I will read all this stuff and get back to you soon, critique everything you need man, I'll be back in a few days, Now I just need Drugs LOL!
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The Next Stage
- Thread starter timur
- Start date
That's awesome; I can't wait to hear it!
As for the next Arc, that should be coming soon. And guess what? It has a not-so-new character thrown into the mix (perhaps the most mysterious/unexplained one, even).
And she loves the big guns, don't you?
EDIT: I also attached an easy PDF of what has happened so far (and Jesters useful story of the original KFMod)
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I'll do the next major part soon, but I wrote up this little peice with what little time I had. Not too exciting, but its setting up for the next peice, so quite necessary. I planned on putting this as a starter to the next part, which I may make later today, but I rushed in this little peice while I could.
The Calm before the Storm
Memories spun around in the old Survivor's head as he drifted off into unconciousness. He dreamed of his family...when what he did was "just a job"...when London had burnt. When he had lost everything he had. When that first Masterson clone had approached him in the Labs. It was too much. Everything. And, muddled in a sea of blood and death, was a puzzle, things that were waiting to be peiced together. But his exhausted mind bombarded him with more and more memories, twisted relivings of what he had just gone through; it was too much for one, exhausted mind to comprehend. So he just let go, and let the memories wash over him.
He woke up a few hours later, still disoriented. He got up, looking around, and saw that Foster was manning the boat, half asleep, as the team was sitting around, waiting to recover. Foster gave him a slight nod before turning back to the transmitter, where a voice was calling in instructions. The Trooper could see, turning around, that they were approaching a small island, one of the military forts used to help evacuate whoever remained without taking them through the "war-zone". After the boat docked, and they were rushed inside by military personell, special DRF troopers. The squad was escorted to the deepest rooms of the facility, with the halls ominously empty. They were wisked into the closest thing the base had to a war room, and the doors were locked behind them. "This doesn't have to be an interrogation," said the lead officer, still facing his own transmitter in the corner. "But if you hold anything back from us, I'm afraid that I'll have to follow my original orders." He turned around, looking soberly at the team. His berret casted a shadow on his face, worn from stress and his dull eyes looked vaguely towards them. Well, it was a time of war, so the Survivor pushed the comments aside and handed over the photo files and documents he had to the officer. They were then led without a word out the door, to wait while the feds processed their work.
I know, its not all too good for this one, I was a bit rushed. But don't worry, if I can figure out how to start Part 7 proper, it will hopefully be glorious
The Calm before the Storm
Memories spun around in the old Survivor's head as he drifted off into unconciousness. He dreamed of his family...when what he did was "just a job"...when London had burnt. When he had lost everything he had. When that first Masterson clone had approached him in the Labs. It was too much. Everything. And, muddled in a sea of blood and death, was a puzzle, things that were waiting to be peiced together. But his exhausted mind bombarded him with more and more memories, twisted relivings of what he had just gone through; it was too much for one, exhausted mind to comprehend. So he just let go, and let the memories wash over him.
He woke up a few hours later, still disoriented. He got up, looking around, and saw that Foster was manning the boat, half asleep, as the team was sitting around, waiting to recover. Foster gave him a slight nod before turning back to the transmitter, where a voice was calling in instructions. The Trooper could see, turning around, that they were approaching a small island, one of the military forts used to help evacuate whoever remained without taking them through the "war-zone". After the boat docked, and they were rushed inside by military personell, special DRF troopers. The squad was escorted to the deepest rooms of the facility, with the halls ominously empty. They were wisked into the closest thing the base had to a war room, and the doors were locked behind them. "This doesn't have to be an interrogation," said the lead officer, still facing his own transmitter in the corner. "But if you hold anything back from us, I'm afraid that I'll have to follow my original orders." He turned around, looking soberly at the team. His berret casted a shadow on his face, worn from stress and his dull eyes looked vaguely towards them. Well, it was a time of war, so the Survivor pushed the comments aside and handed over the photo files and documents he had to the officer. They were then led without a word out the door, to wait while the feds processed their work.
I know, its not all too good for this one, I was a bit rushed. But don't worry, if I can figure out how to start Part 7 proper, it will hopefully be glorious
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I good stuff i like it so i'm going to bump this
when thow bumpest, thow doth recieve.
You win....another postlet (planned on another full Arc, but once again am swamped in IRL)
Thunder on the Horizon.
Reverand Albert, had made himself a hero in the eyes of the troops when he and Skully had managed to lead the remaining forces out of the ambush in the Ruins of London. Amidst the chaos of the ambush they had rallyed several squads together, and fought their way out of the ruins, to regroup with a helicopter squadron. So many great men had been lost. Albert sighed as he remembered Powers being riddled with bullets as feinds scrambled over his corpse, fighting each other for peices of his flesh in a feeding frenzy. He had purified them with his 9mm bullets to the skull. He had vowed he would go into medical work, would help the refugees find homes, jobs, and god. But instead, after the parades and the knighthood, he had been thrust to the front lines as one of the great "Heroes of London"...and now it was happening all over again. He looked around and realized he had not escaped. Hell had followed him.
It had been a relatively peaceful day, actually. The occaisonal clot wandered into the line of sight of the trenches, and was torn to shreds. The Scottish mountains were nice that day, serene. Almost surreal. But then, without warning, they began to hear a low hum that gradually grew louder until they heard what is was and realized what was going on. It was the simultaneous purr of chainsaws...lots and lots of chainsaws. And it had only taken minutes until Hell had returned. Massive waves of scrambling monsters struck into the line, and the gattling guns were simply not able to hold them back. The ground was soaked red as mangled barbed wire ensared struggling abominations, howling in rage. Everywhere, the men were beginning to retreat as the freaks were starting to jump into the trenches, and then pour like a flood. Albert recovered himself, drawing his Handcannon out and blasting the head off a Gorefast that had gotten behind Briar and was preparing to impale him. Albert surveyed the situation again, and decided. It was over, they could only hope to get out alive and warn the others. As fiery missiles began to fall on their head's, he knew that their time was up. He whipped a flare gun, and a transmitter, signaling to everyone to pull back as orderly as possible. The men, disciplined and war-weathered, followed the command as best as they could. And then artillery shells and bombs began to mingle with the incendiaries, and all order fell apart.
Kevin Clamely looked down from a hilltop, feeling a surge of joy and adreneline as he saw his beautiful children tear apart the vermin. As the wind blew the stench of carcases through the air, bending the long grass, he longed to run down and revel, to once again enjoy the thrill of the hunt combined with the feeling that he could at last vent his hatred. But he must not give in to such base emotions; he had to remain focused. This was not the most important attack. He thought of the information which the intruders had stolen...what they had seen. They were too small to ever comprehend his mechanisms, but she was probably looking at the information right now, along with those filthy traitors the DRF had rescued during their first lab break-in. Intelligence had already told him that they had already made headway on certain projects; but he wasn't ready yet. His designs would be fullfilled either way, but he would prefer to deal with things one step at a time. He thought of all that, and imagined those traitors working on it...betraying him. Just like his wife had betrayed him. This is why humans could never be trusted. He hated so very much to even have to use them from time to time, but he needed to get work done. He would then purify his adopted children...and save the others for leisure.
The Survivor looked around as the DRF troops dragged him and his team through the steel walkways oustide the base. Just a minute ago, the base had been quiet, like a steel ghosttown in the sea...and suddenly people were everywhere, and helicopters scrambled everywhere, filled with as many people as could physically fit. He was unceremoniously shoved into the DRF copter, spitting back a witty line about the troop's mother being Irish, and something about rudeness. As the team was lifted into the air, he knew something was going on...but what?
hope you enjoyed that; considering it, this and the other postlet might actually qualify as Arc 7, so I'll just say that.
Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion
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Well, after a long wait, I think I'm ready to begin this....I just pray that I don't botch this!
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Part 8: Collision
Kevin Clamely walked cloaked on a ridge, viewing his contigent. His children had grown so numerous lately, but they were mostly off fighting their enemies near Glascow...but this force here would do for what he planned. His anxiety had been overhwhelming, it would be so much simpler if those little rats hadn't escaped. Well, his plan was destined to suceed no matter what, but this little disturbance had a chance to really start to piss him off. His blood began to boil, from a combination of anger and stress; and he knew that, right now, those devils were killing his children! His beautiful family, torn to shreds, he could just imagine those laughing faces, his enemies luaghing faces as they shot his son over and over again. He recollected himself; he needed to remember he WAS god, he COULD stop this. He closed his eyes for a second, and felt his mind expand....this was why he was god. Horzine had never envisioned such technology being used so well in the old days, but now things were different. He felt the enthrilling sensation of immense power as he opened two sets of eyes. Showtime.
