Spartan023 Member
- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Spartan023
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 383 (0.10 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Spartan023 11 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
FourtyTwo
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Interested!
I'll throw my hat in the ring
Antoine stepped onto the plane, bound for their destination, with a certain degree of trepidation. She knew she was emotionally compromised for this mission, hell she could still feel it in her heart. Bjorn's death was terrible, but for now she had to shove it down for the sake of the team. Howie was a great help, being her best friend and helping her stay sane. She tucked into her seat, and whoever had the misfortune to sit next to her, and napped until they arrived, just as always.
---On Mission--
Antoine was the very embodiment of stealth, the answer to the prayers of such organizations as the NSA or CIA, Mossad and MI6. However, right now, those qualities served Scimitar well. Slipping through enemy hallways had been simple, if time-consuming, when she didn't have this cloak. She'd had to dart from shadow to shadow, and simply kill anyone in halls where there was no safe passage. Now, however, that had all changed with the addition of this cloak. She slipped through brightly lit halls easily, her natural slow pace serving to prevent her from being seen even through the device. However, unfortunately for all, Antoine was here to "cope" with the death of her beloved Bjorn in her own way.
Antoine had accepted Bjorn's death at his own hand, and in a way it was better than dying in battle. No mess, little pain if done right, and on his own terms, but she couldn't shake this feeling. She hadn't been enough for him, her clear affections hadn't been enough to make his life worth living. Howard was a wonderful man, and he was helping her move on wonderfully, but she couldn't shake this sadness. Despite her actions, her and Howard weren't an item, they were just comfortable enough to play around. After all, they were a close duo and frequently worked in tandem for Scimitar ops, and had for years. Which was why he surely knew what she would do in here, the havoc she would wreak in Bjorn's name.
She had slipped through towards their exosuit hangars, leaving a trail of silent kills tucked into closets and toilet stalls. Now, as she entered, she found exactly what she was looking for. A large mechanized suit, featuring an M134 Chaingun and an automatic 40mm grenade launcher. Now, under normal circumstances, Antoine would delicately snip a few wires here, maybe add a demo charge, to ensure the destruction of this beast. Now, however, she need an outlet, and mass mayhem would do just fine. She easily ghosted in and powered it up with some effort, after sealing herself in. She must've been briefed on this hundreds of times, but it never made it less distasteful. Exosuits were expressions of brute force, a sign of humanity's inner animal coming out, and didn't match the quiet, civilized nature of Antoine's personal nature and style. However, right now, she needed to let out her inner animal, to bellow her grief and sadness to the world.
-------------4 Minutes, 39 seconds Later------------------
Antoine had piloted the suit into the elevator and up to the top floor of this Chilean facility, and then all hell broke loose. While screaming and crying on the enemy's own COM channel, loud enough to drown out all else, she unleashed hell. The enemy wasn't sure what to think at first, as their own suit began gunning down soldiers and blowing up key targets, while what must've sounded like the pained crys of a banshee filled their channels. The suit walked around, spitting death and destroying the building while stepping on enemy forces. Without their heavies, Antoine was filling the role of tank with this suit, and she was doing a good job. Once the enemy realized what had happened, they were turning their firepower on the stolen suit, but it didn't matter. The suit was built to withstand fire, and Antoine knew it, and so she simply cried and killed, an implacable angel of death.
---On Mission--
Antoine was the very embodiment of stealth, the answer to the prayers of such organizations as the NSA or CIA, Mossad and MI6. However, right now, those qualities served Scimitar well. Slipping through enemy hallways had been simple, if time-consuming, when she didn't have this cloak. She'd had to dart from shadow to shadow, and simply kill anyone in halls where there was no safe passage. Now, however, that had all changed with the addition of this cloak. She slipped through brightly lit halls easily, her natural slow pace serving to prevent her from being seen even through the device. However, unfortunately for all, Antoine was here to "cope" with the death of her beloved Bjorn in her own way.
Antoine had accepted Bjorn's death at his own hand, and in a way it was better than dying in battle. No mess, little pain if done right, and on his own terms, but she couldn't shake this feeling. She hadn't been enough for him, her clear affections hadn't been enough to make his life worth living. Howard was a wonderful man, and he was helping her move on wonderfully, but she couldn't shake this sadness. Despite her actions, her and Howard weren't an item, they were just comfortable enough to play around. After all, they were a close duo and frequently worked in tandem for Scimitar ops, and had for years. Which was why he surely knew what she would do in here, the havoc she would wreak in Bjorn's name.
