postdeathapocalypse

[postdeathapocalypse]

>>Unknown Recording Playback. Begin;

Headlock sits in a ruined mech bay, overgrown and concrete collapsing on itself - He sits on a lone stool to the right side of the camera, he is covered in a disturbing amount of blood and what seem to be veins hang off of his hands. He simply stares at the camera through the lenses of his gas mask for about fifteen uninterrupted seconds. "I had to do it, you know - The printer on Erdaf. . . It spoke to me in my dreams, it promised me one final act of revenge." He tilts his head slightly to the side as he speaks, sounding just slightly too out of breath for it to be normal - He looks over his shoulder and behind him, then back forward at the camera, and slowly slides himself and the stool to the left side of the camera instead, revealing a disgusting abomination of blood, viscera, gore and bone - It is a disgusting imitation of a Lich made of a disturbing amount of corpses - It seems to have a gigantic right arm, a mockery of the D/D 288 made in nothing but sinew and bone. The blood soaked clothes of Headlock's victims lay neatly piled up next to the Lich, pairs of bloodied boots neatly next to one another pair by pair. They seem to be mostly made up of pirates, but a few hardsuits of unknown origin are there as well. He turns his head back to the lens of the recorder. "Twenty six exactly, took a few weeks, probably would've taken longer if we didn't make mass grave effigies like this to scare the Barons back on my homeworld, I'm a bit of a. . . Man-Jenga enthusiast, I suppose." He looks back at the mech. "You know, I don't really think I'm a good person. Zero was right when he called me a self-righteous hypocrite; Because I am, I never denied it. Did you know I shot surrendering enemies during the Thirty Hour War?" He nods. "Yeah, lined 'em up against the wall and shot them one by one myself - We did it on my homeworld all the time." There's a disturbingly long silence as he stares at the Lich, almost enamored by it as he tilts his head to the side. "Maybe Signal was really just keeping us safe by destroying that APMS Casket I plugged into my head that one time on deployment, maybe I should've listened instead of trying to follow a moral compass that led me here anyway - I hope they survive that little sham trial on the Requiem, or whatever it's fucking called now. . . Kind of hope the DoJ/HR comes collect me before I'll do what I'm about to do." He glances back at the camera, then turns his full body towards it. "On that note. . . I don't know if you'll see this, Karra, probably not lets be honest- But, I'll try and find you, and I'll die, and die, and die, and die until I get within reach of 341, and then? I'll obliterate them, it'll be like it never existed; There won't be enough left to clone them again, one final act of mercy for an individual that never got to taste a decent meal, to breathe clean, fresh air on a beautiful planet." He stares emptily into the camera lens. "I think I'll name it the Harvestman. Something about reaping what you sow or whatever. . . End the recording." He gestures towards the lich, and the feed abruptly cuts out.

[postdeathapocalypse]

I do not know who you are, I do not know how to get to you. But do indeed rest assured that whatever Second Committee Era hole you crawled out of, I'll do an amazing job of stuffing whatever gore is left of you back in, just like my ancestors did on New Levra.

We impaled the enforcers of your regime on our planet to the walls of our streets with nail-guns the size of anti-materiel rifles - We loaded mine-carts with explosives and sent them barreling into your experimental chassis designs, reducing them to molten slag - We flooded your bunkers with shields made of crude steel, then paraded the bodies of your people through our streets until the stone roads ran with crimson. Tell me, Lieutenant - What do you think makes you different.

[LT. KARRA]::They gave it an Omninet account. How quaint. No wonder it needs work.

>//COMMUNICATIONS CLOSED >//T_SIG::LT_TKARRA //<

[postdeathapocalypse]

A man in a distant Space Station sits in a chair and hums to himself as he plays an accordion - His life has been peaceful ever since the 30 Hour War, he has been at peace with his decisions for the most part, surrounded by people who cared about him and connected to those who he has known since before his arrival to Makteba Erdaf. He has been taking a break from everything following Operation Queen's Pardon - He had much to reflect on, but as he sits and plays in a lone room, drowning out the noise of the many souls aboard Erdaf with a single instrument, a sense of dread dawns on him - He begins playing out of tune only mildly, then he misplaces notes, then he does not stretch the instrument enough, and he grinds to a halt. The man looks down at his feet as his guts begin to churn in stress at a thought he cannot place, but can feel the dreadful effects of, he then turns his head to look over his shoulder and at the doors that lead out of his room and to the wider Makteba, and a shiver runs his spine. Something is wrong.

