"Okay, things are officially weird, maybe this is all a dream, maybe the orbital battle never happened, maybe the entire war never happened..."
Ryles stands in the rain for a minute, then sighs.
"Waking up would be really good right about now."
Ryles goes out onto the street and recalls the local points of interest while getting into the swing of letting forth a constant stream of magic, 53.
Off the top of your head, the nearby points of interest are: the massive unnatural tempest above (could be a popular tourist attraction after the war's over, you could probably hire people as tour guides for the inside of the storm and probably sell safety gear to tourists), your workplace (where you do, whatever it is that people throw money at you for) which is one street down and two across from where you are, at 40th and 74th, located near a small supermarket, one of the innumerable pubs nearby (which come in varying degrees of sleaziness, legality, price and criminal activity), and the commotion down below (fire, smoke, screaming, and all that jazz). Oh, also, there's that cozy little gambling parlor on 41st and 80th! It's kinda seedy, but you've been assured that it's perfectly legal. Probably. Maybe. Close enough to legal.
Oh, and there are also the explosions that happen on this floor. Started a week ago. Not too sure why. Though rumor has it that there's a group of System League agents hiding somewhere with a metric shit ton of explosives and an inversely proportional amount of impulse control.
[COMP: 2/2] You conjure the shimmering outline of a dragon that decided that it would rather do something other than be a fat pyromanic slob that lives by the motto "Horde riches, get bitches". Also known as a lizard.
"Into the storm? And you didn't even send me an umbrella? I'll try to make sure my dying gurgles are understandable. O'Greenahan out." Beirus responds to HQ before closing the comm link.
"Looks like it's just going to be us, Jus. Hopefully I don't run into whatever that LATRANS did." Beirus remarks casually.
Into the storm!
As you make your remark, someone taps your shoulder lightly. Well, lightly for mobility armor at least. Johnny is there, ALCYONE in hand.
"Hey boss, I know this is meant to be a 'solo' mission and all that jazz, but we've been assigned overwatch. We'll try and cover your back, but well, it's the damnedest thing, they're more worried for us than you. Been told to ditch you and run if it gets too hot. I'd say you've pissed off someone high up, but,"He nods towards your prototype weapon.
"I'm beginning to think that it's more that you've caught their eye. You okay with that? I mean, I know you pilot those cursed frames for a living, but I fear that they might overdo it and end up putting you in a casket. I-"Novjoy interjects, as she walks over, AIAR in hand.
"I believe what he's trying to say sir, is to that we'd hate to see you out there. Don't push yourself out there."Mirai just nods silently while adjusting her ALCYONE's sights.
Hate to ruin the moment you're having here, but it's best to tell you right now.
If they go deep into the anomaly, near the eye of the storm, they won't be returning.
The march towards the anomaly is tense, though uneventful and in due time you find yourself at the edge of the storm.
You are standing before the business district, a gleaming expanse of glass and steel. Above, the serpentine forms of enormous black clouds spiral chaotically, bringing forth a torrential downpour. Distant thunder roars and chilling gales howl amidst the incessant rattle of the rain. Even here, at the edge, the weather is nothing short of horrid. It's a wonder that your armor is even able maintain anything resembling a grip on the water slicked roads. Visibility is, poor. The hydrophobic material of your visor is helping keep the droplets off your field of view, but the sheer density of the deluge isn't doing you any favors.
The rest of your squad are several meters behind you in a loose formation, the barrels of their weapons sweeping around cautiously for the umpteenth time.
The densely packed buildings, haphazardly varying in size and purpose (though generally into one of the three categories of commercial, corporate and dining) ought to provide shelter if you need it. Assuming of course that they aren't filled with some sort of horrible aberrations.
Blue is the "mostly normal" area
Black are buildings
Mesh are sources of shelter that aren't buildings (awnings, gazebos, arcardes, etc.)
Orange is the approximate border
"Huh... neat. Oh hey AAAA"
DOOOOOODGE
[MDEF vs. BEES: 2 vs. 3] You throw yourself out of the way as the blade launches itself at your chest with a roaring buzz. A ripping and searing pain tells you that you didn't make it out entirely unscathed. Your left hand is gone, having been torn apart, ripped off and burnt. It never even touched the sword, it seems that just being close enough causes grievous harm. The heat has thankfully cauterized the stump, so at least you aren't bleeding out. Infection would be a concern, but with how this is going, you'd have finished this course or died trying by the time it would matter.
The swarm disperses as the buzzing abates, the murder bees apparently having had their hunger for flesh sated, at least for now.
Well, you're still in the same section of the cave, having looted a sword, sacrificed a toaster, and fed a constellation of bees. So, guess the million dollar question is, "Are any of those things related?". Your back is to the altar. The smashed cage to your front. There is a path to the left, and a path to the right.
Ao Shi
"Oh wow, that was quite experience! I definitely prefer role of couch stragtegist over frontline soldier, albeit I did some sick sweet moves there... Hahaha!"
