Setting
A heavily guarded military installation converted from an abandoned military building, Fort Veritas sits about a half a mile (and not quite a kilometer) away from the actual highway. It is surrounded by tall, reinforced walls with guard towers. To enter, you need to pass through the security station manned by fully armed military officers. A series of buildings in various stages of construction sit inside the walls. The central building is a low-lying, concrete structure that appears to be only one story. This is the headquarters of the Terran Armed Forces (TAF.)
Fort Veritas
A heavily guarded military installation converted from an abandoned military building, Fort Veritas sits about a half a mile (and not quite a kilometer) away from the actual highway. It is surrounded by tall, reinforced walls with guard towers. To enter, you need to pass through the security station manned by fully armed military officers. A series of buildings in various stages of construction sit inside the walls. The central building is a low-lying, concrete structure that appears to be only one story. This is the headquarters of the Terran Armed Forces (TAF.)
Minimap
northwest |
north |
northeast |
west |
You are here. |
east |
southwest |
south |
southeast |
Fort Veritas is a part of 
Wing City Highway.
11 Characters Here
Terran Marine Command [36] The backbone of the TNG Military, serving to protect Terra and her sovereignty.
Ladon Sidiim [31] Leader of the Federal Liberation Front
Ilyssa Jo Horntvedt-Siegel [31] Terran Intelligence Bureau agent serving as liaison to the National Policy Agency
Steven Lindemann [29]
Jacob Haley [23] The disowned son of Lochlyn Haley, former heir apparent to The Jupiter Corporation.
The National Police Agency [20] An international agency belonging to the Terran National Government that serves as a global criminal investigative body, internal intelligence agency and world-wide police force.
Carnaelgaar Cysius [6] "Knowledge is power, guard it well." *Classified*
TEMPLATE [0] -- for testing purposes --
James Bishop [0] "The last thing you Never see."
Lea Trooper [0] A human girl who does what she must to survive
Start Character Here »
“Director Lebrun is in room B-140,” said the guard, indicating one of the elevators in a set of three with matching polished silver doors. “You’ll need to take the elevator one floor down and walk down the hallway; the door will be on your right.” At this point, he would be permitted to proceed without an escort. The lighting in the hallways was standard, institutionalized fluorescent bars that shone harshly on the pale-colored, monochrome tiles. Standard government fare, with the seal of the Terran Armed Forces mounted on the otherwise plain, unadorned walls.
Downstairs, Jamal Morrison Lebrun was waiting in an austere conference room with a yellow legal pad and a blue ballpoint in front of him sitting in front of the notepad. He sat in a stiff, plastic chair at a long, plastic table, his posture slumped awkwardly to the right, and only his left hand sat over the yellow pages. He looked through his glasses toward the door, waiting for the visitor who was coming. It was about 9:40 in the morning, according to the clock mounted on the wall.
Downstairs, Jamal Morrison Lebrun was waiting in an austere conference room with a yellow legal pad and a blue ballpoint in front of him sitting in front of the notepad. He sat in a stiff, plastic chair at a long, plastic table, his posture slumped awkwardly to the right, and only his left hand sat over the yellow pages. He looked through his glasses toward the door, waiting for the visitor who was coming. It was about 9:40 in the morning, according to the clock mounted on the wall.
Hatchet nodded to the guards, as the female guard clipped on his visitor badge. "Why, thank you." he replied, however the woman simply turned away and went about her other duties. Hatchet gathered his things, and made his way to the elevator. On the way down, his finger stroked the edge of the yellow envelope; there was no soothing elevator music to calm the nerves. With each stride down the hall-way, the lights over-head cast an eerie shadow over his person; he was already an unsettling figure to boot. His heels clicked their way to the conference room entrance; B-140, the number was etched into his mind. "Ah, here it is." Hatchet straightened the top of his tie, before entering. It was a habit whenever he was placed in an anxious situation. His time was now.
He placed a warm palm on the door-handle, and pushed through, letting the door close behind him. Hatchet was an exceptional look man, aside from the scar curling up on the left corner of his mouth, and perhaps the pale skin; his mutli-colored, protruding eye balls, and outlandishly dyed hair might've added to his visual flaws. They weren't flaws in his mind, though. A man in media had to sustain a colorful appearance, and personality. So, upon this encounter, one could tell it was the meeting of two opposites. The dark-skinned, and quite obviously older man seemed to hold a more bland taste in personal attire, than Hatchet; Hatchet's slick black suit, and contrasting red dress shirt definitely contained a more flaring attitude. "And, you are Mister Lebrun, I assume?"