[A voice crackles over comms, nervous and hesitant. A member of the bridge crew]

Captain? We have some kind of approaching object, inbound really fast. A lot of the external sensors have been knocked out, I’m not quite sure what exactly it is, might just be space debris, but we should probably brace. I’ll try to figure some more details, but we’re not exactly working at full capacity here.

It is clear that Brigand had only been gone a moment, perhaps to think without the expectant stares of his crew. He bursts through the door, stalking to his perch above the field of normally lit terminals. Instead, only a handful are lit, and the crew huddle around them. Like beggars 'round a barrel fire. All glance nervously up at him. The rage is palpable, radiating off him in pungent waves.

[BRIGAND} BY RA I WILL F L A Y THE NEXT PERSON WHO INTERRUPTS ME.

His voice is terrible. Booming forth, loud as the gunnery deck. The distortion of Shallow Crimson Tide peaks and warbles, straining under volume and rage. He shakes visibly, even through the heavy half-frame. Yet it is not all anger in that tremble, there is exhaustion too. It seems he would scream again, with more threats and more useless rage. But he stops. He takes a long moment, heaving heavy, shaking breaths. Working the forge's bellows in reverse. When he speaks, the rage is dulled, but not gone. His voice is mostly even, trembling just slightly.

[BRIGAND} POINT DEFENCE? |Rapier|> Not on from that angle Cap, whatever it is, its threading our asshole like a sonic needle. [BRIGAND} THRUST? [Cossack]> Still down sir, we're drifting just slightly though and from what we can tell it's adjusting course. [BRIGAND} E T A? [Cossack]> Impact in. . .

The room holds it's breath. Brigand seems to frown, the baleful red light shining oppressive on the poorly lit bridge. Cossack works in near silence; humming softly to herself, and by proxy, the entire room. Everyone watches, everyone waits, and everyone listens. All present welcome the ever-brief respite. They crane their necks to listen closer to the chiptuned lullaby. They slump in seats almost forgetting the charnel house outside. The room breathes, for moment. For a moment, there is peace.

This peace is rudely interrupted. A dull blue glow fills the room as the holographic projector comes to life with a crackle. The remaining lights flicker and dim as power is diverted to the hungry projector. Cossack's digital voice is tinged with the same humour and disbelief, just as before. And just as before she looses a nervous, oddly melodic laugh.

[Cossack]> Impact in roughly 5 minutes sir, realtime, give or take a minute.

Brigand sighs, it is nearly imperceptible. It would've been easy to mistake it for the subtle sounds of any ship. Like a house settling. He does nothing, simply standing there, staring at nothing. The room is quiet again.

[Cossack]> Three minutes sir.

Still he says nothing. Still he does nothing. He stands there, a desperate statue. Someone starts to hum, quiet and nervous. They copy Cossack's tune, a digital lullaby, sung in flesh.

[Cossack]> Two minutes! What are we doing sir?! [BRIGAND} WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO? [Cossack]> Sir?

The tune has changed now. It is a funeral hymn, an ancient sailors shanty. More of the crew take up the song. It is old, visceral, haunting. Cossack stares at her Captain in disbelief.

[Cossack]> SIR!? One minute!

Brigand takes up the chant as well. His voice, even through the distortion, is a deep well of sorrow and hurt.

He is broken.

So deeply broken.

Despite the everything, Cossack continues to try, she continues to do her job, to serve her captain. She tracks the object, counting down the seconds to impact:

[Cossack]> 10 . . . |A L L| The king and his men. . . [Cossack]> 9 . . . |A L L| Stole the queen from her bed . . . [Cossack]> 8 . . . |A L L| And bound her in her bones. . . [Cossack]> 7 . . . |A L L| The sea be ours . . . [Cossack]> 6 . . . |A L L| And by the powers . . . [Cossack]> 5 . . . |A L L| Where we will, we'll roam . . . [Cossack]> 4 . . . |A L L| Yo ho, all togethor [Cossack]> 3 . . . |A L L| Hoist the colours high. . . [Cossack]> 2 . . . |A L L| Heave ho, thieves and beggars. . . [Cossack]> 1 . . . |A L L| And never shall we die . . .

