A massive cataclysm has struck the universe, and destroyed most everything in its wake. The survivors are now trying to pick up the pieces, and figure out exactly what has befallen them. Gather together, lightsiders!! The darkness has shattered the peace and calm of the galaxy...and they will do anything to stop anyone from finding out exactly what has been done! This is our first sitewide RP plotline. Lightsiders, you are looking for the source of this massive event. Clues must be found, lackeys tracked down, and bits of memory discovered. Darksiders, you guys don't want that to happen....because of the one behind the whole thing is furthering his ultimate goal. Mandalorians, and non-force users, you guys can decide where you stand on this line....do you side with the Jedi, and try to discover the reasons behind the ruined universe, or will you side with the darkness, and protect those secrets. Will the secret of the cataclysmic reaping be kept under wraps? Or will the Jedi and their allies find out the truth? Your RP and writing will decide the outcome!
BATTLE ARENA
Welcome to The Saga Continues. We have a section called the Battle Arena. Here you can use your characters to fight other characters. Hone your skills and see what you are made of. Don't worry, anything that happens here, does not effect your characters in posts, so if your character dies, you can still use them over and over. Have fun and check it out!
The Saga Continues is the product of the mind of ADMIN ADI; all contents are copyright their original owners. All characters belong to their original creators, and may not be used or replicated without permission. All images are copyright their original owners. This skin Operation Mindcrime was made by pharaoh leap of Pixel Perfect and put together by ADMIN KRYSTAL
The screaming only grew as Makoto rolled across the floor, and while the armored enemy seemed only nominally affected by the irritant the actual target reacted amicably. Under constant siege from the raging hordes and stray shots from allies and enemies alike, the structural integrity of the Academy had gradually worn to the point of condemnation. The smallest bit of pressure or impact in the wrong place could literally bring down the house. A precisely positioned sonic grenade could achieve all of that and more.
He managed to get his footing just as a chunk of the ceiling crumbled and slammed into the floor, nipping at his toes. He scrambled forward as interrupted shots only exacerbated the damage to the walls, and the hallway started to cave in a vicious chain reaction. Makoto never turned back to observe. A misstep here could spell death, or worse-
It could mean failure.
A second failure on this operation would be catastrophic.
"Hurry!" he called out to those ahead of him as the grand convocation room collapsed in his wake. "Go! Go!"
He unslung his rifle as the walls behind them caved in and took up the rear guard, spinning to run backward as the incensed local population converged on the massive, exponentially loud target they had inadvertently found themselves a part of. All he could do was fire into the wave of bodies as they surged toward him and the others with no regard for their own safety.
Ragers were caught in the collapsing ruin as often as they were struck by blaster bolts. It was utter insanity.
"For the Republic!"
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
The blade extended on the fly, and Makoto's own weapon never got close. He noticed as the crackle and thrum of plasma fluctuated, and exhaled as he forced back his initial fear response. It would serve no purpose for him to jerk violently forward and then back, other than to see his body impaled on the incoming energy blade.
Instead, he thwarted his own slash, awkward and ill-conceived as it had apparently been, and pivoted on his new foreleg. The hamfisted shoving motion of his weapon transitioned almost seamlessly into a sideway swipe, sundering headlong into the lightsaber beam intended for his legs. It was a simple matter for the Sith to shift subtly and press one or the other half of his weightless armament toward his opponent, but in this way, as his right leg swept around behind his left, he stepped outside and effectively made a wall between himself and the blade currently closest to his body.
Makoto knew there was no winning a battle of agility with a Forceful. They had an innate advantage that would give them an edge. Attrition could also be a gamble, especially given this beast of a man's size. If it came to endurance, could he trust in his own training for victory?
He was not leaving it to chance.
His left arm thrust forward as he stepped, and he aimed to grab hold of the weapon's hilt between the Sith's hands before the man could compensate for the block and send himself into a dervish of blows.
He pressed his weight forward on his hip, double stepping (think hop-step) to bring his body closer all at once in order to capitalize on the weight of his block.
He sought at the best to press the blade backward into Ishmael's own body. At worst, it would inconvenience the other man.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
Inbound to Jedi Academy, aboard undesignated dropship
The failure was almost all-consuming. A wave of morosity swept across the pair, Jedi and Republic Infantryman alike slumped in their seats and stricken by introspection. How had they been so careless? How had everything fallen apart so quickly?
