Super Century [Open]

User avatar
IronCurtain
Newbie
Posts: 15
Joined: Sun Apr 15, 2018 4:29 pm
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by IronCurtain » Sat May 05, 2018 9:44 pm

The first and foremost voice that the Red Tsar heard wouldn't be the one he would actually pay attention to. He was here for Odin, and Odin alone. But, to at least appease the woman who marshaled her arms and armor against him in such a way - he grabbed Sasha with both hands and pinned him in place.

"What is this? I just wanted to give you a show, maybe stir up some tax dollars, it is all in jest! All in preparation for giving thanks to Odin,"

He practically spat these words, he wanted nothing to do with a paramilitary lapdog like Capacitator. Still, he put on his dryest personality and smirked. Iron Curtain didn't even seem to struggle holding the solar vampire there, even as he absorbed more and more light, becoming increasingly powerful by the second.

"We will wait here, ma'am," he said quasi-respectfully of her rank. "I have important business to attend to with your greatest hero. You may watch,"

He turned away, watching the approach of the Many-Eyed Wonder as he descended from the sky. As Odin gave his own piece about the safety of Capitalist sheep, the Red Tsar just ignored anything to do with that and spread his chest out in a broad display of kinship, an arm outstretched in greeting.

"Hello! You must be Odin. I am Dmitri Kosokov, known to your tabloids as Iron Curtain among other things," he readjusted Sasha under his arm.

"First thing's first, I would like to personally thank you for shaking the foundation of the increasingly weak administration in my home country. Consider this an act of gratitude,"

Without warning, he threw Sasha to the ground and kneed his spine, lunging forward and popping his fingers through the skin of his throat before pulling up - hard.

Image

He tossed the now-useless cranium away unceremoniously, leaving the limp body to decay in the small dent in the concrete caused by the immeasurable pressure of the Red Tsar's power. He dusted his hands off, one of them bloodied by the display.

"Now, I would also like to extend a truce agreement, between you and me. Not America and Russia. Between us, we can make something of this world. Shake foundations. What do you say?"

He expected some form of resistance, but that was why he was here. If no policy could be agreed upon, then it would mean open war between Odin and Iron Curtain on behalf of siphoned funds. But Dmitri didn't want it to come to that, as such a fight would mean they had surrendered to the political systems they both hated.

It would be better if they were to join hands in personal brotherhood, and leave weaker allegiances behind.
Death is a preferable alternative to Capitalism.
Iron Curtain's CS

User avatar
Quirbles
Sandbox Councillor
Posts: 438
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 12:45 am
Location: my house
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Quirbles » Sat May 05, 2018 10:18 pm

Under arrest.

He'd die fighting for his escape, but not before destroying his research first.

Jimenéz took a step back in alarm as his adversary shot into the air, the tendrils upon his back shooting forward and striking where he'd once been. Hissing in anger, the doctor withdrew his spiked appendages back to where they once were and scanned the night sky to acquire his airborne target. Jiménez took another step back, his once-straightened stature degenerating into a primal stance with claws at the ready. A second later, the shield cut through his tentacles.

The doctor roared out in anger, the damaged appendages immediately drawing into his back out of reflex. The searing pain stunned him long enough to allow the airborne man to close the distance, slamming his foot into the side of Jiménez's skull. The mutated human stumbled back and let out a croak, blood spraying gratuitously into the air as he fell to the ground and rolled to the edge of the street. After a moment of dormancy, the doctor's body stirred snd brought itself to its feet. The amputated pieces of tendrils shriveled up and sizzled against the pavement, wasting away into a reddened ash.

"You'll have to drag me to DC in a body bag." Jiménez hissed out, the man's attack having left a visible tear in the side of his head. The cut began to slowly heal itself like thread-work, small lines of whatever substance the doctor was made out of weaving in a complex form to restore whatever was lost by the damage inflicted. The Scarlet Demon wavered in his stance, obviously a bit disoriented from the attack but still standing nonetheless.

Jiménez launched himself towards his flying opponent, tendrils jutting out from his back and slamming into the concrete to propel him forward. A second set of two shot out from his wrists, aimed at the man's ankles in an attempt to pull them out from under him and bring him to the ground. The doctor aimed low, his sharpened talons aimed for the man's chest in an attempt to impale it with crimson claws.

