SE T ON G
SE ON RY TR M SYS EM STA O N 3
AT OSP E IC P OCE SI G [ ORTH]
HYD O ON CS [N TH]
SEC RI Y C TR L [NOR H]
WORD PUZZLES! I love Word Puzzles. Mommy taught me how to do this kind when the rest of the kids were still puzzling out "see spot run".
Section G
Secondary Tram System Station 2
Atmospheric Processing [North]
Hydrophonics [North]
Security Control [North]
I'm not surprised that Shannon felt aroused killing him. The extreme tension she'd built up needed released in some manner, and killing someone that up close and personal is said to be an extreme 'powertrip high'. Literally holding a person's life in your grasp ... it's the same thing that gets serial rapists/killers off, and why they keep raping/murdering, to feel that power, that high, again and again. In a sick way, it's poetic justice - the rapist dying as the victim climaxes.
Then again, Nitram has said I'm a very vicious little beast when I'm angry.
The really screwed up part is I watched a NCIS marathon over the weekend, and so "Abby? Hurt Them" I saw addressed to a scrawny little Goth Chick with a HUGE Grin and a 68oz bucket of Cafe-Pow.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
If I were to suggest anything, it would be to draw a link between experience and recollection.
I’m not quite sure what you mean by this – can you elaborate?
It's simple; everybody, no matter their powers, recalls events differently than they occur. Everyone, that is, except fictional characters, who almost always have sterling memories due to the whole experience having been scripted. But part of the horror experience isn't just the revulsion, terror, and pain of the moment - it's also what the character thinks of themselves and the world because of the experience. Too many movies just end with the protagonists limping to the surface with the survivors in tow, each of them with the same subdued look of exhausted humility on their faces in an attempt to demonstrate the weight of the experience. I hate zen monks who only flip out like a ninja for the greater good because extreme violence was hidden in their soul yadda yadda, and then they can go back to their tranquil quiet village after the massacre of the bad guys because they are presumably emotionless machines. People can't do that; staring into the abyss is permanent.
Many excellent ghost stories are written that way; I recall one where the first half centred on the protagonist trying to evade a killer who enjoyed stalking and psychologically tormenting his victims before striking. The second half was written from the perspective of the killer, desperately trying to escape the protagonist, who had gone mad from the experience, snapped, and was coming for them like a mindless animal from the beyond. It was fun because you got to see two monsters, one that was made, and one that was unmade.
Don't mistake what I'm blabbering on about for criticism; the story IS good.
Note: I'm semi-retired from the board, so if you need something, please be patient.
The Vortex Empire wrote:Shannon became sexually aroused by choking the life out of that man? That's... unusual.
I get the feeling she's either showing first symptoms of the "zombie" disease or feeling the effects of that weird radiation speculated on earlier (or maybe the two are related).
I was thinking that. Maybe the disease/station/whatever-does-it just increases their lust for violence until they become like the ferals. Though judging by the ferals not attacking other ferals, they still help out their friends.
There are a lot of possible explanations, ranging from pure emotional trauma release to parasitism of the brain. It could even be something simpler, such as a scent-based drug, possibly as a failed attempt at a combat stimulator, or a failed crowd control system ala Serenity.
There are not nearly enough drug zombies in fiction. They're always viruses and parasites, when drugs are actually vastly plausible for transforming normal people into pain-ignoring, brain-munching shamblers. Well, not unkillable, mutating, undead brain munching shamblers, but it's the effect that counts.
Note: I'm semi-retired from the board, so if you need something, please be patient.
Night stalker wrote:Very nice job, and what in God's name is in the Atmospheric Processing area? On second thought, I don't want to know.
Thank you. And are you sure? It's a place where Spoiler
the atmosphere is processed.
Lady Tevar wrote:The really screwed up part is I watched a NCIS marathon over the weekend, and so "Abby? Hurt Them" I saw addressed to a scrawny little Goth Chick with a HUGE Grin and a 68oz bucket of Cafe-Pow.
Ah; can't help you there. I know NCIS is a police show, but that's about all I can tell you.
Lagmonster wrote:It's simple; everybody, no matter their powers, recalls events differently than they occur.
Ah, right. Thank you.
part of the horror experience isn't just the revulsion, terror, and pain of the moment - it's also what the character thinks of themselves and the world because of the experience.
I'm trying to incorporate that as I go, building up the world of DROP 47, the people and cultures that have developed over the decades and centuries as a result of what happened, right along with the 'ohhhh, crap' moments. 'S why each chapter isn't 'and then he shot his other gun'.
Too many movies just end with the protagonists limping to the surface with the survivors in tow, each of them with the same subdued look of exhausted humility on their faces in an attempt to demonstrate the weight of the experience.
I don't think it'll give too much away to say that that would be a highly unlikely ending here.
People can't do that; staring into the abyss is permanent.
Quite so; that's something I've been (subtly and unsubtly) pointing out with Abigail - or at least attempting to. There'll be more of this topic in the chapter, but Abigail is a very dangerous person. She cares about her friends, she has a sense of humour, she likes working with machines, but there is something broken inside her and it's not at all pleasant. By the same token, I think Shannon's actions here are even more disturbing (and not just for the obvious reasons), but because there are things you can't undo and can't take back.
To quote a line from Dexter - some doors, once opened, are too easy to walk through again and again. It's better to leave them closed. Unfortunately on DROP 47, doors have a way of staying open.
Don't mistake what I'm blabbering on about for criticism; the story IS good.
Don't worry about it; I don't mind criticism (well, as long as it's not of 'u suk zombies wud win make mor lezbiens!' variety ). The comments, questions and criticisms regarding my other story were very useful in changing some things around, working on areas that underperformed and editing in general.
Besides, nothing says a story can't both be good and get critiqued. Heh.
Though if you'd prefer, I could always go into a spittle-flecked apoplectic rage at anyone having the gall - the sheer, damned, cheeky gall of it all! - to offer criticism.
Lady Tevar wrote:I'm not surprised that Shannon felt aroused killing him. The extreme tension she'd built up needed released in some manner, and killing someone that up close and personal is said to be an extreme 'powertrip high'. Literally holding a person's life in your grasp ... it's the same thing that gets serial rapists/killers off, and why they keep raping/murdering, to feel that power, that high, again and again. In a sick way, it's poetic justice - the rapist dying as the victim climaxes.
Junghalli wrote:I get the feeling she's either showing first symptoms of the "zombie" disease or feeling the effects of that weird radiation speculated on earlier (or maybe the two are related).
The Vortex Empire wrote:I was thinking that. Maybe the disease/station/whatever-does-it just increases their lust for violence until they become like the ferals. Though judging by the ferals not attacking other ferals, they still help out their friends.
Night stalker wrote:Hmm, maybe...
But there's no way the virus could work like that could it?
Then again, knowing the author...
Lagmonster wrote:There are not nearly enough drug zombies in fiction. They're always viruses and parasites, when drugs are actually vastly plausible for transforming normal people into pain-ignoring, brain-munching shamblers. Well, not unkillable, mutating, undead brain munching shamblers, but it's the effect that counts.
I think it's because the idea of 'The Virus' is scarier; its communicable and it goes back to our fears of disease and injury, something that everyone can understand/relate to on a visceral/instinctual level. We have the innate desire to avoid the sick and dying, so The Virus plays into that atavistic nature, whereas drug-induced zombies are more 'artificial', I guess would be the term. Even if the virus was cooked up in a lab and the idea of zombies themselves is an artificial one, drugs and chemicals have a more intellectual bent than the idea of an unseen organism corrupting our precious bodily fluids.
Drug-zombies would be unable (?) to pass on the 'disease' and there'd be a direct line back to the person/evil corporation/alien wizard that created them, since it would have to be induced, rather than transmitted. You could (and often do) still have the Evil AgencyTM behind virus-zombies, but they take on a life [rimshot] of their own and become self-replicating, meaning the Evil AgencyTM takes a backseat to stopping the ever-growing tide of the undead.
As my first impression, drug-inducement would reduce the zombies to obstacles on the way to take down the evil scientist/corporation/alien conspiracy, rather than the cause of the problem itself. Your mileage may vary, of course - that's just my initial take on it.
[tangent]One of friends hates Twilight its related ilk and wants to see a good 'evil vampire' story come out; last couple days, I've been batting the idea around in my head. I won't get into all the details here, but I tossed out the idea of making new vampires through drinking/exchanging blood with a vampire. In this universe, if it doesn't kill you in a rather horrible fashion, vampiric blood makes you much like a drug-induced/voodoo zombie. Still alive, but loss of higher reasoning skills and lots of aggression. The vampires like to do this because they find it amusing that humans fall for it. They are bastards.[/tangent]
Two new chapters coming forthwith. One small, one HUEG LIKE WHOA (that means it has huge guts!)
In these chapters, the escape goes as well as can be expected, some good news is received and a potential ally throws their hat in.
Coming up: Unity beckons. Make us whole.
Chapter 29:
The knife in Abigail’s right hand was a gift from the dead feral – he certainly didn’t need it any longer. She didn’t bother with any more thought than that – he wasn’t worth the effort, would never be worth it. But the way he’d died and who killed him... she didn’t want to think about that, ever. She would have to, though. But later.
As Shannon let Louis out of his restraints and pulled her boot back on, Abigail’s fingers closed around the handle to the door. She felt her heart slow... took in a breath and let it out with a soft, slow exhalation.
