The Pursuit of Divinity (Updated: 20/09/15)

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

I agree with Shankbot - that was interesting. I can't help wondering when (and how) all that data in Major Verdal's logs got corrupted. Did anybody in authority see the original version? Does anybody else know who it is she suspects of warning the enemy?

[Iron Aquilifer]

Ultra-City 1, Eden



Welcome to Ultra-City One tourist! It is here, two-hundred and eighty-three standard terran years ago that colonists first landed on a habitable planet. Before your eyes lies the first metropolitan settlement outside of the Sol system! Established with the sole purpose of becoming a new home for the people of Earth, Ultra-City One has become home to twenty-three million registered residents!

The way the hologram spoke was as if the complex before her was something to be marvelled. It was, if only for someone to gaze in awe as to the depths to which the human race had somehow fallen while claiming to be clawing itself forward. He had seen the irradiated wastelands left behind on earth, on mars, on a hundred former battlefields where now nothing but predatory mutants survived. He had seen the crumbling mega-structures in Athens Superior after two decades of natural disasters, the devastation left by a spacecraft crashing in the heart of a human centre. Ultra-City One was familiar enough to them to conjure up those images.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

Petal was not an accurate name for the girl. B---- maybe. Dagger. She would probably prefer Dagger. She was petite, as narrow as a blade with sharp features to match. Gazing up at him, augmented irises shifting of their own accord to display information only she could see, Petal waited almost patiently for his answer.

“I already have my own poison,” was the gruff reply, Gordon pulling out one of his cigarettes and lighting it up in two fluid movements.

“Suit yersel,” came the harsh reply, each word delivered with a short thrust.

Not waiting on him, the twenty-something descended the escalator with sure strides. She was as much a native to the city as its supposed inhabitants, having spent much of her life moving through the crowds and shadows in search of whatever it was she needed at that particular moment.

“We’ll see each other at the flat.”

She did not reply, losing herself in the milling thousands who were trying to escape the cramped docking port. He watched her leave, allowing himself a moment of bitterness at her departure. They both knew that she would not make her way to the flat. They both knew that he would not be going to the flat. She had a substance that demanded her time more forcefully than a short-time lover. Hell, she had probably forgotten his name. And I, I cannot go, for her sake. If he did and she turned up, he would be forced to do his duty.

Urged forward by a security officer behind him, Gordon made his own way out. Taxis waited eagerly for the new lot of off-worlders, shouting their prices and special one-day deals in an effort to steal their rivals’ customers. Some were as large enough to fit two hundred people, others only capable of fitting a family of four. Pointing himself towards the biggest one, the man lost himself in the middle of a loud group of Martians.

Four days, he reminded himself, clambering in to the nearest vacant seat. A man was beside him, cybernetic implants replacing at least half of his body. He didn’t look up, Gordon acknowledging the fact that the others’ sensors had already made the man aware of his presence. At least some peace. If there was one downer to Petal’s company, aside from the narcotic abuse and all the emotional instability that entailed, it was that she enjoyed the sound of her own grating voice. There was a lot for her to say, somehow. Four days. He could do it, he had to do it.

There was no one else who could manage it.

[Alwyn]

I like the atmosphere of this chapter - both the image and the words remind me of the atmosphere of Bladerunner - the noisy, crowded streets of a futuristic city whose people have troubled lives despite the new technology they use.

[Iron Aquilifer]

[CLASSIFIED] – [CLASSIFIED]

“My god! What have you done?”

“Dr Craggs, please calm yours-“

“That is a f---ing baby!”

The other scientists moved over to detain the screaming woman before she did anything to damage the experiment. It had been costly both in terms of test subjects and time. The latter deciding the matter for them.

“Our worlds are burning, Dr Craggs, the Olympus Project is no longer a viable option. These measures are necess-“

“B------s! You mother----ing b------s!”

