NationStates Jolt Archive

Aboard Presidential Yacht Miriel nos Feanor

“Okay, Kristie scum! You listen to me! And you listen to me good! You have passed all the tests to enter the most elite military unit Allanea has! You are about to become – not subhuman scum anymore – but Daggers! Real Daggers! Are you proud of yourselves?”

“YES, SIR!”

“But you are not Daggers yet! You’re fucking maggots! You’re Khristians! You’re scum! You’re the vermin of the galaxy! Today, you will face your last trial. Trial by combat. Real combat, bitches! Do you understand what this means, scum?”

“YES, SIR!”

“This man is Instructor Abdullah Smith! He will accompany you on your mission. Do you even know where you are, maggots?”

“NO, SIR!”

“I like this answer! Now listen up! Our ship is currently resting in orbit of the Facehuggerian world Arcadia, cloaked by advanced gravitic cloaking. Your test, scumsuckers, is to go inside the biggest prison facility on the planet, aye-kay-aye Halsey Memorial Prison. According to our intelligence, the Planetary Governor – one Anton Strom – is currently inspecting the prison. Your primary mission is to assassinate him. In the ensuing chaos, you are to attempt to rescue as many prisoners as possible, while inflicting the maximum damage possible to the facility itself. CLEAR, MAGGOTS?!”

“Umm, Sir, isn’t Central Facehuggeria allied to us?”

“You thought that’d mean Allanea would just sit by and let torture of innocent elven civilians go on? Fuck you, Kristie maggot! Anyway. We have been allowed use this civilian vessel for this mission, for it has Allanea’s most advanced cloaking and warp teleportation systems. Further, it’s owner will accompany the five of you on your mission. Clear?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Good. Now listen up. The facility on Arcadia is lambda-shaped, with three levels. The escalators which do down to these levels are right at the uppermost 'tip' of the Lambda.”

The men and women standing in front of the sergeant did not make a sound. They just listened, their faces completely concealed by the black masks that were the mark of their duties. They were holding ABR-666 rifles, with immense dark-bladed bayonets affixed to them – the same ones that made the Team famous. And strangely, they seemed completely devoid of any emotion.

“Facehuggerian personnel use displacer gates to get around, but unauthorized people who use those tend to be turned into paste, so you worms probably want to avoid those. Oh, and there will be defenses. Mostly combat servitors, but also Paladin Edwardius Cilias, manager of the facility, and four of his acolytes. They are secondary kill targets. The governor will be at the bottom level of the facility. Please do not use any of the displacer gates in the prison – you’ll get fried. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And now the last bit. This man there is in charge of your mission. He’s also the civilian I spoke about.”

The ‘civilian’, like the future Daggers, was wearing a black uniform with no markings, and bore a Menelmacari rifle. He was also covered, head to toe, in pistols, knives, and grenades – he even carried two swords. He did not wear a mask, though – only a pair of wraparound sunglasses. He was also, for some reason, wearing a long black trenchcoat.

“Good day, Mr. President.” – the Daggers blinked in horror. – “You’re coming along?”

“Oh yes.” – the Allanean President smiled, attaching a bayonet to his rifle. – “Don’t worry, my clothes have optical stealth, too. I’m not going to give you away.”

“But… Mr. President… why?”

“Always wanted to bag me a Planetary Governor.” - the smile became a sadistic grin.

* * *

The Miriel remained concealed completely in orbit – even despite all the sensors looking to it. Nobody noticed it’s gravitic signature, it’s engine output, or even the warp distortion as it teleported the President and five Team Dagger cadets into the topmost level of the Halsey Memorial Prison.

Arcadia prime was a beautiful blue-green world in the very prime of its primordial life. When the Facehuggerian colonists arrived, all those millennia ago, they tamed its wild ecosystem and turned it into an agricultural world. Even after the development of the fabricator, Arcadian luxury foods were still considered the best one could eat in the Empire.

It is said that Miranda Halsey, the Emperor’s late wife, had a special love for Arcadia’s expansive and flowing green plains, and that it is by Imperial edict that the world was not urbanized into a hive like the worlds of Opterra or Boreas. Consequently, much of the world has lain untouched by human hands, with only the scarcest military and civilian presence to justify the Empire’s hold on the system.

This lack of defense would prove to be a mistake.

***

T-Minus 4 Hours.
Location: Arcadian Hall of Judgment.


Govenor Anton Strom slammed down his gavel upon the warpwood podium upon which he sat, the loud cracks resounding throughout the stifled air inside the hall of judgment. The desk turned a deep shade of angry, bloodshot red, clearly broadcasting his emotions for all to see.

“There will be order in my court! Now, Justicae Brown, I take it you are responsible for bringing this… thing before me?” Strom’s cold gaze bore into the man, and at his client. An oddity of Facehuggerian law was that anyone could appeal to the local governor for a pardon of even the most heinous of crimes.

“Yes, my lord. Let the record note that I have brought the defendant, one Lantinël Mereniel, before you to ask for a pardon. She has committed no crime greater then running away from her master, a man of harsh temperament who often abused her in a drunken stupor.” The Justicae replied in a clarion voice. He was one of a small, but growing number of concerned Arcadians who had begun to see slavery as amoral. This case had the potential to be a major political victory for the abolitionist cause, if only he could convince the Governor to see it.

“You, Elf. How do you plead on the charge of flight from your lawful master?” Strom asked, boredly. The desk turned back to its normal color, a sort of ashen grey.

“In… Innocent, My Lord.” The young Elf-maiden replied, obviously unsure of if she should say more. She was very attractive to human eyes, even by the standards of her kind. The Justicae could see that someone must have paid a fortune for her. That would end today.

“You have no innocence in my court, Xeno, for you are guilty of the crime of existence. My verdict is guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty.” Strom replied, a cruel glint playing in his steel-grey eyes as the gavel slammed downward.

“I hereby sentence you, by the power vested in me by the Immortal Emperor William Jerhico Halsey the First, to lifetime imprisonment in the lowermost vault of Halsey Memorial Prison. Justicae? If you would be so kind as to see to her punishment?” Strom said after a moment of thought, smiling with a sharklike grin at the Justicae’s obvious discomfort. “You are still one of the executors of my lawful rule, are you not?”