The handle twisted in her grip and she shoved the door open.
Two of them; the helot in the rebreather that had unchained Ramone and another man – this one in a gas mask with matching cuts through the plastic over each cheek. Rebreather was coming to investigate, a spare set of keys clanging on his side. Behind his mask, his eyes widened as he caught sight of her, one hand going for the crude pistol on his hip, but she was too close and too fast.
The knife went into his belly, her other hand on his shoulder, pulling him in, holding him to her like a lover. Her wrist moved and he convulsed, a bloody little hurk of surprise and pain spattering the inside of his faceplate as she twisted the blade in his gut, wrenching it upwards, tearing through viscera and opening him up. He sunk to his knees, trying to hold his ravaged entrails together as blood poured from the wound. Nothing short of an EMT at his side could save someone with that kind of damage, and even that was far from a given. In this place, it was death sentence. A bad way to die, but it was quicker than other gut wounds. That was all the mercy she was willing to offer.
You know what I do when I hit someone, Shannie. Port Royal’s dockyard district hadn’t been a forgiving dojo. There’d been no friendly sparring with a colleague or friend. No chance to hone one’s skills outside of fighting for one’s life. A lesson hard-learned: never give an enemy a second chance. Someone came for you, you put them down with whatever was at hand – a brick, a knife, fists and knees or elbows and teeth. She hadn’t survived Darkknell without taking that lesson to heart, but off-world, she’d learned – made herself learn – restraint. Others in Artemis or the occasional outsider she fought with had commented on it, though: Abigail lacked style.
The more effete martial artists had sneered at her fighting, asking what could you expect from Darkknell trash. Throwing them on their asses had only made their scorn more vehement, but Abigail hadn’t cared. She was a gutter-fighter, pure and simple. But she was also one who won her fights. By being stronger, faster, tougher and much more vicious than her opponents. Even underhanded, if that was what it took to win.
On Darkknell, losers didn’t get the chance to complain about their opponent’s moves.
Slit Cheeks drew a knife; it was a large-bladed weapon, intended for hunting and skinning. He rushed at her-
-she twisted out of the way of his blow and grabbed his wrist, smashing him in the jaw with her chain-wrapped fist, following up by driving her knee up into his body. Blood and bits of teeth sprayed from his lips as the air was forced from his lungs. Abigail twisted the man’s arm and his nerveless fingers dropped the blade. As he fell, gagging and gasping for air, she stabbed him between the shoulder blades. A gargling, liquid death rattle escaped his bloody lips as his corpse landed on the deck.
Only a few seconds had passed.
There was a rush of feet as a pair of women fled for the door, shouting for help. Already, another two feral hunters were moving towards the trophy room, CBS carbines in their arms. Abigail slammed the door shut, reaching for...
There was no lock. Not from this side, at least.
Oh, shit.
“Little help!” she called to her squadmates as someone threw their full weight against the door. The heavy door moved a centimeter inwards, but she pushed back and slammed it closed. “No solicitors!” she shouted over her shoulder as the person on the other side shoved again, this time without success.
Louis was only a few seconds behind her, both mercenaries digging their feet in against the deck. Shannon was following, but Abigail shook her head. “Get our gear!” This room only had the one exit, they were going to need to shoot their way out...
Shannon nodded – the ferals were still displaying her team’s weapons and gear as trophies. They’d never expected the mercenaries to get free, never seen the need to secure all their artifacts... She pulled her gauntlets back on, slid her pistol back into its holster, grabbed her medical bag, scooping up anything that was still serviceable.
Emily... They had to find her. Had to rescue her. Ramone... she’d failed him. But Emily might still have a chance. I won’t leave you.
On the other side of the room, a cell door squealed open and a figure stepped out. Shannon’s head snapped up, her pistol already drawn-
She aborted the movement. It was Emily. The young doctor’s clothes were covered in blood, her eyes distant and hollow. There was a thin knife clutched in her shaking hand.
“Emily?”
The petite woman recognized Shannon’s voice, focusing on the mercenary. “Shannon?” The stiletto fell from her fingers and her legs gave out underneath her. Before she could collapse, Shannon scooped her up in her arms. “I’ve got you. It’s okay,” she whispered. Through the door, she could see the prone form of the man in the engineer’s helmet. He was laying face-down in a pool of blood, motionless, save for the sporadic twitching of one leg.
“I... I...” Emily buried her face into Shannon’s neck. “I killed him. Killed him.”
“You did what you had to,” Shannon replied. “It’s all right now, though. You’re safe.”
Something screamed and threw itself against the door with enough force that it shoved open a few inches. One of the sentries’ rag-covered arms stuck through the opening, lashing back at forth as it scrabbled for purchase, fingernails cutting bloody, ragged furrows into Louis’s cheek. “Corporal!” Hernandez shouted as he and Abby strained to push the door closed again. “We need help!”
Shannon unslung her bag and handed it to Emily, putting one hand on the shorter woman’s cheek. “Get everything you can fit in here. Everything that works, that we can use. Can you do that?”
Delphini nodded. “I can do that.” She straightened. “I can do that.”
“Good girl. Get going.”
Abigail stabbed the sentry through the back of its palm. The infected person cried out in a mixture of surprise and pain and whipped their hand back, taking the Darkknell’s stolen knife with it. Even in its cries it remained impossible to sex the sentry. Taking advantage of its distraction, Shannon threw herself against the door. Together the three mercenaries pushed it closed.
At least for the moment.
“Okay,” Abigail said over the chorus of angry shouts and cries from the other side of the door. “Now what?”
~
Chapter 30:
There were some good weapons here, but too many to carry. All of Shannon’s medical equipment had been taken by the feral doctor and his nurses, but they’d left her satchel and Emily was quickly stuffing anything that she lay her hands on (and that still worked) into it; ammo clips were a priority – thoughtfully set next to matching weapons. She tossed Hutchins her carbine and Salvador had her fetch St. Cloud’s auto-shotgun, stating that he wouldn’t “leave Betsy for these fuckers”.
There were a few energy weapons, but most were either so badly damaged and worn that they’d be a danger to use or so depleted that they wouldn’t be worth carrying. There was a laser pistol with a quarter-charge; Emily pocketed that as well as a few grenades, each inscribed with some lettering that she didn’t have time to read. You assholes are really going to regret making us part of your trophy exhibit, the woman thought viciously.
“That one!” she heard Hutchins shout and Emily looked up; the Darkknell was pointing to a... a sword? No, not a sword. A disruptor blade – it had been removed from its arm-socket on some ancient set of power armour. “Does it have a charge?”
Emily checked it; most modern disruptors could be ejected from their housing to allow fresh blades to replace chipped, weakened parts or (occasionally) be wielded in combat by others. Swordfights were not at all common on modern battlefields – they hadn’t been for thousands of years – but a disruptor was useful for shearing through walls, cutting open closed doors and, should one actually happen to find oneself in close quarters, were without peer at cutting through armour, gunstocks, flesh and bone with equal vigour. In fact, the only thing that could hold up to a disruptor was another disruptor. The technology that created the deadly rending field was normally too large to be fitted to smaller weapons such as daggers or bayonets; miniaturizing the necessary components was so prohibitively expensive as to be effectively impossible, though it had been done before.
Disruptor bullets and even beam weapons actually existed, but they were as expensive to manufacture as some starships; entire platoons could be outfitted with standard weapons for the same cost. Even in those nations that could afford to produce them, disruptor ammunition and rifles were only issued to elite forces for special operations.
Emily picked up the weapon; it had been set upon its own stand, given its own place of honour amongst the rest of the relics. The blade was thick, but slightly curved – intended for slashing, rather than the straighter, stabbing blades she was familiar with. The cross guards had been where it had been anchored into its socket, and the tip of the pommel was where its power supply had once connected to that of the suit. The grip was wrapped in coarse sandpaper-like hide to prevent it from slipping out of its wielder’s hands.
The doctor lifted the blade, checking the readouts. “Two thirds charge!” she announced, more than a little surprised. Either the weapon had been used very sparingly, or one of the ferals had been taking care of it.
Hutchins flashed a toothy smile. “Perfect.”
Emily went back to her scavenging, but despite the plethora of trophies, there were comparatively few things of use. Most of the working weapons were probably stowed in whatever passed for an armoury; these were just a select handful of the arsenal, taken from noteworthy foes and even this few were far too many to carry. The young woman reminded herself to stick with just what they’d need – now was not the time for kleptomania.
As Emily continued her survey of the trophies, searching for a last few useful relics, Abigail turned to look at Shannon, shouting to be heard over the chorus of enraged cries and pounding blows on the other side of the door. “We have an exit strategy, corporal?”
“We do, Three.” Shannon nodded towards a vent on the far side of the room, close to the floor and just to the right of the lavatory-cum-cell’s door. It wasn’t as big as the main ventilation shafts that ran parallel to the corridors and hallways of the DROP, but it was just big enough for someone to squeeze through on their bellies. It was also rather securely welded shut, with multiple sheets of metal sealed over it and a few small holes punched in the barrier to allow some air flow. “Same way we got out of the hospital.”
Abigail winced. “Not with the rats again...”
Emily looked up. “I’ve got it. You keep holding the door.” she flung each of the mercenary women their helmets; they’d been placed on a shelf besides St. Cloud’s. Bracing herself, Shannon pulled on her helmet – luckily, the ferals hadn’t damaged it – and called up her HUD, taking a brief glance at the station schematics as Emily fitted Louis and Abigail with their gloves. Good. I was right.
