06-06-2015, 01:03 PM
Okor chuckled as he dragged the tip of his rusted blade through the dust on the warehouse floor, sketching out an unmistakable floor plan: The Museum of Coruscant. Inherently recognizable by the organic curves, abundance of windows, and no end of displays, it was diligently recreated from a tourist's booklet clutched in Okor's decaying fingers. He marked an X in the center of the construct, indicating their target. Blackhand's Crown.
It was reassuring to see such a simple object could still hold power in this realm of replication. If a Xenos could bring warfare to the Immortals' lair, then it was damn well certain three Legionnaires could burn this 'World Tree' to the ground. But of course, not quite yet. While they were strong, the trio could hardly hope to annihilate an army, especially given how the abomination Omni had debased their abilities. They would need an army of their own.
He turned to face his azure brother, rising from his squatting position to address him as an equal. "Things are not always so... easy, my Brother. The locals will respond to our assault, and I do not believe... this false Emperor's dogs would miss such a battle. The Nexus would be a death trap, as we can hardly hope to avoid any fools that attempt to... stall us, should we pass through there. No." He flipped through the tourist booklet he had snatched on his way through Tier Two. He held it out towards his siblings, displaying a scene awash with sand, water and palm trees.
"The Vasty Deeps. Minimal... Imperial presence, and an entire ocean to regroup in." He tapped a short sentence in the book with his necrotic finger. "Furthermore, they have seen fit to give us a vital... warning." He flipped the book back to his armoured face, running an extremity over the words. "Te... Technological advancements, such as... the w-wonderous hovercar, do not f-function in the Vasty Deeps." Disregarding the rest of the information contained within, he tossed it aside. "The land speeder will cease to function as we enter the deeps. As... such, we must acquire an alternate method of transportation when we arrive." He grinned beneath his helmet, his pervasive smell increasing in intensity as his rotten teeth were released from their cage of necrotic flesh.
"Tell me, brothers. Have you ever piloted a boat?"
Agent Smith, as he was known, pulled his ratty hood over his dirty hair, draping his noble features in shadow. It was his third month investigating Backscratcher's crew, and within a week, he expected to be able to bring the gang crashing down. And then, perhaps he'd be able to see his sweet Lucinda again... His thoughts were interrupted by the noted silence of the warehouse the gangers had infested. Normally, it would be filled with the cries of raucous rejoicing, and the occasional brief scream. Instead, it was as quiet as death itself. instincts finely trained over years of training kicked in, and he silently sidled over to a broken, board window, and gazed inside.
The room was a charnel house. Ragged corpses dressed in the red and black cloth of the Backscratcher's gang were strewn around the warehouse, shot, burn, chopped, stabbed, dismembered, disemboweled, and far worse. Their faces were frozen into expressions of pain and terror, rigor mortis passing on the fear they had known even in death. Collapsed on the floor was the ragged corpse of Mendes, seemingly dispatched without a significant fight. Bullet casings and blood covered the floor in equal measure. But of most immediate concern were the three titanic figures dominating the center of the floor. The last monsters standing.
The first of them was clad in scavenged armour, dark grey and red steel, marred by scars, hid him from the world. Any thoughts of potential weakness was quickly banished by the brutal chainweapon hanging on his hip, and the similarly massive bolter clutched in his hands. His armour was splattered with vitae, evidence of his actions in the slaughter. Fearfully, smith turned his eyes on the next warrior.
The next seemed to have been dredged up from the sewers. His armour was filthy and rotten, pockmarked with bullet wounds. Scarred and gangrenous flesh covered his twisted bones, yet it seemed just as inviolable as his thick armour plating. A bolter and pistol alike swung from his waist, while he clutched a blood-stained rusted sword in his hand, scratching patterns in the dirt as the others looked on.
The final member of the trio was clad in shimmering azure and gold, his armour seemingly changing its appearance under his gaze. Scintillating crenelations rose from his three-eyed helm, anointing him as what seemed to be the leader of the three. Held in his grasp was a circuit-covered blade, which the warlock wiped off on his own robes, the blood vanishing into the fabric.
Flattening himself against the wall of the warehouse, Smith silently took a breath to steady himself. He had to get help. Backscratcher's gang was one of the major players in the lower tiers, and if these newcomers could annihilate his crew in such short order... He shuddered at the implications. He had to get help. But who was left to help? Dante's Abyss had claimed the attentions of almost every freelance prime. He couldn't involve direct Imperial support without blowing his cover. While Backscratcher was dead, 'Three-Legged Johnson' was still a ganger in high demand. He needed someone new, someone the Empire could deny any affiliation with. He was about to make a break for the upper tiers when an object impacted the concrete near his hiding place. Risking a glimpse, he saw a pamphlet, the pages opened to a map of the Coruscant museum, slime and filth covering the central display. Shit. Scrambling away, he scurried into the darkness of the lower tiers. He needed to get some help. Now.
