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CitrusArmsWould Teemo from League of Legends be fine in this? Albeit I'll only really be able to join after the new year
Bugman Member
What happens when old wounds heal?
STATUS: Rubbing my hands evilly as space racism is normalized 2 days ago
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Rubbing my hands evilly as space racism is normalized
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MARS
Much to the Fabricator General’s surprise, the creature had made for a good conversational partner. It had queried why the genetic samples would be needed, what they would be used for, and if the projects to use the information were successful then what that would mean for Salkor, for Mars, for the future, and for itself. Truth be told, Salkor himself didn’t even know what would happen if he could manage to clone the beautiful child. For one, that largely depended on what exactly this thing would mature to, assuming that indeed it was simply a child for now. But there was also the question of how simple would it be to make more of such beings even if the Priesthood did manage to wrap their minds around the biology of the synthetic person.
That was what it was, Salkor decided. Such a thing could not simply evolve. Not over millennia, likely not in billions of years. Such a thing needed the guiding hand of intelligent design in its origin. The Mechanicum sought to augment itself with plasteel and adamantium where it could to surpass the boundaries of mere humanity but whoever manufactured this particular individual had managed to do so much better with mere meat. To what extent it could, this angered the Archmagos. The thought that all of the thousands of years of careful improvements on the human form with machine could be so thoroughly surpassed with flesh was just wrong to him. Jealousy, that was what he felt. The bit of him yet human screamed and wailed that it was unfair that he had to sacrifice all of himself save a few grams of brain whilst this creature was already born with perfection!
Though initially he mostly visited the thing to personally take new readings and observe its growth to an even more herculean form, he found eventually that he was coming to the laboratory it was held in simply for the sake of being there.
It was at one such visitation that he was disturbed by a servitor demanding his attention. It reported atmospheric great atmospheric disturbance, and initially Salkor was excited. Was he to get even more such subjects to study? If he had two, that would certainly allow him to be more… callous with the tests on one of them. Alas, he was to be disappointed.
“Thousands of missile signatures. Countermeasures.”
Salkor paused for a moment, floating over to a cogitator in a wall and plugging into it. Looking upon Mars from a satellite he could even now see the crashing of vessels from orbit down onto the red dust. It had come to Salkor’s attention that in his new obsession he had neglected his domain, and if anyone else had noticed this fact they would be sure to bring it up when this sudden outburst of violence across the red planet would be inevitably discussed. His frustrations quickly grew when data reams would come that the sites of the missile barrages had all been rather close to Fulgurite temples. He knew for a fact they would leave behind no proof that they were the ones striking the vessels which he was now almost certain would be full of corpuscarii priests or their ideologues. Shame quickly replaced the frustration, for he had so long tried to maintain the fragile peace between them and now had failed. There was only one thing left for him to do, and that was to summon the Martian Parliament to discuss how to proceed.
One by one people streamed into the town hall. Eventually a suitable elderly fellow was coming over, to which Conor smiled and politely offered a seat. Once eventually all the seats that the Mormons had reserved were handed out to those that needed them, Conor joined the rest of the congregation to listen to what the Mayor was going to say. Looking at the rest of the arrivals, it was of course the usual arrivals. But he looked with a scowl at the Californians. He had seen the NCR with his own eyes, and he knew it was sure as hell nothing good. Such was the benefit of his pro-bono medical work. Many people who had an antidote from radscorpion venom administered or a bullet fleshed out of their flesh by him still wouldn’t be happy to hear the word of God. But, there were still a great many who at the very least would listen to his warnings about the NCR. He had done his best to ensure as many minds were soured on the idea of the republic as possible, the number growing together with the number of people that visited him for their ailments. Further, he knew that the rest of the Mission was doing much the same.