He placed a warm palm on the door-handle, and pushed through, letting the door close behind him. Hatchet was an exceptional look man, aside from the scar curling up on the left corner of his mouth, and perhaps the pale skin; his mutli-colored, protruding eye balls, and outlandishly dyed hair might've added to his visual flaws. They weren't flaws in his mind, though. A man in media had to sustain a colorful appearance, and personality. So, upon this encounter, one could tell it was the meeting of two opposites. The dark-skinned, and quite obviously older man seemed to hold a more bland taste in personal attire, than Hatchet; Hatchet's slick black suit, and contrasting red dress shirt definitely contained a more flaring attitude. "And, you are Mister Lebrun, I assume?"
“Jamal Lebrun, yes,” replied the older man with what might have been the hint of a nod as his gaze flickered toward the newcomer. His words were formed with obvious effort, with only half of his mouth moving as he spoke, careful to enunciate each individual word, which resulted in a slow, lilting cadence to his speech. Lebrun gestured with the hand atop the notepad for Hatchet to approach, and with great effort, rose from where he was seated, offering his left hand for the younger man to take while his right arm, motionless, hugged his body. Even standing, Lebrun’s posture was off-kilter, slumped to the right, and his one step toward Hatchet more of a shuffle. Perspiration gathered about his forehead, along his hairline.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hatchet,” he said, ever cautious in articulating each syllable. Lebrun wore a pinstriped navy blue suit and pressed white shirt, though he didn’t have a tie today and the top button of his dress shirt had been left undone. What hair he had left had been rapidly receding, and was now almost entirely gray rather than the dark brown it had been before. “Can I get you anything to drink? There’s coffee, tea, water.” Each time the Director spoke, his voice took a quiet, grating quality that betrayed the effort required for him to form speech.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hatchet,” he said, ever cautious in articulating each syllable. Lebrun wore a pinstriped navy blue suit and pressed white shirt, though he didn’t have a tie today and the top button of his dress shirt had been left undone. What hair he had left had been rapidly receding, and was now almost entirely gray rather than the dark brown it had been before. “Can I get you anything to drink? There’s coffee, tea, water.” Each time the Director spoke, his voice took a quiet, grating quality that betrayed the effort required for him to form speech.
A slender figure haunted the halls of the government facility. Hatchet was lost, as the whole of the building was a comparable maze. His ignorance of the interior was blatantly obvious. His brows would furrow every so often at the appearance of a similar wall, and his neck would snap back to check for any similarities he may have missed. Though, he still sauntered about. He carried a pale yellow folder under his arm, which contained a written report for Lebrun.
He had re-entered through all the security the fort offered, of which was present the last time he visited. The entire process still left a bad taste, and the previous female officer, of whom had provied him with a anme tag this time around, as well, did not appreciate his ogling. Thus, it was in his conclusion that she deliberately failed to provide him with proper directions.
After about half an hour, or more, of breaking his neck to find the place where he so very needed to be, he found himself shuffling into white room; every door he tried to poke his head into was either guarded by two 'thugs,' or locked, and every hall he passed down was filled with unsettling military personnel.
It appeared to be a laboratory. Hatchet knew all too well what these particular sections consisted of: Experiments. Viles here, technological feats, only some of which Hatchet comprehended, there. Hatchet presumed it was undoubtedly the lab of a very compitent team of scientists.
He had re-entered through all the security the fort offered, of which was present the last time he visited. The entire process still left a bad taste, and the previous female officer, of whom had provied him with a anme tag this time around, as well, did not appreciate his ogling. Thus, it was in his conclusion that she deliberately failed to provide him with proper directions.
After about half an hour, or more, of breaking his neck to find the place where he so very needed to be, he found himself shuffling into white room; every door he tried to poke his head into was either guarded by two 'thugs,' or locked, and every hall he passed down was filled with unsettling military personnel.
It appeared to be a laboratory. Hatchet knew all too well what these particular sections consisted of: Experiments. Viles here, technological feats, only some of which Hatchet comprehended, there. Hatchet presumed it was undoubtedly the lab of a very compitent team of scientists.
White-coated scientists fretted about the lab in a frenzy, wielding clipboards and pens with righteous fury as they conducted their day-to-day research in Fort Veritas. Revolutionizing Terran defenses certainly didn't happen overnight, and the NOVA team was hard at work even now, immersing themselves in their extensive studies and in-depth engineering.