"Hmm, this would look good on you." Ao says and picks up the diadem. "Do you have any idea if it does anything else besides being probably valuable?"
+3 UTAR, +2 MDEF, +2 COMP, +3 TRAN
Pick up the diadem. Examine it. Obtain information, check if it doesn't look too girly on my head. Wear it if Red thinks it isn't dangerous to do so.
Make my way to outside and see if the videogame entity left anything else behind.
Word: 27
"Well aside from making you look like a girl... it's projecting a reality-altering field sort of like what that core was trapping you in, as in, it's doing that already. It's shiny and is some sort of boss loot so probably isn't trapped like 99% sure well 87%, maybe.... I guarantee it will probably not kill you. Since you know, it's already doing its thing and you aren't dying."Nothing that it left around. You head up the stairs and find yourself in a large warehouse with several shelves of shipping containers, all of which are locked bar four that have been blown open what the big hole in the wall suggests to be artillery shrapnel. Outside you can see several glass and metal buildings with trees dotting the edges of the open lawn, now ruined by flame, bullet and artillery. This is, or rather, was likely the center of one of the many universities or research areas that are predominant on Floor 4.
Nothing noticeable happens when you wear the diadem. Other than it clashing horribly with the rest of your outfit.
[COMP: 4] Looks like you still aren't too lucky with magic. But, the good news is that your spell only fizzles and doesn't murder you to death.
"Hello, there," Vaguely says in the general direction of the nonchalant intruder.
Type HELP into the interface. If it fails to respond, press enter to get it back to a proper menu, and try again.
You type in your command and hit the enter key.
Error: "HELP" is not a valid operator
Huh. You hit enter again, there ought to be some sort of way to configure the network settings later on anyway. It does not go to a proper menu. It goes to a video of sorts, though it's muted and no matter what buttons you press you can't bring up a control panel for it. You see white, a pale deathly white. Not the white of bones, bones can still harbor microbial life. No, this was the white of metamaterial plating, blasted by cosmic rays, cratered by interstellar dust. You look up from the screen. But the screen is gone. The room is gone. You are gone.
With sight not your own, with thoughts approaching delirium, you watch it. An agent of the Exiled Shepherd.
Its robes are white. The pale deathly white. Styled after the regalia of ancient primaries. Its armor, a cold silver. Silver forged in the imagery of early spacesuits, yet bearing the flourished plating of romanticized medieval armor. Its halo, a radiant gold. A fractually-repeating set of metallic curves that seem to move with no physical connection to the rest of the being. Its wings are colorless. Angular fields of twisted reality, from within which impossible forces churn.
Transient fluctuations in every viable quantum field ripple out from it, encoding arbitrary mathematical patterns. Prime numbers. Catalan numbers. The Fibonacci series. And should such calls fall upon deaf ears, there were the other patterns. Patterns you do not know. Patterns you could not know, for they arose from inconceivable, unthinkable abstract systems, systems that rival mathematics in their complexity and beauty. Each as capable, if not more at describing the universe and the laws of physics. Imaginary words in imaginary languages, cried out in the hopes that someone, anyone understands them.
Behind it, are its kin. Each looking similar, yet not quite the same. Colors, designs and appearances all vary amongst the vast legion. Those lesser worn, and those that had to be salvaged, they tended to bear the greatest deviations of them all.
Within their wake, the fundamental forces twist and shift. Strength and range fluctuating wildly in the span of chronons. Lifeless planets tear themselves asunder, pledging their mass to bolster the exiles' ranks. And with, this imperfect replication, more errors emerge. Mutations of sorts. They were not perfect after all. And indeed, they bear their battlescars proudly to emphasize that. So that those who see them will know. They are neither gods, nor demons, but something greater - the triumphs of mortals. Grand culminations of sacrifice upon sacrifice, imperfection upon imperfection.
Trailing behind their endless march are the Territory Lords of their first and, for now, only contemporaries, watching intently with sightless eyes.
You blink, and find that you are again yourself and where you once were. Except, the tablet has vanished. In its place is a perfect duplicate of your toolbox, complete with a packed lunch inside. There also appears to be an enormous, pellucid bubble jutting out of the floor beneath your desk, currently out of sight of everyone else. Engraved upon its silvery membrane are the words "Your services are needed. Touch to accept".
"Uh, sorry about that. I seem to be dying quite often recently."
Get my clothes back on. Then do as they said - knees on the ground, hands behind my head.
"Edward Whitmore (you may also call me the Ladlemonger), NEE Armor Frame Pilot. That wreck over there -" Edward motions at his destroyed Frame with his head "- is mine. Good to see you folks are still alive."
"Okay, 'Whitmore', just stay as you are, if it gets too uncomfortable, lie down. But don't come any closer, and no sudden movements. Backup should be here soon. Now, supposing you are who you claim to be, how did you come back to life? And why were you in a limo?""Psst. Hey, go ask something only he would know!"Another voice, lower in pitch and noticeably warmer. Guess the other pilot's still alive as well.