The Senator, the one being on the planet who could have restored order in the wake of this destruction was dead. The zombie hordes were slowly collapsing on themselves, but the consequences of their existence persisted long after their demise. Coronet City in the distance was funeral pyre.
"Coming up on the Academy," the pilot told them. "Last chance to turn around before-"
"No," Makoto shook his head and pulled his helmet back over top of it. "I've failed enough missions for one day. No backing out for me. Bring us in close as you can."
"The broken signal I've picked up says something about... ah, it's unclear, but it mentions the Red Dawn complex on Honoghr. I think there's someone studying the affliction down there, and they might have something important."
"I'm not worried about possibilities," the young man stated flatly, "I'm worried about lives. Anyone down there who isn't infected desperately needs to get somewhere else, that way we can have a shot at rebuilding Corellia. Can't do that with no survivors."
He slung his A280 and stood, gripping the overhead strap to steady himself. The pilot careened toward the plains where the academy stood, patches of fire and the stink of death marring the once immaculate structure. He scrunched up his face for a moment, then sighed.
"You got eyes on an OpFor?" he asked, breaking the awkward silence that set in.
"Affirmative, seems like there's someone down there who doesn't want us to get in, or anyone else to get out. What should I do?"
"Strafe the entryway," he directed, "I'll slip in through a side door while you distract the bulk of them. Don't get tagged by an RPG, and bug out if you think there's a chance you'll be brought down."
"And what will you do if we don't come back for you?"
"Hold out til I can't anymore," he told her. "My job is to protect the Republic and its people. Staying alive doesn't matter if I can't perform my duties adequately."
"Alright, nutjob, I've got your infil- dropping just inside the inner wall of the compound. Be safe."
"You too," he replied.
The doors whirred open in front of him, and Makoto let go of his strap. The dropship was angled such that he slid and dropped ten feet, then rolled to a crouched position nearly fifteen feet away from the building itself. The walls were in shambles, and his HUD was alive with lifesigns and heat signatures.
There were also the distinct sounds of combat. He pulled the weapon ready and rushed for the sizeable hole in the wall, throwing himself through flames to enter the Academy.
He rose to his feet in a room that appeared to have once been used for meditation. "Scanning," he muttered. The room was one of the few empty spaces in the building, no corpses or men to speak of. Whatever enemy was in this place seemed only interested in populated areas.
He moved toward the door, where the sounds of blasterfire grew louder and he could hear heavy steps. "Armor," he recognized the dense sound, "powered armor, it sounds like. Seems a little high tech for raiders."
Makoto put his back to the wall to the side of the door it did not open on. He would move through once they passed. "All I have are sonics," he sneered as he checked his kit again. "No EMPs."
It would have to be enough.
He moved quietly once the sound of footsteps were far enough away that he felt good about it. His eyes flicked to them when the door was open, and he knew their attention was on someone else. He needed to rendezvous with the other Republic Troops and the Jedi.
That was when he saw them opposite the large enemy force.
He was behind enemy lines, he realized, and there would be more behind him. His heart dropped into his stomach. There was only one move to make.
"For the Republic!" he screamed out in hopes of drawing their attention away from his allies, and he pried the pin loose on his sonic grenade. Here goes nothing, he thought.
Hopefully it wouldn't be his last thought.
He rushed forward, intent on dropping the device as he hurtled through the squad of armored enemies to rejoin his fellows.
The grenade began to scream its debilitating sound.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
His opponent hefted the saber predictably, utilizing the aft end of the weapon as a countermeasure against the kick his senses told him was coming. Lightsaber combat, from the perspective of a Force Adept, involved quick reflexes, heightened awareness, and responsiveness to stimuli. The Force gifted them with the ability to "feel" things that came to pass, generally as they were happening. It was a powerful asset, yet also, a thing to be exploited.
Many forms of martial combat offered training to combat the senses of a Force Adept by generating a favorable response, then responding to that. It made them move in a way that was relatively more controllable than the dervish of movements they otherwise employed. As the weapon sliced for his leg, Makoto pumped his hips backward and halted his momentum. His knee stopped before the "halfway point" of the kick, the position where it was pointed toward its target.
In this case, the knee of his opponent was significantly neutral relative to his own height, so his own leg only created a forty five degree angle. It retreated without much issue, beyond the residual heat of the lightsaber licking at the plate on his knee. That was when the hilt passed directly in front of him.
He wasted no time.
