Under Pressure

Following the events of the Proto-Suminus campaign the group return safely to the Robotech Repair Station high above. With grim efficiency Hadron  has systematically pounded the surface of the world with orbital weaponry. Sea's boil, the planets crust fractures as he enacts apocalyptic level of cleansing... The new citizens, relocated from the domed city are slowly being integrated into the populace of Proto-Tethys, though no without issues arising over differing beliefs and culture shock. An issue that carries through out the station as each faction tries to determine where they fit within the structure of this new society...and for some, if their standing entitles them to more than others. Those deemed below their station... “What do you mean that the station is a bucket of shit?” Jonesy bellowed back at the assembly of technicians he had hand picked to run the maintenance and upgrade projects. Projects designed to reinstate the facility to it’s former glory and beyond. “Metal fatigue, put simply we can’t access the area’s we need to without a very real risk of structural failure.” Ericsson's flushed face smeared with grime and sweat. “Don’t be mincing words, we're looking down the barrel at an explosive decompression. Your little AI pet, that thing ghosting about in the guts of this rotting carcass...It was built by the Masters!” Fodar spat on the floor, making an odd gesture with his hand. “Bodes ill. Taking to ghosts o' the dead, bodes ill.” A stout man hollered from the back of the group. Nervous glances cast between the head technicians indicated that this was a fear shared. Jonesy felt a familiar throbbing headache started pulsing behind his eyes. With it came frustration and rage. He had dearly hoped to foster a sense of kinship between the assortment of technicians placed under his command, yet it had twisted into something else entirely. They were treating HIM as the enemy… A veil of red coalesced, staining his vision. The thrum of the Reflex Furnace loud within his ears… They did not respect his work. He had touched the heart of the Station, felt, nay heard the Protoculture Matrix awaken… “There is life and there is death. Your superstitious signs, your beliefs hold no power here, they will not damn or save you by either measure. I hand picked you men, this fine collection, from the best of the dregs that I was gifted. Akin to a mage , a sorcerer, I am trying to breath life into this station.” The venom in Jonesy's reply taking the group by shock, taking the officer himself by shock. Yet now that he was venting his frustration, the words refused to stop. “Before you, stands a man, an Officer of the New Zentraedi Republic. Yet I am more than that, oh so much more!” “I am the Technomage that pulls the life strings of this station. The Technomancer that reknits this stations flesh, that communes with its soul, that sings the incantations to make it dance unto my will.” The colour drained from the faces of the head Technicians, their mounting fear etching itself into their faces as the Senior Officers tirade poured over them. “Steel, alloys, minerals! Some amongst you must know of a source. For I elsewise I could be forced to harvest what is needed from the dregs before me, to salvage something of worth from those who have thus far failed not only me, but the Republic as a whole!” A terrified silence fell across the group, their facade of bravado long since melted away. “Well there used to be talk of a mercenary salvage group abouts co-ordinates in an area...” “That was a characteristically, odd way in which to interact with…” “I know, I know RALMIS …” Jonesy stared back at the face reflected back at him. Fingers gripping the stainless steel of the wash basin, he felt a level of disconnect. Did he even recognise the man before him? This level of discomfort, this anger. He knew part of it was stress, yet a larger portion was born of frustration. Why was it that of all the beings onboard the Repair station, none challenged or engaged his intellect like that of RALMIS ? The AI understood his needs, his shared goals for the restoration of this Station. It didn’t crave power or position like his underlings, it we more evolved than such petty squabbles. The throbbing headaches started again behind his eyes as he leaned forward resting his forehead against the cold glass. Reaching up Jonesy gently slid the large contact lenses from his eyes. The harshness of the bathroom light stinging his eyes, driving the headaches into blinding painful spikes. Flailing at the wall switch, darkness brought instant relief as he managed to stand and remove the remaining contact. Before him stood the man he knew, gaunt and pale.  Yet the eyes, HIS eyes were black as though… “As though I have no irises…” Jonesy spoke aloud to himself in confused amazement.

