Post by Lucy on Sept 18, 2010 14:36:19 GMT -6
Hunter Zed's cybernetic eyes panned the ruins of a factory built some thousand years ago, his thermal vision finding only bright blue and deep violet. But it mattered little. Zed was a machine, he could see in the darkest night, his biomass processors allowed him to run for a week without experiencing what the humans knew as fatigue. The thief could not outrun him, and the factory was the only place for miles in which he could hide. A soft hiss sounded from the servomechanisms in his legs as the ten-foot tall robot stood from his crouch, effortlessly slinging a railgun heavier than most men could lift over his shoulder. He took his first steps over the broken wall into the factory beyond.
Deeper into the silent factory he went, rifle panning from side to side, observing every nook and alcove of the building, processing millions of minute details per second. A crash came from an alleyway, but it was only an animal, four-legged, canine. But was the beast feral, or a pet? Zed chased it through the alley, dodging and jumping, turning a number of corners that would disorient most men (though a subroutine was drawing a detailed map of the factory as he progressed), and eventually coming to an open clearing. There were balconies on either side, a number of barrels and scrap and refuse. The canine walked to his master, licking a hunk of meat from his open palm. The sillhouette at the center gave an uneven heat signature, exhaustion, no doubt.
"Human," Zed's vocalizer crackled, echoing off the flat-stone buildings, "return my auditory unit and I will spare you." His magnetic railgun was perfectly still as it calculated the proper trajectory through the sillhouette's nasal cavity.
"Oh no, Hunter Zed. You will leave now, or we will make good with the rest of your parts."
We? Zed fired, dissolving the sillhouette's head into a number of quickly fading embers. The body fell stiffly to the ground. And just as suddenly, the barrels that surrounded the small courtyard erupted into a wall of fire as a dozen barely visible figures, their bodies covered in heavy robes drenched in cool water (though the robot could not know this) took position on the balconies and catwalks above. His servo hissed wildly as a bullet separated it from his leg, bringing him to one knee. The second shot, from the other side of the courtyard, pierced his biomass generator, spilling a deep-emerald goo to the sandy floor. The last thing Hunter Zed would process is the velocity of the bullet that pierced his cybernetic brain.
"Good boy," the thief spoke in a gruff voice as he emerged from the shadows, petting the pup and kicking the headless plastic figure aside, disconnecting the batteries that gave it warmth. He chuckled, "damn bots never learn, eh boy?"
Anderson Clan
Mankind was once the dominant species on this world, and Anderson clan seeks to make it this way once again. They are a people of caution, calculating and strategizing to gain the upper hand, following stronger groups such as the Beverly Exploration Team when it suits them, but unafraid to cut their ties and return to the shadows when it does not. Anderson Clan is the last bastion of civilization, or so they would argue. They are what it is to be truly human, the last thing worth protecting, worth fighting for. It is for this reason that one will not find a more tightly knit faction in all the world. Nor will you find a group where equality is more prized, provided of course, that you are a human member.
No one knows where the clan name originated. Perhaps it was the founding member, or a figure from deep within humanity's history. Regardless, the men and women of Anderson clan have kept to traditional naming conventions. A first name, a family name, though the ethnic boundaries that separate them have been discarded. They are one species against an ever changing, dangerous world.
Anderson Clan shuns the willing genetic mutations of the hybrid-kind, and eye even the unwillingly changed with suspicion. They understand that the bots have their place in the world, as do the cyborgs, but it is at humanity's side as servants. In the eyes of the Clan they are not truly alive, despite their protests to the contrary. How can one live if they cannot truly die? How can they love if they cannot feel pain? The bots are tools to be exploited, and the cyborgs are cowards who have forsaken their humanity for the safety of feeling no longer.
And feeling is what it all boils down to. Their society struggles to survive, and their numbers dwindle with each battle against stronger, more organized forces. And yet they celebrate, with massive festivals, with a rich culture of dancing and music and art. Their mantra is to live each day as though they would certainly die the next. [/ul]
Deeper into the silent factory he went, rifle panning from side to side, observing every nook and alcove of the building, processing millions of minute details per second. A crash came from an alleyway, but it was only an animal, four-legged, canine. But was the beast feral, or a pet? Zed chased it through the alley, dodging and jumping, turning a number of corners that would disorient most men (though a subroutine was drawing a detailed map of the factory as he progressed), and eventually coming to an open clearing. There were balconies on either side, a number of barrels and scrap and refuse. The canine walked to his master, licking a hunk of meat from his open palm. The sillhouette at the center gave an uneven heat signature, exhaustion, no doubt.
"Human," Zed's vocalizer crackled, echoing off the flat-stone buildings, "return my auditory unit and I will spare you." His magnetic railgun was perfectly still as it calculated the proper trajectory through the sillhouette's nasal cavity.
"Oh no, Hunter Zed. You will leave now, or we will make good with the rest of your parts."
We? Zed fired, dissolving the sillhouette's head into a number of quickly fading embers. The body fell stiffly to the ground. And just as suddenly, the barrels that surrounded the small courtyard erupted into a wall of fire as a dozen barely visible figures, their bodies covered in heavy robes drenched in cool water (though the robot could not know this) took position on the balconies and catwalks above. His servo hissed wildly as a bullet separated it from his leg, bringing him to one knee. The second shot, from the other side of the courtyard, pierced his biomass generator, spilling a deep-emerald goo to the sandy floor. The last thing Hunter Zed would process is the velocity of the bullet that pierced his cybernetic brain.
"Good boy," the thief spoke in a gruff voice as he emerged from the shadows, petting the pup and kicking the headless plastic figure aside, disconnecting the batteries that gave it warmth. He chuckled, "damn bots never learn, eh boy?"
Anderson Clan
Mankind was once the dominant species on this world, and Anderson clan seeks to make it this way once again. They are a people of caution, calculating and strategizing to gain the upper hand, following stronger groups such as the Beverly Exploration Team when it suits them, but unafraid to cut their ties and return to the shadows when it does not. Anderson Clan is the last bastion of civilization, or so they would argue. They are what it is to be truly human, the last thing worth protecting, worth fighting for. It is for this reason that one will not find a more tightly knit faction in all the world. Nor will you find a group where equality is more prized, provided of course, that you are a human member.
No one knows where the clan name originated. Perhaps it was the founding member, or a figure from deep within humanity's history. Regardless, the men and women of Anderson clan have kept to traditional naming conventions. A first name, a family name, though the ethnic boundaries that separate them have been discarded. They are one species against an ever changing, dangerous world.
Anderson Clan shuns the willing genetic mutations of the hybrid-kind, and eye even the unwillingly changed with suspicion. They understand that the bots have their place in the world, as do the cyborgs, but it is at humanity's side as servants. In the eyes of the Clan they are not truly alive, despite their protests to the contrary. How can one live if they cannot truly die? How can they love if they cannot feel pain? The bots are tools to be exploited, and the cyborgs are cowards who have forsaken their humanity for the safety of feeling no longer.
And feeling is what it all boils down to. Their society struggles to survive, and their numbers dwindle with each battle against stronger, more organized forces. And yet they celebrate, with massive festivals, with a rich culture of dancing and music and art. Their mantra is to live each day as though they would certainly die the next. [/ul]