NationStates Jolt Archive

Indicator lights shimmered like jewels through the thin haze, slightly sweet, exuding from the lit end of a slim Xanthalian cigar. Technically illegal, of course, but for a Commandante, it could be overlooked. Danus exhaled slowly, blowing rings slowly into the still air. Night shift, alone, in the receiving room dragged on, even with this rare luxury. If only Minsk had found some bourbon too, even if it was the sickly stuff that passed for liquor in Beijing. The spoils of war were never as sweet as promised.

Still, he was lucky to get anything, stuck here in the middle of the Mongolian steppes, about as far from the Chinese front as you could get and still be within the collective. Lucky for him Minsk had taken a round in the thigh, and had been brought back early for reconstruction.

Danus stared blankly at the screen, humming under his breath. No change, steady as ever. Dull as his position was, it remained a vital function, monitoring incoming messages for viruses, encryptions and the like. If MALLNET was corrupted, even slightly, the reprecussions would be widespread. Not likely dangerous, but certainly disruptive. He watched as digits and symbols flashed by, a visual representation of the data flow into the arcology. In the major MALLNET centers, they'd have 20, sometimes a hundred, all watching, monitoring, making sure nothing changed.

He stared intently at the ruby glow at the tip of the cigar, getting close to done now, sadly enough. He only had a few more, and lord knows he'd not see another for too long. Better savour it, while it lasted. With a soft sigh, he took a deep puff, the mellow smoke filling his mouth with luxurious fragrance. So intent was he, he hardly felt the cool metal at the base of his neck. His mouth barely had time to open, a thin trickle of vapour escaping towards the vent and then

pain

nothing.

As a slim figure turned, leaving to cramped room, the cigar rolled slowly, creeping towards the crumpled body. With a dull hiss and a minute scent of cooking blood, Danus' cigar went out.

bump

Row after row of monotone monitors flashed rows of digits and symbols, feeding data into the open eyes of hunched operators, their fingers a blur of movement, as if in a futile race with the relentless flow of input. Perhaps a hundred of these devoted typists, crouched toadlike in a round room, ceiling uncomfortably low, and covered wall to wall with screens, circuits and wiring in chaotic swirls of technology. On every surface, in every crack and recess lurked the fungus; pale gray, moist and slightly warm, tingling under the careless touch of a wayward hand.

Fungus everywhere; indeed this is its very nature. It is MALLNET, the medium of thought, the corridor to mass reasoning. Its spongy mass is a mass of nerves, nerves which penetrate through the core of every arcology, into the minds of every subject. It is not only the mind of Mallberta, it is the muscle; various strains drive Mallbertan industry, a synthetic muscles that has replaced nearly all the ancient vestigal workings of steel and oil. In a very real sense, Mallberta is synonymous with this fungus.

Eyes unnaturally wide, genetically modified as a nessecary function of the MALLNET process, the operators continue their harried assault on keypads. One individual, if he can be so called, hesitates. Something unnatural has occured. On pressing the ~ key, he is certain he felt something. He is certain that the ~ key pressed back.

Eyes gaping still wider, the size of teacups now, mouth open in a silent scream he is physilogically unable to vocalize, he watches as fingers of fungus, pushing keys aside, reach up at him, first 3 inches long, then 6, soon covering the keypad, then the monitor and still it pushes forward, circuitry shattering as it does. His face locked in a rictus of disbelief and horror, he scuttles away, backwards towards the center of the room. The fungus follows, hands of damp gray matter grasping, stretching ever further. He looks around: everywhere his fellow operators struggle futily, as the fungus engulfs them. To his left, he watches as a thrashing comrade is torn limb from limb by tentacles as thick as his wrists, and still it expands. He cannot escape.

No one can.

OOC: Cool! This is good.

OOC: I knew I shouldnt have sold you that biomass and stuff! It was being used for EVIL PURPOSES! Very cool, I'm excited to see what happens. Excited and.... frightened.

OOC: Is this the end end of Mallberta or is this just a change in government?

bump

OOC: Is this the end end of Mallberta or is this just a change in government?

Is it? Or do we have to methaphoricly buy the book (aka continue reading).

bump3

Is China still on?

Is it? Or not?

OOC: Those wacky collective folks are at it again! Seriously Mallberta, I enjoy your writing. By the way, is your nation's name at all related to the province of Alberta, Canada?

Klaxons screamed shrilly through steel corridors and concrete chambers, a whining treble over the sharp rat-tat-tat of rifle fire. The darkness was broken only by occasional amber lights, and distant flashes of tracer fire. Nearly two kilometers below the surface, Commandante Sanders was lost. And trapped. And, worst of all, alone.

The command had come down just over an hour ago: the MALLNET mind link had experienced some kind of error, and clusters of drones had gone psychotic. Sanders and his men were uniquely prepared to deal with this kind of situation; they were insultated from the coercive telepathy of the MALLNET system both by breeding and training. It sounded like a cakewalk; his soldiers stood head and shoulders above the drones, muscled like bipedal rhinoceri, and honed to a point by a lifetime of training.

At first, all had gone well. The few drones on the upper level here scattered, and seemed more terrified than dangerous; cut down in seconds by a hail of rifle fire, he'd dealt with perhaps a hundered before even one of his men had taken a hit. The armories the lowly creatures had accessed were both old and spartan- a single rifle for every five of them. Invasion had long since been considered unlikey to the extreme, and this was reflected in the once stalwart condition of the reserve forces.

Everything had gone wrong in the foundry. The drones there were no more prepared or effective than the ones above, returning short bursts of fire before being torn apart by Sanders' more modern munitions. All had seemed well, they had nearly cleaned the large chamber, when a faint grinding noise, like the gnashing of teeth, caused him to look up. Far above, the massive arms which drove Mallbertan industry, biological engines with power far surpassing more conventional equipment, were reaching down, down towards the bunched groups of soldiers.

With a hoarse, shocked cry, Sanders' began to fire at these grasping claws, hand a dozen hands nearly three meters across, pale grey in the dim light an hidesouly deformed. His men barely had time to glance up before, with a deepy crunch of impact, the first fist smashed down, obliterating a stunned cluster of black-carapaced soldiers.

Everything was a blur. Sanders spun, shooting here and there, darting left and right, trying to escape these collosal artifices. A glimpse revealed a man torn in two, another showed a man sent flying nearly 10 meters into a wall, his death a nearly inaudible crunch against the background of staccato gunfire.

Somehow he escape, rolling under a door which closed despite his clearance, closed despite the fact that he was supposed to be in charge. Nothing made sense. It was inconceivable that discipline had devolved this far this quickly. His mind feverish, he staggered through hallway after hallway, even as the main lights went out, even as the fans stopped turning.

With an anguished sob, Sanders collapsed against the wall, his lungs heaving, trying to breath the stale close air. Sweat poured down his face, and for the first time his carapace armor felt unbearably heavy and hot, chafing him badly. He had no idea where he was, no idea where to go.

Down the hall the faint padding of light footsteps approached, slowly but confidently. Drones, and lots of them. Catching his breath, the Commandante steadied his rifle, considered continuing his frantic flight. But no. He was done running. It was time to die. And if he was to die, he'd die proud, and he wouldn't die alone.