Turning his back on his old colleague, Dr Adams returned to reading the monitors. Everything seemed to have been going well, at least according to the glowing numbers running down the screens. In the end it was down to the subject herself to pull through. Survival of the fittest, he pondered as the vitals took a momentary dip. A thousand worlds burning.

“Do you believe that she will make it?”

For a moment he was unaware of what the woman was asking. Is it even a girl? The last one had been female he recalled. Pausing only long enough to check the relevant data, Adams offered up his conservative opinion. He had not reached where he was by being optimistic.

“If she does she will be the first. Even then the tests will still continue.”

His fellow researcher nodded ominously, as if she was well-versed in such things. How long have you been here? It could not have been long, given that her name eluded her as surely as the answers to immortality. No, she must have been one of the new batch, a fresh cog to replace one of the burn-outs. Some are just not cut-out for this.

It was a shame really, to have no one to share this with. He was saving humanity and there was not a single peer he could turn to celebrate with. The war will be ours to win. And his sacrifices, the sacrifices of a brilliant mind, would be the reason. He would become a hero, as surely as the exalted Fergus Wull. His name would become a byword for determination, genius and victory. A millennia would pass and the billions who had survived because of his actions would uphold him as a saint. A gift dispatched by a caring god.

“Dr Adams, the subject’s vitals are beginning to drop.”

“Dr Grant, give it some adrenaline. Keep the heart beating for a little while longer.”

Time. Time was all that was needed. The augmentations had been accepted by the body so all that was needed was for the subdued creature to regain its strength. Theoretically when it did that, then it would live a long and full life in the service of humanity.

“Still dropping!”

Adams went to work the dials himself, injecting painkillers and synthetic nutrients which normally found itself being administered to fully-grown warriors. At any other time the body would be able to pull through. However, this body seemed to be weak.

“Dr Grant, please go and see if another subject can be brought up.”

“Dr Adams? There is still a chan-“

“Please do as I say. This one doesn’t want it enough.”

[Iron Aquilifer]

Interesting latest update, and no worries about the lack of activity.

+rep

Many thanks

I agree with Shankbot - that was interesting. I can't help wondering when (and how) all that data in Major Verdal's logs got corrupted. Did anybody in authority see the original version? Does anybody else know who it is she suspects of warning the enemy?

Questions questions questions, what would be worse? In the future despite the advancements in technology can so much personal history be lost forever? Or is it now easier for those with the knowledge to be able to remove what they don't want others to see, and yet make it look as if there is a problem with the software?

I like the atmosphere of this chapter - both the image and the words remind me of the atmosphere of Bladerunner - the noisy, crowded streets of a futuristic city whose people have troubled lives despite the new technology they use.

I have heard good things about Bladerunner and yet have not read the book. The movie on the otherhand, is a favourite.

Many thanks

[Scottish King]

Just caught up. You definitely got the atmosphere right. It feels like a dystopia. War has bred a human culture lacking in things we consider to be part of the human experience. Great job!

[SanyuXV]

Finally been able to sit down and catch up on my readings and I must admit you captured my heart at the word legionnaires... and titans of course. . .

That was the reason Command had sent in Legionnaires instead of the rabble at Camp Honour Fall: Squad Terros was worth thousands.

-Thought this line was brilliant
-Love the illustrations and pictures

You've crafted a unique atmosphere with war being the central driving force in the rapid evolution of mankind. Looking forward to more IA, keep going

[wowbanger]

This is a great setting, I really like the way it's written as a series of short stories from different viewpoints and areas.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Just catching up...

I like the two new chapters very much; as everybody else has said, the dystopian atmosphere is very effective. Looking forward to more when you have chance!

[Iron Aquilifer]

Squad Terros - Goldilocks-3 Campaign


“Yamamoto is in sight. No sign of activity. Severe damage to the outer defenses.”

Command acknowledged, ordering the soldiers to delve within the smoking wreck. Their objective was simple: locate any survivors. Even the fiercest of forest fires left trees standing and it would be those trees which spelled disaster. They could not risk allowing any to fall in to the hands of the enemy.

