Silly Cybin

The Alcean Resistance

I'm in a lot of places.

..One of them is here, still.

[01] Untitled

Name: Johnny Carrington

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Appearance: A shorter than average man, Johnny stands at approximately 5'8"; he is skinny, not in a healthy, toned sort of way but in the way that clearly communicates his daily plan doesn't usually involve eating. He has scruffy, muddy blond hair to mid-way down his neck that is usually parted to the side and a similarly coloured goatee with no moustache to connect it. He has a fairly narrow build; narrow shoulders, narrow hips, narrow arms, narrow neck. His face is ever-so-slightly gaunt, making his cheek-bones defined and sharp. He has a slightly crooked nose that bares the hallmarks of having been broken at least three times and muddy green eyes. He usually has a fairly bemused look on his face, finding great novelty in most aspects of life. His eye-brows are naturally sleek and fine, the right eyebrow having a subtle line through it which communicates a past injury. He dresses fairly averagely for a man of his age; having been in his teenage years during the nineties that's affected the way he's dressed since, usually wearing ratty jumpers that are slightly too large for him and plaid shirts.

Personality: Johnny is cynical, apathetic, amiable, directionless, inquisitive, flippant and single-minded (when required).

Post Example: Johnny slumped on the cold metal bench, his bus already forty minutes late. He sighed with slight irritation, pulling up the collar of his jacket and turning up the music blasting from his dated MP3 player. He'd been called in on another Saturday, apparently the company couldn't wait another two days to have their systems worked on. Why did he ever get into IT? He knew it'd just make him miserable, but a job's a job and a job doesn't have to define you. That's what he'd always thought and that's what he planned to continue thinking. But, in the eyes of his co-workers he was just a faceless computer drone, to them he didn't even exist when he wasn't trying to explain that a Firewall wasn't just an option when operating a computer that doesn't belong to you.

They didn't know the things he'd done, the things he truly defined himself with. True, he hadn't taken LSD in 6 months, but who had the time nowadays? He hadn't sold out, he was just taking down the system from the inside. Sure. He really needed to trip again soon, he was starting to think of society as something normal and fair again, and that just wouldn't do at all. Still, he hadn't done coke in six years, four months and fifty two days. Well done Johnny He thought to himself; That bitch'll never claim your soul again. Finally, his bus pulled into the stop. He groaned, realising the bus arriving just meant the bullshit quota of his day was going to triple by the point he reached his destination. He climbed on, flashing the driver the expired bus-pass he'd been using for the past four months. If you got precisely the right bus at precisely the right time you got the bus driver who blatantly didn't care about his job, which was always good when trying to scam a civic institution.

[01] Untitled - Interest Check

You've done it, you've intrigued me whilst supplying no information at all. Consider my interest check'd!

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Syral's face spread into a slight grin as Galen listed his name for the ground-team; he never did like politicians, and he especially disliked politicians who went through an ultra-violent gauntlet of combat as an adolescence ritual. Sneaking around a top-secret STG base? Sounds like a challenge.. Syral thought for a moment, relishing the probable lack of civilians. He was happy to be on a team with Naomi, her being the only crew-mate he'd had a casual conversation with up until this point. Everything had been very professional, surprisingly; he always thought a gig with the Spectres would be all fast ships and intimidating femme-fatales trying to seduce state secrets out of him, but apparently Blasto wasn't the most accurate of icons to model his opinion off. He'd seen every movie roughly four times.

"Shame, I was looking forward to wining and dining with the humongous rage turtles" He lent back in his chair, folding his arms and cocking his head slightly, "Don't worry commander, we shall neither be seen or heard"

He saw the Geth turn its head towards him and he felt an instinctive shiver; he really didn't mind the Geth, when he was in N7 he worked with a few of them guarding high-value cargo to Rannoch, but something about the flash-light eye always rubbed him the wrong way. It felt too clinical. He nodded at it with a carefully practised welcoming smile; he didn't want to make the thing feel unwanted, he found the simple politeness of the Geth quite endearing.

After the meeting adjourned Syral cricked his neck, standing slowly, trying not to strain himself before the mission. "Phalanx, right? Likewise, it's been too long since I've worked with a Geth. The last one saved my life, actually" He paused, checking how long he had to prepare. "So, y'know, no pressure" He smiled, turning to Naomi. "Looks like we've got quite a team here; two lizards, a flashlight and a Russian. I'm sure I've heard a hack stand-up start a joke very similarly. I'm going to go get dangerous, I'll meet you on the transport ship" He saluted them jovially and left the room, making a mental list of the equipment he'd need. Lift Grenades, thermal clips; maybe a sandwich, this mission is too important for me to go hungry It was a testament to how hilarious Syral saw himself as that he made jokes even in internal monologue.

