The New Day

[steven]

'Steven grins when Margie leaves, ending his rant. He loves to play games with these people, he knows he's one of the qoute unqoute "patients" that scares them the absolute most because of how hard it is to control him. It isn't his strength, his skills, or any other ability he might use to kill them with that scares them. It is his rather unusual unstoppability that worries them. The level of tranqs they use on him should kill an adult horse or small elephant, but it barely keeps him in control, and even that is primarily an illusion he gives them. He tests his restraints a little bit, seeing how much they would resist him should he try to break them, seeing just how much strength it would take out of him to get loose. He smiles to himself behind the steel faceplate, his deep blue eyes examining the edges of the mask, noting how narrow they are, noting that it would only take a little bit more force then a sharpened edge would to cut a man down.'

'That's when he sits bolt upright, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. He mutters under his breath for a moment before he starts flexing hard, putting every ounce of force he can into his restraining jacket, trying to breka free.' Shit shit shit shit, the guards are late and now this. Can't lose my head, no no no, can't lose my head, gotta break.... freeee.... 'Right then is when the steel chords of the jacket snap and the material tears free, freeing his arms to do what he must do.' Gotta be free, free or dead, free or dead, can't lose my head....

'Now he really is losing it. He quickly unstraps himself from the chair, pulling the face mask off, showing how good looking a guy he actually is. he takes the mask and starts beating at part of the chair, trying to break off a useable peice of it.' Gotta fight back, can't lose my head, must fight, must be free....

[Debbie Grassfielder]

Debbie giggles at Key agreeing with her. If she knew of all the cameras watching them right now like Key did, she didn't make any indication. She was about to try to peer over Key's shoulders to see what she was holding, when Steven started berserking in his chair and breaking his restraints. With a startled cry, Debbie lept from the couch, "No!"

Debbie, hardly a teenager, but barely a little girl anymore, leaps into Steven's lap to try and hold him down. It seemed she was driven by fear, but not fear of him; fear of what they would do. The marching feet of the gaurds was coming closer down the hall now, almost a full regiment of them it sounded like.

Debbie tries to keep Steven sitting in the chair, hugging him around his torso and crying, "No, don't! They'll kill you, they'll kill you for sure!" Somehow, this little girl, barely a budding young woman with naught but a cotton gown and slippers on, was heavier than the steel and ceramic chair Steven was sitting in. There was even a deep depression in the couch cushion where she had been just moments prior, indicating this wasn't a 'new' condition. She could easily hold down a normal man with just her weight alone, but obviously Steven was not a normal man, and so she held on as tight as she could, ready to be tossed away like the rag doll she had so often taunted him with.

The security guards were coming closer now, only a few yards from the door for sure...


((Was someone supposed to play the guards? Just seemed odd to me they weren't coming back. Let me know if I need to change it...))

[steven]

'While her weight definately slows him down, possibly enough that tossing her like a ragdoll is out of the question, Debbie's tackle is the least of his concerns. he continues to rant on about not losing his head, about getting away, escaping, until she mentions the guards killing him. He stops for a moment, looking at her, pure madness in his eyes, not the calm, controlled faked insanity, but the real thing.' They cannot kill that which cannot die. Why do you think they've kept me here for more then two decades? Because they can't figue out HOW to kill me!!

'That's the point that he shakes his whole body in a single, long, fluid motion, throwing the full force of his entire body into a single smooth action to flip her off of him, and if succesful, he starts bashing at the chair again, finally sheering off a long, slightly twisted, but decidedly sharp chunk of metal. Clearly not satisfied though, he grabs it near the sharp end, and despite the definate bleeding it causes, yanks it straight in one clean movement. he flicks his hand to get some of the blood off of it, blood that stops bleeding out disturbingly quickly. He takes his weapon, which seems rather like a short sword at this point, and waits now, facing the door, quite unhappy and still definately freaked out. he turns back, this time with concern on his face.' I'd suggest staying back. Most likely, those aren't the local rent a cops coming through the door, but something far, far worse.

