(Schizo robot)
Gothic City [CVnU: Living Location]
@emperor_von_doom said:
(Schizo robot)
"We were strong once,"
That's what Cull's audio logs would often state. In his looping senses of defeat and victory, he could not discern practically any joy from the feelings. His emotional drive could have been damaged long ago, but he didn't have the technical knowledge to check. The last Mekaniac in his unit died trying to save Dogbreath, an ugly Auto if there ever was one. But Dogbreath had been shot in the leg, and covered for the Last Colossi as they retreated out of the ill-fated Battle of Newark. Neither of them made it out.
"Patches, that was his name,"
Cull popped the pressure valve on one of his bullets, the shell the size of a human fist sparking madly as the fuel counting down to the live round gave off a magnificent show of momentum. He held it tight, anticipating the fuse going out. Then, as if hurling an artillery shell, Cull lobbed it with monumental strength into the hollowed building across the street. Synths had been held up in there for days now, giving him ample reason to show excessive force. Several walls collapsed as the .998-caliber bullet - basically a Howitzer round at this point - drilled into the concrete and steel and exploded. It turned the stone into a cloud of shrapnel, catching many in the crossfire. That's when Cull would advance, into the heart of the synth knot.
"Keep shooting him, he's staggering under concentrated fire, come on!"
Fully automatic weapons, imported. They were one of the many burgeoning gangs in the streets, the Fifth Street Club. Already in the midst of a gun smuggling operation, they had plenty of firepower to spare. But this thing wasn't going down. It had ambushed them earlier that afternoon, killing two of their number as well as a bodyguard for another gang they were selling to. Their buyer ran off during the fighting, so everything was fair game to use now.
Just trying to make a living.
"This is for the LC, you synth bastards,"
Cull smashed into the floor level of the building with nothing but his shoulders, crushing a gunner underfoot. Heavy ordnance was being brought up, grenade launchers, large-caliber machine guns, everything that was basic 80's-era military regulation now commonplace on the Black Market. Cull ducked behind a ramshackle car, but it didn't last long as cover. All he had to do was reload.
Three slugs plunged through the ground, bursting into dust-storms of broken glass and razor-wire. Not to mention bone fragments and a fine red mist. Screaming. Someone had lost a leg.
"If only Patches were here right now," Cull lamented, continuing the methodical slaughter. Though bullets ricocheted off his reinforced steel plating, the softer metal tissues languished under the strain. Lubricant and coolant fluid leaked across his framework. He had to finish this soon.
"Gothic belongs to the human race, you godless Massies!"
A few more bullets, a few more dead, and he continued upstairs to finish them off.
@emperor_von_doom said:
"We were strong once,"
That's what Cull's audio logs would often state. In his looping senses of defeat and victory, he could discern practically any joy from the feelings. His emotional drive could have been damaged long ago, but he didn't have the technical knowledge to check. The last Mekaniac in his unit died trying to save Dogbreath, an ugly Auto if there ever was one. But Dogbreath had been shot in the leg, and covered for the Last Colossi as they retreated out of the ill-fated Battle of Newark. Neither of them made it out.
"Patches, that was his name,"
Cull popped the pressure valve on one of his bullets, the shell the size of a human fist sparking madly as the fuel counting down to the live round gave off a magnificent show of momentum. He held it tight, anticipating the fuse going out. Then, as if hurling an artillery shell, Cull lobbed it with monumental strength into the hollowed building across the street. Synths had been held up in there for days now, giving him ample reason to show excessive force. Several walls collapsed as the .998-caliber bullet - basically a Howitzer round at this point - drilled into the concrete and steel and exploded. It turned the stone into a cloud of shrapnel, catching many in the crossfire. That's when Cull would advance, into the heart of the synth knot.
"Keep shooting him, he's staggering under concentrated fire, come on!"
Fully automatic weapons, imported. They were one of the many burgeoning gangs in the streets, the Fifth Street Club. Already in the midst of a gun smuggling operation, they had plenty of firepower to spare. But this thing wasn't going down. It had ambushed them earlier than afternoon, killing two of their number as well as a bodyguard for another gang they were selling to. Their buyer ran off during the fighting, so everything was fair game to use now.