“Yes, my lord.” The Justicae replied, defeated. He knew he had lost. He’d seen conditions in the vaults. He knew that she could look forward to be ‘serviced upon’ by some of the most skilled torturers in the Empire. They’d take this young, innocent girl, and ravage her. And ravage her, and ravage her… The Justicae’s hands balled up into fists despite himself.

Surely he could engineer her escape? Perhaps let her go in the wilderness?

“On second thought, I think I should come with you.” Strom said, stepping down from the podium with that same sadistic smile. “Just to make sure you don’t get it in your head to do anything… unlawful.”

“Yes… my lord.” The last word was almost spat out with contempt.

“Good. Now, where did I put that?” Strom replied, absently, as he fumbled in his robe’s pockets for something.

“Ahh!” Strom’s hand emerged from his robe with a thin, platinum-colored chain. This chain was attached to what looked like a silver hoop, with several needle-like spikes protruding from it.

”Oh no…” The Justicae thought. He’d seen collars like that before.

Strom merely smiled and clasped it around the girl’s neck.

”I’ve made a few modifications that I’m sure you’ll appreciate. See the needles? Those will ram into its neck, preventing the removal of the collar. They shall also inject it with a concoction of my own creation.” Strom said, taking obvious pride in his toy.

“Oh, don’t try to speak, animal. I do so hate to hear pleas for mercy. Now, screams on the other hand?” Strom grinned at the girl, basking in her suffering. The inflammatory medications and nanotech he’d just pumped her with should be kicking in right about…

The Elf opened bit down on her lip, obviously struggling to stifle a scream. Strom smiled. Now.

“It’s going to be very fun, I think. It has been so long since I’ve had time to properly enjoy one of your kind.” Strom said, leaning in and whispering into her pointed ear.

***

T-Minus 1 Hour.
Location: Entrance, Halsey Memorial Penitentiary.

The Justicae felt about ready to go insane. The girl’s sobs ringed in his head accusingly. He’d failed. Failed a poor, innocent young girl. Failed the cause. Failed his own damn conscience.

Fanciful thoughts of heroism rapid-fired through his mind. He could kill the governor and flee off… no. The combat servitors would cut him down where he stood. He could take the governor hostage and demand… no. The Imperium did not negotiate with terrorists. If he could just get her off world, everything would be fine. The Imperium wouldn’t care enough about one escaped slave to track her down…

Even if he did free her, where would she go?

***

Two combat servitors, formerly elves themselves, stepped out of a displacer gate inset into the corridor.

Their ‘skin’ was a sort of pallid-gray color, unhealed sutures plainly visible in long bands across the surface. Their torsos were covered in a greenish-gray breastplate, still covered with stained blood in some places. Their legs had been hacked off at the knees, and cybernetic prosthetics crudely grafted in their place. Their arms, too, received similar treatment, save that the replacements were less benign. One received a heavy, spiked mace in place of its hand. The other? A whirring chain-blade with jagged, inch-long teeth proudly exclaimed its thirst for blood to all who dared listen. The other hand was replaced with a missile launcher, though only a small one, like what the multirifles mounted. Though he didn’t see it, the Justicae also knew that some models had grenade launchers, instead of micromissiles.

The most pitiful, and terrible, thing about them, though, was their mouths. The orfices had been fused together, as though melted shut with careful application of a cutting torch. A crude speaker half carved and half buried into their necks allowed them to communicate in a cold and robotic tone. It also, when the computer which controlled their bodies as if nothing more then articulated marionettes decided that nobody would be offended, allowed them voice their feelings. This typically took the form of incoherent screaming.

“Follow us. Paladin Cilias expects you.” They said in unison, harsh metallic voices grating upon the Justicae’s ears.

***

As expected, the trip through the displacer gate was instantaneous and uneventful. –Likely because the prison was on its own network, which prevented civilians from simply wandering in. Of course, it would also make it harder to receive reinforcements, though a sufficiently powerful AI, or sufficiently skilled officer with the right idents could rectify this in thirty minutes or less.

More then enough time. After all, who would be insane enough to attack an Imperial prison? Nobody. Everyone knew that the retribution would be swift and terrible, likely involving much destruction of planets and enslaving of populations.

“Welcome, Governor. I see you have brought a new sister for my convent.” Paladin Cilias’ voice was a deep, ringing one, with an odd, twang, almost Opterran accent.

The man himself was not what the Justicae expected. No, he had expected someone shorter, and more obviously deranged. Only the mad or the soulless would consent to run a carnival of horrors like this place…

Instead, the Justicae found a tall, tanned, and well-muscled man with that particular look in his eyes. That look that said “I believe in what I’m doing!” to all the world. It was that look, more than anything that he had seen before, which frightened him about this place.

“Indeed. Get it situated in Vault Zero, if you would please. I would like to take advantage of its… services at earliest opportunity.” Strom replied, tugging at the Elf’s leash.

“Very well. Acolyte Robert! Fit this animal with a killswitch, and take it to Vault Zero. Do not dirty your soul by touching this abomination, however. That is for… baser men.” Cilias said, looking at Strom with a sideways glance.

In the half-hour that followed, the Justicae was forced to watch some of the most gastly and perverse acts his mind could imagine, along with many more that made him shudder and pale with the sickly-sweet mix of disgust and fear, each new act indelibly etching itself upon his fragile mind.

It was only after this, the penance for his failure, that Feeman answered his silent prayers and sent forth a miracle.

***

T-Minus 30 minutes.
Location: Paladin Cilias’ Chapel-barracks.

Something on the Paladin’s belt chirped and vibrated up a storm. –His communicator, the only way to access the prison’s computer system when he was outside his armored war-suit.

“Yes?” He asked, flicking open the cigarette-sized rod. Some of those in his order went for commobeads or even subcutaneous biological transmitters. However, Cilias was something of a traditionalist at heart. He refused to use such things, just as he refused the sundry physical and biological enhancements that were available to one of his position within the church. Indeed, the only thing different from the Facehuggerian norm was the stimglands he’d had implanted within his brain during a distant and more rebellious youth.

