NationStates Jolt Archive

Smile.

That smile, she smiled at me. She smiled at me the broadest she can, and with her deep eyes-- then I stopped, and realized that there was a child beyond her cybernetic body. I couldn't shoot at her, I just couldn't..

The journal ended there, the rest of the page was soaked in blood, arterial blood spray. Beside the journal was the dismembered head of a dead technician, who was putting his last few words into writing. He knew he wouldn't be able to scream to the outside, not with the sound dampeners that were recently installed to prevent another voice modulator incident. Reporter Demka Okinfov knew this was the scoop of the century-- finally exposing the illegal child android warfare experiments that the Black Halo organization had in store in an attempt to carve their names into the government, literally. He was accompanied by Misail Dementiev, who was a little squeamish at the sight of the murder in the laboratory. There was, after all, blood everywhere. The vats on the other end, with children in oxygen lines, didn't help either.

"Is this really necessary? I mean, couldn't we have just been war correspondents from the other side of the world?! This is not only very dangerous but it's sick, and twisted, right down to the bloody core!"

"Shh." Demka made a swift blow at Misail's side with his elbow, "You're making it worse by being so loud. We want to be quiet, you idiot, or else they'd head us and send the androids after us instead."

"Would you stop it with the assassin android nonsense? They don't exist! This is just a pedophiliac mad doctor who found the urge to--"

"Shut up and roll the camera." He dusts his clothing and held a microphone. "This is Demka Okinfov, bringing you live footage on the northwest wing laboratory, where we can see the illegal experiments of the Black Halo organization. On the far right, you can see the vats and the operating tables where the missing children from the recent kidnappings are being brutally converted into cyborgs and androids for assassinations and warfare as you can see here. A technician by the name of Simanka Mitov was eviscerated and beheaded by what seems to be a scy--"

Both of them head a crashing of equipment, at the vats. One of the children broke her vat cell, and is now radiating lightning all over the place. A cloak appears about her, and a scythe falls into her hands. Holographic wings float about her back. (http://www.deviantart.com/view/18663381/) A white glow covers her and she deftly twirls the scythe with an unearthly grace. The child reaper began to advance slowly, hovering over the ground. She smiled at the two men. They always smile.

SHHHHRKK.

AAAAAARRRG----static--

ooc: you are one sick puppy Ren. But it'll be interesting to see where this 'lil death angel goes.

On the snowy streets of the city, a trail of blood began to form on the sidewalk. The death angel began to sing. "Peep me with a chemical scope until the coming of dawn. There are no taboos between us so you may love me anatomically to your heart's desire." She cuts down everyone in front of her, and quite soon she was creating a ruckass. Heads rolled, literally. People fleed from the advancing angel of death. "The whole city is a one huge test site. As soon as you become useless you're promptly erased--" With that phrase, a molotov cocktail exploded in front of her. A punk cheers on the 'direct hit', which was promptly stopped by someone tapping on his shoulder. He turns around to look, and his eyes widened. "So live passionately now while you can."

"Shiiit! Noooo-hrrk!"

The child took particular glee in hacking the punk down into unrecognizable pieces of flesh, bone and blood, right on the street. "In the underground Garden of Eden, the happiness we struggle for is but a mirage." By this time the local police force had finally responded to the hundred or so calls from houses surrounding the massacre, and arrived at the scene to find a sea of blood. Zhadko Nalitnevich was on patrol around the Valkonezh Research Complex earlier when he heard the calls for help and the sound of thunder and screams drowning his radio music. He steps outside his car to take a look.

"Jesus F. Christ." Zhadko went back into his car to grab his CB. "This is unit thirteen requesting backup for a runaway combat android." He closed the car door and began to drive towards the android.

"O' Eve of the Future. The android without tears born of the bones of Mephistopheres; the goddess of corruption. Let me to your your apple, let me taste it, let me bite it, let me sa--sa--sa--"

Zhadko shot the child with his pistol, but it didn't seem to have any effect on her, aside from making her stop singing. "Freeze! I said freeze!"

She stops and looks at the policeman, and smiles. "Let me savour the flavour of sin." She disappears. Suddenly all the radios, CBs, and TVs in the area go into static. Zhadko was stunned, Where did she go? He walked to where he last saw her and blinked. There was no sign of her anywhere. As he looked again, the hand he used to hold his pistol was dismembered. He screamed in agony.

She appeared again, beside him, and cut his head off. "Inside the brains of metal lies a dazzling feeling of ecstacy. It is the memory of the maidens, who died remaining as angels. Nobody can change the fate that's been decided. In those days of slavery under the heel of a heartless god there is no such thing as freedom." She stooped down, and held the cheeks of the head. Forcing a smile on his lips. "The only thing I can believe in is the smiling body lying down here." She tears off his lips, tosses it away and moves on.

She began to float higher, "O' Eve of Ideals the electronic courtesan of repose, the device that manipulates love, that the scientists used up all their skill to create." The policeman's backup arrived, and she systematically began to cut a bloody swath on each of them-- disappearing and reappearing all over the place. The police's IR sensors were jammed, there was no way to track her. Until there was one-- and he fell back as she appeared in front of her. "Catch the snake of temptation, fondle it," She puts the bloody scythe's blade beside his cheek. "Stab it," --SSHHHHKK-- "and let me probe the depths of darkness."

"Whenever you look at me with your eyes the pulse starts to ring inside my ruby heart." Sirens wail-- this time it was the city's SWAT team. They take positions and start to fire at her. She takes a few hits, and disappears again. One of the trained men chucks a smoke grenade, and reveals her location. They began firing at her again, slowing her down, and she swoops down on them to cut down a few of them with one fell strike. "I am Eve, an android who was raised among the delusions of the megalopolis but who still knows no impurity." One of the SWAT team members put a shotgun beside her head, and she stopped to smile at the man. "So please hold me gently."

Finally, the massacre of Neudacha street was over, as the death angel lay on the red snow. The blood was pouring from her head, ironically. The SWAT team members recoil in horror as they see-- what they thought was a fully cybernetic android-- is a cyborg child with flesh and blood.

OOC:
Lovely.

By the way, the song is the translated version of Mirai no Eve, from Avenger. Copyrighted to whoever is responsible for it. The art of Eve, the assassin Angeu, is copyrighted to me.

"Eve of the Future," A shadowed figure said, "born of the bones of Mephistopheres, the android who know tears is a woman in love. Let me to your apple let me taste it, let me bite it, let me understand more of the meaning of life." He throws a scalpel at the video feed from the android, as she was shot.

"Pity, she didn't finish the song." The man smiled very broadly-- a megalomaniac smile.

"She's one of the new prototypes." A unhealthily skinny man in a labcoat presents a different kind of android child to the smiling man. "Angel-9, she will serve well against any psi-corps, and suppressing mobs, infantry, spies. Her psionic potential has been amplified by multiple scalar EM wave emitters, and she still retains most of the abilities of the normal angels-- except she won't have the energy projection drone." This time, a pack of death angels, surrounding the new android child in defensive echelons flew from the Black Halo laboratory in full speed towards a police station-- the one that housed the SWAT that disabled the angel that massacred Neudacha street and took her body in for evidence. The body must not be examined or backengineered. All of them went into cloaking and jamming signals and divided into two teams. They moved in two entry points, they systematically cleared room by room like special operations personnel-- creating a bloodbath within the building. Angel-9 spearheaded the assaults by causing everyone in the entire room to kneel down, hold their heads and scream in agony as they were blasted by thought attacks. They were powerless against such attacks as well as the angels hunting in packs, and thusly were quickly killed. The angels smashed the databases and everything they could find in the building that was related to the angel, then made off with the body itself back to the laboratory.

This was now a matter of national security. The killings were bad enough, but for them to hit a police station systematically, that is a threat that reaches the highest level in the government of any nation.

Renly Callahan blinked as he went over the video tape and paper clippings sitting in the bin marked urgent atop his desk. He was local director of Observations for the in which Zvarinograd sat...and somebody had rightly thought that he might be interested in...this particular goings on.

He popped the tape into the viewer...and almost immediately grabbed up the phone.

"Get me a direct line to the Director. Now."
---

"Please tell me you're joking, Renly."

"I wish to god I was, Harm, but these tapes come from a source who has been utterly reliable in the past."

Harm Coldfist, Director of Intelligence, ran a hand through his close-cut steel gray hair, then nodded slowly.

"Alright. I'll send a team out your way ASAP. In the mean time, for the love of god...don't do anything stupid."

Then he hung up.

Harm took in a deep breath, then tapped in a visaddress on his console, and the firmly indifferent image of His Highness Sir Dysaryn Stark, Heir to the Granite Throne and Warprince of Revenia flickered into existence on his screen.

Dys' image tilted its head to the side slightly, and said, "What?"

Harm relayed an abbreviated version of what he'd been told by Renly, and Dysaryn frowned.

"Killer cyborg child assassins? Psykers? The hell is going on down there? I'd say ask Kral, but this isn't a job for Inquisitors. It also isn't a job for your people. I'd go myself, but I have far too much to do right now, what with Redprice and all. I'll get a team together. Stark out."
---

Reygar Talmirion sat limply in the shock chair as the assault shuttle burned free of the Directorate stealth cruiser's shuttle bay. With him in the shuttle's cavernous troop bay were a unit of faceless NSIC drop troops, as well as a few recognizable faces.

