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Tengri
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- Tengri 8 yrs ago
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Most Recent Posts
“I wasn’t trained for this,” she noted, her voice practically dripping with sarcasm.
In all honesty, no police training ever had random killer robots’ attack in mind. It was mostly how to deal with common criminals - the kind that used guns and such - how to talk with civilians in the field and how to write clean and easy to understand reports. Not that she ever needed most of this information.
“I am a very good learner, though,” and her arms were enveloped with pure electricity, ready to go wild and unleash hell and misery upon those poor sods that she decided to use as means to vent her pent-up frustration, which was quite a lot all things considered.
It took her ten years of non-stop schooling to become qualified for the police work. It took even more to grow from a hopeless rookie to a respected officer. It took nearly all of her of live to become a woman worthy of her father’s respect. It took one bad call and a bad day to send this all to hell.
Bolt: 10 HP
Tech Squid: 5 HP [-4 HP, 4 attacks]
Xudarian. Daxamite. Earthling. It didn’t really matter anymore. In the heart of battle, the only thing that remains true is the simple face - there’s an enemy before you, and they would be destroyed. And destroyed with lightning, with fanfares and glory.
“I would normally tell you your rights, but given all of you are robots and most likely not sentient, I’ll spare you the lip service. If you understand me, stop moving and play dead! And please, I beg you, don’t.” Arima smiled, showing pure white teeth in an expression of pure elation.
In all honesty, no police training ever had random killer robots’ attack in mind. It was mostly how to deal with common criminals - the kind that used guns and such - how to talk with civilians in the field and how to write clean and easy to understand reports. Not that she ever needed most of this information.
“I am a very good learner, though,” and her arms were enveloped with pure electricity, ready to go wild and unleash hell and misery upon those poor sods that she decided to use as means to vent her pent-up frustration, which was quite a lot all things considered.
It took her ten years of non-stop schooling to become qualified for the police work. It took even more to grow from a hopeless rookie to a respected officer. It took nearly all of her of live to become a woman worthy of her father’s respect. It took one bad call and a bad day to send this all to hell.
Bolt: 10 HP
Tech Squid: 5 HP [-4 HP, 4 attacks]
Xudarian. Daxamite. Earthling. It didn’t really matter anymore. In the heart of battle, the only thing that remains true is the simple face - there’s an enemy before you, and they would be destroyed. And destroyed with lightning, with fanfares and glory.
“I would normally tell you your rights, but given all of you are robots and most likely not sentient, I’ll spare you the lip service. If you understand me, stop moving and play dead! And please, I beg you, don’t.” Arima smiled, showing pure white teeth in an expression of pure elation.
“Language!” I shouted. At this point, purely on reflex. You don’t curse in my home and get away with this. I should know - I grew up there. Besides, having a teenager swear was an epitome of public fiasco. Not that I’m concerned about stuff like that.
Everything hurt. That was fine. I knew pain. Lots of pain. Given time, you can get used to it. Become numb. Grow yourself a tough shell. Pretend it’s happening to someone else. Like it’s not your problem. And with time, it becomes someone else’s problem.
Your mentor’s problem, when she’s stitching your wounds with a deep sense of guilt and shame on her face. Your aunt’s problem, when she pulls a piece of lead out of your shoulder, cracking an attempt at humor, not quite fooling you. Your teacher’s problem, when he sadly tells that no child should ever experience this.
It all slowly became a part of you, piece by piece. I look up, peering closely. It’s strange, even mysterious. I have spent virtually days in this place: at this level of pain, the program should’ve shut down automatically. Neutron insisted after the last year’s incident. I even helped to install and test that thing. It should’ve been perfect.
And then, metaphorical excrements finally connected with even more metaphorical propeller, sending obscenities flying everywhere. Not that he minded. That sentence was pretty much a short summary of his early years. And speaking of escalation, that thing - whatever it was - clearly wasn’t the part of original plan.
Either that or adults all had a very dark sense of humor. It wasn’t the case. It clearly wasn’t the damn case here. I had a very bright mind, and one of the drawbacks of being smart was that you knew when you were royally screwed. And that was the case. Absolutely.