The old survivor watched as the helicopter flew back into the sky, leaving the squad behind. Ignoring the knawing feeling in his gut, he turned back around surveying his surroundings. They had been dumped on this mountain, the long grass bowing in the wind, and not a tree in sight. Further up the mountain was a bunker, with sandbags creating barricades around the perimeter, and a radio tower strutting out of the top of the mountain. The place looked abandoned, as if there had been a whole operation before everyone had just left. The team was already climbing towards it, and the perimeter fence groaned as they pushed open the gate. "About time you guys got here; what, being fashionably late?" came a very familiar voice. Then he spotted the source, coming from on top of the bunker. The Trader heaved her Crossbow over her back, half smiling. "Well, feels like old times, you here to sell us some lovely big guns, or just take our money?" "Nah, sweetie, I'm getting paid five times your savings here, so they're on the house."
The banter passed back and forth as she led them up the hill into the base. It was either cryptic or totally unhelpful, for the most part, until at one point she seemed to whisper quietly almost to herself, followed by a bellowing that seemed to come from a mic on her person, followed by her whispering something else. It was silent for a moment, and she clicked the tiny earpiece off. She turned to the squad, and began to give a short explanation. From what she said, it seemed that this base was still alive down below, under the bunker, but most of the troops had left for Glascow. Glover&garrison troops down below in case of emergencys. As for them....well it seems that some specimen were wandering off the main contingent, and this was important enough to warrant a house call. It was only supposed to be a few, she said, assuringly before climbing a ladder up the radio tower. "And I suppose you will be going down below, for old times sake?" He said, rolling his eyes. She only rolled her eyes, climbing the steel stairs leading up to a turret hapharzadly set up on the tower. Well, I guess that answers that question...
They then began gathering their weapons, loading whatever they could up before the specimen hit. He knew that this was no "minor attack." Why would they need a turret, and have sealed the sub-levels, otherwise? It made no sense, unless this was about to be getting real familiar real fast...
They took a position, readying their guns as the they heard the fence get ripped down by grasping claws, hungry mouths coming for them. They answered with lead, steel, napalm, and explosives, and soon it was starting to feel just like old times as a flood of hideous monstrosities began to pour onto their position. The turret roared from behind, grazing the back ranks and clearing the flanks as the team fought for their lives. As the main company began to arrive, suddenly the air became filled with screams that shattered the windows. Molten shots began to smash against the sides of buildings, and the appearance of footsteps on the rooves proved that they were being flanked. They began to slowly retreat, taking further and further back positions as bullets also began to bounce off their cover, adding ominous high notes to the orchestra of hungry growlings. The ground was covered with corpses, as flaming experiments flailed, screaming. But more kept coming, and more, and more, putting more and more pressure on the reeling team. And, just as the intense flood began to feel overwheling, filled with guns and chainsaws, and meat grinders....it seemed so quiet. The blood streamed into the long grass and the last clot fell writhing to the ground in agony, but it seemed so quiet. He felt uneasy, knowing that this wasn't over. It wouldn't end like this. He called to his team; it was time to restock. Because something was coming. And he felt he knew just what.
As they loaded up a second time, they heard several steel clangs as the Trader descended from the tower. "I suppose they should be nearly done by now," she mused aloud. She then went on, explaining the purpose of this. There had been a Horzine project, orginally made to disable enemy communications; it could disable radio, cellphones, and internet within a specific radius. This project had blossomed; She had even known about it before the Outbreak. But after the Outbreak, it had been used to an extent even she had doubted possible; blocking out almost all channels of a massive radius (and even disrupting friendly channels if too close to the device). But luckily, when several traitors to Horzine left the company, she had picked up some pieces and managed to access the Horzine channels; not much, but essentail to the war effort. And, while Horzine still often switched channels and tried getting rid of these "intruders" to the system, this base has always tracked it and kept one step ahead. But now they were currently engaged in an attempt to hack into the main device, and shut it down from the inside. They were sent on a suicide mission, just meant to hopefully buy enough time to get inside using the saftey override they had acquired.
She was about to continue when suddenly a sound came from outside...a massive gnashing sound as the downed fence was crushed. The team, now alert, readied for whatever was about to happen...and then they heard, over the Horzine Channel, the sound of an all too familiar voice. "Its the end of the road....nowhere to run now," followed by a laugh. The blood red sunset glowed as suddenly he heard from Wiggins, "Look out, you idiots!" He spotted it, the grass flattened and brushed aside by a massive cloaked...thing. The opened fire, as it charged uncloaking...before a rocket flew from their right, nearly smashing into Foster and tearing a hole in a garage. Suddenly the fight fell into chaos as the Trooper realized something. The counterattack had been too late; those clones he had destroyed, mirrors of Clamely had only been the latest versions. He snapped back into reality as he focused on the chaos at hand.
Part 9: Descension
Kevin Clamely was reveling in his success. The sillohoute of the murderer of his son would haunt him no longer soon; this was just a testing ground for his divine might. His docile, altered clone was not something seperate. He had made sure that no one would leave him ever again, and this applied to him as well. The mind of the clone had been tampered with; if ever he tried going to far, he would reach a wall of sudden confusion as Clamely yanked him out of control. This prototype was not mentally stable...but all he needed to know was that he was god's hand. He and Kevin were the same, and to not fight it as the twisted tendrils of Kevin's mind wouve into his skull, as Horzine's secret weapon, having been built into his cranium, yoked him underneath Kevin. Kevin forced his mind back onto the task at hand; this was no time for reflection. He refocused as Anderson brought an Axe crashing down on his spine, and he turned, smashing his gun into the medic and sending him into some mangled barbed wire. He remembered that one....and he licked his lips as he savoured the sight of him about to crush the little defiant bug. He lifted his clawed hand, but was stopped short as he suddenly was bombarded by 6 grenades, and out of the smoke came Thornes axe crashing into the back of his head. He turned aroung again, to get hit in the face with a bolt. He called his puppet back to kill them, and realized he was healing....a bit of a mishap from his rage, but this could be fixed. He whipped out a massie syringe opened it up, when suddenly it exploded, sending shards of glass everywhere. Andersons reloaded a clip into his now smoking hot SMG, masking a smile as Kevin roared, batting Thorne out of the way. They were about to give chase when suddenly a rocket flew overhead, scattering them.
Kevin barreled out of the perimeter, grasping for a last syringe of relief with his open hand. He fingered air....double taking, before his extension saw Thorne handing it to someone, who smashed it with an axe. He looked closer....and saw Her. He hadn't realized, she had been sniping from a distance, but now he was blind rage. He barreled his enraged Hand of God forward, consumed with rage that SHE would DARE show up, ruin HIS day. He noted Anderson out of the corner of his eye. In a single fluid motion, he ripped a steel raft off of the bunker, using the sharp jagged edge as a spear. He felt his weapon reach its mark, ripping through the paramedic mask and cutting into his jaw. He showed his teeth, adreneline burning in his veins with the anger as he felt the edge burst out the other side of his jaw. Anderson collapsed, and in the same movement Kevin launched the girder towards Foster, shearing his suit and impaling his shoulder. Thorne tried jumping at him, bringing his axe down, and 'God' used his genetic improvements to grab his foot, impaling it with the tentacle's spines before throwing him into a concrete wall. The Survivor with his AA12 and Wiggins with his SCAR then unloaded, only for Kevin to bat each aside with his arms, sending them sprawling. Skully tried unloading his m32, but Kevin batted him aside as chaingun bullets riddled Skully's left arm. She shot a bolt into his face, but he left it there, only fueling his rage with pain. He charged her, and she ducked under his swipe. He then released his tentacle, and the trader drew out her katana, sidestepping the grasping appendage and stabbing it with her sword. He brought his gun arm down, smashing at her as she fluidly reloaded and shot a bolt into his face. He turned in place, barely balanced on one foot...and was suddenly knocked over as 2 barrels of pellets belched into him. He sprung back up, charging as the Survivor whipped out his AA12, unloading. Kevin brought his clawed hand back down, smiling as he felt him rip into skip and break a rib. He was knocked back, unable to finish the job, as suddenly any able bodied gunmen shot wildly at him.
Kevin, now riddled with bullets, his eyes begginning to see fuzzy around the edges, flung himself towards the Trader. She grasped for her quiver, realizing she was out of ammunition, pulling her katana out in a last ditch attempt to defend herself when The Survivor dragged himself back out of the armoury. He dropped his AA12, heaving the LAW onto his shoulder, just like old times, aimed, and fired. The rocket whizzed through the air, detonating as it reached Kevin. Clamely refocused on his own body as he felt his control dissapear. He dragged himself down the hill, still cloaked, dissapearing past a second ridge. He could barely think, he could hardly move....and ahead of him, laughing, he could see his son's murderers. A dark silohoutte barely visible...but perfectly audible. Clamely mustered a roar, dragging himself forward as he was tormented by his own mind.