[Key Mischavitch]

It all happened so fast Key barley knew how to react; she stuffed the chunk of paper deep in the couch cushion, and hissed loudly as Debbie leaped off the couch onto Steven, holding him down. Which was impressive in itself, but the last thing she wanted was a lock down so soon after being released, maybe she could talk the guards down. Key followed Debbie and launched herself at Steven, grabbing hold of a chunk of flesh, but that was the moment he decided to throw them off. Debbie felt herself shake free. She let go hissing in pain as she slammed against the ground.

Key felt a gush of blood hit her in the face, Stevens hopefully, the thought that the little girl she’d taken a shinning to bleeding on the floor infuriated Key. She launched herself at Steven once again, he seemed calmer now, he’d said something to Debbie but she didn’t catch it. While Key’s strength was nothing compared to Stevens, she did pack a punch. She threw her whole body weight at Steven, and tried to dig her impressive long metallic claws deep into the mans chest. All the while hissing animalisticly.

‘I’m not going back into my god damn cell because of you!’

She spat angrily. All the while listening to the approaching guards. Maybe she could bring him down herself, saving them all the trouble of lock down.

[Debbie Grassfielder]

Debbie fell to the floor on her back with a hard thud, and her face dropped into cold, calm rage. Key leaped upon the insane man, sparing Debbie the trouble of working alone for the moment. She seemed to have gained an ally, which she was now grateful as Steven seemed far worse to handle than she previously imagined. While Key struggled on the man, Debbie swept her legs over her body in a helicopter move, spinning her body so she was now belly-down with her hands on the floor, and continued the sweep through to kick Steven's knees from behind out from under him. For such a small girl, there was enough mass behind the kick to feel like an aluminum baseball bat filled with concrete.

Debbie snarled at him, "Can't die? They just haven't tried every possibility yet!"

It was too late, though...the doors burst open and the riot-equiped guards poured through. One in the lead, four flanking the patients on either side, weapons ready. Three in the front carried the specialized tranq rounds in ther submachine guns, two in the middle with extended shock batons, two more with short-barreled shotguns, and the rear two with armor-piercing M4A1 carbine assault rifles. Everyone but the lead carried shields. They were all trained on Steven, but orders were barked for all of them to cease and desist. More of the soldier-gaurds could be heard stopping in the hallway.

Just as the double-doors to the rec room swung shut, they bolted into place automatically. Within seconds the light through windows was blocked out by secure plates sliding closed over them. It seemed they were pulling every cliche out of the book.

((How was that?))

[Blood and Roses]

The room is completely dark, but for the light from dozens of computer monitors creating a ghostly illumination on pale faces and white lab coats. The spacing and positioning of the faces give the impression that they are all seated around a horse shoe table, with a single chair set within the U. All faces are turned toward the monitors, which display different rooms and areas throughout the facility.

On one, a man in hospital clothes sits in a corner, banging his head against the padded walls of his cell and uttering arcane nonsense to himself.

In another, three dead-eyed inmates mechanically eat from the trays set in front of them, not looking at anything but the landscape of their own psyches.

On a third, a woman strapped to an upright table screams soundlessly as a white-coated doctor inserts a long, thick needle into her spinal column.

A fourth, a comatose child is slowly lowered into a bath of greenish fluid that seethes and roils as chemicals are pumped into the vat from beneath.

Quite abruptly, the screens go black for a moment, shrouding the room in utter blackness, before flicking back on, all of the monitors displaying a chunk of the same scene, forming a mosaic on the video wall of the commotion in the rec room. A horde of fully-equipped security officers surround the brawling inmates, shouting mute orders at the equally mute combatants. One of the pale coats reveals an equally pale hand, reaching for a telephone seen only by the small, glowing green lights on its panel. A woman's voice breaks the silence of the room. "I'll dispatch a team," she says as she lifts the phone's receiver.

The view of the central chair is one facing its back, and one arm comes into view around the edge of the chair as it raises to signal she should hold off. "Wait," a deep, masculine voice rolls smoothly around the room. "Let's see what they do. Notify Agent Weaver to stand by."

Several of the faces turn to one another, and hushed chatter fills the room as the woman presses the hang-up and begins dialing a new number. "Huxley, M." she states into he receiver. "10039, Epsilon Delta. Activation, Agent 113 Omicron Gamma." The sound of static fills the room, then a male voice came through the speaker phone.

"This is Weaver."

The smooth voice of the man in the central chair sounds out again. "Weaver. Good to hear your voice, my boy."

