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Apr 19, 2015 22:36
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Krakatoah posted:Let's go make some 'friends' That seems totally inappropriate. We're a blood-crazed lunatic who chops civvies into burger-meat on the flimsiest of excuses, and finds human emotions actively disgusting. Awesome! Let's do it!
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Apr 19, 2015 22:44
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We're too goony to talk with humans. Raid like it's WoW!
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Apr 19, 2015 23:07
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E: gently caress, posted in a wrong corn thread
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Apr 19, 2015 23:22
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Go make some friends because this man's army is crazy enough as it is.
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Apr 20, 2015 01:30
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Let's learn the gentle art of making enemies https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbObujRjo8Y
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Apr 20, 2015 02:41
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Loot!
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Apr 20, 2015 02:58
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You turn down Sybel’s offer, and he reminds you that you never saw them and you know nothing of their plan. You agree, then you sit with the others and watch as the dropship approaches the station. It is a large round structure with many orbs projecting out from it, each with its own function: Habitation, storage, docking, farming, administration, manufacturing, and recycling. You can hear an officer speaking with a panicked station administrator, trying to explain that you are not Invaders and the station is not being attacked. The dropship docks with the station. You and the other infantrymen disembark and find yourselves in a brightly colored facility filled with glowing advertisements, many of which parade the fact that humanity is at its peak and is looking forward to an era of peace and plenty as soon as a few “rogue space terrorists” have been taken care of. Most of your attention is focused on the riot occurring in the docking bay, where hundreds of furious laborers push against guards in riot gear who look back at you fearfully. The laborers scream at you, calling you Invader scum and terrorists – depending on which rumors and propaganda they believe. When some rioters throw food in your direction, Uther cries out, “Helms down! Incoming!” “I guess they don’t understand that we’re here to help,” you say. “You can say that again,” says Uther. “I guess they don’t-” The rioters suddenly topple a line of guards and turn in your direction, eyes wild with fury. You grasp your sidearm, but another group of guards falls on the laborers with long batons that discharge electric shocks, forcing them back like cattle. “If we aren’t forced to kill these people,” says Uther, “they might end up being handy in a fight against some real Invaders.” “Where are we going, sir? It looks like total chaos.” “Some of our guys have convinced the station’s administrators to gather as many people as they can in a place where we can talk to them. We’re going there now. Ah, here’s our escort.” You and many other infantrymen follow a group of guards deeper into the station. The roar of the crowd diminishes when you leave the docking area, but you also hear the occasional bark of gunfire or shouts of protest. The shrieking chaos contrasts with the silent, shining advertisements that decorate the brightly-lit hallways. Soon you come to wide hallways where every square inch is covered in advertisements. Every colorful graphic and painted model has been laid down with care by social engineers who have studied the human mind for many lifetimes, and the effect is both comforting and exciting. You find yourself idly wondering if dollari can be converted into whatever this station uses for currency. The effect is shattered when you look closely at one ad that towers over you. It shows a clownish-looking young man guzzling a can of carbonated soda while holding another can of soda down at his crotch. The soda sprays foamy, caffeinated, sugar-infused swill onto a very young girl with surgically-augmented breasts who grinds her rear end against the can. She has a maniacally joyful look on her face. You cannot help but notice that she covers one eye with one hand while splaying her fingers out in some strange, occult symbolic gesture that the rulers of the pre-Invasion world must have taken seriously, but it only looks absurd and crass to you. An infantryman on another unit says, “It’s a drat shame we don’t fix up the Vengeance to look a little better. I wouldn’t mind callin’ this place home!” Grishnak turns on him immediately. “This place is a painted turd. Look beyond the surface. Are you a man or a consumer?” The guards lead you to a doorway. One of them turns toward Commander Uther, then says, “The administrators say you can have a few minutes with the people, but no funny business. Understand?” “Go sit down somewhere,” says Uther, brushing past the guard. “Don’t they know we can blow this station up with one shot from the Penelope?” you ask Uther. “This place is pre-Invasion. They don’t even have any kind of charged shield for protection.” “They either know it, or they suspect it,” he says. “I’m sure this is humiliating for them. In this illusory world they’ve created, those guards and their managers are very important. But today reality came for a visit, and now they’ve seen that they’re of little account in the big picture. That’s tough for them to swallow.” You enter and find yourself in a large room that must be used for large sporting events. Unlike the hallways, the lights are dim, the advertisements are turned off, and the scoreboard is dead. The people sit on bleachers or stand in groups in the gaming area. Most of them look scared, even broken. “Here we are,” says Commander Uther. “I know you weren’t trained for this, but let’s divide up and do the best we can. Just talk to them and tell them there’s a new home waiting for them – if they’re prepared to earn it.” You look around. There are several groups, but before you can decide which one to speak with first, you notice one lone man sitting on a box. He is a solid-looking older man with dark skin, short, light-colored hair, and many scars on his face. Unlike the other people, he does not look at you with fear. Instead, he does not seem to have any expression at all. Speak to the man sitting alone? He might be a huge weirdo! quote:Name: Cromulus
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Apr 20, 2015 03:03
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Weirdos have the best stories!
