Author's Note: I'm rewriting this story in another version called It's About Time: Psycho Edition, where Sven doesn't become the Overmind and is even more of a witty asshole. Check out this sample if you're interested:
Welcome to Braxis Penitential Facility Network Intelligence.
Login:ArkansasM
Password:********
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Welcome, Director Arkansas.
/Accs_RootBPFNI-ADMIN
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Administrator Privileges Granted.
/MnGrd_0
/PwrGenMain_0
/PwrGenAux_0
/EmrgLD_1
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Main Defense Grid: Offline.
Primary Generator: Offline.
Secondary Generator: Offline.
Emergency Lockdown: Enacted.
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/D149-Opn
/D222-Opn
/D501-Opn
/D732-Opn
/HngBDr-Opn
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Door149: Open
Door222: Open
Door501: Open
Door732: Open
Hangar B Door: Open
/Accs_Cnvtfl-28470
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Accessing Personal Files
Convict: Kerensky, Vincent
DoB: 09/23/2471(33)
Height: 190cm
Weight: 112kg
Hairs: Black
Eyes: Green
Known Crimes:
Manslaughter
Grand Theft Auto
Qualified Theft
Desertion
Probation Violation
Rape
Sentence: Death (Postponed)
Forced labor
Former Affiliations:
Confederate Marine Corps.
Reaper Corps.
Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.
/Accs_Cvtfl28488
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Convict: Worst, Karen
DoB: -
Height: 170cm
Weight: 67kg
Hairs: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Known Crimes:
Insubordination
Attempted Manslaughter
Perjury
Murder, First degree
Sentence: Death (Postponed.)
Forced Labor.
Former Affiliations:
Ghost Program
Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.
/Accs_Cvtfl28466
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Convict: Fauster, Gregor
DoB: 11/16/2460 (44)
Height: 204cm
Weight: 166kg
Hairs: Gray
Eyes: Blue
Known Crimes:
Murder, Second and first degree
Drunk driving
Sentence: Death (Postponed.)
Forced Labor.
Former Affiliations:
Mar Sara Militia
Sons Of Korhal
Dominion Marine Corps.
Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.
/Accs_Cnvtfl28469
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Convict: Kudrenkov, Sven
DoB: -
Height: 188cm
Weight: 86kg
Hairs: Brown
Eyes: Gray (Formerly Brown-Green)
Known Crimes:
Manslaughter
Insubordination
Treason
Destruction of Government assets
Grand Theft Auto
Identity Theft
Public Inebriation
Sentence: Death (Postponed.)
Forced Labor.
Former Affiliations:
Ghost Program
Project SHADOWBLADE
Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.
/Accs_Cnvtfl28500
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Convict: Darka, Hannah
DoB: 01/27/2475(29)
Height: 158cm
Weight: 59kg
Hairs: Purple
Eyes: Black
Known Crimes:
Larceny
Murder, First degree
Impersonating an Officer
Treason
Drug Manufacturing
Drug Trafficking
Sentence: Death (Postponed.)
Forced Labor.
Former Affiliations:
Tarsonis Paramedical Response Service
Dominion Medical Corps.
Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.
/SetAllCrntSts_Deceased
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Set all Convicts Current Statuses to: Deceased? [Y]/N
Y
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Warning, All BPF Residents Deceased.
/Format_RootBPFNI:
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Goodbye
I wave the computer as it flickers off for the last time, "Bye."
Hacking is an easy task for a Spectre; all it took here was some elementary Technopathy and the computer thought I were the Prison's director; it gave me full access and even committed suicide when asked to.
Taking two steps away from the boxy terminal, I swiftly scan the dimly lit room… Actually, it's not dimly lit, it just doesn't have any bright colors, just grey and brown.
Arkansas' office is crammed with my fellow convicts, the ones who's files I just looked up, all spread around like the trained soldiers they used to be. Greg and Vincent guard the door, their shivs at the ready, while Karen and Hannah search the place for weapons. Not that there's much to search, beyond trophy cases and framed pictures… The desk is where he'd keep his gun and I already checked that; nothing.
