Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Iziz
Aug 16, 2013 21:10:27 GMT -8
Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Aug 16, 2013 21:10:27 GMT -8
Something was a'bubbling behind her back -can't tell what, but if it moves with that nuke of a Force flair, it was a fair bet it was a fun blocker of some sort like sunscreen for the ice and turning everything into smiling undead. That's fine, but this was her city on the strange planet that for some reason was always protected. Just before the speeding thought train that was Mr. Math souped up on annoyance subroutines, A.K.A: living, Diva springs up mid stride and flies upward to the height of a bird of prey soaring, eyes glistening like stars against the witching hour sky, before careening back down to a tall building with a antiquated clock and spire tower. It was the kind of building that didn't make sense, sticking out like a reminder of a, the, Gothic horror novel, complete with stone guardians and inscriptions in long dead tongues. Diva wraps around the tip of the spire with one hand as if it were some kind of oversized jungle gym. Eventually, she comes to rest at the base of the spire and perches, watching and waiting for the He.
If she was going to be confronted or followed, then she would be accosted on the roost of her choosing -the dark side manifestation that once served as the Queen of Onderon some few hundreds years back deserved at least that dignity.
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The Major
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 3:45:47 GMT -8
Post by The Major on Aug 17, 2013 3:45:47 GMT -8
Thoughts meld as successes, desires, and failures churn in a vast vat of melancholy:
Ignorance pulls
while apostasy and apathy rules.
A future turns us into silent gods
and I won't miss you, it, at all.
Grounded, boxed in
like the evil in my veins.
Grounded, boxed in - I am stuck with you.
Fate can't decide the alignment of the planets in your hands
while you, come on, crush our plans.
Just suck and see a future that won't let you disagree
and I won't miss you, it, at all.
Feel it, be it, everything you are.
See it, be it, you'll see - I am stuck to you.
0400 with the edges of the sky graying while the cloudless heavens twinkle and pave the way to a path that will end with a bang and a tear. 12 graves have been dug, 12 bodies have been laid to rest, but the edges of sleep deprived stamina were spent. As her spade patted down the latest burial plot filled with the once spirited PVT. Moritz, who now would be pushing up accursed flowers in the shadow of the Zoo, her arms cease to respond while her vision blurs once again. Thump -thump, drums in the deep of the head. Oh, woe to the human form with its limits. Bless the human form for its limits. The Major couldn't even tell you or recall what happened next as she stumbled backwards about fifteen paces, has her backwards progress impeded by a tree, and then slides down into a limp sitting position, looking much like a corpse with all the dirt and cold sweat marking it all. With a last bit of strength, she pulls out a pink bell clock, sets the dial to 0800, and then lets that fall and roll out from her person -now passed out.
Subject 194, watching from the shadow of a cold rafter, playing with the incinerate lighter that was tucked beneath her sleeve which was woven kindly into her flesh, smiles while sniffing the air. Speaking to herself:
"Nope. Not dead. Not yet. Why the Hell do I want to sing in a language I never even learned right now? "
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 4:21:24 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2013 4:21:24 GMT -8
By the time Dresden made it to the top of the clock tower, he was pretty well annoyed, but not to the point of violence. Actually, that little run had kind of been fun. To let go of everything else and just fly was intoxicating, liberating even. It certainly helped take his mind off of the events in the manor and the coming war. So, while he was annoyed at Diva for taking off like that and implying she was going to slaughter her way through town, he wasn't looking for a fight. And hell, he'd seen enough of this wretched city over the past few months that he'd probably let her, and then send the city a bill on her behalf for services rendered.
Actually, that wasn't a bad idea...
NO. Bad Man-Shard-Thing.
Aww...
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 6:41:37 GMT -8
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Aug 17, 2013 6:41:37 GMT -8
At first, the self styled Ruler of the Roses makes no indication of being perturbed or even aware of the ex-Whill's presence. It would be foolish, however, to assume she could not smell the sweat on his neck, or count the exact number of cells passing through one of his main arteries as his heart pumped yet another blissful cocktail of blood throughout his body. How to describe the lust that permeated the air around Diva? She could not only sense him through his life, but also the teeming masses of the city, and they all seemed so delectable, so worthy of special attention in her mouth as fangs ripped and sipped and sucked. Lust! Lust? No. That implied she didn't have the power to consume every last living soul on this planet and turn them into smiling parodies. This was love; love for the living and the willingness to serve as an instrument of energy consumption. Suddenly, the snow white face cocks to look over her, its, shoulder, speaking to Dresden directly.
"Great. Thanks for crushing my hope that Kuroro disobeyed my will and instead came to meet me in a pink bathrobe and a smirk —a treat I'd simply tremble and melt at, like ice burning in a sun. So, since you're adept at destroying dreams, tell me: what do yah want? How can I help you?!"
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 7:45:24 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2013 7:45:24 GMT -8
"Now that was a mental image I did not need," he muttered.
"I would lie and say that I decided to keep you company, but we both know that's not true. Mainly here to find out if you plan on eating your way through the city. If not, then I'll leave you to yourself in the hopes that you don't end up making too big of a mess."
Dresden sincerely hoped the Ice Queen wasn't looking for a confrontation. His human body had limits. It couldn't go weeks on end without rest or food, working tirelessly day in and day out like his old Shard body. It might have had its advantages, but that didn't change the fact that he was tired. The running, the fighting, the fact that he had been stupid drunk just a couple of hours before and had the alcohol purposefully purged from his system, all of this totaled up to the sort of fatigue that went down to his very bones. The Force could sustain his body, but if it came down to a fight, he wouldn't be able to take it easy on her in hopes of getting her to back down. Hell, he wasn't even sure which one of them would come out on top.
The fallen Whill couldn't help but wonder if he should have just left her alone. That would have been the smart thing to do. Not necessarily the right thing, but certainly the smart one.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 8:46:46 GMT -8
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Aug 17, 2013 8:46:46 GMT -8
Malice Incarnate scoffs with a melodramatic huff bleeding with the air of feigned theatrics .
