[OPEN] mod plot | sacking of olympus: harbinger descends

[unplug]

CHARACTERS ▶ All characters opting in
LOCATION ▶ Olympus
SUMMARY ▶ The Zion Defense Grid with civilian relief corps arrive at 1100 6/18, and Commander Gwisin gives the orders for rescue, assault, and investigation. This log is player-run and includes The REAPER simulation option (1 of 3) in the Matrix, as well as rescue activity in the Real. Kill some zombies, save some abducted babies.
WARNINGS ▶ Violence and reference to human experimentation, possibly R.
NOTES ▶ This is Part II of the Sacking of Olympus plot. Questions/investigation here, for example, what happens when you shoot compartment x of the centipede

▶ Sacking of Olympus Part II

REAL: THE ZIONITE RESCUE OPERATION ◀

Gwisin's orders are terse over the comms, two hours before the fleet makes Olympus. Make contact and communication to the best of your ability, restore comms if possible. Provide emergency care, fire control, and evacuation, before the unidentified bogey arrives at city center.

Pandemonium reigns over the populace of Olympus, civilians trapped by fires, drones, and debris. Olympus’ forces have rallied but remain thin on the ground, and the Zionite reinforcements are direly needed. Electronic communications remain down except for the Matrix pirate signal, darkening the panic and despair that have descended over the city; REAPER drones harry every human or ship that tries the ground or air.

Organizing this wide-scale rescue in the face of explosions and still-unexplained abductions comes down to ingenuity and manpower.

REAL: HARBINGER DESCENDS ◀

Thirteen hours after the Zion rescuers arrive in Olympus, the Harbinger does too. The cavern ceiling, dead center, cracks, crumbles, boulders the size of hovercrafts hammering down on the city center. By now, thankfully, the heart of the city is empty of civilians, but as the Machine breaks through, it's instantly clear that isn't going to be enough.

Harbinger is massive. Digging mandibles up front could eat a squid whole, and have room left over to total a hovercraft; its name emblazoned on red on each segment. Scarlet optics glow against its black chassis, and drones flush out of the gasping ports in its sides the same way insects give birth in dozens. Ponderous but unmistakably powerful, the centipede-shaped robot crawls out into a dangle into empty air. Keeps dropping its head toward the city in neat, clockwork degrees, almost elegantly, to let itself down onto the rubbled cavern floor. Erratic gasps and comments sound off across the disrupted networks: the oldest of the humans, civilian or otherwise, have never seen a Machine like this in the Real.

But maybe you remember dreaming a monster like this, from another lifetime.

Pilots throughout the city gun their engines, preparing for a feat of comms-blind synchronization. The battle truly begins.

MATRIX: REAPER COMBAT FREE-FOR-ALL ◀

When the Harbinger arrives, the Matrix pirate signal augmentation doubles in strength. Triples. The operator reports start to come in, distorted from the REAPER signal jamming, but unmistakable. There's a simulation out there, like a bridge to-- what? The Matrix? The programming language carries unmistakable similarities to the Dowager's feed from Kitty Jones' call to the Atalanta, but there's nothing specifically like that strange, consuming pattern in the girl's neuro-output. At least, not on this level of the sim. Not yet.

Jack in, and the first thing you see is the cold belly of a spaceship. What you hear are the screams, bouncing echoes off catwalks and cold corridors. Next, figures coming in a wave of seemingly unstructured attack. In the vanguard, the Husks, screaming zombies-- sinewy, discolored flesh mingled with useless tech components and bioluminescence. Not far behind, the bulbous Scions with their single energy weapons. Bringing up the rear, the Banshees float in deceptively slow at first, only to accelerate into a dazing flash of teleportation, skeletal-faced, real death waiting in their razor hands.

One thing is certain: they're guarding something, though where in the recesses of this ship, the operator must largely guess.

Comments

[ambidextrosity]

[Pew pew.

The flare of the weapon's discharge is harsh and bright enough to illuminate Horse's face for a moment. She has a vivid scab forming over the side of her head, wide and lumpily textured. Probably looks worse than it is-- scrapes are that way, whereas cuts can go deep but look kind of small. No matter what thumped her head, though, Horse's aim is true. The rupture of the bot makes an unmistakable noise, a garbled squeak that seems nearly like a cry of pain, then metal and glass wrecking into the ground.

Horse swings the lightning rifle back over her shoulder. It starts recharging immediately, but both of them know that takes uncomfortably long considering how many things are in the air right now trying to kill them.] No problem, [Horse says, abruptly all teeth, bright in the semi-darkness. Cheery now.] We got lots of those and you a little one, even with the luggage.