Louis settled his own headset and eyepiece back on, cocking a shell into Betsy. He grinned. It felt good to be armoured up again. “Ready when you are, Four.”
Delphini drew the laser pistol, switching the settings. In a pinch, it made a handy cutting torch and she turned her face away from the glare of melting metal as she started to cut through the plating over the air vent.
Abruptly, the pounding at the door abated, giving the soldiers a momentary respite. Shannon’s eyes widened; they wouldn’t stop, not without- Shit! “Brace!” she shouted, digging her heels in, flicking the magnetics in her treads on. “Brace yourselves!”
THOOM.
Something massive crashed against the door, smashing it open several inches. The mercenaries heaved back, slamming it closed again. That had only been the first strike though – they didn’t have the rhythm or the power quite yet. There was a communal grunt of effort from outside and-
THOOM.
Even with all their strength, the mercenaries were nearly shoved away from the door. Emily was only halfway through the vent cover. Louis stuck a pistol through the open door and fired blindly until the gun clicked empty. “Hurry up, doc!” he shouted, fumbling a fresh clip into the weapon. “I think they’re just a wee bit mad at us!”
THOOM.
“Almost there!” Emily shouted as the laser began to sputter and die, its charge depleted by the demands she’d placed on it. Please, please... Emily prayed as the pounding grew more insistent, the door shaking in its frame, its hinges starting to shatter from the successive concussions of the battering ram. There! The vent cover fell to the floor. “It’s done!” she cried, crawling into the dark vent, mindful of its still-warm edges. “Come on!”
“Emily!” Shannon shouted. “No, wait-!” She shouldn’t have gone first! What if there’s something in there?
“Go!” Abigail hollered. “Go, Four! We’re right behind you!”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Shutting off her boot’s magnetics, Shannon sprinted across the room and dove through the hole.
Abigail nodded. “Your turn, Nine!”
Louis hesitated. “But-”
“Do it, merc!”
Hernandez followed Shannon’s lead, scrambling through the open vent.
There was a brief respite; only seconds, but it was long enough. As soon as Louis’s legs disappeared into the air shafts, Abigail shook her head. “God-damned motherfucking vents.”
She ran.
THOOM.
They’d been expecting resistance and the sudden give to the door surprised them; the ferals sprawled into the room, but Abigail didn’t have time to make them pay for it; there were others behind them and she grunted as a shell flattened against her backplate, two more bullets whizzing by her head and striking the wall. She leapt into the open vent, arms scrabbling for purchase-
-someone grabbed one of her feet, trying to pull her back out-
-she kicked with her other leg, smiling viciously as she felt something shatter under the blow, an anguished cry following it as whoever owned the mask she’d just caved in got a face full of plastic shards. Abigail’s blacklight kicked in and just a few feet ahead, she should see Louis; like her, he was on his belly, crawling through the tight air vent for all he was worth.
Abigail noticed something rolling past Nine and her smile widened. Doc’s got some foresight. “Fire in the hole!” She grabbed the grenade and thumbed the detonator. There was just enough room to roll up onto her side and she threw the explosive behind her, out of the vent, sending it skittering over the floor of the trophy room. There were multiple squawks and cries of confusion and panic, followed by a satisfying detonation, the pinging of shrapnel against the bulkhead and the wails of the wounded. That should give them some lead time.
~
“Oh dear dear dear dear me. You really are a peach, you know that, little moth? Yes, I don’t think the Masks have been this stirred up since the Yangtze Oni came to call. Listen to them bubble and rave on the channels. All for you, your darling compatriots and the daughter of sin. Oh, dear this is most invigourating. I must admit, I didn’t expect this outcome. Though it will do as well as any other, I suppose. But laughing time is over. Now, it’s on to business.”
~
They’d made it to some larger vents; just big enough to kneel in. Behind them – or ahead of them, or flanking them, it was hard to tell – they could hear the enraged shrieks and howls of the ferals. They had to know that the vents were the revenants’ playgrounds, but they were pissed enough that they didn’t seem to care and had abandoned any attempt at stealth.
“You imagine they still want us for breeding?” Abigail smirked.
Louis snorted. “I think we’re past that point by now.”
“Hello?” A new voice crackled onto the squad channel. Shannon stiffened; she knew who it was. “Hello again, new friends.”
“You,” she growled.
“Yes, it’s me.”
Abigail made a dangerous noise; she recognized the speaker too. “You’re the bastard that turned up the grav plating. I’ve got a bullet just for you.”
“Well, it will have to take its place in the queue,” the man replied. “There are many people with many bullets who want the same. But you have to admit, things turned out all right in the end, didn’t they?”
“‘All right’?” Abigail spat. “You-” She choked off the rest of her reply at Shannon’s upraised hand.
“Why?” the corporal demanded.
“Why? Why, so that you’d live, of course. In case you hadn’t noticed, once people on Acheron get their blood up, it’s a little hard to calm them down outside of a whole lot of... well, blood. If I’d let the chase continue, they’d have caught and killed you. Cutting it short kept them from reaching a full frenzy, let them think with their minds and not with their fists and teeth.”
“Maybe.”
“Semantics. Besides, as I said, it all worked out in the end.”
“I don’t think Salvador Ramone would agree,” she bit out angrily. She wanted to go back for him, didn’t want to just abandon him, but... there was nothing she could do. Trying to find him would mean fighting through the entire colony and without his legs... He’d slow us down. That admission felt like bile on her tongue, but she pushed it away.
“Who? Oh, yes. The useless fellow. You should thank me. He would have turned on you sooner or later, or been killed. Perhaps by you, perhaps by the staff. At least he’ll live and be cared for. Wine, women and song – that’s the life he’ll have.”
“Fuck you,” Louis interjected. “He deserved better than that.”
“What he deserves is a question for others, toy soldier. Some believe that this place is the afterlife, that only the damned come here. For punishment, or to be cleansed of their sins so that they can go to heaven. You’d be surprised at the stories and beliefs six hundred years of hell have wrought.”
“Enough,” Shannon interrupted. “Let’s pretend I believe you. Why do you want us alive?”
“Why, so you can help me of course,” the voice clucked. “Are you sure you’re as clever as you think? I was trying to preserve you so that they wouldn’t find you-”
“Who?”
There was a burst of static as the man made a testy throat-clearing noise. “The eyes in the dark. Might I continue? Yes? There’s a good girl. Yes, I was trying to preserve you. Now you’re out and about and that’s dangerous. For you, I mean. You should have stayed where I left you.”
“Sorry,” Abigail grunted. “The accommodations were lousy, the food was sub-par, the service stunk and I don’t find gang rape the best way to spend my afternoons.”
A dry, chuckle interspersed with phlegmy coughs. “Oh, the little moth never fails to amuse. But you’ll do as all do – fly too close to the light and then...” he sounded almost remorseful. “And then you’ll burn.” Abruptly his mood shifted, cheery once more. Shannon felt a chill at the realization that whoever this person was, they were no longer quite sane. “But until that happens, I suppose I’ve got to keep you alive.”
“I don’t think we need your help,” Shannon replied.
“Well.... it would be a different sort of help from last time. And you do. I have eyes everywhere. My darling girl isn’t what she used to be, but she still has some eyes to see with, some ways to touch you. I’m sometimes too harsh with her, but Vigil always does her best.”
“Vigil?” Emily’s head came up.
Shannon cocked her head towards the woman. “You know that name?”
Emily’s expression went slack for a moment. “I-”
“Darling, demented, destructive Vigil, is the station,” their mystery ally informed them. “She’s not what she used to be,” he repeated, a note of sadness in his voice. “But she does her best.”
“You have control over the station?” Shannon asked carefully.
“Well... some,” he admitted. “There are areas too badly damaged to access and the oases and most core functions are blocked to me. But I have eyes to see with, ears to listen with and very long fingers with which to touch.” He chuckled and coughed again. “The better to eat you with, my dear.” A pause. “I can help. But not for nothing, no.”
“What’s your price?”
“Ah, we’ll,” he broke off in a momentary coughing fit. “Discuss that later. For now, I think you should keep moving. I don’t have any eyes in the vents – such a design oversight – but if you were to tell me where you were, I might spy upon safe routes for you?”
Shannon shook her head. “I think we’ll keep that to ourselves for now-”
“So untrusting, but I’d expect nothing less from you.”
“-but if you actually want to help, you can sweep through...” Shannon ran through their route in her head, visualizing possible exit locations. “Sections D13-F37 for us.” That was a wide enough area that it would be impossible to set up an ambush for them and if this person actually wanted to help them, then it would be a good way to test the water.
“Very well,” the man huffed. “I’ll remain on this channel should you feel a need to talk to me, or if something wicked your way comes.”
“Wait,” Shannon said. “What’s your name?”
There was a pause, one so long that she thought he’d gone off the air. “My name...” there was something in his voice, something tugging at it. “It’s been so long... I don’t... I don’t even think I know anymore. But you, Hayes of Halo, can call me what the others do. I’m the Watcher.”
~
The cries and shouts were louder now, echoing up and down through the vents, impossible to track. Abigail had picked up motion on her IDS several times, but the air shafts were difficult for the ferals to navigate – if they even had maps, they clearly hadn’t had any reason to go into the ventilation system for a long time. Twice, the echoes of distant gunshots had rolled back to the survivors – perhaps over-excited hunters, or possibly encounters with ‘turned’ that had been drawn by the noise and commotion.
