The Death of a Star

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Ruins, Dec 8, 2013.

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  1. After being captured and taken back to the lab he feels like there's something about him that's slowly starting to change. This creature, beautiful in a sort of way seems to be developing a new outlook on things; corruption is taking it's toll. It's rather sad, he was once honorable. Now he's nothing more than a prisoner caged within a bare room holding no windows, no light. This unfamiliar deduction or process of reasoning isn't native; the "change" isn't of the best.

    "LET ME OUT OF HERE!" Nixon yells in a loud, horse voice. One could tell just from what the youth sounded like that he had been vocal quite often. This wasn't the only time he's ever yelled out.
    A loud bang against the metal door hinted that the guard was fixing to acknowledge Nixon. "Shut up you hound" the guard outside the door says in retaliation to Nixon's pleading.

    Weeks in this hell has brought about a new physical appearance; he's grown paler and he looks weak. In all honesty though he's still just as strong as he was before. They may be able to keep him here but he refuses to let his strength fade. Slamming closed fists against the stone wall Nixon lowers his head causing white hair with black bangs to descend. Leaving his fists against the wall he gently places is head against the stone, doing so he then adds, "I SWEAR, IF I GET OUT I'LL SLAUGHTER YOU ALL, YOUR BLOOD WILL STAIN THE WALLS YOU FUCKS!" He's starting to lose hope, the fights starting to slip away. If he could he'd level the place but there's no way for him to do so. If he gets to out of hand the guards simply force electricity into his body through the use of small lasers located in all four corners of the room.


    #1 Ruins, Dec 8, 2013
    Last edited: Dec 8, 2013
  2. Far beyond the reaches of this dimension, deep within the secluded reaches of another, on a sandy, desolated planet that has already undergone the labors and excruciating pains of human warfare. Randomized, partially intact skyscrapers and old world buildings would stand around a single, small lone figure in the distance walking down the middle of an old interstate that runs right through the old city. Zooming in on the single wandering lone figure, would reveal he’s wearing a very thick, mesh-weave style coat in pure black, that looks to be made out of a metal material similar to carbon steel, but has a more black, glazed, dark look to it at first glace. The front part of the long and tattered black hooded jacket. Stray pieces of the metal fabrication of the figures jacket would be bent or flayed, with scratches and marks all over the jacket in random vital places, as if he’s been assaulted and attacked beyond count, but the jacket would remain it’s purpose true, protecting it’s wearer in the front down to the tops of his knees, and in the back all the way down to the top of his ankles, nearly touching the ground with the coat’s tattered tail from endless wandering. The metal weave severely flayed at the back end from constant high-speed and low speed friction movement. The sand would beat down on the figure clad in his armored jacket with his head lowered. He’d lower his head further to keep the sand out of his eyes before reaching his right hand down into his black combat pants with their protective plates around his knees and shins, and an equally impressive set of armored black boots, similar to those worn by Locust Generals(Aka: Much like the heavy war-boots of General RAAM from Gears of War), with each footstep resounding just barely through the sandstorm and the endless road lines of this apocalyptic landscape. Before the figures hand makes it into his right pants pocket, he stops, and lifts his head, as if feeling a distant shock, ad his eyes would go wide as he does so, looking around, re3vealing the figure to be none other than Racutio in his Soul Slayer garb, unarmed it seems for his strength limitations practice. The Mar’tallian would look around, his red eyes glowing now as he looks for what he felt all around him for miles with his far-reaching soul sight, his tan skin untouched by the vicious sand due to his hood and highly dense jacket and is own tough skin.