D'rayne Neviros was a devilrunner, and a damned good one at that. Willy MacKae was SONAC, May Lewis was a Directorate cybertech, and the oddest selection for the team...Bren Gage.

He was from the Warprince's personal staff, and one presumed that he knew his way about with a gun...seeing as how he had the little silver pin of the Swordsworn on his collar. But he was officially a diplomat and an Investigator. Note the capital.

Whatever.

Shouldn't be long...

Martial Law

Tanks, mobile anti-aircraft guns, infantry patrolled the streets-- for once everyone even the local mafias and crimelords were happy about it. They were far less vulnerable than the police, which comforted everyone but that didn't stop Black Halo just yet. They've already released the combat model of the death angel-- The Archangel-- which were already patrolling the streets outside the laboratory killng any bystanders and clearing the homes. Black Halo was starting to make the laboratory like a fortress, they were expecting spec-ops to come soon.

Prelude end, Act 1: The Archangel

Screams

I keep hearing screams outside-- the new versions of death angels are abominations of nature. They're faster, stronger, armed with real weaponry, project energy in the form of black lightning and are incredibly tough. The latter gave an example. One of them charged a tank and took a 305mm HEAT shell right in dead center. The child, to the horror of everyone that saw her, kept on moving with a gaping hole in her body. She sliced the tank to pieces, with the crew still inside (butchering them), before squad Alpha came up and gunned her down. She just refused to die-- as she still struggled to move for a few seconds, before finally stopping, falling face first into the snow and exploding. I swear, I'm going to give in my resignation if it gets any worse tha-- no.. NO! AA-- The lieutenant screamed as an archangel ripped open the command APC with her bare hands and took his brains out by punching a hole through his head and skull. She tossed the worthless brains into the snow and shot it with her grenade launcher attachment on her right arm.

Screams.

Screams drowned the Black Halo laboratory compound, as horribly mutated children with far too many cybernetic implants in them mutiliated the soldiers who attempted to raid it. Angeu-4's were earlier models of the Assassins, they had their real limbs cut off and replaced by artificial floating spheres that project energy which served as new limbs. Angeu-5's were unfinished projects, they had long rods sticking out their backs which were supposed to be their primary weapon, but instead that project was scrapped and they were used for slave labor instead. Angeu-6's were Assassins that didn't have the trademark cloak and wings; they had vibroblades instead of the energy scythe that the Assassins had. They do, however, have the rest of the features, cloak, jamming suite, teleportation, gravitic hovering. Angeu-7's were Assassins that didn't have control over their emotions and were just as much a threat to the Black Halo technicians as they are to others-- they were quickly replaced by the Angeu-8's-- present day Assassin-Angeus. Rumor has it that the last Angeu-7 (the one who killed Simanka Mitov) was still out in the streets of the city, probably keeping quiet. He was suffering from severe schizophrenia, however, which made him quite unpredictable.

Screams.

Lovely screams, almost as good as smiles.

Dr. SMILE, as he calls himself (in reality, Ivan Miasnik; Miasnik means butcher), walked outside his laboratory for once. He was the man behind it all, the androids, the kinappings of the children, and the massacre. He designed Angeu-1, which was rejected and got him expelled by the VRC due to cruelty to both the animals he tested on and the child. Mad doctors were allowed in the VRC, but he broke the limit by emotionally, physically and mentally scarring a child for life. The rest of his story went to obscurity. --Sunlight on his eyes once more. It stung him, but he embraced it. The light finally revealed his real body. He looked like an Angeu-4 mixed with an Angeu-6 (rods sticking out from behind, sparking furiously with lightning), only he was an adult. The spheres had fingers, and an odd transparent sphere in the middle which shimmered occassionally.

"Scream for me, heathens, scream!"

(http://www.deviantart.com/view/18732135/)

Insertion was rapid, made directly to Observations HQ, Zvarinograd, a concealed, underground bunker in the midst of the wilderness that is everpresent in all nations. (Aren't Plot Conveniences...wicked?)

Reygar set the NSIC team to quarters and led his command team to the operations room. He leaned over the plotter and turned his head to eye Renly Callahan, his prehensile tail twitching.

"Regional Director Callahan. I am Reygar Talmirion. Gunslinger. Brief me."

Renly nodded, "From what we've got, the attacks seem to be currently centered around this area..."

He pointed out a broad red circle...

"This city seems to be, at moment, the only one affected. They've declared martial law, but from what I've heard...the cyborgs are raping the poor bastards. I...I went out myself for a quick look. Saw one of them with my own eyes. Stupid, I know...but I had to do it."

---Flashback---
Renly stepped back, aghast, as the...thing...came towards him. He groped beneath his jacket, his hand closing around the sabot pistol resting in his shoulder holster, pulling it free. He brought the heavy pistol up, not bothering to sight, relying on instinct and training...

Renly Callahan hadn't always been an Observations desk jockey. He'd spent most of his career in Acquisitions. Field Operations. He never gave the reflexes and muscles the chance to fade, what with his obsessive daily workouts and spending the majority of his rec time on the firing range...

The pistol rose, intersecting a line that terminated in the cyborg's lower torso, the squeezed the trigger, the massive pistol bucked as the robust gravdriver punched the huge 20mm slug into the air. Then the jacket broke loose in two pieces and the penetrator continued along, the integral induction drive kicked in...and the slug, designed to punch holes in light armored vehicles, would try its luck at a cyborg human.

Then Renly ran. He ran with all the speed of a Revenian on Earth, fear and adrenaline fueling his motions. He vaulted into the convertable that was his chosen mode of travel on this planet and shifted the Directorate-commissioned car into gear, then floored the accelerator. The car took off rapidly, quickly leaving the cyborg that Renly wasn't entirely sure he'd killed...behind.
---end flashback---

Reygar nodded, slowly. "So. This thing might have survived a sabot round to the gut. Not exactly encouraging, but I suppose we'll survive. Alright. I'm going to want to move out in a few hours, see if we can capture a live one. In the mean time, let's see what we can do about bringing this place up to spec on defenses..."

So it began.

The cyborgs have become one massive infection in the city-- and it's starting to become an epidemic. There have been reports in the outlying towns of child kidnappings as well as massacre. There have been rumours that the death angels have started to appear in neighboring countries, but none of which could be confirmed. It is becoming obvious that the military could no longer hold the safezones in the city, and have started mass evacuations. A large amount of troops assembled around the city and have started fortifying the area, hopefully to close off the angels completely.

Dance.

Dance for me, sweet Eve, born of Mephistopheres. The original Eve, the one that instigated the massacre of Neudacha street, the first to awaken. She is now several times tougher, faster, stronger and she now has a larger wingspan. Her energy scythe has been replaced by a halberd (made of an unknown substance) with a circular blade and a sword for a 'pike'. She smiles, and disappears-- off to somewhere. Somewhere nice to smile in. She will be my emissary.

Safezone 79

"I'm going to wake up any second now. Please? Please?" She ripped his arms off, then the legs, his entrails, his brains, his heart-- she looked at his heart and took a bite in it. She liked it, the apple of sin, the taste of sin.

The Revenians arrived. This safezone wasn't quite safe anymore. The android children had overrun it's defenses, kidnapping as many children as they can and laying waste to everyone else. The military had been ordered to pull back from the area, and now the archangels ran free among the streets like a mob. As the Revenians stopped abruptly at the scene-- they had to stop, they were blocked completely by the wreckages the angels had caused-- they see a man being butchered into scraps of flesh and bone by a group of android children. His brains and entrails were scattered about, and Reygar seems to have stepped on the man's liver. They didn't have time to get violently sick about the scene, however, because now the Angeu-8's turned their attention to the team. They all collectively smiled at once. A sweet smile.

And they smiled. They always smile.

82 Nautical Miles of the Coastline of Zvarinograd

The fog bank drifted gently above the calm arctic sea, sea birds whirled above is icy dark blue depths and nothing disturbed the sound of gentle waves. Nothing till the unmuted ear splitting roar of sixteen VN230 Samson industries turbo jets slowly began to build. The fog bank was shredded as two huge aircraft wrenched their way through the air carelessly shrugging through the serenity of the scene. The two leviathan dull grey masses of AS-60 StratoRunner Model M transport aircraft were flying at barely 40 feet. Their running lights were conspicuously off, and more than a little electronic chicanery was emanating from the massive underwing ECM pods which shared the huge wings with the VN230’s. Other things also shared those huge wings and now they detached. The elongated sharp winged form of low velocity stealthy recon drones, their wings folded in now one by one detached, for a moment blasted ahead on a tiny rocket booster and then engaged their integral impeller and flicked open their wings.

The aircraft gained height and changed course to a few degrees away from the city, towards their running lights started to blink at the same time the bulky transports drew nearer to the coast they began broadcasting their IFF signal. A radio signal reached out ahead of them.
This is scheduled flight ZI023 and ZI280 to Arkenskaya control requesting landing clearance for two heavies over.