User avatar
illirica
Sandbox Mod
Posts: 971
Joined: Sat Mar 24, 2018 4:02 pm
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by illirica » Mon May 07, 2018 1:59 pm

One of the things about those who considered themselves heroes was that they never could resist getting involved, even when their presence was neither warranted nor wanted. The situation with the Red Tsar and the unknown would have been far easier to contain the less others decided they needed a part of the action, but of course that wasn't going to happen. Sometimes Capacitor thought that the most necessary part of her job was telling other heroes to fuck off. With all due diplomacy and courtesy, of course.

She was trying to figure out how to phrase the diplomatic fuck off to the Red Tsar when the silence and relative stalemate was interrupted.

Odin. Of course. Of all of the 'heroes' who could possibly have showed up at that moment, he was probably the one she least wanted to see - the most likely to make an already challenging situation all the more volatile. Likely, Thundermachine would be showing up soon to make things even worse, because it was just that sort of day.

Of course Odin opened fire. 'Restraint' was not in his vocabulary, she didn't think. Nor was 'diffuse the situation without provoking further conflict.' At least he'd fired on the ground rather than at someone, but it still didn't help the situation. "Updated orders?" she murmured quietly into her headset, wondering whether his presence changed what she was meant to be doing there. Likely the Powers That Be were scrambling to try to figure out how to adapt their tactics to avoid turning this thing into an all-out war.

"Maintain," came the response, also not particularly helpful. "Refrain from engagement if possible. Defend as necessary."

"Understood, sir." At least the civilians had been quietly corralled out of the area, although they were still hanging on the outskirts, hoping for their fill of drama. Capacitor wished they were back a little farther - Odin's eyes had fairly good range. She didn't think he was above 'accidentally' killing a civilian or two while firing on an 'oppressive force.' How tragic, and of course he couldn't be blamed, but this was why heroes needed to take a more active role, to go after people like the Red Tsar so that this sort of thing couldn't happen on our own soil. Or something like that. Capacitor didn't pretend to understand his mindset, but she did try to consider it as best she could, for when it ended up mattering. A day probably closer than she would have liked.

As it turned out, the Red Tsar was far more pleased to see Odin there than Capacitor was.
"I have important business to attend to with your greatest hero. You may watch."
Condescending bastard. Teja was used to that, and she didn't let it rile her. She was much more concerned with the concept of Odin being listed as 'their greatest hero.' That was an angle that was no doubt causing quite a lot of worry among whatever analysts were listening in through her audiovisual devices. She saw him move, with that speed that a man so large shouldn't have had, and she'd tensed - but he'd already done what he'd wanted, slammed the other meta he'd been holding to the ground, and ripped off his head, tearing it away like a marshmallow peep and tossing it aside. The voices in her earpiece had quite a lot to say about that, all at once, and Capacitor ran a little bit of current up through it to mute them quickly. She didn't need distraction, not right now. Command had a mute-override if they needed to give her direct orders, but generally they trusted her judgment.

She glanced at the scene, the Red Tsar moving towards Odin, tempting or taunting or both. Nodded slightly to herself, then moved - not towards them precisely, but over to where the head of the other meta rested, picking it up less than ceremoniously by what hair it had and carrying it back over. Much closer to the Red Tsar than she would have liked, certainly, but she wasn't going to get anywhere by staying in the background. She knelt, still keeping watch on him and Odin, and replaced the grisly remains in alignment with each other again.

The thing about metas was you never quite knew what would actually kill them. A flex of electricity and the tiny armor plates pulled back from her left fingers and hand, wrapping themselves around her forearm like a gauntlet as she reached forward, pale fingers taking the dead man's wrist, holding on the radial artery for a moment. Nothing, which was no surprise.

The Red Tsar was still fairly close. She kept her voice perfectly calm, the bastion of rationality in all this nonsense. "Stay clear, please, Mr. Kosokov." Just a single sentence, calmly delivered, non-provocative. Certainly not a reminder that she wasn't just a girl out of her league and was perfectly capable of handling herself on the battlefield or anything like that. Of course not. She placed her hands on the dead man's chest, one on either side of the heart - upper right and lower left, and released the countershock. The body spasmed, as they always did, and she drew back, giving it a little space. Whether that would work or not... well, she didn't think it was likely, but it was worth a try. All told, though, Capacitor was fairly certain it was going to be forensics trying to figure out who the man was and not interrogation.