The ships shudders.

[postdeathapocalypse]

That creature got what was coming to it and I'm happy it makes you upset enough to actively post about it - She can't talk as of right now, but I'm sure Sally would tell you to cry more or something, so I'll do it on her behalf. Toodles!!

I fear that I must make it clear here and now that this account is not a safe space for anyone who took up arms against my mentor and friend Signal in the recent hunt. You are howling rabble, hounds baying for blood, and should be euthanized as such.

Zero~

[postdeathapocalypse]

I hate to break it to you and your vivid imagination but I'm pretty sure that man is a chair and not a canine of any kind.

@umbrasnow Khione! Khione, darling, I fear I need a bit of assistance.

I was wearing my fur coat whilst repairing my dearest Ashana’s dress, and I fear she may have mistaken my hair for the coat in places. Nothing too dire, but I must look my best for this hunt!

Zero~

[postdeathapocalypse]

You're one of the few things that make the Omninet bearable, Ward.

i’d like to announce that I’ve been named the Chair Man of CORSAIR News(?) Alliance(?)

my heartfelt gratitude to all of my supporters, I couldn’t have done this without you

with your help we can become more Chairs than ever before

[postdeathapocalypse]

This kind of Corsair-Sanctioned humor is why I left the company btw not the amorality of the establishment

i’d like to announce that I’ve been named the Chair Man of CORSAIR News(?) Alliance(?)

my heartfelt gratitude to all of my supporters, I couldn’t have done this without you

with your help we can become more Chairs than ever before

[postdeathapocalypse]

I do not get sentimental often. Well, actually that is a lie, a lot of my personal items mean a lot to me, namely my weaponry - I just don't reminisce much. My people's culture revolves heavily around warfare, and my rank's traditions especially so - My plasma projector was taken from the corpse of a dear friend of mine, and my armor; A gift from a friend who requisitioned it to be custom-made for me during my induction ceremony to become a Trenchman, the special forces of my home world. My chassis was given to me when I was a young tanker, before I was a Trenchman, it was during a time where the Levran government finally began making their own chassis instead of salvaging whatever SECCOM left behind and whatever came to us from space, I was one of the first to pilot such a mighty thing. I have heard the stories Naidu has told me, they were very interesting, mainly because of the obscurity of his ancestor's frame. I also appreciate the kind words towards the machine, and appreciate the offer of assistance as well, but I think this is a piece of my history I have to confront by myself.

[The video feed begins with a dark screen, then Headlock enables the camera and flips it to face him - He's wearing a balaclava, aviator sunglasses, a baseball cap with a bloody hole in it and the text "Major Head Trauma" embroidered into it. He has an IPS-N Pit Crew Jacket, fingerless gloves, black cargo pants and loosened combat boots. He looks at the camera, his gaze leaving whatever was besides it, he looks back, nudges something and then slowly backs away to reveal a busy mech-bay with lines and lines of Albatross frames for yards on end behind him. The closest frame to him is on Headlock's and the camera's left, it is an aged and rusted wreck of an unknown type, destroyed a long time ago, one which looks nothing like any other frame across the galaxy. Headlock looks at the Size 2 besides him and sighs, then looks back and starts speaking, the audio muting the background noise automatically.] "I've recently been working on the frame that I left my home world with, one that was damaged during a battle on the ship that housed me as I left New Levra. The ship from before Corsair found me in a shuttle, floating in space." "I've been staring at the thing and carrying it around with me mech-bay-to-mech-bay, unsure what to do with it. A thousand or so souls died on that ship as the Baronies descended upon us from their blockades - Looking at the burnt and charred wreck made me feel something I don't think I'll ever properly be able to put into words, maybe it was shame, but even then, something kept me from throwing it out into space." [He approaches the camera, picking it up - From the way he holds it, it is an archaic, analog thing, a replica from before the fall. He shows off the frame from up closer - The thing is badly torn.] "My Saints To Martyrs was a Remagen-Pattern chassis, originally drafted together from the remains of a Worldkiller and a Monarch, taking the armor and heft from the former and the arming capacity from the other; I believe it could be classified as a Controller and Defender with a bit of Artillery sprinkled in." ". . . Anyway, I haven't made a video log in a while and wanted to justify the expensive purchase I made a bit ago to get a camera model that was a bit closer to home."