The rest of the people weren’t a concern one way or the other for the Missionary. Odd sorts, but nothing to remember. But when at last the Mayor spoke, it wasn’t quite what Conor had expected. A hostage situation of the Mayor’s daughter, and in an important factory no less, made it a double whammy of sorts. But then the Mayor read off a list of names much to his surprise, and his heart froze upon hearing his own name. Well, if the others were anything to go by, it was likely they wanted him as a bonesaw. Well, that was all well and good but he wasn’t exactly confident about going in blind to this, especially in such numbers and when he hadn’t been around his comrades-to-be to have faith in them they could accomplish this.
Looking among them he smoothed back his hair, straightened his tie and cleared his throat before speaking. “Look, Sir, I appreciate the gravity of the situation, but is this group enough to achieve this? How many of them are there? There’s not exactly a lot of us….” He tapped a foot nervously, already anticipating a tragic end for all these people as others he associated with in the past.
The rest of the people weren’t a concern one way or the other for the Missionary. Odd sorts, but nothing to remember. But when at last the Mayor spoke, it wasn’t quite what Conor had expected. A hostage situation of the Mayor’s daughter, and in an important factory no less, made it a double whammy of sorts. But then the Mayor read off a list of names much to his surprise, and his heart froze upon hearing his own name. Well, if the others were anything to go by, it was likely they wanted him as a bonesaw. Well, that was all well and good but he wasn’t exactly confident about going in blind to this, especially in such numbers and when he hadn’t been around his comrades-to-be to have faith in them they could accomplish this.
Looking among them he smoothed back his hair, straightened his tie and cleared his throat before speaking. “Look, Sir, I appreciate the gravity of the situation, but is this group enough to achieve this? How many of them are there? There’s not exactly a lot of us….” He tapped a foot nervously, already anticipating a tragic end for all these people as others he associated with in the past.
It was a day like any other, really. Conor awoke at the same time as all else in the Mission, the single eggtimer rousing the Missionaries, converts, and catechumen alike. The sun had not yet risen, yet already all were already moving in for prayer. It lasted for about half an hour after which a brief respite was allowed for water and a trip to the outhouse. With that they once more assembled for calisthenics lead by Brother Marcus. Once this was at last complete and the first of the screeching from the mutant chicken was audible did at last they break their fast.
The lad smiled to the people assembled with him, but it was mostly a mask for the uneasiness he felt beneath. Though for now the Mission in Whitlash had seen relative success, he nonetheless had a fear it would end in tragedy like every other journey he had been upon. He looked left along the semi-communal table, seeing the more junior members of the congregation, catechumens or other younger arrivals like himself. There were the most recent arrivals who’d been taken in, Roger and Carol. In both cases he felt that they were fake names, but now that they were in the flock Conor would not judge. The former had been a jet addict of some sort, having run up horrid debt and with a horrible dependency, the Mormons were the only charity as far as the poor bastard’s eyes could see. With them he found order, peace, and some sense of meaning beyond the next high. Carol wasn’t too different, having been born into slavery. Having escaped and bearing more or less no marketable skills, the only profession available to a young woman in such a disposition bore an indignity she wasn’t willing to take and thus she decided to take her chances with religion. The both of them had been cleaned up and given a new chance, opportunity. They were fairly compensated for the admittedly menial labour they did, but they were nonetheless progressing well. The Mormons had taught them to read, write, and indeed in the case of the slave even properly count, numeracy being almost as rare among slaves. There were a few children that had come with their missionary parents there, and there were also a set of orphans that had been found lost in the woods from a slaughtered caravan. Perhaps most noteworthy was Richard, or little Dick as the New Canaanites called him, wholly oblivious to the humour others might find in this. The boy had run away from his parents that - according to the boy - had been striking and otherwise abusing him. The truth was that nobody in Whitlash was yet aware the child was with them, and Conor had a growing concern that when found out, this would become a great point of contention between the Missionaries and the rest of the community. If the parents would come for their son the Mormons would almost certainly stand their ground with arms at the ready if need be. If they came with a great many people behind them, this would not change things. Though well armed and disciplined they would certainly not hold their own against any sizeable mob.