She stood up, taking a step back and glancing between Odin and the Red Tsar. "Odin. The US Government is certainly not going to tell you what to do." Because you wouldn't listen anyway. "But I hope that you think carefully about how your answer to the proposal will affect those around you." Because we're definitely watching. The government had a feeling that Odin was going to be a problem some day... Teja wasn't sure if he wanted it to be today or not. Whether he wanted to start forging his own questionable alliances, become a target rather than merely a tolerated presence.

Whether the Red Tsar was really the ally he wanted for himself. That, she thought, might be their saving grace. For all he was, Odin still thought he was a hero, and allying himself publicly with a man who'd just decapitated someone was... less heroic than he might have desired. She hoped it would be enough to hold him back. Enough to keep the coming storm quiet, for just a little while longer.

Enough to give them time to prepare.

User avatar
Chevron
Newbie
Posts: 46
Joined: Sun Apr 15, 2018 10:17 pm
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Chevron » Mon May 14, 2018 3:11 am

The blur of red, white, and blue that was his shield cut through the air severing the four crimson tendrils that had erupted from the doctors back. A moment later a dive bobbing Virtue found his foot landing a swift kick to the side of the meta's head before using the momentum to return to a fighting stance. The doctor's tendrils seemed to writhe in pain before breaking down into nothing more than red ash, samples he would make sure the field team picked up once he was done here. His kick broke skin too but, any damage it caused was woven back together by his flesh. So the doctor wasn't the most durable but, his body can repair itself. He spoke quietly into his comms making sure he would have a hard time hearing him.

"You seeing this, looks like he's got regenerative abilities. Run a search and find me all possible weaknesses of regenerative abilities."
"You'll have to drag me to DC in a body bag."
"The only thing I'll be dragging you back to DC in is a..."

The doctor didn't give him time to talk before lunging out like a wolf pouncing on a bird but, this bird was well aware of the danger. His wings fired out from his back and his thrusts kicked in for a quick burst of speed hoping to send him shooting into the air. As soon as his feet left the ground he felt a squeezing pressure on his ankles and with a hard yank he felt his back slam into the concrete.

Now not only was he missing his quickest mode of evasion he was underneath a beast that had every intention of making sure he never got to host another company barbecue. Sharpened crimson claws now falling through the air he let loose a high pitched whistle and his shield came flying onto his arm. CLANG Metal like claws met with his shield as the air was forced from his lungs and he found himself in a get away or die situation. He shield may have been good at absorbing impacts but, it wasn't cut proof. His free hand shot towards his glider pack and a single Mogul FMG-9 popped into his palm. With the squeeze of a trigger aimed at the docs arms he hoped to distract him enough to fire off his boosters for only a moment. Just long enough to escape the Doctors lethal grasp.

User avatar
Thundermachine
Newbie
Posts: 31
Joined: Sun Apr 15, 2018 5:10 am
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Thundermachine » Mon May 14, 2018 10:12 pm

"Two minutes to drop-off. Check oxygen supply."

Silence in the bay. The overplane was a transport model, faster than anything commercial and rivaling the military in its effectiveness. An X-Tech harness clung to the back of the Thundermachine armor, suspended in the middle of the bay. Its pilot simply stared quietly through the lenses at the floor below.

"Check oxygen supply. Carter? You deaf? Check ox-"

"Checked."

"Thirty seconds to drop-off. The situation has stabilized on the ground. The - we have reports of -"

"I'll see for myself. Radio off."

Stillness fell over the group at Ground Control as their pilot went deaf. Ten seconds later, he fell out of the plane towards the ground below.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Image

At the supra-atmospheric altitude the craft was at, the blue sky gave way to stars. The ship rode the outer edge of Earth's gaseous blanket, as high as it could possibly go without being considered a space shuttle. The back panel opened up and the Thundermachine fell out, boot-thrusters flashing blue as he tumbled into nothingness.

The feeling of falling from near-orbit was unparalleled, but Carter had simulated it so many times that it now felt like he was just walking down the steps. He'd fondly looked back at those early flights, back when anything could go wrong. Funny how improvement could just lead to boredom. But down there there was a job to do, and he was the only one who could do it.

The suit flipped over multiple times before locking on to DC, its pilot breathlessly anticipating the 3-2-1 surge that came with matching the computer's flight path. Rocketing down through a cloud, he approached the District like a silent comet, decelerating as his HUD locked onto the group at the foot of the Washington Monument. Evacuations had been prompt; the fighting had hit a lull.