Makoto throttled his own weapon forward, seeking to land a blow against the veritable lightning rod in his opponent's grasp. As he did so, he triggered the bio-coded switch on the hilt of his own weapon, and the telltale crackle of electricity came as a current ripped through the phrikite sword.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
It occurred to Makoto when the Sith began to speak that the OpFor would be expecting the defenders to open fire. They continued their ascent toward the Detention block in spite of that, so he had to suspect that there was something else at play in this scenario. He knew that simply firing into the abyss would avail him nothing but a waste of power cells.
So, he opted for the next best thing. The Icarii mentioned a signal, which he would give at the most opportune moment and enlist the others to open fire. That was perfect.
All of 5 meters from the Sith Lord, Makoto reached back for his bandolier and grabbed hold of one of his non-lethal bits of ordinance. The Glop grenade was a perfect choice for choking a position, and since it would not cause physical harm, it would realistically not matter if he happened to catch the Dark Lord in the blast radius.
Not that he intended to, obviously. He had some senator or another by the balls, so letting him come to harm would be a dangerous move at the moment. What took precedence above all else was assuring that the men headed right for them made no headway toward the cell.
He glanced at the Cargo Mover for a moment, dissatisfied with its speed, but resigned to the fact it could move no faster at safe operating speeds. That was probably the difference between him and his ally-of-convenience. No risks could be taken with the movement of Nemo.
He was too dangerous.
Makoto primed the grenade and angled himself such that he could toss the small object into the relative area of the elevator door the moment he had a clear throw. Off to one side, they wouldn't see the action until they cleared the wall obscuring him from view.
The realization washed over him when he saw the blade cut a swath through the infected. It registered in the instant before she gracelessly collided with him. As he hit the deck, he was quietly grateful that, for whatever reason, she deigned to change the trajectory of her lightsaber.
They were like a one man army, those saber jockeys. What took teams of infantry to accomplish, they did with several swings of their blade. It was almost infuriating to think about. He stowed that thought, however.
"I have to get to the Senator," he shot back at her, "I don't have the luxury of falling back!"
He fumbled around and found his rifle, hefted it and scrambled to his feet. Makoto swept the room quickly. "What the hell was that?" he asked sharply. He'd never seen a Jedi do anything quite like what he had just witnessed.
"Nevermind that," he started firing into the enemy again, "I need to get to the second floor."
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
The most terrifying thing Makoto could imagine was utter chaos. People in every direction descending into lawlessness and falling on their fellows in violence, society breaking down, and the hell from his memories returning to life.
Coronet City was a waking nightmare.
The Senator's Estate was awash with corpses now, piling up on top of one another as he finally gained ground. He crouched low and waited for them to race past his makeshift embankment, allowing himself some breathing room. A number of them filed out the doors behind him, and more still clawed at the bodies of their murderous kin.
That was the moment where he heard the second worst thing possible. A voice pierced through the snarls and screams. Someone was alive down there?
"Someone's there?!" he called out over the carnage. Even if he didn't believe it, he had to move. He raised his rifle again, and he hopped over the bodies, sustaining fire. They converged and swept toward him, and he batted them aside with renewed vigor. "Can you move toward the sound of my voice?!"
The hands groped at him, and his body sagged under their weight. Still, he did not relent. Scraping nails ripped at Duraplast and blood spilled from them as the cracked against the thick material. It was his only saving grace.
He punched, kicked, elbowed, and threw the infected off him as he slowly trudged into the thick of them. All Makoto knew was that he had to find whoever was alive and make sure they stayed that way.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
Whether they acknowledged him or not, he was ankle deep in the sithspit now. There was no turning back. The Senator's Estate grew in enormity as he came to it, and the stench of sweaty, bloodied, angry bodies grew proportionately.
He did not need to see the inner gardens to know they were crawling with pests. Makoto did not need to kick in the doors to know what lay beyond. Despite that, he did so- rifle up and ready to lay down fire. The loud crashing was all the introduction he needed- the mass of ravaged bodies turned to acknowledge him, and he bore down on the trigger.
The soldier grit his teeth and continued to tell himself, they're not human. Not anymore.
He joined the Republic Armed Forces knowing full well there would be times he was forced to take life. It was a certainty, and one he had lived through against his will for years during his youth. To do so on his own terms, while disheartening, still carried with it a measure of freedom.
The freedom to ensure that others could be free.
Someone had to pay the blood price. Here he was, spilling the tainted blood of the people to assure that the survivors would have a home to return to. It was harrowing.
