TEINAR > Wastelands

Until You See the Whites of Their Eyes [Nix, Nephebro!]

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Lion:
The pulses were getting stronger.

The reading on the hud of his helmet indicated this was the direction the signals were coming from. There was no indication as to it's source, what it was, but the signal seemed to be getting somewhat stronger the further they went into these forbidden Wastes. Forbidden to everyone else save Pilots.  Two winged shadows glided over the sands, the dirt, the dust, piercing clouds of toxic air.

“300 clicks to the West. Hmm, Southwest,” Banning thought aloud to his second that flew in beside him. For a mere investigation of an anomaly, Banning figured he could have easily gone in on his own. He had no problem with back up. And after what happened with that other Pilot only a year ago, “No” wasn't exactly an answer that was going to be listened to.

Hyperion swooped and evaded another cloud of gas that permeated the air. Banning's helmet covered the whole of his head, and had a hose protruding from the base of it at the rear and into the filtration system at the back. Everything tucked neatly in that black armored flight suit, he kept his guns with him in holsters on his thighs. No need to use them on a simple reconnaissance mission like this.

“Recalibrating coordinates. The pulses are stronger now. Still intermittent,” Banning breathed heavily, projecting that through telepathy.

It was a given that this could also be a complete waste of time. Fuck, would he be pissed. He had a perfectly decent night of getting plastered ahead of him when he had gotten the call to duty. In fact he was splayed out on his bed, the clock nearly noon when his com went off like crazy. Banning answered it without reservation, and Hyperion was waiting for him the moment they were ready to leave.

It was probably nothing mostly likely, and in fact a sensation in his gut hoped that it was exactly that. There was nothing out here but the skeletons of ages past, a husk of a world that couldn't go on living. Only Aedolis was strong enough to stand, and still it did.  Banning frowned from inside his helmet. Frowned at their newfound setting, frowned at the pity that resonated inside him.

An odd signal that could just likely be some creature stepping on an old radio, accidentally setting it off. 

The hud resounded and Banning blinked and tilted his head to look down at the ground beneath them. “Looks like we're right on top of it,” he projected. Hyperion swooped down and with a thud, made the ground shake and dust clouds coil up. Banning slipped from his back and reached outward, closing his eyes and forcing himself to sense the pulses that clearly were coming from his area. Everything wavered in his mind's eye, like ripples in water, and he could feel the energy as he took a cautious step forward.

Hiss. And between the boulders ahead of him a turret swiveled in his direction. Banning threw himself from the path of the bullets that struck the rocks and dirt around them. He scrambled off to a boulder for cover and when the turret momentarily stopped, Banning rolled out and stuck his hand out. The clips were automatically changing and he accelerated the heat that was already smoking from the turret until the temperature made the rounds explode and the gun flew to pieces, raining down shrapnel and stray bullets.

“Look out for traps, Kiers! This whole place is rigged!”

nephero:
Dust trailed in a conga line of little devils below, the last vestiges of what had once been living, breathing earth. Now, there was nothing, nothing but poison and desolation, a great malevolent death god that beat on the doors of Aedolis and was beaten right back.

There was nothing quite like a trip into the Wastes to make you appreciate the sanctuary of home. Not only was the land itself soured and hateful, but the things that lived on it were even more so, twisted by long periods of exposure to toxic fumes and latent radiation. If Haviah was heaven, then the Wasteland was hell, separated but for the grace of their draconic guardians.

Anhur rumbled beneath him, a rolling growl that was lost to the cutting winds. But Chance felt it all the same, much as he felt the chatter in the base of his skull. Banning was just a little ways ahead of him, seeking out their path through the desolation, and Chance shifted in his saddle to adjust Anhur's trajectory to match.

It hadn't taken much convincing to get him out here; the orders had come down for an escort mission of sorts-- no one flew alone in the Wastes anymore, and so his squadron saw most of their action acting as seconds, flying close and keeping an eye out for any hostiles that might be lurking otherwise unseen. It was good work, and so Chance had been more than eager to volunteer; more to the point, he had been anxious and antsy to get out and about and do something. Anything was better than stewing in his rooms and staring at the ceiling, and there was only so many hours he could spend training at the ATC before someone started asking uncomfortable questions.

"Affirmative," Chance pushed the thought back, tapping into the faint psychic line that was their telepathic connection. His eyes flicked over his own helmet's display, checking readings and clicking through the results. "Horizon still clear. No movement."