The Survivor leaned against the side of the Bunker, exhausted. Thorne knelt over Anderson, bandaging his jaw, and there was a kind of exhausted peace. The silence was broken as Skully suddenly swore. "F***!" He turned around. "He got away! That b***ard got away! There's only one body here!" The Trader ignored him, crouching and sniping the many wandering zeds now in the area. The bunker doors burst open as Glover and the reinforcements got clearance to secure the area. The zeds all over were being called back. They had won.
Clamely entered the Labs, barely conscious. He laid down for a rest, as he subconsiously grasped for the mental connection he used to have. He felt mangled, violated, and betrayed. But he needed his rest. Because they had shut down the Tower...but this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Kevin Clamely walked cloaked on a ridge, viewing his contigent. His children had grown so numerous lately, but they were mostly off fighting their enemies near Glascow...but this force here would do for what he planned. His anxiety had been overhwhelming, it would be so much simpler if those little rats hadn't escaped. Well, his plan was destined to suceed no matter what, but this little disturbance had a chance to really start to piss him off. His blood began to boil, from a combination of anger and stress; and he knew that, right now, those devils were killing his children! His beautiful family, torn to shreds, he could just imagine those laughing faces, his enemies luaghing faces as they shot his son over and over again. He recollected himself; he needed to remember he WAS god, he COULD stop this. He closed his eyes for a second, and felt his mind expand....this was why he was god. Horzine had never envisioned such technology being used so well in the old days, but now things were different. He felt the enthrilling sensation of immense power as he opened two sets of eyes. Showtime.
The old survivor watched as the helicopter flew back into the sky, leaving the squad behind. Ignoring the knawing feeling in his gut, he turned back around surveying his surroundings. They had been dumped on this mountain, the long grass bowing in the wind, and not a tree in sight. Further up the mountain was a bunker, with sandbags creating barricades around the perimeter, and a radio tower strutting out of the top of the mountain. The place looked abandoned, as if there had been a whole operation before everyone had just left. The team was already climbing towards it, and the perimeter fence groaned as they pushed open the gate. "About time you guys got here; what, being fashionably late?" came a very familiar voice. Then he spotted the source, coming from on top of the bunker. The Trader heaved her Crossbow over her back, half smiling. "Well, feels like old times, you here to sell us some lovely big guns, or just take our money?" "Nah, sweetie, I'm getting paid five times your savings here, so they're on the house."
The banter passed back and forth as she led them up the hill into the base. It was either cryptic or totally unhelpful, for the most part, until at one point she seemed to whisper quietly almost to herself, followed by a bellowing that seemed to come from a mic on her person, followed by her whispering something else. It was silent for a moment, and she clicked the tiny earpiece off. She turned to the squad, and began to give a short explanation. From what she said, it seemed that this base was still alive down below, under the bunker, but most of the troops had left for Glascow. Glover&garrison troops down below in case of emergencys. As for them....well it seems that some specimen were wandering off the main contingent, and this was important enough to warrant a house call. It was only supposed to be a few, she said, assuringly before climbing a ladder up the radio tower. "And I suppose you will be going down below, for old times sake?" He said, rolling his eyes. She only rolled her eyes, climbing the steel stairs leading up to a turret hapharzadly set up on the tower. Well, I guess that answers that question...
They then began gathering their weapons, loading whatever they could up before the specimen hit. He knew that this was no "minor attack." Why would they need a turret, and have sealed the sub-levels, otherwise? It made no sense, unless this was about to be getting real familiar real fast...
They took a position, readying their guns as the they heard the fence get ripped down by grasping claws, hungry mouths coming for them. They answered with lead, steel, napalm, and explosives, and soon it was starting to feel just like old times as a flood of hideous monstrosities began to pour onto their position. The turret roared from behind, grazing the back ranks and clearing the flanks as the team fought for their lives. As the main company began to arrive, suddenly the air became filled with screams that shattered the windows. Molten shots began to smash against the sides of buildings, and the appearance of footsteps on the rooves proved that they were being flanked. They began to slowly retreat, taking further and further back positions as bullets also began to bounce off their cover, adding ominous high notes to the orchestra of hungry growlings. The ground was covered with corpses, as flaming experiments flailed, screaming. But more kept coming, and more, and more, putting more and more pressure on the reeling team. And, just as the intense flood began to feel overwheling, filled with guns and chainsaws, and meat grinders....it seemed so quiet. The blood streamed into the long grass and the last clot fell writhing to the ground in agony, but it seemed so quiet. He felt uneasy, knowing that this wasn't over. It wouldn't end like this. He called to his team; it was time to restock. Because something was coming. And he felt he knew just what.
As they loaded up a second time, they heard several steel clangs as the Trader descended from the tower. "I suppose they should be nearly done by now," she mused aloud. She then went on, explaining the purpose of this. There had been a Horzine project, orginally made to disable enemy communications; it could disable radio, cellphones, and internet within a specific radius. This project had blossomed; She had even known about it before the Outbreak. But after the Outbreak, it had been used to an extent even she had doubted possible; blocking out almost all channels of a massive radius (and even disrupting friendly channels if too close to the device). But luckily, when several traitors to Horzine left the company, she had picked up some pieces and managed to access the Horzine channels; not much, but essentail to the war effort. And, while Horzine still often switched channels and tried getting rid of these "intruders" to the system, this base has always tracked it and kept one step ahead. But now they were currently engaged in an attempt to hack into the main device, and shut it down from the inside. They were sent on a suicide mission, just meant to hopefully buy enough time to get inside using the saftey override they had acquired.
She was about to continue when suddenly a sound came from outside...a massive gnashing sound as the downed fence was crushed. The team, now alert, readied for whatever was about to happen...and then they heard, over the Horzine Channel, the sound of an all too familiar voice. "Its the end of the road....nowhere to run now," followed by a laugh. The blood red sunset glowed as suddenly he heard from Wiggins, "Look out, you idiots!" He spotted it, the grass flattened and brushed aside by a massive cloaked...thing. The opened fire, as it charged uncloaking...before a rocket flew from their right, nearly smashing into Foster and tearing a hole in a garage. Suddenly the fight fell into chaos as the Trooper realized something. The counterattack had been too late; those clones he had destroyed, mirrors of Clamely had only been the latest versions. He snapped back into reality as he focused on the chaos at hand.
Part 9: Descension
Kevin Clamely was reveling in his success. The sillohoute of the murderer of his son would haunt him no longer soon; this was just a testing ground for his divine might. His docile, altered clone was not something seperate. He had made sure that no one would leave him ever again, and this applied to him as well. The mind of the clone had been tampered with; if ever he tried going to far, he would reach a wall of sudden confusion as Clamely yanked him out of control. This prototype was not mentally stable...but all he needed to know was that he was god's hand. He and Kevin were the same, and to not fight it as the twisted tendrils of Kevin's mind wouve into his skull, as Horzine's secret weapon, having been built into his cranium, yoked him underneath Kevin. Kevin forced his mind back onto the task at hand; this was no time for reflection. He refocused as Anderson brought an Axe crashing down on his spine, and he turned, smashing his gun into the medic and sending him into some mangled barbed wire. He remembered that one....and he licked his lips as he savoured the sight of him about to crush the little defiant bug. He lifted his clawed hand, but was stopped short as he suddenly was bombarded by 6 grenades, and out of the smoke came Thornes axe crashing into the back of his head. He turned aroung again, to get hit in the face with a bolt. He called his puppet back to kill them, and realized he was healing....a bit of a mishap from his rage, but this could be fixed. He whipped out a massie syringe opened it up, when suddenly it exploded, sending shards of glass everywhere. Andersons reloaded a clip into his now smoking hot SMG, masking a smile as Kevin roared, batting Thorne out of the way. They were about to give chase when suddenly a rocket flew overhead, scattering them.
