Byrd Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I gotta say as much as I enjoy this game and reading about the lore and everyone's posts... it's fucking weird. I say it with nothing but complete love and affection, you fucking weirdos.

Star Trek: To Boldly Go

"I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker."

Carter injected Brown in the neck with a hypospray. A coagulant shot through the security chief's veins in an effort to counteract whatever the hell he'd been infected with. He looked through the collection of utensils beside the gurney and picked up a small pen like object with a glowing red tip.

"While that serum tries to clot your blood, I'm going to cauterize the wound."

The pen glowed red hot with a high-energy output of several hundred degrees.

"Just lay back and think of England." Carter shifted his mouth and spoke in the posh, upper-crust accent he'd learned. He took a deep breath and prepared to cauterize the wound on Brown's arm. "Stiff upper lip, chap."

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

"Halliburton" is his safe word.

Star Trek: To Boldly Go

"Keep talking and I'll amputate your tongue," Carter hissed as he walked by the big security chief.

All around Sick Bay, doctors and nurses were busy tending to their patients. Dr. Lana, a Klingon surgeon that was arguably the best the ship had to offer, was busy trying to save CHENG Dra’ul from circling the drain. Assisting her was the Orion nurse Dera. A quick inventory told Carter he was the only doctor not engaged in the crisis, the only one not attempting to mind a wounded crewman.

"Your lucky day, Brown," he said as he and D'Wkin got the injured chief to a gurney. "I'm your doctor. Hopefully for you, my hangover isn't that bad."

A quick slice from his laser scalpel cut off the portion of Brown's tunic where the injury lay.

"It looks worse than it is," he said with a glance up towards Brown. "But a few inches to the left and it would have been so much worse. I'm talking major artery and you dead in two minutes flat worse. What hit you, Brown? Be as detailed as possible and be as quick as possible."

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

War. What is it good for?

Star Trek: To Boldly Go

@Byrd ManI've go another poor soul coming to sick bay for you.

Since it's Wade's character, you can either let him die (tragically) or save his life, but make him unfit for duty (which would leave Wade an opportunity to return is she so desires at a later point).

@Blue Demon

Don't you die on me!

Star Trek: To Boldly Go

"I have long, jagged, pieces of isolinear data chips embedded into my palm from an explosion on the bridge. I've already stopped the blood loss and killed the pain, but you got here before I could reconfigure the tricorder to emit a micro-antigrav pulse to dis-embed the bits of isolinear chips...but you probably have a more 'Doctor'-y way of doing that. So whatever, fine. Here."

She sighed, it was faint and under her breath, but oh-so passive aggressive. Fixing herself was keeping her mind off other things, like ghosts, and wounded crewmembers. Now the CMO had taken that from her. Now he would take care of her. Vash knew her medical record. She knew multiple doctors in the Academy had labeled her "uncooperative" and "uncomfortable being cared her." She was only glad the CMO had no access to the classified parts of her Medical Record; her recovery from the Cosmo incident.

"Also, hey, I could do this myself if you should be taking care of someone more seriously injured. This is barely a flesh wound, I wouldn't even need to bother a nurse: I did a year of Medical at the VSA and had a minor going in Combat Medicine at the Academy. So, really, I could do it just fine."

Even if I can barely move my right hand.

@Ruby

"Delegation is key," Carter chided. "It's supposed to be the first thing officers learn, at least that's what I learned in the Academy. I didn't go the command track, but I retained that much."

Of course the captain learned about combat medicine. From what he'd gleaned about his CO in his short time here, she was a jack of all trades but a master of none. Impetuous. That's the word Carter would use to describe Captain Vaella. What did you expect when someone not even thirty years was put in charge of an entire starship?

Carter worked in silence and went about finishing the work in a way very similar to the one described by Vaella. Instead of a makeshift tricorder, he used a sonic pulse scalpel to disintegrate the embedded tech pieces in her arm. After that, he applied ointment on the wound and started the process of growing the skin back.

"Flex your arm for me," he said as they watched the dermal regeneration of the skin on her arm. "Work the joints, wrist, and fingers and see if you can feel anything through your painkillers. There's going to be some pain, but not enough that you should feel it."

Carter glanced up and saw his staff busy at work on other patients. So far, nothing critical had come in but they had yet to hear news from the away team. For all he knew, this could be the calm before the storm.

"I have no idea of your patchwork ability," Carter said while he watched the captain inspect her arm. "But coming all the way down to Sickbay to patch yourself up is like going to a restaurant and cooking your own dinner. Why do it yourself when a pro can take care of it?"

Star Trek: To Boldly Go

Working on it now. Other Shit and shit has been getting in the way.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

More war, please.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

Previously

MacArthur Island
South Pacific
14:14 Local Time

Metal clashed and sparks flew. Douglas MacArthur snarled as he swung low with the blade of his katana. The sword clanked against the blade of Theodore Roosevelt's and sent the general back on to his heels. The two figures moved through the shadows of MacArthur's throne room. The general's armed guards looked in impassively as their master fought for his life.