Chance circled back in a wide sweep as Banning landed, before he and Anhur followed suit. The black drake huffed, his serpentine neck swivelling back and forth as if daring anything to pop out and challenge him. Which certainly made two of them, as Chance followed suit and slid down out of his saddle--

only to immediately tense at the tell-tale whoosh and click of mechanical movement, followed by the staccato popopop of bullets cracking through the poisonous air. He slung his rifle around, brought it up to aim at the source of the firing, only for the turret to explode in a blaze of fragmented metal by way of Banning's psychic influence.

Turret traps. Shit.

Something flashed just along his periphery, and Chance whirled just as another turret locked into place. He skirted to the side, avoiding the initial stream of fire and supplying the turret with a wave of his own, catching it along a critical point and snapping it clean in half. It clicked, feebly and uselessly, trying to reach the gun that was no longer attached to the rest of it. Anhur moved with him as they retreated to the boulders after their superiors, hissing steam and heat in an open threat as more turrets caught onto their movement and rained lead in their direction. Chance waited for the telltale silence of an automatic reloading procedure, before peeking up and over his boulder and leveling another string of bullets at another and snapping the main chassis in half.

"On your ten!" Chance called out, spotting a spray of rocks and dust as a turret attempted to lock on but was blocked by a nearby outcropping. Blocked for the moment, anyway, and rapidly making short work of the barrier that separated them.

Nix:
Shit. Shit. Holy. Fuckng. Shit.

This was not fucking happening. There were not two PILOTS with DRAGONS on his property. Why were there two Pilots with DRAGONS on his property?

Goggles had been alerted to trespassers by a silent flashing red light on the main floor of his little shack. He had been messing with some new parts he got in a barter not to long ago, traded for a refurbished car battery, when the alarm was tripped. He immediately stopped what he was doing and high tailed it to the cellar of the small hut, bolting the steel door in the floor from the inside. The cellar housed all the equipment for his system, defensive and surveillance. It was from down there that he saw who was making the fuss outside. He had been expecting raiders- but not this.

Subconsciously he scratched at the scar on his wrist from where his chip had been pulled out a long time ago. His memories were addled but that didn't mean he had forgotten where he came from. Why were there Pilots out here? Coming down on his shit? He winced as they took out another turret. Shit. Well there was always plans B and C right? Though they were more for raider attacks... still. He entered a code, pressed a few buttons and activated the mines he'd buried in the bleak dusty soil.

He pulled his jacket sleeve over his wrist and sat there trying not to panic. Trying to deal with this like any other trespasser. But these were not ordinary trespassers. Shit. Should he open the com line like he would with raiders stupid enough to try this? The difference was most raiders in these parts knew he was in there already; knew who he was. These Pilots... the dragons. That was a different story. Then again they were psychics. How long did he think he could stay unknown? There was one other benefit to trying to talk with them...

The turrets he had left were put on standby, ready to be active again at the press of a button.

"What do you want Pilots?" Came a voice from a speaker mounted near the entrance of the small shack. The sound boomed and echoed off the rocks and nearby cliffs. "This is my property you don't have rights to be here!" He said trying to sound level but not succeeding. Waiting for a response was gut wrenching. Why were they here?!

He adjusted his goggles on his face, staring at the monitors, willing them to leave.

Lion:
With bullets flying everywhere, Banning kept himself low to the ground and crouched behind that rocky outcropping. These dusty badlands were filled with all sorts of nooks and crannies to hide in, red rocks that chipped and withered away by air clouds that could melt the flesh from your bones. Banning had no idea how anyone or anything could survive out here. He’d heard horror stories of the nightmares that wandered these wastes.

And the sooner he and Kiers made it out of here alive, the better. These turrets weren’t a match for either of them, and frankly he didn’t want to give a chance for anything else to rear its ugly head.

He heeded Chance’s warning, ducking his head when he was about to come up and aim his own rifle. The rocks and dirt blown away by the bullets dashed across the visor of his helmet. When the moment was prime, he drew his rifle up and fired just as the turret powered down. One less gun for them to wrangle with if whoever lived here didn’t wise up soon enough. Hyperion gave a low throated growl.

“This place is surrounded by a mine field,” Hyperion warned, he’d heard the hissing of the field activating around them. “Don’t get any closer unless you absolutely have to.”