Though he regretted that momentary weakness, he still had to admit that it was handy to have what amounted to a chemical factory built into one’s head. Even if it was part of a path that led to decadence and apostasy.

“Sorry to interrupt your prayers, Father Cilias, but there is a situation. Normally I would think nothing of it, but given that there is someone of importance here…” It was the base’s AI, Scylla, and if she saw fit to interrupt his prayers, something was definitely amiss.

“Go ahead.” He asked, already moving over to his armor rack.

“Approximately ten seconds ago, I detected a slight increase in oxygen usage near the entrance. Normally, it would be nothing, but we do have a moderately important government official on our hands, and we can’t afford to take chances. I’ve sealed the blast doors between the entrance and level one escalators and deployed platoons of combat servitors between adjacent compartments as a precaution. Like I said, it could be nothing…” Scylla replied.

“But if there are tangos, they are skilled. Not your average abolitionist rabble. Probably military trained, and they have the resources to afford thermoptic camo at the very least… You have made the right decision. An anomaly like that is too convenient.” Cilias replied, half to himself.

”Initiates! Gird yourselves in the firmament of battle!” Cilias said, startling the initiates from their studies of the Freeman’s first interactive tome, the one detailing the initial Xenos invasion of the ‘holy bmrf.’

“But, Father Cilias…” One of his Acolytes piped up.

“Now, Initiate Roberts! You wish to remain one of my acolytes, yes? Then do as I say!” Cilias replied, already moving towards his armored suit.

”What's up?” Another of his Acolytes, Initiate Lawrence, asked. She was already in her bodysuit and had even started strapping on armor plate and shield generators.

“I believe the Freeman has seen fit to test our mettle. I need the four of you to fortify the final bulkhead before Vault Zero and be prepared to repel intruders. I shall join you shortly.” Cilias replied as his Acolytes disappeared through the chapel-displacer gate.

Cilias meanwhile ran his hand down his powersuit’s armored breastplate and said the incantation of access, -his password. “Katharine.”

Idly, he wondered if her death had been quick. He certainly hoped so, but given the barbarity of the Xenos, he could never be sure. Thinking of her always brought a smile to his face, even as he struggled to ignore the sensations of the armored suit literally flowing around his body like some mutant, unnatural amoeba.

Then, the helmet closed around his head, and he was subjected to the darkness. And, for that split second before the neural link switched ‘on,’ the old Edward Cilias resurfaced. The child who thought all life was sacred, and that what the Empire did was wrong, irredeemably and utterly wrong.

Yet as soon as he surfaced, he was swept away, carried down and subsumed by the new him, by Edwardius, the righteous Paladin of Freeman, who hated the Xenos who took from him his Katharine.

“Purge the Xenos.” He said quietly as he picked up his incinerator, encrusted with holy sigils and inscribed with litanies of hatred for all Elven kind, and stepped into the displacer gate to join his Acolytes.

OOC:

There you go. On each level there are three ‘blast doors’ which will bar your access to the various vaults and the lower levels. As each one is breached, the next one behind it will seal.

Each vault will have one horribly tortured Elf, typically having either a small bomb (killswitch) in their head to prevent escape, or having already had their legs amputated to keep them from running away.

The next to last elf you find in Vault #1 will have nothing physically wrong with him. He’s the one which the Facehuggerians have used to run realistic escape simulations from for quite some time, so he is extremely jaded and likely won’t follow your guys without being coerced.

Each level will have a platoon of thirty six combat servitors defending it. If you’d like you can stun them and try to bring them with you since many of them were Elves at one point, though I really doubt anything you can do short of cloning them a new body and reformatting their minds will help, given the, ahem, “enhancements” they have received.

Thirty minutes is the time until Scylla will have reset the displacer gate network, allowing crushingly large amounts of reinforcements to pour in.

There are also some other tactics that Scylla will use to slow your folks down, like shutting off the air circulation, electrifying the escalators, and other fun stuff. But these guys are supposed to be your best, and I wouldn’t want them to have an easy initiation rite, eh? :)

The Justicae, in case you haven’t already realized, is not evil, and he’ll do what he can to help you. Mainly making sure that Strom doesn’t flee, by convincing him to stay and *Justicae vomits* have more ‘fun’ with poor Lantinël until such a time as your guys beat Cilias and his acolytes, and pierce the door to Vault Zero. Hope you brought explosives.

Oh, yes, two final things: Combat Servitors do not have thermoptic camo. Cilias and his pupils do. Cilias, however, is the only one who is actually experienced in its use, as well as fighting foes equipped similarly.

And the way the system is designed is to offer maximum cover for those defending, and minimum cover for those who are attacking. The prison hasn’t been upgraded with Tychium plating yet, so you don’t have to worry about tentacles erupting from the walls and restraining your guys. :)

Any response from me will have to wait till tommorow, though, since I have a big test tommorow, and I must study more for it. :)

OOC: A tranq dart zips into Strom's neck. When he awakes there's a little metal hoop with a QE-comm tranceiver in it, in his ear. :D

Tagged.

OOC: I took some liberties with the servitors. I hope it ‘s not a problem.

IC:

In the Prison

Silently, the Allaneans approached the first blast door. Even though the thermo-optical camouflage did not cover their entire bodies, together with the darkened conditions of the Halsey Memorial Prison, they were very hard to see. In fact, they were, for all practical intents and purposes, completely invisible to most known means of detection. Of course, this also meant they could not talk to each other – not through normal means, that is. Now, subspace communication sensors… that was quite another thing.

If you are a Dagger Operative, standing next to Alexander Kazansky in front of the first blast door, it may be that a row of nice, green, glowing letters will appear in your field of view – as if they were fed directly into your ocular nerve or something. Which was admittedly not very far from the truth. The green lettering said:

So, gentlemen. Anybody still got one of the cans of thermogel my assistants have handed out before the mission?

Quietly. one of the Khristians passes to him a small can, rather the size of a can of Pink Bunny Cola. Kazansky grins to himself as he squeezes some of the contents of the can onto his fingertips and begins to apply it cautiously to the blast door, drawing a sort of rectangle on it’s surface - something of a… door opening in form.

