@LovelyAnastasia Fair!
So is the 20th Century Scotswoman your modus operandi, or just a style you decided to use for this story?
So is the 20th Century Scotswoman your modus operandi, or just a style you decided to use for this story?
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- Old Guild Username: Heretic209
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- FortunesFaded 12 yrs ago
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Wow, I really missed this place
11 yrs ago
Shine on, you crazy diamond
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11 yrs ago
Back, after about 3 months of absence
Bio
Been around a while. Then I left a while. On and off for over a decade, and back for now!
Most Recent Posts
@BurningCold Accepted. Brilliant of you to have his entire family aboard the Willman. That makes me reconsider my current plans for who the crew will find alive there..
@LovelyAnastasia I'm beginning to realize that you have a certain affinity for GIFs
@LovelyAnastasia I'm beginning to realize that you have a certain affinity for GIFs
@BurningCold If you'd like to, sure, but that'd be a rather large time commitment. I'd recommend having him just be an NPC until one of your main characters dies down the road.
At the door stood a lone guard, armed with a military-grade assault rifle and supported by a veritable army of surveillance cameras on the nooks and walls overlooking the entrance. Inside and around the perimeter were undoubtedly countless more armed guards, patrolling one of the most valuable structures in all of Europe. The Lavit Launch Facility was not an anomaly in their security measures: indeed, all launch facilities had similar defenses. In the spacefaring age, each bloc’s launch facility was their only way to set sail into the New World. Any kind of damage or destruction would set them back decades.
John had never been inside the Lavit Facility, and had indeed never launched from Earth anywhere else than at Lincoln Station, the American launch pad thirty miles north of Washington, D.C.. With a nod of affirmation from the entrance guard, he was allowed access into the building and noted with mild approval that the layout was rather familiar, just with changes in décor. The Lavit, as well as the Lincoln, were both years after the creation of the Global Coalition; as a result, they and all other more modern facilities tend to share the same design and characteristics, as they were overseen by GC architects and officials. John made his way through the building, past reception and some administrative offices before reaching the elevator which took him to the same level as the launch pad, on the fifth floor. After that, he walked over the enclosed bridge separation the facility from the launch structure (a crude utilitarian structure far different in design from that of the sleek administrative building) and watched as the walls around him turned from smooth white to rough concrete; everything became bleak and wrought iron. He opened a door to the outside and was buffeted by a chill wind, intensified by the height. Sitting just inside the launch facility, and looking out of place on the pad itself, was a stylish vessel of dark gray steel and seamless curves, that put many of the old, clunky military transports John had rode on to shame. It was the Sentinel, the new American freighter that had been completed not two years prior, and which was loaned to the GC for the Willman Expedition.
John greeted the Lavit prep crew on the bridge and was ushered into the vessel’s airlock, where the door was closed behind him, and after a few seconds the one in front of his face opened into a kind of lobby, with seats already occupied by a handful of people. Of them, he recognized only the German, Jethart Igneal, along with the Dane, Daniel Østergaard, two of the soldiers who were serving under John, whom he had just met the day prior. However, the brief time that they were in the room the day before was almost exclusively dedicated to training: what was different about fighting in the colonies, and how best to adapt to the new conditions. As a result, John knew their names and ranks, and not much else. Beyond Jethart and Daniel, the rest were civilians: a young, optimistic woman sitting near Jethart, and another lady – a scientist, John was sure – observing at a distance, along with a scholarly man standing apart from the rest, and the two pilots: one a wiry man with a witty smirk, and the other a woman lost in time. She gave off the distinct look and feel of the 20th century, with a cigar between her lips and her hair done up neat. Her style threw John off, but he didn’t really show it. On the contrary, he kept his military composure, nodding at Jethart and Daniel before taking a seat apart from the others and running a hand through his hair with an almost inaudible sigh.
