RE: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 3: Deluge]
01-18-2018, 02:22 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-18-2018, 02:33 AM by One.)
HQ, this is Station 8, repeat Station 8. The crowd’s getting violent and we don’t have the men to disperse them. Or the equipment. They’ve got a ram and
BANG
they’re starting to hammer at the door with it, uh, HQ, we could really do with some backup soon
BANG
HQ are you there? HQ?
Station 8, this is HQ. We are deploying heavy support. Stand by.
Roger that HQ, please get here as
BANG
as possible.
Compliance. This is Arokht of Provisional Militia. I am en route.
--what? What the fuck? Who are you?
Morning.
The rough beast loped its way through the city. Scrap metal had been welded to the worst of its damage; stripes of deep blue paint had been splashed on its torso. It wore two badges, one on each shoulder, affixed there with putty. They read FT. ST. ALBAN GENDARMERIE PROVISIONAL MILITIA.
Sometimes one of its legs dragged slightly. Sometimes its joints spat white sparks. But it moved with a purpose and drive it had lacked for a long time.
Purpose again. Order again, piercing the clamor in his skull. Orders from barbarian aliens, perhaps, but if they were only voices he could pretend they were fellow Iceworlders. Whatever. Arokht was back.
“This is Arokht of Provisional Militia,” he said. His voice rumbled across Gendarmerie radio frequencies. “Station 8 is in sight.”
It’s like a small version of Headquarters -- the same boxy shape, the same concrete and bricks. The same barred windows. Above its door in big blue letters were the words GENDARMERIE STATION 8.
No embrasures. No blast walls. Not even a fence. What kind of perimeter outpost is this supposed to be? I could take it in minutes! No wonder these enforcers are so strained.
It reflected on the quality of the attackers that the station had lasted this long. Arokht saw them, too -- a ragged crowd, a small one, perhaps a hundred strong. A hundred and ten. Thin things. Human dregs, some holding placards, some throwing rocks or bottles. A few at the station’s reinforced door, taking turns with a makeshift wooden ram.
Some of them turned, hearing his approach. Eyes widened. Mouths opened. Arokht eyed them, drew firing solutions, began to raise his cannon, began to charge --
-- remembered a hall of frozen corpses, Amaranth fleeing into darkness --
-- begin again --
Arokht slowed. A brick pinged off his armor. He heard screams. The crowd scattering in every direction, confronted without warning by a monster. He hit them anyways. His bulk was a weapon too. Bodies rolled and tumbled, crashing into their neighbors, making others fall.
The press of bodies ground him to a halt. He swept his arms out, knocking more of the mob over, clearing some space. Men in mildewed clothing crawled away from him. Others were taking to their heels, some dragging friends.
“Disperse!” he bellowed, redundantly. He picked up a straggler and tossed it in the direction of a fleeing trio. Voices chattered in his radio: Station 8 as bewildered as the crowd, Headquarters trying to explain. He only half-listened. He aimed and fired his cannon over the heads of the rapidly retreating figures.
As if in kind, a stream of fire lashed across his back.
“Warning shot!” shouted a voice. A familiar voice.
Arokht turned, blue paint blackened and crumbling. And there was Rachel, standing on a balcony on the other side of the street.
“Rachel Wylite,” he said.
“Wow, you look awful,” said Rachel. Then: “What the hell are you doing? Stop messing with my revolution!”
“What revolution?” Arokht demanded, lurching closer.
“What do you think?” answered Rachel. “Anyways, what are you, some kind of bougie? I see your badge!”
“I am Provisional Militia,” said Arokht. The voices on his radio were yammering harder now. They’d seen the fireworks, and now they were watching him talk to this girl in white and metal.
“And I’m trying to instigate a working-class revolution to overthrow a corrupt aristocracy,” said Rachel. She squinted at him. “Are you going to be a problem?”