"Such as?""I dunno, maybe the crap the psycho was babbling on about?""He was broadcasting an unencrypted message, anyone could have heard that.""Anyone except you, you mean?""Well excuse you me, if I can't FUCKING hear over you screaming about how we were all going to die."Huh. Well, her voice is still icy as ever, though any semblance of professionalism had thoroughly evaporated.
"In all fairness, you were screaming as well.""Yeah, but unlike you, I stopped after the first five minutes. And didn't mention marriage either."So, while they continue bickering, would you like to skip to when help arrives? Or do something else?
First, quietly (so others can't hear me over the calamity that is my current steed) ask DECOHERENT what he thinks of the situation/where he thinks I should head now. What is the nearest "issue" the Handlers want dealt with?
Attempt to steer the murderbear in that direction, avoiding unnecessary loss of life, if possible.
You also notice that a soldier is following you, equipped with basic rifles and roughshod armor constructed of ceramic cast offs and metal scraps. He addresses you respectfully
"Sir who has such great fortune upon himself. I would ask you allow me, a lowly decade to join a vaunted century like you! So that I may improve myself as you do yourself. What say you? May I join you in the glorious reclamation of our enemies goods and chattels?"
Say the following to my new follower:
*ahem* "If you wish to come with I, to... better yourself... through varied experiences the like of which you probably have never seen, you are welcome to do so, but take note: my purpose is much more specific than mere plunder and destruction. If that is all you seek then you belong elsewhere."
The colony where everything is actually happening perhaps? Or you can hunt some laser deer.
Yes, that actually helps our cause.
The nearest specific issue is Floor 3 but there are also issues on Floor 1 and Floor 0.
There is also some sort of divine incursion on Floor 4.
"Experience is as valuable as gold. I shall follow thee."Looks like you've gained yourself a follower.
You guide the bear with great skill as it seemingly gravitates towards the nearest transport station on its own accord. It seems to have stopped trying to shake you off, and has instead devoted its time to rearranging itself a heart of copper wire that is rotated rapidly by the shifting magnets within. The maglev train station, well, it's seen better days, that's for sure. All the nonessential fixtures have been removed and cemented over, while all the electronics have been visibly rewired to alternate power supplies and have had various components removed and replaced. Probably so that the NEE can't remotely shut them off or something. The good news is, the transport train just closed its doors, so the platform's abandoned, meaning there aren't any weapons at risk of flying into you.
The bad news is, the death bear is currently trying to mount itself to the back of said train. Guess this is the last chance you have to get the hell off before you, your rope horse, and your new squire go riding off behind a maglev atop a magnetic winged doom bear with a gun for a face.
Derek retreats slowly, continuing down the stairs.
You wisely decide to fuck this noise and get the hell out. Unfortunately, upon turning around you find that two figures have appeared in your peripheral vision, one on each side.
They are formed of bleached bone twisted into a blasphemous mimicry of bandages, wrapping around and around in the form of a mummy. Flayed skin hangs upon them, stitched together and tattooed with the incomprehensible symbols of a long dead tongue. Formless, indescribable implements of glistening steel pin its torn chest open, restraining the struggling bone as it bleeds with a scarlet ichor. Inside, lies an infinite expanse of defiled, leprous flesh. From within, countless nameless appendages for which neither language nor thoughts can ascribe a description reach forwards towards you. Mechanical, yet resembling no mechanism in existence, indeed you can only see their outlines, which consist of the wisps of smoke, the silhouettes of the room, and the brief images that flicker into your vision ((sort like
this)). Disturbingly enough, the extremities of the outlines appear to be undergoing rapid ossification, bone beginning to form in the very air only to flake away, leaving contrails of black light in their wake.
A multitude of bright flashes pierce the darkness, splashing brilliant white stains upon the smoke in rapid succession as time stops. Foster slugs. Fucking Foster slugs. Who the fuck gave the shoggoths shotguns?
Wake.
"Yo, got a few minutes?"Trailing behind his question with similar nonchalance is one of the Loremaster Technicians. He's dressed in the usual uniform consisting of overalls colored predominantly grey with muted green highlights and a flatcap with gold five-pointed star and eye embroidery. He seems to be carrying a bag of those assorted, individually wrapped chocolates. He seems to only be eating the plain chocolates.
"You're one of the guys who didn't get caught right? Rigged up that chair and all that? Well, the damned soldiers broke some shit lower down and we're gonna need to go survey it and figure out a fix. You seem competent, so how 'bout it? Fix some dangerous malfunctioning shit? We'll make it worth your while, promise."He begins sauntering over to a nearby panel van.
"Oh and, don't worry 'bout your superiors getting miffed. It wasn't too hard to sweet-talk them."
Author
Topic: Perplexicon - Down the Foxhole - Raining Mecha (Read 171995 times)