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PLEASE NOTICE ME HANK-SENPAI
Most Recent Posts
This is glorious. Please continue.
Christ, I'm only 17. Suppose it's a good thing that I seem older, though. Certainly helps me get served at bars! 
Also, Everclear sounds rough as fucking guts. I am, unfortunately, a serious heavyweight and I wouldn't go near that stuff xD
I have a fairly complex financial situation thanks to split parents, so I can't afford to take a gap year. If I could, I'd go to a sixth-form college (equivalent to last two years of high school) and try some other courses, and would reapply to Cambridge next year. As it is, I'm going straight to uni - depending on my grades, either the University of Edinburgh, which is my "insurance" choice, or preferably Imperial College London.
Why, though? I suppose if you're planning to go into an industry in which connections are very important then it might be worth it - sort of like sending your kids to private school - but honestly, I don't understand the attraction of being in one of these groups.
Amis and Elli will almost definitely end up in a wee scrap at some point. Although I would briefly like to say that Amis' views only loosely reflect my own - I'm a lot less intolerant and vitriolic than he is. Usually. :P
Also, Everclear sounds rough as fucking guts. I am, unfortunately, a serious heavyweight and I wouldn't go near that stuff xD
NotExceedingTheNines said
Also Halo- what's your plan for next year? Gap year or straight off to uni?
I have a fairly complex financial situation thanks to split parents, so I can't afford to take a gap year. If I could, I'd go to a sixth-form college (equivalent to last two years of high school) and try some other courses, and would reapply to Cambridge next year. As it is, I'm going straight to uni - depending on my grades, either the University of Edinburgh, which is my "insurance" choice, or preferably Imperial College London.
Ariamella said
And I mean, some soritites and frats are high quality (you have to have a really high GPA and be an overall good student) because they're the "classy" ones that get you plenty of cennections if you go into music, business, etc. but they're very... Elitist, hard to get into, and really expensive. Some of my friends are breaking their wallets to stay in Greek life.Edit: Pick a fight with Elli, I dare you. She'll be like, "V, girl, hold my earrings."
Why, though? I suppose if you're planning to go into an industry in which connections are very important then it might be worth it - sort of like sending your kids to private school - but honestly, I don't understand the attraction of being in one of these groups.
Amis and Elli will almost definitely end up in a wee scrap at some point. Although I would briefly like to say that Amis' views only loosely reflect my own - I'm a lot less intolerant and vitriolic than he is. Usually. :P
icmasticc said
Great post Halo! Knew it would impress lol. Now all there is to do is move the plot this evening. Or, we could even do it sooner depending when Bliss gets on and feels like writing. Whatever the case may be, keep a lookout on the IC as at some point today it will be moved forward by Bliss and myself. I think you guys will appreciate what's coming next haha.
Man, I was never part of a frat. When I was in college, I felt like Halo; I enjoy a good party, but I'm not one for the party culture so to speak. I the frat guys were stupid just for the sake of it, at least where I was at.
Speaking of drinking, anybody here enjoy liquor? I know most times people say "I drink", they mean to see beer or something. I personally favor Vodka whenever I do decide to drink (I'm only a social drinker for real, I don't even buy alcohol to store in my place).
Thanks! I'm glad to hear I'm keeping up with the standard here in Advanced. And I anticipate the next installment :3
I've always found the whole frat thing kinda interesting; we don't really have them here. Of course, you get that sort of person everywhere, but it's not exactly an institutionalised thing the way it is in the US and elsewhere.
I always drink rum, actually. Among my friends there's a divide between lightweights, who always drink cider and beer, and the heavyweights, who always end up drinking vodka (my love for rum is somewhat of an exception and Captain Morgan's has, apparently, become my signature drink without me intending it to) to keep up with the lightweights without drinking litres upon litres. Hence, me not even wanting to know how many units of alcohol I consumed across three solid days of fairly consistent drinking
Also - am I the youngest here, then? ._.
Ariamella said
Aw dude that is completely forgiven. When I graduated high school last spring (2013), I was the designated driver for all my friends at parties ;_; It wasn't because I'm a good driver or anything (I'm Asian, Lel); it was because at that time, I didn't drink. Just wait till you start college and booze becomes tricky business (hard to get a hold of and expensive), so then you just start mixing everything with Everclear. Juice, soda, Monster, iced tea...And the sorostitutes are bad man. They suck the life out of you by wanting to party. And you don't want to be part of the FFSA-- Future Frat Stars of America (or Europe, wherever you live). Girls secretly give guys a bunch of shit for being a frat daddy. XD
Well, luckily where I live we don't need a driver (plus none of my mates can drive; none of us really need to), and I just crashed at my friends' houses three days in a row xD. What made you change your mind about drinking?