    “That didn’t feel good…Wait, that soul source was Nixon’s…” Racutio would close his eyes, and as they do, he would reach far off from this dimension with his eyes, concentrating and finding the source of Nixon’s pain, his vision traveling through time and space to find his location rapidly, the oculus passing by billions of trees and cities and forests and mountains, all to cross an ocean and lead into a jungle like light-speed before slowing down and stopping to hover over a single, massive, high-security research facility under heavy watch and guard by spotlight and armed guards, as well as several fast movers patrolling the facility. He’d concentrate further and his soul sight would zoom deep under the facility as he now tracks the soul energy signatures further. Most of the souls inside the facility are warped and corrupted. No longer who they once were, degraded and demoralized, or swayed in some cases and persuaded. Some even intimidated. One, still remains, this is not all gone yet. Racutio’s friend Nixon. As Racutio opens his eyes, the connection of his concentrated dimensional soul sight would disperse, and his eyes would stop glowing as he goes straight-faced, and irritated. He’d wave his left hand dismissively in front of him, commanding a rift to open in front of him just as a convoy is approaching in the distance. Racutio would look back at it, checking the time by looking up at the Sun in the sky. He’d then look back to his rift and step through it, causing it to close behind him. A few minutes later, the raider convoy with a massive arms Semi-truck at it’s center would be carrying an old world ICBM Rocket Component, the thrusters, with several armored cars surrounding it front and back. Obviously what Racutio was originally contracted to deal with.

    Meanwhile, as the rift closes in one dimension, one would open outside the facility Nixon is captured in inside Nixon’s home dimension, deep within the jungle a few stories up near a thick three foot palm tree that’s warped to bend down, making an easy foothold. Racutio would step out of his rift, and bend his knees, looking down on the facility under cover of the palms and the darkness. He’d look down towards Nixon’s soul, his eyes would come to life, glowing dimly as he’d look at all of the souls of the nearby soldiers and paid mercenaries. Deep within the facility, he’d see Nixon still fighting in his own way, shouting to them to let him go. Racutio would only shake his head in an annoyed fashion. Not at Nixon, but at the factor he knew at that moment who’s taken him.
    “So, your mad doctor got to you, did he Nix? Well, let’s get you out of there…” Racutio would then stand, and swiftly through his right leg forward swiftly, leaping over to the facilities concrete wall, passing by spotlight untouched by it, as he lands next to an armed mercenary. The mercenary and himself would lock eyes for a second before Racutio would slide his left hand under the side of his chin, locking up his index finger and middle as he passes them through the man’s throat and main artery next to his esophagus, causing it to penetrate his vital spot as Racutio holds his right index up to his mouth, telling him to shut up without even shushing him. The merc would try to lift his gun slowly and hesitantly under extreme pain, still having Racutio’s fingers in his throat and holding the blood inside as he tries in one last attempt to warn his allies, but Racutio would only smirk within his blurred vision, and swiftly, he would behind his index and middle, then do a flicking motion while still inside his throat, sending his body flying through the air for miles off the battlements before he’d smack against a tree far off in the distance of the jungle, spattering against it causing several wild birds to freak the fuck out and fly high into the sky, crying out in fear from the sudden surprise. The men within the facility would quickly mobilize on the disturbance off in the jungle, and Racutio would pick up the marksman rifle the poor bastard dropped. He’d bend down and hug the wall, keeping the men from seeing him as they leave the facility in a few good search squads in armored trucks. Racutio would slide the magazine out, and check the rounds. Full. Obviously they haven’t had many escapees. Racutio would slap the magazine back in quietly and grin from ear to ear as he stands up slightly and throws the gun over his right shoulder, holding the grip firmly in his right hand. Now officially armed with one of their own weapons, an SVU Marksman rifle with a thermal scope and suppressor. “That record is about to change…” Racutio would walk up to a keypad on the battlements leading to a sliding metal reinforced door into the facility. Racutio would stand there and wait a few minutes before the soldier’s replacement opens the door, only to see Racutio, while still holding his key card. Racutio would only lower the sniper, one arming it easily as he grins like a psycho, holding out his left hand. The soldier wouldn’t even reach for his gun, looking at the Mar’tallian tower before him at six feet tall, with a build like a warrior. He knew he wasn’t joking. The soldier would hand him the key card hesitantly, and Racutio would change his grin to a smile. “Smart move, buddy. I’m so proud of you. Now do me a solid and step aside.” The soldier would be shaking. He’d do as he says, and move out of his way. Racutio would walk past him, and as he walks away from the soldier, Racutio would go back to being straight-faced and expressionless. The soldier would begin to run outside to warn the facility and hit the alarm, but as the door begins to close, Racutio’s eyes glow brightly, and the soul energy around the soldier would swiftly close in around him, acting like kinetic energy, and it would swiftly crush his face into a dense flat packed square like from a garbage crusher in a junkyard. The door would close as the body falls to its knees and Racutio smirks, with the key card in hand. He’d toss it up into the air and catch it, throwing the gun back over his shoulder in his grip as he walks down the corridors, using his soul energy to distort the air around him as he does so, making him look like a bunch of heat waves walking down the halls on the camera. Like a ghost or apparition. His boots gentle yet heavy collisions with the clean white facility floors through the halls lightly being the only revealing sound he’s actually there. “I’m coming Nix. Hang in there bro.” With that said, Racutio would make his way deeper into the facility, avoiding the rest of the needless patrols with ease as he makes his way down a huge flight of stairs as he heads down to Nixon’s floor now.
    #2 Racutio, Dec 10, 2013
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 10, 2013
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  3. Smiling Nixon bares his teeth, while doing so he lets out a small wisp of air; a hiss. “Your about to get fucked up bro. I dare you, go after that ruckus being caused up-top.” Nixon was beginning to get rather mouthy, he has no fear. Backing up he places his back flat against the stone wall. He's preparing himself for what's about to come. He feels a very familiar presence lingering in the air. “Will all guards go to section six,” a voice on an intercom shouts out. It was instructing those to go to the disturbance. Revealing his fangs Nixon pipes up once more, “That's right you son-of-a-bitch, do as they tell you.” Taking a breath he lets out a slight snicker as he shows his fangs; a whisper fades in coming forth from a young mouth “run along now.”

