Bay 12 Games Forum

"I've...accepted it. You don't learn if you don't try...I guess. And at least you're responsive, this time." Emma wears a small smile, and nods, taking another piece of the armor off the rack. Zachary moves forward to help out, while McFee sits and stares, shaking her head. She looks traumatized but doesn't protest, simply leaving the room.

It takes a little while, and the armor is incredibly uncomfortable, especially around your chest region. In others it hangs loosely. When you put the helmet on, your vision blurs-- but no face covering slides down.

Your vision stretches oddly, and a small map of the room appears. When you look around, you notice that overlaid over everyone is a small pulse of energy. Zachary's and Emma's energy pulses quickly, as do most of the guards-- and the guards, they have a faint shimmering light highlighting the pulse of their las-rifles and pistols-- all a bright green. You can barely discern features through the information haze.

[Commencing refit, please stand by.]

The armor begins to creak, shifting slightly around, tightening closer to you in places and loosening in others, until it feels...comfortable. You can tell there are many of the same, impossibly sharp needles stuck into your body, through your clothes, but you do not feel pain from them. The revulsion you feel wearing it deepens, however, as your connection to it grows.

[Mark Fifteen armor refit completed. Are you comfortable?]

Despite the turning of your stomach every time it speaks, you are. The armor is perfectly balanced across your frame, no part too heavy or too light. Zachary watches in awe, and slowly lowers himself to a knee in front of you, despite how odd you might look with your dull-grey, blood-stained uniform beneath the panoply. The rest of the guards, even the one who hesitated while following orders, slowly do the same. "What more proof is needed that you truly are McCreary's heir?" He says, softly, his voice directed more towards his troops than you, a barb of a reproach hidden within his words. Some look ashamed, some look defiant, and others look at you with a fanatic's eyes, lost in the moment.

[1] Emma doesn't kneel, looking confused all for a brief second, then, with a glance to Zachary, she plays her part, quoting a scripture, "Doubt is the way to true Belief, Brother Zachary. Faith untested is no faith at all." Her words erode any doubt that might be lingering about your supposed divinity to these guards. With two sentences, Emma delivers both of you from your fears and gives you new ones. A sickness rises up inside of you that has nothing at all to do with the armor.

---

[Please eat before fitting, for optimum nutrient control.]

You rise, shakily, to your feet, and the guards all take a collective step back. The other guard returns with...many containers of food, and you hesitate, before laying into them with an incredible hunger. By the fifth one, you feel full.

[Apply all armor pieces, please.]

With shaky fingers, you reach out, only to realize one of the gloves is going to be difficult to wear over the implant, and several pieces are going to be hard to pull on by yourself.

[19][17] You close your eyes, focusing on the void within you, the place where the voices come from...and you fall into them. A cold void of blackness burning through you. Something outside your consciousness echoes, but you can only hear the echo.

Ne̶̠̳̲̜͇r̗̲͔͘v͈̖͢ò͉̦̮ú͖͉̬s͚͔̰̗͍ͅ ̺̝S̸͉͕yst̸̟e̢̘̜̠̝̮̰mͅ:͓̺ ̘͚̜͍̺̘͙͝A̱̖̘̱̻̗͖̕c̟͈͓̫͙͠t̷͍̰͔͔̺̗ͅi̬̤v̞̟͝a͢t̢̼̹e̠͘ͅ ̸̪u̟͚̭̺̳̝̱n̫̻̱͚̭̺̠c̖͓̣̠̟o̹͘n̘̪c̪̦̺̺̺͙̕i̶̲̩̟̞̭͔͓o̹̼̦͎u̱̩ṣ̯̯̙ ̥̬͖̜b̲͇̦͓͇as̰͔̭͎̻̯i̸̦c̠̳͓̗̗͔ ̫̭̼l͞i̹̻̬f̰͉͜e̯̹̪ ̝͉s̤͇̞̥̰̮̀u͙̹p̙̤̭͎͢p̧̱or̀t̝̼͘

You open your eyes again, and you lay in the sand, feeling the burning hot grains against your back with a vividness that not even boiling water can match. The wind howls across the wastes, carving through mesas and plateaus. Two suns burn high in the sky, filling you with warmth. A vessel sits nearby, smaller than some, but larger than any Hovercraft you've ever seen. Red sand and white salt pile up around its landing struts.

You rise to your feet with a yawn, hand coming to your mouth as you make your way to the vessel. You key in a code instinctively, stepping into the cool metal airlock. The mechanical door shuts behind you, and you close your eyes as various hues of light blink through the room. Fresh air, humid and smelling of your new home is vented in, hiding the familiar dusty scent of your previous life.