Just trying to make a living.
"This is for the LC, you synth bastards,"
Cull smashed into the floor level of the building with nothing but his shoulders, crushing a gunner underfoot. Heavy ordnance was being brought up, grenade launchers, large-caliber machine guns, everything that was basic 80's-era military regulation now commonplace on the Black Market. Cull ducked behind a ramshackle car, but it didn't last long as cover. All he had to do was reload.
Three slugs plunged through the ground, bursting into dust-storms of broken glass and razor-wire. Not to mention bone fragments and a fine red mist. Screaming. Someone had lost a leg.
"If only Patches were here right now," Cull lamented, continuing the methodical slaughter. Though bullets ricocheted off his reinforced steel plating, the softer metal tissues languished under the strain. Lubricant and coolant fluid leaked across his framework. He had to finish this soon.
"Gothic belongs to the human race, you godless Massies!"
A few more bullets, a few more dead, and he continued upstairs to finish them off.
It's been decades since the Metal Wars. Auto against Auto, full legions of them clashing against one another. It had been a route of constant escalation. At first, humans were content with making augmented suits and genetically enhancing themselves to fight their ever-growing conflict. But then, they reached a point where weapons proved too powerful. Bombs erased cities, left nations in ruin. That is when the Automaton Legions began to be produced.
Cull can only see the scars left behind by those battles in the streets of Gothic. Disheveled corpses of his battle-brothers, of regiments he knew only the names of. Those Autos of the Enemy disgraced this soil. They deserved no mercy, not even in death. Though, they were only soldiers, following programmed orders. Perhaps they just didn't realize until it was too late - that the Metal Wars were ultimately pointless.
Humanity was teetering on extinction, with synthetic organisms around every corner. More were appearing by the day, and Cull was just a single Auto. He had to find reinforcements somehow.
He clamped the wound on his arm shut, soldering it in kind. The joint would be inflexible for a few moments, so he had time to rest. The leverage adapter cog from his battle in the drug den had suffered minor structural damages. He was more worried about the lubricant and coolant delivery systems. They were both low on reserve fuel cells, and he had exhausted most sources of oil he had ready access to. He didn't want to risk overheating either.
"Damn it all," he muttered, inspecting these finer attributes in the inner workings of his forearm. His hand couldn't close fully anymore, not without oil. The grinding of metal against itself caused him a significant amount of discomfort, so he stopped and screwed the panel shut again.
Hoisting the Typhon-pattern Bolt rifle over his shoulder by the strap, he headed back out into the ruins of Gothic. Maybe he could find supplies, but more than likely he would run into more synths. He limped as quickly and as quietly as he could. The sooner he could find what he was looking for, the better.
A long progression of black luxury sedans swiftly blew through yet another traffic light, another intersection, with unapologetic privilege. Diplomatic immunity fortifying their inherent disregard for western sensibilities. Each one visually out of place as they drove down into the pothole stricken drive of the industrial park area. Tires splashing in the accumulation of that morning's rain, the overcast sky providing a dismal backdrop for the abandoned buildings and concrete stacks strung along the route.
Umbrella's and automatic weapons, the occupants of each vehicle were equally well armed with both. Filing out and setting up a disciplined and well rehearsed perimeter before the Voice Unheard casually emerged from a backseat. Folding one arm behind his back in ceremonious routine, the Shorinji Shadoking's position was immediately converged upon. Body guarded by guns, head guarded by designer fabric. Marching into the facility, a makeshift meet had been arranged beneath a muted ceiling light and hosted at a transportable table.
In underground attendance were the advisers, the right hands of various illegal vices and black market trades. The consiglieri's of some of the city's prudential criminal consortium's. And they were here to speak on behave of an event that the Yakuzu had taken as the ultimate insult. A stain on their honor that needed to be expunged. Months had past, and yet the perpetrators of what some had begun to refer to as, The M-Day Massacre, had yet to be captured and handed over to the Yakuzu for true retribution.
That was why he had been sent. The Black Hand, the Shadoking.