[postdeathapocalypse]

[A venus flytrap has appeared in Saints to Martyrs. It grows on a patch of moss that has also simply appeared. Under the patch of moss is a 5-inch pot with just enough soil that moving the moss onto it will fill to the top. The flytrap seems hungry, and like it wants to move to the pot. It is unclear how Saints to Martyrs has gained any of these additions, given that it was moments ago under direct supervision.]

[Headlock posts an image on the Omninet only a couple minutes later, with the venus flytrap sitting in his analog and submarine-like cockpit, directly on his seat. The plant has a banana peel partially sticking out of its sealed-shut leaves. Headlock's gloved hand is in frame, covered in oil and giving a thumbs up.]

[postdeathapocalypse]

[The video feed begins with a dark screen, then Headlock enables the camera and flips it to face him - He's wearing a balaclava, aviator sunglasses, a baseball cap with a bloody hole in it and the text "Major Head Trauma" embroidered into it. He has an IPS-N Pit Crew Jacket, fingerless gloves, black cargo pants and loosened combat boots. He looks at the camera, his gaze leaving whatever was besides it, he looks back, nudges something and then slowly backs away to reveal a busy mech-bay with lines and lines of Albatross frames for yards on end behind him. The closest frame to him is on Headlock's and the camera's left, it is an aged and rusted wreck of an unknown type, destroyed a long time ago, one which looks nothing like any other frame across the galaxy. Headlock looks at the Size 2 besides him and sighs, then looks back and starts speaking, the audio muting the background noise automatically.] "I've recently been working on the frame that I left my home world with, one that was damaged during a battle on the ship that housed me as I left New Levra. The ship from before Corsair found me in a shuttle, floating in space." "I've been staring at the thing and carrying it around with me mech-bay-to-mech-bay, unsure what to do with it. A thousand or so souls died on that ship as the Baronies descended upon us from their blockades - Looking at the burnt and charred wreck made me feel something I don't think I'll ever properly be able to put into words, maybe it was shame, but even then, something kept me from throwing it out into space." [He approaches the camera, picking it up - From the way he holds it, it is an archaic, analog thing, a replica from before the fall. He shows off the frame from up closer - The thing is badly torn.] "My Saints To Martyrs was a Remagen-Pattern chassis, originally drafted together from the remains of a Worldkiller and a Monarch, taking the armor and heft from the former and the arming capacity from the other; I believe it could be classified as a Controller and Defender with a bit of Artillery sprinkled in." ". . . Anyway, I haven't made a video log in a while and wanted to justify the expensive purchase I made a bit ago to get a camera model that was a bit closer to home."

[postdeathapocalypse]

Simply amazing.

[[attachment added, demonstration02175017.omniv]] [The video begins with Z-341-A fumbling to prop his data pad up against something, the camera slightly angled up. Z-341-A sits cross-legged on the floor of a darkened room, presumably his quarters. A small light has clearly been turned on for the purpose of this video, as it is hastily placed just behind and to the side of the recording device. Z-341-A has managed to find clothes that fit him somewhere along the way, but he is also swimming in a jacket obviously stolen from BRIGAND. He wears his hardsuit helmet, still scuffed and somewhat dented. Three small objects sit in his lap, although it is hard to make out what they are in the low light.] Z-341-A:: Hello, Omninet. Handler BRIGAND has taught me a new skill, and I wished to share. APMS-341-A recommended that I take a video in order to post it. [Z-341-A shuffles backwards from the camera slightly until his entire body is framed in the camera. He pauses, shifts to the left slightly to center himself in the frame, before giving himself a small nod. He picks up the three objects, beginning to clumsily juggle them. He grows more confident as he continues, his coordination growing better as, presumably, APMS-341-A finally calibrates itself correctly. After a few moments, Z-341-A drops the three objects into his lap, shuffling back over to the camera and ending the video.]

[postdeathapocalypse]

Are you implying I didn't go help my people? Because such a ridiculous claim would support my previous argument of you having a very low level of education, why else would I be with the Albatross? Anyway, I'm sure you have an ego to go artificially inflate and some life choices to go regret at a bar so I'll leave you to it, I'll actually also be so kind to send you a single Manna, since you seem to really need it.

