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Temporal Conscripts

The Mayall Galaxy


a part of Temporal Conscripts, by Lemunde.


Lemunde holds sovereignty over The Mayall Galaxy, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

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The Mayall Galaxy is a part of Temporal Conscripts.

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Character Portrait: Commander Viridin
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#, as written by Lemunde
A beam of energy split the blackness of space, pulsating between bright hews of blue and green. The beam pounded into the hull of the nameless destroyer splashing bits of molten metal into the void. The destroyer appeared to not be perturbed by this and rather than return fire it continued it's exodus away from the two massive blue suns that made up this binary star system. Their light was growing ever dimmer as the distance increased but even this light was occasionally broken by the barely visible, black vessel that pursued the destroyer.

"A hit commander!" the weapons officer shouted, "Their propulsion output is down to 63 percent!"

Commander Viridin's voice was a mix of excitement and desperation. "What's his AGIR!?"

From the helm "Grav influence at 0.09 percent!"

"What's the status of the arcpulse cannon?" Viridin looked back at the weapons officer.

"Recharge in 8 seconds!"

Almost there. The next shot would be enough to cripple his interstellar drive. The destroyer would not escape him this time. Or so he thought. Viridin counted down the seconds in his head. 6...5...4... Yes, there was enough time! Physics dictates that an interstellar drive cannot operate while a ship's average gravitational influence rating is above 0.06 percent. Yes. Just enough time.


"Arcpulse cannon rea...!"

"Fire!!!" Viridin spat at the view screen before the weapons officer could finish, jumping up from his chair.

Got you! he thought to himself, his heart pounding with the anticipation. His thoughts were premature, however. The beam of energy he expected to see melting through the last bit of armor covering the destroyers interstellar drive and pulverizing it into slag never appeared.

"Commander! The arcpulse cannon's safety just engaged!"

Viridin's head turned sharply to his weapons officer, his face red with a look of frustration and confusion. For a fraction of a second the weapons officer thought he might lunge at him and try to tear his face off. But Viridin, angry as he was, had much more control than that.

Viridin reached over and hit the comm button on his chair. "Engineering! What's wrong with my gun!?"

The overhead speaker crackled "There's some kind of foreign matter in the cooling chamber. We're trying to..."

Before he could finish, the helmsman called out: "Commander!"

Viridin turned to the view screen. The stars that lined the backdrop of the destroyer began to deform and ripple as it shrank away. When the stars returned to normal, the destroyer was gone.

Viridin straightened the coat of his uniform, composing himself emotionally and physically.

"Have security meet me in the armory. I want to know just what kind of 'foreign matter' is in my cannon."

Viridin turned and walked down the short stairs that marked the boundary of the bridge and down the hallway, making his way to the armory.

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Character Portrait: Sir James Fritswick
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The cane of James Fritswick made a sharp tapping sound as it connected repeatedly with the paved pathway leading through his back garden.
By his side was a young lady, to whom he addressed as 'Miss Rowanne'. She was a fairly pretty lady, dressed in flowery garments that were simple in design, yet visibly appealing - including a corset pulled a bit too tight for physical comfort, but a perfect means to complete the aesthetics.
Fritswick was wearing his week standard attire - a brown tweed jacket over a plain grey shirt, accompanied by a black-with-red-stripes necktie.

"As you could probably tell," Fritswick continued. "I don't usually have guests within the house; most of them gather around the garden as ah... as we are in now."
Fritswick put a deliberate inflection on his speech, emphasising every use of each 'a' syllable. To many it seemed to make him forgetful, but to others it certainly completed his image.
"Please, forgive me for saying this," Miss Rowanne started, raising the back of her hand to her lips," but how do you... find the time to deal with your infamous watch collection?"
Miss Rowanne chuckled at her own joke, while Fritswick, used to that sort of remark, spoke with a smile on his face.
"Well, ah, you see I always believe in the motto, "You can always find time for a hobby of your passion". Timekeeping is a simply fascinating hobby of mine, possibly part of the reason I became so interested in machines as a young boy."
Miss Rowanne continued to chuckle as they stepped over a cracked path tile.
A few steps later, Fritswick raised his voice.
"Good day, Sam!"
At the far edge of the garden, a teenaged gardener raised his hand in reply.
"Afternoon, Mr Fritswick!"

