FrostJaeger
Banned Member
- RP Date
- YE 40
- RP Location
- Planet 188-604
Plant 188-604, Prison Complex "Camp Inferno"
Tarmac 3
23:43 hours (Local Time)
A scowling, rugged figure - whose granite features had long since gained creases from the passage of time - stood waiting on an equally-weathered cement tarmac, heedless of both the inky darkness and the maelstrom of sand that had been roaring through it for the past few months. He stood waiting, and he was pissed - not at the atrocious weather, not that they were now three hours late, but rather at the fact that the son-of-a-bitch named Alex Tasuki simply refused to do as he was told and die.
He began pacing in front of the cavernous, battered, and currently-closed doors leading into the prison's small hangar, ignoring the stream of sand particles that blasted into whatever facial features weren't covered by the breathing mask he was wearing, and managed to make three "laps" before the radio in his right ear finally crackled its way to life. "Warden, sir, the, uh, transport for our guest is, uh, here, sir."
"About fucking time," was Warden Daniel Tresca's response to the extremely nervous, extremely young, and extremely inexperienced operator at the other end of the line as the former scowled once more. Although the assholes at Section 6 had, in the warden's mind, gotten what they richly deserved with the attack that had occurred during their departure two days prior, the resulting loss of manpower had left the Sky Guard seriously under-staffed, and it showed with fresh recruits like the operator - Jenkins, was it? - who were barely half of Tresca's age. Regardless, however, the arrival of the transport - as evidenced by the dark shape that materialized a dozen or so meters away on the poorly-lit tarmac - meant that the Warden's life was about to get a hell of a lot simpler. "Kill the cameras," he barked into the breathing mask's microphone as he started forwards, "then bring him out. I want to have this done by yesterday."
Plant 188-604, Prison Complex "Camp Inferno"
Detention Cell AA-23
23:58 hours (Local Time)
Alex was resting on his bunk when the guards came to get him. Resting was more or less all he was able to do nowadays. His body, covered from head to toe in bruises and semi-healed cuts, was simply unable to do anything else between the time he spent eating, washing, and exercising (if one could call what he was given meals, or daily runs through the desert storms in minimal survival gear exercise.)
To top off the brutal cocktail of torment inflicted upon his body was the beatings from other prisoners. The block he was in was filled mostly with people who in one way or another considered themselves wronged by him, and they very often made their displeasure with him apparent. The guards never stopped the beatings though. They more often than not just watched or even joined in.
The former Sky Warden's slumber - and that of the other prisoners in the cramped room - was abruptly interrupted by the clang of the cell's barred door being thrown open and the blindingly painful glare of the overhead floodlights. For Alex, though, it was worse - as his wake-up call was delivered in the form of a solid punch to the gut and the words "On your feet, maggot!"
Alex coughed and spluttered for a good 30 seconds as his lungs tried to recover from the rapid evacuation of air that had just occurred. He fell to the floor from his bed and then gingerly picked himself up, using the bedframe as support.
Still looking down, he coughed violently at several points while he spoke. "Oh boy. COUGH! To what do I owe the luxury COUGH COUGH! of a wakeup call?" Now Alex was standing, though with a slight hunch in his back. The cynical sense of humor was a new addition, built up during the time (a little over than 2 months) that Alex had spent in this prison.
As the room's other occupants cursed, groaned, and made obscene gestures in irritation at being woken up, the guard replied, "You should be thankin' me, maggot, 'cause today's your lucky day: you're..." - a pause as Alex's arms were roughly (and quite painfully) forced behind his back, then secured with the cold sensation and clink of handcuffs - "...gettin' shipped off to somewhere else. Speakin' of which..." - he looked around the room - "anyone here want to say goodbye to the maggot? I'd let y'all take turns, but the boss is waitin', so...Bergren, you give 'im one."
Dennis Bergren, an oversized brute of a man whose fiancee Alex had killed when he fired into a crowd of innocent civilians, smiled, made an elaborate show of stretching - and proceeded to smash the ex-Sky Warden's face in with a left-right-uppercut combo that sent the latter spiraling towards the unforgiving concrete floor. "So long, fuckface."