Looking to his right were the more senior of the congregation. The elderly brothers Matthias and Percival, and Brother Marcus just beside them. Then were arranged they that were couples, before terminating in other young folk that were nonetheless more experienced and worldly than Conor himself. He could have been further along the great table, but once more it was that strange brand of luck of his that got in the way. Of seeing all around him perish, of nobody, no community to make a future with and thus always starting anew. With the morning meal complete, the flock dispersed for their duties, with Conor having the unceremonious job of going through the inventory they had for the moment. Once done, he found there was a brief respite before it was time to help Percival make more stimpaks and thus he simply decided to go for a walk across Whitlash to clear his head from racing thought.
As the bells of the town hall rang, he supposed it was fortuitous that he was out here, for he could have a head-start on getting to the hall. Once there, he would politely stand over a seat as had become custom for most of the Mormons in Whitlash whenever such a meeting was convened: rather than taking a seat for themselves, they were reserving it for the elderly or otherwise struggling that would find it better served for them. While awaiting the arrival of such, Conor simply retrieved a Bible from his coat and resumed reading it.
The lad smiled to the people assembled with him, but it was mostly a mask for the uneasiness he felt beneath. Though for now the Mission in Whitlash had seen relative success, he nonetheless had a fear it would end in tragedy like every other journey he had been upon. He looked left along the semi-communal table, seeing the more junior members of the congregation, catechumens or other younger arrivals like himself. There were the most recent arrivals who’d been taken in, Roger and Carol. In both cases he felt that they were fake names, but now that they were in the flock Conor would not judge. The former had been a jet addict of some sort, having run up horrid debt and with a horrible dependency, the Mormons were the only charity as far as the poor bastard’s eyes could see. With them he found order, peace, and some sense of meaning beyond the next high. Carol wasn’t too different, having been born into slavery. Having escaped and bearing more or less no marketable skills, the only profession available to a young woman in such a disposition bore an indignity she wasn’t willing to take and thus she decided to take her chances with religion. The both of them had been cleaned up and given a new chance, opportunity. They were fairly compensated for the admittedly menial labour they did, but they were nonetheless progressing well. The Mormons had taught them to read, write, and indeed in the case of the slave even properly count, numeracy being almost as rare among slaves. There were a few children that had come with their missionary parents there, and there were also a set of orphans that had been found lost in the woods from a slaughtered caravan. Perhaps most noteworthy was Richard, or little Dick as the New Canaanites called him, wholly oblivious to the humour others might find in this. The boy had run away from his parents that - according to the boy - had been striking and otherwise abusing him. The truth was that nobody in Whitlash was yet aware the child was with them, and Conor had a growing concern that when found out, this would become a great point of contention between the Missionaries and the rest of the community. If the parents would come for their son the Mormons would almost certainly stand their ground with arms at the ready if need be. If they came with a great many people behind them, this would not change things. Though well armed and disciplined they would certainly not hold their own against any sizeable mob.
Looking to his right were the more senior of the congregation. The elderly brothers Matthias and Percival, and Brother Marcus just beside them. Then were arranged they that were couples, before terminating in other young folk that were nonetheless more experienced and worldly than Conor himself. He could have been further along the great table, but once more it was that strange brand of luck of his that got in the way. Of seeing all around him perish, of nobody, no community to make a future with and thus always starting anew. With the morning meal complete, the flock dispersed for their duties, with Conor having the unceremonious job of going through the inventory they had for the moment. Once done, he found there was a brief respite before it was time to help Percival make more stimpaks and thus he simply decided to go for a walk across Whitlash to clear his head from racing thought.
As the bells of the town hall rang, he supposed it was fortuitous that he was out here, for he could have a head-start on getting to the hall. Once there, he would politely stand over a seat as had become custom for most of the Mormons in Whitlash whenever such a meeting was convened: rather than taking a seat for themselves, they were reserving it for the elderly or otherwise struggling that would find it better served for them. While awaiting the arrival of such, Conor simply retrieved a Bible from his coat and resumed reading it.
