Crossin this here Jordan: A Coalition Soldier Quest

Voting is open
The Siege of Monterrey, 1.6
[X] Plan In Order Of Urgency
-[X] The medic is useless for now, you'll fix the issue yourself.
--[X] You have functional first aid training, start with bioelectrical manipulation to slow down the heart rate of the wounded and knock them out with it if necessary to avoid struggling. Check who is bleeding out fastest, and keep the blood in their body with Hydrokinesis while you disintegrate and extract the spikes via Geokinesis. Once this is done you can put a wound sealant on if theres any, or forcibly close the wounds with pinpoint cauterization if not. They'll have to take their chances with infection and organ damage, you can't fix those.
--[X] Whoever has the necessary composure can take over for caring for the wounded from here, or maybe the medic will come to their senses.
-[X] Look for an asteroid to use as a base camp, and burrow an airtight, radiation tight hollow into it so you don't need to rely on your shielding to avoid radiation damage to the whole group. It'd also provide a buffer against smaller collision.
--[X] Harvest a comet after this, use electrolysis to provide water and replenish air supply

-[X] Once that's done and nobody's dying in the immediate future, harvest carbon, oxygen and hydrogen from the air and any biological waste matter, electrolytically breaking the molecules up to base elements if necessary, and then manually synthesize glucose via emulating the photosynthesis reaction to assemble the necessary carbohydrate chains.
--[X] With that nobody would starve(nutrient deficiency won't be a problem for months yet), and if you can find the makings of salt on the asteroid or any comets you also have a saline solution for the wounded even if you must drip feed them.
-[X] After basic survival needs are met, start surveying the area in greater detail.

Beauregard had the bug-eyed gaze of a fanatic, blue-green eyes wide and unblinking as he peered off into the middle distance, always past those around him. The only time he'd ever looked at her directly was after they'd all gathered inside the Mark V when they'd first arrived; Beauregard had quickly glanced over her rank, name, and unit tabs before doing the same for everyone else.

Not a particularly expressive individual, even as he prattled on in his offbeat manner, speech unusual in its cadence and delivery, pistol erratically spinning in his gauntleted right hand. Talkative. Solid build beneath his armor, strong in the wiry way as was typical for an infantryman; a 3-mile run every morning with 80 pounds of kit does that to a man. Though his demeanor was somewhat disconcerting, he had almost immediately assisted her with the critically wounded, him and Reynauld.

She turned her attention to McDonald.

McDonald was eyeing her, dead-eyed and lazy. Fully out of his CA-2 now, the individual armored components floating around him, he was fiddling with the electronics in his helmet. They weren't in good condition, unlikely to be recoverable. There was a good-natured animosity between him and Beauregard, their earlier joke about his name seemed like one that had been running on a while. A little taller than her, very sturdily built. Soft-spoken and taciturn, he'd said few words since their prior misfortune; not even during the argument with the medic or immediately after they were ejected through the portal he did speak up.

Their unit patches proclaimed their occupational specialties as Cavalry Scouts, effectively Rangers without the SOF training or equipment, their exoskeletons and armaments the lightest the Army could get away with issuing them. Cavalry Scouts were not actually cavalrymen, haven't been actual cavalrymen for centuries, but the name persisted due to the influence of Old World American military traditions, enduring long after the Coalition States had reorganized their Armed Forces in Sol of 2162. Every occupational specialty tended to attract certain types of people and develop their own sub-cultures within organizational and regional commands. Cavalry Scouts tended to be more fatalistic, for good reason. Advance scouting was a lethal job description even for Psi-Operatives with capabilities like her own, and these men were significantly worse off in that department. Good luck trying to fight off Sabbat Knights or even lesser Day Demons with a fucking carbine.

She understood the rationale. Not everybody could have SAMASs or CA-3s due to the manufacturing costs, and it wouldn't even be a desirable tactical or strategic situation if they could. Even simple exoskeletons were pushing industrial output constraints, and the systems were deliberately kept simple to ease shielding from electronic disruption, something Sorcerers were quite fond of taking advantage of where they could. All vehicles and anything utilizing computers and radio signals were targets, and mass employment of RPAs and armor without the usual combined arms and Psychics backing them up would see rapid disruption and destruction by Sorcerers who could easily leverage their asymmetric strengths. This likewise prevented mass cybernetic augmentation, though again, simple things like eye and hearing protection were commonplace.

There'd been talk for years about employing cybernetic super soldiers, so called Full Conversion Cyborgs, their brain and heart encased in an armored compartment inside of a robotic shell with almost every other organ replaced with a mechanical equivalent. They'd be a terror on the battlefield against a conventional opponent and could operate man-sized or vehicular platforms easily once adapted to their frame. Again, the problem was that there was no widespread or reliable counter to Sorcerous disruption. Not even the best EM shielding could prevent at least partial disruption, and for an FCC that required sophisticated machinery to live, even a child could see the problems this situation would generate, even disregarding the costs.

It was really cool, though she wouldn't go for it herself. Much preferred keeping her bits attached, thank you.

And so, the Coalition Military turned to two separate fields of research to see what advantages could be leveraged where their pet Skelebot and FCC projects failed. At first, they turned to biology and genetics. Many advancements had been made in the fields since the Before the Coming, and in combination with modern medicine, almost all genetic disorders, illnesses and ailments have been eliminated from Coalition citizens. Special plants such as the Moringa tree from Southern Asia were utilized to fulfill the dietary needs of people, the plant of course famous for its use in malnutrition programs from Before the Coming, at least in the Orient. In the Occident, it was pretty much unheard of, but it existed. It provides incredible value as a plant, containing many nutrients, antioxidants, and its benefits in treating health disorders of all kinds cannot be understated. Further genetic engineering of the plant has made the "miracle tree," already a stable in all modern diets, that much more critical. Healthier diets and gene editing have enabled longer lifespans far in excess of 100 years of age, with the oldest individuals nearing 200 with care and biomechanical replacements.

Further modifications have improved various aspects such as the rapid muscle atrophy humans tend to suffer from, immunodeficiencies, greater digestive efficiency, improved cognitive capacity, and more. Naturally, all of the modifications improve the quality of life and capabilities of the Coalition Citizen, and further research went on at various centers throughout the country, most famously at the Lone Star Research Facility down in Texas.

However, the interplay with genetics and Psionics wasn't as clean and rosy. Several unsavory projects had their contents revealed by Criminal Investigation Command, pulling the plug on eugenics experiments involving Psychic Nullifiers, and a massive scandal embroiled the 1st​ Psi Battalion with the Judge Advocate General which saw several high ranking officers hanged as recently as 2194, along with others that she didn't know the details of. From the seeds of dark origin, however, there now existed an experimental program for Latent Psychics that volunteered to be subjected to a much more ethical process to awaken their Psionic potential. The idea of generating more Psychics in a controlled environment appealed and threatened normal people. They feared people like her, for good reason, and the idea of more and more Psychics entering society was something many would not countenance.

But the Chiefs of Staff needed a weapon, and Nullifiers seemed to be the answer. On the face of it, she couldn't disagree. Many of the issues with previous projects hinged on that critical failure point, the ease with which Sorcerers disrupted advanced computing and electronics. A Nullifier, one who'd volunteered for the process, could be assigned to any unit, any team, any mission, and serve as a reliable way to not only protect these assets, but also as a viable weapon against Sorcerers and other Psychics in their own right. They varied in strength, but mass employment and development of them seemed promising.

She didn't fear people, not truly. Perhaps that was arrogance, but she was more powerful than anyone she'd ever met, with the possible exception of the Archon that visited the Academy during her early years there. The idea that potentially anyone could become a Sorcerer with the power that the Crypt Knights displayed was certainly worthy of careful consideration. All the more reason why the Coalition's mission to secure the Rifts was so vital. Coalition Psychics were carefully monitored and guided towards responsible use of their capabilities, whatever they were, and yet a disheartening number of them chose to abuse their capabilities, especially regarding mental powers. Sorcery on a mass scale would undoubtedly magnify this tendency, and the sources couldn't even begin to be controlled until the Epicenters and Blue Zones were, as in St Louis, in Detroit, in Chicago. There were plenty of other things out there that were eviler than mankind.

"We will make it through this, I'll see to that," she finally interjected. She reviewed the conversation mentally, no, Beauregard hadn't said anything important. Too exhausted to really make an effort socializing, there was more important work to be done, and it seemed like the men had sorted things out themselves, with Savage gravitating towards the leadership role in the meantime. She'd put off speaking with him, promised to discuss the situation. Later.

"Of course, sister." Fairly familiar of the Cavalry Scout. She'd tolerate it. McDonald nodded. She nodded back at him. She had to finish the space home and get a food supply going, after which she would explore their surroundings. If there were any threats out here, they needed to be prepared. More useful metals would be nice as well.

She left then, floating through the belly hatch and out to the void beyond. Close it behind, release. The nebula was as beautiful as before, the orange backdrop mesmerizing. Float on, the soon to be space home awaits.

Certainly, the situation bore the mark of providence, given how well her capabilities were suited for survival in this environment. Her powers provided her a method of locomotion, the manipulation of various states and kinds of matter, the memory to make use of ideas and concepts from her education, intuitive technological prowess, and a suite of enhanced senses. Once the initial shock wore off, already plans were forming and developing, making use of what resources were available to leverage further advantages with her unique abilities. Tunneling into an asteroid? Laughably simple, and a prospective tactic for future combats. She would be an excellent sapper; any earthworks or fortifications would prove extremely susceptible to disruptions.

She tunneled a long, cylindrical corridor down through to the core of the asteroid. There she would place the APC and seal it off from the outside void. Beside it, she built chambers for the ice chunk. After she completed the structure, she floated through the empty hall of her new space bunker, darkness no obstacle to one who could feel through the very metal and minerals around, EM pulses providing a clearer view than anything her faulty eyes could see. Sleep continued to call as she approached the exterior. No reason to dally.