"Hello, Chairman. Do you have new orders for me?"

"Yes." The Chairman's voice modulats slightly, giving the impression that he is smiling as he speaks. "About that special project we discussed some time ago?"

"I remember, sir."

"Good. I think I've found your candidates. I'm patching the feed to your PDA now."

A moment of silence follows before the voice of Weaver returns. "Them? Really?"

"Is there a problem, Agent?"

"No, sir. I'll make arrangements."

"Excellent. I expect your first report in one week."

A click sounds as the phone call ends. All eyes turn back to the monitor wall to watch the scene displayed there unfold.

[steven]

'Key's claws puncture his chest, and while he is clearly wounded, the blood is proof enough of that, he stays standing. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't seem affected at all. He wrenches his whoole body into one impossibly, inhumanly fast spin, ducking low as he twirls around on one heel, the move designed to throw Key off, get them both out of line of fire, and put him in perfect position to kick the heavy remains of his wheelchair right at the guards. Normally, one would think Debbie's impressive power would fell any man, but Steven is no man. At least, no MORTAL man. Steven is one of a rare mutation in the human race, a being endowed with the power of eternal life. near eternal, at least. Unaging, healing from nearly any wound, never slowed by pain or weakness or disease. While modern chemicals can suppress the body if given in sufficient quantity, even their tolerance for those is greatly multiplied.'

'And thus, the kick from the child, while unlocking his knees, is not near sufficient to bring him down. It is, however, sufficient to add to his momentum in his spin, and lend power to his own kick of the chair, sending the heavy and twisted wreckage right into the security guards. It's enough to knock over the front three of them, with a fourth dieing a split second later as Steven's make-shift weapon pierces his riot shield, his helmet, his skull. That same weapon enters the throat of the taller man behind him. While his speed, agility and strength are impressively beyond human, he is no God, and he takes two tranquilizer darts in the hip as he moves, Key attached to him or not. He dives behind the very couch Debbie was in, reaching one arm under, on over, and half lifting, half throwing it at the remaining four security guards. With three temporarily immobilized and two very clearly and quite bloodily dead, suddenly four on one doesn't seem like such bad odds.'

[Blood and Roses]

The four guards quickly step back, bringing their shields to bear against the impact of the airborne furniture. Their combined mass is enough to absorb the impact with moderate effort. At the same time, the three sprawling guards disengage themselves from their tangle with the wheelchair and quickly rise to their feet, weapons ready. All weapons are trained on the berserk inmate, each taking aim, when a radio transmission is broadcast into the room. Each of the Tower's people receive the transmission as a small picture in their heads-up display, the head and shoulders of a man of indeterminate age, with vaguely Asian features. Beneath this image, a simple, low-poly image of a silver crown identified this man as an Agent. "Hold your fire," the voice is laced with static, but clearly understood. "Agent 113 Omicron Gamma, designation Weaver. I am en route. Contain the situation pending my arrival."

The seven remaining guards, though tense as coiled springs, breath an inward sigh of relief. Finally. A handler was coming.

The guards began to fan out around the edges of the room, shouting for the inmates to prostrate themselves on the floor. They barked their orders to all of the inmates, but all eyes, and weapons, were still zeroed in on Steven. The one man with no shield calls out to him. "Surrender now, inmate, before this scenario goes from bad to worse!" His eyes dart to the other inmates. "The same goes for all of you! Surrender now, and you lot won't come to any harm. Resist, and we'll be forced to bring you down with prejudice."

With military precision, the rifleman thumb the safeties off of their firearms, the dart gunners set to reloading their specialized ammo, and the stun baton-wielders activate their weapons with an audible hum. They had no intent of disobeying orders by attacking, instead hoping to intimidate with the display.

[steven]

'He growls, a feral grin spreading across his face. He's just simply not the type to give up. After all, what is there to fear when you cannot die? He was taught not to do this kind of thing, he was taught to never display his power. After all, it leads to abd things with governments. But look at where he is. Knee deep in "bad things" with what he can only assume to be government types. That, plus incarceration, plus the annoyance factor at these bastards standing up in his way, and he is one pissed off guy.'