“Terros, you have lead. Hailey team, you are overwatch. Hard and fast.”

“Quick and clean,” came the instant reply.

Hailey team, which had formerly been Yeglan team, spread themselves out. Giving them but a moment to set themselves up, Zhalin pointed towards the sprawling mass of twisted steel and sparking electronics. That was all the incentive Terros and his team needed, . He raced forward, crossing the distance in a thousand bounding leaps.

The sky was dark, dim flashes of purple and gold as a war raged above them. There was little usable light available to the soldiers, although that suited them fine: Their instruments were far better than whatever nature could provide for them. If any of them had cared to look around, they would have seen such lush greenery as to make the old images of Earth pale in comparison. They would have spotted small animals pouncing on leaves and broad birds swooping on unseen prey. As it stood, however, their eyes were focused solely on the inferno before them.

“Zhalin, entry point located, proceeding.”

There was no need for anything else to be said. The men and women knew what they were doing, having had the scenario drilled in to their heads before they had been allowed sustenance. Bodies twisted, eyes scanned and located, triggers were squeezed: a killed was confirmed within the same heartbeat. It went without saying that the foe were converging on their location. Zhalin and his men went in assuming that the fallen craft was swarming with them, that after the first ten steps they would be fighting corridor to corridor, bulkhead to bulkhead.

“Hailey team, assume overwatch.”

With Terros leading his men at what ignorant men would have considered a reckless speed, Zhalin allowed the forward four legionaries to spread out along the lower level towards the engineering wing. Taking his fireteam up, the commander pointed himself towards the bridge. If anyone of relative importance had survived, they would have crowded in the command centre.

“Help!” a voice cried out, weak and plaintiff.

Boom.

Picking up the pace, Zhalin allowed his fireteam to spread out. They would only be a few heartbeats behind him if the foe had already beaten them to the officers. Not that they would pose much of a threat. In the open field, where the battle was decided by deceit and treachery and staying away from the enemy, the foe had the advantage. Here, however, is where they stand no chance. In the close confines of a fallen spaceship, there was no space for clever stuff. It was here that the degenerate sophisticates had to handle pure, unreasoning violence. They died every time.

Boom.

“What are you doing?” begged a crewman as he turned to flee.

Boom.

Carrying out my orders, was the obvious and unspoken answer.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Just caught up. You definitely got the atmosphere right. It feels like a dystopia. War has bred a human culture lacking in things we consider to be part of the human experience. Great job!

At least I am getting there.

Many thanks

Finally been able to sit down and catch up on my readings and I must admit you captured my heart at the word legionnaires... and titans of course. . .


-Thought this line was brilliant
-Love the illustrations and pictures

You've crafted a unique atmosphere with war being the central driving force in the rapid evolution of mankind. Looking forward to more IA, keep going

Always great to hear!

Many thanks

This is a great setting, I really like the way it's written as a series of short stories from different viewpoints and areas.

Your support is most welcomed.

Many thanks

[Scottish King]

Dark chapter indeed. I wonder who exactly the squad was taking out. Great update.

[Iron Aquilifer]

RED ALERT

Identification: William Valoris, Acting Major, callsign “Abaddon”
Serving: UCCS Invictus
Location: Refuelling Station Oasis-23
Mission: Homeward bound from the Forward Hope Campaign

*****

“Firecracker your bird’s all shot up! Turn round and return to Invictus!”

“They have lock-on!”

“No, I can handle this!”

“I am being swarmed!”

“Take that you bastards!”

“Lizzy!”

He could not spot her craft with his eyes, although he could make out the momentary eruptions of missiles. She was too far ahead, too far gone. The rest of her flight had already left the fight to rearm and William’s fighters were only just now reaching the fray. Listening to the chaos of the comm links as four flights of men and women weaved through the once empty abyss, he could just barely make out Elizabeth's panted words.