A small cluster of men and women were gathered in the center of the large room. Among all the scientists, one in particular stood out. He was a tad shorter then the rest, and unlike the others, he wore no coat. The man walked about in a simple tank top neatly tucked into his work pants, a thin layer of sweat coating his alabaster skin. He had a runner's physique, and his toned muscles knotted beneath his skin as he handled a particularly large looking rifle. His long hair was swept over his face.
"That is good, Mr. Quimn. Just stand there and hold the reactor out in front of your face." His voice was a pale and cold as his appearance.
Mr. Quimn, a particularly nervous looking scientist who stood about ten feet away from the group, was holding a strange, rectangular piece of tech in his hands. "Are you quite sure about this Cleo? I don't know if we should test it HERE. On one of your own staff, no less..."
"Not to worry, Mr. Quimn. I have taken all necessary precautions. At worst, you will receive third-degree burns along your hands and lower arms, with possible bone-deterioration in your ulna, radius and upper humerus."
The surrounding doctors looked at Cleo in obvious shock. Shifting in discomfort, the Tuffle thumbed a strange of hair behind one of his pointed ears. "...that was intended to be an attempt at a humorous joke..." he confessed blandly, "I apologize if it did not come across as su-"
"Hey!" a young, squirrelly looking physicist turned suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at Hatchet. "You're not supposed to be in here! Who are you?"
A small cluster of men and women were gathered in the center of the large room. Among all the scientists, one in particular stood out. He was a tad shorter then the rest, and unlike the others, he wore no coat. The man walked about in a simple tank top neatly tucked into his work pants, a thin layer of sweat coating his alabaster skin. He had a runner's physique, and his toned muscles knotted beneath his skin as he handled a particularly large looking rifle. His long hair was swept over his face.
"That is good, Mr. Quimn. Just stand there and hold the reactor out in front of your face." His voice was a pale and cold as his appearance.
Mr. Quimn, a particularly nervous looking scientist who stood about ten feet away from the group, was holding a strange, rectangular piece of tech in his hands. "Are you quite sure about this Cleo? I don't know if we should test it HERE. On one of your own staff, no less..."
"Not to worry, Mr. Quimn. I have taken all necessary precautions. At worst, you will receive third-degree burns along your hands and lower arms, with possible bone-deterioration in your ulna, radius and upper humerus."
The surrounding doctors looked at Cleo in obvious shock. Shifting in discomfort, the Tuffle thumbed a strange of hair behind one of his pointed ears. "...that was intended to be an attempt at a humorous joke..." he confessed blandly, "I apologize if it did not come across as su-"
"Hey!" a young, squirrelly looking physicist turned suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at Hatchet. "You're not supposed to be in here! Who are you?"
The door clicked, as it shut closed behind Hatchet. The pale man, who already appeared quite eccentric, and eerie, simply pointed to his the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He tapped a finger on the plastic card, which was clipped on to the pocket. On the front 'VISITOR' was clearly printed, and it contained Hatchet's photo-ID, along with the NPA seal to clarify who gave him passage.
"Jack M. Hatchet is my name." He spared the young scientist a nod of greeting. He followed up with his finger outstretched toward Cleo, of whom Hatchet recognized, and also realized to be pointing a gun at one of the white-coated staff. "Am I... interrupting something? Perhaps, this is one of those arguments between a disgruntled emplyee of the government, and his supervisor?" Hatchet cocked a brow, while pursing his lips with a sarcastic sense of curiosity.
"Jack M. Hatchet is my name." He spared the young scientist a nod of greeting. He followed up with his finger outstretched toward Cleo, of whom Hatchet recognized, and also realized to be pointing a gun at one of the white-coated staff. "Am I... interrupting something? Perhaps, this is one of those arguments between a disgruntled emplyee of the government, and his supervisor?" Hatchet cocked a brow, while pursing his lips with a sarcastic sense of curiosity.
"Not at all," Cleo shook his head, hefting the rifle over his shoulder. If Jack knew anything about guns, he might recognize the weapon as an Mk II Disruptor Rifle. "At least, nothing that cannot wait until later." He turned his head briefly. "Mr Quimn. We will have to postpone your untimely death for now." Said by anyone else, it might have been funny... but Cleo's pale monotone simply sucked the humor out of everything he said.
"Very good, doctor Eriaji..." Quimn gasped, quickly stepping out of the line of fire and scampering off. The scientists surrounding Cleo began to disperse, and the Tuffle set the rifle down on a nearby crate. "Mr. Hatchet, was it? I am doctor Cleo Eriaji, head of the research division here in Fort Veritas." He extended a hand. "Is there, perhaps, something I can assist you with? We rarely get visitors in this section of the Fort."
