Well, you've got the good guys (Kyle and the Diamond Dogs Jackals Storm Hounds), and then everyone else.
Zeff Member
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A soldier forced the tent flap out of the way and stepped in. Awaiting him on the other side was Kyle sat before a fold out-desk. He was scrutinizing piles of handwritten notes. He glanced up to the interloper with a grin. "Hey Jack. What can I do you for?" he chirped.
"I just saw the truck head off. That mission you had in mind... who'd you pick?" Jack asked, stepping further in. Kyle offered him a seat. He then held the sheaf of papers up, flicked through them, and then picked out the relevant ones and set them out before Jack, tapping the cluster for emphasis.
As Jack picked up the files and perused them, Kyle answered. "Sam Helter. 19."
Jack's expression faltered into shock. Kyle's remained as is. "19? And he's on his own? He's going to--"
"Get killed. Yeah, I know." Kyle said absently as he shifted forward in his seat, smile still in place. "I know, it sucks, it sucks a lot, but... well, read on. The kid's a headcase. Daddy beat his mommy, mommy beat him. For some reason thinks it's the fucking metahumans that are to blame for his parents being so wretched. He's also the one that's been cutting up the wildlife, according to testimonies of a few of the men. So long as we keep him in our organization, he's a danger to everyone around us. Making use of him is better than just kicking him out, which runs the risk of defection."
Jack huffed, shaking his head as his eyes scanned the papers in his hands. "You're right, I suppose. But making a sacrificial pawn out of the kid? Have him spill his guts at a university of all places?"
Kyle nodded, smile becoming a grin. "Uhuh! Gotta remind people we're out here some how, let 'em know we still carry on the fight. Surely there's others out there who are just sick to death of living under the heel of our old enemies, yeah? Besides, it's a -Conclave- University. It's a free fire zone, as far as I'm concerned. Honestly, how many non-metas do you -really- expect would end up at such a place, huh? It's not the god damn Hand in Hand Galilee School in Israel. It's by muties, for muties. Humans are second class citizens. By very nature, even."
Jack once again breathed heavily and shifted forward to lean against the desk elbowfirst, his fingers tracing along his moustache in contemplation. "How many... something between some and none, yeah. But... he's still one of us. And throwing him away for a... a massacre. It just doesn't feel right, you know?"
Kyle sunk low to the desk to meet Jack's gaze, fingers steepled. "When I returned home from the Second Crimean War, I got swamped with protesters. Among the usual soundbites, like 'murderer', 'fascist', 'baby killer', I also got a new one: 'You're being used! You're just disposable heroes!' The way I see it, we have no martyrs that aren't years and years old. I'm already feeling the downward tug of apathy setting in. The way I see it, we need some disposable heroes to stoke the engine," Kyle tilted his head slightly, "Yes? No? Phone a friend?"
______________________________________
Sam Helter had been dumped in the wilderness, not far from Manhattan's perimeter, but it was still a fair walk away, and several bus trips, to get to his destination. It was difficult for him to resist the temptation of bringing a hand to the bag that hung from him by a strap that was slung over his shoulder. He pressed his hand deeply and drew it along the grooves of the carbine concealed within. "This is real," he thought to himself, "I've been waiting all my life for this." His grin beamed, and he tremored with excitement.
The iron lettering of the sign crowning the hill ahead spelled out "The Manhattan Memorial Institute." His objective and destiny were so close now.
"I just saw the truck head off. That mission you had in mind... who'd you pick?" Jack asked, stepping further in. Kyle offered him a seat. He then held the sheaf of papers up, flicked through them, and then picked out the relevant ones and set them out before Jack, tapping the cluster for emphasis.
As Jack picked up the files and perused them, Kyle answered. "Sam Helter. 19."
Jack's expression faltered into shock. Kyle's remained as is. "19? And he's on his own? He's going to--"
"Get killed. Yeah, I know." Kyle said absently as he shifted forward in his seat, smile still in place. "I know, it sucks, it sucks a lot, but... well, read on. The kid's a headcase. Daddy beat his mommy, mommy beat him. For some reason thinks it's the fucking metahumans that are to blame for his parents being so wretched. He's also the one that's been cutting up the wildlife, according to testimonies of a few of the men. So long as we keep him in our organization, he's a danger to everyone around us. Making use of him is better than just kicking him out, which runs the risk of defection."
Jack huffed, shaking his head as his eyes scanned the papers in his hands. "You're right, I suppose. But making a sacrificial pawn out of the kid? Have him spill his guts at a university of all places?"
