; he didn't want to have to get into a combat situation with the people who were supposed to be his allies. They wanted to know who he was otherwise they, the one who had acquired a rifle from one of the others in particular, would open fire. This was wrong.
"Sep, these people aren't---"
"I know, Lyla," Septimus whispered, turning back to the five people standing in the sand. "But right now, I, we, are going to need their help."
His AI and friend went quiet; she doubted him and, personally, he didn't blame her. For a start, they weren't wearing anything even close to the current model of Secta. Or any kind, for that matter, minus a few plates dotted around sparsely on specific persons. Secondly, their weapons were centuries old compared to the firearms he had available. Once they were inside Castra, he'd find them something a little more suited to the occasion.
"I would advise not pointing that at me," the lone inhabitant of Castra looked towards the green-eyed man with the stolen weapon, his voice cold, yet rough. "Especially since I'm the only thing that doesn't want to eat you in---"
He stopped, unsure of what unit of measurement they would understand. Lyla, however, had inspected the labels in several items of clothing the arrivals were wearing.
"---one-hundred and fifty-six billion, four-hundred and ninety-nine million, two-hundred-thousand square inches. Roughly."
Once again, Septimus turned, beckoning them to follow with his hand. Somehow, he knew they probably weren't going to follow.
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Post by Lars Ulman on May 19, 2013 17:42:48 GMT
It was, for Sergeant Lars Ulman, simply another day of guard work at Research Station EB-103. He and his fellow marines had stood by a massive gate, keeping guard for anything from a lost scientist to a Dominion soldier. Though he doubted that either scenario would happen. The research station was a top secret facility, known to only the highest of military officials within Umoja. And even then, few still knew of it's existence.
The Sergeant, a veteran of both the Great and Brood war, stood watch in his rather sterile looking, white Heavy Infantry armor. It was sleeker and more advanced than its Dominion equivalent, point being that the suit did not require a helmet. Rather, it was a protective energy barrier that floated in front of his face and projected his HUD more ergonomically.
He felt like giant, especially as he wielded his C-14 Gauss Rifle. Unlike some of the marines guarding the facility, he had seen the effects of the weapon on a target up close. It didn't take much to bring down a Zergling, if you knew how to aim. Most marines had come to rely on the targeting system, firing from the hip rather than taking aim. Lars' marines didn't make this mistake, he'd be damned before he let them.
Lars closed his eyes for a bit, thinking of his family waiting back home. He had another month left before he would be rotated back home, and he was thankful for the rather combat-free station. He couldn't bear knowing what it would do to his family if he didn't make it back home. As soon as he rotated back, he settled on retiring.
Then suddenly, alarms blared and voices broke through the radio silence, waking the Sergeant from his reverie.
"Sarge?" The marine next to him asked, "The hell is going on?"
Through the radios he heard other fireteams coming into contact with Dominion forces, mostly gunfire and static, but it all meant one thing. The Dominion forces were all converging on his unit's location, to get to whoever Lars' team was guarding. He'd make damn sure that the Dominion wouldn't get what they want and he'd return to his little girl in one piece.
"Get ready troopers! Get in defensive position! We've got Dominion soldiers inbound!" He barked, watching as his men entered formation. Any enemy combatant would enter a bottleneck and have to breach the gate that was a good 30 meters away from them. They'd get caught in the barrage of bullets and they'd be dead before they knew what happened.
"Steady..." He said, aiming his rifle at the center of the gate ahead.
On cue the bulkhead exploded, half of the gate flying into the hallway and embedding itself in the wall. "Open fire!" He barked, pulling the trigger on his C-14. The rounds flew through the air and through the smoke, striking whatever was behind the smoke. Then, as the first Dominion marine appeared through the black haze, his red CMC-300 armor acting like a giant metal target, Lars became blinded by a bright white light.
Despite the polarization on his screen, Lars involuntarily shielded his eyes with his gauntlet and looked away. Shaking his head from the disorientation, he immediately brought his rifle to bear and took aim. Except, this time, he had nothing to aim at. Beneath his boots, sand crunched underneath and a small gust kicking up in the wind.
His first thought was how the hell could he have ended up outside and away from the Research Station. Mere seconds ago he was with his unit battling Dominion forces.
He paused for a second, thinking of all the possible scenarios that could've happened. Am I... Dead? No, I can't be. Dominion use the same C-14's, this armor would take a beating before anything get's through...
Lars' thoughts were cut short when he heard a voice come from his right. "---one-hundred and fifty-six billion, four-hundred and ninety-nine million, two-hundred-thousand square inches. Roughly." It said, sounding monotonous in Lars' ears.