“Abaddon! Callsigns only,” reprimanded Major Krystle from his own craft somewhere further back from the fighting.

“Firecracker, return to Invictus immediately! That is an order.”

“Third flight, you are being pulled out of formation!”

He tried to regain his cool, to lower his voice. However he couldn’t, not when he could hear the alarm klaxons coming over the channels from Elizabeth’s fighter. The plane had taken a direct hit from a missile, although for some reason the warhead had not detonated. Not that either Elizabeth or William were complaining, since it meant that she was still alive for a few moments longer.

“Missile away!”

“Negative Abaddon! I am through the flak cover and on attack run.”

That was the prompt Abaddon needed to check his readings on Elizabeth’s missile counter. It came up with a red zero.

“Firecracker, I am reading empty on your payload, how copy?”

There was no reply except for her breathing, laboured due to the stresses of the accelerated flight. Training and experience helped William drone out the exclamations of a dozen pilots as they waged their own battles. The enemy were all around, but that did not matter.

“Firecracker, how copy!”

“Burn them for me William. Burn them all!”

He threw himself out of his bed in one frantic motion, with head and foot hitting something sharp. The sudden pain went a little way to casting aside the last residues of his dream. Not that he had any way of forgetting it completely.

“Who was that?” came a half-hearted question, the voice’s owner twisting to fine some vaguely-comfortable position to get some rest.

“It was me, sorry guys.”

A chorus of complaints and muffled blasphemies found their way to his ears from all he had woken up. Taking a moment to steady his heartrate, William clambered out of his little alcove and stretched to his full height. As he did so, the temporary major stretched out a shaking hand to stop him from floating in to Lieutenant Whyte’s alcove. The movement was made without thought, Valoris having learned from a dozen accidents that no one appreciated him drifting in to their sanctum.

Taking a moment to collect a few of his possessions, the major made best speed away from the sleeping bodies of his comrades. Moving out of the pilot’s quarters, William pulled himself along the narrow corridor towards the humouredly-named showers. She died doing her duty. Passing other crewmembers, the major received several lazy salutes from those who were not engrossed in their duties. The personnel of Invictus had served long enough to relax the formalities of a warship. They had suffered too much together for a bond not to have been formed between each and every one of them. She was well-liked among the crew.

Coming upon the showers, he located the water dispenser. Opening a bottle, William drained it of its cool liquid in five long gulps. Putting the bottle back in to its container, the pilot opened the first entrance and delved within. There he stripped, depositing the sweat-drenched clothing in to a near-full container of equally dirty vests and shorts. Pulling out his razor, Valoris entered the showers proper. The steam was thick in the room, flowing from vents in the floor up to those in the ceiling in a lazy ascent. Finding the nearest unoccupied mirror, he wiped it down and started to cut the bristles which had started to lengthen on his face.

A month. It had felt longer, so much longer. Home was no more a vague idea in his head, a fleeting memory which could be lost forever if he ever tried to recall it. Yet that was where they were returning to, as heroes no less.

“How are you Abaddon?”

Daniel pulled herself along to be level with the squadron leader.

“What’s up? Your shift isn’t for several hours yet and you never were an early riser.”

William offered the chirpy pilot a guarded look in the mirror before returning to his shaving. The heat was refreshing, as was the lack of clothing. Being suited up for most of his month’s tour was something he never relished. However, in comparison to living in his own stale sweat and dead skin, having the more vocal members of the crew around was worse.

“Giving me the silent treatment I see,” she paused, glancing round to see if anyone was paying the two any attention. “Take it Queen kicked you out after you were finished rutting on her?”

The blade left a deep wound across the low cheek. Valoris took a second to let out an empty laugh before reaching for a cauterizing strip. After waiting the necessary time to ensure that no swift retort was coming, Daniel started to giggle. William could only describe it as a girly giggle, full of youthful energy and sly mystery. It was contagious. Hell, it was what had attracted him to her in the first place.