RYZA
Ryza was in a festive mood, or at least as close to that state one as a world belonging to the Omnissian faith could be. Dignitaries had arrived from a small human realm, the Grellae Hegemony it had called itself. After a brief encounter with an Ark Mechanicus, they had decided they best attempt diplomacy and convince the Heirophant Technis that the exchange of fire between them was wholly a misunderstanding. Of course, Patrimonia knew they were lying. But at the same time their realm had little that warranted true conquest, and thus more value would be found in simply having them as a partial buffer between Ryza and WAAAAAGH Fire-Skull.
The men and women of the Knight House and Titan Legions were of course the most eager for the event. Bearing more or less the sum total of what could be “personality” in the Forge, they made the best use of it they could. Drinking and carousing, flirting with the foreigners. If Patrimonia cared, then the concession would be made that it indeed was a damn fine party. But even the most self indulgent hedonists present would be solemnly aware that if it did not go well, a shooting war would erupt between the two civilizations that neither had a grand interest in.
At last the ambassadors of the Hegemony were assembled at dusk, together with several representatives of the Forgeworld for a united signing of a clear treaty of not only peace, but also further non-aggreession and indeed trade.
Patrimonia looked upon this with satisfaction, a flick of a finger activating a laser to finely engrave the characters “GHVM” to the satisfaction of the Grellans. The ceremony of departure began, the Grellan envoys all smiling as they headed towards their landing craft whilst flanked on either side by a grand honour guard of Skitarii. It was just as their Chief Ambassador turned to bow to the Ryzans that the sky tore upon, and a whole five of his party turned to vapour from a crash. Shocked, the ambassador looked between the death of the party, and then the Mechanicum, before tapping a device on his wrist several times to activate a teleportation system in an effort to bypass the wasted time of getting upon the landing craft.
In a similar hurry the flyer also raised its ramp in an effort to flee as quickly as possible. But the entire honour guard that had been placed had not been idle in this brief period. Their servo limbs moved in unison as they went towards the impact crater, surrounding it with weapons at the ready. Heirophant Technis Ghum looked on with interest at the being that arose from there, the creature about the same size as the Forgemaster. “Identify yourself!” hundreds of mechanical voices demanded as a choir.
There was no reply from the figure that simply gazed upon the machine man with a ponderous glaze to the silvery eyes. As one, the Skitarii fired their galvanic rifles. Hundreds of servitor-assisted bullets flew upon the standing figure. About half met their mark, but it was enough to discharge sufficient electric charge to destroy many mighty vehicles in the Mechanicum’s arsenal.
The figure they targeted however, seemed to yet live. It lay in a quickly growing pool of its own blood but by some sort of miracle was able to push itself upright. The thing wailed louder than many a Titan’s horn, collapsing to its knees, and then drooping down again. But Patrimonia knew that the thing lived, many a scanner indicating different signs of life.
“Every single Genetor on-world is to report to Prosperity within an hour.” came the binharic order from the Heirophant, an order given to cease fire shortly after with a summons for many servitors to carry the thing away to the labs of Prosperity. While awaiting the arrival of the expert biologians, Patrimonia had to think long and hard on how to try and salvage the diplomacy with the Grellans.
MARS
A few hundred sirens blared in the deep pit of the Fabricator General, a similar count of screens suddenly lighting up to provide all sorts of readings. An extraterrestrial threat was approaching, the velocities and relatively small mass failing to vapourize in the atmosphere suggesting this was no ordinary celestial object. Air defence systems activated, the first stages of emergency response protocols were activated and thus hundreds of multi purpose servitors were mobilized for any contingency imaginable to one of a machine mind.
Yet the crash heard outside of Olympus Mons seemed rather innocent given the great stir it roused. No earthquakes from tectonic munitions were brought forth, nor were any viruses dispersed into the atmosphere.
