[b]Pilot Scene[/b] Blood rained down on the ground as the spiked fist backhanded the naked man once more. He was a mess, his dirtied body sullied even more by days of imprisonment. By now, the soldier's own ribs seemed like they would break out any moment from one of the many gaping wounds decorating his body. To say his captors had not been kind would be an understatement. They had used a shotgun filled with birdshot shells to riddle his body with open holes for starting their "interrogation." When that did not suffice, they used the broken leg of a chair as a makeshift torch to burn him with. The militiamen enjoyed the screams of the foreigner, accompanied by the smell of his burning flesh. After all, they were so familiar with that scent from years of burning their people's bodies for fear of sickness spreading. He could only writhe so much against the pole he was tethered against. The rundown warehouse he was kept in could only project so much of his cries. Their rusted instruments could only create so many messy incisions upon his chest... But the simple remedy for that was to merely move on to his back. Then his groin. Then his thighs. Then his limbs. And the beating. The man thought he would get accustomed to it, but the aftershock of each near-death lynching hit him hard every time-- possibly more than the beating itself. Another sharp punch rattled him back into reality, interrupting the flow of recent memories. The Ethiopian's fist sent more crimson fluid into the feces and piss-covered concrete, disturbing some of the insects that happened to be idly sitting upon the dirtied floor. Small nails and broken glass adhered to the rags covering the captor's hand. Some of the jagged shards stuck in the mans face, marring his once chiselled features into an indistinguishable mess of raw meat. A brief moment of solace was provided after another hour of agony. His torturer- a large, barrel-chested local wearing a ripped and faded military uniform -unwrapped the shard-covered cloth from his fist and asked the soldier another question. "What is your name?" "YOU -blam!-ING MANIACS! I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW! MY NAME, WHO I WORK FOR, JUST -blam!-ING KILL ME-" He was cut short by the carved bone handle of the man's knife slamming downwards into his shoulder. The blunt grip broke a few more bones, cutting the man short by his own screams. However, the captor spoke over them. "I said what is your name, foreigner?" It was strange, how a mere whisper could speak louder than his cries of agony by the power of deadly emphasis. How a proud soldier could be reduced to less than an animal over the course of a week. Through gritted teeth and laboured breaths, the man answered his captor's question once more. "My name... is Ricardo Balat." This was about the eighth time he told him this, but he seemed to forget every time like he honestly didn't care. The militiaman snapped his fingers, signalling a much smaller figure over to him. Through the dim light, bruises, and blood he could not see many features of the newcomer. Although he did see the signature material of his uniform and the broken trauma plate hanging from its ripped vest. His smaller companion fished out the picture of his family he always kept in his designated "safe pouch." He also produced a thumbtack from a bandolier hanging loosely from his small chest. "Do you want to die, foreigner?" "Yes," the tortured man said expressionlessly. He had been asked that question over and over again, but had never been gifted with the sweet peace of death. He saw the man lift up the smaller figure, whom he figured to be a child, to his forehead. Ricardo felt the thumbtack painstakingly slide into his flesh, almost as if the force behind it was too weak or too hesitant to do it quickly. When the boy came back down, the thumbtack and photograph were no longer in his tiny hands. Instead, his own 9mm sidearm was held by the child. "Do you miss your family? Your wife? Your two daughters?" "...yes... please just..." "And yet you want to die? To leave your family?" "Because of you -blam!-s! BECAUSE OF YOU WORTHLESS SAVAGES! YOU PIECE OF SHIT MANIACS!" He continued his tirade of insults, thrashing against his bonds and forcefully widening his eyes to stare down his captor. Surprisingly, no retaliation or reprimands came. In fact, the militiaman calmly waited for his prisoner to settle down as the child stood beside him, shaking slightly as he held the pistol. In the end, there was silence. The man's deep accented voice broke it. "Yes or no, foreigner? You Americans are so... Convoluted. You ask questions and demand answers, but when asked questions you only reply with other questions or nonsensical rants to avoid it." A pause. The soldier actually had to consider this before taking a deep breath and sighing. He had given up all the information the savages wanted and was practically on the verge of death already. "Yes..." The man nodded to his much younger underling. The child hesitantly aimed up at the prisoner's head, still trembling. "Goodbye then, foreigner dog. Die for your 'duty' and die for your family." And then the child shot through the man's head, straight through the picture of his family tacked to his forehead. [spoiler]Rip me apart with feedback plz. [/spoiler] Notes: -"The human body can only take so much shit" -Felix has a massive gorilla cock -Probably gonna scrap this tbh

[b][i]Memories[/i][/b] [b]Earth, North Carolina, USA, Alternate Dimension, 2033[/b] [i]The man appeared in the yard behind the little brick house, standing alone in the yard. Before him, the little two-storey glowed as a house normally would around 9:00 at night. Some light came from the bottom floor, a faint glow from the back door, and some seeping in from other rooms in the front. More light came from a room upstairs, what appeared to be a bathroom. Walking across the lawn, the man climbed up the steps to the back porch and produced a key from his pocket. Sliding it into the keyhole, he opened the door and walked in quietly, stopping to wipe his feet on the mat and lock the back door. Walking into the kitchen, he saw that all the dishes had been washed, all neatly dried and put away in the cabinets. The lights over the sink by the refrigerator were still on, illuminating the room just enough. Stepping into the living room, his old cowboy boots clicked on the hardwood, drawing the attention of the woman on the couch, who had her nose in an old Stephen King novel. Looking up, she jumped and almost fell off the couch.[/i] CODY?! Don't scare me like that you ass! [i]She broke into a giggling fit, happy to see who had returned. He smiled back at her.[/i] What'd you do, chase Jackson into the shower for some quiet time? [i]He walked towards her, and his tone changed as he hugged her gently.[/i] Danielle, I've missed you so much... You've got no idea. [i]She hugged him back, standing on her tip toes. Letting go after a few moments, they stood back to look at each other. She was wearing an old t-shirt with sweatpants, and was barefoot. He stood in a denim jacket, wearing a black tank top under it, along with a pair of faded jeans and his old cowboy boots. They both stood in an awkward silence for too long a time, when Cody spoke up.[/i] Wanna go for a ride? [i]She seemed surprised, but was ecstatic.[/i] Of course! Let me get changed. [i]With that, she rushed upstairs, into her, no, their room, and put on a pair of jeans and socks. Digging through her closet, she pulled out a pair of boots, and slid them onto her feet. While she was changing, he walked back outside to the garage some 100 feet off to the right of the house, and opened the door. Inside, parked in the center, was his 1969 Mustang Boss 429 Fastback, his childhood dream car. He was finally able to buy it when he came back home from his second deployment, and he spent quite a bit customizing it. It was a beautiful shade of red, with two black racing stripes down the center. Slides were put on the back windshield, and two massive mufflers poked out from the rear of the car. Producing the keys from his pocket again, he opened the car door, and climbed in. The interior was all redone, and he had put in a new stereo system. His gearshift was a chrome skull, and his steering wheel bore interesting chrome designs as well. Putting the key in the ignition, he turned the car on, and it roared to life, the massive V8 engine growling like a caged beast. Shifting gears, he drove out of the garage and across the grass until he cane to the gravel driveway by the front of the house. Danielle was on the front porch, sitting in the swing, waiting. She stood up and walked down to the car. She opened the door, and climbed in.[/i] I didn't figure this thing would be drivable when you got back. [i]He laughed.[/i] These old cars are built to last, honey. [i]With that, she buckled her seatbelt, and they drove out to the main road. As Cody Wolfe turned on to the pavement, he put his foot down, and the old muscle car roared out on to the road, engine piercing the still of the night. He got up to the speed limit and just cruised. His mind already knew where he was going, an old place the two of them used to always go out to. Reaching down, he turned on the radio, and realized he had an old Tom Petty album in the car. As soon as the song started playing, Danielle and Cody instantly knew which it was, and hummed along, until the second verse, in which they both sung together.[/i] Well, I don't know, but I've been told You never slow down, you never grow old I'm tired of screwin' up, tired of going down Tired of myself, tired of this town Oh, my my, oh, hell yes Honey, put on that party dress Buy me a drink, sing me a song Take me as I come 'cause I can't stay long Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain I feel summer creepin' in and I'm tired of this town again There's pigeons down on Market Square She's standin' in her underwear Lookin' down from a hotel room Nightfall will be comin' soon Oh, my my, oh, hell yes. You got to put on that party dress It was too cold to cry when I woke up alone I hit my last number and walked to the road... [spoiler]Open to critique and I'm gonna post it in Fexil's writing thingy.[/spoiler]