[But she isn't looking at Bella in the eye when she says this, preoccupied, pulling the woman's arm aside to try and have a look at her wound. Crippled? Dying? Circle Y or N for each please, it is relevant for Horse's next brilliant exploit.]

[metempsychotic]

Oh thank God- [ Bella gasps, once the immediate threat has passed and Horse informs her that there are in fact a fair few friendly ships left even if the REAPER forces are thick both in the air and on the ground- even though that thing that bored down from above is still operational ] -I can do fuckall down here. I need a proper ZDG craft, with an interface.

[ Said luggage remains closely guarded, and it is with visible reluctance that Bella sets it down - nestling the box securely between her ankles - so that she can facilitate the impromptu medical examination. For the most part she's bruised and scratched on neck and shoulders. She rolls up her bloodied sleeve, revealing some of her plugs along with some long scratches that have all but entirely clotted. There is a deeper wound in her leg, some inches shy of any arteries, but easily the worst thing she's sporting. ] I think there's some shrapnel in there-[ she comments with a strategic lack of affect ] -nothing too big, though.

[ In summation: crippled, N - dying, N. She probably should get that leg looked at, but it's evidently useable for the time being. Much of her present mobility, along with her pain endurance, is probably due to the adrenaline searing through her veins. Despite the clipped pragmatism of her words, there is a tremor constantly threatening to climb up her throat. She's scared shitless, clearly- more in need of a stiff drink than a splint. ]

[ambidextrosity]

[Though not a medical expert, Horse is satisfied with the results of her rough examination. She digs a flask out of some unimaginable place-- she does have like five hundred pants pockets going up and down her very long legs-- and squeezes it into Bella's grimy fingers. She also gives Bella's shoulder a thump for reinforcement too. The combination should be better than an energy bar!! Ambient terror being part of the recipe, judging by the peaky undertone to Bella's face.

Inside the flask, there's moonshine. Bella can smell it from five inches away, if she opens it.]

You a ninja in your dreaming life, then? [Horse inquires, pleasantly, even as she's turning her attention back the way she came. Because she's not a medical expert, she doesn't do things like provide specific dosage instructions with the ~medication~ that she offers.] That your nunchucks in there? [She jerks her head back at the boxes between Bella's feet without looking, and starts to tilt her lanky frame into a crouch. Not calling the vicinity clear just yet, but working on visual confirmation.]

[metempsychotic]

[ With this much grit and soot in the air, the fact that the first whiff of moonshine makes Bella's eyes water is just another perk of the product. She tips the flask against her lips. She gulps. She sputters. She coughs. She wheezes. She closes her eyes. ]

Scientist. [ As opposed to a ninja. A nerd both in and out of the Matrix. She jostles the box with a foot, ever so lightly. ] Samples.

[ Another tip, another cough, though less prolonged this time. She offers the flask back. ] Shouldn't have more. Need my CNS functional. Need to get inside that thing. [ No need to say which thing with the appearance of Harbinger's singular immensity. ] Need to determine the why-ness. What could motivate this... [ her eyes peek open, and she squints up into the subterranean unsky ] -expenditure.

[ambidextrosity]

[Scientist, sample. Central nervous system. Horse knows what those ones mean. She loses track a little after that, with 'whyness,' which doesn't sound very scientific, and then 'what could motivate this,' which doesn't sound like she's talking about Machines anymore. Horse's eyes are pinned forward. She watches the movement of light and shadow in the dust past the drone's collapsed body.

And then she motions sharply, a wavey-wavey motion that's pretty hard to misinterpret even for a civilian. Go go go. Horse is going too, of course; she leads the way up to the next lump of gravel, right up near the drone, her gangly legs folding up with surprising agility, making herself small. She is trying to look out the narrow gap between the bot's round bulk and the edge of the wall. The rifle isn't completely charged yet, but the meter shows it's more than half.

When she hears Bella scrape up next to her, she asks sidelong,] You mean, you're gonna kill the big one?

[Laypeople translation. Surely.]

[metempsychotic]

[ Bella tucks her precious set of 'samples' up against her chest as she skitters after Horse, go go going as fast as her little legs can carry her. Whereas Horse is interested in the gap, and what lies beyond, Bella appears more curious about the drone itself- though not so curious that she is willing to touch it. Instead she examines it with a furtive gaze that keeps darting back to Horse, no wanting to miss the next cue to haul ass. ]

'Kill'? [ she gives a dry and hollow 'heh' at the very thought ] That would be ambitious. Let's say 'vivisect'.