"You have more vigor than your nephew, I'll give you that," MacArthur wheezed as their duel hit a lull. "But you lack grit. That's the problem with you silver spoon types."

MacArthur charged Roosevelt. The general sliced and diced while Roosevelt parried a furious attack from the man.

"You court danger for fun and life experience," MacArthur shouted between blows. "You fight with the detached bemusement of an aristocrat. You have no idea of what it means to fight for ones life. When MacArthur was twenty-three, he killed two Filipino bushwhackers."

Roosevelt let out a cry of pain as the tip of MacArthur's blade sliced into his shoulder. His knee buckled, but he composed himself long enough to fend off another round of blows. Quickly, he scampered back away from the general.

"MacArthur did not have to raise an army with his daddy's money, MacArthur did not kill a couple of underequipped Cubans and call himself a hero. He did not use his family's influence to get a desk job in President Wilson's Navy. He fought, he led men into battle, he saw the enemy face to face."

While MacArthur prattled on in third person, Roosevelt wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to figure out his next move. He was a skilled fighter, but the general was much better with the samurai blade. His study so far had revealed one flaw in the general's form. When MacArthur swung, he always did so in a series of three. On the third swing, he continued to expose the right side of his ribcage. It would be close, but if he was quick enough he may just deal a serious blow to MacArthur.

"And MacArthur always fell short," Roosevelt said softly. "Everyone remembers Ike, Patton, and even Marshall for their skill and fighting ability. All anyone knows of MacArthur is the corncob pipe and Korea. Pomp and incompetence, that's your legacy. No amount of stars, no amount of field marshal batons, no amount of medals will make up for the fact that he tried so hard to be better than his own father... but just like his father, he was fired by the president."

MacArthur's aloof face twisted into a mask of rage. His eyes went wide and he yelled as he charged Roosevelt. Theodore held his ground and fended off the wild hacks from MacArthur's sword. When the third blow was coming, he saw his opportunity and took it. As MacArthur was swinging high, Roosevelt went low and stabbed forward with his sword. The blade pierced the general's ribcage and went up into his organs. He stopped mid-attack and stumbled backward, blood pouring from his abdomen.

Roosevelt wrenched the samurai sword from MacArthur's hand and spun around. The two armed guards who had been observers were running towards Roosevelt with their guns out. He threw both swords at them and watched as the blades buried themselves in the men's chests. They collapsed to the ground before they could even get a shot off.

"Mr. Roosevelt..."

Theodore turned and saw MacArthur on the ground. Blood pooled around his body and soaked his kimono. The general's face was pale and pasty looking. Whatever damage Roosevelt had done to his insides, it was working quickly.

"There's a gun in my kimono," he whispered. "The inside pocket. It's small, but it should be enough to put me out of my misery."

Roosevelt got on one knee and reached into the blood-soaked pocket. As he tried to find it, MacArthur's cold and clammy hands grabbed his forearms and pulled him in close.

"The truth about the Executive Branch," he whispered into Roosevelt's ear. "What I found..."

Roosevelt pulled himself back a few seconds later. He had no response to the information he had just received, or even how to process it. In his hand was a small four-shot derringer. Big enough to do the job.

"What I said was true, Mr. Roosevelt," he grunted in pain. "Every word. Maybe you can change what I could not. Now, go ahead and do what needs to be done.'

Roosevelt cocked the hammer of the derringer back and aimed for MacArthr's head. The general looked at him and nodded.

"Old soldiers never die they just fa--".

Two small gunshots from the derringer cut MacArthur off and ended his life.

----

Amelia Earhart pulled down on the control yoke and held her breath as the nuclear stealth bomber did a spinning dive towards the water. Four fighter jets followed her down into the spin. From her HUD, she was at least three different missile locks from the pursuing fighters and the two in a holding pattern above the island. It was a hard fight, but so far she had managed to evade the fighters as she got increasingly close to the island. They were currently a half mile out from the drop zone. If she could just--

A missile exploded above the diving jet and sent the craft spinning out of its planned path. Earhart looked at her HUD and attempted to right herself before the jet spun into the water. She jerked on the yoke and sent it spinning sideways. She hit the throttle and blasted up into the air, leaving the out of control fighters still free-falling. Her display informed her that two crashed into the water while the other two were still righting themselves. The hairs on the back of her neck tickled. This was it.

She increased speed and blasted towards the island drop zone. The two jets above the island broke off their holding pattern and started to chase after her, but she knew that they were too late. The jet was too fast and she was too good to let them catch up and take her down before she delivered her package above MacArthur Island.

"Thirty seconds," she said into the PA. "I'm opening the door now. When the light goes green, do you thing."

In the back of the bomber's lead lined cargo hold, the hydraulic bomb doors opened up. A rush of freezing air came roaring in with a ear-piercing howl. The passenger didn't mind the noise, and he especially didn't mind the cold. He never got cold since he was brought back to life. The things he could do, heat was his problem. The scorching heat of atomic energy.

With atomic energy pulsating from his hands, Harry S Truman adjusted his necktie and glasses. The light above his head went from green to red. He leaned forward and disappeared out the bomb doors. The roar in his ears was loud, but it was rapidly fading. Replacing it was the sound of sizzling as every cell in his body prepared to release the energy it had stored. Each cell had the energy of the original atomic bomb that devastated Hiroshima, and each cell would release that energy on impact.