They crashed against his hail of blaster bolts like a wave trying to gain purchase on land, ever to ebb away in failure. They came close, even raked his armor, but failed to draw the blood necessary to bring him into their fold. Makoto took a step back to be sure, and perspiration drenched the back of his neck out of fear that one just might not miss.
"I need to break through," he hissed as he glanced at the layout of the building, aware of the stairwell that led to the residential floor, and to where the Senator was purportedly holed up.
There seemed to be no end to them.
His eyes swept across his weapon. The power cell had enough for a hundred more shots, give or take. He had one in reserve. This could not go on forever.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
"Squad's three clicks out with no hope of rendezvous if we don't double back," he answered, "sorry, sir, but all you can get just now is me. I know it's not the greatest news- wait, did you say the Jedi Temple? That's a negative, sir- my directive is the Corellian Senator."
He had just enough time to suspend his disbelief before another group of infected swarmed. Makoto loosed another series of blaster bolts into the thick of them, rewarded by the sight of the rest stumbling and falling over their stone dead fellows. It would not stop them for long.
"Order on this planet can't possibly get a foothold if it loses it's governance." He spoke with a conviction that stung him with every word. What had possessed these men to forsake the original mission?
There was no time to ask. Instead, he waited for the precise moment where the horde broke in the direction of the Estate, loosed his grappling hook, and dug it into the the rooftop. Moments later, he began to rappel down the side of the building while the others plotted their next move.
Did he really have to finish this all on his own?
Makoto swallowed, hard. He hit the ground and ejected the hook, then began to sprint as the Fibercord slowly retracted into its spool. The estate was another half click away, but by now, the group would have noticed him passing them by.
"I'm not going to be the one to say I deviated from the course. Even if I fail here, we need to be able to say we made an attempt. You do what you have to do." He continued to move, aware of the massive number of red blips in front of him on the Heads Up Display. "May the Force be with you," he added respectfully.
He cut the comm, and rushed headlong toward the Senator's Estate.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
He hoofed it across the close-together rooftops, hopping across the gaps with baited breaths. One misstep would spell a dangerous fall, possibly broken limbs, and certain death at the hands of the infected. His A-280 was in both hands as he moved, and he remained ready to shoot at the slightest hint of motion. They were unable to process more than basic instincts, but the creatures could climb if they found a way.
His HUD marked the location of the CorSec station as a blinking red dot, which grew closer with every step. When it was beneath him, he glanced over the side at the sea of snarling, scratching, scraping damned to where the survivors were supposedly holding out. He had to clear a path for them-
The telltale light gave him pause.
Viridian heat tore through the bodies of the creatures as they grew close, and the Jedi Knight stood as a bulwark between the Republic soldiers and certain death. Makoto sucked in a breath and resolved himself. A Jedi or no, one man could not hold off a seige forever. It had to break, or they would collapse.
But it did, before he lifted his rifle.
The scream of Starfighter engines overhead tore his gaze away, and Makoto wondered for a moment if they were saved. The Starfighter Corps had never been scrambled, from what he recalled. When he scanned for IFFs with his HUD, they did not turn up friendly. They're going to get strafed, he realized instantly.
He switched his short range comms online and called out to those below. "You boys need to take cover if those ships come by again," he told them, "they're not friendlies. Private Makoto, Five Hundred and Sixtieth Division. I've been sent to rendezvous with your group. The rest of my group stayed behind to protect the landing zone. Our Sargent was wounded by one of the infected. I've been incommunicado for over an hour now, so there's no telling if they're still waiting."
He raised his weapon and started raining hell down on the infected that swarmed toward the station, covering the dwindling group of infantry and the Jedi Knight from on high. "If we get back to the dropship, I can get us back to Orbit, one way or the other."
"What's your status?"
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
He watched as hundreds of them flocked past, cascading toward the renewed sound of concentrated fire. Makoto knew that his squad was vastly outnumbered and at high risk, but he had a duty to see the mission through. They all knew- their lives were less important overall than success here. He quietly reminded himself that he was included as the sound of steady footfalls crept closer.
The sound of sniffing, growling, and gnashing teeth echoed through the alleyway, and he felt the hot breath of the creature that had been human once waft past him. The putrid stink made his eyes water. Makoto resisted the urge to jump out and open fire, and was rewarded with the sound of jagged, worn down fingernails scraping against the metal sides of the dumpster that separated him from the beast.