He turned and simply stared in awe as an armored figure stood against at least five other Terrans, all of which were sorely under armed and under armored. He stepped forward, entering a firing stance and took aim with his C-14 in their general direction. He zoomed in on the weapons that each of the Terrans held in their hands, all rather primitive by today's standards. None of the guns held by those people would have penetrated his armor, and if it had to come to it then he would not have trouble dispatching them.
It was the armored figure he was afraid of. It was unlike any armor system he had ever seen. He had seen marines, marauders, firebats and even Dominion reapers in action, but he had never come across someone or something like this. He heard tales of Dominion ghosts from his father, how they were assassins and were some of the deadliest Terran combatants in the Koprulu Sector. If that was what he was facing now, then if a psionic attack didn't kill him, then it would be whatever the being had in his arsenal.
"This is Sergeant Ulman, 3rd Squad, 1st Platoon, Echo Company. Umojan Heavy Infantry. Identify yourselves." He bellowed, his aim now tracking what he assumed to be a Ghost. If he weren't dead already, then that meant now he would redouble his efforts to get back home to his wife and child. And nothing was going to stop him.
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Post by Alan Mathis on May 20, 2013 19:42:35 GMT
A few moments passed, and Alan heard three replies, all the proper countersign. They all also had accents he recognized, definitely American. So that meant they were friendly, right? He still couldn't really identify their gear, but he'd get to that later. They seemed to focus their attention on the armored being - and for a good reason. Because so far, he seemed like the hardest target.
It puzzled the soldier as to why no one seemed to know each other, it was as if they were all just as confused as him. Maybe that was so? What the fuck had happened? Was he in the afterlife, or purgatory or something? The PFC was pulled from his thoughts, however, as there was a flash off to the side. Naturally, Alan shifted to look, and was quite surprised by what he saw. A man straight out of a sci-fi movie stumble through, wearing bulky armor and a rifle that looked like it'd shear someone's arm off with recoil. He hadn't been there a moment before.
And all of the sudden, the man started rattling off units, ranks, and factions, and demanded everyone here would identify themselves. None of it made sense to Mathis, Umojan? What the hell is that, some type of board game? The more the Private First Class thought, the more he realized that everyone here was just as clueless as him. A crazy idea passed through the soldier's mind, a risky one. But hey, what if this was actually the afterlife? It's not like he can die twice, right?
So, Alan pushed himself up from the sand, one hand brushing at his vest to knock loose some particles. Looking up at the group, he slung his M16A2 around his back, letting it hang. He raised his hands, after that, showing he was unarmed, eyes glancing warily between all the people before him. He really didn't wanna see that cannon the Ouija guy was carrying in action.
Trying to calm his racing heart, the soldier spoke out. "Private First Class Alan Mathis, United States Army, First Battalion, Eighty-Seventh Infantry Regiment, Tenth Mountain Division, Bravo Company, Second Platoon. Now, I'm sure that we're all confused, I have no fuckin' clue how I got here. But I really don't think blowing each other apart is going to help."
Mathis looked at the three who had called out thunder before, nodding towards them. They were the ones he seemed to be most alike. "You three, American, right? You there, with the Beretta, you're a Ranger, right? Look, let's all just lower our weapons... Take a leap of faith, and figure out exactly why the hell we're here. Because I'm pretty sure if the six and a half foot tall thing of metal wanted us dead, we'd be dead."
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Post by brianholcomb on May 20, 2013 21:47:56 GMT
Before Outcome-4 could even reply to 'ole Mega Man, another flash of light caught his attention and forced his eyes shut for a moment. When he looked back in the direction of the soldier down in the sand, he saw a gigantic hulking suit of armor holding a rifle that looked powerful enough to blow someone in half. The barrel of his rifle shifted to what now seemed to be the most hostile target, since it had raised it's weapon at them. At least the other one was trying to lead them somewhere, he didn't seem to want to immediately harm them.
The hulking armored man started to bellow out his identifications, rank and unit. Then he requested that they do the same. Brian heard one of the soldiers speak up, announcing himself as Alan Mathis, putting away his weapon. Brian hesitated, but lowered the barrel of the SCAR-H. His training rebelled against his attempts to identify himself, but he had to remember that he'd been betrayed. His security clearance didn't matter anymore.
"Brian Holcomb. United States Department of Defense beta program: Outcome," he said loud and clear, his voice almost booming across the empty desert. "The kid's right, let's just take it easy. No need to kill anybody just yet."
Outcome-4 turned and looked at the Ranger, realizing that he still had the stock of the man's rifle firmly planted in his shoulder. Taking a few steps toward the man, he held the rifle out for him to take it back. This seemed to be a situation where talking would be better than killing. He looked back at the first armored figure.
"Where are we? Who are you? What happened?"
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