Post by quadrophenia on Jun 4, 2011 7:46:18 GMT 1
Prologue
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The First Contact War, 2157
The monitor flickered to life. A pale grey light was cast over the room. The outlines of silhouettes illuminated, unveiling a host of shapes congregating in this den. The shapes watched in silence. There were no whispers or any conveyance of communication. As patient statues, they sat as the screen showcased a dozen camera angles. A counter, displayed in digital green lettering, was ticking off the minutes. Each camera was a window into war-torn ruin, strategically affixed to a number of clear positions where the silent figures could see the events that transpired. Street lamps and shop windows, corners and traffic lights.. From multiple eyes the footage surveyed the wreckage of a horrific and bloody battle. The setting could have been some ideal little colony, some time ago. According to the footage, what it was now, was the promise of turian retribution.
The figures' gaze did not falter. Not one winced or cringed at the sight of turian infantrymen making short work of local military police, and turning their fire on fleeing civilians. This was war. If there was any honor in war, there wasn't any on the Minerva Colony that day. The turian soldiers were instructed to leave nothing human alive, and they were expected to abide by their orders. The turians were - if nothing else - brutally, brutally efficient. Some of the silent silhouettes idly wondered if the infantrymen had ever questioned the morality of shooting unarmed civilians. Strangely, such thoughts were not laced by rage, anger or even prejudice. No one thought to get atop any ethical high ground. After all, anyone with half a mind could take a quick look through the annals of human history and see human wars - or, indeed, the majority of violent human affairs - spared no one.
These minds were given to cold calculation, to study. The cameras, security footage miraculously untouched by the onslaught, followed the turian infantry as they moved with natural flow. From one street corner to another, they covered alleyways and rooftops. They passed the burning wreckage of shops and vehicles, and unflinchingly stepped by corpses marred by plasma fire. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pretty sight.
One of the silent paused the screen, and the dozen angles were frozen in time. The voice that broke the quiet belied cocky arrogance and an almost childish glee. The others could have seen the bare traces of a smile stretching across his face. "Ladies and gents," the figure said, "What you're about to seec is a prophecy, of human victory."
Another hunched over and coughed into a handkerchief. It looked at the man with the grin and asked, "It better be worth it. We wasted enough lives and resources just so you could snare the turians in your mouse trap."
"Bitter, General?" A chuckle.
"You could say that. You could also say I'm just about ready to beat you into a hospital bed and bankrupt your company if this demonstration doesn't meet our expectations."
Clenched fists took on full volume, for dramatic emphasis. Old, pained and arthritic fingers were energized with the intent of vengeful retaliation. If it was intimidating, the grinning man hadn't noticed. Putting a finger to his lips, he loudly shushed the General and the other members of the meeting. "Just watch. Those deaths were not in vain. I needed the enemy to think they were winning."
On that note, he unpaused the video. Everything resumed, the turians were once again making their way across the ravaged colony. A complete sweep. Pure devastation. There was not another human soul to be found for miles.
It was perfect for the demonstration.
One camera zoomed in on a turian soldier, possibly a commander as he touched the side of his helmet. The alien was in the middle of what was once the colony's town square, his troops aligned symmetrically in teams of three. Unlike their commander, they stayed to the walls, they hid behind any debris, in case of enemy fire. The best soldiers knew never to ease in a war zone. If victory was at hand, they still needed to be on guard, to be tense and vigilant. It was the doctrine of a military society. He was radioing for evac, informing superiors the area had been eradicated of human life. It was a victory. The soldier was sure of himself. It was a professional sweep, as befitting a disciplined trooper.
The man's smile stretched. His hands clamed together, shaking in excited anticipation. Like a maestro reaching the crescendo of his masterpiece, it was at this precise moment his magnum opus would unveil itself to the turian platoon.
An explosion erupted; one of the cameras revealed military vehicle bursting into flame and shrapnel. The pilots inside died instantly. The explosion came just up the street from the commander's position. The commanding turian was clearly thrown off by this sudden turn of events, as from every street his men their tanks and vehicles were shot to hell. But by what? He frantically ordered his men to fall back and regroup, to find a vantage point to catch whatever was doing this to them.