The stench was all that masked his own smell, and effectively, saved him from being noticed. He slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, acutely aware of the heartbeats in both his ears. The mission, he reminded himself. Remember why you're here.
He was the last, best chance the Republic had to gain a shaky foothold on Corellia. He was all that stood between some semblance of Order, and utter chaos. The monumental responsibility humbled him.
Failure was not an option. Not anymore.
The footsteps started again, but they grew further away this time. He exhaled as quietly as he could, glanced around, and noticed a fire escape halfway up one of the buildings. It was too high to reach on his own, but if he could move the dumpster...
...it could work.
It had to work.
The crowd continued to rage past, and Makoto took hold of the refuse container with both hands. "Here goes," he whispered as he took a sharp breath, then started to pull. The dumpster lurched, and he felt his stomach drop.
"Feth," he hissed. "Feth, feth, move, damn it!"
He heard them stop, collectively, because the roar that permeated their numbers dulled. The soldier tugged once more, and the container gave.
It slid several inches, then continued to move as he dragged it. It ground to a halt three feet short of the ladder. There was no time to get any closer.
They surged into the alley as he hoisted himself, and narrowly missed being grabbed by the ankle. Bloodied hands reached out toward him, raking and grabbing, desperate to drag him down into their hell. Others started to clamber on the backs of their fellows, and sought to reach him atop The dumpster.
Makoto blew out all of his fear, and he placed his faith in his actions.
He reached out as he threw himself toward the ladder, narrowly scraping over the heads of the maddened mob, and caught the second rung.
Suspending his disbelief, he grabbed the next, then the next, and pulled himself ever higher. They screamed their hate at him, throwing their bodies airborne, reaching out in vain as he got further and further away.
"The CorSec Station is a block from here," he rasped. "I can do this," he told himself. "I can do this."
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
If we have PC interest in politics, that would be dope as well. I want to get people involved in economics, world building, and maybe some intrigue. (Who am I kidding, emphasis on the intrigue.)
I definitely want more than just a hollow post every other day sort of monotone. My plan is to get people involved, stay engaged, and create something that keeps them all interested.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
His assignment was to a security detail, but the mission tasted foul to him. The detainee was a vile criminal with an extensive record, one that included a history of evading capture and effective justice at every turn. That there was news of boarding teams only increased his suspicion.
He was to face trial in short order after his secure delivery to Bastion, and everyone in the Republic was certain he would receive a death sentence that resounded in every free system. The problem with that was, he had to make it to trial. That pirates wanted to hit this ship in particular was no coincidence.
Makoto stared into the containment field at the subject, "Nemo," and chewed his lip. The man did not look particularly dangerous, but appearances could be deceiving. He got a bad feeling from the man, and that was more than enough for him.
The soldier knew better than to fall into the trap of thinking to simply kill the man. Justice was important; and to interfere with justice was to become no better than the criminal. If it became a question of his life versus the lives of the people however, Makoto would not hesitate.
That was when the alarms flashed.
"You stay put," he told the prisoner. Not like he was going anywhere.
He hurried out of the detention block and out into the corridor. They would bring in a cargo hauler to transport the prisoner safely to a new position in short order, but in order to do so, someone had to cover them. Doubtless enemy elements would move to impede the effort.
It was the other defenders that he really wondered about. One girl with no visible weapons, a mean-mugging man with a grenade launcher who kept calling him "Mike," and the known Sith- complete with the recommendation of a Senator. Makoto would have some choice words for whoever threw this team together once they made it back.
If they made it back.
"Stop calling me Mike," he called over his shoulder to Adieumus in response, as he unslung his rifle and headed for the elevator. "I'll take point. We've been instructed not to cause collateral damage in this room, if you recall."
He side-eyed the man from behind his visor.
Makoto still thought they ought to keep the fight as far from the cell block as possible, especially in the event the opposing force had slicers on deck. Unfortunately, the rest of the contingent enlisted to his aid felt this position to be the most defensible, and to go alone would be tantamount to suicide.
Makoto placed his index finger on the trigger guard and took a deep breath.
His gaze moved to Ryu, the man who he trusted the least. It was time for him to earn that recommendation. "I've got your back," he called to the Icarii, "Pincer formation?"
They circled the skies over Coronet for the fifth time, unable to discern the safest landing zone. Catastrophic damage to buildings rendered the rooftops ineligible for any attempt, as the foundations might give at any moment. Smoke billowed from fires that had raged now for days on end, and the sound of intermittent blaster fire broke the solemn silence. Makoto sat among the others with his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Focus on nothing else but the mission.