'But now, he's totally unarmed. At least, for a brief moment. Because all it takes is the blink of an eye before he's turned, twisted, and dodged their first round of tranq darts and not only grabbed hold of the shield of the guard behind him, but slammed the shield into the guards face with enough force to break his maxillary bone and nose, as well as destroying his entire top row of teeth. A quick turn has the shield between him and the second barrage of tranqs, meanwhile he's hrowing the guard he took the shield from with one arm, using the momentum of his turn to give him the leverage he needs to hurl him at the nearest enemy. He's a vicious, trained killer, his people bred for battle. And he's using it.'

[Blood and Roses]

The chopper had not even set rails on the pad before the Agent had leapt from it, landing lightly and jogging over to meet with the liaison awaiting him. He wore a tailored black suit and dark sunglasses, and the black hair on his head was spiked artfully, and didn't flutter a bit in the wind from the helicopter blades. He held his hand out to the liaison in greeting, but instead she thrust a manila envelope into it.

The Agent peeled open the envelope as the chopper rose into the air and sped away. The packet inside contained the dossiers for all of the subjects involved in the current incident, along with orders on how to proceed. The Agent riffled through the papers and photographs until he found what he was looking for as the liaison looked on silently.

She would have been a looker, this liaison, but the severe expression on her face and no-nonsense business attire made her look old beyond her years. That, and the mechanical grey eyeball in her left socket and the line of a subdermal microphone along her jawline. She watched as the Agent scanned the page he'd plucked out. "Is there a problem, Agent Weaver?" she asked coldly as the man looked questioningly at her over his shades.

"Not at all, ma'am. Just interested in seeing the next set of orders." Weaver grinned at the liaison, but the grin died quickly as she glared back at him. "Ah, yeah, uh... Orders received. I'll have a report entered by 0800 hours."

"The Board will have your report by 0300 hours, or you'll be drawn up for probation." The red light in the center of the liaison's mechanical eye glared unblinking at Weaver, who grimaced at the pronouncement.

"Fine, fine. 0300, then." Weaver brushed past the woman and pushed open the door behind her that would take him into the facility. "Because I'm a damn machine, like the rest of you." Agent Weaver spat in disgust, then held up the packet of papers. He released the packet, and it hung suspended in the air a moment, before it began to roll and crumple in on itself, shrinking until it was no longer visible.

Just then, the liaison's face appeared in the digital subscreen in his sunglasses. "We're aware you're not mechanical, Agent Weaver," the tinny voice in his earpiece stated. "You have until 0300 to compensate for this weakness. Our mechanized agents would have been given a zero-hour deadline."

"Whatever." Weaver took off the shades and tossed them into a trashcan as he walked past.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A new message was broadcast into the receivers of the operatives in-house. All within the building received the transmission, Agent Weaver's face appearing in their visual displays, and his voice in their ear pieces.

Squad, disengage and stand down. Gather your fallen, secure the non-hostiles. Let the elephant run.

The armed security force reacted immediately, dropping their weapons to hang on their shoulder slings, gathering their fallen comrades and dragging them to the doorways. None even stopped to look up at Steven, attending to their orders with single-minded efficiency. Once the dead and injured guards were removed, those still functioning returned to check the status of the other residents. They expect no resistance from these, and make no move against those that do. Their goal is to get those still living out of harm's way, and escape with their lives.

[Debbie Grassfielder]

Debbie was stunned Steven's legs didn't go out beneath him. She was positive she connected. She visibly swallowed the lump in her throat, fear written across her face. She somersaulted across the floor to the back of the room, away from the guards, and leaped to her feet. She spun around quickly to the sealed windows even as the guards were called off, and she started banging against the plates with her small fists.

"Let me out!" she screamed, tears forming in her panicked eyes, "Let me out, let me out, let me OUT!" The window plate had two dents in it from the pounding, but barely budged otherwise. She sank to her knees, her hands and forehead on the wall while guards left the room, and sobbed against the painted concrete.

If she knew of an approaching enemy, she made no indication of it. If she knew where the guards had gone, there wasn't a hint of it in her face or body language. She was a frightened young girl, and that was all anybody could see. It was so plausible a young girl would be scared for her life under these circumstances, you could find it in a psychology text book under a chapter of stress-induced trauma.