The room was long and alley like, illuminated only by the harsh light of displays and a single shaft of light from the sole window to not be covered over by heavily built racks of equipment. Gary Travers was the co-ordinating electronic warfare officer, at 38 years old he had been in his business under various guises with Int-Sec for over 19 years. Now reclining on his cocoon like chair he stared at the returns from the recon drones in a mix of abject disgust at waste of resources, as with all of grey strike he had long ago been given the ability to purge empathy, he had found this particular “perk” to working for Int-Sec rather useful, he was finding it rather useful indeed as he watched the horror spread out infront of him through the drones senses. Trevors flicked open the internal com system and spoke quietly into his mic. “Sir you better see this.”

Deep within the recesses of StratoRunner the “Colonel” stopped his last minute check of the dark almost insectile forms strapped down within and made his way on the gang ways to the nearest data access panel. Tapping the screen for a few moments and bracing himself against a railing as the aircraft banked the man known by his subordinates simply as the Colonel watched with rapt attention the visuals the drones were picking up, here running figures scythed down by ever growing groups of the targets who’s forms were highlighted with dozens of readings. “Sir I think you should pay attention to this shot, its almost as if it’s a heavy gauss weapon discharge that just isn’t stopping. I’m not sure what were watching, but its not going away, whatever else these Angues were or are they are arcing one hell of a lot of power to create that effect and we have definite short hop translation events monitored”

The Colonel stared unfazed by the slaughter before him but grimacing at the mention of translation and the by the mobility that could offer before replying
“Unimpressive combat to begin with, almost random in pattern then yes real combat occurs ..no not combat .. hunting … hunting patterns to start of with but their learning, and disturbingly fast, the childlike element is ..disturbing tactically ..they play with their targets, this could lead to tactical inconsistencies.”
The Colonel turned around and waved at a person behind him to continue with what they were doing before returning his attention to the console.
“ Commence building a meme net now I want a rudimentary operational model of how they operate before we hit that cities suburbs”.
Suddenly another voice cut over the line. “This is the captain, all personnel stand by for landing positions.”
The Colonel blinked slowly and coldly snapped out a series of orders to the figures behind him then turned once more to the com panel.
“Highlight this on the record and find if we can use the main ECM arrays on these birds to counter that short hop translation, or at least throw it of focus”.

He then snapped the link closed and strode over to a flip down seat on the bay wall.

The duo of aircraft lumbered onward, slowly but surely closing with the military airport and waiting for a reply. As they did this the recon drones angular forms began entering into lazy figures of eight high above the city, almost vulture like in their rapt electronic attention to the bloodletting going on as they threaded their way through the sparse smoke clouds riseing from below. Their smooth sky grey hulls were broken by the opening of a single almost bomb bay shaped canister which began dispensing clouds of tiny needle sized sensor heads. Int Sec would have eyes ...everywhere.

The small, insignificant 'people mover' calmly darted around the Zepplin Manufacturers heavy transports like a dragonfly around a lilypad, dwarfed by said transports enourmity. It contained the full 10 members of the newest squad of Realitainian Siege Infantry, sent out for their first live combat mission. Though obviously going to be somewhat out of place when compared to their ZMI counterparts, they nevertheless had the years of training, and, being members of the main Realitainian race, the natural reflexes and sheer strength to show them through most dangers, hopefully. The tech aboard the transport merely transmitted their request to land almost in sync with the Zepplin Manufacturers one, though seperate from them, they were to meet up once they had touched the ground.

Tagged for later postage.

This is a sick thread. I am going to have nightmares for a week now. *shudder*

Heathens

Heathens. More heathens dare to stop you, Mephistopheres. It is time to pull in the endgame. Dr. SMILE licked one of the Assassins on the neck-- he was a pedophile, if that wasn't obvious already-- and touched her cheek. "Death to the heathens. Exterminatus to all."

"ZI023 and ZI280 you are clear to land on runway sixtee-- HRRK" Various noises were heard from the communication, noticeably the sound of energy scythes going through necks and bodies. A loud crash soon followed, ending the communication in static. From visual, the control tower's windows seems to have been painted red. The Angeu's are already here. A psychic voice called out to everyone in the aircraft. Such a warm welcome, don't you think? We love tourists so much that we're giving you a chance to die as least painfully as possible. Angeu-8’s stormed through all the runways, and some started to hover up to the aircraft in an attempt to slice through it’s hull and massacre everyone inside.

Khodakv; town, northwest of Arkenskaya

“Fuck!”

Mitro Khodets, construction worker. As he was demonstrating the finer points of using a crowbar skillfully on nails to his coworkers, an angel roamed across the town murdering everyone she met. By the time he heard the screams and turned around, she was in front of him. Smiling. Of course, up until now he’d never believed the TV news on cyborg death angels overrunning the city—it was too wild to believe—it was just surreal. Instead of screaming and running away, he attempted to hit her with the crowbar with all the Gordon Freeman he had in his character.

He missed.

His head slid off his neck, his chest slid off the base of his lungs, his torso slid off his waist. The rest of his lower half was cut in two. It was almost cartoon-like in nature, but then cartoons didn’t involve entrails and blood violently scattering all over the place. He, like many other citizens from the surrounding towns found that there were sleeper cells in makeshift laboratories—in abandoned factories and warehouses all over the country. The epidemic wasn’t spreading, it was already there; to the startling realization of the government.

"My lord..." the stooped cybornetic form wheezed, it's voice sounding like it might have been human once, but was now too cold and mechanical to be authentic. "We have reports that the nation of Zvarinograd has fallen into chaos, with strange robotic children slaughtering everyone..."

King Valdim looked up, a little pertrubed at this. "Bizzare. But what does that have to do with us? This Zvarinograd did not express any interest in us, why should we reciprocate?"

"Lord... these cyborgs appear to be very advanced, even more so then my new form..." he stood up straight, indicating the pressed steel that was now his skin, the cold metal that made up his body, "If we could perhaps capture several, after killing them, we might have a valuable source of technology..."

This brought a light to Valdim's eye. "Hmm... I agree with you there, Lord Gorgolaen. Take a squadron of my Praetorians; they should serve you well if the situation is as bad as you say... and bring back some of these robots for study."

The tall cyborg nodded, and turned to assemble his squad.

"And Frederick..." the King called, before the lean 'man' was out of hearing. "Do bring yourself and my men back in one piece?"

"Yes, my lord..."

The Atheist's Reality

Awaken. The cloaked liger cub looked at the Realitainian, then she smiled. Suddenly-- the trademark energy scythe, floating wings and black halo of the Angeu-8 appeared. Lovely my dear-- Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moves upon the earth. Amongst fur and flesh, was blood, bone and intestines, and it spilled all throughout the town. A large claymore with an intricate hilt, shining white but sparking black lightning, floated over the town, death angels--both human children and liger cubs-- now guarded the town. So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life. Dr. SMILE enjoyed twisting biblical references. And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. A new laboratory was built in the town, one that would produce many more death angels.

"Is it dead?" A Realitainian siege infantryman and his companions poke an Angeu-10 lying in a pool of blood with her eyes closed. "Is it really dead?"

One of them replied. "I don't know, piss on it and see if it moves."

The others chuckled, but he was particularly clueless. "Get outta here, then." He gestured for them to give him privacy. The others went away in different directions, snickering and chuckling at the guy. "Alright, here go--AACK." With one swift motion, his chest was cored and his heart was ripped out with his aorta pumping out blood like a firehose. Two others heard him screaming and came back inside. They inspected the now dead body and found blood was dripping down from high above them. Their heads were lopped off. Elsewhere, the remaining seven in the group were killed as a swarm of death angels danced around them. One by one, they were brutally maimed and mutiliated. When in Rome, do what the Romans do. So does that mean Angeu's have to hunt and murder like lions, isolating their prey, in Realitainian?

Angeu-11

Why?

The universe's conundrum, so long have humankind searched for the meaning. It is a question that we as humans, imperfect, have left to religion. Human logic, if something is not true, is it false? If a question that we can find no real answer to-- is answerable by the unreal? Dr. SMILE enjoyed such questions, so much so he created Angeu-11. The real cyborg with seemingly unreal capabilities. Of course, it isn't really magic, but then humans are an unenlightened species. Indeed, it set out, cards fluttering around it like hornets guarding their nest. He seemes to be somewhat translucent, and projectiles go through him as if he was a ghost. However the lightning he commands is very real, and fried a squad of infantrymen into a charred pungent flesh and meat with black-greenish boils forming around what remains of their skin.

(http://www.deviantart.com/view/18811841/)

When the transport finally discovered the Angeus approaching it, an 8 had already latched onto the side engine pod, and said transport only had enough time to fly high enough to avoid any more Angeus related destruction than immediately necessary.
As the 8 tore into the left engine pod several of the soldiers inside pushed open the side hatch and leaned out, aiming for a shot to take out the cyborg, however difficult that might be for normal men, along with the added stress of staying put and breathing when they were so high up.

The Atheist's Reality, Angeus afflicted town.

It took some time for the infection to be discovered, given the very nature of the town, as spread out as it was, though once the survivors put two and two together, they fled as fast as their furry legs could carry them. Soon after, the Realitainian equivalent to roadblocks were set up, and the standard measures were taken to seal off the town to prevent any Angeus escaping, and more importantly, to attempt to discover where they were originating from, though the authorities had few clues at that point.