I live in the UK; you can buy booze when you're 18. I already have friends that can buy for me and I turn 18 in a few weeks, so no worries there. Muwahahahhaa. I can continue drinking far too much rum for my own good. :P
God, no. Please no. I have absolutely no desire to be part of a frat or anything. They're not really a thing here in the UK, anyway, luckily. No, I fully enjoy a damn good party, but I don't really want to be a part of "party culture", for lack of a better term. It's not a way of life; they're events that I go to, probably get wasted at, and enjoy for what they are.
icmasticc said
I need to discuss this more with Bliss, but I believe we should be able to move the plot every three days or at least once a week if it comes to that. That's thanks to the fact that the cast is a nice, small size.
3 days is a good interval, I think. Means players don't fall behind just because they've got a busy weekend or some such. Just my two cents.
Amis hardly noticed the rain. At times of tension, moments in which futures are decided and the spectre of fate looms over proceedings, anything external seems to fade away. Skin becomes metal, unfeeling and cold, external stimuli lacking in effect compared to the broiling anxiety that lies in one's heart and consumes one's mind. On a night such as this, on which either all was to come to naught once more or they were to finally receive confirmation of their theories, Amis would not have noticed if he were shot.
Thus, the bullet-like rain barely penetrated his consciousness. He was too preoccupied with the trail of blood leading through the church doors, the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket, and with the twisted, delicious irony of potentially uncovering the ultimate truth in a fucking church. His lips were tugged almost unwillingly into a wry smile at the thought of that.
He glanced about at his companions and comrades. Though he knew little about them as individuals, and knew they saw him as little more than an acquaintance, he felt a fierce kinship with them all. He knew the many of them had suffered for their beliefs, as he had, and the flaming brand of persecution welds those men and women who resist together with stronger bonds than anything else. It didn't matter if he liked them, because they weren't his friends. It didn't even matter why they were in search of truths far greater and more profound than themselves or anything they could hope to experience. It simply mattered that they, too, searched. It was an abstract bond, but one he felt keenly.
And so, when Varrina spoke, he felt it more intensely than his companions. Tonight was the night, yes - and they, together, would be the ones to uncover this great truth. This one truth amongst the plethora of lies and secrets that lay as weaving threads in the very fabric of their society, their reality. They would prove themselves right, at long last. Validation would be theirs.
And they would take their first step towards deposing the Guardians from their false throne.
He only vaguely noticed the dilapidation inside the church. Another time it would have set his inquisitive, ever-musing mind a-wandering on some philosophical tangent regarding the fickleness of faith - and probably set off an argument with Elli - but he thirsted after the truth on this night, something concrete, the evidence for their claims, not for the abstraction of intellectual curiosity and debate. He was, therefore, drawn towards something that was all too real - the sticky trail of blood that continued towards the vague silhouette heaped on the far side of the room, an intense red that seemed to throb in the flickering candelight.
He was, in fact, so preoccupied with this trail, symbolic of the trail of clues they had followed to get here, that he hardly noticed Varrina's rogue actions, only noticing in time to have a brief moment of panic before the others intervened. He released the breath he had rapidly inhaled with palpable relief, restraining his urge to pass comment as the others dealt with the situation. He simply stayed quiet, and closed his eyes for a long moment, not wanting to make any similarly reckless mistakes in his excitement. I need to pay attention.
Varrina's overzealousness had only highlighted to him the need for caution - and so, to Malcolm's suggestion to watch the door, he nodded, not particularly liking Mal's presumption but acknowledging the sense in his words. As Mal stepped forward, Amis stepped back, near to the door with the rain just audible outside, straining every sense to hear the reply of the fallen figure who held the answers to the future and to the past, to the secrets of history, in his hands.
Thus, the bullet-like rain barely penetrated his consciousness. He was too preoccupied with the trail of blood leading through the church doors, the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket, and with the twisted, delicious irony of potentially uncovering the ultimate truth in a fucking church. His lips were tugged almost unwillingly into a wry smile at the thought of that.