[ And then, since layperson translation is apparently a 'thing': ] I'll do my part.

If- [ she adds, ceaselessly goal-oriented ] -you can get me to one of those ships.

Are you with the ZDG? Or are you an Olympian who just... stumbled across that thing? [ A gesture indicates the invaluable but inrushably charging rifle. ]

[ambidextrosity]

Zion born and bred, Red, [Horse answers. Practically crows it, or as close to crowing as you can be while you're trying to be quiet-ish to avoid killer robotst. She lifts the rifle up off her back, not even looking directly at the meter to check where its charge is at now; her eyes are still focused forward, but there's a thoughtful tilt to her head toward Bella.

She's paying attention, by layman standards. On the other side of a drone, there's movement; something wafting by, drawing a shadow through the dusty shaft of light, more delicately than a hovership can.]

Killin' it sounds easier, [she remarks.] Neither of them sound easy. How that going to help? [A long hand winds up tapping down on top of Bella's boxes. Maybe she knows what vivisection means. Maybe she's aware that said boxes most certainly don't contain any kind of surgical tools.]

[metempsychotic]

[ Ah yes, that distinct Zionese pride, product of a siege mentality. In another, pettier circumstance this would be an opportunity for Bella to feel alienated; boo-hoo, she doesn't feel at home. Right now, however, she's quite happy to have some of that upbeat-in-the-face-of-impossible-odds spirit to buoy her own. Combined with the moonshine in her veins, it makes Bella feel almost normal. Almost. ]

It's only by chance that you can defeat which you don't understand, [ she avers ] -we could stand to know more about it. More about them. [ This use of 'them' has taken on a slightly different tone, not referring simply to Machines-in-general, but rather to these-particular-machines. The ones emblazoned with that grim appellation: REAPER. ]

A biologist keeps her samples on slides- [ Bella murmurs, perhaps not the most accessible example since biology is a rather impoverished discipline at this point in history, but still... ] -a programmer keeps them on discs. So please- be careful with that thing's electromagnet. [ The Faraday cage of the box should preserve them, but Bella's protectiveness is not content relying on the laws of physics. ]

…what is it? [ comes in a whisper as the shadow filters by. ]

[ambidextrosity]

Same old thing, [Horse answers, clearly tense despite her choice of words.] Drone. That thing's still rolling off heat, [she juts her chin at one still blocking their way,] or it'd probably have seen us. Thermal, yeah?

[Finally, she puts her eyes back on Bella, acknowledging her biologist disc electromagnetics with a smile that looks like it'd fit better on the front of a cat's head, wide, squinty, none of that Cheshire teeth nonsense, somewhat uninterpretable.] I'm gonna have to get close and push, [she says. It's less heroic than it sounds, maybe; there's crap lying around for leverage, and the drone is very round, precariously settled on shattered brick. It does look impressively heavy, though.] You can shoot?

[Maybe there's no actual question-mark at the end of that. Hard to know; Horse terminates the remark with a slightly wheezy cough, thanks to the accumulated dust and ash. She's already pressing Bella with her gun. It might occur to the scientist to ask, around about now, if it'd be better to wait or find a different way, if the thermal benefit isn't actually that convincing.

Or her mission, as specified, isn't that important.]

[metempsychotic]

[ Can she shoot? The question prompts a series of statements- ] Uh- well- it's just a... resonance transformer. With- magnetic buffers. A- uh- fairly simple directed energy weapon. [ -which, while they are all factual statements, do not answer any actual inquiries. But after this list of technical suppositions peters out, and the weapon is thrust into her scuffed and sooty hands, Bella gives a quick bob of the head. ] Yes.

[ She gulps before the caveat: ] Technically.

[ And indeed, if her grip on the weapon is a touch tentative, it is at least technically accurate; it has all the correctness of something known in the mind- but not so much in the muscles. ]

[ambidextrosity]

They're bigger than me and fly. Just shoot up, yeh? [Horse offers by way of reassurance, clapping the chatty nerd on her shoulder. She thinks that Bella's holding up pretty well, all things considered. Plus one point for humankind, our hearts don't stop from terror like bunnies.

Horse probably is scared on some level, but you can't tell by looking at her as weaves halfway upright, her back still stooped in strange precaution. She makes her way over to the nearest mess of rubble and starts to sift through. Despite her reasonably impressive build, plenty of the shattered rocks are large and dense enough to give her pause. Some of them, she only pits herself against for a split-second before giving up, stepping over. Eventually, she frees a big spar of metal. It doesn't look like rebar, but it looks strong enough. Whatever it used to be probably doesn't matter anymore, like so much of the rest of the promise Olympus held before.

