Dies Irae: The Prison
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Extreme =&gt; Extreme Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: Sparrowhawke on 10-07-2012, 11:36:25</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Sparrowhawke</strong> on <strong>10-07-2012, 11:36:25</strong>
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				<div align="center">(http://i985.photobucket.com/albums/ae338/flamingdeadman/Elliquiy/diesiraemainsign_big.png)<br>If you have not been invited to this game, please do not post in any of the Dies Irae threads.<br>This is a <span class="bbc_u">PRIVATE</span> game.<br>Thank you.<br><hr><hr>(http://i985.photobucket.com/albums/ae338/flamingdeadman/Elliquiy/correctionalfacility2_special.jpg)</div><hr><hr><span style="font-size: 14pt;" class="bbc_size"><span class="bbc_u">Residents</span></span><br><span style="font-size: 8pt;" class="bbc_size">People who call this location their home:</span><br><strong>Chief</strong>, Mack — <em>Flaming Dead Man</em><br><strong>Second in Command</strong>, (open) — <em>n/a</em><br><strong>Intelligence</strong>, Oberon — <em>Dim Hon</em><br><strong>Medic</strong>, (open) — <em>n/a</em><br><br><span style="font-size: 14pt;" class="bbc_size"><span class="bbc_u">About</span></span><br>Built like a fortress, it’s no real surprise that this prison survived through the war. It’s not pretty, but it certainly serves its purpose, and only a few repairs have been needed. The prison works as the perfect base for the Krovi Clan. The whole place has been well fortified, and is the most secure building in Vergent City; it would take a lot of firepower to take that place down, and — unfortunately for any enemies of the Krovi Clan — most of the available firepower is secured within its walls.<br><br><span style="font-size: 14pt;" class="bbc_size"><span class="bbc_u">Available Resources</span></span><br><span style="font-size: 8pt;" class="bbc_size">Includes, but is not limited to:</span><br>&gt; Guns and Ammo — <em>Machine guns and turrets, shotguns, pistols, and other loud, ranged weapons.</em><br>&gt; Heavy Armor — <em>Full body suits that are built to reflect even the most powerful guns.&nbsp; They provide oxygen, but the suit still needs to be removed to eat and perform other bodily functions.&nbsp; With no weak points, a ranged or stealth attacker must wait until the suit is removed.&nbsp; They may seem like the perfect defense, but they're clunky and reduce movement significantly.</em>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Nadir</strong> on <strong>27-08-2012, 16:51:09</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://i286.photobucket.com/albums/ll98/thetragicfragments/the_water_element_by_audreydutroux-d3rqf1w-1.jpg)<br>Oberon<br>Tagging: Open</div><br><br>“Ugly piece of shit, nothing in this fucking place does what it fucking is meant to, have to fucking find a real mechanic and not let that bastard touch anything important again... look at the mess!” Oberon snarled to himself, his gloveless hands moving over the exposed wires of his helmet. It was all wrong, wrong, wrong. It had stopped working a week ago, and that had left him without any means to call in support, without nightvision and heat sensing, or anything. The only upside was the GPS was no longer displaying - telling him that he was somehow a hundred and seventy miles away from where he actually was. Whatever satellite spoke to the electronics had been knocked off course.&nbsp; He had given the helmet, reluctantly, to the ‘mechanic’ to see if it was just something simple, but he should have known better than that. The inbred piss sniffer didn’t have the skill, just the tools he had looted some time ago and the arrogance to say he was good with them.<br><br>Oberon undid the shoddy wiring, cursing under his breath as he did, until he had taken the helmet to bits and spread them out over the table. Slowly, and with great frustration he rebuilt it, having to stop when his fingers began to shake or when someone came too close and threatened to disturb his work. <br><br>He wasn’t good at fixing things, but he could remember with stark vividness how the wiring had looked before the idiot had made it worse, and he could recreate that if he was persistent. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Flaming Dead Man</strong> on <strong>30-08-2012, 09:41:02</strong>
