The Zero Corporation: Anxious Heart - 3 years on...

[Sledge Rivers]

Sledge Rivers - TH3 TH3RD 3R4 - p05t.0001

"Fucking fighter jets." was the jagged thought lodged in the frontal lobe of the Zero Corporation's Vice President as he sat on a park bench; his gaunt outline was being progressively blanketed in a pressing atmosphere's faint drizzle. Rivers was reminiscing beneath the site where he and General Karde had engaged Section: One and its allies via the audacious media of military grade aircraft. Sledge bowed his head with a haunted weight akin to that of an aging genocidal commander. He was 24 years old.

Sledge Rivers was no longer a depraved prodigy preoccupied with the pleasure found in plain wickedness: they were feigned power plays. The planning phase repeatedly revealed a malice through the time spent accentuating the torture of those in the path between himself and whatever faction or individuals found in the ZCorp cross-hair. The maximising of collateral damage was integral to any Zero Corporation plan.

With the lumbering emotion of his past piggybacked on his gaunt frame Rivers rose to a hunched stance. Emotions had overwhelmed the VP and he released a sneeringly nasal sigh, but not out of guilt, his regret was not born of empathetic sorrow but rather self pity. "Where did it all go wrong?"

Guy Karde...

Reese Jarrek...

Cowboy...

Dr. Elias "Doc Silva" Silva...

Kilrenoir...

Jadg Wolf...

The Cherub...

The Rooster...

Johnathan Miller...

David J. MacCallister..

SBC...

Nerissa Redhawk...

Nick Dragonsblood...

((OOC: Apologies for any spelling errors, poor quality in general or any other flaws with this post. I'm bored and stuck at an airport right now so I thought I'd take the time to knock something together. I do plan to continue with this and will do so over the weekend while I'm back home for a few days. Anyway, expect this to be possibly maybe be edited later--I would also welcome any additions from absolutely anybody. Oh, and if I forgot anybody off the Assassin's War list, forgive me--I'm old and forgetful now))

[Sledge Rivers]

((OOC: Nevermind for the time being, I'm not sure I'll be back doing text RP after all but feel free to get in touch with me if needs be anybody. ^_^''))

[Sledge Rivers]

Shattered Stars amid the Capital City: When We Were Children (Part I)


Now and Then: The World's Capital City

The painted landscapes of the planet of Ayenee had always been disputed; imagined in a thousand variances by a wealth of gods with equally diverse agendas. The lack of harmony in the world was never more harshly evident than between the technological wonders of Ayenee Capital City and the bird brained sword play that went on in the provinces.

Although times had changed in the city, it was once a hotbed of political activity. There was no concept of grassroots involvement, only the dominion of megacorporations. These powerhouses were magnets for the brightest citizens, they were centres of esoteric technological creation at the same time as being the sole engine of the city's economy.

At the end of the Tech War (bastard child of the Assassin's War) corporations like Sledge Rivers' Zero Corp faded into the background. It was at this time that a more diverse but infinitely less interesting system began to cultivate from the bottom of the city up. Finally small business could flourish and the populous began to express themselves in ways that were not possible under the reign of Reese Jarrek.


Today

Today was to loom as a monument in the history of the city: the first truly democratic election had concluded with a champion of individual liberties as the victor. Grand Mayor Reki Naner's every fibre was enforced with integrity and dedication to his people.

It was ironic that Guy Karde, infamous general of the Zero Corporation's private military force, was honoured in the name of the street that was selected for the spontaneous celebration of the new champion of the people. If only the M.I.A. general knew that the rat-like legions were dirtying the asphalt of his once majestic broadway -- he wouldn't have stood for it.

And perhaps somebody else wasn't going to stand for the celebration... The people revelled in the moment; colourful hats were balanced jovially atop happy heads while shirts and jackets were accessorised with bountiful arrays of political pin badges. Trumpets and steel drums rang out across the artificial canyon, a lovely acoustic formed by the skyscrapers flanking the street. The carvinal of people stretched along the half mile length of General Guy Karde Street (known as "GGK" to the locals).