I was thinking about writing a personal wiki for everyone. Relationships with other characters for certain characters, factions, their history, kinda like a really complicated bio

You are Guardswoman Sonja Larsson, 427th Valhallan. Your regiment was ordered to hold a world in the face of one of Abbadon the Despoiler's Black Crusades. Reinforcements are promised, but everyone knows they won’t make it in time. As the Warp becomes ever more unstable, heralding the coming of the massive Chaos fleet, your regimental commander, the Colonel, loses all contact with outside forces. The 427th is cut off. You dig in, knowing that no matter what happens, the regiment, and you, will die here. One way or another. But you are Imperial Guard. You are the only thing standing between the innocent men, women, and children living upon this doomed world and the ravaging hordes of Chaos. So you do the only thing you can. You are Imperial Guard. You hold the line. Your comrades die in hundreds, in thousands, but they die standing. They die facing the enemy, firing and slashing with bayonet, shouting battle-cries as they die for the Emperor and Humanity. The outer lines are overrun. Ammunition is dangerously low, and the medics have long since run out of supplies. Night falls. The Colonel walks the lines, as he has every night the 427th has been here. That's the kind of man he is. As he passes your position, he pauses. He looks down at you kindly, as you sit there behind the heavy bolter. He asks how you're holding up, as he does every night, to every soldier in the regiment. You smile wanly and answer, "The Emperor protects, Sir." It is the same answer you always give him, but this this time, it carries a note of finality. You see it in his face, too - you both know that this is the last time he'll be able to ask that question. You both know this will be the last time you can answer it. He begins to turn, to walk to the Guardsman, when a shout comes from a lookout post, and the mortar thumps as a star shell is fired over the outer lines. You look out, and by the fierce, pale light of the burning shell, you see the ground moving toward you. It takes you a moment to realize that it isn't the ground - the soldiers of Chaos are so tightly packed that it only seems so. As the shell bursts and lights up the night, a huge, grating scream comes from those lost souls, and they charge heedless toward your pitiful defenses. You rack the charging handle on the heavy bolter and open fire, the muzzle flashes ruining your night vision, the deafening report slamming your ears. You cut down ten, fifty, you lose count. The bolter clicks empty, and you reach for a fresh belt, only to stop as the Colonel jams one into the feeder. You squeeze the trigger again, bolter thundering, but it isn't enough. It can never be enough. Still, they come. They crest the breastworks and pour into the trench, screaming blasphemous epithets as they throw themselves upon the defenders. You abandon the emplaced bolter and take up your lasgun, firing heedlessly into the enemy. You fire and fire and fire, never once missing - how could you miss? There is nowhere TO miss. You are overrun. The Colonel shouts the order to fall back, then pitches forward on his face, a cultist's bayonet planted in his back. You shoot the man, shoot him again and again, until your lasgun's power cell runs dry. Then reason reasserts itself, and you run. You climb the defensive wall and run for the final, inner defense. As you reach it, a head pops up from the trench. On its face, you see the Eight-Pointed-Star of Chaos. There is no inner line. It has already been overrun. You stand there, in shock. Cultists before you, behind you, on all sides. The Colonel is dead. Emperor only knows if ANYONE is left alive after that. You have an urge to give up. To sit down and accept your fate. You lost. It's over. You remember your oath, the one you swore on that bright, proud day when you joined the regiment. You swore to protect the citizens of the Imperium, to the last breath and the last round. You snap a new powercell into your lasgun. You are Imperial Guard. You will hold the line. As this thought flashes through your mind, the night splits open around you. From nowhere, huge, hulking figures in shining black armor appear from the shadows. Tongues of flame leap from their hands, and some corner of your mind distantly notes that it sounds like bolter fire. The figures surround you, shielding you from the Chaos tide. Their fire never slackens, and no matter how many times they are shot, are wounded, they do not falter. They do not fall. They stand guard over you throughout the night, firing and slashing with their screaming blades. The Chaos assault breaks against them like a wave upon a great rock, and they fall back in howling disorder. Moments later, you hear the whistling of artillery rounds overhead, and the world explodes before you as the mighty Earthshaker cannons of Captain Petrenko's Basilisk squadron go to work. In minutes, not a single Chaos cultist stands before you. Dawn breaks in a glorious, red sunrise. As you watch, the figures - the Space Marines, you realize - begin to fade with the dawn, vanishing as silently as they appeared. You snap out of your fugue state, the run to the nearest Marine, falling to your knees at his feet. Voice shaking, you thank him for saving you, for saving the 427th, for saving this world. He looks silently down at you, and you shrink away from that silent gaze, slightly. It is no mean feat to bear up under the gaze of the Astartes, especially one such as this. His armor is black, and emblazoned with flames, skulls, and bones. His bolter smokes slightly from the muzzle. He begins to fade, and you shout. "W-Who are you? How did you get here? And... Why did you save me?" The Marine pauses, and then, for the first and last time, a Damned Legionnaire speaks. [i]"We are the Emperor's Will. We came because there was need. We saved you because you held the line."[/i] The sun clears the mountains, and the Marine is gone. [spoiler]critique? Critique.[/spoiler]