“We haven’t seen each other since she was transferred to tactical. Heard she is enjoying that sausage fest.”

“Aye, those screen junkies don’t have the stamina we do. Too little use you see.”

Feeling the wound burning shut, the acting major tenderly placed the strip in a disposal unit. Returning to his dry shave, William attempted to divert the conversation to something safer. Word got round ship quick enough outside of one of the busier rooms. There was no need to allow their idle chat to start anything which could cause the working relationship to become strained between any of the crew.

“How is the refuelling coming along?”

Daniel’s face made it obvious how little she thought of the major’s chosen topic. Yet she complied, giving an answer with as many words in as little a space of time as possible.

“Commander is being given a long list of reasons by the station for why they do not yet have the ability to give us all that we need until word has come in from Strategic Command. The second fuel transporter has yet to be sanctioned for duty, so it looks like another day of fingering ourselves until the politics blows over.”

William didn’t have to remind his subordinate of the legitimacy for the station’s hesitation for freely giving out their fuel, sanctioned military use or not. The rumours, more commonly unexpected relationships and bad breakups, now circulated regarding some sort of dissent among the battle-weary units of Warhost Poseidon. These rumours were whispered between close friends, or muttered in the dark shadows. The UCCS Behemoth no longer reported to 2^nd Fleet, its vast array of weaponry, once vital to the success of a dozen battles, was mysteriously absent. The UCCS Triumph had suffered a mutiny, though no one was certain of its origins or if it succeeded. There was worse: Admiral Lynton had stopped communicating with Strategic Command and some sort of captain’s committee was being set up; Colonel Robert Jones and his Deliverance Battlegroup had gone rogue; the advance had stalled through infighting. If any of these were even half true, the crew of Invictus knew that there would be a purge carried out. Humanity could not allow disunity in this war. Invictus could easily be brought back to support the Legionnaire unit tasked with bringing with Warhost back in line.

“I am sure you could find someone to replace your fingers. They seem a bit used.”

If he had not been shaving his neck, Valoris was certain that he would have been hit. Instead he got a dry bark in reply and a nasty look. He had had worst from her in the past for far less. Faded scars and forgotten bruises bore silent testimony to that.

“If you are offering yourself then be prepared for disappointment. I cannot be with the squadron leader. How would that look?”

He feigned shock at her words, not letting them get any further than his ears.

“Oh, it looks like Abaddon has claimed his next notch.”

Before William or Daniel could reply to the intrusion, the lights, the thousand tiny suns which illuminated that ragged band onboard Invictus, dimmed out. The reaction from within the showers was a few heartbeats faster than that of the ship itself. Only raw recruits would have not understood what was happening, but only soldiers as experienced as those with whom William served could have reacted as fast as they did.

“Red alert! Red alert! Red alert! Red alert! Red alert!”

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Another couple of nice updates.

I particularly like William's nightmare (I assume it was one of those nightmares where you relive a real memory) and his reaction to it - and the scene in the showers, with the (more-or-less) relaxed banter followed suddenly by the crew's swift reaction to the lights fading.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Horizon's Pantheon - [CLASSIFIED]

Who were they? Robert Jones, Amanda Locke, Samuel de Poiters, a dozen others, a hundred others. They were soldiers. They were brothers and sisters in arms. They were friends. They were rivals. They were united. What were they? Warriors. Devoted fighters. Guardians standing against the chaos of weak rule. Paladins holding humanity back from the abyss. They were heroes without measure or rival. They were villains. They were exiled outcasts.

The food was cold, the meat raw and bloody. Even so the soldiers ate it all within seconds. Many couldn’t find the discipline to stop themselves from licking the dregs from their gingers. All of them remained silent throughout the meal, unwilling to waste any energy until they had to. So they lay there, a hundred or so, motionless in the middle of a vast grain field. The crow swayed more than the concealed bodies breathed.

“Has there been any activity?”