Is it? Or not?
OOC: Well, I'm still in China. But my forces are quite uberly consolidated and dug in by now, since nobody ever bothered to give me any resistance. 8)

Mallberta: Any way I could join in this RP? Or maybe we could do a thread with some Menelmacari troops and scientists examining the ruins afterwards?

~Siri

Is it? Or not?
OOC: Well, I'm still in China. But my forces are quite uberly consolidated and dug in by now, since nobody ever bothered to give me any resistance. 8)

Mallberta: Any way I could join in this RP? Or maybe we could do a thread with some Menelmacari troops and scientists examining the ruins afterwards?

~Siri

yea sure. Too bad you were too lazy to actually post. And dug in? The resistance is still well and thriving, and we have bases in the south, where yoiur forces are consolidated

bump-

also

no hijacking please

Mallberta: Any way I could join in this RP? Or maybe we could do a thread with some Menelmacari troops and scientists examining the ruins afterwards?

~Siri

For sure.

This is basically the intro to an RP anyways... I'll TM you and let you know

Is it? Or not?
OOC: Well, I'm still in China. But my forces are quite uberly consolidated and dug in by now, since nobody ever bothered to give me any resistance. 8)

Mallberta: Any way I could join in this RP? Or maybe we could do a thread with some Menelmacari troops and scientists examining the ruins afterwards?

~Siri

yea sure. Too bad you were too lazy to actually post. And dug in? The resistance is still well and thriving, and we have bases in the south, where yoiur forces are consolidated
Didn't see any posts about it. ;) Would have posted if anybody bothered resisting me.

~Siri

Dawn breaks on the Ascetic Tunnels arcology, clear golden light flowing over the wastelands, over the cool smooth black of low domes clustered like troops of beetles on charred dusty ground. Scattered clouds cast beaming shafts over steely spires, thrusting through the concrete below like daggers. Beneath this calm morning, however, chaos churned in the depths. Order was gone, no control even here in the very core of the MALLNET system.

In the highest tower, a shining copper in the dawn light, was the last stronghold of the old order. Here, a single mind stood strong against the fury of the madness now released.

On the top floor of this tower, the communications level, perhaps a hundred soldiers and as many drones huddled together, rifles in every hand, standing guard against the twisted minds that lurked below. Their last hope of sanity working arcane controls, dusty with disuse, fingers flashing as he charged up old power cells, realligned transmitters and prepared to broadcast.

The erie stillness was punctuated with brief bursts of gunfire, the desperate guards, minds calmed by the presence of their master, held back the growing tide of aggressors. Against this backdrop of shots and desperation, the Last Master sent his plea into the skies.


This is Sub Commandante Ambrose... requesting aid... requesting military intervention.... MALLNET is sick, has lost cohesion, has rebelled... please respond... MALLNET must be harnessed or must be stopped... please respond...

As the sun crept across the sky, his voice grew hoarse, his thoughts desperate. He could only pray that somewhere, someone was listening.

ooc- If you'd like to take part in this RP, please TM me. This will be a character driven story, so please experienced writers only. Obviously SF nations are fine, but no tech which disrupts the story line is acceptable. I hope there is some interests, if not I'll just keep writing...

bump

yet another bump

Last chance to sign up

The message was mangled to say the least, but it was still mostly intelligable when it reached the Falmath Joint Military base. Here, all branches of the military came together to train for pretty much everything. Captain James listned to the strange transmission, and approached the bases' command staff with his suggestion.

Command wasn't sure what to make of it. The message was a cry for help, but they didn't know what they could do. James suggested that elements of the 8th Kasrkin, currently stationed at Falmath, be dispatched by air to assist. General Greir was less inclined to agree.

"Captain, the 8th is schedualled to go back into rotation next month, and we can't have them go gallavanting around during their most important training session. And as for getting the required air support... it's just not feasable. I could give you a squad, a single Valkyrie, and a pair of Thunderbolts for escort. Thats it."

"And one of my agents." said a rather shadowy figure from the confrence room doorway. "One of my Ghosts'll go with you, Captain. We've had our eyes on Mallberta for some time, and wouldn' mind getting one of our own inside." the figure stepped into the room, revealing it as Colonel Neilson, the commander of the 1st Navis Ghosts, a regiment of the lesser female telepaths of the Navis Nobilite. They were here training with everyone else, but they seemed to do a lot of unconventional work with weapons and tactics. But this didn't trouble James. Not that much.

"So, what General, that makes a squad of eight men, plus, the Captain here, and one of my Ghosts? Stick 'em in a valk and send 'em off, tomorrow if possible. Does that sound reasonable?"

The general sighed. "I guess so, Colonel. Captain?"

"Yes sir, yes it does."

"Good. You'll leave at 0300. Your squad'll be waiting for you."

The Sekhmet class swift cruiser Osiris remained in high orbit over Earth. Accompanying her were two Stellar Wind class cruisers, the Solar Flare and the Pride of Thetis.

All three were fleeing from the WCS Navy. IN fact, they were fleeing their own forces right now, under orders from Supreme Leader Yuan and the Military Council to quickly bring the "traitors" back.

Dead or alive.

Commander Quong sighed. A twenty year veteran of the West Coral Sea Interplanetary Defense Forces, he was a near myth in the steadily expanding stellar nation. The story was told throughout the fleet of how Quong, commanding a Xien class gunship many times older than himself at the time, brought down two other pirate cruisers in the Sakura Belt, near Thetis.

But now, Quong was leading a trio of the best armed, fastest ships in the WCS. Originally, they were under orders to destroy the MALLNET nodes in China, but they percieved that something was amiss, and descended closer to investigate.

But something had gone wrong. By the time that the gunfire cleared, a small landing ship was destroyed, and the atmospheric-enabled Ryu-ken class assault ship, Xiao Huli (Small Fox) was under enemy control and had begun firing on the small flotilla, inflicting heavy damage on the Solar Flare and the Pride of Thetis. Osiris had managed to absorb most of the beating, but they were savaged again by unknown enemies before they could escape to the relative safety of high orbit.

Xiao Huli's first officer was Quong's daughter.

And now, their own navy was chasing them. Caught between the guns of their own ships and unknown dangers on the surface, Quong ordered his fleet to descend, a wise decision considering the peril they were in from their beaten ships.

Now, his crew would have to fight it out on the ground.

Quong hoped they would fare better than Xiao Huli's crew. Had he not been in command, he surely would have killed himself by now; his first son had already died in a battle the year before, and now his second daughter was gone.

But he had to survive. His men were counting on him. Still, as they descended through the dark clouds, Quong wasnt sure what awaited them.

Probably nothing good, he thought.

The transmission, routed directly to the Conglomerates executives, sparked a flurry of suggestions from the Board of Directors. They had currently been discussing the growing situation in AMF and the ongoing "aquisition" of certain corporations, when the broadcast came.

"We haven't even dealt with them since-"

"-is it really an Alpha level, or could it..."

"-they surely don't mean-"

"So Collectivism fails-"

"-we're spread thinly in-"

"Maybe we should-"

But a loud, commanding voice, that of Toby Pratt, booms in the room. "Silence!" Toby isn't present, but he has opened a line of communication directly to Bob. And Bob has skillfully employed his brothers voice so that they can talk quietly for a moment.

