[Episode] Spiders and Flies

Name: Spiders and Flies
Category: Episode
Player Participants: Julius Khan III (+0), Nikola Eisenstein (+0), Moreau (+0)
Planned Location(s): Spider Miles, North Blue
Planned Time Range: March 20 , 1829 - March 21, 1829

Summary: There was recently a large gang war on Spider Miles that left lots of citizens injured and homeless. The world government has seemingly decided to take a humanitarian approach and sent marines as well as civilian contractors to help. Unbeknownst to the civilians and most of the marines, this is secretly a convenient cover-up to help them determine the extent of the corruption on the island.

“Mmhhmm, hurry up lad, mmhhmm” grumbled petty officer Gimlet between puffs of his tobacco pipe. “Mmhhmm, you're too young to be moving so slow, mmhhmm.”

Julius looked over at his grumbling superior. The petty officer was at least a foot or two shorter than Julius but built like a brick oven. He had a lime green bushy beard that was at least half as long, and nearly as wide, as he was as well as a dark green, half circle mo-hawk. Strapped to his back was a double-sided battleax that was nearly as large as he was.

As unusual as it was for a marine of his rank, the petty officer was wearing a full and proper marine uniform. As were all the other men and women that had arrived at Spider Miles from Minion Island at dawn that day. Headquarters had given strict orders that all marines on the job without a justice coat were to wear their uniforms at all times. Julius had heard plenty of rumors about why, but that was all they were. Among the marines, the lower-ranked men were rarely given any real reasons for anything. They were just expected to do as they were told.

“Mmhhmm, move that sheet metal over there boy, mmhhmm,” commanded officer Gimlet who pointed at some slabs of sheet metal on the deck of a cargo shop and then at a nearby construction site.

“Yes sir,” yawned the seaman recruit, Julius Khan III or simply Julius Three as he was often called.

Julius guessed that it was late in the morning, though it was hard to tell. The many factories that dotted the cityscape of Spider Miles had polluted the air with a thick, disgusting smelling fog that made it hard to see and even harder to breathe. Most of the marines, like Julius, as well as the civilian contractors and even some of the residents that Julius had seen, wore goggles and masks to keep their eyes from burning and their lungs from becoming as polluted as the rest of the city. Others however, such as petty officer Gimlet, didn't seem bothered by the smog and chose not to wear any of the personal protective equipment provided to them.

Whatever time it was, the seaman recruit knew that he had been up and working for at least a few hours. First to help dock the ship at dawn's first light, and then to help with the rebuilding efforts. People stopped and stared in awe as large slabs seemed to magically lift themselves from the deck of the cargo ship. The slabs flew through the sky until they hovered high over the head of young Julius. The lad stopped and looked around until he spotted a group of marines wearing high visibility vests who gestured towards him and then the ground.

Julius nodded in acknowledgment and the slabs flew again, more slowly and deliberately this time, toward the men. One of the construction workers motioned for him to stop and Julius nodded again. The slabs stopped moving through the air and began to descend gently downwards. The slabs stopped moving completely and just hovered in mid-air once they were about six inches from the ground whereupon the men in vests began to push and pull them to the exact spot where they were supposed to be placed. Once the men gave Julius the signal he released the slabs from his magnetic grip and allowed them to fall to the ground with a clang and a thud.

“Mmhhmm, do you know where the medical tents are lad, mmhhmm?” asked officer Gimlet.

Julius turned and looked at his superior.

“Yes sir, I do?”

“Mmhhmm, double time it over there, mmhhmm. Mmhhmm, help them finish setting up, mmhhmm.”

“Yes sir,” saluted Julius.

Julius turned and wiped the sweat off his brow before breaking into a jog toward the tents. He had a feeling that it was going to be a long day.

---

660 / 660 / 5000

That day had been like any other that Nikola Eisenstein had experienced till then...with him going through the motions of the same old daily routine he was now so used to going through day after day that he could have put his body on autopilot...at least, it was supposed to be...

But all that changed when he spotted one of those messenger Coo heading his way with what seemed like a letter bearing the sigil of the World Government and Marines on it. He actually had half a mind to hide from the thing to avoid whatever it was that they had planned for him, but then he figured if he did, that would mean more troublesome headaches for him to deal with in the future, so he received it like the goody-two-shoes that he was now very well used to portraying himself as to the world would if he were genuinely such a thing.

Interesting...so it is just a regular contract job...I guess even the World Government and Marines become short-staffed now and then...

While he was musing thus silently as he perused the contents of the assistance requisition letter from the World Government/Marine system, Nikola's mind began to run through potential scenarios for what might happen during this job and after he snapped out of his reverie, he got himself ready in his usual work attire (i.e., that of any physician or scientist) and after packing his dime-a-dozen mook underlings as well as the requisite equipment which he surmised would be needed to carry out this task, he had set off from his home base of Flevance for this place called Spider Miles which was, luckily enough for him, also located in the North Blue where he was also based currently.

It had not taken him too long for him to reach there and once he did, since he was keen on avoiding the use of his devil fruit powers or his cyborg powers in public, he had ensured to head to a relatively deserted area placed well away from the job site and to bring out both the medical corps of his subordinate army and their associated medico-surgical and first aid-type equipment cache and then put on the false but still convincingly genuine show of manually wheeling all that to the job site in full view of everyone there...with the intention being to portray themselves as nothing more than an average, harmless civilian physician-scientist and his medical team coming there on orders of the World Government and the Marine per the contract that he had agreed to with them.

All this was several hours ago now...and the day and this job now found Nikola deeply busy at work in the medical tent that had been set up partially for him and to which he had been assigned shortly after his arrival. Said work involved setting up the remaining part of the tent and the furniture as well as equipment therein in anticipation of the injured, sick, and otherwise ill-at-ease victims to arrive in the company of his medical team which he had sent out sometime back after his arrival to seek and retrieve for him to treat while he held down the fort back at the tent.

It was at a stopping point in this work schedule that Nikola had given pause to his otherwise relentless pace till now, and the reason for that was that the auditory sensor array installed in his ear now began to pick up sounds of someone's footsteps heading towards his medical tent. So, he turned around and saw a young man jogging towards him and so, he called out to the young man with his hand raised to get his attention

"Over here!! Are you the assistant that they promised to send me a couple of hours ago to help me finish this setup process, perchance?!"