"Render Onderon silent? Are you daft? This is my coffin, my birthplace, the friendly sky which always brings me back when this or any of the forms I take fail. The why, how, or when doesn't matter: those answers and anyone who cared about the answers have long since been buried in the sands —even the ones who thought immortality was anything more than a fable have since been dried upon the trees. Only that with no beginning can have no ending. Even you, Eralam, are finite. One day you shall falter, you shall make a damnable mistake, and on that very day the dark side will embrace you with open arms, because you can never be whole once you cast lots with the nadirs. That's what makes your game so fun; that's what makes all that rage and math so great —the inevitable day in which you too will be laid beneath the sands of obvilion.
You're going to make a lot of suffering. And will you smile about it when your time comes? The humans don't, none of the demons can. Lemme give you a hint!
Your first mistake is letting the girl live. Go correct that now, while you still can, because you may not believe it, but there are things so twisted and so sincere in the universe, so damnable, so sorrowful, that you cannot touch it without cutting yourself like a mold from clay. Consider Kuroro, who killed you once and put you in this murky mess. Take it as a lesson: pity for the living is death. A lack of life is the universe at a natural state. They are just spores, mutations, mold. Putting them to ash is mercy. Start now, Eralam, earn your crystal back and kill the girl."
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 9:19:17 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2013 9:19:17 GMT -8
Eralam smiled sadly.
"That day you speak of? It's gonna be here pretty soon. 351 days, to be exact. Then my body will stop healing itself, and the Force is gonna destroy it from the inside out. I know what we're about to do, Diva. And I know I'm playing with fire by letting her live. Maybe I just can't bring myself to kill the one person who might be able to miss me once I'm gone. Not yet, at any rate."
And with that, he was gone into the night.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 16:29:42 GMT -8
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Aug 17, 2013 16:29:42 GMT -8
With a wide and tight lipped smile, she watches him cast off and depart into the town below. He didn't understand: the death of Dresden was just a footnote, another chink in the circle of servitude before the real curtain dawned and Eralam must deal again. She was surprised he had no attachment nor desire to rejoin with the crystal that was safely tucked underneath her manifested ribcage. Perhaps he was truly falling apart at the seams. If so, his ruination would taste even sweeter.
"Even the gods want help now too. What a confuddled mess the humans have made....,"
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Iziz
Aug 17, 2013 16:54:42 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2013 16:54:42 GMT -8
Dresden hit the ground lightly, despite falling from several stories up. It was a short walk back to the apartment from here, but he still took his time and made sure to buy a bowl of curry and rice from one of the more hygienic food stands. Once he got back to the apartment, he armed the claymores by the door and plopped down on the couch to eat the overly spicy food. His body was exhausted, especially now that he wasn't actively calling upon the Force to fight his fatigue. It was somewhat worrying. A month ago, a night like this would have been nothing. That he could feel a headache coming on was even more cause for concern. It would be gone soon enough, but the fact that things could even start to go haywire enough in his head to cause a headache didn't bode well. Maybe the breakdown was happening faster than he thought, or maybe it was his body's way of saying he had expended too much energy.
All he knew was that he felt like ten miles of bad road.
The curry was gone in short order, the cheap plastic bowl meticulously washed and stored with a dozen others just like it. The food helped with the headache a bit, though it didn't dispel it entirely.
Once the needs of the stomach had been met, it was time to wash off all the filth and grime from the manor. The former Shard wasted no time in hopping in the shower. This was was a real, honest to god shower with running, not a sanisteam or a sonic shower. It felt glorious to wash off the results of a hard day's work, even if the water was disturbingly red by the time it swirled down the drain.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Iziz
Aug 18, 2013 4:23:45 GMT -8
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Aug 18, 2013 4:23:45 GMT -8
The witching hour has long since gone, and the dawn was far too close to begin moonlight bathing in blood. It just didn't feel right under the sun, so bright, so warm, so ugly. Realizing this, the Ice Queen simply contends herself with the dark side energies that flowed from any center of life: ranging from burglary, battery, lying, child abuse, sexual licentiousness and deviancy, even the selfish or lusty dreams of those who slept. All of it flowed towards the one with the glowing blue eyes, and from this perch on top of the spire, she could drink it in all, as if through a straw. It gives her more strength to continue her warped mission —but these days, everything did. She began to contemplate on her chevaliers, past and present, and mediated on their sorrow, their undead beauty. After a few dozen minutes the Witch begins to coo and hum softly.
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Iziz
Aug 18, 2013 5:22:15 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 18, 2013 5:22:15 GMT -8
The needs of the flesh sated, Dresden paces around the small apartment, mind ablaze with possibilities. He needed sleep, and needed it badly, but how does one sleep when they can't get their mind to stop screaming?
Wait.
Duh.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey. The stuff was almost too vile to drink. It tasted like chemicals and burned like tear gas. The synthetic crap would probably never live up to the real deal, but if you needed to silence some brain cells, it was hard to beat. The former Shard poured his first glass and downed it with a grimace. The second glass went down a little easier. By the time he got to glass number seven, he could almost stand the taste of the stuff. With his mind blissfully blank, Dresden was able to lay down in the creaky bed and get some sleep. He barely remembered to set his alarm before passing out, but he did manage it after a couple of false starts and fumbles. Sleep came quickly after that.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Iziz
Aug 18, 2013 20:36:39 GMT -8
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Aug 18, 2013 20:36:39 GMT -8
Minutes meld into hours as the first twinges of orange fill the slate skies with a promise of yet another coming day without universal ice death. It was too late for some, always too late. But for others trapped in the darkest of nightmares, this was yet another and final chance. Diva? She treasured them all, and was sad to know better. They, the lot of them, wouldn't know true peace until they decorated the floor in pieces.
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Iziz
Aug 19, 2013 3:14:06 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 19, 2013 3:14:06 GMT -8
Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn to hours. In what seems like no time at all, Dresden's alarm clock begins to buzz softly. He ignores it.
It gets louder. He still ignores it.
It begins to scream as loudly as the tiny speakers will allow it.
He shoots the damn thing, only to realize that the noise of the gunshot was plenty to wake his ass up.
Such is the life of the fallen Whill.
He staggers out of bed, waving away the wispy tendrils of powder smoke that cloud the air, half walks/half stumbles over to his jacket and removes his pipe. The journey to the jar of tobacco on the counter seems to take forever, but the epic trek is worth it for the prize within. He packs the bowl with the sweetly aromatic mixture of toasted burly and perique, staggers over to the small kitchen table, and lights it with a match. As the nicotine from the wickedly strong tobacco starts its march through his veins, Dresden finds himself slowly approaching a state that could be considered consciousness, as long as you weren't too picky about how you defined it.