He glanced about at his companions and comrades. Though he knew little about them as individuals, and knew they saw him as little more than an acquaintance, he felt a fierce kinship with them all. He knew the many of them had suffered for their beliefs, as he had, and the flaming brand of persecution welds those men and women who resist together with stronger bonds than anything else. It didn't matter if he liked them, because they weren't his friends. It didn't even matter why they were in search of truths far greater and more profound than themselves or anything they could hope to experience. It simply mattered that they, too, searched. It was an abstract bond, but one he felt keenly.
And so, when Varrina spoke, he felt it more intensely than his companions. Tonight was the night, yes - and they, together, would be the ones to uncover this great truth. This one truth amongst the plethora of lies and secrets that lay as weaving threads in the very fabric of their society, their reality. They would prove themselves right, at long last. Validation would be theirs.
And they would take their first step towards deposing the Guardians from their false throne.
He only vaguely noticed the dilapidation inside the church. Another time it would have set his inquisitive, ever-musing mind a-wandering on some philosophical tangent regarding the fickleness of faith - and probably set off an argument with Elli - but he thirsted after the truth on this night, something concrete, the evidence for their claims, not for the abstraction of intellectual curiosity and debate. He was, therefore, drawn towards something that was all too real - the sticky trail of blood that continued towards the vague silhouette heaped on the far side of the room, an intense red that seemed to throb in the flickering candelight.
He was, in fact, so preoccupied with this trail, symbolic of the trail of clues they had followed to get here, that he hardly noticed Varrina's rogue actions, only noticing in time to have a brief moment of panic before the others intervened. He released the breath he had rapidly inhaled with palpable relief, restraining his urge to pass comment as the others dealt with the situation. He simply stayed quiet, and closed his eyes for a long moment, not wanting to make any similarly reckless mistakes in his excitement. I need to pay attention.
Varrina's overzealousness had only highlighted to him the need for caution - and so, to Malcolm's suggestion to watch the door, he nodded, not particularly liking Mal's presumption but acknowledging the sense in his words. As Mal stepped forward, Amis stepped back, near to the door with the rain just audible outside, straining every sense to hear the reply of the fallen figure who held the answers to the future and to the past, to the secrets of history, in his hands.
Finally got the post up - it's a bit overly-long, I know, but because I messed up my first attempt at posting I ended up just "adding on" to the original post when I edited.
Siphran - Artesa's CS mentions that the colour scheme for the combat armour isn't white, like in the picture, but I wasn't sure what colour you intended it to be, so I assumed white and am happy to change it if you want. Also, I made the assumption that the communication abilities of her augment worked on a similar basis to communicating with a phone or a computer nowadays, in that you need to know the specific address/identity of that device (IP address, or phone number, or email address, something like that) in order to communicate directly. If this is different to what you had in mind, again, I'll go and edit.
Siphran - Artesa's CS mentions that the colour scheme for the combat armour isn't white, like in the picture, but I wasn't sure what colour you intended it to be, so I assumed white and am happy to change it if you want. Also, I made the assumption that the communication abilities of her augment worked on a similar basis to communicating with a phone or a computer nowadays, in that you need to know the specific address/identity of that device (IP address, or phone number, or email address, something like that) in order to communicate directly. If this is different to what you had in mind, again, I'll go and edit.
The metallic taste of adrenaline-fuelled urgency coated Amis' tongue; it was palpable in the air, in the repetitious rattle of scientists' fingers flying rapidly across keyboards, in the hushed and carefully-controlled breaths of soldiers anticipating a rough fight. Tension laced through the air as it did through the fibres of their muscles, growing thicker and more oppressive the closer they got. They knew how bad the situation was. They knew the potential consequences of failure.
The GravStabs were the only chance of stabilising the building enough to evacuate the residents. Sixty-thousand of them, though many could be seen flitting past the troop transport as they approached the towering, teetering structure, pilots ignoring police cordons in their desperation to escape. Beyond that, even, were the political repercussions of the building coming down.
"The CGB will just about piss themselves with excitement if this doesn't work, y'know that? If that building comes down... it'll be a media feeding frenzy. Fuckin' reporters." He didn't hear who specifically spoke the words, but it didn't matter. The sentiment was shared by the whole team. All of them glared at the reporters now buzzing like flies about the corpse of the Project tower. They had firsthand experience of the violence arising from increasing instability and discontent amongst the populace, and desperately wanted to avoid this event becoming a catalyst for further revolution.