I exhale and fall back. I don’t exist. No sense of self. Weapon acts. Weapon kills. A human’s body is fragile, weak, full of weak spots. Weapon twists someone’s neck. Weapon breaks someone’s ribs. Weapon cracks skulls and destroys vertebrae and twists spines and follows orders.
In a few minutes, artificial civilians fall down to the ground, dissolving into virtual dust. Weapon is… I’m me. Again. I inhale and become me again. I’m scared of everything. I’m even more scared of the situation going wrong. I’m scared of someone dying on my watch. Always.
“Dragoonslayers,” that name was in a bad taste, but the press had latched into this thing like a lifeline, so there’s no changing it anymore. Still, maybe this will work. Maybe, just maybe, some sense of unity and camaraderie might grow from this soil, however infertile it might be. “No holding back!”
I roar like tiger. Is this my voice? I’m not so sure anymore. Never in my life - since that day - have I ever let myself shout so loud, so intently, so heatedly. It was time for a push, and push will be delivered, one way or another.
Unleash Power - Impossible Fighting Skills: 8
Everything hurt. That was fine. I knew pain. Lots of pain. Given time, you can get used to it. Become numb. Grow yourself a tough shell. Pretend it’s happening to someone else. Like it’s not your problem. And with time, it becomes someone else’s problem.
Your mentor’s problem, when she’s stitching your wounds with a deep sense of guilt and shame on her face. Your aunt’s problem, when she pulls a piece of lead out of your shoulder, cracking an attempt at humor, not quite fooling you. Your teacher’s problem, when he sadly tells that no child should ever experience this.
It all slowly became a part of you, piece by piece. I look up, peering closely. It’s strange, even mysterious. I have spent virtually days in this place: at this level of pain, the program should’ve shut down automatically. Neutron insisted after the last year’s incident. I even helped to install and test that thing. It should’ve been perfect.
And then, metaphorical excrements finally connected with even more metaphorical propeller, sending obscenities flying everywhere. Not that he minded. That sentence was pretty much a short summary of his early years. And speaking of escalation, that thing - whatever it was - clearly wasn’t the part of original plan.
Either that or adults all had a very dark sense of humor. It wasn’t the case. It clearly wasn’t the damn case here. I had a very bright mind, and one of the drawbacks of being smart was that you knew when you were royally screwed. And that was the case. Absolutely.
I exhale and fall back. I don’t exist. No sense of self. Weapon acts. Weapon kills. A human’s body is fragile, weak, full of weak spots. Weapon twists someone’s neck. Weapon breaks someone’s ribs. Weapon cracks skulls and destroys vertebrae and twists spines and follows orders.
In a few minutes, artificial civilians fall down to the ground, dissolving into virtual dust. Weapon is… I’m me. Again. I inhale and become me again. I’m scared of everything. I’m even more scared of the situation going wrong. I’m scared of someone dying on my watch. Always.
“Dragoonslayers,” that name was in a bad taste, but the press had latched into this thing like a lifeline, so there’s no changing it anymore. Still, maybe this will work. Maybe, just maybe, some sense of unity and camaraderie might grow from this soil, however infertile it might be. “No holding back!”
I roar like tiger. Is this my voice? I’m not so sure anymore. Never in my life - since that day - have I ever let myself shout so loud, so intently, so heatedly. It was time for a push, and push will be delivered, one way or another.
Unleash Power - Impossible Fighting Skills: 8
Then.
It was slowly driving her mad. The inaction was getting on her nerves more than she would admit. After all, she was a cop, born and bred, like her father and grandfather and their fathers and grandfathers before her, so the need to be out in the field, saving innocents and foiling criminals, was an essential part of her very core, her essence of sorts.
Arima Sur was staring at the ceiling of her apartments. It was all past now, her mind dully noted. Nobody likes loose cannons, not when an officer can create a makeshift electric chair on accident. It was kind of hard to get rid of charred hair from her patrol car, too.