"Toby, I don't care about MALLNET. But we could use the good graces of Mallberta. At the same time, we can't afford to enter into another full-scale war. Now what's your recommendation?"

The question hangs in the air. Then in his thick drawl, Toby replies.

---

Like many of the ITDO servicemen, Specific 2nd Class Krowmag joined to escape a life of constant corruption and crowded conditions in the cities. He was born to poor parents, had a poor family, and was poor himself. But as a member of the ITDO, he was healthy, educated and thoroughly trained in a wide variety of skills, and his platoon was his family.

Unlike the majority of the ITDO, Krowmag was an Augment. He had no less than four optical enhancements giving him unnatural sight capabilities, two ear implants which gave him full spectrum, non-damagable hearing, and an oxygen recharger which more efficiently kept his brain supplied with oxygenated blood.

And unlike the rest, he was SOTG. SpecOps. His equipment reflected that. He felt no real personal attachment to his weapons, as he could use a great variety with equal skill, though he naturally enjoyed the An-111 caseless assault rifle. A more old-fashioned warrior, he carried extra hard-cast plastic grenades instead of the so-called "megacord," which he saw as a risky toy more than a useful weapon.

The KPKR-10 Cutlass MTAOC, not by any definition a true dropship, still had limited atmospheric VTOL capability. At great fuel expense, it could hover over an area while squads roped down to the ground.

Approaching the source of Ambroses transmission, thats just what it would do.

Having been redirected from the AMF war, the Cutlass in question was still filled with Orbital Marines, who would be next to useless in ground combat. A single squad of SOTG troopers, 12 men, would be deployed in the "swirmiss" - Search and Rescue Mission, or SWRMISS.

Assuming MALLNETs defenses don't shoot us down... Krowmag thinks grimly as they approach. They transmit an automated message acknowledging the request for help and identifying themselves as friendly. Not that this does anything to calm the nerves of the orbies and pilots, of course.

[i]ooc- I'm going to briefly take control of the cutlass... if this bothers you in any way, I'll edit appropriately.

Ambrose stared blankly out of the narrow porthole, a head-sized pane of smoked plasteel lodged deep inside hardened steel plating. The flickering gray light of the setting sun cut through high clouds, painting the angular facets of his face like a thin pale wash, framed in the russet silk of hair that seemed abnormally healthy in the charnel scents of this last outpost of sanity. The bodies near the stairwells were now piled waist high, as the maddened masses below smashed vainly against his able defences. The insane ones would win, inevitably, by process of attrition if nothing else. His fate was all but carved into the metal walls around him.

He startled, heart pounding, as through the crackling static of the nearby transmitter a voice could be heard. At first he thought it gibberish, but as his bioplants, thankfully unaffected by the decaying minds below, soon deciphered it, rendering the foreign english into the simple Mallbertan dialect. As he smiled, eyes scanning the horizon for the incoming Santa Barberan vessel, his face took on a striking cherubic beauty, reminiscent of the Grecan masters; he resembled nothing so much as a bloodsoaked David, wrapped in ceramasteel carapace and thick wool robe.

He quickly grabbed onto a nearby handhold, pulling himself gracefully up to the single hatch in the cieling. As it opened, gusts of fresh air, slidly acrid, blasted through the chamber packed with his small group of defenders, still diligently guarding the stairwells despite their growing fatigue and desperation. Climbing through, he rose to stand on the surface of the tower, nearly a quarter mile above the surface, airs waving, beckoning in the few that had come. Perhaps there was yet hope. Perhaps the tower was not to be his tomb after all. Perhaps.

"Deliah, come to the main information node - it's urgent," came the omnipresent, calm voice of the LEADER.

Deliah got up from the cool pallet, cybernetics gently disconnecting from her cranial jacks and walked through the comfortable, sultry darkness of the Anthill corridor. A solitary red light flashed silently in the humid gloom, providing a dim crimson glow to Deliah's pale blueish-tinged skin. Something was not right - even disconnected from the information flow, from the LEADER-matrix she could feel a certain eerie disquietude settle over her consciousness, a feeling that something bad had happened, or might happen in the future - and she walked faster.

The pale, ghoulish figures of the worker-cells shuffled past her, utterly indifferent to the imperceptible changes in the world, stubby cylindrical cyber-monitors gouging slowly in and out from their eyes, the hiss and gurgle of quiet chemical controls in their bodies blithely working, automatic and efficient.

"What is it, LEADER?" she asked as she entered the information node. She was confronted by a contorted, flickering wall of colour, kaleidoscopically flashing through news feeds from all over the world, in all languages. The room was devoid of sound, save for the quiet buzz of electricity and machinery, smelling rather sweet and musty - the familiar, comforting Anthillish smell - but now her feeling of subtle disquietude was worse than ever.

"Our Mallbertan friends. Something is wrong in the MALLNET. Their system is ... breaking down."

"You mean that collectivism is failing in Mallberta? Impossible!"

"Somehow it has to do with their-" a slight tone of derision came into the LEADER's voice "-biological system of control. The fungus is malfunctioning."

"Have we sent them assistance?"

"I'm afraid that our cells would be of no use, the only alternative is-"

"You aren't serious! We cannot send out the telepath-cells yet - their psychological training... the brainwashing programme is not yet completed."

"I'm aware of that, but I'm afraid we have no choice. We have no other cells capable of such intricate manipulation."

"What about the gleisners? Can we send in the telepath-tanks to pacify the situation?"

"No," the voice was grave over the loudspeaker, "they don't have the subtlety - gleisners would overreact and kill them all, and the telepathic tanks would overwhelm Mallberta's fragile neural net. We have no other choice!"

Deliah felt a sinking feeling. They had lost Gamma-Epsilon-Two, one of their most promising telepath-cells. She didn't want to lose any more.

A message was sent to Mallberta, and a supersonic plane, to be launched from an underwater aircraft submarine, was prepared as the racks carrying the telepath-cells in suspended animation, were loaded.

The Valkyrie VTOL was a transport, the replacement of less efficent helicopters. The Valk packed as much heat as an old Cobra, but because of her cargo, was not able to manouver as deftly as she was capable of. Thats what the Thunderbolts were for, hwoever. The two supersonic jets screamed by every now and then, literally running rings around the subsonic VTOL. Michelle janzen, flying the Valkyrie, was used to such annoyances, just like the T-bolt crews were used to these pointless escort missions. Still, they all knew they had a job to do, and even the over-eager flyboys knew when to shut up and do it right.

"This is HAWK-1 to MALLNET Control, do you copy? We request landing clearance and stand-down of arms. Repeat, this is HAWK-1, do you copy?"

The call was repeated on every channel in a few different common languages every few minutes. They played it more often as they got closer.

"Only a few more minutes to the border." Michelle thought. "If they don't respond, we better start praying that their defence grid went down in the confusion...."

The Cutlass skimmed over the steely spires of the dense urban landscape, its pilot white-knuckled with fear.

Krowmag grinned at the memory of the mans face as he followed his orders, in some senses envying him. Among the SOTG there was a kind of bravado, and in their company, admitting being scared shitless was nearly akin to announcing one had been born a female. Krowmag grinned with the humor, yes, but it was also a method of warding away the feelings that would naturally come- feelings of impending, iminent demise at the hands of one of the crazy, fear-stricken OOTG pilots.