Miss Rowanne chuckled a little more at their display.
"I must say, Mister Fritswick, you're exactly as they say..."
"They must say good things, I hope?"
"You're a fine gentleman, but at the same time, you don't have that... how shall I put it, stale air about you that others have."
Fritswick guffawed at her compliment.
"You are quite a woman as well." He paused before continuing. "You may tell your father that, yes, I'll reconsider the proposal."
Miss Rowanne nodded in confirmation.
"Thank you kindly. Oh, I nearly forgot the occasion! Do you have the time?"
Fritswick rolled his eyes, pulling out a silver-cased pocket watch from within his jacket.
"It is fifteen minutes past the hour of four."
"Oh, heavens, I'm afraid I'll have to end my visit here."
Miss Rowanne bowed in courtesy, before taking off back into the house.
"Forgive me, James! I may see you again within the fortnight!"
Fritswick waved her goodbye as she disappeared behind the door.

"Nice woman," Fritswick muttered to himself. "Father of hers is still a right..."
He inhaled sharply. With his exhale, he let all of his anger into the summer breeze.
"That crook'll get my secrets the day bowties go out of style."
Fritswick continued along the garden path - though, he admitted to himself that calling it a garden was a mistake, as it encompassed almost an entire acre by itself.
Fritswick came to the centrepiece of the area; a gazebo, sheltered by a wooden roof, within it four wooden chairs and a child-sized chest, within which were many books of many subjects.
Feeling rather tired, having spent the last three hours entertaining the daughter of his rival, he decided to take one of his customary afternoon dozes in the gazebo.
He pulled out the watch from his right pocket - this one a slightly larger one with a fine wood finish.
To his mild surprise, it said the time was five twenty five.
He quickly took out the silver watch to compare - it told him the time was four twenty two.
"Now," he muttered. "Which one of you decided to stop working right?"
He glared disdainfully at both the watches, both of them ticking at the exact same speed.
"Oh well," he thought aloud. "Won't do her too much harm."
Fritswick pulled up his usual chair, sat right beside the chest of books. He decided against taking one out, realising he would insult the author by falling asleep right after he began.
And so Fritswick slept through the rest of that summer Thursday afternoon.

3 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sir James Fritswick Character Portrait: Lieutenant Sophie Victors Character Portrait: Commander Viridin
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#, as written by Lemunde
Fritswick awoke in hell. His entire body felt as if it were covered in liquid flame. He could not see; his eyelids refusing to open lest his eyeballs be consumed in fire as well.

He could not fathom what sin he could have possibly committed to deserve such punishment. He was a decent enough man, all things considered. But these thoughts were merely momentary distractions from the excruciating pain.

After what seemed like an eternity he felt his body being slowly pulled. He could hear a dull roaring sound and imagined a tidal wave of molten iron, lead or rock coming to compound his suffering. He was no doubt surprised to find his body striking something cold and hard, the dull roar turning into a constant splash that slowly diminished. There were voices, not demonic as he might have expected but certainly strange, speaking unrecognizable tongues. They were shouting at each other, some of them sounding like commands.

Fritswick's body still felt like it was on fire. As cool as the floor felt, it's touch only compounded the pain. It was no different when the hands touched him, several of them trying to lift him up. He instinctively struggled against them, crying out in agony, but their grasp was firm. The pain was unbearable and just as he thought he wouldn't be able to take any more he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his neck. He shouted out again but his shouting died away as he suddenly decided shouting was too much work. He felt his pain slowly diminish along with his consciousness.


Fritswick awoke on some kind of padded slab in the middle of a bright room. Light poured out from what he could only describe as a large white circle in the ceiling. He began to look around and saw a blue beam of light spilling out from some kind of mechanical device suspended from the ceiling just in front of the foot of the slab. The beam moved back and forward over his naked body. From his waste down his skin was red and horribly blistered but as the beam past over each one the blisters melted away. He tried to move to get a better look at this clearly fascinating phenomenon but found that he couldn't.

A hand pressed against his shoulder and a foreign voice calmly spoke to him. The voice was that of a woman, blonde and dressed in what he could only presume to be some kind of military uniform, though none he had ever seen before. He could not understand what the woman was saying but by her voice he understood that she most likely didn't want him to move.