Yet another tiresome briefing is being conducted with the fledgling Republic council, Military and maintenance personnel. Long hours, amongst other stress factors, play on frayed nerves.     “ Insomniac my brother..” The overly familiar manner in which Garret addressed him was beginning to play on Lances nerves.  Outside of work hours, a cordial friendship was invited, but here and now. Lance noticed the disapproving glances being cast his way by several of the other officers and sighed inwardly. “Sargent, you WILL conduct yourself in the correct manner befitting a senior NCO. Do not allow your actions to tarnish the dignity of the uniform you wear!” The words perhaps were harsher that he had intended to express them, however with watchful eyes on them both there was little option left. Irritation gnawed at Insomniac’s nerves, yes, he understood the pressures that they all faced, but it was like a bought of stupidity had struck many of the crew. Garret looked stunned like he had been slapped, mumbling his apologies he sat demurely at the briefing rooms table. The Logistics officer across from him shared flatly at him as she waited for silence before she began. Despite his fervent wishing the galaxy chose not to swallow Garret up and the drone of the briefing began. The topic was bland enough, yet the monotone cords of the conversation were mind numbing. Try as he might, Garret found his mind wandering. Desperately he nudged one of the NCO ground pounders, the man had been taking notes for some time. Chances were that he could bring him up to speed. The man looked up guiltily at Garret as he tried unsuccessfully to cover his data slate. Porn, apparently self-drawn. Of the little he chanced to accidentally view the images would have been undoubtedly offensive to both the Human and Zentraedi crew. Indicating silently to destroy or hide the images, Garret found himself shocked at the nerve, no the stupidity of the man…Why on earth was everyone acting so out of character? “So to summarise, we have insufficient supplies to carry out even the most critical of repairs to the superstructure. There has been some sort of administrative fuck up and the Protoculture plant samples from Arcturus have been misplaced… “ The logistics officer rattled off, her monotone voice taking on an edge of exasperation. Garret found himself giving an involuntary shudder.  That accursed planet of horrors, it was as though everything that had touched the planet’s surface had been corrupted in some way.  He caught his hands beginning to mimic he protective signs that the maintenance teams used and chastised himself. Paranoia and uncertainty ran like an undercurrent throughout the facility, he knew that he needed to guard himself and his thoughts against travelling down such superstitious pathways.  Talking of which, the maintenance crews seemed to be deathly afraid of Jonesy . Rumour had it that after a terse labour standoff, he had threatened to harvest the minerals needed from those he deemed unworthy. The military command group, under Xander and Hadron had taken this as the final straw. Mandated stand-down rest periods and medical check-ups for all staff and civilian assets were now in effect, unfortunately the tightly wound Jonesy had fallen desperately ill once the pressure placed squarely on his shoulders was lifted. If anything useful had come from this supposed altercation, one of the foremen had presented a crumpled greased stained map to a mercenary resupply point. Garret wasn’t sure how about being forced to parlay with creatures whose loyalty was to the highest bidder. The piecemeal stories and scuttle bug mentioned that these Lizard Men consumed the flesh of sentient creatures and would be willing to trade with any race. For the right price… 

