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silveradeptThis is part of an ongoing project involving several members of the group FLEET being tasked with the finding and neutralization of certain Metaphysical Concepts at large in the world. If it doesn’t make sense, don’t worry. If it does make sense, then enjoy it.
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The order from the Admiralty was, at the very least, Unique. Commander Robert “Just Bob” Kilgore had been ordered to remove the current occupant of the Office of Death from his position, utilizing whatever means were necessary, as soon as possible. Bob didn’t blink. He did, however, ask for the last known location of Death so as to begin gathering the information necessary to complete his mission.
This is where we join Bob, at the scene of a grisly automotive accident that has just claimed the lives of the occupants of both cars involved. It is not the blood, nor the angles of the vehicles, nor even the wreckage itself that interests the Commander. It is the Metaphysical Detection Squadron’s efforts to determine whether the current scene was a naturally-occurring accident or one orchestrated by Infernal forces. His own detection equipment was able to cycle through most bands of information and feed him complete tactical reports about the situation at hand. He knew the identities, ages, genetic makeups, dispositions, causes and times of death, makes, models, working parts, non-working parts, and atomic construction of the scene, to name a few things. If the matter of finding Death, or any other metaphysical construct, is simply sufficient application of Clarke’s Law, once Bob knew what to look for, he could track Death wherever he went. That’s why Bob is here - he’s looking for the scent of Death.
“Commander?” One of the speculation team has found the pattern that matches Death’s presence. Apparently, one of the passengers in the car was sufficiently close to the balance to bring a personal visit from the Reaper. Now armed with a pattern, Bob goes to meet Death on his rounds.
--
As a cybernetic organism, however, the Commander is, by the standards of several metaphysical systems, lacking in a soul, or operating on a significantly reduced one. Even with the appropriate “ghost in the shell” theories applied, Bob repeatedly did not register on the M-Division soul-reading matrix currently controlling access in the Mohaborad region. The task, then, of summoning the entity that is supposed to weigh, judge, and send souls that are unable to easily navigate to their appropriate rests to appear before Bob is not an easy task. Instead of a more conventional route of attempting to destroy himself, Bob borrowed a soul currently in stasis pending a final debriefing of Infernal activities and and analysis of the nature of the contract that he made while alive. Because the soul is well-overdue for his judgment, it will draw Death like a lodestone.
After a few minutes behind his sniper rifle, waiting for the Grim Reaper to attempt to collect on the soul, Bob’s proximity detectors register a presence matching the pattern of Death behind him.
“Come now, Bob, do you really think I’d let myself get sniped? I was the one who taught that trick to yours and a million other species. Not that it would do you any good, anyway. You can’t really kill the Reaper unless he wants you to. You are not my appointed successor, Commander Kilgore.”
Bob, being the consummate diplomat that he is, turns to Death and shrugs. “I have my orders. Do you have any last words or requests?” he says. Death nods. “Do you have a cigarette?”
--
After a short radio call and Death having a smoke, with the obvious quip about how smoking kills, Death stands up. “Well, Bob, we’re running out of time. You should probably start trying to kill me now.” Bob shrugs, unslings his rifle, takes careful aim, and fires a plasma bolt into Death’s hood. Death laughs, and returns fire with a plasma rifle of his own, conveniently transformed from the scythe in his hands a moment ago. Taking cover behind the landmarks, the two of them exchanged fire, flanked each other, circle-strafed, and had a high-skill, high-technique, high-collateral-damage (although no fatalities were recorded), Highly and Inherently Superior Duel to the Death. After an indeterminate amount of time of firing upon each other, eventually the power plants in Bob’s weapons exhausted themselves. Trying to give his weapons time to recharge, Bob shouted “You’re out of ammo, Death.”
“So are you, Bob.”
“We should settle this in a civilized way.”
“If you insist.” Death and Bob stood out from their trenches. “You’ve been a real workout, Bob, one that I haven’t had in a while. For that, you get a rare, rare sight.” Death threw back his hood. “You get to see the face of death and...”
The cliche never finished, as Death fell down to the ground with a hole in his head. Ever the pragmatist, the Commander’s sidearm had a backup battery, good for one shot. It had traditionally been used for a defeated commander to die in an honorable way, but in this particular case, Bob had used it to collect what might be the most impressive head shot in the history of the Dominion. Bob had cheated Death by having a seven shot six-shooter.
“Greetings, Commander. I am the Multi-Operational Reconnaissance and Tactical Information System. I do believe this will be interesting for both of us, as you’re the first off-worlder I’ve had to train...”
