06-28-2023, 16:42:26 PM
The flames dim as the remains fills what used to be lungs. Omen collapses to his knees. It's so hard to breathe now. And, well, he cannot breathe. All he can do is remember. And remember, remember, remember. The world grows small, and all it can do is keep getting smaller, like if a cosmic hand started crushing him into an impossibly fine paste.
Firstly, the fire escape route. It's a fairly solid route, even when the drones skimmed through it, but it is completely useless when you need to escape from something. It hides you, but it cannot save you. Ozone-97, a hopeful gofer, had learned that the hard way. He ran, he ran so much, but the drones caught up with him and painted the door redder than it already was.
That itself was a tragedy, but it was one death, unlike the second memory.
The leader remembers his last escape, before he ended up at that stage, his head rolling across the floor.
He remembers unlocking the safe and tossing in notes, belongings, anything important that anyone else who takes up residence might need, whether it be a rebel or someone simply staking to live out. He will not be coming back, but someone else might arrive later. And if it all ends today, which it really looks like it will- at least someone else will have something to take, or even start another movement with.
Lastly, he tosses his revolver in, a custom-made article, with custom-made bullets, for custom-made damage. The gun was supposed to be shot. Given enough time, it should have been aimed at the head of a CEO, their corporation going down with it in one fell swoop.
But there was no more time. The threat was here, right at their doorsteps. The leader seals the safe, inputting a combination of 7-3-6-8 to lock its contents shut.
The base- the heart itself was safe. That much was known. That much was ensured. The cops had only caught onto their plan of action, and had cracked down on it with a deadly efficiency. They hadn't figured out the store- only that an army of rebels would march out of Cuca Alleyway.
The winding routes were like veins to the base's heart, and they were being cut off one by one. Being among the last to escape, the leader had to improvise, with all other routes compromised or taken. He skipped across the rooftops and performed increasingly improbable leaps as the swarm of drones and the chasing Missionaries closed in on him. He leaps down into the crowds and the vehicles, rolling to minimize the agony of landing from such height- he staggers along, hoping the safety of the crowd will save him. It'd take a miracle to land a shot on him among the crowd.
Nevertheless, a shot rang out.
The leader never was one for modifications. If his taste in weaponry, attire and his hope to return to the days without Mission and other megacorps breathing down the populace's necks didn't indicate so already, then it was the way he hid the only modifications he ever got: a pair of bionic arms, designed to help him draw both blade and gun at impossibly fast speeds, and the required neural chips to control such arms. Both were installed because of a forced necessity.
He was frail, but so was everything else if he had the advantage.
The world grew dark, as something within the leader explodes into a dozen fragments. He should have died. But the cops, they weren't satisfied only killing him.
"We tagged the leader. Any more orders?"
"Administer the I-2MO compound to keep him alive. We still have an use for the leader. We will send a message."
The leader felt a shock, and then he found that the world had stopped becoming dark. The work of an army of nanobots kept him alive against his own will, as he's forced into a conscious sleep. He heard everything, he felt his dying body be dragged across the ground and he saw the seven moons grow blurry as blood leaks out of his chest from the shot wound. It hurts. It burned, as if the stars of the cosmos themselves had been forcefully lodged into his chest.
Along a new route, a never traveled pathway, Tricks-55 looks at a monitor they had carried with their person once they had escaped the carnage. A payment of seventeen million pieces was just wired to them- enough to live the rest of life in comfort or to make a valid move to become a corporate lord themselves.
Tricks-55 looked at the skies- the drone swarm had conspicuously avoided the very path they were going down, an unimpeded exit to the Cuca alleyway in front of them.
Tricks-55 begins marching towards the exit, pocketing the monitor, their inside job unpunished.
It's agonizing, and it feels like the area around his neck has a thousand itches that he cannot scratch away. But eventually, it stops, and Omen is looking to the skies, as he lies down on the ground.
These aren't stars, or the seven moons, but rather, the lights of the drones. Their eerie lights hued the walls of scrapers sky high as they proceeded on with their daily skims.
... the front door. Of course. It's the simplest route, and the worst thing is, since everybody just decided to go through the front door anyways, without going in the whole group thing #63(b) suggested even, what was the point of literally calling the spirits of the damned? Everybody's just going to take the front door anyways.