He had seen numerous conflicts, far more than the rest of the recruits in this group. Their unfortunate officer was cursed with a slew of fresh blood, not even finished with Basic. The situation on Corellia required immediate action, but this? Were they truly so short handed?
"There's talk that it started out of nowhere less than a week ago," one of the others spoke up. "No one can confirm where it happened, just that it did."
"I heard it was someplace in the Core," another added, "and that it traveled outward with the frequent traffic."
"Someone told me it got picked up in the Outer Rim," another protested. "That some stupid spacer with a cough gave it to a customs agent, and it just went rampant."
"I heard-"
"Will you shut up?" one of the others spoke up loudly to dispel the unnerving talk. "Doesn't matter what caused it," he spat out of the vehicle, "and it don't matter where. What matters is you all get your head in the game. This ain't training. This is the real thing."
His eyes slid shut, and Makoto absently fiddled with the trigger of his A-280. The enemy in this situation was already dead- and if they weren't, a shot with a blaster would be a kindness. He had to swallow his reservations if he intended to keep his team alive. There was far more at stake than a few infected citizens, especially with the sudden news that the Corellian Senator was holed up in his estate, which lay in an area of the city that was in Jeopardy of being overrun. If the damned did not claim him, starvation would.
In order to preserve Order and Peace on Corellia, his safety was paramount.
"Look alive, men," the Sargent barked, "we're inbound toward ground level. Threat level is indeterminate, expect to face extreme resistance."
They grew silent as he spoke, their expressions grim. "Additionally, there's a group here that we're going to rendezvous en route to the Senator- watch each other's backs if you want any chance at surviving this mess. I know you're not trained properly, and this situation is all kinds of insane- but if you listen to my orders and follow them, you should make it out of here."
He's a good leader,Makoto thought, but he doesn't sound like he believes what he's saying, either.
"They're talking about the living dead," one of the others laughed uncertainly. "That's bantha poodoo, right? People don't just get back up."
"Lock it down, son," the Sargent counseled. "Disbelief ain't gonna do you any good. What you're gonna see down there, even I can't tell you for sure. What I do know is, if you let it unsettle you, you're as good as dead."
This is it, Makoto let out a breath.
The craft slowly descended, and in the seconds before it touched down, his HUD screeched. He saw 'Proximity Alert' flash in front of his eyes, and the dropship lurched.
"What the hell was that?" the Sargent yelled. "Someone, jump out and see what's going on!"
Before anyone could react, something streaked through the air and barreled into the Sargent. He let out a shrill cry, and the others looked on in terror.
It was another human.
Or it had been. It raked with its nails at his armor, teeth gnashing and spittle spraying. Makoto saw its eyes flash red as it tore into the unfortunate officer's flesh and tore it away from his bones. Blood sprayed across the streets of Coronet as the infected man howled in triumph, and a subsequent chorus of howls echoed.
It got closer with every second.
Makoto leveled his rifle and fired two shots, right for the head. In this situation, with it distracted, that was the quickest kill. Brains splattered across the pavement, and the corpse slumped overtop of the Sargent.
He groaned. "Nice shot, recruit," he rasped. "Can you give me a hand?"
"It got you," Makoto replied quietly.
"Just a scratch," he growled back. "Now help me up, that's an order."
Two of the others hurried to help him up, but Makoto had a gut feeling. "We won't make it if we have to carry you," he said quickly. "They're coming."
"No one gets left behind," the Sargent sputtered, blood flowing down his chin. "Don't you know that?"
Makoto bit his lip and raised his hand. "I need a perimeter as quickly as you all can form it. Anything that comes toward you that doesn't respond to speech, shoot it dead. Center mass. No fancy fire."
He threw out a hand. "You two, tend to his wounds, but be careful not to come in contact with the blood. He may be infected, and we don't have a cure."
With a sigh, he blew out the last vestiges of breath from his lungs. "I'm going to go ahead and rendezvous with the others," he told them, "we need backup, especially now that we are down a CO."
They threw him a tense salute, and he nodded in response.
I can't tell them, he thought, that he's already done for.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
So, I want to see how many people are interested in writing, affiliating with, and helping construct a New Republic.
My general concept is a "Senate" body comprised of players that dictates the direction of the Republic and shapes what they want it to be. There will be military opportunities, politics, law- all of the fun stuff.
But to do any of that, we need warm bodies.
Who's in?
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.