Erkor
Narrative/Lore Management
- Joined
- Jun 15, 2016
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THE JUDGEMENT WAIVER could be heard throughout the entire city, yet Civil Protection was nowhere to be found. The streets were completely empty. A scanner flew through the boulevard of City 242’s 5th district. Its camera lens visibly increased in aperture as a group of delegates marched through the streets. The lack of streetlights made the image impossible to discern, but the service tags were still caught by RFID. Four men.
They vanished into an alleyway, and the scanner followed them. Gunshots ensued. The scanner rose in altitude and tilted its camera down to get a bird’s eye view. Below, it could see one of the delegates bust a door down, while two others behind him stepped over dead men dressed in ragged clothing and shot-apart kevlar vests to lean against the doorframe.
The microphone could pick up screaming, then two massive gunshots. It lowered down to look into the window and watched the delegate enter another room. With a radio message, the others followed inside, spreading throughout the building like an out-of-control fire.
The delegate busted down another door and raised his shotgun. The chattering of a machine pistol was heard first — he was shot, but his heavy armor allowed him to power through the momentary shock. A mere heartbeat later, the rebel was reduced to a rag-doll slamming into the wall behind himself.
Another leapt from the doorframe and pushed his shotgun to the side, raising a knife. Disarmed, he raised his hand to block the wielding arm, sending his own, gloved limb to grip the man around the neck. With force, he shoved him away, pulling at his pistol-holster.
Before the wrongdoer could get his bearings, two shots rung out. He crumpled to the ground lifelessly afterwards.
More gunfire echoed through the building. The scanner’s info-feed was flooded with information.
One down.
Another.
Two.
Three.
Ten.
...
Sector clear.
Ripcord.
The scanner reared back and began floating up above the doorway again. A warm white light shone through it, and soon was blocked with various silhouettes that soon formed into one continuous shadow. Out filed the men, and away. They maintained a consistent marching run that could let them last hours on end.
They filed to a gateway down the boulevard, around twisting streets and sidewalks until they reach a massive building that used to be Dallas’s town hall. Its formerly modern and sleek design was enhanced and changed with metallic supports that didn’t look like anything from Earth. Segmented doorways opened and revealed a pair of real, metallic doors that swiveled open after being pushed by the men. The scanner itself moved past the building, ordered to return to its duties. The loud alarm died down and echoed away.
The delegates filed through the Overwatch Nexus and passed a group of Civil Protection units who tilted their heads and looked at them strangely — almost uncomfortably. He looked back for a moment as he passed right by them.
They marched into another room that shut behind them and locked itself. Within, they took their helmets off.
He did so last. The bottom-half unclasped itself and bent outwards somewhat, allowing him to take it straight off along with the neck-protecting kevlar weave underneath. He turned the helmet-gasmask combo around and eyed it, particularly the now dark, dull-blue lenses. Blood that covered them was burned away. Some of the splatters were still on the helmet’s side. He shook his head and put it onto a stand, then unclasped buckles on the side of his carrier vest.
Another turned to Him, gave him a nudge. When He looked over, his service tag became visible. HUNTER-55. He blinked twice to dismiss the overlay.
55 spoke, his voice artificial and non-human. “They were disorganized today.”
He shook his head and shrugged, finally pulling his carrier vest off and putting it onto the stand as well, along with his arm-protecting pads. “Civil Protection should have handled it. The Eastern Section has jurisdiction over civil stability; we don’t,” he responded.
55 cracked a semblance of a grin. He already had his undershirt taken off and stepped to the recuperation seat. He didn’t sit on it yet. “Your bodypack showed some hits.”
“Sub-machine gun. Nine milimeter. It didn’t pierce. A servitor’ll fix it.” He pulled his undershirt off and threw it on the stand as well, then stood by his own recuperation seat.
A third transhuman walked by them and sat on his own seat. He looked to Him. “Your reaction time was slow, Eight. Get a cycle.”
Eight looked over. KING-12. 12 reared back with the seat and was forced to lean back into a small harness that wrapped around his ribcage’s lower end. He was pulled back into a series of spikes, and the recuperation helm clasped down around his head. The silent hiss of recuperative drugs made it clear he was in stasis already.
“Maybe I should,” Eight said to himself. 55 gave him a slap on the shoulder and entered his own Recu-Seat, undergoing the same procedure as 12 to enter stasis.
Eight looked over to the last remaining transhuman; SLASH-13. He was part of the 519th Elite Detachment; part of the ‘twenty ghosts’. He gives an upwards nod to him and speaks.
“Should I?”
SLASH didn’t give a response at first. He had his full armor on, bar his helmet, and refilled an OSIPR magazine.
He spoke a few seconds later. “We’re representing the best of the best. We both know you’ll do it either way.”
He snapped the mag into place and loaded a single cell into the OSIPR, prior to locking it into safety. He put it on his weapons rack and stepped to the armor racks.
Eight nodded. “You’re right.” He sat down on his Recu-Seat and was slung back into the holding harness. The soft, stabbing pain of the drug injectors made him jerk ever so slightly before he was overcome with pure ecstasy and comfort. He nearly shut his eyes when the Recupueration Helmet slid over his head and clasped shut.
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