A quivering dot appeared on the horizon; but nobody would notice. And why would they? It was to their backs, all of their backs. For the entire slug of moving people were all facing the building at the terminus of GGC. A structure that had once been the headquarters of the Zero Corporation had since been adopted by the Ayenee Capital City Central government. Atop the daunting and glimmering flight of marble steps leading up to the former ZCorp Towers was Grand Mayor Reki Naner, podium at the ready--he was preparing to address his people and the cameras relaying the scenes across the civilised world.

[Bone_Reaver]

The street was silent in this run down, almost forgotten section of the city. For that, Justin was glad as he walked down the sidewalk, stepping on a cracked section where grass was trying to grow once more. The apartments across the street were boarded shut, fragments of glass still lying in the overgrown tangle of plants that at one point, long ago, held small gardens. Spray paint long ago faded into a mess of colors had been tagged over again, contrasting with the dull, stained, and lichen hosting concrete that framed the plywood. Pausing, Justin took a moment to lean against the rusted expanded metal cage that still stood guard over the boarded window for an old corner store. Reaching behind him to his backpack, he slid a metal bottle from the elastic pocket.

This was the Crimson Garden. A neighborhood that at one point was home to over 66 different rival gangs, and one of the most violent places in the City during the reign of the Corporations. Blood was spilled as a daily occurrence, and the 53rd Precinct was overworked, and understaffed to handle the chaos. It wasn't always like this of course, when they city was first built, it was a middle-class neighborhood. Calm, civilized...the old details of gentility could still be seen in the facade of the buildings. Constructed back then by craftsmen.

The problem started when the Corporations began moving into the city, taking over. This quiet neighborhood found the down-town core rapidly encroaching, and the middle-class began leaving for quieter streets. As the middle class left, and refused to return, landlords were forces to lower their prices, and the low income sect of the population took over. Owning buildings that were depreciating by the minute, land owners began bailing out of area to richer soils, letting the unsavory slumlords move in, who cared for little other than squeezing every last cent out of their tenants.

Then the corporate market began to slide out from under the city. Desperate acts, such as cutting a swath through the Crimson Garden to build an elevated, multi-lane highway crushed what remained of the housing market in the Garden. Crime sky-rocketed as the Corporations laid off thousands in their employ, flooding the streets with the unemployed. Banks began to simply close and run with what money was left, and law was forgotten.

Much of the Garden was razed by owners trying desperately to claim insurance policies, just so they could evacuate from the breeding ground of violence, filth and total urban collapse. Until all that was now left, were rows of abandoned apartments, homes and businesses; almost half of them left as burnt out shells. Still, some clung to their desolate building, living in one or two block communities. Some of the abandoned shells of buildings were now, illegally repurposed for unsavory use by the homeless, gangs, or drug runners.

In this desolate hole, where blood still stains the street, Justin walks. A man roughly in his thirties, maybe early fourties, of average height, wearing faded khaki cargos with a white t-shirt under a beaten to shit, brown leather jacket. His dark brown hair shaved close to his scalp, his skin tanned from years of working in the sun. Over his shoulders he carries a cheap black and blue backpack that he bought from a garage sale last weekend for fifty cents. Beside the pack, on a sling he carries a Knights Armament, PDW, loaded with a 30 round magazine.

In his hands however, he carried two pieces of paper; one was a map, and the other, a property title. All it too was to round the corner onto 47th Ave and he saw the corner building. Low, single story, stucco finish now mostly broken off, or otherwise coated in gang tags and other graffiti. The entrance, at the corner of the building, cutting a fourty-five degree angle from the East to South wall was raised from the street level by three steps, flanked by foot wide concrete railings. The doors and windows were barred, boarded and chained shut.

Justin grinned.

He jogged across the intersection, his dark green eyes gleaming at the prospect of owning this rather odd little building. As he got flew up the steps, he saw the handiwork of one of the locals imprinted on the plywood that blocked the doors, the letters "B" and "A" in 9mm dot matrix. He paused to make sure there was no one around him, watching, or waiting to shank him for the five dollar bill in his pockets, before he slid off the PDW and his backpack.

