• Achy
  • Amused
  • Angry
  • Annoyed
  • Arty
  • Awesome
  • Bemused
  • Bitey
  • Cocky
  • Content
  • Cool
  • Crazy
  • Crying
  • Depressed
  • Doh!
  • Drunk
  • Embarrased
  • Friendly
  • Fussy
  • Geeky
  • Godly
  • Happy
  • Horny
  • Hungry
  • Innocent
  • Laughing
  • Loved
  • Ninja'ed
  • No Mood
  • Pervy
  • Piratey
  • Poorly
  • Sad
  • Shy
  • Sigh
  • Silly
  • Sneaky
  • Wtf
  • zzzz
  • Page 1 of 2 12 LastLast
    Results 1 to 15 of 19

    1. #1
      Turbo Revvin Young Punk
      Black Mage's Avatar
      Join Date
      May 2003
      AL Points

      [USA] The American Dream - Capitol Punishment


      The Pentagon, Arlington County, Virginia

      Giovanni Rosso entered the office of the Secretary of Defense alone in the A-ring of the Pentagon, leaving his body guards behind, standing on each side of the door. The stated purpose of the meeting was to negotiate an extension of Jupiter Industries’ contract to provide identification scanners and internal surveillance systems for the Pentagon. That was likely to happen, but not in the way the Secretary intended.

      As the door locked behind him, he noted the positions of four security officers, two were flanking him. Hastily, he dropped his briefcase and drew Julius and Octavian. Crossing his arms, he fired two stasis shots, ducked and fired two more at the bodyguards behind the desk. Small blue beads cackling with energy sped towards the bodyguards. Upon impact they split, and smaller beads of light raced over the suits of the security detail, when their scamper was complete the guards were surrounded with a shimmering, hazy blue cylinder. One guard tried to touch the electric cage and received a light zap as admonishment, another drew his gun to fire but was dissuaded by a wag of Giovanni’s finger…that and the burn mark on the curious guard’s hand.

      “Secretary is secured, proceed with the capture of the present Joint Chiefs.” He commanded into his headset. With one pistol still trained on the Secretary he sat down in front of his desk, pulled a small document out of his briefcase and set it down in front of his new prisoner. “I’d like to present your retirement package, you’ll find it quite a generous sum of both cash and stock options in Jupiter Industries-“

      A dull bang was heard to Giovanni’s right, and the agent who drew his gun was clutching a bleeding leg. “I told you not to try that.” He dismissed the wounded guard and returned his gaze to the Secretary. “This is a takeover Mr. Secretary, as we speak the Joint Chiefs are being rounded up in similar fashion, it is entirely up to you how hostile this will be.”


      Money talked, and the Pentagon High Command walked. Within a half hour all present Joint Chiefs and the Department of the Air Force head joined Giovanni in the Secretary’s office, where camera equipment was now set up. A live feed was now recording on the Pentagon intranet, with an e-mail sent to all employees linking them to it.

      OOC Note: Department of Army and Navy heads were not at the Pentagon and are available for other’s use.

      IC: One by one the Pentagon officials turned in their security codes to Giovanni, shook his hand and were escorted to the parking lot by Jupiter Industries soldiers, each carrying the designs of a generous golden parachute in their briefcases. As the last Joint Chief left the office, Giovanni smiled warmly to the camera, hoping at this moment the wave of confusion would break over his new employees.

      “Greetings, new employees of Jupiter Industries! My name is Giovanni Rosso, who many of you might know as the CEO of said company. As you have just witnessed, you former bosses have ceded control of the Pentagon’s resources to me and the Jupiter family. I would like to personally thank the Pentagon for its generous patronage of our internal security systems. We are on the verge of a technological revolution in this world. One where the Sagan Wave can provide us with efficiency thought to be magical before its discovery, one where the supernatural may be seen on the street and not just the movie theater. Jupiter Industries has been on the cutting edge of such technology and will provide America with a guiding hand to ensure it is harnessed safely and properly. We have attempted a legal resolution for this in the past, but Congress, deep in the pockets of Big Oil, have blocked our every attempt.” He added a calculated downcast glance at this line, in a regretful tone. Then raised his head and brought forth a warm smile once again. “Thus we are beginning a cleaning up of Washington to pave the way for this brave new world."

      “So what does the mean to you? While you may now be employees of Jupiter Industries, we quite like your work at the Pentagon and I give you assurance that your jobs will be safe. The only change is you get to report to me instead of some stuffy old coots. Over the next few months we will be promoting from within your ranks the new executives to fulfill the role the Joint Chiefs once held, so start polishing up those resumes if you want a promotion.” Over this portion of the speech Giovanni had become increasingly giddy, his enthusiasm giving him a faintly perceptible glow on camera. “We are looking forward to-“

      A knock on the office door, slightly audible in the video feed.

      “One moment everyone, I believe I have a visitor.” The camera followed him to the door, passing over the puzzled expressions of two guards still trapped in stasis fields. He was greeted by a Jupiter employee dressed in a Giordano’s uniform, carrying a large pizza box and a twelve pack of Goose Island 312. He handed the delivery man thirty dollars and returned to his new desk, setting the sustenance on top of it.

      “As I was saying, we are looking forward to all these new additions to the Jupiter Industries team. Astute viewers may note that we are a Chicago based company, and to celebrate the change in management I have stocked all cafeterias with complimentary deep dish pizza and beer for the day. All non-surveillance personnel are encouraged to follow a nearby Jupiter guard to their closest cafeteria to enjoy. On duty surveillance teams, please send an e-mail to the Secretary’s office indicating whether you would like pepperoni, sausage or spinach and it will be delivered to you. I wish everyone a wonderful day, feel free to bask in the glow of being the first wave of this technological revolution in the United States of America.” He gave one final warm smile and the camera clicked off.

      Upon seating himself at the desk he deactivated the stasis fields and called a nurse in to attend to the wounded guard. One by one he handed out pizza slices and beer to the bewildered former Pentagon guards. “Gentleman, this has been quite the day for you. Please relax and enjoy, but first I propose a toast…to new beginnings!” He raised his bottle and received a unanimous chorus of clanks, the wounded guard even rising to join.

      Finally! He thought, staring at the pile of security keys on his desk. With all of this data I’ll be able to fully harness the power of the Sagan Wave. Shouldn’t have bet on fossil fuels, Senators, you’re next.

      9/11 Never Forget

    2. #2

      Capital Punishment I

      [Capitol Building: Men’s Restroom]

      The restrooms on Capitol Hill were immaculately clean, and why wouldn’t they be? This was the private bathroom of some of the most important people in the union. Sure, there were a few bad apples here and there but most of the Senate was made of honorable folks elected to serve and represent the good people of the United States.

      It was this one sentiment that kept Elijah Remiel going. He had been at this job for forty years now; any chances of advancement had long since disappeared with his youth and slightly above average looks. But he took pride in his job, in his bright red vest and his silly square hat. He knew he was serving a good cause and was happy to greet men greater than he (and occasionally clean up after their messes.)

      To his shame he didn’t know this particular man’s name, but he knew he was the senator for Virginia. He had seen many Senators come and go in his time and few were as fat as this man. The American public wasn’t too picky, but they wanted someone to be proud of, though maybe things were different in Virginia.

      Maybe he had won a pie eating contest.

      The man had two guards standing alongside him. They were tall upstanding young gentleman with crew cuts, fresh out of the military and working an honest job. Elijah had heard words tossed around like ‘Sagan Wave’ and ‘Mayan Apocalypse’. He couldn't tell you what they meant but he had seen a lot more young gentleman since then.

      “So… how you boys holdin’ up? Not falling asleep are ya?” Elijah began with a chuckle.

      “No s---“ Their words were cut short as a rumble flew through the ground. Quietly the three exchanged glances.

      Another rumble came soon after and this time, it didn’t stop. It kept going even when the entire floor was shaking and the pristine white tiles were starting to fly loose. Senator Pie Eater let out a squeal of frustration from one of the locked stalls and one of the boys rushed forward, wrenching a truncheon free from his belt.

      The furthest section of the room literally exploded upwards. The last three stalls were completely decimated and Elijah dived towards the ground, covering his head just in time to save it from a piece of shrapnel. He stumbled forward only to trip and crack his head on the bathroom sink, cursing his luck, and passed out a second later.

      His last thought was that he really hated his job.


      Mask leapt out from the ground, her arms spread out to either side and a beastial howl of freedom escaped from her mouth. She had spent the better part of the day tearing through the piping beneath the Capitol Building. It was in every way worth it just for that one moment of liberating freedom when she was able to stretch her muscles. Everything after was cake.

      Mask had insisted that she didn’t mind the smell but her employer assured her that he did. And so she had been stuffed into a thick white hazmat suit, the likes of which barely fit over her absurdly muscular frame. Her vision had been exclusively through the thin plastic slit which was by now smeared in thick raw green sewage. To say the least, she could barely see a thing.

      “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE META FREAK!” A cry came from the side. One glance and she could see the small, but still well built young man, jabbing a standard issue baton her way.

      “You left the safety on,” Mask said, a big stupid grin spreading from one cheek to another, followed by a coy wink. All of which the boy could not see.

      “SH-SHUT IT!” the break in his concentration momentary, a confused stare and a glance downward.

      “You’re not using a gun, moron!” Mask plunged in with a laugh, slapping the man’s arm wide and then charging forward with one arm stretched out. Her arm struck him firmly in the throat, hitting with enough force to send the army brats head whipping back and snapping his spine instantly. Afterward his body performed a quick flip backwards before it slammed face first into the ground.

      Mask continued unimpeded, her eyes firmly set on the second man of the pair. She saw him turn towards the door and so she dipped low; picking up the largely intact bowl of one toilet and like the pitcher on a baseball team sent it spiraling towards the back of the head. It struck home and the coward was sent head first into the waiting wall. Between the wall and the toilet his skull split like a watermelon.

      It really was the best kind of gruesome.

      Mask lobbed the hazmat helmet to one side and began to tear her way out of the suit. Beneath the layers of stink and grime was a beast of a woman. She stood nearly seven feet tall with a thick muscular arms and long tree trunk legs, there was not an inch of her body without a muscle on it. Yet her face was... cute.

      There was a constant broad smile plastered across it and her red eyes held a twinkle of childish glee. With a dog-like shake of her head long silver hair spilled down around her shoulders. Then she craned back and took a long deep breath of the bathroom air. She smelled strawberry scented air freshener, she smelled the stink of sewage, she smelled freedom, and fear.

      With a grin she turned towards the one stall that hadn’t flipped open during the whole affair. Mask stomped right on over and with a single swift kick she sent the door flying inwards, much to the chagrin of the cowardly senator.

      “I… I have money,” he begged as he edged his way into a corner, his trousers still half down.

      Mask chuckled and cracked her knuckles.


      Elijah woke up several seconds earlier to find Hell’s own version of a bathroom. He could smell the reek of death in the air, like he had never smelt it before, and his cheeks bulged with the urge to vomit.

      “Howdy partner!” Before he knew it, the mysterious voice had tugged him up to his feet.

      It was a woman, a big powerful woman. With a body better suited for Mr Universe. Her grip on his shoulder felt like a vice and he could tell from the broad smile on her face that she was being gentle with him-as gentle as a woman such as her could be.

      She wore a business suit, obviously stolen from Senator Pie Eater. For as fat as the man was it was already ripping at the seams around her bulky frame. So he just stared up at her smiling face, she was pretty. But in a goofy kinda way. It was clear there wasn’t much hovering around in-between her ears.

      “--so we’re counting on your vote, alright?” He realized she had been talking the entire time when she shoved a pin into his hand.

      He didn’t budge an inch as she backed up. Or when she struck a pose, shot him the double guns, and winked. And he most certainly did not budge when she left the room. When he could hear the sound of her footsteps no longer he glanced downwards.

      'Croc the Vote' it said. Accompanied by a picture of a wide eyed cartoon crocodile with a sheepish smile.

      [Capitol Building: Senate Chamber]

      It happened too quick for anyone to react properly. The power flickered off and a few seconds later the dull red lights of the emergency generator flared to life. The Senators shuffled and shouted in their seats while the guards on hand took their defensive positions... and the doors were locked.

      Every last one. From the outside no less.

      And just as the panic began to spread a beautiful song wafted out from the chambers, filling the Senate floor with the sound of trumpets and the steady beat of drums.

      “Esteemed members of the Senate!” a voice called out from among them, “I come to you on this beautiful day with a heart filled with sadness…”

      A woman marched among them, far too large to be a politician, with bright silver hair and the dull red eyes of an albino.

      “It has come to my attention that you have failed in the duty given to you by the American citizens.” She palmed the face of a brave man who had stood in her path. With a thrust of her arm, she sent him tumbling down the steps. “Now, I do not blame you, for I assume that most of you are righteous folk, who did not know what was happening right beneath your noses. But ignorance is not an excuse!”