“Yes,” said Arokht. More alien madness. Can she penetrate my armor? Hierarchy is the foundation of civilization. Can’t kill her. This street is nothing but open ground, if she opens fire I’ll have no cover --
“Huh,” said Rachel. She folded her arms. Good thing this was just a test run. He’ll be a real problem if he gets in the way. How fast can I cut through his armor? Ha, fire and ice on opposite sides, what are the chances? I need to get him away from here very fast --
“Listen, Arokht,” said Rachel, slowly. Beneath her fire there burned something very cold indeed. “We don’t need to fight. You were there when the last round ended, right? You saw how it happened?”
Arokht twitched, almost flinched. I have him, thought Rachel.
“Sonora,” Arokht growled. Beneath his cold ruthlessness was a burning knot of rage.
“Yes,” said Rachel. “I’m sorry. I know you and Anila were -- “ close? “--something. But Sonora was only half of it.” She leaned down on the railing. “Sonora wasn’t acting on its own. Did you see who it was looking at, when it bit Anila’s head off? Did you see who told it to kill her?”
She is lying. She needs me gone. She plans to overturn order in this city.
“Tell me,” said Arokht.
Rachel told him.
----
This is Arokht of Provisional Militia.
Headquarters is receiving you, Arokht. This is Lamarre. How soon can you get back here for debrief? We have a lot of questions here that need answering --
I am pursuing a mission relevant to your primary objective and require supporting intelligence.
Primary objective? Arokht, right now my only objective --
Escaping this city.
...What do you need?
Information. I have a description of an individual related to my arrival here. I need your officers to check it against their database. I am attempting to locate them... for you.
This is a hell of a time to spring something like that on me, but I’m listening. Are they related to that girl you were --
Female. Short black hair. Green coat, large puncture in front and back. Strange gloves. Black pants. Heavy boots.
Huh. Okay, I’ll pass this down to the patrols, see if anyone’s seen anyone of that description. It’ll take a while for word to go around, though, I’ll warn you. If you find her, you’ve gotta come right back with her, you hear?
...Compliance.
Wait, what’s her name? Hard to look for someone without a name.
Robin Pearson. Her name is Robin Pearson.
BANG
they’re starting to hammer at the door with it, uh, HQ, we could really do with some backup soon
BANG
HQ are you there? HQ?
Station 8, this is HQ. We are deploying heavy support. Stand by.
Roger that HQ, please get here as
BANG
as possible.
Compliance. This is Arokht of Provisional Militia. I am en route.
--what? What the fuck? Who are you?
Morning.
The rough beast loped its way through the city. Scrap metal had been welded to the worst of its damage; stripes of deep blue paint had been splashed on its torso. It wore two badges, one on each shoulder, affixed there with putty. They read FT. ST. ALBAN GENDARMERIE PROVISIONAL MILITIA.
Sometimes one of its legs dragged slightly. Sometimes its joints spat white sparks. But it moved with a purpose and drive it had lacked for a long time.
Purpose again. Order again, piercing the clamor in his skull. Orders from barbarian aliens, perhaps, but if they were only voices he could pretend they were fellow Iceworlders. Whatever. Arokht was back.
“This is Arokht of Provisional Militia,” he said. His voice rumbled across Gendarmerie radio frequencies. “Station 8 is in sight.”
It’s like a small version of Headquarters -- the same boxy shape, the same concrete and bricks. The same barred windows. Above its door in big blue letters were the words GENDARMERIE STATION 8.
No embrasures. No blast walls. Not even a fence. What kind of perimeter outpost is this supposed to be? I could take it in minutes! No wonder these enforcers are so strained.
It reflected on the quality of the attackers that the station had lasted this long. Arokht saw them, too -- a ragged crowd, a small one, perhaps a hundred strong. A hundred and ten. Thin things. Human dregs, some holding placards, some throwing rocks or bottles. A few at the station’s reinforced door, taking turns with a makeshift wooden ram.