Then, Nikola fell silent and waited for the young man to respond as well as close the distance between himself and the tent, presuming of course, that he was now in earshot to do so. Little did Nikola realize that this was just the calm before the veritable storm that would soon mercilessly swallow him up on this presently deceptively calm but soon-to-be fateful day.  

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OOC:

Wordcount: 710/710/5000

Text Legend:
- Italics (Nikola's silent thought text)
- Bold w/ Quotes (Nikola's spoken aloud text)
- Bold w/ Italics (Nikola's whispered/covert text)
- No Bold, No Italics, No Quotes (Nikola's action text)

This city was rotten to its core, it was a place of wanton lawlessness and constant uncertainty, just the kind of place that the prissy son of nobility couldn’t stand; but still, something was biting at the back of his conscious as he stared out to the hazy city streets.

I can’t say that many of the men here strike me as reputable… The violet haired gent looked down to his pocket watch as he thought to himself, ... but there’s women and children here. Just the same as any island, people call this place home. I wonder what we’ll mean for them.

The orders on high were perturbing to the pacifists gentle sensibilities, determine whether or not this “shithole” has to be razed to the ground, It’s not my decision. We have duties we were sent here to fulfill, and I have to play my part objectively. The man grimaced at the prospect.

The sound of breaking glass and the smell of fire quickly broke the Marine’s train of thought, he shivered his whiskers at the unpleasant fumes. Knowing a violent conflict was likely about to break out the Ensign stormed back towards the Marine encampment. As Moreau drew nearer the small enclave of justice and security a vagrant called out to her passerby:

[npc=misc]“Spare change handsome feller? These old eyes don’t see much, but I can read your fortune.”[/npc]

Brushing off the woman’s compliment he pitched the woman couple of bucks, “Sure, why not? If you’re struggling you’re welcome to come along with me when we’re through. My compatriots and I are offering our services, medical, cooking, and otherwise, to the community.”

[npc=misc]“Oh you kind souls! Here boy, let me have a look at your hand…”[/npc] the elder scooped up the gentleman’s dainty hand in her own wrinkled and crusty mitts, [npc=misc]“...the ring of saturn!”[/npc] The old woman’s cataract-laden eyes widened at the feature of Moreau’s palm, darting back and forth trepidatiously.

[npc=misc]“Perhaps you’ve just not been true to yourself boy, let us consult the cards.”[/npc] The old woman rolled out a small length of cloth before procuring a well-worn tarot deck from her pocket. Moreau quirked his eyebrow up sceptically, but figured putting up with the woman’s theatrics would be well worth helping a person in need.

Her crooked fingers trembling, the witch plucked a card from the top of her deck. [npc=misc]“The tower, there will be change, liberation…”[/npc] she fixed her eyes on Moreau’s accusingly, [npc=misc]“...perhaps danger. Let us do a drawing of three, get us a complete picture of your purpose here purple-haired man.”[/npc]

She swiftly drew another card from the deck, slamming it down to her mat, [npc=misc]“The hanged man, ultimate sacrifice, you are but a bystander in your own fate, cursed to watch on as forces beyond your reckoning play their game. Let’s see the last card.”[/npc]

The old woman gasped as the last card, her mouth hung agape a moment before she announced it, [npc=misc]“Ten of swords, reversed…”[/npc]

The two sat in silence for a moment, Moreau furrowed his brow and curled the corner of his mouth into an exasperated frown with the woman’s overly dramatic pronouncement.

[npc=misc]“...you people. You are the inevitable calamity. The storm that does not pass until all has been swallowed in its wake.”[/npc] She whimpered, backing away from the man towards the wall of a nearby tenement.

“We’re here to help. I promise. Please just come with me, we can fix your eyes.” The man offered his hand down to the kneeling woman, concealing the true intention behind the Marines’ mission.

The near-blind woman looked up desperately to the man, perhaps it was a kind devil she was dealing with, [npc=misc]“I’ll go.”[/npc]

Post Word Count: 614
Total Word Count: 614

The medical tents were deeper inside the dirty city. So by the time the younger Julius arrived on site he was breathing heavy. And it wasn't just because of the distance, which was just a little over a mile, or the mask he wore, which kept the smog out of his lungs but made it harder to breathe. It was the air itself. The air was so polluted with smoke and smog from all the factories that it actually felt denser than what Julius was accustomed to.

As he stopped to catch his breath, Julius couldn't help but sigh at the pitiful sight. Marines and contractors alike scrambled to put up tents and bring in supplies. The locals that Julius and his comrades had been deployed to help were a whole other sort of mess. Some begged for help. Others asked for handouts. Still others leered and jeered at the marines, making their feelings for the world government known. It was all the marines could do to maintain some semblance of order while things got set up and sorted out.

No sooner had Julius stopped jogging when he saw somebody, one of the contracted doctors by the looks of them, waving him over. Unsure about what to do, the inexperienced recruit looked around for a superior to direct him. Of course, all the superior officers were too busy to even notice him, much less offer him any sort of help. Being unable to ask for assistance and being too timid to say no, Julius decided to see what the doctor needed.

“Do you need help sir?” he asked meekly as he approached the doctor.

Just when Julius had gotten within a few yards of the doctor, the young marine stopped in his tracks. Like an alarm in his head, the devil within him screamed out that the doctor was filled with metal. Far more than what could be considered normal to have on them.

"He's armed!"

“S-sir!” shouted Julius, his voice quivering as he tried to be authoritative. He was not used to being the one giving commands. “Contractors aren't supposed to b-be carrying weapons on these...um...premises. Uh...p-please, I mean, um, I order you to discard your weapons! Now!”

---

367 / 1027 / 5000

Nikola watched on as the young Marine came towards him and as he listened to the boy speak, a bemused smile started to creep onto his countenance unbidden. He then replied to the boy's question as to whether he needed help

"Indeed I do, for you see...some of this equipment is far too heavy for a weak civilian such as myself to move without assistance. So, if you could lend me your aid in this hour of my need, that would be quite helpful in expediting my setup process for this tent."

