Exalted Post-Modern
A clock spits ageless numbers at me, assulting me from sightless directions and grounding me firmly in the here and now. I am bound not by time, but by my understanding of time. A restriction wholely metaphysical, but a restriction nonetheless. A vision came to me, a touch of divinity in a barren, godless universe. It is genius filtered through madness, a beauty so terrible I feel it resonate through the core of my very being, tearing away all pretense and superficiality and leaving only a sleek, sexy, stripped down beast that crawls beneath my skin. I have been infested with a corrupt purity, a measureless creature trapped within the absolute boundaries of existence. I must tear down order and make way for chaos.
[ALL CHOSEN AT ATTENTION] Argus is awake and awaiting the call to arms. He is always awake. [WE HAVE AN ULTRAVIOLET EMERGENCY SITUATION] An ultraviolet alert can only mean one thing: Primordialbreach. [CHOSEN CADMUS, HECTOR, AND ARGUS, REPORT TO BRIEFING CHAMBER 41-J] Chosen Argus arrives at the Briefing Chamber .0041731 seconds after the order is given, a full .0003931 and .0006046 seconds before Apostles Cadmus and Hector respectively arrive. After making note of their times of arrival, he directs his attention to the Primary Briefing Module and awaits instructions. As the Briefing Module clicks and whirrs, coming to life, technician-scribes surround it and begin to translate Its Holiest and most Benevolent Directions. "Chosen Cadmus, Chosen Hector, Chosen Argus," proclaims the head technician-scribe, "Thou art unyielding hands sweeping mercilessly across the face of The Grand Tapestry. Let it be not said that man be without saviors, for truly thou art thine brother's keeper, bringing form and measure to the formless and the measureless. As that be the truth, let these words be heard: Primordialbreach, 15.1364045 second count, nearest FATE anchor #594038765983563156625943..." As the technician rattles off numbers, the Chosen arm and armor themselves. Standard issue slipsuits are donned over smartplastic underchasis, structure sticks and binary detonators strapped to the hips, polyplastic crash armors laced overtop, and finally, individual arsenals aquired.
I stand up in my cubicle and bark out a high-pitched squelch of tightly packed and layered memetic commands. The floor goes silent as the synapses and neurolinguistic receptors of my fellow co-workers burn out while attempting to process the information bundle, and those who don't die instantly are torn apart and rebuilt, liberated from the chains of indivision. I/we converge, begin processing the hypermathematics necessary to construct our psychogeometric vessel, a blooming, lightless chariot for the lifeless God who waits outside.
Chosen Cadmus, Hector, and Argus break through the Creationary barrier and immediately feel the tug of realtime, heavy against their litetime-accustomed bodies and minds. Clustered in standard break formation, the three feel their stomachs lurch as physics kick in and they begin to fall. Accelerating at 9.80665 m/s/s, they cut through the sky like a straight razor whistling toward an exposed throat. Piezocables unfurl around them, twinkling trails of stars in the day sky. Tearing through the atmosphere, aerodynamics overtaking aerostasis, Chosen Argus watches the city expand beneath him. Skyscrapers and skybreakers rush up at the Chosen frantically, and they tuck their bodies, preparing for impact with the contaminated zone. As they hit the roof of Cosdyne Technologies, Inc., the piezocables spark and scream. Force is converted into energy, and the subquantum probability turbines of the slipsuits thrum to life. Argus sheds his cables 44 floors down, when he finally slows enough to land solidly on a floor without breaking through it. Heads up display tells him that Cadmus and Hector have also stopped their descents, and points him in the direction of the theoretical wormbreach. He stands, shedding his charred peizocables, a half ton butterfly emerging from the chrysalis. Argus flexes the artificial muscles of the slipsuit, feeling the thousands of pounds of pressure behind his every minute movement. All systems check nominal. Roll.
Floor quivers. Glass shatters. Eardrums break. Someone is here to stop me/us. Someone is too late.
Cadmus, Hector, and Argus clear the space between themselves and the contamination in a split second, but they feel the black physics of the room and realize their tardiness. The uncreature pierces Creation, intersects with it at strange angles and warped planes. Reality stretches and molds to accomodate the primal form of the great Creator-God. Unsheathing his structure stick White Venom Viper and dropping into the thrice-feared Mountain Spider Scholar stance, Argus, Chosen of the Creationary encryption lattice-program JUPITER, prepares for battle.
Comments
Pretty badass. I was thinking about a space-opera Exalted but the whole posthuman/cyberpunk thing is even cooler. -LiOfOrchid