A silent notification was all the reply he got. Morgan had never been one for conversation, even when he had the ability to do so under his own power. Taking the scout’s answer in to consideration, Robert weighed up the other options yet open to him and his men. Each and every one was dismissed. They all sat on the doorstep of defeat. It would be too easy for the door to open afterwards. Therefore, he could not see those options as options at all. They were dirty thoughts to be cast aside.

“All squads, form on the crop edge.”

His men moved instantly, rolling on to their fronts and crawling forward. Almost as one, they rose in to a low crouch. Peeling the tall stalks back from their path, the soldiers crept forward. If Robert had been a normal man, born and raised by normal parents without any augmentation to lead a normal life, then he would have mistaken the noise and movement within the field to be nothing more sinister than the wind cursing through the crop. As it stood however, every footfall was a tree being felled.

“Heavy weapons, you have the centre.”

Others would have placed them on the flanks, anchoring the line. Many would have spread them out, to offer up the widest area of support. Those minds would be on the opposite side. Do the unexpected and that may put them off balance enough for victory.

Heaving rocket launchers and automatic cannons in to position, the eighteen soldiers designated as the heavy hitters lined up their shots carefully. They had the privilege of striking first, an honour sought out by every warrior under his command. Every miss would be a stain on their reputation with could never be removed.

“Amanda, you have the gate. Samuel, you are taking the wall.”

Both commanders acknowledged instantly. The plan had been made hours before. Each and every man know their objectives. The only thing left to confirm was the exact moment to strike. The right moment was vital if Robert was going to have a command left at the end. Striking at the wrong time would mean that the enemy had an extra moment to prepare. They would have an extra moment to signal the disposition of the renegades. Such a mistake would cause death.

The castle had stood the test of time, high walls showing only a few hints of its old age. Families had come and gone, kingdoms had risen and fallen, countries had been born and ripped apart and still the fortress stood resolute. The moat was overgrown with weeds and moss spread like cancer across the stone but still the bastion remained strong. Within, a small army had made camp, reassured by the height of the walls and the isolation of the complex from the rest of the world.

“Gregor, lead the way.”

The soldier in question leapt forward without hesitation. He had stormed enough positions to know that speed was everything. The enemy did not yet know of their presence, so that would buy him a few extra feet of ground. Not waiting for their leader’s order, the rest of the assault group charged forward behind the veteran. The whirr and buzz accompanying the spool-up of mini-guns sounded harshly loud to Robert.

One heartbeat was followed swiftly by a dozen others, yet still the foe had not fired on them. Waiting could see his men reach the enemy base without altering them. It could also grant them the time needed to muster up a coordinated defence. As he men streamed out of the corn field, Robert made his decision.

“Commence the attack.”

They had been branded traitors by the very people they had sworn to protect. Cast out like lepers, the men and women of Battlegroup Deliverance had found themselves shunned by their former friends and allies. To be hunted by their false brethren had been the final insult. No longer were they running, slinking away like some whipped cur. First the castle and its occupants would fall and then their presumed successors. They may have been usurped from their rightful place, but the colonel would see to it that the kingdom fell with them.

The missiles had been designed to blanket the battlefield in high explosive. They were useful for decimating infantry and light armour, proving their worth time and time again on a hundred forgotten graveyards. For fortress-busting, the warheads were less than ideal. They have to work. That was why he strained his eyes to see if the sheer force of the projectiles’ combined impact would be enough to rip a hole in the old masonry.

“Contact.”

The warning came a few brief heartbeats before gunfire sounded out across the once still landscape. Heavy machineguns spat out thick rounds as miniguns tore up earth and stone. The whining of the missiles was almost lost in the almighty symphony of modern warfare. At least until the shell erupted, spraying the inner courtyard with brick and steel pellets.

“Do not stop. Stop and I will shoot you myself.”

Amanda’s calm threat spurred on the soldiers as nothing else could. The battle would be theirs. They had come too far to be stopped by mere humans. The arrogance of such a notion sent rage-fuelled curses forward alongside the munitions.