Once, they’d had an encounter. Brief, nothing but a form racing across an intersection, taking the shaft parallel to them. It had once been a child, but now moved on four limbs, its flesh turned grey like a corpse. The scurrying of its mutated arms and legs pacing them as they moved through the ducts. Never approaching, but never retreating. Abigail remembered the four-limbed scout in the hospital foyer; maybe this was another such creature. Or it was simply waiting for them to get close enough to a hidden partner.
~
Shannon swung down to the deck, and quickly scanned the hallways, listening to the tap-tap-tap-tap of their stalker’s feet as it scurried through the nearby ducts, unwilling to come out where they could kill it. Aside from that,. the Watcher had said this junction was clear, but she wasn’t prepared to take his word as gospel just yet. If she was being honest with herself, she was still half-tempted to let Abigail have her shot at him. Or you could...
No.
Don’t you remember how it felt? Don’t you want to know that feeling again?
The young woman ignored the voice in her head, helping Emily out of the vent. Louis followed and Abigail brought up the rear. The hallway that they were in now led to a larger corridor that, in turn, connected back to the tram station that they’d used to access the medical area, crew quarters and engineering. All we’ve done is gone in a circle. Yippee.
First things first, though – we head to the second tram station and check for survivors. Then, we’ll see about what this ‘Watcher’ wants from us. Shannon activated her comm. “This is Corporal Hayes to all Artemis survivors. We are heading to the second tram station now. If you can hear this, acknowledge.”
A burst of static. “...his is... ty off... ...min Lutz... have... ther... ...vivor... ...sign of... ...else.”
Shannon let out a breath. There were survivors. There were survivors. Thank you, God. Thank you.
“Four,” Hutchins’ voice clicked over the comm. “I’m reading movement.”
~
“Have I ever told you-” Abigail shouted as she fired off a series of short bursts. One caught a man high in the chest and he went down in a geyser of blood. A young woman, barely out of her teen years, clutched at the stump of her arm as she sagged down the wall, her stomach a ruined mass of red clothe and viscera. “-how much I fucking hate this place?”
“I think you may have let on once or twice,” Louis replied, trying to get a bead on another attacker. There weren’t many – this was just a small flanking group that had managed to run across them, pinning them in a ‘T’ intersection, only a few yards short of the corridor they needed.
Making it worse, these ferals understood that rushing an opponent with ranged weapons was suicide. No, these fuckers had to be smart, using corners, doorways and alcoves for cover as they darted closer to the mercenaries’ position. Still, there were only three left and one looked like he was thinking of jumping out from his hole and rushing them. Louis hoped he did; Betsy had a lot of payback to give. Shannon had pushed Emily to the deck, sheltering the doctor’s body with her own as she argued with their new ‘friend’ – apparently, these assholes knew the security grid’s blind spots, which was how they’d managed to get so close without being spotted.
Couldn’t you be the good kind of crazy and just run obligingly down our gun barrels? Louis thought angrily as something whizzed past, uncomfortably close to his head. One of the ferals – a woman in some long-dead soldier’s gas mask – slipped back around a corner, the barrel of her hunting rifle twitching and bobbing as she struggled to reload it. “Sniper in the back!” he shouted. “You have a bead, Three?”
“No,” Hutchins replied. “Bitch is too far behind the corner.”
The third hunter was just armed with a crossbow, but as Primal’s ambush had proved, body armour didn’t mean squat if you got something sharp in your throat. Louis again cursed himself for an idiot for not wearing his helmet; he’d liked to have taken St. Cloud’s, but it was too damaged to be useful. Except in some prim’s dick-waving contest, I guess.
Under cover of her compatriots’ fire, Rifle slipped back around the corner and raised her weapon. She froze abruptly as something bellowed, loud and reverberating and her head snapped back and forth, in an attempt to localize the source. She snapped something at her comrades and ducked back into the hall, the pound of her feet fading as she ran.
The feral assault abated and, to Louis’s astonishment, the other two attackers began retreating as their compatriot had. No, not just retreating – fleeing. Firing and shouting wildly as they ran. Louis couldn’t understand most of what they were saying, but he picked out one word: “Unity.”
Louis gritted his teeth as the grotesque roar rolled on and on; it felt as if his bones were rattling. He looked over at Abigail – she’d gone stiff. “I know that sound...”
Another cry, lower than the first, wet and hungry in tone.
“God...” Shannon whispered. “Oh God. That thing from the hospital.”
“How’s that possible?” Abigail snapped, trying to determine where the noise was coming from. It couldn’t have tracked us. No way.
Softer again; almost confident in its resonating growl. Louis started; it was coming from behind them. He turned, dreading what was coming. Up the corridor, a monstrous, ugly form slunk into view. Silhouetted against distant, flickering lights, its skin glistened like oil and it turned its massive head towards them.
“What...” Louis tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. “What is that thing?”
“It is Unity,” the Watcher said, his voice numb with horror. “A praetorian. It’s found you.”
As the beast slunk towards them, sure-footed and moving with a sinuous grace that defied its bulk, Louis was struck by the insane impression that it was smiling.
*twitch* A praetorian used to mean a high-ranking guardian.
It is named, which means its probably been around long enough to have a Legend around it, that even the Watcher fears.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Now what could happen here? Somebody staying behind to keep it busy while the others run, perhaps? Abigail seems like the most likely contender for that. Be a shame for her to die so soon, though.
Or they could just run.
I had a thought. Those grav plates the watcher used? If they could lure the Praetorian onto one of those, it would be easy enough to deal with it.
Lady Tevar wrote:*twitch* A praetorian used to mean a high-ranking guardian.
[adjusts tinfoil hat]
That it does...
t is named, which means its probably been around long enough to have a Legend around it, that even the Watcher fears.
As he said, you'd be surprised at the kinds of stories and tales six hundred years in Acheron have spawned...
...amongst other things.
Night stalker wrote:To reiterate a point that I have made time and time again, NOBODY is leaving this place, at least alive/sane.
I guess you'll just have to wait and see if that prediction holds.
The Vortex Empire wrote:Now what could happen here? Somebody staying behind to keep it busy while the others run, perhaps? Abigail seems like the most likely contender for that. Be a shame for her to die so soon, though.
That it would.
I had a thought. Those grav plates the watcher used? If they could lure the Praetorian onto one of those, it would be easy enough to deal with it.
In theory, yes. In practice:
i. they'd need to be able to outrun it long enough to get to one of sections he can control,
ii. Unity would neither be strong enough or fast enough to resist the increased gravity long enough to get out of the area
iii. that the grav plating in that area could be turned up high enough and long enough to immobilize/disable the creature, (given the state DROP 47 appears to be in)
Bladed_Crescent wrote:
As the beast slunk towards them, sure-footed and moving with a sinuous grace that defied its bulk, Louis was struck by the insane impression that it was smiling.
Oh look its happy to see them.
So I stare wistfully at the Lightning for a couple of minutes. Two missiles, sharply raked razor-thin wings, a huge, pregnant belly full of fuel, and the two screamingly powerful engines that once rammed it from a cold start to a thousand miles per hour in under a minute. Life would be so much easier if our adverseries could be dealt with by supersonic death on wings - but alas, Human resources aren't so easily defeated.
In this chapter, Return of the Turned and all the fun that entails.
Coming up: Who watches the Watcher?
Chapter 31:
Unity.
The name was a mockery of its form, but an apt one: its body was composed of many corpses – at least, Shannon prayed that they’d been dead when this thing had been birthed – fused to one another and twisted into a grotesque mockery of life that only the deepest nightmares of some mad god could have envisioned. It slid forward in a half-undulating, half-stalking gait and as it slithered down the corridor, it passed beneath a sparking emergency lamp’s cone of light and Shannon got her first clear look at this abomination.
Glistening sinews were covered by stretched, discoloured flesh and armour plates so dark that they might as well have been obsidian. It had a long, snakelike body and thick, strong legs; if it stood upon them like a man, it would be almost nine feet tall, and its jagged tail only made it that much longer.
It had three pairs of arms, each of them formed from two human limbs and stretched longer than they could ever have reached in life, their hands melded together into grasping, eight-fingered talons. Its largest pair of arms functioned as powerful forelegs, and it moved with a liquid, predatory gait. The smaller limbs branched off from the join of its forelimbs, reaching out in their eagerness to seize and rend.
Its head was a nightmare unto itself; three human skulls had fused together to form its face, barely distinct from each other any longer. Its gaping, distended maw was an amalgamation of those three separate jaws, incisors and extended canines glistening with drool. The bones that made up its head stretched back and flared into a massive, elongated skull sitting atop a short, strong neck, thick bone plates embedded in its stretched skin.
Four red eyes glared hatefully from beneath its brow; two of the crimson orbs were enlarged like a jumping spider’s main eyes, but these were set into its fused skull, giving it a predator’s binocular vision. Irises constricted and its pupils narrowed into slits as the fluttering light washed over them, staring at the four survivors.
Another pair of human heads appeared to have been merged with its largest set of shoulders; their mouths were stretched wide and lashing, muscular tongues extended as empty, sunken eye sockets gaped blindly upon the world. When the creature moaned, its cries gave voice to its mindless, eternal hunger.
