Cindy
*sigh* ud know this if u read the silmarillion...
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2018
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Gunfire.
Gunfire fell upon the carcasses of City 17's streets like rain from a dark cloud, showering the city in the blood of a world turned against itself by extraterrestrial malevolence. At the foot of the burning monolith that was the destabilized citadel, former citizens and armed partisans waged war with the pale, transhuman echoes of their former friends and families, twisted into but mere drones.
If Hell existed, it took the form of the uncountable bombed-out neighborhoods that littered the streets with debris, sifted through for survivors by towering, three-legged vultures bent on extermination. There was no strategy, no overarching plan now. The resistance was pulling out, citizens rushed to evacuate in droves, all under the threat of pursuants whose only directives were to slaughter. And slaughter they did.
Pulse drummed into a concrete wall fragment that offered shelter from harm to one militant that had, on the eve of impending mass destruction, chosen to remain behind and continue to save who he could. The partisan heaved labored breaths from beneath his tattered Civil Protection uniform. He had lost count of the number of pulse-spikes that had lodged their way into his body over the course of the last several hours, but he figured he had thrust just as many medigel syringes into him to keep himself on his feet. Overwatch's relentless assault on his position continued, cornering him into his one sanctuary from pain. He saw ahead of him a wrecked truck lit aflame with a now crumpled headcrab cannister splintered into it, and in one of its shattered mirrors the blue eyes of his enemies neared him.
The words 'now or never' rung through his mind like a Sunday morning church bell.
He raised his pulse-rifle toward the front of the truck and let loose the AR2's secondary fire. It chimed in a short resonation that grew in pitch, only to suddenly dispense what could only be described as a ball of pure energy. It slammed into the truck, denting it upon impact, and ricocheted towards the approaching soldier, disintegrating them before even a scream could escape their modulated voice as it flew through their rapidly obliterated form. The ball continued to bounce around the street, each of the soldiers that were closing in on him were now seeking cover from the unleashed dark matter. As it finally met its climax and collapsed into a shockwave, he stood, swung the end of his rifle over the edge of his cover, and let several pulse spikes fly into the scattered soldiers who were still coming out from cover. Their pained voices cried out through mechanical contortions as they fell—the only comfort he could muster knowing what they had become was that their deaths were quick.
As the battle in the street fell silent over the corpses of several dead soldiers and a wounded—but alive, freedom-fighter, the chorus of the rest of the war drummed in the distance. The footfalls of tripods, mortar blasts that fell upon people fleeing the city, and the disjointed voices of Dr. Kleiner echoing throughout from hijacked display screens permeated the air with tension. The rebel took in a deep, wheezing breath, and pressed on with only a light stagger dragging his step.
He arrived back at one of the many workforce intake hubs—the train stations, that he had been guiding any lost souls toward, to see if the group he had escorted earlier had made it through unimpeded. He arrived to find that the last train had already begun to pull out, exiting the terminal and into the safety of the great beyond. Relief settled his posture, and worry slid off his shoulders like a ten-ton weight that seduced him in his exhausted state to shut his eyes. He slapped himself awake seconds later, attempting to shake off the fatigue that had been growing since he made the decision to stay.
He chose to stay knowing what awaited him when the clock struck zero, that death would greet him in an instant. He stayed because while life was plagued with many uncertainties, he knew three things: That the longer he stayed, the more people would live; That after all he had done in Civil Protection—all the atrocities and horrors done in service to the regime, he knew that he would not have a place in a post-Combine society; and finally, that when the pale horse rode down from the citadel to meet him, it would be quick and painless.
Though the last train car had just rolled out, he could hear the muted chattering of approaching soldiers outside the station. He filled his chest full of air, checked the remaining spikes he had left in his pulse-rifle, and made way to the station's exit. A moment of hesitation met him as he prepared to meet the opposition on the other side, before bursting through with gun-blazing. In the station's desolate parking lot, a dozen soldiers complemented by three white, cycloptic elites poured in from the street. He managed to strike two of them down before the rest returned fire and pierced his abdomen with pulse-spikes, flailing him into cover behind a dumpster. More blood soddened the uniform, lying in shock as even more spikes continued to to thrum into the wall over his head and into the dumpster that sheltered him. He reached for his last medigel syringe and struck his thigh with even more of the alien fluid. He was far from brand new, but he could stand. He could fight. And he could die.