Aboard Presidential Yacht Miriel nos Feanor

The Yacht was never made for such journeys. Originally, it has been made as a luxury cruiser for the Raumreich, meant to carry thousands of wealth Ortagans and Valinonii in exquisite comfort from one planet to another. Then, it became the Presidential Yacht. It’s design was modified so it would not even need a single crewman – every need, every whim of it’s owner would be served by automated onboard facilities, it’s four-kilometer hull essentially an enormous palace for the Allanean Preisdent.

Now, it had a new purpose. Alexander Kazansky had re-equipped his palace again – this time, to carry out rescue operations. Why? Because that was his newest whim, it seemed. Or perhaps, the President for Life had a complex plan in mind. Nobody could tell. Still, he funded most of the renovations himself – and volunteered his own private ship for the operation. There was no criticism of the idea – the Navy needed it’s ships elsewhere, anyway. Besides, it had probably a better stealth suite then most Allanean naval ships.

And so, right now, it was hovering in orbit over Arcadia. Even the most advanced of Imperial sensors could not spot, track, or lock on to the vessel. Of course, the people on board had no illusions about this – they knew that, had they been spotted, they would have been lucky to just be shot down. It was better not to contemplate what the Central Facehuggerians would inflict upon them if they were captured alive. They also knew that, had any average Allanean warship arrived in their stead, it would have long been detected, engaged, and destroyed by the Facehuggerians.

Externally, the elongated body of the Miriel would be quite the sight – long, slick, decorated with a variety of landing signals and other flickering lights, it was the President’s most favorite ship, in the same way some people have a favorite car, kitted out with all the best things, that they would barely let strangers touch. While Kazansky did let other people aboard the yacht – he even held parties on it – the overall sentiment was the same.

And still, it was there, in orbit of Arcadia.

It waited.

Somewhere aboard the Miriel nos Feanor remained Sergeant Edgar H. Norris, a drill instructor in the Rudolph Corbelli Training Camp – the installation – it’s very place and size highly classified – where Allanea trained members of Team Dagger. He had known the five men and women that had accompanied President Kazansky into the depths under the surface of Arcadia, to reveal such secrets of the Imperium as the world had refused to see, and to punish those it refused to punish, and to give justice to those who cried out to it.

He had been the one that took the operatives through their grueling training course, one where nine out of ten participants died, were injured, or quit during training. He knew that the people he had sent down there would not fail.

And yet, Sergeant Edgard H. Norris could not help but feel strangely uneasy about the entire enterprise. Something was about to happen. A bad something.

In the Prison

We’ve got company.

A pair of servitors moved swiftly in the dark, trying to bring their weapons on target. Alexander Kazansky was the first to move, drawing two immense semi-automatic pistols simultaneously. He fired both of them at once, too.

The immense 21st-century chem-energic pistols did not fire ordinary lead slugs from that era. Instead, carried directly to the ‘knees’ of the former elves were a pair of 12.7 guided minimissiles. The former elves collapsed to the ground, their voiceboxes responding with howls of intense pain. The other Allaneans brought their rifles to their shoulders – and soon enough, the Servitors became howling, and yet completely helpless, beings – two legless, armless dolls, not even able to roll about on the floor properly.

’Miriel’, this is ‘Prince’. We have two sapients for evacuation, prepare for teleport.

A crackle of warp energy – and the two Servitors where there no more.

We have more inbound.

And then, there was no time for mercy anymore.

There were six more servitors in the hallway with them, and this time, they – or, more accurately, their combat computers were quite ready for it. They leveled their weapons at where their guidance systems believed the Allaneans to be, and somewhere, something gave them their orders.

Fire.

Two ABR-666 rifles fired at once, catching the Servitors in streams of ‘plasma flamer’ fire, eliciting horrible cries of pain from their tortured flesh for one last time as two of them were thrown off their feet and cast to the ground like burning rag dolls.

Another Servitor found itself attacked from behind, two powerful hands dragging it back swiftly, and then the cold blade of a monomolecular-edged Bowie knife a full ten inches long burrowed into it’s flesh. There was a brief pain, and then there finally was nothing at all – something that the tortured conscience would probably find a relief if it would have a shred of thought or sapience left in it. It’s body was then thrown forward, impacting another one just like it, just as it fired it’s weapon. The first servitor’s body soaked up several grenades, showering everybody with bits of bone and flesh. Still better then being made a cleaning bot for the Facehuggerians, pondered one of the Allaneans briefly.

There were three more left. One of them, just impeded with the impact of it’s own ‘comrade’s’ body, tossed the horrible remains off like a bit of wet cloth – and then it’s spine cracked as a Dagger operative jumped on it from above. In the half-second of distraction, he had counted his enhanced bodysuit, training, and implants to let him bounce off a wall like a rubber ball and hit the enemy’s skull with his boot from above, like a living bunker-buster. The satisfactory crack from the servitor’s skull and neck told him he was successful.

The other two servitors died in a less poetic fashion.

One was hit with multiple mini-missiles. They detonated directly inside his ribcage, opening it up from the inside out. For a second, his body was still standing – even though it looked as if it was sliced completely open, like a doll in an anatomy lesson. Then, it fell forward with a dull thump. Now, it looked almost normal, it’s horrible wounds unnoticeable – unless someone were curious enough to turn it body over and take a look. Of course, it would be unlikely that another servitor would actually do that. Certainly not the other servitor in the room – that one was still too busy being killed.

This one merely got itself impaled upon a rapid succession of laser, xaser, and infra-red laser beams. Within seconds, it’s limbs and torso were chopped up like salami and sent to the ground in a pile of burning flesh. The three Daggers who were aiming at him with their rifles did not say a word as he collapsed. They just turned away as he collapsed.

So, Sir – what do we do next?

Kazansky shrugged. Zippo.

He smiled to himself, kneeling in the pool of blood that was already forming on the floor. Step back.

The thermogel lit easily, burning with a fierce heat that caused the Allaneans to push themselves back as far as possible from the blast door. Kazansky, too, retreated with them.

-A few more seconds…

-And?