      “You have been given a holy duty by the people of your country to ensure that their voices be heard. You have allowed the fascist and corporatist monsters to run away with power!” She paused in her speech to step gingerly over the downed man and ignored his groans of protest.

      “This country was founded on the principles of Democracy. The idea that every man, woman, and transvestite is born into this world equal.” She reached the center of the chamber and the current speaker ran for the hills. “You have stolen that voice from the people. In your ignorance you have let a pretender rise to throne, and not even a subtle one at that.”

      “Most popular president in history? I didn’t vote for the man, did you?” She jabbed a finger at the closest female in the house. “He sure ain’t no Bill Clinton, am I right, honey? Hahaha…”

      No one laughed.

      “But seriously. You have failed this country and something must be done to restore order. Not me, I am just a humble country gal. Let me instead introduce to you… your new presidential candidate…” Mask held one arm out, brandishing a remote in her massive grip.

      “Senator Alfred G. Chompowski. Or as you will soon know him… President Chompy!!!” The projector installed in the roof dropped down, spreading a picture of an absolutely adorable cartoon alligator across the wall of the Senate Chamber.

      The Senate exploded with anarchy. There was laughter and there were shouts of anger, but most of all there was simply anarchy. No one knew what to do.

      “And now… the man of the hour!”

      A shriek filled the Senate Chamber, followed by another, until the anarchy had been transformed into open unashamed fear. The very tip of a great gaping maw had thrust its way through the backstage entrance of the Chamber. The giant visitor ran off to the side and what followed in her wake could only properly be described as a monster.

      It was something the likes of which had not been seen on the planet for thousands, if not millions of years. A giant crocodile that would have dwarfed a school bus with its bulk, its great mouth gaping open and threatening to swallow the entire front row whole, and its eyes swiveling about with a fierce predatory gaze.

      It let out a loud bellowing yawn and Mask cheered from the sidelines, even as the Alligators stinky breath blew past her, leaving her hair in a disheveled mess.

      Chompy continued unabated, caving down entire sections of wall to make way for his massive girth and crushing desks underfoot. Once in the Senate floor he came to a stop. He stood silent for a moment, assessing the room with his reptilian mind and deciding the best course of action. But there was only one really.

      A feast.

      Chompy burst forward and in a single bite he scooped up five Senators and just as many desks, crushing what he could with a single mighty crunch and then swallowing the rest. With a sweep of his mighty tail he removed an entire section of tables and sent bodies flying. The massacre was on. Some people ran, others cowered, one man (from Texas) brandished a gun and took a pot shot at the beast. It bounced off his scales and in the same way a man might swat a fly, Chompy raised a back leg and he crushed the fellow into paste.

      On the sidelines Mask fiddled away at her phone, her thumbs a blur as she sent a text message, and it read: GAME ON! IF MY SCORE IS HIGHER, YOU BUY LUNCH!!!

      Mask stashed the cellphone inside of her coat pocket and she replaced it with a mask. It was bright red with images of eagles curving across the dome and a single gaping opening where the mouth should have been. Its eyes were covered in black velvet; see through on one side and blank on the other.

      Mask slipped the mask on and her grin grew wicked. She surveyed the situation for any stragglers only to catch a woman scrambling her way on hands and knees for the back door. The very same one Chompy had entered through.

      “Clever girl.” Mask cooed, one hand cupped around her mouth. She scooped up a broken table leg and slapped it against her palm. It was heavy enough. “But I'm smarter than the average bear ya know.”

      The woman glanced back with fear in her eyes and she began to scramble to her feet, ready to run.

      “Don’t run! Don't run!” Mask charged into the woman while screaming at the top of her lungs, driving the leg of the table straight through her back and spearing her to the ground. “Just think of this as… Capital Punishment.”

      Mask laughed like she had just heard the funniest joke in the world.
      Last edited by Ozma; 09-22-2011 at 08:55 AM.

    3. #3

      Re: The American Dream - Change in Management

      ”—we’re just now getting reports from the ground…yes, that there is some kind of activity going on inside the Pentagon building. As of five minutes ago it seem to be under…high security lockdown, the kind we haven’t seen since the September 11 attacks. Our information is limited, but we’ve received reports from spectators of a large number of vehicles belonging to defense contractor Jupiter Industries arriving at the base earlier this morning.

      “As we await for more information, let’s take a look at what you have to say about this on Twitter…”

      He was eating a turkey sandwich, on rye with yellow mustard. Dill pickle on the side. He ordered a cup of black bean soup but the moment it touched his table he realized that he had no intentions of eating it. As Wolf Blitzer prattled on out of the wall mounted flatscreen in the corner of the Potbelly Sandwich Shop, Coyote sucked down the last of his milkshake. It was vanilla, in a green tinted Coca-Cola glass. He eyeballed the rest of his sandwich. He decided he wasn’t really that hungry at all.

      In the center of the room on a stool a kid in a fringed suede jacket played Dylan on secondhand acoustic Gibson.

      ”Come gather round people wherever you roam,
      And admit that the waters around you have grown
      And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone
      If your time to you is worth saving
      And you better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone
      For the times, they are a’ changing.”

      Potbelly had a nice atmosphere for a franchise. Very American. The kind of place Coyote liked best. Near the phone order pick-up line there was a pole with street signs jutting from it, aimed across distances of varying vastness at Lincoln Ave, City Hall, Lake Michigan, the Sears Tower (now the Willis Tower, though good luck getting that to stick) and of course the restrooms for the diner. Warm colors, lots of wood grain and cream tones, and pictures on the walls. Coyote had studied them as he ate and halfway listened to the anchors postulating what was actually happening over in Virginia in the face of their utter cluelessness. He smiled inwardly. Someone else had made a move. Interesting timing.

      The kid kept going. He couldn’t have been older than 19. He wore an Ackerman pin on his jacket lapel with a slash drawn through it with a red Sharpie.

      ”Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen
      And keep your eyes wide the chance won’t come again
      And don’t speak too soon for the wheel’s still in spin
      And there’s no telling who that it’s naming
      For the loser now will be later to win
      For the times they are a-changing”

      Coyote got up and pushed his chair in. He grabbed the brown leather jacket he slung around the backrest and slipped it on and left it unzipped. He stood there for a moment in thought, and then felt his cellphone vibrating in his coat pocket. He checked it. Text message.


      This time he smiled outwardly. A devilish, prankish smile, like he’d just read a dirty joke. His coal black eyes gleamed as he made for the Potbelly’s front door and the street where he’d parked his motorcycle. As the door closed behind him, a dark shape urgently squeezed in through the gap near the top just before it shut, catching a few of its oily black feathers in the jam.

      The bike was in a space ten feet from the sandwich shop’s entrance. It was illegal to park there, and a dutiful patrolman had affixed a glaring ticket to the bike’s console. Coyote littered it onto New York Ave and mounted. It was, appropriately enough, a Victory.

      ”Come Senators, Congressmen please heed the call
      Don’t stand in the doorway don’t block up the hall
      For he that gets hurt will be who has stalled
      There’s a battle outside and its raging
      It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls
      For the times they are a-“

      The explosion cut the off the song and the lives of everyone in the Potbelly. It was approximate to the kind of blast associated with a car bomb in other, dustier parts of the world, but the pedestrians and commuters caught in its thunderous radius didn’t have that frame of reference. The brick face of the diner ceased to exist in an instant and fiery wall took its place, punching out in the street like a fist through a sheet of paper and throwing scorched and shattered debris clear across to the opposing sidewalk. There were probably a few Iraq or Afghanistan vets among the onlookers who would have immediately recognized what happened. For everyone else, it was the loudest thing they had ever heard, and bright, and horrible. Gouts of fire clawed out from the crater where the Potbelly once stood, and its ruin spilled out in a wide arc. There were three largely intact bodies lying prostrate on the street among the rubble, burned beyond recognition and very dead. Inside, nothing was left whole. The guitarist, on whose shoulder the crow had chosen to perch, was vaporized completely.

      Coyote started his bike without needing a key. The sirens were already sounding. This close to the White House they’d be all over the Potbelly in a minute, maybe less. The street was now hazy with smoke, and Coyote pulled away and left the scene behind him.

      He went west, and crossed the intersection at 15th Street. On the far side lay the barricade—a double row of concrete and metal pylons sunk into the asphalt three feet apart, meant to prevent vehicle traffic from crossing Pennsylvania Avenue. The police cruiser normally on duty had already roared off to the site of the bombing, and officers were pooling out into the road from the guardhouse standing vigilant between the barriers. They barely seemed to notice Coyote as he casually came to a stop in front of the first row of pylons. Even less, they entirely ignored the crows now amassing in the trees and on the stately roof of the Bank of America that bracketed the most famous road in the country.

      Coyote idled, and one of the officers ran over next to him. The cop spent a moment gauging the man. One didn’t see many Native Americans in general, let alone one dressed as an Easy Rider knock off. Affairs being what they where, though, he quickly snapped into Protect and Serve mode.

      “Sir, this area is restriction from vehicular traffic,” he said, his voice cracked with uncertainty and a twinge of panic. In the face of events he could not yet fully comprehend, he defaulted to the most basic tenants of his training as a public servant. Coyote gave him a wry smile, inhaled and exhaled slowly.

      “You know, this city used to be a swamp,” he said, his voice smooth and pleasant. “Before the Americans came, there were the Nacotchtank, and the Patawomeck, and the Doeg too. For 4000 years people lived in the marsh and fished and got eaten by mosquitoes. And look at it now. A quarter of a thousand years since it’s the capitol of a country.” He leaned forward on his bike, resting his elbows on the handlebars. “Those first nations, they never could have imagined it.”

      Six yards away, one of the remaining two guards approached from the guardhouse. As he did, a crow lifted off from a nearby tree and fluttered down to him, cawing. The guard swung around and swatted at the bird with his hat. He connected, and a deafening explosion consumed them both.

      “Jesus Christ!” the first cop shouted, spinning around to see the blackened hole in the ground and the grease slick that used to be his partner. He instinctively reached for his sidearm but grasped only the empty holster. Again he spun, and now stared into the barrel of his own weapon—and beyond, into those piercing, coal black eyes. He felt them inside his head, piercing him like diamond needle. Coyote wasn’t smiling anymore. There wasn’t a hint of mercy or warmth to be found.

      Coyote fired and the officer fell in a heap with a bullet in his brain. Now the screams were coming from every direction. Pandemonium was setting in. Coyote tallied up his score so far. The Potbelly bombing, with its all its criminal aspects taken together, could be summed up as terrorism. Now was a cop killer too. Double homicide on that front. A split second later it became triple as the third guard dashed out from behind the concrete shack and leveled his weapon on Coyote, and another crow landed nearby and detonated, taking out the guardhouse as well for good measure. Then there was the matter of his parking ticket. And the littering.

      He opened the throttle and the Victory’s rear tire squealed as he swung around and gunned it between the barrier pylons, surging down Pennsylvania with his destination in view. Along its southern vista a tall fence protected the legendary residence. The pedestrians fleeing in mindless panic and the sound of sirens was omnipresent. In his wake, the crows took flight, their murder shadowing his progression and growing larger by the moment, as if the dark birds were dividing like simple organisms to thicken their numbers. The Victory hurtled down the road with a sense of gleeful purpose, until its rider applied the brakes and it skidded to a stop.

      A crow lit on his shoulder as he stared down the placid green expanse before him, and the esteemed white fortress beyond. He snapped a finger and his cawing familiar launched itself at the fence and exploded, blowing a wide gateway with a frame of iron twisted into smoldering helices. Coyote revved his engine and plunged through the oily smoke, tires now chewing up the North Lawn’s careful manicure.

      alucroas: Are people going to pay?
      alucroas: Oh yeah.
      alucroas: People are going to pay.

    4. #4
      Turbo Revvin Young Punk
      Black Mage's Avatar
      Join Date
      May 2003
      AL Points

      Re: The American Dream - Change in Management

      What in the goddamn...?

      He was as befuddled as those guards in stasis fields, standing in the Pentagon War Room, staring at a crocodile eating the Senate and crows exploding the local police. He hadn't expected such a literal application of the supernatural walking the streets only hours after he stated it. Part of him burned with envy, that something had gotten to the Senate before he did. However, his emerald eyes flashed as he calculated how to manipulate this turn of events to his advantage. The result began with a public announcement to the Pentagon staff.

      "Greetings again, new employees. It appears that the supernatural is upon us a bit sooner than expected, with the Senate chamber being assailed by a crocodile and crows exploding in the street. I shall be attending to this matter personally to ensure the minimum loss of life in the city. To ensure your safety, I order the Pentagon to be locked down until we can better ascertain the nature of this phenomena. Oh...and no more than two beers per person." He imagined a cascade of groans, but he needed his analysts sharp for the first test.

      The second stage of his response was an evacuation of all civilians from Washington D.C.