"Very good, doctor Eriaji..." Quimn gasped, quickly stepping out of the line of fire and scampering off. The scientists surrounding Cleo began to disperse, and the Tuffle set the rifle down on a nearby crate. "Mr. Hatchet, was it? I am doctor Cleo Eriaji, head of the research division here in Fort Veritas." He extended a hand. "Is there, perhaps, something I can assist you with? We rarely get visitors in this section of the Fort."
((repost))
"Not at all," Cleo shook his head, hefting the rifle over his shoulder. If Jack knew anything about guns, he might recognize the weapon as an Mk II Disruptor Rifle. "At least, nothing that cannot wait until later." He turned his head briefly. "Mr Quimn. We will have to postpone your untimely death for now." Said by anyone else, it might have been funny... but Cleo's pale monotone simply sucked the humor out of everything he said.
"Very good, doctor Eriaji..." Quimn gasped, quickly stepping out of the line of fire and scampering off. The scientists surrounding Cleo began to disperse, and the Tuffle set the rifle down on a nearby crate. "Mr. Hatchet, was it? I am doctor Cleo Eriaji, head of the research division here in Fort Veritas." He extended a hand. "Is there, perhaps, something I can assist you with? We rarely get visitors in this section of the Fort."
"Not at all," Cleo shook his head, hefting the rifle over his shoulder. If Jack knew anything about guns, he might recognize the weapon as an Mk II Disruptor Rifle. "At least, nothing that cannot wait until later." He turned his head briefly. "Mr Quimn. We will have to postpone your untimely death for now." Said by anyone else, it might have been funny... but Cleo's pale monotone simply sucked the humor out of everything he said.
"Very good, doctor Eriaji..." Quimn gasped, quickly stepping out of the line of fire and scampering off. The scientists surrounding Cleo began to disperse, and the Tuffle set the rifle down on a nearby crate. "Mr. Hatchet, was it? I am doctor Cleo Eriaji, head of the research division here in Fort Veritas." He extended a hand. "Is there, perhaps, something I can assist you with? We rarely get visitors in this section of the Fort."
When Steven came to, he would find himself in a dark room. A single light hung down from the ceiling, illuminating his face. Terran marines stood on either side of him, Gauss rifles in hand. Before him was a smiling man in a suit, flanked by a mean-looking power armored soldier. Should the Cybran try and move, he would curiously be unable to move his robotic arm or his thigh.
"Good evening, Mr. Lindemann," the elderly man before him smiled graciously, "do you know why you are here?"
"Good evening, Mr. Lindemann," the elderly man before him smiled graciously, "do you know why you are here?"
Steven glanced up at them, confused. His eye darted around, taking the room's measurements with his eyes lengthospecor. He groaned, his stomach rumbling as he shut his eyes, smirking slightly. He was waiting for them to try something with his computers. The the round would be won by miles.
He swallowed, slowly moving his left hand to his thigh, unable to move his arms but started to override anything the Terrans had done to him.
He swallowed, slowly moving his left hand to his thigh, unable to move his arms but started to override anything the Terrans had done to him.
But Joran only smiled respectfully. "I'm afraid that won't work here, Mr. Lindemann." He shook his head. "We know how good you are with computers. We took precautions." He gestured to the stone walls around them. "You are currently in one of the oldest underground catacombs in this base. Not a computer around here for miles. Generator-powered lighting. Crank elevator." He smiled. "Absolutely tech-free."
He started a slow walk, pacing around Steven slowly. "You'll also find that your arm and thigh not working has nothing to do with hacking. Those limbs are currently surgically detached from your body from the inside. Our technicians scanned your biofeed and found the direct artificial-neuropathway connecting your brain and spine to your robotic limbs. We severed the connection using microagents. A purely biological procedure."
Having finished several cycles, he turned back to face Steven. "This entire level of the facility is also layered in Psitanium hub capwells and disruptive energon core capsules. Not to mention it's all surrounded by a good few miles of solid concrete." He smiled again, kind and warm. "It's literally physically impossible for a radio, technical or a psionic frequency to get in here. They would need to blast this place open."
"So, Mr. Lindemann. I'm afraid you are really quite alone. So I ask you again... why do you think you're here?"
He started a slow walk, pacing around Steven slowly. "You'll also find that your arm and thigh not working has nothing to do with hacking. Those limbs are currently surgically detached from your body from the inside. Our technicians scanned your biofeed and found the direct artificial-neuropathway connecting your brain and spine to your robotic limbs. We severed the connection using microagents. A purely biological procedure."