Through the cockpit window, a growing pale sunlight shown through, casting a red hue on the faces of the orbital marines and Krowmags SOTG squad. There was Hutchinson, chewing gum as if they were returning home from a mission instead of going out on one. There was Stevens, his face expressionless, mute as stone.

The pilot, his vision augmented not by implants but by the MetaPratt One networks data coming through to the KPKR-10, saw the tower they were homing in on. He cut back on throttle violently, shaking even more as the air awkwardly slammed against the not-really-aerodynamic fuselage, tossing it and its occupants up and down rapidly. The Cutlass descended at the same time, within clear sight of the Mallbertan warrior standing atop the tower.

"Alright boys," Krowmag shouted over the thrumming of the vehicles powerful engines, "We'll pick survivors up in the vehicle directly, provide covering fire, and-"

He is interrupted by a loud crash reverberating in the cargo room. The Cutlass jolts, harder than before, as if struck by something.

He can't see everything in the cockpit from his position, but even over the noise, he can tell something is wrong. Lights are flashing and some kind of OOTG emergency sound is blaring.

We may have to be change our plans. Damn flying crates...

OOC: The problem might be weather effects, or systems failure, or MALLNET air defenses, you choose if you like. Or if this doesnt fit the storlyine somehow I can change.

In the High Church of The Word in Lisbon, the Center City of all that was Synchronized Daecon walked at a brisk pase towards the Throne Room of The Lady. As he walked through the opulent halls and past two Servant-Drones, in their grey uniforms and their blood veins and dull eyes glowing forever green, the very symbol of infection from The Word. Daecon glanced in the mirrors in the Central Hall that lead to the Throne Room, his veins and eyes also glowed green yet The Lady granted him a rare privilage, individual thought yet even he was bound to The Lady and forever loyal only to her. He then opened the golden doors to The Throne Room.

The Lady was sitting in her throne, she looked disturbed. "You have heard what has happened in Mallberta my Lady?" Daecon asked her. "Yes, yes I have and before you recomend anything remember that my own emergence into existance was very similar to what is going on in Mallberta, a virus in the OMNIUS Computer Network that lead to his destruction and my assention into both the Computer and later the Flesh, now I am Perfect, we must not interfer in what is going on for now, perhaps later we will offer the victor aid in rebuilding the nation." Daemon then waved Daecon away and then sent an order to her servant-drones, "Bring me some food, now. They complied.


http://www.reboot.com/reboot_4_cells/episode_2_inset.jpg
Daemon (Also called The Lady)
There Is Only One, And The One Is Daemon
The Dominion of Synchronized

http://uts.cc.utexas.edu/~ifex534/deacon.jpg
Daecon: Advisor to the Lady and
High Priest of The Church of The Word
There Is Only One, And The One Is Daemon
The Dominion of Synchronized

Ambrose waved frantically at the hovering craft, cloak tattered and bloody, writhing around him like grey broken wings. THe fading sun glinted dully off his black plasteel carapace which clung tightly to his hardened body.

He watched as the ship, stubby and utilitarian compared to the sleek wasplike bodies of Mallbertan crafts, descended towards him, bristilng with dangerous looking men.

Suuddenly he whirled, snarling, fist outstreched, barely striking a winged form, roughly the size and shaped of a football, which whirred towards his head at a frightening pace. Batting it away, it passed by him with a high pitched snarl striking a nearby attena, and exploding ina burst of fur and acid. An acrid smoke briefly filled his nostrils before being carreid away in a heavy gust of wind.

Ambrose could only watch as half a dozen similar creatures circled the craft above; he nearly cried aloud when one slammed into the side of it, rapidly burning a hole through its armoured plating. The ship rapidly veered aft, then port, before beginning a slow trajectoryspiralling down, down into the still urban waste below.

Hawk 1 flew low and fast, nearly clipping barren mountain peaks. Mallberta is rearely a beautiful place, but in the purple light of the dying day, the scorched wastes were cast in shades of blues and violets, a strage panorama of aqua crests and indigo hollows. It was beautiful; but everything bore a harshness, a subtle quality that spoke of a land abused and exploited, like a once beautiful house now rotted and peeling.

The crew where silenced by the heavy oppressiveness of the desperate landscape; oddly morose despite the utter lack of resistance. THe Mallbertan front had been easily overrun over an hour ago- once stalwart soldiers now nearly mindless, striking at each other as often as their enemies. Everywhere through the lines chaos reigned, and the allied victory seemed assured.

As Hawk 1 crested a final rise, spread out before her was the glittering black steel of the Ascetic Tunnels arcology; a disc sunk into the land nearly 10 km across, birstling with spires, smoke stacks and massive antennea. Below this massive shield were thousands upon thousands of tunnels, tunnels Krowmag knew held nearly 100 million citizens.

The passage of time seemed to compress, seeming to become both faster and yet, oddly, slow, as Spec 2nd Krowmag observed the chaos which overtook the Cutlass, completely helpless. The craft was hit once, twice. The hull was clearly penetrated when an irregular hole appeared on the right side, turning what had been a solid-looking composite armor plate into a portal portraying the bleak Mallbertan landscape outside, which spun around with the vehicles stability controls eaten away by the acid. In the pilots window he can see the tower drift upwards, spining out of sight.

Smoke and noise filled the compartment.

"This is unit #97 of the 2nd Orbital, going down. Repeat, #97 over Mallberta, going down. GENDAR. GENDAR," one of the pilots could be heard, giving the general distress- assistance required code with a calm but loud voice.

The orbies seemed to fade from Krowmags vision as they exploded in commotion. Their worst fears had been confirmed, and there wasn't a one of them who was fit to do any extensive movement- let alone combat-- in gravity. The panic in their eyes showed a helplessness just a step beyond that of Krowmags at the moment.

"Prepare for a hard landing, boys," the pilot helpfully informed the orbies and SOTG alike. He might have been ordering a sea-wheat pizza, judging solely by the tone of his voice. His calm was admirable, his ITDO discipline showing despite his obvious fear.

Below, the unforgiving shell of the Ascetic Tunnels approached.

Krowmag had other plans, however. It was a shame about the orbies-- they had neither the training nor the equipment to perform what he was about to do. He did, however, and he would not be disregarding any protocol to abandon a crashing transat craft.

"Grapplers," he told his SOTG platoon. Despite the noise, they all heard instantly, with the efficient directional earspeakers and headsets providing clear sound. He had hardly needed to speak at all; this was in fact the protocol for this very situation, risky as it was.

He unhooked a small grappler, one of 15 attached to the inner compartment, and clung desperately to the opened side hatch. The world was spinning, yes, but not so fast that he couldn't aim. Hell, aiming was his job, even if it was just a grappler. His augmented vision spied the tower as it appeared, there, there, there.

Still, it was a sketchy shot, and in the fractional second it took for the electromagnetically accelerated penetrator to reach where he had aimed near the top of the tower, he had time to briefly wonder if it would hit, if it would penetrate, if the grappler would deploy. It apparently did, however, and the carbon flexifibre made an instantly taut cable from the descending Cutlass to the tower.