Engage from range if you need to at all.

Alighting on the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center to the Northeast of the memorial, he subtly trained his suit's targeting systems on all three of the supers standing at the monument. He'd be nothing but a pinprick in the distance to them, but with his telescoping lenses, he could see them all in great detail. There was Capacitor (she looked good), Odin (one of his eyes had undoubtedly spotted him), and the menacing foreigner referred to only as the Red Tsar. His directed mics would also pic up any remains of their conversation.

Standing calmly on the roof of the large marble building, he lifted a massive robotic foot onto the edge, resting his lower arm on his knee. Waiting.

I can only talk to one immediately after this is done. But who to prioritize?
Last edited by Thundermachine on Mon May 14, 2018 11:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.

User avatar
Orph
Sandbox Councillor
Posts: 450
Joined: Fri Mar 30, 2018 9:53 pm
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Orph » Mon May 14, 2018 11:18 pm

Odin wasn't fond of watching. He generally found the news unbearable, because every other story was of some crisis he would then feel morally obligated to help solve. Not that he resented having the ability to help fix the world's problems- he'd hate the helplessness of not being able to help at all more. But he did try to allot a few hours a day for his own sanity, where he would forget for a moment about the bad things that inevitably happened while he slept. Perhaps it's ironic, considering the eye motif, he mused. But he watched nonetheless. David watched as the Red Tsar beheaded a man in front of him, and extended an offer of peace. He watched, as an agent of the government, content to enforce a corrupt, almost comically broken status quo, warned him implicitly not to take the offer. He watched, though he gave no physical indication that he'd seen, as Thundermachine arrived not far from the scene, ready to take action if the altercation's outcome wasn't to his liking.

Odin considered the situation. He didn't know this armored Russian, and he wasn't generally fond of the country itself. It was even more corrupt than the US, with a combination of oligarchy and kleptocracy that led to oppression and censorship even beyond the Patriot Act. But the man's branding, and his general demeanor, didn't invoke that Russia. Even his words suggested it.
IronCurtain wrote:
Sat May 05, 2018 9:44 pm
"Now, I would also like to extend a truce agreement, between you and me. Not America and Russia. Between us, we can make something of this world. Shake foundations. What do you say?"
He wasn't extending an alliance on behalf of the Russian President- he was extending a more personal offer. An alliance between two men who David suspected were both fed up with the status quo in their own countries. He wasn't afraid of defying the government- he could likely take on the entirety of the glorified, multi-billion-dollar PR stunt that was the Freedom Brigade alone. But he did have a doubt about one thing. Before asking his question, he descended to ground level, though not quite touching the still-slightly-on-fire grass.

"I'm interested in your offer, mister... Kosokov, was it? Very interested. But as my interventions in humanitarian crises around the world might suggest, I have something of an ethical code. Not against killing when necessary, that would be hopelessly naive of me. But I have to ask... that man. Did he deserve death? Or were you just trying to..." David gestured vaguely with his hands. "Prove a point. If you can honestly tell me that he did... then I think we have a deal."
A myth where ultimate evil turns its gaze on humanity and humanity gazes right back and says "Gotcha."

User avatar
Quirbles
Sandbox Councillor
Posts: 438
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 12:45 am
Location: my house
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Quirbles » Tue May 15, 2018 2:39 pm

Jiménez felt his talons digging into the frame of the shield, clawing through the metal and getting ever closer to the man behind it; white eyes looked into his adversary's own, staring with an uncontrolled sense of survival and animal instinct. The doctor let out a loud, inhuman yell as he pressed harder still upon the shield, warping it ever so slightly under the force of his claws as a sadistic grin made its way across his toothed maw.

"You were saying? Drag me back in a... what?" Jiménez taunted the flying soldier, the sound of his talons scraping upon the shield producing an ear-splitting whine. The smirk faded from his face, however, once a subtle click of a weapon came from the man's free hand that the doctor had so carelessly neglected. Eyes snapped from his opponent's face to the sight of a gun, just in time for him to see the flash of a muzzle and the deafening crescendo of gunfire.