She guided the Mark V inside the newly tunneled asteroid, Telekinesis once again rendering the task simple. Once inside, she sealed the asteroid from the void and placed the APC within the small chamber, which she also sealed for safety. The asteroid would keep the other soldiers safe from solar radiation, so she could drop her EM shielding in good conscience. She deposited the ice and performed the same process as before, electrolytically separating hydrogen from oxygen and converting the oxygen into vapor. As before, she broke off smaller chunks to resupply as necessary.

Transit to and from the Mark V was going to be tricky without her management. Didn't want to depressurize the interior and lose a safe space for the soldiers. There was still plenty of scrap metal from the battle and material from the tunneling, could just build a second door and a mechanism to vent air before transit. She could even do the same for the asteroid itself. Set up an osmosis filter in a copper basin, have Savage build his own electrolysis machine. Would certainly keep him occupied and it was within his capabilities.

But no, she had another idea to occupy herself with first. She was going to become a plant.

Metaphorically.

Why did I have to clarify that to myself? She shrugged.

Plants. Photosynthesis. The processes they performed were inefficient and utilized various enzymes and chemical reactions with light to break down water and carbon dioxide into sugars through a fairly sophisticated oxidation-reduction process with many steps, many of which she would be bypassing because she only wanted a couple of materials as an end result. Around 4.4 volts of energy were necessary to kickstart the reaction, as well as water and various organics and elements that were each utilized to create the materials plants needed to maintain their cells and carry on various healthy processes. She would only need to recycle nitrates and sulfates from waste byproducts and what air they had to assemble carbohydrates and later, glucose. From there, she could work on creating further organic compounds, but this was a proof of concept.

Concerning waste byproducts and organics, there was a pretty solid supply to access later, in the form of human excrement. Additionally, the CA line of armored exoskeletons all utilized oxygen filtration systems reminiscent of those used in spacesuits Before the Coming; these all stored carbon dioxide and other components from the respirated air. Very handy to have.

The one downside of not using enzymes was that she would have to manually fiddle with the individual components electrically until she got the results she wanted. Fortunately, she could cheat with her near-perfect memory and electrokinetic precision. It was only a matter of trial and error, trying to finagle neutrons and electrons and mimic what plant enzymes do naturally.

A lot of trial and error.

Even still, she supposed the process shouldn't have been this easy. All Psychics possessed a certain intuition for how to utilize their capabilities. Hours later, she had her first passable result, a semi-liquid suspension of questionable texture, but it was on the right track. Further manipulation of the structure could transform it into more or less solid states. Truly, she would be an exceptional plant with further practice.

With that little confidence boost, she turned her attention to exploration. A lot of raw materials out in the asteroid belt she'd gone to before. Definitely should explore it more before making any decisions regarding relocation. Also, there was the question of alien presence. Hadn't spotted anything thus far, but a more thorough investigation would be prudent. This system could be inhabited by a space-faring civilization for all she knew. Hadn't detected any radio waves or anomalous electromagnetic radiation, but those were just things she could spot.

The idea that advanced civilizations would still be using forms of communication that humans could easily pick up on was fairly unlikely, but seeing as they were still stuck using radios after all that'd happened, it wasn't out of the question. Even if they were, it'd be simple enough to only send signals with the minimum amount of energy to reach their destinations, minimizing their footprint. Then there were entangled point-to-point communications, which she couldn't track at all.

That was before even considering the thought that perhaps all advanced space-faring civilizations were also magical ones, as some in academia were suggesting. So many issues circumvented with casual disregard for mundane constraints such as distance or time. She would see what could be seen in their little neighborhood and return promptly. Scout for materials, points of interest, and Guests.

I guess we're the Guests here. But if we want to leave after taking in the sights, does that make us Tourists? Not here willingly. Hmm. Refugees? Potentially Pilgrims if we got a colony going.

Now would be a good time for that door, actually. It wouldn't look pretty, something like spaced armor. Multi-layered sheets of iron in a boxy shape with gears and bolts to hold it together, an LED and a spare helmet to detect air pressure, a button wired through to the main control system to power it, some springs and a simple pulley to actually do the heavy lifting, some salvaged electronics from another spare helmet, and it'd basically be a shitty garage door. Plenty of raw metals around to fashion into components. Could only be opened from the inside. It wouldn't impede her since she could just activate it telekinetically.

The system would need a combination of rotary vane valves and water valves to create pressure differentials, connected to a third chamber which would contain the stored atmosphere. It wouldn't be a perfect system, some air would be lost every time Rear Exit 2 opened, but it would ensure the men won't be trapped inside in case of something happening to her. She could also set up an external system to convert water into hydrogen and oxygen to replenish the air supply automatically.

Surprisingly complicated things, airlocks. Very useful for making alcohol, too, she was told.

She got to work, some of the men watching her as she went about adding four new compartments to their temporary home. Ah, they hadn't realized the extent of her capabilities. All they knew was that she was a kinetic.

Perhaps Daberman knew. Probably a Minor Class Psychic himself, able to read auras and gauge individuals. The utility of such a skill varied. On the low end, one could tell emotional states by color. On the high end, one could see everything about a person by their aura. As one of her instructors had described, "It's like looking at a person and knowing their soul. A powerful thing, recruits." Daberman was probably on the medium to high end of that scale. Mentioned a curse. The curse in question probably wasn't some meta-analysis of her life circumstances and instead indicative that the Crypt Knight that had withstood her lightning was being more than just dramatic and edgy.

Her thoughts kept coming back to them, it seemed. To the battle. She couldn't have known what would happen, there wasn't enough information to go off. No one knew that Sorcerers of their caliber were even on the field at Monterrey. Why couldn't Booth see this was coming? He was a Clairvoyant, yet when she came to, he was lying in the muddy earth with a disgusting, toothy parasite eating through his helmet. He had a reputation for always knowing what was coming, but if the results were anything to go by, the Crypt Knights had completely blindsided them. They were attacked after Locals were hit by the strange illusion. Hard to tell what, exactly, had transpired in the time between her awakening and when they'd all first been struck.

She had to react quickly when she woke up with a gauntlet crushing her throat. The CA-3 was the most heavily armored infantry exoskeleton, and that included a composite bevor that could withstand several direct hits from a rifle before being compromised. The first Crypt Knight hadn't seemed that strong, and yet if she didn't possess her own unique capacity to withstand physical injury, that would have been her dead for sure. Surprise had worked in her favor in the moments afterward. Not a pleasant image, a man in a demon-skull mask gallivanting around bewitching her fellows and breaking windpipes.

There was so much she could have done better during that fight, but the benefit of hindsight laid bare all faults of the past. Should have been faster, should have waited for an opportune moment, should have bypassed the man fighting her and confirmed the kills, prevented them from recovering. What if she'd retreated? Regrouped with some of her fellow, more experienced Psi-Operatives. If she had linked up with the veterans, surely, they could have come up with something. On her own, she'd almost killed all of Crypt Knights. Almost. But there was no guarantee she could have found any of them. Comms were jammed, and the situation may have turned out differently if she'd returned later. They could have left by the time she came back with reinforcements.
She'd been assigned to where her talents would have been most useful for the operation. Didn't stop the nagging what-ifs, unfortunately. What if she had been stronger?

Blue on blue. Friendly fire. Innocuous terms that soldiers never liked hearing. She'd killed her own. Those were people just like the ones she'd known in Concordia. People with families, each the protagonists of their own narratives. People that left their mothers and fathers and spouses and children and would never be coming back because she had killed them. Not by intent. Did that make it better?

No. It actually made it worse. If it were intentional, she would have had some rationale for why it was necessary, some justification to lessen the blow. Sorry, I killed your son by mistake. Wouldn't go over well at all. And there'd be plenty more battles to come until her first 6 years were up.

She distracted herself with her work, as the works of metal quickly took on her desired form. In only 20 minutes, a functional airlock now provided an exit for the men to explore the inside of the space bunker. Perhaps she could even set up furniture and rooms for them. Find some suitable conductive material and hook up doors to the Mark V's reactor. Expand throughout.

"I'll return soon enough, off to explore our local geography," she informed the few men who'd gathered to watch her work, after she'd finished explaining the airlock mechanism. The soldier whose leg she'd amputated was awake. Drugged up heavily on painkillers, but conscious.

"Jesus, we got spaced," he exclaimed upon being informed of their present circumstances. "Are you fuckers serious?" "Funnily enough, not that long a story, brother, ya se-." The void of the hollowed asteroid cut off Beauregard's reply as she exited through the belly hatch, as was traditional. Traveling through the dark interior, she was more exhausted than she could ever remember being. Not even the SOF selection process had left her this fatigued, and pretty much everyone that could be sleep deprived, was, for the duration of that training. Shrugging off the fatigue, she broke off another chunk of water ice the size of her torso for resupply in-transit.

It was easy to drift into a meditative state, a compromise between wakefulness and rest, blind and hyper-aware all at once, trusting her subconscious to notify her of anything significant as she drifted to her destination.

Soaring, expanding awareness.

Soon enough, the belt appeared. Every asteroid interacted with EM fields differently depending on composition, responding to the impressive output of the system's red star. She came to, decelerating rapidly to avoid overshooting her destination. Still, her thoughts were slow. Proper rest appealed greatly.

She accelerated parallel to the outskirts of the field. In-depth analysis could wait for later. She could just "ping" everything within the belt and examine the contents in her memory as she continued to explore.

Many metals, no organics thus far. More ice. Idly, she looked for regular old salt. The likelihood of finding any salts was fairly low, as salts are evaporites, with the necessary formative conditions that entails, but she'd found plenty of water already, so it wasn't out of the question. As luck would have it, she quickly found that there were small amounts of various salts in some of the more massive asteroids, but no sodium chloride. Magnesium sulfate, or Epsom salt, was useful, though not what she was looking for. Plenty of sulfates, actually. Halogens were quite rare, differing between asteroid types. She'd come back to it.