Alex didn't have anything to say to that. He knew Dennis' history, having been told it during beatings in the past, and even if he did have something to say his face wasn't responding well enough to form coherent words.
"Alright, good enough" - another pause, as the guard manhandled Alex into something that vaguely resembled a standing position - "now let's go, maggot, 'cause we ain't got all day. Jankovic, Harrison, take the maggot to the pad. Oscar, help me lock up, 'cause it's Field Day tomorrow and these pansies here are gonna need all the sleep they can get." A chorus of groans and another clang was all that the former hero of Uso's Star Organization could hear as he was led out of the proverbial pot - and into the dingy, worn corridors leading to the fire beyond.
Plant 188-604, Prison Complex "Camp Inferno"
Tarmac 3
00:13 hours (Local Time)
The dark shape from before, a beaten-up Onset Shuttle that had clearly seen much better days, had been sitting on the pad for quite a while by the time Alex - clad in nothing besides his prisoner garb and lacking any sort of breath mask to protect against the raging sandstorm - was half-marched and half-shambled out to the landing pad. Jankovic - a lean and decidedly mean former Nepleslian Marine - roughly shoved the ex-Sky Warden forward. "Here's the package, Warden, bagged, tagged, and-"
The guard's message over the radio was drowned out by completely by Warden Tresca, whose volcanic rage was plainly apparent even after being digitized by communications equipment that was as old as it was poorly maintained. "You incompetent fucks! Which part of 'yesterday' wasn't clear, the 'yester' or the fucking 'day'?"
Jankovic paled noticeably, though the sand prevented anyone from seeing his rampant amounts of fear. "Neither, s-sir, b-" he stammered, only to be cut off once again by his superior. "No fucking excuses, or I will personally shove my boot so far up your asses you won't be able to shit straight for a week." Tresca sighed to himself. Incompetents. He, Daniel Tresca, was quite literally surrounded by incompetents - and speaking of which...
A click of a button on the controller he wore on his wrist switched his radio over to the one used by the Impulse-clad individual representing the people that were about to make things much, much, easier. "He's all yours, Mr. Johnson."
"Good," replied the aforementioned individual, who - after exiting the shuttle after it landed nearly 30 minutes prior - had remained both motionless and silent as he stood adjacent to the craft.
Alex was unable to speak. In fact, in the current sandstorm, it was all he could to stay standing. He did his best to squint his eyes to keep sand out, and to breath as little as possible. He could make out a few figures, one of which he thought was the warden, but he wasn't quite sure what was going on.
The armored figure knocked his knuckles on the craft's hull as Jankovic undid Alex's handcuffs and gave him one last push forwards; as the ex-Sky Warden stumbled on one of the numerous cracks in the tarmac's cement surface, the Onset's ramp descended with an audible whine of badly-maintained hydraulics as two figures - also wearing Impulses - clonked their way down it, strode to where Alex was, seized each of his arms in a mechanical, vice-like grip, and dragged him back towards the shuttle.
Alex struggled slightly, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he had no chance of breaking free in his weakened state.
With a nod, Johnson turned and followed his companions up the shuttle ramp as one forced Alex into a vacant seat, handcuffed him, and knocked him out with an armored fist to the head; he, too, was extremely displeased over how long the prisoner transfer had taken - but unlike the irate fool who ran the prison, he was far better at concealing it. Ultimately, however, he didn't care - not when the original delay was due to mechanical issues with the shuttle, not when the second delay was due to the incompetence of the prison staff, and not when he would still get paid regardless of how late he was. Tresca was similarly pleased, as the departure of Alex Tasuki meant less time listening to the brass' whining and more time pursuing his personal "hobbies" - however, there was one person (besides Alex, of course), who wasn't happy: Andrew Harrison, the other guard on Tarmac 3.
Harrison, unlike the vast majority of his co-workers, wasn't a native of 188-604 - he was instead the eldest son in a family of scrap collectors who'd moved to the planet earlier in the year after Alex Tasuki saved their lives. It was why Andrew had never beaten up Alex as hard as the rest of the guards had - and, as the Onset shuttle began its ascent into the upper reaches of the planet's stratosphere, it was why he contacted Araxie Serai via his personal communicator.