After replying thus, Nikola fell silent and watched the boy he was speaking with as he came closer with a somewhat nervous expression on his face and so he mused silently

How amusing...this one seems to be rather nervous for some reason...

Before Nikola could proceed with his silent reverie, however, he noticed the boy stop just short of the medical tent and then heard him suddenly shout at him in an attempt to sound authoritative, but his seemingly meek nature dulled the edge that his authoritative statement would have otherwise had, but the gist of the import was that the boy had somehow detected a large amount of metallic signature from Nikola and thus had presumed him to be armed which was apparently against the rules for contractors working in conjunction with the Marines and the World Government

Intriguing...How did he manage to detect my cyborg body underneath the artificial skin I have upon it, I wonder?... Could he be using some sort of special ability to do so? That would be highly likely considering that he does not seem to have any visible held equipment on him that could allow for such a thing...and the way that this skin is calibrated, it would be impossible for him to have detected me simply by his natural senses alone...

Nikola mused thus silently once more, this time for a few more minutes than he probably should have, but he soon refocused his attention on the situation at hand and addressed the boy's issue with him while ensuring to use his standard practiced but perfectly natural-seeming cordial businessman's voice tone and while wearing a polite smile on his face, his chosen course of action being to play innocent with a matching expression of convincingly genuine surprise and curiosity on his face so that he could see how the young Marine boy would react

"Weapons? Why, whatever do you mean, good sir?... Perchance, are you referring to these tools of my trade?"

While saying this, he brought out all the metallic surgical and medical equipment he had kept in his physician's white coat pockets in a brief show-and-tell. Then, he walked over to the young Marine boy to show him the many pieces of metallic medical and surgical equipment he now had in his hands, and waited in silence for him to inspect them so that he could adequately quell his suspicions.

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OOC:

499/1209/5000

Though the doomsaying old crone babbled out prognostications of death and damnation all the way to the encampment, Moreau simply grimaced and tuned her out; he could care less for her ramblings now that she had been rendered compliant, her utility was little more than that of a diagnostic: evaluating the necessity of treatment.

Hopefully the others will be a bit more lucid, Jean thought to himself disdainfully, I read the heart of this city was once a glimmering bastion of security, seems that they traded it all for smokestacks and derelicts. Even if we could drive all the scum out of this place… He furrowed his brow as he and his traveling “companion” strode into the makeshift base, ... I don’t know if it could ever fully recover.

“C'est comme ça.” Moreau muttered to himself, letting out an exasperated sigh at his own conflicted feelings.

Like the sharp chime of a bell, finally a familiar voice, Julius is giving orders? Did one of ours already decide to mouth off? Honestly it wouldn’t be surprising, what little help the Marines had been able to enlist from amongst the locals were a rough lot in themselves. The so called “cooks” were the worst offenders by far, a reckless, rowdy, and clearly unsanitary crew; Moreau quite resented that he had not been allowed to manage the kitchen himself.

This fellow didn’t seem quite as roughly cut, Moreau looked over to the contracted doctor, Nikola Eisenstein, sizing him up, Even if he does have a weapon, this one seems like he’s got enough sense to work within the parameters. To Jean the good doctor seemed respectable enough, like a man of aristocratic peerage; regardless of his stature he at least had a good enough head on his shoulders to pursue medicine, amongst the Marine’s sparse assets for this scouting mission this man was likely one of their most useful.

”Good to see you Recruit Khan, I see you’re conducting a routine inspection,” Moreau smirked towards Nikola in a manner that, though intended to be reassuring, came across as smarmy and taunting, ”So the man has his instruments, can you discern if he’s keeping anything else on his person?”

It couldn’t hurt to be rigorous, and Julius’ “unique skills” were always a boon for the crew’s safety; little more than primitive shivs could make it past the juvenile metal-detector, ”Go ahead and conduct a full search on the man. If need be then we can confiscate a weapon or two and offer him modest compensation for his trouble, I’m sure he wouldn’t knowingly break protocol.” Moreau shot Nikola a hawk-eyed leer alongside his amicable offering.

Post Word Count: 440
Total Word Count: 1,054

French:

Julius turned and saluted his superior officer, Ensign Moreau.

“Sir...um...” hesitated the young recruit as he tried to think of the right way to explain what he detected in the doctor. “No sir. Er...well not quite.”

Julius paused for a second and took a deep breath. He wasn't used to using his powers so much. It was starting to take its toll on him, tiring him out mentally and physically. That, and the horrible breathing conditions, early morning wake up, and extensive physical labor that he had been doing since dawn.

“I can't sense anything specific but it feels like he has a lot of metal on him. Way more than just those medical instruments he's holding.” he elaborated.

Then came the order from the ensign. Search the man, they ordered.

“Yes sir,” nodded Julius before turning his attention to the doctor.

“Hold your hands out sir,” commanded Julius meekly. He was simply reciting what he had been taught in training to say when searching a suspect.

Julius started by running his hands along each side of the doctor's arms, then down the sides of his torso. Next, Julius patted down the outsides of the doctor's legs before moving to the inseams. He slowed down and became very careful not to grab anything sensitive as he got near the groin area. Lastly, Julius ran his hands over the doctor's back, chest and shoulders.

When he was done, the seaman recruit turned to Ensign Moreau.

“I...uh...” his eyes darted down and to the side in shame. “I'm...sorry sir, but I didn't find anything.”

---

262 / 1289/ 5000

Nikola mirrored the hawk-eyed stare that he had seen coming at him from the commanding officer of the young Marine he had been interacting with till then, and with his usual calm and self-confident smirk now playing on his lips, he remarked

"Certainly not, good sir...for it would be the height of foolhardiness for one such as I to renege on a contract that I willingly agreed to, after all."

With that said, Nikola fell silent and turned his attention back to the young Marine from whom he now heard instructions coming that required him to submit to a body search to abide by the onsite security protocols of his current employers. So, Nikola did just that and allowed him to search him without resistance since he had already taken all necessary measures to conceal his true nature as a cyborg and because he was confident that the metal shell containing all of his hidden armaments would conceal them effectively enough from detection via a simple body search like this one, and all the while he mused silently, his face now back to its usually neutral and unreadable expression

A simple body search? Well now, this lot is far more trusting and lenient than I had expected...how fortuitous this has turned out for me...this one should be done any time now...and should not be able to find anything of note or concern on me...