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Apr 20, 2015 03:06
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Yeah, lets speak to the Goon
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Apr 20, 2015 03:07
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Ratatozsk posted:Weirdos have the best stories! 
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Apr 20, 2015 03:28
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Slaan posted:Yeah, lets speak to the Goon This.
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Apr 20, 2015 03:30
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You approach the man. He stares at you, but says nothing. “Hello,” you say. “What’s in the box?” “Garbage,” he says. “Why are you sitting on a box of garbage?” “Habit, I guess,” he says, looking you up and down. “This is all that I have left in the world. Even though it should probably be dumped out an airlock, it took years of blood and sweat and sleepless nights for me to get this crap. It’s all I have to show for… for the things I’ve done.” “And what sort of things do you do?” The man shakes his head slowly, then finally he says, “Killing.” A station guard comes up from behind you, and you realize that he has been listening in. “Look at you,” he says. “The Zenith Corporation’s been taking care of you for years, and all you can do about it is complain. Guards have it good, but you guys in the Nadir Company have better apartments and benefits than anyone – and don’t think the rest of us haven’t noticed.” “So you were a guard?” you say. The man shakes his head, but the guard beside you laughs and cuts in. “He’s a guard alright. A member of Nadir. They have to do a little dirty work every now and again, sure, but when you work on a station full of seditious, lazy bums, what do you expect? Don’t waste a minute feeling sorry for this guy. He lives in the lap of luxury. All the guys in Nadir Company have it easy. They drink and eat free in most places, and their homes…” “I’d happily sleep in a hole in the ground,” the man says, “if I could stand to look at myself in the mirror. Punks like you wouldn’t understand. You’ve never killed a single man, most likely. Much less killed entire families.” “I do my part,” says the guard, squaring his shoulders. “Unfortunately you can’t change who you are,” you say. “But it sounds to me like all you need is a better enemy.” “A better enemy?” says the man. “That’s right. Not scared men and women who have pissed off powerful corporations; all the money in the world can’t make you feel clean once you’ve done that dirty work. No, you need a monster to slay. Fortunately for us, there’s a monster eating our solar system right now. While the rest of the cowards in here pray for someone else to save them, we do the actual work of standing up to that monster.” “The Invader,” says the man. “So the Invader is real, then?” The other guard shakes his head, but you say, “The Invader is very real. Didn’t you ever wonder why Earth stopped communicating years ago? And why stations started disappearing?” “I wondered,” says the man. “There’s a lot of talk about the Invaders, but you have to understand that there’s no official word. They keep it out of the news and focus on stories of space pirates, economic disasters running companies out of business, even stories about manufactured viruses unleashed by terrorists that made the Belt companies declare Earth to be in quarantine. But then we also hear just as much about how things are going to get better. Every day I become more convinced that the people in charge are fools – utter and complete fools – and they depend on people like me to do whatever it takes to maintain their fantasy.” “They do depend on you,” you say. You look deep into the man’s face, which his lined with worry and pitted by scars. You can sense great strength behind his eyes. “I can’t offer you a better life, but I can offer you a good death. One that doesn’t involve lying in a hospital, tormented by visions of a wasted life.” The man shakes his head slowly. “I’m tired of fighting. Tired of killing. But maybe this… maybe this is what I was meant to do.” The man rises and opens the box he was sitting on. He pulls out a heavy rifle, slings it over his shoulder, then straps a large handgun to his side. The box appears to be otherwise empty. “Woah,” says the guard, shaking his head at the man. “Don’t you know? Guards can afford to buy about anything, but they can’t own firearms. No one can, not unless Zenith Corp says so. That stuff’s on loan, buddy, and if you break your contract-” The man whirls on the guard and stares him down, then he quietly says, “Take them from me.” Finally the guard shakes his head and stalks off, muttering under his breath. The man smiles, then grasps your hand. “What’s your name, soldier?” he says. “It’s Cromulus. But don’t bother telling me yours – the Legion will supply you with a new one.” The Survivor has joined the Legion! You also gain 1 XP! ------------ While your fellow jetpack infantrymen spread out and speak with several groups, you notice three clusters of people that you could approach. One group is nicely dressed: Smart yet sedate, fashionable without being ostentatious. They obviously benefit from a moderate to high income. They could be teachers, accountants, or any kind of desk jockey. They defer to an intelligent older man, perhaps a doctor or lawyer. The second group seems to be composed entirely of low-class goons, perhaps even members of a gang. They view your comrades with open hostility. Their leader is a tough-looking, muscular man covered in prison tattoos. The third group is a mix of incomes, ages, and fashions, but you do see several of them praying. At their head stands an old woman in a robe. It is obvious that she mistrusts your comrades, as her stance is not unlike a small guard dog. From across the room she turns and looks straight at you, and you realize that she has a deep well of power behind the mask of her face. Who will you speak to? quote:Name: Cromulus
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Apr 20, 2015 03:57
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Let's chat with the old woman!