[quote][b][u]Blood Wolves side plot[/u][/b] [b][i]Chapter 1.4[/i][/b] [i][u]The Primarch Incarnate: Born In Combat[/u][/i] The head Apothecary watched in dissapoint as Brimstone struggled in the training ring. The servators were set to minimal combat levels to a space marine and he was barely keeping up. It wasn't just pathetic it was an insult to the chapter. This is the man that defeated Karnis. This was the man that was to take the place as Alpha. He sighed as he watched the man fight. His body refuses the augmentation, including the geneseed. His body showed the begining of physical transformation, but the source of which was unknown. Whatever the source it was a slow thing and he could accelerate it. All his compunds all his knowledge... useless. Pride welled within him. He was the Watcher of the Sleep. It was he who would initiate the new primarch after the touch of Karnis abandoned the Wolves. It would be he who deemed the Alpha worthy. He would never allow this thing to claim his role as Alpha. He could not. With a few quick twists he changed the settings on the combat simulator before walking away. Squad Combat. Full Lethality. WEAPONS FREE. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Brimstone blocked the blows of the combat servators easily enough. His body still felt tight from the zigzag of scars from the Apothecary's surgery. He knew his body would deny the organs. He remembered the kiss of pain as a memory flashed in his head. Of a lone wolf in the dark. A fight decided by tooth and fang. He was jolted back to reality as servator picked up in pace. Exponentially in fact. 3 more servators came out of the alcoves. "Apothecary I think the servators are malfunctioning." Bladed limbs sprung forth. Weapon slides racked as they were readied. A burst of flame signaled the approach of a 5th servator carrying the bulk of a heavy flamer . "Apothecary what is the meaning of this." Brimstone was sent flying as he took the flat edge of a power sword across his side. The power arcing through his body like a thunderbolt. He tasted like nickel in his mouth as he stared at the servators about to reign hell upon him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [i]"All creatures have an instinct inside them. Humanity called these symptoms a 'Fight or Flight' instinct. Though over simpalized in its concept and thus doing no justice the chemical imbalance that causes this reaction, the terminology describes it perfectly. "If a beast is threatened and feels like it will win it will fight. If it is protecting something it will fight. "Likewise if it feels like it will lose or must put to much effort into fight, it will take flight away. If it has nothing worth fighting for it will take flight to stay safe. If at anytime it feels that it will lose during the fight it will try to take flight. "The sentient mind however is much more complex. The greater attachment to emotion blurs the lines. Fear, Pride, Love, Hate, all emotions that a sentient feels can disrupt instinct. "But there are more deciding factors that this concept takes hold over all beings. Think of the Orks. They that are breed for war and war alone. They know nothing of fleeing, their minds to weak to understand. They will fight tooth and nail no matter how out done and many of their kind will die. "Now imagine Eldar Pirates on the run. After a tragic loss. They see a target they could take but in their fear of the last defeat they pass. Instead they lick their wounds. They will live on ever more cautious than what instinct would have allowed. "But listen close to this. Imagine the Pit Wolves arenas. They are cornered. They have no escape. They are removed 5hat option. The only way out is through whatever stands before them. They will fight harder than they could imagine. They will win for the sheer sake that they have to. Their minds demand it, so they obey. "So I say to all of you gathered here today. Inside of every sentient creature in the universe there is a Pit Wolf. Most of us will never see it. But those of you who fight the Emperor's War have seen it. Tell me when you take the enemy to their last stand, how much harder do they fight to survive." -Golden Age audio excerpt [/i] [spoiler]critique???[/spoiler][/quote]

[b]I.A.D[/b] [i]A Story by Kaleb Bryan, 14 Year-Old amateur writer, asshole, gamer, and boyfriend one an amazing Girl. In this story, inspired by works by Tom Clancy, We focus on a group of people geared towards ending terrorism on a global level. [/i] Table of Contents: [spoiler]Chapter One: Carefully Laid Plans[/spoiler]

[i]A Selfless Stag - 1.1[/i] Speaker: Quentin Weiss Alarm clock. 5:30, just as I set it every day. I hit the device once. Snooze. No, I meant stop, hit it again. A click, then silence: I hit the right button, I think. A small breathe in, a hefty huff outward, and again in through the nose. My eyes opened to the vaulted ceilings on that last inhale. Mornings were always troublesome, but to address my routine as difficult or irritating would be inaccurate. Not everyone is as privileged to have such a unique occupation. I was grateful, to say the least: five and a half hours was only one of the cons that accompanied my life, and those cons only tallied to a single digit number, unlike the vast amount of pros that clearly outweigh them. Another huff, and I was sitting up, shirtless in bed. A cold sweat lingered on my chest and arms. If I had a nightmare, which was the most likely case, I couldn’t remember it. Maybe I learned to block them out after the first few months of taking out the trash, maybe my body just disregards them instead of saving them for me to distract myself later. The alarm clock stared at me as I turned to the digital lights. 5:32, forty-three minutes until sunrise. The sheets rustled like leaves in a summer breeze as I exited my cot. My quarters were small: cozy and quaint more than anything. It pans out much like that of a hotel room, save for the walk-in closet in place of the second bed. I turned to the left first, towards the bathroom to ready myself. A brief shower, a brush up of hygiene, and my contact lenses prepare me for work. 5:47; the digital lights pierced the shaded quarters. I hated turning the overhead lights on needlessly for two reasons. First and foremost, the lord of the house wasn't fond of high electricity bills. The other reason, however, was simply because it irritates me. I knew the room well enough not to stub a toe or accidentally knock something expensive off of a nightstand. The only source of visibility came from the neon clock: it served only to keep me on schedule, and thus it was a welcome light. In the closet, my formal attire greeted me, dry cleaned the day before. It was the same get up as always: white collar shirt underneath a gray vest and a deep black tailcoat. The cuff links in my sleeves were always buttoned fully, my tie tucked with a flawless symmetry under the articles of clothing. As I donned my suit, the most formal of uniforms, a one-track beep whispered a hint of what time it was. Six o' Clock, on the dot. I tied the black laces of my Oxfords gently upon dressing, the dark rubber polished with the expected attention to detail. I pocketed my gloves and other miscellaneous belongings in my coat and tidied up my quarters, leaving only a fresh scent of lavender as I exited at 6:03. I was wide awake now, and I still had plenty of time to spare before breakfast was to be prepared. I was still a bit drowsy, but twelve minutes gives me ample time to wake up. "Good morning, Mr. Weiss. It's a lovely day today, August twenty-ninth, 6:05 AM. The weather is mainly sunny, a high of 77° with a high chance of rain in the afternoon around two. Traffic conditions vary along the coast, but nothing is too severe to impede a reasonable arrival time to the office..." I spoke to myself softly, as not to disturb the house. It was still rather dark out, but the soft light of the rising sun guided my way to the kitchen. "...for breakfast, I can prepare German crêpes and honeydew in a maple agave glaze, or if you're looking to deliver on the go, a pair of peach scones, dashed with cinnamon and-" A clink of fine china. Probably from a tea or coffee cup. It startled me enough to halt my speech. "Oh, don't mind me, Quentin, I was up early and wasn't interested in going back to bed. My husband was called in, he's already left for work." "Miss Barcello, I didn't realize you were awake. Had I known, I would've prepared you tea." She had made herself a cup, sipping sheepishly with lazy eyes. We were both half asleep. "Is it up to standard?" "Oh, heavens no, it's bloody awful." the cup and plate clinked again as she set them down rather loudly, "Could you pour me a fresh one? You always seem to have the magic touch." She smiled when she asked, as if she needed my permission for me to do my job. Sure, politeness was a bonus to my morning, but it wasn't necessary to jump out of character. It irked at me as well, how such spotty formalities from both adults in the household in their eyes could equalize the arrogant and selfish cores their children and themselves disguise. Money was my only gratuity. "Certainly, milady. Is the rest of the house up and about as well?" "Fast asleep. They don't believe in alarm clocks. It must be nice to be young..."