OOC: gah, quick and dirty posting.

HMS Mildlike
"TEEEEEEEN-SHUN. CAPTAIN ON DECK!"
The wind flapped the assorted headwear of the Navy SEALS platoon - panama hats, helmets, bandanas, sometimes nothing. Lieutenant James Waymann (http://www.sirall.com/MetalGear/Data/MGS2_charaktery/Pliskin.jpg) stood to attention fast, as the SEALs Captain Maynard strolled out onto the back deck where the UH60 was waiting. The M4 slung over his back was packed full of equipment; primarily noticable was the huge 8" bore shotgun attached to the below of the barrel, with a top mounted laser sight.

"At east!" he barked. The SEALs responded with a general slackening of posture.

"What I am about to tell you is information above Echelon 1. What I am about to ask you to do is almost suicidal. Two days ago, a swarm of death angels was let loose upon Zvarinograd. Chaos rules. The city of "X" was overrun shortly. Normally not our business, y'know. But there is someone VERY important to us, and most importantly, to our leader in that city. His daughter, Maria Anna Dorsal of Hogsweat is, or was, on a diplomatic mission to Zvarinograd. She is in the embassy; and she is still alive. How, we're not sure. But as you can guess, our mission is to get in there and get her out. As the city is crawling with these things, we're not exactly.. going to be on our own."

The captain's speech was timed right - pretty much right after he spoke overhead the whizzing noise of two AH64 longbow's cut through the air as they flew towards the capital. Trailing behind them, the five slower V22 osprey's packed with marines. As the destroyer next to the HMS Mildlike took off it's two black hawks with Navy SEALs on, the HMS Mildlike's SEAL complement began to climb aboard and fly off..

HOT LZ! HOT LZ! The report was brief but flashed over the the strike groups tac com sub nets like wildfire.

The flight deck of ZI023 was for a moment filled with a brief brake in its nearly constant hum of conversation between the members of the flight crew. ZMAF Captain Andrew Summers on temporary attachment to Grey Strike however had no hesitation in his voice when he spoke and no tremble in his limbs as he acted.

ZMAF when designing the original military variant of the AS 60 officially called the AS60 Model (M) had stressed above all else survivability. Grey Strike and Int-Sec had demanded some modifications to the basic AS 60 (M) for some specific purposes.
To these purposes the flight combat crew were now to be put.
The flight combat crew were in truth nothing but a unification of bombardier, gunner and drone commander positions. It came to action as Summers orders lashed out in a steady low voiced torrent. ZI023 slowly began to make its way into the first of the Angue’s rising from the icy tarmac.

AS60’s were truly huge aircraft, massively over engineered and rugged but not lumbering, the model M was ridiculously overpowered to start with. Int – Sec technicians had done considerably more to that. The model M grey strike modification could fly on only two of their eight power gulping ion compression air breathing turbo jets. It was these jets who’s huge reverse thrust now kicked in as the aircraft came into landing, massive gouts of raw blue white flame arching forward of the vast aircraft’s wing’s like the spread primary feathers of a huge predatory avian.

Though far from standard practice amongst other things the AS60 was designed to in extreme conditions “carve” its own runway. The devices to blast boulders, trees, and on one occasion some four years ago a barn now swung into action. The forward pop down turret main body mounted “runway sweeper” twin medium tri barrel usually the primary mount on an infantry fighting vehicle whined out a stream of burning high energy death that would crisp organic life but leave the hard tarmac surface of the runway untouched into the swarms of what were once innocents.
Now a selection of circular breaks in the vast grey wall of the aircraft’s hull hissed open and small gun pod mounts whined as their servos moved them to position on silicon lubricated sponson limbs. Rapid fire heavy needlers designed to be the transports last line of defence started spitting out glowing blue lines of tazer cell equipped 3mm needles.

ZI023’s wing racked weapon systems now began to unleash fire upon this warped images of what had once been children. Light combat hover drones still in their under wing deployment cradles opened fire using main aircraft power with the probing slashes of ultra violet anti personnel lasers while their impellers began to wind up. Then in the far away flight deck a flight combat operations officer sent a implant linked message to a combat system agent. The hyper velocity close defence multi purpose missiles were in under wing mounted weather proofed pods which surrounded their simple quad racks. These pods thin plastic shattered as the deadly missiles streaked out, one bound for the control tower, the rest targeting the wide swathe of military airport buildings their huge metre long titanium boron penetrator darts in some cases already pealing of to engage individual targets.


Summers winced as red lights spread across the ample panels infront of him and a simple digital voice started speaking “IMPACT ENGINE FOUR” “AUTO SHUTDOWN CYCLE ENGAGED” . Just children Summers thought sickened as one of the rear cameras picked up the pitiful remains crossing his rear optic pick ups before it suddenly went dark. More read outs spread. Hull integrity breaches at multiple points, the sponson guns were now engaging targets at Summers blinked point blank range.

Sergeant Matthew’s (32) was a grey strike veteran, with over a decade of combat experience and a father of three. At present he was the NCO of the Scuttler maintenance squad and as such in the rear equipment bay with the Colonel. Shouting at one of his subordinates who was still on his feat to “Damn well check that bolt mount again” he never had time to do more than stare incredulously as a three foot long blade sliced through the relatively thin wall of the aircraft and the kevlar sack full of counter kinetics fire suppressant gel below his wall mounted seat. The blade neatly scliced at a slight angle up through his left leg, cutting through his supposedly ultra dense enhanced skeletal structure with ease. By this time Matthews implants were already whining up his battle screen, far far too late, and infact only making the ordeal slower for the unfortunate sergeant as the blades motion slowed down in the flickering flare of his personnel battle screens start up sequence. He began to scream, as more of his implants began to cut of blood flow and pump shock suppressants through out his system. The blade slowly exited the top of his thigh, Matthews sense of time now slowing as combat drugs took effect to watch as it passed through his synth fabric armour “mini skirt” and entered his groin now changing angle, curving upwards, the blade seemingly vibrating in time with the passage of air he could feel through the kevlar sack behind his head. His eyes watched in horror as the dissected section of his leg simply fell away. The blade moved ever upwards, sometimes snagging on an internal link between one of Matthew’s legion implants, then cruelly slowing down as it began to slice through both his hard “jackets” chest plate and his implanted sub dermal reinforcement. It would enter what had been his left lung to begin its now incredibly slow way to his heart. As it did blood vessels sealed shut as smart coatings synthetic muscles clamped them. Matthew’s implants had been designed to give him maximum survivability. All they did in this situation was provide time. Time to feel above all pain and horror, but also regret and love. Even as the dark red stain spread across the aircraft’s deck and the stutico roar of the heavy weapons began to reverberate from outside the hull Mathews looked up and saw relief. The Colonels dead grey eyes stared deep into Mathew and a point to point laser com snatched into his ocular implant data pick ups.
Now Sergeant?
End it and tell her I
The Colonels neural stripper pistol whined as it cycled his synth armour great coat now billowing from the rents in the hull. Mathewws last sight was one of horror the other side of the compartment, the three men seated next to the Colonel had apparently bean wrenched from their seats as soon as the blades started to enter it, four more had not been so lucky their mangled forms parts now sliding across the slick gang ways to fall down amongst the insectile legs of the Scuttler drones while arterial sprays of blood arched high into the huge cargo chamber. More men must have been firing their energy pistols through the hull, the familiar shades of lightening like flashes of Samson Mk.12s giving the colonels flaling winter weather coat an eerie back light. Mathewws had a brief moment to watch as the ignition spark of the stripper activated before a wash of blue light. Then darkness.

The personnel carrying section of the ZI023 did in many ways much better. Its seats were mounted passenger aircraft style, but away from the walls wich were covered in equipment. Apart from its Spartan layout it was actually quite well apointed. A lack of windows and its thicker armour did much better against the onslought. Those extra seconds that it took the blades to cut through the thicker armour, the fact the troopers backs were not literally against the wall and that they could here and if they wanted see what was going on in the rear bay all led them time to open fire. The choice of weapon varied from the familiar utilitarian Dual channel Samson Mk.12 to the whine of Flechette rifles. The results were effective. Sometimes a blade would stop moving, sometimes it would withdraw to only start cutting again in another point. At other times faint almost pathetic cries could be heard over the wind roar through the holes now blasted in the hull. All in all fifteen of the men in the personnel compartment would die in that brief combat.


ZI280
ZI280’s mission was far simpler, it had never intended to land, and wouldn’t. its missiles joined the flame and destruction around ZI023 but its guns stayed silent as headed not for the runway but high over it and still at full speed. Its huge wake pushing anything that came near it away. Its layout was far different to ZI023. No personnel compartment and its wings were bereft of light combat drones. It had other things to be carrying. The rear door was open and light shone into the night. The first Dragoon hover tank dropped out of that door its impellers whining. Even as it half glided, half fell to earth under its own power its cameras and sensors began to integrate with the second tank in the “armour” chalk. As with all Grey Strike equipment it was heavily modified from its standard military brothers. Namely twin small electron compression jets augmented its impellers, an upgraded electronic combat and sensor suite, and the disturbing off grey frag packs augmented the Flechette tube units inset into its armour plate. As its brothers fell, they too began to orient themselves to the combat environment, their two man crews already bringing their turrets to bare and loading the chemical reactor end of the main recoilless chemical cell “power pack” based X ray laser armament much as their predecessors had loaded shells. Their fire control systems began to autonomously arm and spin up the in turret twin .50 ETC miniguns and each tanks individual “turret top” mounted weapons modules sub sentient control systems began to speak of death.