----------
The order from the Admiralty was, at the very least, Unique. Commander Robert “Just Bob” Kilgore had been ordered to remove the current occupant of the Office of Death from his position, utilizing whatever means were necessary, as soon as possible. Bob didn’t blink. He did, however, ask for the last known location of Death so as to begin gathering the information necessary to complete his mission.
This is where we join Bob, at the scene of a grisly automotive accident that has just claimed the lives of the occupants of both cars involved. It is not the blood, nor the angles of the vehicles, nor even the wreckage itself that interests the Commander. It is the Metaphysical Detection Squadron’s efforts to determine whether the current scene was a naturally-occurring accident or one orchestrated by Infernal forces. His own detection equipment was able to cycle through most bands of information and feed him complete tactical reports about the situation at hand. He knew the identities, ages, genetic makeups, dispositions, causes and times of death, makes, models, working parts, non-working parts, and atomic construction of the scene, to name a few things. If the matter of finding Death, or any other metaphysical construct, is simply sufficient application of Clarke’s Law, once Bob knew what to look for, he could track Death wherever he went. That’s why Bob is here - he’s looking for the scent of Death.
“Commander?” One of the speculation team has found the pattern that matches Death’s presence. Apparently, one of the passengers in the car was sufficiently close to the balance to bring a personal visit from the Reaper. Now armed with a pattern, Bob goes to meet Death on his rounds.
--
As a cybernetic organism, however, the Commander is, by the standards of several metaphysical systems, lacking in a soul, or operating on a significantly reduced one. Even with the appropriate “ghost in the shell” theories applied, Bob repeatedly did not register on the M-Division soul-reading matrix currently controlling access in the Mohaborad region. The task, then, of summoning the entity that is supposed to weigh, judge, and send souls that are unable to easily navigate to their appropriate rests to appear before Bob is not an easy task. Instead of a more conventional route of attempting to destroy himself, Bob borrowed a soul currently in stasis pending a final debriefing of Infernal activities and and analysis of the nature of the contract that he made while alive. Because the soul is well-overdue for his judgment, it will draw Death like a lodestone.
After a few minutes behind his sniper rifle, waiting for the Grim Reaper to attempt to collect on the soul, Bob’s proximity detectors register a presence matching the pattern of Death behind him.
“Come now, Bob, do you really think I’d let myself get sniped? I was the one who taught that trick to yours and a million other species. Not that it would do you any good, anyway. You can’t really kill the Reaper unless he wants you to. You are not my appointed successor, Commander Kilgore.”
Bob, being the consummate diplomat that he is, turns to Death and shrugs. “I have my orders. Do you have any last words or requests?” he says. Death nods. “Do you have a cigarette?”
--
After a short radio call and Death having a smoke, with the obvious quip about how smoking kills, Death stands up. “Well, Bob, we’re running out of time. You should probably start trying to kill me now.” Bob shrugs, unslings his rifle, takes careful aim, and fires a plasma bolt into Death’s hood. Death laughs, and returns fire with a plasma rifle of his own, conveniently transformed from the scythe in his hands a moment ago. Taking cover behind the landmarks, the two of them exchanged fire, flanked each other, circle-strafed, and had a high-skill, high-technique, high-collateral-damage (although no fatalities were recorded), Highly and Inherently Superior Duel to the Death. After an indeterminate amount of time of firing upon each other, eventually the power plants in Bob’s weapons exhausted themselves. Trying to give his weapons time to recharge, Bob shouted “You’re out of ammo, Death.”
“So are you, Bob.”
“We should settle this in a civilized way.”
“If you insist.” Death and Bob stood out from their trenches. “You’ve been a real workout, Bob, one that I haven’t had in a while. For that, you get a rare, rare sight.” Death threw back his hood. “You get to see the face of death and...”
The cliche never finished, as Death fell down to the ground with a hole in his head. Ever the pragmatist, the Commander’s sidearm had a backup battery, good for one shot. It had traditionally been used for a defeated commander to die in an honorable way, but in this particular case, Bob had used it to collect what might be the most impressive head shot in the history of the Dominion. Bob had cheated Death by having a seven shot six-shooter.
“Greetings, Commander. I am the Multi-Operational Reconnaissance and Tactical Information System. I do believe this will be interesting for both of us, as you’re the first off-worlder I’ve had to train...”
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no subject
Date: 2007-07-03 07:50 pm (UTC)I do think we have one problem though, which is that I'm pretty sure ILF's intro has Bob shooting himself so he can go off to meet death. I'll have to wait and see when that's done though. It'd mean somehow re-writing the beginning. Or re-writing the intro, whichever.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-03 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 03:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 06:41 pm (UTC)