[b]Pilot Writing[/b] [spoiler]Decided to try my hand at this. I've never done such a thing before, so feedback would be appreciated. Seriously, I'm urging you to nitpick the hell out of this one.[/spoiler] [b]The Photographer[/b] Wake up. Wash your face. Make some breakfast- only to realize that you're running out of time and you can't eat all of it. Put some clothes on, preferably something decent. The cool autumn air allowed more choice in clothing, yet contrasted heavily in temperature compared to the approaching winter. The cold would be harsh and deadly to some, but it would allow for him to get some interesting pictures of white-blanketed scenery. After all, it was his job to capture his dying world in a photograph. The workforce was mostly comprised of sanitary volunteers, buff-looking guards, secondhand weapon dealers and prostitutes, so it was his own tiny solace that he enjoyed what he did for a living: being a photographer of the apocalypse. Jack Ramiro put some skinny jeans on that hugged his skinny form. He was tall for a teen in his mid-seventeens, but that came along with an overall lankiness that was just shy of being called skinny because of the good pay he got. However, it was far from being called muscled due to the mass amount of food he shared with his neighbours. White tee shirt and a plaid flannel would have to do. He was in a rush, and the sunrise usually passed on if he took too long to get into position. Grabbing his camera bag and the corresponding equipment, he hastily made his way back up to his room. Open the window. Climb out. Climb up to the highest point of your roof. Stand or no stand? It didn't matter. He was running out of time. Carefully balancing himself on the weakened black shingles of the house's cover, he overlooked the view of the land below him. His house was on a hill, so it provided the best lookout for these types of shots. Before him stood the skeleton of a neighbourhood. Vegetation ran wild, reclaiming the streets for Mother Nature. Trees and creepers poked through crumbling houses as the remains of the former civilization lay nestled in more soft beds of flora. The fall season had painted hues of red, orange and yellow with its dying leaves. Yes, this was something he hasn't taken before. A rising yellow orb in the sky complimented the scenery. Its rays touched more than the patient roots of the land ever could, if only for a few moments. [i]Click.[/i] His shot was equivalent to one of the Neighbourhood Watch's guardsmen's carefully trained marksmanship. Like a bullet entering the head of an agile infected, the camera took a precise picture of the memory now held within the confines of its film. No miss; no blur. The P-ROID (what he coined the faded camera due to the same name being barely visible on the side with a few characters visibly gone) ejected a small bit of glossed paper from an empty space to the leftmost part of the handheld machine. Carefully taking it in his left hand and waving it around meticulously, it revealed a perfect image frozen in time upon the smooth laminate of the photograph. Three figures stumbled out of a broken garage far below him. They would have ruined it all. One's constant coughing echoed through the empty streets, reaching the ears of the teenage perfectionist atop the roof. Its companions just shuffled along silently behind it, perhaps still allured by the sound of the former man's violent hacking. Crimson sprayed from his mouth: a post-infection transformation symptom. What looked to be an unkept beard in his former life was now a filter for all of his vomited and coughed innards. Poor old sod probably just turned-- meaning he was more dangerous. Jack would have to tell the 'hood Watch about that one later in the day. Almost immediately after his spotting of the creatures, five more figures emerged from the shadows. All of them wore a silver vest with various symbols sewn into them, even from his distance Jack could tell the guardsmen's uniforms from anywhere. Along with their various assortment of haphazard gear, motorcycle helmets and padded hoods taking their ranks by the standard. He left just as the infected man screamed with a feral malice at one of the newcomers when they produced a battered-looking sledgehammer from their clothes. The boy could here the rushing of erratic footsteps accompanying the wild screaming, then a sickening and squishy [i]thud[/i] sound.

