07-28-2016, 04:24 PM
Staggering out into the middle of the street, Colonel turned his focus this way and that, pointedly ignoring the booming voice down the road. His attention was occupied with other matters at the moment, and the echoing message currently drawing the attention of every undead thing within earshot was not one of them.
WARNING: SYSTEM THERMAL MARGINS APPROACHING CRITICAL LEVELS. OPERATING IMPAIRMENT IMMINENT.
The own perils plaguing his internal systems were far more paramount in his mind. The incessant warnings about the strange buildup of heat he was experiencing, along with the physical impairment in his joints — the grinding and screeching of distressed servos as he tried to move punctuated his thoughts angrily — was keeping him very much occupied. That, and the rather distressing number of wailing, screaming voices seeming to echo from every direction at once.
“We got company,” Abner commented dryly. “And I don’t think we’ve got the supplies for a party that size.” The sarcasm was diminished not only by the gravity of the situation, but by the ever-increasing fatigue setting in on the man, and the strange plague that had taken root in all three of them.
“Wh-Which way should we go?” Trent stammered feverishly, jerking his gaze back and forth to look both ways down the street.
The virtual soldier didn’t respond, too busy pondering over that very question himself. The combined haze clouding his vision, from the heat building up in his systems, the damage he had sustained and the static intermittently flickering across everything, made getting more than a general picture of anything difficult, but the path to their left seemed slightly more clear. Flashes of red split the dark night periodically in that direction, giving some reason as to why. It would be easier going to head that way, but…
All that noise and racket was a beacon, just drawing the deformed remnants of the town’s inhabitants to it, like moths to a flame. If they went that way and couldn’t find a way out — and fast — they’d be all but handing themselves to the horde closing in on a silver platter.
“Running out of time to decide here, terminator,” Abner muttered, hands slowly going for his blaster rifle as the sounds of pursuit and incoming ghouls grew steadily, alarmingly louder.
“I know,” was all the response that was offered from the machine.
“Well?!” Trent was now bordering on hysterical again, the looted gun he had been given clutched so tightly in his hands his knuckles had gone white.
Colonel reached down with his free hand, fumbling for something with stiff, barely-responsive fingers at the back of his belt. “The docks…” he muttered, words drowned out by the cacophony of shrieking wails. With a faint, inaudible click, something snapped closed around the navi’s wrist, and his arm emerged from under his cloak sporting a new piece of equipment fastened around his arm. Taken from the ruins of the radio station, during his examination of the various recording studios, it had been found in a cabinet marked ‘emergency contact supplies’. He hadn’t yet had a chance to test if it was functional, but now was as good a time as any. He needed to know if a certain individual was still kicking, as unlikely as it was for him to go down.
Nothing short of this entire island being vaporized would be likely to bring down the Dean of Security.
Turning back to the other two, he indicated the building in the distance, from which the message and ruckus currently attracting the ghoulish hordes was booming. “You heard the message. We have docks to find.”
Abner just groaned, but shook his head. “Shitty idea. Really shitty idea.” The pounding of footsteps finally reaching the audible range put off any further complains. “But beats standing around here! Let’s roll!”
Immediately breaking into a mad dash, away from the offending building, Colonel brought the device — apparently called a ‘pip boy’ — up, finally running it through its startup process. It took a torturously long time, or at least it seemed to, before the screen finally stabilized into a semblance of life and activity, awaiting further command. It seemed fairly robust, if primitive, and the outgoing transmission function was...not standard, from the looks of it. But it should prove functional. He keyed in the frequency he’d been given for Okor’s communication line, hoping it would go through. “Okor--” At first he was met only with static, harsh and grating, and he recoiled the arm bearing the device away from his features, scowling grimly. That was good news.
“Okor,” he started again. “This is Colonel. Do you read?”
There was an unearthly noise intermingled with the static that came back this time, sounding not wholly dissimilar to countless voices shrieking in agony, and the tortured groan of machines under great duress. But above it all came the rasping, nauseating rumble of the Dean of Security’s voice. ”Ah, Colonel. You yet remain...alive, on this island?” It was hard to tell if the plaguebearer was pleased by this information or not. ”What do you have to report?” Straight to the point. As expected, and hoped for.
“In the company of another prime and a secondary. Survivors from the crash.” No sense wasting anymore time than necessary. “Made it to a town, encountered difficulties. Undead, deformed and mutated people. Likely the town’s residents. Currently making an escape, headed toward possible escape from the island.” He briefly paused, his balance deserting him as his joints seized up and he stumbled, vision shimmering and wavering in the haze of heat now practically rippling off of him in the otherwise cool night air. “...what….what is your location?”
The response was not immediate, and was interspersed with more of the same: twisted, tortured metal and unearthly shrieking, almost drowning out the static and growling voice of the plague marine. ”We have encountered our own...mutations,” he commented. ”We are in a mine of some sort...below the island’s surface. Heading to the surface on an elevator now.”
A mine? Colonel’s expression twisted into a grimace. The radio DJ, Three Dog, had mentioned the mine specifically as one of the worse places on the island. “Affirmative. Should we divert course to the mines, and join with you?”
The final response was delayed, and when it finally did come the background noise had died down to some extent, but it still sounded like they were going through hell. ”I will contact you again when we reach the...surface,” came the succinct response. ”We have...a nuisance to dispose of.”
“Understood.” Colonel broke the communication.
“That didn’t exactly sound like good news,” Abner wheezed.