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Apr 20, 2015 04:08
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corn in the bible posted:The second group seems to be composed entirely of low-class goons, perhaps even members of a gang. They view your comrades with open hostility. Their leader is a tough-looking, muscular man covered in prison tattoos. Slaan posted:Yeah, lets speak to the Goon
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Apr 20, 2015 04:12
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Lets get some Goonswarm members.
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Apr 20, 2015 04:26
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Recruit a "deep well of power." What could go wrong?
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Apr 20, 2015 04:35
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Always bet on goons.
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Apr 20, 2015 04:35
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As soon as you approach the goons, their leader steps forth. “Looky what we got here!” he says. “A soldier-boy! Big guns! Shiny suit! You look like you think you somethin’ special, man!” The others laugh. You are instantly enraged. “I wanted to speak to some real men,” you say, “not listen to a bunch of dogs barking. Your station’s in the middle of a riot, isn’t it? Why aren’t you scumbags out looting?” “I’m on probation, dumbass,” says the lead goon. “I’m not plannin’ on goin’ back into lockdown, so I figured we’d take a look at you retards. You got a problem with that?” “I have a problem with delusional punks who think they’re free just because they’re not sitting in a cage eating processed meat-product handed to them by a guard with a badge. Your posturing is an embarrassment to your species. Do you boys want to join the Legion or not? If you do, we can give you the training and tools you need to consider yourselves men, human men, for the first time in your pathetic lives. You could live with dignity.” The goons finally stop laughing, and their leader stares at you with hatred burning in his eyes. “I got dignity,” he says. “I’m not some bitch that does what Zenith Corp tells me. Nobody tells me what to do. I run this bitch!” “You do?” You look around the room. “I see some old heads in suits that are scared of you. I see some old women and children who look pretty intimidated. But when you walk out of this room, do you think they’ll respect you? They’ll shake their heads and laugh. And the Invaders who pick apart stations like this without even giving a thought to idiots like you – they won’t even know you existed.” Enraged beyond words, the man spits, then grinds his teeth in your direction. “But they know we exist,” you say. “If you want to be able to say the same, then join us. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.” The leader confers with his goons, then returns. “Alright, soldier-boy,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “If you want the Big Porch Dog-Hounds to join up, then you gotta show us how big your balls are.” “Fine,” you say, reaching for your crotch. “By combat,” he says. “No weapons, no suit, no fancy gizmos, and no rules.” “How can you list a bunch of rules and then say ‘no rules’?,” you ask, waving away a Zenith guard who approaches shaking his head. “Also no eye-jabbing, no throat-punching, and no ball-stomping if the opponent is on the ground,” he adds, taking off his shirt and shoes. “You down? If you are… strip!” “You’ll join the Legion if I have to beat you to a pulp and drag you with me,” you say. “We’ll make a man of you yet.” The goon shakes his head and stretches his arms out. You unzip the front of your suit – then an intense wave of nausea and light-headedness overcomes you. “Look at this guy,” says the pack leader, laughing. “I ain’t even throwed a punch yet and this punk’s green in the face!” The others laugh while you strain to unstrap your jetpack. You swallow and blink uncontrollably as the heavy metal device clangs against the floor. It’s the training, you think. What have they done to me? I can’t even take off this damned suit if I’m not on my ship. Is it some form of mind control? Unconscious indoctrination? “You can’t even get out of that piece of crap outfit, can you?” says the leader, looking back at the others as he laughs still more. “What was all that poo poo you were saying about bein’ your own man?!” Swallowing down an incredible torrent of puke, you force your way out of your protective suit. “I just didn’t like the idea of your stinking breath touching my skin,” you say, forcing a smile. “Just give me a minute. You’ll get your rear end handed to you soon enough.” As you fumble with the suit, you see several fellow infantrymen staring at you, frozen in alarm. A few of them turn away, holding their hands to their mouths. After a minute of what feels like hours of torture, you strip down to your pants. Your suit and jetpack lie on the ground, and you can almost hear your gear screaming at you, begging to be put back on before the Invaders destroy the station and send you into the freezing