The woman reached over and picked up a device situated on a nearby counter. She held his forehead and pressed the device against his temple. For a brief moment he felt as if she had shoved a nail into his skull but the pain vanished almost immediately. She spoke again, this time in clear American English.

"Who are you?"

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Character Portrait: Ramirez
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Ramirez remembered taking one shot of whiskey. Just one shot. Now he found himself strapped into a hospital bed being wheeled around by unfamiliar faces, "who.. who are you people?" he showed more restraint and defiance than fear, but he was definitely a bit afraid. Those around him said nothing as he was wheeled through door after door. Ramirez knew he'd made enemies, in the marines, in his old gang from his adolescent years, hell he had people who hated him for the pride he had in his own heritage. But none who those people were capable of what he was seeing. He saw doctors In lab coats, he saw guards with firearms he'd never seen in the marines. Suddenly he was wheeling into a room where a mysterious woman stood over him. Ramirez drifted away into a deep sleep as her hypnotic voice whispered into his ear.

He woke up periodically, fits of pain shooting through his body, then ending and sending him back into unconsciousness. He could only remember waking and struggling against his restraints. He caught glimpses of numerous figures in and out of consciousness but could not make out any of them.

Finally he woke up, feeling no pain other than a sharp headache. He cursed himself, wondered what was in that shot of whiskey. He was still restrained, but noticed his Revolver on the table. He looked around the dark room. He remembered areas like this in Iraq, places so dark night vision could barely make out certain crevices. He remembered when it was dark to listen to all the sounds around him so he could know where anything may be. So he listened, quietly, carefully, and heard nothing. The room was so quiet that only his breath made any audible sound of note. He fought every notion in his body not to do what he was going to do. He'd seen men do this in Iraq, watched their life expectancy drop to zero as a shot rang out with the sound of brains hitting the wall. He knew it could happen here, but he risked it, "hello?!" he yelled as loud as he could, "somebody! anybody! where am I?!"

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Character Portrait: Kyle "Wraith"  Blackstone
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The cool feel of the rifle's stock drew him ever closer to mental state, that place sacred to marksmen the world over, that divided a rifleman from a sniper. In many ways it was a lonely place even with his spotter looking down range calling out wind speed and direction. Even as his heart slowed down and his hand inched the trigger ever closer to the purpose of the training. His dark brown eye focusing through the scope at the reason he was here,half a fucking world from home.

They always looked the same,who and what did not matter when a high powered rifle was in the equation. The who in this case was Ahmed,a English born Muslim who was trading high end weapons to the enemies of his boss. Well Ahmed had obviously much more faith in his compatriots then was wise. After all an entire recon unit was currently surrounding this meeting of terrorists solely because of intel brought for a song and dance. The Marine Corp was always ready to expel a little sweat if it meant a good kill.

This party however would not start till the order came on down from the mountain though. His spotter held the radio close watching this leanly built sniper utterly focused on the target that appeared through his scope. Breathing was slowed till the point his copper toned skin showed no ripples from oxygen flowing in it's blood. He was in the zone,one this Marine Corporeal could and often did maintain for hours and once for a day and a half.

"Rogue 1 this is Rouge Actual mision is a go..I repeat mission is a go."A disembodied voice of female origin spoke over the handset the spotter held with a slight smile.

The Corporeal didn't bother with the smile for he had a job to do, he had a lot of training to pay back Uncle Sam for. The trigger of the rifle completed its song and dance,striking a bullet that shot from the chamber and down the barrel. Smoke and fire echoed as the bullet transcribed its ballistic path through empty air. In less time the it took for the trigger pull Ahmed felt the ever fleeting tearing pain of a bullet induced heart wound. The sniper always wondered if the targets ever had time to feel regret. Medically speaking he knew it to be an impossibility, not enough time for thought processes. But spiritually this Apache born and bred jarhead liked to think so. The good Lord always gave a second chance even on Death's door.

With that release of the mental state sacred to snipers the pent up fury of Marines was in turn unleashed. Rogue 1 had ten Marines KIA and wanted blood. The screams of surprise intermingled with the distinct reports of NATO chambered weapons. Marines shouting obscenities at these desert born terrorists drowned out the Arabic prayers to Allah. Sweeping the rifle the Corporeal provided overwatch and ended six more lives before there was nothing left to kill.

