New Acquisitions

From the Story Arc: Battle Stations: Aftermath

Previous Story in the Arc: Motives by Soviet Bear (Tuesday, April 11, 2006)

Next Story in the Arc: Communing by Cagey Bee (Tuesday, April 11, 2006)

(posted Tuesday, April 11, 2006)

*Warburg - HQ Raid +1*

Petrograd slid feet-first down the steam pipe, landing square in the chest of yet another of the abominations. A swipe of his ice sword finished it as he punched his jet-pack, using the momentum to carry him the scant few meters up to the bunker's ceiling. More of the ten-armed things spat at him, but he was out of range of their most deadly attacks, and a half of his capicitor power sufficed to finish them off. More were coming, but the console was in sight now.

Ivan swooped down to the terminal, scattering the approaching monsters with a wave of kinetic energy and coating the largest with a jet of freeon-induced ice. He quickly jabbed in the code and punched in the proper loading program, watching with satisfaction as the payload slid onto a small tram and disappeared into the wall. There were even more of the monsters now, but he had no time. Pulling a diamond tipped hypodermic from his utility belt, Petrograd completely emptied the capacitors in his arms, releasing pure white energy in all directions. Then, jamming the adrenaline-filled needle through his thigh armor, he spun up the phase generator and dissappeared from sight.

The rocket launch was glorius, stolen Russian booster technology carrying the package into a geo-synchronous orbit to await its use. Silently, Ivan considered his comrades, counting off the dead and wounded in his head. Some would need attending to, and some would need counseling, but these were not his strengths. No, Ivan Ilych Derinsky had always been a man of action.

*Striga Isle - HQ Raid +5*

The radar station was set up on a small island off the coast from the main fortification. Archon Meinholdt was proud of this assignment, charged with all important communications between Striga and other bases, as well as providing the first line of defense for the island itself. His advanced radar, built to order by Crey and manned by fifteen of his brightest Penumbra, could detect incoming aircraft or heroes from miles away.

One of his men looked up from his console, waving to Meinholdt, "Prupenfurher, I have two gunships approaching rapidly. They appear badly damaged and are not responding to my radio signals."

Meinholdt shrugged. Casualties from that fateful raid had been limping in for days, whether freed from the Zig or escaping by their own means. "Send an armed team to the helipads to greet them, I am sure they will happily accept their demotions after failing so completely."

"There is something else, mein furher, I am getting an anamolous signal much closer to the dish itself."

"Quickly, give me a visual and magnify."

The Penumbra leaned close to his screen, suddenly shouting, "By the dark ones, STEALTH HERO! Training defense guns!"

But it was too late. Petrograd grinned as he homed in the laser designator directly on the command bunker, and a loud roar shook the sky.

*Zigursky Prison*

Jimminez was bored. He was hired due to his unique position as both a Registered Nurse and police academy graduate, but watching an empty incoming wing was hardly his idea of a career. His wing was technically overflow, so he never saw much. The other guards told him that 5 days ago the place was flooded with Council, but it'd juuuusssttt happened to be his day off. Now he just sat, flipping simultaneously through his ipod and a copy of "Guns and Ammo," waiting for the dispatcher to alert him for his coffee break.

It took him a minute to notice that the red light was blinking, and when he finally looked up he almost jumped out of his chair. The entire wing, all 50 beds of it, was full of disarmed council troopers, all suffering from explosive concussion damage and minor radiation sickness.

Jimminez punched the intercom. "Um... Betty, darlin', I'm gonna need a hand down here."

*Striga Isle*

The two Council gunships landed, their paint scarred over with weld marks and bolted-on patches. Petrograd had only had a week to work on them, and they wouldn't stand up to an endurance test, but they'd be fine for the job at hand. He'd gutted all the weapons systems to save weight for more cargo, and now he smiled as ten teenagers hopped down from the cargo ramps. They were Hellions and Skulls, reformed of course, every one of them renowned for leaving automobiles on blocks in seconds, and they came down with wrenches and tire irons at the ready.

"Alright boys, are on limited schedule. These AA turrets have been fried by EMP, but hardware should to be fine. 15 minutes, $50 to each of you for every turret in helicopter when we land back in Kings Row."

With that, Petrograd gingerly grabbed a pneumatic wrench and ran after them. "Come, come, have seen beorgious racing car teams move faster than this!"

His comrades were dead, his home was destroyed, and all he had done was hide and wait for reinforcements. He knew it was the best option, he knew he couldn't have put a dent in the council on his own, and he knew he would have died meaninglessly if he had tried, but his comrades were still dead, and knowing didn't help. It was Moscow all over again.

Never again, he thought to himself as he went at the bolts of a missile turret, Never again.