The officer-turned-rebel rose to a slouch on his feet, reaching for a grenade on his duty belt. He pulled the pin, waited a breath, and flew it over the dumpster. As it exploded amid several of the soldiers, he rose in the chaos and continued shooting through the cinders of the explosion. He took out another set of soldiers, including one of the elites, and changed positions to reload behind a trashed white van that had been rolled over onto its side.
But as he exchanged the spikes in his pulse-rifle, the sound of thunder rolled out, cutting through the ambience of warfare, and the returning fire suddenly stopped. Skirmishes in other nearby streets also stopped, as if the fight for survival had unexpectedly paused. He peaked his head slowly from behind cover, and saw the soldiers entirely turned away from him— some of their weapons even dropped to the ground. Their heads were all tilted upwards at the citadel— the red eye of the storm that had swirled over its head was beginning to close, as discolored green lightning shot out from the otherworldly monolith. What could be discerned only as 'escape pods' for an unknown number of unknown entities could be seen fluttering out from the structure in droves in each direction. The core, as Dr. Kleiner had warned, was beginning to collapse.
The soldiers paid no heed to him save but one, who saw the rebel crawl out from cover and stand in the open, only regarding him with a now pacified gaze. The sound of Overwatch's chilling voice could be heard bleeding into each of their helmets at increasing volumes, repeating the same orders over and over. But the soldiers were not listening.
The tired, bloodied partisan slowly gave his legs rest and fell to his knees on the asphalt, his eyes too lined up with the erupting citadel. In what he knew was his last moments, he recounted his life, from days where he was simply just an undecided major from Martinson College, and when his hands were not yet reddened by the decisions he made to secure his survival and the survival of many others throughout the occupation. At least, he thought, they got away. The people he helped save from certain doom and the thought that they would get to continue on into the new era gave him the comfort he needed to face this last moment.
The explosion that came could not be heard by those in its path. All they witnessed in their final glimpse of life was the growing, white light that spawned from the citadel's location that burned brighter than a star, and quickly washed catastrophe over the city and all of its remaining inhabitants in equal.
The city was leveled in an instant. City 17, and the citadel, were destroyed.
Gunfire fell upon the carcasses of City 17's streets like rain from a dark cloud, showering the city in the blood of a world turned against itself by extraterrestrial malevolence. At the foot of the burning monolith that was the destabilized citadel, former citizens and armed partisans waged war with the pale, transhuman echoes of their former friends and families, twisted into but mere drones.
If Hell existed, it took the form of the uncountable bombed-out neighborhoods that littered the streets with debris, sifted through for survivors by towering, three-legged vultures bent on extermination. There was no strategy, no overarching plan now. The resistance was pulling out, citizens rushed to evacuate in droves, all under the threat of pursuants whose only directives were to slaughter. And slaughter they did.
Pulse drummed into a concrete wall fragment that offered shelter from harm to one militant that had, on the eve of impending mass destruction, chosen to remain behind and continue to save who he could. The partisan heaved labored breaths from beneath his tattered Civil Protection uniform. He had lost count of the number of pulse-spikes that had lodged their way into his body over the course of the last several hours, but he figured he had thrust just as many medigel syringes into him to keep himself on his feet. Overwatch's relentless assault on his position continued, cornering him into his one sanctuary from pain. He saw ahead of him a wrecked truck lit aflame with a now crumpled headcrab cannister splintered into it, and in one of its shattered mirrors the blue eyes of his enemies neared him.
The words 'now or never' rung through his mind like a Sunday morning church bell.
He raised his pulse-rifle toward the front of the truck and let loose the AR2's secondary fire. It chimed in a short resonation that grew in pitch, only to suddenly dispense what could only be described as a ball of pure energy. It slammed into the truck, denting it upon impact, and ricocheted towards the approaching soldier, disintegrating them before even a scream could escape their modulated voice as it flew through their rapidly obliterated form. The ball continued to bounce around the street, each of the soldiers that were closing in on him were now seeking cover from the unleashed dark matter. As it finally met its climax and collapsed into a shockwave, he stood, swung the end of his rifle over the edge of his cover, and let several pulse spikes fly into the scattered soldiers who were still coming out from cover. Their pained voices cried out through mechanical contortions as they fell—the only comfort he could muster knowing what they had become was that their deaths were quick.