He handed the grappler to Hutchinson, who was closest, and of course already knew what he was up to, who took one glance and leaped outside, hurtling angularly toward the side of the tower, suspended and pulled by the grappler flexifibre.

Good. The SOTG toon was the best he could ask for. They had followed suit, and Krowmag saw Stevens and two others leave before he decided he would go as well. Time was rapidly running out, and augment or no, he wasn't going to babysit them all out of the vehicle.

Krowmag aimed and fired again, hoping and doing his best not to hit the others, who were already attached to the towers walls like spiders on their strings.

He then was launched after his own projectile, pulled to the right as the vehicle spun to the left, and he had fleeting glimpses of his brief flight, and then the tower, coming fast. He braced, but slammed into the metal wall with the force of energy which would have crushed ordinary bone. Still, he wasn't technically a genetweak, and he had only the so-called "normal" wetware bone structure and body reinforcements, and the impact was hard and painful.

And then he was on the wall of the tower, clinging to a lightweight black grappler, suspended perhaps 10 meters below the top where he had last seen the Mallbertan soldier. To his left was Hutchinson, to his right was Stevens.

The others had apparently not made it? No wait, there they were. Two below him, one above and to the right. He saw a rifle fall to his right, and knew the soldier carrying it had been forced to drop it in order to not fall-- there was no other condition which would have made any soldier worth his uniform abandon his weapon.

He looked behind him, out over the mass of gray metals of the Collectivist architecture, and below, where he could see the Cutlass descend, spiralling helplessly. Its hull had been hit hard, which he already had known, but now he could see the abominations which even now still pursued it, like winged metal - or was that fur?- demons.

The sound of the engine still was loud in his ears, because he was still patched through to the rest of his men still aboard the dying craft. He was treated to the sounds of explosions as the beasts launched themselves against the Cutlass again and again, and he could hear the screams of his men as corrosive acid splashed throughout the compartment. He could only make out words here and there, but he preferred not to, because they spoke only of gruesome pain and death, the terror of iminent demise.

The Cutlass then ceased spiralling, and he could see why-- one of the monstrosities had pasted the pilot side. He could hear why too, with the unmistakable sound of broken glass (not ordinary glass, the translucent material nevertheless broke like it, shattering and spraying nearby men with shards of lethal shrapnel. All control lost, it now plummeted directly downward, crashing through a spiny, spiral array of some kind, deflected by another, metal and fire twisting and exploding with the full spectrum of crumpling, crunchy noise. At last, it came to a rest as it impacted on the surface of the urban construct.

Silence.

The silence was of death. Final, absolute, and certain, he knew there would be no survivors down there. The Cutlass was solidly made, and ravaged and torn though it was, it neither exploded nor crumpled like tinfoil. But the silence told all, because the sound was still patched through; there were simply no one down there making any sound. He heard a fizzing, hissing sound, as the acid corroded the thing from the inside and out, and nothing else but his own thundering heartbeat.

Last chance to sign up
Consider me in on this, I'm going to send some Mornahossë in about... six or seven hours, realtime.

~Siri

Ambrose snarled in fury as he watched the Cutlass spiral down, engine smoking and sputtering as acids rapidly tore through it. Salvation had been so close! He spat, bloody spittle crimson against the rusted black steel of the circular tower roof. Several hundred feet above him, a few dozen black shapes spiraled, seeking targets.

He'd been foolish. Clearly the malfunction of MALLNET wouldn't affect only the drones and soldiers; everything from industry to defence was wired in. HIs task seemed even more futile.

In his anger, he drew his pistols: long and dull black, like his armor, they were tapered and smooth, delicate yet strangly threatening. His utterly calm face belied his frustration as he began to fire. One, then another of the swoooping beasts above plummetted down into the city below, before the rest departed, shrieking and speeding away.

A Vilyulairë ("Skywraith") dropship launched from the Menelmacari command center near Shenzhen, and flew north... there had been some pretty wonky readings coming from Mongolia, according to the Elenpalantír reconsats, and reports from the front seemed to indicate that the Mallbertans, previously rolling over the indigenous opposition with little to no signs of slowing, seemed to be... disrupted somehow.

So, the Menelmacari sent the best of the best - the Mornahossë - to investigate.

The squad was a small one, just six soldiers. It consisted of:

Idhrindiel - female Elf - squad commander
Ferinthir - male Elf - heavy gunner
Dialagos - male Elf - sniper
Maerulin - male Elf - explosives/demolitions
Elendriel - female Elf - hacking/security
Orolindë - female Elf - healer

The dropship raced on through the gathering night, bound for the Mallbertan hive, at the site of what was once the city of Ulan Bator...

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

He pulls himself up the cable, his gloved hands wrapped tightly, muscles bulging with effort. This part of the tower is smooth, and he can only barely use his legs to leverage himself up, relying mostly on his powerful arms.

Krowmag arrives at the top to find both Hutchinson and Stevens [OOC: how coincidental, the only two guys I gave names to!] there already. Hutchinsons helmet is skewed, a spike of blondish hair partially covering his ear, his forehead is bleeding, and he's apparently either swallowed or spit out his gum by now.

Krowmag approaches the Mallbertan trooper, holding his left hand up. "SOTG, soldier. Heard you guys needed some assistance."

Stevens looks over the edge at the wrecked KPKR-10 and the fleeing flying-acid-things. His stony expression doesn't reveal his true thoughts, but Krowmag is pretty sure he's thinking, Looks like we need some assistance now, too.

He's thinking the same thing. Most of his platoon is gone already.

A fourth survivor clambers up over the edge. Its Spec 4th Janus, easily the least experienced. Her tough expression shows no signs of discomfort, though, and she plunks down a black storesack, of the kind used for grenades and extra ammunition cases. It looks heavy, and tucked under her arm is a flame-equipped multi-use rifle. Her black hair is damp with sweat and the hot moisture of the air, contrasting with her light colored face and blue eyes.

Alright, keep your mind on business, he thinks. How do we accomplish the mission?

He manages to avoid the obvious question. ..and get out of here alive?

Ambrose examined the Santa Barberan soldiers with a cool, somewhat detached air. They seemed disciplined and sturdy, but compared to the hulking Mallbertan troops, they were positively minute. Ambrose himself was short and slight for his kind; yet he still reached 6'3" and weighed well over 230 pounds. Still, at this point he wasn't about to criticize.

He closed his eyes briefly, the fist size lump of MALLNET bioimplant at the base of his neck quickly accessing english translation data from the node deep below; thankfully this kind of simple data had yet to be corrupted. He extended a hand, encased in black carapace, towards the nearest soldier. In a clipped, slightly harsh accent, he addressed his erstwhile rescuers, revealing teeth startlingly white

"I am Ambrose. I am grateful for your assistance, though I think we'll all likely die."

The calming smile that played across his lips belied the hopeless desperation of his words. With that, he turned, walked back to the narrow hatch on the center of roof and descended into the warm close air of the Mallbertan arcology.

Krowmag watched the Mallbertan soldier enter the dark hatchway after his grim statement. Alright, we all die here. Mission first, though.

"We're going in. Looks like its just us. Weapons status?"

"Good to go," Janus replied immediately.

"Good to go."

"Lost my caseless, sir," Hutchinson says, apologetically.