Right. Work to be done. He powers up his computer terminal and, before he has a chance to forget the plans from the night before, commits everything to the computer's memory. Once that's done, he sends a message to an anonymous drop box in an obscure corner of the Holonet.
Execute Odysseus Protocols. Sub-protocol AA20. Primary status: LLMF.
Hopefully there were still a few people alive who would know to check the drop box. If not, things would be a lot more difficult. The plan could be carried out solely with the resources available to himself and the Major (he didn't count Diva, as she seemed pretty capable of drumming up her own resources as necessary but still technically had few at the current time,) but there were a few people that he'd like to bring in.
Once that was done, he placed a call to Dressel, using a commlink identical to the one he gave Major.
:: Eralam's Explosives Emporium, how may I help you? ::
Hey Koko, long time no see.
:: Eralam? ERALAM?!?!?!? WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!? You're supposed to be dead. ::
Well, I was. I got better though.
:: You got better. You got better? YOU SON OF A BITCH, I WAS AT YOUR FUNERAL!!!!!!!! ::
I had a funeral?
:: Yes you had a FUCKING FUNERAL!!!!!! That's what you do when someone DIES. ::
Oh. Um, shit. Not sure what to say.
:: HOW ABOUT SORRY YOU INSENSITIVE PRICK!?!?! ::
Um, sorry?
:: SORRY ISN'T GOING TO CUT IT!! I cried, in public. FUCK! Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is?
As a matter of fact, no. Wait, you cried?
:: Yes, I...it's good to hear from you. I, erm, we missed you. The whole shop has been kinda lonely without your shitty music blasting up from the basement. ::
I missed you too, Koko. I wish I could have called sooner, but, well, you'll find out soon enough.
:: Can't say over an open line? ::
Something like that. I'll be stopping by Dressel here soon, might have some company with me.
:: What's the occasion? ::
Odysseus protocols.
:: ...No. Eralam...please tell me you're joking...
Wish I was, kid. But this is for real.
:: You said you got better... ::
It didn't stick.
:: How long? ::
A year, little less maybe.
:: Fuck. ::
You said it.
:: So when can we expect you to stop by? ::
Few days, maybe. Gotta couple of things to wrap up here. I'll call you when I'm close.
:: Ok, I can deal with that. You take care of yourself, you hear? ::
Yes ma'am.
:: Don't ma'am me, you son of a bitch. I still haven't forgiven you for not calling. ::
You know you love me.
:: Yeah, well...
See you in a few. Later.
:: By Boss. ::
As the call cut out, Dresden slumped back down into his chair, puffing absentmindedly on the pipe. It took him a minute to realize it had gone out.
"That went well."
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The Major
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Iziz
Aug 19, 2013 12:14:00 GMT -8
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Post by The Major on Aug 19, 2013 12:14:00 GMT -8
Nightmares dot the mind's eye, offering no escape nor rest. Horrors populate where regretless sleep usually dominates. Visions. The dead who placed their trust, who were used to please the war gods in the waking brain —the result of a vow, a promise to cast a person into the innermost pits of chagrin. There are chains piercing her body, flossing it with sexual time signature, back and forth, in and out, while surrounded by the hordes of smiling corpses, who dance around the phantasmagoric orgy of rusty, bloody iron, making a point to punctuate the flesh and its vital systems because it was cold, cruel, and ultimately justified. They will continue to laugh and spit on the prison, lubricating the chain links so that they are not allowed to rip it apart. A puppet, a marionette, she has been reduced to the crucified example of what happens when a human attempts to best the gods —those old world demons, and angels, while the betrayed do their everlasting duty dance, waltzing, jumping, hooting, ever laughing in shapes and lines and squiggly piggly signs. They ask her if it was worth it, in dozens of tongues, singing, screaming, "Who are you, you who are doomed to tortures forevermore, who must be cast yet again into the multiverse to repeat the pain, who cannot change your nature. Who has, does, and will end up as a display in this fairy tale ending. Who are you, wicked one, for whom no one misses, who will harm and lie and steal and kill again, again, again, limitlessly —saying you savor the joy of war when you can't stomach the chains decorating your intestine. Tell us, Nobody, Stupid Woman, do you still like war, and the fight, and the struggle? Do you yet want peace? Because we are a vengeful lot, and our chains will continue to rape your slowly dying corpse until you see the light. We can wait, and our numbers and spirit grow. We are your army, Major. We are your hatred. And we hate you, we own you, and we will always do so."
The pink clock rings, ending the vision with a smack of the Fallanassi's hand. There are no smiles to be had, no smug quips. Cold sweat has left her neck damp and salty; dirt from the graves mixes with the rotting blood droplets of the ghouls. Thankfully, Kuroro is no where to be seen, and the musket? She could hardly look upon it.
There was a time when she felt like it was simply an instrument, even an extension of her body, like an extra limb she had grown. It had saved her countless times, was steadfast and sturdy when all was lost, when death closed in. It was her only companion since its creation upon Dressel, in the hands of the same demigod who now seemingly controlled her fate. Warhammer? Hers? It looked like another string of control —was yet another way Diva dominated her progression and held her down whilst building her pride up. Damned loneliness; she should abandon both it and the magic bullets right here —even bury them both in a grave and never look back. But then the road back to Iziz would be one taken alone, with a heavy load missing. This was her weight, her burden to carry for these tools had manifested because she always wanted something that could strike against all enemies —her knight in shining armor.
Pathetic.
The Major felt like walking back so as to feel the fatigue and pain in her feet, to relish in the suffering because she felt guilty, and have her pale skin burn under the cloudless blue sky because she was guilty. All that would take too long, however, and so she silently collects her effects, lets down her now greasy and dust caked hair, which flowed well past her thighs and curled like warped angel hair by her knees —or gave her the look of a long, black cockroach with fluttering, dirty wings. The woman proceeds to a truck, enters, turns the engines over, and grimly drives down the empty road towards the city which dominated the view far away.
"......."
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Iziz
Aug 20, 2013 2:04:27 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 20, 2013 2:04:27 GMT -8
While the alarm clock would never tell anyone anything ever again, there were a couple of other clocks in the room, including the one on the console. Looked like it was time to contact the Major. Dresden transmitted his current location to the commlink he gave her, as well as a brief message:
Time to plan. I've got coffee.