As the battle in the street fell silent over the corpses of several dead soldiers and a wounded—but alive, freedom-fighter, the chorus of the rest of the war drummed in the distance. The footfalls of tripods, mortar blasts that fell upon people fleeing the city, and the disjointed voices of Dr. Kleiner echoing throughout from hijacked display screens permeated the air with tension. The rebel took in a deep, wheezing breath, and pressed on with only a light stagger dragging his step.
He arrived back at one of the many workforce intake hubs—the train stations, that he had been guiding any lost souls toward, to see if the group he had escorted earlier had made it through unimpeded. He arrived to find that the last train had already begun to pull out, exiting the terminal and into the safety of the great beyond. Relief settled his posture, and worry slid off his shoulders like a ten-ton weight that seduced him in his exhausted state to shut his eyes. He slapped himself awake seconds later, attempting to shake off the fatigue that had been growing since he made the decision to stay.
He chose to stay knowing what awaited him when the clock struck zero, that death would greet him in an instant. He stayed because while life was plagued with many uncertainties, he knew three things: That the longer he stayed, the more people would live; That after all he had done in Civil Protection—all the atrocities and horrors done in service to the regime, he knew that he would not have a place in a post-Combine society; and finally, that when the pale horse rode down from the citadel to meet him, it would be quick and painless.
Though the last train car had just rolled out, he could hear the muted chattering of approaching soldiers outside the station. He filled his chest full of air, checked the remaining spikes he had left in his pulse-rifle, and made way to the station's exit. A moment of hesitation met him as he prepared to meet the opposition on the other side, before bursting through with gun-blazing. In the station's desolate parking lot, a dozen soldiers complemented by three white, cycloptic elites poured in from the street. He managed to strike two of them down before the rest returned fire and pierced his abdomen with pulse-spikes, flailing him into cover behind a dumpster. More blood soddened the uniform, lying in shock as even more spikes continued to to thrum into the wall over his head and into the dumpster that sheltered him. He reached for his last medigel syringe and struck his thigh with even more of the alien fluid. He was far from brand new, but he could stand. He could fight. And he could die.
The officer-turned-rebel rose to a slouch on his feet, reaching for a grenade on his duty belt. He pulled the pin, waited a breath, and flew it over the dumpster. As it exploded amid several of the soldiers, he rose in the chaos and continued shooting through the cinders of the explosion. He took out another set of soldiers, including one of the elites, and changed positions to reload behind a trashed white van that had been rolled over onto its side.
But as he exchanged the spikes in his pulse-rifle, the sound of thunder rolled out, cutting through the ambience of warfare, and the returning fire suddenly stopped. Skirmishes in other nearby streets also stopped, as if the fight for survival had unexpectedly paused. He peaked his head slowly from behind cover, and saw the soldiers entirely turned away from him— some of their weapons even dropped to the ground. Their heads were all tilted upwards at the citadel— the red eye of the storm that had swirled over its head was beginning to close, as discolored green lightning shot out from the otherworldly monolith. What could be discerned only as 'escape pods' for an unknown number of unknown entities could be seen fluttering out from the structure in droves in each direction. The core, as Dr. Kleiner had warned, was beginning to collapse.
The soldiers paid no heed to him save but one, who saw the rebel crawl out from cover and stand in the open, only regarding him with a now pacified gaze. The sound of Overwatch's chilling voice could be heard bleeding into each of their helmets at increasing volumes, repeating the same orders over and over. But the soldiers were not listening.
The tired, bloodied partisan slowly gave his legs rest and fell to his knees on the asphalt, his eyes too lined up with the erupting citadel. In what he knew was his last moments, he recounted his life, from days where he was simply just an undecided major from Martinson College, and when his hands were not yet reddened by the decisions he made to secure his survival and the survival of many others throughout the occupation. At least, he thought, they got away. The people he helped save from certain doom and the thought that they would get to continue on into the new era gave him the comfort he needed to face this last moment.
The explosion that came could not be heard by those in its path. All they witnessed in their final glimpse of life was the growing, white light that spawned from the citadel's location that burned brighter than a star, and quickly washed catastrophe over the city and all of its remaining inhabitants in equal.
The city was leveled in an instant. City 17, and the citadel, were destroyed.
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