    “Shut up you little pest” the guard says in retaliation to Nixon's taunts. He's clearly getting rather annoyed. “You know, you don't have to keep opening your mouth you blood sucking bastard.” Heckter was growing tired of this individual within the confines of the cell. The reason was this, the being within liked to play head games with the guards. For some reason he found it rather amusing. Grinning from ear to ear Nixon starts to chuckle, the guard obviously didn't know shit about the Sectafilliæ kind. They don't always need to survive on blood, their body is set up to live off of other specific entities or goods their body requires. Nevertheless Nixon trains his hearing to focus on the footsteps outside, he can hear the guard walking away from the door; heading for an honorable death.

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  4. The sounds of scuffling combat boots getting closer and the squeaks of lab hazmat suits getting further can be heard steadily into the less soundproof sections of this part of the facility. Racutio’s eyes would glow bright as he makes his way down the stairwell, keeping track of all the soldiers, mercenaries, researchers, scientists, experiments, prisoners, and most importantly, the soul in charge of the facility. He’d only close his eyes and smirk maliciously and confidently as the sound of footsteps and equipment rattling, as well as commands being ushered by an over-zealous captain to the other lower subordinates that protect this small mass of concrete, glass, metal, and chemical compounds. To Racutio, this was just another pathetic excuse of a chemistry set made by a bad punch-line of humans who self-proclaim themselves as warriors, and men of science…All of them would eventually learn. The space under his feet would warp and shift visibly, making the stairs look like waves of concrete liquid for a brief moment before a rift opens under his feet and he passes through it feet first, disappearing through the rift as it closes behind him and leaves the stairs warped like some twisted nightmare as a distraction with several weird looking faces inside of the stone in the stairwell under the soldiers feet. It isn’t until they make it to where he was, that all at once, they freak out upon running their flashlights over the dark stairs, that the few lower-ranked ones in front instantly turn around and bail over some of their fellow soldiers, knocking others down and creating a mess for the poor captain to yell at.