In his experience, military types of all shapes and sizes, regardless of good or evil or age or gender, tended to require coffee for conscious thought. Before noon, it was better than the prospect of promotion to make sure they were where they needed to be. Meanwhile, he tried to search out Diva through the Force and leave a similar message, less the bit about the coffee. Once that was out of the way, the morning's work was finished. They would come or they wouldn't.
Dresden put on a pot of coffee, just in case, and began his morning PT session just to have something to do. Various calisthenics, couple of miles on the treadmill, bit of quality time with the punching bag, just what the doctor ordered. Thankfully, the apartment had two bedrooms, so he was able to store the gear in the spare. The workout was necessary, as his body would maintain its current condition until it broke down, but the doctors had advised that the former Shard keep up with the workout routines anyways. They'd help him keep familiar with his new body.
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The Major
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Iziz
Aug 21, 2013 8:00:17 GMT -8
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Post by The Major on Aug 21, 2013 8:00:17 GMT -8
It was about an hour in, now 0912 on the truck's dash as it barreled down the open stretch of the lonesome road. Soon she would be within the city limits and at the rally point. But, it was quiet on the road, too quiet. And then the Major suddenly felt exposed with the hairs on her body suddenly jutting.
Which is exactly when her dull blue eyes scanned the road with a glare and then caught sight of a cloud burst, a weapon's discharge, a few hundred meters up ahead and to the left. A string of profanity gushes in her mind as she throws the wheel to the right, just narrowly causing what was at least an 80mm shell to miss the driver's cabin —which instead strikes at an odd angle on the side armor, deflects, and explodes in the air just a half second later. Well, if the Major could describe the sound, she would. Her eardrums pop and all noise drowns out in a violent jerk. Handling has gone straight to Hell, and although she attempts to correct the truck's new fish tail, the weight of the gear in back proves too heavy to handle and the vehicle serves off the road, catches a drainage ditch, and promptly tumbles side over side, casting gouts of dirt, grass, and even tears of the hull plating in artistic arcs as the woman covers her head with her long arms in the hopes of keeping it from bouncing around into a snapped neck before the whole wreck settles upside down.
Ringing. Hissing so loud it's like a hypersonic screwdriver having its way with your brain. Pain. Pain is good. She was alive. Move. Move. If they are any good they would press the attack.
A button press on the seatbelt unlatches the whole work and promptly dumps her upon the ceiling. Sight was okay. Good, her glasses are askew, but on. Good. Arms are banged, but not jutting bone, nor is her body pierced. With a quick look through gritted teeth she confirms that the musket has proven lucky —somehow bashing on the door's opening handle and causing it to fly open in the crash. There it laid in the grass, pointing the direction to freedom from this tangled mess. Dazed from the light bruising on her brain, the Major double time crawls out, clasps unto the warhammer, and of all things hears the whistle of another rocket soaring to embrace the truck in infinite bliss. Instinct takes over, namely, the one where you throw yourself further into the dirt and curl up against it, sucking it down.
The blast proves to poke through her deafness, raising a racket reminiscent of an electric guitar scratching chords at a thousand kilometers per hour. Dirt sprinkles, heat waves fill her every extremity, and she flips over unto her back to realize the truck was tilting over with a metallic rumble and whine. Those long legs go to work and kick twice, moving her up just enough to plant the musket's stock into a good purchase of land, and then throwing all her strength into her arms while commiting to a bicylce kicking motion. End result? Besides nearly having a heart attack, she flips up and over, barely avoiding being crushed by her vehicle. As the woman completes the evasive maneuver and stands firmly on the ground she twirls the weighty musket in her arms like it was nothing more than a marching baton. Unneeded agility? Nonsense. It was the fastest way to bring the weapon to face the proper direction and to cut all the momentum that threatened to toss her unto her lanky ass. Motion. Shadows. A fireteam. They level their weapons and open up.
GEHBOBOBOBOBOBOBOBOBO!
Cover. They were coming along the right flank, 30 meters around the engine block of the truck. Cover meant becoming the chassis of the truck, which is exactly what the Major did. It was still hot from the drive and the explosions, and she could feel it searing her hair and tunic. Better than being lacerated by the bullets currently pockmarking the armor and air just in front of her, but that was just barely better. Bastards. Fucktards. They should have blitzed instead of suppressed, because now they would get a response. To start off her conquest of this sortie, she would begin by casting an illusion of herself sprinting in a panic, screaming, and on fire. This works wonderfully, as the enemy trying to flank around the front of truck sight for the flaming freak face rolling along their view. Naturally, when a flashbang landed in their midst and blinded them, followed by a small satchel charge tossed up and over the truck, guided by the sudden hooting and wailing of the soldiers —well, one could only wonder if they were even aware that they had died, been exploded, torn to chunks of raw meat and booming bass, and had been effectively silenced.
That was when she heard a weapon open up in anger, a weapon she hadn't heard aimed towards her in five years. The MG, latest model, and by the sound of things, judging from the lengthy bursts, mounted on a tripod.
Fuck.
The truck wouldn't last against it. The updated MG42 would be filling the air with a fire rate well over 1000 rounds per minute, so fast, that it simply sounded like a chainsaw cutting through air and steel. Most likely, the team would be using a standard 500 round barrel filled with 7.62 AP cartridges using smoke tracers. Oh yeah, from the sound of bullet impacts, they had broken the top layer of protection on the truck and were now working on the lower layer that protected drivers and crew from road mines. No time to wait, and she needed to see the gunner to hit him.
Second illusion: this one of the Fallanassi preparing to fire from around the more heavily protected rear end of the flipped truck, while she prepares to run around the front and reposition into the ditch along the side of the road. They take the bait, and the machine gun marks contrail laced paths along the body of the doppelgänger just as she, cloaked in invisibility, barrels out and into the open. Unfortunately for her, these troops were aware they were fighting an illusionist, and while the machine gun was barking towards her left, the others were simply waiting a breath to steady their aim along the front of the truck.