"Anything else?"

"Negative.

"Stevens, you're up first. Janus and Hutch, keep an eye on the rear and flanks. I don't need to remind you all that we can't afford losses at this point. We're still on mission."

With that, he followed Ambrose down, weapon first, alert and ready for anything. He peered into the darkness, IR-switch turned on, tracking and following Ambroses figure into the dark tower.

Within a matter of weeks, the transport had reached the Chinese coastline. As it approached the continental shelf, a machine began to extend, like a metal pseudopod from the long, featureless submarine body. It grew into a diamond-coated boring tip, and as the submarine collided with the shelf, began to spin many many revolutions per second. Three great caterpillar-treads extended from the hull, and as the machine bore into the rock and earth, the treads gripped the walls of the little cave and the machine began to move, as it had in the crushing pressure of the water, silently. Stealthily. Inside, suspended in pressurised perfluorocarbon-filled stasis sacs, lay dormant and sleeping, the minds of eight anthill Telepath-cells.

ooc- Sorry I haven't posted in a while, midterm today... should update at like 7 or so PST

"KUSOOO!!" Quong cursed, smacking the inoperable systems board with his hands. Nearby, Solar Flare and Pride of Thetis lay in the sand, for the most part operable yet for now, disabled due to a blowout in the atmospheric drive.

Not that those big things would move so fast anyways, Quong thought, as he turned his attention to the Osiris's damage reports.

"THe Zulu Vektors are still operational sir," Captain Ruan replied. "We ordered them to descend on their own, and they're above us right now, watching for enemies."
"Be careful of the MALLNET and the Mallbertans," Quong said. "We're at war with them, you know."
"I remember," Ruan said.
"And be watchful. Are your sensors still working?" Quong asked.
"Spectroscopes operational, long range infrared detectors at forty percent, atmospheric sensory suite fully functional, ECM array at eighty percent, shields operational, but we need to rig up some power generators to make this work."
Quong nodded. "Small arms?"
"A substantial amount of infantry weapons survived the landing, as well as all our troop detachment. We have enough armor for about a hundred more of us, and the rest of us will have to walk around like this."
Quong looked at his uniform and decided it would do. A nylon jumpsuit that was cushioned with biogel, it was comfortable, useful, and durable, so it would have to do. They had nothing else.
"Also, all our transports managed to survive; we can fit most of our troops aboard them," Ruan said. "T-33S 4WD vehicles armed with burst disruptors, and even a few with a rack of Meteor HE missiles or Comet Hammer energy projectiles."
Quong nodded. Now they might have a chance. "What about the dropshuttles?"
"Five of them are operational sir," Ruan said. "Captain Su reports that all of the dropshuttles are ready to be flown, although we may have to scavenge for fuel."
Quong nodded. "ALright. Now i think that the farthest line of advance for Resistance forces was in Hubei or possibly near Beijing. Last time we checked, they were holding a second front near Hunnan and Yunnan, and an offensive front about fifty km south of Beijing.
"As we were landing, we noticed laserfire and explosions near the battlefield, the green-blue ones that our walkers use, and more conventional munitions, probably East Islandian Marine forces along with our troops to the south. If we can make contact with EI forces, then we have a chance of surviving."
"But what about our own government sir?" Ruan asked. "What will they do about us?"
Quong had no answer for that.

ooc- Again, sorry for the delay, school's been a little intense the last few weeks

The hatch led down to a cylindrical shaft, smooth iron rippled slightly, reminiscent of a steely throat leading down into stuffy darkness below. Ambrose led the way down, hands moving surely, body gracefully, down 50, perhaps a hundred feet. From below a faint green glow, a low phosphorences, lit the way, casting long grim shadows. The room at the bottom, 30 or so feet across, was warm and humid, roughly spherical, and strewn on the floor nearly two dozen figures sleeping soundlessly. Most were abnormally short, though heavily muscled and toned, though some would have stood nearly 7 feet tall, and were dressed in armor not unlike Ambrose's own. There were the sentinels, the warriors of the Mallbertan arcologies; part soldier, part policy, and part commander.

As Ambrose reached the bottom, these huge figures rose silently, rifles appearing from beneath heavy cloaks, and approached quicly. Krowmag watched all this from above, as he descended somewhat more slowly, hands not as sure on slick iron rungs. He heard a faint clicking and grunting from the soldiers; he was the first to hear Mallbertan speech in centuries. It was alien and somewhat distubing, having neither vowels nor soft consonants; it was harsh, quick and very, very foreign.

As he reached the bottom, followed quicly by a nervous looking Hutchinson and a somewhat calmer Janus, the massive warriors had departed out low doorways, crouched over. Ambrose turned, a smile playing uneasily on his lips, as if unused to the gesture.

'I must thank you again. More rests on our success that I had expected.'

Ambrose gestured to his left; a crude bench and table, foraged from some long forgotten corner, sat stolidly next to a wall, covered in papers and an archaic looking laptop console.

'First, practical matters- did you bring air filters, masks of any kind? If not, I will find you some; this is nessecary. The MALLNET process will have already begun inducting your immune system. Given perhaps a day's exposure, and you'd be as lost as any of the wretched souls below.'

His voice, at first slow and hestitant, rapidly increased in speed. His accent shifted as he talked; the implant in his neck had compiled the language from various media sources, and as such he slipped seamlessly from lower Bronx to East London to Sidney.

'I sought rescue, but it is not to be.'

His tone was thick with apprehension, with fear; and this from a man so used to commanding it was in his very nature, in his genetic materials.

'I had hoped to flee, to devise a reset mechanism from a distance; a simple malfunction, even one as grevious as this, could be remedied given the time and effort. My task seemed grave, not urgent. MALLNET failed 28 hours ago. When it did, all auxilary systems shut down, as per emergency procedures. If this is indeed a malfunction, these systems should have remained inactive.'

His countenance took on a dark rage, a brooding storm in grey eyes and amber hair.

'However, 3 hours ago the breeding chambers, the very wombs of the collective, reactivated. They have begun again churning out our kind. This alone is disturbing; the chaos below is terrible indeed, and the last we need is more rebel drones. However, there is worse; the system does not recognize the bioforms being grown. Something new is brewing belowl; something perhaps terrible.'

All the while, Ambrose reloaded his twin pistols, tightening armor, and gathering ammunition and weapons of various kinds from a nearby crate.

'This is too much to be a coincidence. This failure, this abomination, was no accident. There is an interloper in the depths. I suspect he has begun taking control of the lower levels; if he is given free reign, soon the arcology, then the dominion will be his. Mallberta has not been loved by foreigners; should this interloper prove hostile, the world will fear us. He must be stopped, and stopped now.'

Ambrose finished adjusting his garb and preparing his gear, a heavy utility belt.

'I have a few men left I can spare, but on the whole it will be you and I. Before I had worried you wouldn't accept this task; thanks to circumstance, you have no choice. Prepare yourselves; soon we descend'.

"No," Krowmag said immediately, "we do not have masks."

It was instinctual, his response. In the cities back home, the masses of non-elites, the urban residents, wore masks to protect themselves from the corrosive industrial fumes and chemicals which constantly clung to the streets like hovering gray dung. They were the maskers, the low-born-- like him-- who didn't make it as a suit or a soldier.