Xi cursed silently as her gauntlet blades slashed through empty air and into the floor beneath, as Val recalled her grapnel and used it to ascend to the higher levels. Again, smart. Her opponent now held the high ground, and she was injured, an injury that would impact her mobility.
Still...there were options. Xi swiftly reactivated her cloaking shield, disappearing from sight as she rolled from her position, taking cover behind one of the many interchangeable pallets of boxes that littered the warehouse. Her HUD display guided the bladed disc that still spun through the warehouse, and she directed towards Val's position. The disc wasn't cloaked in any way, nor was it particularly quiet, especially once it would start slashing through wiring, piping and the like, and her hope was that it would both distract her enemy and force her to give away her position while the wounded but invisible huntress positioned herself to strike.
The Shadoking remained seated, legs crossed with his hands politely resting atop his knee as his men directed their attention towards the unexpected disturbance. Only after those in attendance began to exhibit signs of nervous restlessness did his ringed finger slowly move. Waving. Warning them, to remain cool. To remain calm and steel their shaken resolve. But he said nothing. Remained stoically silent. Unsure of who, or what, had interrupted them, the consiglieri's never the less did as they had mutely been instructed and rested back into their chairs. Eyes suspiciously surveying what was to happen next.
Highly arching his brow while turning to visually, yet silently, address the blonde triplets behind him, Yazhun nodded. And in return, they immediately bowed and stepped out from behind their eccentric employer. They were telepathic in nature. His trinity of alluring orators. But the only mind they could read was his own. Specially groomed, specifically trained, they were conditioned with numerous mental blockades which prevented any unwarranted slips. As a result they were enable to inadvertently project their employer's thoughts into the mind of another, or vise versa. All they could do was to verbalize the thoughts the Shadoking wished to express.
"The Voice Unheard has authorized us to invite you to sit." they spoke in unison. Yazhun unfolded his legs just long enough to foot push a chair out towards the confusing, robot? Cyborg? He didnt know. But he was intrigued never the less. Returning his posture to a more disciplined disposition of aristocratic tradition, the triplets watched, observed, then spoke.
"He wishes to know if you serve these men here." Each one pointing a finger at the assembled group around the table.
The Blue Ghost seems to be busy with her new line of work. It's different than from being an assassin, refreshing even. Blue likes it, in a way. But she wishes she didn't have that mini bomb in her head. Plus, Monica Waller also installed a device that gives her a Heads Up Display so she can see words being typed as she looks at things. Another means of control and the Blue Ghost vows she will someday be rid of Waller. But for now, she plays the long game.
The Blue Ghost transforms herself into a grunt of the Meta-Human Response Force, or MRF for short and ties him up, taking his security pass as well as his wallet. She, now he, puts the unconscious victim out of sight and then proceeds to use 'his' credentials to get past the first security checkpoint.
Blue, now Officer Harrison, takes it slow. 'He' walks as if he is patrolling and careful to keep an eye on the guard patrol patterns as well as the cameras. 'He' must choose 'his' moves wisely or 'he' will be seen. And that is the last thing 'Harrison' wants.
The facility was pretty easy to get into, but from here on out is going to get tougher. But where would the challenge be if things were easy? Although Blue much prefers being a woman, being a man is nice. Especially the slight increase in physical strength.
Soon enough, though, 'Harrison' comes across a security door that is beyond 'his' security clearance. But as chance has it, 'Harrison' sees a superior office, high ranking it looks like, addressing some grunts and the man speaks plenty enough for Blue to mimic his voice exactly.
'Harrison' follows the high ranking officer. His name tag says, Sam Ross. So 'he' follows the officer. Once 'Harrison' sees Ross enter an office, she knocks on his door and the man's gruff voice says enter. 'Harrison' enters. Blue quickly scans for camera, but 'he' doesn't see one. Good. This will make things a whole lot easier.
The high ranking officer barely gets word out before 'Harrsion' leaps across the room and knocks him out. 'Harrison' transforms into Sam Ross and searches the real Sam for a wallet, security clearance and anything else of value before the new Sam ties up the original and hides him under the office desk as much as his body allows so that if anyone enters the office, it'll look empty upon first glance.