She couldn't tell you how many times or where she was hit. She did have a ballistic vest that could resist anything that wasn't designed for armor piercing, and she could feel the wind being knocked out of her, along with flourishes of heat on her lower body and chest. As she tumbled awkwardly into the ditch, she couldn't tell you anything but blackness. Darkness passes, blue sky up above, cloudless. This lot nearly had her. They had nearly taken the Huntress in her moment of weakness, when she was most vulnerable without the blanket that were the Einsatzkommandos. Fools. This woman would now teach them that even in her lowest, even shot to shit, covered in shit, crying in shit —they were but insects to be extinguished. She did not care who they were, whether traitors, or sent by those seeking vengeance, it didn't matter what they fought for. Good, evil, all was irrelevant. And so to surmise, whether they be tinkers, tailors, soldiers, or sailors, of one thing they could be certain....
........She would fucking kill them all.
She aimed upwards to this beautiful sky, held on firmly just enough, and then smiled —and Riplian knew that somewhere, Diva was grinning, ready. And then she squeezed the trigger.
The platoon, they knew once they heard the thunder, saw the blue tracer race up into heaven. They could even hear what sounded like Ave Maria as a cloud of gunpowder covered the ditch. They had seen it used on their side before, knew what it meant. Some opened their mouths in slack jawed horror. Others fired upon the ditch, and tossed grenades towards it. Too late. It was already too late. A whipping sound fills the air as blue script bisects the grenades, prematurely detonating them, slicing down the bullets faster than they could fly, and the soldiers? Some try to shoot at the writing on the sky to no avail. Others turned to flee, to maybe run from the killzone.
It started with the furthest: the sniper and spotter on over watch 300 meters away, cutting them both with such force they burst whilst wailing, before words in Latin spouted lyrics in sardonic time signature, lacerating the platoon, displaying their gallbladders, dismembering them, castrating them, eating at them at fast motion. And it would not stop, refused to stop, until every corpse was thoroughly silent. Their eyes had been plucked, fingers broken, souls crushed, and the work was done. With a sigh, the Major lets the musket fall in where it pleased along her body, resting itself between her legs and steaming from the tip up against the ditch. Such pain. So much pain. So much she was numb. The left arm managed to pull at the communicator, but it was not protected by her vest. Verdammt. Saying it was Swiss cheese was an understatement. Ahhhhh, she would not sleep, she would wait. The sun was up and beaming, and she would wait.
"*Cough* Mein friends, today ist ein gooooooooooodt day..........."
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Iziz
Aug 21, 2013 10:45:45 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 21, 2013 10:45:45 GMT -8
Dresden was halfway through his routine on the heavy bag when he heard the distinctive thump of a mortar going off. That was odd. But then his commlink began wailing. It was the alert that a sister unit had been destroyed. And there was only one other on the planet. 2+2=4. A few moments later came the muted thud of impact. Distance, approximately three kilometers to the southeast.
Dresden reached a hand out to steady the bag and carefully removed the weighted boxing gloves. His arms and shoulders were burning from exertion, but that faded as he allowed a trickle of Force energy to pass through them. On went socks, boots, and after taking a moments to towel the sweat off, a shirt. The gunbelt came next, pistol on the right hip and sword on the left. After a moment's consideration, he took out the pistol, popped out the wedge, and removed the barrel. It took but a moment to swap out the cylinder from the 6-shot .44 cap and ball to the 5-shot .45 Schofield cartridge converter. The cartridges were standard 230 grain .45 caliber flatnosed bullets as opposed to the baradium-cored balls, but he'd probably need to reload. By this point, he could hear the sound of a monstrously quick machine gun. Damn thing sounded more like ripping canvas than gunfire. What the hell was with everyone using slugthrowers these days?
Five bullets went into the gun. The gun went into its holster. Over the whole thing went his canvas duster.
He consulted his commlink for the last known location of its sister unit. The location and time of the last update corresponded almost perfectly with his estimation of the mortar's impact zone. The former Shard stepped out onto the small balcony of his second-floor apartment, took stock of the area, and promptly vanished from the view of mortal eyes as he set off towards his target.
Even travelling at a significant portion of the speed of sound, it still took Dresden a few moments to reach the shattered remains of the truck. He had witnessed the destruction of the machine gun crew in passing, had seen that demented bullet cut a brutal and bloody path through the would-be ambushers. If there had been any doubt about the identity of their target beforehand, there was none now. There was only one weapon on the planet that could fire a minie ball, let along that particular one. He knew, because he had built it.
That meant somewhere near that wrecked truck was the Major."*Cough* Mein friends, today ist ein gooooooooooodt day..........." "It's ok girlie. I'm here." He picked up the musket and slung it over his back before carefully picking her up and cradling her in his arms. Ordinarily, he wouldn't want to move her until he'd checked for spinal injuries, but there was no time. Unless he was way off, there was probably a backup mortar team ready to hose down the ambush site with airburst shells if something happened to the first teams. The shells would start dropping any moment.
The former Shard braced her as best he could against his body and called upon the Force to protect her from both the wind and the intertia of the high speed dash he was about to make. And with that, they vanished, reappearing on the same balcony he had left only moments before. The tails of his duster were smoking lightly, having come close to ignition from the searing friction of their high speed journey. The tip of the musket's barrel was glowing a bit, but it wouldn't harm it. It was made of an extraordinarily hardy allow, and the "wood" of the stock was something else entirely. You could throw the whole thing in a furnace and it would come out the other end smiling.
The woman was in somewhat worse repair. She was close enough to his height that the only flat surfaces long enough to contain her were the bed and the floor. And since the floor, despite his best efforts, was far from sterile, he opted for the bed, stripping the blankets off with a burst of willpower. He set her down gently and sprinted to the closet, from which he retrieved his aid bag. After ensuring that her airway was intact and that there wasn't any undue difficulty breathing, he began working on the other wounds.
Rule one of getting shot on the battlefield: if you get hit, you're getting naked. The wound has to be exposed to be treated, and the most expedient way to do that is to cut away the clothing. A hit to the arm or lower leg isn't too bad, as the wound can be exposed without sacrificing the entire garment, but she was hit multiple times. So after donning some sterile gloves, Dresden carefully cut away the ruined suit. It was filthy anyway, and she'd be lucky not to end up with at least one infection from the sheer amount of dirt and less pleasant and identifiable contaminants.
He was relieved to find that she had been wearing a ballistic vest. It had probably saved her life, judging by the multiple dents in the strike plate. Whatever else you wanted to say about the gunners, they had been good. She had been hit at least 15 times total, with all but a few rounds striking center mass.