“Maybe I should call dad.” And tell him what? That she was a complete and utter failure? Just wallowing in self-pity seemed like a better alternative. And it’s not like she could went on the streets and become a vigilante of sorts. She had superpowers, but no training with them and clearance.
Ungarans, as a rule, had a very miniscule contingent of enhanced individuals, so virtually no one knew what to do with her. Of course, there always was an exception to that rule. All of sudden, her communication device started ringing.
“Arima Sur? You might know me better as Cosmic Boy. I have an offer for you.”
Now.
It was driving her mad pretty damn fast. No discipline. No order. No uniform! No matter how you look at this, the whole Legion seemed like a raggedy bunch of walking disasters - nothing like the proper police force or army, which weren’t even divided in her homeworld.
With almost painfully familiar movements, Arima prepared her living quarters and gave her costume a questioning look. It was standard-issue police uniform, if somewhat modified to suit her needs. “It’s time to rumble,” she said and put the damn thing on.
“Bolt, reporting for duty!” She almost chuckled at her new codename. Almost. Sadly, Arima doesn’t chuckle. Not in public, at least. “I take you’ll be our superior officer for this mission, sir?” Just to make sure. A proper chain of command was essential for every mission. Maybe, this whole shebang wasn’t all rookies, amateurs and ex-civilians, as she feared.
It was slowly driving her mad. The inaction was getting on her nerves more than she would admit. After all, she was a cop, born and bred, like her father and grandfather and their fathers and grandfathers before her, so the need to be out in the field, saving innocents and foiling criminals, was an essential part of her very core, her essence of sorts.
Arima Sur was staring at the ceiling of her apartments. It was all past now, her mind dully noted. Nobody likes loose cannons, not when an officer can create a makeshift electric chair on accident. It was kind of hard to get rid of charred hair from her patrol car, too.
“Maybe I should call dad.” And tell him what? That she was a complete and utter failure? Just wallowing in self-pity seemed like a better alternative. And it’s not like she could went on the streets and become a vigilante of sorts. She had superpowers, but no training with them and clearance.
Ungarans, as a rule, had a very miniscule contingent of enhanced individuals, so virtually no one knew what to do with her. Of course, there always was an exception to that rule. All of sudden, her communication device started ringing.
“Arima Sur? You might know me better as Cosmic Boy. I have an offer for you.”
Now.
It was driving her mad pretty damn fast. No discipline. No order. No uniform! No matter how you look at this, the whole Legion seemed like a raggedy bunch of walking disasters - nothing like the proper police force or army, which weren’t even divided in her homeworld.
With almost painfully familiar movements, Arima prepared her living quarters and gave her costume a questioning look. It was standard-issue police uniform, if somewhat modified to suit her needs. “It’s time to rumble,” she said and put the damn thing on.
“Bolt, reporting for duty!” She almost chuckled at her new codename. Almost. Sadly, Arima doesn’t chuckle. Not in public, at least. “I take you’ll be our superior officer for this mission, sir?” Just to make sure. A proper chain of command was essential for every mission. Maybe, this whole shebang wasn’t all rookies, amateurs and ex-civilians, as she feared.
@The Kid Lantern
Just make the blue a little brighter. Also, adding some shinning effect to the eyes would be nice
Just make the blue a little brighter. Also, adding some shinning effect to the eyes would be nice
@The Kid Lantern
I want to ask one question, though. In this continuity, what is the status of Korugar and its citizens?
I want to ask one question, though. In this continuity, what is the status of Korugar and its citizens?
@Liliya
I can live with that. Also, may we settle for vitriolic friend instead? Like, they argue from time to time, but actually appreciate each other. Network sure does. In fact, his actual reason for rejecting all those confessions is that he firmly believes he is damaged goods and that any girl deserves better.
I can live with that. Also, may we settle for vitriolic friend instead? Like, they argue from time to time, but actually appreciate each other. Network sure does. In fact, his actual reason for rejecting all those confessions is that he firmly believes he is damaged goods and that any girl deserves better.
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