      "Use the Secretary's security clearance to order the FBI to conduct the evacuation." He instructed his Lieutenant.

      "But sir, isn't this FEMA's jurisd-"

      "No, absolutely not, I want this done right. After that order is passed, use the same clearance to 'strongly suggest' the Secret Service lock down all government buildings besides the Senate chamber. I doubt anyone will question it." Giovanni's subordinate saluted and hastily made off with the new orders.

      Now it was his turn, Giovanni grabbed his briefcase and proceeded to the roof, opening it he took out a pair of black leather gloves and gingerly wrapped them over his hands. He stretched the fingers and punched air, small bits of electricity jumped off the spikes of his knuckles. He threw on his black pinstripe suit jacket and a light blue force field surrounded him, similar in appearance to the stasis cylinders, but molded to his body and not so...restricting. Attaching a Bluetooth headset to his ear, he cleared his throat.

      "Sol Invictus, this is Apollo, do you copy?" He inquired to his command base.

      "Read you loud and clear Apollo, what're your orders?"

      "Have Castor and Pollux teams follow me into the city, but remain four blocks away from the Mall until I give the order to advance. Lets roll out!" With that, Rosso snapped on his wayfarers and the Pentagon roof had a light green grid attached to it, a targeting beacon lazily wandering across his eyes.

      He took off, wind whipping past him but never touching his person as he picked up speed. The edge of the roof was approaching, and on his last step he leaped into the air, jets firing out his boots and carrying him up towards the clouds. He leveled off at 1,000 feet and raced across the Potomac to the city under seige.

      His first priority was locating that Native American he saw on the security feeds, he looked like the one controlling the crows. In the upper right corner of his vision a window popped up to track the murder of crows...they were heading towards the White House! Buildings whipped by below him in Giovanni's hot pursuit, now he was right above them by a few hundred feet. He passed the flock, shot over the lawn and landed right at the top of the steps. As he set his feet the White House fence blew open and the Native sped over the lawn, ripping up the immaculately manicured grass in the wake of his motorcycle. The Native registered his presence but kept up his speed, daring Giovanni to move.

      A grin crept over his face, and just to be cheeky he made a gesture of checking his nails. The engine was roaring, the bike was on the steps. Closer, closer...


      A wide, black crescent now stained the top steps of the White House. The tire that caused it stopped mere inches from Giovanni's boots. He removed his sunglasses and looked the Native in the eye, his grin never flinching.

      "I like what you've done with the place, need a little help?"

      9/11 Never Forget

    5. #5

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      “—we’re just now getting reports from the ground…yes, that there is some kind of activity going on inside the Pentagon building. As of five minutes ago it seem to be under…high security lockdown, the kind we haven’t seen since the September 11 attacks. Wait...we're just receiving word now that a single gunman has been apprehended by the ACPD. Once again this is MSNBC Breaking News, a gunman in the Pentagon building has—”

      “—and as you can see from our exclusive footage, the gunman, whose name has not yet been released to the media, is being lead by officers now.”

      “—crisis averted, not a single loss of life. Once again, CNN's own correspondent's are reporting—”

      “—are in order for the exemplary performance and response time of the Arlington County police. ”

      “—had a heart attack. He was found fifteen minutes ago an aide in the Senate's wash rooms. This is WWRC, top of the hour—”

      “—for a look at the floor of the Senate, where there appears to be some form of ruckus.”

      “—a cartoon slide show of a crocodile in to mock the recent healthcare reform Bill.”

      “—once more, a man in some form of crocodile costume...”

      “—here at WCSP-FM Radio.”

      “—@ ThorMobile crazy pictures of the crocodile man, weirdest filibuster ever.”

      “—anyone heard anything more about the motorcycle crash at the White House?”

      Elsewhere, reading over the latest RSS feeds on her iPhone, was a young teenage girl who had only moments ago slipped away from her tour group. She had been looking forward to the Roosevelt Memorial, actually. More than anyone else in her group had. But the waterfalls and carvings would have to wait for another day, and so she sent a mirage off and on with the group without her. It would be unsafe to let them think they had lost a group member, and she never knew when she might need an extra illusion of herself running around.

      She flipped her phone back into her belt pocket, and snapped the holder closed. She checked her watch for the time, and then snapped her arm out just in time to catch her hawk as it landed on her forearm, its talons loosely grasping her skin through the worn cotton of her sleeve. Its was a Northern Goshawk, with dark gray feathers and a lighter under belly. Its work was done, and the news of the attacks was contained for now. The story had not spread to beyond the district, and she was more than capable of making those who had seen local coverage see only what she wanted them to. She briefly made eye contact with her bird, and tapped it on the beak, before she flipped it two feet into the air with a quick jerk of her arm. Feathers and wings rustled, and it righted itself and landed on her strangly black hair.

      The Goshawk melted and collapsed, before air filled it and caused it to expand back into a silk covered dark gray-blue top hat. The hat was a perfect fit for her, and she adjusted the brim slightly, until it rested above her ears. She smoothed out the ruffles of her fuchsia skirt, and began walking towards the place where she was needed most—to the inevitable center of the disturbances.

      As she walked, her right eye began to lighten, from its natural lime green into a strange milk-silver. It became cloudy and glass-like, and her skin began to bubble and cloy around it, until finally it began to blacken as if somehow rotting into liquid rubber. It finally stopped when a snake peeled off of her face, and slithered down into collar, before at last dropping its full weight out from under shirt. Her body, her face and eye and skin, returned to normal as the coils of the black scaled snake hardened and solidified into a living king cobra.

      The cobra kept pace with her as she walked, but soon veered off in another direction. It slithered on its way until reaching a corner along the sidewalk. It became hazy and fog-like as it jumped up and melded with the world around its flesh, until it was no longer a thirteen foot long serpent, but the image of a fifteen year old girl, and a perfect duplicate of Sheena herself: right down to the hat, bicycle shorts, and ruffled skirt. As the snake walked on towards its own destination, Sheena gave a slight twitch of her left eye, and a second copy of herself appeared as a mirage. She cloaked her illusionary double in illusions, making it invisible and inaudible, and sent it on to follow her other self.

      She nodded to herself, gave a bright smile, and allowed herself to fade out of linear time. The world spun around her, the sun moved in the sky overhead, the wind whipped through her as it was want to do, light skipped off of her skin as if she were never there. She crossed the street without looking where she was going, and just as she did not see the automobiles in apathy, their drivers did not see her in fact.

      A car plowed right into her, or would have, in another time, or in every time, except for the one she currently walked in. Sheena continued on her own path unhindered by man or nature, as the snake with her form journeyed to its own end.


      The clouds of reality shifted and spiraled overhead within the Senate chambers. The air rippled and the aether gave way as the lightning of a furious will passed through. Spiritual energy solidified and condensed and a forty ton snow rabbit, easily the size of a triple deck rail car, fell from the ceiling and landed on Chompy. Thunder crashed as the old stone ground cracked and ruptured, and nearby seats and podiums splintered and broke.

      The crocodile was felled before he could sate his hunger on another victim, crushed mercilessly beneath the gargantuan weight of only a tiny portion of Sheena's spirit. It was mauled as its body was squashed into a paste of ground-up reptilian meat, and the half of its tail and the lone forward arm that were fortunate enough not to be caught beneath the rabbit were torn off and slid forward on a floor slicked in blood.

      The giant rabbit gave a lazy groan and sniffed the air with a twitchy pink nose, as it pushed itself off of the ground and into a sitting position. Its pure white fur was now stained a rich rust red as it climbed off of the mangled corpse of the crocodile assassin, and a petite form leapt out of the shadows and landed on its back. Soon atop the head of her spiritual pet, and standing firmly between its great fluffy ears, Sheena glared furiously and pointed defiantly at the tall woman—the one who only laughed at the carnage. The one that stood amidst the death and matte. Sheena could feel the wrongness of this woman, and the scars on her own back burned and slithered against her soul with an anticipation that she firmly shoved back down.

      “You there!” Sheena called out. “What do you think you're doing? This is a sacred hall of democracy, erected by our forefathers to usher America into a golden age of reason and prosperity! How dare you defile it with murder and giant reptiles! This place belongs to the people, its a place where tour groups take children of all ages to learn about their heritage and rights as citizens! A place where any citizen with a computer, television, or radio can watch their legislature in action! This is a proud place, an honored place where a Bill begins its journey to become a Law! I wont allow you to turn it into a fascist cesspool, where fear and crocodiles reign supreme instead of justice and patriotism!”


      Elsewhere, a road marked with a trench of molten rock and steel blocked the path of a motorcycle from the decorative pool and mansion beyond. A brown hound the size of a small automobile stood at the other side of the fiery pond, all three of its heads snapping and snarling as diseased slobber spat forth and burned into the ground. Brimstone sparked with the hound's leftmost head, as it prepared to spout another breath of demonic flame.

      Hidden in shadows and illusions another copy of Sheena, knit together yet again from serpents and illusions, watched as a mirage of herself stood by the three-headed dog's side. The mirage pointed at the biker defensively.

      “Hey, you! Your people couldn't adapt to changing situations, and they were wiped out! There's no shame in that. Nor is there shame in being angry and needing to talk to someone! But this isn't the way to get what you want! This is a shameful display. Shameful! You need an appointment do see the President, don't you know that? You can't just show up uninvited! If you're not willing to behave like a civilized person, you need to go back home!”

      The mirage leveled its gaze upon Giovanni. “And you! I'm shorting all of my stock in Jupiter for this! This is a terrible abuse of your position as a respected Captain of Industry! If you want more from your government, that's what lobbyists and donations are for. Legal tools existed for you to maneuver. Haven't you even considered the consequences of your actions? Where will we be if every corporation decides to just take what they want by force? What's to stop Burger King, Cisco, Kraft Foods, or Caterpillar from sending their own hit squad to take what you've stolen for themselves?”
      Last edited by Matt Nada; 09-24-2011 at 09:33 PM.
      Spikey Dokey: In Russia, when you become the admin of an internet forum, you do it until you die.
      Spikey Dokey: Wether you want to or not.
      AKA Clockwork, Original viper, Sariel, Grandleon

    6. #6
      Turbo Revvin Young Punk
      Black Mage's Avatar
      Join Date
      May 2003
      AL Points

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      "There's a few reasons, but mostly this," Giovanni drew Julius and Octavian. Over his eyes the targeting beacon split into four, one for each of the Cerberus' heads and one for the girl. He clicked the trigger of his black pistol three times and green plasma spheres shot forth, leaving a faint vapor trail of celadon in their wake. One by one they struck the dog's heads and melted them into a puddle of atomized goo. For the girl he fired from the silver pistol and encased her in a pale blue cylinder. She was still yapping like a poodle, but at least it was muffled. He really loathed children.

      OOC: Just had to get that snappy response off, you can now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

      9/11 Never Forget

    7. #7

      Capital Punishment II

      [Capitol Building: Senate Chamber]

      “You there!” Sheena called out. “What do you think you're doing? This is a sacred hall of democracy, erected by our forefathers to usher Ame--“ ‘Sheena’ was cut off in mid sentence, mouth hanging wide open, by a very sudden spear to the face. It struck her right between the eyes, caving in the entire center of her face inwards and tore its way out of the back of her skull. The magical girl swayed precariously atop the white rabbit taking a second to register what had happened before coming to the very sudden realization that she had been brained and tumbling to the ground.

      “Jeez, you talk way too much…” Mask was stuck in a pitchers pose. The wooden chair leg was gone, having transformed into a spear in mid-flight. “Hey hey, don’t you think you’ve lain there long enough?”

      The fat white rabbit let out a squeal of terror, the kind of high pitched throaty screech that gets left on the cutting room floor, as the earth rumbled beneath it. Chompowski was more laughs than a barrel of monkeys, an alligator who wanted to be the president of the united states, but throughout it all people had a tendency to forget exactly what Chompy was. He was a massive (just over twenty tons), cold blooded, ravenous eating machine and rumors of his death had been grossly overstated. Three big powerful legs splayed out to either side of his body, quaking underneath the rabbit’s weight, and his reptiles bones gave an audible creak.

      Then with a deep throated bellow the rabbit was hurled into the air, legs flailing helplessly.

      Mask charged in afterwards, running up her alligators back and leaping off in the time it took the fat rabbit to realize that it was in the air. She performed a quick spin in the air and drove the heel of her feet into its side. Time slowed to a still as her foot sunk into the rabbit’s gut, the impact rippling across its entire fuzzy body in a series of increasingly violent waves.

      Then time sped up once more. The rabbit was sent flying backwards with the kind of speed that should have been impossible for something so large. It smashed through entire sections of walls, occasionally touching the ground only to rebound off it, until there were no more doors left to crash through. The bunny would have slid to a stop there if it not for Capitol Hill, which it went rolling down one painful bump at a time, before coming to a stop before a procession of police and their barricade.