Waves of pain washed over Jiménez's arm as gunfire tore into the red flesh of his body, causing the doctor to let out an inhuman screech and throw himself off of the man's body. Bullets passed through flesh and bone, traveling through the softer parts of his arm completely and embedding themselves in other parts of the body; a few of which struck the doctor's head, striking his skull and the jugular. For a second time since the start of the skirmish, Jiménez's body wavered and stumbled backwards before hitting the ground with a thud and laying lifeless on the blacktop. A bright crimson blood seeped from the wounds he'd sustained, leaking out onto the pavement before sizzling and fading to ash in the same fashion as his amputated tendrils.

Confusion. Pain. Worst of all, guilt. Dread.

Vision returned to the doctor's eyes. Where was he? Thoughts of his wife returned to a damaged mind as Jiménez brought himself to his feet, crimson thread-work knitting itself over his wounds as the bullets were forcefully pushed from his skull and arms. His left sleeve was completely tattered, shredded by the FMG-9's volley of bullets; the upper torso of his sweatshirt was stained a dark red from his throat wound. The doctor gritted his teeth and grabbed his wound, looking around to find the flying soldier who was sent here to contain him.

Mi amor, Grace. He had to get back to his wife; with his research, he would finally be able to revert himself from this horrific form. Live a life he was meant to; escape from the United States with the money they had.

But you can't, can you, Héctor. The people he'd killed had families as well. Why was he so complacent in their deaths? God, he was becoming a monster— one that killed indiscriminately, one that—

No.

Everything he had done was for his own survival; it was the guards that had fired upon him, it was the agents that had threatened his wife's life. Just like the government was trying to bring him to his death.

"I fight for my own survival, águila." Jiménez called out, the blurring of thought that came with the headshot slowly clearing up.

"If you bring me to your government perros, I will be tortured. Experimented on— dissected! And I cannot allow that to happen."

Eyes searched around the night sky for any sign of the soldier. He was losing the energy, and the will, to fight. If he could not win this shortly, then he'd need to run.

User avatar
Drake
Newbie
Posts: 70
Joined: Mon May 14, 2018 11:37 pm
Gender: Eldritch Abomination
Location: Hopefully a grave
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Drake » Wed May 16, 2018 5:02 am

New York City, Queens - Abandoned Schoolyard

The one person who came up with the line 'this city never sleeps' certainly hit the first bullseye at defining New York in its entirety. Simply a place where the glistening luminescence of headlights a constant throughout the many numbered venues. It could be argued how he never got used to it, raised at Newport until his early twenties when he ultimately decided to leave it all behind for a better cause: making the world a better place. A country bumpkin such as Drake couldn't halt the skipping beats of an anxious heart, even after so many speeches granted his uneasiness never seemed to diminish, trembling legs and a glimpse of pure astonishment on his wide-open eyes as he gazed those towering edifices belonging to the concrete jungle. Those earlier days were simpler, his objectives were handed to him from beyond, his sight limited by blinders of a prettier world.

Back then he still ran from the rain.
New York, never thought I'd be back here so soon. City looks bad as usual, clogging with lowlifes, even worse ever since powered people started realizing they can use their bullshit to get whatever the fuck they want. Doc said I shouldn't have taken the plane, shouldn't have returned to America so soon, hospital wasn't done with my treatment. He was a good doc, gave me medicine, understood no matter how much he tried to hold me there, I'd be here today. Smart man, world needs more like him. Less like them.

Vultures, that's what they call themselves. A bunch of fucking scum ganging up together, led by god-knows-who, praying on others. Sex, drugs and rock & roll, I've seen the movie before. Hell, I'd be a shitty old-timer if I hadn't. Got here after a lucky shot, interrogated this one member called Hammerfist. Fists don't work on bullets, someone should've told him that. They break easy once you know where to hit, once you remove every sort of pattern from their minds, teach them there's nothing but waiting for death. Tells on his mates without a second thought, thinks it will redeem his past.

Who knows? Maybe God will.
It poured from above like so many other times, seeping placidly through the numerous leaks of the seasoned construction, exerting its immutable rhythm upon meeting the ground below, muffled pitter-patters reverberating underneath the graffiti-sprayed building. Abandoned school, a decent place for illegal negotiations, dealings of varied sorts, slaves, weapons, drugs, it was unsuspecting enough, out of the police's scope and vigilantes' hacking capabilities. No cameras around, at least so it seemed. A few figures remain motionless underneath the trickling rain, soaked but apparently entirely ignorant to the weather. Willingly ignorant, that is. A vehicle approaches the location, light-colored unlike those often darker hues most seem to think criminals prefer.