At least he now knows the table ISN'T upright, and there's a few routes he and his new companions can take for whatever purpose they need.
"We need to go. Take the front door."
> Go through the front door, back home.
Firstly, the fire escape route. It's a fairly solid route, even when the drones skimmed through it, but it is completely useless when you need to escape from something. It hides you, but it cannot save you. Ozone-97, a hopeful gofer, had learned that the hard way. He ran, he ran so much, but the drones caught up with him and painted the door redder than it already was.
That itself was a tragedy, but it was one death, unlike the second memory.
The leader remembers his last escape, before he ended up at that stage, his head rolling across the floor.
He remembers unlocking the safe and tossing in notes, belongings, anything important that anyone else who takes up residence might need, whether it be a rebel or someone simply staking to live out. He will not be coming back, but someone else might arrive later. And if it all ends today, which it really looks like it will- at least someone else will have something to take, or even start another movement with.
Lastly, he tosses his revolver in, a custom-made article, with custom-made bullets, for custom-made damage. The gun was supposed to be shot. Given enough time, it should have been aimed at the head of a CEO, their corporation going down with it in one fell swoop.
But there was no more time. The threat was here, right at their doorsteps. The leader seals the safe, inputting a combination of 7-3-6-8 to lock its contents shut.
The base- the heart itself was safe. That much was known. That much was ensured. The cops had only caught onto their plan of action, and had cracked down on it with a deadly efficiency. They hadn't figured out the store- only that an army of rebels would march out of Cuca Alleyway.
The winding routes were like veins to the base's heart, and they were being cut off one by one. Being among the last to escape, the leader had to improvise, with all other routes compromised or taken. He skipped across the rooftops and performed increasingly improbable leaps as the swarm of drones and the chasing Missionaries closed in on him. He leaps down into the crowds and the vehicles, rolling to minimize the agony of landing from such height- he staggers along, hoping the safety of the crowd will save him. It'd take a miracle to land a shot on him among the crowd.
Nevertheless, a shot rang out.
The leader never was one for modifications. If his taste in weaponry, attire and his hope to return to the days without Mission and other megacorps breathing down the populace's necks didn't indicate so already, then it was the way he hid the only modifications he ever got: a pair of bionic arms, designed to help him draw both blade and gun at impossibly fast speeds, and the required neural chips to control such arms. Both were installed because of a forced necessity.
He was frail, but so was everything else if he had the advantage.
The world grew dark, as something within the leader explodes into a dozen fragments. He should have died. But the cops, they weren't satisfied only killing him.
"We tagged the leader. Any more orders?"
"Administer the I-2MO compound to keep him alive. We still have an use for the leader. We will send a message."
The leader felt a shock, and then he found that the world had stopped becoming dark. The work of an army of nanobots kept him alive against his own will, as he's forced into a conscious sleep. He heard everything, he felt his dying body be dragged across the ground and he saw the seven moons grow blurry as blood leaks out of his chest from the shot wound. It hurts. It burned, as if the stars of the cosmos themselves had been forcefully lodged into his chest.
Along a new route, a never traveled pathway, Tricks-55 looks at a monitor they had carried with their person once they had escaped the carnage. A payment of seventeen million pieces was just wired to them- enough to live the rest of life in comfort or to make a valid move to become a corporate lord themselves.
Tricks-55 looked at the skies- the drone swarm had conspicuously avoided the very path they were going down, an unimpeded exit to the Cuca alleyway in front of them.
Tricks-55 begins marching towards the exit, pocketing the monitor, their inside job unpunished.
It's agonizing, and it feels like the area around his neck has a thousand itches that he cannot scratch away. But eventually, it stops, and Omen is looking to the skies, as he lies down on the ground.
These aren't stars, or the seven moons, but rather, the lights of the drones. Their eerie lights hued the walls of scrapers sky high as they proceeded on with their daily skims.
... the front door. Of course. It's the simplest route, and the worst thing is, since everybody just decided to go through the front door anyways, without going in the whole group thing #63(b) suggested even, what was the point of literally calling the spirits of the damned? Everybody's just going to take the front door anyways.
At least he now knows the table ISN'T upright, and there's a few routes he and his new companions can take for whatever purpose they need.
"We need to go. Take the front door."
> Go through the front door, back home.
it is me. awe921, the greatest face in all of koridai