-And, if nobody lied in the advertisement, this thing is going to have burned right through the door.

Five seconds later, he made a few steps towards the source of the withering heat, and kicked the door inside the ‘burning rectangle’, hard.

What would reveal itself on the other side would exceed the Allaneans’ worst expectations.

Location: Vault 5, Level 1 of Halsey Memorial Prison.
Time: T-Minus 27 Minutes.

Vault five was the first vault the Allaneans would penetrate and, though they could scarcely imagine it at the time, it held what was essentially ‘par course’ for the vaults to follow.

The creature they found was once an elf, but no longer. Its skin had been carefully flensed away, only to be replaced with the clear sheen of plastic, glinting softly in the pale orange-yellow lights overhead.

Most of its organs and musculature were long since gone, dissolved by meticulously programmed and administered attack nanotech; used only in the torturer’s field, for the raw fragility of nanites meant they could never be weaponized. In this task, however, they exceeded their maker’s hopes. The alien had felt the contagion slowly eating away at its organs, but not its nerve endings.

Indeed, it had felt every second, for it was not allowed a moment of sleep, or even of rest, by the black sludge of stimulants coursing through its bloodstream. And when it had run out of muscle and flesh to feed the microscopic abominations? They started upon its skeleton.

Now, though, the nanotech took on a different function, randomly stimulating the nerves which had been so carefully preserved. Not a second went by when hideous pain didn’t shoot through some part of the Elf’s body.

“Welcome to Vault Five, intruders. The animal you see before you was named Marenel, an escaped slave which stole from the Govenor’s private vineyard. As I’m sure you can imagine, Anton was quite incensed. He even went to the trouble of arranging for the services of Doctor Morte himself! I was quite pleased with the results. The Mortician does wonderful work. So wonderful in fact that most of our… congregation have been honored by his services upon them. There are a few who haven’t, experiments mostly, but you’ll have to make it to level three to see those, and that just isn’t in the cards.” Scylla’s voice said with a warmth far belying the implication of her words, as motion trackers around the vault picked up the Allaneans moving inward cautiously. “Oh, but where are my manners! Would you like any refreshments before your imminent death? Tea? Coffee perhaps? No? That’s too bad.”

***
Location: Bulkhead to Vault Zero.
T-Minus 27 Minutes.

”Paladin, I have confirmed intruders. They have just penetrated the door to Vault Five, after dispatching a team of servitors. As you suspected, they are equipped with thermoptics.” Scylla said.

Cilias frowned beneath his armor shell. Thermoptics were strictly regulated in Facehuggeria. Either the abolitionist cause had a supporter with a lot of clout, or he was looking at a foreign strike team. A foreign strike team…

“Scylla, you mentioned the intruders wiped out your servitors. Show me the footage.” Cilias said.

There was only one foreign entity with enough balls to strike a Facehuggerian prison, and the equipment to pull it off…

“Freeze it there.” He said, peering at an ugly jet of plasma characteristic of Xeno plasma weapons.

“Skinnies.” Cilias practically spat out, using his own name for Menelmacari elves. “Gas them, but only with knockout. The Freeman has seen fit to grant me this boon, and I would be foolish to squander it.”

To think! Menelmacari, here!

“Acolytes, we have a Menelmacari strike team on level one. I expect them to be upon us shortly, if they are as effective as the great Elf-Satan would have us believe. Be ready.” Cilias replied.

”Scylla, when they make it through the gas, glitter them.” Cilias said after a moment’s pause. ‘Glittering’ the intruders was just what it sounded like, bombarding them with sticky-glitter. One of the easiest if not most primitive ways of dealing with a cloaked foe, and one that Cilias hadn’t used since his confirmation ceremony as a Paladin.

***
Location: Vault Zero.
T-Minus 26 minutes.

”Don’t you think we should go, Justicae?” Strom asked, still panting with exertion from his activities with the poor slave girl. “I don’t want to be caught in the middle of an abolitionist attack.”

“No, no.” The Justicae replied, swallowing down his bile. If there was an attack… it would mean the information the abolitionist cause had provided to certain interested parties had gotten to the right ears. It also meant that he had to keep Strom here as long as humanly possible. Even if it meant sacrificing that poor girl’s innocence. “Paladin Cilias is a very competent warrior. He will handle whoever is attacking. Besides, wouldn’t you rather practice your technique some more?”

“You know? I think you’re right…” Strom replied. “Which door would you like to take?”

It took all his willpower for the Justicae to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. “What? No, I’m seeing someone. Absolutely not.”

“But I insist.” Strom’s steel eyes glinted sardonically. “If you don’t help me, I’m afraid I might have to leave this place. But you don’t want that, do you?”

“No, My Lord.” The Justicae replied through gritted teeth.

”Of course you don’t. Because you know that the good father will call for the Mortician as soon as I am done, and you want to spare this woman that fate. Oh, don’t look so surprised, I know all about your perverse leanings. It is why I’m doing this, after all.”

“Excuse me?” The Justicae asked.

“Indeed. What, you think that I can take time out of my busy schedule to ravish a slave, even one as physically attractive as this? No. I can, however, take the time to purge my administration of malcontents like you.”

”Why haven’t you killed me, then, if you knew all along? Traitors are punished to death under Imperial law.” The Justicae replied.

“Because I want to destroy you, my friend. And forcing you to compromise your beliefs will do more to harm your cause then killing you alone. I want a broken, bitter man, not a martyr.” Strom replied, caught up in the moment. Truth be told, he’d always an admiration for Bond’s villains.

”What makes you think I’d do what you want?” The Justicae asked, his hands balled into tight fists.

“Because if you do, I will commute this girl’s sentence and place her into your care. You’ll save her. Oh, don’t try to disagree, I know which way you’ll lean. Idealist scum like you always chooses the sacrifice, in the end. Now, shall we begin?”

The Justicae’s teeth dug into his lower lip, splitting it asunder. Save the girl, but damn himself in the process? Damn the cause? One elf wasn’t worth the morale of the whole abolition movement. But those eyes, those poor teary eyes. The torturers would pluck them out. He was sure of it.