Having finished several cycles, he turned back to face Steven. "This entire level of the facility is also layered in Psitanium hub capwells and disruptive energon core capsules. Not to mention it's all surrounded by a good few miles of solid concrete." He smiled again, kind and warm. "It's literally physically impossible for a radio, technical or a psionic frequency to get in here. They would need to blast this place open."
"So, Mr. Lindemann. I'm afraid you are really quite alone. So I ask you again... why do you think you're here?"
Steven smirked again, "You forget... You don't know me... Now, get these blasted idiots out of this room before I make them. I will tell you what you want to know, by the grim future for this planet will start soon enough."
His face went cold, his tongue playing with his teeth, knowing the one with the technology, the one that would be impossible to find from anywhere, he and his leaders knew where it was an what was in it. "Death comes to the weak, and the strong brings the death, only how the fields of Isoa glow, but that with the blood of which once lay there. From years of past to years of present, only those that know the secrets, will contain the secrets. You underestimate me, Mr. Davrell." He rhymed softly, a warm feeling slowly taking to his chest, well, what was left of his internal organs. "There was once a time where men like you broke into the vast Metal vaults of the computers, but the men died within days. Things aren't always what they appear to be."
And with that he opened his eyes, looking up at Davrell, "You have been at this for years, a superhuman, as one might say. But it appears that you have just met your match, but of Cybran Origin."
His face went cold, his tongue playing with his teeth, knowing the one with the technology, the one that would be impossible to find from anywhere, he and his leaders knew where it was an what was in it. "Death comes to the weak, and the strong brings the death, only how the fields of Isoa glow, but that with the blood of which once lay there. From years of past to years of present, only those that know the secrets, will contain the secrets. You underestimate me, Mr. Davrell." He rhymed softly, a warm feeling slowly taking to his chest, well, what was left of his internal organs. "There was once a time where men like you broke into the vast Metal vaults of the computers, but the men died within days. Things aren't always what they appear to be."
And with that he opened his eyes, looking up at Davrell, "You have been at this for years, a superhuman, as one might say. But it appears that you have just met your match, but of Cybran Origin."
"I have no doubt that you have hidden powers, my friend," Joran smiled, "and I respect that, believe me. Strength is something I can appreciate. It is strength that aspires. Strength that achieves. Strength that breathes the means to understand and triumph." He looked to the many soldiers in the room. "Leave us." The marines and the trooper would quickly march out of the cell, leaving just Joran and the Cybran.
Slowly, the older man reached towards another chair in the room, sitting down in it so that he was facing Steven. "Is that why the Cybrans have come to Terra?" he asked, "to conquer us? Do they view the Terrans as a weak nation that must be wiped out in the name of biological and social purity?"
Slowly, the older man reached towards another chair in the room, sitting down in it so that he was facing Steven. "Is that why the Cybrans have come to Terra?" he asked, "to conquer us? Do they view the Terrans as a weak nation that must be wiped out in the name of biological and social purity?"
Steven smirked, "You do not understand the power of the Cybran Nation, you have no clue on our plans and our military forces. We could attack anywhere we wanted and win. There was once a point in the time of old Terra when the Cybrans came down to help you creatures, you opened fire on us with little wooden arrows, primitive. You would not be where you are now without us, no nation would be."
His eyes shut over as he moved his free hand to start work on his bionic arm, his brain starting to fix the connections, "Good luck with trying to hack my computer. Your systems were so easy, child's play for any Cybran programmer."
His eyes shut over as he moved his free hand to start work on his bionic arm, his brain starting to fix the connections, "Good luck with trying to hack my computer. Your systems were so easy, child's play for any Cybran programmer."
The communications room in Fort Veritas was busy, as always. Technicians and Captain stormed about the room, collecting various scraps of data concerning the countless threats that Terra faced on a daily basis, discussing the best course of action against them. Captain Ashton MacDuff was currently seated with the Wing City comm force, analyzing the recent emergence of a vampire lord in the midst of the metropolis. Enforcers had been scrambled and the blood wave halted with the Svalinn, but there was still much work to do.
"I want five Paladins in that airspace in the next two minutes," MacDuff barked, "get me a detailed scouter run on that mist, I want to know EXACTLY what it is. Have two Tetris on standby near the GC, and for God's sake, SOMEBODY find me a Hunter consultant."
A comm technician suddenly yanked off his headset, turning around in his seat to face Ashton. "Captain MacDuff!" he called out, "we just got a 9.3 reading from Hafirjan!"
MacDuff frowned. He trounced towards the young man. "Where? Cape Town? Cairo?"