Amis cleared his throat; spoke softly. "It'll work."
Each of them underwent their own quiet routines in their heads, preparing for the task ahead. Another silence fell; but after only a moment, the sacred moment of heart-steeling was broken. Beep. From up front; an emergency beacon was pinging them. What? Beep.
There was a flurry of radio conversation from Silver, the pilot, who, for the purposes of this aerially complex mission, was acting in a command role, before she patched them in in the informal, decidedly non-military manner the SPEC-RED operatives were known for.
"We're getting pings from a stranded SRTU officer. Fuckin' nuts, what a mess. Amis, I'm dropping you in to pick up this guy; I'll be back for you five minutes after I drop you. Don't mess 'em around, 'cause SRTU don't fuck about. Get in, make contact, and get out."
He grinned shakily. On the one hand, being trusted to act alone was a sign the more senior members of SPEC-RED were coming to respect him as an operative in his own right, not just a brainbox researcher. In the same hand, he anticipated the thrill of the fight; this is why SPEC-RED was infinitely better than working on his research anywhere else.
On the other, he was heading into one of the largest urban conflicts in recent history alone.
After a moment of silence, he realised a response was expected. "They don't fuck about? Well, we do. Our acronym's longer than theirs, and you do know what they say about big acronyms..." He threw up a barrier of his typical snark, allowing the bold words to fill him, remove his doubt. Simply forcing oneself to smile had been scientifically shown to make you feel happier long, long ago, on Earth; the same can work for bluster. He got a few chuckles from the men and women around him, all of them aware of his less-than-upper-class upbringing, each of them now individually and collectively braced for the onslaught awaiting them. It was now that he realised it had been Silver who'd first spoken, about the media feeding frenzy.
"Big words, Amis, big words."
He mumbled. "Big words to match our big acronym and our big...."
Silence fell again, this time even more profound. He bit his lip; then gnawed it. He stopped. He did it again. His brow furrowed as he grew annoyed with himself over it. They were close now. The narrow view he had of outside the transport was a muddled confusion, unclear and indecipherable, madness in visceral form. His breath caught.
"Move, Amis. Now."
With a degree of trepidation, he moved to stand by the doors as they opened. Time slowed. A scene from a nightmare unfolded: flame and blackened metal, destroyed homes, a chaotic evacuation and signs of ongoing fighting - Hades himself had called to arms his carrion birds, and they loomed over the battle, cackling as destruction of both the physical and metaphorical kind unfolded before them. He grimaced, not unused to such sights now, but never finding them pleasant. His sharp eyes worked up the building as he figured out where he was headed - the landing pad of the 39th floor. The wind rushed past him as the transport approached the pad, any loose equipment jostling against him uncomfortably. The air was hot from the roaring flames - even though they were several floors below and still a goodly way away. Smoke writhed about the building now, and the heat brought a sweat out on his forehead despite the protection of his biosuit. His breaths came more heavily as he braced himself, mind moving at lightning speed, as he tried to take in the chaotic scene before him in the brief moment he had.
Thank God for implants.
There was Thegn, sprinting toward a black vehicle. No point in targeting him, it'd only draw fire from the bruisers waiting for him in the van. There were bigger problems than Thegn now. The pad itself was swarming and heaving with the bodies of fighters on all sides, an impenetrable mass, writhing like parasites through a rotten apple. Blood sprayed; he could not tell what was mowing down so many so fast. His eyes darted, thankfully protected from the wind, trying to pick out SRTU armour amongst the mass, but couldn't - there was no sign of the officer. Silver shouted something to him. Good luck, maybe. He didn't hear. They approached, the madness looming closer; his breath hitched; his muscles bunched, tight, tight; he lowered himself out the door, waiting; he felt the eyes of his comrades on his back; and then he spotted the source of the massacre, the mech hulking, and he knew it was insanity to face it on foot, and he tried to tell Silver he'd need air support, he tried; but he was thrown free as the transport shuddered under an enormous impact, his heart in his throat; and gravity accelerated his motion and the world was spinning and there were almost forty floors down and holy fuck, had he misjudged the jump? His implants fired spasmodically, trying to make sense of the situation and failing, fear for himself and his comrades detracting from his ability to make sense of the world – what the hell was that collision – and then the air was driven out of him as he landed, badly, skidding across the pad. It took a moment, but his training kicked in as he rolled to his feet, his armour scraped but not damaged.