Several minutes later, as Nikola had expected and planned, the quick and cursory body search that the young Marine conducted on him came up empty, at which point, he saw the boy report to his commanding officer in a contrite tone. After the Marine boy said his piece, Nikola chimed in with his two cents

"Well now, gentlemen, will that be all that you require of me? I would prefer it very much that we finish these procedures with all due haste as I do have many more patients en route for treatment at my station...my subordinates should be arriving within the hour with said patients, so I would like to return to my contracted duties, if I may..."

Nikola inquired of his two new acquaintances thus while sporting his well-practiced, convincingly cordial businessman's smile and then fell silent. Right then, as if on cue, Nikola's subordinates, aka the medical corps division of his mook underling army, each of whom he had personally trained in the medical and surgical arts to assist out in the field and his daily professional duties, now returned carrying several sick, injured, or otherwise incapacitated and indisposed patients on a line of stretchers. Upon reaching their designated drop point, aka the spot right in front of Nikola, he heard them inquire

"Dr. Eisenstein, where would you have us deposit this next patient load? The medical tent does not seem to be fully ready yet to receive this next batch..."

Without missing a beat, Nikola remarked in response to the inquiry from his subordinates while glancing at his two new acquaintances, aka the young Marine boy and his commanding officer

"Alas, I have not had time to finish the setup for the rest of the tent, for you see...I have been busy submitting myself to certain onsite security protocols...but I am certain our two new friends would be willing to assist in completing the remaining setup for this workstation...that is, of course, if they are amenable to the idea..."

Nikola suggested and then shot the young Marine and his commanding officer the same well-practiced, convincingly cordial businessman's smile he had given them earlier. After that, he fell silent, awaiting whatever response they might have to give to him and his subordinates. Likewise, his medical support team also waited next to him with the patients they were carrying being in obvious need of immediate medical or surgical treatment. This waiting was all done, of course, in accordance with Nikola's plan that he had supplied ahead of time to his subordinates to lend more credence to Nikola's assumed cover of being nothing more than an ordinary physician with the best of intentions.

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OOC:

Wordcount: 678/1887/5000

With a cheerfully indifferent shrug Moreau spoke over to the recruit, “Nothing to fret Julius, these powers of ours are fickle and sometimes arbitrary things, irregularities are to be expected; you conducted your search well and dutifully, it’s a bit frustrating when reality doesn’t align with our intuitions, but overall we’re best served if the man doesn’t have any weapons on him! Good show old boy!” With this Jean patted the lad on the back and stood to confer with Nikola.

“I appreciate your compliance sir, my apologies for postponing your work here; allow us to assist, you lot!” Moreau shouted over to a nearby group of Choreboys finishing their meals at a nearby table, “Come over here and give this man a hand would you?” With a bit of disgruntled groaning, the men set about the work of assisting in the construction of Eisenstein’s facilities.

Moreau and his fellow Marines made rather short work of the project, quickly assembling the workshop, and then dispersing to assist Nikola’s assistants in triage, “Well then Monsieur Eisenstein, do you find these conditions amenable?” The gentleman gestured down proudly towards him and his men’s handiwork, quickly put together and somehow containing a number of amenities not packed by the good doctor’s myriad servants.

“Now as we proceed remember that our primary objective is assessing the health and character of the community, wherever you can do so I’d like you to ‘chat up’ the clientele as it were; not to worry though, you’ll have the help of myself and…” Moreau looked around, in his work he seemed to have lost track of his crewmate, “...Julius?!” The Ensign called out with a concerned tone to his voice.

Crazy people always made for quite the distraction, and as soon as she had gotten sight of him the soothsayer had clung to Julius like a barnacle, [npc=misc]“I seen your face boy…”[/npc] the old crone cooed over to the boy, [npc=misc]“...in a dream you visited me, o’ angelic boy; is it you then Uriel? Sent to watch over this place? To heal and purge from us our devilry?”[/npc]

Shuffling out a deck of esoteric looking cards the old woman shot a “toothy” grin and made her proclamation to Julius, [npc=misc]“I know the fate that clings to you boy…”[/npc] she shuffled her deck over and over again, as though to prove that she wasn’t cheating destiny, [npc=misc]“...The World!”[/npc]

Indeed, sprung from the top of the strange lady’s deck came the card, an angel descending from the heavens, surrounded by four strange beasts there it was: XXI THE WORLD. The fortune teller peeked over to her revelation, a miraculous excitement sprawling across her face at her “lucky guess.”

[npc=misc]“It is you! Uriel, blessed protector, descended from heaven, emerged from the earth, it is you!”[/npc] Tears streamed down the woman’s face as she kneeled before Julius, [npc=misc]“What is one such as you doing in the company of that viper? Have you o’ blessed one fallen in amongst the company of devils such as him?”[/npc] With her crooked and wrinkled old finger the woman pointed over towards Ensign Moreau, who appeared to be looking for Julius.

Meanwhile, in the Kitchen

[npc=pirt]“So how long you figure it’ll take for that stuff to kick in, boss?”[/npc] One of the cooks spoke over to his chef, wiping his hands of the stew’s strange contents.

“Eh, ‘bout an hour. Less’n they got a weak tolerance fer Sleepy Grass…” The Chef, a burly man standing some nine feet tall, slammed his meat cleaver down through a fish’s neck, “...either way, around the time an hour passes we’ll have our fun. The waitstaff’ll show up and we’ll have them filthy blues cornered.”

Chef Henri Bouillard, also known as “The Butcher,” a cruel and hardened man of the seas; for the past few years he was content to settle down in Spider Miles and aid in the operations of local crime syndicates, but it seems that with the threat of heightened Marine presence the old dog has learned a couple of new tricks: the arts of poisoning and disguise being prime among them.