Quickly he pulled from the backpack a battery operated grinder, and made short work of the chain which bore the marks of numerous attempts on its life via bolt cutters. Dropping the grinder to the ground, he ripped the chain from the door, and threw it over the railing into one of the old planters that was now just a tangle of thistle and weeds. From the backpack he produced a cordless drill, with a special bit locked in its jaws. Something needed to remove the bolts that clamped the plywood over the door.

A couple minutes later, he had the plywood tossed aside, and he pulled the key from his front right pocket. Bringing it to his eye for a moment, he removed a speck of lint before plugging it into the lock of the unique door. The key itself was thicker, and almost twice the size of your average key, for the simple reason that, as he twisted the key, Justin had to torque the damned thing around, mechanically retracting the six bolts that secured the one-and-a-half inch thick steel and ballistic glass door closed. He could hear the mechanism moving within the door, each stainless steel and titanium piece still moving with precision after almost 15 years of neglect until they snapped into their recesses of the door with a solid, authoritative clunk.

Removing the key, Justin gingerly placed his hand on the handle and pressed the thumb latch down. It moved with a weighted mechanical feel until it clicked, and the door opened easily, if a bit grittily as the several hundred pound door was expertly counter weighted inside the frame of the building.

He couldn't help but laugh a little at the prospect, but he was here, and he was the first person to set foot in this place in fifteen years. Looking around behind him again, he lifted his pack, and stepped foot into the initial entrance, marring the previously undisturbed layer of dust on the floor with the tread of his hiking shoes. Turning back around, he closed the door, and locked it once again, even though he sort of wished he could keep the door open to freshen the stale air.

Inside, was a second set of doors, similar to the first, but thinner. Also requiring a different key. He had to smirk, this place had more security than most banks and government installations. As he walked to the doors, he noticed something, a piece of paper taped to the inside surface of the ballistic glass. Settling the backpack on the floor again, he reached in and pulled out a caving light, and placed it on his forehead. Switching it on, he moved over to the inner door-way, and read the faded black black ink on yellow paper:

Dear valued customers;

We regret to inform you, that as of August 29th,
Blackridge Firearms will be shutting its doors.

We had a good run,
Thank you for your patronage.

Sincerely,
Anthony Cornish

"Heh, old bastard."

[Bone_Reaver]

The key slid into the lock of the secondary door with ease, and with another heavy turn of the key, the bank-vault style bolts slugged home into the door itself. This door opened wonderfully on a smooth, light action, free of the dirt and rust that caused the grittiness of the outer door. Now, was his first, unobstructed view within this dark building, the first time anyone had set foot within this place in years.

The beam from his LED light pivoted around the expansive room, showing undisturbed dust lining the floor, and the walls, still pristine with no water damage, smoke damage; just the faintest shadows of displays that hugged the wall, or the outline of a poster that once advertised to the clueless shoppers.

Slowly and delicately, he crept into the dark, musty room, towards the only feature that still remained. The sales counter. Built into the building, the heavy, wood faced counter and overhead shelves were much more than that he knew, he had been here before. He remembered looking into the display case within the counter and admiring the expensive, but custom firearms that were once for sale. Hand made by a master.

Trailing a finger around the counter top's edge, he circled behind the broad monstrosity, now devoid of its register to find the backend. Much of the space behind was a gridwork of wooden rows and columns. Each space holding a printed marker, stooping down, he adjusted the light on his forehead so that he could read without blinding himself. Mouthing as he went, "Nine mil; one-twenty grain, nine mil; one-forty-seven. Forty-fives, five-point-five-six. Damn this was organized." From what he could tell, the ammunition was sorted by commonly used calibers closest to the till. Then, from top to bottom the different grain weights were ordered, lightest at the top, heaviest towards the bottom.