Tarmac 3
23:43 hours (Local Time)
A scowling, rugged figure - whose granite features had long since gained creases from the passage of time - stood waiting on an equally-weathered cement tarmac, heedless of both the inky darkness and the maelstrom of sand that had been roaring through it for the past few months. He stood waiting, and he was pissed - not at the atrocious weather, not that they were now three hours late, but rather at the fact that the son-of-a-bitch named Alex Tasuki simply refused to do as he was told and die.
He began pacing in front of the cavernous, battered, and currently-closed doors leading into the prison's small hangar, ignoring the stream of sand particles that blasted into whatever facial features weren't covered by the breathing mask he was wearing, and managed to make three "laps" before the radio in his right ear finally crackled its way to life. "Warden, sir, the, uh, transport for our guest is, uh, here, sir."
"About fucking time," was Warden Daniel Tresca's response to the extremely nervous, extremely young, and extremely inexperienced operator at the other end of the line as the former scowled once more. Although the assholes at Section 6 had, in the warden's mind, gotten what they richly deserved with the attack that had occurred during their departure two days prior, the resulting loss of manpower had left the Sky Guard seriously under-staffed, and it showed with fresh recruits like the operator - Jenkins, was it? - who were barely half of Tresca's age. Regardless, however, the arrival of the transport - as evidenced by the dark shape that materialized a dozen or so meters away on the poorly-lit tarmac - meant that the Warden's life was about to get a hell of a lot simpler. "Kill the cameras," he barked into the breathing mask's microphone as he started forwards, "then bring him out. I want to have this done by yesterday."
Plant 188-604, Prison Complex "Camp Inferno"
Detention Cell AA-23
23:58 hours (Local Time)
Alex was resting on his bunk when the guards came to get him. Resting was more or less all he was able to do nowadays. His body, covered from head to toe in bruises and semi-healed cuts, was simply unable to do anything else between the time he spent eating, washing, and exercising (if one could call what he was given meals, or daily runs through the desert storms in minimal survival gear exercise.)
To top off the brutal cocktail of torment inflicted upon his body was the beatings from other prisoners. The block he was in was filled mostly with people who in one way or another considered themselves wronged by him, and they very often made their displeasure with him apparent. The guards never stopped the beatings though. They more often than not just watched or even joined in.
The former Sky Warden's slumber - and that of the other prisoners in the cramped room - was abruptly interrupted by the clang of the cell's barred door being thrown open and the blindingly painful glare of the overhead floodlights. For Alex, though, it was worse - as his wake-up call was delivered in the form of a solid punch to the gut and the words "On your feet, maggot!"
Alex coughed and spluttered for a good 30 seconds as his lungs tried to recover from the rapid evacuation of air that had just occurred. He fell to the floor from his bed and then gingerly picked himself up, using the bedframe as support.
Still looking down, he coughed violently at several points while he spoke. "Oh boy. COUGH! To what do I owe the luxury COUGH COUGH! of a wakeup call?" Now Alex was standing, though with a slight hunch in his back. The cynical sense of humor was a new addition, built up during the time (a little over than 2 months) that Alex had spent in this prison.
As the room's other occupants cursed, groaned, and made obscene gestures in irritation at being woken up, the guard replied, "You should be thankin' me, maggot, 'cause today's your lucky day: you're..." - a pause as Alex's arms were roughly (and quite painfully) forced behind his back, then secured with the cold sensation and clink of handcuffs - "...gettin' shipped off to somewhere else. Speakin' of which..." - he looked around the room - "anyone here want to say goodbye to the maggot? I'd let y'all take turns, but the boss is waitin', so...Bergren, you give 'im one."
Dennis Bergren, an oversized brute of a man whose fiancee Alex had killed when he fired into a crowd of innocent civilians, smiled, made an elaborate show of stretching - and proceeded to smash the ex-Sky Warden's face in with a left-right-uppercut combo that sent the latter spiraling towards the unforgiving concrete floor. "So long, fuckface."