The stricken Robotech repair factory, has relocated to the mercenary trade hub of a race known as the Saurians.  The Amber cautionary icon marking the Trading Hubs location in the Factories navigation logs is heeded as a sombre warning. Cautiously the group approached the system, not wishing to tip their hand in the opening act. A tenuous deal of sorts has been struck with a Saurian creature calling itself a leader. Offering preferential trading if relics from an asteroid moon that it being reclaimed, are brought to him.  A Saurian recovery group that were sent to recover the artefacts in question failed to return. Time is of the essence as the moon becomes increasingly unstable and members of Ghost Bear Squad endeavour forth after both the group of Saurian Treasure hunters and the relics they may have found… Like a gaping wound rent into the crust of the planet, the fissure before the members of Ghost Bear Squadron is ragged and open. Heat and gasses billow forth from the opening, buffeting their cyclones. “It looks as though a pathway stretches into the depths, evidently the Saurians must have ventured inside...” The Naval Corpsman who had taken point reported. “But for what purpose? Maybe they are…” “Cut the comms chatter. We will proceed inside and initiate the search pattern.” Zara stated in a clipped tone. Agitation, barely noticeable to the squad, telegraphed its message to Xander . Something was disturbing Zara’s equilibrium, yet this was not the time or place for private conversations. Glancing about the squad, Xander noted their hesitation, their confusion at the ad hock laps of command etiquette.  Nodding his accent, Xander , more through habit than practicality, silently he signalled the troops forward.  Ancient ruined passages snaked away into the partial darkness. The dim red glow thrown by the undulating lava casting the hallways in stark contrast, and playing havoc with the squads instrumentation. Quickly, silently they probed into the unknown. The ruins revealing little of the previous occupants, presumably long since perished. A fine coating of silt layered the flooring, recently disturbed. Kneeling in the dust, LCpl. Alexander examined the markings and tracks. There were vague similarities to the gait of terrestrial lizards, yet enough differences to make identification difficult. “Just focus on one set at a time…” The Lieutenant muttered to himself, recalling days past of his Wilderness Survival Training.  Brushing aside the pangs of nostalgia, learned eyes picked out definitive patterns and scuff marks. “Not easy to tell, multiple individuals proceeded down the main passage. Others have split from the party into these cross passages perhaps.” “Copy that. Jonesy , pick four troops and hold the entrance. Maintain our line of contact with The Argo and ensure we have an exit path if the situation destabilises.” Xander replied moving silently into a cross passage, calmly taking point. “Remember this is a first contact situation and we can guess that these Saurians have no idea that we are here to rescue them. Do not act aggressively toward these peoples. Language will be a barrier; we can not afford an incident…”   “CONTACT!” The warning came moments too late. A flash of light, the squealing sound of metal rending metal and a crashing thump as something hit the ground. Hard. Passive infrared searchlights sliced the inky blackness looking for evidence of what had occurred. Sweeping into the room, Zara spotted a form prone against the wall. An animalistic roar emitted from the darkness as reflective eyes stared back menacingly. Movement; flurried and chaotic. The chime of target lock as the electronics within her helmet identified and acquired firing solutions. Creatures moving, charging forward. The dazzling glare of laser and the dull red glow as it burnt its way through a target. “Inorganics!” Zara bellowed, both a warning and a shout of rage. Somewhere here her lover lay, possibly injured.  Flicking the shot selector on her Beam rifle, the flurry of blasts cored one of the metallic beast’s shoulder to flank. She felt herself recoil involuntarily as the shots failed to drop the creature. It locked eyes upon her and leapt. To her right, a series of blasts startled her. Firing from a kneeling position, a fellow trooper had moved in as her support. His shots catching the feline like construct in the chest, burning through it to chew at the ancient stonework of the room behind. A wash of powdered mineral dust sprayed against Zara’s cyclone as the mechanical beast failed. Like a crystalline structure it shattered. “Focus fire!” LCpl. Alexander shouted switching targets...