The war machine couldn’t deny that, but chose to simply divert it. “At least it wasn’t bad news.”
WARNING: SYSTEM THERMAL MARGINS APPROACHING CRITICAL LEVELS. OPERATING IMPAIRMENT IMMINENT.
The own perils plaguing his internal systems were far more paramount in his mind. The incessant warnings about the strange buildup of heat he was experiencing, along with the physical impairment in his joints — the grinding and screeching of distressed servos as he tried to move punctuated his thoughts angrily — was keeping him very much occupied. That, and the rather distressing number of wailing, screaming voices seeming to echo from every direction at once.
“We got company,” Abner commented dryly. “And I don’t think we’ve got the supplies for a party that size.” The sarcasm was diminished not only by the gravity of the situation, but by the ever-increasing fatigue setting in on the man, and the strange plague that had taken root in all three of them.
“Wh-Which way should we go?” Trent stammered feverishly, jerking his gaze back and forth to look both ways down the street.
The virtual soldier didn’t respond, too busy pondering over that very question himself. The combined haze clouding his vision, from the heat building up in his systems, the damage he had sustained and the static intermittently flickering across everything, made getting more than a general picture of anything difficult, but the path to their left seemed slightly more clear. Flashes of red split the dark night periodically in that direction, giving some reason as to why. It would be easier going to head that way, but…
All that noise and racket was a beacon, just drawing the deformed remnants of the town’s inhabitants to it, like moths to a flame. If they went that way and couldn’t find a way out — and fast — they’d be all but handing themselves to the horde closing in on a silver platter.
“Running out of time to decide here, terminator,” Abner muttered, hands slowly going for his blaster rifle as the sounds of pursuit and incoming ghouls grew steadily, alarmingly louder.
“I know,” was all the response that was offered from the machine.
“Well?!” Trent was now bordering on hysterical again, the looted gun he had been given clutched so tightly in his hands his knuckles had gone white.
Colonel reached down with his free hand, fumbling for something with stiff, barely-responsive fingers at the back of his belt. “The docks…” he muttered, words drowned out by the cacophony of shrieking wails. With a faint, inaudible click, something snapped closed around the navi’s wrist, and his arm emerged from under his cloak sporting a new piece of equipment fastened around his arm. Taken from the ruins of the radio station, during his examination of the various recording studios, it had been found in a cabinet marked ‘emergency contact supplies’. He hadn’t yet had a chance to test if it was functional, but now was as good a time as any. He needed to know if a certain individual was still kicking, as unlikely as it was for him to go down.
Nothing short of this entire island being vaporized would be likely to bring down the Dean of Security.
Turning back to the other two, he indicated the building in the distance, from which the message and ruckus currently attracting the ghoulish hordes was booming. “You heard the message. We have docks to find.”
Abner just groaned, but shook his head. “Shitty idea. Really shitty idea.” The pounding of footsteps finally reaching the audible range put off any further complains. “But beats standing around here! Let’s roll!”
Immediately breaking into a mad dash, away from the offending building, Colonel brought the device — apparently called a ‘pip boy’ — up, finally running it through its startup process. It took a torturously long time, or at least it seemed to, before the screen finally stabilized into a semblance of life and activity, awaiting further command. It seemed fairly robust, if primitive, and the outgoing transmission function was...not standard, from the looks of it. But it should prove functional. He keyed in the frequency he’d been given for Okor’s communication line, hoping it would go through. “Okor--” At first he was met only with static, harsh and grating, and he recoiled the arm bearing the device away from his features, scowling grimly. That was good news.
“Okor,” he started again. “This is Colonel. Do you read?”
There was an unearthly noise intermingled with the static that came back this time, sounding not wholly dissimilar to countless voices shrieking in agony, and the tortured groan of machines under great duress. But above it all came the rasping, nauseating rumble of the Dean of Security’s voice. ”Ah, Colonel. You yet remain...alive, on this island?” It was hard to tell if the plaguebearer was pleased by this information or not. ”What do you have to report?” Straight to the point. As expected, and hoped for.
“In the company of another prime and a secondary. Survivors from the crash.” No sense wasting anymore time than necessary. “Made it to a town, encountered difficulties. Undead, deformed and mutated people. Likely the town’s residents. Currently making an escape, headed toward possible escape from the island.” He briefly paused, his balance deserting him as his joints seized up and he stumbled, vision shimmering and wavering in the haze of heat now practically rippling off of him in the otherwise cool night air. “...what….what is your location?”
The response was not immediate, and was interspersed with more of the same: twisted, tortured metal and unearthly shrieking, almost drowning out the static and growling voice of the plague marine. ”We have encountered our own...mutations,” he commented. ”We are in a mine of some sort...below the island’s surface. Heading to the surface on an elevator now.”
A mine? Colonel’s expression twisted into a grimace. The radio DJ, Three Dog, had mentioned the mine specifically as one of the worse places on the island. “Affirmative. Should we divert course to the mines, and join with you?”
The final response was delayed, and when it finally did come the background noise had died down to some extent, but it still sounded like they were going through hell. ”I will contact you again when we reach the...surface,” came the succinct response. ”We have...a nuisance to dispose of.”
“Understood.” Colonel broke the communication.
“That didn’t exactly sound like good news,” Abner wheezed.
The war machine couldn’t deny that, but chose to simply divert it. “At least it wasn’t bad news.”
Quote:1168 words, according to on-site wordcounter.
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