“Breach.”

Straining, Robert noticed the great chunks which had been torn off by the teeth of metal and explosive. The wall still stood, remaining as defiant as an infirm lion facing off against a soon-to-be-victorious challenger. The missile volley had blown apart the ancient stonework, sending chunks of stone older than the castle’s occupants out in all directions. A cloud of dust and chemicals replaced the solid fortification, a veil hiding the mysteries which hide within. The colonel was drawn by the desire to uncover such secrets.

“Samuel, make your entrance.”

The soldier acknowledged, directing his men towards the breach. The hulking brutes ran straight through the artificial cloud before it had any chance of settling. Speed is key. Even as Robert noted how the wall was beginning to disappear beneath the endless onslaught, the gunfire from within the castle was intensifying. Soon the charge would be halted and a costly stalemate started in its place.

“Amanda, open the gate.”

Small figures darted across the battlements, dodging bullets long enough to return fire. Dozens of the peering over their cover to take a brief shot before retiring. Yet Robert’s warriors had every martial advantage. That was made evident by the kills they racked up.

An explosion almost lost in the heat of the assault, blossomed from the main entrance. If there was a sign that the fighting would get bloody, that was it. Now there was less than no hope for the defenders to keep humanity’s finest at bay. It would now be decided in the rooms and corridors. It would be decided by the warfare of man to man. They don’t stand a chance.

“Heavy resistance.”

“Gregor is down.”

“Luigi, move.”

“Felicia is down.”

Listening to the comm-feed with one ear, Colonel Jones listed the casualties as they were relayed to him. All the while he fired on the each and every enemy soldier he could spot. Each loss was filed away, Robert unwilling to do anything except acknowledge the deaths.

“Heavy weapons, forward.”

The rest of the force was piling in to the castle proper, trading shots with the enemy at a much more personal level. They would need the extra firepower to overwhelm whatever faced them within.

[Alwyn]

Enjoyable action scenes, I would like to know what happens next!

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Enjoyable action scenes, I would like to know what happens next!

Me too!

That was a great chapter - I hope we will get to hear more of that particular story.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Sanguine Pantheon - Ferox Tride



His suit stood in the darkness, a silent sentinel in a silent room. Warped by fire and stone and the strikes of unknown glass, it seemed to be unable to maintain its stance, each piece willing another to fail so that it could find blessed rest upon the untouched floor. It had walked across a thousand No-Man's-Lands. It then strode a thousand more. The cold kiss of the void had placed its icy marks upon the chestplate just as visibly as the tender treatment of a buzz saw. Now was the time for it to be allowed to collapse, to acknowledge the futility of continuing and accept defeat. The monotony of service had now become a bland canvas. The taste of duty was ashes where once it had been sweet syrup, swallowed unwillingly for lack of anything else. Hope was the foul poison now expelled from the synthetic muscle, left as stains from forgotten lives upon the right shoulder-guard.

There was a moment of pure silence, the moment which announced without voice that something was about to occur. It was the instant after a missile had struck a ship’s flanks, as primer ignited explosive. It was the heartbeat in which bullet met skull. The silence was the applaud of a thirsting god watching the games.

A door opened, the motors clean and well-oiled. Silhouetted by the warmth from the rest of the facility, a man entered without pause or ceremony. The man looked little like a man. Picture a bear in his prime, vast in every definition of the word: arms that look short because of the thick slabs of muscle; legs that cannot truly straighten because of the weight bearing down on them; the opened flood-gates of the heaving chest as the gallons of blood flowed through its arteries; hair as thick as a forest of ancient oak trees and as lush as a field of grass planted in virgin soil. Yet that is what is seen in the darkness, seen by flawed eyes in a failing light.

Hack at the bear with sword and axe. Pierce the hide with speartips of glass and rain down a torrent of diamond-edged needles. See the muscle be blasted away and taste lost blood, the scent thick in the air. Tear off its hair in large clumps with your hands, cauterizing the wounds as you go with hot poker and coal. Strip the bear of his pelt, leaving him with only bloody rags that was the skin beneath. Watch as the colour drains from its features, the lack of blood etching away life as surely as time.