      The rabbit stared up at the mid-day sun as it beat down on its face. The impact of the kick had ruptured its organs like a tomato and there was a gruesome trail of squishy red meat and fur wherever it had touched the ground. It stared at the fearfully approaching police and twitched its nose one last time, adorably so. Then it died.


      “What in the Sam Hill just happened!?” Elijah Remiel stared dumbfounded. He had stumbled upon the Senate Chamber just in time to watch magical hell break loose.

      “Trouble.” Mask stated flatly. She scoured for the final resting place of ‘Sheena’. Only to find a thirteen foot snake with a stake driven through its skull. “Wizard by the looks of it.”

      “You mean there are more of you out there?” Elijah inched his way deeper into the room.

      “Fuck no, I’m no Gandalf!” Mask shot daggers his way. “But yes, there are a lot of things in this world that the government hasn’t told you about. Most of them are a lot more subtle… and less powerful.”

      Elijah considered pointing out the irony there, but the somber look on Mask’s face made him reconsider.

      “What about your president?” Elijah finally mustered up the courage to speak. “He isn’t looking so hot…”

      “Don’t you worry about this one.” Mask stroked a hand gently across Chompy’s nose. Doting upon him like a mother might a child. “I can rebuild him. But it’ll take time. Think you can provide me with a distraction?”

      “Me? I don’t want any part of your plan.” Elijah stuttered. “I’m no super powered freak.”

      “That’s what you think! I just need you do what you’ve been doing your entire life. Watch.” Mask beamed his way with a bright smile. “I know you can do it.”

      “You’re insane.” Elijah relented.

      “Did you know that Washington DC used to be a prehistoric swamp? Filled with wasps that could eat a man-alive. That’s where I found this fella’. It’s still there, take a look.” Mask motioned towards the center of the Senate chamber. For the longest time stinky water had been flooding throughout the building, Elijah had just assumed it to be sewage water. “They’ll help you.”

      Elijah leapt out of his chair as he spotted a wasp the size of a large dog crawling about behind him. It was just one of many, dozens of the things were scattered all across the chamber, taking brief bites of mangled corpses her and there. They prodded about, their antennae twitching with curiosity, and more were piling into the room.

      “Be quick about it man! To the House of Representatives before they eat you!” Mask shouted.

      [Capitol Building: House of Representatives]

      Elijah fumbled down the hallway, every breath was a painful wheeze but he didn’t dare stop. Ahead of him he could see the Secret Service, milling about with their black sunglasses and exchanging brief bits of information through their walkie talkies.

      “Hold it old timer!” a blonde serviceman whipped out his handgun and pressed it firmly between Elijah’s eyes. He looked ready to squeeze the trigger.

      “No one allowed beyond this point, day time workers are being evacuated through the back by the Police Department.” a black serviceman shoved his partners gun out of the way, a look of pity on his face.

      “N-no! Everyone… has to run!” behind him an entire swarm of man-eating wasps filled the hallway, heralded by the low drone of their wings humming together in unison. The servicemen threw Elijah to the ground just as the first wasp entered sight, taking aim and firing. That only made them angry.

      The next few minutes were a blur to Elijah. The wasps hit the House of Representatives like a natural disaster, scouring through every room in packs. It was surprisingly systematic for insects, they relied on their numbers and weight to drag men to the ground and then a single wasp would sever the head at the neck with its pincers. They did not stop, not when limbs were lost or organs were eviscerated, he had even seen one fighting through its last moments with half a head blown off.

      To their credit the secret service did not run.

      [Capitol Hill: Street Side]

      The Police Department had been largely ineffectual throughout the entire event. Between the White House being assailed to Capitol Hill becoming a war zone and the Secret Service refusing to share information they were chickens with their head cut off. Any members of SWAT they had sent into the Capitol Building had disappeared without a trace.

      All they could do was maintain their barricade and wait.

      It wasn’t a particularly long wait. The Capitol Building rumbled and shook as the beast within had to literally tear his way out, ripping down entire walls and caving in several sections of roof in the process. He had four powerful legs once more, each ending in a wicked claw that dug furrows into the concrete with his steps, and his long whip-like tail swayed wildly beyond him. There was a distinct red tint to his normally green scales and the beginnings of spines were starting to grow out of several points of his body. Whatever Mask had done to revive the prehistoric fiend had not only revived him but made him larger (now nearly a hundred tons heavy) and death had only made him angrier.

      Like a runaway train he drove straight into the police barricade; ignoring gunfire, plowing over cars, and sweeping through the survivors with a snap of his tail. Mask sat upon his back, clutching one of his spines firmly in one hand, and using the rattle of a last minute text message to Coyote.


      To the White House they went.

    8. #8
      I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar.
      Axiom's Avatar
      Join Date
      Jan 2009
      AL Points

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      A short while ago

      “Mr. President, there has been an incident with the Congress, its time for us to leave. Marine One is waiting.”

      Daniel Ackerman, the President of the United States of America and leader of the free world looked up from his newspaper, his grey eyes widening as he finally noticed the gathering of Secret Servicemen that had assembled in the Oval Office.

      “What’s going on gentlemen? This is serious, isn’t it?”

      “Sir, someone has unleashed a gigantic crocodile in the Senate chambers and it is currently devouring the representatives. We have reason to believe that it was an attack by a terrorist group and it is likely that they will go after the White House as well.”

      The President slowly lowered his newspaper, a look of stunned incredulity on his face. He sighed and lowered his balding head to the desk, where it remained for a long moment.


      “You aren’t joking are you, Agent Rogers? There really is a crocodile eating the senate, isn’t there?”

      “No Mr. President, I never joke,” Rogers answered, his tone placid but with a hint of actual worry.

      “Alright, then lets get a move on. I suppose you’ll want me suited up?”

      “Yes sir, that would probably be for the best.”

      Present Time

      Marine One’s engine roared as it cruised high above Washington DC. Smoke and dust billowed out of the panicked city, thousands of people fleeing from the bizarre terrorist attack. Seated in back, President Ackerman cut an imposing figure even without his helmet on. The aged soldier was armored entirely in a jet-black suit of powered armor, a hulking brute with the face of a worried man. The metal suit was a truly spectacular construction, with sleek plates of enchanted steel layered to provide as much protection as possible. A faint hum of electricity surrounded the armor, further adding to the image of strength and stability the “Motorcade” was supposed to convey. It was largely undecorated, save for the Presidential Seal emblazoned on the back of each gauntlet. Surrounding the President were men wearing similar, somewhat smaller suits, creating a circle around him even within the confines of the helicopter.

      “You know I don’t like this, don’t you Rogers?” Ackerman asked flatly, “Leaving the people behind like this.”

      “Mr. President, we don’t have a choice. There isn’t much we can do, and staying leaves you in danger.”

      “Bah, danger. This isn’t Vietnam, boy. This is a bunch of panty-waist fools who deserve to be taught a lesson.”

      “Mr. President, those fools just set loose a gigantic crocodile in the Senate. They are more dangerous than you think, and are probably quite mentally unhinged. Its best that we get you to safety, and allow the professionals to handle them.”

      “Bah, Rogers, you just don’t get it.”

      “With all do respect Mr. President, I think it’s you that doesn’t get it. These maniacs are out for blood, your blood. What good would it do to have you dead? We’re just lucky the First Lady and Karl are in California for that peace rally.”

      President Ackerman sighed heavily, throwing up his hands in defeat. Arguing with the Secret Service was pointless...
      "Those who think duels are a method to ‘honorably resolve disputes’ are fools. Duels are the means to eliminate otherwise inconvenient opposition.”

    9. #9

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      Coyote spent a moment surveying Giovanni. The interloper was as different to him as two human beings could be, gender notwithstanding. The man was dressed to the nine and heavily armed; Coyote had a sense of every piece of hardware he was carrying, and the degrees to which it exceeded what one would find common. "Do I know you?" He asked

      "I doubt you'd follow the media outlets that discuss me, but the name's Giovanni,” said the man in black. He knew the name.

      "You attacked the Pentagon this morning."

      "Correction, I took control of the Pentagon this morning. Only one was hurt, through sheer stupidity. The rest of us enjoyed some fine pizza." Giovanni radiated satisfaction, a smug sense of accomplishment earned from his morning activities.

      "A bloodless coup, then.” Coyote was already looking past him to his intended route. The little witch had scorched a deep fissure into the North Lawn like a Glasgow smile on the capitol’s face. Its heat still rippled the air above it. Just on its far side lay the glowing atomic waste that used to be her familiar, and Sheena herself, looking oddly satisfied in her blue prison. He had an idea why; a good magician recognizes his competition’s acumen.

      "Tastiest way to do it." The arms dealer clearly had a rosier view of his handiwork. Coyote let out a small sigh and revved the Victory, its engine sound like a dog’s growl.

      "You’re thinking too small," he said and rocketed off before Giovanni could respond, ripping a grisly divot into the turf with his rear wheel.

      Coyote hit the trench at good speed, aimed at a section where its singed lip snarled upwards and launched into the open air. The crater yawned beneath; it was deep and a lot wider than it looked on the approach. Two-thirds of the way across the bike’s front wheel bowed groundways and Coyote left the machine to be hauled into the earth. He covered the final degrees of the arc in a single leap from the saddle, landing in a roll a foot from the edge.

      Snipers posed on the roof opened up the second he touched down. They zipped by so close that Coyote could tell what caliber they were by their sound. With muted slaps they lodged into the turf on either side of him as he rose erect and marched determinedly across the green. The marksmen reloaded and fired again as he trudged through the fountain; the rounds struck the water around him like raindrops, splintering its marble basin but leaving Coyote untouched. He stepped thoughtfully over the red tulips circling the perimeter, and as he paused to shake the water from his cowboy boots (Justins, brown with snake patterns) and blue jeans (True Religion, Relaxed Straight Cut) four more rounds fired past, striking the gray brick path that circumscribed the fountain. He felt his phone buzzing and he checked it.


      He thumbed his reply as more bullets impacted the scenery around him, each shot wider and more frustrated than the last, and closed his phone.

      negative. i have things covered here. occupy the mall.

      Coyote muscled through the hedges that served as the final barricade to the executive mansion and rounded the columns preceding its grand entrance and ascended the stairs and laid a hand on the knob of the double doors.


      He twisted it, working at it like the a safe dial.

      Two seconds later the tumblers fell into place and the huge titanium bars threaded through the reinforced gateway meant to hold the door in the face of artillery bombardment smoothly receded. Coyote swung open both doors and entered, arms spread wide to embrace his thunderous welcoming present.

      Gunfire choked the normally stately atmosphere of the entrance hall, with its checkerboard floor tiles and its marble columns and crystal chandeliers. Coyote’s objective was the door directly across from where he now stood, over which hung the presidential seal—the portal to the Blue Room, the Oval Office. What stood between he and it were a dozen men in black suits and bullet proof vests and their artillery, trained as a single unit against him. Half fired over what looked like steel jersey barriers bolted to the floor or leered out from behind the pillars, while yet more flanked him out in the open and fired conventional handguns. Their collective firepower swarmed like hornets around Coyote, some passing so close that he could feel the heat from their friction on his skin. The fusillade demolished the White House entrance, shattering the reinforced glass and hammering swaths of smashed lead in long, sweeping arcs across the armored north wall like rivets pounded into iron. Their noise was not just deafening but blinding, obliterating every sense with its intensity.

      All the while Coyote stood calmly in the maelstrom’s eye, unshot, untouched, ungrazed and wholly poised. As the security agents loosed half their total ammo on him he reached inside his jacket and produced from a holster his own sidearm. A Colt 1911 semiautomatic, with chrome nickel plating and a pearl grip. It was 100% stock—he’d made no modifications, and in fact bought it from a pawn shop in Kansas City, with money he had stolen from a pair of brothers he had killed in a town called Widow on the south end of the Oklahoma-Texas border. It was in every physical way unremarkable. But in Coyote’s hand, it was a magic wand.

      He swept the gun clockwise, first shooting the unarmored Secret Service men at his left then dropping the five half-hidden by bulletproof barriers. He calmly reloaded in middle of the bulletstorm, its density now sharply reduced, then shot another four guards. It was effortless. He pointed at his target and fired, and that person died. No sighting, no breathing exercises, no preternatural sense of ballistics, no real skill on his part at all. He didn’t kill those people, the gun did. The ultimate hustle, a trick so good the universe bought it, and its prestige reshaped the laws of the gunfight into a point-and-click interface.

      Coyote walked past the steel barricades and to the door in the center of the now silent entry hall, save for the sound of a dying man thrashing against the floor as he grabbed uselessly at his uncoupled right carotid artery. There was one last security agent unkilled, huddled in terror behind one of the pillars that announced the Blue Room and clutching his now empty submachine gun like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. Coyote passed the pillars, stopped and turned, and looked down at the thunderstruck agent, who reflexively triggered the empty gun at the Indian’s presence. He was just a kid, maybe 23, blue eyed. Coyote kicked him in the chest to knock him prone and planted his boot on his neck. The kid tried to organize his blubbering into coherent begging but Coyote shot him inches from his face before he could do so and everything that he had ever known or thought or loved drained into a red pool on the gray and white tile of the White House floor.