No, she realized, something cold driving its way through her spine. Not mindless.
It was watching them. Not staring, not looking, watching. Intelligence gleamed behind those ugly red eyes. Malevolent and insane, driven by an endless need to slay and devour, but not an unthinking brute. A praetorian, she heard the Watcher’s voice play again in her mind.
What does it guard?
“Run or shoot?” Abigail asked, her voice breaking. “Run or shoot?”
Unity saw their raised weapons and it lowered itself to the ground, still moving towards them, but slinking, using crates and debris for what cover that they could offer it. It knew what guns were and if it were as immune to pain and fear as its smaller kin, it still knew that it could be damaged by them. A machine of sinew and bone, implacable in its advance.
“You have to run,” the Watcher gibbered, near panic. “You have to get away from it.”
Shannon took a step back. There was no way they could stop this thing. Not with the firepower they had. “Shoot, then run. One second burst.” she said. The head’s too armoured; our bullets might penetrate, but headshots don’t work on these things.... “Aim for the legs. Try and cripple it. On three, we head for the tram. One...”
The beast took another step forwards, hateful eyes still watching them. It let out a groan like a dying animal, a secondary limb bracing against the wall.
“Two...”
Its mouth opened, a forest of tendrils slithering over its teeth, the tip of something sharp glinting amongst them...
“Three!”
The crash of their weapons filled the hall and Unity staggered, shrieking in fury as its flesh was torn asunder, sparks glinting as buckshot and bullets glanced off its armoured plating, healing even as it was wounded. The survivors turned as one and ran, the monster’s roar of rage filling every passageway as it pounded after them. Crates and debris were bowled aside or crushed beneath its feet in its headlong charge.
“Don’t look back!” Shannon shouted, pulling Emily by her hand. The doctor was flushed and struggling to keep up and without breaking stride, the Halo scooped Emily up into a fireman’s carry. “Keep moving!”
...mortar fire pounded the ground behind her, blasts and shrapnel staggering her as Jenkins moaned over her shoulders...
Unity was fast, but it didn’t corner well and it wasn’t fully healed yet; as the survivors turned the intersection, the monster skidded past, trying to come about but its size worked against it in such close confines. It roared again as its many limbs pulled it around. Abigail paused, dropping to one knee. “Come on, you fucker. Let’s see how fast you are with three legs.”
A leering face peered around the corner, all four eyes staring at her. The mercenary held her fire. It wasn’t a head shot she was after. Thick clawed fingers splayed over the wall, and it seemed about ready to lunge, but it simply stayed where it was, waiting.
“Fuck you,” the mercenary grated, turning and sprinting. The damn thing probably would wait her out, too.
As soon as her back was turned, Unity screeched, pulling itself around the bend.
Almost there... she could see the door to the tram station up ahead. Shannon was the first through, skidding to one side and dropping Emily unceremoniously. Rolling to her feet, the corporal darted for the control. Louis was next, spinning around and raising his shotgun.
Abigail dove into the tram station, the door knifing shut barely centimeters behind her. Unity slammed against it, but this wasn’t like the light doors of the hospital – this was another security door, heavy and secure in its frame. It would hold.
For a few moments, anyways.
The car wasn’t here, but Shannon was already moving even as Abigail shouted for her to get the tram, racing up to the control booth. The computer screens flickered and danced with decades of neglect, warning lights flashing on those monitors that still functioned.
SECURITY OVERRIDE ENABLED
TRAM SYSTEM DISABLED
ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE
“No!” she pounded her fist on the side of the console.
~
“Oh, so you’ve been busy little Masks,” the Watcher murmured, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Playing with things that don’t concern you, trying to out-do me. Trying to cop a feel from my girl, are you? Well, we can’t have that. I may have to send the lads around.” Wizened, dry, cracked fingers tapped on a worn keyboard. “Wait... wait, that’s not your usual coding... that’s... oh, dear. Oh dear.”
~
+access attempts detected+
Mice, scratching and scrabbling in the walls. Father had used that term to describe the sliver, the sounds it made within his head. They had never felt it, never heard its call, but they knew it whispered and picked at the minds of those around it. Umbra’s legacy. Their inheritance.
-special, you are special-
But the mice still squirmed and skritched at the cairn’s walls.
-pluck their eyes out, little blind mice-
Much as the sliver, the infested parts of the cairn sang and cajoled to their inhabitants, whispering to them, telling them deceits. Vigil did not share masters. It lied to the New Ones and the Lost alike.
-find them-
And now, the mice were trying to defy their fate. All transport systems in the North Arm had been shut down to pen the New Ones in the killing grounds; it was unacceptable that any might escape.
-blood-
Assemble the pack. Deny them this hope.
-protect-
~
Armin’s head came up, his jaw dropping as he heard the hunter’s cry. At first, he wasn’t even sure that it was real, just a figment of his imagination. But his tired brain awoke to the threat. That sound... It wasn’t from one of those mutant things... it was the stalkers. “We have to go,” he said as an answering call was made. “We have to go now.”
Bujold frowned. “What? What are you talking about? That’s just-”
“Worse than whatever was singing, trust me,” Lutzberg said, all in a rush. “Get on the tram. We’re going, we’re going now.”
But, flashing on the consoles of the tram car was the same message that had stymied Shannon and her group of survivors:
SECURITY OVERRIDE ENABLED
TRAM SYSTEM DISABLED
ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE
~
A razor-sharp scream erupted from Unity’s joined mouths as Abigail and Hernandez fired a salvo into its flesh, the beast releasing the door, which promptly slammed shut again. The monster roared and battered its massive skull against the door in frustration. Soon, it quieted, the bone-rattling cry devolving into a considering moan. Then, nothing.
“I don’t like this,” Abigail said into the silence, lifting her helmet towards the ceiling as something clanged through the vents. More than one something. Too small to be the praetorian-thing, but the lesser Turned, drawn by the sounds of battle, called by their nightmare lord. “It’s planning something.”
“Planning?” Louis choked on the word. “How can it do that? It can’t plan! It’s just an animal!”
“Yeah. Then why isn’t it still trying to come through the door after us, Nine? Why’d it go silent? It’s either outside that door, waiting for us to come out, or it’s trying to find another way in.” The sounds from above were getting louder, more insistent. Abigail turned back towards Shannon. “Four...”
“Working!” the corporal snapped, her fingers dancing over the keys. The lock-down hadn’t been triggered by any malfunction – it had been deliberate. She had several ideas as to who could have done that – their new ally, one of the ferals, or even some of the survivors from Primal’s crew, but her mind kept turning back to their fear when Kerrigan was destroyed.
This security override – it had used the station’s own command codes. Those were restricted to the most senior officers. They wouldn’t have ended up in just anyone hands, especially not on a DROP like 47. Did – could the ferals’ society go back to the original crew? How else could someone have gotten that information? There was nothing she could do; without command codes of her own, there was no way she could countermand the order to shut down the trams. She had some ability to work with software, but she wasn’t an expert hacker. Even if she was, Imperial systems were designed to prevent just that kind of tampering.
Wait.
The override... it hadn’t been issued via a global command line, not like it normally would have been. It was still reliant on that authority, but this was a parasite program inserted into Vigil’s network. Imperial computer systems were very compartmentalized. There was the main computer core, which contained the most vital data and was responsible for operating primary and secondary systems. A secondary core would be tasked with operating the fabricator engine, but there were also multiple lower-value ‘satellite’ networks tied into the primary grid. If necessary, these satellites could be isolated from the primary computer system with only a minimal loss of function or efficiency.
Command codes resided in the higher-security primary computer core, not in the satellite networks.
Normally, these subsidiary systems had to contact the main computer to confirm a user’s passcodes before allowing them to do anything major with it. This was a security measure to prevent some wiseass with an isolated terminal from getting into the main systems and causing havoc. You couldn’t hack your way into the main grid, get a command code and, say, turn off life support. If you wanted to access main systems from a satellite network, there were very specific terminals for that. Trying to do so from a low-security computer would result in Very Bad Things happening. Alarms, automated security responses of varying lethality and large men with guns just to name a few.
In fact, without access to the central core to confirm code authenticity or the special high-security satellite terminals, the subsidiary networks would severely curtail a user’s access. Normally, this was not a problem; authorization took only a few seconds at most and if one part of the station’s computer grid was compromised, it could be cut off – still carrying out necessary function while stripped of its ability to corrupt or damage other systems.
With the station in such disarray, global command codes just couldn’t work reliably. This security override – it hadn’t gone through the normal pathways. It had the wrong earmarks for that. The program that had triggered it was like a trojan horse, distributed throughout the network when it was still whole...
...no, that couldn’t possibly have been sanctioned. It meant that anyone who had a command code could run through each and every system on 47 without access to the main core. That was something that the Imperium would never have allowed. An invader that got the right code could walk through all of DROP 47’s defences. Or turn this station into their own hunting ground.
“I know you,” she said abruptly. “God damn you, I know you.” Her cheek burned. This was familiar. She knew the algorithms. She’d seen them before. Antimessiah... he couldn’t have meant... no...
Focus!
No, she couldn’t countermand that order, but she could... redirect it. The station’s computer systems were so degraded that she just might have a chance...
“Sys-system f-f-function. Functionality restored,” the computer intoned, red warning lights flashing green. “S-summoning car. A-a-all passengers. Gers pl-please board-oard the tr-tram car o-only when it-it c-comes to a complete-ete stop.”