The bear, pale and ruined beyond measure, is not ready yet to be revealed for what it is. Place him in a desert, in the middle of a sandstorm. No ordinary sandstorm of course. A whirling vortex of granite and grit and sand, grey and grey and grey. Watch as the bear is struck by the thousand, thousand pieces. Witness the storm cloak the bear in a grey skin of grinding stone, burrowing deep in to the skin itself, never to be removed. A skin that is nothing more than a sad parody of the brilliant mane that had once stilled the masses in to silence.

You see that bear now? The former majesty of strength and power and youth torn away, replaced with nothing. Nothing but suffering and a thousand, thousand scars. A head that bore no hair, a face with all features burnt away with chemical and flame. Hands stiff from the calluses, joints creaking from age. That is the giant who waded in to the room, who shuffled over to the ill-kept armour and with a sigh of relish, knelt beside it.

Nathaniel's left hand, gnarled in to a half-fist, scrapped across the chestplate of his armour. Callused fingers raked down the metal, mapping every crater as they went. There had been no facilities during transit to administer the correct repair procedures and the Olympian refused to fill the battle honours in with the tactical repair putty he had been laden down with. To do so would have been to insult himself and the armour. It would continue to serve him faithfully with or without the decoration.

"My master," a servant whispered, an older woman in plain overalls, "Lord Krieg is requesting your presence."

With her sole task done, the human swiftly retreated in to the darkness, her padded plimsolls making each footfall sound nigh inaudible on the ceramic flooring. Inaudible to a mortal's hearing, that is.

Strength comes from Will. He rose slowly, allowing the muscles to move through the range of motions. From experience, that painting of grey and black mist, the Olympian had come to understand the importance of preparation. As the slabs of flesh wound around his skeleton elongated, Nathaniel gave a grave nod. It was almost painful, as if he was admitting to some dishonourable act. From Strength comes Faith. The servants dashed forward, a dozen burly men with shaven heads and adorned with tattoos and Pantheon sigils making a start to their job.

The power armour, despite being as new as could be found, was already a battered veteran. This meant that it took the servants a longer time than the old soldier would have found acceptable to equip him with. At every fumbled movement he growled, giving the instigator a glare that sent them scurrying. Honour comes from Faith. However, despite their best efforts, the servants managed to seal him within his armour, that cold skin which made him as much as he made it.

From Honour comes Duty. Flexing his old limbs, feeling the youth that the energised metal slabs gave him, Nathaniel awaited the team who had been granted the honour of administering to his weapons. Safe within the armour, the Olympian let out a deep breath. Transition was always difficult for him, the time spent between having his skin ripped from his frame and then returned as a soothing balm on his mind. During that time he was not Nathaniel. He was something less.

Will comes from Duty. The weapons were wheeled in on a trolley as plain and robust as a surgeon's table, heaved along by a small team of weight-lifters. Eyes quickly assessing each in kind, the battle hardened veteran permitted the humans a grunt. Despite the obvious success of their care, Nathaniel still snatched at the weapons, retrieving them from the clasp of the mortals. They were instruments of a God's Will. The Pantheon's. Only he had the honour to wield them.

"This is the Service Perpetual, and may it forever be so," he chanted, his voice the crawling of beetles.

Pointing himself towards the not-so-distant meeting chamber, alone as he had been fifty years before, the Olympian marched forward, each footfall the heralding call of a god.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Enjoyable action scenes, I would like to know what happens next!

Me too!

That was a great chapter - I hope we will get to hear more of that particular story.

Many thanks for the continuing support

Currently wading through one of them idea reshuffles in regards to turning this in to a proper linear piece but have decided to just stick up the pieces as they come to me.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

That's very intriguing. I'm looking forward to more, as always.