Hours passed, and merely cataloguing where which resources were located got boring rapidly. Absolutely shocking. Nothing anomalous stood out, either. She hadn't detected any alien structures or signals, or any esoteric physics effects - supernatural bullshit - but that didn't mean there weren't any of those lurking about. Still, there was the possibility as well that this system was perfectly mundane, as it appeared more and more likely that it was normal space. Could be a parallel universe, though that was exceptionally difficult to check without suitable points of reference. It wasn't uncommon for people to pop up with no history or societal footprint claiming to be from countries that didn't exist, or worse, from ones that did exist. Sometimes, they would just disappear, circumstances contriving themselves to keep the instant of departure unobserved. Few records exist of this sort of thing happening since Before the Coming, but it was a surprisingly regular occurrence in the modern era. No proper estimates for frequency. There were worse fates, she supposed.

The orange, starry nebula was disgustingly beautiful, too, though the dust and EM radiation constantly bashing her shield made for quite the irritant. Wherever this was, it probably wasn't Sol, unless, indeed, they were in a parallel universe of some description that had diverged far in the distant past. Or potentially the future.

Hours of exploration satisfied her sense of duty. There was nothing hostile out here other than the environment. If there was a supernatural threat, it wasn't worth worrying about. No aliens, living or dead, which was somewhat reassuring. However, it would be pretty cliché to happen upon alien ruins older than human civilization. If there was actually an ancient alien base somewhere she'd kick herself for not finding it. Really, was the system completely uninhabited? Every sign so far signified such.

After one got over the whole shock of almost certain death followed by frantically working out a plan to save lives and survive, space was actually quite boring.



Voting time: This, by no means, is an exclusive list, just something to provide direction based upon what has been discussed thus far. PLANS PLEASE.

Exfiltration plans: Choose one of the following long term goals.
[][Exfiltration]Attempt to contract an Entity.
[][Exfiltration]Await rescue or another portal.
[][Exfiltration]Delay making a decision.
[][Exfiltration]Meditate on Matter and Energy. (Dimensional travel.)
Write-in: Something else.

Social plays: Choose two of the following.
[][Social]Attempt to establish someone as de facto leader.
-[]Yourself.
-[]Savage.
-[]Ranger Sergeant. (Predicated on the Ranger surviving.)

[][Social]Build rapport and reputation. (Bonus to group morale, relationships. Prerequisite unlocking 'Pool Occult knowledge' as a long-term exfiltration plan.)

[][Social]Discuss present circumstances with Savage. (Keep a promise, learn about other Psi-Operative's character and capabilities.)

[][Social]Fraternize with the men. (Get to know the others as individuals. Regain Mental Health Points.)

[][Social]Isolate yourself. (If chosen, precludes all Social actions. Regain Mental Health Points. Dice rolls for the group to sort itself out.)

Write-in. Something specific.

Miscellaneous: Pick however many with the understanding that longer tasks will become longer projects.
[][Misc]Ask/order someone to perform a task.
-[]Who?
-[]What?
Examples: Ask Savage to gather resources from the asteroid belt. Ask Daberman for further insight about the Curse which has afflicted you.

[][Misc]Break the Curse right now!
-[]How?

[][Misc]Build or tinker with a machine or device.
-[]What?
Example: Electrolysis machine to produce oxygen and sugars.

[][Misc]Encourage cell regeneration of the wounded through bio-electrical manipulation. (Requires Dorete to remain within the asteroid bunker.)

[][Misc]Expand internal quarters within your asteroid.
Examples: Individual rooms, shared quarters, storage silos, etc.

[][Misc]Personally gather resources from the asteroid belt.

[][Misc]Explore or survey part of the solar system.
Example: Explore for 48 hours with the goal of finding terrestrial planets. Survey a different part of the asteroid belt for 5 hours with the goal of finding organics.

[][Misc]Meditate on a subject.
Examples: Meditate on the Curse that has afflicted you. Meditate on artificial protein synthesis and how to further improve being a plant.

[][Misc]Sleep for 12 hours. (Regain Physical and Mental Health Points. Reveal unknown effect.)

Write-in.


AN: WE'RE BACK AGAIN, AGAIN. Rockeye updated, and so, naturally, I had to do the same. ^^
I am once again asking for your feedback and support. 07
 
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Rifts Sorcery and World of Darkness Magic: Knowledge
Before we get started, firstly, I want to ask you all a question. Why do we think we know things?

There are many who would say that they are "awake." Perhaps they've read the Kybalion, or works by Carl Jung on the Collective Unconscious, or any number of Aleister Crowley's pieces of literature. More broadly, perhaps they've read works by Rand or Nietzche or Sanger. Marx, perhaps. Perhaps some authoritative figure or counter-cultural figurehead or another equally important person said something intelligent that really resonated with them and changed their worldview. Maybe they've substituted one religion for another after coming across the best apologetics they've ever heard of. We're all calling each other sheep, thinking we have the answers. That somehow, we can substitute information for knowledge. The irony, the arrogance. The audacity, really.

"Truth will set you free."

"Wake up, people."

"Everyone that doesn't have the worldview that I have, they are the sheep."

"I'm the open-minded one."

I have a lot of information, and so do you, and pretty much everyone else out there with some exceptions. But that information cannot be confused with knowledge, with awareness, with being "awake."

I'm not particularly knowledgeable, not really. But maybe I can share a thing or two, and you'll all go on to accrue true knowledge, and I as well. Wouldn't that be great?

To have knowledge doesn't mean to memorize definitions and facts and whatnot. That's information. That's like me saying that the skull and crossbones means poison because I read it in a book once. Completely short-sighted and misses the point of symbology. Symbols represent many things depending on their context, and to go out and hand people information instead of knowledge would have people regurgitating by rote definition what I told them it means rather than increasing their knowledge.

When you think of a skull and crossbones, what do you think it means?

Those who have true knowledge understand what is meant by this question. It is a question of creativity, of insight, of intuition. That is the key to true knowledge. Society has got us all backwards, thinking that because we learned a definition that we are somehow knowledgeable. All we've learned is a symbol without exploring the possibilities. People will call themselves open-minded, when really we're all being trained to be closed-minded with a set of perverse incentives and polarizing discourse, to disregard everyone who doesn't see things our way as being the closed-minded ones, as being the fools who know nothing.

It's all right if this doesn't make sense to you. I'm asking a lot here.

I'm asking you to think.

There's no system you can look up that will help you, here. No reference material that will give you all the answers.

There are plenty of Mystery Schools and Occult traditions that claim to have the answers, too. Am I awake because I know the Seven Hermetic Principles, then? Am I awake because I've got a bit of a hobby, studying Occult literature?

We've learned symbols and assigned meaning to them, when to have knowledge means doing the opposite, to surpass that limited understanding. Someone who is awake can extract meanings from life due to their understanding, perspective, and awareness.

The skull and crossbones, to someone with limited understanding, is just a Nazi symbol, same as the Swastika.

"This is what it means, here's how to use it, here's what I'm telling you about it, it doesn't mean anything other than what I told you."

If you can't extract meaning from things without other people telling you what those meanings are, without any creativity or insight, then you aren't awake.

Insight flows from knowledge. Throwing in a bunch of Occult references because I learned them is nothing but a display of ego. People with true knowledge don't need to go around scooping up all the information they can get their hands on, though that is certainly helpful at times. Perhaps you're something of a Magician, yourself, in which case, you likely will have been nodding along during this discussion, nothing particularly objectionable spoken.

I hope this has been of some use for you, whoever you are. And don't worry. Details will come.
 
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The Siege of Monterrey, 1.7
[X] Plan Solve Over Smash
-[X][Exfiltration]Meditate on Matter and Energy. (Dimensional travel.)
-[X][Social]Discuss present circumstances with Savage. (Keep a promise, learn about other Psi-Operative's character and capabilities.)
-[X][Social]Fraternize with the men. (Get to know the others as individuals. Regain Mental Health Points.)
-[X][Misc]Meditate on a subject.
--[X] Meditate on the Curse. What it does. How to break it, and what are the risks.

AN: I have gained the trait "Weakness: Dialogue." The rest of this vote shall be addressed in time.


The return journey was as uneventful as usual. She'd made up her mind, however, on speaking with Savage and the regulars, not with any particular intention to jockey for social positioning, but rather, to get to know them as individuals. And besides, she did make a promise to speak with him, and it was time to stop putting it off. Afterwards, she would start figuring out this curse situation, run a diagnostic, and beyond that, start figuring out a way back home. Waiting around to be rescued didn't sit right with her, not when there was no guarantee one would be coming to begin with, and especially not with unknown threats lurking about. The sooner, the better.

Once again, idle thoughts faded away as Dorete entered a meditative state, resting.

Waiting.

Hours later, the asteroid she was using as a bunker for the men breached the furthest spheres of detection. Her cue to wake up and course correct.

As she entered the space bunker, she pulled up Squad B's radio channel. "Five Bravo, this is Eight Bravo. Suit up and meet me outside Rear Exit 2." Not waiting for a reply, she started tunneling a conference room for them, in the style of those shitty briefing rooms everyone had to sit in for trainings.

Speaking of things that got old with exposure, it turns out Zero-G environments also make the list. Additionally, there was limited documentation about the effects of long term exposure in humans that, although not conclusive, influenced her decisions to exert a mild telekinetic field throughout the living space of the asteroid bunker. Now everyone could walk around. Wonderful.

"I'm outside, and what kind of jackass uses proper radio etiquette in this situation?" Came Savage's admittedly savage response.

"My kind of jackass, I guess. Come over here." She waved him over. "Private conversation time."

"Oh hey, there's gravity now. Nice."

Once inside, she sealed the entrance behind them. The only illumination for the room came from Savage's SAMAS, the lights casting the room in a harsh glow.

"So," she clapped her hands. "How's the space bunker treating you?" Test the waters with a bit of levity.

"That's how you're going to start this off? Jesus." Definitely pissed.

"I'm asking you to tell me what you're planning, Dorete. You've hardly communicated anything with me at all, jumping from one thing to another for hours at a time. I've had to keep the grunts in line, tell them I have a plan, when I don't even know what my squad mate is doing. Cut the mysterious crap and keep me informed. We should have had this conversation from the get-go."