Kevin barreled out of the perimeter, grasping for a last syringe of relief with his open hand. He fingered air....double taking, before his extension saw Thorne handing it to someone, who smashed it with an axe. He looked closer....and saw Her. He hadn't realized, she had been sniping from a distance, but now he was blind rage. He barreled his enraged Hand of God forward, consumed with rage that SHE would DARE show up, ruin HIS day. He noted Anderson out of the corner of his eye. In a single fluid motion, he ripped a steel raft off of the bunker, using the sharp jagged edge as a spear. He felt his weapon reach its mark, ripping through the paramedic mask and cutting into his jaw. He showed his teeth, adreneline burning in his veins with the anger as he felt the edge burst out the other side of his jaw. Anderson collapsed, and in the same movement Kevin launched the girder towards Foster, shearing his suit and impaling his shoulder. Thorne tried jumping at him, bringing his axe down, and 'God' used his genetic improvements to grab his foot, impaling it with the tentacle's spines before throwing him into a concrete wall. The Survivor with his AA12 and Wiggins with his SCAR then unloaded, only for Kevin to bat each aside with his arms, sending them sprawling. Skully tried unloading his m32, but Kevin batted him aside as chaingun bullets riddled Skully's left arm. She shot a bolt into his face, but he left it there, only fueling his rage with pain. He charged her, and she ducked under his swipe. He then released his tentacle, and the trader drew out her katana, sidestepping the grasping appendage and stabbing it with her sword. He brought his gun arm down, smashing at her as she fluidly reloaded and shot a bolt into his face. He turned in place, barely balanced on one foot...and was suddenly knocked over as 2 barrels of pellets belched into him. He sprung back up, charging as the Survivor whipped out his AA12, unloading. Kevin brought his clawed hand back down, smiling as he felt him rip into skip and break a rib. He was knocked back, unable to finish the job, as suddenly any able bodied gunmen shot wildly at him.
Kevin, now riddled with bullets, his eyes begginning to see fuzzy around the edges, flung himself towards the Trader. She grasped for her quiver, realizing she was out of ammunition, pulling her katana out in a last ditch attempt to defend herself when The Survivor dragged himself back out of the armoury. He dropped his AA12, heaving the LAW onto his shoulder, just like old times, aimed, and fired. The rocket whizzed through the air, detonating as it reached Kevin. Clamely refocused on his own body as he felt his control dissapear. He dragged himself down the hill, still cloaked, dissapearing past a second ridge. He could barely think, he could hardly move....and ahead of him, laughing, he could see his son's murderers. A dark silohoutte barely visible...but perfectly audible. Clamely mustered a roar, dragging himself forward as he was tormented by his own mind.
The Survivor leaned against the side of the Bunker, exhausted. Thorne knelt over Anderson, bandaging his jaw, and there was a kind of exhausted peace. The silence was broken as Skully suddenly swore. "F***!" He turned around. "He got away! That b***ard got away! There's only one body here!" The Trader ignored him, crouching and sniping the many wandering zeds now in the area. The bunker doors burst open as Glover and the reinforcements got clearance to secure the area. The zeds all over were being called back. They had won.
Clamely entered the Labs, barely conscious. He laid down for a rest, as he subconsiously grasped for the mental connection he used to have. He felt mangled, violated, and betrayed. But he needed his rest. Because they had shut down the Tower...but this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
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I really hate to triple post, but I would really like some input.
The ending of Quarantine is pretty much here, as you can probably tell....but this is far from a true ending; its more like a beginning, really.
However, the epilogue is pretty major, but arc8/9 was more of a climax, especially gameplay-wise.
Anyways, back to the point: Bump
The ending of Quarantine is pretty much here, as you can probably tell....but this is far from a true ending; its more like a beginning, really
.However, the epilogue is pretty major, but arc8/9 was more of a climax, especially gameplay-wise.
Anyways, back to the point: Bump
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I will try and get the ending of Quarantine down finally; its late and I'm tired, but I am finally in the mood to write, and if its horrible I'll just edit it later.
Also, sorry mods if I always double or triple post with these arcs, but I like to gove each arc its own post, so I dont edit on comments, but post them anew
Also, sorry mods if I always double or triple post with these arcs, but I like to gove each arc its own post, so I dont edit on comments, but post them anew
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Part 10: Impact
Reverand Albert watched as helicopters, bearing the emblems of major nations across the globe, began to descend upon Glascow. He leaned against the old cobblestone bridge and gazed into the river below. It flowed crimson, as bodies floated down; the specimen had not only assaulted bridges, but had flung themselves into the river, and their bodies had formed a decaying bridge of corpses upon which a stream of snarling monstrosities had just hours before scrambled across. But Albert didn't care any more. He didn't care that all the remaining BBC cameras left were pointed at him, the "hero of Glascow", he didn't care that the stench of the dead was practically tangible. He was simpy exhausted, and only one thing remained in his head as his memories drifted by; he had won. It was over...
Kevin Clamely, meanwhile, was also busy. He had to time this perfectly...his plan was hindered, not stopped. He viewed the troops, as busy drones prepared a collassal steel structure and Mastersons stood at ridged attention clad in black plates Horzine armor. His children...he could trust them. They would never betray him...but the world wanted to rob him of them, just like before. And those others...they promised him loyalty, but he knew their type. He would kill them as soon as he stopped needing them, crush thier bones in his leisure. He turned, to hear the reports from his loyal Adoptees...they had done so well, and the best part was that they could blend right in....humans just never learned, did they? No, things never changed.
"Things never changed" the Survivor thought as he watched the countryside go by. He and his squad, on another mission...it was just copter-interrogation-copter, wasn't it? Well, it would be over soon, and he would find the remains of his family, those left of his friends. But as the blue waters of the channel came into view, he was interuppted in his grumbling by a noise...the water seemed to be in tumult, and a strange deep, nearly non-existant sound filled the air. It was like hearing someone shriek their fingernails across a chalkboard amile away...a screeching so dull it barely registered. And then the scene fell into chaos...looks like someone figured out what in hell was going on...and whatever it was wasn't good.
The Crossing had been designed from the start to be stealthy when inactive, but the preparations as it got into positition were a sacrafice that had to be made. Kevin had worked so hard to keep it a secret; he had nearly choked when he saw the missiles hit the Eurostar station, but he had calmed when he realized it was just them finishing off the Tower. That was an obsolete plan...now was the time to shine. He could tell from the cameras that they had noticed the Awakening...they knew it was starting. Oh, they were sending bombers and missiles; he would almost be afraid if Horzine hadn't been working on interceptors at the time. The channel was quickly devolving into a warzone, as torpedoes and missiles collided in water and air, with stray explosives blasting sand into the air, and ships were beginning to sink. Molten incendiaries flew in volleys at oncoming helicopters, and paratroopers above soon discovered that the treeline had hidden more than just rubble underneath. He heard from intelligence that French troops were starting to evacuate Calais...they thought they new the magnitude of the problem. He turned around, and viewed a world map, and his lip curled as he saw all the dormat Horzine facilities....no, the world didn't know the problem at all. He was just beginning his ascendence.
The Commandos down in the train station were stacking sandbags, rushing to prepare for whatever was coming for them. The shriek had grown louder, and was now the roar of engines, gears, and metal grinding on metal. Reinforcements, they needed reinforcements. They heard a massive smash as something clicked into place....were was everyone? They heard a small clink and then suddenly the wall erupted in an explosion. Concrete and steel slabs flew out of the massive hole, smashing an unlucky trooper to bits and sending shrapnel and dust everywhere. There was a heartbeat of silence and suddenly, out of the dustcloud, a rocket flew overhead, blasting thier armoured car into the wall. They were pinned by gunfire as utter hell poured out of the hole...shambling things, groaning and gasping nightmares were pouring out in a tide, falling on the first man, each one fighting for a bigger chunk of human flesh. It was a feeding frenzy...the commandos hadn't been trained for this, but kept on firing, trying to keep cover while eluding these freaks. A laugh echoed out of the newly erected steel tunnel, carrying along with the growls of thousands of abominations. Kevin had at last built his bridge, humanity couldn't hide any longer; he was coming for them. All of them.
Masterson strode with his team, hiding his face in bandages. They had made him their seargant, a British veteran come to help them fight the Horzine menace. The Horzine Paris facility had been previously inactive, but just as Father had thought, they had decided to take no chances...and he wouldn't let his brothers and sisters be killed like animals...no, these soldiers, their faces in masks of horror as they viewed the hundreds of dormant tests, were the animals. He took out his SCAR, and aimed down the sights. Just like the Original, he would be a hero...and they would die. And the inactive facility...well, it wouldn't be so inactive anymore.
As the Survivor saw Calais burn, and as the helicopter began to slowly go down, towards Paris, He knew that this was it. London all over again...London a thousand times soon enough. He braced himself for what would come soon enough. He knew that once again, everything would become a killing floor. Everything.
Reverand Albert watched as helicopters, bearing the emblems of major nations across the globe, began to descend upon Glascow. He leaned against the old cobblestone bridge and gazed into the river below. It flowed crimson, as bodies floated down; the specimen had not only assaulted bridges, but had flung themselves into the river, and their bodies had formed a decaying bridge of corpses upon which a stream of snarling monstrosities had just hours before scrambled across. But Albert didn't care any more. He didn't care that all the remaining BBC cameras left were pointed at him, the "hero of Glascow", he didn't care that the stench of the dead was practically tangible. He was simpy exhausted, and only one thing remained in his head as his memories drifted by; he had won. It was over...