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				<div align="center"><span style="font-size: 36pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: andale mono;" class="bbc_font">MACK</span></span></div><hr><hr><div class="floatright"><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family: andale mono;" class="bbc_font"><span class="bbc_u">LOCATION</span><br>Entering Oberon's Room<br><br><span class="bbc_u">TAGGING</span><br>Oberon</span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Outside the walls of the prison, Mack — like all the others of his company (those still alive, anyway) — wore a full suit and helmet, lest he want to risk death.&nbsp; Inside, however, he took the chance to shed his armor with the trust that his company was more than capable of holding down the fort well enough to keep them safe.&nbsp; The suits were the best armor in existence — with some variance, depending on model — but they were bloody hot; a man would have to be unnatural not to sweat his balls off in one if he stayed in it long enough.<br><br>Along with the freedom of his skin came the drinking.&nbsp; When Mack wasn’t helmed, there was a bottle of booze in his hand, preferably something ice cold.&nbsp; Today’s booze was a fifth of vodka, the bottle still frosted from the icebox.&nbsp; Drunk or not, he was still — if not more so — dangerous and capable of protecting himself; a few of his former men had learned that the hard way.<br><br>It had been some amount of luck that brought the drunken captain past Oberon as the intelligence officer griped in his mother-tongue.&nbsp; It wasn’t usual for Mack to take interest in issues that weren’t directed toward him, but he was bored as fuck and it didn’t take a rocket scientists to figure out what the problem was.&nbsp; The mechanic had fucked up again, obviously; he really wasn’t sure why the hell he hadn’t killed the guy, yet.&nbsp; Bloody fucking useless, he was.<br><br>Mack took a good swig of his liquor and stepped over, sure to make a bit noise than usual so he wouldn’t sneak up on someone armed and distracted.&nbsp; The bottle came to rest on the surface Oberon’s deconstructed helm was scattered over and he grunted before speaking with a gruff, surprisingly clear tone.<br><br>“Li’l fuck needs to learn ‘is place.”&nbsp; He pursed his lips and — without asking — took Oberon’s helm and began to piece it together.&nbsp; He wasn’t all too good when it came to computers and shit like that in general, but he’d had to fix his own damn helm enough to have good reason for learning to do so properly.&nbsp; This one wasn’t much different than his own, so far as he was concerned, and he could definitely do a damn better job than the prick he had working as ‘maintenance’.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Nadir</strong> on <strong>25-09-2012, 23:37:19</strong>
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				The sound of someone drinking made his attention jumped away from the circuity to the person who had come across him. His hand twitched but he stopped himself before his fingers came near the gun, recognising the man for the leader of their little squad. He looked back towards the mangled wire, but it was too late, the picture of what he had been doing had faded away and all he could see was a fragmented scattering of components. He swore at himself for a moment as the chief came close and put the bottle down in arm’s reach before he started to help.<br><br>“If the mottfucker melted my night eyes, I am cutting off his balls.” He wasn’t good at English, but he knew enough to get that across. He reached for the bottle and took a long swallow before putting it down again and trying to find the idea of what he wanted to do with his helmet in the static of his mind. <br><br>It had been easier knowing what he had needed to do when the helmet was in one whole piece - he could see the wires that fed to the wrong inputs, but now it lay in its smaller parts the idea had faded like a breath of smoke melting into air and leaving only the ghost of itself behind. Of course now he recalled why he hadn’t tried to do it himself at first - or perhaps he had and he’d gone to the mechanic to help him? He let out a frustrated sigh and picked up the bottle again, taking a longer drink.&nbsp; 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Flaming Dead Man</strong> on <strong>26-09-2012, 01:06:49</strong>
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				<div align="center"><span style="font-size: 36pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: andale mono;" class="bbc_font">MACK</span></span></div><hr><hr><div class="floatright"><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family: andale mono;" class="bbc_font"><span class="bbc_u">LOCATION</span><br>Leaving Oberon's Room<br><br><span class="bbc_u">TAGGING</span><br>Oberon</span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Mack couldn’t argue with Oberon’s threat; if it had been <em>him</em> in this situation, he might’ve had the anger enough to do it whether he’d been affected so drastically or not.&nbsp; Perhaps after he fixed the man’s helm, he’d get a bit more drunk and hold the guy so Oberon could get a few good swings in.&nbsp; Speaking of liquor, he paused in his work as Oberon distracted him by taking his bottle.&nbsp; He gave the man a bit of a grimace, but granted him that one drink considering the circumstances.&nbsp; Mack was quite protective of his liquor.&nbsp; He gave a bit of a dry grunt, already nearly finished with the familiar wiring, then sought out the bottle to take a swig of his own, only to find Oberon was taking another.<br><br>He couldn’t help a bit of a growl as he turned on him, snatching the bottle with one hand while the other — luckily lacking the cover of his metal-plated glove — came to smack him upside the head; contact or not, he wiped off the bottle’s mouth and drank, setting it aside opposite Oberon with a slight glare in his soldier’s direction.