Dizzy and uncertain, he scrambled behind the nearest cover, a vehicle damaged beyond operation – inadequate, leaving him naked and vulnerable to the strafing fire that hammered through concrete and creature alike and filled the air with shrapnel made of glass and bone and red mist. He dared to snap a look at his comrades' ship, and immediately wished that he had not – the transport itself had not been hit, but one of the fleeing ships had decimated one of the GravStabs they had been escorting, and already the SPEC-RED operatives were rushing to stabilise the stabiliser, to rescue their only chance of rescuing the some sixty-thousand residents and their homes.
He fought to place himself and his surroundings; but chaos waits not for the order of a man's mind to establish itself, and he was drawn into the fight as one of the madmen sought to take cover behind the vehicle too, saw his BESC armour, and charged. Amis' Maglev rifle was useless at this range, and so, adrenaline pumping without restraint, he acted instinctively. He simply sidestepped and threw all his weight behind the butt of his rifle, aiming for the man's temple. His assailant dropped, noiseless - and Amis went with him, crouching as machine-gun fire tore through the upper portions of the vehicle, his teeth gritted as metal and glass rained down upon him. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, trusting his fellow SPEC-RED officers to cope with the GravStab emergency. He had to find the SRTU officer and, as Silver would likely be unable to evacuate them now, find an alternate way out of the collapsing Project.
"Fu- gah!" A crack, sickening; a spine broken. He had managed to defend himself from another close-range assailant, Amis' muscles straining as he flipped the man over his crouched form. He shook his head, clearing his mind, and hefted his Maglev, poking his head out of the relative safety of his cover to scan for the SRTU officer.
The floor of the hangar was inundated with viscera and gore, bodies torn and twisted beyond recognition by the heavy fire of the mech, or by the collapsing building, or by crashing vehicles. Bullet holes lined every vehicle, every wall, the mech's fire indiscriminate in its targets. The sound of the mech's fire was deafening, a constant, repetitive sound that dominated all others. His eyes scanned, searched. He prayed he wouldn't see a BESC uniform amongst the dead.
He heard fire; controlled, measured, utterly opposed to the raw destructive power of the mech. There. Finally! In cover behind an old sedan, snapping off shots at any assailants who dared to come near, and grinning like a fucking maniac – an SRTU uniform, minus the helmet, the auburn ponytail and the vibrant gore spattering her stark against the white of the armour. He grimaced once more – without her helmet, he couldn't radio her. Even if she had an augment, he would have to know the specific address of the augment to communicate with her directly, and he had no desire to broadcast across all channels with so many unfriendly faces nearby.
He craned his neck, searching for the mech. It was faced away from him, its fire slowly but surely chewing through a concrete block, behind which several rebels cowered. He grinned to himself, unable to deny his enjoyment of the flood of rich, sweet adrenaline as he prepared to dash from cover towards the sedan, knowing he was toast if the mech happened to turn towards him. The path from him to the woman was clear, her fire driving off the rebels temporarily. His implants crystallised the situation, his focus laserlike, his muscles tense as he sprinted out from behind his vehicle, covering the distance in seconds that felt like eternities – and then he slammed into cover beside her, once again safe, releasing a heavily held breath as he spoke, one eye on the woman beside him, one on ensuring no assailants got near.
“I heard you needed an evac?”
The GravStabs were the only chance of stabilising the building enough to evacuate the residents. Sixty-thousand of them, though many could be seen flitting past the troop transport as they approached the towering, teetering structure, pilots ignoring police cordons in their desperation to escape. Beyond that, even, were the political repercussions of the building coming down.
"The CGB will just about piss themselves with excitement if this doesn't work, y'know that? If that building comes down... it'll be a media feeding frenzy. Fuckin' reporters." He didn't hear who specifically spoke the words, but it didn't matter. The sentiment was shared by the whole team. All of them glared at the reporters now buzzing like flies about the corpse of the Project tower. They had firsthand experience of the violence arising from increasing instability and discontent amongst the populace, and desperately wanted to avoid this event becoming a catalyst for further revolution.
