MacLeod
LOL I'm back!! :D I've been getting really jealous of all the fun everyone here's been having lately and really felt like a comeback-especially since I've got more time tonight. So here I am, humbly typing up sequels to me Watchers series. In keeping with my recent trend of stories I'm trying to keep everyone included as well-described and molded to individual prefs as usual so pleasepleasePLEASE send in requests! :) Oh and Truth: sorry hun I couldn't help it in the end! :p
It was quiet in the Main Deck of the Nautilus. Most of the ship's systems were shut down for the night, and the air was chill and thin. Still, while technically most of the ship's crew was inactive, only one was truly asleep.
MacLeod's closed eyes fluttered rapidly as he moaned weakly, cold sweat broken on his broad forehead. He grimaced as he twisted restlessly on his mattress. His thin blanket, tangled in a mess in between his legs, didn't stop him from thrashing them about. He struggled a little more, then suddenly snapped his upper body upright, instantly awake. He gulped the cold air and blinked as he surveyed the room and remembered where he was.
Nightmares...not again. He forced himself to calm down, to try to forget what he never could-images of men, women and children, all melting away in a nuclear fire. Searing, merciless and indescriminate, the images of death were impossible to shake. What was worse: in every dream, MacLeod could feel everything they felt as well...as though he was somehow...remembering some past life?
He snorted a little at his own hyperactive imagination. His eyes focused suddenly on his chamber's doors, standng slightly ajar. Then he noticed the glass of milk standing on his table, placed thoughtfully away from the edge in the case of any well-aimed knocks. Shaking his head, he smiled as his troubled thoughts faded away with the sight of the drink. He stood and picked it up, walking out into the corridor toward the main deck. The drink was of course an imitation of milk cleverly crafted by the ship's food synthesizers, but as he brought the pleasing glass up to his lips his smile widened: it was still warm.
Truth sat alone on the Operator's chair, arms crossed and pointing thoughtfully up at her cheek. Her eyes followed the bio-signature readouts on the screens ahead of her, blinking very rarely. However her concentration didn't stop her from sensing the approach of another. Turning around a little she flashed a small smile at MacLeod as he entered the room, passing his glass of milk to her.
"Thanks, T. I needed that."
"No prob, hun." She sipped the drink, then looked up at his sleepy expression. "Nightmares again?"
He shrugged, unable to offer more than she had already knew from before. Changing the subject, he settled into another chair and looked up again at the streams of code in front of him. "Training day...ack." He slapped his head lightly in embarrassment. "How're they doing?"
Tapping a few keys, Truth called up visual images of the ship's crew engaged in various training scenarios. "Nicely enough, slacker." She winked. "...UT's having trouble with pistol aim again, and Rumi doesn't even have to use his power much to defend himself against her. Crahan's training with O2 for...oh, swordfighting. French. And our guest Hitman...well he's having alot of fun with fiction." They both grinned at the sight of the bald, immaculately dressed man on the screen...fighting with six men who were perfect imitations of the infamous character Smith.
Hitman leaned his tall, lean body back all the way as an assailant threw a high punch that narrowly missed his sunglasses. Whipping his hand up to grab Smith's, he pivoted his entire body around that grip till his legs reached the suited man's chest, then kicked off him, launching himself backward. His other arm extended backward, slamming into another Smith's sternum. Falling to the ground, he twisted downward to push off at an angle, spinning sideways like a top. As yet another Smith attacked near his head Hitman extended an arm to catch him on the shoulder, halting his spin. Still in the air, he pushed harder off the Agent so his body pivoted sideways around his waist. His legs span round to where his head was a moment ago kicking the agent in the face. At the same time his outstretched arm slammed into another Smith coming in from a different angle. Landing softly on the ground, he turned and stretched an arm out, catching another agent in a mean piledriver.
The dark-skinned man in the dark, flowing overcoat span around in a classic chinese stance to face his opponents, then looked up with a wide grin to the white nothingness of the construct. "This is too easy Truth...is this a Burly Brawl or a dance class?"
Truth slipped on her earphones as MacLeod did the same. They smiled conspiratorily at each other as she began typing further commands. "I heard that Hitman...I'm glad you found the beginning easy enough. Still, since you love so much to follow in history's footsteps, let's put it a bit more realistically, shall we?" She tapped the final command, then keyed in the number of opponents-10-that Hitman was to face. Suddenly her hand was stopped by MacLeod's, who flashed a mischievious grin at her. That same hand taking over the keyboard, he added another '0' to the number, then plucked at the 'enter' key. He raised his eyebrows: "Well let's just get to the more fun parts..." She feigned a look of shock at him, then broke into a muffled laugh as they turned back to the screens at the hell they had unleashed...
The Smiths disappeared. Hitman smiled as with a whoosh of rushing air walls and buildings rose from the artificial horizons at impossible speeds around him. He straightened and stylishly tugged at his overcoat looking around him with a coked eyebrow as what seemed to be a street games court with benches assembled itself around him. He smiled wider as he turned at the sound of the steel gate slamming open at one end of the court to admit the next wave of simulated enemies...then stopped short at the sound of another swinging open from another end. His jaw dropped as an onslaught of countless Smiths launched themselves at him with murderous looks, then began backing away as they gathered before him. He lowered his glasses to peer over the edge, then made a short, incredulous chuckle. He looked up and muttered to the sky "You're enjoying this, aren't you?..."
Then he started dodging and launching blows in the most intense fight of his life...
Continued.
Hmm...quite a mild piece: I'm trying not to have some huge plot to tense things up-I hope this sets a nice tone to the story and characters :) Damn it feels good writing again...
It was quiet in the Main Deck of the Nautilus. Most of the ship's systems were shut down for the night, and the air was chill and thin. Still, while technically most of the ship's crew was inactive, only one was truly asleep.
MacLeod's closed eyes fluttered rapidly as he moaned weakly, cold sweat broken on his broad forehead. He grimaced as he twisted restlessly on his mattress. His thin blanket, tangled in a mess in between his legs, didn't stop him from thrashing them about. He struggled a little more, then suddenly snapped his upper body upright, instantly awake. He gulped the cold air and blinked as he surveyed the room and remembered where he was.
Nightmares...not again. He forced himself to calm down, to try to forget what he never could-images of men, women and children, all melting away in a nuclear fire. Searing, merciless and indescriminate, the images of death were impossible to shake. What was worse: in every dream, MacLeod could feel everything they felt as well...as though he was somehow...remembering some past life?
He snorted a little at his own hyperactive imagination. His eyes focused suddenly on his chamber's doors, standng slightly ajar. Then he noticed the glass of milk standing on his table, placed thoughtfully away from the edge in the case of any well-aimed knocks. Shaking his head, he smiled as his troubled thoughts faded away with the sight of the drink. He stood and picked it up, walking out into the corridor toward the main deck. The drink was of course an imitation of milk cleverly crafted by the ship's food synthesizers, but as he brought the pleasing glass up to his lips his smile widened: it was still warm.
Truth sat alone on the Operator's chair, arms crossed and pointing thoughtfully up at her cheek. Her eyes followed the bio-signature readouts on the screens ahead of her, blinking very rarely. However her concentration didn't stop her from sensing the approach of another. Turning around a little she flashed a small smile at MacLeod as he entered the room, passing his glass of milk to her.
"Thanks, T. I needed that."
"No prob, hun." She sipped the drink, then looked up at his sleepy expression. "Nightmares again?"
He shrugged, unable to offer more than she had already knew from before. Changing the subject, he settled into another chair and looked up again at the streams of code in front of him. "Training day...ack." He slapped his head lightly in embarrassment. "How're they doing?"
Tapping a few keys, Truth called up visual images of the ship's crew engaged in various training scenarios. "Nicely enough, slacker." She winked. "...UT's having trouble with pistol aim again, and Rumi doesn't even have to use his power much to defend himself against her. Crahan's training with O2 for...oh, swordfighting. French. And our guest Hitman...well he's having alot of fun with fiction." They both grinned at the sight of the bald, immaculately dressed man on the screen...fighting with six men who were perfect imitations of the infamous character Smith.
Hitman leaned his tall, lean body back all the way as an assailant threw a high punch that narrowly missed his sunglasses. Whipping his hand up to grab Smith's, he pivoted his entire body around that grip till his legs reached the suited man's chest, then kicked off him, launching himself backward. His other arm extended backward, slamming into another Smith's sternum. Falling to the ground, he twisted downward to push off at an angle, spinning sideways like a top. As yet another Smith attacked near his head Hitman extended an arm to catch him on the shoulder, halting his spin. Still in the air, he pushed harder off the Agent so his body pivoted sideways around his waist. His legs span round to where his head was a moment ago kicking the agent in the face. At the same time his outstretched arm slammed into another Smith coming in from a different angle. Landing softly on the ground, he turned and stretched an arm out, catching another agent in a mean piledriver.
The dark-skinned man in the dark, flowing overcoat span around in a classic chinese stance to face his opponents, then looked up with a wide grin to the white nothingness of the construct. "This is too easy Truth...is this a Burly Brawl or a dance class?"
Truth slipped on her earphones as MacLeod did the same. They smiled conspiratorily at each other as she began typing further commands. "I heard that Hitman...I'm glad you found the beginning easy enough. Still, since you love so much to follow in history's footsteps, let's put it a bit more realistically, shall we?" She tapped the final command, then keyed in the number of opponents-10-that Hitman was to face. Suddenly her hand was stopped by MacLeod's, who flashed a mischievious grin at her. That same hand taking over the keyboard, he added another '0' to the number, then plucked at the 'enter' key. He raised his eyebrows: "Well let's just get to the more fun parts..." She feigned a look of shock at him, then broke into a muffled laugh as they turned back to the screens at the hell they had unleashed...
The Smiths disappeared. Hitman smiled as with a whoosh of rushing air walls and buildings rose from the artificial horizons at impossible speeds around him. He straightened and stylishly tugged at his overcoat looking around him with a coked eyebrow as what seemed to be a street games court with benches assembled itself around him. He smiled wider as he turned at the sound of the steel gate slamming open at one end of the court to admit the next wave of simulated enemies...then stopped short at the sound of another swinging open from another end. His jaw dropped as an onslaught of countless Smiths launched themselves at him with murderous looks, then began backing away as they gathered before him. He lowered his glasses to peer over the edge, then made a short, incredulous chuckle. He looked up and muttered to the sky "You're enjoying this, aren't you?..."
Then he started dodging and launching blows in the most intense fight of his life...
Continued.
Hmm...quite a mild piece: I'm trying not to have some huge plot to tense things up-I hope this sets a nice tone to the story and characters :) Damn it feels good writing again...