      There was a metal firebox mounted on the wall with a wire reinforced glass window. Coyote unlocked it as he did the front door and took out the metal fire ax it held. He tested its weight with a few swings, and felt satisfied. He turned to the Blue Room door, unlocked it and kicked it in with a cracking thud.

      alucroas: Are people going to pay?
      alucroas: Oh yeah.
      alucroas: People are going to pay.

    10. #10

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      “Hmm...reality bender...don't fight her up close if I can help it,” a girl thought to herself far and far away.

      Fortunately for the present, snakes slither on the ground. That Sheena's snakes would appear to walk on two feet as if they were real girls was nothing more than the illusion they projected. As Mask left the scene, the water on the floor of the Senate chambers rippled and the dead snake uncoiled its body and slid across the surface. It was save to move now, the snake no longer had to worry that Mask would notice what she was doing. The far wall rippled and a thick network of cracks was revealed, centered around the splintered leg of a wooden chair, that had impaled the wall, and would have impaled Sheena in its place if she had a face to impale.

      The snake swam out into the hallway, reforming its illusionary shell as it did so, allowing the image of Sheena to once more trudge through the slowly rising water. The copy gave a brief nod of her head, and transmitted a thought from her true self to the rabbit, the fragment of her own spirit and heart, that lay dead and bleeding outside. The police approached it in shock for only a second, before stopping in mid stride and wondering to themselves what they were doing. The rabbit died unseen and unnoticed, forgotten by humanity but not by reality, the illusions binding it ensuring it faded from common memory even before it dissolved into a stream of blue fireflies and merged back into the universe.

      She would have preferred that the crocodile had died there, but knew that would likely be impossible as long as the reality bender was active. She had accomplished what she needed to, regardless, and at least the crocodile was no longer in the Capitol. It was a terrible place for a battle, and causing her enemy to retreat was the best option—especially since Mask herself appeared ready to leave.

      The building had been slowly flooding with water—but Sheena did not care about that as such. A place is just a place, its the people that are important, and it was the people of the District she needed to focus on for now. The wasps were stinging the walls uselessly for now, but if left to their own devices for long enough, the power of her illusions would fade, and the risk of them escaping into their surroundings to become a true threat would increase. The mirages she created of the Capitol's occupants lay dead and bleeding, while to their true selves she had implanted suggestions to depart in a swift and orderly manner and not return for three days, and concealed them within illusions of invisibility to make organized flight from danger possible. Congressmen, staffers, and aides had safely departed and with them gone she could dispose of the ongoing danger without further concern or delay.

      While her true self used her iPhone screen to commit the floor plan and layout of the Capitol to memory, she benefited from their shared vision and sensory input as she willed more splinters of her spirit into existence, one into each room and hallway of the building. Dozens of rabbits, tiny and average household sized, appeared wherever they were needed. Whether they arrived on a desk, or in a trash pail, or floating in the smooth steady-flowing currents of the slowly rising water, each rabbit wasted no time in fading itself from visibility and fixing its eyes devotedly to its surroundings.

      A dog appeared willed into existence as shadow and flame as a companion to the snake that wore Sheena's guise. The left of its three heads opened its wide jaws and a stream of glowing liquid orange flame emerged filling the hallway, boiling the water, and burning the air as it spread. It touched neither the floors, or the walls, or the ceilings. Guided by the vision of a snake and a vast multitude of rabbits, the fire went only where it was needed, erasing swamp water and wasps from existence without hurting art or paper or the lone innocent man who stood amidst it all. The fire slipped under doors before expanding to fill new rooms and flooded through air vents and around furniture. It passed through some rooms only once, and others many times, taking whatever path it needed to avoid harming anything that belonged. The heat rivaled a bolt of lightning or the reaction chamber of a jet engine, but to anything that the snake or the rabbits did not despise, the heat was diverted and flowed away as if unaware of its own nature. Finally thousands of wasps the size of men were dead, and the floors were dried, and the fire extinguished itself as rabbits and a dog that could not possibly exist no longer did.

      The snake alone remained, one of two last occupants of the Capitol building.

      The real Sheena tapped the screen of her iPhone and closed out a news feed that reported on the failed debt talks, and the decision for Congress to take a brief recess for the rest of the week. She had gotten to the House and the civilians in time, but seventeen United States Senators had been killed by a crocodile before she could act. She could disguise the cause of their deaths, remove the crocodile from the public mind, but the fact was that seventeen Senators were dead, and to enact the scale of coverup necessary would require travel to a dark corner of her soul that she did not wish to visit again. Still, something had to be done, she knew, as she scanned through the list of her contacts.

      Maybe he could help? He owed her no allegiance, she knew, just as she owed none to him, or any of them to each other. But they were all patriots in their own way, and Armstrong might be the best bet of helping America put this crisis behind them once she had resolved it. She sent him a quick email message, asking if he could be in the district within the next two days, while wondering to herself if there was anything else she needed to accomplish in the Capitol as long as her snake was still there.

      All the while, the real Sheena continued walking towards her goal, towards the home of the most important component of her nation. She brushed a stray strand of stringy hair out of her eyes. Everything else was misdirection, let them throw themselves against Congress and the White House, let them chase after the President. Their victory would wound the nation, but it would not kill. Politicians were only voices and symbols.

      The crocodile was still a danger, and its master even more so. But she had to analyze the situation first. They had allies, and one remained completely blank to her even now.

      Elsewhere a mirage stood bound by lies and her own deceptions, as the two men stood before her, fire and steaming ash between them. A hawk flew miles overhead, circling the District, its vision upon all that moved, a soul to guide Sheena's body and mind in the absence of other vision. It was unseen but its presence was felt all the same, as Sheena saw all that it saw, and it saw keenly enough to plant digital copies of her consciousness into every database within its sight.

      The mirage smiled triumphantly as she gave way to Giovanni's devices, and as the illusions created by the nearby snake gave to her the image that all was according to her enemy's plans. But she knew Ackerman and his staff had been unaffected by her misinformation and manipulation of information progression and news of current events. Emergency procedures had begun before she had arrived on the seen, and the President had seen the undoctored security feeds. And though she could have modified their memories directly, it would have served her no purpose, as Marine One was already safe in the air.

      And so she smiled youthful conceit when Coyote saw her. It was not her choice to look like a child, but it was an easy enough role to play after so many years trapped in her own prison. She was proud of her illusions, but not of the ones he thought.

      Ok, thought the real Sheena to herself, as she neared her destination. As Coyote ran off to assault the White House, the three enemies were now split up. A reality bender and an exotic technology user, but what did the third one do? Her plan would work, she thought, but she needed to know what this last man was. Was he just another liar, like herself, or was there more to be seen?

      The snake copy that rested invisible and hidden from Giovanni modified the illusion around her mirage, giving the stasis field that had struck only thin air the appearance of being broken under the strain of unknown magic. The illusion stood up, and let its eyes flash purple for the sake of dramatics and misdirection, and the slain hell hound by its feet exploded into a torrent of flame that liquified the ground around her. The mirage stood unharmed, divorced from the physical world save for what Sheena wanted the world to believe, as molten rock combined with the steaming trench to fuel a pillar of fire. The hidden snake controlled the flames with its magic, surrounding herself, the mirage, and Giovanni with a pillar of fire sixty yards high and thirty in diameter. The fires were hot enough to melt tungsten, but supernatural precision controlled the heat and shielded anyone that did not touch the flames themselves from harm.

      “Now that the two of us are alone,” announced the mirage, “ I think we should talk.”

      She allowed reality around them to melt into illusion, and showed Giovanni her own real self's memories of the crocodile rampaging through Congress, of Mask and her pet's escape, of the flooding and the release of the wasps.

      A second later Giovanni's Bluetooth pinged and his phone received a new message. Along with it was undoctored security footage from the Capitol's own cameras, and footage of the attempted slaughter Coyote was currently perpetrating on his own. The message itself was simple. Are you sure you know who you're working with?

      Ackerman himself had long since taken to the skies, but the Secret Service Agents who stayed behind fought to the last all the same as Coyote's guns cut through them like a sickle of wind through old trees. Nothing could strike him and nothing could stand against him, but as he stepped over the final body and took the ax from the wall, the bloodied carcass vanished along with with his attention to it.

      And as he unlocked the final door and entered the Blue Room he was greeted not by the long departed President, but by a small black rabbit that sat in his chair twitching its nose. Then the rabbit melted and a girl took its place.

      “Hi,” Sheena's spirit smiled and waved. And then she snapped her fingers, and another illusion dropped. Thirty-eight agents, many of whom Coyote had previously encountered and fired at, stood behind her. But they did not see her, only the ax-wielding Coyote, half way through the doorway, and half way not. And before he could move forward and step to the side, or before he could move back and out, they all opened fire.

      And the hawk continued to circle far above Washington, its eyes upon all that happened, and its illusions continuing to mask the sight, sound, and smell of Marine One as its pilot did his duty and carried his President to safety.

      And the real Sheena, the only one without a hat, stood at the gates of her destination. She walked towards the brick building and walked through the gates. She was detoured by nothing, neither sentry guards nor steel bars.
      Spikey Dokey: In Russia, when you become the admin of an internet forum, you do it until you die.
      Spikey Dokey: Wether you want to or not.
      AKA Clockwork, Original viper, Sariel, Grandleon

    11. #11
      Dirge's Avatar
      Join Date
      May 2010
      AL Points

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      A thunderous roar pierced the air as the figure of a lone, cloaked humanoid drove his blade through the stomach of a sizable demon-like creature. Bloodstained horns adorned the monster's head as milky, empty eyes stared toward the black skies. Its maw was still open and the ear-splitting bellowing spread throughout the entire mountain range. The sound of hide being torn open, and bones breaking, suddenly brought the cries of agony to a full stop. Blood pooled on the dirt; dirt that soon was greeted by the soles of dragon skin boots as the warrior made his way out from within the dead monster. With a quick movement of his right hand, the corpse’s spine was torn apart by the sharp, transparent sword the cloaked one so beautifully handled.

      “Well, that’s the last one. There shouldn’t be any more problems in this place.” The mysterious swordsman slashed toward the empty space to his left and the crimson liquid covering his blade splattered on the barren earth. He stepped away from the countless carcasses after sheathing the clean sword, sighing in relief. You could notice how carefree he was after a good day’s work, walking like he was unstoppable, taking long strides and keeping a quick pace. Yep, that was Dargor’s mood every time he finished one of the countless tasks written down on his mental list.

      Pretty fuckin’ good.

      The fine cracks blossoming throughout the land hid an orange light, and a distinctively strong heat peeked out from within. It was that sort of heat you’d find exuding from magma itself. The Shadowlord’s currently crimson eyes peered toward the large active volcano sitting a few dozens of miles away from where he was, knowing that this would be the last sight of this world in his mind. The obsidian smoke it spit out constantly painted the skies near it entirely black, with the occasional spouts of magma providing a nice show of lights. For him, at least, as he doubted any humanoids or animals nearby found it amusing. The planet had achieved a state of perfect balance, so he was no longer needed on it.

      To say Dargor had outlived his usefulness, however, was a silly thing to say. This world might not need him, but there were others out there; countless astral beings that required a savior, or just someone to aid it with the help of others to ensure the preservation and protection of balance.

      He decided to inform the elders of the nearest settlement, a good hundred miles away from his current location, that the impending threat of these creatures had just been dealt with.

      When Dargor arrived at the village, he was greeted warmly by the locals, who invited him to stick around for a while longer and join a banquet in celebration. The village was precarious at best, and most of the houses were made out of a construction material that resembled bricks. The easternmost portion of land was reserved for sickly crops that grew in equally sickly-looking soil. The cattle they kept around fed on rocks and minerals, with the highest quality minerals causing them to grow stronger and more resilient. It also made their meat much tastier and fibrous.

      The banquet was arranged and prepared quickly by the elders, who barked orders at the local cooks and servants. Dargor was led into the main courtyard behind the biggest building in the whole settlement, and signaled to sit on a marble chair. He didn’t mind comfort, as noted by his willingness to sit and eat, even though he needed no rest and did not feel hunger, and he was even thinking of repaying the people before leaving for this kind gesture.

      The attention of the Triad - the three elders that looked over the village – and the townsfolk was focused on the man of the moment. Soon enough, the cheers and the people’s voices died down so that the elders could speak.

      “Mysterious warrior… You have come to our aid in times of need and felled creatures that not even our strongest warriors had been able to best.” This elder’s tone of voice was calm yet stalwart, and Dargor could tell by the countless scars that covered his massive, muscular body that he’d been a warrior in the past. A particularly gross scar coursed right through his right eye and down to the corner of his lips.