The new Sam Ross stands up and leaves his office. Even after only a few minutes observation, Blue has managed to be able to copy the way the man walks, his body language and the way he talks exactly.
Sam makes his way to the door he couldn't access earlier and uses his security clearance to get past it. Then he makes his way down some hallways, ignoring the salutes of those he passes by. Then he sees it. The door he needs to get into. The one that leads to all the information Monica Waller desires. So, he attempts to get into the room. First, a retinal scan. Sam leans over and the computer scans his eye and he's cleared on that one. Then a hand print scanner. He presses his hand on the scanner and he's cleared on that one too. The door opens after it accepts his security clearance. Thankfully, no password. Which is odd, now that 'Blue' thinks about it.
Sam makes his way inside the room and sees a line of massive computers. But Sam knows which one he wants, so he heads right for it. He takes out a strange looking device and hesitates a moment. Sam knows full well that the moment he puts in that device and begins his work on getting past the firewalls, uploading his virus and then downloading the information Waller seeks, that the security of the place will know that something up. Which means Sam's time will be limited.
Sam takes a deep breath and then shoves the device into the main computer, uploading a nasty computer virus to try and break past the firewalls and then she begins to try and download everything she can possibly fit on her device.
Again with unison, the triplets giggled. Hovering a polite hand over their mouths as they attempted to hide an uncharacteristic display of genuine emotion. Yazhun shot them a glance however and like that, they had nervously regained their composure.
"Look Mister San'Vun. As we explained to your 組長 (Oyabun/family head), financial restitution has already been gifted, and; I might add, excepted." explained one of the individuals around the table. Straightening his tie, then checking the cleanliness of his finger nails, the Shadoking slowly angled his head to the right. A rather theatrical display of micro-posturing. But it was the triplets who responded. "Your offerings were greatly appreciated. They were weighed, measured, and found wanting."
*Knock.....Knock.....Knock...
In a peculiar scene the Shadoking began to rap his ringed finger against the table with intermediate rhythm. The triplets said nothing but hung their heads. They began to leave as Yazhun rose to his feet and straightened his tie. Pulling the flaps of his suit closed and buttoning them down before pausing to survey the guests in attendance once more.
Then, casting a look towards the unique and unexpected robotic arrival, he offered a glimpse of interpretative suggestion. Exiting back out into the dismal Gothic air to be instantly greeted by a sea of protective umbrellas. Opening the back door to one of the sedans to allow the Black Hand an effortless entry into the vehicle. But he hesitated. He hesitated, and looked back. Waiting...
@yazhun_sanvun: Ha ha ha, I'llhave to ask her about that.
Just remember to be nice to giant robot general over there, otherwise... Well, you know.
@ironphantom said:
Just remember to be nice to giant robot general over there, otherwise... Well, you know.
@emperor_von_doom: (dope gif)
@blue_ghost said:
Network security breach.
Silas was connected to the network, as he sat, by some twisted serendipity, in an office in the very building that Blue had successfully infiltrated. He observed with the detached interest that was his hallmark as the virus she uploaded began to spread through the system, corrupting data, bypassing firewalls, and no doubt giving the intruder free reign of whatever it was she sought. His own defenses kept his personal electronics safe from the virus' depredations, but the protections on the rest of the network's devices were of a more...local origin and not nearly so advanced.
He remaining connected long enough to pinpoint the origin of the upload, at which point he disconnected and headed towards computer lab that Blue had accessed. He opted not to alert any of the building's guards; they were likely to succumb to stressors and could very possibly kill the intruder, and anyone with the knowledge and skill to do what this intruder had done could be a valuable source of information, or perhaps even a convertible asset. The complex's IT staff had no doubt realized what was going on by this point, but they would still be desperately trying to figure out what he already knew. They could be left to fulfill their function.
The door to the computer-filled room slammed open, and Silas Xundar stood squarely in the frame, his expression as impassive as his gaze swept the room and settled on "Sam." Silas made for quite the incongruous figure, at least as far as a first responder to a hostile intrusion. He was obviously unarmed, and he was neither especially tall nor of above-average build. "Do not move," he simply stated, his voice as flat as his expression. "Explain the purpose of your betrayal, officer."
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