"We're talking now." She rose her hands in a placating gesture, forestalling any outburst from what could be perceived as a flippant remark. "And I do have a plan."

"By all means, share it," Savage replied.

"Artificial protein synthesis." Sensing his confusion at the seeming non-sequitur, she continued hastily. "I've experimented and found that I can artificially mimic the processes plants use to make carbohydrates and sugars via electrokinesis. With some effort, I can keep us sustained, potentially indefinitely." She paused, graciously giving him time to process this information.

"Okay, sure. You're working on something, and we're not going to starve while that happens. That about cover it?"

She nodded, after mulling over the likelihood of interest in the formation of evaporites in space.

"And can you spare any details about this nebulous way back you're working on?"

"Insofar as there are any details to be shared, certainly. I'm going to work out the quirks of dimensional travel." A long pause.

"You can just do that?" Sounding fairly incredulous there, Savage.

"I can attempt to, at the very least."

"Do you have a time-table for when we can expect any progress from this?" She shook her head. "You'll have to forgive me, then, if this supposition of yours doesn't quite amount to a hill of beans, Christ's sake." He sighed. "But hey, maybe we'll be rescued by the 2nd​ or some others from the 1AG and this'll be a moot discussion." Optimistic.

When she prompted him about the odds of that occurring, he continued. "Prosek's friendly with us Psi-Operatives and has a rep for accountability. Story from awhile back, just before you inprocessed in fact, goes something along the lines of him dressing down and dismissing an officer who'd abandoned one of his men." Ah, she remembered the story now. "If he even suspects that we're still alive, expect him to pull resources for search and rescue operations." She sensed a but there.

"A number of factors get in the way of that, however, foremost among them being the siege that we were unceremoniously booted from. Reports will come through, but without some idea of where we got whisked off to, they won't know where to look. Performing Object Reads on the battle site will take time, and is, of course, predicated on our boys winning the siege well enough to spare personnel to comb through the shit left behind. Without that taking place, then we can't really count on the 1AG helping us in a timely fashion." The alternative, of course, went unspoken. What if we lost?

"And the 2nd​ Psi-Battalion?"

"Now that gets a bit more promising. Let's assume our COC is mostly intact, Ferrant or Reynolds gets on the line with someone higher up to spare men for a search. Last I heard, Alpha Company only had around 192 Psi-Operatives combat capable, and you can bet that number's gone down in the meantime. Alpha's 3rd​ Platoon still hasn't reformed, the 4th​ is full strength, and the 2nd​ was still reorganizing. Point being, the 2nd​ is really hurting for manpower. If they call up a couple Clairvoyants or Remote Viewers, they'd probably be able to find us. Just becomes a matter of waiting." For how long?

"And how did you figure this all out?" She queried, curious.

"This isn't my first time through. Last year of my second term. Got pulled from a riverboat patrol over in the Canadian Waterways to come die in this shithole. How the fuck is it colder in goddamn Mexico than Canada in winter?"

"One of the great mysteries of our time, indubitably, alongside how anything gets done in the Army and the holy lines of delineation between hotdogs, subs, and sandwiches," she replied, smirking. If this was the last year of his second term, he was most likely in his 30s, potentially late 20s. She would hold off speculation on his rank situation until he shared more.

"Now I know you're boot. You probably heard that shit in BMT if that accent is anything to go by. What throws me is the formality and the archaic language. It's quite jarring since it's 2199, you know. Current year." She'd successfully distracted him from his previously cross attitude with her if that verbal jab was anything to go by.

"My reasons are myriad, I assure you. Suffice it to say, I derive great enjoyment from the employment of older forms of verbiage. Provides character and gives people something to remember me by other than young or tall or sparky. 'Look at her, how quaintly she speaks.' Well, they wouldn't say that, but still. A useful affectation in a similar manner as those who pick up a Central Texan accent after a half year in Selection." The less said about 'lightning girl,' the better.

"Those are a lot of words just to say it's fun, girl." Sophia told me something similar, at a different time.

"Perhaps," she equivocated coyly. "Ah, I'm afraid I've diverted you from expatiating your personal lore, my good man."

"Expatiating," he muttered darkly. "Look here, I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist. Stop. Halt. Abstain." "Refrain," she interjected helpfully. "Yes, that. Enough with the fancy language. Use. Common. English." Each of those words punctuated by one of the RPA's fists banging against the other.

She supposed that also ruled out Spanish. Most unfortuitous. "You besee-" "I'm begging you," he interrupted, feigning desperation.

"Let it not be said that I, Dorete, heir to the honorable house of Dorete, of my ancestral homeland of Kansas, whose seat of rule lies in Concordia, am not merciful. I am sparing you, Savage, from a ruination the likes of which you would never recover from. Remember this, for next time, I shall send my sword." Grandiose gesticulations accompanied this decree, literal U.S. 1860 Pattern saber held aloft in her right hand.

"You are a child," he replied, deadpan.

"Juvenile," she declared, as she paced back and forth, mild Telekinesis providing pseudo-gravity for her movements.

Things settled down significantly after that, Savage having extracted some minor concessions and assurances regarding her conduct, his initial hostility disarmed by her charm and sleep-drunkenness.

"As I was saying, this isn't my first time of service. Been in about 11 years now, all over the States, though mostly in Iowa by Waterloo, and up in Ontario on the Waterways when I wasn't patrolling the St. Lawrence with the 1st​ Marine Division. Tough bastards. I'm from Waterloo actually, don't think I've told anyone here that. And you, you said you were from Concordia? That's along the 81, isn't it? You a native?"

"My father's family lived there since Before the Coming, went back a couple of decades ago, my mother lived off in Missouri until she married. Basically yes."

"I see, I knew I had that accent placed. Yeah, it has been a minute since last I've been out to the New Frontier. Heard it is pretty peaceful out there." She recalled the rumors and reports of Xiticix moving in the North, of new aliens appearing out in the Blasted Lands riding monsters. Compared to actual warzones or even the metropoles in general, it was peaceable enough.

"Peaceable enough, I suppose. I spent a lot of time out in the artificial forests planted inside the walls of Concordia. They're kind of eerie, in a beautiful way. Most of the tree species native to Kansas are oaks of some description, some willows and walnuts as well. But this forest was more of a wood, no connected canopy, and filled with Eastern White Pines. Very tall trees, but they were young yet. For being so far north, one would think that it doesn't get that hot back home, but it does. Climate's been warming up nicely with the volcanic particulates in the air settling, but it is still colder than it was a hundred or so years ago."

"You haven't been out of your state, or even your city, much, I figure. There's a lot to see across the country, if only it were safer. Out west, it's just grasslands and these new forests people've been planting."

"The C.S. Air Force had a bunch of volunteers all along the 81 planting," she interjected.

"Why are we even doing that? I don't really get what the point is."

Ah, a topic within her forte. "You're familiar with the water cycle, right?" At this, the SAMAS pilot just stared at her. "Okay, we'll skip over the basics, but there's another part that people aren't really familiar with, though they really should be more knowledgeable of. Ever heard of evapotranspiration?"

"What, is that rocks sweating or something?"

"It's plants sweating, actually. Where'd you think morning dew came from?"

"I don't know," he replied defensively, "I thought it was just, like, humidity accreting on to leaves or whatever."

"No, so, what happens is, the soil holds water, either from internal reservoirs or from rain or drainage basins, and from there, plants drink it up, and some of that water goes into the air again. I swear people learned this stuff, didn't you get taught the difference between evergreens and regular plants, how the leaf design prevents water loss?"

"Well I'm sorry for not making that connection. Continue your lecture, Professor Sparky."

"This water then evaporates or is used by other plants or small animals and, in large numbers, they create these bands of air moisture which coalesce into rain again, either locally or significantly further afield. There were some studies about the Amazon and some Eastern European forests and how they were responsible for bringing water to the rest of South America and places as far away as China."

"All right, but surely it can't be that significant."

"Estimates attributed 40% of the water in South America to evapotranspiration, before the Amazon was mostly deforested, and they could tell because oxygen from the ocean and oxygen that has been used in photosynthesis are different isotopically."

"Okay, and what does this have to do with artificial forests in Kansas?" Tough crowd.

"We're rebuilding the climate, my good man. A lot of geoengineering was done trying to bootstrap the climate out of a death spiral that would have seen us all freezing to death in another ice age. Particulates that reduce reflectivity of the atmosphere, releasing so-called greenhouse gases, though I don't get why they call them greenhouse gases when they don't actually utilize the same mechanism as actual greenhouses, hence the greenhouse effect, but that's a topic for another time, as I'm sure you don't want to hear all about solar minimums and maximums and the ocean's effect on modulating climate. Supervolcanic eruptions really aren't good for humans, especially multiple simultaneous ones."

"Fascinating," he replied drolly. "And how old were you when they taught you this?"

"Children know that it rains more in forests, they just tend to forget why, or never learn. When I went back home after studying at the Academy, I realized I could feel it all taking place, and could now put a name to the process. Plants are crazy."

"And you aren't? Nobody gets this excited over climate, nobody I knew at least. Crazy girl."

She huffed. "And how were your deployments, old man?"

"First off, I'm no old man. I'm only, hold on, 2170…" he counted his fingers off, "27, 28, 29 years old. 29, yeah. Not an old man at all. What are you, 12?" 17.

"17," she replied indignantly. "And you're telling me you don't remember how old you are?"

"Yeah, whatever," he waved her off. "When you deploy, there's a timetable that holds pretty much everywhere I've gone that wasn't a warfront. First month in, everyone's doing good, taking things seriously. Perimeters get checked properly, no one decides to build a ramp out the FOB into 3 foot deep snow, the usual, y'know? 2nd​ month in, a little bit less so. 3rd​ month in, people start considering stupid shit, maybe they half-ass things, don't do as much as they should be doing, getting addicted to chess or poker or tabletop games or whatever. But by the 4th​ month, stupid ideas like building that ramp get pretty appealing."