The cacophony folded over the commander's panicked shouts. The cameras, from any position, could not pick them up. They did, on the other hand, show that the commander sprinted to the nearest alley and hid behind a dumpster. The other cameras could barely keep up with the barrage of explosions and screams that stomped a military force that previously made mincemeat of well-trained human militia.
One of the silhouettes begged the question, "Is this your pet prophecy?"
Next to him, the General quietly muttered, "I can't see jack."
The grinning man did not answer nor retort. His eyes were glued to the screen.
Turian soldiers fired until their assault rifles clicked empty, one even chucked a grenade. But a black blur flitted across the monitor's vision. As it sped past the soldiers, everything seemed still. The gunfire ceased and the turians refrained from running into a safer defense. A second passed, and their heads rolled onto the pavement.
The General's eyes betrayed his gruff demeanor. The words "My, God" had escaped his lips without his realizing. The silence amongst the patient watchers shattered. Everyone presented demanded to know what was going on. What was laying waste to those turians? The cameras' line of vision was either obscured by smoke and fire, or too slow to catch up with the violence adding new layers of paint to the streets of the Minerva Colony.
On the camera, bursts of energy enveloped city streets, and barely discernable humanoids were decimating the turian troops with the same ease of a hot knife could slice through butter. An inhuman roar heralded an incoming truck that crashed into enemy support. One angle caught the commander turian returning fire to targets the cameras couldn't catch. He ran across several streets without stopping. Before then, no one on the board knew the turians could feel fear. But if that wasn't fear, it was certainly a form of panic. It fuelled him with potent adrenaline, carrying his legs faster than what might have been manageable under less chaotic circumstances.
Impressively, he dodged a concentrated beam of light. The General had been fighting turian armadas for some time now, and as much as he hated them he had to give that one soldier credit. The turian was nowhere near safety. He must have known it, for he cast away his assault rifle and drew his pistol. There was a moment's hesitation. The hands holding the gun shook, anxiety overran years of training. The General came to the conclusion this turian was contemplating suicide. Death by whatever human horror had destroyed his men or death by his own hand, which seemed to be the less gruesome option.
The countdown was coming to a head. It had twenty seconds left of footage, and the remaining took place behind the turian. What convenience that he considered taking a stand under a street lamp. He shouted something, more than likely a curse and squeezed a few shots at the enemy. The camera shifted its perspective from the commander to the figures that approached him.
The board couldn't believe it.
"Thisc this is your secret weapon?" One asked, a question mixed with awe, terror and incredulity.
The smiling man nodded.
On the screen, five men formed a semicircle around the turian. Their apparel was strange. They did not wear any of the recognized uniforms of any human military branch. Each uniform was unique, colorful. They were armored, bearing insignias and weapons that were taken straight out of museums. Who used shields and hammers anymore? There was a tall android-like figure wielding a hammer who looked like a knight of medieval lore redesigned by mad science. Another was a helmeted, shield-wielding individual in a black jumpsuit. Some of them didn't even seem human; one such figure had multiple limbs and another hunched over and sprouted two sharp claws from armbands strapped to their forearms. It was the robot who stepped forward. It aimed its weapon - a six foot monstrosity that bore an affixed metal slab and large barrel - at the turian. The commander must have been terrified.
The final shot of the footage had a concentrated beam of light, this one seemingly more powerful than the last, transforming the turian into a cloud of blood, entrails and red mist. The screen blinked into black and the lights were clicked on as if it were the end of a movie. The light showed the smiling man - evidently the impetus for this congregation -, who seemed to be no younger than his late twenties, taking a stand in front of a long board of military and corporate officials. His dirty hair was slicked back, and his devilish grin betrayed the youthful good looks of his visage. He was dressed in a vibrantly red business suit, the only other colour amongst the others aside from grey or green. Black eyes dared the members of the board to speak up. These were manic eyes. Children's eyes.
Children who loved to show off their newest toys.
"What's the verdict?"
Seconds turned into intolerable, infinite minutes. The board members exchanged glances. They whispered amongst themselves. The General was the first - out of impulse - to raise his thoughts.