"The Veshrac, sir," the technician pointed to the energy readings on his screen, "we're calculating enormous heat exertions."
"Class origin?"
"Petroleum napalm, sir." The technician gulped. "...and plasmic ozone."
MacDuff went dead quiet, as did several other technicians nearby. One of the Captain's advisers quickly walked over to him.
"It could be Hataf," she argued, "they used disruptors on their last attack against the Center. We know they have heavy roots in Hafirjan."
"Could be, could be," MacDuff nodded, stroking his beard. He was quiet for a few moments before snapping his fingers back at another technician. "Patch me into Nascent Echo-" He grunted, "...goddammit, patch me into Echo AND Chariot of Fire. Hail Commanders Tsoukalos and Magus. Highest urgency."
MacDuff returned to his command chair, awaiting the Aschen response.
"I want five Paladins in that airspace in the next two minutes," MacDuff barked, "get me a detailed scouter run on that mist, I want to know EXACTLY what it is. Have two Tetris on standby near the GC, and for God's sake, SOMEBODY find me a Hunter consultant."
A comm technician suddenly yanked off his headset, turning around in his seat to face Ashton. "Captain MacDuff!" he called out, "we just got a 9.3 reading from Hafirjan!"
MacDuff frowned. He trounced towards the young man. "Where? Cape Town? Cairo?"
"The Veshrac, sir," the technician pointed to the energy readings on his screen, "we're calculating enormous heat exertions."
"Class origin?"
"Petroleum napalm, sir." The technician gulped. "...and plasmic ozone."
MacDuff went dead quiet, as did several other technicians nearby. One of the Captain's advisers quickly walked over to him.
"It could be Hataf," she argued, "they used disruptors on their last attack against the Center. We know they have heavy roots in Hafirjan."
"Could be, could be," MacDuff nodded, stroking his beard. He was quiet for a few moments before snapping his fingers back at another technician. "Patch me into Nascent Echo-" He grunted, "...goddammit, patch me into Echo AND Chariot of Fire. Hail Commanders Tsoukalos and Magus. Highest urgency."
MacDuff returned to his command chair, awaiting the Aschen response.
AHSC Chariot of Fire
45,000 Feet above the surface
500km off the coast of western Aslund
Everything was going smoothly as Commander Magus oversaw through a holographic display a wing of Apollos returning from their bombing run through Hafirjan.
"Commander." A Lieutenant turned. "Sierra One Niner is reporting successful run and is returning to dock seventeen." He reported, and the Commander nodded. "Excellent, I want three regiments ready for deployment groundside. We'll need to clear the Jungle of the natives. I've reports that the Coalition might be sending the Kobol's Killers to assist us." He said, pulling the holographic display up and examining it.
His thoughts were quickly interrupted by a chime, the communications officer answering the Hail. "Commander, I've got a transmission incoming from the Terran Government. High Priority."
Magus nodded. "Patch it onto the speakers." He said, picking up what looked like a telephone.
"This is Chariot of Fire Actual, state the nature of your hail." He said with a gravely voice, leaning on the railing and resting the phone against his head.
The Nascent Echo was running it's weekly patrols over Aslund, mapping out the terrain and scanning passively for any anomalies. However, her Communications officer was the one to respond to the Terrans.
"This is the Nascent Echo, Actual is unavailable, is there something we can assist you with?"
45,000 Feet above the surface
500km off the coast of western Aslund
Everything was going smoothly as Commander Magus oversaw through a holographic display a wing of Apollos returning from their bombing run through Hafirjan.
"Commander." A Lieutenant turned. "Sierra One Niner is reporting successful run and is returning to dock seventeen." He reported, and the Commander nodded. "Excellent, I want three regiments ready for deployment groundside. We'll need to clear the Jungle of the natives. I've reports that the Coalition might be sending the Kobol's Killers to assist us." He said, pulling the holographic display up and examining it.
His thoughts were quickly interrupted by a chime, the communications officer answering the Hail. "Commander, I've got a transmission incoming from the Terran Government. High Priority."
Magus nodded. "Patch it onto the speakers." He said, picking up what looked like a telephone.
"This is Chariot of Fire Actual, state the nature of your hail." He said with a gravely voice, leaning on the railing and resting the phone against his head.
The Nascent Echo was running it's weekly patrols over Aslund, mapping out the terrain and scanning passively for any anomalies. However, her Communications officer was the one to respond to the Terrans.
"This is the Nascent Echo, Actual is unavailable, is there something we can assist you with?"