Kevin Clamely, meanwhile, was also busy. He had to time this perfectly...his plan was hindered, not stopped. He viewed the troops, as busy drones prepared a collassal steel structure and Mastersons stood at ridged attention clad in black plates Horzine armor. His children...he could trust them. They would never betray him...but the world wanted to rob him of them, just like before. And those others...they promised him loyalty, but he knew their type. He would kill them as soon as he stopped needing them, crush thier bones in his leisure. He turned, to hear the reports from his loyal Adoptees...they had done so well, and the best part was that they could blend right in....humans just never learned, did they? No, things never changed.
"Things never changed" the Survivor thought as he watched the countryside go by. He and his squad, on another mission...it was just copter-interrogation-copter, wasn't it? Well, it would be over soon, and he would find the remains of his family, those left of his friends. But as the blue waters of the channel came into view, he was interuppted in his grumbling by a noise...the water seemed to be in tumult, and a strange deep, nearly non-existant sound filled the air. It was like hearing someone shriek their fingernails across a chalkboard amile away...a screeching so dull it barely registered. And then the scene fell into chaos...looks like someone figured out what in hell was going on...and whatever it was wasn't good.
The Crossing had been designed from the start to be stealthy when inactive, but the preparations as it got into positition were a sacrafice that had to be made. Kevin had worked so hard to keep it a secret; he had nearly choked when he saw the missiles hit the Eurostar station, but he had calmed when he realized it was just them finishing off the Tower. That was an obsolete plan...now was the time to shine. He could tell from the cameras that they had noticed the Awakening...they knew it was starting. Oh, they were sending bombers and missiles; he would almost be afraid if Horzine hadn't been working on interceptors at the time. The channel was quickly devolving into a warzone, as torpedoes and missiles collided in water and air, with stray explosives blasting sand into the air, and ships were beginning to sink. Molten incendiaries flew in volleys at oncoming helicopters, and paratroopers above soon discovered that the treeline had hidden more than just rubble underneath. He heard from intelligence that French troops were starting to evacuate Calais...they thought they new the magnitude of the problem. He turned around, and viewed a world map, and his lip curled as he saw all the dormat Horzine facilities....no, the world didn't know the problem at all. He was just beginning his ascendence.
The Commandos down in the train station were stacking sandbags, rushing to prepare for whatever was coming for them. The shriek had grown louder, and was now the roar of engines, gears, and metal grinding on metal. Reinforcements, they needed reinforcements. They heard a massive smash as something clicked into place....were was everyone? They heard a small clink and then suddenly the wall erupted in an explosion. Concrete and steel slabs flew out of the massive hole, smashing an unlucky trooper to bits and sending shrapnel and dust everywhere. There was a heartbeat of silence and suddenly, out of the dustcloud, a rocket flew overhead, blasting thier armoured car into the wall. They were pinned by gunfire as utter hell poured out of the hole...shambling things, groaning and gasping nightmares were pouring out in a tide, falling on the first man, each one fighting for a bigger chunk of human flesh. It was a feeding frenzy...the commandos hadn't been trained for this, but kept on firing, trying to keep cover while eluding these freaks. A laugh echoed out of the newly erected steel tunnel, carrying along with the growls of thousands of abominations. Kevin had at last built his bridge, humanity couldn't hide any longer; he was coming for them. All of them.
Masterson strode with his team, hiding his face in bandages. They had made him their seargant, a British veteran come to help them fight the Horzine menace. The Horzine Paris facility had been previously inactive, but just as Father had thought, they had decided to take no chances...and he wouldn't let his brothers and sisters be killed like animals...no, these soldiers, their faces in masks of horror as they viewed the hundreds of dormant tests, were the animals. He took out his SCAR, and aimed down the sights. Just like the Original, he would be a hero...and they would die. And the inactive facility...well, it wouldn't be so inactive anymore.
As the Survivor saw Calais burn, and as the helicopter began to slowly go down, towards Paris, He knew that this was it. London all over again...London a thousand times soon enough. He braced himself for what would come soon enough. He knew that once again, everything would become a killing floor. Everything.
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Well, there you go, that was Quarantine.
I will probably continue soon enough (not all my own questions are answered), but I'm not sure how to continue. This is basically setting up for either a KF2 or a whole set of battles. But I'll have to find a way to end it somehow, so if you guys have any suggestions, please say so
And may the almighty :IS2: save us
I will probably continue soon enough (not all my own questions are answered), but I'm not sure how to continue. This is basically setting up for either a KF2 or a whole set of battles. But I'll have to find a way to end it somehow, so if you guys have any suggestions, please say so
And may the almighty :IS2: save us
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A number of times you used the name "Glascow"
The correct spelling is "Glasglow"
That kinda stuck out a fair bit, being a fan as i am of the Glasglow smile.
The correct spelling is "Glasglow"
That kinda stuck out a fair bit, being a fan as i am of the Glasglow smile.
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A number of times you used the name "Glascow"
The correct spelling is "Glasglow"
That kinda stuck out a fair bit, being a fan as i am of the Glasglow smile.
Aye, I'm afraid that I've had Moscow on the brain for some reason
Luckily, though, Spellcheck catches it when I copy it to word.
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I have decided to do an afternote, something I planned to add yesterday, but was too tired to do so, and I'll probably integrate it into arc 10 when I'm wrapping it all together.
Afternote: Blood Canvas
He was an artist....the Father had always praised his creativity, he ingenuity. That's why he was out here, in North Scotland; The Father's new enemy was strong, but vulnerable. He gazed down on the makeshift city here, a massive collection of huts made from wood, tin, anything the refugees could find. Aid workers threw water and food to the crowd, trying to save the Londoners. But he wasn't here to slaughter those miserable wretches; no, his art was precise. He needed to send a message. He walked through the shelters, in the little alleys between houses, with their sides plastered with Propaganda bearing pictures of Albert or Briar and things like "For Crown and Country" or "Send them back to Hell: Join our marines and Help God" or "Heroes need food too; don't hoard!". He spotted his target, walking into her little hut. He had spent so long tracking her; the whole family had been seperated during Outbreak. DRF troopers, whose intelligence he had used, were walking towards the door as well; they needed an extra hold on that Devil. He reached into his jacket, fingering his machetes. A few minutes later, he dragged their bodies into the house.
She had been such pathetic prey; trying to run, even getting a butcher knife. But she was starving, and no match for his superior genetics. Soon he had tied her up, and gagged her. He took out some candles, and lit them, giving his most charming smile to the little infidel on the floor. Once he was done asking her questions on her mother, and learned nothing, he took out his camera. "Smile for Daddy". She gave a pathetic mewling as there was a flash, and he turned on his recorder. Good, excellent material so far, but any ametuer could do that. He took the katana out of its sheith, admiring the look of incredible fear in her eyes reflected in the steel. He layed her on the table, on her back, and readied his sword. In a single motion, he sliced her completely open, and he smiled. Now comes his favorite part...he layed his blade on the ground, and plunged one hand into the bloody mess he had made. This was his paint. He took his now bloody hand and pressed it on the wall. He began writing, drawing. "Father is Angry"...he looked at his crimson hands, and at the rotting wooden wall of the shelter he had used as his canvas. He withdrew his camera, and began taking shots at multiple angles. Perfection, really. He felt the warm glow of art well done, and turned to the bodies of the DRF soldiers; The DRF could appreciate more art, no? He heard footsteps of more troops running outside, and he darted out. Taking out his transmitter, he prepared a very special call.
The Survivor was sitting in an infantry transport, as he saw smoke rise from the city. The French line had been surrounded, and somehow the number of freaks had actually increased. Everywhere people geared for war; Horzine had used the foundations of the channel Tunnel to make an attack on Europe, and was gaining speed. No wonder they had moved the Tower into the Eurostar station; they were preparing to move it to block out France once Britain fell. It all made sense; why had he not seen it before? Well, in any case, humanity finally stood a chance. He hear his transmitter snap on, his new fancy one. '9 New pictures'. What? He dialed through the pictures, and suddenly he felt his legs turn to mush...that was his daughter. She had escaped after all...but not for long. Had they gotten his wife as well? What was going on? He had to get to Inverness, fast. Then he heard a wimpering turn on the channel...and then a voice. "What do you think? 9/10, no? I just love that angle, and the message is so...delicious? What, no reaction? Oh come on, not anything? I just love that feeling when I hear my clients reactions...the sense of control is just so...invigorating." Thorne, who had been listening, ripped the transmiter out of His hands, and tossed it out of the truck. It shattered into a thousand peices, dashed against a stone wall. The Survivor remained silent, not even an expression on his face. But his eyes...Thorne had seen something like them before. But that had been when he looked into the eyes of Kevin Clamely.