Slamming his cleaver into a nearby cutting board the man set out from the kitchen to make his introductions before the festivity began in earnest, grabbing for himself a pot of his delicious, enticing, and narcotic-laden soup as well as the silverware needed to serve it; with any luck the burly chef would have all of the Marines knocked out and high off their ass by the time “The Waitstaff” arrived, “Put on your best appearances in the meantime, we’re nothin’ but humble cooks until the blue boys start droppin’ like flies.”

Post Word Count: 776
Total Word Count: 1,830

Despite his superior's assurance that sometimes mistakes just happened when somebody was using the devil's power, Julius decided to be cautious and avoid using his special abilities while he helped set up the tent. The young recruit dutifully began helping some other marines put together the remaining tent poles and tie up any loose tent cords all while doing his level best to ensure no part of the somewhat makeshift structure would spontaneously collapse.

Once that job was completed, Julius moved on to unloading boxes and organizing the medical supplies within. This was easy, simple work. All he had to do was follow the lead of Dr. Einstein's men. Observe where they put things and how they stored them. No risk. Very little effort. Extremely necessary. Perfect for a man like Julius.

That was until the old woman approached him. Julius involuntarily recoiled in horror at the haggard-looking old woman. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard and she smelled like a garbage dump full of rotten eggs that had been stuffed inside of an old whale carcass. But the worst thing about her was the stuff she spouted.

It was nonsense surely. Nothing but the deranged ramblings of a lunatic whose mind had been lost since before he was even born. But...he realized, something about the way she spoke filled him with dread.

Julius didn't understand why. Maybe it was fatigue. Or stress. Or just her wholly unpleasant presentation. But there was something in her words that sent a shiver down his spine and perturbed him in ways he could not even try to describe.

“Doctor!” Julius called out to Dr. Einstein as he desperately tried to get away from the delirious doomsayer. “Doctor! I think this woman needs your help!”

The recruit's call was answered by two men in lab coats. Julius could only presume they were a couple of Dr. Einstein's helpers. They flanked her on each side, taking her arms in theirs.

"Come along." Julius heard one of them say softly but sternly.

The old hag began to protest of course. Ranting and raving about evil storms and daggered skulls but the two men simply smiled and nodded as they escorted her out of the tent. Julius's gaze followed them for as long as it could and for a moment he questioned his presumption.

Maybe the two men didn't work for Dr. Einstein he thought. There were, after all, other doctors on the island.

Before he could think about it too much, the recruit's musings were interrupted by a sound. It reverberated through the job site like a foghorn on a quiet morning. It was a soothing sounding, baritone voice and it was singing a siren song to all the hard working marines.

"SOOOOOOOOUP'S READY!"

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“Pardon me Mr. Eisenstein, feel free to begin gathering results for the survey. My attention may actually be stretched a bit thin keeping everything up and running, feel free to call us if you require our assistance,” with this Moreau excused himself from his conversation with the scientist, heading towards the camp’s center in search of Julius.

It wasn’t long before the Officer spotted the toe-headed Recruit amongst the masses, out on the fringes of a large group of Marines, all congregating around the source of the pleasant scent wafting throughout the camp. A soup, cheese, potatoes, and some manner of fish simmered with enough complimentary herbs and spices to make the whole thing palatable, that actually doesn’t smell awful. A decent cod soup should keep the men’s spirits high; decent cuisine is uncharacteristic of such a hellhole, but I oughtn’t begrudge the people their food.

Sidling up to the Recruit Moreau took note of the other men’s eagerness, “good soup eh Julius? Have you tried any? What do you make of the fellow serving it?”

Most men of such an imposing stature would seem intimidating, if not outright frightening; but this charming Henri came across more as a gentle giant, jovial and chummy in his selfless service. In his interactions with the Navy men, the chef was friendly and familial, almost like an uncle at a barbeque. Still, the man’s cooks seemed a bit unsavory; more smug than friendly, and more shifty than hospitable.

“Come you two! Have a bowl, you must be hungry, no?” With a friendly grin the black-haired and mustachioed man began dispensing a serving for the Marines.

One of the cooks slid up beside Julius, a lanky and wiry-looking man with a crooked and gap-toothed smile, his voice crackled like smoke as he spoke, [npc=pirt]“It’s good soup kid, ya should really try it ehehe…”[/npc] his eyes were reddened, and he slurred a bit in his speech, [npc=pirt]“...say do you got a match? I’ll let ya bum a cig.”[/npc]

The gentleman furrowed his brow and looked over to Julius, if the boy needed him he knew he was free to call on his crewmate, “tell you what Julius, I’ll give it a try and see if it’s worth your while. Let me know if you’d like a bite eh?” With this Moreau turned over and took the bowl of soup in his hand.

“Enjoy sir! I hope it’s a surprise and a delight, you look like a man who knows his way around a soup,” Henri beamed at the Ensign’s acceptance of his

What the fuck is that supposed to mean… Jean thought to himself with skeptical confusion;  the man wasn’t wrong, he was a cook after all, but he didn’t understand what would possess a person to make such a comment, “…seems that it’s a crowd pleaser if nothing else eh? I can be a bit more discerning, it smelled alright though; let’s give it a taste.”

Creamy and savory, the least that could be expected of such a broth; seasoning would make or break this dish, and so it was made: herbal chicken stock with a hint of spice, tender cod portioned out neatly amongst its rich potato base. Moreau scrutinized the chef’s work, sizing him up as a cook. It was a good dish, “That’s not half bad. I appreciate your work and that of your kitchen sir, I’d like to see what you could do with some finer ingredients. What was your name again? Regardless, Ensign Jean Moreau, pleasure.”

“Chef Bouillard, at your service sir. We’re working hard to keep you all satisfied and sustained while you attend to our sick and needy, it’s really the least we can do…,” the practiced charlatan spoke his niceties with a saccharine tone; crocodile tears welled in his tears as he noted his grudge against the dandy standing before him, ...prissy little shit insulting my food in front of my face, in front of everybody. Seemed like ya enjoyed it too, ya just got too much of a stick up your ass to admit it; we’ll see if you don’t enjoy your last meal Mr. Moreau.

Post Word Count: 691
Total Word Count: 2,521

“It smells so good...”

Julius's stomach growled as the smell of the soup wafted into his nostrils. Savory and spicy in all the right ways, the umami packed aroma easily overpowered and beat out the filthy, industrial smell that permeated the island as well as the sweat and body odor of all the hardworking marines. It wasn't even a fair fight.