Kyle nodded, smile becoming a grin. "Uhuh! Gotta remind people we're out here some how, let 'em know we still carry on the fight. Surely there's others out there who are just sick to death of living under the heel of our old enemies, yeah? Besides, it's a -Conclave- University. It's a free fire zone, as far as I'm concerned. Honestly, how many non-metas do you -really- expect would end up at such a place, huh? It's not the god damn Hand in Hand Galilee School in Israel. It's by muties, for muties. Humans are second class citizens. By very nature, even."
Jack once again breathed heavily and shifted forward to lean against the desk elbowfirst, his fingers tracing along his moustache in contemplation. "How many... something between some and none, yeah. But... he's still one of us. And throwing him away for a... a massacre. It just doesn't feel right, you know?"
Kyle sunk low to the desk to meet Jack's gaze, fingers steepled. "When I returned home from the Second Crimean War, I got swamped with protesters. Among the usual soundbites, like 'murderer', 'fascist', 'baby killer', I also got a new one: 'You're being used! You're just disposable heroes!' The way I see it, we have no martyrs that aren't years and years old. I'm already feeling the downward tug of apathy setting in. The way I see it, we need some disposable heroes to stoke the engine," Kyle tilted his head slightly, "Yes? No? Phone a friend?"
______________________________________
Sam Helter had been dumped in the wilderness, not far from Manhattan's perimeter, but it was still a fair walk away, and several bus trips, to get to his destination. It was difficult for him to resist the temptation of bringing a hand to the bag that hung from him by a strap that was slung over his shoulder. He pressed his hand deeply and drew it along the grooves of the carbine concealed within. "This is real," he thought to himself, "I've been waiting all my life for this." His grin beamed, and he tremored with excitement.
The iron lettering of the sign crowning the hill ahead spelled out "The Manhattan Memorial Institute." His objective and destiny were so close now.
I've got a new post mostly written up, aside from some finishing touches. It's on my computer back home, however. It'll probably be up later today, if not some time tomorrow.
@Ace of flames01 I sure would!
@Commodore Robot Join status is still "Apply," so I assume you'll be okay.
Haha oh jeeze. The Storm Hounds already have a rep, huh? It's not likely to improve :B
EDIT: Fuck. I did it again. It's almost as if I am the alt of someone or something. You didn't hear anything.
Actually, I'll just level with you. I forgot the password for this account, so I made Akita in the meantime. When I recovered this account, well, yeah. However, for convenience, I'll be using Akita here, and Zeff elsewhere. It's just that sometimes I mistakenly post with the wrong account in this thread.
Actually, I'll just level with you. I forgot the password for this account, so I made Akita in the meantime. When I recovered this account, well, yeah. However, for convenience, I'll be using Akita here, and Zeff elsewhere. It's just that sometimes I mistakenly post with the wrong account in this thread.
Elsewhere
Rows of men and women were packed into the back of the truck. They had been riding for a while now. With blindfolds over their eyes, none of them knew exactly where they were headed, or for how long they had been travelling. A lone guard in the back ensured there was no peeking either. "It's a security measure," he had declared when loading them up, "Don't want any of you ratting us out. No electronics get to come along either."
Finally, after a long, bumpy trip, the truck had pulled to a stop. "Alright. Blindfolds off, recruits, and follow me. No time to stretch your legs. Commander wants to see you. Now." The guard stated, leaping out and motioning for them to follow.
As they each hopped out, they were greeted by the sight of a circular clearing admist dense woods. Inhabiting this clearing was a network of tents and other temporary dwellings. All around them the denizens of this camp were busying themselves with daily routine: lumbering, crafting, training, sparring, cooking, maintaining guns and other equipment. "It might not look like heaven, but at least it isn't hell. Come along now. We're heading to the main tent. We'll get you oriented later." The guard once again instructed.
Soon enough, they made their way into the longest, highest tent. Within were a motley collection of chairs purloined from a variety of sources, set out in rows. As they took their seats, Kyle Kruger emerged from the back flap of the tent from an adjoining one. He grinned broadly. "Many recruits this run. Sweet." He said to himself as he pulled up to the podium. He waited for all to find their seats and for chatter to settle, cleared his throat, then spoke.
"Brothers. Sisters. We, the Storm Hounds, welcome you with open arms, welcome you to struggle for the survival of our race and way of life as comrades in arms. I will not fool you: this fight is not an easy one. But make no mistake, it is a righteous one.
As I'm sure you all remember, it has been nearly 20 years since this nation was taken from us by anti-democratic forces, proponents of 'tolerance', 'unity' and 'integration.' A fool and criminal President Callahan may have been, but isn't it also a crime to have robbed the American people of any choice in the matter? If you ask me, I'd say selling our government out to what had been, and still remains, a mortal threat, is a crime. A crime with a very specific name: Treason. Despite this, the international defenders of 'justice' exploited and abused the Callahan trial like sharks drawn to blood in the water, and through it took our entire system down. The pro-metahuman and metahuman minority thus displaced us, the anti-metahuman and pro-human majority, in an organized mutiny of feelings over reason.