John had never been inside the Lavit Facility, and had indeed never launched from Earth anywhere else than at Lincoln Station, the American launch pad thirty miles north of Washington, D.C.. With a nod of affirmation from the entrance guard, he was allowed access into the building and noted with mild approval that the layout was rather familiar, just with changes in décor. The Lavit, as well as the Lincoln, were both years after the creation of the Global Coalition; as a result, they and all other more modern facilities tend to share the same design and characteristics, as they were overseen by GC architects and officials. John made his way through the building, past reception and some administrative offices before reaching the elevator which took him to the same level as the launch pad, on the fifth floor. After that, he walked over the enclosed bridge separation the facility from the launch structure (a crude utilitarian structure far different in design from that of the sleek administrative building) and watched as the walls around him turned from smooth white to rough concrete; everything became bleak and wrought iron. He opened a door to the outside and was buffeted by a chill wind, intensified by the height. Sitting just inside the launch facility, and looking out of place on the pad itself, was a stylish vessel of dark gray steel and seamless curves, that put many of the old, clunky military transports John had rode on to shame. It was the Sentinel, the new American freighter that had been completed not two years prior, and which was loaned to the GC for the Willman Expedition.
John greeted the Lavit prep crew on the bridge and was ushered into the vessel’s airlock, where the door was closed behind him, and after a few seconds the one in front of his face opened into a kind of lobby, with seats already occupied by a handful of people. Of them, he recognized only the German, Jethart Igneal, along with the Dane, Daniel Østergaard, two of the soldiers who were serving under John, whom he had just met the day prior. However, the brief time that they were in the room the day before was almost exclusively dedicated to training: what was different about fighting in the colonies, and how best to adapt to the new conditions. As a result, John knew their names and ranks, and not much else. Beyond Jethart and Daniel, the rest were civilians: a young, optimistic woman sitting near Jethart, and another lady – a scientist, John was sure – observing at a distance, along with a scholarly man standing apart from the rest, and the two pilots: one a wiry man with a witty smirk, and the other a woman lost in time. She gave off the distinct look and feel of the 20th century, with a cigar between her lips and her hair done up neat. Her style threw John off, but he didn’t really show it. On the contrary, he kept his military composure, nodding at Jethart and Daniel before taking a seat apart from the others and running a hand through his hair with an almost inaudible sigh.
@LovelyAnastasia I love Miora, she's accepted. Please copy and paste the CS into the Characters tab, and feel free to begin posting!
On the topic of posting, I won't be able to do much of anything tonight and all of tomorrow, as I'm headed down to a wedding. However, in the mean time please feel free to keep posting, brainstorming the intricacies of the universe, and conversing in the OOC and whatnot.
Just please don't launch the Sentinel without John, he's still in the parking lot.
On the topic of posting, I won't be able to do much of anything tonight and all of tomorrow, as I'm headed down to a wedding. However, in the mean time please feel free to keep posting, brainstorming the intricacies of the universe, and conversing in the OOC and whatnot.
Just please don't launch the Sentinel without John, he's still in the parking lot.
@LovelyAnastasia I think you may have missed my post about the OOC being up a while back! Here it is!
@DeepestApology As a full time college student with a full time job, I completely understand -- no need to apologize. Also I can't quite remember if I had sent you a dossier yet.. I'll check up with that.
@BurningCold That's my bad, I forgot to send out quite a few of those actually. I'm writing Anton's up now.
Edit: Anton's has been sent; for anyone else who has yet to receive one, i'll be working on those tonight and into tomorrow.
Edit: Anton's has been sent; for anyone else who has yet to receive one, i'll be working on those tonight and into tomorrow.
With the IC up I feel as if I should clarify something: In the three days between the event and the present, all members of the expedition have been flown to France to board the Sentinel, the ship that will be taking everyone to the Willman Lab together.
Willman Frontier Laboratory
August 4th, 2163
Silence cut like a razor, spilling blood by the gallon and filling the air with the pungent smell of iron. It was a massacre, taking place in an empty hall which told no secrets. It was a protest against human ingenuity – a strike against the great pioneers.
At the end of the hallway stood a nondescript door leading to a standard biological laboratory, where a balding white man in his early forties lay decomposing on the harsh concrete floor, his eye sockets black and hollow, his skin broken by small holes all across his body as if his innards had planned a vast exodus en masse. His lab coat was stained a sinister grey color, and that same liquid spread from his body to create a puddle around him on the floor. It had the consistency of blood, as well the smell.