Following the bizarre events that took place during the initial meeting with the Saurian’s, the members of Ghost Bear Squad have woven a long erratic path back to their repair station. Wary of the covetous eyes of the various mercenary races that frequented the Asteroid station, a course is chosen that obscures their path. Inadvertently wincing in pain, the impervious mask Zara constructed falters as she steps back into the familiar ground of the cargo hold. Despite arguing angrily that she isn’t in pain, the squad enforce a stand down to ensure that she receives medical attention. &nbsp; The story that follows makes cross reference to events that took place in the initial attempts to wrestle control of the Robotech Repair factory. Occupied by pirate forces, the situation took a dark turn… <a href="https://app.roll20.net/forum/post/7097286/operation-freedom-bird-requisitioning-a-robotech-factory" rel="nofollow">https://app.roll20.net/forum/post/7097286/operation-freedom-bird-requisitioning-a-robotech-factory</a> Down Time The stations 2IC swirled the spirits in his glass, captivated by the ease with which the dark green liquid slid effortlessly between the ice cubes. The subdued lighting of the establishment presented a comforting relief to his sensitive eyes, while the stylings of soft jazz emanated from the sound system on stage soothed his mind. The last month had been one Hell of a ride, he was grateful for the down time. The slight reprieve in their desperate pace was called by majority vote amongst the Storm Commando leadership group. &nbsp;It had taken no small effort to convince Zara that her body needed time to heal from the deep burns she had received, the chilling cold and advanced medical care of the cyro tanks once again were being brought to the fore. Jonesy courted the glass, relishing the mixed sensations of the chilled spirit followed by the refined effects as they played across his pallet. Studying the contents of his glass, he had to admit that its creation had helped forge a common ground with the tradesmen under him. Though still argumentative, the conversations were decidedly more cordial, and in turn productive for both parties. Conversation had turned to the brewing of alcohol and half remembered recipes; techniques passed down from generation to generation. R.A.L.M.I.S. had collated everything scrap of information from these stories, the synthesized liquor in his hand representing evidence of the A.I’s potential. Toying with the induction earpiece that he had taken to wearing, he fought the temptation to reconnect with the computerized personality that had taken to calling him father. Introspectively he was unsure how he felt about the attachment, but it was a friendship that was honest. Sometimes, due to the AI’s childlike inability to filter conversation topics, brutally so. &nbsp; No, he needed time, there were thoughts and feelings that he needed to tease out. He had buried them, focusing instead on the mission, yet he knew instinctively that something sat uneasily at the back of his mind. Fatigue, both physical and mental, had bested him previously. The venom that had laced his words and behavior shockingly caustic. Perhaps if he let his mind wander perhaps, he might play through theoretical events and unlock the answers as to what vexed him. Eyes unfocused, motes of light and shadow played across his field of vision. The tang of burnt ceramite armour revisiting him as they had assisted Zara out of the warped remains of her battle suite. &nbsp;Zara , he thought, had pushed herself far too harshly, especially considering the extent of her burns. Actions that went beyond what was necessary for her position, yet her motivations escaped him. Was it an attempt to reflect Xanders driven personality back at him, to ensure that his eye did not wander to another? The absurd idea making him chuckle as the wormwood in the tonic opened his mind to such concepts normally dismissed out of hand.&nbsp; It was curious, the relationship had formed, and their bond strengthened beyond what he had though possible. He knew the man as a Zentraedi warrior, as an officer. It felt awkward to see this burgeoning romance, it felt surreal that the man might even be capable of love… Filling his glass once again from the bottle decocted by his virtual son , he gazed about the establishment, noting the vacant tables. Vacant tables and muted colours, shifting in opacity light danced from the recessed lighting. Odd, though the choice of music on offer was not to most tastes, yet the dancing clouds of light seemed not to mind. &nbsp;Amateur talent sometimes took to the stage, driving away he clientele with unrecognizable renditions or self-written ballads. Neither represented an overly desirable choice… Choices , was that what his underlying issue? Was he jealous of his squad mate, who against all odds had found someone to love? Something stirred in the dark recesses of his mind as aroma of fennel and anise revisited his nose. The bitter undertones of envy interwove with his rambling thoughts; Xander had a purpose, Hell he had a destined as the mythos had stated, a perfect weapon... No, Xander was his friend, his squad leader had saved his life. A price paid in blood has prevented him from mutating into something hideous…Or had it? Perhaps it was not mutation but evolution…Had his