The Catacalysm- Futuristic RPG

[Dalamar Stormcrow]

ooc- Legolas you can choose to be in bunker two with Link or choose to be in bunker 3. Whatever the choice, just make sure you can handle it.

Dammit, that fire ain't comin'!

Warning quickly selects a piece of firewood, and cradles it in his hands.

1......2......3!

Warning rushes into the fray only to find a small robot.

Target Acquired!

Warning takes a wild swing at the 'bot. (melee weapons roll=critical hit) It's head is now one with the wall.

Dumb bastard...

Warning drops the splintered firewood, and pumps in a magazine to his Desert Eagle. He walks slowly up to the bot and kicks in the camera.

Combot L-152 disabled.

In frustration, Warning fires a shot into the console. (Luck check rolls a 5) The console whirrs, beeps, and smoke emates from the keypad, and the door opens slightly.

[RoSs_bg2_rox]

JM bashes the door open and they are out, but the horror on the other side is almost overpowering. Noticing in the corner of his eye another bot, he drops back not really wanting to be there anyway regardless of the danger "Watch it guys, theres another bot out there, it hasnt seen us yet though"

[ 04-25-2004, 11:25 AM: Message edited by: RoSs_bg2_rox ]

[Dalamar Stormcrow]

You're up Mark....

Let's hope this goes as well as it did with the past.

The past......what a subject. A flash. A clink. A pain. Knives. Scalpels. Suctions cups. I'm an experiment. EX #6758/B. Im Operation Richek. Pain is all I remember. They used anasthetics, but they could'nt fool me. They were cutting me. I was the subject of all types of implants. My chest is badly scarred, much of my skeleton is replaced by fiberglass so I could live a "normal" life. My body is badly scarred, and what couldnt be regenerated way supported by a metal caging. My life is "normal" now... To make the most of the implant they left in me to monitor, I joined a Special Ops program, that was supposed to help my country in a way never before. Those fat cats in Prague toyed with me, destroyed my life, and now make me miserable by "spearheading our future" Im the only goddamn Bohemian alive, and I'm supposed to hold up our race by staying alive...

[ 04-26-2004, 04:45 PM: Message edited by: Dalamar Stormcrow ]

[Link]

OOC: Legolas and I will be in bunker 2. So sayeth the wise me

He sat against the broken cryogenetic chamber for a while, blowing white smoke rings while he waited for the nastier effects of the freeze to wear off. Slowly his muscles gained back their flexibility, and his vision became slightly less blurred.
"Still not perfect," he muttered to himself," but it'll do. Now to get out of this place."
He jumped up, and looked around him for orientation. Although he probably had been here before, he couldn't remember one thing in this chamber. He drew the conclusion that it would most likely be a side effect the cryofreeze had given him. The alarms were still flashing bright red, and because he began to find the loud noises too much for his liking, he decided to find some way to turn the alarms off. Or at least find why they had been turned on in the first place.

"Security breach at sector 71-a," a woman's voice sounded through the intercom.

The large man sighed, and reached for his back only to find his trusted energy rifle still in place. He smiled faintly, and started walking down the hallway knowing that with a full rifle and an ammo case of energy cells to power his gun, there couldn't be much trouble with these intruders.

The intercom croaked again, and annoyed the large soldier looked up, ready to blow a hole through the sound system. Much to his surprise, it wasn't the computer's security system, but a totally different voice.

"Anyone out there? This is a warning: the reactor core has been set to self-destruct in 6 minutes. Make sure you get out of here. If the blast won't kill ya, the radiation or the fallout most likely will."

With a grin on his face, Sergeant Delorian walked on through the hallway, sparks coming from broken circuitry. He didn't mind. As long as he had his cigars and a match or two, he would be just fine. Just fine.

[ 04-27-2004, 03:37 AM: Message edited by: Link ]

[Legolas]

And then of course there were the nagging feelings. Surrounded by a normal setting the itching sensation on the inside of your skin. No matter the amount of scratching it just wouldn't go away. You knew something was wrong.