He wasn't really insulted. But then it was true. The extensive, protective combat suits and equipment had gone down with the Cutlass.

Hutchinson nearly bumped into him as he stood. Hutchinson was using the eye-visor only; he had no enhancements to let him see in the dark other than what the ITDO gave him. "Watch it there, Hutch," he told Hutchinson.

"Ho," Hutch replied.

Stevens, not bothering with any formalities himself, asks Ambrose. "What's this about our immune systems?"

"Hold up," says Krowmag. "We had protective gear. And a communications system, in the boarding craft. Although command no doubt knows the Cutlass is down, now that we know the situation better, we can head to the crash site, set up a perimeter, lase back and report, salvage what we can."

Stevens was shaking his head. An older, career soldier, he had managed to make it this far by taking less risks and keeping his balls in check by his knowledge. He was far from timid, however, possessing valuable insights that Krowmag lacked.

"We ain't gettin' to that crash site, Kro," he said. "At least not anytime real soon. Too far down, and there's the ah, interlopers in the way."

Krowmag grimaced. So true. "Getting through this means dealing with the interlopers anyway. But the crash site is a good place for us to be heading."

"If those fucking acid-missiles left anything there worth salvaging," Janus said, her voice clearly showing she preferred to go for the enemy's throat and communicate with command later. She looked at Ambrose pointedly, the memory of the disaster fresh on her mind and seeking blame.

"Maybe they did," Hutchinson said vaguely.

Janus responded by tossing Stevens an extra Ortega pistol from her logpack. Stevens caught it deftly, checked the cartridge, holstered it, in one smooth movement.

Kro noticed Ambrose preparing for combat and restrained the urge to re-check his own gear, at least for the moment. "Unless you can think of a better direction, Ambrose. What does your system tell you about the nature of these... bioforms?"

Hutchinson quietly popped another stick of gum in his mouth.

'There's not much to be said/ They are unknown, and thus are either of a random genetic makeup, or are of engineered design. Given that it seems fairly certain there is indeed a hostile conscience below, I would think it is more likely they are of a designed nature. That's all I can say. Perhaps if we descend closer to the breeding chambers I may be able to access local systems, but from here, there is nothing I can learn.'

Ambrose spoke quickly as he distributed black heavy masks to the Santa Barberans, heightened receptors catching faint whiffs of distaste, perhaps irritation, emenating from the three.

'Keep these on. Without their protection, you're destined to first madness, then either incoporation into MALLNET, or death. Not an admirable prospect for your type I would expect.'

Ambrose slipped on a light combat helmet, fitted with a single lowlight enhancement lens. Not much, but better than blindness; though the MALLNET system could navigate him to his destination, providing it hadn't been tampered wtih, it would be utterly useless in combat. Through it, the round room was clearly visible in a grainy monotone green bas relief. Finished arming himself, he turned towards the three.

'Are you ready? We'd best leave sooner rather than later.'

"Very well," he replied, "We advance."

Butifthevirusmutatesorwegetlostweneverfindawaytoevenreportbackletalonegetrescued-

His speeding train of worry was mercifully cut short by Janus, who was complaining. "This thing restricts visual acuity," she said.

Kro shrugged, internally. "Best make the best of it. Just keep a sharper eye out as we proceed and make sure your ass is covered."

"Easy for you to say, the rest of us ain't got augments."

She shifted her rifle, as she slung her logpack off. Stevens and Hutchinson both took a moment to gather the goodies she'd had inside. Equipment was scarce, so they were making do with what they had. Efficiency.

Krowmag studied the spherical chamber, switching from infrared to image enhancement and back again. Ambrose was huge-- the Mallbertans all were. The enemy would surely be larger, genetweaked to all Hell and likely back again. Trying not to think of such things, he stifled a shudder, knowing that he couldn't afford to let cold feet dampen morale.

Yet he was unable to shake off a feeling of impending doom.

Amrbose frowned slightly as he left the chamber, footsteps echoing on cold steel through the humid tunnel ahead. With the small contigent he could spare, and the three foreigners, he had 9 men; 3 of whom were injured. It seemed a pitiful handful with which to penetrate the cancerous depths below. It had been 36 hours since MALLNET collapsed, and at least 12 since the interloper had taken control. Time enough for the one below to rally scattered denizens, time enough to begin production of whatever it was that was growing in the breeding chamber. Still, he knew his duty, and he knew what must be done.

As he approached the ancient elevator shaft, empty and unused for decades, the few soldiers that were to join him emerged from shadows and side corridors without a word, their graceful strides belying their immense size, surrounding both Ambrose and the Santa Barbrans like a ceremonial guard.

Ambrose peered down the square shaft, an old service elevator which descended nearly a quarter mile into the very heart of the arcology. Ten foot square, it seemed a nearly bottomless pit lined with inky blackness and concrete walls. A pair of rusted cables wrist-thick stretched down into the miasma, and a makeshift platform composed of old plaster boards, vent grates and countless other bits of flotsam reached out towards them.

Stepping carefully across this precarious ledge, the first Mallbertan soldier attached a strap to the cables, then clipped it to his armor. With a muted grunt, he leaned backwards, then tumbled into the pit, halting himself perhaps twenty feet down with an ease that spoke of years of training.

The first to drop into the miasma were the Mallbertans, at ease with the eerie environment. Krowmag watched impassively, pointing his rifle generally upwards in a casual stance.

He had no such cables, but like all ITDO his hands were covered with the standard issue silk-thin heavy duty gloves. He felt a mild sense of trepidation at plunging down into the unknown, but dismissed it mercilessly.

"I'll go down first, sir," Stevens said. Stevens, the largest, grasped the thick cable with his meaty hands.

Into blackness he ventured.

tagamundo

The descent was both long and ardurous, and by the time Krowmag could see the bottom in the faint light established by dim safety lamps embedded in alcoves which periodically broke the smooth damp concerte walls. His arms ached, his shoulders ached, and it was small consolation that the Mallbertans seemed as worn out as he, dripping in cold sweat in glancing at eachother with pained, strained expressions.

When his feet finally met the floor, covered in 3 inches of greasy stale water, he nearly collapsed; the others leaned against the walls, chests heaving. Even Ambrose, determined as ever, stopped to catch his breath and rest burning muscles.

A few moments later, the soldiers rose, clicking and grunting at each other in the strange Mallbertan language, crouching staggered, rifles pointed towards the heavy steel door which seemed the only way out of the pit. Hesitating momentarily, Krowmag and his men joined them, as Ambrose sutck a fist-sized eggshaped device to the center of the door, then quickly joined the rest. Seconds later, the strange object began to glow, slowly heating up the door in a luminiscent blaze of light.

Krowmag quickly shut off his infrared sensors as the heat rose, blossoming across his lens. He shielded his eyes a bit as they adjusted, and kept clear of the door which even now boiled and bent and glowed with destruction.

Interesting... he appraised, satisfied with this new weapon in its performance.

Hutchinson idly stepped close. "Some show, huh?"

He replied, "Hasn't even started yet." He checked his belt for the hand grenades, just in case they had somehow left him between now and the last time he looked. The hard-cast plastic exteriors would have made a considerable clatter falling on the ground. The sound would have echoed and reverberated against the damp, grim metal surfaces, travelling through the many small ducts and grates and vents like water from a broken dam.