“What do you want, Lantinël?” The Justicae asked.

”Don’t lis-MMPH!” She started to reply, before her mouth was stuffed full of Strom.

”That’s quite enough out of you, bitch.” Strom said smugly. “Mmm. She’s got nice skin, doesn’t she? I bet the Mortician would love to get his hands on it… I hear he’s in the market for a new suit.”

It takes a lot of courage to stand up for one’s beliefs, even when those beliefs mean you will directly or indirectly harm others. The Justicae was not a very courageous man. Or perhaps he was simply empathetic; the elf’s plight tugged at his heartstrings like little else could. “I’ll do it…”

“I knew you’d see reason. Now come, get on top. I want you to see her eyes as you take her. And don’t worry, I’ll be right here, making sure neither of you look away. It wouldn't be an effective lesson, otherwise.” Strom replied with an odd, fulfilled smile.

"You bastard." The Justicae spat as his clothing fluttered to the floor. "You won't get away with this."

"I think..." Strom replied, grinning as the Justicae began, obviously choking back his revulsion. "...I already have."

OOC: Not quite as good as the first one, but passable until we get to the real action. :)

'Dusting,' as explained, refers to pumping the room your guys are in full of shiny reflective dust, ala what was used in Predator 2. You can expect this occuring in every room which is breached, until your guys are nicely visible on cameras. The only way it wouldn't work is if your guys are phase-cloaked or something. But that's silly because then they'd fall through the floor! :p

As for why Strom hasn't fled yet, despite the fact that he knows there's a strike team, and that the Justicae has betrayed him? A combination of arrogance and a lack of opportunity. He knows that, if he wants to get out, he'll have to wait until the enemy team is right on his doorstep. Then he'll just step into a handy displacer gate and emerge right outside the sealed entrance to the prison. Plus he still has great faith in Cilias' abilities.

Of course, we all know that Strom won't be leaving the prison alive. The only question is how? :p

Edit: Oh, and I had no problems with your post beyond this one: You are really overestimating the defenses around the planet. Seriously, there's only like, one crappy outdated anti-orbital gun. Your ship could probably escape before it was destroyed. Especially if it happens to have FTLi to prevent the Fachueggerian destroyers or dreadnought that are presently tapped for defensive operations from displacing next to your ship and boarding it. :)

Location: Vault 5, Level 1 of Halsey Memorial Prison.
Time: T-Minus 27 Minutes

“Mother of God.” – whispered one of the cadets, unable to restrain himself at the sight of the abomination in front of him. Kazansky jerked his left shoulder slightly – Shit! They heard your voice! – but it was too late. Let’s just hope it doesn’t get us all killed. And further, let’s just hope this… poor thing just has a brain working. That’s all we need.

Kazansky leaned over the elf’s body – if this could even be called an elf anymore. Or a body. ’Miriel’, this is ‘Prince’ again. Broadcasting coordinates for immediate warp teleportation. Repeat, IMMEDIATE warp teleportation.

Somewhere aboard the luxury starship, someone – a medic, or the ship’s very own artificial intelligence suit – responded with a tinge of doubt – the kind of doubt even sapient computers feel sometimes, if indeed sapient at all.

Mr. President, won’t this damage the evacuee’s sanity?

Alexander did not bother. He just made a few adjustments with the suit’s cameras.

Do you have any question about threats to this person’s sanity?

The person or A.I. on the other end of the connection did not respond. Maybe it was some form of lag – not that this was likely. It took a full two seconds until a flash of blue fire lit the vault, and the elf disappeared.

Okay. – the President beamed a short message to the cadets. There was yet another slight pause as even the Dagger trainees were rather… stunned by the full horror of what the Facehuggerians have inflicted upon the innocent being.

Let’s go. She’s not the only one around here.

Suddenly, they were hit by a simple realization – something that they were intellectually aware of previously, and yet the full meaning of it had only now dawned on them emotionally.

This prison was full of beings just like this elf, and suffering worthy only of a few was being inflicted upon them with the full power of Central Facehuggerian technology and all the sadism inherent in a human mind.

Which would pretty much make this suffering unlimited.

More thermogel.

And so, the Allaneans made with the next vault door. While Kazansky ‘painted’ the gel upon the door, the Daggers sweept the room quickly – in case an elf prisoner, or a team of servitors was lurking in some shadowy corner. They did not take much notice of the robot’s voice.

“Welcome to Vault Five, intruders. The animal you see before you was named Marenel…”

They’ve spotted us.

“..from the Govenor’s private vineyard. As I’m sure you can imagine, Anton was quite incensed…”

Go, go, go!

Even as the Daggers swept through the vault-room, Kazansky was still pasting the thermogel carefully on the next door.

After the room was clear, Kazansky signaled the men to stand back.

“…the services of Doctor Morte himself!”

’Miriel’, this is ‘Prince’ again. Please check our intelligence database on this Doctor Morte. I’ll look at the report when we are home.

Location: Miriel nos Feanor Presidential Yacht

The medical personnel were not shocked as much when they saw the still-living remnants of what used to be one of the Quendi. However, these people – familiar from video recordings and decades of medical experience with the suffering inflicted upon elves, Khristians, Antanjyli – knew that it would be difficult to restore this innocent elf’s body. Then again, they had no plans to.

The body would be used for DNA samples, and then tossed out into space – but not before the consciousness would be backed up into a high-power computer, operating upon the principles of Uploaded Minds hardware, and running SuSE v20.06.

After the last sensor and manipulator stopped it’s humming and whirring, the doctor who directed the operation – namely, who decided upon it, and then pressed the button that would cause the ship’s machinery to go about it – smiled and said one short phrase.

“In a struggle between an obscenely tyrannical state and open source software, open source wins every single time.”

Location: Vault 5
T-Minus 27 Minutes.

“Oh, but where are my manners! Would you like any refreshments before your imminent death? Tea? Coffee perhaps? No? That’s too bad.”

The computer was still speaking as a jagged hole appeared in the blast door, a slab of metal from it falling in. After the last echo of the powerful clanging noise subsided into silence, Kazansky winced slightly – a small respirator-like device came out of his suit and perched upon his face – connected to the rest of the suit of course.