Coincidentally or not, she was at the same exact window Steven was always wheeled to, and in all the commotion her rag doll had been tossed across the floor and was now beside her. Unless stopped, she reached for the only 'comfort' she had and squeezed the doll to her chest.

[steven]

'He roars as they leave and lock him in, his rampage not complete yet. Steven charges for the doors as the guards retreat, but they get them sealed before he can get through. He rams right into the doors, the wall shuddering from the impact, but they're a heavy gauge steel and don't give to the blow. Even the concrete around the hinges in reinforced because of inmates with his level of strength.'

'He growls and starts angrily slamming into the door over and over, roaring, completely lost in his current rage. He wants OUT, to be FREE, he needs his sword. He steps back and grabs hold of the couch from earlier and lifts it up onto his back and charges the door with it, slamming it into the center of the doors as hard as he can. He's rewarded with such a lovely sound of shattering... couch. Bits of it rain down on him and the cushions go flying as it's frame is obliterated under the weight of the blow. But the door stands firm.' YOU WILL SET ME FREE!!! I WILL KILL YOU ALL!!!!!!! LET ME OUT!!!

[Blood and Roses]

One of the security guards kneels beside the comatose Tara, checking her pulse and breathing before yanking the tranq darts from her shoulder and hip. A double dose would keep her down for hours, and there would be no chance to wake her. The guard hooks both of his arms under her shoulders, from behind, and drags her out through the door.

Another guard quietly approaches Key and silently extracts her from the brawl.

A third makes his way to the frantic Debbie, but pauses as she beats her small fists against the window plate. The damage is apparent to him, and he attempts to shush her with comforting words. "Easy now, come on down from there. Nice and easy, no harm done. Come on, miss..." So far, he has escaped notice from Steven as he rages against the steel-reinforced door, and attempts to urge her away. Debbie's only response is to hug her doll to her chest. "Please, let's get out of here before he kills us both! Come on down..." his whispers are reaching a frantic pitch.

"Steven, is it?" A voice crackles through hidden speakers in the room. The voice is calm and even, emotionless. "Very impressive work, Steven. You are a murderer par excellence." The word murderer is spoken with a hint of distaste. "Just like the rest of your breed."

"That's right, Steven. A breed, genus, and species, classified and categorized, and you are not the first we have seen. In fact, we know much about homo sapiens superior regenerae; your lifespan, your Game, your "Quickening." Fascinating."

"We've been working with one of your kind. It was by his council that we managed to bring you in, decades ago. From what I understand, he's an old acquaintance of yours, though he claims that you haven't spoken since the Crusades. Political differences, I understand." The voice pauses briefly. "He's eager to meet with you. He wants me to tell you to "bring your sword."

"Do I have your attention yet?"

[steven]

'He snarls up at the speaker, well aware they usually have cameras hidden within or right beside these squakw-boxes. He punches the wall right below it and growls at it.'

I don't know who you're talking about. You might understand who we are, but I'm not THAT old yet. Your associate clearly has his histories wrong. I was just like you homo sapiens until KOREA! If I was that old, your people wouldn't have stood a snowballs chance in hell of capturing me. But if it gets me out of here, let me have my sword, I'll have his head, THEN YOURS! My kin are meant to be free, to be OUT! Locking us up like this is a crime against the UNIVERSE ITSELF!!!

'He's clearly been affected by incarceration. They don't deal with being locked up very well, especially the younger ones like him. The thought of spending literally all eternity bound, gagged, chained, and sedated, is NOT comforting.'

[Blood and Roses]

The voice in the speaker has a grimly amused cast as it continues. "He told me you would say something like that. His exact words, in fact, were..." The sound of papers shuffling can be heard over the speaker. "He said: "He won't remember, so don't bother with bringing up the past. His talents lie in the physical realm, not the mental or spiritual. It is likely his past lives will be forever beyond his grasp." So tell me, Steven, is it true? Are you a simple brute with no sense of the past?"

"I suppose it doesn't matter," the Voice continues, "because he said he has every intention of taking your head again. He said that your head swung from his saddle until the flesh rotted away, and that he would do the same with the one you have now. "

"And yet... the man has become a niusence to me and my organization. It would please me greatly to find someone who could remove this thorn from my side, and well... you're the only pony in my stable. Perhaps we might come to an agreement?"