It wasn't the wrong of the unmatching socks though. In fact, only a woman would nag over socks of different coloration. And only then if you'd upset them in some mysterious way.

They had these laws. Ever since the amazone tribes were first established there was something in every woman's genes that made her act in some strange and unfathomable fashion. Only married men could hope to glimpse at the top layer of these rules and empirically draw conclusions. But never enough. There was always some other rule to reestablish the woman as the singlemost unpredictable species the world has ever known.
The one saving grace, the nagging would only start once they called themselves your girlfriend, wife or mother in law. The trick was to avoid those you had already met.

What was it that caused such concern about socks? The amazones never did wear socks, had probably never even seen socks as everyone wore sandals. There was another thing. Socks and sandals, how could anyone view that as an unholy alliance but a woman?

This was a different wrong. Cutting the blue wire instead of the red. Hitting the gas instead of the break. Barbie going to the ball arm in arm with Action Man. A wrong simply world-shattering that made you go uh-oh as realisation set in just a second too late.

He hoped it was the hangar door. Leaving your door open just before you enter cyrogenic sleep might cause such a nagging sensation. That at least was more or less harmless.
The harmlessness proof that it was something else amiss.

If you've ever woken after a night of truely excessive drinking, desperately in need of analgesics and relieving yourself, you will know that is not the time for great philosophical debate. You would indeed have a hard time thinking your way out of the wet paper bag. Rest assured, a dry paper bag won't remain all that dry for long in such a state.

Fortunately, he had outside help. A kind lady's voice over the intercom identified the cause of the itch as she repeated herself. He had to smile. Was that a note of concern in a voice close to panic, all for him?
Perhaps she had waffles and black coffee waiting. He could use those, definately.
Timorris Rubio de la Veine checked his bag, swayed in a fashion some would view as nonchalant, walked off in search of a mild breakfast with a mystery lady to start his day most calmly.

Calmly, only if they had never met.

[Sythe]

Mark sees the bot and raises his pistol towards it. The bot fired it's weapon and Mark with his incredible reflexes managed to turn aside and quickily and accurately shoot at the bot's visual monitor. Thus blinding the bot and pumped more lead into the bot destroying it. Sharp blew smoke from his gun and holstred it.

[Dalamar Stormcrow]

ooc- Could you be anymore cliche Sythe?

[Dalamar Stormcrow]

Wes gives JM a shove out into the large, white hallway.

I'll cover you, John Wayne. Go do something productive.

Something isnt right. Why arent there stains, or broken, stolen items, shattered glass like the cryofreeze lab. Green line. Red line. Blue line. They all led somewhere. I'm always hearing about cutting the blue cable, or the red cable. I'm cutting the green wire.

Hey! John! Follow the green line on the floor. Probably leads somewhere remotley important.

JM hears Wes call his name, and jerks his head towards Wes, then towards the green line, which lead a ways down, and takes a blind right.

Well, Lets go John!

[ 04-30-2004, 08:15 AM: Message edited by: Dalamar Stormcrow ]

[Link]

OCC: Gotta keep this thing up!

IC:

"Damn this!" With a disgusted - but most of all disappointed look - Delorian threw away the small remnant of his last cigar. Muttering something about cheap cigars, the big soldier moved on through the deserted hallway, fixed on getting the hell out of this wretched industrial building.

"Reactor core self destruct in 4 minutes" the monotone sound of the female computer echoed through the empty hallways.

While there was still plenty of time left for him to get out, Sergeant Delorian was getting anxious. He wasn't scared of something - he had never been scared in his entire life - but he felt a pressure building on his back. As if there was something he was leaving behind. Something important.
"Damn this amnesia!" With a disgusted look, Delorian felt for his head. He hated weakness. Just as he hated treachery, small guns, and his acadamy instructor. But he hated weakness most of it all. Especially since this time, it was a weakness on his part.

"Reactor core self destruct in 3 minutes"

Delorian turned another corner only to find a large room with a couple of operation tables, buckets with medical equipment. He walked around the room, stopping in front of a table with what appeared to be a body covered by sheet on it. Just as he wanted to lift the sheet, he noticed a small throbbing in his brain - in that instant he realised his memory was about to come back. At least for an instant.