Amis cleared his throat; spoke softly. "It'll work."
Each of them underwent their own quiet routines in their heads, preparing for the task ahead. Another silence fell; but after only a moment, the sacred moment of heart-steeling was broken. Beep. From up front; an emergency beacon was pinging them. What? Beep.
There was a flurry of radio conversation from Silver, the pilot, who, for the purposes of this aerially complex mission, was acting in a command role, before she patched them in in the informal, decidedly non-military manner the SPEC-RED operatives were known for.
"We're getting pings from a stranded SRTU officer. Fuckin' nuts, what a mess. Amis, I'm dropping you in to pick up this guy; I'll be back for you five minutes after I drop you. Don't mess 'em around, 'cause SRTU don't fuck about. Get in, make contact, and get out."
He grinned shakily. On the one hand, being trusted to act alone was a sign the more senior members of SPEC-RED were coming to respect him as an operative in his own right, not just a brainbox researcher. In the same hand, he anticipated the thrill of the fight; this is why SPEC-RED was infinitely better than working on his research anywhere else.
On the other, he was heading into one of the largest urban conflicts in recent history alone.
After a moment of silence, he realised a response was expected. "They don't fuck about? Well, we do. Our acronym's longer than theirs, and you do know what they say about big acronyms..." He threw up a barrier of his typical snark, allowing the bold words to fill him, remove his doubt. Simply forcing oneself to smile had been scientifically shown to make you feel happier long, long ago, on Earth; the same can work for bluster. He got a few chuckles from the men and women around him, all of them aware of his less-than-upper-class upbringing, each of them now individually and collectively braced for the onslaught awaiting them. It was now that he realised it had been Silver who'd first spoken, about the media feeding frenzy.
"Big words, Amis, big words."
He mumbled. "Big words to match our big acronym and our big...."
Silence fell again, this time even more profound. He bit his lip; then gnawed it. He stopped. He did it again. His brow furrowed as he grew annoyed with himself over it. They were close now. The narrow view he had of outside the transport was a muddled confusion, unclear and indecipherable, madness in visceral form. His breath caught.
"Move, Amis. Now."
With a degree of trepidation, he moved to stand by the doors as they opened. Time slowed. A scene from a nightmare unfolded: flame and blackened metal, destroyed homes, a chaotic evacuation and signs of ongoing fighting - Hades himself had called to arms his carrion birds, and they loomed over the battle, cackling as destruction of both the physical and metaphorical kind unfolded before them. He grimaced, not unused to such sights now, but never finding them pleasant. His sharp eyes worked up the building as he figured out where he was headed - the landing pad of the 39th floor. The wind rushed past him as the transport approached the pad, any loose equipment jostling against him uncomfortably. The air was hot from the roaring flames - even though they were several floors below and still a goodly way away. Smoke writhed about the building now, and the heat brought a sweat out on his forehead despite the protection of his biosuit. His breaths came more heavily as he braced himself, mind moving at lightning speed, as he tried to take in the chaotic scene before him in the brief moment he had.
Thank God for implants.
There was Thegn, sprinting toward a black vehicle. No point in targeting him, it'd only draw fire from the bruisers waiting for him in the van. There were bigger problems than Thegn now. The pad itself was swarming and heaving with the bodies of fighters on all sides, an impenetrable mass, writhing like parasites through a rotten apple. Blood sprayed; he could not tell what was mowing down so many so fast. His eyes darted, thankfully protected from the wind, trying to pick out SRTU armour amongst the mass, but couldn't - there was no sign of the officer. Silver shouted something to him. Good luck, maybe. He didn't hear. They approached, the madness looming closer; his breath hitched; his muscles bunched, tight, tight; he lowered himself out the door, waiting; he felt the eyes of his comrades on his back; and then he spotted the source of the massacre, the mech hulking, and he knew it was insanity to face it on foot, and he tried to tell Silver he'd need air support, he tried; but he was thrown free as the transport shuddered under an enormous impact, his heart in his throat; and gravity accelerated his motion and the world was spinning and there were almost forty floors down and holy fuck, had he misjudged the jump? His implants fired spasmodically, trying to make sense of the situation and failing, fear for himself and his comrades detracting from his ability to make sense of the world – what the hell was that collision – and then the air was driven out of him as he landed, badly, skidding across the pad. It took a moment, but his training kicked in as he rolled to his feet, his armour scraped but not damaged.