What the Serberys cavalry arriving upon the scene relayed was something wholly unexpected. A child, humanoid in the wireframe display but otherwise quite alien. Skin flowing like mercury, and it was as tall as any of the machine cult’s warriors on their steeds. Borrowing the visual feed of one of the cavaliers Salkor witnessed the child reach out towards one of the Mechanicum’s warriors with almost curiosity. Yet the raider mistook it for a threat, and fired its revolver at the pecuiliarity. The bullet seemed to bounce off of the fluid skin like a rock skipping off of water and a soft exhalation came from the Serberyte whose vision Salkor had borrowed. With a panic in the remaining human parts of the Martian brains they reared their steeds to try to flee upon witnessing the child sprint and bisect the offending rider with a downward swing of its arm; the event occurred in a single frame of the visual feed.
Curiously, the child seemed wholly not intending on further violence, instead crawling back to the crater it had crashed in where it curled against one of the walls in a fetal position.
Somehow, something in the interaction reminded Salkor of his own arrival on Mars more than a thousand years ago. A hiss of hydraulic gasses came as he disconnected thousands of cables and supports from himself, the sequence of separations long mastered to ensure no failures of programming happened nor excess datafeeds would enter him. At last in his nominal for, he hovered off towards the scene of the crash. Above, a whole flock of archaeopters and pteraxii flew both ahead and behind him as vanguard and rearguard respectively.
Seeing the arrival of the Fabricator general, the silvery child went from a fetal position to a crouch as if to spring upon him or as far away as it could depending on if fight or flight was the selected way forward.
With an emotion as close to greed as the cyborg could manage, Salkor hovered over the rim of the crater and into it. One of his many mechadendrites more resembling a human hand was extended and raised up and down in a motion that he knew was considered placating by the outdated patterns of humanity. At the same time dozens of scanners for every wavelength of light sound and otherwise measurable energy emerged from his body, taking in the full physical measure of what was before him. Almost nonchalantly, another mechadendrite extended a particularly powerful vacuum to suck up the ricocheted bullet to be analyzed.
Child and Archmagos stared upon one another for an entire minute, the silence eventually broken only when the Archmagos had made a decision. He adjusted his voice synthesize for a kindly accent and voice, and thus spoke.
“What is your name?”
<Snipped quote by Bugman>
Earnest and ignorant, if he were told such Walker's response would be to raise an eyebrow, then add "...Whiskey?"
XD
At that point he'd probably just politely take his leave lul
@Bugman Most people seem to agree the "Spare" ending is the best outcome for most involved--although I've read of quite a few who only make sure Joshua spares him, and finish the job themselves, so the philosophy behind it may not match the game's take on the meanings.
When I move Walker over I'm also going to add a bit regarding Connor to the Extra, so let me know if you're unsatisfied with that.
Yeah thats fine. Small question, would the offer to have a coffee be earnest or "trolling" the lad if discernible? (If you weren't aware, Mormons aren't allowed to drink caffeine).
@Bugman
>Do you think he and Elijah would have had talks about his hatred of the wastelanders?
Probably if he ever walked by the Mormon mission for medicine or whateveB. but it would likely be very different perspectives on it. Conor hates people for what they do rather than a priori for what they are as the Enclave teaches. I.e. Enclave teaches wastelanders are bad, but individual Enclavers will see that through action wastelanders may be good. Conor has come to see it the other way around where naturally wastelanders are good but en masse have come to do bad.
Also, Conor would be very hostile to the idea of the Enclave if it is mentioned in passing. Having been to the NCR he would know of the first time they became bogeymen. However not only that, as an avid reader Conor would have read what pre-war America is like. Moreover he would learn of the several attempts by the federal government to exterminate the Mormon faith. Given that he comes from a time where Mormon faith also means a people, not just religion he would hate the star spangled banner for trying to do what he sees as genocide in addition to the other problems.
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