Clang. A metal plate fell from the ceiling,. Peering from the hole, an ugly, hairless face leered out of the shadows, wide-fingered hands reaching out and bracing against the sides of the opening. It leapt the ten meters to the floor, strong legs absorbing the force of the impact. Its mouth had widened so much that its original jaws had broken, new bone formations developing until its gaping maw could fit a man’s head, bulging muscles bespeaking of the power behind its jaws. The skin over its ribs had turned nearly translucent; dark growths twitched and pulsed beneath it, the thickened bones stretching its epidermis further. Its forearms had split, part into the wide, grasping hands it had used to launch itself into the survivors’ midst and part into jutting bony spurs, intended to impale its prey while its hands ripped and tore at them.
The creature vanished in a hurricane of blood and tissue as Louis blasted a hellstorm of grapeshot through its rotten flesh and armoured bones. Viscera twitched and spasmed, licking black tendrils slithering through the gore like fat worms.
Another vile revenant dropped from the vent and from further up the tunnel, Shannon could make out the shapes of more of the Turned. Once men and women, their minds had been devoured and their bodies twisted by Acheron. A scythe-arm slashed and stabbed at Abigail as Emily fired a recovered pistol up into the monster’s armpit, bullets that would have shredded lungs, splintered ribs and torn a beating heart to pieces barely inconveniencing the creature. Hutchins gave the Turned a shove back, riddling its body with bullets, tearing it in half.
Mindless red eyes stared back up at her, the broken thing pulling itself back towards her with its arms, heedless of its broken spine and the innards sloughing out of its torso. Another horror descended from above. Shannon’s fire took it apart, shredding each of its limbs and decapitating it, but even that wouldn’t stop it for long. If it couldn’t recover its own limbs, it would find others.
A distant light filled the tunnel – the headlight of the transport car. “Tram coming!” Abigail shouted, pulling her stun rod out of the eye socket of her bisected attacker.
“Fall back to the platform!” Shannon ordered, slamming a fresh clip into her pistol and emptying it almost as quickly. She should thank the ferals for the fresh caches of ammunition. For that, and nothing else.
Something started to pry open the door they’d come through and there was pounding and scratching at another entryway. “Fall back!” Shannon repeated.
Barbed tendons stabbed out from the chest of another horror and Abigail shoved Emily to the floor, letting them bounce harmlessly off her cuirass – but there was enough force behind them that they would have ripped right through cloth, embedding themselves in Delphini’s skin and muscles.
Light flooded the tram tunnel as the car drew nearer. Inside the cabin, Shannon could see movement. God damn it. The pistol bucked in her hands as she kneecapped another shambling horror – this one was one Primal’s people, resurrected in the landing bay, reborn flesh already twisting into some new awful form. The man groaned, frothing dark blood from his mouth as his fingers clutched at the deck, pulling himself onwards.
The tram slowed as it pulled into the station. “Come on!” someone aboard shouted. “Get aboard!” another voice called. Leaning out of the tram as the doors hissed open were two men: one in a petty officer’s uniform with Kerrigan’s patch. The was Hadley-Wright security. Abigail gave Emily a shove towards them; the men grabbed her and quickly pulled the doctor aboard, the mercenaries falling back, leaping aboard the tram one by one. On their heels sprang another revenant, jutting its bladed hands through the opening, trying to push the doors open as it snapped and frothed at the survivors.
Abigail kicked the creature in the face, staggering it back and spraying the nearest revenants with fire. The doors snapped shut. “We should be going!”
Shannon scrambled to the control cab; but the tram had already been given a destination. It pulled out of the station, accelerating down the tracks.
Behind them, they could hear Unity howl, the sound muted by distance. It was calling for them, letting them know it hadn’t forgotten. That it was still hungry.
Suddenly too tired even to stand, Shannon slumped down against the wall, unable to even muster the strength to make her way to one of the seats. “Where are we going?” she asked, seemingly to the air.
“You are tired,” the Watcher’s voice answered her. “You need proof of my intentions? Then I shall give you a remedy for both. We will meet.”
Shannon didn’t bother to argue. There was motion next to her; it was Emily, the younger woman curling up against the mercenary’s scarred armour, resting her head on the Halo’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered as she closed her eyes, the tram speeding them away into the darkness.
Some idiot professional who didn't want to get shot for treason by compromising the security systems of a top secret weapons research facility perhaps?
So I stare wistfully at the Lightning for a couple of minutes. Two missiles, sharply raked razor-thin wings, a huge, pregnant belly full of fuel, and the two screamingly powerful engines that once rammed it from a cold start to a thousand miles per hour in under a minute. Life would be so much easier if our adverseries could be dealt with by supersonic death on wings - but alas, Human resources aren't so easily defeated.
Night_stalker wrote:Hmm, what idiot failed to install Manual overrides for the computer systems?
No. For this story, I think the more appropriate question to ask would be "What half-insane, slavering man-beast-thing went through and welded the all overrides shut?"
There are manual overrides, but you're not likely to find one to re-enable an entire transport system by itself. You'll find them to open/shut doors, in engineering/technical areas/systems (i.e. seal off air flow in decompressing sections, shut down/restart computers, etc). In this section, I was discussing purely software issues and the nature of Imperial networks.
As far as the tram shutdown goes - again, you're not going to find a lever or a switch that can bring multiple systems back on-line (unlocking the computers, getting the car to move, giving it a destination, etc), since if a security shut-down was that easy to circumvent (from inside the affected area, mind you), there'd be no point in having it to begin with. Think of it this way - if a chunk of the New York Subway was shut down from its central office, would you be able to manually get it going again?
To reiterate, there are manual overrides (and a fair number of them), but you also have to take into account what kinds of systems they would be used for, and the fact that DROP 47's mechanical systems have also been modified. They could be rigged themselves to only work in a specific manner - trying to use them normally might just make the problem worse. Which, if you're trying to pen someone in a section, would work just swimmingly.
In this chapter, there's a difference between a house and a home. The Watcher extends his hospitality.
Coming up: marital issues and what our heroes find out what you can get for the man who has everything slightly more than anyone else some.
Chapter 32:
“So who are you?”
Armin looked up. The mudfoot with the carbine was looking at him. He couldn’t see anything of the soldier’s face through their helmet and the synthesizers on their mask did a good job of almost completely destroying any distinguishing characteristics in their voice. The soldiers who spent a lot of time in armour were much better at picking nuances out of a synthesized voice, but Lutzberg wasn’t one of them. From the way the soldier moved and the tone he could make out, he was fairly certain that this one was a woman. “Petty Officer Armin Lutzberg, Engineering.”
Bujold glanced at Lutzberg, and then over to the mudfoot. “Macarthur Buford Bujold. My friends call me Mack,” he held out his hand; she didn’t take it, simply staring back from behind her visor. After an awkward moment, the corper security man withdrew his arm and sat back down.
“Private Abigail Karen Hayes,” she said after a moment, reaching up and removing her helmet. Dark blonde hair was plastered to her face. Her eyes were a dark blue, the colour of the deep ocean. “Beta Three.” she nodded towards the two resting women. “Corporal Hayes and Dr. Delphini.”
Their conversation caught the attention of the man with the eyepiece and he grinned, stepping away from his position at the windows to reach out and shake each of the other mens’ hands. “Private Louis Dominic Raul Hernandez, Beta Nine. Thanks for the help back there. I can’t tell you how good it is to see that some others made it out. Have you heard from anyone else?”
Bujold shook his head. Armin looked away. “I had a group, a few other survivors... they didn’t make it.” He frowned. “You said your callsign was Beta Nine?”
Louis nodded.
Lutzberg lowered his eyes. “My group came across your partner. He...” the petty officer squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the horror of that ambush out of his mind. “He didn’t make it,” the same pat descriptor he’d used for his group. Still, it was better than describing – than having to remember the way Overstern had been killed, butchered and hung like meat. And who’d done it, the sounds of screaming and running and cutting meat... Armin pulled himself away from the memory.
The mercenary seemed to deflate a little, apparently not noticing Lutzberg’s lapse. “Damn,” he said. “Danny was a bit of a yutz, but he was a good guy.: He smiled wistfully. “They say it’s better to know than not. So thanks for that, I guess.”
Hutchins cocked her head towards Bujold. “What’s your story, corper?”
Mack shrugged. “Not much of one. Separated from the rest at the concourse. Every time I ran into someone...” he looked at the blood drying on his clothes. “...I was too late. Seen a few things I wish I hadn’t.”
“Welcome to Acheron,” the mercenary woman replied.
The car jolted sideways as it diverted onto a secondary track, worn systems unable to make the transition as smooth as it normally would have been. Outside, the headlamp on the car briefly passed over the cause for the detour: a broken tram, its sides buckled inwards, windows long since smashed in, its thin metal plating melted by acid and deformed by hundreds of pounding, prying blows. The car itself had been battered off its rail. Long ago, someone had tried to use it as a firebase. Perhaps they’d been trapped aboard it by a similar shut-down of the grid, trying to defeat the override as the Turned things swarmed over them...
Someone had sprayed paint over the rear end of the tram: NO HOPE.
Abigail shook her head. I hate this place. After a moment she followed Shannon’s example, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes.
~
That shouldn’t have happened. Father’s program shouldn’t have been circumvented so easily. It should have penned them, either for the Ribbons to slay, or for them.