Maybe it's unfair of me to poke around their past without permission, but I like to know who I'm dealing with, though I could easily read their minds to find what I want, that would not be much more ethical.
In any event, my new friends are exactly what I expected, nobody appears to be a snitch and we can all be best friends forever, although Karen, knowing I stuck my nose in her file, slaps the back of my head.
Hannah, the former medic and drug dealer, glances at the former Ghost, worried that she'll enact a psychotic break from that big witch doctor dude hacking Arkansas' computer.
Heh, girl's afraid I'll slash her arteries open in her sleep… I'm not the one she should fear; Karen is, but the former medic seems to think the tall, white eyed guy is more of a threat than the petite Dominion assassin.
Shit, I killed far less peoples than she did, and I can argue that the voices in my head told me to do it.
"Sven," Karen growls, "Shut the fuck up."
Whatever, cranky Ghost bitch… She's pissed off because she rated nine on the Psi Index and never expected anyone to surpass that, yet I had a rating of eight before SHADOWBLADE. Now it must be somewhere between nine and eleven…
Between nine and eleven. Don't you hat when people do that?
'Somewhere between one and three…'
'That would be two, asshole!'
What I actually mean is that Spectre procedure, though very effective, is still rather raw…
"Yeah, yeah, you're a tough psychic," She whines, "Can we get going now?"
"I wasn't aware this was my call…" I quip a wide smile.
Seriously, yours truly may act like a dumbass, but while the dumbass was trading jabs with Karen, the Spectre cautiously remote viewed the whole way to the exit and I now know it's crawling with convicts and guards.
Now, it's not an accurate science; Remote viewing is akin to squeezing your arm behind the couch to get the remote. Distances are weird, you only get a general feel that you really should clean up and there's parasitic stuff crawling all over.
Verdict: Dudes outside. Don't know who, don't know how many, don't know where. Sue me.
Quite frankly, all I have on Karen are Psi powers and; she, however, is a far better leader, or, at least, not quite as creepy, and definitely a better shot, just looking at the way her brain evaluates temperature, air pressure, distances and squishiness of available cover.
"Okay, we'll have to fight our way out of here. Sven will take point, Vincent, you cover the right flank, Gregor will take left, and I'll bring up the rear with Hannah."
I squeeze past the two mountains of muscle, sensing their heavily contrasting minds on the way.
Gregor used to have a family on Mar Sara and joined the militia to protect them from the Zerg. It failed, however, as the Colonial Magistrate sent him on a patrol to Blackwater station and, by the time the militiaman came back home, his whole family was kaput, torn to shred by the Zerg.
He later joined the Dominion Marines, hoping to die or get resocialized, but that never came and he only ended up causing others the same kind of pain he had felt. This messed him up even further, to the point that he got himself blind drunk, killed everyone in his section and took a Vulture hoverbike for a spin through town, hoping he'd finally bite the big bazooka.
Greg crashed his bike in a house and killed four civilians inside, one of them family package deal. Then, before he realized what had happened, he was on Braxis, mining ice. All that keeps him going is our momentum, focusing on our escape. The moment we're out of here, his mind will shatter and his soul will die, soon to be followed by his body.
Vincent, on the other hand, only remembers the smell of oranges, warm blood on his hands, satisfaction and Reaper Corps' training school.
The man doesn't give a fuck what he did before; he loves killing 'toss and bugs so, humans are boring, but what the hell, beggars can't be choosers. How he ended in prison is a very complicated story, meaning the dumbass himself doesn't know for sure.
I trust neither. The former might blow his brains out any second and the latter might blow my brains out any second, but they're all we've got right now, so, what the hell, let's rock!
Actually, let's figure out where everything is first… I emerge in a silvery corridor, the rows of blast doors leading further into the facility now all open, same as the vents overhead we used to get here.