Well, we can see now the product of their blindness, their naivety, can't we? While we have turned our swords into plowshares, the swords of the metahumans remain swords, and they now prey upon our weakness. There was a guy from Florence hundreds of years ago who said, 'Hence it comes that all armed prophets have been victorious, and all unarmed prophets have been destroyed.' And our rival prophets are heavily armed indeed. Never let yourselves be fooled, never lower your guard: a being with the powers of a god, but with the mind of a mere mortal, is always a threat to peace and stability. We must do everything we can to undo these mistakes thrust upon us by Callahan's mad drive for power. Every metahuman dead means thousands of ordinary humans can sleep just that little bit more cozily at night. They are weapons, nothing more. Letting them into society is just like letting our children play on land-mine laden fields before they are cleared."
Kyle scanned his audience, noting the more enthusiastic ones and their faces, mentally earmarking them. He extended a finger. "Excuse me." he offered, then reached for the glass of water on his podium and took a swig.
As he wandered out from the podium, he continued. "Not many know this of me, or would expect it of me, what with being one of the US' most wanted domestic terrorists and all..." He got some chuckles from that. "But I used to want to be a teacher. Yeah, I know. I didn't quite end up reaching that dream, did I?" He flashed a grin, then reached for the cord of the projector screen positioned at the back of the space, then unravelled it with a yank.
"This why I apologize in advance for the information overload I have in store for you guys today - I know it isn't good to burden students like this. Heh." His grin became a sheepish, apologetic one. He then motioned to a soldier at the other end of the tent, who at his command switched on the projector.
"But, you know. Screw it. You've read the newspapers, or saw it on Chirp or whatever the fuck the kids browse these days. Point is, things are getting real bad out there. I usually like to space out theory, even introductory stuff like this, much more, but present circumstances do not grant me this luxury." He explained as he clutched a stick between his hands.
Kyle then thwapped the end of the stick against the board. "Anywho, originating out of the population, the guerrilla war is conducted by local resistance movements. Without support from, and this is important, the population or an armed power, resistance groups cannot sustain themselves for long." Kyle paused to reflect for a moment, then continued. "That same man from Florence that lived hundreds of years ago recommended against relying on foreign forces anyway, so, support must come from the population. I'm not asking for you to be good little boyscouts or girlscouts, but this support must be achieved and held by all means. Don't go shooting anyone who isn't a metahuman, unless if defending yourselves, obviously. I've been shooting at these things for about as long as a lot of you have been walking, by the look of things. Don't sweat it, I'll tell you more about the signs to watch out for when gunning for metahumans later. Now..." Kyle's instruction continued on and on.
At the end of it all, there was a common thought among the people huddled in the hall: What was longer, the trip here, or the lecture? Despite its length, most understood its importance, fortunately. "Failing to prepare is to be prepared for failure", as Kyle himself had put it during his instruction.
Rows of men and women were packed into the back of the truck. They had been riding for a while now. With blindfolds over their eyes, none of them knew exactly where they were headed, or for how long they had been travelling. A lone guard in the back ensured there was no peeking either. "It's a security measure," he had declared when loading them up, "Don't want any of you ratting us out. No electronics get to come along either."
Finally, after a long, bumpy trip, the truck had pulled to a stop. "Alright. Blindfolds off, recruits, and follow me. No time to stretch your legs. Commander wants to see you. Now." The guard stated, leaping out and motioning for them to follow.
As they each hopped out, they were greeted by the sight of a circular clearing admist dense woods. Inhabiting this clearing was a network of tents and other temporary dwellings. All around them the denizens of this camp were busying themselves with daily routine: lumbering, crafting, training, sparring, cooking, maintaining guns and other equipment. "It might not look like heaven, but at least it isn't hell. Come along now. We're heading to the main tent. We'll get you oriented later." The guard once again instructed.
Soon enough, they made their way into the longest, highest tent. Within were a motley collection of chairs purloined from a variety of sources, set out in rows. As they took their seats, Kyle Kruger emerged from the back flap of the tent from an adjoining one. He grinned broadly. "Many recruits this run. Sweet." He said to himself as he pulled up to the podium. He waited for all to find their seats and for chatter to settle, cleared his throat, then spoke.
"Brothers. Sisters. We, the Storm Hounds, welcome you with open arms, welcome you to struggle for the survival of our race and way of life as comrades in arms. I will not fool you: this fight is not an easy one. But make no mistake, it is a righteous one.