ZI023
ZI023’s massive undercarriage hit the runway, the huge sets of wheels and hydraulics whining under the strain of her bulk. Her once pristine grey hull was now a mess rent with sharp torn cuts, scorched black, and marked with the remains of less savoury things. Over half her sponson mounted heavy needlers were either smoking ruins or just gone, the remaining mounts however were still blasting away as the huge aircraft’s reverse thrust flashed snow and ice and anything unfortunate enough to be in its way to steam and ash. The “runway sweeper” turret however was still intact and still plying its deadly trade into the nearest moving targets. The light combat drones at last released before the huge craft slid to halt had begun to fan out around it, UV lasers probing what were obviously corpses and the still living. The aircraft finally ground to a halt, three of its engines sputtering and one simply just gone. The rear cargo bay door slammed open and the first mechanical leg thumped into the concrete. Almost insect like the Scuttlers two by two walked out. Then a deep rumble emanated from the belly of the aircraft. The Wolf had awoken.

As the helicopters and VTOLs neared the city, a cold eery silence filled the air. All that could be heard was the whizzing of helicopter blades and a slight noise from a distance - of which could not be made out. the two escort apaches quickly realised the danger of the situation, when just before they were about to hit the city two very large heat signatures flashed up on IR sensors. Without taking any precautions, the first apache pilot set in a dial of commands and pulling back on his ttrigger two SIDEWINDER air to air missiles leapt out of the specific pods and streamed towards the unknowning Angeu; knocking it dead out of the sky.

"Super Six Nine, target down - over"

Super Six Eight did not respond.

"~~~What' the hell is ~~ super six eight is going down, repeat, super six eight is ~ Dance for me, sweet Eve, born of Mephistopheres."

"What the fuck? Super Six Eight, respond, Super Six Eight respond~"

Super Six Nine's pilot glanced over.

"Shit."

He didn't know how they got the jump on him. In the middle of the sky, floating in front of him where two angeu's. They looked sweet, almost cute. The smiles were enticing.

But not too enticing.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKERS!"

the 30mm chaingun autotracked as Super Six Nine held down on the trigger furiously, high explosive armour piercing rounds spitting out from the six barrel autocannon and impacting on the Angeu's, ripping straight through them. Huge holes were bore tearing "flesh" and "bone" so as a hole was visible through the angels of death.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Super Six Nine pulled back, hitting his altitude as the helicopter rose rapidly. One of the angeus swept by, blade screeching against the armoured apache , sparks flying out from broken wires and electronics and scratched metal and paintwork. Super Six Nine swung left and the angeu slipped, but gained a foothold again, trying to slice through the thrice reinforced windshield. Super Six Nine's pilot watched in horror as the angel sliced through the windshield - the reinforced material cracking, the blade stopping and the, the angel slumping on the front of the apache and sliding off to make a hole in the snow below. To the left of the apache, the 50 calibre rifle of SEAL sniper Delt Mcmannigan gleamed in the dull sun. Sniping was an art, and even more so from a moving helicopter. The pilot of the apache waved a thanks to the SEAL sniper and began to move ahead with the mission.

"Wait a second.. wasn't there-"
Before he had time to warn the convoy of transports, the gunship pilot watched heplessley as an Angeu popped up next to the blackhawk.

It smiled. The astonished SEALs had no clue what to do. Except that is, for Corporal Henderson; his huge M60 raised, the plucky corporal firing off round after round from the huge squad rechambered machine gun, the 9x19mm slugs making dozens of rathjer large holes in the Angeu's torso; however the recoil of the gun pushed the helicopter to the side, and the ANgeu fell through the helicopter suddenly as the latitude tipped. Henderson, watching as his gun slipped down the black hawk into the blackness below, grabbed for dear life. He was rewarded with a wire; a strong heavy rope that they would use to absail. Three fellow SEALs leant over to pull him up, while Lieutenant Waymann, shouldering his rechambered M4, fired away at the angeu, slug rounds doing just as much damage as the M60 did. Finally, as they hauled Henderson onto the black hawk, he let out a huge scream; blood spraying out into the holding deck of the helicopter as his arteries and internal organs wailed with gore and slippy red mess. His waist downwards had been neatly sliced off, straight through the bone.the SEALs, recoiling in horror, let go of the man as the Blackhawk righted itself, Henderson's head and torso falling off to the splattering below. Clattering his M4 aside, Waymann whipped out his .60 calibre desert eagle, blasting at the angeus as two SEALs ran to his side, unstrapping their benellis and at once blasting in the air, knocking the angeu down and spiralling to the ground floor.

The Vulture-class dropship was a fairly plain vehical, designed to carry a platoon of twenty-five men in relativly spartan conditions, and deploy them into a hotspot. Major development of aircraft had been a major item stemming from the Long War, with the King determined to refit the army to fight modern wars. On this trip, the passanges didn't, in theory, take up as much space as a full platoon; there were, after all, only eleven of them. But each Praetorian was easily twice the size of a standard trooper, and Gorgolaen was no small figure himself. Thanks to a mid-air fueling and the replacement of the wing-mounted rocket pods with more sensible drop tanks, the mid-range transport was able to reach Zvarinograd safely. From miles away, the crew could pick up the heavy combat occouring in and around the cities; wisely, they landed a fair ways out in the middle of nowhere and concealed their ride. Securing local tranport wasn't too difficult, but they all knew the streets would be a killing field.

"Captain," the tall cyborg wheezed, hunched over in the back of the large truck they'd comandeered. "Stop us well short of the city. We'll proceed in on foot." His blank, expressionless eyes, little more then red coals set into the slim robotic face, looked over his men. "We must gain access to their sewer system. Our reports suggest that these cyborgs require a great deal of space to operate at their peak, while your Praetorians do not. Agreed?"

"Yes, my lord. We'll be ready," came the clipped, slightly static-tinged reply form the captain's microphone, the internal coms kicking in to allow the unit to use thier radios without fear of being heard.

They performed a finally equipment check as the truck rolled to a halt; it was showtime.

A wheel with one end of a small intestine nailed to it starts to turn, reeling in more intestines from the still conscious screaming man who--incidentally--is also having his skin skillfully torn from his body by a playful cyborg child and her trusty energy scythe. If he doesn't die of shock, severe hemorrhaging will get him. So Dr. SMILE spent the man's last few agonizing minutes of life talking to him even though he knew the man's mind was deaf from the excruciating pain. "You know, special operations intelligence is run by idiots, I don't know why we even call them 'intelligence'. There you are, coming in from the sewers, then suddenly you are surrounded by death angels. You know why?" The man screamed violently as the wheel turns faster. "Oh, pardon me, I thought you knew. Oh well." The man, by the time Dr. SMILE finishes talking, is now dead. The doctor orders the angel to finish up taking apart his other organs, and the child complies by snapping aside the man's ribs and digging in her hands (in gloves) to hold and cut off from the body-- the liver, the lungs, the spleen (a very squishy spleen at that) and other organs of the body. Taking the heart was particularly messy, as cutting the not-so-empty arteries and the veins let blood loose all over the table. Although, the doctor didn’t mind how messy his servant worked or how sickening the scene was, he actually enjoyed the show. You may think that he was once the sort of child that loved squishing bugs as a hobby, and you know what?

You’re right.

Enough of that, for now.

Arkenskaya

On far end of the runway was a particularly odd sight, a line of death angels with a ‘drummer’ (actually, a keyboard), a standard bearer and an officer. The angels twirled and prepared their scythes in fadeout, from the first line to the last, then they disappeared in the same manner. The fighting began.

Two children, one that didn’t have his scythe. He had his eyes closed, and his cloak was fluttering to the left with the polar wind. However, that one child simply looked at a falling tank and suddenly it’s components and hull tore apart from each other, leaving two men in a freefall down to earth—screaming. Their bodies smashed, unfortunately, on the clear runway pavement and exposed bone and blood. He was a psyker-child, Angeu-9. The other child was particularly armored, and had a energy halberd instead of a scythe, she slowly put the halberd to a horizontal position and speeded down the runway (remember, they float on gravitics), like a knight with a lance. She was a combat Angeu, Angeu-10. Even as the miniguns, the runway clearer and the needlers were trained on her and gunning her, it seemed that they just bounce off her. They needed to slow her down first, which was hard given that she started slicing up the drones like a mad child in the land of bugs with a huge sledgehammer. As the assassins regrouped with her, it became increasingly hard to at least hold her still. Then it happened, she was shot repeatedly at close range with a fletchette gun on the chest armor, which had already withered away by the continuous fire.

His psych broke, and awakened. He saw her twin sister die.

The psyker cyborg child cried. He started running towards her, screaming ‘Maya! Maya! Sister!’. He held her hand, and he too was shot. So it ended, and the brother and sister left hell for heaven.