Doors creak open, revealing the suited men inside, red ties complementing their professional-looking attire. Emotionless visages, immune to any outside interference, only there to show their own guns as a third figure sluggishly rose from the car. Golden locks, now somewhat colorless, curling milimeters away from the shoulder-blades, white coat garnished by the velvety fur of whichever animal had the bad luck of crossing the hunter's path, an equally alabaster pair of pants, complemented by a flashy jewel-encrusted ivory cane. A wooden thud as it reaches the ground, an elderly figure quickly covered by the obsidian umbrella a third security guard promptly offered. They walked towards the trunk, and those previously nonchalant figures flocked together, eyes readying to witness their long-awaited reward.
Five thugs, three trained guards, one shitty mogul. Out of these, eight are probably armed, the three guards being my major issue. Good to see how well the country is faring, I don't know why I expected any major changes in a few years of retirement. They killed me off, put a big statue on wherever the fuck they wanted, said some inspiring words someone half-assed thinking they knew me, thinking they knew how it was out there, and here we are.

Criminals getting armed, people getting fearful and the hero scene looks like one huge reality show.

I'll change that. They'll help me change that.

Trunk open means early Christmas.
"Shit, Georgie, check out dis piece, man!" One of the kids exclaimmed joyfully, displaying his M4A1 assault rifle as he leisurely stepped away from the group. "Next time out I'll pack some heat on 'em hoes, huh?" It was a swift change in mentality, a brief period of abruptly realizing that, with such superior firearms, his gang could wipe out their enemies effortlessly. His mind was flooded with imagery of great triumphs, as he erradicated their rivals with a bright smile on his face, rolling in money and women, having a better outlook in life than his upbringing could ever grant him. It was a daring thought, yet getting this equipment was a first step for greatness.

Unfortunately for him, fate was a treacherous mistress who often schemed very distinctly from what we have in mind for our futures.

He couldn't ever see it coming, those creeping shadows protruding their reach towards him as two gloved hand promptly pulled him away. Invincibility was merely a concept crafted by our minds, one that could be exploited and capitalized on, one that led even the most brilliant shady smugglers superciliously overlook rookie mistakes. For instance, selling loaded weaponry to those trustworthy clients of yours. It can only end in catastrophe. The kid tries to react, limbs intermittently flailing, muffled yells covered by the long sleeves of whoever is behind all of this. It's odd, though, no matter how hard he attempted to get free, the only movement that properly worked on his body was his finger disabling gun safety from the rifle.

Security guards took a while to realize where he had gone to, absorbed on the task of safeguarding their hirer, and as they did eventually access the situation, bullets had already lodged profoundly inside their bodies. First the arms, rendering them useless as the assault rifle sprayed projectiles, the captured fool's finger overwhelmed by his captor's own finger, pressed against the trigger as metal punctured bone, tainting the floor with carmine that the rain couldn't possibly wash away. It was a bloodbath, the thunderous roar of a single weapon single-handedly muting the sobs and screams as chunks of flesh were ripped off of those bastards, an overkill, but effective no less.

The mogul endeavored to sneakily crawl back to the car, mumbling whatever under his breath, probably one last prayer or an ancient curse that would ultimately ravage his assailant's next fifteen generations, it was all for naught, however. The once loud firing ceased, the inflexible grip softened as the kid's face was but a mix of fluids now, his legs failed to harness any strength to keep him upright, bending into a pathetic kneeling stance as tears rolled down his rounded cheeks, opening path amidst the turmoil of red painting him partially. There was nothing left of his previous comrades, those who laughed alongside him, and suffered from the same problems as he did back in the day. Those who always had his back regardless of the situation, now lifeless over a puddle of their own internal juices.

He had witnessed it all, every single of them dropping dead now a memory scorched inside those eyes of his.

It wasn't over, that nightmare that torn apart his innards and made him puke obnoxiously at the pavement. The man moved away from him, encompassed by the obscurity of the night, garbing only dark cloth as it was pretty much impracticable to note any particular feature. He lifted their supplier off the ground as if was nothing, hurling him far away with tremendous ease. Boots plop over the soggy schoolyard, a devilish smile surging from his lips as his knee bents above his waist line, rocketing down, thus causing a vicious cracking sound to be heard, an evanescent screech as the last pleas of the old man went unanswered.