"Yes, Echo and Chariot, this is Captain MacDuff of the Diomedes," MacDuff reclined in his seat, "our scouters just picked up a very large, very lethal concentration of heat in the Veshrac Jungle. The energy signature bears remarkable resemblance to the plasmic ozone residue leftover from disruptor discharge." He leaned forward in his chair. "Before I proceed to address this threat, I would like to know if there is currently any Confederate involvement in Hafirjan."
Commander Magus frowned, then he brought up the screen.
"Commander." A Lieutenant reported. "Grid-One Seven, Plasmite napalm strike called in by an advanced recon team that came under attack. Ambushed by unknown hostiles." The Lieutenant added, while Magus nodded. Just then the door opened up, and a shadowy figure stepped forward into the CIC. "The Operation is classified from this point forward." The Figure said, slapping a black file on the table in front of the Commander. The Commander slowly opened it, reading through the text.
"The Ministry of Defense wants us to what!?" Magus asked, keeping the Terrans on hold for a moment.
"Black file Pogrom concerning primitive natives in the jungle." The Agent explained. "The Operation is entirely deniable." The Man explained, and Magus nodded, putting the phone back to his face.
"Possibly militant groups, Maybe Civilians? There's Aschen civilians settled in the area, some of them carry disruptors. Could be a clash between them and Hataf militants in the area." He said, pulling up the Screen. "Could be a Clear-Burn for farmland, We'll investigate and come back with a report."
"Commander." A Lieutenant reported. "Grid-One Seven, Plasmite napalm strike called in by an advanced recon team that came under attack. Ambushed by unknown hostiles." The Lieutenant added, while Magus nodded. Just then the door opened up, and a shadowy figure stepped forward into the CIC. "The Operation is classified from this point forward." The Figure said, slapping a black file on the table in front of the Commander. The Commander slowly opened it, reading through the text.
"The Ministry of Defense wants us to what!?" Magus asked, keeping the Terrans on hold for a moment.
"Black file Pogrom concerning primitive natives in the jungle." The Agent explained. "The Operation is entirely deniable." The Man explained, and Magus nodded, putting the phone back to his face.
"Possibly militant groups, Maybe Civilians? There's Aschen civilians settled in the area, some of them carry disruptors. Could be a clash between them and Hataf militants in the area." He said, pulling up the Screen. "Could be a Clear-Burn for farmland, We'll investigate and come back with a report."
MacDuff frowned. "Negative, Chariot. We'll investigate ourselves and send you a full report within the hour. Keep your men OUT of Hafirjan. I repeat, keep your men OUT." He looked to a technician, his face red. "Cut it."
The hail ended a moment later.
A timid-looking TNG adviser walked over to his captain. "What do we do, sir?"
The Captain sighed, scratching at his scruffy jaw. "What do you THINK we're going to do, Chiggleys? We're going to stomp around and make a lot of noise, and we're going to be careful while we do it." He massaged his temple. "And at the same time, we're going to sneak around and be very quiet." He pushed a button in his chair, speaking into the comm. "Get me the TIB."
One of the technicians looked up. "Sir, the amount of ozone on our charts constitutes a far greater exertion of plasmic waste than a community of armed civilians could muster. Furthermore, ownership of disruptors by Aschen civilians has been illegal-"
"I know, Janet," MacDuff growled, "I know, I know, I know. Do you think ANY of that makes even a SMIDGEN of a difference to them?" He shook his head. "Tell Captain Vrail to power up his FRs. I'm sending the Fiddle and the entire NPA 5th Platoon to Veshrac immediately."
A technician called out from across the room. "TIB response, sir. What shall I say?"
"Give them the coordinates and a very brief sitrep," Ashton responded blandly, "and then delete the hail. Delete the record of the deletion."
"Yes sir."
And then the communications room was in a frenzy again, dozens of workers hurrying to fill out MacDuff's orders.
The captain himself sat quietly in his chair, desperately trying to rub the headache out of his temples.
The hail ended a moment later.
A timid-looking TNG adviser walked over to his captain. "What do we do, sir?"
The Captain sighed, scratching at his scruffy jaw. "What do you THINK we're going to do, Chiggleys? We're going to stomp around and make a lot of noise, and we're going to be careful while we do it." He massaged his temple. "And at the same time, we're going to sneak around and be very quiet." He pushed a button in his chair, speaking into the comm. "Get me the TIB."
One of the technicians looked up. "Sir, the amount of ozone on our charts constitutes a far greater exertion of plasmic waste than a community of armed civilians could muster. Furthermore, ownership of disruptors by Aschen civilians has been illegal-"
"I know, Janet," MacDuff growled, "I know, I know, I know. Do you think ANY of that makes even a SMIDGEN of a difference to them?" He shook his head. "Tell Captain Vrail to power up his FRs. I'm sending the Fiddle and the entire NPA 5th Platoon to Veshrac immediately."