"Dr. Favreau, those thingsc they're just the prototypes, aren't they? You wouldn't have called us in unless you wanted our investment for more. As powerful as that demonstration wasc five alone can't handle the entire turian army."
"You're absolutely correct, General Weiss." Favreau's childish disposition was beginning to get on everyone's nerves. "Absolutely. These five, beautiful as they are, are just the first step."
A corporate suit piqued, "The first step?"
With the remote, the screen switched from the security footage to an outpour of future plans, developments, schematics, everything that the doctor had ever considered bringing to this meeting. They were meticulously detailed. Some of the scientifically, award-winning inclined in the room felt crushed and undervalued, smashed under these spectacular leaps in genetic and cybernetic augmentation technologies. As "eccentric" as Favreau was - a notion shared by all who had ever come into contact with the man - there was no denying genius when they saw it. This man took fringe pseudoscience and made it into reality. A reality that had, according to the demonstration, evidently taken the turians by surprise.
"Those friends of mine will be the tanks of tomorrow's army. Five alone will not turn the tide of this war. Even if we defeat the turians today in some grand decisive battle, they'll have friends to turn to. Oh yes, they'll have their little buddies backing them up in the rematch. I guesstimate a year before their combined forces annihilate the human race. A year. With our weapons now, we won't last."
The board members considered this. The turians were aligned with other alien races, a coalition known as "the Citadel." The turians alone could keep humanity on their toes, any additional reinforcements could turn the tide and destroy mankind before anyone could say the words "It's the end of the world as we know it." What humans needed, what the Alliance needed, was a magic bullet.
"I have developments for other classes and teams. One class is designed for open warfare, which I've dubbed "the Soldier." Another - the ones you've witnessed just now - will be classified as "Tank." The third will be "the Assassin." These three will be comprised ofc as you've seen, "unique" men and women. But they didn't just fall out of the sky, it took me time and money to give them life. I need that money - your money - to make more. An army. Think about it, ladies and gentlemen. Give me time, and I'll have the most powerful army Earth has ever seen spread among the stars and giving our alien neighbours the what-for."
The room fell in silence once more. No one knew what to say, at least no one could think of any objections. An unanimous sentiment was accorded to quietly. The General saw fit to stand up, as their spokesperson. The question had been on his mind, on everyone's minds. No one was sure how to express it. The majority were still trying to understand what they had just witnessed in the footage, when these godlike things decimated a turian patrol.
The General was ashamed to find his voice was unsteady when he asked the scientist, "What doc you call them?"
The doctor wrapped an arm around the General and patted his multiple-decorated vest as if they were old chums. "My dearest Weiss, isn't it obvious? I call them Heroes."
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December 24th, 2185
"You are not a hero!" Blood splat into his vision. The towering machine man, after he had proclaimed himself a god, tightened his grip on the neck of his adversary. The blood trickled down his white-glowing eyes. It painted his mask a deep shade of red, obscuring the original colours of the design. He threw the woman like a rag doll and observed as she crashed against the hood of an Alliance Mako. The machine man felt a deep sense of satisfaction; sensors indicated several broken ribs. The sound was Mozart to his ears.
The woman rolled off and collided with the cold ground. The infiltrator crawled, vainly, to the glint of a weapon that had caught her eye. It was only a few feet away. Her vision blurred and her breathing succumbed to low panting. The pain in her sides wasn't making it any easier. With every draw of death a spasm of pain surged through her body. Weakly she reached for her pistol before a heavy armoured foot stamped on her knuckles. She refused to give this psychopathic manchild the satisfaction of a pained cry, and opted for a grunt. The large silver barrel of the machine man's hammer pressed against the small of her back.
"You're wrong, Commander Shepard. You're the villain. I'm the hero. I've always been the hero." The mask of the machine man reclined. The face of Dr. Favreau, as youthful and manic as ever, greeted her. The inventor, the scientist, not the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. Hot malice burned behind his eyes, the desire to inflict pain and misery rebounded throughout his being. "I'll save the day. Not you."
Shepard closed her eyes. Her teammates were either dead or missing, Joker wouldn't swoop in on the Normandy for a last minute rescue this time and - to top it off - it was Christmas. On the whole, it could have been worse.