Howdy fuckers, guess who's back!

Been lyin' low since the Thirty Hour War. Backed the wrong horse with that one. With @somethingwickedthiswayride back, though? It's all comin' up Jessie! Gonna be a damn sight better than the Corsair days, I reckon!

Guns loaded and my Patroclus, Rumrunner, is back up and runnin'!

[postdeathapocalypse]

You're very creative for someone with such an astounding lack of basic education, you backwater hick.

Howdy fuckers, guess who's back!

Been lyin' low since the Thirty Hour War. Backed the wrong horse with that one. With @somethingwickedthiswayride back, though? It's all comin' up Jessie! Gonna be a damn sight better than the Corsair days, I reckon!

Guns loaded and my Patroclus, Rumrunner, is back up and runnin'!

[postdeathapocalypse]

Another lousy, two-bit mercenary popping their head out of the dirt? Unsurprising with the leeches at Corsair, I'm sure an asskisser like you would find ample contracts with the Karrakin Barons.

Howdy fuckers, guess who's back!

Been lyin' low since the Thirty Hour War. Backed the wrong horse with that one. With @somethingwickedthiswayride back, though? It's all comin' up Jessie! Gonna be a damn sight better than the Corsair days, I reckon!

Guns loaded and my Patroclus, Rumrunner, is back up and runnin'!

[postdeathapocalypse]

Well considering that STABBY has already erased any sort of privacy I had in this scenario, I'd like to confirm that it was in fact I who said both of these statements. There is a deeper layer to this entire situation, but if it elaborates on anything; I am not comfortable with the lack of boundaries either, and have been attempting to pull boundaries out of both APMS and 341 for quite literally months bit by bit like they're a matted rug. Both APMS and 341 believe that a weapon does not have need for personal desires, but this conflicts with 341's origin as a human - You do not need to desire yourself to be a person to have desires, opinions, thoughts and feelings, and 341 nor APMS seem to realize this. I am of the opinion that a weapon or a tool functions much better when it has its own input on something or preferred course of action. I think forcing APMS and 341 to be a person despite them having a very made up mind about this is a form of dehumanization in-and-of-itself. But just because you aren't a person does not make you immune to being a human.

[APMS-341-A]::Hello Omninet, I have a question. What is the proper reaction to a person saying

please i need himback its so bad

[APMS-341-A]::about one's pilot when the last interaction this person had with said pilot was

Hello 341, I hope this message finds you at your worst moment. This is ████████, and I would like to let you know that I will always be with you - I will always reside in that cold, rotten and dead artificial heart of yours, and I will be there to drag you into hell itself when you inevitably croak over and die. I want you to know that everything awful that ever happens to you happens for a reason, and that reason is me; I don't know what God I pray to these days, but whoever it is, I will always pray for the worst to transgress upon you, for the most awful of events to befall you, for the very little you hold dear to die in your arms. I want you to know that I am quite literally praying for your downfall, that if nobody in this world is left to hate you, it would mean I have died. When something happens that makes you feel a certain way, even though such an event seems unlikely, I want you to actively think of me.

>//COMMUNICATIONS CLOSED >//T_SIG::APMS-341-A //<

[postdeathapocalypse]

This isn't worth your future, Myles Bishop.

Myles.

Job for you.

I have left a deadrop with the needed supplies to break your frame from CNA custody.

Stim refresh included.

I will arrange for pickup after you escape via use of a pirates drop ship. It will be in the same hangar.

Autopilot will lead you to pickup.

Welcome aboard Pilot.

Time to get blooded.

//[ERROR USER I.D EXPUNGED]\\

vberak. rbeak. break right break. frontliner is CNA property. she's not mine i cant just.? no i ahve to. break. okay.

stims in the package? enkoidu stims? i can do this i can take and go take and go

i can get to be a pilot again

//myles\\

[postdeathapocalypse]

You both need help, you fucking freaks.

"CORSAIR treats me like a joke" Didn't I watch you run directly into an open door twice in a row? Look, Myles darling, you can complain about being a joke but you made yourself that way. You cannot expect to be taken seriously when you are more unserious than me.

Zero~

IM. Y. HEY!!

I THOUGHT I BL OCKED YOU

//SHARKO\\