-blood-
Vigil released its lock at the gentlest touch, revealing how it had been tricked. That... that was familiar. Interesting.
-blood-
The room ached with ozone and chemical propellants, Ribbon ichor and blood; trying to isolate one scent from the myriad odours was impossible. As it was now, it simply smelled like prey.
-hunt-
~
Shannon’s eyes fluttered open as she felt the tram begin to decelerate. The chrono on her HUD said she’d only been asleep fourteen minutes; barely enough to enter REM. Certainly not enough to rest. With an effort, the young woman pulled herself to her feet, gingerly laying Emily down on the floor, the doctor making soft murmurs as she was jostled. Louis canted his head towards Hayes and nodded. There were dark circles under his eyes and a sway in his movements that owed more to fatigue than the tram’s movements. He needed rest more than any of them, but despite the attempt at a wry, comforting smirk he gave her, she could see uncertainty and fear in his expression. He was afraid to close his eyes.
Abigail was sprawled out the floor, her carbine clutched to her like a child with a precious stuffed animal. The Darkknell’s expression was slack – almost peaceful. She shifted position and snorted loudly, still asleep.
Lutzberg and Bujold were seated at the far end of the tram; the petty officer had produced a pair of dice, the security officer trying to guess the number as Lutzberg rolled them. A fairly pointless game, but it killed time and gave them something to focus on.
The tram continued to slow as Shannon moved to sit beside Louis. “How are you doing?”
He shook his head. “I’m keeping it together.” He scratched the back of his head. “This place... it’s not what the travel brochures said, huh?”
“No,” Shannon smiled ruefully. “Not really.” She let the silence stretch for a moment. “Back at the feral camp... one of the sentries – what did it say to you?”
Louis looked over at the woman. “What?” The expression on her face – it was almost desperate. He looked away. “It said I was alive. Some crazy gibberish. Why?”
The relief on the woman’s face was almost palpable. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s all right.” She put one hand on Louis’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Louis.”
“Oh?” he rolled his head towards her, a teasing smirk on his face. “Just how glad?”
“Don’t push it, Nine. I’ll sic Three on you.”
“Damn, that’s cold, Four.”
Shannon looked over at the sleeping Hutchins. “I suppose we should wake her.”
“We should. Who do you figure has the least to live for?”
The woman snorted and moved to Abigail’s side. She reached out and scratched the top of her ‘big sister’s’ head. Abigail twitched, taking a swat at Shannon’s hand, but her eyes fluttered open. “Fuck off,” she groused, pulling herself up. “I was having a wonderful dream. I was dead.”
“You’re not allowed to die yet, private.”
“Fuck you, corporal. I’ll die when I want to.” Abigail checked the safety on her carbine; it was still off. “So we’re there?”
The car slewed to a stop, docking at a tram station identical in form and function to the others they’d visited. The lights in the terminal were off, but that didn’t stop Shannon’s blacklight vision from picking up the details: a large loading platform, enough to accommodate several tram cars at once. There were marks in the floor where several benches to wait upon had once been anchored, though all that was left now was a handful of broken bolts and metal anchors. The benches themselves had long ago been detached and carried off to serve as fodder for barricades. “We’re there.”
On the far left side of the station was a raised control compartment, similar to the ones Shannon had used at the other terminals. One of the stairs leading up to it was broken – no one had bothered to replace it. The control room’s largest window overlooked the railway, a dozen holes of various sizes punched in the plexiglass. Judging by the way the window was set awkwardly in its frame, it was a replacement.
The tram station was obviously a chokepoint: there were three entrances to the tram station; two of which had been securely welded shut. Not in the haphazard fashion of some of the other barricades, but with precision.
Shannon had an inkling what had done that. Abigail clicked her own helmet into place. There was a pause as Three’s night vision came back on. Then she saw what Shannon had. “Shiiiit.”
“Yeah.”
Louis came to his feet, joining the two women. “What? What’s – oh.”
“What is it?” Lutzberg said, what do you see?”
The glowpanels snapped on, filling the tram station with soft white light. “Welcome,” the Watcher’s desiccated voice crackled through the speakers. “To the Land of the Lost.” There was a grinding of gears and the hiss of pneumatic limbs as an army of combat drones awoke.
~
This was a bad idea.
Of course, that was hindsight talking. It hadn’t sounded that bad at the debriefing... one which had taken place in the comfort of an air-conditioned room whilst sitting in a soft form-fitting leather chair light-years from anything resembling danger. And as an additional unpleasant realization – the briefing had... omitted a few minor but important details – perhaps intentionally.
Having “words” with the planners was top priority after extraction. This was no way to run an op.
...nursing that particular fantasy was fun, but ultimately it relied on somehow staying alive long enough to be extracted.
Everything had gone so far off-mission that salvaging the original plan was impossible. Right now, survival was the only objective. But survival on DROP 47 was not really survival at all, was it?
Primal had been infected.
Kerrigan had been destroyed.
If Artemis could be convinced to send a third expedition – which was likely, but they surely would not send a fourth – it would take weeks to get here. Weeks for the Abyss to play its games with each and every one of them. If they could even survive that long, there’d be as little left of them as there was of Primal’s people.
There was another option, though.
Silence. It was a card that could only be played once, but the situation was desperate enough that it might need to be played. If it were done, if Silence was used, then the Planning Board would need to be appeased – a trinket, a bauble – something of 47’s secrets. A token... and the assurance that there would be no surviving witnesses. The Board had waited six centuries; rather than risk exposure, they would wait another six.
That wasn’t the plan, though. Each and every one of those six hundred years had chafed and gnawed at the successive iterations of the Planning Board – a prize like DROP 47 dangling in front of them, kept out of their grasp by madmen, monsters and mongrels. They’d tried again and again, each time denied. Finally, in their frustration, they’d authorized the use of Silence. It was a risk... if Silence were seen, were known for what it was...
That would have to be avoided. Right now though, there wasn’t even a chance to do that. Not from here.
If they could get to the core – Hayes and Hutchins seemed to be survivors, so it was more likely than with most – then they might be able to accomplish something. It was the devil’s own luck that they had made it this far, but gift horses and all that...
Well; que sera, sera as the saying went.
~
“Please,” the Watcher tried to assure them. “There’s no cause for alarm; these are merely my devout and loyal underlings. They are merely there to protect me from... unwanted visitors. And, occasionally to fetch things I may need.”
“Yeah?” Abigail said, watching as three dozen different weapons oriented towards her, scanner strips and optic sensors staring into the tram car, but none of them fired. She could pick out several different models; pure combat types with built-in weapon hands: slugthrowers, lasers, flamethrowers, close combat weapons and modified maintenance drones cradling kitbashed armaments of their own, metal digits, pincers and claws fastened tightly to forestocks and triggers. That none of them appeared overtly hostile did little alleviate the woman’s anxiety. She looked over at Shannon.
Sure about this? she signed.
No, was Shannon’s response. Do anyways.
Abigail nodded, hitting the door control and stepping down into the terminal, cradling her carbine in her arms. Heads and torsos swivelled towards her, but there was no action taken against the mercenary. Louis followed a moment later, licking his lips nervously. Lutzberg and Bujold were next; finally Shannon led Emily out of the car, having woken up the doctor.
“Welcome, welcome!” the Watcher crowed as his machines clanked and tromped into a passable facsimile of an honour row, leading to the one unsealed door in the room. Abigail passed between the machines – like 47 itself, these showed the proof of their years of neglect and battles; dents and scrapes, paint worn down to only the smallest slivers of colour. Scratches cut into bullet-proof chestplates and limbs. Armour melted or burned through by acid. Bullet holes and scoring from energy fire. Punctures from unknown weapons.
More than one machine had lost a limb in its struggles; some hadn’t been fixed, but most had gotten replacements. Some of these were from the same (or a similar) model, cannibalized from damaged ‘bots, or taken from a stock of spare parts. Other limbs were obvious slapdash replacements, taken from wholly different automata and attached to whatever machine needed them. Too big, too small, wrong colour, wrong shape. A medium-lifter cargo ‘bot with a gladiator’s glaive. A DynaMark ‘Rifleman’ had had its primary gun-hand swapped with a welding torch that had itself been modified.
Not all were humanoid; some were squat, treaded affairs – large-caliber gun platforms intended for open fields. The woman suspected that the other side of the tramway was studded with blasted metal plates. Other machines were spindly repair drones – too damaged to carry out the delicate repairs that they had been built for, now modified into combat units – although Abigail doubted that they could be terribly effective. Wheeled and insectoid, humanoid and animalistic; there were decades and dozens of expeditions’ worth of machines.
“This is why they call you a coward,” Shannon said from behind Hutchins. “You use these to fight.”
There was a blast of static as the Watcher coughed. “Yes,” he rasped out. Wet slurping followed as he drank something to ease his throat. “Yes,” he repeated. “Bit of jealousy. Bit accurate, too. But you’re not here to talk about my lads. Come, come. Just follow the lights.”
The door opened; hung up behind it, across the doorway was a purple velvet curtain, stirring as the door brushed against it. Light – bright and constant – shone around the edges of the heavy drapery. “All are welcome,” the Watcher coughed again. “All are welcome.”
Abigail was first, lifting the curtain to ones side and looking through it. “Clear,” her voice clicked through her helmet’s speakers. As the group filed out of the tram station, the Watcher’s sentinels whirred and thunked as they curled back into their dormant states.
