∴A Tourist In Reality∴

ShaVeK HaChaver 814

ShaVeK HaChaver 814

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_______________________________________________

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.:. O.B.C .:.
File No. 034
'Geyer'

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Summarized Biography: Female proselyte of Swiss-German origin. Surviving Union records indicate an age between 34-37. Multiple pre-Contingency disciplinary actions for use of excessive measures of re-education. Oscillated between rank 50 and 75. Access to viscerators revoked after multiple abuses resulting in unnecessary injury to 10-91d's. Received field promotion to Rank Leader upon activation of Contingency. Viscerator access restored. L.S. recommended unit for extended functionary service as Drill Rank Leader. Status as vital area field agent necessitates freezing of subsumption. Likely suffers from stimulant-induced psychotic disorder. Subsumption Freeze is void upon grievous assignment-impairing injuries or cessation of utility to the Order.

Protectorate Geyer is currently deployed for Operation Upset.

Geyer has been awarded the Mark of Maximus, the Grand Protectorate of the Order, the Black Clamp, and the Breen Clasp

It is the Magisterium's recommendation that Geyer be excluded as a potential candidate for further orderly ascendance.

Geyer has received elevation to the Magisterium following successes in field operation and intervention on her behalf by Maximus.​
 
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ShaVeK HaChaver 814

ShaVeK HaChaver 814

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​

There it stood, the Nerve Center, once a bustling prison complex under the malevolent oversight of the Empire, now transformed into the headquarters of a decidedly more diabolical Order. There was a holiness to this site for Alma, for myth had it that Freeman dismantled it so it might be rebuilt again, rampaged as Dionysus while Apollo lambasted his spirit. It was Maximus who reclaimed the rubble Freeman left behind, restructured it, and built ever stronger foundations where the weak atrophied. The enigmatic Commander, so Alma was told, had side-by-side the portraits of Dionysus and Apollo, labelled as the true founders of his facility—Freeman and Breen.

After invasive questioning, she was finally let in. The brutalist interior evoked a constant state of paranoia and fear, one impossible to shake off; this was purposeful, and the Order's renovations only intensified the original Soviet blueprint. Shrill screams terrorized the ears, though it was lost on Alma whether they came from stalker or prisoner. Venturing deeper into the complex, orders barked from loudspeakers demanding this unit report to that subcenter or this patrol team rendezvous with another grew distant. The hustle-and-bustle remained in the periphery. In the core, administrative tasks. One cell-block was refashioned to host an array of ex-Civil Authority persons, tasked with logistical upkeep of the Nerve Center, delegated the most tedious and least rewarding tasks. Another cell-block was home to 'Extra Europa,' a newly-formed, smaller division of agents tasked with spreading the Order's message to sectors not yet sieged, parts of the world where Empire presence is plentiful and sociostability remains. Neither of these interested Alma. Her eyes were set on one particular set of offices, Information and Discipline.

"DEFENDER-4. You're on time. Have a seat." The pale, nondescript apparatchik motions to a chair designed for interrogation, cold and uncomfortable. Alma sits.

"We have watched you closely. We are satisfied with your efforts. You are to double them. Our ministry designates this reserve detachment as crucial to Operation Upset." Apparatchik speaks in a matter-of-fact, inflectionless manner.
"It was elucidated to me Maximus was to be present for this briefing." Alma's voice cut through the small room, once evidently a sort-of solitary confinement in the prison of old, now a cold and dank office.
"Maximus is busy. Continuing. You are to select functionaries easily manipulated and violent. You may initiate them expressly. The situation must call for it."
"Is this the Magisterium's doing? What occupies him so that he cannot yet spare--"

Apparatchik stood up, his chair flying backwards and crashing into the wall behind him with a loud and metallic thud.
"Cease, DEFENDER-4. Your detailed orders are enclosed there." He motioned at a folder on the table. "A requisition has been placed for you. Report to the extraction plant to receive it."
"Synth oils?"
"Correct. This concludes your briefing."

As always with the Nerve Center, one leaves with more questions than answers. Alma stopped to catch up with acquaintances on deployments not dissimilar from her own. A senator from Rome, officially conducting a state trip to an armaments factory, had bumped into Alma.