The hallway itself is large enough for four men to stand side by side with room to spare, yet we keep a tight formation. Bad idea when peoples can shoot at you, as it can get everyone in the team hit by a single burst, but with us Specters, the rules change…
There is a curve ten meters ahead and four ornate wooden doors on both sides of the hall, in between each bulkheads. Living quarters.
I point the last on the right, "Guys with shivs about to bust trough them," then to the bend, on the left. "Two dudes manning a blockade there, CMC suits, facing the wrong way."
Karen already knew, but I'm the pointman, it's my job to call out shit like that.
She distributes orders through suggestion directly in our brains. I hate it and send her a mild psionic spike in retribution, her to jump in surprise. Yet another trick I can do she cannot.
Now, my job is to dispatch the Marines without damaging their suits, so our two grunts can get some firepower. Easy as pie. Okay, I can't cook for shit, so let's say easy as Pi.
3,14159265…
First thing I do is take off my prisoner shirt, since orange is the worst camouflage ever, and tie the sleeves around my waist. The white t-shirt underneath isn't that much better, but it might give the meatheads a split-second of hesitation.
Now, I've got about thirty steps to think of which way would be best. Frying their brains would cause nose and ear bleed and that would not be optimal for whoever wears the suit next, psionically choking them would leave some time for them to retaliate.
Answer? I'll lockdown their armors and choke them. To us psychics, locking down CMC suits is almost a hobby, even Karen did it a couple of times for shit and giggles.
The others at my back, I drag my shaky carcass across the slip-proof floor with about as much paranoid care as a rooster… Seriously, that's the best analogy I can think of.
My ass and I are about five paces from the bend, close enough to hear the mechanical whining of CMC suits, when convicts with shivs bust out the room four meters back, thinking they've got the drop on us.
My attention is focused on the Marines, however. The cotton wraps around my feet did a good job of keeping them warm, but perform poorly in term of traction and I half-sprint, half crawl around the bend, right into the Marines' line of fire.
Already waiting for me, they adjust their C-14s, but only earn a dry click each and some electrical buzzing from pressing the trigger.
I flick the switches on the side of their armors, like flipping on the kitchen light, except from ten feet away, and they both freeze…. Then, my stumbling dash abruptly ends against the wall, knocking the air out of my chest for a second.
Still, guess I shouldn't complain, seeing as I cut their air supply a second later. Getting to hear their thoughts as they die is one downside of my job.
Carl, the one on the right thinks he should have called in sick this morning and went to Bacchus moon as planned, while Lenny, the one on the left regrets skipping breakfast, as he'll now die hungry.
Peoples think very strange stuff when their time has come. One time, I killed a guy who regretted never owning a dog.
Both finally die while, behind us, the two convicts are disarmed and knocked on the floor.
Worst quickly reads their minds and I just listen in on hers.
One's a child molester and quite simply can't be trusted, the other is a pyromaniac and former fireman who turned himself in after his first crime.
The former gets his throat cut open with his own knife while the latter is helped back on his feet and gets integrated to our happy little family.
Vincent gives the dead man's knife to Karen and when I ask why, she answers that I don't need one, since I'm such a powerful psychic.
Maybe there was a hint of sarcasm in there, but hey, I'm just a moronic psychopathic psychic, not a psychologist!
"Alright, smartass, can you unseal these suits?"
It's easy, as easy as walking up to the downed Marines and touching their helmets. A little Technopathic talk with the onboard computers gets them open in thirty seconds flat. That's actually long, but Worst's presence in my brain slowed down the process. She tries to be subtle when snooping around in there, but to a Terrazine enhanced high level psychic such as me, she's as subtle as a train wreck.
"Milady requires anything else?" I ask, bowing.
Vincent wants to take one of the suits, but is shoved away by Greg's massive shoulder. The former Marine decided that was his armor. Vince doesn't object.
Gregor may not like the smaller Reaper, but Vincent still views him as a role model because of his badass scars and attitude. Criminals aren't such complex beings after all, who would have thought?