Now he knew why they had always been able to get his ammunition before he even got to the counter. But there was one thing that surprised him, under where the register would have sat, there was a simple galvanized steel box with a number of switches mounted. Beside each one was a small, glowing red LED. Staring at it, he shook his head, "No fuckin' way..." trailing off, he slowly, cautiously laid a finger on the switch marked with a symbol of a lightbulb, and flicked it through its arc.

Nothing happened, other than the little LED switching to amber, and blinking. Puzzled, he looked up, and realized that all the tubes in the light fixtures had been removed. But still, power? There should be no power on in here. He hadn't even contacted the electrical company yet to reconnect this building!

Confused, he turned and left the counter, headed back across the showroom floor along the interior wall towards the heavy door that still bore a sign over it, "Firing Range". Cracking it open, he walked back in time to a place he spent a lot of time, and a good amount of his illegally acquired wealth. Even after all this time, he could smell the tint of gunpowder in the air. In this dark, windowless hold, only his light allowed him to see, but he could see the old stands still there, but the chairs were now gone. At the back, behind the massively thick and angled steel backstop, was the winch house.

Curiousity got the better of him, Justin turned and flicked the switch marked "Vent". Slowly he heard the growing hum of the old ventilation unit. "Shiit..." Something was up, this place still had power somehow, even though, several years after being abandoned and closed, there was no reason it should. Scratching his head, he unslung the PDW from his shoulder, and walked to one of the booths, and tried one of the target switches. Nothing happened. Turning around, he hopped onto the bench, and sat there, thinking as he laid the weapon across his lap.

This place had mysteries yet to be discovered.

[Sledge Rivers]

Shattered Stars amid the Capital City: When We Were Children (Part II)


Dust, Blades and the Big Cheese

Grand Mayor Reki Naner lips parted with gusto...

"The failures of the past are behind us. Feisar Arms, the Zero Corporation... and the unscrupulous assassin and special ops. groups that were associated with them... are a thing of the past. We are here now to govern with a social conscience. And that conscience is realised through freedom... and through our ability to give you the freedom to make this city great again. The only freedom we are taking away is the freedom of the corporations to corrupt and destroy the fundamental mechanisms that allow fair competition in the market place..."

Meanwhile, somewhere across the decrepit former metropolis Justin was navigating the old store. The still unknown actor's path through the city's fable dissected the story of the formerly infamous Sledge Rivers at crucial juncture.

"...and we will..." continued the newly elected city chief, "... support your local businesses by NOT implementing unnecessary legislation..." and so on, and so forth.

Roaring blades grew against the combined din of the crowd and the mayor's address -- the jittering dot is revealed as a lumbering helicopter. The aged chopper was out of place.. even in the somewhat technologically deficient remains of Ayenee Capital City.

The chopper loftily bypassed even the elevation of the multi-lane highway that had depreciated Justin's rediscovered neighbourhood, before rudely rattling the mysteriously powered building itself. A powerful vibration, brought about by the oscillating blades passing overhead, stirred up the thin layer of dust adorning Justin's dilapidated interior.

And where was the sniveling Sledge Rivers...?

[Bone_Reaver]

The dark figure sat in the blacked hall of gunpowder and lead, as waves of nostalgia washed ashore in his mind. Distant memories of this blood-soaked land, that he had more than a hand in, and somehow lived. Snorting, he shifted his head to look at the floor as his arms hung between his legs.

It felt like the slightest caress washed over his ear lobes, just that vague half-thought that he heard something, but couldn't tell. He sat upright, bracing his hands on his knees as he cocked his head into the dark hollow of the firing range. He waited, listening, but all he could hear was hushed humming of the ventilation system. Or...no. The hum had changed, ever so slightly. It was no longer steady. Weird. "What the hell?" spilled from his lips as he took in a breath. It was shifting, rapidly, like a pulse? Yes, a pulsation.