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The First Contact War, 2157
The monitor flickered to life. A pale grey light was cast over the room. The outlines of silhouettes illuminated, unveiling a host of shapes congregating in this den. The shapes watched in silence. There were no whispers or any conveyance of communication. As patient statues, they sat as the screen showcased a dozen camera angles. A counter, displayed in digital green lettering, was ticking off the minutes. Each camera was a window into war-torn ruin, strategically affixed to a number of clear positions where the silent figures could see the events that transpired. Street lamps and shop windows, corners and traffic lights.. From multiple eyes the footage surveyed the wreckage of a horrific and bloody battle. The setting could have been some ideal little colony, some time ago. According to the footage, what it was now, was the promise of turian retribution.
The figures' gaze did not falter. Not one winced or cringed at the sight of turian infantrymen making short work of local military police, and turning their fire on fleeing civilians. This was war. If there was any honor in war, there wasn't any on the Minerva Colony that day. The turian soldiers were instructed to leave nothing human alive, and they were expected to abide by their orders. The turians were - if nothing else - brutally, brutally efficient. Some of the silent silhouettes idly wondered if the infantrymen had ever questioned the morality of shooting unarmed civilians. Strangely, such thoughts were not laced by rage, anger or even prejudice. No one thought to get atop any ethical high ground. After all, anyone with half a mind could take a quick look through the annals of human history and see human wars - or, indeed, the majority of violent human affairs - spared no one.
These minds were given to cold calculation, to study. The cameras, security footage miraculously untouched by the onslaught, followed the turian infantry as they moved with natural flow. From one street corner to another, they covered alleyways and rooftops. They passed the burning wreckage of shops and vehicles, and unflinchingly stepped by corpses marred by plasma fire. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pretty sight.
One of the silent paused the screen, and the dozen angles were frozen in time. The voice that broke the quiet belied cocky arrogance and an almost childish glee. The others could have seen the bare traces of a smile stretching across his face. "Ladies and gents," the figure said, "What you're about to seec is a prophecy, of human victory."
Another hunched over and coughed into a handkerchief. It looked at the man with the grin and asked, "It better be worth it. We wasted enough lives and resources just so you could snare the turians in your mouse trap."
"Bitter, General?" A chuckle.
"You could say that. You could also say I'm just about ready to beat you into a hospital bed and bankrupt your company if this demonstration doesn't meet our expectations."
Clenched fists took on full volume, for dramatic emphasis. Old, pained and arthritic fingers were energized with the intent of vengeful retaliation. If it was intimidating, the grinning man hadn't noticed. Putting a finger to his lips, he loudly shushed the General and the other members of the meeting. "Just watch. Those deaths were not in vain. I needed the enemy to think they were winning."
On that note, he unpaused the video. Everything resumed, the turians were once again making their way across the ravaged colony. A complete sweep. Pure devastation. There was not another human soul to be found for miles.
It was perfect for the demonstration.
One camera zoomed in on a turian soldier, possibly a commander as he touched the side of his helmet. The alien was in the middle of what was once the colony's town square, his troops aligned symmetrically in teams of three. Unlike their commander, they stayed to the walls, they hid behind any debris, in case of enemy fire. The best soldiers knew never to ease in a war zone. If victory was at hand, they still needed to be on guard, to be tense and vigilant. It was the doctrine of a military society. He was radioing for evac, informing superiors the area had been eradicated of human life. It was a victory. The soldier was sure of himself. It was a professional sweep, as befitting a disciplined trooper.
The man's smile stretched. His hands clamed together, shaking in excited anticipation. Like a maestro reaching the crescendo of his masterpiece, it was at this precise moment his magnum opus would unveil itself to the turian platoon.
An explosion erupted; one of the cameras revealed military vehicle bursting into flame and shrapnel. The pilots inside died instantly. The explosion came just up the street from the commander's position. The commanding turian was clearly thrown off by this sudden turn of events, as from every street his men their tanks and vehicles were shot to hell. But by what? He frantically ordered his men to fall back and regroup, to find a vantage point to catch whatever was doing this to them.