There didn't appear to be any arterial bleeding in the extremities, which was definitely a good thing. If there was, he'd have had no choice but to put a tourniquet on the limb and rush her to a hospital. The aid bag had sutures, but it was not equipped to handle that kind of surgery. Nor did there appear to be any broken bones, and the bullets had exited cleanly without causing excessive damage on the way out. Probably armor piercing rounds; they tended not to deform too much on impact. They'd go clean through flesh, and the exit wounds were rarely much larger than the entry wounds, especially if they were fired from close enough that they retained most of their muzzle velocity on impact. That appeared to be the case here.
A revised count showed 19 impacts total, 13 of which had been to the vest. The rounds had started up her right leg at thigh level, dancing all around the Major's femur. 3 rounds in the right thigh, no hits to the femoral artery. A glancing blow to the right hip and come within a hair of fracturing her pelvis, but appeared to have been a deflection shot. It had opened up a nasty, ragged gash that would scar like hell. Her right forearm had been dealt a grazing blow as well, also having narrowly avoided breaking bone. From there, the rounds had stitched up and across her chest in a diagonal that went from from the right hip to about three inches below her left clavicle. Two more hits to the meat of her left arm, one on the triceps and one on the biceps. The lower hit had actually exposed the brachial artery, but hadn't managed to open it.
All of these wounds were pumped full of Dresden's combat cocktail, similar to the mix that had been used to treat Diva's alter ego on that fateful day in Foamwander city. The bacta-rich foam contained antibacterial and antiviral agents, as well as a local anesthetic. It would harden after a few minutes, and within a day the damaged muscle, skin, and nerves would start growing through it. The stuff was crazy expensive to make, but it would speed recovery time dramatically. Once the foam had been applied, the former Shard cleaned up the area around the wounds as best he could and applied bacta-laced bandages.
Three minutes in total had passed since Dresden had gotten the Major to his apartment. He kept an ear on the events outside. Much like he had thought, a secondary mortar position had been hammering the target area nonstop for almost two minutes now. Two separate tubes, one an 80mm and one a 120mm. The crews were skilled, that was for sure. They were alternating shots, keeping a sustained barrage of about one impact per seven seconds. That wasn't bad, all things considered. Once they ran out of ammo or got bored, it would be time for him to strike.
In the meantime, the bleeding was controlled. At this point, the former Shard carefully removed the badly dented armor, revealing some truly impressive bruising across his patient's torso. There didn't seem to be any broken ribs (damn good armor, he noted,) and there weren't any obvious signs of internal bleeding. The contusions would not be fun to deal with, but they sure as hell beat the alternative. There was also a pretty decent lump on her head, and while there wasn't any bleeding from it, she was probably concussed.
In short, the Major was broken, covered in a fair amount of blood and filth, but incredibly lucky, all things considered. Dresden wasn't overawed by the odds; he had seen people survive worse and die from far less. It was just one of those peculiarities of battle. He had done all he could for now, and barring rapid-onset infection or shock, she would probably make it. On second thought, there was one more thing he could do. It took a couple of seconds to get the saline lock planted in her relatively undamaged right arm, but once it was, he got her started on a saline drip with a dash of antibiotics for flavor. There. That should hold off hypovolemic shock. He'd see if he could get some plasma or whole blood after the threat had been eliminated.
Time passed: 4 minutes. The barrage had stopped a few moments earlier, but now sustained machine gun fire was burping off in the distance. These guys seriously did not believe in overkill. Another minute, tops, and it would be time to rock and roll.
Dresden turned his attention back to the woman on the bed. Battered, but not beaten. She had kept fighting despite the pain and the fear, and had given far better than she had gotten. There was an uncharacteristic lump in his throat, a byproduct of emotions that the former Shard had never had to learn to deal with. That sort of undying determination was rare, regardless of species. Any normal, any sane being would have rolled over and accepted death after taking a burst of machine gun fire like that.
She was...beautiful. That was the only word for it.
Dresden the former Shard would have to take a back seat for a moment. This was work for the fallen Whill, the being cast out of the order for his willingness to perform unspeakable cruelties in pursuit of balance. The scales would be balanced here, and then some. The broken huntress would be avenged.
The bastards that did this to her were going to die.
They were going to die ugly.
Dresden covered the Major up with a blanket and kissed her gently on the forehead."I'll be back soon."
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Iziz
Aug 21, 2013 12:16:58 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 21, 2013 12:16:58 GMT -8
The machine gun fire began to fizzle out. The idiots had probably done some damn fool thing like forget to change the barrels. Now was the time to strike.
Dresden walked over to the console and punched in a short command.
The hook he'd inserted into the PA system was now active. All over the city, the hyperactive baseline that would serve as the theme for today's battle began to play. For the fallen Whill, the air held a sort of crackling, almost electric tension.
According to his internal chrono, the cleanup squad would be sweeping the objective any second now. He vanished from the apartment in a burst of wind and Force energy. When next he appeared he was standing next to the shattered remains of the truck. The mortar fire had all apparently been airburst shells, standard APAM mixed with fuel-air blasts. A dozen small fires littered the area. So intensive was the bombardment that the ordinance in the truck never had a chance to go off. It had been shattered apart and then vaporized by the intensive heat and pressure of the thermobaric shockwaves.
The cleanup squad, 11 personnel total, came into view, jogging towards the ambush site in a wedge formation, Sturmguwehr rifles at the low ready. They spotted Dresden standing unharmed among the smoke and the rubble. His eyes were aglow with a hellish silver light, and a broad, feral grin had spread his lips tight across his bared teeth. The wind kept his duster around dramatically as he slowly, deliberately drew the blastsword with his right hand."Morning gents," he growled. "My name is Dresden. You hurt my friend. Now I'm here to collect your lives." And then the drums kicked in and all hell broke loose.
Dresden kicked off towards the point man, not bothering with supernatural speed. He wanted them the see every little detail as he slashed out with the sword. The narrow blade shouldn't have been able to cleave the corporal in twain, but it did. The midnight blade sliced him from right hip to left shoulder, mirroring the path the burst of machine gun fire had taken across the Major's body. But where her vest had saved her, the corporal might as well have been naked; the blastsword cut through the ceramic strike plates like a lightsaber through rice paper. The air was immediately filled with the stench of blood and shit, overpowering even over the harsh chemical odors of the explosives. The junior NCO had just enough time to for the pain and the shock to hit his brain before his body realized that his heart had been cut in half. He fell over, first the top half, then the bottom. His face bore a surprised look that would follow him to the underworld. He feet spasmed uncontrollably, dancing their own little jig as the last vestiges of bioelectricity played across the dying nerves.