Grumbling, he dropped to the floor, grabbing the PDW from the stand beside him, and walked to the door, switching off the ventilation system. The hum slowed, and diminished into the silence of his own breathing. Except, he could still...feel, like something was off. Shaking his head, he reached for the door, and paused as his fingertips brushed the surface of the handle and thumb lever. They were tingling under the lightest of touches. Vibrating. He felt it, almost countable, almost perfectly consistent. Almost, like a helicopter? "Shit!" Justin hissed as he ripped the door open and bolted for the front doors, the inner door flying into the small space, as he pushed through to press his face to the heavy ballistic glass of the outer door. He could feel the pressure waves. Yes, it was a helicopter. Low flying.

Checking the lock on the outer door, making sure it was secure, he back inside, and locked the inner door as well. Six more stainless steel slugs locked home into the machined steel frame of the doors. He was safe enough in this place, he knew it; he had seen the building under construction so many years ago. He had seen how much rebar had gone into reinforcing the concrete, and he swore it was more than twice as much steel as other buildings he had seen get built.

However, Justin looked down to the PDW as he cracked open bolt, checking to see if there was a round chambered. The glint of polished brass reassured him, and he let the bolt go with a clack that momentarily echoed in the empty building. Behind those two foot thick walls of heavily reinforced concrete, he felt safe. It was his fortress now.

He turned and walked back to the counter, and then around it into the back of the shop. The loading bay door was closed, and locked; of course, while the office was empty except for the desk built into the wall, behind the interior window that allowed a view to the front counter. The washroom however surprised him, there was a shower stall in there? He was half tempted to test it to see if the water still ran, but, something about that helicopter was bugging him.

He was however, glad that Old Anthony Cornish had insisted on not having windows in this place. Nothing a person could get in through, or escape out of anyways. He had never realized it back then, but it seemed like the old man was one paranoid old bastard. He walked back to the counter, and clicked off the light attached to his head. Taking up the PDW from its sling, he unfolded the stock, and flicked the firing selector into semi-auto. Of course, paranoia keeps you alive I suppose.

[Sledge Rivers]

Shattered Stars amid the Capital City: When We Were Children (Part III)


Paranoia

Sledge Rivers was a world away from the park bench of his melancholy reflections; his current consciousness was realised and activated for a moment of sight and other sensory input. Dr. Elias Silva nodded, and Cowboy then flipped the switched and turned on “Neo” Sledge Rivers. Sneering past his characteristic nasal blockage, “Mission status!”, he demanded – it was his first conscious sentiment. Rivers’ freshly mechanical eyes were wiped clean by his very much flesh and blood eyelids while he waited for a response.

Location: apparent laboratory, poor lighting with no windows and no clear route in or out.

The status of the former ZCorp VP was a little confusing, but it was safe to assume that whatever was currently happening that Sledge would be at the bottom of it all.

A moment went by; Silva and Cowboy were engrossed by their great leader’s first few moments of renewed life. “Status... of... the... mission?” Rivers asked again, tone laced with commanding disapproval, and Cowboy obliged with a knowing smirk. The status was displayed to Sledge when Cowboy dragged into view an illuminated pane of glass that was elaborately suspended in a mobile metal cradle.

BEEP...

BEEP...

BEEP...

The display refreshed with each beep, displaying a dot on a map of the city – it was moving towards downtown ACC.

“Cool fucking shit”, despite his accumulating years carrying him towards his mid-20s, Rivers’ voice still had the nose-driven drone of a snivelling super-villain. Switch was flicked off and again Sledge Rivers reality slipped into darkness and the immediacy of the battle field pierced the instant once more.

The laboured flight of the old chopper brought it to bear down on Justin’s location; slowing to a menacing crawl as it entered the fortified store’s neighbourhood. “What’s the hold up?” masked and anonymous co-pilot asked the similarly masked and anonymous pilot, “We’re ahead of schedule... the speech is being drawn out... even more than we’d anticipated”.

Following the conclusion of the brief conversation the aircraft moved innocuously out of the neighbourhood and continued on towards its downtown destination: General Guy Karde Street. This new entrant to the Ayenee Capital City’s dramatic stage was quite unnecessarily paranoid; at this point he was an unknown to the Zero Corporation.

However, the capital city and its major players had a way about making themselves known in one way or another...