It was his turn now, yet his whole body moved as if to aid his survival, unable to rise or even stumble away, one clenched fist mustered enough courage to rapidly reach for the pistol hiding in his pocket. He found it, the flawless plan, the last resort that rekindled the little hope he had, clinging to life until the last minute. A swift motion and it was pointed straight at the mysterious murderer's head, that grin simply not vanishing. The trigger didn't budge an inch. His finger, it wouldn't answer to him, it wouldn't press the goddamn trigger. "Nice try, kid." His hope morphed into desperation, filling him to the brim as his eyes were fixed on the only memorable characteristic he could spot. Something hidden until now. A white skull, ostensibly smudged onto his black clothes.
Image
For some reason it called for him, almost as death called for each of its targets. The reaper came to collect his soul, that was what went through his mind as his focus was entirely on that vile symbol. Words were uttered inside his mind, senseless and disconnected, incomplete phrases and strident yells, the growls of a vivid battlefield. He averted his gaze, his surroundings completely transformed as the man before him crouched, one hand cautiously placed over his temple. It wasn't New York anymore, he stood amidst a bizarre rainforest, leafless trees all around as the gruesome scent of putrid flesh reached his nose.

It wasn't any forest.

As his eyes roamed around, all he could see were flames consuming living bodies, masked men wielding their ancient hatchets barbarically violating the living, chopping them into nothingness. Carnage. A veracious slaughterhouse.

A hand touches his own,forcing it to point against his forehead. He could see clearly, those unkempt threads of obsidian hair from which beads poured from, those mahogany eyes devoid of anything but wrath and regret, bandages hiding part of his face. That was the bloodthirsty bastard who had his way with them. The man who he had to pledge his life to. "D-don't kill me. I will be bet-" Bang. A dry thud as the final thug rests dead on the gelid asphalt. "Save it for who wants to hear it." Drake shrugged, slipping into his hood, hand over the soaked bandages covering his eye. "Fuck..." He whispered, slowly walking towards the open trunk.
Military-grade equipment. This will have to do for now. All this trouble for a few days worth of gear, I'll be hitting many more Hammerfists this week.

Just gotta make sure they aren't on my trail, even if the current occurrences of enemy gangs attacking each other feels off, I can't leave one. Gotta play their game, mess with their perception of things. Lazy fuckers will be putting in the journal soon enough: "Victims of circumstance or conservative ideals?", a load of bullshit to sugarcoat the fact an armed kid took down his own men and then offed himself.

Media nowadays, these fuckers will get off of anything. Guess I'll have them to thank.

Even if there is something leading them to a dead man, ghost stories surely are out of fashion.

User avatar
Chevron
Newbie
Posts: 46
Joined: Sun Apr 15, 2018 10:17 pm
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Chevron » Wed May 16, 2018 5:55 am

A loud screech split his eardrums as the metal surface of his shield was repeatedly clawed at by the almost feral doctor's mutated claws. He felt the impacts more and more with each consecutive hit leaving visible marks in the metal. Luckily the Doctor had ignored Virtues hand long enough for him to let loose a volley of shots that sprayed crimson across the white star on Virtues chest. His thrusts kicked in forcing him backwards, his wings flicked out, and a sharp whistle carried him high into the sky once more. This time he kept moving circling above his target at a speed that made him harder to track than normal.

The doctors body lay on the ground with blood pooling from his wounds. The farther the blood moved from his body the faster it dissolved into the same ash like substance as his tentacles. Was it possible that his powers came from his blood, maybe he could manipulate the iron content, or maybe there was something else. Either way it wasn't safe to assume he was dead given the healing capabilities he had shown only moments before.

Virtue perched himself atop a building with a clear line of sight to the doctors body, a predatory technique he had learned during his time in the jungles of South America. "Virtue to base, whats the ETA on the info? Over." His optics stayed trained on the doctor and his wings folded in front of him slightly to help hide his position. "Base to Virtue, could be anything but the three most common seem to be time, capacity, and extent. Over." "Roger that. Over." Virtue let out an exasperated breath, he was hoping for some kind of end all. Instead he got vague answers that would result in his own personal field testing and with such vague answers who knew how long it would take to find out.