The suits are the open top CMC-400 variants, allowing the wearers to remove the shoulder and helmet parts and gear up in two minutes, more or less.
The guys will take a while putting on their suit, time I use to scan every room on our path. That still counts as Remote Viewing, but it's actually closer to looking into every drawers of a poorly lit room.
Kinda hoped I'd find an armory, but no such luck, only supply depots.
So I scan the hangar itself. There is a battle there between guards and convicts… I mean, who else could be fighting in an underground penal facility?
The crew of a prison ship, here to resupply and drop off some of its cargo.
"Worst," I call, "check this shit out!" and send her an RV image of the hangar. The effort and Terrazine withdrawal trigger a few seconds of muscle spasms and intense shivering, but it soon subsides, replaced by the usual withdrawal effects…
The ship I felt is round and segmented, with four engines and a protruding control booth. No weapons, but enough room to house ten thousand Cryo-pods, at least.
All in all, the thing looks like an oversized potato that crash-landed in a scrap yard…
"We need a pilot." She mumbles, knowing full well we'll have to do some mind digging to find one in the crowd battling inside the hangar.
Fact is, we'll need an engineer, navigator, cook… A whole crew, and I think we won't need to assemble it.
That supply ship didn't come here by itself, did it? We just need to convince its crew to help us, once we find them… Somewhere in that Hangar, trading pot shots with escaped prisoners.
Karen is still plugged to my brain and she likes that idea, so she decides it will be my job to find out where they are, seeing as I can handle myself just fine. A year spent mining ice and minerals in this freeze box with minimal rations and free time has gotten pretty much everyone in this slam hard as neosteel, but Ghosts are given close combat training from the day we're eight and I have my psi powers to tilt the table further.
For the time being, however, I'll stick with the group, since we're going in the same direction… We don't have much choice in the matter; I locked down every other sections of the prison, didn't want other inmates getting in our way. So much for that idea.
Vincent calls my name, from the left, so I turn and catch the makeshift knife he was carrying, nodding in thanks.
The ex-reaper just lifts his Gauss rifle, itching to kill something with it.
The new guy, Alan Kade, has his own knife already, so Hannah finally gets a weapon, even though I don't see the frail woman stabbing anyone…
Ahead, the hallway stretches on fifty meters and ends with a flight of stairs. I scan it, but feel nothing, so I call the all clear and we get moving.
There are mobile force fields every ten meters, set up by the guards, but Worst and I shut them all down along the way. The trip itself is eventless, and even if it hadn't been, we got the firepower to knock an Ultralisk out of commission.
One we reach the stairs, Greg and Vince both take up position to the right while Karen and I set up to the left. Hannah and Alan just stand aside and let us do our shit.
Beyond the bulkhead we're cowering behind are two flights of ten steps, barely large enough to accommodate two armored men, and on top of these is a pair of Marines with ballistic alloy shields and five light infantrymen waiting to tear us to shred. They saw us coming on thermals. We know where they are and they know where we are.
Don't you just love when the number of options drops to one?
I go first, Vincent shadowing me, and use a little trick my Ghost instructor called 'Butt-fuck their brains', telling the two Marines that there are Zergs crawling behind them while fueling their fear with nightmarish images of twisted corpses and deformed monsters.
They spin and unload their rifles at point blank into their five unarmoured pals, turning the men into fine paste.
Before they can even say 'woops' Vince physically butt fucks them with 8mm subsonic spikes.
"Gruesome!" I laugh, holding myself up on the man's shoulder pad for a second as dizziness steps in. I need my fix.
Straining myself a bit to project a psi shield, I run, flanked by Vince, and once we're on top, telekinetically lift one of the AGR-14s the light boys were packing, snatch it from the air and shoot down a pair of guards running in from further into the facility.
To the right, Vince is spraying a cluster of convicts with his own rifle. Sparks fly from all around them and one is even knocked to the ground by the air disruptions, but no one dies. Not sure if this was done on purpose, Reapers aren't the greatest marksmen in the Dominion…
The guards came in from the hangar while the convicts crawled through the air duct. I mind probe every of them and find out they are mostly mercs, which is why they stuck together; three are War Pigs, one is Hammer security, another's a Dusk Wing and the last one is an Hel's Angel.