[quote][u][i]???[/i][/u][/quote] The heavy footfalls of the two were dominant in the night air, the mud beneath their feet sloshed and splashed along their path. The trees made for good cover, leaves obscured sightlines and made the path harder for them, but also for their pursuers. The crack of bullets passing by their ears reminded them of that. Each one seemed closer then the last, each felt closer. They continued their flight, winding between and around the forest, searching frantically for the lights to guide them to safety. Every turn was a drain on their reserves, both of hope and energy. Every zip and whizz of a bullet, every splash behind their path, even the utter silence of their quarry made them all the more terrified of being caught. They both for the most part stuck as closely as they could with one another, one would trip and the other would run back to help, one would fall behind and the remaining would turn and fire back at their attackers, they were in it together. Until she realized he was gone. She had lost him in the maze of woodland. The sounds of danger had all but gone and the forest was silent once more, even the crickets dared not make a peep of their calls. She herself was on the fringes of panic. Had he been hit? Did he go down and she fail to notice? Was he just around the next tree? She searched for several minutes, the patter of her boots across the ground were all the sound that could be heard. Her breath was fast, the cold air bit into her with every shallow intake. She was panting with exertion. Eyes darting around, she finally came across a tiny clearing, only a few meters wide, and could see him there. Fresh blood ran along his face, more still over his chest padding. She quickly made a dash by his side, losing her footing and coming to a slide with a light thump against the roots of the tree he was propped against. He gave a groan as she approached, trying to move and failing. Her voice could be heard low in the still air, pleading for him to not give up just yet. He tries to bring his arm up, and she realizes he's looking past her, now pointing past her. By the time she realizes that, something heavy hits the right side of her head, sprawling her to the left. Her companion was trying to warn her. She straightens up just in time to spot and avoid a high swing with what looks like a wooden club, and then attempt to bring her firearm to bare on her adversary. The man rushes forward and tackles her into a tree, sending her weapon to the mud and pinning her as he aims a punch to her face. She kicks him hard in the groin, he gives a sharp "oomf" of pain, then hits her square in the nose as hard as he can. She's not the weak sort, but she is fairly small, especially beside him. A fight like this she can't hope to win. Her nose already drops blood, and her head feels like it's been hit by a truck, but she's not planning on submitting to a sure death. The small girl tucks in her arms as she kicks his chest with both feet, loosening his grip to the point where gravity will make her fall. She slides down and into the mud, between his legs, then away behind him as he starts to turn with a haymaker in store. She ducks under it and uppercuts him in the jaw, he stumbles back as she dashes for her weapon. Once recovered, he rushes to again pin her, and almost trudges through the mud as yet more rain comes down, a storm by now. Before she can uncover the long barrel of the rifle he kicks her in the small of her back, sharp pain from his heavy boots shoots into her mind and she cries out as she stumbles forward. He chuckles as he approaches, fishing her rifle from the ground and tossing it carelessly away. It wasn't needed, nor wanted. She turns to meet another kick in the same fashion as she draws a knife from her wrist, barely deflecting it by swiveling herself to make it a glancing blow, it grinds against her skin through her shirt as it passes, she aims her knife at his ear. His arm stops hers in the motion, but only as the knife gains a few centimeters into his ear canal. He yells out as he pries it out of her hands as she watches in horror, then jabs it right into her side in return before picking her up by the scruff of her neck. She dangles, reaching both for the knife and for his hand on her neck. She gritted her teeth to keep herself from screaming. The sound the blade moving between ribs were sickening to witness, her companion had to watch it all happen. Blood drooled it's way from under her breast and soaked through her clothing as the other three men finally made their presence known. They walked calmly along in groups of two, making a circle around the first man holding her, watching him play with his new toy. He chuckled happily as he tossed her down to the ground near another, who promptly gave her a kick to the abdomen to keep her from progressing more then to her hands and knees. The blood now dripped through her shirt as she crawled in the direction of where the rifle seemed to have been thrown, a desperate attempt to continue fighting for her life. The first man grabbed onto her leg before she could get far. He dragged her back through the mud as she screamed at them all, trying to claw at his hand with her nails, but it wasn't enough. She looked back in the direction of the rifle. Her companion had dragged himself somehow a few feet towards it in the time it took for the events to unfold, he lay on his side, looking her in the eye with her rifle in his rather weak grip. But it wasn't aimed at any of them, the angle was much too shallow. It was aimed at her. The glossy tears in her eyes finally broke through, mixing with the rainwater on her cheeks as they ran down her face. She understood what he meant to do. His eyes were bloodshot, but still strong in the final moments, as she had always known him to be. He knew what he had to do. Her tears weren't for her, but for him. The last thing Rose saw was Dylan's face, and the strong eyes telling her wordlessly that it would be alright.

[i]A Selfless Stag - 1.2[/i] She sipped longingly into her own brew, puckering shortly thereafter. It was clear she couldn't make tea of the same caliber as myself, but I could only imagine her standards were of the highest degree. She expects so much, when she can only offer so little. Out of curiosity, I tapped the surface with my gloveless hand and tested the drink she had created for herself. Thankfully, she was looking out to the yard when I almost spilt the caustic brew. I took the porcelain cup and plate and set it aside on the granite island adjacent to the table, as I prepared her a new one. She thinks her kids have the high life? It must be impossible to balance sunbathing and online shopping as a stay-at-home wife. "It must be impossibly depressing to know this is what the next generation has come to. It's as if the revolutions went unnoticed." "Quite. Utopia to dystopia, as is the nature of things. I suppose it's all just some convoluted cycle." It was, to be fair. I seldom agreed with my lords, but they were absolutely right. Tragedy strikes and we go with it. We don't feel the need to be bothered with these petty setbacks and mishaps. At least, I don't feel the need to. "Why do you suppose that is, Quentin?" "Pardon?" I lost myself in deep thought and tea leaves for a moment. I turned to face her after putting some hot water on the kettle. "Why do you think history is so keen on repeating itself? All our achievements, all our blunders; why does it never chart new territory?" What a question to ask. I'm no philosopher. I don't have time to think about these grand thoughts. "Well... I suppose it's because we're human. We aren't computing machines who can execute the right decisions, we have morals and standards. We have our consciences and out judgement, surely, but it balances out with our brashness and emotion. We learn and discover new technologies and sciences every minute of every day, but old habits are tough to break. Our tendencies and ticks return because, perhaps, it's in our nature. It's in our genes and our habits. History repeats because we don't learn from our mistakes." It was a sound answer, but I felt rather unqualified being so bold as to say that humans at not machines. My purpose is to execute tasks with the utmost efficiency and care, only to be paid and sustained. "That's a rather bold statement coming from someone with a life such as yours." It seems Mrs. Barcello agrees. "You may be an astounding gentleman with adept skills in a myriad of fields, but as a butler, how do you defend yourself as a man when you work like a machine? Yes, you have your quirks, but your personality is overshadowed by your obedience and resolve to work." "Is that such a bad thing?" "Not at all. You still shine through your work ethic, but you know when it's time to speak and when it's time to do. It's a rare trait to have. But to the matter of repetition: why you blame humans for the state of our present?" The water was boiling now, the kettle whistled for me to cease the fire which licked at its metal underbelly. I spoke as I poured the scalding liquid into a new cup of China, the strainer of tea bobbing out and in of the water. It began to stain it darkly. "Mrs. Barcello, please forgive me, but I don't want to bore you with my interpretations of social philosophy. I will say that our advancements as a species are milestones that even the first space farers and colonizers couldn't have dreamt. But greed and lust still linger on, always prowling for the weakest of men to overtake. We have our moments, but in the end, there are too many people who simply cannot find pleasure in involving themselves in matters bigger than ourselves." The white porcelain cup was a stark contrast to the dark tea inside it. I handed it to my lord without looking at her. I couldn't stop staring into the blend of leaves and spice. "Some of us want to think of the worlds around us. Life is a beautiful place, but it's hollow. Anything can fill it to the brim, but only one item can let one see the flawless beauty unfettered. But that's only if you care. The rest of us just hand it off to someone else." I couldn't read what expression she was giving me, but I could tell it was one of shock. I must admit, even I didn't think I was that meticulous and thoughtful. I wasn't sure I wanted to be. But Mrs. Barcello smiled faintly at me before taking a long sip. The curtain cup parted to the table to reveal a dour frown. It took me by surprise. "How is the tea?" I asked, worriedly. I couldn't have made it incorrectly, could I have? We're the leaves stale? The water too hot? Not hot enough? "It's perfect." She couldn't fake her pouting for long. Her grinning teeth betrayed her before she spoke, but it was only after did my brain put the pieces together. She almost gave me a heart attack with that stunt. To think I would taint my source of revenue with such a disturbing sip. But it was a joke. Nothing more. She got a good laugh out of it. I only smiled with relief.