She had slipped through towards their exosuit hangars, leaving a trail of silent kills tucked into closets and toilet stalls. Now, as she entered, she found exactly what she was looking for. A large mechanized suit, featuring an M134 Chaingun and an automatic 40mm grenade launcher. Now, under normal circumstances, Antoine would delicately snip a few wires here, maybe add a demo charge, to ensure the destruction of this beast. Now, however, she need an outlet, and mass mayhem would do just fine. She easily ghosted in and powered it up with some effort, after sealing herself in. She must've been briefed on this hundreds of times, but it never made it less distasteful. Exosuits were expressions of brute force, a sign of humanity's inner animal coming out, and didn't match the quiet, civilized nature of Antoine's personal nature and style. However, right now, she needed to let out her inner animal, to bellow her grief and sadness to the world.
-------------4 Minutes, 39 seconds Later------------------
Antoine had piloted the suit into the elevator and up to the top floor of this Chilean facility, and then all hell broke loose. While screaming and crying on the enemy's own COM channel, loud enough to drown out all else, she unleashed hell. The enemy wasn't sure what to think at first, as their own suit began gunning down soldiers and blowing up key targets, while what must've sounded like the pained crys of a banshee filled their channels. The suit walked around, spitting death and destroying the building while stepping on enemy forces. Without their heavies, Antoine was filling the role of tank with this suit, and she was doing a good job. Once the enemy realized what had happened, they were turning their firepower on the stolen suit, but it didn't matter. The suit was built to withstand fire, and Antoine knew it, and so she simply cried and killed, an implacable angel of death.
Well, I've returned from the shadow of death, and konrad said I was still welcome so...here I am! Sorry for vanishing guys,
In
Year 2058 (Near-Future Military Scifi RP, maybe with mechs)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
I'd be down for either option.
Just lettin you know I still live, and that I'll probably have a full edited history up tomorrow
This really wasn't the first time rumors had almost gotten him killed, nor was it likely to be the last. He'd heard tell of a unit of Marines, still held together, nearby. It was a real long-shot, especially this late in the game, but he'd been willing to believe it. When he arrived, he found that a Marine unit had indeed held together, however that hadn't been as large a unit as he'd thought. He'd watched a squad of 5 Marines enter a building, just for the tell-tale screech of a Trant to follow, echoed by many more soon after. It seemed they'd been particularly unlucky, having stumbled into an awakened hive. Plenty of gunshots followed, but soon enough they began to change to screams, and then nothing. The Captain was all for Semper Fi, however following after them to try and help would've only gotten him killed. Making a note to tell the scouts to stay clear of the building, he began to crawl away, just for a moan to startle him into action.
It seems They were here, which was surprising in all honesty. Generally, They weren't in the same area as something so volatile as a Trant nest, but it seems that rule was being broken here, or perhaps it hadn't even been a rule to begin with. They were one of the infected, perhaps someone who drank the Blackwater before knowing its effects, perhaps infected by one of the many other things around, or perhaps some survivor thought dying to the virus was better than dying of thirst and so drank the Blackwater. However, none of that mattered now, regardless of their past life they were now a threat. Captain Jason Mcintyre, or "Chemo" as his code name had been in the Corps, leapt to his feet and immediately began to back away.
Firing his weapon this close to a Trant hive was a death sentence, and as he counted Them, he found 10 of them. Way too many to tackle in Melee combat, especially when a loud noise could summon more Trants than he could handle. So, he turned on his heels and took off at a light run. Refuge was a long while away, and he didn't want to stop for anything. Of course, that was only likely to happen in a perfect world, and this was anything but. That was symbolized when he heard another moan after about 30 minutes. Looking over, he found a larger pack of them, fifteen this time. Raising an eyebrow, he decided to invest the rounds. Raising the M4A9 Carbine, he carefully aimed down sight at his foes.
He took a breath and held it before lining his sights up on the head of the closest one. Chest shots were a waste of ammo, so he didn't even bother anymore. He fired off a quick grouping of shots, each round racing out to hit its target, until 10 of Them lay dead. They were the easiest threat to deal with anymore, slow and predictable, but given the fact that this used to be New York, they were everywhere. Deciding not to handle the other five, some other poor man could, Jason took off again. He didn't take the time to stop and loot, chances are the area was already picked over, no instead he just kept moving. As evening fell, he arrived at the gate and the guns trained on him. He gave a simple, two finger salute to the man up-top, who opened the gate. Walking through, he went to the checkpoint where he said "Jason Mcintyre."