Hope you enjoyed it. I don't know where I'll put it, but I'd like to add a threat to Horzine that is less "secret weapon" and more personal.
Afternote: Blood Canvas
He was an artist....the Father had always praised his creativity, he ingenuity. That's why he was out here, in North Scotland; The Father's new enemy was strong, but vulnerable. He gazed down on the makeshift city here, a massive collection of huts made from wood, tin, anything the refugees could find. Aid workers threw water and food to the crowd, trying to save the Londoners. But he wasn't here to slaughter those miserable wretches; no, his art was precise. He needed to send a message. He walked through the shelters, in the little alleys between houses, with their sides plastered with Propaganda bearing pictures of Albert or Briar and things like "For Crown and Country" or "Send them back to Hell: Join our marines and Help God" or "Heroes need food too; don't hoard!". He spotted his target, walking into her little hut. He had spent so long tracking her; the whole family had been seperated during Outbreak. DRF troopers, whose intelligence he had used, were walking towards the door as well; they needed an extra hold on that Devil. He reached into his jacket, fingering his machetes. A few minutes later, he dragged their bodies into the house.
She had been such pathetic prey; trying to run, even getting a butcher knife. But she was starving, and no match for his superior genetics. Soon he had tied her up, and gagged her. He took out some candles, and lit them, giving his most charming smile to the little infidel on the floor. Once he was done asking her questions on her mother, and learned nothing, he took out his camera. "Smile for Daddy". She gave a pathetic mewling as there was a flash, and he turned on his recorder. Good, excellent material so far, but any ametuer could do that. He took the katana out of its sheith, admiring the look of incredible fear in her eyes reflected in the steel. He layed her on the table, on her back, and readied his sword. In a single motion, he sliced her completely open, and he smiled. Now comes his favorite part...he layed his blade on the ground, and plunged one hand into the bloody mess he had made. This was his paint. He took his now bloody hand and pressed it on the wall. He began writing, drawing. "Father is Angry"...he looked at his crimson hands, and at the rotting wooden wall of the shelter he had used as his canvas. He withdrew his camera, and began taking shots at multiple angles. Perfection, really. He felt the warm glow of art well done, and turned to the bodies of the DRF soldiers; The DRF could appreciate more art, no? He heard footsteps of more troops running outside, and he darted out. Taking out his transmitter, he prepared a very special call.
The Survivor was sitting in an infantry transport, as he saw smoke rise from the city. The French line had been surrounded, and somehow the number of freaks had actually increased. Everywhere people geared for war; Horzine had used the foundations of the channel Tunnel to make an attack on Europe, and was gaining speed. No wonder they had moved the Tower into the Eurostar station; they were preparing to move it to block out France once Britain fell. It all made sense; why had he not seen it before? Well, in any case, humanity finally stood a chance. He hear his transmitter snap on, his new fancy one. '9 New pictures'. What? He dialed through the pictures, and suddenly he felt his legs turn to mush...that was his daughter. She had escaped after all...but not for long. Had they gotten his wife as well? What was going on? He had to get to Inverness, fast. Then he heard a wimpering turn on the channel...and then a voice. "What do you think? 9/10, no? I just love that angle, and the message is so...delicious? What, no reaction? Oh come on, not anything? I just love that feeling when I hear my clients reactions...the sense of control is just so...invigorating." Thorne, who had been listening, ripped the transmiter out of His hands, and tossed it out of the truck. It shattered into a thousand peices, dashed against a stone wall. The Survivor remained silent, not even an expression on his face. But his eyes...Thorne had seen something like them before. But that had been when he looked into the eyes of Kevin Clamely.
Hope you enjoyed it. I don't know where I'll put it, but I'd like to add a threat to Horzine that is less "secret weapon" and more personal.
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This is not part of the Series, and has NO connection to Quarantine! This is just me acting like an idiot! Move along.
It's Raining Munny- A KF-Explosion
Mr Foster leaned against the steel walls of the complex, setting his stolen Horzine FireLauncher against the wall. He watched as the Stig bickered with that new Trader girl over the exact price of the rifle on the wall. Foster mulled over the thought that the Stig's suit was the same color as that of trail mix covered in Yogurt that had lazily drifted into his mind as he took a pair of dice out of his coat pocket. He tossed the dice into the air, and the clatter of ivory on steel echoed through the hall. He heard that he had gotten his result mail on his comm. But he didn't need to even check; he had felt as suddenly a fluffy santa hat had fallen onto his head. He had rolled well, he mused, as he looked in his reflection in the glass; the red and white garment suited him well, and he felt it would just look fabulous with the bag he had seen in the Mall on the way there. He was about to strike a pose and perhaps take a picture, but was interrupted by the warning sirens. They were coming.
After clearing the many spectral abominations of Doom, they then called the CyberDemon a gormless tosser and promptly legged it to their old hang out, the Disco Bar "Killin' Floah". After a few drinks, Foster stumbled onto the dance floor, his new headwear now drooping to one side, and suddenly he noticed something on the dance floor....an....elf? The thing was a gruesome sight, an abomination that undoubtedly must have been booted from the cookie-factory tree in the commercials after Santa had tossed him out of the Pole. Now the giant headed, meth-added elf was in their club?! It was time to evict the tosspot, so Foster unsheathed the Launcher, blasting a fiery explosive right at it's feet. It was dead in moments, but soon enough, more began to pour out of the lobby. The team began to rush in, half-drunk and ill-prepared. The Stig had already gotten dosh raining down as a mark that he'd won the "3-kill lottery", and the team was fending the feinds off. They had friends too; franken-clots, with metal skeletons, Giant man-eating reindeer, and tiny Gingerbread men.
The team was standing atop a hill of dead bodies, as the halls reeked of death and alcohol. They rang with the screams and cries of the monstrosities, which melded into one with the 1970's disco music; really the two aren't that different to an enebriated cockney with a santa hat. But they were running out of ammo, and fast. The Stig was resorting to poking the buggers with his bayonet, beating them back. They eventually retreated as molesting NutCrackers began to fill in with the others, and other, unbelievable horrors. And eventually the team was cornered, with the holographic dancer behind them and all ammo gone. They backed further and further and all hope seemed lost.
And then it occured to Foster that if they die he would never see if that bag matched his hat, and his accessories would be ruined. No. He had to win. He ran at the nearest freak, what looked like an ugly gorilla-man, and as the thing swiped at him, he jumped, and, by great dexterity, he twirled past the menacing arms with the agility of a cougar, and leapt upon what he knew was where he had seen a leftover weapon. It looked like an m-32, but Foster of all people knew looks to be decieving. He took whatever he had, and sprinted at the NutPound leading the pack. He aimed, and pulled the trigger, and hoped for the best. Suddenly a pink projectile flew from the mouth of the gun, blasting towards the enemy and smashing into his exterior, smashing the yellow light out of existence. He had no clue what had just happened, but the reactions were better than expected. As he fired into the crowd, the specimen fled with horror...and disgust? He wasn't sure, but he sure as hell knew it was working. Then he heard a booming voice, as the power grid went down. "You....disgust me. But my children...they shall be rescued from your disturbing, utterly human ways. No matter what strange, strange weapons of terror you have holed up there, they are no match for my new and improved arsenal."
A few minutes later, the largely ill-armed group was lieing about injured on the plush, purple floor. The Stig and Foster remained standing before Kevin Clamely himself. "So...you two are all that's left. And one of you...is the perpetrator. I should report you to authoritied, but instead, I will simply murder you, much more satisfying. Not even The Stig could survive this....my strongest children, here to tear you to shreds. This one right here is what I call 'Tank Scrake'; oh come on, not that original, but you don't need originality when you can just murder the originals."
Suddenly the ground shook, and then...everything was silent. No words were spoken, but suddenly it was like a voice; no not a voice, simply a meaning, a kind of communication beyond normal comprehension. And one question rung through their subconcious: 'What kind of tank did you base it off of?'. What an odd question, Foster thought. And then Kevin answered out loud, mesmerized, "Well, I was looking through 'Murder Today' and I saw some pictures of...oh whats it's name?....oh, yes the 'Panther' or something, belonging to that Little Adolf fellow. And there was another, A King Puma? Or was it Tiger? Anyways, I sort of got inspired by those tanks, obviously being the greatest of World War II; they may not be modern, but they would do the job right"
And then Kevin realized his mistake. He had been wrong about so much. Most notably, not calling his creation a "Tractor Scrake"...or was that it? As enlightenment, and knowledge was blasted through his mind like a flood of chilling water, he simply could not comprehend...and so he promplty exploded, and the burst filled the room with light. Foster could not remember very much after that....all he heard was the sound of an engine, and music...beautiful music. He then awoke...where was he? The Grid was back on, and he saw no sign of bodies...and he was in his bed. As he jerked his head around to survey the situation, the santa hat atop his head fell down onto his lap. He looked and saw, at the foot of his bed, a bag was leaned against it, with a slip of paper attached.