On a usual day, the Willman Frontier Laboratory was not a quiet place. It was a place where eight hundred individuals – scientists, largely, along with their families – lived and worked in relatively close proximity, and where everyone seemed to be in quite a hurry to run from metal box to metal box, to share some step toward discovery.
But the silence had spread beyond the laboratory, through the hallway and out into the small colony. The living quarters were silent, no children played, no colleagues chatted in the dining hall. Instead, the dead populated the Willman colony. By the hundreds they lay, their eyes devoured, their skin perforated from the inside. They were many, they were all. There was no room for the living.
Alone, rocking back and forth almost involuntarily on the floor of a maintenance closet, Doctor Hector Russell tried in vain not to hyperventilate. The door was shut firmly in front of his face, shrouding him in utter blackness save for the dim light emanating from the gap at the bottom. Hector expected to hear footsteps outside, a rescue party or, perhaps, a colleague: come to tell him that none of it was real. But there were no footsteps. Only silence, and the man’s own ragged breathing. He kept rocking back and forth on the cold floor. He kept moving, he needed to, else the sensation inside him drive him to utter madness. If he stopped, he could feel them pull, outward. If he stopped, he could feel them crawl beneath his skin.
Lavit Launch Facility, near Toulouse, France
August 7th, 2163
It was a beautiful summer morning, and the sun was just peeking over the hills and small towns of southern France, bringing a gentle warmth to those early risers already awake to see it. The country had developed in bounds in the hundred plus years since the start of mankind’s spacefaring age, but it had certainly retained its’ natural beauty. The wonders of Earth comingled with the wonders of man: it was no longer a battle, but a gentle armistice. The dawn broke from behind the Lavit International Launch Facility, giving the massive chrome building a yellow highlight, and cast shadows on the parking lot beneath.
The lot was almost vacant, save for the vehicles of a few insomniacs and some interns hard-pressed by an imposing deadline. On the far edge of the lot near the highway, a man sat upright in his nondescript rental car taking generous swigs from a bottle of Irish whiskey. He wore on his hardened face a look of total detachment, as if forced to watch an execution that he had a hand in orchestrating. His face was recently shaved, and his hair trimmed back down to regulation length. He had on a ceremonial military uniform with his rank – Operations Sergeant – emblazoned on the sleeve and two medals adorning his breast. With bloodshot eyes, he adjusted the rear view mirror to take a look at himself in uniform: a sharp looking man devoid of all hope met him in the glass. The medals glimmered in the sunlight, and a name, J. Howard, sat matter-of-factly beside them.
With a sigh, John Howard put away the bottle and stepped out of the vehicle, retrieving his luggage from the trunk. He didn’t bring much – primarily civilian clothes, and a small selection of pictures and mementos – but expected to find his “equipment” waiting for him on the inside. He had volunteered to lead an international fireteam of soldiers on board the expedition to investigate the silence at the Willman Laboratory, but unlike the majority of his fellow passengers, he felt very little. He knew nothing of the dangers, but wasn’t worried. This was just another mission, like all the rest, and he knew that he may not return: just like the rest. Walking slowly toward the building, he saw the monolithic launch pad next to the facility, atop which sat the Sentinel, the state-of-the-art freighter vessel that the Global Coalition had received from the American Alliance. Boarding that ship would be a smattering of specialists from all backgrounds and from planets and colonies all across the solar system. They would be hurled into an unknown space at light speed, to confront an unknown danger. To John, this was his life now, and he would do his duty as best he could. It was all he could do, now. His love had been dead for years, and so had he. He was just running on autopilot.
August 4th, 2163
Silence cut like a razor, spilling blood by the gallon and filling the air with the pungent smell of iron. It was a massacre, taking place in an empty hall which told no secrets. It was a protest against human ingenuity – a strike against the great pioneers.
It has now been one hour since contact ceased with the Willman Laboratory in Ursa Major following what was described by technicians as a “violent crash and static” on the other end. Government officials have not ruled out the possibility of some sort of disaster, but continue to insist that the cause is likely some sort of technical issue with the station’s transmitters –
At the end of the hallway stood a nondescript door leading to a standard biological laboratory, where a balding white man in his early forties lay decomposing on the harsh concrete floor, his eye sockets black and hollow, his skin broken by small holes all across his body as if his innards had planned a vast exodus en masse. His lab coat was stained a sinister grey color, and that same liquid spread from his body to create a puddle around him on the floor. It had the consistency of blood, as well the smell.