void. You close your eyes and force your knees to remain steady. “Good job,” says the goon. “Looks like you’re a real pro at taking your drat clothes off. But in about five seconds, I’m gonna tear them pants off you, too.” You turn toward him – and see his fist coming straight for you. 3 Str + 3 Will + 2 GC = 8 The goon’s fist slams into your jaw with enough force to send you spinning about, but you raise an elbow to ward off his follow-up blow with surprising quickness. The fight is fast and intense. With razor-sharp clarity your fists snake past his guard and pummel his flesh, and you do your best to shrug off his blows. Just when you feel yourself getting winded, the goon leans forward and puts his weight on you. But his grapple is only half-hearted, more of an attempt to rest than anything else, so you bring your knee crashing into his midsection and lay him out on the floor. During the fight, you lose (6 - 3 Will) 3 Blood. You raise your hands in victory over the young punks. “Well, boys,” you say, “welcome to the Black Lance Legion.” “You got some moves,” says the leader, massaging his jaw. “Alright then, boss, we’ll join up.” You help the young man up, then you slap his shoulder and point him toward an infantryman who is already leading other people out of the room and onto the dropship. The young men and women nod in acknowledgment of your victory as they leave. As you suit up and catch your breath, you look about to see if anyone else requires a beating before joining the Legion. You gain 2 XP for winning the fight and gaining some recruits. ------------ You talk with many people, and none of them give you any real trouble. More than a few of them want to believe your stories of the Legion standing up to the Invaders, but they are used to having their hopes dashed. Sadly, many only shrug and return to the lives that they would love to leave behind. You take a few moments to watch your comrades. Grishnak does surprisingly well with the civilians. Seeing a woman as an infantryman gives the laborers hope that they can make a fresh start free of old preconceptions. You notice Heimdall speaking to a group of old people; he looks frustrated and out of place among the old heads who want to talk in circles and avoid committing to anything new. You spot Commander Uther speaking to a group of kids, laughing and telling them that cleaning battleship ducts for eight hours a day is better than waiting to inherit the life of a slave. You take note of his honesty about the difficulties of life in the Legion, and how it seems to have no effect on the amount of people he recruits. He sends one person after another to join the lines of new recruits. You manage to recruit several people as well, and you learn a thing or two about dealing with people outside of the chain of command: You gain an amount of XP equal to your Charisma. So, you gain 1 XP. You take a break and study the crowd. You can see many people who have already spoken with soldiers from the Legion, but they have neither joined nor left the room. They whisper in small clusters or sit alone. You know that today is the first day that they have heard the truth in a long, long time – but still, they will not take up arms to fight for their home. “You see it too, don’t you?” says Commander Uther, sidling up to you with some rations and drinks. You nod. “We don’t want to be like them. They have to depend on their master’s vision rather than their own. They’re cut off from one another even when they’re together. They don’t know the true enemy, and they wouldn’t know how to fight even if the enemy was pointed out to them. They’re scared and powerless.” Commander Uther sighs. “The human condition is unfit for any human being. We’re not just fighting an enemy, Cromulus. We’re trying to remember who we are. That’s why we fight, son.” “Yes, sir,” you say, taking a ration and drink from him. You sit alone and eat and try to hide the fact that you have been blown away by the sad desperation that defines most of humanity’s existence. You gain a whopping 15 XP as you consider this difficult experience.  LEVEL UP! “That’s it,” shouts a unit commander. “Blood Goose is here. Let’s roll, infantry! We’re out of here. If anyone else wants to join the Legion, fall in!” Please determine how you want to level up! Remember: +3 HP, +3 Stats, +1 Skill, +1 Combat quote:Name: Cromulus corn in the bible fucked around with this message at 05:04 on Apr 20, 2015 |
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Apr 20, 2015 04:55
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We need the drat jetpack skill already
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Apr 20, 2015 05:00
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+3 to Will Jetpack ZC
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Apr 20, 2015 05:06
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Int, Dex, Will, Zero-G Combat, Jetpack
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Apr 20, 2015 05:32
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Arcturas posted:Int, Dex, Will, Zero-G Combat, Jetpack Can't go wrong with this.
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Apr 20, 2015 06:07
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Hogge Wild posted:+3 to Will gently caress tactics, we'll jet-ram them all!
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Apr 20, 2015 06:08
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Str, Dex, Will Jetpack Zero-G combat How many skills are there left?
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Apr 20, 2015 06:28
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Hogge Wild posted:+3 to Will
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Apr 20, 2015 06:28
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sunburnedcrow posted:Str, Dex, Will This.
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Apr 20, 2015 13:17
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quote:Name: Cromulus You return to the dropship and force your way in alongside Commander Uther, Grishnak, Heimdall, and a lot of nervous new recruits. As the dropship makes its way back to the Penelope’s Vengeance, Uther gestures to a monitor that gives a view outside the ship. “Look there,” he says. “That’s the other ship we’re meeting, the Blood Goose.” You see a long, dark mass blotting out a field of stars. “Smaller and faster than our ship,” Heimdall muses. “I wonder how their Captain compares to our Captain Numitor.” “He might not be as cool under pressure as Numitor,” says Uther. “Although there is something cold about him. By all accounts I’ve heard, he’s a strange guy.” “How so?” you ask. “There’s his name, for one. I don’t know how he earned the name, but they call him… well, they call him Smiling Jim Dandy.” Grishnak scrunches up her nose as if smelling something rancid. “That’s not a name fit for a human,” she says. “Not a human of the Black Lance, anyway.” You rest and train with your crewmates for several days while the Penelope’s Vengeance and the Blood Goose swing outward from the Asteroid Belt and make their way toward Uranus and the meeting with the Thunder God. You manage to heal 2 Blood while taking your ease. You wake one morning and you are filled with an urge to see the training of new recruits. You lie in your bunk and consider how such a thing could be done, or if it is even worth your time. While there are no rules against watching the process, it is frowned upon for infantrymen to meddle in the delicate process of turning raw recruits into soldiers of the Black Lance Legion. ------------ A few days ago you asked probing questions of the other Venice Clovers, but none of them expressed any interest in talking about their training. They do not enjoy the memory of those days. You, on the other hand, have no memory of your training even though it shaped who you are today. You cannot help but wonder if your old memories will be restored if you see the training of the new recruits. Before anyone else wakes up, you pull yourself out of bed, don your black uniform and gray, hole-ridden sweater, and make your way through the dark hallways of your home. Suddenly you hear voices ahead of you. You stop and watch as several figures pass by an intersection. A group of infantrymen pass through the intersection. Most of them ignore you, as they are deep in conversation. One man at the rear of the group, who does not seem to be a part of the conversation, stops and stares at you. He has short reddish-blond hair, sad gray eyes, and crooked teeth. Across the dark hallway you lock eyes with one another, and you are startled to realize that he is John Christian, the man who tried who tried to kill you. He failed to take your life but succeeded in shattering your old memories; it is his fault that you cannot remember who you were before you joined the Legion, but he is also the one responsible for setting in motion the events that led to your epic journey to return to the Penelope’s Vengeance so long ago. Your home may have been destroyed if you had not stayed behind and found out that your comrades were being tracked by the Invaders. Even though your dreams were haunted by his face leering at you with psychotic rage, you spared his life when you had the chance to kill him. Looking at him now, you can see his shoulders sagging under some kind of burden. His young face seems lined with worry. He is clearly no human fanatic. He looks like such a whipped dog that you wonder if he is even human at all. Why does he stand and stare? you wonder. Is he going to wait for me to walk up and finally beat his brains in? When you have finally had enough, you decide to ask him if he understands what you owe him. You open your mouth to speak, but at that moment more infantrymen from his unit crowd through the intersection. They, too, are deep in heated conversation, and some of them mention packing into the mess hall. As they pass by John Christian, he suddenly turns to them and says, “Can I come?” Unimpressed by the child-like question, one of his teammates says, “Do what you want, dumbass!” while a few others laugh. Soon the intersection clears once again. John Christian turns away from his teammates, looks at you one last time, then follows the ones who laughed at him. You wonder about what has just transpired. If he wants me dead, you wonder, then why doesn’t he try to kill me? You wind your way through the ship until you come to dark, unfamiliar paths deep within the winding steel structure. Sometimes you pass by cramped rooms filled with new recruits talking quietly or sleeping. They look away when they see your yellow infantry badge. You do not see any trainers, nor can you find any maps that mark the way through the ship; no doubt the recruits are expected to stay in their rooms unless told otherwise. Your unease grows as you explore the cramped halls. While you have no conscious memory of this place, your body remembers enduring some terrible stress here. Finally you draw near a steel door marked by a sign that reads: COGNITIVE REHABITUATION This must be it, you think. Something deep inside tells you to turn around and forget this venture. ------------ You find yourself in a long hallway. It is very dark, but you see lights flickering through many open doorways. You hear dim, muted sounds, but you see no one. Your feet feel heavy as you walk down the hall. You come to the first open door and see a large screen playing a movie. You step inside and suddenly you are blasted with sound; the walls must be covered in a material that cleverly absorbs or redirects the sound, because the volume is uncomfortably loud when you stand inside the room. Your eyes adjust to the glare of the screen and you see many people sitting and viewing the movie. They do not appear to be enjoying the experience. Several lean forward and retch loudly, some are crying or praying, and others sit like dead bodies propped up in their chairs. You can just barely make out men in Legion uniforms standing off to the side. They wear heavy goggles of a type you have never seen before. The standing soldiers appear to be monitoring the crowd, and even though they ignore you, you take a step back so that you won’t be immediately spotted. The movie seems to be a low-budget affair about two Legion infantrymen in a pre-Invasion shuttle. “This is what I love about guard duty!” says one of the actors. “Plenty of down-time, if you know what I mean!” There is an awkward pause as if the second actor has forgotten his lines, then the first continues. “Think I’ll take my suit off for a minute so I can relax as much as I want.” “No,” someone mutters nearby. You see a member of the audience cover his eyes with one hand. Because of his civilian attire, you assume he is one of the new recruits. His hand shakes uncontrollably as he mutters, “Don’t do it. Idiot. Don’t do it.” “Is that a good idea?” says the second actor. “I thought we were supposed to leave our suits on anytime we leave the ship.” “Hey, man, I know I’m not going to turn myself in!” The first actor unzips his bulky infantry suit. “Are you going to turn me in? I think that if an officer does not catch us then there are no repercussions for our actions.” Without further argument both men strip down to their undergarments, then they lounge on a pile of boxes with legs crossed and hands behind their heads in an absurd pantomime of relaxation. You feel an intense surge of unease and find yourself quietly cursing the two men for taking off their bulky spacesuits while away from a Legion battleship. The screen flashes red and the men topple from the boxes as your ears are blasted by the sounds of an explosion. “Hull breach!” screams one actor. “Invaders are here! Quick, stop relaxing and get back into your suit!” The audience members redouble their retching and dry-heaving as the two actors fumble about with their suits. Though your reaction is not as powerful, you find yourself leaning against the doorframe to keep from falling over. You try to comfort yourself by noting that the movie is of exceptionally low quality, thus it cannot be “real”, but you feel only horror when you see a wall tear open and one of the actors is flung backward. The special effects become nightmarishly real as the man’s body partly seals the breach and the camera zooms in to show his face peeling away from his skull. His eyes and tongue bloat and his lips peel back from his gums, giving him a demonic appearance. One audience member retches on a long wad of thick saliva as the actor spits blood and says: I SHOULD HAVE LEFT MY SUIT ON WHEN AWAY FROM THE LEGION I SHOULD HAVE LEFT MY SUIT ON WHEN AWAY FROM THE LEGION I SHOULD HAVE LEFT MY SUIT ON WHEN AWAY FROM THE LEGION MY SUIT LEFT IT ON I SHOULD AWAY WENT I THE LEGION FROM The mantra goes on and on and as you back out of the room the actor’s head splits open and frozen chunks of brains spill out. Even audience members who have covered their eyes and ears seem violently wounded by the grotesque scene. You know that they have been drugged and shown this film many, many times. You stumble into the dark hallway. The sound recedes immediately and you attempt to catch your breath. Drawn by an awful curiosity, you pull yourself toward the light of another doorway. You see another theater full of recruits, but the film in this room immediately eases your nausea. You see a beautiful view of what can only be Earth. Green hills dotted with trees under a radiant blue sky frame a still, calm lake covered in early morning mist. You are filled with homesickness and yearn to see the lost homeworld of your people. Images of families flash on the screen. You see all races in all manner of dress smiling at you, cheering you on. I am their guardian, you think, the chosen representative of… Just as you think these things, words flash on-screen, reading: YOU ARE THEIR GUARDIAN THE CHOSEN REPRESENTATIVE OF THE FINEST SPECIES THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ANIMAL You are shocked and horrified. Even as your body feels intense joy, and you notice that the audience members seem relaxed and content, you are terrified by the idea that you have been tricked into feeling good. They call me a human fanatic because I’m different from them! you think. What I feel is real, not a product of some behavioral modification program. It can’t be fake! We can’t defend the human species by erasing what’s human in us! Even as your body is flooded with joy, you grip your hands at your sides because you know that rage is the only sane reaction to the programming you have seen. One of the officers standing in darkness stares directly at you. His heavy goggles give him an inhuman appearance. You can only step away from the entrance with great difficulty, but instead of worrying about being seen by the man, you can only wonder why no one ever talks about this programming and what it could mean about their identities. Just as the noise dies down in the darkened hallway, a short man grabs your shoulder and spins you about. An officer with pale, mottled skin and dark hair stares at you through heavy goggles. “What are you doing here?” he says. His voice is without emotion. Confused about his rank, you look to see the color of his badge. Instead of seeing a square patch of yellow or blue or any other color, you see an insignia of a butterfly with letters at top and bottom that read: COG 00 N “Got someone sneaking around the Cog, do we?” says a man who approaches from another theater. He is short like the first, but his hair is white. “You’re not supposed to be here, grunt.” “I go where I want,” you say, enraged that they would question you. “Got nothing to say?” says the white-haired man. “Thought you’d snoop and leave? Don’t you know you’re not supposed to be in here?” “There aren’t any signs that say otherwise,” you say, grinding your teeth and wondering what sort of danger the two short men present. “Ah, but the sign’s not hanging up out there, is it? Where is it?” The man taps a finger into the middle of your forehead and you violently slap his hand away. “You’ll regret that,” says the black-haired man. Despite his tough words, he makes no motion to stop you. You turn toward him, but before you can consider how far you’ll go toward making him apologize, he says something that you can’t distinguish from the background noise while making a sign with his hand – and your body snaps to rigid attention. Panic grips you as the two men laugh at you. “He’s still one of ours, alright,” says the dark-haired man. “Made a wrong turn looking for the bathroom, did you?” says the white-haired man. You glance down at his dark goggles; other than your eyes, you cannot move any other muscle. It is as if you have been nailed to a beam of steel. The white-haired man smiles cruelly and you are gripped by the terrifying thought that perhaps these two have constructed an elaborate fantasy into which you, Commander Uther, Captain Numitor, and everyone else has fallen. What if you aren’t fighting horned monsters from another solar system at all? What if you’ve only been hunting down innocent civilians targeted for murder by some evil organization? “Wrong turn at the bathroom,” laughs the dark-haired man. “Or maybe not. I think we should make him poo poo his pants right here.” “Well, that’ll make a stink, won’t it?” says the white-haired man. “No, no, he’d much rather go someplace else for that, wouldn’t he?” “March, then,” says the dark-haired man. “March in place like a good little soldier.” Will you do as he says? Or will you do as he says? quote:Name: Cromulus
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Apr 20, 2015 18:48
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We got the willpower, so: "Go gently caress yourself, old man!"
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Apr 20, 2015 20:02
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I won't do what you tell me!
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Apr 20, 2015 20:19
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I don't think you read the choice you've been given properly
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Apr 20, 2015 20:26
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 The Android versions of these books are really well done, if anyone's looking at those.
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Apr 20, 2015 20:35
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We are no man's puppet! We will do as he says !
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Apr 20, 2015 20:36
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corn in the bible posted:I don't think you read the choice you've been given properly gently caress you, dad!
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Apr 20, 2015 20:40
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Tulul posted:
Didn't even know there was one. I could do with expanding my library. I think you should play along if only to be able to bust them up later, instead of being brainwashed again.
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Apr 20, 2015 20:42
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As if in a nightmare you feel your legs pumping up and down while your arms jerk at your sides. The laughter sounds distant, as if someone has just turned the volume down. You feel as if someone else is marching in place. Perhaps a character in a vid, but certainly not you. “He’s still ripe, I guess?” says the white-haired man. “No tune-up needed, eh?” “Can’t say for sure.” The black-haired man pulls a small knife from behind his back, then says, “Put out your hand. Take this and…” ------------ You watch as your hand closes around the knife. You see lips hovering in your vision. A voice says: “Take the knife and cut your hand.” Even as your sense of reality falters, you try to visualize controlling yourself. A puppet pulling his own strings. Instead of stifling the sense of panic and nausea that comes with fighting a command that cannot be ignored, you visualize your free hand rising, then grasping… rising, then grasping… Though you move slowly, the black-haired man’s peripheral vision is ruined by the heavy goggles. He does not see you bring up your free hand as you grasp his collar. He jerks to free himself – and then his hold on you is suddenly broken. You slam him against the wall and press the small blade against his throat. “Bastard,” you hiss. He opens his mouth to speak another command-word. “Keep your mouth closed or I’ll open your throat.” Like a constipated frog, the little man clamps his mouth shut and shakes with terror. In the sudden silence, you realize that a newcomer has arrived. “Stop right there. Don’t anyone make a move.” You glance to the side and see Major Faustulus. He is the bearded man who had a hand in your training – and who gave you a humiliating name before you earned the name Cromulus. He is wearing a pair of goggles identical to the other men, and he also has a heavy stun-stick in one hand. “You put him down, Cromulus.” “Do you know about this place?” you say. “Do you know about these men, and what they do?” “Yes, Cromulus. I do.” Furious, you consider swiping the blade across the black-haired man’s pale throat. Perhaps it’s time you threw yourself at the Major and finally paid him back for the name he gave you so long ago… “But I’m on your side, son. Don’t worry. I saw the whole thing.” Major Faustulus turns to the white-haired man and says, “I saw you two harassing him. Outside of training protocols, you know as well as I do that abusing a recruit – much less a full-fledged soldier – is against the rules. You can’t do that.” “But he was snooping in-” You suddenly hear the high-pitched whine of a stun-stick turned on to full power. “Let’s not do this,” says Major Faustulus. “You boys go back to your jobs. I’ll do the same, and so will Cromulus.” “How’re you going to keep him from slitting a programmer’s throat?” says the white-haired man. “He won’t do it. He’s a soldier, not a killer. He doesn’t like what he’s seen here, sure, but he knows everyone has to make concessions if we’re going to win this war. He might be confused and angry, but at his core he’s a soldier. He’ll do what’s right. Isn’t that so, son?” Having Major Faustulus stand up for you, for once, is a welcome relief. You realize that within a few minutes of being inside the terrible training area, you were beginning to believe that you lived in a harsh, false world run by psychopathic madmen. Faustulus’s words help clear away the cobwebs. You release the black-haired “programmer” and toss his knife down the dark hallway. “Let’s go, Cromulus.” Major Faustulus turns and walks. You take a moment to stare down the two freaks and memorize their faces. You have an urge to kill them both, but the idea of leaving the terrible place and returning to the world you once knew is overwhelming. You follow Faustulus and leave the dark hallway. You gain 2 XP for using your Will to thwart the programmers. ------------ As soon as the door labeled COGNITIVE REHABITUATION is shut, Major Faustulus tears the goggles from his face and says, “I don’t know if it’s your amnesia that made you curious about this crap-hole or what, son, but I really wish you hadn’t come down here.” Still in shock over what you have experienced, you find it difficult to speak. Faustulus frowns and looks away from you, then says, “Okay, look, I realize it looks bad in there. Half the guys who run that part of the training program are bat-poo poo crazy. I’ll be the first to admit it. But as long as there are guys like me in there, then we can keep the Cog from getting out of control. We just… we teach a few years of good habits in the course of a few days so we can get humanity back on its feet that much faster. Is that really so bad?” “The Cog?” you say. “Is that what they call that goddamned asylum?” Major Faustulus winces as if acknowledging he has said too much already. “You just stay away from here and keep your mouth shut. This poo poo is necessary. Believe me. If there’s one thing I know, boy, it’s people. They need a push before they’ll get off their rear end, and I’m not afraid to push when I have to. But don’t you go getting all paranoid. This place is run by rules. Nobody gets hurt. Not really, anyway. I’ve seen more trips to the med ward after combat training than I have with rehabituation, and that’s a fact. So just… just get out of here.” You gain 3 XP for finding your way into the Cog and seeing a part of its strange ways. Make a note that you have been in the Cog, as this may have a long-term effect on you. You can thank the Major before you leave, if you want. (Breaking free is automatic if you have at least 6 Will; otherwise, it's impossible.) quote:Name: Cromulus
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Apr 20, 2015 22:32
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Thank the major.
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Apr 20, 2015 22:59
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thank mr faustulus
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Apr 20, 2015 23:10
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Thank the major
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Apr 21, 2015 01:55
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Thank the Major; it's what the Wiggles would do.
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Apr 21, 2015 02:01
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