Then he spoke in immaculate Quenya, his voice altered by the device down to the point it was no longer recognizable. In fact, the suit was nice enough to even add a Menelmacari accent.

Listen to me, you electronic vermin.

You are dead.

Your owners are dead.

Everybody who supports, backs, funds your particular version of cruelty is dead.

They were dead when I stepped into this prison.

They were dead when I arrived on this planet.

As a matter of fact… as I and my bringers of death come through this facility tonight, killing all in our path, purging your feeble servants with plasma, steel, and lead, know that I am not the one killing you. I am not responsible for any Central Facehuggerian who dies tonight at my hand.

Know now, that your masters have brought this on themselves. When they chose the path of xenocide and slavery and extermination, when they raised a hand upon the first innocent child because he had the wrong shape of ears, when they did this – they signed their own bill, and they signed it with their own blood. I have come merely to collect.

Let me make this clear – not to you, you miserable can of bolts – but to the people who made you and who will doubtless wish to know the reason for which I will exterminate their followers today like the vermin they are.

As Kazansky spoke, sleeping gas was poured into the room. Upon the first trace of this gas detected in the air, similar devices to the one he was wearing appeared, and latched themselves on to the faces of the Daggers.


Even as he spoke, Kazansky stepped through into the next room, followed by the Daggers. If there were elves there, they would be teleported immediately aboard the Miriel. Not a single word of consolation, no ‘we’re here to help’ – merely a flicker of light as the elf would be taken aboard the Miriel. If the cadets’ sensors detected a kill switch, electronic tools would come into play seconds before the teleportation – but this would be the only difference.

Kazansky continued to speak. The speech was a part of the operation, of course.`

Let me make this clear. Slavery, torture, and oppression are evil. There is no grey on this. There is black, and there is white. You are evil, and you will pay. For every drop of innocent blood, for every tear of an innocent child – your civilization will pay in oceans of the blood of its soldiers and rivers of the tears of their children. Your last stand will not be the honorable stand of a glorious nation – it will be like the last yelp of a dog put down.

Have a nice day.

It was then that one of the Daggers looked worriedly at the man leading the team.

“Mr. President, we have incoming tangos!”


OOC: Those are, unfortunately, not MenelmaPlasGuns. I had to edit that, at Sirithil’s request. On the other hand, I find it quite likely you would make the mistake ICly - my people consciously imitate as much of the function of Menelmaplasgun as they can, and such a mistake is quite possible indeed, unless you happen to be from places where they often see the Menelmacari in action, or have carefully analyzed it’s signature.

As for the defenses: the Allaneans operate on the assumption that Facehuggeria has fuckloads of firepower to spare, and terraton-yield ‘tactical’ nukes coming out of every military outpost’s ears. Whether or not that is true, of course, is a different question.

And feel free to describe a servitor attack, a ‘glittering’, or something.

And feel free to describe a servitor attack, a ‘glittering’, or something.

Aye. I'm working on it, but I need to know how much leeway I have when writing about your characters.

OOC: I am actually interested in what flavour of elf these are. If for no other reason than who is meant to be pissed off. Despite the Allanean presumption that they're quendi, I'd be pretty much amazed if they were, not only because of how trite and cliche'd that is, but also because they have the ability to kill themselves without requiring access to limbs. In much the same manner, mind-transfer of unwilling members of that species would be essentially impossible. On the other hand, given Facehug's known predeliction for 40K, and description of them as 'aliens' one suspects they might be Eldar/WHFB elves, or something more exotic.

As for Menelmacari 'plasma' 'rifles' well, there's a big difference. They're pretty much as 'plasma' as they are 'rifled' and are actually more directly a kind of kinetic weapon of doom which can variously penetrate, explode, and yes, function as a plasma flamethrower if required. Typical effects of being shot with one are instantaneous destruction of all but the extremities of a body, and dissemination into vapour, even without the effects of the bolts integral heat. The kinetic transfer from this is massive, and is liable to reduce any unprotected humanoid target to a smear of blood and bones scattered across hundreds of meters. There's less powerful effects commonly used where non-combattant targets are a concern as well, with produce effects roughly analogous to a large bullet hitting one (as opposed to a couple of tank shells). Any familiarity with them would show a large distinction between them and most other types of 'plasma' weapon. Of course, the Facehuggerians shouldn't really have any familiarity, given that we've never interacted, and for our part, we've never even heard of Central Facehuggeria, though this hardly preculdes them having heard of us.

I'd ease off on the rape scene too. I would estimate that it is pretty close to the tolerances allowed on these forums, if not already in excess of them.

I'm also interested in the following things:

Number of Facehuggerian Planets
Average Defences Thereof
Total number of systems
Current strength of naval forces
Current strength of ground forces
FTL speed (instantaneous? If so, range and minimum dwell time)
Current ground equipment, bolos, powersuits, etc.

OOC: Facehug, I provided Mephet with his information. Also, while my people have not gotten access to Menelmacari weapons tech yet:D, we do ICly try to imitate some of it's effects. Thus my comments stand.

OOC: I am actually interested in what flavour of elf these are. If for no other reason than who is meant to be pissed off.

Generic D&D-style elves. The kind that have lived in CF since the start. Ocassionally the gene pool is supplemented with slaves brought in from other stock, but overally ~90% of the present slaves are 'native' to Facehuggeria.

What, you thought they were tolkein-type elves? Nah, that's just a bad assumption, like Cilias assuming that Allanea's strike team is Menelmacari. :p

Anyway CF's treatment of Elves is not meant to offend anyone ICly. (Except aliens, who the CF government doesn't care about anyway. OOCly it came as a result of a scene I wrote out (but never posted) back when I was a ~1.5 billion man nation, which has Emperor Halsey's family being indirectly killed by Elves, which was intended to start Tanthius' fall and later redemption, but it has since mutated into Halsey's justification for the horrors he's done. 'Course, come the civil war, he'll have to lie in his proverbial bed, even as it strikes his conscience just what he's been doing all these millenia, but that is for another day.