&nbsp; “I ain’t opposed t’drinkin’ with ya, but I ain’t in no mood t’be sharin’.”&nbsp; He held his irritated gaze for just a moment longer, then quickly did a few final touches to the helm’s maintenance before sliding it over.<br><br>The moment his hands were free, one of them filled its grasp with the bottle’s neck, and the other firmly clapped Oberon on the back, a sign of ‘no hard feelings’ from his point of view.&nbsp; It was hard to get and <em>stay</em> mad at one of the few competent soldiers he had under his command.&nbsp; His grip on that bottle was tight, as if subconsciously afraid Oberon might try to fight him for it.<br><br>Sure, the man was an angry drunk, but Oberon was one of the very few he trusted, and thus one of the very few who could — on most days — get away with ‘stealing’ from his stash.&nbsp; The fact that he’d gotten strict about it meant he had something heavy on his mind.&nbsp; He wasn’t a man to show emotion other than anger, and that one was so prominent ninety-eight percent of the time that it was difficult to decipher.&nbsp; He turned out of the room, mouthing the bottle like a french whore on his way.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Nadir</strong> on <strong>29-09-2012, 06:12:28</strong>
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				Oberon&nbsp; hissed a string of disjointed words at the casual blow, meaningless in any language but clearly venting annoyance. He rubbed at the back of his head a moment and glowered at the vodka as if blaming the booze for what had happened. <br><br>The glare didn’t fade as the helmet was slid to him, though his brows drew together, turning the look more perplexed, picking it up and peering inside to look over the wiring. “Better, very better,” he said gratefully. “I will look for real vodka for you, not this piss” He gave a distracted salute and put the helmet on, checking all the needed to work would do so efficiently and making sure the radio was on the right secure frequency.<br><br>Without bothering to take it off, Oberon went back to the guard’s office he had claimed for his sleeping quarters and slid into the heavy metal armour. Without it powered, it was almost impossible to walk for any distance, let alone do it swiftly. Even with the weight carriers online, it was still hard going. These protective suits were not made with much thought towards the comfort of the soldier within.&nbsp; 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Flaming Dead Man</strong> on <strong>30-11-2012, 22:20:48</strong>
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				<div align="center"><span style="font-size: 36pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: andale mono;" class="bbc_font">MACK</span></span></div><hr><hr><div class="floatright"><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family: andale mono;" class="bbc_font"><span class="bbc_u">LOCATION</span><br>Leaving Main Street;<br>Entering the Prison<br><br><span class="bbc_u">TAGGING</span><br>Mik</span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Mack didn't take his time as he headed back; with a prisoner in tow, there was no need to make the trip any longer than necessary, especially when Vern could be watching.&nbsp; He vaguely wondered if the man would take it upon himself to try saving his captive, or if he'd just shoot him in the head to make sure no secrets could escape, to end his misery before it began.&nbsp; He hardly listened to Mik on the trek, sticking close to buildings and as out of sight of the Mental Institution and the Watchtower as possible; when they reached the Prison, they were greeted by two on-duty guards, both of which were grinning and laughing behind their masks, silent and hidden to Mik.&nbsp; He dragged him off to the cell they'd prepared for him -- where a bit of dry food on a plate, a bucket of water, the pillow and blanket tossed onto a metal bed frame, and even a working toilet were located.<br><br>"I bet this is fucking luxury compared to how my boys would get treated by yours," he spoke bitterly as one of the other men stepped over to scan and pat him down for, well, everything.&nbsp; Each and every item Mik carried was removed from his possession: any teeth aside from those in his mouth, weapons, ammo, drugs, medicine, pins, photos, shoes, <em>everything</em>.&nbsp; The only items left to him were his bare essentials: his shirt, pants, and undergarments.&nbsp; When the process was finished, Mack tossed his ward in without removing the cuffs and locked the gate behind him; this lock, too, required a hand-print of someone trusted to open it.<br><br>It wasn't until Mik was secured -- with an on-duty guard standing ready with a rifle trained on him -- that Mik and a few of the other men finally removed their helms.&nbsp; He grinned at his captive, a bit of the drunken state still apparent in his expression, and certainly still the stench.&nbsp; "Welcome to your new home, fucker."