Professionals, incarcerated in another part of the slam, but smart enough to know that if they want out, they've got to find the hangar, so they crawled through the vents from the beginning of this shit, finally ending up here, hidden in the air circulation system and waiting for someone to take out that checkpoint.
Two women, four men, all veterans of the Great War, like us. Although one must admit they don't look like much with their faded orange prison uniforms, turned into very efficient camouflage suits by all the dust and grime.
I like these guys already and Karen decides we should extend an invitation to our little party. I don't say anything; instead, I mentally kick two AGR-14 their way and physically lower Vince's rifle. The leader, a black guy called Dylan, picks a rifle off the floor and nods.
It takes the other a moment to catch up, so I get to mess around with my new weapon.
The 14s line of rifles is reliable, versatile and cheaper than dirt. I've been to places where you could buy the AGR variant for the price of a meal. On Tarsonis, you can get some of those old, steel plated ones for the cost of a beer.
The one I'm holding is new, smells of oil and has smooth carbon fiber parts with no attachments whatsoever, unless you count a drum magazine as an attachment. The mag has its previous owner's name stenciled on it, Henry Jackson, it reads.
I salvage and distribute whatever gear survived the hail storm; a few grenades, some regular magazines and knives, one of which I keep for myself, and we get this party moving.
We're practically at the edge of the hangar when I suddenly freeze, hit by a stray thought from the Hel's Angel and Dusk Wing. Knowledge.
Ahead, shipping crates, spare parts and forklifts are turned to cover by a handful of Marines, quite a few light troopers and every single prisoner smart enough to have found their way here. It's chaos, subsonic ammunition pinging around armoured walls and reinforced crates, smoke and extinguisher foam obscuring about half the scene and just the wailing of the wounded is enough to turn this nice and tidy loading dock into one sick rave party.
Vince, Greg and the Mercs are quick to join the fray, but I stop the pilots before they can follow.
"You guys can fly that scrap yard?" I ask, pointing to the prison ship. They both nod.
"Ain' nothin' to it, darlin'" The Banshee girl boasts, "Dave an' I can fly or drive anythin' yah want."
I like her, but then, I like just about everyone that gets the job done. Karen's satisfied with this alternative and she informs me that there is something in a nearby supply room I should check.
Ghosts are weaker than Specter, but much more focused and careful. Knowing this, I'm not amazed she felt something while I didn't, but am just a little irked I didn't smell it first…
Terrazine Infuser. My Terrazine Infuser. They took it from me when I first arrived, along with my suit, gear and rifle. Maybe the whole stuff's in there… I hope so, anyway.
I'm addicted to the stuff, Terrazine I mean, it makes me strong and stops the shakes dead. Of course, I don't really need it anymore, since my body has built up a supply sufficient to keep me at my level of power for few decades, but fact is, I've seen Specters attempt to quit the stuff and end up totally fucking their brains, so I still use the infuser at a low setting, as a mean to slowly quit the stuff…
Point in case, I just spent a few months without it and the withdrawal effects are just starting to become serious.
With Karen's blessing and the others' cover, I sprint trough the hangar and away from the team. A Marine engages me and I must dive behind a pair of metal crates to avoid the onslaught of Gauss rounds.
They stick into the metal, glowing white hot and forming three white hedgehogs. Inmates and most guards use AGRs, low penetration, but Marines from the prison ship pack Impalers, the kind of firepower you'd get from an APC.
There are more crates ahead, a full blown war to the left and a metal wall to the right…
I creep into the man's brain, but am too weak to make him shoot himself. Instead, I convince that kid I'm actually behind those crates, just ahead.
He aims his gun there and I fire a single spike trough his visor.
"Night-night…" A cheesy one liner is all the apologies he'll ever get.