" Lord I beg forgiveness for the lives I've taken..Let my actions speak my intents and guide my hands so that I slay only the deserving. " The tall and lean Apache muttered to himself,a prayer to a God he still believed in five years into the Service.

Clean up went quickly and slowly at the same time. Each body prayed over silently as he helped carried them from that place of violence and blood soaked sands. Then came that ever tedious ride across unremarkable desert men had been killing for since the dawn of time. The roar of the HMHVEE engine lulling the Sniper into a half dozing mood.

" Not a bad day huh Kyle." His spotter a heavily built Caucasian straight out of a Nazi breeding camp remarked as he tore into a pack of Trail Mix.

" The job was done and we all get to enjoy beer and pussy later so yeah a good day all round." Kyle replied with a sleepy sigh as his eyes slipped closed. It had been a long ass day, most of it spent under the day time sun.

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Character Portrait: Kyle "Wraith"  Blackstone Character Portrait: Ramirez
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#, as written by Lemunde
As Ramirez shouted he noticed something had changed from a moment ago. It was still dark, still quiet. But it was cold. Much colder than it was a moment ago. And the somewhat soft bed he was laying on was replaced by cold metal. His restraints were gone, as were his clothes. Feeling for his revolver he found it missing as well.

Something was very wrong here. More so than before. It was as if he were in a dream that kept changing. But it felt so real.

Ramirez stood up with ease. He felt as if he had suddenly lost 50 pounds, but feeling his arms and legs, they were as muscular as ever.

His shouting contained clues as to when the moment of change occurred. One moment it sounded as if he were in some kind of basement. The next, as if he were in a large metal room, his voice reverberating off the walls.

His voice was not the only sound in the room. A very low hum seemed to encompass the room, probably some kind of climate control. But there was something else. Something faint, just a few feet away from him. It sounded like...breathing. He was not alone.


Kyle's dreams grew surprisingly pleasant. He dreamed of one of the men he had just killed, lying there motionless. Then the man slowly turned his head and looked up at Kyle. One would normally be horrified by such a sight but the man's face contained no malice. And as the man began to smile, forgiveness in his eyes, the sun sat on the horizon, the hot wind turning into a cool breeze, then the cool breeze turning into cold air...

The dream was interrupted by shouting.

"Somebody! Anybody! Where am I!?"

The cold air remained, and he could feel cold metal against his bare skin. He was certainly not in the vehicle he was in before he drifted off. He was in some kind of dark metal room. Silently feeling around for his gear, it was nowhere to be found. Kyle assessed his situation...

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Dreams,a trick of the mind when utter exhaustion forced the deepest sleep out of this mortal coil. A place where past,present,and maybe even future mixed together in one grand melange of impossible scenarios. A state of mind long held to be a higher plane by those who held belief in something more then the day to day struggle of living. For many a prophet had been inspired by the words of their gods in the dreams of a sleeping mind. Perhaps it was simply the fact that in dreams one was stripped of their preconceived notions so that God could indeed talk through them.

Whatever the how and the why Kyle had never been disturbed by the nature of his dreams. Then again nothing disturbing ever happened in them.Even after five years of carrying a rifle this Marine with the MOS 0317 had never awoke in the middle of the night terrified of what the world of dreams cared to show him. This voyage into his sleeping mind proved no different from a thousand others.

The hot desert wind blew around him, it's sand laden fury a familiar one after these five years of carrying his gun and dog tags. Before him lay the body of a dead Arab, one whom he recognized as a life he had ended this afternoon. The copper toned scout sniper stood over this desert born man, though an enemy Kyle felt no malice from the body. Indeed after a few minutes of gazing the body turned its head and smiled up at this Apache that had ended it's life short of grey hair and grandchildren. No sign of the violence that had ended his life marred the Arab's visage. The smile of this fallen enemy acted as a balm for a heart weary of the desert wind.

The wind grew cool as the sun sank past the horizon and the Marine knew the reason why the heat of the desert dimmed. Bowing his head in thanks Kyle prayed for the soul of this man who could forgive his killer. Though as the last words left his lips the scout sniper felt a sudden unease as if everything had lurched sideways just the slightest bit.