You check a small console only to find no new messages and busy yourself with a jog around the track, then a number of isometric exercises. With your exercise done for the day, you--why do I have a beard? Where am I? Who--

[17][18] You open the door to the armory and step through, towards the Mark Fifteen. With humorous intent long gone, replaced by the ritual of a lonely man, you ask, "Having a good day? Wonderful. I'm glad you slept well, but you're going to be able to wake up soon." It didn't really respond, it never did, not until those sickening spikes were deep into the tips of his fingers. Then it spoke. It spoke of war. Of nightmare. Of a bloodlust more ancient than civilizations. It didn't speak until they were one, joined together into a brutal war machine.

What was worse was how he could already feel his hand slipping into the glove. You can stop at anytime, you reason, content. This is your history, you past lives and your future, why shouldn't you want this connection? You have no others. They all left you alone. But its been there for you, all this time, and will be there for you, all this time.


O̿͊͗̋҉̺̩̟̟̻̻͇̯̪̗̱̗̫̰̺́v̸̢͍̻͉͓̞̝̤̙͙̯̮͖̭̝̱̄ͧ̓̊ͯ̎̇̓̚ę̸̸̗̲̙͙̪̗̥̥̈́̒̏̅̌ͮrͮ̑̃̀ͮͤ̎҉̴̱̬̪͖͖̝͖͇͟r̶̨̼̥̫̭͕͆̍ͪ̈͗̃̎ͧ̑͗͒͟͞͠ḯ̴̧̛̹̭̱̦̯ͦ̏ͯ̎̈́ͦͭ͊̿́ͫ̓d̷̷̢̻̤̞̪̠̼̫ͮͫͯͣ̏͋ͧͨ͢ȇ̴̺̰̟͚̼ͯͧͧ͌ͭ͛͊ͭͮ̏̂ͤͫ́ ̢ͨ̄̇ͧ́̒ͧͪ͑͛̀͏́҉̛̠̯̬͓͙͙̖̙̖̻̗͈̘̻̦̖A̶̢̢̛̜͍̗̥̼̞̭̳̝͉̹̤̙̟͚̓̈́ͧ̽̒̃̄́c͆ͯ̈́͆͛͛ͪ͂̃ͣͩ̍͌͝͏̧͢͏̮̙̪̟t́ͪ̏͋̅́҉̧̧̡̛̪̳͔̬iͫͯ͑ͬ̒̍̉̇ͥͬ̑ͬ̿̀̚҉̧̣̝̟̞̺v̧͖̱̮̖͔̘̖̦̜̠̇́̇ͧ̔̾͂͊̓ͤͥ̊̄̊̾͂ͩ̐͡à̶̵͓͓̥̗̖̫͎̳̯͕ͯ̈́̿ͩ͂͒ͬͣ̐̒̑͆̓̅́̚̕͠ṯ̝͙̱͓͔̱͙̘̣̯̰͒͑ͥ̐̀͢͟ė̸̵͔͖̤͕̥̙͔̩̿̉̆̈̒͊ͥ̔ͭ̊̔̾̓̚͞͝d̆ͥͬͯ̎̑̿ͧ͊̓͌ͤͨ̽̅́҉̮̲͍̱̘̯̞͚͉̹̤̩̱̪̯͎̕͜ ̴̶̴̧̞͎̜͔͎̣͔̐ͧ͋ͥ͡-̥͉̺͖̗̖̟͚̫̪͎̘ͭ̿͌ͧ̑̈́̊̽͜͡-̵̼̭̥͚̙̟̼̯̥͈̪̗̳̱͚͚̪̆̋̐̅ͥͤ̎͑̋͌ͥͪ̊̐ͦ͂ͤͅ ̴̡̝͈̤̲̯̪͈̦ͭ̆̆͋͛̈̑̇͐̏̀̅̃͊̑M͇͔̞ͭ̉ͩͪ́͢͠c̈ͦ̈̍͋̒ͥ͆̽̑̔̔͏͏̯͉̖̬͠Ç̪̻̥͚͕͔̹͇̏̑͒̑͑̅́̀̚͢͡ŗ̗̮̜̖̻͕̫ͤͨͯ̉̽ͨ̀ͥ̅̍̕e̵̴̷̳̦͖̦̞̓͌͋̐̄̔̋̅͒̾̄̈́̏͞a̧͆͗͗͂͋͒̄ͤ̃̉ͥ̔͑ͪͦ́҉̢̧̥͈̻̱̺̮̱̺̪͖͉͙͉͟r̃̂ͭ́̚҉̶̢̣̖͍̳̻̻͙̣̙̫̦̦̠̙ͅy̛͚̟͓̳ͣ̾ͧ̓̅̃̐͊̏͑ͥ̔ͮ͗́̚͢͜͠.̈́̇͛́ͩ͏͏͚͇͎̝

[12][2]Your hand slips into the glove, and despite your nose dripping blood on the floor, despite McFee trying to pull you away, you activate your powers, focusing on those tiny little atoms of metal that stick out into the fingers of the gloves, connected into impossible chains of...of...madness? No element, no molecule, no matter can be that compact, that complex, that-- spikes slip deep into the tips of your fingers, into the bones.