Dear Foster,
Enjoy. The Work has been done. You have earned your newfound rest.
And I removed your hangover, no need to thank Me.
It read. And it had o signature...simply a symbol. ':IS2:'
And you just read Complete and utter Bull****. Enjoy the show, and remember to thank your tank for raining money.
It's Raining Munny- A KF-Explosion
Mr Foster leaned against the steel walls of the complex, setting his stolen Horzine FireLauncher against the wall. He watched as the Stig bickered with that new Trader girl over the exact price of the rifle on the wall. Foster mulled over the thought that the Stig's suit was the same color as that of trail mix covered in Yogurt that had lazily drifted into his mind as he took a pair of dice out of his coat pocket. He tossed the dice into the air, and the clatter of ivory on steel echoed through the hall. He heard that he had gotten his result mail on his comm. But he didn't need to even check; he had felt as suddenly a fluffy santa hat had fallen onto his head. He had rolled well, he mused, as he looked in his reflection in the glass; the red and white garment suited him well, and he felt it would just look fabulous with the bag he had seen in the Mall on the way there. He was about to strike a pose and perhaps take a picture, but was interrupted by the warning sirens. They were coming.
After clearing the many spectral abominations of Doom, they then called the CyberDemon a gormless tosser and promptly legged it to their old hang out, the Disco Bar "Killin' Floah". After a few drinks, Foster stumbled onto the dance floor, his new headwear now drooping to one side, and suddenly he noticed something on the dance floor....an....elf? The thing was a gruesome sight, an abomination that undoubtedly must have been booted from the cookie-factory tree in the commercials after Santa had tossed him out of the Pole. Now the giant headed, meth-added elf was in their club?! It was time to evict the tosspot, so Foster unsheathed the Launcher, blasting a fiery explosive right at it's feet. It was dead in moments, but soon enough, more began to pour out of the lobby. The team began to rush in, half-drunk and ill-prepared. The Stig had already gotten dosh raining down as a mark that he'd won the "3-kill lottery", and the team was fending the feinds off. They had friends too; franken-clots, with metal skeletons, Giant man-eating reindeer, and tiny Gingerbread men.
The team was standing atop a hill of dead bodies, as the halls reeked of death and alcohol. They rang with the screams and cries of the monstrosities, which melded into one with the 1970's disco music; really the two aren't that different to an enebriated cockney with a santa hat. But they were running out of ammo, and fast. The Stig was resorting to poking the buggers with his bayonet, beating them back. They eventually retreated as molesting NutCrackers began to fill in with the others, and other, unbelievable horrors. And eventually the team was cornered, with the holographic dancer behind them and all ammo gone. They backed further and further and all hope seemed lost.
And then it occured to Foster that if they die he would never see if that bag matched his hat, and his accessories would be ruined. No. He had to win. He ran at the nearest freak, what looked like an ugly gorilla-man, and as the thing swiped at him, he jumped, and, by great dexterity, he twirled past the menacing arms with the agility of a cougar, and leapt upon what he knew was where he had seen a leftover weapon. It looked like an m-32, but Foster of all people knew looks to be decieving. He took whatever he had, and sprinted at the NutPound leading the pack. He aimed, and pulled the trigger, and hoped for the best. Suddenly a pink projectile flew from the mouth of the gun, blasting towards the enemy and smashing into his exterior, smashing the yellow light out of existence. He had no clue what had just happened, but the reactions were better than expected. As he fired into the crowd, the specimen fled with horror...and disgust? He wasn't sure, but he sure as hell knew it was working. Then he heard a booming voice, as the power grid went down. "You....disgust me. But my children...they shall be rescued from your disturbing, utterly human ways. No matter what strange, strange weapons of terror you have holed up there, they are no match for my new and improved arsenal."
A few minutes later, the largely ill-armed group was lieing about injured on the plush, purple floor. The Stig and Foster remained standing before Kevin Clamely himself. "So...you two are all that's left. And one of you...is the perpetrator. I should report you to authoritied, but instead, I will simply murder you, much more satisfying. Not even The Stig could survive this....my strongest children, here to tear you to shreds. This one right here is what I call 'Tank Scrake'; oh come on, not that original, but you don't need originality when you can just murder the originals."
Suddenly the ground shook, and then...everything was silent. No words were spoken, but suddenly it was like a voice; no not a voice, simply a meaning, a kind of communication beyond normal comprehension. And one question rung through their subconcious: 'What kind of tank did you base it off of?'. What an odd question, Foster thought. And then Kevin answered out loud, mesmerized, "Well, I was looking through 'Murder Today' and I saw some pictures of...oh whats it's name?....oh, yes the 'Panther' or something, belonging to that Little Adolf fellow. And there was another, A King Puma? Or was it Tiger? Anyways, I sort of got inspired by those tanks, obviously being the greatest of World War II; they may not be modern, but they would do the job right"
And then Kevin realized his mistake. He had been wrong about so much. Most notably, not calling his creation a "Tractor Scrake"...or was that it? As enlightenment, and knowledge was blasted through his mind like a flood of chilling water, he simply could not comprehend...and so he promplty exploded, and the burst filled the room with light. Foster could not remember very much after that....all he heard was the sound of an engine, and music...beautiful music. He then awoke...where was he? The Grid was back on, and he saw no sign of bodies...and he was in his bed. As he jerked his head around to survey the situation, the santa hat atop his head fell down onto his lap. He looked and saw, at the foot of his bed, a bag was leaned against it, with a slip of paper attached.
Dear Foster,
Enjoy. The Work has been done. You have earned your newfound rest.
And I removed your hangover, no need to thank Me.
It read. And it had o signature...simply a symbol. ':IS2:'
And you just read Complete and utter Bull****. Enjoy the show, and remember to thank your tank for raining money.
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I'm sorry to anyone who read that thinking I was continuing XD
I will be continuing soon, however, I just need a little bit of inspiration on how to tackle 2 plot chunks...once that's done, I'll be ready for me and Crow to begin this mighty endeavor. Well, as you can see, I'm relatively lucky that wasn't tonight though (who knows what that would have become?!)
I will be continuing soon, however, I just need a little bit of inspiration on how to tackle 2 plot chunks...once that's done, I'll be ready for me and Crow to begin this mighty endeavor. Well, as you can see, I'm relatively lucky that wasn't tonight though (who knows what that would have become?!)
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Outbreak: Contact
The smog drenched over the city like a choking mist, a thick black blanket over New York City. Brair wrenched his eyes from the pollution and looked at his team. Lee Baron and Agent Wilkes glanced back. These months had been so stressful; the massive immigration rush away from Eurasia had made being part of the American Continent Defense Force's top team a bit more difficult job than expected. The truck stopped near the target building. Briar leaped out, his new combat armor rattling as he hit the ground and joined his team. The targets would undoubtedly be rushing out by now, but they could catch a few of them off guard. Baron kicked down the side entrance, and rushed shotgun-first into the warehouse complex. 'Well, if there was a place meant to hide a cult, this'd be it', thought Briar, viewing the empty steel buildings on the fringe of the ever-growing New York Metropolis. This had been quickly erected outside of the city before the intervention in Britain, as people had been fleeing from the unknown island threat. The politics had seemed so important at the time, he was sure, but now it seemed mundane so late in the war, especially for this veteran of the Quarantine.
He snapped back into focus as the thirty aligned troops swarmed into the halls. And then they heard it; a gunshot as a trooper guarding the trucks had his head ripped off. Machine gun fire suddenly blasted from all sides as men in plainclothes suddenly attacked. Briar followed Baron as the other veteran began to ascend the stairs as they entered a large abandoned corporate building. He ducked behind a desk as he heard rifle fire tear through the plywood into where he had been standing. Pinned, he used his trusty Bullpup to do what he had always done: pop heads. When the last assailant lay sprawled on the floor, Brair ran for the stairs, hearing as his footsteps echoed off the concrete over the sound of muffled gunfire. At last he reached the top floor where he might survey the situation, and he carefully entered the open doorway. And then he heard gunfire, and muffled shouting. "Lee, you alright?" he said over the comm. The silence was deafening as no reply came back. He felt an instinctual fear and adreneline rush as he sprinted through the hallways. If the sod was just too lazy to reply, he swore he would murder him himself.