With that done, he was free to do as he pleased for now. His guard shift wasn't until later, he'd volunteered for the night shift since he was used to night sentry duty even before the Incident, so he was free to goof off before then. He debated entering the bar, but with sentry duty yet to come the chance of getting drunk was too great. With that, he found himself wandering over to the machine shop to do some maintenance. He set the carbine on a table and took it apart, then set to thoroughly cleaning it. This was an important part of being a field soldier, keeping ones gear prepared.
It seems They were here, which was surprising in all honesty. Generally, They weren't in the same area as something so volatile as a Trant nest, but it seems that rule was being broken here, or perhaps it hadn't even been a rule to begin with. They were one of the infected, perhaps someone who drank the Blackwater before knowing its effects, perhaps infected by one of the many other things around, or perhaps some survivor thought dying to the virus was better than dying of thirst and so drank the Blackwater. However, none of that mattered now, regardless of their past life they were now a threat. Captain Jason Mcintyre, or "Chemo" as his code name had been in the Corps, leapt to his feet and immediately began to back away.
Firing his weapon this close to a Trant hive was a death sentence, and as he counted Them, he found 10 of them. Way too many to tackle in Melee combat, especially when a loud noise could summon more Trants than he could handle. So, he turned on his heels and took off at a light run. Refuge was a long while away, and he didn't want to stop for anything. Of course, that was only likely to happen in a perfect world, and this was anything but. That was symbolized when he heard another moan after about 30 minutes. Looking over, he found a larger pack of them, fifteen this time. Raising an eyebrow, he decided to invest the rounds. Raising the M4A9 Carbine, he carefully aimed down sight at his foes.
He took a breath and held it before lining his sights up on the head of the closest one. Chest shots were a waste of ammo, so he didn't even bother anymore. He fired off a quick grouping of shots, each round racing out to hit its target, until 10 of Them lay dead. They were the easiest threat to deal with anymore, slow and predictable, but given the fact that this used to be New York, they were everywhere. Deciding not to handle the other five, some other poor man could, Jason took off again. He didn't take the time to stop and loot, chances are the area was already picked over, no instead he just kept moving. As evening fell, he arrived at the gate and the guns trained on him. He gave a simple, two finger salute to the man up-top, who opened the gate. Walking through, he went to the checkpoint where he said "Jason Mcintyre."
With that done, he was free to do as he pleased for now. His guard shift wasn't until later, he'd volunteered for the night shift since he was used to night sentry duty even before the Incident, so he was free to goof off before then. He debated entering the bar, but with sentry duty yet to come the chance of getting drunk was too great. With that, he found himself wandering over to the machine shop to do some maintenance. He set the carbine on a table and took it apart, then set to thoroughly cleaning it. This was an important part of being a field soldier, keeping ones gear prepared.
Antoine slid from the room quietly and into the armory, where the techs waited. They revealed they'd "borrowed" her infiltration suit and used it as a basis to design a new cloak, which they'd fitted with some experimental system that would allow her to, literally, fade into the background. She wasn't quite sure of the science behind it, but she knew it worked after some field testing. So, she had nodded her thanks and taken her suit, quietly slipping out. In her room, she'd changed into the infiltration suit to do a true test of its capabilities. Once clad in her skintight suit, complete with knife and pistol, she put the cloak on and sure, sure enough, her body left the visual spectrum. She smiled at that, and slunk out of her room again.
For a moment, she considered going to Bjorn's room to see if he wanted to come watch the new blood with her. However, after a moment of thought, she decided she'd wait. So, she headed straight to the testing chamber, slipping in quietly. Looking at the monitors, she watched their progress with a critical eye. They were certainly approaching this much differently than Antoine had, though that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. After watching them slip into the next room, she smiled, perhaps they'd survive after all. She then leaned in as close to Imran and Howard as she could without directly touching them, and whispered "They're doing well, Mes Amis."
For a moment, she considered going to Bjorn's room to see if he wanted to come watch the new blood with her. However, after a moment of thought, she decided she'd wait. So, she headed straight to the testing chamber, slipping in quietly. Looking at the monitors, she watched their progress with a critical eye. They were certainly approaching this much differently than Antoine had, though that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. After watching them slip into the next room, she smiled, perhaps they'd survive after all. She then leaned in as close to Imran and Howard as she could without directly touching them, and whispered "They're doing well, Mes Amis."
I'm eating out but ill do edits when I get home. As for the PTSD, I'll consider it
I do RP in casual, though I admittedly prefer advanced roleplays when, as you said, the posts aren't sprawling and needlessly detailed
© 2007-2024