From twenty-thousand feet above the earth, Harry Truman closed his eyes and prepared to unleash nuclear holocaust.

@Byrd Man

MacArthur Island
South Pacific
14:14 Local Time

A dozen of MacArthur Island's best guards were huddled together at the end of a long corridor, some standing and some crouching. They stood in front of a heavy metal door latched closed while their automatic weapons were trained on the big metal door leading into the corridor. The men traded looks at the sound of gunfire and explosions from somewhere close. The captain of the unit felt sweat beading on his forehead. There was still no word from the General after his command that they all fight to the last man to stop... whatever this unseen devil was. Three or four of the men flinched when they heard a loud crash, followed by a scream that was close by. The captain himself nearly jumped when the door at the end of the hallway bucked in its frame.

"Aim," he barked in Mandarin to the men. "Hold steady and do not fire until I give the command."

Another slam against the door bent it, another loosened it, and a final blow sent it off its hinges and slowly down the corridor towards the men. It came to a stop a few feet in front of the group.

"Hold!"

The dozen men waited and kept their weapons trained on the empty doorway and the looming darkness just through the threshold. The captain thought he saw something stir inside the dark. A half-second later, something sped through the doorway and down the corridor. The razor-sharp blade of a throwing axe caught a guard flush in the forehead and dropped him to the ground.

"FIRE!"

Something leapt from the darkness and raced down the corridor. It was big and spindly, moving much too graceful for a thing of its size. Whatever it was, it moved through the hail of bullets unharmed and tore through the guards like a buzzsaw. The captain opened fire amid the carnage and flying blood. His shots seemed to miss as the big creature ripped his unit to shreds with his killing weapon. Within seconds, the captain was left alone staring at the monster in front of him.



"I proclaim your head emancipated from your neck."

The captain screamed and began to open fire, but the blade of Abraham Lincoln's axe struck his head from his shoulder before he could finish pulling the trigger.

"The coast is clear, Doctor," Lincoln said as he shook blood off his hands.

Hsien Wu, the pudgy Chinese doctor and Lincoln's accomplice, came waddling out the doorway and looked at the carnage with wide eyes.

"Now is not the time to become squeamish," Lincoln said as he removed his throwing axe from a dead guard's forehead. He tucked the weapon back into his waistband and looked towards Wu. "The hour is getting late. We need to destroy those off-site backups and escape before this entire island is burnt to a crisp."

"It's the next room," said Wu. "A few quick keystrokes and I can destroy the hard drives."

Lincoln strode past the dead guards and threw open the metal latch locking the metal door in place. The two men stepped into a cavernous white room with servers stretching out as far as the eye could see. A large monitor the size of a house was suspended high above the servers. Lincoln looked at the sight in slight awe as Wu passed by him and hurried towards a terminal.

"This is the Khan's brain," Wu said as his fingers swiftly moved across the touch screen surface of the terminal. "For thirty years, I worked on the technology that took DNA from descendants and slowly, painstakingly created the Khan's original genetic profile and replicated his brain pattern."

Wu jumped at the sound of a loud crash. Lincoln began to swing into the servers with his axe.

"My life's work," Wu said with a hint of sorrow in his voice. "My second life's work. All going down the drain."

"I wouldn't say that doctor."

Wu and Lincoln both turned as Theodore Roosevelt burst into the room. Blood spatters covered his khaki uniform and his eyeglasses were spritzed with the crimson liquid.

"The Executive Branch could have ample use for your wonderful technology."

----

The submarine Bataan surfaced sixty miles away from MacArthur Island. The hatch flew open and Roosevelt, Lincoln, and Wu climbed on to the deck of the sub just in time to see the show. A bright light flashed on the island. A mushroom cloud blossomed over the island and sent heat and shockwaves of force rippling across the water. Even this far away, they could feel the intense heat from the atomic explosion.

"Franklin will probably want to send a bomber to the second site in China," Lincoln said as they watched. "Mr. Truman usually takes a good week to recharge after an... event."

Lincoln continued to talk, but Roosevelt wasn't listening. His thoughts were on MacArthur's last words, the ones he softly whispered to Roosevelt as he lay there dying. Those were the words that caused the already independent general to turn full rogue and abandon the Executive Branch.

"They're back," Roosevelt said to himself.

"What was that, Theodore?" Lincoln asked.

"Talking to myself," he mumbled as he started back down the sub's hatch.

They're back. MacArthur didn't elaborate who they were, he didn't need to. After the First World War tore them apart, the Timekeepers were back. "They're back," MacArthur had hissed quietly. And then he added the thing that scared Roosevelt the most. "They're inside the Executive Branch."

Theodore Roosevelt took one last look at the now destroyed facility on MacArthur Island before his gaze turned to Lincoln. He and Dr. Wu talked amongst themselves as they watched the mushroom cloud disperse over the island. They're inside the Executive Branch, Roosevelt thought to himself. But just how deep?