Some of them turned, hearing his approach. Eyes widened. Mouths opened. Arokht eyed them, drew firing solutions, began to raise his cannon, began to charge --
-- remembered a hall of frozen corpses, Amaranth fleeing into darkness --
-- begin again --
Arokht slowed. A brick pinged off his armor. He heard screams. The crowd scattering in every direction, confronted without warning by a monster. He hit them anyways. His bulk was a weapon too. Bodies rolled and tumbled, crashing into their neighbors, making others fall.
The press of bodies ground him to a halt. He swept his arms out, knocking more of the mob over, clearing some space. Men in mildewed clothing crawled away from him. Others were taking to their heels, some dragging friends.
“Disperse!” he bellowed, redundantly. He picked up a straggler and tossed it in the direction of a fleeing trio. Voices chattered in his radio: Station 8 as bewildered as the crowd, Headquarters trying to explain. He only half-listened. He aimed and fired his cannon over the heads of the rapidly retreating figures.
As if in kind, a stream of fire lashed across his back.
“Warning shot!” shouted a voice. A familiar voice.
Arokht turned, blue paint blackened and crumbling. And there was Rachel, standing on a balcony on the other side of the street.
“Rachel Wylite,” he said.
“Wow, you look awful,” said Rachel. Then: “What the hell are you doing? Stop messing with my revolution!”
“What revolution?” Arokht demanded, lurching closer.
“What do you think?” answered Rachel. “Anyways, what are you, some kind of bougie? I see your badge!”
“I am Provisional Militia,” said Arokht. The voices on his radio were yammering harder now. They’d seen the fireworks, and now they were watching him talk to this girl in white and metal.
“And I’m trying to instigate a working-class revolution to overthrow a corrupt aristocracy,” said Rachel. She squinted at him. “Are you going to be a problem?”
“Yes,” said Arokht. More alien madness. Can she penetrate my armor? Hierarchy is the foundation of civilization. Can’t kill her. This street is nothing but open ground, if she opens fire I’ll have no cover --
“Huh,” said Rachel. She folded her arms. Good thing this was just a test run. He’ll be a real problem if he gets in the way. How fast can I cut through his armor? Ha, fire and ice on opposite sides, what are the chances? I need to get him away from here very fast --
“Listen, Arokht,” said Rachel, slowly. Beneath her fire there burned something very cold indeed. “We don’t need to fight. You were there when the last round ended, right? You saw how it happened?”
Arokht twitched, almost flinched. I have him, thought Rachel.
“Sonora,” Arokht growled. Beneath his cold ruthlessness was a burning knot of rage.
“Yes,” said Rachel. “I’m sorry. I know you and Anila were -- “ close? “--something. But Sonora was only half of it.” She leaned down on the railing. “Sonora wasn’t acting on its own. Did you see who it was looking at, when it bit Anila’s head off? Did you see who told it to kill her?”
She is lying. She needs me gone. She plans to overturn order in this city.
“Tell me,” said Arokht.
Rachel told him.
----
This is Arokht of Provisional Militia.
Headquarters is receiving you, Arokht. This is Lamarre. How soon can you get back here for debrief? We have a lot of questions here that need answering --
I am pursuing a mission relevant to your primary objective and require supporting intelligence.
Primary objective? Arokht, right now my only objective --
Escaping this city.
...What do you need?
Information. I have a description of an individual related to my arrival here. I need your officers to check it against their database. I am attempting to locate them... for you.
This is a hell of a time to spring something like that on me, but I’m listening. Are they related to that girl you were --
Female. Short black hair. Green coat, large puncture in front and back. Strange gloves. Black pants. Heavy boots.
Huh. Okay, I’ll pass this down to the patrols, see if anyone’s seen anyone of that description. It’ll take a while for word to go around, though, I’ll warn you. If you find her, you’ve gotta come right back with her, you hear?
...Compliance.
Wait, what’s her name? Hard to look for someone without a name.
Robin Pearson. Her name is Robin Pearson.