friends been themselves jealous, had they feared the heights that he might achieve as he became enlightened? A story as old as time itself, those without knowledge feared those who could wield its power. They viewed such abilities as magics… The sent of cinnamon broke his train of thought as a green haired lady stepped on stage and began arranging the seating. Thankful for the interruption to his thoughts, Jonesy peered at the woman as his sensitive eyes pierced the gloom, watching the graceful way that she moved and transitioned between tasks. The light caressed her, playing and swirling, hypnotically captivating. She glanced up, despite the gloom of the mood lighting, seemingly having noticed his attentions. A faint blush painting her cheeks before she turned back to her task. Two equally attractive beauties joined the first, their similarities were striking. Sisters perhaps? “They viewed such abilities as magics…” where had that though come from? A movie that he had seen recently, a book that he had read, maybe a dream… Vice like hands roughly gripped&nbsp; Jonsey’s&nbsp; head as the jagged edge of the&nbsp; Soul crystal &nbsp;was forced against his flesh. “Yesss, scream for me child, this shall be the first of your many lessons!” Unbidden visions of a horned individual coalesced as his mind reeled in horror, a wordless voice echoing with malice. Darkness enveloping, the frolicking lights winked out as the inky suffocating blackness crushed in apon him. “I planted the seed in each of you. Your despair, your hatred, your impotent anger represented the nourishment that was needed and thus the seed take root. Give in to your feelings, there is no need to fight… &nbsp; “Drog’no! No this is some trick of the mind, you were defeated, destroyed.” His mind recoiling in horrified revulsion at the disembodied vision that was his alone as smothering emptiness glued him to the bar stool. “Was I? Come now child, I told you that I planted a seed in each of you that I visited. Through your dreams I will gain my domain…” “Your argument is not logical! Jonesy desperately forced himself to rally against the oppressive, crushing, fear that the conversation stirred in his heart. “You were tainted by the same contagion that affected Cpt Cook .” “Lie to yourself child if it brings you temporary comfort. For when you fall to despair, I shall be here to feed on you anguish. Through vessels such as you I will had dominion once again, immortality can be yours…Concede child, you lack the fortitude…” Subtle music from else ware struggled to be heard above the thundering din of blood echoing in his ears. Building in rhythm and intensity, an unnoticed melody of voices accompanying the ballad threaded through the oily veil. Like a drowning man floundering for land, mentally he grasped at the threads of the tune. Their power, their vibrance flowing through him, galvanizing his resolve. “Then know this little seedling, you shall know famine.” Conviction like he had never know tingled across his skin, ringing loud within Jonesy’s head. Radiating from within, pulsing through his blood. “Your name, your legacy will be forgotten. &nbsp;If you truly are immortal, then I pity you! To be forced to watch every one of your schemes fail, to be bested by inferior creatures .” The weight of the veil dissipated, withdrawing as previously unknown strength flowed forth. A beacon in the darkness. Jonesy found himself standing, singing passionately along to songs he did not know. The passion echoing the ebb and flow of the unmistakeable bond. A bond of music, light, and emotion. Eyes locking with three beautiful minstrels as they brought the ballad to a close, he drew out the moment. Savoring the shared connection, unspoken, yet expressively deep.&nbsp; Drawn to both their beauty and the patterns of light woven about them, entangling with his own. With a confidence that he had not felt for many months he grabbed the bottle of Absinth and stepped onto the stage as three sets of eyes fixated upon him. Sirella , Amdriel , Saira , the unfamiliar words sprang from his lips as if compelled. Names hold power and power should be shared… Share your with us… Jonesy in turn felt the colour flushing his neck, tonight would be a particularly good night… &nbsp;

Cautionary lessons The spartan fixtures of this area of the stations hold radiated a cold stillness akin to a morgue. Kneeling in a warrior’s repose, Xander drew comfort from the solitude. This area held many of the dangerous artefacts that they had recovered, relics from mighty empires that had fallen, poorly understood and potentially dangerous beyond comprehension. His mind toyed with the thought that this too was where he belonged… The access door chimed unexpectedly. Glancing up, the warlord subdued his bodies automatic response towards action, towards violence. His instructions had been clear, for the safety of all, he was not to be disturbed. He had much to process, actions and plans from long ago were in motion, for yet another threat had been unleashed… Wearily he motioned for the other man to sit. Once again, he had disobeyed an order, security settings on the access door had been clearly bypassed. The private lowered himself casually before his CO, though deliberately beyond his reach. “You appear to have a decidedly problematic regard to standing orders Private…” &nbsp; “ Xander , we have known each other for a long time. Can your bullshit, I know that you are hurting.” The mannerisms and reply of his once 2IC jarring the warrior out of his authoritative behaviour pattern. “You chose to have liaisons with the Muses. The pain I feel towards this transgression is not physical, it runs deeper, and I struggle to define it. They represent the voice of purity, of hope for our people and you indulged in carnal acts with them.” Disappointed sorrow burdened the brawny Zentraedi’s words as he battled the chaos of emotions within. “My friend, They sought me out.” The mechanic replied in an even tone. “I have a rather hazy recollection of our actions together, they were intimate, but not of a carnal nature. &nbsp;Though I suspect that is not what troubles you, there are deeper issues aren’t there?” Locking eyes, the two men stared evenly at one another for a long time before, the Zentraedi warrior finally broke the silence. “My existence, my design was that of a weapon. A tool or a puppet, to be used time and again as a hammer of vengeance. The puppet masters have been swept away by the sands of time, yet I still feel invisible hands tugging long forgotten strings…” “We are both changing, discovering more about ourselves old friend.” The mechanic replied, his eyes unfocused as he gazed at his comrade. “Perhaps it is true, perhaps some predestined Fate draws you forward or dictates your steps…Or perhaps these are just the lies that we tell ourselves to try and make sense of the shit storm we find ourselves in.” The smirk on the mechanics face cutting the tension between them, as they sat back and regarded one another through the eyes of equals. “They did something to you, they manipulated events to do something to alter you.” Xander replied, the note of regret evident in his face. &nbsp;“I thought that my actions were saving your life…” “I suspect that they did something to the both of us. Their singing holds an astonishing level of power, I don’t have another word for it. Your blood is the lock, their music a key. More accurately however, there are patterns woven into their words and melodies. Your blood, with all it’s hidden potential, let them unlock something within me …” “You suspect that they too seek to manipulate me, to tug on the strings that bind me?” Colour flushing his cheeks, the stirrings of outrage causing Xanders voice to echo about the hold. “I can’t pretend to know their plans. &nbsp;These Muses that you rescued so long ago, we humans have stories, legends of mythical creatures called Sirens. They seduce men with the power of their song…” “I don’t care for that! What is this maddening requirement for your race to fornicate? It dominates your history, your mythology, I have heard tell that wars were waged based on warriors fighting for the affection of an attractive mate.” Flustered the Zentraedi warrior stood, stretching out aching muscles. The focus of mind he had sought proved ever elusive, yet this frank, uncensored conversation…It opened his mind to questions he had not wanted to voice. “Clearly.” Jonesy fixed him with his strange new eyes, eyes that seemed to see more than they should. “Try not to take offence, but the patterns that they wove when they made you, are very complex. Though artistically muted. Taken at face value, the Muses themselves were experimented on, manipulated, and twisted by that Robotech Master Cabal. The are trapped in within their genetic coding, they can not reproduce, they merely exist.” “Why manipulate people, why sing to my blood as you describe it? So, what is it that drives them then?” Xander barked in frustration, the reverence that the Muses were held in, was beginning to lose its lustre. “Survival of a species? Motivation through passion and lust, who knows my friend.” Waving a hand about the chamber, Jonesy indicated the damaged relics of the Aquatic city of Ryukyo , the carefully arranged pink glowing shards of the soul crystals, the corrupted drives of the Dadelus. “Just take a look at these examples before us.&nbsp;&nbsp; Let us assume that each race here chose to try and defeat mortality, to cheat death.” Pausing, as he tried to frame his line of thinking, the mechanic stood pacing the floor are he orated. “The common failing for each one being, that they are trapped. They can not grow, they can not evolve, they just exist. Trapped on the path that they have forged for themselves. Akin to the Muses , surely there have been clones before these ladies…” “Our findings indicated that they were the last of their line…they fled Cabal knowing that. Knowing that their actions would sign their fate.” The finality of the statement struck both men like a physical blow. “A final desperate attempt to shape the future. Through the power of their music, their song?” Jonesy asked aloud. “Or an attempt to avert the End of Days… …A Pestilence unseen by the ages would mark the opening of the final days… …Brother would take arms against Brother… …The Child of Helios would shackle his chariot unto the sun. One a red steed did he ride… …In his wake, a horse hewn in Black. Famine traces thine steps.. …A Pestilence unseen by the ages would mark the closing of the final days… The shared vision, or memory gripping both men. A memory that sang out to them both in anguish… …A memory imploring them to forge a new path…