      “Moreover…“ The second elder began to speak and the Shadowlord’s eyes shifted over at her. She was old but the years had been kind to her petite body. Dargor thought she was probably a shaman or a mage of sorts. “… You have come back without a scratch, a feat most impressive. You honor us all by accepting our small offering.” Her hazel eyes denoted interest in the cloaked one’s power, and he was sure they’d all be surprised when he finally left.

      Dargor rose his hand before the third elder could speak and the old man’s single word sounded like, “Abuh?” He clearly wasn’t expecting an interruption.

      “If you don’t mind, good men and women…” The Shadowlord stood up from his seat and began to walk around the courtyard; around the tables and the many chairs placed throughout it; and looking at most of the townsfolk gathered within.

      “I have seen the conditions in which most of you live in. I have noticed how infertile the land you inhabit is. In fact, most of this world is in the same shape. It’s hard to grow crops and it’s equally as tough to raise animals.” Dargor’s voice resounded through the whole village, even outside the walls circling the courtyard. It was like acid through the flesh, spreading out across the air itself. “And I have decided I will give you one last gift before departing. There are other worlds I’m needed in, so you should understand that I cannot stay here.”

      There was no protesting from the townspeople, and not a single word was spoken while Dargor sat on his knees in some sort of meditative pose. What could be described as a concentrated white glow emanated from his arms and focused on the palm of his hands, which faced the earth below them. It was sacred energy, a unique type of power that Dargor produced within his own body and that could be released whenever he desired. Often times, he used it to heal the wounded, or to kill demons or undead. This type of energy granted or returned life to, more or less, anything and anyone.

      In a simultaneous series of events, the Shadowlord poured the shimmering energy down into the earth and began to fade from view. The contours of his body were blurring and the rest of his particles flickered between an intermittent state of existence and nonexistence. The soil completely transformed, going from a sickly color and its dry consistence to a loamy, moist, and rich substance, and the crops regained their original, vibrant, innate colors. The rocks near the cattle’s grazing grounds turned into glowing gems, packed with the minerals and nutrients the animals needed, and even the dried up lakes around the zone began to fill up again. The sacred energy drew a direct path toward the nearest mountain and source of water, and replicated the original fluid. All the while, Dargor’s body continued to flicker and blur, with the effects intensifying with each passing minute.

      The truth of the matter was that the deities who had created him were designating him to his next planet - a planet called simply “Earth”. Conflict was rising and each deity could see and feel it, which meant that there was no possible rest for Dargor. A concentrated, localized shockwave finally burst outward and left a small crater in the place where the Shadowlord had been kneeling on, and he fully disappeared from this remote world. Both the elders and the rest of the villagers stood there in awe; their jaws literally touched the ground. And that was a place Dargor wouldn’t soon forget, just like the other planets he’d been to before.

      The next time he opened his eyes, a cool breeze greeted him, and he saw green and white in the distance. Images of the world assaulted his mind in rapid succession and he registered each one with the ease an expert mathematician would solve a first grader’s homework. Recent events that had not yet reached a conclusion flashed briefly, and he noticed several forces already in motion, most of them converging in, or heading toward, a single area. The change in this world was reaching a turning point.

      He recognized the pristine building, roughly three hundred meters away, as the White House. It went by that name, at least, and it was easy to see why. The governmental building held semblances of ancient Greek architecture, which Dargor found elegant. Even as he stood up, the attention of most people seemed to be fixated somewhere else.

      And as the Shadowlord traversed the green fields extending in front of him toward the only important structure he’d seen in his immediate proximity, his organized mind began determining where he would start righting wrongs.
      Last edited by Dirge; 10-14-2011 at 05:45 PM.

    12. #12
      Turbo Revvin Young Punk
      Black Mage's Avatar
      Join Date
      May 2003
      AL Points

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      Too small? I happen to think snagging the Pentagon and moving on to the White House is enough for one day. Alas, I think I can go bigger. The motorcycle tore up the lawn on its way into the White House, Giovanni took a moment to linger while he set up his next move.

      "Sol Invictus, this is Apollo, move the Castor and Pollux teams into a perimeter around the White House, but do not engage any enemies unless fired upon or given a direct order." He left his communication channel open to his troops, a chorus of expletives, energetic shouts and clanking metal filled the headset as their tracking beacons advanced on his HUD map to the President's abandoned domain. Satisfied with them only being two blocks away Giovanni began to stroll into the building when a ring of flames sprang up around him. He checked his force field's status. Strange, it was undisturbed...likely indicating this fire was far from natural. Another useful indicator is that it shot up from the ground without any clear stimulus.

      "Now that the two us are alone I think we should talk."

      A security feed washed over his eyes, not the sunglasses, the image was projected directly into his brain. A crocodile chomped Senators left and right, Giovanni allowed himself a twisted grin as his political opponents were devoured in a supernatural frenzy. The congressmen in his pocket knew better than to show up to work today, so that was no loss. Then came the wasps and his grin turned to cringe. What in the goddamn...? That's a phrase he had best get used to using on a day like today.

      The mind feed cut and the HUD feed began, this time it was his Native friend massacring the Secret Service. He was shocked at the violence, but even more surprised that none of the bullets seem to touch him. The trajectory was dead on until a few feet away, then it just...bounced. Nothing could touch him, and he showed no remorse at plugging a dying man in the face. This...is too much. I can't let him keep slaughtering these people. What is he trying to gain? As his thought concluded his HUD returned to normal, once again greeting him with columns of flames.

      "Sol, give me security feeds tracking the Native, top left corner. I'm going after him. Alone." He ordered. There was daylight above and as his jets fired he ascended, wobbly at first, then shot through the top of conflagrated spire. Damn prototype can't do VTOL for shit. At the peak of his ascension the first welcome sight since pizza appeared, there were his troops, clad in black armor surrounding the perimeter of the broken White House gate. The pillar of fire that briefly imprisoned him was now a podium for Giovanni to give the stand down signal. The Jupiter soldiers responded with an emphatic raising of fists, both in support of their leader and in relief that they aren't the ones having to deal with a psychotic Apache. Rosso finished the silent conversation with an easy two-finger salute, dashed through the air and bashed his way through the White House door. The greeting that awaited him was less than enthusiastic as five Secret Service members opened fire, to their dismay the bullets bounced harmlessly off the hazy blue force field, their only damage was to the regal entrance of the building.

      "If you're quite finished, I've got an injun problem to take care of." Giovanni drew his pistols to punctuate that statement, their energy coils glowing, begging to be discharged.

      "Who the fuck are you?" One asked, likely the leader.

      "Giovanni Rosso, Jupiter Industries, also the one least likely to die when confronting that Native. Bullets don't harm him, but I don't shoot bullets." He gave a cocky smirk as he waved the modified weapons. Two of the agents fired at him as he began to follow the Apache's trail, again their shells careened off and chipped some marble. "It's a new ballgame gentleman and you're out of date. The President flew the coop so you might as well save yourselves and follow suit."

      It turned out the GPS and security feed methods of tracking Coyote were utterly pointless, the trail of blood, death and dismemberment was sufficient. It was even worse in person as smell somehow manages to seep through his energy based shield. Still, the HUD map indicated his was gaining on him, just a few rooms away as Coyote acquired the fire axe. Two rooms, the door was breaking, one room, he's almost through. He crouched and slid into the corner of the hallway taking aim at the Native. One green targeting beacon fixated on the Native, another hovered around him, inching closer until they met and flashed red. Giovanni was locked on when a wave of bullets crashed through the doorway, leaving a Coyote shaped outline of bullet holes in the wall behind him. His aim steadied once again and a blue ball of energy streaked forward. Please hit.

      It hit, and the ball split into a web of cackling energy, creeping over the sun stained frame of his adversary, finishing its dance with a hazy blue column enveloping Coyote. Giovanni exhaled a sigh of relief and hoisted the imprisoned Apache through the thresh hold and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor of the blue room. To his right he saw...that girl again? I thought I...figures. He took a deep breath, sucking in air but swallowing his distaste for children, at least temporarily.

      "You may have had a point, but do you have any answers?"

      9/11 Never Forget

    13. #13
      Mentis Node

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      Over the preceding four years Lanus had grown used to getting around by helicopter. For all of their vertical maneuverability, the mechanical hummingbirds were noisy things. Even the plushest, most insulated designs still required headphones and a microphone to communicate reliably between compartments. And yet, one adapts. What had at first been an annoying barrier—blocking her attempts to use the transit time to continue meetings and reviews with the various companies and organizations that she had brought under her financial roof—eventually became welcome solace to quietly ruminate on the numerous and seemingly endemic crises involved with fusing nearly a hundred middling bureaucracies into a single, massive, corporate whole. More often than not these trips were convenient escapes to even more enjoyable diversions. Dr. Scisco was considered one of the world's most successful up-and-coming capitalists, but to her, the mergers, collusive dealings and careful building of a research-industrial empire was just a means to the end. Science was her passion. Pushing the bounds of human understanding and carving out the frontier of the unknown was what she lived for. But the labor of forging Stellar Enterprises Unlimited had left her life nigh-on devoid of such inquiries. So, aside from the occasional nudge or suggestion that she gave when reviewing any of the R&D projects, the helicopter rides were her only moments to continue her private research.

      “Dr. Scisco... Dr. Scisco?”

      That was unfortunately no longer the case. Meissner Effect Levitation Vehicles, or MELVs, which functioned by excluding magnetic flux from the conducting material to provide lift and motile force, were almost completely noiseless in their operation.

      Lanus shot her new assistant—a recent graduate of Berkeley—a reproving glance and arched one thin eyebrow. The young chinese girl flushed.

      “Right, sorry Lanus,” the girl was quick on the uptake; she'd do well if she kept it up. Lanus strongly disliked being called “Dr. Scisco” by anyone with whom she had developed a rapport and worked closely. She found it too formal. “The final launch preparations are in order,” the assistant continued.

      “Thank you, Shelly.”

      Lanus had employed Shelly Cheng just a few days ago after she moved her previous assistant to oversee the post operation reorganization in SEU as they shifted into the second phase of her overall goals. Shelly had graduated with an MBA from Berkeley the previous fall semester and had arrived with an impressive array of recommendations from her professors to go along with her résumé. She was two years older than her prospective employer at twenty-four, yet that seemed to account for very little in how the young woman addressed her boss; the formality of her interview had instilled a lingering stiffness in the Asian-American.

      Shelly entered a command on her computer console, which opened a camera feed on the large screen ensconced in the wall opposite the young magnate. Sunlight, though secondhand, spilled into the dimly lit cabin bringing the interior to a sharper focus than the soft light within gave. There were no windows, this was a military vehicle—a troop transport. It had been refitted on the inside to provide Lanus and a few guests she might have with comfort. The luxurious décor would not have looked out of place on a private jet. It had strategically placed leather chairs and benches providing seating for ten and enough room partitioned off for a bathroom and small kitchenette with a wait-staff for particularly long voyages. In a normal model the sides would have simple benches and crash webbing with barely enough room in the center to equip and load up. The bathroom and kitchen would have been where weapons and supplies were stored.

      Aside from Lanus and Shelly there were two men lounging seemingly unconcerned within the room; both wore identical coal grey suits and sunglasses. One was a short white man with distinctive southeastern European—to be specific, Italian—features and slicked-back, black hair. The other was African-American, tall and powerfully built, his head shaved and with hooded brows sufficiently pronounced to give even a normally pleasant expression a foreboding air. For all of their skin deep differences, however, they had an aura of danger in common. It was an affect of lackadaisical violence that marked them clearly as members of the top level security division within SEU. These two had assigned themselves, superfluously in Lanus' opinion, as her bodyguards to replace the momentary absence of her head of security.

      The appearance of the video feed broke their studied facades of indifference as they turned in their places for a better angle. The virtual window displayed a wide field of view of a vast concrete plain in the desert terrain of Nevada. There was only one structure breaking the uniform flatness. It was a vertical scaffold supporting a strange, conical, white shape pointing to the sky with stubby wing-like structures to either side. The distances involved made comprehending scale difficult, but Lanus knew the numbers, and truly, she was the only one in the room for whom that really mattered. The scaffold was 515.6 feet high, 221.4 feet wide and 189.9 feet deep with the white shape only a little less that in all three dimensions. If one look terribly hard, squinted and tilted their head at just the right angle, they might imagine the white shape to be a space shuttle, only missing it launch components. Such observers would not be so far off the mark.

      Lanus closed her eyes, and with exaggerated effort, took a deep breath slowly opening her eyes in the process. As she proceeded the world within the camera's view darkened gradually but universally as though a solar eclipse marked a blotch of shadow upon that corner of the world. No such phenomenon had been predicted. Indeed no object within the sky occulted the brilliant sun, neither moon nor cloud. Lanus' fingers flexed out and up from where her hand rested on the arm of her chair, those delicate digits straining as they seemed to be trying to reach through the barrier of the screen and across the thousands of miles between the cabin and the plain. Yet even through the distance those fingers tangled and played through the beams of the sun and her indigo eyes, fixated on the white spacecraft, gathered the threads and laced them into a web around, then on, then in and finally throughout the craft.