    As the guard in Nixon’s cell block makes his way over to the dual sliding doors out of the cell blocks to follow the order over the intercom, a rift would tear open a few feet above his head, but he wouldn’t see it, and as the doors open, Racutio would fall soundlessly to the floor on his toes, only before throwing the gun he’s carrying over his shoulder by it’s strap, and with one swift, blinding fast motion, he’d slide his right foot forward and stance it under his targets ankle that still has not left the floor, still mid-step out of the doors, he’d throw his left arm out and turn at a one-eighty degree angle swiftly, with his eyes glowing bright as some of the soul energy in the air is pulled into what Racutio like’s to call,
    “The Mar’tallian Dropsoul Lariat”. Time slowed down, it’d be visible that he made a decent segment of the soul energy in the air increase both the kinetic strength of his blow, but also to accelerate the cells within his own body rapidly, making the blow look like a vibration on the air due to his speed slipping through visibility parameters unless one’s eyes were also accelerated to such levels, or could recalculate and process what all happened somehow. As his forearm hits the guard in the neck, the full force would snap the spine in an ear-curdling sound, as the fluids in the spine liquefy and spill out, and then the bones would all split apart at once as the kinetic shock wave hits his whole diaphragm in one split second, causing an even worse sound as all his bones splinter, crack, and snap all at once. Time slowly sped back up, the now mangled rag-doll would hurdle past Nixon’s cell animatedly almost with all his limbs twisted through the air. The body would whiz down the cell block hall before finally hitting a wall at the end of the hall, causing him to splatter against the stone and coat the entire white cell block in a fine red mist with bone shards stuck into the walls, floors, and ceiling everywhere down the halls. No skin, no organs, just bones, and bloody mist everywhere that coats the whole hall in a fine bloody coat steadily. Racutio would only stand back up normally and stretch his left arm lightly, loosening up the socket.

    “Need to put more force into the next one? Just shut up, Nev’ra…That blow was just fine…” Racutio would clearly be talking to some otherworldly presence at the moment, but it would mostly look like he was just talking to himself. It was very clear he was talking to his obsidian demon arm on his left that made the powerful blow. It isn’t often that Racutio openly talks to Nev’ra, but when he does, it’s normally to give a smart ass retort back if Nev’ra got too mouthy or out of hand. Racutio would close the rift above his head and walk down the cell block hall, enjoying the smell of blood as he breathes it in, as well as take in all of poor Heckter’s residual soul energy to use for later. The mist would steadily spiral and all the blood would seem to twist and spiral like being poured into a funnel, except it would come off the walls, ceiling, and floors that way in steady strands, then in thing yarn strings, then in steady streams, all headed into the demonic blood red glowing tattoos on his left arm. All the blood would eventually disappear into his left arm in a matter of seconds, cleaning the halls of little more than the bone shards that Nev’ra couldn’t swallow whole. Racutio would rub the back of his head through his hood right his right hand idly, now standing in front of Nixon’s cell door, Racutio would look at it, then he’d close his eyes and concentrate on the soul energy around the engaged locks on the door to his cell. The metal bars holding the doors close would warp, twist, then thin out and turn into a metal wire. Racutio would then merely grab the cell door and pull it off like one would peel a thin plastic cover off of a new phone. He’d then toss the door behind him onto the floor, keeping his eyes to Nixon, he’d only smirk. “Well, look at you…I leave your world for only a little while, and you get yourself into this little predicament. Guards are distracted, and the researchers are moving deeper into the facility. Fae fodder for you.” Racutio would look to the walls, then he’d look at the soul of their leader through the walls, filled with black emptiness and gray curiosity and temptations. All too common for a madman, but to him, the soul he sees isn’t nearly as overwhelming as the madman he had to kill…In fact, this little man was almost infantile compared to Ecliptoc’s, by definition, warped and twisted soul…Racutio would only gain his common, malicious grin, which always appeared on his face whenever the ingenious Mar’tallian got an entertaining idea. He’d look back to Nixon, with the same wicked grin still on his face. “Let’s go pay your love-stricken admirer a visit first, shall we? I’m sure he’d love to see the power of a Secta first hand in person, as opposed to the ladder of constantly seeing you through a screen like some sorta weird one-sided porno involving all the shit you’ve done. And while we’re at it, I can demonstrate the more…” He’d only pause and look to the leader through the walls, keeping his general calm by the looks of it, even though his soul shows stress, and signs of delayed yet very detailed and elaborate terror. The poor fool knew he was dealing with something far out of his control, but he doesn’t know how far out of his control…