Cool wind gave way to the feel of cold metal against bare skin. And were the dream of a dead man gave no terror this sensation was a pause for concern. Snapping his eyelids open the carrier of rifles was greeted not with the bright morning sun of a desert camp but the darkness of shadow strewn room. The darkness made it difficult to be sure but Kyle was fairly sure this place wherever it may be was largish. The current of the flowing cold air suggested a sense of space no small room could muster. Badly wanting to stand up he resisted the urge as unwise. Many a warrior had met their end because of rash movements in the darkness.

First thing was first though and that was finding out where on God's green earth he was. Perhaps this was simply a casualty collection point.Perhaps his HMHVEE had simply hit an IED,he certainly wouldn't be the first Marine injured in such a fashion. If that were the case they would have left his gear within arms reach of him.Kyle ever so cautiously and quietly inched both his arms around his reaching distance.Finding only more cold metal the scout sniper began to worry just the slightest bit. Could he have been captured by enemy forces. If that were the case how in the name of the Trinity did they find a cold metal box in the middle of the desert to stick him in. Hell even the fridges barely worked out here let alone the AC. Not to mention most terrorist were smart enough to tie up their prisoners,respecting what a fellow warrior could do even devoid of weapons.

Risking the slightest raising of his head he tried to force his eyes to gaze past the shadows. Gradual shades of lighter grey did little to help orient Kyle to his surroundings. Closing his eyes the Marine instead let his ears do the seeing. At first all there was the omnipresent flow of cold air with very little in the way of a sense of direction. Then a single shout cut through the air.

" Somebody!Anybody! Where am I!?"

The voice was tinged with what could only be a Hispanic accent,one the scout sniper was familiar with from the years he spent in the Corp. Deciding that calming the owner of the voice was worth the risk of revealing his position Kyle replied.

" Corporeal Kyle United States Marine Corp reporting Sir." He hoped that would be enough for now as he silently made his way over to the source of the shout at right angles so as to lower the risk of being shot.

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Character Portrait: Kyle "Wraith"  Blackstone
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*Post archived. See OOC*

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Character Portrait: Kyle "Wraith"  Blackstone Character Portrait: Ramirez
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Kyle Blackstone, Ramirez Remembered that name. He tried to put a face to it, remembering a young marksman.

He thought back and it hit him, Corporal Kyle Blackstone was once apart of his unit, later ending up apart of the same Force Recon team that saved his ass once. Ramirez recalled offering him a shot of whiskey afterwards, and Kyle was the only Marine he'd ever seen turn down a shot from him. It was a move that had at first offended and enraged him, but later when the angry Mexican has sobered up, Gave him a newfound respect for the marine.

He knew there were many marines who shared name and rank, the dark didn't help Ramirez differentiate the fellow marine either. Ramirez was in a position though he didn't care, he was naked, in the dark, and had no weapon. He didn't care if he owed this marine his life, it wouldn't matter if he had ended up dying here.

He opened his mouth to speak, then paranoia set in. Was this a trick? This was too coincidental. Were they trying to mess with Ramirez? Stranger things have already began happening, what if this was some way to drive him crazy. Ramirez pull his minds together, trying to push out all the paranoid thoughts just long enough to speak. He opened his mouth again, "sergeant Hektor Ramirez, United states Marines. Blackstone is that you Chico?"

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Character Portrait: Kyle "Wraith"  Blackstone Character Portrait: Ramirez
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Sergeant Hektor Ramirez, now was a name that reminded this jarhead that not so long ago he had been required to call himself the recruit. Five and half years ago Private Kyle Blackstone United States Marine Corp had reported for duty with mirror shined boots and a spotless uniform to match. His hopes and dreams soured by the stain on his record that was his older brother actions. Honestly he'd been surprised that they let him enlist. But this Apache wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth though perhaps he worked just a tad harder then most as if driven to have a spotless record by comparison. It had impressed his instructors or at the very least kept the worst of their mind fuck games away though the future MARSOC member always believed that his mind fuck was the most subtle. But it wasn't the memory of being in the same unit that would calm Ramirez down. No a couple of hundred men could most likely make the same claim and be just as swiftly rejected.

No what was needed here was something a little more powerful,something that'd prove beyond a shadow of doubt that Corporal Kyle Blackstone was who he said he was. A token of proof crafted of something more then the empty air of words. Problem was that the sniper was naked sitting in a air conditioned box with nothing but the empty air of words.