The Atheist’s Reality

Silence.

The town sinks of dried blood and rotting corpses, but it is quiet. Nothing is moving, the angels just simply stopped. They seem to stand still like statues in various positions. Their eyes remain still, emotionless, iris less. Is there something wrong, my Eve?

A shot from one of the soldiers cannons hit the left side of the Angeu, exposing flesh and machine, all melded into one twisted body. The cyborg was not to be put off, however, and hacked and sliced its way into the engine, and then suddenly...boom...the entire left wing was gone, and the aircraft was spiraling down towards the runway, a mess of flames and billowing smoke.
The soldiers inside locked themselves into place, gripping what weaponry they could, which included, of all things, a quad heavy flak cannon, almost breaking the limit of 'man portable weapon'. But these were no ordinary flesh and blood felines. Each costed The Atheist Reality more than a capital ship would, and as they were designed by Zepplin Manufacturers, were far stronger than their already immensly strong brethren. They -were- going to survive hitting the ground, however, being one hundred percent operational was still in question, and crash landing into an airport full of murderous augmented children is very, very bad for anyone, cyborg giant cat or no.

Angeus afflicted town, The Atheist's Reality.

The police waited at their 'roadblocks', shivering and nervously clutching their weapons. A sizeable force was to move into the town, and investigate these twisted monstrosities that were once their children, that had now fallen silent for some odd, and deeply unquieting reason. And from under the shade of a nearby tree, a young women in, of all things, purple armour watched and waited, humming a little tune.

When the angels came the cacophony of fire that reached out to them came mostly from the light hover drones. The simple metre wide disc shaped sub sentient sentinels had just moments to attempt to target the moving blur of destruction that was the Angue-10 and even less engagement time with their light anti personnel UV lasers. Coolant had just begun to drift out of their vents when the first was smashed to shards its impeller unit giving of one final blue spark before it hit the icy tarmac with a dull mechanical crunch. Eight of its brethren would swoop in to assist its efforts, some attempting to get into range to use their tazer spike and all would fail one blasted to sparkling mildly radioactive chunks by an errant blast from the runway sweeper. Now it was the first two Scuttlers turn. Two and half metres high and weighing 4 metric tons the Scuttlers power cores were however still just warming up, their anti personnel UV laser rack useless and two 10mm micro hellbores still as ice cold as their refrigerated ammunition. Their heavy underslung squad support mounts however were far from inactive. The rotary Flechette rifle on the Scuttler just exiting the rear cargo bay began its rapid burps while the second opened fire with a heavy 40mm grenade launcher, who’s rounds never quite caught up with the destructive blur aproaching them. Two of its legs were simply sliced through and with a heavy almost concrete cracking thump it hit the ground. The second Scuttler however kept on firing, the flash of the smashed Dragoon hover tanks power core detonating and the call of “Maya! Maya! Sister!’ not effecting its constant stream of huge tungsten iridium Flechette’s. As the bloody dart filled remains of the siblings lay slowly cooling at its feet its top turret for the first time moved. The only moveing object left on this end of the aircraft it prepared itself as the remaining Angue 8s closed upon it the world went white for just a moment while a great roar filled the air.

As sight returned twin flaming arcs of burning tarmac were now in front of the remaining standing Scuttler. Its micro hellbores had spoken their first dreadful thermonuclear judgement upon the remaining advancing Angues and now it was truly powered up. The Scuttler moved careless of the charred corpses its crude legs waded through or delicate devices within that they crushed. Quite literally scuttling over to the fallen tankers the first was read as dead on impact. The second however had numerous shattered bones, and was internally hameroging inside his left leg with massive external trauma on both legs and his left upper arm. The Scuttlers simple medical program acted and even as the medical team inside the aircraft begain to body bag and freeze the remaining intact heads of the unfortunate temporarily dead and care for the remaining wounded its simple mechanical field surgery equipment did its brutal duty, first with a simple anaesthetic dart while it applied multiple tiny monitor packs then a constant flashing UV strobe began to sterilise the area while sterile foam washed the wounds. After a moment of deep scanning and modelling the hissing burn of a cauterising close use utility cutting laser could be heard. Finally a spray of combat hard sealant and the rough and ready amputation was done. It may take a few months before new legs could be grown but they would be. The second pilots grey matter however was seeping out of the back of his smashed helmet. The Scuttler drone lowered itself down, its still cooling rotary Flechette rifles barrels hissing as they hit the snow before it linked its power system to the pilots combat suits smashed systems and started to act as nothing more than a glorified air heater. Its brethren now fully deployed spread up to take the place of the smashed light hover drones as still more of their dislike forms hissed out from under the massive transports wings and began to check the aircraft’s damage.

Wolf
I begin to awake. I am DTR-2380 “Dieter” A Wolf Model 8 Heavy Main Battle Auto Tank of the ZMDF Tank Corps 123rd Armoured Brigade. I have been attached to Int-Sec for the past 8 years of my operational life time four of those spent in the diverse services of Grey Strike and have seen active non wartime combat on 18 occasions. Unlike my brethren I have had extensive processing and capacity upgrades to allow me to operate alone and with full sentiency and heavy internal security protocalls. My position in Grey Strike allows me a level 23 security access, rare for an AI of my official low order of intelligence however in actual fact I rank as a class 4 combat AI and have relied on my official low level to lull possible suspects into a sense of false security on many occasions. Though as stated my intelligence rating is officially low I do however qualify for citizenship and therefore rank and award as the awards upon my main turret will attest to. As a Tanker 1st class who is also a tank I have many advantages over my human compatriots. Not least that the Wolf Heavy Main Battle Auto Tanks lack of personnel space allows for far more armour and armament weighing in at a total of 178 tons with three separate drive trains and an ancillary impeller drive which lowers my mean displaced weight down to a paltry 148 tons and my lack of need for such things as biological support systems or air intakes. Powered by dual Verdion Industries pulse disint reactors I do not require fuel however I do still require ample supplies of weapons coolant and 8 separate types of lubricant.

I now fully gain what can be only termed “conciseness” be it ever so artificial in nature.
My surroundings baffle me for a moment, the damaged body strewn bay of an AS-60, the odd damage pattern baffling me, had we crashed? My hard holographic memory crystal initialises and my mission information data base is released to me. I now know the form of the target. My forward optic sensors immediately pick up the unique flash of twin DNC-systems 10mm Micro Hellbore and I raise myself to full combat awareness before my entire distributed sensor suite has finished its self diagnostic and start up routines as I request a sitrep update from the Colonel. A rather unique enemy my personality shards look forward to not only engaging their unconventional forms of attack but also putting them out of their misery and dealing justice do those that did such to innocents. From the recorded last telemetry transmissions of the light hover drones I garner a respect for their energy scythes. They will not find however my augmented battle screen or synth alloy war hull so easy to penetrate. I worry greatly about the speed and agility of the young female target however, its capacity to far transcend the basic physical limitations of the human body would allow it to dodge a direct hit from my main gun, a Scapa Holdings Mk.XXIV 18 centimetre Hellbore . My twin rotary 40mm Sydian Systems ion streamer secondary batteries usually tasked to counter drone/ power armour suppression and my anti personnel/point defence needlers still have sufficient traverse speed to engage it but may be lacking in sufficient fire power to guarantee an instant kill. My rear mounted integral rottary VLS system is out of the question, with the time to target far to long to be of any use for anything more than counter measure, decoy , sensor head or mine deployment. I worry less about the pskyer, unlike my non sentient Dragoon brethren and their unfortunate pilots as long as my battle screen holds I should be safe from such as he and I have yet to my eternal thanks to my designers to meet an organic sentient who can out produce the energy created from my reactors.

I look through the advancing Scuttlers pick ups across the corpse littered runway, the mechanical and the flesh running together. As the Scuttlers views pan I now see the loping forms of Grey Strikes assault teams from the front of our somewhat battered transport emerge. Their personnel battle screens eerily flickering and distorting their forms as they advance under the Scuttlers watchful eyes to take up their positions as mounted infantry upon the hulls of the dragoons and then begin with the backup of the Scuttlers to advance towards the airports now somewhat tattered buildings the brutal snouts of heavy neural strippers, ramjet rifles brakeing through the skin of their battle screens. A few carry the long barrels of anti armour single shot hellbores emerging from their distorted forms along with the tinfoil like flash suits. After briefly ordering the Scuttlers out of my path I retract the cargo clamps holding me to my emergency drop pallet ( a system that to my detriment I am never pleased to use as it nearly always deals me multiple sub systems failures and on one occasion a cracked drive train unit upon landing) and engage all three of my drive trains. As I rumble out of the compartment my chemical sensors pick up the distinct “scents” of coppery blood and stinging ozone that dominate ZMI warfare overrun with the sickening stench of scorched human flesh all against the background of re freezing water vaporised by the brief but brutal combat. The colonel halts the Dragoons and orders the dismount of the Grey Strike assault infantry 400 metres from the buildings and then flash sends me a simple order after he recieves the confirmation that the dragoons deep scanners have swept the buildings for remaining untainted non target human survivors. I am not privy to that information and have not been ordered to deploy my own deep scanning systems. The flash order is simple and one I have been issued many times before.
“Raise it. All of it.”
My turret traverses as I comply and bring my main gun to bare upon the smoking shattered control towers base and the central mass of the airports structures and send the flash warning as my own more delicate optic sensors retract. Coolant and energy flow as a 9 kilo steel jacketed round containing a near absolute zero slush of cadmium and hydrogen are loaded into my main barrel. I briefly check the possible wind effect and mark it as negligible to my weapon. With a racking radio choking blast of electromagnetic energy my projectile reaches 0.003 of C in 0.0038 of a second and the main guns integral laser array spins it at over 380,23 RPM while heating it to some 3 million degrees centigrade. It detonates with the power of 380 metric tons of TNT some 80 feet inside the building after leaving a shattered wave of concrete and debris in its path, the radioactive flash causing the assault infantries battle screens to flare as a gout of superheated thermonuclear flame engulfs the middle of the targeted structure so fast that the concrete façade didn’t have time to disintegrate before it was rent apart. As the shockwave reaches them the assault infantry crouch, their internal impellor systems obviously flareing as do those of the dragoons and the ground shakes even as my treads slam back under my weapons recoil. I check my reload status aboard the transport and my VLS whines as over 38 HE bombardment rounds and 13 area denial smart mine sub munitions dispenser rounds arch out over the now white hot flaming ruin that was the centre of the airport structure mass into its remaining relativly un touched outlying buildings. I commence my hellbores coolent purge and white steam rises in the heat eminateing from my frontal glacias. I feel it is going to be a long day.