The cacophony folded over the commander's panicked shouts. The cameras, from any position, could not pick them up. They did, on the other hand, show that the commander sprinted to the nearest alley and hid behind a dumpster. The other cameras could barely keep up with the barrage of explosions and screams that stomped a military force that previously made mincemeat of well-trained human militia.
One of the silhouettes begged the question, "Is this your pet prophecy?"
Next to him, the General quietly muttered, "I can't see jack."
The grinning man did not answer nor retort. His eyes were glued to the screen.
Turian soldiers fired until their assault rifles clicked empty, one even chucked a grenade. But a black blur flitted across the monitor's vision. As it sped past the soldiers, everything seemed still. The gunfire ceased and the turians refrained from running into a safer defense. A second passed, and their heads rolled onto the pavement.
The General's eyes betrayed his gruff demeanor. The words "My, God" had escaped his lips without his realizing. The silence amongst the patient watchers shattered. Everyone presented demanded to know what was going on. What was laying waste to those turians? The cameras' line of vision was either obscured by smoke and fire, or too slow to catch up with the violence adding new layers of paint to the streets of the Minerva Colony.
On the camera, bursts of energy enveloped city streets, and barely discernable humanoids were decimating the turian troops with the same ease of a hot knife could slice through butter. An inhuman roar heralded an incoming truck that crashed into enemy support. One angle caught the commander turian returning fire to targets the cameras couldn't catch. He ran across several streets without stopping. Before then, no one on the board knew the turians could feel fear. But if that wasn't fear, it was certainly a form of panic. It fuelled him with potent adrenaline, carrying his legs faster than what might have been manageable under less chaotic circumstances.
Impressively, he dodged a concentrated beam of light. The General had been fighting turian armadas for some time now, and as much as he hated them he had to give that one soldier credit. The turian was nowhere near safety. He must have known it, for he cast away his assault rifle and drew his pistol. There was a moment's hesitation. The hands holding the gun shook, anxiety overran years of training. The General came to the conclusion this turian was contemplating suicide. Death by whatever human horror had destroyed his men or death by his own hand, which seemed to be the less gruesome option.
The countdown was coming to a head. It had twenty seconds left of footage, and the remaining took place behind the turian. What convenience that he considered taking a stand under a street lamp. He shouted something, more than likely a curse and squeezed a few shots at the enemy. The camera shifted its perspective from the commander to the figures that approached him.
The board couldn't believe it.
"Thisc this is your secret weapon?" One asked, a question mixed with awe, terror and incredulity.
The smiling man nodded.
On the screen, five men formed a semicircle around the turian. Their apparel was strange. They did not wear any of the recognized uniforms of any human military branch. Each uniform was unique, colorful. They were armored, bearing insignias and weapons that were taken straight out of museums. Who used shields and hammers anymore? There was a tall android-like figure wielding a hammer who looked like a knight of medieval lore redesigned by mad science. Another was a helmeted, shield-wielding individual in a black jumpsuit. Some of them didn't even seem human; one such figure had multiple limbs and another hunched over and sprouted two sharp claws from armbands strapped to their forearms. It was the robot who stepped forward. It aimed its weapon - a six foot monstrosity that bore an affixed metal slab and large barrel - at the turian. The commander must have been terrified.
The final shot of the footage had a concentrated beam of light, this one seemingly more powerful than the last, transforming the turian into a cloud of blood, entrails and red mist. The screen blinked into black and the lights were clicked on as if it were the end of a movie. The light showed the smiling man - evidently the impetus for this congregation -, who seemed to be no younger than his late twenties, taking a stand in front of a long board of military and corporate officials. His dirty hair was slicked back, and his devilish grin betrayed the youthful good looks of his visage. He was dressed in a vibrantly red business suit, the only other colour amongst the others aside from grey or green. Black eyes dared the members of the board to speak up. These were manic eyes. Children's eyes.
Children who loved to show off their newest toys.
"What's the verdict?"
Seconds turned into intolerable, infinite minutes. The board members exchanged glances. They whispered amongst themselves. The General was the first - out of impulse - to raise his thoughts.