– laboratory was founded by Dr. Hector Russell, a giant in the fields of astrobiology and microbiology, for the purpose of studying the effects on known organisms in unknown environments, and for the discovery of unknown organisms –
On a usual day, the Willman Frontier Laboratory was not a quiet place. It was a place where eight hundred individuals – scientists, largely, along with their families – lived and worked in relatively close proximity, and where everyone seemed to be in quite a hurry to run from metal box to metal box, to share some step toward discovery.
But the silence had spread beyond the laboratory, through the hallway and out into the small colony. The living quarters were silent, no children played, no colleagues chatted in the dining hall. Instead, the dead populated the Willman colony. By the hundreds they lay, their eyes devoured, their skin perforated from the inside. They were many, they were all. There was no room for the living.
– a spokesperson for Russell Innovations will be addressing the public shortly regarding this situation, likely in an attempt to quell speculation. The government has already stated that, should the Willman Laboratory not contact Earth within the next four hours, a team will be dispatched to investigate what has unfolded at the most distant human settlement in all of the universe.
Alone, rocking back and forth almost involuntarily on the floor of a maintenance closet, Doctor Hector Russell tried in vain not to hyperventilate. The door was shut firmly in front of his face, shrouding him in utter blackness save for the dim light emanating from the gap at the bottom. Hector expected to hear footsteps outside, a rescue party or, perhaps, a colleague: come to tell him that none of it was real. But there were no footsteps. Only silence, and the man’s own ragged breathing. He kept rocking back and forth on the cold floor. He kept moving, he needed to, else the sensation inside him drive him to utter madness. If he stopped, he could feel them pull, outward. If he stopped, he could feel them crawl beneath his skin.
Lavit Launch Facility, near Toulouse, France
August 7th, 2163
It was a beautiful summer morning, and the sun was just peeking over the hills and small towns of southern France, bringing a gentle warmth to those early risers already awake to see it. The country had developed in bounds in the hundred plus years since the start of mankind’s spacefaring age, but it had certainly retained its’ natural beauty. The wonders of Earth comingled with the wonders of man: it was no longer a battle, but a gentle armistice. The dawn broke from behind the Lavit International Launch Facility, giving the massive chrome building a yellow highlight, and cast shadows on the parking lot beneath.
The lot was almost vacant, save for the vehicles of a few insomniacs and some interns hard-pressed by an imposing deadline. On the far edge of the lot near the highway, a man sat upright in his nondescript rental car taking generous swigs from a bottle of Irish whiskey. He wore on his hardened face a look of total detachment, as if forced to watch an execution that he had a hand in orchestrating. His face was recently shaved, and his hair trimmed back down to regulation length. He had on a ceremonial military uniform with his rank – Operations Sergeant – emblazoned on the sleeve and two medals adorning his breast. With bloodshot eyes, he adjusted the rear view mirror to take a look at himself in uniform: a sharp looking man devoid of all hope met him in the glass. The medals glimmered in the sunlight, and a name, J. Howard, sat matter-of-factly beside them.
With a sigh, John Howard put away the bottle and stepped out of the vehicle, retrieving his luggage from the trunk. He didn’t bring much – primarily civilian clothes, and a small selection of pictures and mementos – but expected to find his “equipment” waiting for him on the inside. He had volunteered to lead an international fireteam of soldiers on board the expedition to investigate the silence at the Willman Laboratory, but unlike the majority of his fellow passengers, he felt very little. He knew nothing of the dangers, but wasn’t worried. This was just another mission, like all the rest, and he knew that he may not return: just like the rest. Walking slowly toward the building, he saw the monolithic launch pad next to the facility, atop which sat the Sentinel, the state-of-the-art freighter vessel that the Global Coalition had received from the American Alliance. Boarding that ship would be a smattering of specialists from all backgrounds and from planets and colonies all across the solar system. They would be hurled into an unknown space at light speed, to confront an unknown danger. To John, this was his life now, and he would do his duty as best he could. It was all he could do, now. His love had been dead for years, and so had he. He was just running on autopilot.
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