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				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Suiko</strong> on <strong>30-11-2012, 23:36:09</strong>
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				<div class="floatright">(http://i.imgur.com/7MAuJ.png)<br><strong>Location:</strong> Being dragged along into the prison.<br><strong>Tagging:</strong> Mack.</div> Things were bad. Even Mik could admit that as he staggered in front of his captor. There was nowhere for him to run to, even if he had both his hands free and wasn't hopelessly outmatched in terms of firepower and skill. He turned briefly over his shoulder to offer a small glare, but was reminded of the harsh grip on his hair by several strands abruptly parting from his scalp, leaving him to cry out sharply and continue. Soon enough they reached the large prison and Mik huffed at the two guards waiting at the entrance, not bothering to utter any curses. He didn't want a bullet through his skull.<br><br>The cell he was guided too wasn't too terrible to his surprise. There was food, water, even a working toilet and he blinked slowly with a small huff at the comment of equal treatment between the rival clans. "Sure. This is fucking five-star." He muttered derisively before the search over his body began. "Hey! The fuck are you doing!?" He writhed and twisted as he was stripped of his gun and the little box of pills he'd had in his pocket. Even his shoes were talent from him before he was pushed into cell properly, the cuffs remaining on his wrists<br><br>Mik turned and glared at the men lingering in his cell, focusing on the one who had dragged him all the way here. He plAnned to shout and scream at them, but soon found himself staring into a face he recognised. "... Shit..." Of all the people, it would have to be the damned leader. Not some common grunt who didn't know what he was doing... this meant trouble. Lots of it.<br><br>"This isn't my home. Piss of...!" He snapped back, stepping away from the other man with a narrow-eyed glare. 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Dies Irae: The Prison</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Sparrowhawke</strong> on <strong>20-01-2013, 21:41:33</strong>
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				There was a commotion in the prison, something exciting was happening, and that something was related to Mack. Therefore, there was really no doubt that the second in command would arrive, and that he did. With his usual swagger, he arrived on the scene, taking in the sights. As usual, the combination of his goggles and gas mask kept his expression a secret, but everyone aside from the stranger would have some idea of the manic grin hidden behind the mask. For a moment, Mik was ignored, Kato was far too busy filling his sight with the face of his leader. "Caught yourself a little something?" Even with the mask, there was no hiding the sadistic glee in Kato's voice.<br><br>He finally turned his attention to the captive, moving his way over to the cell, standing just out of reach of the man's hands. "He's pretty cute." He chuckled, glancing back over his shoulder at Mack, doing the best approximation of puppy dog eyes as one could do when their face was covered. "I don't suppose you need my... Skills, for this one, Sir?" He did so enjoy making the captives sing, even if there wasn't anything to sing about. Even if Mik didn't have any useful information, he certainly hoped that he would be able to have his way with the man. It was so much fun. He looked fiesty, too, a good challenge, all the best ones were.
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