    Racutio was going to show him just how out of control he could be. He’d look back to Nixon with only his right side of his grin showing. His signature half-smile when the plan has come together. “...Destructive beings, out there, that people have learned to forget over countless millenia...I think an interior decoration is in order. How about some new doorways? That sound like a start, Nix?” He’d walk past Nixon deeper into his cell, then he’d stop a few feet from the wall. Approximately four and a half feet. He’d loosen up his neck, then he’d flail his arms around in their sockets, making the joints loosen up. He’d go back to standing for a brief second, before swiftly taking a berserker’s stance with his left leg forward, and right leg at an angle, ready to charge, while forming his left arm up over in front of him. He’d close his eyes, breathe in, but he wouldn’t release his breath. Instead, his eyes would open, glowing brightly in the blood-red hue they were so known for. He’d throw his right foot forward and charge, plowing through the several foot thick concrete cell walls as if they were made of breakaway cinderblocks, but it was very clear this facility has reinforced concrete walls. He’d charge through the concrete like an inhuman drill, smashing away at the stone with his power and momentum, while shaking the whole facility at its core, due to the structural integrity utilizing all of the concrete. Racutio had already seen all the architectural flaws in the facility. He was going to exploit it ALL! And destroy it all to boot. At least, what he knew Nix wouldn’t claim…
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  5. “Man is it good to see you,” Nixon says as Racutio makes his way into Nixon's cell. It had been a while since the last time they were anywhere close to one another. “Well at least they haven't been able to get what they want out of me. I've been hell for them.”

    Listening to the words Racutio had to say Nixon couldn't help but start laughing; the sick joke about a one sided porno sure was a good one. "Nice call Racutio, I'm pretty sure that crooked fuck is probably stroking it right now." Turning his upper body Nixon's light gray eyes meet with the camera as a right arm rises up with a middle finger extended flipping off one of the cameras in the far corner of the room. "Careful pal, don't yank it to hard." He knows the asshole probably saw that. The nice warm coffee he's drinking more than likely spilled down the front of his shirt leaving behind a faint brown stain on a white button up. Laughing he mouths the words "I'm coming for you." Hell's about to be spilled down upon Nixon's little friend, death will be bitter yet ever so sweet. Changing the direction he was facing Nixon watches as Racutio blasts his way through the wall with his fists, he appeared relaxed, he clearly knew what he was doing.

    "Hey buddy before you get too far I want to ask you a question. Do you happen to have a way to rig up something highly explosive? I have recently come upon a new decision." Bringing his right arm upward his hand meets with black bangs flipping them out of his eyes in order to clearly see his good friend. Seconds before strands of black and white filament on his scalp settle into place his hair changes color going strictly raven black. "I believe we should leave here with a bang. There's more to the plan but for now this is more important, we need to set up a bomb." As Nixon's sentence comes to a deadline a badly beaten guard comes around a corner. Barely giving him time to react Nixon was already all over it, a slight snicker rises up from the bottom of his throat. "If you where wise I'd turn around and leave, die another day buddy," he didn't have to see the guard physically. All he had to do was smell him; his sent was strong. This warden was full of fear, the odor seemed to pour forth from the man as he shook in his boots, the afterlife was waiting for him. He surely was going to die sooner or later, that was for sure.
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