Noted. Banning clicked his rifle onto standby and he shuffled around the boulders they were covering behind and quietly motioned chance to watch his back. He shifted closer and to the naked eye the ground looked completely flat and empty. Banning could sense the energy of those mines beneath the ground however, in hollowed out spaces. What kind they were didn’t exactly matter. You’d either be missing a leg, an arm, or your whole body would turn to mush.

Banning reached his senses out further and feeling his head begin to pound inside that helmet as he sought to reach out to whoever – whatever – holed up inside that hole in the rock. The cliff’s shook when that voice echoed over that intercom. Oh, so now they wanted to talk. Better late than never, he supposed.

Still, he refused to answer just yet until he could feel that person. They gave off an odd vibe, something psionic but the readings were hazy. No doubt interference from the elements in the rocks surrounding them in that dusty canyon. Far to the horizon rose a towering cliff wall. And the echo still from that com call bounced off and out into the rest of the wastes.

“You wanna talk? Okay. Let’s talk.” Banning called out through the mic on his helmet. “Let’s start with a howdy hello to you!” Banning kept himself pressed to the rocks, only letting the hud on his visor reflect anything that might be around the corner. Still the guns were down. For now.

“If you’re trying to kill us, you’re going to have a bad time.” Clearly this mine field meant business, and he wasn’t going to have to drag Chance back to Aedolis in a meat sack. Or vice versa. But for now, he’d pretend they had the upper hand. “So we’ll stay as long as we like, understand. I kinda like it out here! I might even make myself a little patio to go with that mine field you have set up. Make a porch. Have some whiskey and biscuits. It’ll be fucking grand! Disable that field. Now.”

Banning didn’t want to wait frankly, and he carefully turned to Chase. “What d’ya say Kiers? Shall we ask our host if he has some whiskey and biscuits for us?” Which basically meant for that rat bastard holed up inside to shut down that fucking mine field and let them in. Or this was going to get ugly. “Hey if we can't talk him out, can you disable that mine field?”

nephero:
So much for a leisurely stroll through hell. Chance cussed under his breath at the report of there being a minefield on top of everything else. Of course there was a minefield. What kind of awful place would this be without a friggin' minefield? This was genuinely just not turning out to be his week. He shifted at Banning's signal, rifle ready as the Pilot Royal moved over the rocks to get a better "look" at things.

At the very least, it seemed like they were thoroughly alone out here. The turret system must have done a good job of keeping any of the other Wasteland nasties at bay; the last thing they needed was some hideous mutated thing getting the drop on them while they were huddled amongst pitted boulders.

Chance snorted a bit as... whoever lived here (who the fuck would ever live here) shouted at them through a speaker. No rights to be there his lily-white ass. Still, the phrasing was certainly interesting. He had expected something a bit more... what was the word? Hostile. Full of bravado. Full of the whole 'I'm gonna tear you apart and string your guts from the cliffs, assholes!' kind of deal.

Not this 'this is my property' crap.

"I'm thinking of building a little bungalow myself, sir!" Chance called back from his position, hud still scanning for further movement and coming up thankfully empty. "The whole works-- porch and a couple of rocking chairs to watch the storms roll on by-- and a big-ass fucking windchime out of any bones that just so happen to be lying around when we're done."

It was one hell of a bluff, all things considered. He switched his mic off, then, instead relying on the far more private telepathic communication line.

"From here? No. I'm thinking our 'friend' here isn't the sort to set ones with any delays either. I'm fast, but I'm not that fast, and then we've got ten meters of fuck-off in our faces." He tongued at his canine in thought, and shuffled to get a better look at the field in question. "Hang on. Got an idea. Cover me."

Chance shimmied his way along a boulder, giving himself a better view while not exposing too much of himself to any further nastiness. He unhooked his pack and dug into the contents a bit before pulling out his canteen and unscrewing the lid. It was a long-shot, but he had a sneaking suspicion these mines weren't set for heavy weights; if it had been him out here in the Wastes, he'd want them to be able to give a mouse a bad day.

The water in his canteen rose, sinuous and curving, condensing into a tight ball before flying off over the field in wide circles. The water pulled up then, paused for half of a moment, before Chance brought it down with all the force he could muster, the tiny bit of water jettisoning down and--

"Fire in the hole," Chance quipped.

Boom. The mine triggered, erupting up and outwards in a hailstorm of dust and dirt and metal shards, those shooting out and over the otherwise unmarked field, a few smaller bits bouncing against the boulders. All that was left was a harmless pit, and Chance switched back to his mic.

"We'll be able to plant an orchard at this rate!"

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