He stopped before the doorway where he now only heard heavy breathing and movement. Briar softly pushed his hand on the door, and it creaked as it opened. He saw Baron's Shotgun on the ground, and there, he saw Baron himself. A bloody industrial chain lay on his legs, and his own handcuffs were binding his hands together. He was struggling, squirming, as a man kneeled over him, and was running a machete along his exposed leg, slicing into the skin and the muscle. Baron was screaming, but hadn't the breath to make a sound. "Shoot...and you will die knowing you killed your own best friend. He was like your brother, wasn't he? I remember those moments in the other safehouses. You, him, and Wilkes, a family amid the jetsam. Oh Wilkes will hate you too, just as you'll hate yourself...alone." a voice whispered in mock sympathy. He could hear it repeated as it went over Baron's comm. Briar, sights to his eye, could think of only one option both he and Baron would want. To take this sonofa***** out before he could do anything. This psycho's just human, this'll be easy.
Briar felt the gun buck as bursts blasted out of his rifle. The world seemed to slow as he felt each bullet clip, each tiny burst. The bullets shreiked towards the figure, who turned his back. The bullets tore through his jacket. And then Briar heard a series of metallic 'ping's as the tiny peices of lead ricocheted off of the Horzine Battle Armor. The man scooped up Baron, making sure to slide the machete along his spine as he did so. Baron, gasping air, screamed, but stopped abruptly as he realized what was about to happen. He looked over and looked at his old comrade one last time. A silent goodbye. And then he felt himself being flung with great force, and the painful impact as the glass pressed againt his newfound cut, and as the tension broke the glass and sent shards into his back, he didn't utter a sound. Things seemed to still be almost slowed. Maybe it was the adreneline, who knew. He turned as he felt the cold air whip around him. As the icy wind slashed him as he gained inertia. As the primal instincts tore at him as he detected the pavement 5 stories below. He felt no regrets as the cold, uncaring concrete sped towards him.
The "Artist" turned back to Briar, wearing an expression of glee to match the old constable's horror. He could hear clicking of the magazine running out as he charged, landing a solid kick into the man's groin. As he reacted to the pain, he was set off balance. Pain. The weakness of the inferiors. His father had discovered the many weaknesses of these animals long ago. His grin expanded as he felt the rush of dominance meet the adreneline of controlling others, of making them feel. He landed a punch onto the man's face, sending glass shards into his glove and Briar's cheeks. Adreneline flowed into his cocktail of chemicals, of emotions, of feelings. He saw, from the glint of his eye, the shine of metal, as the Constable pulled out his knife. He reacted by tackling into the man, leading with his hand as he felt his fingers clasp the veteran's throat. His other hand grabbed the arm holding the knife, twisting it more and more as he felt sinews and ligaments begin twisting and pulling. He wrenched the knife from the contorted hand, leaving the broken arm dangling uselessly. He finished the job as he brought the knife back, and buried it into the sinews of his upper arm. He felt the blade scratch the bone as warm blood began spurting out. He wouldn't be using his right arm again anytime soon. He heard footsteps along the stairs and Wilke's voice shouting over the comm, and decided to leave. He wasn't here for detours; he had bigger game in his sights.
Briar gasped for air on the ground, desperate to fill his lungs as the pain of his arm surged through his nerves. The man had left, whispered something about "I'm after her" . Briar didn't try to understand. As he heard Wilkes running to him, the black outlines of his vision closed in and he felt the pain grow distant.
The smog drenched over the city like a choking mist, a thick black blanket over New York City. Brair wrenched his eyes from the pollution and looked at his team. Lee Baron and Agent Wilkes glanced back. These months had been so stressful; the massive immigration rush away from Eurasia had made being part of the American Continent Defense Force's top team a bit more difficult job than expected. The truck stopped near the target building. Briar leaped out, his new combat armor rattling as he hit the ground and joined his team. The targets would undoubtedly be rushing out by now, but they could catch a few of them off guard. Baron kicked down the side entrance, and rushed shotgun-first into the warehouse complex. 'Well, if there was a place meant to hide a cult, this'd be it', thought Briar, viewing the empty steel buildings on the fringe of the ever-growing New York Metropolis. This had been quickly erected outside of the city before the intervention in Britain, as people had been fleeing from the unknown island threat. The politics had seemed so important at the time, he was sure, but now it seemed mundane so late in the war, especially for this veteran of the Quarantine.
He snapped back into focus as the thirty aligned troops swarmed into the halls. And then they heard it; a gunshot as a trooper guarding the trucks had his head ripped off. Machine gun fire suddenly blasted from all sides as men in plainclothes suddenly attacked. Briar followed Baron as the other veteran began to ascend the stairs as they entered a large abandoned corporate building. He ducked behind a desk as he heard rifle fire tear through the plywood into where he had been standing. Pinned, he used his trusty Bullpup to do what he had always done: pop heads. When the last assailant lay sprawled on the floor, Brair ran for the stairs, hearing as his footsteps echoed off the concrete over the sound of muffled gunfire. At last he reached the top floor where he might survey the situation, and he carefully entered the open doorway. And then he heard gunfire, and muffled shouting. "Lee, you alright?" he said over the comm. The silence was deafening as no reply came back. He felt an instinctual fear and adreneline rush as he sprinted through the hallways. If the sod was just too lazy to reply, he swore he would murder him himself.
He stopped before the doorway where he now only heard heavy breathing and movement. Briar softly pushed his hand on the door, and it creaked as it opened. He saw Baron's Shotgun on the ground, and there, he saw Baron himself. A bloody industrial chain lay on his legs, and his own handcuffs were binding his hands together. He was struggling, squirming, as a man kneeled over him, and was running a machete along his exposed leg, slicing into the skin and the muscle. Baron was screaming, but hadn't the breath to make a sound. "Shoot...and you will die knowing you killed your own best friend. He was like your brother, wasn't he? I remember those moments in the other safehouses. You, him, and Wilkes, a family amid the jetsam. Oh Wilkes will hate you too, just as you'll hate yourself...alone." a voice whispered in mock sympathy. He could hear it repeated as it went over Baron's comm. Briar, sights to his eye, could think of only one option both he and Baron would want. To take this sonofa***** out before he could do anything. This psycho's just human, this'll be easy.
Briar felt the gun buck as bursts blasted out of his rifle. The world seemed to slow as he felt each bullet clip, each tiny burst. The bullets shreiked towards the figure, who turned his back. The bullets tore through his jacket. And then Briar heard a series of metallic 'ping's as the tiny peices of lead ricocheted off of the Horzine Battle Armor. The man scooped up Baron, making sure to slide the machete along his spine as he did so. Baron, gasping air, screamed, but stopped abruptly as he realized what was about to happen. He looked over and looked at his old comrade one last time. A silent goodbye. And then he felt himself being flung with great force, and the painful impact as the glass pressed againt his newfound cut, and as the tension broke the glass and sent shards into his back, he didn't utter a sound. Things seemed to still be almost slowed. Maybe it was the adreneline, who knew. He turned as he felt the cold air whip around him. As the icy wind slashed him as he gained inertia. As the primal instincts tore at him as he detected the pavement 5 stories below. He felt no regrets as the cold, uncaring concrete sped towards him.
The "Artist" turned back to Briar, wearing an expression of glee to match the old constable's horror. He could hear clicking of the magazine running out as he charged, landing a solid kick into the man's groin. As he reacted to the pain, he was set off balance. Pain. The weakness of the inferiors. His father had discovered the many weaknesses of these animals long ago. His grin expanded as he felt the rush of dominance meet the adreneline of controlling others, of making them feel. He landed a punch onto the man's face, sending glass shards into his glove and Briar's cheeks. Adreneline flowed into his cocktail of chemicals, of emotions, of feelings. He saw, from the glint of his eye, the shine of metal, as the Constable pulled out his knife. He reacted by tackling into the man, leading with his hand as he felt his fingers clasp the veteran's throat. His other hand grabbed the arm holding the knife, twisting it more and more as he felt sinews and ligaments begin twisting and pulling. He wrenched the knife from the contorted hand, leaving the broken arm dangling uselessly. He finished the job as he brought the knife back, and buried it into the sinews of his upper arm. He felt the blade scratch the bone as warm blood began spurting out. He wouldn't be using his right arm again anytime soon. He heard footsteps along the stairs and Wilke's voice shouting over the comm, and decided to leave. He wasn't here for detours; he had bigger game in his sights.
Briar gasped for air on the ground, desperate to fill his lungs as the pain of his arm surged through his nerves. The man had left, whispered something about "I'm after her" . Briar didn't try to understand. As he heard Wilkes running to him, the black outlines of his vision closed in and he felt the pain grow distant.
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