"Dr. Favreau, those thingsc they're just the prototypes, aren't they? You wouldn't have called us in unless you wanted our investment for more. As powerful as that demonstration wasc five alone can't handle the entire turian army."
"You're absolutely correct, General Weiss." Favreau's childish disposition was beginning to get on everyone's nerves. "Absolutely. These five, beautiful as they are, are just the first step."
A corporate suit piqued, "The first step?"
With the remote, the screen switched from the security footage to an outpour of future plans, developments, schematics, everything that the doctor had ever considered bringing to this meeting. They were meticulously detailed. Some of the scientifically, award-winning inclined in the room felt crushed and undervalued, smashed under these spectacular leaps in genetic and cybernetic augmentation technologies. As "eccentric" as Favreau was - a notion shared by all who had ever come into contact with the man - there was no denying genius when they saw it. This man took fringe pseudoscience and made it into reality. A reality that had, according to the demonstration, evidently taken the turians by surprise.
"Those friends of mine will be the tanks of tomorrow's army. Five alone will not turn the tide of this war. Even if we defeat the turians today in some grand decisive battle, they'll have friends to turn to. Oh yes, they'll have their little buddies backing them up in the rematch. I guesstimate a year before their combined forces annihilate the human race. A year. With our weapons now, we won't last."
The board members considered this. The turians were aligned with other alien races, a coalition known as "the Citadel." The turians alone could keep humanity on their toes, any additional reinforcements could turn the tide and destroy mankind before anyone could say the words "It's the end of the world as we know it." What humans needed, what the Alliance needed, was a magic bullet.
"I have developments for other classes and teams. One class is designed for open warfare, which I've dubbed "the Soldier." Another - the ones you've witnessed just now - will be classified as "Tank." The third will be "the Assassin." These three will be comprised ofc as you've seen, "unique" men and women. But they didn't just fall out of the sky, it took me time and money to give them life. I need that money - your money - to make more. An army. Think about it, ladies and gentlemen. Give me time, and I'll have the most powerful army Earth has ever seen spread among the stars and giving our alien neighbours the what-for."
The room fell in silence once more. No one knew what to say, at least no one could think of any objections. An unanimous sentiment was accorded to quietly. The General saw fit to stand up, as their spokesperson. The question had been on his mind, on everyone's minds. No one was sure how to express it. The majority were still trying to understand what they had just witnessed in the footage, when these godlike things decimated a turian patrol.
The General was ashamed to find his voice was unsteady when he asked the scientist, "What doc you call them?"
The doctor wrapped an arm around the General and patted his multiple-decorated vest as if they were old chums. "My dearest Weiss, isn't it obvious? I call them Heroes."
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December 24th, 2185
"You are not a hero!" Blood splat into his vision. The towering machine man, after he had proclaimed himself a god, tightened his grip on the neck of his adversary. The blood trickled down his white-glowing eyes. It painted his mask a deep shade of red, obscuring the original colours of the design. He threw the woman like a rag doll and observed as she crashed against the hood of an Alliance Mako. The machine man felt a deep sense of satisfaction; sensors indicated several broken ribs. The sound was Mozart to his ears.
The woman rolled off and collided with the cold ground. The infiltrator crawled, vainly, to the glint of a weapon that had caught her eye. It was only a few feet away. Her vision blurred and her breathing succumbed to low panting. The pain in her sides wasn't making it any easier. With every draw of death a spasm of pain surged through her body. Weakly she reached for her pistol before a heavy armoured foot stamped on her knuckles. She refused to give this psychopathic manchild the satisfaction of a pained cry, and opted for a grunt. The large silver barrel of the machine man's hammer pressed against the small of her back.
"You're wrong, Commander Shepard. You're the villain. I'm the hero. I've always been the hero." The mask of the machine man reclined. The face of Dr. Favreau, as youthful and manic as ever, greeted her. The inventor, the scientist, not the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. Hot malice burned behind his eyes, the desire to inflict pain and misery rebounded throughout his being. "I'll save the day. Not you."
Shepard closed her eyes. Her teammates were either dead or missing, Joker wouldn't swoop in on the Normandy for a last minute rescue this time and - to top it off - it was Christmas. On the whole, it could have been worse.
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