She nodded along as he told his story, interjecting and commenting in the appropriate places to convey interest.

"I was in the backseat of an ATV with a Lieutenant riding shotgun, and some non-prior-service driving, I forget his name. This fucker shouts 'AMERICA' and hits the gas as hard as he can, and we go flying off the ramp. I bust my damn back on the way down 'cause I wasn't wearing a seatbelt, the LT is freaking out and the newbie is just grinning at us. So the LT and I pretend to be mad at him, or at least I was pretending, I don't know about the LT, and he gets tasked to a foot patrol far away from the depot for the next couple of weeks. Simpler times, girl, simpler times. My back still hurts sometimes, thinking of that idiot. And this fucker was an Airman."

The story recalled her to the time when she'd first gone to the Academy, and the antics the soldiers had gotten up to then. "I likely don't have as many interesting stories as you do, but I suppose I can talk a bit about my first road trip, before I'd turned 11. The parts I remember most fondly, at least."

He motioned her to continue.

"There weren't a lot of people. Mostly soldiers, they were still using the older armors, L and E models. Exoskeletons weren't as ubiquitous even half a decade ago, which is weird to think about. "

"You're telling me. I think the CA-1 was probably the best thing since Christ for a lot of guys. Time sure does fly."

"As I was saying, I was the only person the convoy was picking up from Concordia. Destination, Chi-Town, as you may have guessed from what soldiers would be doing driving a juvenile around. They shared a lot of stories about their time in, in-between comms checks and ribbing each other. They gave me a white hard hat with a smiley face on it. I still call the man who gave it to me the Hat Soldier in my head sometimes. But the man who really stood out, his name was Paxter, a Pyrokinetic from Texas, though I think he was faking an Australian accent a few times too. He told me a lot about what I could expect in the Academy, and the military in general."

"That sounds like a pretty normal journey to me."

"They also let me fire a railgun, got it all set up and everything for me despite my height at the time."

"They let you fire a railgun?!"

"Yessir." It was awesome. "The sergeant just said he was doing Reconnaissance by Fire. Hilarious."

"You were 12!" 10.

"I was 10!"

"You're yanking my chain here, no way they did that."

"They surely did, they surely did. Cross my heart and all." Instead of insisting further, she instead asked him if he knew the Burster.

"Paxter, that was the Burster's name?" She nodded. "Sorry, don't know anyone who fits that description." That was a longshot anyway.

"I suppose it was pretty unlikely that you would have known him. Small world, but not that diminutive." She hoped he was doing all right. He might be dead now in all likelihood.

"Yeah. You know, the Academy was still fairly new-ish back in my day, recently expanded. Lot of people didn't know if it was going to succeed or not. Lot of new things happening." A pause. "You've still got friends from those days, don't you?" She nodded. "I don't. They're dead now. Every last one of them. Bad luck I suppose. You might be thinking, 'Aha, this is why he didn't interact with the platoon at all.' Maybe. This all just stops feeling real after a while. The people, the places. When I was younger, I thought that the universe was beautiful in its vastness. It still is, don't get me wrong. But that beauty belies a viciousness and cruelty that are truly breathtaking. None of us matter to it. None of the people I cared about did. Machines breaking down." She tilted her head, observing him, any trace of levity gone.

"Every dream comes to an end... I just hope this one ends soon." She didn't know what to say to that. Thankfully, Savage changed the subject.

"I know they gave you the summary about what I could do. Psi-Tech, good with machines, blah blah. I've got mild Battle Precognition and Intuitive Combat, in addition to unconscious Telepathy and Empathy. Not enough to transmit anything, but they tested it, so whatever. How they even distinguish empathy from Empathy, I've got no idea. Point is, I'm a stellar RPAP. When we make it back, we should go for a sim. See just how good you are. I already heard you beat the shit out of almost all the Dynamokinetics in Squad B." She preened a bit at that. "See if you can beat me at my specialty."

"I am rather exceptional myself, buster."

"Who even uses the word buster? Come on, girl." I will defend your honor, Sophia.

"Hey, Puerto Ricans say buster." She stifled a yawn, leaving her open to the next attack.

"Which Puerto Ricans? You saying you're Puerto Rican?"

"I'm saying I'm going to kick your shit in," voice sweet.

"I think I've had enough trading barbs with you, Dorete. Should head on back, see how the others are settling in. Maybe you can banter with them."

"An acceptable outcome."

The two of them trekked through the darkness of the space bunker, illuminated only by the lights of Savage's SAMAS. Soon enough, Rear Exit 2 was opening up to admit them, spotted as they were by whoever was manning the top turret of the Mark V. A good opportunity to witness the efficacy of the air lock she'd constructed before her exploration of a segment of the asteroid belt nearby.

"The grunts told me you built this?" His tone wasn't really questioning, more likely he wanted her input on how she did it.

"Correct. It was a simple enough task," she replied noncommittally.

"The mechanisms aren't particularly impressive, but the time scale certainly is. Only 30 minutes for a whole goddamn air lock."

She shrugged. "It is what it is." Remembering that simple axiom brought a measure of peace to her. Maybe it'll do the same for Savage. Optimistic. "Mechanical prowess synergizes pretty well with Telekinesis, it seems. I'd recommend it."

"Right, you recommend it. Like I can just suddenly pick up Telekinesis."

"Won't know until you try!" Not technically true, but this was amusing her.

"Most people aren't Masters, you know. We don't really just 'pick up' new Psionic abilities, like you seem to be planning with this whole dimensional travel nonsense." She didn't see how it was nonsense, it was a perfectly legitimate plan utilizing known Psionic Theory in a practical fashion.

"I enjoyed this little chat of ours, despite your antagonism." She couldn't resist poking him again.

"My antagonism? I am outraged." Mercifully, she was spared from any retorts by the full transition through Rear Exit 2, wherein they were welcomed by the regulars. She disabled her helmet's sound suppression.

"We're back, my gentlemen. Hope you all didn't burn down the place while we were gone." Not that she was expecting them to, they were adults. Then again, they were also bored soldiers, and anything was possible involving boredom. She should know, she built a railgun when she was 7. The fact that it exploded the first few times she tried to fire it didn't make for a solid counterargument. The usual suspects were hanging around the center, McDonald and Beauregard, along with Escalante (the man who'd had his bullets reflected back at him) and Obermeyer (he'd been shot in the upper arm by a militiaman). Garcia was doing all right as well, if his exuberant behavior was anything to go by. Daberman was also resting or just thinking, laid back in his seat.

Stepping forward with confidence, she joined the Cavalry Scouts and company.

"Dorete. Pleasure to meet you." Obermeyer quickly stood up at her approach, reaching forward to shake her hand. He was very tall, around the same height as her father. Perhaps 78 inches. Unlike her father, he was rail thin, and didn't even look strong enough to pass a PT test. "Thanks for turning the gravity on by the way." The others laughed a bit at this, whether at the joke or the over-the-top display, she wasn't sure.

"Likewise, I don't think we've spoken before now. You don't mind if we rectify that, do you?"

"Of course not, join us, be merry. And you as well, Savage. Hop out of your tin can, why don't you?" Obermeyer had a very mellow Texan accent, like he hadn't been in his state for a long time. Affable fellow. Air Assault patch.

"If you don't mind me asking, how do you even pass a PT test? You're built like a napkin." More laughter.

"I know I don't look it, but I'm actually a grenadier. I just pass the minimum standards and max out my run time. I've been firing grenades so long, I don't even use the sights or the rangefinder. I can nail a target out to 350 meters." Impressive, considering the maximum effective range for a C-14 20mm rifle grenade is only 300 meters. She left that part unsaid.

"What's been going on on your end?" Escalante asked. "All I hear is these bastards talking shit and complaining, the moment I wake up. Wah, we're in space, wah." Definitely either Tex-Mex or plain Texan by this point. Fairly short, but heavily built, very strong.

"Oh, just chatting about how we're going to get out of here, nothing big," came Savage's interjection. "She," he continued, gesturing her way with a thumb, "thinks she can work out how to portal out of here, and if she can't, then at least we won't starve."

"I hope you all like semi-liquid suspensions of questionable texture." They all stared at her. "In other words, it won't look appetizing." They all shared a look with each other.

"Hey, we're detracting from my story here!" A chorus of replies, all variants of sorry, Escalante, came in response. "Where was I?"

"You'd just told us about how you went drinking for the 4th​ time in the Metroplex," Obermeyer assisted him.

"Right, right. So there I was, chatting up this beautiful girl, great as- uh, assets, when a fight breaks out between another brother and some Marines. Trust me, I had no desire to throw down with those bastards, but, seeing as he was Mexican and we were both Army, naturally I rushed in to help him out, and soon the whole bar has started fighting each other. Caos."

"Right on." "What the fuck?" "Bullshit, man." "Es el duro."

"No lie, no lie, right? And so we're in there, I've taken a couple slugs 'cause I'm actually a shitty fighter, and all our drinks are ruined. Worst of all, that girl ran off. Horrible. Minutes later, some MPs come in and start arresting people, and this dude, he sees they're coming in, and I don't know how he's still standing at this point, he's got a broken nose, glass shards in his chest, and looks like one of his eyes got fucking gouged out. He starts screaming, 'Run, ese, run!', calling them MPs pendejos and shit and swinging a pool cue and what's left of a chair leg."

"Jesus Christ in a pool." "Fuck."

"And what did you do?" Dorete asked, morbidly curious.

"Why, I ran of course!" He mimed sprinting, before clutching his side in pain where he'd been shot. "I'm good, I'm good. But yeah, I had to make a report about what happened, my commander had to smooth things over with the MPs, but surprisingly enough, nothing really happened. Goddamn MPs. Anyway, that's how I met Dalmida, lads, and how I didn't get demoted from sergeant for the 2nd​ time." Dalmida, she remembered, was a Radio Operator of all things. Definitely sounded like a scrapper.