Deleted

Cool cool, for what it's worth I'm still up for it.

The Alcean Resistance

Rayf is probably not that needed currently, but if he's required for something or an introduction then he can be brought out of his fatigued semi-coma.

Deleted

Nathan blinked once. Then twice. Then a third time for good measure. The feeling in his chest was still there, but in all fairness he didn't know much about his enigmatic rescuer. He listened closely; he wasn't blessed with supernatural senses, but they had been trained to spot any obvious warning signs. He was still slightly shocked at the display the newcomer had just enacted, but the overwhelming gratitude killed the surprise. "Not really, just general graveyard sounds, crickets, crying widows, the wind" He smirked, happyto be still able to make shitty jokes in inappropriate situations. "Thanks man, I was feeling kinda like a buffet for a second there. Name's Nathan"

"Holly hellfire, son, that was incredible!" Stanley shouted, walking up to the pair with his hunting rifle lazily rested on his shoulder. "Appreciate you rescuing the damsel in distress here" He guffawed, slapping Nathan between the shoulder blades.

"Go have a 'Nam flashback, grandpa, I had the situation in the palm of my hand" He stopped, turned and pumped five rounds from his handgun at a silhouette in the distance. The body slumped and fell into the moonlight, revealing the classic rotted mug of a re-deadified zombie. "Thanks, fortunately timed zombie guy!" Nathan shouted at the unmoving corpse. He turned to Zan, "These zombies are a lot stronger than regular; I think they've had a little help" He lit a cigarette, pointing next to one of the recently disturbed graves.

"We saw a bright flash coming from this grave, before the un-corpses emerged. Grandpa thought he spotted someone fleeing the scene, but I just chalked it up to his eyes being old and weary"

Deleted

"Now remember, Nathan" Stanley grumbled, almost chewing on a ratty looking cigarillo; "The thing about zombies is their numbers, the dumbies ain't gonna outsmart a bright boy like you any day"

Nathan nodded, flicking his Marlboro against the bark of the old Willow tree behind him. "I know grandpa; keep a distance and aim for the head" He cricked his neck as he looked at the small horde, carefully loading the pump-action hunting shotgun his father had rented him. "Sure is a lot for just a midnight snack; you think something bigger is happening here? Maybe a Class 4?"

"Look, the only Class 4 I've ever laid eyes on is when we pulled you outta that cave; and that ain't ever gonna happen again" He spat on the ground; Stanley almost had a way of making his spitting into punctuation. "Now, focus, be quick, and try to not look tasty"

Nathan turned, holding his arms wide with a weary smile spreading across his young face. "Why attempt the impossible?"

"You're impossible, knuckle-head. Git!" Stanley urged, waving his hands towards the horde. He lay down on the grass of the hill, carefully lining up his battered hunting rifle.

Nathan took his grandfather's order and jumped off the hill, landing a little ways towards the undead. He felt the familiar sensation of his blood boiling and a cavernous emptiness in his chest; there was a huge heaping pile of supernatural shit in his location; he could just tell. 1, 2, 3, 4 he breathed, blending perfectly into the shadows of the dimly lit graveyard. After 4 he whistled, causing a lot of necrotic necks to suddenly turn. "Hey fellas; could you point me in the direction of the buffet?" He yelled at them. They groaned harrowingly in response and started shuffling towards him. "Ohhh, I'M the buffet. I completely misread this situation"

1, 2, 3, 4 He closed his eyes and breathed more deeply, the cold night air filling his lungs. What is life? he thought plaintively, 1, 2, 3, 4... The first zombie was within five strides of him now. BOOM. What once supported a fairly necrotic head was metamorphised into a gushing, bleeding stump. Still got it, Stanley. Nathan aimed the shotgun, his eyes still closed, 1, 2, 3.. His barrel found the right angle. ..4. BOOM.. Three zombies heads were partially destroyed, the spread of the shotgun working in Nathan's favour.

One zombie left. Easy. Nathan approached. He emptied one blast into the creatures legs, ripping them off from the knee down immediately. As the creature tumbled to the floor he held the shotgun with only his right hand extended in front of him, forcing the barrel between the thing's decrepit teeth. "..Erm. Something funny!" BOOM. I must be tired, 'cause that was pretty terrible Nathan pondered, scratching his chin with his thumb and forefinger. The sound of earth being shifted rapidly became all too obvious and a hand clutched his ankle; it was strong, far stronger than your average walker. Nathan braced his remaining leg and launched himself off the ground - dragging half of the zombie up through the dirt.