      The sun returned to full force with the same suddenness with which it had left, and taught muscles—more than just her hand—relaxed as Lanus sank satisfied within her chair. Shelly blinked at the brightness.

      “Right then,” the natural blue called cheerily, “up you go!” Her hand motioned slightly, unconsciously, for emphasis, and in response the white shape leapt from the scaffold and into the sky. The camera followed the shape as it quickly dwindled. Seconds later thunder rolled a distant echo through the speakers. Just before the ship faded from sight entirely a shimmering light, as though a speck of a star, burst into its place as the vessel's Starwind plasma thrusters kicked in to take over the rest of the trip into space.

      “Final launch completed successfully at 18:23 Zulu, 10:23 local,” Shelly added for the record.

      “Kinda anticlimactic,” murmured Mercutio in his light accent; one finger tapped at his cheek. Behind his shades his face was a mix of disappointment and open rumination.

      “Oh?” Lanus leveled a disapproving gaze his way. “You found something dissatisfying in the launch?” Embarrassment colored the Italian's lightly tanned complexion as red radiated its way across his cheeks like a sunburn.

      “No! Nothing like tha—” the man's chagrin deepened along with his blush as his boss pinned him to his seat with her stare. “I—well, I guess I was just expecting it to be flashier, you know. Like the NASA shuttle launches. A sudden fiery ignition after a suspenseful countdown,” he became animated with his words, punctuating them with expressive gestures, “steam pluming everywhere as the shuttle slowly rises faster and faster on a pillar of white hot flame.” He let his arms fall sighing all the while. “I guess with maglev tech we don't get a flashy takeoff.” Mercutio shook his head sadly, his arms crossed and his eyes closed. He missed his partner's excruciating facepalm.

      “Don't you read any of the briefs or memos?” Derek asked behind his hand, which had slipped down to cover his face as though just being seen associated with the other man brought him great pain. His voice was deep and rich, which incidentally, along with his dark skin, always made Lanus think of chocolate.


      The expression of absolute confusion was so comical on Mercutio's face that Shelly began to giggle in explosive fits despite her suppressive efforts. Lanus seemed to ignore the exchange, instead reaching out to snag a piece of Dove's dark chocolate from the air before her, after it had flitted from the kitchenette along the length of the table to her position at its head. The clueless Italian man remained oblivious to his bosses subtle hints.

      “Even with the best superconductive composites with a Sagan Wave circulating a current at near critical field density and arranged to maximum effect,” Lanus' voice was thick around the delectable morsel, “the minimum impulse to achieve a breech of the sound barrier is about twenty seconds for that ship model at that elevation.” Mercutio stared blankly. “Additionally, the vessel achieved Mach 1 about .1 seconds after launch. Therefore, if maglev or booster launch components had been used, the rest of the ship and its cargo would have experienced stress from almost 320 Gs of acceleration, which would have seriously damaged some of the more delicate parts.”

      “So... we didn't use magnets?” Mercutio queried slowly as his boss swallowed the rest of her chocolate.

      “Nope,” she answered brightly. “By the way, could you throw this away? Thanks.” Mercutio formed his hands as if to catch the candy's crumpled foil wrapper but sat agape as the coppery colored aluminum floated daintily into his hand under the influence of Lanus' psychokinesis.

      “Memos, man, you really gotta read the memos.” Derek stated sadly. Shelly distracted herself from the exchange by responding to a call, tapping a receiver at her ear.

      Lanus returned to the report that had brought her—and the others—out on this impromptu capitol visit. It was a hastily typed e-mail smuggled out of the Pentagon intranet by one of her contacts with a video attachment of Jupiter Industries' executive officer boldly announcing his coup.

      “Not a very elegant solution Giovanni,” the billionaire sighed. She had met the man at a few parties and functions and her impression had been reservedly favorable, a bit prideful perhaps but with more than enough talent to balance the flaw. However, she couldn't help but think he was overreaching himself.

      “Ma'am!” Garcia, the MELV's pilot, called over the comm, “the Occulus unit you had deployed has achieved sixty-three percent coverage over the DC area but something's happening at Capitol Hill.”

      Camera windows, similar to those which had recorded the shuttle launch, flooded the computer screen. The aftermath of the numerous and widespread attacks filled Lanus' eyes and silenced the bickering of the two security guards. Shelly's voice became even a quieter murmur, but the pace of her words increased.

      “My god,” Derek exclaimed in hushed awe and horror, “its a goddamn warzone.”

      “Ma'am, we'll have to call off our trip,” Mercutio's playful tone had melted away to be replaced by calm level words, “we can't get involved in this. We couldn't guarantee your safety with the resources at our disposal.”

      “No,” the magnate responded evenly; her eyes never left the grisly scenes, “even more so now we cannot turn back.”

      “What?!” a new camera window bloomed over the entire computer screen revealing the bedridden and recuperating chief of security at SEU, Tori Loewe. She didn't appear sick, but—following major synthetic body augmentation surgery—she most certainly should not have been so riled up; high blood pressure was bad for recovery. Lanus shot a reproachful look at her assistant, who had the decency to look abashed.

      “She called me, Dr. Scisco” the physicist/mathematician threw up her hands in exasperation.

      “And a good thing she did. Samantha,” Lanus' eyes flashed dangerously at the use of her childhood name, but Tori ignored it, “you can't go in there. Its too dangerous; you'll be risking everything we've worked f—”

      “Correction,” Lanus interjected forcibly, “the purpose of this trip was to ensure the changing situation within the United States did not disrupt the goals of Stellar Enterprises. What I have seen threatens the very stability of the US, which if allowed would cause all our efforts to whither on the vine. I cannot—and will not allow that to happen. Is that understood, Victoria?” The German blonde bit back a stream of invective by biting her lip but nodded. “Now,” Scisco's tone shifted to one of reconciliation, “Shelly, are the test pilots still on base in Nevada?”

      The Chinese-American checked her computer. “Yes, ma'am.”

      “Good have them suit up and off the ground in the T-2 Shrike prototypes in five minutes. I want them lingering in sub-orbital flight over DC shortly after we arrive. The shuttle we just launched should swing over the area, only off by twelve degrees, in forty-two minutes. During that period have it activate and align Module-7 and establish a secure link-up between the shuttle's AI and the Occulus grid, same for the Shrikes once they're in the air.”

      “Right away,” Shelly acknowledged.

      “I've set up as much support as I can for this, Tori. Now get some rest. In a few hours, you'll have recovered and be in perfect condition to come rescue me if things go awry,” Scisco smiled dryly.

      Tori exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose while muttering something unintelligible. Then she looked directly into the camera, into Lanus' eyes.

      “Be safe, Antha.” Lanus' features softened, and she was briefly overcome with an urge to embrace her friend, to comfort her.

      “I will.”

      Tori's link closed leaving only the scenes of carnage on the screen. Lanus considered them a moment longer before turning her attention to her subordinates.

      “Shelly, collate the feed and figure out what's going on there. Mercutio, Derek, this operation will follow minimal loss of life protocols. Is that understood?”

      “Yes, ma'am,” they chorused.


      “Still here, boss,” the pilot responded over the comm.

      “Ghost us.”

      “Got it.”

      To the outside, the ship had been a vaguely greenish gray wedge with stunted ventral and dorsal-aft wings. Within a second the entire vessel shifted in color as light was irregularly bent around the hull, reducing its profile to a strange hard to notice disturbance in the air. The top paint layer, a recent breakthrough of SEU's metamaterials department was responsible for the effect, but more importantly a second layer underneath bent radio waves around the hulk without disturbing them. This effect resulted in a nearly nonexistent radar cross section and would ensure their approach wasn't marked.

      The remainder of the trip was spent in silence, the tension making even the thought of casual chatter painful. Though Mercutio's playful smile was in place, it held a forced edge to it. Derek didn't bother to look anything other than concerned. They had fifteen minutes before they arrived at DC. Nine minutes into that interval Shelly made her report.

      “The Occulus grid is at ninety-nine percent inclusion of the operational space and I've been able to make out three areas of interest.”

      “Question,” interrupted the Italian, “Occulus grid? It's been mentioned a few times now.”

      “The Occulus,” Lanus responded, “is a group of a thousand MELV surveillance probes, each about the size of a thick ink pen, that will permeate an area to gain important intel. They each possess a camera, infared camera and a few other sensors. They communicate to each other over an encrypted frequency and report their observations independently over a quantum entanglement comm to a central server at one of our facilities.”

      “Gotcha,” he responded, apparently little more enlightened for the lecture than before. Shelly threw him a wry grin before continuing.

      “The first area of interest is the Pentagon, which has been locked down and isolated by Jupiter Industries forces, but is otherwise showing no evidence of violent activity. The second is the capitol building which has suffered significant structural damage to the North Wing during an attack on the Senate. The third is the White House, which has taken moderate damage to the fore of the Capitol Grounds and the front of the rotunda. Persons of interest are a muscular woman and an enormous crocodile that initiated the attack on the Senate, also a man of Native American descent that left a path of destruction to the front of the White House, and Giovanni Rosso. The Jupiter Industries CEO was last seen entering the White House after the Native American. A few of his forces have been stationed around the capitol building. I've also been noticing some odd incidents involving what appears to be a schoolgirl, but I haven't found anything conclusive in that regard.”

      “Do we know where Giovanni is now, specifically?”

      “According to decrypted Secret Service chatter, he's heading towards the Blue Room following the Native American.”

      “Garcia, find us a quiet entrance.”

      “I'll give you quiet so long as you don't mind breaking a few windows and maybe a floor.”

      Lanus smiled as she looked over the diagram on the screen detailing out the insertion plan over the White House blueprints, “They can put the repair bill on my tab.”

      “ETA thirty seconds.”

      The party rose from their seats. Lanus nervously smoothed her suit jacket, but swayed as the sea of panic and fear eking around Capitol Hill hit her full force. In all her life she'd never felt so much terror; it was nauseating. She took a moment to block out the emotional climate and steadied herself. Shelly, unseeing of her employers distress, hastened to bring a steel briefcase from beside her seat as the two security agents moved to the back where the rear exit ramp would drop.

      “I have to admit,” Mercutio quipped, his laughing charm returned, “I do love this part of the job.”

      “Shelly,” Lanus looked over her assistant of only the past couple of days, “I want you to stay on th—”

      “I'm coming with you,” the look in the woman's eyes said she would fight through bullets, giant crocodiles and whatever strange powers her boss possessed in order to stay. Lanus nodded slowly.

      “Then do not leave my side or disobey any order I give.” Ms. Cheng gave a shaky assent, her eyes looking fearful yet resolute.

      Outside, the wraith-like disturbance of the MELV swept soundlessly and unopposed from the northeast over the White House to deftly abut a second floor window of the President's residence. In the time it took for the transport to align with the window, the ramp descended. Mercutio glanced at Derek who nodded in turn before lifting his right arm. A device that had been cleverly hidden within the sleeve of his suit folded out and locked around his outstretched hand. The glass shattered into dust has a violent pulse of hypersonic sound rippled from the device. The moment the window fell the Italian was in, leaping through the silicate dust.

      “Drama queen,” muttered his partner as he followed.

      Lanus and Shelly waited two seconds before following, the natural blue using her powers to float the two of them through the abused opening. The hall contained the slumped forms of three Secret Service agents and Derek's tall profile looking cautiously down another nearby hallway. At the far end, the present passage turned abruptly left. From around this corner another agent fell into view and against the wall. Mercutio stepped from where the erstwhile federal agent had flown, cracking his knuckles around his sonic weapon.

      “So do you think we'll be charged for assaulting a federal agent?” the Italian looked genuinely concerned, as though he had only just considered it. Lanus smirked but otherwise ignored him.

      “Garcia, take your bird into a loop around the capitol grounds. Weapons locked unless fired upon or I say otherwise. Keep it quiet.”

      “Yazzabossah,” the pilot slurred in facsimile of a southern slave accent. The MELV angled away from the window, its ramp already closing.

      “This area's clear, ma'am,” Derek reported.

      “Good lets desecrate some historical architecture. Prepare vertical insertion.”

      “Dibs,” called Mercutio, already moving to the indicated demolition point. He sank to one knee putting his palm, which held another device like the one on Derek's hand, to the floor. With a fountain of dust and the sound of splintering wood he spun in a quick circle and dropped from sight, only a rough hole remaining to show where he had gone. Gunshots thundered out from below along with muted thumps and grunts, which continued for a few seconds growing swiftly more intermittent. “Clear,” he called genially.