[quote]Solar, introduction.[/quote] Sunny opened her eyes sleepily, her hand moving to slap the snooze button on her vintage clock. It was an old, 21st century era alarm clock, and it was angrily blaring for her to wake up. It was incredibly annoying, but she found it useful in that way. Her hand smacks it finally, shutting the irritating thing off. She rubs the sleep from her eyes and glances around at her new quarters: It was small, basic, boring. It was maybe 8 meters wide and 5 long, the standard green blanketed bunk bed was empty with the exception of her sitting on the top of the pair. Sunny hops down after a small groan, it was 5AM and her first mission was today. She was secretly dreading it, after all the training and talk of alien menace, the danger, the excitement, the treasure, it made her nervous, and slightly terrified of failure. Several knocks sound on her door, probably an instructor or something. She walks over to her trunk and searches for something important to her. "The door is unlocked, it's fine~!" The door opens and a young awoken hesitantly shuffles around the door, then turns away, his face reddening. "M-miss, uh..." She was still in her bedclothes: A plain grey tank top and some darker shorts. For some reason he found this embarrassing to see. He was an awkward one around her, like half the younger male recruits by her side throughout training. She had been told she was quite beautiful, her hair a brunette's, long and clean. Her face clear and soft, unmarred entirely. Though whenever she was told, she wouldn't see it of herself and sometimes would try to tell then how she wasn't. Of course, the truth was they were right, as evidenced by the young awoken in her doorway. "I'm not showing you anything you don't already see around here Auriel, the other women are very open about their stuff more then I am..." He's stiff, still hesitant, red in the face. When he hears his name he perks up, clearly happy that she knew it without talking to him a lot. She knew everyone's name. "Y-yeah, I guess so...." He glances around, looking for a way out. "...sooo..." "Why did you come down? I'm sort of out of the way over here." "Oh! Uh, I actually uh, forgot a little... That one lady, I think her name is Ikora, told me to tell you that it's time. She didn't say more. It's your initiation isn't it?" She flinches at the news, then feigns checking her hand to see what non-existent cut she might have from rummaging around her possessions. He's still standing in the door like a gazelle in front of a lioness, frightened to make the wrong move... She finds the pendent, a golden metal sun, she wasn't sure where it came from, she simply found it on her bed when she moved in. She quickly sets it off to the side and stands up, turning to Auriel. "I guess it couldn't hurt to tell you. Yes, it is. I'm going out to old Australia or something to help a team search for clues to where a survivor group is. If it goes well, or they just like me I guess, I'm officially a Guardian inductee..." She could barely hide her nervousness, her voice even cracked slightly at the last bit. He smiles brightly, apparently not noticing her gulp as she finishes. "Awesome! I'd love to see you around sometime! Maybe we could hang out at lunch or something...? If it isn't uh, too much trouble...?" "I guess we'll see how it goes first, I'd rather have something to be happy about if I'm going to a meal with you and your friends. I gues-" "It's just going to be us..." He uncomfortably rubs the scruff of his neck, looking down. "We'll see afterwards, ok?" "Y-yeah... Ok...." She feels bad for him, she won't be going on a date with him. She didn't find any love for him. He's young, it will be hard for him. "I have to get dressed so.... Can you step out for a second...?" "Yeah, s-sure, I have to go see my brother anyway... Talk to you later I hope..." He shuffles back out of the door, he never lost his red face. Sunny gives him a quick smile before he shuts the door. She appreciated him though, some of the other women were pretty jealous and petty about her looks. She found the guys adorable when they were like this. She lets out a sigh, then steps into the small box of a shower. She opens a built in compartment and takes out her training padding. She slips into the bodysuit and zips it up, it conforms to her slender form as she fits the padding onto her chest, outer joints, and the obvious places of importance. She washes her face, letting the water run down her soft cheeks, then gets another look at herself before pocketing the pendant and heading out to the hanger bay.

Necrobump

So, I have an idea for a story. The year is 2472, and humanity has basically fu[i]cked[/i] itself over by the invention of large "Arrows." Robotic titans. With this invention, humanity skyrockets forward, technology advancing quickly due to the fact these "Arrows" can explore any terrain, and explore even the depths of space. And now, New "Arrows" are being invented with alien materials. Human agmentations are now possible, creating unstoppable super soldiers. This quickly goes to Hell though when Trinity Incorporated, a military force completely takes over, an army of new "Arrows" and "Trojans" outfitted with incredibly advanced power armor making them unstoppable. And that's not all. Trinity Incorporated continues to push the boundaries, making Literal fu[b]cking[/b] super hero's. Only they aren't hero's. And now, T Inc has the world in its grasp, and controls everything, and everyone must take "The Injection" daily. The injection clouds the mind, and adds a lethal gene to the brain. At any moment T Inc can kill you with a simple mouse click. And now, Hope rests on a Shadowy Organisation dubbed "The Steel of freedom" a group of Assassins and teenagers armed with rusty weapons and a few mark 1 "Light" Arrows. And now, they are literally humanities last hopes of ever being free again. Sound good?