The rest of the squad stopped, stunned. Their squad leader reached for his radio, obviously trying to send a sitrep up the chain."C'MERE YOU!" The squad leader found himself yanked towards the demonic figure as though an invisible rope had been tied around his waist and hooked up to an X-wing in hyperspace. There was an audible crack as his pelvis shattered under the strain, and yet another as Dresden's massive boot pistoned into his chest and caved in his ribcage. Any chance of screaming was cut off as the shattered bone punched through both lungs an instant before the boot itself crushed them flat. His front plate was pulverized completely, sending razor-sharp particles of dust into the air. The back plate held, however, and provided enough support for the body to take on almost the complete load of kinetic energy imparted by the kick. The squad leader was hurled into a building some 100 yards to the rear, his trajectory perfectly flat. He was somehow alive and alert just long enough to feel his entire body shatter, right before the shock of the blow detached his spinal column from the brain stem and then scrambled the brain itself.
Now the screaming began.
The squad's machine gunner, armed with a lightweight M249 SAW that had clearly been purchased to fill a role that the Reich-inspired weaponry could not, tried to break and run. He was met with nearly a half inch of lead hitting him between the shoulder blades. The bullet didn't penetrate the strike plate, but then again, Dresden hadn't been trying to. The heavy slug dropped the boy, who couldn't have been much more than 16, like a bad habit. It would be several minutes before he could do more than writhe and try to breath.
A private on the right flank simply dropped to his knees, his voice a high-pitched keening of fear and despair. He was given a bullet to the gut for his troubles. The screaming was replaced by muted whimpering. The bullet had gone in on the right side, right next to the strike plate's covered area, and had proceeded to bounce to and fro off the plates, nearly chopping him in half. He found himself quite unable to move, as his right kidney had been completely destroyed. A strike to the kidneys, if executed properly, is so painful that it can instantly induce paralysis and shock. Despite wanting to curl up in a ball and cry, the private was unable even to bring a hand to his side to try to staunch the flood of blood and filth that spurted from the hole that was leaking his life away into the dirt. After a few moments, gravity won, and he slumped facedown into the dirt, eyes wide and unseeing.
It was the same story, over and over again. There were no clean deaths. Every single one of them died in agony, and Dresden was furious that they were dying so easily. The last one to fall had been the Bravo team leader. He had realized quickly that this rifle would be next to useless with the demon among their ranks. He'd never be able to fire without running the risk of hitting his boys. So the grizzled old sergeant had drawn his hunting knife, a short, stubby blade about four inches long, and had tried to duel the fallen Whill on his own terms. Dresden's first blow had severed his knife hand, the second had pierced his windpipe, somehow leaving the carotid arteries intact. Dresden simply held the blade where it was, forcing the man to stand as the blade slowly asphyxiated him. It took quite some time.
The cowardly machine gunner, Dresden decided, would not get the chance to fall in the dirt with his comrades. He had tried to abandon them to their fates, so the fallen Whill would see to it that he wouldn't get the chance to join them in death. He picked the sobbing and gasping boy up by the scruff of the next and carried him over to the nearest building. A part of the wall had been shattered by the mortar fire, exposing the rebar embedded within. Three pieces were broken off, and the craven was nailed to the wall, one piece in each and and one through both the feet together. Since it would have taken days for him to die, and some damn fool rescue worker might have pulled him down, Dresden simply lashed out with the thought blades and surgically cut every tendon in the boy's arms and legs. He wouldn't be able to pull himself up for breath without the use of either. He would die alone and afraid, hanging in the air while his comrades bled out into the dirt. It was too good for the bastard."There. Now where are the others?" The former Shard reached out with his mind, searching out the bright bundles of focus that he associated with professional soldiers on a mission."Those sons of bitches. They're starting to scatter." There was no time to hunt them all down like he had done with the first squad. One group would have been designated to act as a decoy so the command element could escape and report. Not matter. He didn't have to be there to kill them.
For the second time in as many minutes, the thought tendrils lashed out. Like the crucified machine gunner, each of the pigs found themselves empathizing with a puppet that had its strings cut as every single tendon in their bodies was surgically snipped. And then the real fun began as they found the skin peeling away from their hands and feet and faces with agonizing care and precision, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Every few seconds there was a new spike of pain as a nerve cluster here or a sensitive organ there was shredded. There had been 23 individuals involved in the attack that had not been a member of the ambush squad or the cleanup squad. Fitting then that it took exactly 23 minutes for the first one to die from shock. The rest followed suit, blood streaming from blinded eyes has they lay in pools of their blood and urine and feces, their skin sprinkled throughout it all like little perfect squares of confetti.
As the last one died, the fury and bloodlust began to drain out of Dresden. He wasn't tired, exactly. That had been, all things considered, a minor expenditure of power. More like he was worried, partly about the consequences to his carefully crafted plan, but mostly about the huntress. And in some ways, he was ashamed. Ashamed that he had lost control like this. Ashamed that he hadn't done enough to protect the Major in the first place. Ashamed that he even cared what happened to her. He traveled the three miles back to the apartment on foot, at a walking pace, trying to collect his thoughts. His commlink would warn him if his patient's vitals hit certain dangerous thresholds, so he while he wasn't exactly dragging his feet, the fallen Whill wasn't exactly rushing either.
Still, he made it back to the apartment far quicker than he had originally planned. He wasn't quite sure he was ready to face the Major yet, but he couldn't delay forever. Maybe she'd be unconscious."Nothing to it but to do it," he muttered as he trudged up the stairs. The door was unlocked and the traps disarmed with a negligent flick of the Force, and Dresden trudged inside. He kicked his filthy boots off outside the door and stepped through the threshold. Off came the muck-covered jacket; it was in dire need of a dry cleaning. The gunbelt was pristine as always, though both the pistol and the sword would need a thorough cleaning later. The pants and the shirt were beyond help, so he stripped them off and dumped them in the garbage. He was self conscious enough to keep the boxers as he headed for the shower. Damn thing was attached to the bedroom, and while he was pretty sure the Major would be unconscious or asleep, he wasn't going to risk it, and going without a shower was not an option after that, not if he had a patient to look after."Fuck it." He tiptoed through the bedroom doorway, hoping to pass unnoticed.