But despite the promise, you don't feel whole. Just wrong. Th-this isn't right. This connection... but the glove, once loose, now feels like a second skin, tightening around your hand and digging more needles into your bones. A shiver runs down your spine, as you feel disgusted with it, with yourself, with everything, and you grip your arm hard. You strain, hearing your elbow pop, hearing your sinews and muscles start to come apart as you desperately try to rip your---his arm off at the elbow--

[14+3 vs 7]
I̠͇̰̝ͅm̶̘̭̝̯̻͎p̴̟̯̻̼r̰̰͎o̦̞̹p̘̬e̞̼͔̦̖̝r̙̲͖͔̦͈ ͔͔͕̞̫̜Á̝̭̳͇̣̜̗r͕̤̭͟ͅm̘͎̭͍͔͚o͍͙̣͖̟̭r̮̤̼̙̭ ͚͓̭͞F͠i̹̝͢t̸̩̲t̼͙̖i҉̱͓̬̦̮̰̦n͈̱g̯͓̮:͕ ̧̳͈Ú̝̯̫̦̩͕̲s͔̠̥i̖n̘̕g̥̭̟̠ ̢d̗͍̱̦̰̖̳͝e̗s̴̳i̯͓̝͓̝̥̕g͖̯̹n͉̭̭̬at̲̤̤̜͕̕ͅi͖̩o̝n̛͎͍̠̣̖͇ ̲̙͎M̭̙͍c̫͉̖̱̘̖͇C͓͙̤̼͓̝͘r̷͔e̠̯̱͓̤̝̤͟a̜͈͙r͈̜̪̻͘y͉̻͔̣ ̨̱̠̼̪͓̥s͖̩̠̻i͎͉g̢̝͈̩̫n̗̯a͎̻̭̫̣ͅt҉͈͉̞͎u̖̩̥̙̤͜r͏e̤̗̪̲̼͍ ̜ͅt̖͚̦̪̟̮͔o̝̥̱̤͎͕͙ ͡i̛̲̺̭͈͎̠ͅn̻̮͙̺̘ṭ̰̭͇̣̰ͅe̩̯r̻͚f̢̹a͉̜̫͝ͅc̞͎͖̫͈͍̞e̞̖̺̞.͇͍̪
̪i̴n̘̹̝̱̱̻̺t́e̼̗̳̠͙̠̦r͈̙̝͕͖f̥͈̯̞͚̪ͅa̫ce̯̻̗:̥̺͚͓̙͡Su̩c̺̞̤̟̗͇ͅc͔̤̙̮e͓̹̙͕̘s̷͉̩͉͉͇͎ͅs̼̬f̮͚̗̩͕̪̦u͠l̶̠͚̫̥̭.

The disgust fades slowly, leaving you cradling your broken arm as blood blooms beneath the surface. The glove doesn't come off, but doesn't dig any more needles into your body. Guards approach from behind, but none of them hold hostile intent-- Zachary wraps a coat around you, calling for a medic.

There was supposed to be a connection, but it feels instead like you're wearing someone's skin.

[Greetings 'McCreary', what is our primary objective today?] A soft voice echoes in your head, polite, gentle, almost loving. But it almost encourages you to throw up instead of feel comforted.[You have injuries. Should I lower nutrient transfer to allow for faster healing?]

---

[-] The cafeteria is about as busy as expected, your warm nutrient gruel sitting in its usual place. You snatch up your plates and set to eating, trying not to look too hard at the off-gray, starchy slime that tastes vaguely of vegetables and oil. You wash it down with copious amounts of water and diluted wine, trying to avoid the bitter, woody aftertaste.

---

You, with two guards in tow, walk to one of the libraries nearby in the Inner City, through a beautiful plaza, with carefully manicured gardens. A thin young man with a brand for SEED on his face trims down an overgrowing patch of flowers as children kick a rubber ball back and forth. You notice a small group of Crusaders drift through. They catch sight of you, confused by your guards and your under-ornamented self, but don't comment, passing by with a dipped nod given your way. The walk itself is pleasant and a short, gentle ride on one of the slow-moving hover-crafts rounds out the experience. In all, it took you thirty minutes to get to the Library.

The Library is another one of those buildings with a high domed ceiling, and a librarian greets you at the door. They serve as living indexes, and you ask him for books, treatises, or manuscripts involving McCreary's armor. They look at a reference book, and begin to guide you into the depths of the library. He points at a shelf of books, and bows his head as he explains, "This shelf contains what books we have on McCreary, as for a specific topic, we lack McCreary's Armor."