Cold water was the only setting the sinks had. If you wanted hot water, all you had to do was pour a bucket and let it sit. The stale air in the steel plant would take care of the rest. Even then, only the Gods would know why one would want warm water. Emily splashed the frigid liquid in her face, rubbing gently to remove the stains. The day was almost over; the sun was primed to set, but her shift was scheduled to start shortly. She glanced out the window, eyes fixated on the stone monolith overseeing the plant. Today was like every other day for her, but the rut she felt stuck in was cozy enough to call home. She rolled up her sleeves and pushed the door open. She stomped along the iron grates that formed the perimeter of the inner building. Rattling carts thundered along the rails that carried them, mounds of raw ore teetering on top, threatening to avalanche over at the slightest turn. Bessemer furnaces whistle aloud before white hot metal spews from its spout. Silence was just a myth to the many laborers within. Emily took a left into the locker room. The heavy doors slammed behind her, locking the booming works of the plant out. Each of the double stacked lockers were a faded khaki color with the occasional blotch or rust. Her locker, D22, was no different, but it was left ajar. She sighed, opening it to find a note. "We need to talk. Work related." She crumpled up the paper with frustration, tossing it behind her carelessly. As she retrieved her belongings and dressed herself in working attire, the door creaked open. In stepped an older gentleman, his hands on hips and a glare of distaste in his eyes. "You got my message?" He prodded. Emily kicked the crumpled paper behind her. "What message?" "Don't play dumb, Em." "Then don't ask dumb questions." The man before her was her superior, a production manager. His pious attitude made her uneasy, and he almost always undermined her when he had the chance. Almost everyone despised him for his demeanor alone, but nobody spoke against it, save for Emily. "I'm here, so talk." "First of all, drop the attitude, you're on the clock. I came in here to tell you that the schedule is changing. New people looking for jobs." "So what? You want me to train them?" The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, squinting. "Essentially. I'm not fond of leaving them in someone else's care, but I think you're up for it. I'm gonna need you daily now." "What?" A small hiccup, a nervous laugh escaped her lips. "Waitwaitwait, when is this happening? Because you can't just pop this up on me." Emily was conflicted. She was exited for herself, but worried that the extra hours would be too taxing. Money was an issue, and the trends over time are less than promising. "The changes will take effect starting Monday, two days from now. You still have this Sunday off, but, eh..." He paused, walking past her to the horizontal line of glass panes. He stared out as he spoke again. "I realize this may be stressful for someone like you. So I'll give you one last reprieve before Monday: I want you to take the night off." A lovely surprise for the unsuspecting Emily. Her locker opened again as she took her belongings and returned the uniform she never put on. The way he worded his sentence slightly annoyed the young lady, but she wasn't about to argue with a free day off. "I'll be back in on Monday morning then?" She asked. "10 o' clock. Don't disappoint me." With her hand on the frame of the door to the furnaces, she nodded to him, then rushed out. Step by step, she sprinted past the blast furnaces and their operators. This was a break she needed, and she was all the more happier because of it. A graceful hop threw her over the railing of a flight of stairs that led from the iron catwalk she came from, dodging a crew of steelers carrying a large crate. In landing on a separate catwalk below, she stayed her stride, running down flight after flight of stairs to the base level. She barreled out to the front gates, huffing in the winter air. Free to take the day for herself, she smiled. It was rare that she could catch a break from the stressful rut she was stuck in, even if she called that rut home. Running past more workers clocking in for their shifts, she slowed, opening her arms in the windless evening. Streets were gently lines with laces of snow, freshly falling. Window sills were decorated in lush pine and colorful banners, each adorned with a candle internally. Hanging lights between rooftops added a soft, luminous glow that complemented the rustic street lamps. These brick buildings and cobble streets were unusually beautiful to her. Emily took off her heavy jacket, letting the feeling of icy bristles sting her arms with a wondrous cold. The day was hers. As she passed each block, her eyes were greeted by brick buildings and manmade constructs. A couple and their two children sitting by the circular fountain adjacent to Emily were conversing with an officer from the defense bureau. The children were attempting to slide across the frozen base, their parents oblivious to their actions. They were enjoying themselves in the midst of the brisk, wintry weather. Emily looked on with a degree of emotion, drawing out a long sigh through her nose. There was no concept of classes in the town: everyone was impoverished, but they managed. The denizens were all neighbors, all friendly. She too had friends, close but few ones. Her cheer sank slightly, but not enough to deter her from enjoying her evening. [spoiler]Looking for opinions and ways to improve. [/spoiler]

Sinon was by all accounts a cute little thing. Her hair was dyed a dark blue, like her eyes. It was her favorite color. Her form was slim and small, she wore her uniform as she entered the small arcade after school. The skirt was annoying, but she heard it did her appearance well, so she didn't complain. It bugged her that Dylan was sitting with his feet propped up on one of the games, filling his maw with greasy pizza. Why would he possibly get THAT... Already she didn't like him. He didn't even see her approach from the side until she was right next to him, to which he almost fell out if his seat. She was a few minutes early, she later realized. Dylan was wearing a tank top and loose jeans, the latter of which looked like he forgot to pull them up after using the restroom. His grey boxers could be easily seen. Ugh. He wasn't very appealing to the eyes, his face was perfectly built, minus the mole on his upper lip. His hair was spiked and black/dark brown. If he wore nicer clothes and carrier himself less like an "OG" then he could be very appealing. Her friend had set this up, saying he was pretty cool, but so far he looked like another arrogant gangster wannabe. "Oh! I didn't see you there Sinon..." He holds up a slimy slice, she shakes her head. "I don't mean to be rude, but for a first date, shouldn't we be eating somewhere.... Nicer? It's really dirty here, and so is the food..." "Don't you worry about that missy, I don't carry any diseases... Unless you mean the ones in bed- He laughs. She doesn't. "-oh come on Sin, just a friendly joke!" He gets up, still laughing. What is wrong with this guy... Sinon rolled her eyes in annoyance, the lighting was too harsh for him to see. It would probably be their first and last date from the looks of it. He texted her to come here, a freakin run down arcade a mile from her high school... Not a restaurant, not a theater, nothing but a cheap arcade with barely anyone around... "What exactly are we doing here?" He grins and extends his arms out, gesturing to everything around them; The games. "We're in an arcade sweet cheeks, what do you think?" He's so irritating, that's what. The games around them were old, but active and usable. It was run down, but not closed. A few people wandered the isles as well as them. Shady folk. She sighs and looks around. "I guess so. What first?" He moves out of the way and gestures to Galaga, sitting right behind him. She had never played the real thing, only spin offs. "Galaga! I know you love these games, that's what Kitten said." Kitten, that was her nickname anyway, the friend that set them up for this. A good person, lively and cheerful, she was everyone's best friend. "Not really... I like console games, FPS and RPG type things, not Galaga..." "Then you'll love THIS Galaga!" He takes pushing on her back with his hand, nudging her forward to it. She complies and looks over the game. It was as simple as one button and a joystick, she grasped the oily stick. It was coated with grease, he was probably playing it before she showed up. She tried to hold it with her fingers and not her hand. "Oh come on, you can hold a stick better then that can't you?" He puts a hand over her's pushing her palm onto it. She made an effort not to recoil and push him off for the comment and the contact. It was difficult. She tried to focus on the game itself instead. The patterns were mesmerizing in her mind, she loved the patterns. It was a simple game, too easy for her, after she got used to the absence of a handheld controller. She ranked second in all time scores for the machine, only being beaten by an obviously implanted score. It irked her that people cheated like that. Dylan didn't seem very impressed with her score as she turned back to him for his reaction. "Maybe we should try something more advanced... I think there's Mortal Kombat around here..." He quickly found it, she dragged herself over. There were more buttons then the last, a set for each side. She had never played this before. "So I just punch someone a lot? It's a fighting game I can tell..." "Oh, if you're so good you'll be punching ME a lot, not some bots. Buuuuuuut I have a feeling I'll be beating you down, instead of the other way around..." Again, she rolls her eyes. He takes his position on the right as she does the left. The round starts and immediately he traps her in uppercut spamming; Smack-thump, smack-thump, over and over as her character's face gets bloody from the beating she's taking. Eventually she stays down, losing the first round as he cheers a bit from the side. What he didn't realize is her capacity to learn patterns, she could hear his timing, see what each button did, and got ready for round two. Her character stood back up, a distance from his, and quickly advanced after the start. He punched, she blocked as he did again and again, until she times it lucky into a breaker, slamming his face into the ground. He stands, she uppercuts... And uppercuts. And uppercuts. And uppercuts. It isn't long before he goes down. The next round is much the same, flawless victory. He isn't too happy about it on his side, cursing and raging about "cheap moves". She's lost any sense of hesitation by now, she's having fun beating the sleazeball to a pulp in his own game. "Weren't you supposed to be showing me a thing or two?" He calms down a bit, taking in a deep breath. "I didn't think you would be THAT cheap about it!" "Oh really? The only cheap move I used was the uppercut spam, and you taught me that." He sucks in a breath. "Fine, fine... You won. Maybe a bot this time? I could show you some of my favorite moves." He sets it up, she takes her position. It's a hard bot, finally a challenge. They go back and forth for a while, barely doing anything to the other. It isn't even the end of the first round and she realizes he's inched behind her. Her puts his hands around her, going on top of her hands with his, and pressing up against her back with his chest, looking over her neck and breathing into her hair. "Like this-" He moves her hands to kick the bot in the knee, it damages it slightly. He gets closer on her. "And this-" An uppercut, smacking it into the air. And my favorite..." He doesn't do anything with the game, instead she feels his hips press forward and something hard against her rear. By this point, she's done with him. She elbows him hard in the rib, pulls his arm forward and ducks, pushing back with her hips, flipping him over her and into the machine. He slams down on his back, groans and falls off after trying to get down. She backs away as he gets to his feet, groaning. Before he can do anything though, the lights go out. It isn't just the lights, the machines die out, the lights outside, everything. A blackout? After a few moments pass, a flash of light can be seen outside, then quiet.