It was unlike any undead he'd seen up until that point. Its muscles were hardy and defined, its veins pulsing with a green energy like substance. Necromancy.. Nathan though, suddenly a lot more in over his head than he'd anticipated. He breathed. The zombie had dragged itself from the soft earth, its tattered rags trailing intimidatingly along the ground behind it. With a supernatural speed it lunged at Nathan, flying forwards like a wet flannel. 1, 2, 3, 4 Nathan closed his eyes and began to move at an incredible speed, his arm shot up to the creature's neck, his hand getting a firm grip around it. He then kicked at the creature's ankles, using a sweeping motion to knock it from its unbalanced feet - finally, he lifted the walker slightly, then slammed it to the ground, its head hitting a rock Nathan had noticed approximately fourty two seconds before-hand. Its skull shattered like a pane of glass and its unmentionables leaked across the wet grass.

"And where the hell were you?" Nathan shouted at his grandfather, holding up his arms in disbelief.

"Gun jammed. You okay?" A voice called in response.

"For a piece of dessert I'm fine, now let's get out of-"

Five zombies, each as powerful looking as the last sprung from the ground in a circular formation around Nathan. He took out two with his side-arm semi-automatic pistol, but at the end of the day that still left three super-strong brain junkies giving him the eye. He would need more than an old-man with a shitty rifle for this one.

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Posted me 'n' shadowkiller's collab, Vandy; can't wait for the briefing!

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Syral and Naomi

Syral looked down; he barely even noticed the jacket bore the insignia of the N7, it was one of very few selections of casual clothes he owned. His life used to be occupied in a uniform; a novel concept to the older, wiser Drell. "Greenest soldier in the Alliance, and not in an amateur sense" Renley had called him that his first day, Renley had the uncanny ability to both offend and entertain Syral simultaneously. "It's why I'm here I guess, the Alliance gets to prove they embrace other cultures and the Council gets to keep my pretty little face"

"What about you? What major feat of badassitude got you noticed?" Syral had been wondering what got the others picked; with some it was obvious; the scarred human had clearly seen - and survived - a lot of dangerous stuff. He felt like a rookie again, any of his new squadmates could've done something phenomenal, like saving a planet or riding a thresher-maw into battle. He'd just obeyed orders.
"What got me in here" as Naomi wondered. A lot has actually. Considering the fact she was a member of the NGP. Killed Alliance soldiers back then. Pirates, mercenearies, too much to recount. "My occupation as one the most dangerous Biotic Russian human female she said" boastfully. "Destroyed a Separatist ship carrying civilians. I admit, not very pretty but saved an Alliance star-base from exploding from the amount of explosives the terrorist had on-board their ship. Along with other feats such as killing pirate bosses, well known Mercenaries such as Wilson James, saving people, it goes on."
If Syral had eyebrows he'd have been raising them at that point, some pretty impressive accomplishments. He could tell there was something she wasn't telling him, but he also had things he didn't feel comfortable sharing. "Well, I didn't realise I was speaking to a hero. I've had to sacrifice lives too. It's never pretty, but the good of the mission comes first" He sighed, looking to the floor, "Or at least, that's what I tell myself" He swung his legs over the arm of the sofa, sitting facing Naomi, "So, have you had a chat with our commander yet? I'm kinda hoping we're going to go to our first briefing and find him with a lampshade on his head singing old Turian fight songs"
Naomi could tell Syral was interested in her. Though Naomi wasn't interested in any kind of relationship.

"I expect that also" Naomi said with a small laugh. "It should be interesting working with a Turian drunkard. Though I wonder if he's going to take the job seriously, despite his drinking" as Naomi thought about it. She wondered to herself why the Council chose him as the Commander. Surely their wore better options as Naomi thought to herself.
"Are you familiar with the Earth poet Yeats? He once said 'The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober'. Take it as you will, but I trust a man with his record whilst catatonic a lot more than I'd trust a teetotaller with a history of civilian casualties" Syral looked reflective, the second lids of his eyes opened revealing his amber irises, despite the two occupying the same sofa his eyes looked a million miles away. "Definitely more than I'd trust myself"

Battery acid flowing through my veins as I ran into the underwhelming room containing the overwhelming bomb; my commander screamed at me over the radio, telling me to get it over with and disarm the thing. The fifteenth gunshot crashed around my skull as it played through the PA system; gentle sound of sobbing, a woman. The bomb's interface indicated a lack of time for introspection; working slowly, methodically, the interface turns green; I did it. "Surprise, toad" I heard a voice growl; three more gunshots, two in the upper-back, one through the ankle. Anti-personnel rounds, likely from a pistol. Clean wounds.

Syral shook his head, realising he'd slipped into another memory. "It's been great talking, Naomi, but I have to get some rest. I don't want to be half-awake when I'm getting charged by a Krogan with more anger issues than testicles" He stood, shaking hands with her casually; he could still feel the burning pain where the bullets hit as he made his way out of the bar; one distinct advantage of being a Spectre, his bed wasn't going to be a sheet of metal with a blanket.