"But you did get demoted again, yeah?" Savage asked.

Here, Escalante just laughed. "Funny story, that. Basically, I got into a fight with a Lieutenant that was trying to throw his dick around, disrespecting me and shouting at me in front of my men for something no one even told me about because I'd just gotten back from a Board, had to serve as a character witness for a soldier I knew, won't go into detail on his story. So this escalates, and I end up calling him a shithead and dressing him down, which was the wrong thing to do, but he was way out line. If he had a problem, what he should have done was pulled me aside to talk about it away from my subordinates. Complete shitbag. So this bumps up the chain, and they wanna charge me under the UCMJ for disrespecting an Officer, I think that's what, Article 89?"

"Yeah, I think that's the one," said Beauregard.

"Originally, I was going to fight it, because everybody knew it was bullshit, and when my command heard about that, they all started freaking out. Things settle down, and Lt. Col. Espiritu said they were going to bring it down to Company grade from a Field grade, much less serious, so long as I don't take it to Court Martial, that he couldn't just withdraw is because he's got political pressure on him from some elites to not get their shiny butterbar in trouble, but you didn't hear that from me. The whole time JAG's telling me I should fight it, but at this point, I was tired of the bullshit and didn't want to go through however long this process would be, so I figured fuck it, Company grade isn't that bad. When we finally get the process going, it turns out, Col. Myers stepped on everybody's tails, coming down from the Brigade and decided, in his great wisdom, to bump it back up to a Field Grade NJP because he looked in my record and saw that I got into that scuff with the MPs I just told you all about which was already sorted out with my Commander. And his people were all telling him, 'Sir, you can't just bring in completely unrelated shit into this, that incident was handled previously,' but he did, and he can. Fuck me."

They all winced in sympathy. "Never take the NJP if you're in the right, man!" Garcia admonished him. "Que mierda, ese."

"Yeah," Obermeyer continued, "I get that Court Martial's suck, but by accepting the Non-Judicial Punishment, you're accepting you're in the wrong. And JAG was encouraging you man, they never do that. Bumped down from E-5 to E-3 for this?"

"Yeah, I know, I know. But hey, I'll make it back whenever. Besides, all the best sergeants got demoted at least a few times, so I'm right on track." As awful as that statement was, there did seem to be quite a lot of overlap between competent sergeants and sergeants that'd been demoted.

"Not like anyone wants to be a sergeant."

"It could be worse, Garcia. You could be a Corporal." Everyone groaned at those words. Lateral promotions sucked. More responsibility, same pay. Truly the worst of both worlds.

The conversation continued on like this for some time, Escalante regaling them all with tales of questionable veracity, with the others chiming in occasionally with their own stories. She tried to pay attention, she really did, but her time was up. Out of her armor now, sprawled over three seats with a fire blanket laid over her, she fell asleep.


AN2: This would have gone on longer, culminating in the final part of the vote, but Dorete finally failed a Stamina Test.

Voting Time: Pick 2 of the following for Interludes.

[] An agent, working at the behest of a far greater power.
[] A farmer, whose harvest is measured in souls.
[] A knight, searching for their comrades in a war-torn city.
[] A monarch, chittering hives conquering all they survey.
[] A scavenger, exploiting the riches of the Exclusion Zones.
[] A sailor, braving the routes between civilization.
[] A vassal, offering their lord leal service in court.
[] A warlord, whose band roams the 66 to survive.
 
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Interlude 4: A Monarch's Ambition
Along the outer reaches of the Saskatchewan forests, sprawling hives took root. It had been a unique challenge, adapting her subjects' physiological structures to survive the strain of higher gravity and differing chemical makeups of this planet's atmosphere. Alas, she had conceded to good sense and refrained from attempting to develop the systems necessary to consume and digest the native biosphere, the effort to set up compatibility far beyond what was required in the short term. Imported horticulture would suffice with sufficient adjustment.

She was not the first Monarch to arrive. Far from the first. But of all her royal cousins, she was proud, perhaps unduly so. How could she not be, when she had overseen the breakthroughs that none else had thought to consider? Within her royal chambers, viziers and princesses attended her, delivering reports on all things relevant to the welfare of her demesne. Of particular interest, the native fauna, and what innovations had been derived from their unique biology and intelligence, the benefits of which were already being reaped in the forms of said attendants.

Individual intelligences had gone extinct far before her time on her homeworld, far before her species had become enlightened enough to ponder what value could be derived from them.

For an age, there was nowhere left to conquer, and so the strife inherent to her species could not be directed anywhere other than inwardly. For the first time, an Empress arose, and her bloodline drove all others to extinction. Only her line ruled, now. Peace had been a foreign concept. But a certain degree of mutualism had developed, nothing so grand as genuine collaboration, but no further wars of extinction had been waged.

Then came the Rifts, and with them came opportunity. An endless frontier of world after world, all linked, all intertwined. She'd had no great demesne, then, merely a subservient princess with only a few attendants and barely 10,000 drones and soldiers. None of her cousins paid second thought to slaughtering intruders that entered their demesnes.

But she did.

The first breakthrough in understanding came when her soldiers had slain a lance of bipedal creatures, bearing artificial arms and the capacity to attempt to interface and order subservience, as the ruling line would, in addition to other curious anomalies. Where her cousins saw challenge, she saw promise. 87 of the creatures were captured, in varying stages of development and of both sexes. She reached out to them, seeking out which ones shared the Gift of Monarchs. In a rare display of intuition, she'd withheld from immediately culling those that weren't useful, curious as she was regarding how these creatures functioned and operated. Three of them displayed the Gift, and in another great shock, none of them were females.

She communicated with them. Questioned them. Provided for their welfare. Fumbled through their incoherent explanations of morality, social contracts, and other banal subjects.

She learned, and grew mightier than any Monarch before her, her own Psionic Potential, as the humans called it, had expanded and become more sophisticated, copying their own unique innovations.

It soon became clear to her that she would be hopelessly outmatched in any contest of arms between herself and the indigenous species. Individual intelligences, given enough time to evolve, stratify, and reform, were powerful almost beyond reckoning. She had to emulate them. To take on their best aspects and reform. Some weaknesses would unfortunately have to be introduced, but the benefits were too grand to pass up. The males, so long neglected and relegated to mere breeding, served as the basis for her first experiment in this direction. She crafted new forms for them, using the species of bipedal apes as a baseline. Her new Viziers were clumsy, fragile, with a set of compound eyes, two pairs of weak upper arms and manipulator appendages for tool usage. Further respiratory overhauls were implemented, previous forms being too inefficient to match the larger sizes of creatures on this planet, further innovated upon over generations of selective breeding. Their greatest value, however, were their individual minds.

The worker drones and soldiers, though, could not be suffered to be clumsy and fragile. Making them heavier and stronger had diminishing returns in labor and combat potential. Making them slightly less so, but allowing for the usage of force multipliers? Very promising.

After generations of such improvements, her subjects looked almost nothing like the standard for their respective castes. The Soldiers had six limbs, but now moved upright, bearing stolen firearms and with rudimentary artificial armors, with several variants specialized into operating heavier equipment and flying scouts. The Workers were bulkier, suited as they were for physical labor, with projects underway investigating the usage of mechanisms to improve efficiency. Her Viziers, a unique innovation in the history of her species, remained much as they were, though their second pair of manipulator arms had become vestigial by this point. Of them all, only the Princesses and her own form appeared anything similar to the standard, though filled with greater percentages of neural mass. Her Viziers and Princesses had been incorporated into the governing structure rather than setting off to found their own demesnes, overseeing projects and investigating new avenues for innovation. Indeed, mobility was becoming rather unnecessary, and some had made the decision to render even their legs vestigial, dedicating all their efforts to conceptual pursuits.

60 Earth years had passed since her coming. She would become Empress of this world. She had slaughtered her royal cousins who could not adapt and rendered extinct their subjects. And the humans, for their role? Serfdom seemed a fitting reward, for the ones that had so aided her, intentionally or not. After all, so much more value would be provided through service than through extinction. Those with the Gift of Monarchs would be raised into governance like her Viziers and Princesses. Those of this generation wouldn't see the value of it, but she would do what she could to preserve the unique formative conditions that made the humans so useful, despite her instinctual desire to extinguish the threat they posed.

She had concealed to a great extent her efforts, careful not to provoke the humans unduly, knowing as she did the reaction that would generate. Only a few great spires of industry pierced the skies of the Canadian Shield. Instead, she'd delved deeply into the crust of the Earth, which now housed 73 million soldier drones, 644 million worker drones, and hundreds of thousands of Viziers and Princesses. It was almost adequate, and she aimed for excellence.

They would know her as Minerva. And once she was done here? A Triumph on her Homeworld would be her due.

AN: Vassal, then Agent next.
 
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Interlude 5: A Vassal's Cause
"Why am I only now hearing of this, Ductus Moore?" He was in no mood for games or intrigues, having experienced what passed for a War-Council among the likes of the Sword of Caine.

The Ductus in question bowed low, whispering excuses in her sibilant tone, blood-red eyes glaring balefully all the while. She was a young thing, only embraced some 3 years prior. Not even a proper Neonate by his standards, and the barbaric Sabbat thought to use those as young as her or younger in their Crusades. At least she wasn't a shovelhead. He'd thought the term a joke when he'd first heard it, the practice of Mass Embracing kine to use as chaff on a battlefield. Disgusting.

"The Roses of the Crypt impetuously thought to strike without Lord Miles' and Lord Brock's retinues, my Lord Templar. If they had but waited as planned-" he raised a hand. Within him, the Beast raged, demanding that he slay her where she stood for presuming to waste his time. He struggled to keep his face dangerously passive instead of warped with anger.

"I shall be speaking with the Archbishops and the rest of the War-Council in but a few hours, dear Moore. When I arrive, they will want to know why the kine's petty Psychics are not all dead, and why half of our mightiest warriors are convalescing. I will not waste their time, and so, you will not waste my time, you understand? I don't care for your politicking, and I am ill-pleased by your…forgetfulness. What. Happened? No games, or I shall personally ensure that you'll be catching the next sunrise."