[i]He stood up, tossing his cigarette into the ashtray laying on the table next to his chair. Fixing his jacket, he straightened the creases, and looked into his mirror. His hair had been combed neatly, his stubble had been cleanly shaved. Reaching to the dresser, he picked up his eyepatch, and slid it on, covering his stitched-up right eye. Smiling to himself, he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Outside of his room stood Blackjack, in a black duster over a black button-up shirt. His arms were crossed, and a cigarette was in his mouth. He smiled smugly.[/i] Ready to rock? [i]Schrader smiled back.[/i] Of course, Wolfe. [i]The two walked to the curtain, and Blackjack pulled the curtain back as Schrader walked out on stage before the entire United States Congress. To his left and to his right stood his own armed guards, each flanked by the security personnel of the United States Congress. Behind the stage, Blackjack was watching everything on several computer screens, observing everything from the speech itself to the doors of the chamber. On stage, Schrader tapped the microphone to see if it was on, and then raised a hand for silence. The entire nation had given its full attention to him. His face was stern, serious confident.[/i] Good evening ladies and gentlemen, my friends, neighbors, and fellow Americans. I must apologize now, because I'm going to be honest with you, there's no reason not to be. The world in which we live is cruel, harsh, and unforgiving. Wars rage on, diseases and famine spread, all at an alarming rate. Extremist cells propagate terror attacks, as police and the world's armies struggle to fight back. The leaders, nations, and organizations we look to for guidance no longer have control. They've shown an incapability to handle situations the world has witnessed throughout the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, sitting idly about as the world crumbles around them. Today, I offer a solution, a chance to fight back, a chance to make progress. Why accept their failures, and wait for the next group of fools? Why not create a palpable solution, rather than sit and debate the petty issues of salary, the issues of the me generation? I think it's time we assert our control again, my friends. I think it's time we start to act for the good of all, and start tackling the problems that face us on the international and domestic scales. Sometimes, things just have to be done, and sometimes, the only talking that must happen is that of the weapons of war. I'm here to tell you, as an American, as a man, it's time to stop dabbling in politics, and time to start winning wars. [i]Looking out to the crowd of senators and state representatives, a massive cheer broke out, and he responded with a wide smile. Throwing up his hands, he flashed the peace sign, eliciting a louder roar from the men and women before him. [/i]

New York City, at least that was what is was before the collapse, Now it's nothing but a barren wasteland, At least to us it was. Foliage grows amongst the various buildings, other places seem run down. However the Race we know as The Fallen has taken control of the once living city. They go by houses, This house known as the House of Spectres have taken over the city. As they form themselves to be a military of sorts as they heavily guard there claimed territory as they would attack intruders on sight. The wind blows almost silently as a pack roams around as there sigil shown on the captain's banner, revealing an odd Fallen symbol meaning "Ghosts" to them. They get to the Stock trade center as get one of there servitors to get any information from some of the computers as the Servitor hacks into the various hard drives, A hunter enters the building quietly "Inspect the main door, now." Orders Narksis, The Spectre archon. "Yes sir." Replies The Captain. The Captain get to main door only to find "nothing". The Hunter spies on the pack as he then gets to a storage room. In the Storage room, he find something of great interest. "Jackpot." Says the Hunter as he goes to claim the item, It turns out to be the Shadow Price, Toland, the Shattered's Auto rifle. "Let's see if this still fires true..." The hunter asks himself. He exits the storage room to see that the Servitor was to successfully get all of the Intel as the pack prepares to leave, The Hunter then fires at the two Vandals, Killing them the rest of the pack come to find the Hunter. One of the Captains and the Archon open fire at the Hunter, Injuring him. The Captain steps on the Hunter's chest as he draws his shock blade to the Hunter. Weakened, The Hunter is left defenseless, The Captain picks up the Hunter only then to slit his throat. The oil-like blood comes squirting out of the Hunter's neck as his lifeless body fall back to ground. The pack leaves to return to there Ketch. Narksis comes into the Throne room, where Salviks, the Spectre Kell remains. "Mighty Kell, A guardian has been slain by our brethren." Narksis reports. "Excellent, but there are much worse threats than that." The Kell gets up from his throne to show Narksis a map of sorts. "More houses have appeared, the biggest threat right now is the House of Hunters..." Explains Salviks. "So, Keep the territory heavily fortified?" Asks Narksis "Indeed." replies Salviks. "Consider it done." The Archon then leaves the throne room. Vandals patrol around on rooftops as they find nothing. Everything is silent as it normally would be, as they keep scouting. A howl is then heard in a distance as A squadron of Revenants, the Spectres' equivalent to the silent fang are sent to investigate. As they get to there destination they find there fellow captain bleeding to death as a Shock blade is impaled into his chest. "What happened?" Asks a Revenant. "I-it was the House of Hunt..." He then dies from a lack of blood. "Return to territory." Orders the commander. They return to the territory sending out a warning of the House of Hunters. Word is soon goes out to Salviks that a House of Hunters attack was made, Salviks the declares war on the opposing house. Soon after, The House of Spectres defense are raised significantly waiting for there rivals to enter combat. Walker tanks are deployed in large area as the Infantry are patrolling. Salviks remains in his ketch until he receives word of any House of Hunters activity. Chapter 2: House of Hunter coming soon.