Going from cover to cover and firing a burst in a cluster of light infantry who were coming to investigate, I get my ass about halfway to its destination. The cluster in question never giving me room to breathe.
Sixty-six rounds remaining. To a grunt, it's not a lot, to a trained sniper like me? Well, it would be plenty if I had a scope and nobody shooting at me… Right now, it's still not a lot.
I slide under a stream of C-14 fire and drift behind cover just in time to avoid being fried by a firebat. A quick suggestion in the guy's resocced brain convinces him he should check on the two Marines advancing on my position…
Nah, you don't need to stop flaming, what's wrong with fire?
The Perdition twin linked plasma-based flame thrower does not penetrate the CMC-400 suits, but it does cook the wearers alive.
By the time they're dead and the Firebat is shot down by other Marines, I'm already inside the supply room, surveying it for the faint psionic 'smell' of Terrazine while firing out the door at advancing tangos.
There are ammunition crates all over and a few weapon ones as well. There's one containing C-10 rifles as well as a few explosive canister boxes, which I toss next to the door. I don't like C-10s, they shoot slowly and limit their users to a sniper role, AGR-28 DMRs are much better, in my opinion, but Karen is a Ghost and Ghosts use C-10s, so I'm taking the guns with me, as soon as I've found my Infuser…
I know it's somewhere in those square boxes, out back, but can't pinpoint where.
Enough bullshit; one psi blast wrecks the whole room, tearing every boxes apart and lifting everything touched by Terrazine at eye level.
There, found it! The silver helmet and glowing red optics are glaring at me, as if shocked and angry that I found them… The things were custom made for me and they snuggle perfectly around my head and face. This supply room is full of stuff meant for the prison ship. It's likely they want to send my suit and mask on Korhal for reverse engineering… Or as a trophy.
The HUD takes a second to initialize and soon warns me that no Hazardous Environment Suits have been detected, which means no increased strength, speed or durability.
"Shut up and pump the juice!" I growl at the machine.
Soon, my nose and mouth are filled with blood flavoured gas and the HUD points out I have a week before I need a refill.
Perfect.
My hands stop shaking and my mouth quickly dries up as I get that feeling of liberation that comes with the first rays of sun after a particularly violent storm… It's sweet as a whisper, rolling through me like hemoglobin perfumed honey.
The helmet is linked to a small box that I attach to my belt awkwardly. It's meant to be secured on specially designed clamps, in the back of my Spectre suit, but that'll do for now.
I walk out of the room, into the utter chaos beyond and send a psionic whisper to every guard and convicts in the area, accompanied by a great deal of irrational terror and an image of my helmet. A nifty trick I used on Drelor VI to disperse a crowd quickly.
"Hell is here."
The whisper spreads across the room like the rising tide, making every single person present attempt to get the fuck away from me.
Such a feat would have drained me just a minute ago, but now that my body has had its Terrazine fix, I am a fucking god. Of course, had Karen not bounced my Psi wave, I most likely wouldn't have affected half as many people, but now, everyone is just staring at me, terrified.
I creep in the heads of two Firebats and have them detonate their own fuel tanks while making a pair of especially weak minded Marines shoot themselves.
Needless to say, resoc or no, everyone runs the fuck out of my way and I simply walk up to the supply ship, keeping my mind open for any sort of aggressive thoughts. There are none, Karen is keeping the fear at very high levels and it paralyzes even the bravest of these bastards. I make it to the loading ramp in a minute or so, but that's long enough for Worst to turn ghostly pale and sick looking from the constant effort.
Shit, she ain't a Spectre, she can actually die from this!
I turn my attention back to the crowd and replace Karen as she collapses in Alan's arm. Behind me, the boxes clatter on the floor, breaking my focus long enough for pretty much everyone in the room to shake me out of their minds…
That technique can backfire quite badly, should the targets shake free, seeing as I suddenly become everyone's priority target.
Fortunately, this time around I'm in the ship and the ramp closes by the time everyone has truly awakened.
That was close…