Reygar raised an eyebrow as the Angeu units...smiled...at him. Yes...yes indeed. His Warblade would seem to leap into his hand, the blade extended in front of him and perpendicular to the line formed by his body, that is, straight to the side, across his body.

Then...then. Then he rotated the blade downwards through a ninety degree arc so that it was pointing straight down.

"Suffer not abomination. Ye have been judged."

Lengthy, ceremonial, and inefficient...but it was necessary.

The reasoning had a lot to do with the convoluted past-loving Revenian mindset and not a lot to do with reality. Gunslinger's judgement. The right to kill at will. One of the reasons Gunslingers had been so feared. Also one of the reasons there were so few of them, even during the time of the Ascended Supremacy.

Now...now there were maybe four. Reygar Talmirion was one of them.

Then he moved, his blade flitting around to a proper guard stance as he spun about, drawing his APCP with his left hand...

Even as he was doing so, the remainder of his little team was moving into action.

The devilrunner, D'rayne Neviros, would be the first to act. This was due to the extensive cybernetics that made one a devilrunner. His chosen weapon was the CC-17-S "Stealth Carbine" version of the CR-17 "Ranger" combat rifle, and he was moving and firing almost before Reygar finished his little act.

The CC-17 was largely the same as the CR-17, save it was shorter and less accurate at a distance, had a slightly less maximum projectile velocity, and a slightly higher rate of fire. the -S version of the carbine was identical to the standard carbine from the exterior, but was built with null-sig electronics and mounted a hardwire WSIL (Weapons Systems Interface Link) instead of a pistol-grip mounted inductor.

Currently, D'rayne had his carbine set to fire from the second magazine, that being the one containing explosive slugs. As such, as he squeezed off short, precisely targeted bursts, the rounds would begin impacting. They were set to detonate with a very, very slight delay. First, the bullet would impact, hopefully punching a small hole in whatever he hit. Then the explosive would detonate. This provided three sources of damage: the impact of the round, the explosive, and the fragmentation of the round caused by the explosive's detonating.

The CC-17-S fired from thirty round magazines, and D'rayne tended towards three-round bursts...

Just after D'rayne acted, Bren Gage would produce from some part of his immaculately black-suited body, an APCP. He would then kneel down behind a choice bit of wreckage, draw a bead, and fire. The APCP fired the 10mm round common to Revenian military firearms at the usual hypervelocity, propelled via the usual grav-driver. Not a particularly special weapon, but rather a rugged and effective one.

What was odd was the perfect calmness in which an individual who was, at first glance, an executive aide, produced a weapon, took cover, and began servicing targets. With positively superb form and accuracy. Hmm..

Anyways. After this had occured, MacKae and the NSIC boys would make themselves known. Willy MacKae carried the null-sig version of the standard CR-17, and he fired his weapon with skill born of long experience. The NSIC operatives, being NSIC operatives, dispersed to cover while providing accurate fire from their compact 5mm assault carbines.

Then Reygar himself would act, allowing his wings to unfurl from where they generally rested, looking eversomuch like a black cloak...and serving no purpose at all save to act as convenient bullet magnets...

Anyways. He smiled, and began firing, keeping his Warblade at guard and firing left-handed...and perhaps the Angeu units would prefer to get in close and go hand-to-hand, and perhaps they would learn the difference between Zvarinogradii civilians and an Ascended Supremacy Gunslinger. The Supremacy was gone, yes, but the Gunslinger remained.

(Because this deserves a post all its own...)

Renly Callahan frowned as he read the note sent to him directly from the Warprince himself.

It read...

"Renly,
If you are reading this, Reygar's team has arrived. Reygar does not know this, but there are five Military Mark IV Devilrunners accompanying his team. He should not, and must not learn of this fact.

Ranger units 49, 61, 56, and 42, and Recon unit 52. These numbers should be keyworded, then forgotten.

Eat this note."

Renly distinctly recalled four individuals breaking off from Reygar's team almost upon arrival...and going their separate ways. Those must have been the "ranger" units. But, then, who was the fifth military Mark IV Devilrunner? Who was Recon unit 52?

He sighed and clean-wiped the note. Best not to think about these things...

Streaming across the sky almost like a shooting star, the aircraft slams into the debris strewn ground with a mighty thud, skipping a few times before finally coming to rest a short distance from the Zepplin Manufacturers heavy transport.
Groaning, the captain rises to his feet, clutching the anti armour rifle he had held onto before the crash. To defensive positions men! Sev, onto the top of this wreck, we need a sniping defense against these freaks! And you, Six, get that quad cannon operational AS OF YESTERDAY! Ducking behind a large piece of the ship, he fires a shot at an eight, before signaling to the two 'base assault' operatives to move to either sides of the downed ship to provide the necessary support against the mutant children that downed them in the first place.

‘What resources do we have in the area?’ the Director muttered, not looking up from the Data slate that he held.
‘None of significance, we can get some of the automated Cromwell tanks in, and perhaps…’ the junior aide’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
‘Perhaps..?’ The Director continued to stare at the slate before him, he wasn’t looking to interested.
‘The special Elites that we are developing for The Conc-’
‘What?’ The Director’s malaise snapped and he looked up at the aide, who had cringed at the shouting from The Director of MIRA*, Kevin Pracks.’Do you even realize how much those 10 cost?’ Spittle flew from The Director’s mouth, landing with a soft spatter onto the desk.
‘But the tests came back successful, I compiled them myself, the next step was to test them in the field, the problem is the Skeelzanians did not launch their expected counter attack, this is the best opportunity to test them.’
‘I don’t want to take the risk,’ started the Director ‘However you are correct.’ He sighed and then rested his head in his hands. ‘Fine, have them deployed with a couple of the Cromwell’s, if they get wasted, I’ll kill you myself.’
The aide nodded and a bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose, he turned and went outside of the office and back to his room, then broke down into sobs.

You Shall Fear Us, Midlonian Aerospace Naval Ship above Earth.

A pair of Drop pods were flung from the ship and hurtled towards earth, from the observation deck you could see them flare as they thundered towards the earth and kissed the atmosphere with a gentle glow.

Planetfall

A few minutes later, the two drop pods kissed the ground, fire from thrusters flaring and causing some of the surrounding snow to turn to slush as they set down onto the surface.
The door hissed with phenumatics as it opened and glanged, cracking the rapidly refreezing surface.
Three Cromwell Automated tanks growled and lurched out, their turret motors whined a little as they scanned the surveying area.

The other, slightly smaller drop pod landed similarly. The door burst open and out of the steaming air out clambered them.
"They" were over 6 feet tall, and clad it strange plated armour that clicked and whined on motors when they moved their arms and racked the large weapons they carried.
Fanning out then ten of them looked around, the eye peices in their helmets glowed a slight red tint.
The Cromwell tanks growled and reved their engines and bounded over to the waiting Marines, with a clatter of metal ringing on metal the 10 clambered on board of two of them and headed over to the ZMI plane.


*Midlonia Intelligence and Research Agency.

As the almost hurricane like winds from the incinerated structures rising thermal flare flared over his battle screen the colonel protected from the flash and radiation by self same looked around as the TAR transports ruined hull skidded across the ground.
“Dragoons 4 and 8 brake of and pick up survivors from the TAR transport, Dragoon 3 pick up that the remaining downed pilot, Scuttlers 3 , 4 and 5 provide cover. Medical stand by for one human casualty and possible multiple non human casualties, unit DTR sweep the outer roads and perform sentinel duty once you have replaced expended ammunition, I want to know if so much as a Gnat moves in that rubble, your sensors are at your tactical discretion.”