Alex didn't have anything to say to that. He knew Dennis' history, having been told it during beatings in the past, and even if he did have something to say his face wasn't responding well enough to form coherent words.
"Alright, good enough" - another pause, as the guard manhandled Alex into something that vaguely resembled a standing position - "now let's go, maggot, 'cause we ain't got all day. Jankovic, Harrison, take the maggot to the pad. Oscar, help me lock up, 'cause it's Field Day tomorrow and these pansies here are gonna need all the sleep they can get." A chorus of groans and another clang was all that the former hero of Uso's Star Organization could hear as he was led out of the proverbial pot - and into the dingy, worn corridors leading to the fire beyond.
Plant 188-604, Prison Complex "Camp Inferno"
Tarmac 3
00:13 hours (Local Time)
The dark shape from before, a beaten-up Onset Shuttle that had clearly seen much better days, had been sitting on the pad for quite a while by the time Alex - clad in nothing besides his prisoner garb and lacking any sort of breath mask to protect against the raging sandstorm - was half-marched and half-shambled out to the landing pad. Jankovic - a lean and decidedly mean former Nepleslian Marine - roughly shoved the ex-Sky Warden forward. "Here's the package, Warden, bagged, tagged, and-"
The guard's message over the radio was drowned out by completely by Warden Tresca, whose volcanic rage was plainly apparent even after being digitized by communications equipment that was as old as it was poorly maintained. "You incompetent fucks! Which part of 'yesterday' wasn't clear, the 'yester' or the fucking 'day'?"
Jankovic paled noticeably, though the sand prevented anyone from seeing his rampant amounts of fear. "Neither, s-sir, b-" he stammered, only to be cut off once again by his superior. "No fucking excuses, or I will personally shove my boot so far up your asses you won't be able to shit straight for a week." Tresca sighed to himself. Incompetents. He, Daniel Tresca, was quite literally surrounded by incompetents - and speaking of which...
A click of a button on the controller he wore on his wrist switched his radio over to the one used by the Impulse-clad individual representing the people that were about to make things much, much, easier. "He's all yours, Mr. Johnson."
"Good," replied the aforementioned individual, who - after exiting the shuttle after it landed nearly 30 minutes prior - had remained both motionless and silent as he stood adjacent to the craft.
Alex was unable to speak. In fact, in the current sandstorm, it was all he could to stay standing. He did his best to squint his eyes to keep sand out, and to breath as little as possible. He could make out a few figures, one of which he thought was the warden, but he wasn't quite sure what was going on.
The armored figure knocked his knuckles on the craft's hull as Jankovic undid Alex's handcuffs and gave him one last push forwards; as the ex-Sky Warden stumbled on one of the numerous cracks in the tarmac's cement surface, the Onset's ramp descended with an audible whine of badly-maintained hydraulics as two figures - also wearing Impulses - clonked their way down it, strode to where Alex was, seized each of his arms in a mechanical, vice-like grip, and dragged him back towards the shuttle.
Alex struggled slightly, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he had no chance of breaking free in his weakened state.
With a nod, Johnson turned and followed his companions up the shuttle ramp as one forced Alex into a vacant seat, handcuffed him, and knocked him out with an armored fist to the head; he, too, was extremely displeased over how long the prisoner transfer had taken - but unlike the irate fool who ran the prison, he was far better at concealing it. Ultimately, however, he didn't care - not when the original delay was due to mechanical issues with the shuttle, not when the second delay was due to the incompetence of the prison staff, and not when he would still get paid regardless of how late he was. Tresca was similarly pleased, as the departure of Alex Tasuki meant less time listening to the brass' whining and more time pursuing his personal "hobbies" - however, there was one person (besides Alex, of course), who wasn't happy: Andrew Harrison, the other guard on Tarmac 3.
Harrison, unlike the vast majority of his co-workers, wasn't a native of 188-604 - he was instead the eldest son in a family of scrap collectors who'd moved to the planet earlier in the year after Alex Tasuki saved their lives. It was why Andrew had never beaten up Alex as hard as the rest of the guards had - and, as the Onset shuttle began its ascent into the upper reaches of the planet's stratosphere, it was why he contacted Araxie Serai via his personal communicator.