With a nod, he turns away to attend to other duties. You enlist the help of your guards and clear out the entire shelf, bringing it to one of the desks in the center of the library.The Effect of McCreary on Morale, Armaments of the Angel, McCreary's Sacrifice, Strength of Soul: Or how to Emulate the Angel, How The Tide Turned, and Stories to tell Children of the Angel.

The first one interests you, so you set it aside for later, the second one is more pressing, so you pile it away. The rest are hymn books, scripture, a quasi-historical document that you know is false, and the other is tall tale-- but a passage in the children's book hints at the truths of your memory, so you set it aside to keep. You have your guards put the rest away, and begin to read the first.

...And lo', when the war was at its worst, and all hoped seemed lost, when the King of the Dead and his armies approached the gates of the Holy City, man did despair... It goes on to list all the losses, the cities you've never heard of that no doubt are ruins by now.

Then McCreary emerged from the Citadel of Seed, clad in resplendent gold. SEED spoke, issuing a benediction to its holy angel of war, It lists a great edict from SEED that you gloss over, yadda yadda, retribution and revenge shall be delivered, demons stand no chance now, etc. However, one line catches your eye, "I shall see retribution done on all my enemies, they shall be starved and beaten, destroyed in their entirety. So I will it."

It goes into great detail about how the morale of all troops improved, especially by his speeches delivered on the battlefield, full of rage and fire, and how during each of his consecutive victories the people cheered his name in the streets. In some benedictions, he was listed first. You wonder if he was more relatable for the humans of this world than the Machine God they worship...

This manuscript is a list of his armor and weapons in flowery terms, recorded directly after his death. It mentions no damage upon the breastplate or any of the other armor. It does list damage done to the underpinning, his synth-leather jumpsuit is mentioned as being ripped across the chest, and stained with dried blood. His firearm was empty-- and you note that he had expended nearly two thousand las-pulses during the time he fought, if not more.

...McCreary's armor was mighty indeed, burnished in gold and black, but pure, and filled with the flame of righteousness, and he spoke of it as one speaks of a friend, one that was very close to his heart...some say it even spoke back! So great is the power of SEED, that even the inanimate is made living through his grace...

You have three hours and thirty minutes left before Brother Hop arrives at your room for your lesson.

---

No response and Emma raises an eyebrow, offering pithily, "My brother gave me advice for this exact situation, and I didn't listen." She mocks sighs, shaking her head. "If you have a headache bad enough to mention, you should probably go lie down. I'll have Silas come and make sure you're just regular crazy, not infection crazy."

She shrugs a shoulder, leaning over the table to give you a chaste peck on the lips, retreating out the cafeteria and towards her office. You watch her leave, before rising, clearing away your dishes and thinking about what your next move is. You have an entire day, with only a little bit of tutoring from Brother Hop in the evening.

What would you like to do?

---

"Daughter McFee is fine." The Armorer replies, following Emma back to her workshop.

You smile, offering "You already know mine. It's a pleasure, Daughter McFee."

"Likewise, Ange-- Mother Gainer. Sorry, I couldn't do much more for the armor, but, as you said, it's a bit out of my area of expertise." The three of you enter the workshop, and you approach the armor on the stand as she explains how she plans on padding certain places with cloth and little bits of plastic, to help take some of the weight off. She goes quite in depth, and you listen intently, dragging your eyes across the pristine breastplate and polished helmet. Nothing jumps out at you, and you examine the inside of it very carefully, running your hands across the strangely cool material-- there's no traps or anything of the sort. You lean back, frowning.

The metal itself is very weird, cool to the touch, even the piece that was previously in the roaring furnace. Looking at one from the edge, you can see faint differences in the hues of darkness, culminating in one that seems to absorb the light at the middle layer.

[-] The armorsmith, or, perhaps a more fitting title would be Armorer, nods, lifting herself and following along behind you to the firing range. "I can do that. Something a little tighter, standard plastic plating and flame resistant treatment where the armor doesn't reach. It'll be hot, though, with the flame retardant material."

[17] Something needles at the edges of your perception about the armor. Something about it isn't right.

Regardless, you approach the Crusader Armorer, who doesn't work on armor, confusingly, and he lets you look over the selection. Most of the guns he lets you use, in particular, are worn and beaten, but come in many varieties, from Hellfire Shotguns, the Crusader Modular Assualt Rifles, to the scrappy workman's automatic las-rifle, fresh off the streets and marked for destruction. He has all the firearms you could ever hope to destroy. It was a bright touch by Emma, you remember, to save money. Any gun marked for destruction due to advanced age or contraband status would be brought in, and either disposed of on-site or you would destroy them during your testing.

---

...You'll be going to see they, them, it, as opposed to them visiting you. <.<