The doors shrieked as Okor pushed them apart, rotten muscles, aided by servo-motors, making short work of whatever resistance they could muster. He lifted his sword, pointing it into the darkness. "Let's teach them what they have... Forgotten, brothers. Let us show them pain. Fear. Weakness. Struggle. Glory. Meaning." He chuckled, trudging onwards. "Let us teach them life."
It was reassuring to see such a simple object could still hold power in this realm of replication. If a Xenos could bring warfare to the Immortals' lair, then it was damn well certain three Legionnaires could burn this 'World Tree' to the ground. But of course, not quite yet. While they were strong, the trio could hardly hope to annihilate an army, especially given how the abomination Omni had debased their abilities. They would need an army of their own.
He turned to face his azure brother, rising from his squatting position to address him as an equal. "Things are not always so... easy, my Brother. The locals will respond to our assault, and I do not believe... this false Emperor's dogs would miss such a battle. The Nexus would be a death trap, as we can hardly hope to avoid any fools that attempt to... stall us, should we pass through there. No." He flipped through the tourist booklet he had snatched on his way through Tier Two. He held it out towards his siblings, displaying a scene awash with sand, water and palm trees.
"The Vasty Deeps. Minimal... Imperial presence, and an entire ocean to regroup in." He tapped a short sentence in the book with his necrotic finger. "Furthermore, they have seen fit to give us a vital... warning." He flipped the book back to his armoured face, running an extremity over the words. "Te... Technological advancements, such as... the w-wonderous hovercar, do not f-function in the Vasty Deeps." Disregarding the rest of the information contained within, he tossed it aside. "The land speeder will cease to function as we enter the deeps. As... such, we must acquire an alternate method of transportation when we arrive." He grinned beneath his helmet, his pervasive smell increasing in intensity as his rotten teeth were released from their cage of necrotic flesh.
"Tell me, brothers. Have you ever piloted a boat?"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Agent Smith, as he was known, pulled his ratty hood over his dirty hair, draping his noble features in shadow. It was his third month investigating Backscratcher's crew, and within a week, he expected to be able to bring the gang crashing down. And then, perhaps he'd be able to see his sweet Lucinda again... His thoughts were interrupted by the noted silence of the warehouse the gangers had infested. Normally, it would be filled with the cries of raucous rejoicing, and the occasional brief scream. Instead, it was as quiet as death itself. instincts finely trained over years of training kicked in, and he silently sidled over to a broken, board window, and gazed inside.
The room was a charnel house. Ragged corpses dressed in the red and black cloth of the Backscratcher's gang were strewn around the warehouse, shot, burn, chopped, stabbed, dismembered, disemboweled, and far worse. Their faces were frozen into expressions of pain and terror, rigor mortis passing on the fear they had known even in death. Collapsed on the floor was the ragged corpse of Mendes, seemingly dispatched without a significant fight. Bullet casings and blood covered the floor in equal measure. But of most immediate concern were the three titanic figures dominating the center of the floor. The last monsters standing.
The first of them was clad in scavenged armour, dark grey and red steel, marred by scars, hid him from the world. Any thoughts of potential weakness was quickly banished by the brutal chainweapon hanging on his hip, and the similarly massive bolter clutched in his hands. His armour was splattered with vitae, evidence of his actions in the slaughter. Fearfully, smith turned his eyes on the next warrior.
The next seemed to have been dredged up from the sewers. His armour was filthy and rotten, pockmarked with bullet wounds. Scarred and gangrenous flesh covered his twisted bones, yet it seemed just as inviolable as his thick armour plating. A bolter and pistol alike swung from his waist, while he clutched a blood-stained rusted sword in his hand, scratching patterns in the dirt as the others looked on.
The final member of the trio was clad in shimmering azure and gold, his armour seemingly changing its appearance under his gaze. Scintillating crenelations rose from his three-eyed helm, anointing him as what seemed to be the leader of the three. Held in his grasp was a circuit-covered blade, which the warlock wiped off on his own robes, the blood vanishing into the fabric.
Flattening himself against the wall of the warehouse, Smith silently took a breath to steady himself. He had to get help. Backscratcher's gang was one of the major players in the lower tiers, and if these newcomers could annihilate his crew in such short order... He shuddered at the implications. He had to get help. But who was left to help? Dante's Abyss had claimed the attentions of almost every freelance prime. He couldn't involve direct Imperial support without blowing his cover. While Backscratcher was dead, 'Three-Legged Johnson' was still a ganger in high demand. He needed someone new, someone the Empire could deny any affiliation with. He was about to make a break for the upper tiers when an object impacted the concrete near his hiding place. Risking a glimpse, he saw a pamphlet, the pages opened to a map of the Coruscant museum, slime and filth covering the central display. Shit. Scrambling away, he scurried into the darkness of the lower tiers. He needed to get some help. Now.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The doors shrieked as Okor pushed them apart, rotten muscles, aided by servo-motors, making short work of whatever resistance they could muster. He lifted his sword, pointing it into the darkness. "Let's teach them what they have... Forgotten, brothers. Let us show them pain. Fear. Weakness. Struggle. Glory. Meaning." He chuckled, trudging onwards. "Let us teach them life."
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