As I'm sure you all remember, it has been nearly 20 years since this nation was taken from us by anti-democratic forces, proponents of 'tolerance', 'unity' and 'integration.' A fool and criminal President Callahan may have been, but isn't it also a crime to have robbed the American people of any choice in the matter? If you ask me, I'd say selling our government out to what had been, and still remains, a mortal threat, is a crime. A crime with a very specific name: Treason. Despite this, the international defenders of 'justice' exploited and abused the Callahan trial like sharks drawn to blood in the water, and through it took our entire system down. The pro-metahuman and metahuman minority thus displaced us, the anti-metahuman and pro-human majority, in an organized mutiny of feelings over reason.
Well, we can see now the product of their blindness, their naivety, can't we? While we have turned our swords into plowshares, the swords of the metahumans remain swords, and they now prey upon our weakness. There was a guy from Florence hundreds of years ago who said, 'Hence it comes that all armed prophets have been victorious, and all unarmed prophets have been destroyed.' And our rival prophets are heavily armed indeed. Never let yourselves be fooled, never lower your guard: a being with the powers of a god, but with the mind of a mere mortal, is always a threat to peace and stability. We must do everything we can to undo these mistakes thrust upon us by Callahan's mad drive for power. Every metahuman dead means thousands of ordinary humans can sleep just that little bit more cozily at night. They are weapons, nothing more. Letting them into society is just like letting our children play on land-mine laden fields before they are cleared."
Kyle scanned his audience, noting the more enthusiastic ones and their faces, mentally earmarking them. He extended a finger. "Excuse me." he offered, then reached for the glass of water on his podium and took a swig.
As he wandered out from the podium, he continued. "Not many know this of me, or would expect it of me, what with being one of the US' most wanted domestic terrorists and all..." He got some chuckles from that. "But I used to want to be a teacher. Yeah, I know. I didn't quite end up reaching that dream, did I?" He flashed a grin, then reached for the cord of the projector screen positioned at the back of the space, then unravelled it with a yank.
"This why I apologize in advance for the information overload I have in store for you guys today - I know it isn't good to burden students like this. Heh." His grin became a sheepish, apologetic one. He then motioned to a soldier at the other end of the tent, who at his command switched on the projector.
"But, you know. Screw it. You've read the newspapers, or saw it on Chirp or whatever the fuck the kids browse these days. Point is, things are getting real bad out there. I usually like to space out theory, even introductory stuff like this, much more, but present circumstances do not grant me this luxury." He explained as he clutched a stick between his hands.
Kyle then thwapped the end of the stick against the board. "Anywho, originating out of the population, the guerrilla war is conducted by local resistance movements. Without support from, and this is important, the population or an armed power, resistance groups cannot sustain themselves for long." Kyle paused to reflect for a moment, then continued. "That same man from Florence that lived hundreds of years ago recommended against relying on foreign forces anyway, so, support must come from the population. I'm not asking for you to be good little boyscouts or girlscouts, but this support must be achieved and held by all means. Don't go shooting anyone who isn't a metahuman, unless if defending yourselves, obviously. I've been shooting at these things for about as long as a lot of you have been walking, by the look of things. Don't sweat it, I'll tell you more about the signs to watch out for when gunning for metahumans later. Now..." Kyle's instruction continued on and on.
At the end of it all, there was a common thought among the people huddled in the hall: What was longer, the trip here, or the lecture? Despite its length, most understood its importance, fortunately. "Failing to prepare is to be prepared for failure", as Kyle himself had put it during his instruction.
@ShaggyDoo0
Hahaha yes. Thank you, though.
@TheDarkTemplar
Excellent! While waiting, I actually have been thinking about my first posts quite a lot, so I'll be ready to go right away.
Nice to see you again too! That question actually has a few different levels and answers to it, and my first post I have lined up actually goes into some of the more surface reasons. I have thought about this stuff, however. It's just that my character sheets tend to be written as overviews, and then the nitty gritty of the psychological stuff I tend to either keep written in my own notes or in my mind.
Hahaha yes. Thank you, though.
@TheDarkTemplar
Excellent! While waiting, I actually have been thinking about my first posts quite a lot, so I'll be ready to go right away.
@Zeff hmmmm but why does he hate meta humans? It doesn't say in Kyle's bio.... On a side note, hey Zeff! Nice to see you again!
Nice to see you again too! That question actually has a few different levels and answers to it, and my first post I have lined up actually goes into some of the more surface reasons. I have thought about this stuff, however. It's just that my character sheets tend to be written as overviews, and then the nitty gritty of the psychological stuff I tend to either keep written in my own notes or in my mind.
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