In a pleasant surprise, she showed that perhaps she wasn't a complete fool. She told him of how 6 Crypt Knights took the initiative to strike against several Companies worth of Coalition Special Forces, before striking at various hardpoints and pulling opposing Rapid Response units out of position for the true counter-assault. A bold move, and one that had failed terribly. Instead, a third of them were missing and the rest recovering from the wounds inflicted by an extremely powerful Psychic. All the while, without their support on hand, the remaining units were slaughtered as they tried in vain to fix and destroy the remaining Psi-Operatives and their forces within the city. He'd had to personally intervene and see them off with his hand-picked men, all comrades of centuries. A failure, but not critical, as the cabals managing the storms and the defensive networks stayed put under his direction. Every night, it seemed like, he had to put out the fires that incompetent fools started during the day.

"Thank you, Ductus, for your insight. Don't be tardy again if you please. Now begone." Moore bowed a final time before departing like a shade in the night. He waited, idly fingering the guard of his longsword, a replica of his old blade and a reminder of better times, until the Ductus was long gone, before following her out of the catacombs and into the city above.

Truth be told, Dietrich found the games of the Sabbat dreadfully stale. Full of sadists and powermongers and Diablerists. Crazy monsters, almost all of them. That he'd been selected at all to join the ranks of the Templars, he'd been told, was a great honor, and supposedly meant that he was well-respected and recognized for his martial prowess and deadly sword-hand. He snorted. In reality, he was an Elder too powerful to leave to their own devices. Better to make use of him.

If a younger kindred, or Cainite, as the Sabbat Vampires would say, unfamiliar with his habits were to see him for the first time, they'd perhaps think him an actor of some kind, wearing colorful clothes that were the standard in his time, when he was but a poor aristocrat teaching the fighting arts within various manors and courts of the Römisches Reich. He'd grown tired of it all, stowed away on a vessel to cross the Atlantic, and buried himself far below ground in an unforgiving desert to sleep away the ages. The Mojave, they called it now. Only to be woken up and told to join or die by a bunch of upstarts he'd never even heard of, fighting some human empire he'd never heard of, in a war he didn't care about. He'd killed them all, of course. Sated his hunger for blood. Sabbat. It was a mockery of the Faith, all these titles and rituals.

He'd missed a lot, lying dreaming in the desert for 600 years. The formation of two whole Sects. The splintering of the Roman Catholic Church. The collapse of empires. The maturation of humanity. All sent crashing down as ungodly magics swept through the world. Even sounded interesting, more's the pity. He tried not to think of his old home, lying beneath the water along the Elbe.

Dietrich strolled through busy streets, making his way back to Court where the War-Council was gathering, kindred and kine alike paying him no mind as they busied themselves with warmaking. How far, modern warfare had come. Some principles stayed the same. Just as the old chevauchees would raze the countryside to destroy the foe's will to fight and erode trust in their lords, so too would flying machines raze cities with immensely powerful bombs. It accomplished much the same thing, in the end. Like a lifeline, he clung to those strands of reason amidst the throes of madness which had taken over the world.

Only one thing stopped him from abandoning the Sword of Caine altogether, despite their religious delusions, the heretical abomination that was the Book of Nod, the insanity that comprised these supposed Paths of Enlightenment, all giving license to the evils they perpetuated in God's name.

The Antediluvians. The ancients. The reason why the Sabbat existed. He'd felt the hunger, after a scant, by comparison, 6 centuries in torpor. Archbishop Black has asked him to imagine an even greater hunger, as all the Antediluvians awoke. Hunger driving such great power as to wipe out all life on Earth in a tide of blood. The idea was laughable. The conviction in a being so cruel and calculating as the Archbishop instilled doubt in him, regardless. "Stay with us," the Archbishop had asked us. "Help us stave off annihilation." The ends justified the means, they'd told him.

He hated it, but by God, he'd stayed. He served for the promise that once the Sword of Caine had conquered the Earth, that they would be strong enough to slay their dark progenitors and preserve all of God's creations.

Perhaps one night, he'd even believe it.

AN: Agent next, then back to regularly scheduled programming.
 
Interlude 6: An Agent's Whimsy
Small arms fire and vehicular weaponry tore through the streets of Red Wing, answered in kind by the beleaguered defenders of the river port. Soldiers bearing the arms and armaments of the Coalition executed their orders with enviable efficiency and discipline. Where a squad fell, struck down by one of the few Sorcerers presenting an energetic defense of the environs, their foe was immediately answered with rifle grenades, mini-missile barrages, and HEAT rockets. No clemency was offered to those who surrendered or threw down their arms; like machines, they fell upon them as a butcher would a carcass. Outraged, the Tolkeenites fought back harder than ever, with the determination that only a cornered enemy knew. Through the night, the defenders held on. Couriers traveled via Ley Line to Minneapolis (Tolkeen, as the locals called it now). By daybreak, the enemy had fully withdrawn, vanishing into the countryside, obscured, so the residents thought, by Psychics within the unit from supernatural detection. Scouting bands pursued, enraged by this blatant assault against the City-State's (disputed) sovereignty. Contact was not reestablished.

Empty-handed and enraged, King Creed called his lords together. Just barely, they persuaded Creed to launch a full investigation before leaping into immediate tit-for-tat skirmishes. Investigations turned up interesting results. Psychics, Sorcerers and even a few Techno-Wizards of the Virtual Adepts turned up, scouring Red Wing for information. The Coalition States hadn't attacked them at all; the attack was out of character for them. An unknown individual had procured the equipment and corpses to make it convincing, as well as a few pet Psychics and spirits to mask their force and sell the act. Intended result? War provocation.

Naturally, there was opportunity in this. The agent had not expected the operation to remain completely secret, far from it. Instead, she fanned the flames, inciting ambition and unity, whispering in the right ears in various guises, telling them what they wanted to hear, helping them see things a different way. We can use this. The investigation was kept in-house, after all. With this provocation, they could coral the Union of New England and the Federation of Magic against the Technocrat puppets, once and for all. The idea was too tempting to pass up. Perception is reality.

And so, the propaganda machine rolled out. The tyrant globalist elites have finally lost their grip on their bootlicking dogs! Rise up, Patriots! They'll come for all of us. Will you kneel and be put in bondage and gelded? Various intellectuals spread rumors about concentration camps in the Coalition States, about their plans for genocide and utter annihilation. Envoys traveled via Ley Lines across the globe, financing support from the petty kingdoms of Venezuela, from the enterprising souls that braved the Exclusion Zones, from free men from Eurasia and Africa willing to establish a foothold against a major foothold of the Technocracy.

Three of the five Magical Kingdoms, as they were sometimes called, were the primary homes of one of the Nine Mystic Traditions. The Virtual Adepts held the most sway in Tolkeen, with their unique brand of Techno-Wizardry having inspired the many Minor Practitioners and petty Sorcerers of the region. The Federation of Magic, primarily influenced by the Death Mages, had delved deeply into Necromancy in order to lay the dead to rest following the Day of Judgement. The Union of New England, dominated by Hermetic Mages, with many subsidiary mystery schools, such as the Order of the Golden Dawn, held great sway on the Eastern Seaboard. The three kingdoms didn't often see eye to eye, as the various traditions didn't truly rule directly, but they were certainly massively influential on the forming cultures. Psyscape and Lazlo, however, differed greatly.

The Council of Lazlo was formed by one of the legendary Dragon-Mages that came to help humanity along with the Rifts. As humans are to the other great apes, so too are dragons to other dinosaurs. Ages ago, they'd built great civilizations across the globe beforear and cataclysm brought it tumbling down. Dismayed, those few survivors either took to the cosmos as enlightened hermits of a sort, or withered away on a changing world, sleeping through the ages, where they would occasionally enter myth and legend in the modern day. The one in Lazlo was known only as the Teacher, taught his arts to any and all that had the potential and the will. All the Traditions stepped lightly around the ancient being, and the Hollows in particular were patronized by one outside the established orders. They could not be counted on to offer aid should the truth come out.

The Kingdom of Psyscape was a different beast altogether. As far as the agent could determine, another alien being had taken the residents of the Ohio under its wing, giving the people benign commandments to do good and crusade against the forces of evil. Multiple orders had established themselves in the newly-risen polity, riding forth to slay demons and monsters across the continent. With the right framing, they could be guided to charge headlong into any danger for a just cause. Perception is reality, after all.

As far as the Federation of Magic was concerned, they would be all too eager to join the brewing war-plans; they'd tasted bitter defeat time and time again, and a chance at total victory could not be passed up. The Union of New England, too, knew the threat the Technocrats posed. Despite the heartache and strife of the recent hundred years, none could argue that the balance of power had finally shifted against the globalist elites that sought to extinguish the Mystic Traditions in a completely unexpected upset. It was all delightfully complicated. Her reports on the barbaric politicking of the factions that mattered had been picked over with great interest by her master, and none suspected her work. Not even the slug, Splynncryth, another mere oligarch that thought money could by him true knowledge.

What remaining diplomatic channels there were between the Coalition States and the various Kingdoms were already breaking down with accusations and mistrust, King Creed not giving them time to launch their own investigation into the matter.

Before her, one of the mortal necromancers stood, whom she'd inducted into a cult made especially for this mission. "My lady, your task has been completed, as requested. All the paperwork is in order, as far as the Army knows, the old equipment has been decommissioned." Good. Foolishly, the woman hadn't prepared for treachery at all. A testament to the agent's own subterfuge, perhaps, but still disappointing.

"Your reward, as promised, my servant. Freedom from delusion," the agent's voice cooed, "that you could amount to anything, in the end." Her servant's aura lit up in rage at the disrespect and betrayal. A brief duel later, and the loose end was disposed of. Mortals were such curious creatures, not worth the risk of the right people asking the wrong questions. A shame the cult was no longer necessary, it had been a novel experience.