Outside and far away, something explodes. Not loud. Closest thing to thunder Horse has heard in awhile, and she doesn't even look up, as she installs the lever and starts to pull.

Five, six seconds. It seems for a moment like she's got the end pushed in wrong or something, but then the drone's limbs start to jiggle, tellingly, and the rotundity of the inert chassis starts to slip away from the jagged edge of the wall. Orange light seeps through the widening gap, orange from fire despite the smoke and dust and debris filling the air. The small flickers of shadows that flit past seem too small to pose meaningful threats, at least until Horse eases the space a couple feet wider.

There's a drone coming into view behind her. Despite what she'd said long minutes earlier, this one is walking on the ground, jagged upturned metal along its back where some collision rendered flight impossible. Its red optics focus on Horse's lanky figure as the woman tries to wedge her lever tight.]

[metempsychotic]

[ Ethanol and company do wonders for the human spirit - entire civilizations have been formed to provide just those things, the earliest settlements showing signs of communal gathering and purposeful fermentation both. War craft has also long been our companion, and when Bella feels the weapon in her hands, there is something fundamentally correct about it; however advanced, however miraculous, the lightning gun is at heart a tool, the sort of thing hands were freed up to use. ]

Okay- [ she says, a brief affirmation as much for her own benefit as for Horse's. Bella's eyes flick nervously from the other woman and her work to the smoldering surroundings, split between her own reactive task and vicarious involvement in Horse's active one. When the drone first appears in her line of sight, there is a moment in which Bella feels a herbivorous panic, a deep seated desire to freeze in place. But these things sense heat, not motion, which means it won't pass over them until they are cold and dead- and that if they are lucky.

There are probably dozen little pointers on how to fire accurately- but in this moment Bella remembers none of them. She just angles the weapon, depresses the trigger, and tenses bodily as lightning arcs from the barrel of the gun to the damaged drone, illuminating it in harsh whites and scorched blacks. The searing crackle of the discharge blots out Bella's battle-cry, a keening, high-pitched noise that issues like steam from between clenched teeth.

Hear heart is still racing as the drone slumps to the ground, the smell of ozone thick in the air. The hands on the rifle, now charging, tremble. Bella gives an uneven giggle.]

Nikola Tesla, you beautiful bastard...

[ambidextrosity]

[Horse winds up flattened against the ground, her elbows caked in dust and her eyes narrowed against the rifle's blazing emission. She twists her head around to follow the rattling collapse of Bella's target, almost bangs her forehead on the lever she had been using, still sticking out from the nearer droid.

A beat.

And then she's grasping Bella around the waist, hoisting her up. While it might initially seem like it's time for tactical urgency again, up close it's clear Horse's face is three quarters (approx) serrated grin. She laughs in the scientist's ear and kisses her muddily on the cheek, before giving her smaller frame a tug toward the newly-opened ingress.

Thirty yards out, gravity and cooling circuitry do its last to the newly-fried bot. It pops out one red optic, spits a spark out of the socket, and finally rolls gently onto its face.] Ha haaaaa, we should piss on it but there's no time, [says Horse.] You got your box?

[Overhead, visible past the edge of the roof, hovercraft are whizzing by, most of them ZDG.]

[metempsychotic]

[ The victorious grasp, victorious laugh, and their accompanying celebratory smooch, earns Horse a pale-eyed look of surprise, an affect that borrows from Bella's state of general synaptic shock. But it's not long before she's wearing her own crooked grin, her brain suffused with chemicals that trace the fuzzy emotional line between panic and exhilaration. ]

Never enough time- [ she states with the airy tone of proverb, tinged with giddiness ] -to do everything that wants doing.

[ At the mention of her precious little box, the shock briefly returns as itself, prompting Bella to grasp at the container that is nestled between her ankles, tucking it up against her side with one arm while the other tries to keep hold of the lightning gun. It's with an awkward crab shuffle that she unhinges her legs and keeps pace with Horse; judging by the stiffness in one of them, her body is starting to take stock of the damage it has sustained. Pain blanches a face otherwise flushed with excitement.

The shapes of the ZDG hovercraft is a good as an angelic visitation, judging by the relief on Bella's face. Maybe she's imagining that they are her ticket home, that when she gets to one, that will be It For Today. This is the epitome of wishful thinking. As the still-fresh rapports of projectile-fire echoing through Olympus indicate, this battle is far from over. ]