With a cry, the large soldier fell on the floor, one hand clutched to his head, the other on the floor to remain balanced. Agonizing waves of pain coursed through his head and bits and pieces of memories protruded his conscience. He had been to this room before. A bright white flash brought him to the past for a while longer.

"Computer, access medical log Andromeda. File 2314.54b. Access code Hyperion"
"Access granted"
"Computer, record following medical surgery on video and audio. Label it with the codename of the patient: Hellboy"
"Acknowledged"
"Scalpel"
"Scalpel, sir."
"Removing the tissue around the right eye. Careful."
"Eye free for operating, sir."
"Sterile needle"
"Sterile needle, sir."
"Injecting nanobot in inner eyeball. Steady."
"The needle has been emptied, sir."
"Good. Fix the tissue around the eye, and make sure he remains stable. 20 grams of cortizon. And give him some morphine as well. He will probably feel this for a long time."
"Acknowledged"
"Computer, seal File 2314.54b. Authorization: doctor Hewitt."
"File sealed."

[ 05-05-2004, 03:12 PM: Message edited by: Link ]

[Legolas]

Everywhere around him were strange and often wondrous sensations to pick up. Blinking lights in patterns, gleaming instruments perfectly sterilised, floors polished to a shine. A hint of pines brought in through the ventilation shafts, rythmic sounds as of music and the crackling of electric charge in the air.
But when you're caught in the middle of the worst hangover you can imagine and there's no toilet around for miles, sensations are the last things you need.

It wasn't just the lack of a toilet bowl. It was the complete and utter lack of lampposts, churches, alleys, truck wheels or even those dark corners which would greet you with those pleasantly familliar sour smells and sticky floors. If he ever found out what lousy architect had failed even to include just one of the above, Timorris Rubio de la Veine would be forced to get nasty.

Although it was really his environment that got nasty. If you had been cursed with the kind of luck that made you trip over a crate of rockets you miraculously failed to see before, just when you'd run out; if your type of fortune involved others tripping over crates they miraculously failed to see before just as they were speeding towards you with murder in mind, if your guardian angel rescheduled every bar's happy hour to Right When You Walk In or you're unhappy enough to roll a twelve every time unless you shouldn't, you weren't ever really nasty yourself.
You'd blunder into anything, but that was a trait of the unfortuitous as well. The difference was, you'd live to blunder out as well.

Still, it seemed his guardian angel had failed to arrange sanitary facilities. She was a busy person though so he gladly forgave her.

Forgiveness does nothing for the bladder.

Looking around he saw warning lights blinking, surgeons' tools beginning to rust and mirroring floors covered in a layer of dust an inch and a half thick in places. There was alarming noise around him, a man letting out a scream and it felt like lightning poised to strike. In places sparks flew through the room. The only good things were a woman's voice and the faint smell of pines. Of course, the reason it was faint came from the steam spurting out of broken pipelines. Foul chemicals massing in force were more than a match for two-dimensional trees growing no taller than a key-chain troughout their lives dangling behind windshields.
His thoughts turned back to wheels and sweet release.

At least there was one thing that could be said for the human body. No matter the state it was in, it never failed to send the brain nagging whenever there was danger. Almost instinctively he worked out the place was going to blow, a bang to match most every explosion he had endured every time he turned his head. The voice sounding the two-minute warning helped too.

Out of solidarity, he picked up his bunk mate and exited the room through a door set towards the rear.

Bunk mates were important. People didn't realise how much effort it took to decorate a bachelor pad by yourself. Those things never happen overnight.
That is to say, not without a bloody good party, enough booze to flood the grand canyon and even more pizza than you had uninvited sleepovers.

People always seemed to know when thir messmaking skills were required. You picked that up at an early age trashing a friend's house while his parents were gone. You picked up vanishing into thin air when they returned early as well. It was exaclty this kind of helpfulness and generosity people ought repay.

From the looks of the place, it had been one wild party indeed.