A technician called out from across the room. "TIB response, sir. What shall I say?"
"Give them the coordinates and a very brief sitrep," Ashton responded blandly, "and then delete the hail. Delete the record of the deletion."
"Yes sir."
And then the communications room was in a frenzy again, dozens of workers hurrying to fill out MacDuff's orders.
The captain himself sat quietly in his chair, desperately trying to rub the headache out of his temples.
--Fort Veritas Containment Cell--
--Sub Level GRAY--
Joran leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees. He watched Steven carefully, his brows furrowing.
"I'm afraid you're not being very cooperative, Mr. Lindemann," he shook his head, "your cryptic words and vague prophecies will yield no satisfaction here. I want specifics. Facts. I want to know why the Cybrans are intending to attack Terra, where they are currently stationing their main fleet and when they intend to strike." He sighed. "Now are you going to tell me or am I wasting my time in being humane and reasonable with you?"
--Sub Level GRAY--
Joran leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees. He watched Steven carefully, his brows furrowing.
"I'm afraid you're not being very cooperative, Mr. Lindemann," he shook his head, "your cryptic words and vague prophecies will yield no satisfaction here. I want specifics. Facts. I want to know why the Cybrans are intending to attack Terra, where they are currently stationing their main fleet and when they intend to strike." He sighed. "Now are you going to tell me or am I wasting my time in being humane and reasonable with you?"
"You as a Nation... You are so weak. We could attack anytime and bring death to every nation in this universe. Your weaponry systems have already been sent to my commanders, they already have over rid them to use them when they want to, or they might just let you use them to try and destroy us. This galaxy will be set alight, everything will burn." Steven smirked, leaning back into the seat, his brain taking control of the power generators within a few seconds, "You are so weak, it us unbelievable."
Joran only shook his head, detecting the trace amounts of cybernetic frequency Steven's brain emitted as he attempted to reach out and seize control of Veritas' technology. "I told you, Mr. Lindemann. We covered our tracks. That generator you're reaching for is not powered by technology, but by human hands. Ether fuel and, if that runs low, standard coal. At the end of all means, there's a crank lever we can use to keep this level working." He shook his head. "I told you. There's not a scrap of technology around here for miles. So you mine as well answer my questions." He smiled. "Let's begin with why."
He sat back in his seat. "Why do you want to attack us? Is it that 'weakness' thing? The fact that you view us as a lower species unworthy to live? 'Survival of the fittest and all that wonderful Darwinian doctrine'?" He perked a brow. "Or is it because you spite us? You mentioned that the Cybrans have helped the Terrans in the past. Do you hate the fact that the Terrans no longer accept your organization nor acknowledge the influence they've had in our culture and technological advancements?"
He shrugged. "Or perhaps you're just a bully empire looking to conquer and subjugate weaker nations like a coward."
He sat back in his seat. "Why do you want to attack us? Is it that 'weakness' thing? The fact that you view us as a lower species unworthy to live? 'Survival of the fittest and all that wonderful Darwinian doctrine'?" He perked a brow. "Or is it because you spite us? You mentioned that the Cybrans have helped the Terrans in the past. Do you hate the fact that the Terrans no longer accept your organization nor acknowledge the influence they've had in our culture and technological advancements?"
He shrugged. "Or perhaps you're just a bully empire looking to conquer and subjugate weaker nations like a coward."
"That is bullshit. You Terrans fail to understand what we have done for you. We gave you the maths, the letters, yet you think it was the Romans and the Greeks, yet it was the Cybrans, who you nations treated like gods." He snapped, looking at him with a growl. He turned his head away, watching a rat in the cell. "You people use to be creatures that we would try and be nice to, yet as years went by, your armies destroyed the Civilians that were trying to help you. Now, you are scum."
"So it IS spite then," Joran nodded, "you gave us everything and we took it thanklessly, eh? Now the rest of the fleet is here to put young Terra in its place and remind the galaxy who REALLY reigns supreme. Well. That answers the 'why'."
The psionic leaned forward again. "Now what about the 'where', Mr. Lindemann? WHERE is the Cybran fleet? They must be close. They wouldn't wander too far from their prize."
The psionic leaned forward again. "Now what about the 'where', Mr. Lindemann? WHERE is the Cybran fleet? They must be close. They wouldn't wander too far from their prize."