The colonel tapped of his com link and looked about himself once more and tapped the dragoons pilot on the helmet and making the motion for a light. The tanker looked up wide eyed from the flaming ruin in front of him reached into his cramped personnel compartment and withdrew a silver Int-Sec engraved Zippo. The Colonel regarded I for a moment before seemingly snapping a cigarette into existence between his fingers and lighting it before taking a single long draw. The habit within ZMI was rare, a throwback, only the oldest implant and first term regenerative subjects still took it up, immune to cancer with toxins purged from their systems and extensive internal cellular monitoring available. The Colonel was a lot older than he looked. Puffing out a white cloud that when it reached the edge of the Dragoons battle screen was swept away in the slowly decreasing roiling hot winds the colonel flipped on his com again. “All remaining Dragoons form a perimeter around the AS60”

Gary Travers was not having a good day, two of the main processing nodes and a series of secondary hard storage logic stacks had been sheered through, a coolant bank for an entire rack had leaked thick thermally conductive gel over the entire deck, which a member of his team usually seen as the “geeks” of grey strike was forlornly mopping up and the main Lidar mapping unit had gone offline. After checking the system until now he had gone outside for a brief look in the swirling maelstrom to see that the entire disc like unit mounted on the tail fin was simply gone. About to re-enter the now slowly returning to weather proof innards of the AS60 he missed his footing on the rapidly re iceing arcs of the skuttlers hellbores and suddenly felt as if his backbone had intersecting the tarmac. Slowly pulling himself into a sitting position the white and grey snout of a dragoon tank vaguely distorted behind its light battle screen filled his view. A man lept off before the tank spun away once more. The familiar figure of the cononel made itself clear.
“Having fun in the snow are we Mr.Trevors?”
“Ahh No Sir the main LIDAR disc, sir its um gone”
“…so it is, hmm well no time to be sitting down on the job. ”
Gary inwardly groaned, stood up and began to follow the colonel back into the transports personnel space, now converted to its secondary purpose as field hospital (the third was in depth interrogation but its best not to speak of such things in public, or think about them for that matter).
“Now Mr. Trevors do you have a meme map for me?”
“Partial sir, their children and their motives are far simpler than those of adults as is their world view, far more black and white, using the Zvarinograd pre-recorded meme index as a base we localised it for average regional variation within this area. The main issue is while I can tell you why their doing what their doing I can’t tell you exactly how, theirs simply too much …childlike chaos involved sir.”
The colonel ground out his cigarette in a magnetised coffee holder on the edge of an input console.
“playing with us..yes I summarised as much, what about stability of control method for the subjects?”
“Its good sir in the upper 90th percentile but not perfect. The recon drones have definite images of these “Angues” assisting in the defence of these security force held areas still within the city.”
Trevor’s paused and brought up an aerial view of the town which then highlighted small pockets in blue on the nearest display.
“We also have it for definite that extreme stress can brake through the hold of what appear to be the later and more advanced models. Their sub systems are nearly stardrive grade in quality in some cases. The earlier ones though well sir theirs just not a lot left of the human brain in control, its just been wired out of the loop from what we can see from the recovered corpses, nothing short of stunning them to near death will stop all that gear in their heads. The combat was within close range of the main pods and we picked up one bucket full of data, however as you can see were not exactly up to ship shape yet and we simply don’t have enough confirmed teleport events to generate a wide area counter spike, but I’m fairly sure we can knock of their “focus” in a small area and we can definitely update everyone’s sensor suites to pick them up.
As the Colonel begain to reply a strong masculine voice that was in some ways just too smooth suddenly broke across him.

“Sir this is unit DTR I am picking up concordat encoded transmissions and two confirmed drop pod re-entry flares nearly right ontop of us”

The colonel grunted and began to make his way to the back of the aircraft. By the time he had made his way through the passenger bay come field hospital now receiving its second wave of wounded he felt the aircraft shudder from the impact of the drop pods. By the time he exited the first Midlonian Cromwell tank had exited its drop pod, as they did the first dragoons carrying the TAR siege infantry pulled up in front of him.



OOC ..braain ...meeelting neeed sleeeeep if post has edits will do upon the morrow.

With a screeching sound the tanks slid to a halt in front of the downed aircraft, one of the larger figures jumped off of the tank and caused the ground to crack under his feet, with an audible click he spoke, his voice distorted a tiny part by the speaker grill at the front of the helmet.
‘Who is in charge here?’

The other giants fanned out around the three Cromwell tanks, weapons raised and ready.
The three tank turrets continued to whine and turn, engines idled, but the turret mounted bolt repeaters turned slowly around as the turrets tracked, looking for targets.

Leaping to the ground, the captain addresses the colonel with eagerness born of anticpation of imminent, and ongoing battle. "Colonel, my squad is now at your service, or more specifically, that of INT SEC itself. Considering your nation had a hand in our design, you are fully aware of our capabilities, limitations and true purpose. So we shall be riding with you to this 'safe zone', as said before, under your command." The captain salutes the colonel, and proceeds to organize the squad, and their weaponry for the coming trip.

The colonel looked up at the impressively armoured figure with a certain air of disdain and then glanced back towards the cargo bay’s battered and blood sprayed walls before speaking in a low steady cold voice over the whistling semi arctic winds. “Sergeant unless a great number of things have changed in the past few hours back home and my uniform has become completely tarnished beyond recognition I am still in charge of this operation” with this the Colonels voice grew very chilly indeed “and I am still head of Grey Strike and as such you and your men will show a little more military decorum towards both me and any other military personnel. Deploy your men to cover the perimeter while we prepare to convoy to the nearest safe zone Sergeant. With that the colonel reached up to his ear peace “Dieter I’m slaving these Cromwells to your command, reinforce the perimeter until were ready to role, engage at your discretion.”
“Dieter reporting, Affirmative”

The Colonel stood just inside the cargo bay walls out of the wind smoking and thinking as he watched his deployments unfold and the dragoons whine in carrying the SI troopers. In his many years after the brake the Colonel had had to deal with a variety of races. Humanoid cats for all their obvious carnivorous traits were among the more pleasant to work with. At least they didn’t go around with methane rebreathers and stink of ammonia fumes constantly. The memory brought a shudder to even his ice cold clarity of thought. One of the hugely built felenoid siege troopers approached the foreign insignia of a captain upon his body armour.

The armoured felenoid spoke. "Colonel, my squad is now at your service, or more specifically, that of INT SEC itself. Considering your nation had a hand in our design, you are fully aware of our capabilities, limitations and true purpose. So we shall be riding with you to this 'safe zone', as said before, under your command."
The Colonel exhaled into the breeze just outside the walls of the transport before replying.
“Very good captain, form your men up with the dragoons for convoy, one SI trooper per Dragoon, I want your melee capacity to be ready to deal with anything ..unpleasant that gets too close. Do not engage in attack sorties and stay with the convoys vehicles. Unless its vital under no circumstances will you dismount from the Dragoons till we reach the safe zone. The Concordat Marines will act as our reserve once we are underway and the Wolf will provide covering fire. Dismissed.” With that the Colonel turned and stalked into the now poorly lit interior of the damaged transport his great coat billowing out behind him as he walked over the slick frozen blood covered floor.

Ranger Unit 49, Military Mark IV Devilrunner, completed another leg of her sweep. She paused in a suitable location and knelt, the mass transceiver that was the primary component of her large scout backpack sending the results of her sweep since the last transmission in a tight burst to the orbitting RDSS Hrosvatir.

Ranger Unit 49 was her "official" designation, but her parents had named her Fhelan when she was born. Born with a set of crippling birth defects. Halfling Ascended rarely had malignant genetics flaws, but when they did...they were pretty bad. She hadn't a chance of living to see her majority.

The psydocs couldn't do a damn thing for her, but when the best of them failed...he'd given her parents an alternative. Sell her soul to the military for the chance of her survival. A chance, he'd said. Just a chance. But a chance, no matter how slight, had been infinitely better than what she'd had.

The psydoc she'd been taken to see had been named Dysaryn Stark, and he was also the Warprince of Revenia. He hadn't been able to fix her, but he had been able to keep her alive long enough to get her to the RevTek development facilities in the Northfell system.

She'd been seventeen, then. Her body was wasting away, despite her best efforts. She'd looked like some sort of concentration camp victim. 'n she'd known it was happening, seen it happening.

Vysarian Stark and his team of mad scientists had saved what they could of her, tossing out entirely what they didn't like. Then they'd replaced the bad stuff with cybernetic parts, reinforced the rest, built in all sorts of redundancies.

She was still mostly organic, but unlike the earlier Devilrunners, her modifications weren't entirely internal. They were still difficult to spot to a greater and lesser extent, depending upon the Mark IV in question. No effort was made to conceal the implants of Assault units, while Ranger and Recon units could pass for organic relatively easily.

The legacy of her pre-Procedure defects lived on in her almost ghostlike appearance. She was very pale, her hair closer to white than silver. Of course, it would be difficult to tell this right now, seeing as how her skin was smeared with camouflage paint, then caked over with mud, and her hair had received the same treatment before it was tied back into a tight bun.

Nonetheless, the time for reflection had ended. She had another couple of legs to cover before she could head back to the Observation base. In concordance with this, she would heft her iACC-17-MkII(1) and continue on with her patrol.

----
(1) -- improved Advanced Combat Carbine - CR-17 Derivative - Model II