Combine that with institutionalized hatred of all threatening non-humans*, and natural human sadism enabled through a lax moral fabric and advanced technology, mix in some general insanity, and I can think it sorta-kinda possible for a state which was designed to be over the top evil can do that sort of thing. :)

*The only major exception to this is the Sskiss, primarily because they have proven to be very useful cats-paws. Of course like all nonhuman sentients, they're still on the 'exterminate when feasible' list, but they're really low down on the list. Especially since gladitorial games involving the Sskiss and sundry assorted aliens are so popular. CF citizens love seeing, say, an elf or a mon cal, or a wookie being torn apart by what amounts to a space-age dinosaur in the arena. :p


As for Menelmacari 'plasma' 'rifles' well, there's a big difference. They're pretty much as 'plasma' as they are 'rifled' and are actually more directly a kind of kinetic weapon of doom which can variously penetrate, explode, and yes, function as a plasma flamethrower if required.

From what I understood, Allanea's cheap knockoffs functioned as plasmathrowers too. (He used this ability on a pair of servitors, if I am not mistaken.) Since that's something of a rather... distinctive ability for Menelmacar's plasma rifles, and since Cilias' was brought up to believe that elves, especially Menelmacari ones, are the great enemy, he leapt to the conclusion that they were Menelmacari. OOCly everyone knows it's wrong, but he probably won't find that out before his death. If he does, it won't be particularly meaningful either way. We're talking about a religious fanatic, he doesn't care if he's dealing with Elves or Elvish Pawns, they're all evil heathens to him. :p

Of course, the Facehuggerians shouldn't really have any familiarity, given that we've never interacted, and for our part, we've never even heard of Central Facehuggeria, though this hardly preculdes them having heard of us.

Basically, everything the average CF citizen knows about you guys can be summed up as thus:

Menelmacar/C'tan is a heaven for filthy elves.
They have lots of guns.
They tend to kill people who don't like elves.

The church and other militant institutions know a little more, specifically:

Menelmacar/C'tan has lots of powerful guns, with some of those acting as swiss-army style 'do everything' guns.

I'd imagine this is from CF's communications with Allanea, and the shared tendency to glorify big guns. Surely at one point, one side or another would have brought up those damn elf-guns. :p

*Shrugs*



I'd ease off on the rape scene too. I would estimate that it is pretty close to the tolerances allowed on these forums, if not already in excess of them.

Hmm. I tried to keep it as vague and non-descriptive as possible. *Shrugs* No matter, no need for another scene on that subject. Strom's point was to break Justicae Brown, and that was the easiest way. The Govenor's thinking was that with advanced medical technology (which the Justicae would have access to,) any physical damage he was forced to inflict would be easily fixed. But the emotional damage of a violation like rape? Of being forced to violate someone like that? Much harder to fix.

On a side note, I was kinda waylaid into describing the first victim's tortures in detail. I'd have liked to start the prison out gradually, from relatively tame tortures like 'solitary confinement' to the heavy stuff. But then Allanea's post rather implied they'd run into something horrible even to the typically bloodthirsty Allanean character, and I didn't want to contradict him. Fun fact: I actually had to go through several revisions of torture ideas until I came up with one that I felt would actually shock the Allaneans. :p

Number of Facehuggerian Planets
Average Defences Thereof
Total number of systems
Current strength of naval forces
Current strength of ground forces
FTL speed (instantaneous? If so, range and minimum dwell time)
Current ground equipment, bolos, powersuits, etc.

Aren't I under ignore? What possible use could those things have relating to someone who is non-existant in your eyes? :p

But to humor you, I already gave much of what you asked to Allanea. The properties of my FTL drives (well, the ones I use primarily in any event) are a little strange. Instantaneous and able to displace anywhere I can plot coordinates for on a map. Safety features however prevent displacing the whole ship into solid objects, like planets, other ships, or what have you. (Note that a smaller displacement event like, say, displacing a bomb into the middle of a ship is still possible, though that tactic is rarely used due to the prevalence of FTLi making it more fuel-efficient to use a normal weapon as opposed to teleporting a nuke next to the target's reactor. It's also rarely used because it's against Facehuggerian sentiments. Though pragmatism tends to win out if the shit has hit the fan so badly that such tactics are necessary. OOCly, this translates to 'very rarely used, but possible if the other player's an ass.'

That's the main weakness of my ships, fuel. The smaller ones can only operate for about an hour at max power generation before running dry. The larger ones (being much bigger) can do so for twelve hours. Of course, there are vast fuel reserves on the key Facehuggerian planets, which are maintained in case of invasion to restock fleet assets.

Speaking of fuel, my FTL drives and FTL-based defenses/weapons operate on a sliding principle. I can brute-force my way through FTLi fields, but that will increase fuel consumption accordingly (doing work requires energy, which must be provided by fuel.) Hence why CF ships have their characteristically huge arrays of conventional weapons, rather than banks of displacers ready to beam bombs aboard opposing ships.

As for defenses, most systems have absolutely minimal ones, like Arcadia's 'crappy orbital defense gun.' Only six have any defenses of note, but four of those have rather ludicrous levels of defense, as those four worlds are of absolutely vital importance to CF.

As if to highlight this, nearly all of the Facehuggerian population is clustered on those four worlds. There's only a billion or so spread around all the rest. Which of course means that the Facehuggerian hold on those systems is tenuous, and is only backed up by the fact that military forces can arrive via displacer gate instantly to quell any uprising. Of course, come the civil war, that won't be enough to prevent them breaking away with a famous war hero like Tanthius promising them protection from the Empire under the new 'Facehuggerian Republic,' but that is in the future; the rebel forces are only just getting organized, with groups like the abolitionists and such only just starting on their path to militant insurrection.

And in other news: Post is coming as soon as possible. I was interrupted in the writing of it by this post, as well as an ill-timed arson attempt at my dorm. Seriously, who the hell tries to burn down a brick building with thick, fire-retardant doors and similarly flame resistant carpets? Gah.

To bad this thread died as I rather enjoyed the RP. CF, is that all my people are to you? A mere catspaw? Well, I suppose we should feel fortunate as you have this tendency to wipe out those "filthy xenos" as you call them at any oppertunity you can find.