Dizzy and uncertain, he scrambled behind the nearest cover, a vehicle damaged beyond operation – inadequate, leaving him naked and vulnerable to the strafing fire that hammered through concrete and creature alike and filled the air with shrapnel made of glass and bone and red mist. He dared to snap a look at his comrades' ship, and immediately wished that he had not – the transport itself had not been hit, but one of the fleeing ships had decimated one of the GravStabs they had been escorting, and already the SPEC-RED operatives were rushing to stabilise the stabiliser, to rescue their only chance of rescuing the some sixty-thousand residents and their homes.
He fought to place himself and his surroundings; but chaos waits not for the order of a man's mind to establish itself, and he was drawn into the fight as one of the madmen sought to take cover behind the vehicle too, saw his BESC armour, and charged. Amis' Maglev rifle was useless at this range, and so, adrenaline pumping without restraint, he acted instinctively. He simply sidestepped and threw all his weight behind the butt of his rifle, aiming for the man's temple. His assailant dropped, noiseless - and Amis went with him, crouching as machine-gun fire tore through the upper portions of the vehicle, his teeth gritted as metal and glass rained down upon him. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, trusting his fellow SPEC-RED officers to cope with the GravStab emergency. He had to find the SRTU officer and, as Silver would likely be unable to evacuate them now, find an alternate way out of the collapsing Project.
"Fu- gah!" A crack, sickening; a spine broken. He had managed to defend himself from another close-range assailant, Amis' muscles straining as he flipped the man over his crouched form. He shook his head, clearing his mind, and hefted his Maglev, poking his head out of the relative safety of his cover to scan for the SRTU officer.
The floor of the hangar was inundated with viscera and gore, bodies torn and twisted beyond recognition by the heavy fire of the mech, or by the collapsing building, or by crashing vehicles. Bullet holes lined every vehicle, every wall, the mech's fire indiscriminate in its targets. The sound of the mech's fire was deafening, a constant, repetitive sound that dominated all others. His eyes scanned, searched. He prayed he wouldn't see a BESC uniform amongst the dead.
He heard fire; controlled, measured, utterly opposed to the raw destructive power of the mech. There. Finally! In cover behind an old sedan, snapping off shots at any assailants who dared to come near, and grinning like a fucking maniac – an SRTU uniform, minus the helmet, the auburn ponytail and the vibrant gore spattering her stark against the white of the armour. He grimaced once more – without her helmet, he couldn't radio her. Even if she had an augment, he would have to know the specific address of the augment to communicate with her directly, and he had no desire to broadcast across all channels with so many unfriendly faces nearby.
He craned his neck, searching for the mech. It was faced away from him, its fire slowly but surely chewing through a concrete block, behind which several rebels cowered. He grinned to himself, unable to deny his enjoyment of the flood of rich, sweet adrenaline as he prepared to dash from cover towards the sedan, knowing he was toast if the mech happened to turn towards him. The path from him to the woman was clear, her fire driving off the rebels temporarily. His implants crystallised the situation, his focus laserlike, his muscles tense as he sprinted out from behind his vehicle, covering the distance in seconds that felt like eternities – and then he slammed into cover beside her, once again safe, releasing a heavily held breath as he spoke, one eye on the woman beside him, one on ensuring no assailants got near.
“I heard you needed an evac?”
Captain Jordan said
I'm fairly sure DB&DW are saving Lady Stoneheart's entrance for next week. Should be epic, though. Also, are we not even bothering to spoiler things anymore? Poor non-bookreading folks.
You wouldn't even believe how many effing spoilers we get. Though it's not always from book-readers - my cousin's fiance decided to post up a picture of the end of s4e8 the morning after it showed here. And as it shows only on one channel that very few people have (Sky Atlantic) at 2am, the Monday morning was the very first opportunity almost anybody would have had to see it. And he spoiled it. I was raging.
I'd like to be drawn. I'll drop you a PM later with a few bits and pieces, if you need inspiration for me.
I'll get a post up this afternoon; I've been somewhat hindered by the site constantly going down, as well as one hell of a crazy weekend. I don't even want to know how much I've had to drink. But, to reassure you, falling behind schedule like this is most unlike me - it's just because my social life is somewhat manic right now as we've all just graduated high school and want to enjoy the last time we have together before going in separate directions.
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