"Geyer, we've got to stop meeting like this."
"Sure."
"So, how did that meeting with Maximus go?"
"Lamentfully, it did not."
"Yeah, thought so. Some say he's dead."
"Dead?"
"Deceased. Yeah, like, Magisterium has his bloated corpse on a throne while they speak for him."
"It hardly brings surprise to me that such a scenario may play out."
"Just a rumor, but when's the last time you saw him? They did the same bit in Moscow some time ago, the Civil Authority there, I mean."
"We'll see."

Were it not for the schemes of the Old Guard, the Magisterium as it was so called, Alma may have sat evermore closely to the throne. The politics of the Nerve Center were treacherous and deadly. Cunning and guile were a necessary requisite to be considered for work in the beating heart of the Order. Alma lost out on one early on and seemed forever consigned to the unhappy role of a field agent. Yet perhaps there was a chance to redeem herself, better yet there might be a chance to fashion a force so necessary to Order operations that the Magisterium might yield.

Alma, departing from the Nerve Center at daybreak, intending to return to her host detachment at night, scribbled a few new directives on the folder she had been given. Internal purges were commonplace in the Order, yet never had it been thought to thoroughly purge the Magisterium. This would be remedied in time. First, she had to become Kalki.​

ALMA AGRONA GEYER
FOURTH DEFENDER
BARONESS OF THE BLEEDING CLAMP
FOURTH HORSEMAN OF THE APOCALYPSE
PLENIPOTENTIARY OF THE NERVE CENTER
IRON FIST OF THE COMMANDER MAXIMUS​
 
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ShaVeK HaChaver 814

ShaVeK HaChaver 814

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<:: ACCESSING FILE ::>

. . .

<:: INSERT TIER 2+ CODE CYLINDER ::>

. . .

<:: ACCESS GRANTED ::>


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.:. O.B.C .:.
File No. 034
'Geyer'​


Summarized Biography: Female proselyte of Swiss-German origin. Surviving Union records indicate an age between 34-37. Multiple pre-Contingency disciplinary actions for use of excessive measures of re-education. Oscillated between rank 50 and 75. Access to viscerators revoked after multiple abuses resulting in unnecessary injury to 10-91d's. Received field promotion to Rank Leader upon activation of Contingency. Viscerator access restored. L.S. recommended unit for extended functionary service as Drill Rank Leader. Status as vital area field agent necessitates freezing of subsumption. Likely suffers from stimulant-induced psychotic disorder. Subsumption Freeze is void upon grievous assignment-impairing injuries or cessation of utility to the Order.

Protectorate Geyer is currently deployed for Operation Upset.

Geyer has been awarded the Mark of Maximus, the Grand Protectorate of the Order, the Black Clamp, and the Breen Clasp.

1/19/2023 - Geyer extracted from field operations, returned to Nerve Center for extended leave of absence, spiritual rejuvenation.

Geyer, on order of Maximus, has received elevation to the Magisterium. Previous Substumption Freeze guidelines still in effect.

3/1/2023 - Geyer returned to field operations.

Current Status: In transit.​
 
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ShaVeK HaChaver 814

ShaVeK HaChaver 814

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​


An Investigation Into the 'Vortigaunt' Species
Disguised as a questioning regarding recent spatio-temporal disturbances
First Part

I (Alma Geyer, C17:RL.DEFENDER-4) am speaking with CMB:C38.BIOTIC.919 'Tel'Ahm Garr'

Q: "Garr, correct?"
A: "That is what we are called. Though we have been called many things."

Q: "Have you born witness to any phenomena out-of-the-ordinary for this planet in your time being here? Phenomena not stirred by you or those of your tribe? Particularly, phenomena that may have occured within the confines of this prison-block?"
A: "No. Though even enshackled our senses feel strange disturbances city-wide. Not caused by the likes of our kind. As far as this one is aware. Cut off from our kin as this one is."

Q: "Garr, we have documented occurrences in this city pertaining to temporal discrepancies and disturbances, chief among them... physical displacement. Teleportation, in plain words."