Racking his photographic memory he went over every memory of Ramirez that was stored within it. Thankfully a scout sniper had to have a good memory, lots of details and fancy math to remember after all. Then it suddenly dawned on him with all the force of a round fired from the M82A3. The memory of a time with his old Force Recon unit, and more importantly it's aftermath. One Ramirez likely never forgot, rage tends to solidify memories within one's head.

" I'll prove it's me Sir. ..Remember when I saved your ass from that troop of girl guides...should of just bought the damn cookies. Anyway after I pulled you lazy behind out of the fire some REM decides that I'm due a Navy Cross and gives it to me. There was a ceremony with cake and everything. By Saint Michael that was an ordeal and half." Kyle replied supplying the required answer as he slowly inched his way across the cold metal walls. His hands with fingers splayed were attempting to find a light source but so far had failed miserably. He could also hear a gentle hum above their heads and Kyle was sure if they stood atop each other the path to it would be found.

Right now though he was playing Marco Polo in the dark trying find a damn light switch. There had to be one after all this place had what could only side doors leading only God knows were. Though anywhere that had underwear and at least pants and shoes sounded like heaven right about now. The whole birthday suit was getting old especially with his former Sergeant not ten feet away in the same condition.

"There has to be a way out of this damn ice box after all they stuffed us in here like a side of beef." Kyle muttered in a rather annoyed tone as the futility of ever finding a light switch sunk in." My rifle for either some light or my night vision goggles!"The tall though slender native shouted as he pounded the wall he was leaning against with the palm of his left hand.

" And the good Lord said let there be light." The Marine added with an emphasis on the word light and a sigh on the rest.

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Character Portrait: Kyle "Wraith"  Blackstone Character Portrait: Ramirez
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Ramirez laughed at his luck, he used the dim bit of light that Blackstone had managed to bring in the room to glance at their surroundings. He hoped to find some alternate route out of the hallway, was sick of feeling like a rat in a cage. Ramirez spied what looked like a vent located in the back corner of the room, high up on the wall, and angled to promote air flow into the hallway. Ramirez sighed in relief, clenching his fists and almost passing out from the joy he had to bottle up inside. Ramirez tapped the marine beside him's shoulder, "¡gracias a dios, I think I spotted a way out!"

Ramirez thought to himself, if this kid actually had the stones to handle a drink he deserved one. Ramirez corrected his arrogant thought, no.. this kid DOES have some stones, everything this Corporal has done since Fallujah takes some cojones to pull off. He thought about Kurt for a moment, he remembered how jealous he was of the Corporal after his boys pulled them out of that deathtrap. "Why did he get that opportunity? I could have done a hell of a lot better than that motarded shit bag." Ramirez laughed at the memory, a good marine, but he didn't have half the brains to hack it where Blackstone seems to have excelled.

Ramirez snapped back to the real world, this wasn't anytime for a walk down memory lane. His DI had beaten the marine corps way of life into the headstrong Ramirez a lot harder than the rest of the recruits. It was a forced hand that made him a better marine in the field, he became a cold, calculated killer when he needed to be. He became a confident leader, and he also discovered a talent for noticing the small things in the field, a talent which saved lives and ended them all together.

Ramirez began to feel his way along the wall, trying to judge where he was as opposed to where he'd spotted the air duct. It had to lead to somewhere that was outside this hallway, it had to be a way for Ramirez. The short walk down the long hallway felt as the every step was another eternity Ramirez had been caught up in this place, he was going nuts. He'd survived Parris Island, two tours of Iraq, a Tour of Afghanistan, a four year marriage and a lengthy divorce only to lose his mind in a dark hallway as naked as the day he was born. The absences of cool air from the vent began to frustrate Ramirez, he knew he'd seen an air duct, or had he? Maybe it had been a mirage, maybe Blackstone was a figment of his own imagination. Maybe Ramirez himself wasn't even here. What if he was strapped into a straight jacket in West Texas Mental. He'd watched plenty of Veterans shipped there, not being able to handle civvies' life in the real world. Ramirez began doubting his own sanity, then suddenly, His bare skin felt the cold air blowing through the metal grating. Ramirez stood under the grating, thought to himself, all I need is a couple of these tables, a lift from Kyle, and they'd be good to go.

"Hey Kyle! I found it, I need you to give me a hand, and we can get out of here chico!" He bowed his head, even still doubting his sanity, "Dios permitió que esto sea real"

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Character Portrait: Sir James Fritswick
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