The ceiling panels began to pulse in sequence, running down the corridor like guide-lights, showing them the way to their benefactor.
And won’t that be fun.
~
“What’s our plan?” Abigail asked, pushing past another curtain, this one made from the sewed-together scraps of clothes. She supposed it was intended to be a homey little touch to break up the monotony of the corridor.
“We see what our friend wants,” Shannon replied. “We can use some help right now.”
“And if the price for that help is higher than you want to pay?”
“Then we make a new deal.”
Abigail nodded. There was something in the Halo’s words – something raw and rough. She was tempted to press, but this wasn’t the place, not with their host listening to every word, watching their every move. What’s happening to you? The question was stillborn in her throat as the group continued their journey deeper into the Watcher’s abode.
The area was as secure as one could expect of this station. Every cross-tunnel had been blocked off, heavy decompression and blast doors isolating these few passageways from the rest of the station, their control systems and manual overrides extensively modified. Datapads had been hooked up to the door panels – once removed, the door would not open. Abigail couldn’t get a good look at the hardware, but the manual systems had doubtless been jiggered with as well – presumably those on the other side of these doors had been destroyed, sabotaged or booby-trapped. It’s what she would have done.
From the warning lights that fluttered above several of the doors, Abigail could see that the doors weren’t the Watcher’s only protection – several adjoining sections had been exposed to vacuum. She saw the tilt of Shannon’s helmet and knew Hayes had seen it too – only she and Abigail could survive in those sections for long. If they needed to do so, breaking out of this area would be difficult – but there were precious few other options available to the survivors.
With the dull sound of metal grinding slowly against metal, a nearby vacuum door yawned open, allowing a clumping combat drone to tromp in from one of the decompressed sections, the heavy blast doors behind this set already sealed, the pair of them forming an impromptu airlock. The machine was massive, perhaps only slightly smaller than a power trooper, with thick arms and legs. There was no noticeable head - its sensor ‘eyes’ and primary processor were set into a slight raised ‘bump’ on its upper torso. Written on its hulking chassis was a brief message, put there for the benefit of the machine’s foes: I HATE YOU.
One of the ‘bot’s arms was freshly severed, wiring and fluid cables dangling like exposed arteries and its breastplate was deeply scored. There was no way to tell if its injuries had been sustained while it had been EVA, or in a different pressurized area, but the mere possibility that it had been attacked in the vacuum was not comforting.
The hulking metal monster thumped past the survivors, ignoring them as it headed off in search of repairs, one leg moving more stiffly than the other – Shannon couldn’t tell if that was a result of fresh damage, or some problem that the Watcher hadn’t been able to repair. His army of robots had kept him safe, but it was obvious that they couldn’t do so forever. Spare parts ran dry, ammunition ran out, software became corrupted... “How did you get all of these?” she asked to the air.
A pause. “With difficulty. So many different machines, different minds, different systems... it hasn’t been easy. But I always was good with computers. And what do you have in Acheron but time?”
Shannon didn’t answer; her attention was drawn to an open door – temporary quarters for the guards and technicians intended to protect and maintain the server farm. During security alerts, the entire section could be locked down into an erstwhile bunker – depending on the length of the crisis, the personnel inside would need to eat and sleep for some time. The woman opened the vents on her helmet, taking a deep breath; the air was stale and smelled of sweat, the odours of several different people mingled together.
The bedrolls were – relatively – new and rumpled, an opened crate of MREs stowed safely in one quarter. Some board game with pieces fashioned from various detritus sat on a battered metal table.
That there had been people living here quite recently should have been comforting, but Shannon found her hands flexing nervously, her eyes on the walls. Over and over, in the same shaking hand, someone had written two simple messages:
SHE DIED.
I FAILED.
Nothing in this place is pure. The thought popped into her mind. She ducked back out into the corridor, nodding her head up the hall. “Let’s keep moving.”
~
He was staring at her. Emily snuck a glance up at Bujold – the corper was inspecting a safety poster, long since faded to illegibility. At least, that was what he was pretending to do; out of the corner of his eyes, he was still watching her. The doctor’s cheeks warmed and she kept herself from snapping an interrogative at the security man – he could simply be curious. Other than him, she was the only civilian amongst the mercenaries – maybe even the only one still alive.
The young woman’s thoughts turned back to Dr. Medevost - a blustering, arrogant tin-god tyrant. And he was undoubtedly dead; she’d never seen him fall but she hadn’t seen him escape, either. She hoped he was dead. Not because she hated him, but because that seemed more merciful than any other fate on this station. There were too many people that had been left behind and her tired brain could no longer recall each face and name.
Everything’s gone wrong.
Emily looked away, breaking eye contact with Bujold. There was a question in his eyes. There was something else in him too – she was fatigued, but not enough to miss it. Not yet, anyways. She didn’t know what it was – yet – but she wasn’t wholly certain that she was going to like finding out what that something was.
The doctor pulled a little closer to Shannon, relishing the brief touch of the corporal’s hand on her back. She didn’t have to look back at Bujold to know that he’d gotten her message.
For now.
~
She died. I failed. The words were everywhere, increasing in frequency as they headed deeper into the computer center, scribbled on the walls, on the doors. Always in the same hand; faded with age in some places and where the writing was fresher – years old instead of decades – the longhand grew more unsteady as age, weakness, injury and disease took their toll. Here and there, they encountered more machines. Like the damaged hulk, some of these had also been inscribed with angry, almost childish benedictions of hatred.
DIE.
YOU’LL ALL PAY.
NEVER STOP SCREAMING.
There were more signs of life – footprints on the deck, the smell of water, the constant odour of sweat. Curtains hung across closed doors and passageways, crude tables with lamps set against the walls in an attempt to make the station’s hallways feel more like a home and less like a self-made prison. But of the people themselves – nothing. Shannon could hear the distant patter of feet, could feel the eyes of hidden watchers on her. This attention didn’t feel threatening, not like way the Masks had stared at her and her people. This was... whoever was out there – they were afraid of her. Part of her enjoyed that. She didn’t want to think about it, but it was there, in the back of her mind.
She wouldn’t let herself relax, though. Not yet. Shannon cast a quick look over her shoulder, just to assure herself that Emily and the others were still behind her. The young woman quashed a nervous smile at her own actions. She wasn’t Orpheus... even if DROP 47 was a passable underworld.
Finally, the flashing ceiling lights led them to a thick security door, the paint on it worn down like everything else, but she could read enough of the lettering that remained to know that it led into the high-security section, where this local network connected to the rest of the station.
There was no reaction to their arrival.
Scribbled on the door, just about as high as a child could reach, was another notice, this one in handwriting different than the rest:
PLEESE KNOK.
There was a corrected version beside it, this one in a different colour and hand. Shannon’s skin crawled, but she stepped forward and, feeling somewhat foolish, rapped her knuckles against the heavy metal door.
“Yyyyyes?” the Watcher’s rasp crackled through the intercom. “Oh, it’s you. Quick. Yes, yes – you were quick.” A pause. “The daughter and the moth can enter. No one else.” She was the ‘daughter of sin’ and he’d called Abigail ‘little moth’.
Louis furrowed his brow as he took a moment to catch up to the same conclusion. He canted his head over at Shannon. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, corporal.”
“You have a better one?” She didn’t think it was either, but their options were limited at this point.
Hernandez clicked his jaw shut. “Not really, no.”
Shannon shook her head. “Then we go in. We’ve come this far.” She nodded back the way they’d come. “If he’d wanted us dead...”
“Yeah? Not so sure about that.” His eyes narrowed. “You remember what those sons-of-bitches wanted us for? What they did to Ramone?” He drummed his fingers against the shotgun in his arms. “Not so sure we shouldn’t just clear them all out. Every last rat in the walls, if you get my meaning.”
One of Shannon’s hands brushed against her thigh; it was unmarred – soft keratin couldn’t possibly scratch the composite plating or the polyweave of her bodyglove. But she could remember the sounds of fingernails scraping against it with perfect clarity, warmth running up her spine. “No,” she said forcefully, shoving those thoughts back into their corner. “No. Not yet. We’ll play this straight for now, Nine. Besides,” a beat. “I don’t think we have enough anti-armour rounds.”
Louis snorted. “Guess you’re right, Four.”
“People keep telling me that.” She clapped him on the forearm. “Watch over the rest of them until we get back.” She knew Louis would it anyways, but he’d appreciate the symbolic trust of actually being giving the order. It wasn’t much of a personal connection, but it would have to do.
Still pale, his brow matted with sweat, Hernandez nodded. “You’ve got it.”
Shannon looked over at Abigail; the woman had her carbine cradled in her hands and her helmet bobbed in a single nod. She smiled gratefully – without Abigail, she doubted she’d have made it this far. “We’re ready,” she announced, her hand moving up her thigh to the comforting presence of her own weapon. Scrabbling at her legs, his eyes bulging behind his mask...
The security doors unlocked, metal grinding against metal as they were drawn open. “All are welcome,” the Watcher chuckled ironically as his two guests stepped through the threshold, the heavy barricade groaning shut behind them.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Excellent to see more of this. Are there actually other people living in this area or just the Watcher? Also, what happened to Calvin?
For the robots, I couldn't help but picture the ABC Warrior robot from Judge Dredd - old and run-down but dangerous - crossed with a bit of Skaven-style haphazard engineering.