"...displacement."

Cont. "There seems not to be any rhyme or reason regarding where or when these will occur, as with things of this nature. No particular selectees. We have documented it cross-factionally. My colleagues would pin the blame on your kin. Some would not even reach as far to say that these displacements have occurred, accusing your kind of manipulating senses, causing mass hysteria and hallucinations. I object to this theory, but if you might answer first the possibility of these accusations and second if, being possible, they have occurred."

At this point, the biotic turned, keeping its eyes closed, emitting a hum, only to open one eye exclusively for me, unbeknownst to the Transhuman or UNION-3. The Transhuman, SWORD-7, demanded immediate ripcord following this strange behavior. The biotic attempted to say something, but our evacuation cut it off.

I am satisfied with my learnings for today. I shall pick up this line of questioning at another date.
 
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ShaVeK HaChaver 814

ShaVeK HaChaver 814

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Evening Ritual​

She plunges the baton in her thigh. She winces and groans. She casts the baton aside, flipping open the red book in front of her, settling on a bookmarked page. She procures her standard issue dagger, presses it against her left index finger, neatly and swiftly cuts into it, then presses it into the book as blood erupts, draws out three crimson symbols—those on the crest of the Shu'ulathoi she had born witness to. She squeezes her finger every-so-often, allowing the blood to emerge before continuing. Wipes the dagger on her sleeve, inserts it back into its sheath and reaches behind, withdrawing a ceremonial knife with distinct markings of Order-make. She lifts the fabric of her uniform up and anchors it, grasps the handle with both hands, presses it against her exposed stomach, eyes closed, shut tight, teeth gritting. She quivers, attempts to breath steadily as the knife trails, hovering, across her abdomen. She memorizes the movement, then returns it back to the far right of her lower torso. Lets out an exasperated sigh. Pulls her garb back down, tucks it back in, lifts her right sleeve, turns her arm over. She presses the knife against her forearm, makes an incision, clenches her teeth. She produces a series of symbols, one by one, blood trickling down her arm. A grunt escapes her and she drops the ceremonial blade. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Tries to pace her breaths. She stares at the open book, reads off of it in a hushed tone, inaudible to all else. She finishes some time after, stumbles to her feet, goes to find bandages.​
 
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PilotBland

PilotBland

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PeaceAndMagick89 said:


New_Project21.png


Evening Ritual​

She plunges the baton in her thigh. She winces and growns. She casts the baton aside, flipping open the red book in front of her, settling on a bookmarked page. She procures her standard issue dagger, presses it against her left index finger, neatly and swiftly cuts into it, then presses it into the book as blood erupts, draws out three crimson symbols—those on the crest of the Shu'ulathoi she had born witness to. She squeezes her finger every-so-often, allowing the blood to emerge before continuing. Wipes the dagger on her sleeve, inserts it back into its sheath and reaches behind, withdrawing a ceremonial knife with distinct markings of Order-make. She lifts the fabric of her uniform up and anchors it, grasps the handle with both hands, presses it against her exposed stomach, eyes closed, shut tight, teeth gritting. She quivers, attempts to breath steadily as the knife trails, hovering, across her abdomen. She memorizes the movement, then returns it back to the far right of her lower torso. Lets out an exasperated sigh. Pulls her garb back down, tucks it back in, lifts her right sleeve, turns her arm over. She presses the knife against her forearm, makes an incision, clenches her teeth. She produces a series of symbols, one by one, blood trickling down her arm. A grunt escapes her and she drops the ceremonial blade. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Tries to pace her breaths. She stares at the open book, reads off of it in a hushed tone, inaudible to all else. She finishes some time after, stumbles to her feet, goes to find bandages.​
Click to expand...


I don't think this REALLY happened.
 
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Lewis!

Lewis!

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If DEFENDER-4 has a million fans, I'm one of them
If DEFENDER-4 has 5 fans, I'm one of them
If DEFENDER-4 has 1 fan, that one is me
If DEFENDER-4 has no fans, I'm no longer alive
If the world is against DEFENDER-4 I'm against the entire world
 
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