“I-I'd like a bowl please,” said Julius meekly. He hated to interrupt his superior officer but he was so hungry.

“Here ya go kid.”

Julius turned his head slightly to the left to see a surly looking man with tattoos, bloodshot eyes, and scraggly looking facial hair approaching from behind the gregarious chef. A cook's uniform hung loosely off of their bony frame. They were holding out a bowl of the fragrant fish soup as well as a plastic spoon to eat it with. Julius took the food and bowed his head.

“Thank you.”

The cook responded by turning his back to Julius as he grumbled something unintelligible before shuffling back into the kitchen. Julius raised his head and turned to Ensign Moreau.

“I'm going to find a place to sit, sir.”

Careful not to spill a drop of the soup, Julius walked past Moreau. As he pushed his way through the throngs of hungry marines, he looked over at the hastily set up chairs and tables in the immediate vicinity, hoping to find a place to sit. Failing that, he found an empty spot up against an old building next to some other masticating, low ranked marines.

“Can I sit here?” asked Julius.

One of the marines looked up from their meal and grunted.

“The fuck do I care?”

Julius shrugged and sat down. He eagerly pulled down his mask and grabbed his spoon. But no sooner had he managed to fish out a big, meaty portion of the meal than his attention was drawn away from the dish by a cry that rang out through the camp.

“Medic!”

Julius looked over at one of the tables to see that one of the marines had passed out, face down into their bowl. A few other marines rushed over to check on their downed comrade when suddenly, one of those marines became wobbly on their feet and collapsed. Soon enough there were several more shouts and thuds as more marines began to spontaneously drop.

Panic quickly began to spread through the group of mostly young and inexperienced soldiers as more and more marines suddenly lost consciousness. Shouting of cussing of all sorts could be heard as the remaining ones tossed away their food and jumped into action. Some of them seemed to be frozen with panic while others were (trying to) take charge and the rest just looked like they were trying to understand what was going on. Most of them had their weapons drawn.

“The hell's going on!?”

“Are we under attack!?”

“The fuck are the medics!?”

Julius frantically tossed his bowl to the ground and jumped his feet as he drew his rifle. His heart raced and his head swiveled from side to side as he looked for something, anything that might clue him into what was happening.

---

531/ 2280/ 5000

Moreau’s sunken eyes began to droop lower and lower as the spiked food sat in his stomach; a well-cooked soup was always relaxing, but he didn’t have time to be falling asleep on the job. Neither did the other men who were dropping like flies now that he thought about it.

This isn’t just the food… Moreau’s thought process was abruptly disrupted by the glints of the chef’s meat cleaver, as he struggled to keep his eyes open the violet-haired officer looked warily back towards the man standing at the corner of his vision.

“It seems the soup truly was to your liking eh?...” Boulliard spoke with a cold, mocking tone in his voice, “... I suppose it doesn’t matter whether or not I please a picky eater though, no? All of your men seem to think it’s to die for. Toro-ro-ro-ri,” the burly man chuckled as he stroked the edge of his knife.

… damn it. If we make it out of this alive I’m never letting them hire random cooks again, I’d rather eat some choreboy’s half-assed attempt at gruel.

As the nature of the predicament made itself clear to Moreau, his eyes managed to widen as he saw what was unfolding around him: an unconscious Seaman was hoisted to his feet by one of the cooks before being dragged into an alcove between some of the camp’s structures. The sound of metal chopping through flesh and bone followed shortly thereafter, the victim hadn’t even had the chance to scream before the cook emerged with blood splattered across his apron.

I need to find Julius before he eats any of this… clumsily, the gent began scrambling as fast as he could in the direction he’d last seen the lad heading. Sauntering at a relaxed pace, the Chef and his kitchen staff followed Moreau, sinking their knives into any sedated Marines unlucky enough to cross their path.

… they’re all defenseless, and it’s too late for anyone to spit it up; we need to find the medical staff and find a fast solution. These people are monsters, they could have just poisoned us; but they obviously want to prove a point, the dandy was burning an awful lot of mental energy thinking about the safety of his men, perhaps he should have been more focused on himself.

The white hot pain of a blade sinking into his shoulder blade shot a spike of adrenaline through Jean’s body. One of the cooks had scampered up behind him like a rat before stabbing him in his left shoulder. With blood gushing from his wound, a surge of strength overcame the man, he had to make it to his crewmate; narrowly avoiding a stab to the back of the chest, Moreau threw the last of his energy into a dead sprint.

He just made it. Collapsing at his blonde-haired comrade’s feet, Moreau could only sputter out a single sentence before his eyes drowsily fluttered shut: “They tricked us, the soup is poisoned. We need to get medical…” he couldn’t even fully finish his instruction before trailing off into his sedation.

Still pursuing, the knife-wielding cook hardly paid any attention to the young rifleman as he stalked after his escaping prey; finally the big bastard had gone down, now he just needed to finish the job. A bit further behind, the burly Chef Bouilliard twirled his mustache and chuckled more to himself; soon enough all of the bluecoats would be butchered upon his “cutting board.”

Post Word Count: 581
Total Word Count: 3,102

“No! Please! No! Ahhh!”

“The food, it was the damned food!”

“Hey what are y—agh!”

It had happened so quickly. Before Julius could even process what had happened, the worksite had transformed into a war zone. The sounds of boots stomping, metal clanging, marines cursing, and guns firing all thundered loudly but the worst of all were the screams.

Screams of anger. Of desperation. Of pain. Of terror. All so horrifically clear.

The frightened young recruit backed up until his back was against a wall. With shaky arms, he held his rifle in standing, firing position. The tip of its barrel followed his head as it jerked and swayed about the chaos in front of the young man. Overwhelmed as he was by fear, anxiety, and adrenaline, he could barely think.

So much had happened so suddenly and so many people needed help that he didn't even know where to look. Cooks, contractors, and civilians had all turned on the marines. The people Julius and his comrades had been trying to help were now the same ones trying to kill them.

“This is too much,” he thought. Followed by “I'm not a hero. I can't do this.” Then came the worst thought of all. “Why couldn't I be more like my dad?”

Julius took a deep breath to keep himself from hyperventilating. He shuffled along the wall. Slowly. So as not to draw attention. He didn't dare to look away from the battle until he felt the edge. Nervously he peaked around the corner.

In the distance, he could see the shipyard. If he just ran now, he thought, he could make it back to the ship. Then he could radio for help. And after that, he could-

Thud.

Julius looked down and saw Ensign Moreau. And just like that, the panic set in again.

“Sir!” shouted Julius as he shook his unconscious superior. “Sir! Please get up!”

“Hey boy! Why ain't you tired? Didn't you like my soup?”

Julius looked up at the familiar sound of a certain baritone voice. The jovial chef from before and a few of the other cooks were advancing toward him. Julius recognized one of them as the gangly fellow that had served him his bowl. The cooks all guffawed at chef Bouillard's joke. The chef didn't look friendly anymore. There was evil in his eyes and a bloody butcher's knife in his hands.

Julius aimed his rifle at the advancing group.

“Go away!” he screamed.

The evil men only laughed harder.

“I said go away!” screamed Julius again. This time his command was punctuated with the pull of the trigger.

Bang!

The cooks all stopped in their tracks for a second. Then their boisterous laughter resumed. Julius had missed.

“You better put down that pea shooter before ya hurt somebody,” mocked Chef Bouillard. “And while you're at why don't ya hand me that prissy little prick you got passed out at your feet?”

“Hey, captain – ow!” started saying the gangling one, only to be cut off mid-sentence by chef Bouillard's burly hand as it smacked him upside the head.

“I told ya a thousand times. I ain't a captain no more,” chided the chef.

“Sorry, capt-er-chef! As I was gonna say, I think that's Khan's kid?”

“Khan? The marine hero?” asked one of the other men.

“Yeah,” nodded the gangly cook. “I bet we could get a real good ransom for him.”

Chef Bouillard belted out a hearty laugh.

“That right!?” he bellowed. “Then grab 'em both!”

“Help!” screamed Julius as he looked around for anybody who could save him.

But there was nobody. The marine forces had been completely overwhelmed by the ambush. Every one of them was either unconscious or fighting for their life. If anybody was going to step up and be a hero, Julius realized, it would have to be him. He just wished he was braver. Stronger. He wished desperately that he could do something.

The devil in him fed off this desire.

Suddenly he could feel it. Stronger than ever before. The pipework in the ground beneath his feet. The metal tent poles. The machines inside the various factories. Even the weapons everybody was carrying. It was like he could feel the metal pulsing and beating. It almost felt like a heartbeat.

“Help!” he screamed again. “Leonardo!”

In response, the ground started to rumble.

---

728 / 3008 / 5000

“Punk ass kid is up to something…” Bouillard muttered to his men as he snagged Moreau up by the leg and threw the limp dandy over his shoulder, “... you lot bag Khan’s kid, meet me in the kitchen,” with this, the chef leapt and bounded away from the scene leaving his crew with a test of skill.

Each of the cooks readied a different utensil, they thought themselves clever and threatening with their stainless steel weaponry; though something was off, it seemed as though they were being dragged towards the boy by their tools. Each ignorant man thought that the “natural” phenomena was something greater: the call to battle, their urge to prove themselves overcoming them and leading them to what would certainly be a flawless victory.

The wielder of knives, a man willing to cut straight to the point of things and chase down victory regardless of the cost. He lunged for Julius with reckless abandon and a feral glint in his eyes, [npc=pirt]“don’t worry kid! You’ll survive! Just like your pops would!”[/npc]

The wielder of skewers, set to pierce with each of his finer points. This man lurked and encircled his opponent, looking for a perfect opening that would not come, [npc=misc]best not to charge in against prestigious progeny. The moment he drops his guard, he’s mine…[/npc] the contemplative cook kept his eyes fixed wide-open on his enemy’s form, looking down at the boy like a hawk waiting to swoop up its prey.

The wielder of the meat tenderizer, a strong man ready to crush and batter the world until it had been molded to suit his preferences. He swaggered towards Julius, his chest filled with a pride that could only exist in a man who had never been truly challenged, “give it up kid! It’s three on one! Daddy’s the Admiral eh? Let him pay the ransom and brag about some impossible feat of heroism to the reporters!”

Fallow were the hopes of the overconfident; and of the ignorant alike. There is no angel of valor in times of war, only initiatives and responses, their results calculated by the cold and uncaring demon known as “power.”

On the Chopping Block

“Wake up prince…” the sharp inhale of smelling salts and the stark cold of ice-water were sufficient to rouse the Ensign into a state of half-lucidity, “... you look like a fancylad, I’m sure we could get some berri for ya if we tried; but the Khan kid’ll pay more than nicely enough eh? I didn’t take too kindly to your little remarks on my culinary masterpiece. I put a damn lotta time into craftin’ that recipe up from scratch, and it didn’t seem like anybody had much to say about it, ‘sides from singing’ its praises, ‘till you tried it,” the chef readied his instruments, sharpening his cleaver and examining its edge.

“It was a fine soup. I’ve had better…” Moreau thought hazily back to Gaston’s cooking, the old fellow’s cod soup was immaculate, “... nothing against your dish, and I meant my criticism only in service of your improvement; that’s why we came to this place, to see if we could make it better,” perhaps a convenient half-truth would be sufficient to free the man from his shackled position upon the table.

The swift chop of a cleaver and the rush of blood and pain that coursed through Jean’s hand quickly put an end to such silly thoughts. A digit was mercilessly severed and cleared from the tableside like simple kitchen-scrap.

The gentleman struggled to hold on to consciousness, and attempted the transmutation of a body-part into a weapon; anything to defend himself from the wicked man looking down upon him, and smiling at his agony. But in this moment, his ability was inaccessible to him, as the combination of fear, drugs, and adrenaline coursed through him, it was as though his body was not his own; he was little more than a slab of meat placed upon a cutting board.

Away were cleaved the remainder of the man’s fingers, screaming agonistically with each torturous chop, Moreau whimpered up to the man as the last was severed, “what do you want from me?”

“From you? Ha!...” Running a cloth along his knife’s edge, Bouillard cleaned the edge for its next job, “...I have no use for you, I simply despise you for ignoring the greatness of my art; for that alone I will grant you death by inches. Any who cannot see the beauty of my cooking, any who doubt my genius? I will cut them away, cut them apart, all the people of the world will taste of my brilliance! I will be adored for my soups! Beloved for my pasta! My meatballs, they will be known as ‘a the spiciest of all!”

Defying any sense of self-preservation, the quick-wit couldn’t help but comment on the absurdity of the man’s dream, “perhaps your art isn’t as good as you think it is,” he stated plainly, dryly, without zest or passion.

Bouillard blinked, one eye at a time, his lizard brain shorting out and running in loops of confusion as to how a man in such a helpless position could still find the will to backsass him.

Post Word Count: 870
Total Word Count: 3,972

Round 1

Julius uses:

T-800 (Toggle)
Find the Weak Point (LT)
Rain of Scrap (LT)
Pecking Order (MT)
UT

Evil Ambushers uses:
LT
LT
LT
UT

---

COMBAT TRACKERS:

Forgot to roll

The member 'Julius the 3rd' has done the following action : Dice Roll

---

#1 'Reflex Check' : 18, 11, 2, 5

--------------------------------

#2 'Reflex Check' : 13, 9, 14, 13

Round 2

Julius uses:
Shrapnel Shot (LT)
Deadly Attack (HT)
UT

Evil Ambushers uses:
LT
LT
LT
UT

---

COMBAT TRACKERS:

The member 'Julius the 3rd' has done the following action : Dice Roll

---

#1 'Reflex Check' : 15, 15, 18

--------------------------------

#2 'Reflex Check' : 1, 19, 5, 13

Too overwhelmed to act, Julius could only watch in horror as the vile men took his superior officer away. Tears welled up in his eyes as he quivered and recoiled from the scoundrels that surrounded him. Meanwhile, the building behind him started to moan and the rumbling beneath his feet intensified.

“Please. Stop,” he begged. Only the devil listened.

“Quit your whimperin'” barked the large one with a meat mallet as his massive mitt reached out for Julius.

In response, the terrified lad's fight or flight response kicked in. It waslike a switch in his brain had flipped and turned his engine over.

“I! SAID! STOP!” he commanded.

“What the fu-”

The tent poles tore apart, the scrap began to sore, and the ground exploded as the pipes below ruptured. Swift moving shrapnel made of magnetized nickel shot up through the round. The laughter and mockery of the malicious men suddenly turned to horrified howls as their arms and legs were turned to shredded beef. If there was any sort of silver lining for them in their now dire situation, it was that their suffering would be short-lived. The shards would continue their ascent for only the briefest of moments before halting suddenly in the air and plummeting back down with the same speed in which they rose, perforating the traitorous cooks.

“What was that!?” yelled out one of the other ambushers.

“I smell blood!”

“I can't see!”

Sand and dust had been kicked up by Julius's attack and mixed with the island's unnatural smog to create a fog that blanketed the immediate area of the young man's assault. The traitors and criminals who had been tasked with taking out the other marines. Fear and uncertainty ran through their ranks as they tried to stare into the fog. Unable to see anything, all they had heard were crashes and screams followed by what sounded like live animals being butchered. The could only guess as to what had really happened.

Luckily for them, they wouldn't have much time to worry.

Before the assailants could fully comprehend what had happened they were surrounded by the sounds of glass shattering and bricks being broken. The factories that surrounded the site were full of giant machines made of steel or iron. In recent times they had fallen into disuse and become worn out and broken. With the devil's encouragement, Julius gave them new life.

The machines broke themselves apart and smashed their way through the bombed-out buildings. As the dust began to settle they reassembled themselves, becoming reborn in their new, more magnificent forms. Terrible, otherworldly sounds reverberated throughout the war-torn worksite. As the dust settled and the traitors gazed upon the machines only one sentiment seemed to spring to mind.

“Oh gods, what is that?”

---

462 / 3470 / 500

Bouilliard’s confusion mounted, at first his helpless victim’s sass confounded him; but now there was a more pressing matter at hand; the sound of wrenching iron and his own men’s shouting, something was afoot, “now what are you little rats up to…,” pacing away from his subject, the chef ran a whetstone along his blade.

In an instant, the capricious cook snapped back to the restrained officer, lodging his cleaver into Moreau’s shoulder as though setting it firmly into a chopping block, “... you just wait right here boy,” with this, Bouilliard procured a gnarly-looking bone saw from the wall and departed from the room.

Somewhat inured to the pulsing waves of pain, Moreau was submerged to new depths; the deed of chopping his arm off had not been finished, but it may as well have been, the connective tissue that held the man together only served as a conduit for his agony. With a dead look in his eyes the purple-haired dandy thought grimly, well, our mission can’t have been for naught. If our unit goes missing then HQ will be certain that this place is beyond salvaging. I just hope that the others meet more merciful ends… blood trickled from the man’s frame, running down onto the table and dripping to the floor like beads of sanguine dew.

But the spark of humanity doesn’t die out so easily, adrenaline prickled at the wounded animal’s psyche, …if I die here, I won't go out without a fight. With a jerking motion, Moreau pushed his arm further into the blade, cutting away at what little remained of the connection; he would free himself from the source of his pain and escape his bonds. Like a branch snapping loose from a tree, soon enough the gentleman was freed of his arm.

Jolting upwards, the man wrenched his body over, frantically diving his teeth for the rope of his remaining restraint; he gnashed and sawed at the hempen binding, undignified and savagely snarling like an animal to be let free. Jean was losing blood quickly, he barely clung to consciousness as he finally managed to free himself. Fashioning a makeshift tourniquet and bracing himself against the wall, the one-armed man limped weakly out of his torture chamber.

Meanwhile…

Trodding down towards the source of the commotion like a fuming bull, the imposing chef clutched his implement tightly in his meaty fists, I’ll find the last of ‘em and snuff ‘em out, show these boys that Spider Miles isn’t someplace they can just set up shop and infest with their so-called justice, and we’ll all make a good chunk a’ change doing it too…

Post Word Count: 440
Total Word Count: 4,412