AN: I wanted to write these because I thought they'd be easy. I was wrong, they really didn't want to be written, this one in particular. Now to get back into the swing of things.
 
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The Siege of Monterrey 1.8


Time passed.

Within the depths of spirit, she was illuminated.

Her spirit was sharp, and mighty, flickering between colors faster than could be perceived. Piercing her spirit was a cruel gray siphon. Muting her spirit was a hazy black shroud.

She studied the cruel gray and gained insight. Doom.

She studied the hazy black and gained insight. Exhaustion.

Their names were known, now.

They aided one another, orchestrating the demise of her radiance, carrying out their author's intent, the specter in her mind's eye that shadowed her even now.

She bent her mind to this aim, to understand them.

The cruel gray drew her attention first, the more powerful and cunning of the malign forces assailing her.

Doom was a specialist assassin; its reach was long, spanning far beyond the hazy black's remit, beyond her spirit and into the many crests and folds of the real.

Everywhere it reached, Doom skewed probability, manifesting itself as malfortune and lucklessness, subverting her own strength of spirit.

Hypnotic, swirling spirals of entropy lanced out from the cruel gray, forming great spires that spanned gaps between causal chains not delineated by mere physical proximity, outlined in their terrible arrayment against the backdrop of her diminishing radiance.

Days had passed since the initial infection, days she could ill-afford.

The hazy black sounded its dread siren call, an oppressive force that sought to smother, to weigh down, to make weary.

Exhaustion was predictable, its frequency stable and clear - it was an echo of the abyssal horn that nearly drowned her in Monterrey, lingering like morning frost.

Exhaustion formed clear channels for Doom, accommodating in its enmity for her.

Exhaustion was evil.

It hated her radiant spirit, her might and beauty, her willfulness.

Constricting her spirit, debilitating her strength, dimming her light; the end was nearing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Deep breaths soothed her frantic heart's unsteady impulses, her shaking hands fumbling for the harness above; she was conscious with all the abruptness of someone startled out of a nightmare. The phantom sensation of icy needles punctured her heart, even though chill did not bite her anymore. Shrugging off the fire blanket, didn't need it, she fired off an EM pulse, finding her armaments in the lockers above her resting place, and additional supplies that somebody had had the wherewithal to gather up for her. Wound sealants, stimulants, MREs, iodine tablets, she noted. Garlic and iodine were especially useful for preventing radiation damage and heavy metal poisoning.

She felt horrible and filthy. The events of days prior had finally caught up with her. It felt like she was treading water at the lip of the metaphorical lake. There was not a part of her body that was not sore, and her head wasn't in the best of places. She didn't want to think, it exacerbated the ache.

If she were making conversation with someone, she'd say she couldn't remember a time before this bone-deep exhaustion, but that actually wasn't true, she remembered plenty of times, pretty much all the time in fact. Just seemed like something someone would say in this situation.

Kicking her legs out to propel herself to her feet was, in hindsight, perhaps not the move. Visual acuity hampered. Spiking dizziness and vertigo. Black spots filled her unfocused sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

When she could perceive the world again without face checking herself, she looked to see if any had witnessed her awakening. Her reputation would have to be buried alongside her mental filter if that were the case.

Fortunately, the majority of the men were present, themselves asleep, either sitting upright with their heads bowed forward or against the harness behind them or curled up awkwardly in what little space wasn't occupied by the severely wounded. She noted with a frown that she'd taken up more space than any except for the wounded.

Stretching out her senses, she became aware of a conversation going on in the pilot's compartment. Setting herself aright Telekinetically as she should have done before, she moved as a wraith through the air, listening to the men speaking. Daberman and Reynauld. Curious.

"-ourselves lucky not to run into any demons, Rey. Seen them before. In places you wouldn't expect." His voice was distant, woolgathering. "They've been watching humanity for a long time, I think. Learning. Mimicking."

"How long you reckon, man?" She'd only ever heard Reynauld speak a few times before, and he was far more subdued now, almost whispering in his low timbre.

"Ages," Daberman replied. "As long as there've been people. Maybe longer."

"You ever wondered where they come from? There's gotta be more to it than dams and flows, right? What if we created them? Or maybe, maybe they just always been 'round. You know what I mean?" He gave a laugh, ugly and sinister. "It just seems crazy arbitrary, the modern era."

"Just a little bit," Daberman agreed. "I do have an idea, though." At Reynauld's prompting, he continued. "We're on the skin, Rey. The skin of a hypersphere, the 3rd​ dimension. They're from the flesh of the fruit, deeper within. The forms they take here, it ain't them, not for true. They're shadows, projections. Some are unique. Others are like, like templates, or archetypes almost. I don't know. I'm still tryin to make sense of it. What I saw." He spoke hesitantly, as if convincing himself, before fading off.

"Well, what changed? Why now, compared to all the rest of history? If there was, what, Dante's levels of Hell filled with demon folks just waitin to come around, why now? Seems awfully convenient."

"I don't know. But something tells me they aren't new. They used to call angels the Watchers." He paused. "And the Babylonians had demon kings. Maybe the Blue Zones will go away naturally, and it'll be difficult for these things to come back through again, like before."

"With our luck, not gonna happen. If I were a betting man, I'd say these things are here to stay. Still, are you implying angels are like, demons, too? How many levels of heresy is that?

"A few, or maybe none if we take scripture into account. But in the Book of Enoch, there was this whole group of angels that came to Earth and taught humanity things, things we either weren't meant to know, or weren't ready to know. Even things like cosmetics and abortion. And these sons of God, they took human mates and created Nephilim, the giants. They became fallen angels. I don't remember the specifics, but maybe there's somethin to it all. And the angels, they had different forms, too, like burnin wheels with eyes, or chariots of fire. Maybe they're all Watchers of a kind, or different kinds."

"That's pretty wild, dude. Not saying I believe any of that, but it's interesting," came his response. "Maybe they just like the weather here, who knows. Nobody's got the answers." He shrugged, pensive. "You mentioned they popped in places you wouldn't expect,"' he continued. "They're here, aren't they?"

"They're everywhere," Daberman confirmed. "They were here before we were. They are wherever we are. We are their obsession."

Reynauld crossed himself, whispering a prayer. She shivered.

"I can see them, see it in them," Daberman continued. "They want to be like us. They want to become more 3 dimensional," he bit out spitefully. "They gain somethin from it, more than just enjoyment."

"And," Reynauld drawled, "I'm suddenly way more uncomfortable being alone in the dark. Makin me anxious, bro." Barreling through Daberman's muted apology, he asked, "Why aren't they trying to kill us or do weird supernatural bullshit if they're all around here, dude?"

"Proximity and energy, I reckon. They're adjacent to us, but it ain't free to pop from one dimension to another. The weak ones, they don't have what it takes to cross over, and besides, the smart ones have better places to be. A Blue Zone, an Epicenter. If one did crop up," he trailed off.

"We'll handle 'em all right," Reynauld reassured him. "I ain't met anything that likes 20mm that much. Shoot the fuck out of them."

"In a confined space like this, Rey?" He didn't point out the obvious, that those grenades would rip them all to shreds. Except for her of course, but they didn't know that.

"…All right maybe not, maybe not," he conceded. "I'll use my bayonet, fuck it."

"Look, I do appreciate the sentiment, 'God, guns, and gumption,' but first of all, we're screwed either way given the girl's condition-"

"She saved our lives out here, and I don't wanna hear a word otherwise, aight?" Reynaud paused a moment, calming down from his angry interjection. "I know you're better than this doom shit, dude. Fuck off with that. Either we'll make it through this, or we won't, simple as. We don't have the answers."

They moved to lighter topics for a time, until she became too uncomfortable to eavesdrop further. The allure of company drew her forward.

Their conversation halted as she entered, the man in the driver's seat turning to look at her. The medic. The faint smile he had borne died immediately upon seeing her, a frown settling in its' place. "Greetings." He turned back where he sat, waving loftily. "Been asleep a long while, 24 hours or nearabouts." Presumably referring to her, not himself. From his body language, he wanted to say something more, but he did not continue before Reynauld addressed her, standing up.

"I know you and my buddy here don't get along too well, but he's a good man, I can assure you of that, he's just an idiot." He silenced Daberman with a look when he made to say something. "And, or course, we're right thankful for what you've done." He clapped her on the shoulder. Dumbly, she stared at his hand, causing him to quickly withdraw it, his smile a little more forced than before.

For longer than she would've liked, she struggled to determine an appropriate response, before settling on, "Thank you." She bore, out of inability to react quickly enough more than any sense of good grace, Reynauld's exclamations that they'd done nothing to be thankful for, not really, and that she didn't have to be humble, that whatever she needed to get them all outta here, he'd be more than happy to assist, if indeed he could. She nodded reflexively during the appropriate parts of the conversation, not tracking fast enough to respond properly.

"I'd like to have a word with her, Rey." The dark expression had only grown darker, like he'd searched her and seen something terrible. Recalling her dream, she considered that perhaps he had.

A flash of insight informed her that that was what he wanted to talk with her about.

Reynauld looked at him for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, before looking back at her as if to ask what she wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

[] Hear him out.
[] Don't hear him out.

Gained insight into the dual curses of Doom and Exhaustion. Revealed the effects of Doom and Exhaustion.
Curse of Doom: Doubled Fumble threshold. Influences emotional state and perception of events. Grows stronger over time by siphoning energy from her and those around her. If Dorete does not deal with the Curse of Doom, the likelihood something catastrophic occurs increases until she dies.
Curse of Exhaustion: Reduced fatigue recovery, needs more sleep than usual. Suppresses maximum energy output. If Dorete expends too much energy without dealing with the Curse of Exhaustion, she will collapse and die.
Doom + Exhaustion Synergy: The energy siphoning and suppression from the two Curses combined renders Dorete incapable of regaining Stamina threshholds even when resting.
Regained 1 MHP, Agitated becomes Stressed (-1 to all Intelligence skills)
Exhausted (-3 to all skills)

AN: Late, as usual!
 
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