The Doctor wasn't looking to give him any extra time to think either as his body rose up from the ground. Virtues EEO system zoomed in on the doctors wounds as they stitched themselves back together like some sort of weird symbiotic flesh.
"I fight for my own survival, águila." Jiménez called out, the blurring of thought that came with the headshot slowly clearing up.

"If you bring me to your government perros, I will be tortured. Experimented on— dissected! And I cannot allow that to happen."
Virtue took flight once again this time grabbing his second FMG-9 and maintaining a low whistle that accelerated him towards the monstrosity. "Dissection should be the least of your worries right now Doctor." He swooped low and let loose a barrage of bullets aimed at the arms and knees before looking to land around ten feet behind the man.

User avatar
Quirbles
Sandbox Councillor
Posts: 438
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 12:45 am
Location: my house
Contact:

Re: Super Century [Open]

Post by Quirbles » Wed May 16, 2018 6:32 pm

Empty conversations, empty words— Jiménez spoke only to buy time, to heal the wounds inflicted upon his damaged body. The regenerative effect of his affliction was effective, far more effective than that of a normal human's which made it a valuable asset for attrition. Still, even his genetically corrupted body had its limitations; even as Jiménez looked around the night sky in search of the águila, the wound from the soldier's boot had just entered its last stages of healing. The bullet holes were a separate matter entirely, burning with a fiery intensity that threatened to incapacitate him through pain alone. While his body was adept at closing the wounds, the doctor still felt every moment of agony that would typically accompany being shot, kicked, or sliced. It was hell, every moment of it— but it was a price he had to pay.

A low whistle pierced the night air and Jiménez snapped his head towards it, letting out a low hiss as he prepared himself for the ensuing attack. His flesh was still soft, but he had the advantage of controlling its consistency with devoted concentration; much like how he was able to harden the chitinous points of his tendrils for piercing, he condensed biomass around his forearms and legs underneath his clothing and held both arms up to his head in an effort to protect himself from the volley of gunfire shot his way. It did little to make him bulletproof— the shock of pain that followed a gunshot wound was still very much prevalent— but it was effective in halting the inertia of the projectiles, embedding them shallow in the skin to the point that the crushed bullet cartridges were nearly flush with the surface of his limbs. Jiménez took a step forward but stumbled and hit the pavement, an indescribable sensation of pain surging from his leg. He looked down, finding the glint of brass shining under the night sky at multiple locations along his knee and calf.

Grunting in horror and pain, Jiménez grabbed onto his wounded limb and tried to force himself to his feet only to feel another shockwave of pain that sent him back down to the earth. Tendrils erupted from his back and slammed into the pavement, piercing the asphalt and pulling him away from the soldier who had landed a way off from his body. He had been shot far too many times for his body to reliably keep up with; as he crawled along the street towards the warehouses, bullet wounds from the first FMG-9 burst had only begun to push the foreign casings from his body. The crushed metal pieces made small clattering sounds upon the ground as they fell, nearly inaudible to most but a clear reminder to Jiménez that he was not dead. Yet. His arm and chest would heal in time, and then came his leg. He just had to buy crucial seconds of time, enough so that he could make sure that this eagle would never fly the skies again.

"This is your plan? To obey your superiors like an obedient little lap-dog? I was you, once. Until those I trusted cast me out once they found no further use for me."

Cautious movements by Jiménez were attempted in order to show that he had no intentions of fighting— for the time being, at least. He kept on inching backwards with the help of his tendrils, the repeated stabbing of the concrete forming into a rhythm as he dragged himself towards the fence he'd leapt over.

"Family— is all I have left, and not even they are safe. You're blind to your mission, there's more to this than you might think—"

Bargaining was not a foreseeable resolution to this conflict, but anything to make the man speak. To resist the ability to damage him further. Jiménez bumped the curb, now, and lifted himself onto the sidewalk.

"I'm a monster, a demon to those who see me. All I want is to fix what I've started, damn you! I— I don't know what's happened to me, and if whoever you work for acquires the means to replicate my research..."

Reasoning turned to pleading as the doctor's voice taking on a shaky and distressed tone. If the United States government— or any other entity, for that matter— was able to clasp their leeching hands around his research, there would be no stop to the horrors of his cure. They would try to synthesize it, experiment with it— all the while dissecting and experimenting upon him. It was a fate worse than death, and he was not allowing it to happen.

Post Reply

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest