ReFan BRAWL

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

As some of you may have noticed, a story-orientated turn-based RPG has been imported onto this board. Since we consider many of the rounds to have been insanely epic, funny, and downright psychotic I have decided to copy-paste them onto here, battle by battle, with as much proctor calc edited out as possible (or left in, meh) beginning with the oldest match considered fleshed out and actually finished.

Yes, contains much violence, graphic description, swearing, and dark humor. Enjoy.
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Posted at May, 2008 ---

Location: You are in an empty jumbo jet aircraft, flying on an advanced auto-pilot over the Alaskan Aleutian islands during the dead of winter. Should the jet become damaged or destroyed during the fight, it will not mean the end of the battle. I will determine the effects and damage dealt, as well as where you will land. Since you are inside an aircraft, there will be no moving to a different area, though you will be able to leave the aircraft at any time. Once you leave, you will NOT be able to return to the inside of the craft, though you may choose to hang out on the exterior for a bit.

----
Cerberus
The plane was virtually silent save for the expected sounds of the engines and minor turbulence. Everything was still. The operation was on autopilot, and no sign of life was on board, save for two potential heavily armed psychopaths somewhere on the plane... And there is a surprisingly large amount of places to hide on a jumbo jet.
Near the far back of the last cabin, coach, was a blue curtain, separating the flight attendants area from the passenger cabins. The curtain was draw. Behind it were a few small doors, stainless steel snack area, chairs, privy, and just to the right was a very small empty room. There was no door to close it off. The floor was the traditional soft, blue carpet. One window was set into the wall, casting a gloomy, gray morning shine into the room.
The silence continued, the stillness and lifelessness of the plane complete.
...
Suddenly, with a heavy thwump and a woosh of air, a ceiling panel slammed onto the floor. Instantly the room was filled with a cloud of gray dust, the particles swirling eerily in the light. Crouched in the center of the room, two booted feet arched directly on top of the fallen ceiling panel, was a hunched over figure. A gray trench coat was draped over his shoulders. Gleaming shells in the loops of a gunbelt crisscrossed his waist and torso, the brown leather of the belt and golden gleam of the brass stood out against the black shirt worn beneath the coat. A leather holster was strapped to his upper right thigh, though empty. It's contents were in his right hand, the heavy revolver ominously shining in the gray gloom. A large rifle was slung over his back, the wooden stock and jet black metal seemingly dull in comparison. A steel handle could be seen over his shoulder although whatever it was attached to was hidden beneath the coat. His head was tilted down, long, unkept dark hair spilling down, obscuring his face. The window behind him resulted in a shadowed figure of a canine cast on the wall for a brief second, and then with the blink of an eye it was the shadow of a seemingly normal human figure. In that one instant the empty plain, devoid of life, was filled with the presence of a monster, a devil. And that shine of light hidden behind the curtain of hair and shadow, were the eyes of a psychopath.
***
I straightened and stood tall, long strands of hair dangling in front of my eyes. The swirling dust was quickly settling down, the revolver once more spinning and whistling in one gloved hand.
With a flourish I deposited the machine into it's holster and raised both hands to the edges of my coat. I gently lifted it slightly, and then snapped it down, sending the collected dust flying off. I straightened my collar, shaking my head, sending more dust flying off.
I cracked my neck to the right, a satisfying crackle greeting my ears.
"Ahhh...." Another game.... Another battle... I grinned. Oh, yeeesss.... I bent down and snatched a black Western style hat from the floor, shook it off, and with a flourish donned it on my head, tilting the brim down slightly over my features. Adrenaline poured through my veins. I was giddy with excitement...
The last dog had been no fun. Insulting, bastardizing...Spoiled my fun once too many times, didn't he? Why, yes he did... Yes, he, diiidd.... A solid fight though, that I'll give him. But why spoil this happiness, this fun... It hasn't even begun yet, has it now? No.
"He he." I chuckled slightly and swept my coat back, reaching for the silver flask. Nothing like quality scotch to start off a party. And while I generally preferred more old fashioned establishments, before the human race became so damned boring and mediatized, but on a flying steel machine over 30,000 feet in the atmosphere.. Well, there was going to be one hell of a party up here, and if history was anything to go bye, it's life probability hit the negative range the instant I opened my eyes.
Now then, I'm on another arena, and was stuffed inside a bloody crawlspace with another man (or perhaps a women... Perhaps an it?) on board. Hopefully this one would be as fun as the last...
A shine of teeth was seen beneath my lips. I whispered slightly. "Now then mastah (see rule #2,) let's see what you have for me this time..."

And I stepped out into the plane.
---
Move summary: Search the plane, particularly for a parachute.




-------------------

Orthrus

The whine of heavy turbine engines accompanied the steady vibrations beneath me. The noise was literally deafening- if passengers would have complained to me that day I might have slapped them upside the head. Blue skies passed outside windows, but I couldn't see any of it. My current location was dimly lit, cramped, claustrophobic, and potentially dangerous. I was lying flat on my stomach, dust caking itself into my clothes, with only a meter of space above me, lit solely by the Surefire flashlights that could be found on every airplane. The flashlight was held in my left hand, a potentially innocent thing, but my right hand was working on something much more conspicuous. Namely- fiddling with the primary feed loop that snaked directly into one of the two turbine engines.
Heavy hydraulic cables were strung taut over my head, one of them painfully pressing into my shoulder, the price of wedging myself under it as I made my way to my goal. Yeah....I was crawling through an airplane wing, while it was still running.
And people thought terrorism was simple, just walk onto a plane, wave a gun into the air and yell for Allah. Hah! Behind me stretched a torn apart engine compartment, a hell of a mass of electronic and hydraulic cables (God knows how many kilos I'd crawled under), a jagged hole in the thin aluminum skin of the fuselage, Dragunov's legacy, and a torn open effluent tank (Don't ask).

My gloved hands carefully worked at the feed system, protected from the heat of the metal they were currently setting up for destruction. In a way, this heat was keeping me alive. At this altitude, the exterior temperature was over negative thirty Celsius.
My body was protected by a pitch black Cossack Greatcoat, a woolen Shinel, though it's previous glory was now tarnished in layers of brownish gray dust. The Coat stretched down from my neck to my ankles, clasped over my torso with two straps. The Holster strapped over my left hip was completely obscured, and were it not for the second law of thermo-dynamics, the Greatcoat, leather gloves, and high quality boots, I'd already have hypothermia.

With exquisite delicacy, I slowly turned around a connecting valve with a small wrench borrowed from a mechanic kit. The wrench would be returned quiet soon, not that it's life expectancy would last another few hours.The valve connected a thick hydraulic cable into the Plane (Generic term for flaps and so forth) box, compressed fluid flowing in and out to maneuver slats, flaps, and toss off the general pigeon.
A few seconds later a compressed spray of purple hydraulic fluid burst out from around the valve casing. I immediately stopped unscrewing it, and very slowly turned it the other way, just far enough for the flow to cease.

My work with the hydraulics was finished, and it took me only a single turn to come face to face with the Engine. Flakes of metal and dust dropped from the roof as the heavy engine fuel ignited. I was less than a meter away from the ongoing reaction, only a piece of metal separating me from the pumping cylinders and spinning turbine.
Where the hell was a flask of vodka when I needed one? Oh yeah, back on the bloody surface. What kind of airliner was this anyway? Didn't they have any idea how stressful flight could get? You don't expect a man to crawl through severals meters of machinery fully capable of killing him and not get frightened. I needed some alcohol for my nerves and champagne just didn't cut it.

The engine case was firmly secured via several bolted pylons, in addition to welding and riveting. I pulled up the package I'd been dragging this whole way. Clutched in my hand was a relatively large metal cylinder, a thin metal rod taped to it's side. Cyrillic lettering was stamped on yellow paint over the bottom, ОЗМ-4, as well as the standard serial number and so forth. The Cylinder was a Russian OZM-4 bounding land mine. The metal rod taped to it's side was a standard MUV trip wire fuze. Typical of Russian construction, it was quiet simple, though effective. The MUV looked like a small antenna more than anything, but two holes were drilled through it, one over the other. Two pins with circular ends were currently lodged in both of these holes, resembling a grenade pin more than anything.

I pulled myself forward to the engine (not a little bit apprehensively) and wedged the mine between two pylons, right next to the engine. The top of the cylinder had two holes, one of which was threaded. Moving awkwardly due to my position, I screwed the MUV fuze into the threaded OZM fuze well, checking to make sure it was absolutely secure. With the fuze tightly in place, as well as the cylinder, I unwound the roll of thin wire I'd dropped into a Coat pocket. Dragging myself over to the hydraulic line I'd loosened, I carefully wrapped the wire right behind the valve, tying it off with two knots.
I pulled the wire up to tighten it, and very carefully slipped it through the lower pin in the fuze. I took me over a minute to tie the wire to the pin, because on one hand I had to keep it as taut as possible, but at the same time I didn't want to pull out the pin just yet. If I pulled out he pin now, the mine would not explode, but it would be annoying as hell for me to have to put it back in, untie the wire, and then retie it.
A little after a minute in a half I pulled back and examined my handiwork.
The land mine was wedged between the engine and a pylon, a trip wire fuzed into it and tied to a loosened hydraulic cable. A perfect set up as far as I was concerned. My last action before leaving the wing (to my relief) was to take hold of the upper safety pin and yank it out of the MUV. There was nothing more than a piece of metal less than the size of my little finger holding back the mine from detonating. With a long, weary sigh, I turned back and started crawling back through the wing, picking up the discarded SVD on the way. At the far end I looked at the effluent tank... and groaned.



I'd just rigged the Starboard engine for detonation, but this wasn't my first work of the day. One of the Port engines was identically rigged, and yet a third land mine was currently enjoying itself directly on top of the Jets fuel tank. What I'd done was set up a mechanical time bomb for the plane to completely shred itself. Before actually setting up the mines, I'd started out with a little trip to the cock pit (Courtesy of another effluent tank. Delightful little design flaw) and adjusted the autopilot directions. It wasn't too difficult, after spending half an hour reviewing the Pilot manual and munching on pretzels.
The result was that the plane was no longer heading for a permanent destination, but was to fly to my designated location and then turn around, heading back into the direction where it'd come from. This point would be hit in about twenty minutes, which this time was courtesy of a pencil and napkin.
I'd also adjusted the autopilot to lower the plane to an altitude of 3,500 Meters, low enough for me to leave the plane without risking decompression sickness (At 10,000 meters, I'd have had to pre-beath oxygen for an hour and then breath it all the way down.)

The moment the plane would turn around, the motion of the flaps would send a back flow of fluid pressure through the hydraulic lines. While normally this was perfectly all right, there was little less than a single thread along the valve line holding the cable taut. Once the plane turned, the pressure would blow the line straight out of it's housing, and this line was attached to a taut tripe wire.
The MUV was designed in a similar fashion to a mechanical pen. Above the two pins was a striker rod with a wound up spring around it. The only thing holding that spring and striker up were the two pins, a safety pin and a trigger pin. I'd removed the safety pin myself, which left only the trigger pin separating the striker from the explosive below it. When the trip wire was pulled, it would yank the trigger pin out with it, which would plunge the striker straight into a small amount of primary explosive, which in turn would trigger a charge of secondary explosive. That charge would blow the mine half a meter into the air, where it would explode, riddling the fuel cables, hydraulics, and engine with shrapnel. If I was lucky, the fuel in the lines would ignite, but even if it didn't, the fuel tank was going bye bye without a doubt. Jet fuel was hard to ignite, it wouldn't burn even if I'd dropped a match into it. But something like this set up was akin to pouring gasoline over a kitten and throwing it into Hell.

Twenty minutes until the two engines and fuel tank blew to Hell. That gave me twenty minutes to find a parachute and get off of here, hopefully before whoever else on this plane found me. Hell, the only reason we probably hadn't met was because I'd avoided the main fuselage at all costs. I'd navigated the plane by means of several maintenance access tunnels, wing space, and lavatories (Damn tanks.)

I started to make my way back to the body of the plane. From there I'd have to find the rear cargo hold, which would almost certainly hold a few parachutes. I just hoped I wouldn't run into Comrade Passenger just yet.

--------------------------
Rigged plane engines and fuel tank to blow in twenty minutes


--------------------

Cerberus

I walked slowly down the empty cabin, my booted feet perfectly silent save for the slightest clink of the silver spurs. New boots since my fight with Tidus and I hadn't taken the time to remove them. Besides, even though it gave away my position I rather liked the sound. And there was quite a range of stylish actions to be performed and in the end there was nothing quite as cinematic as a slow dramatic footfall with the cling of spurs behind them as the opponents approach for a showdown... Ah, a denizen of Hell I might have been, but even demons bow to the glory of Clint Eastwood.
Other then my slow but steady pace forward, no part on my body moved, saved for the constant spin of the revolver in my left hand and my eyes, hidden in the shadow of the hat. My eyeballs casually moved up and down each side of the cabin, examining the ceiling, the floor, the seats, the luggage cabinets, virtually everything withn range, thinking of ways to use them, effectively and/or just for the sake of entertainment.
I slowed my pace even further as I approached the blue curtain which separated the cabin and the small area behind it, beyond which was yet another cabin. At the same time I snapped the revolver to a still, pointing the barrel up and keeping my finger ready on the trigger. I walked slowly, deliberately, and stopped right beside the curtain, side stepping slightly to the left.
Silence... My ears strained to hear anything beyond the rumble of the engines (was that a clanging I just heard?) and came up with nothing except for a very faint incessant beeping. That'd be just my luck, we hadn't even started this party and the plane would be crashing.
With that I shrugged, and yanked the curtain aside, the revolver leaving my head's side and snapping forward and side to side in a blur. Empty. Nothing to be see in the stretching cabin beyond either. Uhg.. If I have to search this entire bloody plane then I'm going to lose respect for this fellow before I even have a chance for a first impression. But then again, my first impressions usually occur by a man's actions before a duel actually begins.
I began to step forward but stopped with one foot in the air, sforze,I slowly set my foot back down, and paused. Two still seconds passed, and in the next instant the handle behind my skull vanished and the sword it was attached to was slammed directly into the center of the privy door, leaving only a foot of mirror polished steel shining.
Instantly I wrenched it back out and slammed a booted foot into the door and at the same time snapped the revolver forward, cocking the hammer before my arm finished stretching forward... And freezing in disappointment.
I sighed and turned back to the corridor, resuming my slow pace. I returned both the long sword and the revolver to their respective holsters and continued on to the pilot's cabin. The normally locked steel door was just slightly ajar, resulting in another dramatic burst in with gun moment which also ended in disappointment groan.
There was nothing inside, except for an open manual tossed on one of the seats and a spilled bag of pretzels underfoot. I paused slightly and frowned... Seems like my hidden comrade had been busy. I lifted the manual and glanced at the page before tossing it aside. Something about effluent tanks and wing connections or other... Hell, if he's sitting in the shit tank then power to him. I'm not following him in there. Nope. Nuh-uh.
I turned and slammed the heavy steel door shut and slid the multiple deadbolts home. I didn't want any unwanted surprised before I finished my orientation, and since I didn't know the man on board ( assuming he actually was, this was too quiet for my tastes) could be a yellowgut dog who wouldn't hesitate to shoot me in the back.
I removed my hat and tossed it onto the co-pilot's seat, sliding into the pilot's seat with a relaxed sigh myself. All right then...
Altitude was set for only 3,500 hundred meters... Far too low, standard cruising altitude was supposed to be set for roughly 30,000 feet... It didn't make sense. I leaned over slightly and took a glance at the autopilot and blinked. It was set to turn around within roughly twenty minutes and go back the way we came. Which also didn't make any sense, for an arena I would figure a straight cruise was to be expected at a lethal altitude, not down here... I clicked my tongue slightly and glanced back at the manual and pretzels, still ignoring the continuing soft beep of the alarm. Hmm..
I turned back to the panels and slid open a slightly hidden compartment revealing a liquid plasma screen and a keyboard and began to type away furiously, calling up a flight recorder log.
Outdated planes had these blackboxes as they're called stowed in the plane for information retrieval in the event of a crash but modern ones also had state of the art computer equipment. Modern age fellows, damn near everything is computerized these days. Even your cars, believe it or not.
DENIED
Hm... I kept typing.
DENIED
I frowned and typed faster.

DENIED
A guttural growl echoed around the cabin and I glared at the panel.

FUCK OFF! DENIED!
I gasped and stared. Did this thing just seriously tell me to fuck off? What kind of bloody government computer tells someone to f-... "Oh we'll just see about this you Microsoft bastard." I leaned back, rose one foot, and slammed the boot into the computer. There was a clicking sound and the screen rippled. I leaned back and glared, tapping my fingers on the armrest. The screen flashed static for a second and then buzzed back.
DENIED
flickered on the screen. I tilted my head down and growled at the thing. It flicked once again and vanished into static and then returned.
ACCESS GRANTED
I tilted my head to the right and smiled just slightly.
"That's right, run back to your Bill Gates."
I went back to typing furiously and a few seconds later the log flashed up on the screen, showing everything from departure time to destination and any and all changes in the system.
Apparently after take off the plane did exactly as expected, it climbed to a 30,000 feet altitude and leveled, after which it was expected to fly straight with no destination in mind. Apparently it was set to fly in a straight line until it's fuel ran out or it's passengers decided to take it down all the quicker. And then what caught my eye was the change in the autopilot program. Although the plane had flown with no change for the last six hours roughly, there was a sudden change in Otto (I had immediately dubbed the autopilot Otto. Otto, Ottomatic? Get it? No? ....Yeaaah, never mind.) Apparently he had been disabled for a bit and then the plane was manually brought down to our current altitude, after which Otto was reset and programmed to continue it's course for the next twenty minutes after which it was set for a sudden turnaround... And unless there was a pilot here who decided to commit suicide, blow the emergency door, jump out, somehow reseal and repressurize the cabin and leave everything in pristine order, (Somehow I rather doubt that happened,) that someone must still be on board... Somewhere. Hm... And then the next entry in the log... I blinked for a moment, trying to make sense of it. And then broke out into a grin that could have shattered the Devil's mirror itself.
The grin stretched, and then broke into cold guttural laughter.
"So that's what the bugger's been up to.... My, my. Clever bastard, I'll give ya that."
On the screen in white lettering were three sentences just staring at me.
MainAH-23-Por.Win.-Accessed 7-23-05-16[Tu-20-5-08]
MainAH-23-Por.Win.-Accessed 7-28-54-02[Tu-20-5-08]
MainAH-33 Str.Win.-Accessed 7-39-34-35[Tu-20-5-08]
Ahahaha. I pulled up a console and furiously typed for roughly thirty seconds and then shoved the panel back into it's slot.

I whirled, snatched the hat from the chair, and shoved the deadbolts back, and froze in mid dramatic exit.
I slowly turned my head and stared at the stack of CD’s on one of the shelves.
After a moment I shrugged and began to flip through them. Occasionally I would smile slightly in remembrance or cringe in pain, occasionally snapping a disk in half and tossing it back on the shelf. After awhile the stack dwindled until one gray disc was remaining.
“Random Mix” was scrawled in sloppy letters on it. I shrugged and turned back to the computer panel. The hell with it, if it’s good, it’s good, if not, oh well.
I slotted the disc into a drive and after some quick typing set the PA system to broadcast.
And I turned and resumed my dramatic quick exit and began to move down the cabin aisle at a brisk pace.
Behind me Otto was displaying his new instructions. The plane would fly straight with no change in course. However, within the next sixty seconds the plane would perform a ridiculously steep tilt upwards for roughly three seconds after which it would tilt straight back down for another three and level back out, continuing it's forward course. And in those sixty seconds my little friend was about to have one hell of a surprise. For one, the hatches were disabled remotely. Operation of the hatch would be impossible unless he literally forced it using physical force but I was counting on that chance that he wouldn't have nearly enough time. After all, he had entered the wing but the log showed no exit. Whatever it was he'd been doing in there was probably still in progress but in the end it made no difference. His plans were finished.
I quickly moved down the hall and slid to the side of the emergency exit door located just a bit forward of the left wing. I grabbed on to a seat and braced myself tight and then froze as the first guitar riffs reached my ears. A slow, wide grin spread on my lips.
Ozzy Osbourne, a pure metal God, and the opening strings for “I don’t wanna Stop.” So fitting.
At this altitude it shouldn't be a major problem but suction would still occur. I reached forward with my other hand and grabbed the door handle and tilted it slightly, revealing a glass watch face on my wrist. And then I froze, the plane once more perfectly still, my eyes frozen on the ticking second hand, the blaring music a few seconds away from going into it’s riff.
Tick... Tick... Tick... Tick...
And with no warning I yanked down the handle. Nothing happened for a split second except for the BING-BONG of the seatbelt sign. And then the entire door exploded outwards, vanishing into the gray sky. In perfect cue with the tune.
A huge rush of win occurred, tugging at my clothes and hair (my hat tossed behind my head and only held on by the string looped around my neck). Loose items wished past my skull and emptied out of the cabin. My elbow strained as I gripped the plastic bar and then my free hand suddenly snaked out and snatched a small object which was about to be sucked out. A small bottle of first class brandy...
I looked guilty left and right and slowly tucked it away beneath my trench coat with a grin. A few seconds later and the heavy rush of air ceased, leaving a heavy roar of wind and of the engines. I let go of my brace and slid forward, standing in front of the opening. I cracked my neck to the left and slowly pulled out the Masume longsword, it's ridiculously long blade seemingly glowing with anticipation.
I stood there for one second. Two... Three.. And jumped out of the door, instantly whisked away from the sightline, leaving behind nothing but Ozzy saying “ I don’t know what I’m doing, all I know is that I don’t wanna stop.”
*****
Move Summary: Jump out of the plane (?!) after reprogramming and sabatoging and hereby disabling manual hatch access (trapping Orth inside the wing with no future changes to Otto being possible)


-----------------------------

Orthrus

With Dragunov's legacy slung over my back, I dragged myself over the support ribbing at the base of the wing, wrapped my hand around the bottom of the wing access hatch, and pushed it upward. Only nothing happened.
I stared at the hatch for a couple seconds, and then tried to push it up once more. After five seconds of swearing and death threats, I turned away from the maintenance hatch and crawled away from the big, dull, smug, fucking red label that read "Locked". Short, and to the point......bitch.

And it wasn't a normal lock either. These things could be unlocked from the inside manually, unless there was some emergency which would compromise the fuselage, in which case a pilot would lock it remotely. Since I couldn't unlock it from here, and since no Big Boomers had gone off, then Comrade Passenger had also started munching on pretzels. Bastard.
But those Capitalist produced Pretzels and pilot manual weren't a "Airplane Mechanic for Dummies" book (I preferred manuals) Just because the hatch was locked didn't mean I couldn't leave the plane. Hell, I could have left the wing then and there; the puzzle was doing it without hitting a very sudden stop at the end.

Barely two meters to the side of the access hatch was a series of thick black cables bundled together via metal rings. These were all the cables leading into the wing, deemed the A-60 series of cable runs. Different models had different designations, such as A-61, 62, and so forth, but in general, all cables leading into wings were in the -60s range.
The cable bundle passed into the fuselage via a Junction box, which was set into the wall in a relatively large rectangular metal sheet. A maintenance access. These were important cables after all, and to service them there had to be a crawlspace for mechanics to reach them.
Such access hatches didn't even need special tools to open up. Unless you counted a flick of my wrist as a tool.

My body kept the hatch open as I wormed my way inside it, and then automatically flipped shut behind me. The bundle of cables snaked over my head, and I dragged myself forward with my right hand along the cables, my left holding the Surefire flashlight.
It ran only a couple meters into the fuselage, at which point the A-60 run turned into the interior of the fuselage, while another access hatch was squared into the floor. That hatch opened up into a small equivalent of a mechanics room, which was really just the area where flight attendants spent their time, with Coffee machines and food supplies for passengers lying around like so much garbage.

Someone else might have dropped straight in with Ki-Yis and hollywood one liners, but I was never for Machoism, and I already knew where Comrade Passenger was. In order to completely lock out the wing access hatch like that, he'd have to had remotely done it from the Cockpit. I was in the Starboard wing, which put the cockpit to my right.
I couldn't maneuver with a rifle in these quarters, even if it had been a Carbine, which left me with the Makarov. I was staring right at the access hatch below me, and with a barely perceptible click, I turned off the Surefire and stowed it in my Greatcoat. Faint illumination shone through the hatch below me, and I reached through the overlapping folds of my Greatcoat with my right hand, easily found a practiced grip on the Makarov, and pulled it from it's holster, my hand automatically thumbing off the safety in mid-draw.

I took one deep breath, gripped the hatch handle with my left hand, and went to work. I pulled up the handle, twisted it to the side, and the hatch fell open under its own weight. I instantly followed after it...partially. I swung out of the hatch from chest up, most of my body remaining inside the hatch as an anchor.
I hung upside down from the open ceiling for a few seconds, Makarov in two hand grip and pointed right at a blue curtain. Empty. Not that I'd expected Comrade Passenger to be right in here. No, he'd be somewhere in the forward section.
I pulled myself back up into the crawlspace, thumbed the safety again, and slipped the pistol between my teeth, holding onto the slide with my canines for a few brief seconds. Leaning forward again, I gripped the edges of the hatch directly before me with both hands and slid forward, tumbling out of the hatch in a somersault and catching myself on the edge. I hung for a second, and let go, dropping with catlike silence to the floor. The Makarov immediately left me teeth and returned to my hand, safety off and ready for action. Before setting out however, I took one brief moment to turn up the collar of my coat, slap down the dust, and straighten it out. Hey, if you wanted excuses for vanity, than black was a good color for intimidation.

Carefully, I leaned around the curtain, looking both, left and right like some kid about to cross the street. Both sides were clear, and I stepped out into the aisle, holding the Makarov at the ready in two hand grip.
I was currently near the mid section, and Comrade Passenger should have been in the forward area, unless he moved faster than the Devil. But something wasn't right. It was a little too loud in here, much too cold. A high pitched whistling sound whined over the sound of the turbines, one that hadn't been there previously.

I must have looked like either a psychopath or a Red Mafiya hitman; the pitch black coat flapped around my legs, my entire body obscured by it. When Ruskies attack aye? Nah....more likely the crazy loon running around after seeing the Matrix one too many times.

Moving slowly and quietly, I made my way across the middle cabin, swerving around the separating wall with a quick turn and glancing sweep, checking the area to be clear.
I kept walking in the forward section now, the Cockpit up ahead. I constantly made minuscule glances to the left and right rows, checking between seats while keeping my main gaze focused forward. At the same time I cautiously checked the luggage bins, and ceiling, anything that might have made a hiding spot. The whistling was much louder here, and for the first time I felt something that sent a chill up my spine. Wind....
My slow walk turned into a brisk jog, and seconds later I was right at the cockpit, staring out into black sky as wind whipped by me.
"Son of a bleeding, impregnated, masochistic bitch..."

Entered fuselage lounge via A-60 cable run tunnel. Made way to cockpit door and found where Cerberus took a leap of faith.


-------------------

Proctor Update



As Orthrus enters the fuselage, Cerberus' adjustments trigger Orthrus' mines prematurely, causing the loss of both wings at the 1/4 length mark. Also, Orth recieves a superficial, but bleeding, laceration across his left cheek due to the fuel tank mine exploding. Cerberus has escaped the aircraft. The jet will soon begin to experience severe deviations in heading, as well as assume brick physics.

Cerb- 100
Orth- 100

Turn 3 begins now


Curt grinned wildly when he saw Cerb suddenly appear out of the side of the plane on his live satellite feed. He'd known it was Cerb anyway, thanks to the perspective feed, but it was still fun to watch.

He depressed the microphone switch and said "As Orthrus enters the fuselage, Cerberus' adjustments trigger Orthrus' mines prematurely, causing the loss of both wings at the 1/4 length mark. Also, Orth recieves a superficial, but bleeding, laceration across his left cheek due to the fuel tank mine exploding. Cerberus has escaped the aircraft. The jet will soon begin to experience severe deviations in heading, as well as assume brick physics. You'd better hurry, Orth."

Then, as the plane started to smoke and dive, Curt sat the microphone down and watched intently. This was going to be good.

-----------------------------

Cerberus

My entire body was instantly chilled, the coat draped around my shoulders blown off and vanished into the skyline. I payed no mind to the chill nor the extraordinary strength of the wind trying to shove me backwards. In the end gravity would overcome any wind, no matter how determined, and so I plummeted past the plane exterior, the broad expanse of the wing edge coming at me ridiculously fast.
My heightened reflexes are virtually the only thing which allowed my mental comprehension to be able to perform this trick. Every bit of my focus was on this action.
The plane wing was already beginning to tilt upwards at a slight angle and becoming steeper rapidly.
My body plummeted in what seemed like five seconds to my mind but in reality was barely even one.
The side of the plane was skimming barely half a foot to my left, windows whipping past my skull in a blur, and yet I could make out each and every individual window. Quite literally, everything appeared to be in slow motion. Although at these high speeds slow motion wasn't exactly slow.
The base of the wing where it was attached to the plane was rapidly approaching. A bare two seconds more and I would literally be smashed by the thick steel. I closed my eyes and gripped the blades handle, forcing my mind to slow the world. Or more literally, to go into super drive.
Let's have us some fun...
I opened my eyes. The world was now in truly slow motion. The wing creeping towards me. Five feet away.
I exhaled, literally being able to see the crystals formed by my breath in in the freezing night sky.
I lifted the blade over my head. The wing creeped towards my mid-section. I closed my eyes once more. Blinked.
And opened them. Instantly the world rushed back in and the plane wing wing all but teleported and closed off the five feet of distance. Any normal human would be a bloody mist. But I wasn't there for the wing to meet me.
At the exact instant I had snapped my foot straight forward, slamming it straight into the steel edge of the wing at the angle. The curved steel result in my foot and ankle skidding forward rather then being snapped and shattered into a million bone fragments.
In essence I literally kicked off of the blunted surface of the plane edge and propelled my body upwards into a gymnastic flip.
My body twisted backwards and upside down in mid air. The wing edge began to pass by barely a foot beneath my skull...
And I slammed the steel blade straight down through the white wing in a blaze of sparks. The shock reverberated through my entire arm but I didn't even notice it. At the same time I never noticed the dull explosion nor the sudden myriad of jagged holes near the end of the wing. My attention was solely focused on this move.
The plane wing was already tilted at an upwards angle, diagonally about to fly away from beneath me. I was still upside down in the air, my body perfectly straight. The sword was impaled into the steel, the handle jutting out beneath me.
Time was creeping past was more. My hand let go of the handle, the fingers slowly edging away from it. My body passed an inch, the wing carrying the handle of the sword back another inch away from me.
And then I snapped my fingers forward, and shoved against the blade handle briskly. Using just my fingertips against that blade handle I shoved my body into a forward somersault, right myself, was now crouched in mid-air, facing forward and down the plane, my feet just half a foot about the plane and rapidly moving to meet with it.
I stretched my hand down, grabbed the blade, and wrenched it out of the steel, moving it in an arch directly over my head.
And at the same time my booted feet slammed directly onto the metal wing, the Masume longsword also being slammed at diagonal angle straight into the wing right next to me.
The plane wing was now tilted upwards at a steep angle and as a result, I was sliding down the wing at a rapidly increasing speed, gripping the Masume long sword which in turn, was slicing through the wing like a scalpel through paper.
People don't tend to realize this, but planes are bloody huge and it took a substantial while for my body to slide down the wing and slice through it.
I was sliding down the plane wing with a blazing trail of sparks bringing up the rear. Otto was continuing with his programming and the wing was already beginning to level out and begin it's downward nosedive. By the time I was halfway across the wing the plane was level but the sheer momentum built by the downwards slide carried my body at the suicidal speed forward, still tearing straight through the wing.
The plane began to tilt downwards and hence I began to be sliding upwards. My form began to quickly slow as basic friction and physics worked against me. Damn Newton... The man never failed to ruin my fun, but I wasn't finished yet.
Only a quarter of the distance left. The wind steel tore back at my body. The wing was starting to tilt upwards from my perspective. Fifteen percent... Ten... I was rapidly slowing to a crawl. Just five..
And then the wing was completely point at a downard angle and my ride finally ceased.
Right at the edge of the wing. The sword blade finally froze, impaled literally at the final edge of the wing. Any further and it would have torn out, sending itself and me into a free fall and leaving the plane behind. As it was, I was a split second from reversing my direction and sliding back down the wing.
But, in my usual defiement of reality and Newtonian laws, I refused to let gravity get the best of me. I rose one foot and slammed it down into the angled steel and flipped upwards, pivoting in a delicate balance on the sword hilt. My forward momentum had caused the blade to tear forward slightly and now it was literally impaled in the actual edge of the plane. If the plane had been perfectly level the sword would be sticking out horizontally from the wing side.
As it was at the downward angle, I was literally balancing vertically on top of the blade, delicately hanging. And then I slowly tilted to the side, gathered speed, and was suddenly on the underside of the wing, sliding back towards the front of the plane, the blade ripping another line through the wing with surgical precision.
The insane rush continued down, the wind whipping at my body, and I was grinning and laughing like the pure psychopath I was, my laughter whipped away by the wind, but I'll be damned if this wasn't what I was looking for. Finally, I'd found what it was I wanted, what I needed, all I had left...
The plane began to level itself out and by the time it was once more finally and permanently level I was at the final edge of the wing underside and tore straight out of the steel and into the sky.
Without pause I simultaneously sheathed the Masume blade and twisted to the side, slamming my booted feet once more into the metal of the plane, only this time directly on the side of the plane. Without pause I ran down the side of the plane and upwards, using the sheer momentum built from the slide to propel me.
I never heard the heavy clangs made by the boots on the steel. Four sprinting steps forward and up and I raised one boot up and slammed it straight down onto the steel, catapulting myself up and to the side in a backwards flip.
In the next instant the plane rushed past me in a blur off gray and blue paint. At the last instant I crouched into a ball and the tail section of the plane passed by directly a foot over the orb that was my body.
And then the plane was gone and I was free falling and grinning like a maniac. Ahead of me the severed wing was spinning in the air and rapidly falling ahead of me. Hopefully worth my still anonymous opponent within it.
***
I stretched my body out into an arrow and plummeted straight downwards, quickly moving down to the dark and falling amputated wing. The air drag caused the wing to fall slower then my own body and so I rapidly began to catch up with it.
After a while I noticed some sort of flapping dark cloth and started, the wind still whipping past me. And then I grinned and snatched the still falling trenchcoat out of the air and draped it over myself in a smooth flourish.
I resumed the dive, this time with a flapping and billowing coat.
After a few seconds I was beginning to fall past the wing edge which was at a slightly diagonal angle but otherwise relatively stable.
In a flash the Masume was in my hand and slammed into the wing once more. I held onto the handle, spun up beneath it, and winded up standing tall on it, one foot on the hilt, one on the blade.
I leaned casually against the cold wing and relaxed, grinning.
And I stood there, falling at over 135 miles an hour, casually waiting for the fall to finish up. And I reached for the bottle of brandy I had filched and had myself a drink while I was at it.
All in a night's work....
Editory: Move Summary- Hang off of the severed falling wing.


----------------------

Orthrus


I was leaning out of the open door, holding on to a vertical strut, when the first of the shocks came. The plane's attitude shifted up to an astounding angle, almost twenty degrees. The plane felt like it was vertical, jerking my balance off center.
The only thing that saved me from falling out was sheer survival reflex. Unfortunately, such reflexes rarely maintained any dignity, and this case was no exception. I merely let my feet fall out from under me, landing hard on my butt like a kid that had tripped over backwards. Another moment and I'd have tilted straight out into the night sky.
As it was, the plane's attitude caused me to roll down, coming to rest up against the nearest seat less than half a meter away from the door. Even as my mind realized the plane was shifting, the beginnings of a scream were forming in my mind, the harsh, growling yell of sheer frustration at an excellent plan going wrong,
"NYE-!"

The yell was cut off moments later by a shuddering, terrible screech of rending metal as the two bounding mines detonated in each wing. The engine punctured and the reaction inside it exploded, the casing that had held the pressure now ruptured. The turbine rotor shattered, and then fragmented, it's momentum spinning a hail of shrapnel through the engine cowling as it burst into bright flame.
I fell back onto my back and my eyes focused into the cockpit. Alarms were blaring, and a cool female recording was broadcasting "Stall....Stall....Stall...Stall."
The plane was going to nose over any moment. But I was focused on a much quieter alarm, one that was almost irrelevant considering the current situation.

When a plane had engine problems, whether a rotor burst or the engine completely fell off, there was a series of redundant systems built in. Among these was an automatic program in the plane's computer systems. When something happened to the engine, that computer started to worry about the fuel lines, just in case the engine damaged or ruptured a hose. The computer gave the pilot a 10 second warning, in which time the pilot could cancel this warning if he knew nothing was wrong with the fuel lines. But if no response came after ten seconds, the computer would automatically shut down the primary fuel lines and open up auxiliary ones.
Normally, this would be perfectly fine, but in this case, there was a tiny little guest stabbed straight into the auxiliary line, a memento from my visit to the fuel tank. Specifically, a screwdriver, cut very shallowly into the line, just enough to keep it in there, but with so little support that it'd fall out with the slightest amount of pressure. In less than ten seconds now, fuel would go along that line, and the pressure would blow the screw driver straight out, and trailing along that screwdriver was a thin little wire....
The screwdriver would fall, the trigger pin on a bounding mine would go with it, and that fuel tank was going bye bye.

For barely a second I considered running into the cockpit and canceling the alarm, but then realized that I'd never have enough time. The plane was going down besides. In that brief instant, I shut my eyes, forcefully clearing all thoughts from my head. Two seconds.....
My heart slowed. My breathing shortened to small, extremely shall breaths, rapidly inhaling and exhaling that minuscule amount. My eyes opened, and they weren't dilated from epinephrine- they were contracted.

I rolled over once to the side, crouched, and leaped forward, the square rectangle of black sky instantly growing to an entire world.

No thoughts went through my head, just information. My brain instantly processed it, came up with an action, and followed it through. For a brief moment the wind flattened me out, and then I forced my arms and legs together, leaned forward, and fell head first at an angle. Second later I heard the sharp thump of an explosion as the mine tore apart the fuel tank. I couldn't tell whether the tank itself ignited, but it didn't matter anyway. If I'd stayed on board I might be nothing but a red pulp now.
My eyes squinted against the wind, seeing only with difficulty, but I could still make out the wing spiraling down below, a steady shower of burning turbine fragments flying up to meet me. And there, illuminated by the fiery glow, was a figure.
Without even two seconds of consideration I pushed my body into a somersault, flipped over once, slid my hand along the sling of the SVD, pulled it off my back, straighted out again so I was falling completely vertical, aimed down, and froze. My sights trembled under the wind, and then the iron circle passed right over the figure below me, and I slowly- ever so slowly, pulled back on the trigger. Jerking would have thrown the aim off, but the mechanism slowly moved back under my will, and then the rifle bucked in my hands, a flash of light bursting from the muzzle as the supersonic bullet tore through the night air and haze of fuel droplets spiraling up into me.

The weapon cycled instantly, throwing a steel shell out to the side as gas pushed back the piston in the operation, which in turn cycled the mechanism. The action pushed back, flung out the shell, and then slammed forward under the force of it's spring, pushing the second round into the chamber.
I fired again, flying vertically upside down through the night as shells arced away from me and a burning plane nosedived right above, shedding piece of metal and streams of transparent fuel. I struggling not to laugh as the rifle bucked in my hands again and again.
--------------

Leaped out of plane and nosedived after Cerberus, opening fire with the SVD under influence of Sleep State


-----------------

Cerberus

I lifted the bottle to my lips and right when I was about to take a sip when there was a sudden metal clang and a large hole appeared in the steel right next to my skull. I frowned and looked up to see what looked like a wrapped up bear with a rifle roughly fifty meters above me and closing fast. I scowled and tilted my head slightly to the left. So this was the kind of man I was too fight. A bloody yellowgut dog who all but shoots his opponent in the back, attempts to blow him up without even so much as a greeting? I hissed. Bloody typical. A sudden woosh of air was heard and I instantly snapped my skull to the left.
The large caliber bullet sailed past and out into the sky below. A .762... Huh, was he using the same rifle as I?
My thoughts were instantly cut off by a barrage of shots, the gunshots barely discernible over the heavy rush of air. Instantly I began to dance. I twisted once to the left and kicked off from the blade hilt, spinning over to the side of the wing and in turn kicked off that at just the right moment, sailing back to the blade, leaving another round to hit nothing but air. In that brief jump I had fallen just a bit down and snaked upwards, grabbing the hilt of the sword and spinning on it like a gymnast on a bar.
In mid spin I wrenched the blade outwards and continued the spin, slammed my foot back into the wing, and slammed the blade back into the wing five feet from where it was just a second ago.
Without pause I jumped down, grabbed the blade, wrenched it out once more, and shoved myself off the wing with my palm, spinning in mid-air.
For a split second everything slowed to a crawl. I swung the Masume long sword forward and sliced a small hunk of steel tipped lead in half...
Without pause I stretched my leg back and tapped the wing just so. And launched myself into another spin in mid-air, swinging the blade towards two more rounds, only this time with the blunt end.
The blade met the round and slammed it downwards, sending it spinning harmlessly into the metal hull of the wing. Without pause in the spin I flipped the blade around with a flick of the wrist and sent the last bullet flying head of heels straight back towards the cowardly bastards figure.
And with that the sword was once more slammed back into the wing and I was resting my weight against the wing, watching the figure rapidly close the distance between us, my sensitive ears catching the heavy click of an empty chamber. I ignored the sensation of warm fluid trickling down my body from two small intrusions. The pain was nothing but a mere stinging compared to what I've been through.
I reached for the brandy bottle... And in the next second I snapped my arm outwards and grabbed the falling bastard by the throat in mid-air. Without pause I swung my arm and slammed the body straight into the steel hulk of the wing causing his entire body to vibrate with the jar.
I squeezed hard and tilted my head, examining the face.
I scowled. "Disgusting..." I leaned close. "G'night. Normally I'd love to introduce myself to you but seeing as how you've done nothing but be a pathetic yellowgutted rut since the very beginning, you'll have to excuse me. On the other hand, would you like a drink?" And with that I brought my other arm up and smashed the half-full brandy bottle into the side of his head. The bottle exploded into a myriad of small shards and slivers of glass and splashes his face with the amber liquid.
Still without pause I wrenched him away from the side of the wing and brought him outwards, leaving him dangling in the air. I snapped my arm downwards, bringing him just beneath my waist, and snapped my entire leg straight up into the air. And brought it smashing down directly on his gut.
With a heavy thwud his body rocket down many meters beneath me and the wing.
----
Move Summary:
Slam Orthrus down beneath the wing and myself.


-------------

Orthrus

Wind ripped past my clothes, rippling the black coat against my body. I was horizontally flat in the air, slightly maximizing drag, but I couldn't maintain a proper X position and slow my descent while I was face up in the air.
As I fell, I faced up at the wing and the figure above me, and in a brief flicker of firelight, I saw that smug, fucking, grin. The bastard called me a coward? After he jumped out without a word and left me to cook in a cylindrical shrapnel grinder? Bloody posing hypocrite.

My left arm tore open the straps of my coat, letting it flutter about me like a black shroud, maximizing drag as much as possible. Seconds later my right hand found the small lever just behind the SVD magazine and compressed it. My other hand pulled out the empty mag and flung it away, it's black body quickly vanishing into the dark sky.
Moments later I'd loaded in a fresh magazine, pulled back the slide, and aimed upwards at that overconfident bastard's face. I grinned, my lips pulling back to reveal white canines, and then I lowered my aim subtly, moving lower. My current position shielded the rifle from the wind, and my own body acted as support. I held it steady, slowly pulled back with my finger, and the bullet tore from the barrel, arcing it's way along my sight line straight toward Comrade Passenger's kneecap. I was barely a few meters away from him, and now had an even better position for firing than previously. I just need to blow that bastard off the wing and get him down here.

Barely a second after firing, I flipped over, letting the SVD hang by it's sling, and spread my limbs in a skydiving X, absolutely maximizing drag as the air caught under my coat, ballooning it out like a flying squirrel's membrane.

--------------
Fire at Cerberus' kneecap with SVD. Turn over and maximize drag.


-------------

Proctor Update

Curt frowned. According to the satellite feed, they were almost out of airtime. Just when it was getting good, too. Too bad he didn't have a button that turned off the gravity field in that area.

Turn 4 ends now

Far above both of you, the main fuselage now spontaneously erupts. An explosion has made it go away. You need to now do something to slow your fall or suffer the consequences. Below you, you can see a rocky island. It is currently snowing, and a few inches have alreadypiled up on the island. Where you are both headed looks to be some sort of field area, so you shouldn't worry about slipping around too much. Two moves to the north is an abandoned dock with several severely weathered buildings. One move to the west is an abandoned radio outpost. The concrete building seems to have stood up to time quite well, though the radio tower's a little rusted. One move to the south is a small mountain, formed by the cone of an inactive volcano. One move to the east is a fenced-in area with a number of what appear to be electrical substations, which are still live and feeding power to the radio station. This is all of the island. It will take a move to enter these structures. Beyond these island areas are two moves of ocean extending out in all directions. You will not be able to move out further than that. The ocean is no laughing matter, either. Every turn you spend on the bering sea will sap 5 health from you. You will recieve bonus objectives when you land.

Cerb- 95+1= 96
Orth- 97, the side of your head is bleeding. It's nothing serious, but pretty soon a whole side of your face is going to be drenched. You've also got a few pieces of glass stuck in there.

Turn 5 begins now.


--------------------

Cerberus

I leaned out and glanced downwards towards the rapidly approaching mass beneath me, squinting against the wing. Hmm... Oh well, figure it's time to ditch this hunk of scrap metal. Hopefully it'll crush the bastard beneath it as well. I crouched down on the blade and lightly tapped it with my feet, hopping upwards just a few inches.
Before gravity brought me back down onto the blade I wrenched it out of the side of the wing and sheathed it in one smooth move. Not half a second later I once more, and for the last time, slammed my boot into the wing, propelling myself at an upwards angle away and above the falling behemoth.
And within one second I yanked the rip cord on the small brown pack that I had found nestled in a locker on the plane.
My entire body was yanked up and away, leaving the huge wing and Orthrus to both perform their introductions with Planet Earth.

Move Summary: Use Parachute


---------------

[Blade Knight]

Alright! ;D Great idea here, Orthrus! I enjoyed this part when Cerb used it as an example in the RP and wondered how it turned out. Now I'll know!

I find the concept behind the game a lot of fun. I truly look forward to viewing the rest of the history!

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Well there's a hell of a lot of it, hope you enjoy it. Now we need to convince Cer to update the version that's on here for once.

----------------

Orthrus
While my conscious mind focused on the actions at hand, my subconscious was keeping track of details, the well spent months of practice ticking away the mathematics in my head. I’d dropped out at roughly 3,500 meters, and fell at 215 kilometers per hour for 42 seconds now. That put me at….980 meters. 60 meters per second, 16 seconds to impact. I need a bloody calculator...
I flipped over onto my back and leveled myself out horizontally, slowing my descent, and mentally swearing in Slavic. Moving as fast as possible without throwing off my targeting, I aimed at a target that was harder to miss than a burning elephant. This had to be done very fast… A parachute was bloody huge, and I was less than a 100 meters away. Difficult to hit for a novice certainly, but childsplay for someone of my stature and weaponry. It would have been harder to miss than to hit.
I fired off three quick shots without aiming for pinpoint accuracy, instead punching the 7mm rounds through random areas in the chute. Half a second later I aimed much more carefully, for a more difficult shot, knowing full well that time was rapidly ticking down. Davay….davay….davaydavaydavay….
I fired, and without waiting to fully see the results, I let go of the rifle, letting it hang and spreading my limbs as much as possible, holding onto the great coat with my hands to hold it down somewhat against the wind and raise up the drag. The final round sped from the barrel and punched straight into Comrade Passenger’s left shoulder. A crimson arc of blood sprayed out, vanished into the black and glowing yellow of night and fire, and the strap over his shoulder completely severed. A moment later he was flailing in the air, held up by one arm with a parachute that was rapidly tangling into itself from it’s angle and air that no longer held it stable. Because of our perspective positions, he was accelerating and dropping much faster than I was. It only took five rapid seconds for my next step to take place. Five seconds, 300 meters, added on top of the firing time dropped both of us 620 meters. Both of us, because he was falling faster than I was, and in those five seconds he drew completely level with my altitude.

Pulling myself into a vertical position, I instantly grabbed him by his lapels and yanked him down below me, spinning around on top of him. I didn’t hold on to him though, no…instead I delivered one sweeping blow around his head and slammed the back of my hand into his nose, slipped my other hand under his shoulder, and tore away the near useless parachute. 560 meters now.
In the split second before the wind tore us apart, I placed both my feet between his shoulder blades, and for one moment I was literally crouching on top of him; then I delivered a harsh shove, jumping up like a ball straight off of him. The motion propelled me upwards from him, simultaneously pushing him a little to the side. A little, but not enough to escape the slab of metal falling above him. I on the other hand, flew upwards from the kick, and a second and a half later, slammed into the underside of the falling wing, the parachute crumpling next to me. The wing was literally pushing me down now, air resistance pushing me back up against it. 380 meters.
My foot dug into the flat underside of the wing and kicked away to the side, pushing me sideways as the my other foot gained purchase and kicked again.
320
Another kick, and my foot found the very edge of the wing.
260
One final kick, and the wing blew past me like a giant guillotine, leaving me falling right above and beside it, struggling with a half tangled chute.
220
I hooked my arm through the strap, digging my hand into my other wrist.
160
Air was still rushing into the crumpled mess of a chute, slowing my descent, but nowhere near the level that it should have been, certainly not enough to completely nullify the effects of a drop.
100
Should be falling at less than a meter per second, was dropping at twelve. Standard shock of a parachute drop equaled a three meter drop, this was going to hurt much more.
40
I swung my legs up at an angle, pulling myself higher along the pack. Had to land and slide, had to use the pack to shield my ba-
Impact

---------------

Orthrus: Endotracheal Entubation

Had it not been for the recent intrusion upon the field, the area surely would have been pitch black. As it was, the horizon was completely invisible, casting the appearance of an infinite black plain around them. The sky was equally dark, stars blotted out by light and clouds, the moon completely darkened. No doubt, the new moon would dawn over spilled blood and cartridge casings. The dirt was illuminated by twisting shadows of firelight, flickering throughout like candles. Burning lines of fuel and engine debris circled around the area, enclosing the two combatants in a delightfully beautiful and eerie field pockmarked by patches of fire. It might have made a good cover for a band’s album.
I slowly stood up from the dimly lit shadows, slowly arcing up as if from a bow. My greatcoat rippled in a gust of hot wind, flapping around my hurting body. I slowly turned my head from side to side for a few seconds, stepping around in a turn with a drunken elegance. A few moments later I brought my arm up and slid my palm across my cheek, wiping away the warm liquid that was running by my eyes. I stared at the crimson painted over the black hide of my gloved palm, and then slowly clenched it into a fist.

I walked with ragged, stumbling steps, but with a very malicious aura of intent. I practically dragged myself over to the bastard of a fellow passenger, firelight dancing over my black and crimson soaked cloak. A single drop of dark red blood welled between the fingers of my clenched fist, and dropped to the ground. It reflected the fires as it fell, and for a brief moment looked like a falling drop of black flame. And then it vanished into the shadows along the ground as my heel made contact with the bastards jaw, shoving him back into the dirt with a satisfying wet crack.
The moment he on his back again, I brought my foot up and then down in a full fledged stomp, slamming my foot straight on his forehead.
A moment later, I dropped down on top of him, digging my knee into his Solar Plexus. “Yobinaya Cobaka,”
My knuckles crashed into his face, just once to keep him down for a moment. I muttered insults to myself as my right hand slid under my coat, my left pinning him down along with my weight. It wasn’t really necessary; both of us weren’t exactly sober, which had only been aided by a dirtied sole shaking hands with his face.
My right hand withdrew a pistol almost equally black as my coat (Which was now quiet a bit lighter in color. I needed a heavy dust off), only the lighter shades of dark gunmetal separated it’s outline from the surrounding illumination. Hardly a second after drawing the Makarov, the muzzle was pointed right at Comrade Passengers nose.
“I always wanted to be a surgeon. Here’s one reason why I was ousted from the community.”
I drew my hand back a bit, my muscles tensing as if preparing to fire, and then slammed the pistol straight into Comrade Passenger’s lips. The lower lip crushed instantly, blood welling along it’s curves, and the barrel of the Makarov shoved right through his teeth, forcing them open with the threat of shattering them. I pushed deeper, shoving the muzzle all the way to the back of his throat. His body convulsed under me, his throat contracting as he tried to gag and vomit. I gave the pistol another hard shove, angling it over and sliding it all the way down into his throat, the iron sights scraping along the back of his esophagus, drawing a line of blood in its wake. My own hand was in his mouth now, his teeth clenching over my wrist, and I rose my hand upward, forcing his head back while the Makarov angled as vertically as possible, pointing straight down the bastard’s throat.

I held the position for just a second, allowing a twisted and sadistic grin to touch my lips. Hell, a normal person might have gone into a seizure by this point, but even if this guy could, I wasn’t going to give him enough time for even a muscle spasm.
Awkwardly but surely, deep inside his mouth, my finger pulled back on the trigger. The Makarov jumped inside his throat with recoil, the bullet speeding straight down into his bowels. The slide blew back by recoil and slammed straight into the soft palate, puncturing through it. Milliseconds later the slide slid back toward the chamber by mechanism, and caught on the torn palate, tearing it straight down and half off, shredding tissue while at it. When the Makarov bucked by recoil, the iron sights cut straight into the throat, sliding up and down under the force and tearing apart the soft tissue and scraping up against the spinal column. The expended shell casing caught somewhere between throat and slide, wedging and steadily burning it’s imprint upon the tender muscle.
I fired again, and again. His body bucked under me like an epileptic dog, arms flailing vainly against my sides as his eyes rolled back into his head. There was no way in Hell he could even see right now, probably couldn’t feel anything either. His throat was burned to all hell, powder blowing down into his lungs like a bad smoker’s legacy. The constant scraping of barrel and sights had shredded the back of his throat, chipped off a portion of the Cervical vertebrae and ruptured the disk. Cerebrospinal Fluid mixed with blood as the jumping of the slide tore away the soft palate completely and bullet after bullet burrowed down into his body. As the slide blew backward, a fold of flesh fell into the action, and the slide slammed shut on it, cutting right through it. His throat was practically severed now, several expended shells slipping down into his stomach.
I fired one more shot, and literally tore the pistol out of his throat, breaking the flesh that had caught on it’s parts. Instantly a bloody fountain of mucus and scraps of tissue burst from his mouth and around my hand, a ragged choking gasp following it. I didn’t pull the Makarov out of his mouth yet however, ah no, not until I had emptied the magazine. I slipped the black-red muzzle under his tongue and mashed it into the flesh with all the weight behind my arm. The thin tissue broke easily and the first few centimeters of the Makarov’s barrel slid under his tongue, another pool of blood welling up around it.
“Yes, I would like something to drink.”
I fired, and the recoil literally tore half of Comrade Passenger’s tongue away from his mouth, leaving it flopping around while the slide rammed backward and struck his teeth, completely shattering a few of them and leaving him missing a canine and a couple molars while; the bullet blew out the back of his head, shredding the Medulla Oblongata in a hail of bone fragments and red ribbons. The Makarov had caught under the ruined mess of his tongue and I yanked back on it, tearing apart more flesh as I jerked it out, a strand of blood arcing along it’s path like a connecting wire.

Instantly I turned around and stood up, walking away from the coughing and retching bloodied pulp I’d left behind. I was looking down at the locked slide of the Makarov. It was completely scarlet and coated in strands of flesh and mucus. The action itself had gore stuck in it, and any other pistol would have no doubt jammed to all Hell by now.
It took me a total of five seconds to disassemble and reassemble the pistol; I never even turned around while doing it, just kept walking on. I found the release catch at the hell of the magazine and pulled out the empty case, flinging it somewhere into the flames. My thumb found the slide lock along the left side of the action and I thumbed it down, releasing the slide one handed. With the slide in place and magazine removed, I quickly pulled down the forward portion of the trigger guard from it’s housing, moving it just a millimeter or so to the side so it wouldn’t snap back into place. A moment later I’d pulled the slide back, up, and forward, completely pulling it off of the pistol. All that was left on the Makarov was the spring over the barrel (It was a blowback pistol, the barrel was therefore stationary). The entire mechanism of the action was found in the receiver and slide, an absolutely genius design, so the mere action of removing the slide (and consequentially, most of the action) removed most of the tissue matter. I took one brief sweep across the feed ramp and receiver while my other thumb swept across the inside of the slide, clearing it of any rubbish, and then I pulled the slide back on over the barrel, lining it up parallel with frame. I pulled it as far back as possible, pushed it down onto the locking ridges, and slid it back into place.
I now had a perfectly workable pistol, though it had received a fresh coat of crimson paint.

As I walked away, I brought the now crimson slide up to my face, smelling the copperish scent of blood. I took another sniff, and then my tongue slowly snaked out and touched the far end of the slide. I licked up over the grip ridges, tracing a clean path along the serial number and down to the hot muzzle, lapping up a stream of blood with it.
I dropped my hand down and looked up at the dark sky, possibly savoring the metal taste of blood and gunpowder. I breathed deeply for a few moments, as if in frozen, and then quickly but gently slid in a fresh magazine and turned around.

“Delightful drink. Wonder make-up you have here. A particularly peculiar FBC and PVC, completely fascinating really. Quiet an iron deficiency and yet an abnormally high Hematocrit with oxygenated Hemoglobin roughly equal to the total number of Erythrocytes, so you’re quiet Macrocytic. Extremely low Leukocyte count, which is sitting somewhere in the extreme Leukopenia and Neutropenia stages or you’re suffering from full blown chronic Agranulocytosis, unless there’s some acute cause up on that aircraft in which I really doubt. Serious Hypoglycemia and Insulin deficiency despite heavy Epinephrine content and aged trace amounts of Norepinephrine, explaining the pupils and why you haven’t gone into Hypovolemic shock yet, though it raises questions about the lack of Glycogen and Glucose, plus the presence of foreign inclusion bodies despite lack of raised Platelet and Macrophage response- so either you’ve been fucking without a condom, exposed to some heavy radiation and metals, or have an epigenetic mutation, as well as an apparently very sadistic mentality and possible sexual orientation as well, including the fact that there is a serious lack of Fibrogen signatures and a consequentially poor Fibroblast Proliferation and downright pathetic immune response at Extra-Cellular Matrix manifestation-typical Thrombocytopenia added on top of it. You’re just a downright Hemophiliac, should be in clinical Hypovolemia at this point, though in this case that might be a good thing; else you’d be jaundiced and going Anaphylactic and Obstructive shock by now; and yet LDH and SGOT levels are practically nonexistent, but CPK if so high your heart may as well be liquefied: it’s over the 4,000s range.
Arterial Blood Gas analysis definitely results in high oxygen saturation and total CO2 saturation in the teens range with an SBC below 20, tossing your blood PH in the 7.0 through 7.20 range with an H-plus ion level below 35, totaling up to a highly positive base excess making you consistently alkalemic, though a phosphate and sulfur level is impossible without an actual Blood Gas analysis, but nonetheless ..…it’s very interesting.
Call me a cowardly dog and yet you’re the farthest thing from a healthy human, if anything you should be dead by now. Hell, you’re denying the laws of biology just by being alive, and at an attempt to save face at my lack of recognition, I’m guessing that these benevolent pathogenic inclusion bodies are our little hidden sensory preceptors. Hello Komandeer Proctor.
Now let’s see if we can’t rupture that Aorta of yours eh?.”


I violently pulled back the slide of the Makarov and released it, smoothly shoving the next round into the chamber.

Shove Makarov down Cer's throat and empty the magazine

--------------

Proctor Update

The plane you were in has exploded. The flaming wreckage is falling all around you like an infernal snow. Speaking of snow, it's about a foot deep in the plains where you're at. Also, a full moon.


Cerberus is experiencing generalized GI bleeding, not an emergency at the moment. The bullets missed critical arteries and veins. If anything, he's at risk of infection later on down the road. Second lumbar bone was chipped, nothing of immediate concern. Cerb's nose is bleeding. His regen will be deactivated for the next two turns, used to heal this, unless he can otherwise repair it.

Also, Orthrus' tongue has been frozen to his Makarov's slide. Forgetting proper BSI precautions is a huge no no.

Also, Cerberus used one purchase point to obtain the SP move "Regeneration", seven turn recharge, heals all status ailments, adds six points to health status.

Oh, and here's your purchase point goals
- Use the radio tower to broadcast a signal to the US/Russian military or S&R units.
- FIND THE HORSE. There's different areas on this island, you'll have to spend a move searching to look for the horse. It's randomly placed in one of these areas. A word of warning: if you find the horse, do not try to kill it. This will result in swift and severe pwnage.
- Electrocute your enemy with the island's power plant
- Find the medkit in the radio tower (if you answer an appropriate question, you win a special item)
- Find the medkit in the power plant (if you answer an appropriate question, you win a special item)
- Find the explosives at the dock
- Destroy the dock
- Use your opponent to destroy the inoperable submarine at the dock, or destroy your opponent and the submarine in one move. (For the record, it is a nuclear submarine, with the reactor still in decent shape)
- Fire the submarine's cruise missiles at your opponent.

CHECK THE TURN 4 SUMMARY/TURN 5 INTRO FOR MAP DETAILS.

---------------

Cerberus

Red Snow
-------
A Rattlesnake once bit me in the Desert... Two hours later, the rattlesnake was dead.
-------
A split second after the 'chute was fully expanded and I have bullets flying at me. Which in turn punched through the heavy material and resulted in me beginning to plummet.
"Howmanyfeetlefttoimpa-TWENTY?AhSHIT"
I twirled in the air and reached for the cord on the parachute pack, and yanked it forward. Automatically the straps separated and pack and 'chute was blown away into the night sky. Without pause I whirled back forward, tiled my body and-THWAAMP
... And I slammed into the ground in a crouch. There was a slight second of a pause, and then a huge wave of snow erupted around me and blew into an outwards cloud.
I sat in a slightly keeled over crouch, my booted feet planted in the center of a small crater in the snow drift, my gloved hands planted against the frozen ground.
My muscles (literally) screamed into my skull. The impact came within an inch of snapping every tendon in my legs as if they were rubber bands.
Come on... Hold it...
My form quivered slightly and for a split second there were black flickers of flame surrounding my form only to vanish in a second. Perhaps never having been there in the first place, a simple illusion in the black night cloak. I trembled slightly... And slowly, gently, rose from the crouch, straightening delicately, feeling the the bones and muscles slide smoothly and do their job with little protest (though much resentment.)
I felt steady throbbing pain pulse through with my blood, caressing my organs and flesh like a long lost lover. It'd been so long since I'd actually felt real pain... Like a bittersweet reunion.
And then suddenly everything wavered. My vision blurred and turned red. Aw shi... And I slumped to the white and blessedly cold snow...
***
Flickers of images. Something slumping... Cursing.
Weight on my chest. Dog.... Someone said dog?
A gun. Metallic taste. Blood? Blackness.
***
Orth walked away in the snow, reaching his tongue out towards the metal of his firearm. The ruined figure behind him was slowly turning the virgin snow red in an a slowly spreading puddle. A slight dripping could be heard as crimson droplets fell from his earlobe.
Orth stopped suddenly, apparently having some trouble with his gun.
And then whirled around, eyes, wide, as a ragged chuckle echoed through the empty snowfield. The corpse behind him was still that, what should be a bloody (literally and figuratively) a corpse. Half his skull was shattered for god's sake, not to mention the eight or so nine millimeter rounds having torn down through his gullet.
The ragged chuckle turned into a quit laugh, steadily rising in volume.
The wind was silenced, leaving an otherwise silent scene.
***
I slowly rose my face out of the snow, sliding one shaking arm beneath myself, slowly pushed myself upwards, slowly laughing. Half of my jaw was torn away, the check shredded. I slowly rose, bloody literally streaming down my clothes, arms, dripping off the finger tips.
I stood and slowly turned around towards Orth, reaching one bloodied hand deep beneath my trench coat. I thought his eyes widened slightly at the sight of the hellish grinning and ruined face that was glaring at him.
Already red flames were slowly licking at the wounds, the muscle and sinew slowly weaving forward, repairing itself.
I chuckled slowly, cruelly, bringing forth a silver hip flask from the depths of of my coat.
I growled the words, almost spitting them past the shattered jaw. The sound was ragged, broken, choked.
"You miserable yellowgut dog... Not, you're not even a dog. That'd be far too much of a compliment for the filth that you are."
I coughed raggedly, sending a fine splatter of pink mist floating in the cold night air. My breath had a slight pink tinge to it every time I breathed out.
The ragged flesh of my check was slowly regenerating, weaving forwards, connecting with over strands of muscle. Skin slowly began to stretch its way over it.
My ragged words slowly began to sound healthier, making more sense.
"Having a little trouble there? I wouldn't worry much... That tongue of yours deserves to be frozen. At least this way you don't have the pleasure of wiping your own ass with it."
I took a long heavy swig of whiskey, my eyes fluttering in relief and pleasure. The gushing blood slowed to a trickle, and almost stopping completely. The jaw bone slid back into place, the bone regenerating and weaving like a beautiful mosaic.
I sighed with delight and slowly returned the flask to the dark depths of the dustcoat. The hand vanished beneath the material, and reappeared, this time with a silver revolver in hand.
I slowly raised it, the barrel pointed towards his ludicrous face, tongue still frozen to steel. The hand and revolver froze, directed to his eyes, his position ludicrous, his tongue already starting to turn slightly gray from the cold. My other hand slowly reached back to grasp the sword hilt.
"Need a little help with that? Should have thought a bit ahead before licking the blood of some unknown demonic infestation on this Earth my friend. You never know what might happen..."
By this time every strand of muscle, every cell of bone and marrow, the strands of sinew and ligaments, the blood and spinal fluid, all of it was healed. The final drops of blood slowly rolled off of my clothes, out of the cloth, and dropped down in a crimson circle around my feet, staining the snow crimson.
I unsheathed the sword, slowly bringing the blade down at an angle, the point cutting a small line through the white snow.
"You know, a snake once bit me in the desert. It died two hours later. Interesting, what's in this blood, isn't it?" I grinned slightly.
And then the scene froze. No wind, no pine needles moving, no sign of life. Just two creatures repeating the age old mantra of instinctual suicide. Although in this case, only one.
And then I frowned slightly, my finger loosening on the trigger. I frowned and broke my frozen stance, slowly twirling, ignoring Orth completely. I did a full circle, and then turned back to Orth grinning slightly. A small hunk of flaming metal landed next to his feet, the snow steaming and hissing.
Another small piece of flaming wreckage landed between us.
I slowly grinned and broke into a full laugh.
Without a word I slung the blade over my shoulder, the long steel shining in the light of the moon.
I whirled and began a slow steady walk away, ignoring Orth completely. The maggot didn't concern me now. He bored me. Just another bastard who could not deliver what I sought. I was more interested in the beauty of the Aleutian islands for now.
My coat whirled behind me and I tossed the revolver straight up in the air, never ceasing in my walk.
I rose my gloved hand and gave a slight snap of the rest, a brief and basic good-bye. A second later the shining steel of the revolver landed back into my hand and I dropped my arm to the side, my finger on the trigger, my thumb on the hammer, my booted feet moving silently through the snow.
And then God's wrath slammed into the ground behind us. Instantly the entire field was bathed in orange, a huge gust of wind blowing snow around me.
The flaming wreck of the plane cast a hellish burn into the night sky. I never flinched, never looked back.
My steady pace never wavered.
The sword and revolver gleamed, the brass shells shining in their loops. The burning wall of steel was a backdrop of the pits themselves.
The wind caused bits of snow and small licks of flame to whirl around me, my coat flapping and whirling as it it had a life of it's own. I walked on, a nostaligic and lone figure who was back in his domain.
-------
Move Summary: Use move one to use Regeneration Ability.
Move two, head one mile west.


------------------------

Proctor Update

Turn 6 summary

Curt stared at the screen, completely engaged. Though, he couldn't help but feel slightly detached, thanks to Orthrus. Still, it wouldn't matter. With two warriors as powerful as these in such confined quarters, things were definitely going to get interesting.

Cerberus- 83+1= 84 + 6= 90. Status ailments healed by SP move: regeneration.
Orthrus- 87 with his tongue frozen to the slide of his makarov.

For more details, check the post I made during turn 6

Turn 7 is go

-----------------------

Cerberus

I walked, I took a shot of whiskey, I whistled, I wished for a six-string, etc etc.
----
Move Summary: Climb/Enter Radio Tower

---------

Orthrus

Flecks of fire continued to rain down amidst white flakes of snow, spiraling down like so many dancing leaves. The moonlight and brief flickers of orange illuminated a trail of deep imprints in the snow, heading away from the burning plains in increasingly deeper prints.

As I walked away, I spat out a mouthful of warm water (Courtesy of melted snow) and a few moments later the crimson frost over the Makarov melted under my tongue and I tore it away from me with a stream of Slavic swearing and coughing. Should have worn a fucking condom in my mouth.
I slipped the Makarov back under my Greatcoat, securing it in the holster with a single button strap and then folding the coat over my torso, lacing the two straps through their individual slits and the buckles beneath the material. This was Alaska, and the only thing that separated me from intelligent people and fools at the moment was my lack of a hat and Russian style face mask. The Greatcoat I was wearing was meant for warm weather, negative ten C or so, and thus, it lacked a classic Russian collar that doubled as a face mask. I'd need to fashion myself one later.
While the Makarov warmed itself beneath my coat, I cradled the SVD in two hand carry, leveraging it under my armpit and aiming the muzzle down in front of me. With a heavy sigh, I continued to trudge through the snow.

--------------
Head North

------------

Proctor Update

Turn 7 summary

Curt tapped the mic and brought it close to his mouth.
"Don't make me bored. You wouldn't like me when I'm bored."

Cerb- 91
Orthrus- 87

Turn 8 is go

-----------

Cerberus

Turn Eight, Part I: 'Reverie'
--------
The wind howled and sent dancing flakes of snow whirling around my figure. The dustcoat danced along as well, almost begging to tear itself free of my limbs.
I steadily moved upwards, carefully placing one foot after another on each ice encrusted stair.
Small ledges of snow had built up at the sides and on the railing. A few icicles hanging off the edge of the roof overhang threatened to plummet in a lethal free fall towards an unsuspecting skull.
The radio tower was stretched high into the dark Alaskan sky. I was already on the fifth landing of the staircase that spiraled around and around the steel tower supports and I wasn't even halfway up yet.
The fact that a tower was hear is not what I found surprising but the fact that it had power. A blinking red light atop the dish is what had drawn me here in the first place. I wondered where that other one was... Hopefully shivering in the snow.
Ironically for one of Hell's native denizens, the cold didn't particularly bother me. Contrary to popular belief, the nine pits aren't all fire and brimstone. There's a surprising variety of environments, and one which was actually completely frozen over. Temperature rarely bothered me. After traveling across the burning sands of the Death Valley (centuries ago, before it had become a tourist attraction) and among the Middle Eastern sand dunes, after traveling across the frozen Russian forests in the dead of Winter and sailing on the Bering seas for years... I was no novice in any environment anymore... There were few corners of the map that I had not walked, swam, climbed, flown... Earth was truly beautiful, the one neutral realm where a man could still choose his own path, no matter how much such a choice was lacking in freedom, it was a choice nonetheless. A pity that time must pass.... Humans, as they tend to do, had desecrated virtually every remaining beauty. The burning sands and the freezing rocks, virtually everything had either become populated or a tourist attraction. One joy left, one final pleasure left in Eterne...
As they say. The only true pleasures left to man are sex and murder. But I wasn't a man... Nor Demonic, nor of the Angels. Those of Eterne are a class of their own...
The Masume Longsword was still resting over my shoulders, it's steel now encrusted with smooth threads of ice. The silver metal of the revolver was likewise decorated with a fine tracery of frozen water.
Snow was encrusted in my clothing, a patchwork of white among the no-color gray of rain. A small collection of snow was slowly growing on the brim of my hat, titled down slightly to keep the wind from my face.
Every long while or so I would give a brisk shake of my head, discarding the snow, only to wait as it slowly returned to its crevices.
I could feel my body temperature dropping slowly, degree by tedious degree. My skin, pale to begin with, was adopting a gray tinge in addition to the white. The usual pale gray of the lips was likewise adopting a darker darker shade.
Despite the hat a few particles of fine snow hung from my eyelashes, the dark cold green, so dark that they could have been the deep blue of the Ocean in certain light, were hidden in shadow.
I could feel the blood pulsing through my veins slower, the heart beating a steady rhythm, as indifferent as the stars in the sky.
My body was slowing its pace. It had no desire, no rush, no hurry. It was at peace. So was I. A normal human would likely have been unable to stand by now. I was indifferent. As was my body. We were resting, in bliss.
Occasionally I would hear a small rustle as the cold wind lifted a few iced pine needles, the distant patter of a small creatures steps. My eyes would pick out the distant outlines of rabbits, almost perfectly camouflaged against the white snow, sometimes a brief gleam of moonlight on the eyes of a distant fox.
This was what I did, this was how I lived, this was what I had desired. I walked. As I had for centuries... And Angels and Demons, Gods and Devils, Men and Generals all slowly denied my desires and pleasures, one by one. And now, finally, only one remains.
A distant sense of nostalgia and a small twinge of sadness of a time gone by slowly traveled down my nerves.
Seventh landing... Eighth... Ninth..
At the seventeenth my body quickly began to bring itself out of the slow stasis it had descended to. The sense of nostalgia and desire quickly drained as my mind and soul balanced back, back from the reveries to the only thing I had left.
---
Turn Eight, Part II: By the Light of the Moon
---
The Nineteenth landing... That old friend and old haunt. Some things never change. The stairwell existed out onto a steel platform with a railing that surrounded the small room at the top of the tower.
The walkway circled all the way around to the other side of the tower. Wall to wall windows were set in three of the walls, the walkway attached beneath each but vanishing on the back of the building. The West, North, and East sides had glass set, and on these sides the walkway stretched. The South side was a blank steel wall and the walkway didn't stretch there.
The stairwell was set outside the tower, circling around it and finally exiting on the West side. The entrance to the room itself was set on the East side.
And that was where I now stood... The glass windows had a thin sheet of opaque ice encasing them. It was impossible to see inside. The one door that I stood in front of was made of heavy steel, a few small icicles hanging off the brass knob. The small window set into it was likewise encased in ice.
My flesh had by now returned to it's proper state, punching and yanking itself out of the deep pit of peace and sorrow that it had briefly slipped into.
The muscles moved slowly, not a hint of sluggishness or cold displayed. And there was no sign, not even a blur, not even a single sound to be heard. One second the blade rested in my shoulders. Not even a third of a second later the steel was planted in the locked of the door.
I remained perfectly still, as if the loving and bittersweet caress of the Alaskan Winter had finally dragged another being into it's dark confines. For a brief moment nothing changed.
And then a slight crackle was heard as the fine trace work of ice on the blade slowly cracked, smooth lines appearing and spreading down from the blade towards the hilt.
At the same time a spiderweb of cracks spread across the iced windows, reaching, stretching, intertwining, joining and separating.
In a few areas small sections of ice slid from their place, being mercifully shattered by the steel walkway. The crackle of the ice slowed and eventually stopped leaving nothing but a rare pulse of sound as a few more cracks slowly appeared.
My coat billowed in the wind, my form never twitching. And the next instant the blade vanished from the door, the hilt appearing back in its sheath. To a human eye it never moved. One instant it was there, and the next instant it wasn't.
I exhaled. There was no sign of the breath. By this time my core temperature had fallen too low for the breath to crystallize.
I raised one booted foot and slammed it forward. The door bolt had been destroyed by the blade and the ice encrusting the door edges shattered into thousands of thing slivers. The door slammed inside, rebounded off the wall, and slammed back into place in a second but by that time I was already inside, pivoting and spinning, the gun hand up and searching, the cold merciless eyes of the revolver barrel and cylinder searching, begging for something, anything, to target. Within two seconds I was ceased moving, satisfied that the room was devoid of life. At least any life that I cared of. I slipped the revolver into its holster and sighed, now slowing, taking in my surroundings. The room was small and dark, the only light being a few crisscrossing beams of moonlight that entered through the windows in the areas where ice had broken off.
The entire scene appeared a dark gray. All in all it was a small square room, maybe seven feet by seven feet. A comfortable leather couch was nestled in a corner with a reading lamp and a small chess table next to it. A painting hung on the South wall, (Fredrick Remington's The Warpath On the North wall was a long table with many steel cabinets set into it which I immediately went to and commandeered a bottle of Single Malt Scotch, aged nineteenth years (not bad, not bad at all) and two shot glasses. Radio equipment and electronic panels stretched across the North side, the many lights and buttons dark with no spark of electric life in them. On the East wall was a leather couch, stretching from one end to the other, leaving just a few feet of space for the doorway. On the South wall I also noticed a small old fashioned stove which I instantly lit. The room instantly adopted a nice cozy yellow gleam from the dancing flames. After some more scavenging there was an old fashioned coffee pot placed onto the stove and would soon begin to boil. It would take a bit but before long this place would be nice and cozy. I took a few works of classic literature that I had not yet read and placed them onto the chess table, turning on the dim reading lamp next to it. All in all, pretty cozy...
And a second later the entire room was flooded with pale moonlight as the all ready cracked ice finally gave up the ghost and shattered, crumpling off the windows like puppets with their strings sliced.
I had no reaction to this although sub-consciously it pleased me.
In the end, beyond all desires and ideals and thoughts, I did my work by the light of the moon... That dark, demonic, and romantic work.
And now, to business.

Turn Eight, Part III: "New Friends may be Silver, but Old Friends are Crimson.
I removed my hat and tossed it onto the couch. I slowly unbuckled the two ammunition belts and holsters and slung them over the bag of the chair, along with the dust coat. And then I sat down relaxed sigh, slinging my feet onto the table with a distant relief. I could almost hear the muscles thanking me. Rest assured, I'm not a superman.
The room slowly rose in temperature and although it would never become what could be called warm and cozy, it would be just enough for relaxation and comfort.
The pot of coffee was settled next to the whiskey bottle and glasses on the panel, a steaming mug of black and bitter brew steaming next to it. Nice, relaxed. A pleasant intermission.
Eventually I swung my feet down and opened up a panel, flicked the heavy duty black switches to the left, the radio equipment awakening at its own pace. I took a large swallow of coffee, the burning bliss spreading down my throat and into the stomach. I could feel the very tips of my fingers shivering slightly with pleasure, if not thanks.
My eyes traveled across the panels and settled down on an old fashioned tape player. After a brief browse through the excellent selection the old boys had here (Kudos to them, good music and great taste in alcohol. Pity they weren't around...) the peaceful strings of Beethoven's classic and beloved Moonlight Sonata were quietly filling the room. A fitting composition.
And now, I had a few old friends to touch up with. I had relatively little difficulty in working the equipment. A few millienia of wandering and you'll find that you pick up various skills over the decades and sometimes over the centuries.
I twisted the dial across the stations, getting nothing but static or silence, and finally settled on 19.99. Nothing but silence came from the steel mesh of the radio. I reached for the handset and depressed the transmission button.
"This is PN-19K, Class 69KO34, transmission situation class C. Code in, Nine Circles. Respond."
I let go of the transmission button and placed the mic down, and took another swallow of coffee. And waited. Exactly nine seconds later there was a brief burst of static, not even a second long. I waited another second and depressed the button.
"Confirm. Unit Callsign is Cerberus, project is Crimson Seasons. Confirm and relay to point two."
There was no wait this time.
A Russian voice with absolutely no emotion nor care emotion mechanically responded. It was slow, and colder then the Alaskan wind outside.
"Situation C is understood. Thirty seconds to relay."
I responded. "Confirm. Give me Briggs.
"Authorization is the price of freedom."
I scoffed. Thank you for this one master.
"The wages of sin."
The voice responded. "Understood, authorization is cleared, relay to three in five, four, three two, on-" the voice vanished in a burst of static. A few seconds later another one appeared. Russian, but human, not the dead voice previously. Cultured, and a hidden layer of indifference and coldness nestled deep within it.
"You."
I grinned. It had been a long time since I had spoken my Mother tongue and I enjoyed it deeply. "Yes, me."
"... Where are you?"
"Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?"
"Why are you doing the same?"
I laughed. "Aye, you have me there. Why do you think I'd tell you? Or have you completely forgotten who exactly I am?"
The voice dropped in a few degrees. "Because you called us. I know what you're like, what you do. There is only one reason you would do this."
"Perhaps you are correct, perhaps not.... Time will tell, won't it?"
"No. It won't. Remember your place, Slavonovitch.. You are still a part of the service and will remember your duty and tongue. You will restrict yourself to proper address. Or have you betrayed even the basic protocols?"
I paused and slowed, slightly disbelieving at how far I long and far I had gone. I subconsciously sat straighter, my mind and body recalling the long years of discipline and training. "Yes sir. I sincerely beg your apology Comrade Generalissimo. Longitude is <No u> and latitude is <no u.>
"Element Nineteen will be there within twenty minutes."
"Understood Comrade Generalissimo. Request switch to relay four in ten. Unit Callsign Cerberus is singing off. I will maintain my loyalty and and duty sir."
"Confirm switch to relay four. And one more thing soldier...
I paused. "Yes sir?"
"It's good to know you're alive."
I smiled. "Yes sir. Cerberus out."
I replaced the radio and leaned back with a sigh, smiling, remembering. Sub-consciously my fingers slowly slipped over the gemmed metal Order of Victory nestled against my skin. One of only twenty one to ever be awarded in the world... Unlike twenty of them, I was one who would never be part of the statistics, never part of the history. The true price of duty is pure and final anonymity in the eyes of the people.
I smiled and poured myself a large glass of Scotch, lighting and puffing on a cigar as well. I reclined on the sofa nestled in the corner and relaxed thinking.
What the hell... Anonymity? It had been worth it.


Move Summary: Use Radio Tower to summon a Russian Special Forces Element (Spetsnaz)

----------------------

Proctor Update

Turn 8 summary

Curt listened intently to Cerberus' conversation. It was quite fascinating, but it didn't mean too much to him. The Russians knew that there'd be something, though they weren't told what, happening out there, and they knew they were told to stay out of it. As did the USMC and coast guard, who were no doubt listening in. All the major militaries out there had taken an interest in these activities, and Curt had made a point of keeping their big noses out of it.

Suddenly, a radio set to his right came to life in a burst of static, pouring several russian voices into the unlit room. Apparently, they were indeed making plans to move out. Not even a minute later, the radio that monitored relevant US military communications came alive as well. Apparently, they knew that if it was enough to get the Russians aggrevated, they'd want to take a look at whatever was going on as well. Sighing, irritated that he had to look away for a moment, Curt tapped one button, which took him to a live satellite feed of the Russian outpost they'd no doubt be leaving from. On the small airport, he could see five transport helicopters and two gunships already starting to lift off. Also, according to some of the computer bugs he'd planted, the russians were diverting two destroyers and a patrol boat, disguised as a regular fishing boat, to the island.

Curt hit a dial on his control panel and picked up his com piece. "Commander," he said in an almost enthusiastic tone.
"Curt... How are you, comrade?"
"I am well, however, I hope you can clear something up for me. You see, it looks like you're trying to interfere where we agreed you wouldn't."
There was a long pause before the commander's voice came over his headset.
"We did not know you would be hosting trials with our weapon," the enraged voice came back, thick of accent. "We're coming to take him back."

"Take him back?" Curt scoffed. "You don't want to try that."

"Oh, and what are you, one man, going to do about it? We're coming to welcome a comrade back to the motherland, and if you think you can stop us, you're welcome to try."

Curt frowned. "The price of his freedom is too steep for you to pay-- only he can earn it. Do not tread on me."

Then, Curt changed the frequencies over as the satellite feed switched to several Blackhawk helicopters, already en route to the island. Apparently, the marines had, like the Russians, an airborn special force and attack unit, as well as a naval battle group on the way to the island. Curt switched over to the marine channels with his radio and briefly hit the transmitter.

"You know what I am capable of-- do not defy me."

Then, Curt closed the comm channels and switched back to the battle.

The Russians and the Marines will arrive on the southwest (russian) and east (marines) sides of the island on turn 10.

Cerb- 92 (+1 purchase point)
Orth- 87

Turn nine begins now!

---------------------

Cerberus

Turn Nine: *Snoooree...Snoorreee....Hrump-Mudkipzz...mud...mu...Snooorreee.....*

I woke up after a brief dose on the couch and poured myself another mug of coffee. After searching awhile I scavenged up a nice little syringe... He he he...

Move Summary of boring irrelevent post: Search for medkit in radio station, already answered our Mastah's (See Rule #2) question.

-------------------


Orthrus

I stood absolutely still in the snow, black and white wool fluttering around my legs. Snow blew by me from behind, but I no longer even felt it. Like a shot of vodka, warmth spread through my chest in accompaniment of a giddiness I hadn't felt since I'd instigated the Three Mile Island incident (No, I never touched Chernobyl).
I took three steps forward and the deep snow beneath my boots gave way to thin ice over wooden slats. As I walked, I bent over, my chest shaking, a small chuckle sounded, melting into the wind, and quickly grew into maniacal laughter. I practically howled with the laugh, clutching my chest and stumbling over with it. Two small office buildings were to my left, and a concrete storage garage was to the right. Directly before me stretched away a wooden pier, leaving the snow and extending over the deep gray waters in a series of H shaped protrusions to each side. What was stretching my lips into a smile however, wasn't the dock, nor the shelters, nor the beauty of Alaskan waters. It was the U-shaped concrete bay embedded into the bank, and the upper half of a long, Seal-black cylinder floating in it’s waters. A tall tower extended directly above the mid-ship area, two Plane like flats extending from either side, giving it the appearance of a black Cross. The cylinder was huge, 165 meters in length, 15 meters in width.
This was a full blown American Ohio class submarine, the largest Submarine ever built by the American Navy (Russian Typhoons were bigger. So hah!).

I stared at the beauty for several moments, steam misting from my breath in jagged bursts of laughter that gradually grew quiet, like a lunatic sitting in his corner and hugging his knees after learning the definition of the word Tampon.
That submarine carried over 20 Trident II SLBMs (Submarine Launched Ballistic Missiles) with Multiple Independently Targetable Re-entry Vehicles, or MIRVs. You could think of a MIRV as a nuclear cluster bomb, only directional. Once the missile separated into individual vehicles during the Re-Entry phase of deployment, each warhead would strike it’s own directed target, effectively allowing me to nuke every point I wanted on this island with one missile strike. Unfortunately, that would kill me too, but these things also carried over 150 Tomahawk Cruise Missiles. The warheads on Tomahawks varied, but Submarines typically carried different versions, and would very likely have the warhead I needed, which was a bullpup mechanism for the dispersion of cluster bomb munitions, in the case of Tomahawks, typically the BLU-97/B CEB (Combined Effects Bomb), so called for their combined effects of Frag, Incendiary, and Shaped explosive effects, extremely effective for almost any situation, from anti-personnel to anti-material. 150 missiles of that…..I now had rule over the island. But first, I needed to take care of a couple things. I hurried over to the concrete garage, hurrying because I was practically about to piss myself with excitement.

With the help of a crowbar, I knocked off the ice sealing the garage door to the ground, and shattered the padlock. After God knows how many years, that pad lock might as well have been ice for the resistance it put up. Steel grows extremely brittle in temperatures below 75C, but prolonged exposure to neg 30 or so would have the same effect. I clapped my hands together, like a child preparing to open up presents on Christmas, and hauled up the door.
I stood still for a few second, and then, once again laughing, strode over to the rear. Several green tarps were strapped to the ground in a slanted fashion, covering stacks of wooden crates emblazoned with the international Explosive Hazard symbol. Once again, with buddy crowbar, I tore away the tarp, pried off the top of the crate, and smiled.
Each crate carried two items. The first was stack upon stack of rectangular packages, wrapped in unmarked brown wax paper and sealed with tape. Cheap bastards, they must have got these for a bargain, there wasn’t even a warning label on them. This type of package would be used in military conflict, but they shouldn’t have been purchased for demolition. Ah well, easier for me. The second item resembled a very large wristwatch with a silver pen attached to it. A circular clock face (Like a dial on a microwave) was embedded into the center of a black square of material, two straps on either side extending from it in an H shape. Securely taped to the black square was what looked for all the world like a small silver Pen without a writing tip. The Pen narrowed down to a blunt point, and it’s top half was flat, a black wire extending away from it and winding around the Pen. Cheap ass bastards….
Good enough for me at any rate. I tore apart the wax paper around one of the packages and examined the contents. A small rectangular slab of tan putty was encased in a metal holding shell. Pardon the poor analogy, but the thing looked exactly like an I-pod inside a rubber I-pod case, just with the back removed. This was a shaped C-4 charge. Like I said, cheap bastards probably got this stuff off of a store that was getting dangerously close to black market.
I took up the tarp and hauled several packs of Charge and Detonators (The square dial/strap/pen things. I’ll explain them later) into it and tied it up like a balloon.

(Not a whole lot later) the C-4 charges were relatively small in terms of thickness. They were roughly the size of a persons hand from wrist to fingertip in length, and width was a little less than that of a persons palm. The charge case ensured that most of the blast focused in a single direction. These were not meant for heavy demolition purposes (though they’d get the job done) but more for setting up avalanches and so forth. The detonator was a Time-Controlled Class B Solid Pack Electronic Bridge Wire Blasting Cap.
Contrary to Hollywood bullshit, explosives such as TNT, PETN, C-4, and RDX in general were very stable. I was holding onto packets of C-4 without a single shred of fear. I could drop those, I could stamp on them, I could toss them into a fire of even fucking shoot them and they still wouldn’t explode. So the problem was not keeping yourself from getting blown into oblivion, but actually detonated the explosive in the first place.
That is what Blasting Caps are for. Blasting Caps are the fabled detonation mechanism that every action movie junky knows as “Detonator” but has no idea what the fuck it really is. There are two types of explosive in the world, Primary Explosive and Secondary Explosive. Primary Explosive is described as Sensitive, meaning that it is sensitive to shock, heat, electricity, and so forth, which in turn can be described as (Get mad and fling at wall, it go boom). Stuff like Nitroglycerine, Lead Azide (Drop that from 100mms, go boom!), Nitrogen Tricholride, crudely made Potassium Chloride, and etcetera, were all Primary Explosives.
Secondary explosives are the stable ones that Hollywood portrays as unstable. The notorious C-4 among them.
Ok enough of this, I’ll sum it up. Primary Explosives are used to detonate Secondary Explosives. Simple eh? Modern day Blast caps consisted of two Primary Explosives and an explosive Booster. This meant that when detonated, the blasting cap would detonate a somewhat stable (You drop a blasting cap, it won’t blow up in your face) primary explosive with low Brisance, which would in turn detonate a more stable booster, which would in turn a relatively stable but powerful Primary explosive, which tears apart the blasting cap and detonated the Secondary Explosive into which it’d embedded.
The blasting caps I carried were Class B Solid Pack, meaning that a bridge wire was embedded into some primary explosive with a single output explosive behind it. Upon detonation, an electric current would run into that wire, and it would heat up red hot almost instantly, and then break. But before it could break, that primary explosive would detonate, and take the pack of C-4 with it.

Now, what to do, what to do? So many things to do right now, and so little time. I still had to set up the dock for home, get into that sub, get to work on it’s reactor, and crack the codes for the Tomahawk cruise missiles. Christ. Might as well get started I guess.
------------------------------------------
Search dock for Explosive


-------------------------

Proctor Update

Turn 9 ends now.

Curt stared at the screen, furious. He'd warned them, and they'd directly disobeyed them. At this point, a large oil tanker, which was no doubt just a cover for a russian battle cruiser, had come a good deal closer to the island. Two of the six marine helicopters were on site, dropping troops near the radio tower, and one of the four russian heavy transport helicopters were already offloading at the power station in the west, under the gaze of one of their three attack helicopters. It'd be a meager matter of minutes before the rest of the marines and the Russian forces arrived.

"I'll destroy those fools for interfering."

Curt hit a selector switch and depressed the button on his microphone. "I just thought you two should know, the US Marines and the Russian Spetsnaz both feel that you should belong to them. It is well within your own interests to terminate their landing forces. After all, they have orders to engage and forcibly capture both of you. Don't worry about their navy-- I needed to stretch my legs anyway."

US marines are now occupying the western section of the island, at the radio tower. Staying on this square while failing to terminate their forces will result in 5 damage per turn spent on this square.

Spetsnaz are now occupying the eastern section of the island, at the power station. Staying on this square while failing to terminate their forces will result in 5 damage per turn spent on this square.

Orthrus has successfully recovered explosives, Cerberus has successfully recovered the first aid kit, along with the bonus.

Cerberus (2 purchase points in waiting)- 93
Orthrus (1 purchase point in waiting)- 87

Turn 10 begins now

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Orthrus: A nice vacation Home in Alaska

"Da, Kommandeer Proctor!"
I saluted into the air, and then walked off down the pier, mindful not to slip on the thin sheet of ice. Just ten meters down I turned on my heel and marched off East, toward the American sub. This was a full blown war house, less than fifty meters away from me. I was so giddy I might have been breathing Nitro.
The blasting caps and plastic explosive clinked over my back, they're life expectancy much shortened now. The snow gave way to concrete as I gingerly walked around the bay lip, surveying the cozily named "Boomer" sub. It was roughly ten meters from the lip to the sub, securely moored. I couldn't move that sub out, if it was still operable, but I sure as hell could utilize it's logistical payload.

While the distance was open water on either side of the submarine, the bend in the U was only two meters of water. Jumpable

(Shorten tense hollywood jump of two meters onto slippery sub and climb up mast at midships and enter submarine.)

Enter "Boomer"

--------------------

Cerberus

Turn Ten: The Cold War, Part II
--------

I frowned at the faint sounds of radio chatter, the thump of the choppers overhead. Typical... Marines. They never cared much for stealth. They're approach and tactics depending on shock and awe over actual logic.
The Russians were far more likely to be approaching from the South East end of the island, coming in low and using the mountain to cover most of their approach.
The Americans, on the other hand, came in hard and fast. Typical.
I begin to strap on my ammo belts and holsters, casually, slowly. No hurry. Far below someone was yelling into a megaphone. American. Tsk. So much for a concept of a quiet snatch and grab. Although I had to thank them
"You in the tower! Drop any weapons you are carrying and come out slowly with your heads high and your fingers spread! Do NOT make any sudden moves or we will open fire! I repeat..."
Hm. Amusing. Already I could hear the stampeding feet of troops charging up the stairwell. And already there were three snipers in place, one in a tree, and two camouflaged against a snow drift far below. Two Black Hawk helicopters continually circled around the tower. Hm... My, they really went all out this time. Apparently they were quiet envious of the Russians... I made one call and I had virtually a battalion on the island within twenty minutes. I'd take it as a compliment.
I slowly donned my hat, oblivious to commands being shouted from below. The marines were already on the walkway, crouched down so as not to be seen through the windows. Unfortunately they weren't exactly the stealthiest of forces. They cared to take cover but not particularly so much for taking the enemy by surprise. It truly was mind boggling. If the Russians wanted one man so bad as to send out a full special forces black op then one would figure they'd take more precaution when dealing with such a person. I sighed and stepped into the center of the room, keeping all three of my weapons in their respective places.
Three seconds later the steel door was blown quit literally off it's hinges and fell with a loud slam onto the floor. And within one second shouts of 'go, go, go!" echoed inside the room and seven soldiers charged into the room, six high powered assault rifles all pointed at my skull and torso six tongues all yelling at me to drop to my knees and to not move a muscle. Seven troops surrounded me in a perfect circle. Two feet of space between each. All yelling and commanding. Seconds before they would use force to commandeer the reaction they desired. M4 assault rifles and Mossberg shotguns, twelve gauge. Snow camouflages patterns, standard combat gear. Light Kevlar vests.
A single shot rang out, exceptionally loud. The room was instantly filled with the heavy haze of gunsmoke, fueled by the steady tendril rising from the barrel of my revolver, now grasped in my hand and hanging by my side. And just like that six marines crumpled to the ground, their skulls shattered, their blood quickly pooling across the floor. The one left stood frozen. It was a wonder he didn't pull the trigger on his rifle by reflex. He just stared, eyes wide, at the carnage that had manifested itself with one loud bang.
His lips tried to move, his tongue failing, his voice quiet and trembling.
"O.. O... One s-"
I interrupted him, my voice cold and steady.
"Six."
He remained frozen in his stance, his mind not comprehending. It truly was a wonder that he wasn't just firing. Apparently this minor spectacle had snapped him as easily as if a scalpel sliced through his primal lobe.
I swung the cylinder of the revolver out, six empty shells sliding from their places to clatter on the floor and splash in the blood. Smoke billows from the chambers.
I slowly began to slide shells into the chambers, each small snik only further adding emphasis.
"Six shots." I snapped the cylinder closed with a flick of my wrist.
And finally the soldier's brain slid back into it's training.
***
With a grunt the last man swung his rifle up and squeezed the trigger.
Too late... Far, too, late. I broke into motion, beginning the latest dance. Before his finger had managed to send the firing pin slamming onto the primer cap my hand was already yanking the barrel forward. At the same time my left leg was brought up in a spin and slammed straight into his sternum. Not kicked, slammed. His entire rib cage and sternum shattered instantly, razor sharp shards of bone slicing into his lungs and heart, a bloody forth spraying forward from his lips. He was dead before his brain even processed the signals sent from his nerves. His entire body was lifted and flew straight back through the East window with a shattering of glass. And then everything slowed. And as his corpse fell from sight I instantly I whirled around, bringing the stolen M4 rifle up to my shoulder and squeezing off a single shot. The slide slammed back, my senses hearing every individual clink of machinery, the working of the action loud clanging in my ears, the actual gunshot sounding like a cannon blast.
The round sailed through the window, smashing a neat hole through it. Before the glass even began to shatter I pivoted half a foot to the left and squeezed off one more shot the instant the action had finished recycling the first. Before the second bullet had finished leaving the barrel of the rifle, the Western window shattered into hundreds of pieces, the effects of the first bullet which was still moving through the air towards its target.
The two snipers on the snow hill below simultaneously snapped backwards as the two rounds passed through their skulls, both pairs of eyes dead at the same time. Before their blood had even managed to splatter across the snow, I had tossed the M4 rifle aside, sliding my left hand around the stock of the SVD sniper rifle on my back at the same time. Before the two shells and the rifle had managed to hit the floor the SVD was already in my hands, my body whirling back to the Northern window, my finger sending the larger bullet of the SVD smashing through the glass and sailing into the distance. Six hundred meters away a Marine sniper's corpse fell from a tree into a snow drift with a soft thwump, his blood quickly sinking into the white snow.
And then the dance ended. The two 5.56 x .45mm shells I had fired from the stolen marine's rifle only now clattered to the floor.
The 7.62 x .54 shell from the SVD did the same a few seconds later.
The sickening wet smack of the body flung through the window met my ears one second after.
After a brief pause I began the second dance. I drew the revolver and the blade, and leaped through the shattered window.
***
The dirge finished its cry ten seconds later.
-------
Move Summary: Decimate the USMC troops in the area.

---------------------

Proctor Update

Turn Eleven

"You can't fix stupid, so you might as well break it," Curt muttered to himself as he donned his comm gear and headset, and stepped into the opening of the cargo aircraft, staring out into the empty abyss outside. The ferocious, bitter cold wind tore past the opening, clawing at him, trying to drag him out and claim him. Never again, though. Not after Guantanamo. Curt decided where he went from then on. In the meantime, even more military forces had been diverted to the island, and the russian "tanker" destroyer was closing in on the northwest corner of the island, while the russians had landed in the middle and the marines had landed in the south, the mountain, and were closing in on the north. Though it looked like the russians stood a chance of beating them to the docks. No matter. Now was the time to act.

Curt let go of both sides of the door, leaned forward and shoved off of the ground, rolling neatly out of the side of the customized C3 galaxy. He had purposefully left the parachute on board. He didn't need it, and he didn't want it. He only needed to foxus on that Russian tanker. As he fell through the bitter night sky, staring at the glowing navigation lights of the disguised russian destroyer, Curt took a calm, relaxed breath. The five principals of effortless power started with being calm, and continued with being in a relaxed state. While one could try to argue that they were the same thing, they weren't. Curt hit the comm piece, which he'd pinched between his left thumb and index fingers. He was no longer talking through his headset, as it'd be inaudible in the wind. Instead, it was patched directly from the nanomachines in his body.

Onboard the russian destroyer Warown...

An american voice suddenly came over the ship's intercom, as well as every russian radio in the vecinity. Even the commander on Russia's eastern coast heard it. "Yobinaya Sabaka! I told you theives to stay out of this! The price of their freedom is much too steep for you to pay, no matter how much you might be willing to buy back the old regime for. Now, you'll recieve your just reward."


Curt released the comm piece and drew his right arm back as he fell. "I'm back in the USSR-- Ya don't know how lucky you are, boys. I'm back in the US- back in the US- back in the USSR!"


From the shore, the tanker seemed to drift ever closer, quietly and peacefully. Everything was silent except for the quiet crackling of snow falling ever so peacefully out of the sky and piling up ever deeper on the island. Then, a single voice cried out, carrying perfectly out across the island and disappearing into the bering sea. "FALCON--- PUUUNCH!" Quite suddenly, the middle of the tanker buckled and either half exploded upwards, clapping together in mid-air before simply shattering apart and being rapidly dragged under the deathly black seas.

-----------------------

Cerberus

What was that scent? Among the metallic stinging of blood and flesh.... Shit. No, literally, shit. Horse shit to be specific.... Hmmmm.....
-----
Move Summary; SEARCH FOR DAH HORZE!

----------------

Proctor Update

Cerberus did not find the horse. Don't make me falcon slap you, boy.

-----------------

Do that and my horse will bite of your sexual organs.
-----
Move numero 2 as a result of slo-mo ability, move one mile EAST.

EDIT: *Facepalm* Sorry about that. Use the Epinephrine [nazi]epi-pen.[/nazi] Effects result, among other things, in an extra move and using said [nazi]epi-pen[/nazi] does not require a move. Using bonus move, exit the Radio tower FIRST and THEN move East.

---------------

Orthrus: Cargo Delivery for 4/07
-------------
I leaned back in my seat, my legs propped up on a blank portion of panel and an open bag of pretzels in my hands. As I munched on my snack, my eyes surveyed the blue folder on my lap, or more specifically, the set of input codes for a missile launch. At the same time, I surveyed the red folder that was overlapping the blue one, which in turn contained worldwide coordinates (Wrong. The Americans didn’t give a damn about worldwide, just The general Pacific, Atlantic, Europe and Russia) for a launch.
Both folders were obtained from a bolted down safe in the Commander’s quarters. Normally the safe could only be opened by two combinations, one known by the Commander and one by the Co-captain (The Hell with specific ranks. The American military changed the order of rank in Air Forces, Ground Forces, and the Navy so much I couldn’t bother to remember them all.)
However, this submarine seemed to be completely open to me. No doubt a courtesy from our sponsors. A set of L-Tags (Launch keys, referred to as tags) hung by the control panels (Now around my neck), and the safe was wide open. Hell, they’d even taped the combination on top of it in case the safe got locked again, and some happy bastard had scrawled “Idiot-proof” in pen under the codes. I didn’t know whether to take offense at that or not. Whatever.
The bulkhead before me had a series of control systems, including Passive and Active scanning arrays. The room was relatively small by modern standards, and I was kicking back in one of the chairs along this bulkhead.

Five minutes later there was an empty bag of pretzels on the ground and I was standing by the launch panel. One man running a Missile submarine with a crew over 200. Christ, how the Hell was this supposed to work?
First things first. Well, second things really. I’d already input the launch co-ordinates. The system allowed multiple co-ordinates to be placed at once, allowing consecutive launches at different locations (I’d been extremely careful to set up Tomahawk cruise missiles and not the Tridents. If I’d launched the latter, the island would be so much radioactive slop within half a minute, me included. It was not too difficult to separate them though.)
I inserted a short, stubby key a little larger than a quarter into a slot on the panel and turned it one quarter clockwise. The slot turned a line from “Peace” to “War“. Americans, just assume that all missile launches had to be war. What, terrorism no longer existed or something? Or did they just count acts of terror as war? Whatever (Yes, whatever again. I’m a broken record)

It took less than a second to flip up the plastic rectangular cover and press the red button with the word “Fire” printed over it. A red light blinked on right next to it with a buzz. “Missile Away,” I jokingly muttered.

The Tomahawk missile detonated in mid-air about four kilometers South-West. “Detonated” is a bit of misnomer. What it actually did was deploy its payload BLU-97/B CEB cluster munitions. A hail of yellow bomblets was flung out in a wide radius from the missile, the Tomahawk itself would drop to earth a couple hundred meters down the road. The bomblets carried inflatable ballutes, which rapidly inflated and slowed the bomblets descent. The sudden deceleration hit 10Gs, and a little less than three seconds later, the bomblets armed (they only need 6Gs to arm) themselves by mechanism.
Four seconds later the cloud of explosives hit the ground.
Instantly a wall of spherical flames burst along the ground, dirt and shrapnel flying up into the air. A repetitive cracking sounded, like a thousand firecrackers going off at once. Over a hundred bomblets detonated in a blast area of 150 meters, wiping out trees-and soldiers. White snow was flaked with scarlet as it blew upward, shrapnel shredding into bodies before the blast wave incinerated those that were close enough. A crimson work of art was splayed across the snowfield. The majority of bodies merely caught fire, turning any that would have been alive into gibbering mannequins before the flames and blood loss silenced them.
The radio tower also took heavy damage, the individual charges blowing through building roof top and transmitter alike, shrapnel tearing into the thick cables while several partions and a wall ignited, the fires on the ground put out by the melted snow beneath them,
Windows in the tower instantly shattered, the shaped charges drilling holes through the stairs and walkway. The ceiling took several direct hits and instantly caved in, collapsing into the tower control room while a Ballet of flame danced across the Alaskan snow around it.

Back on the Ohio, I stood up and saluted in true Russian fashion, “Nazdorovya Tavarishya.”
I then sat back down. GRU could now breath a little easier, not that they’d have appreciated the lack of a challenge, not to mention sparking of a potential international incident.
With no extra ceremony, I inserted another key and armed tube 2. Another press of a button, and a second Tomahawk was on it’s way South, dropping its payload a little under a minute later and raining another hail of fire over the second Insertion Team. Element, destroyed. Forcefully.
I sat back, tore open another bag, and tossed another pretzel in my mouth as a squabble of English voices squawked out through the radio transmitter in the control room. I was listening onto Broad Spectrum frequencies, so the chances of me picking up American radio transmissions (This was an American sub after all) were quiet high, and as it turned out, I wasn’t listening to 98.5 Rock, but to the yelling and information relayed by Marines. Just because their insertion party had been wiped out didn’t mean the rest of them were dead. This was Alaska first, so there was always a low orbit Sat on site, and then there were Reconnaissance aircraft and general Black hawks. The result was the equivalent of a Football game announcer, “He’s flying, flying! And Score!!!!! The country side has been nuked by the GRU team. West side of Aleutians have been scoured, but wait- we’ve got a survivor!”

I knew exactly where everyone was, especially the Americans (May as well paint a neon crosshair for me to drop missiles on) and I had another 152 Tomahawk cruise missiles in supply, with my finger on the button. I bit down on another pretzel and chewed. Now if only I could get in contact with the Russians….maybe direct them a little bit West…..
-----------------
Launch two Tomahawk cruise missiles and drop CEB payload over West radio tower area and South mountain area.

-----------------------

Cerberus

Turn 11: Juuust story.

I ran swiftly through the snow, white mist spraying up every time my boots crunched through the frozen water. Pine trees, their branches laden with snow, blurred past me. My heart was doing a marathon in my chest. It'd be just my luck to have a cardiac arrest. I wasn't sure just how many CC's were in that syringe but apparently more then enough for what I required.
My eyes caught something in the sky for a second. And then a deafening woosh resounded throughout the forest as a streak of light passed high over head. I grinned and kept running.
----
Fifteen seconds later
----
I rose my head from the snow drift and shook it roughly. Charming. I stood up slowly and dusted the snow off myself. Pine needles drifted down slowly, shaken from their branches by the explosions resounding from the West and South. And then I looked up at the sky and made a rather rude gesture.
"You missed Comrade." I said softly, a smile playing on my lips.

-----------------------

Proctor Update

Turn 12- I have a space laser

Curt landed comfortably on the edge of the dock, one of the few places that hadn't been taken. Orth had done a good job of making a smokescreen with the cruise missiles, but it would no doubt get heavy military attention diverted to this part of the island. Shaking his right hand lightly, as if to work out an annoying cramp, Curt turned his head to look out towards the growing marine armada. Now a little more annoyed, Curt reached for what looked like a small remote on his belt. At the same time, the radio in his ear squelched to life.

"You?! How'd you get here so fast?!" A marine commander's voice came over the earpiece.
"Mr. Redlend, I believe I told you not to defy me," Curt responded, almost absently, as he pecked at the remote.
"And why should we listen to you?"
"Well, it's actually very simple-- I have a space laser."
"Wh-"

Suddenly, a beam-- or, rather, a wall-- of solid white, at least a quarter of a mile in width, appeared on the ocean. Immediately afterward, a long, continued explosion rumbled out, shaking the ground and causing the ocean to ripple madly as walls of steam exploded out from the site of the laser's impact. The marine cruiser was made to completely disappear. Then, as the wall of wind and steam hit Curt, he tapped the remote several more times, and with a great roar, the laser carced its way through the ocean around the island, simply destroying any surrounding ships. One russian patrol boat was almost fast enough to make it, but almost only counts with heart attacks and hand grenades. The last 1/4 of the boat was left in the water, as if the other 3/4 had never existed, to sink by itself.

Then, once he was satisfied that there would be no more naval interference, Curt hit the remote again, shutting the laser down, and then pocketed it before calmly moving off for other places as the Russians moved in to take his place.

All remaining naval forces have been annihilated. The russians have gained control of the docks. The russians have not yet infiltrated the submarine. The marines have control of the two northern quadrants. Six attack helicopters are circling the area, but do not pose a threat yet. The radio tower was completely destroyed by the missile strike, as well as the marine forces on the mountain.

Cerberus- Took 5 damage from the russian spetsnaz forces on the central square. 89 + 1 = 90
(2 purchase points)

Orthrus- 87
(2 purchase points)

Turn 12 starts now.

-----------------------------

Cerberus

And before I had another Missile crisis hanging (literally) over my head, I vanished into the darkness and the vegetation.

-----
Move Summary: Stealth Move

--------------

Orthrus

Toss a Goat into a reactor.....
-----------------
The steel plating beneath my feet echoed with my footsteps, every minute sound seemingly amplified in the sub. It was a claustrophobic experience to be sure, but even a non-phobic person would get chills at the sight of my location, and what I was doing.
I was in another narrow room, directly to my right was a sealed shut hatch, and to my left was an identical hatch, though I’d deliberately left it open. Before me was a large and complicated control panel, with a seeming myriad of lights, buttons, switches, and alarms. Several of these lights were currently bright, while another majority were dull. There were three potentially chilling things to anyone that knew anything about the subject. First, the hatch to my right was emblazoned with an enormous yellow radiation symbol, and the red words in peeling paint read, “Caution: Radiation Hazard- Authorized Personnel Only”
Despite the cliché, the implications were obvious. Above the hatch was a small white rectangular box set into the bulkhead, a red radiation symbol printed over it. That was an alarm lamp, which would start flashing the moment radiation was detected by any of the multiple sensors throughout the submarine. It was mercifully dull at the moment.
The second thing, was what was actually behind that hatch. You didn’t need to have a phobia of mechanics to walk through that hatch and be frightened by the massive interlocking series of vessels, pipes, valves, gauges, and sheer noise.
Finally, and this would terrify any modern day reactor technician to the point of strangling me, I was currently shutting down and overriding so many safeguards I might as well have taken a crowbar to it.

The Ohio class operated on an old PWR model of nuclear reactor. To be dumbed down as much as possible, the reactor core was contained in a steel, lead, and concrete Pressure Vessel. Next to it was the Turbine housing. The reactor was cooled by highly pressurized water, which prevented it from turning into steam, and the core was to remain submerged at all times. This water not only acted as coolant, but also as a moderator to keep the reaction going in the first place. Through this structure ran two loops of coolant pipe, the primary loop and secondary loop. The primary loop ran directly through the reactor vessel and core, where it picked up heat and carried it away. This loop ran through a Heat Exchanger (Commonly called a Steam Generator) next to the secondary loop, in which heat from the primary loop transferred to the secondary, which steamed over and spun a turbine to produce electrical energy.
It had taken me less than 10 minutes after going over the emergency procedures manual to locate the switches and codes I needed (I already knew structure and system just fine, all I needed to know was where each button was located) and start setting that reactor up. Toss a Goat in a reactor, see what happens.
First, I’d shut closed a pair of valves called the 12s. The 12s was the number designation for two valves in the backup pump system for the secondary loop (Primary pumps still worked at this point).
Then I’d overridden and completely shut down the ECCS (Illegal in over a dozen ways. One of the first things pounded into your head when you work with reactors, you touch the ECCS, you die.) ECCS stood for Emergency Core Cooling System. If there was an LOCA (Loss of Coolant Accident), two emergency pumps would kick in and flush extra water into the core at over a million gallons per minute, keeping the core cooled. I’d completely disabled these, and then used a trusty sailors knife to literally dig out the control buttons from the panel and cut the wires. I was being paranoid here. On a submarine, an ECCS could run for a maximum of a minute or so before running out of water. Even if it kicked in, it would only delay the inevitable after I’d finished.
With those two safeguards null and void, I proceeded to take a leaf out of Chernobyl’s book and start (illegally) removing control rods from the core. Regulations stated that an absolute minimum of 20 control rods had to be in place at all times. I’d cut it down to 0.
Control Rods work by absorbing neutrons from the core reaction, removing the general number and slowing fission down. Typically made of boron or graphite, completely inserting all control rods would stop a reaction dead (Which sometimes wouldn’t make a difference in an accident). By removing all the control rods, I’d almost let the reaction go free to run out of control. I kept my hand on the SCRAM controls when I did this, keeping a sharp eye on the gauges to confirm what I already knew was supposed to happen. Even though I’d removed all the control rods, the water circulating through the core was cooling the core perfectly well, but also moderating the reaction, slowing down neutrons. After a minute of studying the readouts, I dropped the SCRAM cover back in place. Aside from a slight pressure spike (Normal in such a situation), nothing serious had occurred. The pressure opened up the PRV and vented the extra pressure into the quench tank. The reactor was now stable, but I could set off a melt down the moment I wanted to, and the way I’d just set the reactor up, even a SCRAM wouldn’t stop the melt down. Once initiated, that reactor would be doomed, courtesy of my modifications. Even if a SCRAM was triggered and the reaction stopped, it would still be undergoing radioactive decay- in other words, reaction or no, it’d still be a lava like 5,000F for several hours. More than enough to melt right through the vessel and submarine alike.

I’d made my home in this Ohio, and now I’d set up the equivalent of nail heads in the carpet. This was my submarine. No inhuman bastard was going to get their greasy hands on it.
--------------
Rig Reactor to Melt Down

---------------------------

Proctor Update



Turn 12 summary

Orthrus' reactor is good to go, and Cerberus is currently sneaking around somewhere, while getting riddled with bullet holes. At the moment, the russians at the dock are trying to get inside the sub, and failing.

Cerberus- Took 5 damage from the US Marine forces 90 - 5 = 85 + 1= 86

Orthrus- 87

Turn 13 is go

------------

Orthrus: Lacerations and Gun Oil

Lacerations and Gun Oil

I peacefully sat in the captains quarters, my mind long used to the metallic whooshing of coolant through the reactor. Believe me, the noises of a pressure and reactor power in a submarine is enough to cause any green sailor to panic. It's happened before, the results weren't pleasant.
I sat in a chair, facing a low table. The table was covered in a soft blue rag. A square pile of gauze pads lay on one corner, and a variety of small bottles were spread out on the far end. In the middle of the table (and now my hands) was the SVD. I was smiling slightly, my muscles relaxed, despite sitting a potential pile of radioactive slop.

First things first, the scope. One of the ingenious things about the SVD was it's optical sight and equivalent of a Picatinny rail.The PSO-1 could be slid off and onto the SVD in a couple seconds, without needing to zero in the scope again. Once you set it, it stayed set. I flipped back a small lever on the scope and slid it off backwards, carefully (Lovingly?) setting it to the side.
I turned down the small level at the rear of the action, pulling outward and completely removing the over-casing for the action. The spring came with it, and I set both aside with equal care. The bolt that was commonly but erroneously (And rightfully. It prevented confusion) called a slide in rifles needed to be slid backwards out of the receiver. On the underside of the bolt I removed the bolt carrier with bolt, and slid the bolt itself (A very small piston) out of it's housing.
With the action disassembled, I set on to the gas operation. First, I removed the furnishings beneath it, commonly called a cheek piece, although no cheek was ever supposed to touch that while firing. Underneath that was the actual gas tube, which I unlocked on the far end and slid back, and then pulled it up and out.
I smiled as I worked. The Makarov had already been cleaned, and now with the cleaning of the SVD, I felt happy and relaxed.....a little frighteningly so, with Russians and Americans pounding on the island, a psychopath running loose, and a nuclear reactor not 100 meters from me. All I needed now was the 1812 Overture.


Ten minutes before cleaning the Makarov, I'd attended to an unimportant but annoying situation, the wounds over my face. Any submarine had excellent medical supplies, and I'd found Iodine, Isopropyl, Hydrogen Peroxide (Which I settled with), clips, and the gauze pads. After dousing my face with HP, I'd carefully proceeded to remove the slivers of glass in my cheek. It wasn't difficult, like large splinters really; none of the shards had gone very deep.
The laceration over my right cheek however, wasn't pleasant. Although superficial, it was rather deep, and uncomfortably close to having caused sever pain. The finger-width gash ran from just behind my ear lobe, barely under my cheekbone, and ceased just a little away from my nose. Just a centimeter more of an angle, and the metal scrap would have slashed though my cheek bone and nose alike, and that was essentially crippling in terms of pain, not a pleasant thought.
I'd cleaned it up as best I could (Unfortunately, I didn't know how to calculate dosage for injection of an anti-biotic) and disinfected it as much as possible with HP. It would have to do.

And now I was sitting like a Captain, a bottle of water to my side, and resting.
-----------------
Remove glass shards and disinfect wounds. Heal, pretty much.

------------------

Cerberus

Turn 13: Manhunt
-----
I steadily waded through the inches of fresh powder, my feet sinking in almost to my shins in various areas. And I'd been careful to choose one of shallowest routes here... I could only hope that our new friends on the island would be suffering some of the same difficu-Bwoosh.
Instantly I threw myself into a small ditch encased by two large snow drifts as the snow to my left blew up in a white cloud. The lone piece of flying lead was quickly followed by a battalion of rounds.
Sapling were shredded, holes being torn through the great wood of the large pines. Snow blew up in clouds of power like miniature models of a mortar bombardment on the Normandy beaches.
Unfortunately as any soldier was bound to learn if they planned to stay alive, there was a crucial difference between cover and concealment. Snow, unfortunately for me, fell under the latter.
My body twitched over so slightly as a stray round would accidentally find its way to me, speeding forward like an eager mosquito to bury itself in my flesh. Blood trickled down, a shallow crimson pool forming in the ditch, my body weaving the skin and tissue back together, the marrow going into overdrive and pumping out new red cells as quickly as they drained from my veins.
Apparently these fellows had either become cautious, or terrified. They weren't even bothering to attempt to take my alive but instead were firing round after round, magazine after magazine. Troops dotted the tree lines, muzzle flashes lightning up in the dark. The instant a firing pin found nothing but air a new clip would be slammed in, the soldiers fingers gripped the trigger in a white knuckled frenzy.
At this rate they'd be knee high in brass before they even caught a glimpse of a target.
I darted my head up from behind the drift for a brief second and quickly vanished back beneath the snow, already having seen all I need to see.
The Russians were ahead on the docks... And while I had little difficulty in fighting a small combat force, I wasn't particularly eager to go Rambo on two armies of special forces squad who were more anxious to shoot one another then me. Either way I'd be shredded. Not exactly much for me to worry about but lying in pieces for a few days in the freezing snow wasn't much incentive either.
I slid the revolver into its holster and vanished into the darkness.
----
"Spread out! FIND him dammit, MOVE!"
The forest quickly filled with shouted commands, shuffling boots in snow, and then the entire troop line slowly drifted into the forest, individual units slowly spreading out in the darkness. Behind them lay an arc of brass shells piled over an inch high, gleaming sinisterly, as if a golden smile. And in the end, only lairs and devils have smiles of gold...
----
The men spread out, roughly thirteen by my count, fifty meter spread, armed with high powered assault rifles and twelve gauge shotguns. Irrelevant. Better yet. There were K bars strapped to their belts.
----
The troops, in fact, consisted of two small squads, typically designated alpha and bravo. Each squad consisted of five soldiers and one leader, with a final neutral commander taking number thirteen. In turn each unit was designed Bravo One, Two, Alpha Three, Four, etc. Unfortunately for them, this was the modern age. Winter combat was not a large area of training for these men. They were desert oriented to combat guerrillas warfare in third world urban streets. The brutal Alaskan forests in the dead of winter made any advantage they might have had in anti-guerrilla techniques was irrelevant. What was worse, they weren't a special ops team. They were military. Soldiers.
This wasn't war though, this was a manhunt. Which the general tactic of tossing numbers into fray and slamming the enemy with a huge sledgehammer as useless as a match was to warm themselves.
They might have stood a better chance if they have grouped themselves together or at least far closer. As it was, fifty meters of distance... Those fifty meters may as well have been a continent across. There was nothing one soldier could do to help the other. Not here, not now, and not with a fox loose in the dark.... Or perhaps a wolf. Bravo 1 started at the end of the line, moving down to six, and then alpha 1 through six. A radio check in cycled through this line, one after another, ten second intermissions between them.
I started my hunt from the end of the line. And slowly moved up, picking them off one by one, bodies quickly vanishing, disappearing, swallowed by the dark and cold. Their numbers dwindled, their combat orientation never having the chance to prove itself.
A marine wandered forth, glaring into the dark, trying to pierce the heavy black cloak. His pant leg brushed past a dead and withered bush.
There was a muffled grunt and a dim snap, perhaps that of a stepped on branch. The man slumped over backwards and was caught quickly beneath his arms, slowly eased down to the snow. And then vanished into the undergrowth, his dead eyes staring at an impossible angle over his shoulder.
---
Another soldier walked alongside a shallow ditch, more of a depression in the snow then an actual. A gloved hand snatched his ankle and jerked it backwards. His feet flew out from under him and he nosedived face down into the snow with a grunt and a muffled thump. Before he had time to raise his head, there was a sudden pressure in the back of his neck. It felt as if a hydraulic press was being applied to the back of his neck, as if a car was driving over it. Strangely there was no pain at all, and seconds later he felt nothing at all as the dark steel of his fellow soldiers knife was wrenched out of his vertebrae. The body rolled into the small ditch, not a drop of blood to be seen beyond it. Within seconds he vanished under the white powder, his blood, black under the moonlight, hidden deep beneath the snow.
-----
The radio crackled static. "Bravo three, all clear."
His finger left the transmit button and slowly moved to slide the radio back into the belt. The radio thumped to the snow instead. He stared down, his fingers slack, his vision blurred. He tried to draw a breath but couldn't. Something was stopping his mouth from opening.
The blade twisted and withdraw from his heart, a dark shadow quickly vanishing from behind him and moving on.
------
Four and five were close together, having disobeyed the spread order. The fifty meters had been cut down to a mere ten feet. They both moved forward slowly, nothing but empty flat snow for meters around.
They stepped once... Twice... The snow directly in between them erupted upwards in a flurry. A boot slammed into four's knee, bringing him down to the ground, the K bar in turn slamming into the lower lumbar of his spine, slicing through the nerves and retracting.
The dark shape spun to the right and smashed a fist into five's face, the other hand slicing and stabbing with the precision of a surgeon, placing five wounds in various locations within a second, each and every one of them lethal and incapacitating on their own. Five was dead before his muscles managed to relax and bring the new corpse to the ground.
The shadow danced back instantly, the sharp edge of the blade sliding through flesh and directly in between the ribs just below fours armpit. The heart beat once. Tried feebly once more. And failed, its flesh devastated by the inches of cold and merciless steel that now resided within the organ.
Both bodies slumped to the ground simultaneously and were both instantly dragged backwards, vanishing into a dark hole in the snow before the white snow mist had settled down.
---
Six never knew anything changed. His mind never realizing anything was wrong at all. He stepped forward once. He raised his other foot to take another step. And a knife flew from the dark, slamming through his skull. The body tottered slightly. A dark shadow briefly appeared and darted past, taking the blade with it and disappearing once more.
Six fell backwards into underbrush a few seconds later.
---
The stars twinkled above, indifferent, uncaring, cold. It continued.
----
Move Summary: Eliminate the marine forces on said zone, (stealthily...)

----------------------------

Proctor Update

Translation: Russkies shall violently breech the sub Turn 16
Turn 14 is Go.

---------------------

Cerberus

Turn 14: Comrade Sniper
-------
The marines we're quiet, slowly patrolling their designated areas. Beyond the docks rose ominously in the moonlight, the freezing water of the Bering sea lapping the wooden planks and supports as it had for decades and would for decades more.
A marine suddenly fell to the ground, crumpling down with no resistance or pause. A pool of blood quickly spread outwards from his skull.
Two more fell to sniper fire seconds apart. They heard nothing but the distant and dim sounds of gunshots, never knowing that they were the targets, that they were the prey. Any one who noticed a fallen fellow soldier was in turn dropped seconds after.
Bodies slumped and slid, a few were shoved back over the edge to splash into the frigid waters. What the bullets didn't finish the merciless cold of the Bering sea did.
Miles away the SVD cycled, the machine smoothly and flawlessly repeating an age old tradition, the hot brass shells steaming slightly in the snow.
------
Move SummaryPick off the marines outside the docks via sniper fire.

-------------------

Orthrus: Battleship V-2.2

The command room was no longer recognizable. Well, that's an exaggeration. All I'd really done with turn it into a Homeless person's shelter. A mattress dragged out of a bunk was now lying against the bulkhead, a small stack of pillows at the end, with a couple flashlights hanging off a rack, forming the equivalent of an overhead nightstand. Several books lay on the side, a few bottles of water and a brown paper bag of jerky on the other.
Every few moments a news flash would broadcast over the radio (Courtesy of revolving frequencies, now isolated), alerting me to recent Brawl TV updates. I myself comfortably relaxed on the cot, listening in to the radio, a thick book propped up on my lap. The cover was in Cyrillic, reading (Forum failure of acceptance) Bratya Karamazovhi. I chewed on a piece of jerky and delicately turned the page, reading the first sentence just as another squawk sounded over the radio; I choked on the jerky.
Lengthy story short: pissed off American's were yelling to bomb the fucking psycho that was killing their comrades.....a little over a kilometer South. I stood up as the transmission ceased giving any more helpful information, and briefly hummed a musical tone, "Thank you for listening to 19.45 Brawl.
Now Comrade Tourist. We'll see how well you fare under American weaponry, since obviously you care so little for Russian surgery."

-----------
Launch Tomahawk one quadrant South.

----------------------------

Cerberus

Turn 14- Alaskan Missile Crisis
-----------------------------------
A deep rumble filled the forest. Far ahead a shaft of white light and dark smoke slowly rose. I shook my head slowly. This bastard truly was boring me. I was disgusted. There was nothing coming from him. No fight, no dance, no style, no fun. Just another human dog who resorted to standard and pathetic cowardice.
A missile. I slowly shook my head and kept walking forward into the clearing, the missile rising ever higher ahead. Tomahawk. Basically a version of a MIRV, a cluster rocket. I sighed, disappointed, sad, bored.
What I would do to meet an entity that would stand for itself, that would die on its feet and with its eyes alive. A demon, an angel, a human, anyone. Unfortunately the age such beings was long past. Very few dotted the globe and the realms anymore. And the few great men and women I had once known, fought, and respected, were long dead.
I stopped in the middle of a white clearing, waiting. Red eyes lurked in the darkness, silent footsteps slowly circling my, footprints that were not there stepping in the snow, paws and claws that had no weight leaving marks in the frozen water. Love any loyalty emanated from the shadows within the shadows.
I raised my hand high as the missile overhead began its final descent onto its designated target. And the Wolves slowly circled in, shifting, floating, warping, their solid form as fluid as dark smoke.
And they obeyed their orders gladly, happy to serve, their dark and sinister intelligence ever loyal.
---------
Secondary Move: Summon the Wolves of Eterne.
Wolves Move: None. Default standard of loyal defense of their master.

--------------------------

Proctor Update

Turn 14 summary

Curt stayed quiet, every muscle in his body at first tensing, and then going completely slack. Now was the time.

The marine commander was suddenly distracted from his field officer's report when he heard a quiet "Unf!" Looking up, he saw one of his soldiers standing, wide-eyed as he stared, and holding his intestines in his arms. The young man's eyes began to well up with tears, and his throat began to choke up. The only sounds were a quiet gasping out of pure shock. "Sweet mercy," were the only words that escaped the man's lips, before he felt a gust of wind, causing him to pivot and look at where his field officer had been standing. Now, there was nothing except two boot prints.

"Shit!" the commander hissed, before grabbing his radio and clicking it on. "They're in the third sector! GET HE--" He stopped when another scream echoed at across the deathly chilled landscape, and another marine clutched his abdomen, doubling over as blood spurted violently out of his front and back, seemingly for no good reason. There was never any moment more real than right then. Everything went silent again, the snow falling ever quietly, ever indifferently. Even though he was surrounded by the best protection the US military could offer, they would need someone more to protect them, alone here in the cold.

In the distance, the marine commander heard the haunting, enslaved scream of a metal blade slipping out of a frozen metal sheath. When he turned to face the noise, he saw Curt stepping in toward him. For that instant, both of their eyes locked into a fierce gaze. A single flake fluttered in between the two, inevitably losing its fight with gravity, as the chilled winter air kicked up for a breif moment. Each set of eyes told a story, told of an emotion, a breif, betraying thought. The marine commander's face wore a tired, dazed expression, full of sudden and horrid comprehension. Curt's eyes betrayed a buried ferocity, the burning determination of a predator staring down its prey.

"Remember me?" Curt hissed, taking a step closer. The marine commander took a steady step backwards, spreading either hand away from his body and lowering them, as if to show that he was no threat. In his left hand, he was still holding his radio, depressing a button that Curt remembered would send out an emergency distress beacon, and his right hand hovered out away from his pistol holster. "No," Curt said through clenched teeth. "Keep your hands in front of you, or I'll cut them off. I dislike being shot," Curt finished, slinging his unsheathed plasma cannon up onto his shoulder.

"I've got to say, it's been a while. How about we do a little catching up before your back up gets here? My "name" is Prisoner Two-hundred and fifteen, after my cell number. My prison's name is Guantanamo Bay Detainment Facility. I was detained by my government and those who have commandeered it, placed in the same hole as the worst of the worst kind of scum. I was beaten daily, interrogated for things I never knew were happening, and on the day I was set to be released, I decided that I would stand against it," The commander's arm recoiled back, going for his pistol. "I destroyed your facility, I destroyed your commanders, your commander's commanders, and vast expanses of their resources. I have found my fight, and I am never going back."

As Curt finished his sentence, a powerful explosion rocked the very foundations of the island, throwing the commander off balance. Then, before he could recover, a powerful wind tore through the area, blasting up a wave of snow into his face and completely knocking him over. When he opened his eyes, Curt was gone.

The Wolves of the Eterne have entered play. Cerberus also purchases an upgrade for his Regen ability. He now heals by two at the end of each turn. Also, the marines on quadrant North 2 have been eliminated. The russians remain on the docks.

Cerberus- 87 - 2 from missile shockwave/heat damage + 1 = 86
Wolves of the eterne- 15/25 health, for absorbing the majority of missile damage.

Orthrus- 90

Turn 15 is go.

--------------------------

Cerberus

Turn 15- ...
--------
I cracked my neck slightly. The Wolves paced around my, happy, playing with one another. The pine trees all around were charred, their pine needles blasted off and burned. The snow had melted, leaved a steaming crater filled with water and slush. I moved on...
------------
Turn 15 Move Summary: Stealth Move
Wolves Move: Move them up one mile North. AKA: NQ2.

--------------

Orthrus

Get drunk and grow invisible

secret move (This might be the shortest post here)

[Blade Knight]

Oct 16, 2009 23:24:13 GMT -5 E-Stalin [Orthrus] said:

Orthrus- 87 with his tongue frozen to the slide of his makarov.

Orthrus, you make me laugh! (With you, not at you of course!)

[Cerberus]

Wow I had a lot of mistakes writing wise. *Tilts head*
Demonstrates the need to triple proof read.

Sorry for being away for awhile, I'll get your Brawl(s) updates ASAP tomorrow.