      “Down we go,” Lanus motioned her assistant ahead of her and on reaching the hole lifted her gently on wings of psychokinetic force and lowered her. For her part Shelly remained stoic, only clutching the briefcase tightly to her chest. Lanus dropped in behind, followed swiftly by Derek who took up watch on the rear. Shelly gasped. Mercutio, now holding a telescoping baton in one hand, looked far more worn than when he had dropped. He had at least three bullet holes in the front of his suit, though no bloodstains from any of them, and blood trickled from a cut at the corner of his lower lip.

      “Are you okay?” Shelly asked in dismay.

      At the same time Lanus asked, “How's the reactive armor skin holding up?” The magnate shot an irritated glance at her assistant.

      “S'fine,” he lifted his shirt near one of the lower bullet holes. Instead of a tanned, muscled belly, his abdomen was overlaid by a dull black skinsuit. “Still feels like a battering ram when they you, though.”

      “You got hit?” Derek turned to look at his partner and nodded at the blood on his face.

      Mercutio licked the wound. “Spook got a lucky hit in,” he responded, giving a 'shit happens' shrug and pointing his truncheon at the nearest unconscious body.

      Derek frowned, “I don't think these guys are spooks. They aren't spies after all.”

      “Look, I don't care. You know what I—” Mercutio faltered as Lanus heard a crunching step at their rear. She spun her head as her perception of time slowed even further than what was normal for her. A single black suited agent was leaning around a corner, his HK MP5 presently trained on the back of Derek's head. In agonizing detail she watched as his index finger began depressing the trigger. But already, as she stood motionless, the mentalist was acting. With a slight twitch of her finger a plane bisected the chamber, its round, the bolt and barrel of the weapon, neutralizing the molecular bonds that the plane intersected, effectively cutting the submachine gun in half. When the firing pin impacted the rear of the bullet casing and fired the primer, the cutting force had already separated the front of the weapon from the back by a tenth of a millimeter. It wasn't much, but it was enough. The gun exploded harmless in the agent's hands as the gas of the combusting gun powder expanded into the space of the cut rather than propelling the slug.

      In two leaping strides, during which he drew and extended his own baton, Derek was upon the stunned agent and delivered an incisive blow to the corner of the man's jaw. The Secret Serviceman spun as he fell bonelessly to the floor.

      “Sorry, Lanus,” Derek called softly, “didn't see him.”

      “Luckily his gun malfunctioned,” Mercutio noted, his voice a bit hollow.

      “Yeah,” he responded, looking at the flat cut plane of the MP5, “lucky.”

      “Are we sure its clear now?” Lanus asked in a blasé tone. The security agents took a moment to check their corners before nodding. “Good.” Lanus turned to her assistant who's eyes were locked on the form of the fallen agent. Her breath was coming short and quick; she was hyperventilating as she edged into hysteria. Reaching just a little out of the barrier she had built around her emotions, Lanus placed her hand in Shelly free one, and she nudged the Asian-American's mind in a calming direction. “Shhh, its alright,” she comforted, “everyone's fine, Shelly.” The woman's breathing slowed as she regained control of herself.

      “Yeah,” she murmured breathlessly, “just shocked I guess. I'm alright.” Lanus gave her a warm smile and squeezed her hand before letting go to lead her retinue down the hall to the Blue Room. They encountered no further inference.

      As Lanus approached she heard Giovanni talking, “You may have had a point, but do you have any answers?” Upon entering the bullet hole strewn room she took stock of its occupants as Derek and Mercutio assumed positions to either side of the entrance's exterior at her rear. Shelly followed her boss only a step behind and slightly to her right. The magnate spared the agents arranged across the far wall only a glance, despite that a number aimed their guns at her. The stasis trapped native received a longer stare but no comment. When she took in the schoolgirl and her position among the agents—a position of authority—Lanus raised an eyebrow and looked back at her assistant.

      “A schoolgirl, huh.”

      Shelly nodded, “Her uniform doesn't seem to match any of the district's schools.”

      Lanus dismissed it for the moment and turned instead to her objective.

      “Mr. Rosso, we need to talk. And I don't think it can wait.”
      Last edited by Mentis Node; 10-16-2011 at 08:18 AM.

    14. #14

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      Ten thousand years ago men cut vines and strips from animal hides and tanned them and used fresh sinews to bind the hands and feet of their prisoners. Later they twisted lengths of flax and hemp to make coarse ropes. They made chains from bronze and iron and fetters and shackles and manacles and stocks out of wood and heavy balls affixed to ankles. Men were left to rot on offshore vessels and in jails and prisons and in gulags till everything that made them human had withered and in its place grew a deep hollowness. They held them in cisterns and behind doors and metal bars and locked them in lightless concrete cells until their minds were released from the flow of time around them. They threw them in padded cells immobilized by straightjackets, condemned to rage in isolation till exhausted and spiritually drained.

      All magicians know this history of bondage. They honed their tricks against those mechanisms for centuries. And now Coyote found himself ensnared in the latest iteration of that meme: jacketted in impermeable light with just enough give to keep him breathing and aware of his surroundings and his body. No locks, no belts, no seams or lynch pins to exploit. Years ahead of what were conventionally available. He studied it with all his awareness, scrutinizing it with his fathomless expertise for a way to escape its bind. It almost took him an entire minute.

      The agents had stopped firing by now, thought till after they’d expended three quarters of their ammunition, whose warheads now pooled flattened in front of the stasis field they’d reflected off from. Still he felt their aim trained on him. The ones who had rushed in to defend the office, and the ones he’d killed minutes before. That was a pretty good trick, he had to concede. The smiling girl astride the presidential chair had her chops fleshed out. Her illusions were too flashy though; all show, no soul, like a Vegas stageman using showgirls and loud music to hedge his sloppy execution and poverty in originality. The others didn't matter. Giovanni's own lack of vision kept his potential in a stranglehold. The other two...well, they could be something.

      The firing resumed instantly as Coyote severed the field’s grasp on him and lifted through its curtain, irrespective of the other inhabitants of the office. Bullets destroyed the far wall to his back and continued to pound dully against the still intact stasis field. Gunsmoke and panic choked the Blue Room. Coyote didn’t pay the seated girl any heed, and as the gunfire drove relentlessly and uselessly around his impermeable personal space and slingshotted in haphazard directions to menace the other occupants, he cupped his hands together and twisted them, and threw them open.

      Slick black shapes burst from the space he had capsulated into the barrage, twisting fluidly through its now waning depths and amending their hysterical caws to the thunderous sound. The security forces hadn't been briefed yet on what the crows could do; the assumption was still that the terrorists were using car bombs and grenades. A second later the south face of the White House exploded and the pyroclastic wreckage that used to be the Oval Office was hurled two hundred feet onto the lawn, carrying with it the bodies and body parts of its security, hollowed and broken like burned scarecrows. The blast blew out every non-reinforced window in the mansion and obscured the once blue now black room with a thick screen of smoke and debris, hot and swirling.

      Two agents were left vaguely alive, clinging to the walls as if they’d fall off the world. They were deafened and blind; one had half his face sheared off and continued living only as long as his body didn’t register how severely he was wounded. He would be gone in seconds. The other was senseless but miraculously intact. Coyote stalked him through the acrid gloom and when he came upon him, crawling blind across the floor and grasping for anything to anchor him back to reality, Coyote split the back of his skull with his axe head, painlessly uncoupling him from his own mind as dimness flooded through the wound.

      Before the screen cleared, Coyote turned to the side door leading to the Green Room. His explosion had been directed outward along a north-south axis, leaving the interior walls and doors intact. He unlocked the door and stepped through it and closed it behind him.

      Concurrently, the door to the dry pantry in the kitchen on the second floor opened, and Coyote stepped out, towing his bloodied axe behind him. He brushed the soot off his jacket and walked over to a sink and turned it on and laid his axe against the counter. Coyote washed his face and ran his wet fingers through his hair, then rinsed the axe’s edge and wiped it clean with a cotton towel and sunk the towel in a trash bin. The kitchen staff had been preparing lunch when his attack started and had fled leaving their work half-finished. Coyote reached for a bowl of fruit and picked out a pear and bit and leaned against the countertop as he chewed.

      alucroas: Are people going to pay?
      alucroas: Oh yeah.
      alucroas: People are going to pay.

    15. #15
      I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar.
      Axiom's Avatar
      Join Date
      Jan 2009
      AL Points

      Re: The American Dream - Capitol Punishment

      Marine One continued it course away from the White House, the pilot wanting to put as much distance between the President and the attack. The navy-blue helicopter’s Sagan-powered engine quietly hummed, the almost supernatural power source providing the necessary energy without the “whine” of a traditional motor. Within the fairly sizeable transport President Ackerman sat, still surrounded by his elite bodyguards. These “Yankee White” men were the best the Secret Service had to offer, willing to die for their ward, but more than capable of fighting back against even the most unconventional opponents. Among them were magicians, Sagan technology specialists, and even a priest. Their loyalty was absolute, each of them with the President night and day, a shadowy brotherhood reminiscent of a king’s guard. With the world having been so changed, these individuals had determined that the President would be in danger from madmen like those currently assaulting Washington, and had stepped forward to work with him. Not far from this cadre of elites sat the “Nuclear Football,” a briefcase containing the launch codes for the American nuclear arsenal. If the attackers far below had sought such, they would be sorely disappointed.

      “Where are we heading, anyway?” the President finally asked, his tone retaining a hint of his earlier grouchiness.

      “The Base,” came a reply, the lead agent’s voice grim.

      “Ahh, so I finally get to see this super-secret place that I helped get funding for?”

      “Yes, Mr. President. I think you will find that it was money well spent.”

      “I hope so,” Ackerman said dubiously before going silent and moving to a window. His steely gaze was fixated on the smoke pouring out of the Capital, a resolute feeling building within his heart. These bastards would pay, he’d make sure of it. The regal, power armored titan reached out a gauntleted fist and picked up a red phone. Ackerman punched in a few numbers and lifted it to his ear.

      “Good afternoon Captain Piett. This is your Commander in Chief. Yes, that’s why the RED phone rang…”

      President Ackerman sighed heavily as he listened to the variety of apologies streaming from the captain of the U.S.S. Valedictory, but waited for the other man to finish.

      “I am ordering you to execute Order Sixty-Six. The target is Washington. Yes, absolutely, fire all of it. All the operatives it would endanger are currently on assignment or with me. The code? Seven, One, One, Nine, Six, Three, Seven. Thank you Captain, and good hunting.”

      From all around the cabin of Marine One came a variety of gasps. The Secret Service had only heard vague rumors of the Valedictory and the weapon the good folks at Ackerman Industries had cooked up for the United States Navy. It was kept under such tight control that only five admirals and the captain of the ship even had any clue what that order meant, and only two of the admirals had any idea of the capabilities of the weapon. All the others knew was that suddenly the President had authorized and ordered the construction of a new battleship, the funding had suddenly appeared, as had executive orders to mount some new kind of shell into certain gun-batteries.

      Marine One’s pilot kicked up the throttle, blasting the advanced transport far out to sea, leaving the city and the enemy behind. The terrorists had showed no signs of pursuit, and the President was too far gone to be caught now. For now, Ackerman had escaped but he’d be back, and next time he swore he wouldn’t let the Secret Service force him to run away.

      Meanwhile, back in DC

      The Navy’s retaliation came without warning, heralded only by a series of sonic booms high in the atmosphere. Several positively enormous shells exploded through the clouds, fragmenting as they descended, creating a fine powder that drifted slowly down. The dense dust was too much for the light breeze to carry off completely, and it blanketed the entire city in a matter of moments. The particles wafted through ventilation shafts, were sucked into buildings, and even seeped into the water. This weapon, heavily tested in the past few months, had been designed to allow American Marines to assault magically fortified beachheads, as well as combat countries that heavily relied on sorcery in their military. The particles were enchanted in their own right, creating a singular massive field of Anti-Magic. Spirit binders, conjurers, wizards, and all manner of the magically inclined would find their powers dampened within the field, immensely weakened and made vulnerable to the ravages of reality. No magic short of a true god’s could wash away the residue, and even that would take a herculean effort. The President had reasoned that the "professionals" on the ground could use the help, and since it was a harmless field it wouldn't affect the general population one iota, while at the same time actively aiding in the defense of the city. Washington DC had effectively become a city where sorcery would simply fail and technology ruled supreme.
      "Those who think duels are a method to ‘honorably resolve disputes’ are fools. Duels are the means to eliminate otherwise inconvenient opposition.”

    Page 1 of 2 12 LastLast

    Thread Information

    Users Browsing this Thread

    There are currently 1 users browsing this thread. (0 members and 1 guests)

    Posting Permissions

    • You may not post new threads
    • You may not post replies
    • You may not post attachments
    • You may not edit your posts
    Animeleague Uses Cookies!
    We use cookies to store session information to remember your login information, to save your website preferences, to provide other functions such as our chat room and to analyse our web traffic. Read our Cookie Policy and Privacy Policy.
    Please let us know your cookie preferences.