[Sledge Rivers]

Shattered Stars amid the Capital City: When We Were Children (Part IV)


Ayenee Capital City as an ex-girlfriend

General Guy Karde Street: Grand Mayor Reki Naner had run his campaign on a very much overt criticism of the actors in the Striking Wars (a name given to the consecutive Assassin War, Tech War and Corporate War that ravaged the city). However, the names of those response for the wars had never been mentioned... the reason was unclear. But, suddenly breaking, like a shot in the dark, Naner broke his cool delivery with a ripping scream...

“SLEDGE RIVERS!”

Venom in the form of bubbly spittle sprayed from his mouth – emotion could be no more apparent, and the crowd reciprocated as they popped into a roaring cheer. Waiting until now to mention a name may have just been a political ploy, but the name of the genocidal maniac of the Striking Wars let the people know that finally justice was to be levied...

“GUY KARDE!”

...

"SECTION:ONE!!!"

...

"FEISAR ARMS"

“I will bring them ALL... to the courts! They dared to break the freedom of the market and a contract of goodwill with the people. These tyrants must be brought to the justice provided by the common law of the people.”

Again, the crowd cheered – bustling and heaving like the pit of the hundred thousand of a sport crowd, rock gig crowd, or some other form of mass popular entertainment. Politics were finally bringing out that kind of fervour. With bursting blood vessels in their eyes and consuming hate for ZCorp in their hearts they called for the death of the top dogs relentlessly. All the pressure of a taut elastic band had been released with the Mayor’s call to arms and definition of the enemy. For nearly a decade the people lived in fear of saying the wrong thing about the power structure... for fear of disappearing in the night. Or worse, in fear of their family disappearing in the night. VP Rivers was well known for the games he played with enemies of the corporation; although many were typically subjected to a sliced belly and a drop in the city's harbour.

The carnival of freedom was in town and the political messiah at the podium of GGK was the ring master...

The lumbering chopper hovered parallel to a schoolyard awkwardly; artificial squalls created by the blade rotations left a temporary track portraying the journey of the mysterious aircraft – dust and debris from the schoolyard’s concrete ground swirled up into a long avenue of scattered materials. The little kiddies scattered in fear, all but one who was quickly knocked from his feet by the gusts. The unique boy had stalled to crouch and scoop up his collection of marbles and now had a scraped forehead from the impact as a reward for his loyalty to the playground game.

When ZCorpTV! went off the air seventeen months ago a number of people’s news networks sprouted up to make use of the no longer jammed television broadcast bandwidths. These news stations were all present at the rally to welcome Grand Mayor Reki Naner into office.

What the cameras captured was the joyous and smiling faces of a hundred thousand free citizens of the decaying urban capital zone. In their hearts they felt that their luck was about to change.

“Get the kid with the old man!” a TV producer requested via the earpiece of her station’s cameraman in the field. The camera was located with quite a vantage point from the roof of a quaint three storey structure that was prominent by its shortness when compared to the super skyscrapers of the downtown area.

Kid and old man were actually Grandpa Tekito and lil’ Jonni Tekito. They were celebrating their freedom, a fight that had spanned their different generations. The old man smiled as his grandson clambered up onto the view point of his own shoulders to catch a glimpse of the man who was changing it all, the Grand Mayor. It was clear to see why this duo had been selected for a cut away of the broadcast panning across the crowd – they were just too cute.

The black ‘copter moved on from the schoolyard and was quickly navigating the precarious synthetic canyons that were the streets and broadways of the city’s more central sector. A flock of Eastern Ayenee Greater Geese scattered with alarm, flying directly up from the city park’s pond and past the front viewing window of the helicopter.

“Ha!” the nameless co-pilot laughed as one of the birds’ skulls cracked with impact into the windshield, “Wow, look at his brains!” the pilot exclaimed as he watched the blood and limp body drip and drop down from the glass and away towards the ground below.

“Anyway, prepare the payload!” the co-pilot climbed out of his seat, removing his seat buckles in order to free up his movement before moving into the back of area of the aircraft...