Ceasing his thoughts wanderings again, he readied himself for the trials ahead, scans concentrating on where the door would surely not be-- peering ahead, eyes and barrel locked.

_multi_

_multi_

The door glowed, heating over the course of a few minutes, then slowly dissolved, melting like plastic in a fire. Bits of metal hissed as they dropped with a slight splash into the grimy oil covered water. By the time the reaction was complete, an irregular hole large enough to squeeze through, smoking slightly, had been opened. From it, cool blasts of air, with a faint metallic scent, wafted out of it, sending shivers down Krowmags spine. THe inky blackness on the other side seemed thick, almost palpable, and seemed as if it would pour through like some sick viscous fluid.

Ambrose pulled a flare from his belt, snapping it into ignition, and tossed it through the opening, lighting the corridor ahead in pale orange glow. He peered through, scanning quickly for movement, before squeezing, twisting his large torso, through, gasping as the still-hot metal quickly heated his carapace to uncomfortable levels.

The corridor stood in stark contrast to those above, a mindnumbing counterpoint to the utilitarian concrete and steel above. Indeed, it seemed more a creation of nature than man; water dripped slowly down strange formations, some of metal, some of plastic, and some of the thick spongy fungus which formed the circuitry of MALLNET. It was like an ancient cave, untouched and forgotten by generations; yet at the same time its symetry and patterns spoke of long deliberation, an infinitely complex tapestry produced by an intelligence bound by man, but ultimiately foreign.



ooc- something like this, though not exactly...
http://w1.871.telia.com/~u87100555/giger/g113.jpg

The corridor gaped ahead of the men, issuing its silent challenge. In his periphery, he noticed Hutchinson shudder, as if from cold. But the air was warm and moist, every bit as live and dangerous a tropical swampland.

"What the hell do these guys have down here, anyway?" he heard Janus whisper.

Not sure he wanted to know the answer himself, Krowmag lead the remainder of his troops through the hole, careful to avoid contact with the heated rim. Once on the other side, he remained in a half-crouch position, instinctively aware that this was, as Command liked to say, a "potential hostiles zone."

Stevens was through, now Janus, and now Hutchinson began worming his way into the unearthly cavern. They found an easier time of it than the larger Mallbertans, and yet the aura of unease clung to the silent group of soldiers.

Kro knew what they felt. It had felt like breaking into the mouth of Hell.

The small band crept carefully down the hallway, which twisted slightly in a manner that spoke of organic growth rather than the planned symetry to be expected is such a facility; the steel grated floor, covered here and there with irregular growths of fungus and occasional scraps of old wire and circuitry was the only element which was obviously constructed. The heavy boots of the Mallbertan soldiers clanged slightly, with a harsh grating sounds which reverberated uncomfortably through the passageway.

Turning a sharper corner, Ambrose, graceful though he was, nearly tripped headlong into a grisly collection: a large pile of bloody bones and entrails were heaped against a side of the well, fluids dripping slowly through the grated floor and into a thick, slow moving fluid which silently flowed below. Bones were gnawed, showing obvious scrapes, and offal coated the area, blood clearly visible on walls, even cielings. The smell was sharp and offesnive, yet the lack of decomposition indicated a relatively recent occurence.

Hutchinson gagged audibly, and Krowmag couldn't blame him. Experienced though they were, the sheer volume and state of the carnage was beyond anything he'd seen before. Jesus... there must be... fifteen, maybe twenty....

The Mallbertan soldiers were clearly nervous, even disturbed; checking ammo and readying rifles, Krowmag recognized a distinct look of fear, even saw sweat on brows. In a way he was comforted: it was the most human reaction he'd seen from any of them.

Ambrose muttered somethin under his breath, then crouched down, touching fingers lightly to blood, checking warmth and consistency.

Warm... whatever did this isn't far gone...

The An-222 flamethrower was, for the more pyrogenically oriented, one of the most "fun" weapons used in training. Sturdy and reliable, the unique gun spewed around 16 bursts of deadly liquid flame. No ITDO soldier was unaware of the sheer power - and danger- of fire. That particular weapon had been retired, of course, but its replacement was found in the hybrid PST-MG that Specific 4th Class Janus carried.

It was this weapon she now checked, looked around herself briefly as if checking for last-minute objections, and pushed a small switch near the trigger. "Switched to flame," she announced quietly.

He resisted the urge to tell her to be careful with that thing. She was OOTG, inexperienced or not, she wasn't stupid. In close quarters the flames could incinerate an entire squad.

Krowmag observed as Ambrose knelt at one of the gory piles, like a hunter, checking the blood for its warmth. He approached him, keeping an eye further down the passageway.

"Looks like we're on the right track?" he asked cynically.

Ambrose looked up, startled by Krowmags voicce which cut through the heavy damp silence like a razor.

'Perhaps... let us just hope nothing is tracking us.'

One of the Mallbertan soldiers examined Janus with obvious intrest; the stubby flamethrower was clearly an unfamiliar piece of equipment. The look of puzzlement was a strange contrast to the generally grim countenance of these warrior. They all looked similar, close enough to be brothers perhaps, and had a mix of features from a variety of back grounds: mocha skin, strong chins, deepset yet slightly almond eyes. Encased head to toe in the black cermasteel Mallbertan carapace, bits of equipment and weaponry in matching tones, they looked a cross of mediaval knight and insect: the general effect was certainly impressive.

The mute observer had little time to examine the AN-222, as Ambrose led the group past the grisly pile of mutilated corpse. They continued down the hallway, noticing a slight downward slope.

Hutchinsons hard boot squishes onto something soft, like a water-soaked potato chip dully crunching. Looking down, he finds a spherical blob of congealed blood and a squarish flap of unidentifiable flesh. He gags uncontrollably, overcome by the disturbing scene.

He is also concerned about the hulking mob of soldiers accompanying them. They look eerily alike, the clear work of fine-tuned, mass genetweaking.

Glancing back at the pile of corpses, Hutchinson wonders what else the Mallbertans had been cooking in their labs-- and how long it would be before they inevitably met.

Krowmags voice, quieter than a moment before when he was talking to Ambrose, is heard again.

"Camfeeds online," Kro orders.

About bloody time. Without hesitation, Hutchinson reaches to his belt and unhooks a small, nondescript rectangular package about 1.5 times bigger than a pager. Pressing two of the sides between his strong forefingers, the camodrone is activated. 6 legs, spider-like, sprout out from the box and a small mass of lights on one end glows with quiet energy.

Janus and Stevens have already deployed one as well. They each are issued several, though Hutch only has three.

Now he will have only two.

He places it on the ground, more out of sensitivity to the reverberating noise of the chamber than concern for the devices safety. Like an obedient pet, it scampers forward down the hall ahead of Ambrose.

Displayed on his left retina like a movie only he can see, the camodrones optical and infrared scanning is relayed in real-time back to him. The camodrone pans its views for him methodically, in a lifelike, almost random nature.

"Camodrones deployed," Hutch whispers back.

[OOC: Think of the spider things in "Minority Report," with a bit more sensor capability directly linked to the soldiers.]