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The Major
Member
Also known as Sailor Titan
Posts: 5,959
Affiliation: Fallanassi
Traffic Light: Blue
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Iziz
Aug 21, 2013 22:08:39 GMT -8
via mobile
Post by The Major on Aug 21, 2013 22:08:39 GMT -8
Sensations, and none of them were death beckoning to an early grave. How could it? She was a survivor. There was too much to do, and laying in bed with a concussion that made the world look bright and gray was too much time wasted. Major attempts to stir after feeling a kiss and warm breath on her forehead —Dresden, the Eralam, leaving. Failure in this case was like a billion punches to the face. Her body wailed at her mind, screaming, "Stay the fuck in place!" Weak. Still, the dizzying pain had a way of making a great argument.
A gasp is squelched, no way was she going to whine on a bed while shot to Hell. The wounds were treated, everything would be fine. No, it would always be terrible, and her life would always try to cast her into these broken states: like the first time at the Zoo, Tynna, Shili, Empress Teta, and especially during the Fall of Reecee. Some of the scars never healed, like the right elbow which was once shattered, or the back of her head, which still had a subtle ridge if you touched it lightly from the time it split and nearly spilled her brains right then and there. The biggest one by far was a wicked slash of gray and purple that streaked in a neat line from the small of her back and down and at an angle just to the center of her left butt cheek. Oddly specific wounds from oddly specific battles and weapons, and now the one at her hip would be the next shiner —the momento from the second visit to Onderon in her life. No wonder she hated this place.
Suddenly, her glasses light up as she attempts to access the oracle network, yet another of her creations. Already things were not working properly. The right lense had its wiring blown, so it displayed nothing but cracked static, while the other lines displayed on half of what she needed to know. The room spins. Whoa! A significant number of the units, the might of this center of fascism, where apparently under duress, and some of the other battalions were. . . gone —all listed as KIA. No. She wasn't the only one then.
:Major! By Goddess, your FF-tag is off the charts, your ECG is blaring. I have a sitrep ready for you. In the last five hours, our forces, liaisons, allies, and even potential sympathizes have come under attack. First reports indicated a coup, but new intel from captured assailants prove that they are only made to look like rebels or defectors. I would have sent you this info myself, but they had somehow managed to disable our extra planet communications, like they wanted to isolate us and pick us off piece by piece. I am sorry to report that the expeditionary force sent to Corvala, and their star destroyer, have been lost. None of the Panzerschütze, and Major Emono, remain —a very grievous loss indeed. My Kampfgruppe on Bodgen was also attacked by a large coalition of pirates, but we have both repelled our enemy and have secured the objective here as per your orders. Major, they may have drawn blood, but our morale is high, nay, higher! It's been too long since we had a chance to sharpen our claws. What is your mandate, Sir?:
Head General Pippin Seitz, the technical leader of the Reich's armed forces. Technically a figure head, and technically far too young at 33 for such an intensive job —but he was ruthlessly effective. Unfortunately, he was an asshole that didn't realize that his shadow leader could hardly speak without sending her world spinning. So when the Major gives him a deadpan blink from those sardonically droopy eyes of hers and stares directly into the little image of him her glasses, he gets the picture, and blushes while rearing backwards, taken with the seriousness of the situation.
I.... see. Ja, jawhol. I understand. I shall recover and rally the remaining divisions. Do not fret, Kommandant, we will have these bastards on a plate for such gall. Fight well, fight long, and may we meet again in Valhalla otherwise. I'll have another sitrep in 24 hours. Heil, Seitz out.:
Once the channel cut, she drifted back and forth between the world of reality and that of knocked out bliss. Eventually, Dresden returns while dressed in.....
.....nothing at all?
". . . . ?"
And now she hated the non human, because she was weak in front of him, needed to be recovered with his help —she hated chivalry, or accepting help— because now he had proven to save her twice, if not spare her from some horrid fate or another. She hated him because he should have let her perish, because the chaff must perish; hated him for his mannerisms and mixture of chaos and control. She despised how he seemed so amoral but somehow seemed more lofty, empathetic, even loving, and he was just some putrid collection complied into an excuse of the living, a parody. Dresden was a test tube, an attempt to contain the power of a god in a human body. She hated that he had all that power and only he could choose how to use it. She loathed owing him twice in life debts.
Most of all, she hated herself, for before she was at least conflicted, and could still bring out her ugliness to betray and destroy him. Now? Now she was set, and there was nothing to be conflicted about anymore.
Bastard.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Iziz
Aug 22, 2013 0:33:34 GMT -8
Post by Deleted on Aug 22, 2013 0:33:34 GMT -8
Yeah. That went well.
Underneath the liberal application of blood and soot, Dresden broke out into a full-body blush, turning bright red from the tips of his toes to the tips of his ears. Thank the Force he had kept the boxers on.
"Um, hi. I'm going to take a shower. Holler if you need anything."
Ohcrapohcrapohcrap. He shouldn't be embarrassed. Two grown-ass adults, this sort of thing was bound to happen sometime. Right? Nothing to be ashamed of. He marched into the bathroom like a condemned man heading off to meet the firing squad and closed the door. He fumbled with the lock, but his fingers refused to work properly.
"Fucking hell. I can carve up a squad like a goddamn sushi chef, but I can't work a fucking lock?"
He was at least able to dial the water up as hot as he could stand, strip the rest of the way, and get into the shower without causing an interplanetary incident. The water did a lot to ease the tension out of his muscles, on top of rinsing away the grime of the severely one-sided battle. It took several minutes for the water going down the drain to transition from dark red and black to clear. Only then did he reach for the soap.
Meanwhile, his console chimed gently from the living/dining room. He had set up a snooper program the night before to monitor activity concerning the Major's outfit, as well as the drop box. Both were starting to generate hits. While the open sourced information was vague, an analysis program was able to conclude that large-scale action had been taken against the unit on multiple fronts, and that the galaxy would be better off without them anyway, thank you very much. The console reminded the analysis program that it was to keep its personal opinions out of it, while the analysis program retorted that all it could offer were personal opinions.
The drop box monitor reported that, of the 104 people still living that knew to check it, 81 had reported in as being unable to assist. Another 15 were verified as being dead, and there was no word from the remaining eight.
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