"Your terran is my bitch Mark4!"
-Johhny_Vegas
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| Agent 1147 Chronicles: Part I | | | Author: | | | IP: | ga-cmng-XXXX | | Date: | 04/09/03 04:04 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 2, Max: 7, Min: 6
Lifetime Rating for Manius: 6.1667 |   |
Agent 1147 Chronicles
Part I: Yetts' Offer
Author's Note: So, it's been a few weeks since I ended the Raighnes Conflict, and I came up with the nice idea to start a series about Agent 1147's life. You do not need to read any other parts of stories: This is the first part. As usual, constructive criticism is encouraged and wanted, but flaming is not. I hope you guys enjoy the read!
What you are about to read is not a story with a happy ending. What you are about to read does not contain a plot, a climax, and a happy ending. What you are about to read are the events that have occurred throughout my horrid, emotionless life. I warn you, what you are about to read is not for the faint-hearted. Many of my battles are rather graphic, and rather…how do I explain this? This is like nothing you will have ever read before. This is the life of a ghost. I do not hope you enjoy this read, but I merely hope you have some idea of just how horrid a ghosts life is and will be…
15 May, 2265
This is the date of my birth. I became a ghost the second I was born, the Confederacy made sure of that. I have been told that my mother got to hold me for five minutes, my father as well, before I was taken away, never to see them again. Their names were never revealed to me, as it could affect the outcome of one of my missions. What is my name, you ask? Espionage/Intelligence Agent 1147, or, for short, Agent 1147. The first one indicates that I am a part of Alpha Squadron; the next one says that I am a part of the first battalion within Alpha Squadron. The 47 means that I am the forty-seventh ghost to become a part of that battalion.
One week after my birth, my natural eyes were plucked out of me, and were replaced by optical implants, which greatly enhanced my vision, working as binoculars. My reflexes, strength, and the rest of my senses were already enhanced at birth. My father and mother both had had this enhancements done during the Third Industrial/Technological Revolution. After my surgery, I was completely blind for three years while my body adjusted to the implants. This also allowed for my other five senses to become stronger. My sense of smell increased 256.6% past normal human standards with the help of special drugs. My sense of touch was also allowed to increase naturally as well as my sense of taste. My hearing increased 4.06% past normal human standards. With the help of Psychics and other telepaths, my telepathic sense was greatly increased, 950% past human standards at the time. This was an extremely high, even for ghosts.
29 Jun, 2269
I was four years old now. I had almost perfected my telepathic skills, and I was getting ready to move on to hand-to-hand combat. At four years old, I was getting ready to learn how to fight. My childhood was utterly washed away by the Confederacy. And did I have a choice in it? Of course not. This was not a democracy, as much as they said it was. My future was already chosen, the Confederacy a mighty dictatorship. If I refused an order, I got beaten, and it was as simple as that. As I learned how to increase my kick and punch range, I finally began to think for myself. This wasn’t any fun right now. I wanted to be somewhere else. I wanted to play; I wanted to be a four-year-old. Not a twenty-four year-old. Slowly but surely my skills increased, and I was fighting like I was twenty-years-old. Good for me. I could beat a person into a bloody pulp, but I could not read and could not do basic arithmetic. That came when I was ten. They would not teach me too much, however, as if I became too smart, I might think for myself.
27 Jan, 2279
When I was fourteen years old, my acquired skills were put to the test. I stood now at 5’9”, and I had stunning icy blue eyes. My military-style haircut was colored black. But none of that mattered. I was a killing machine, and that’s all I was. A simple toy for the Confederacy. There was a Terran Senator, one Wesley Irr, who had acquired strong support against the Terran Confederacy. He was to be assassinated. That was my mission: Assassinate Senator Irr. Simple. So, let me set the scene: I was in my assigned barracks, 188-AE-9, looking at the floor and breathing slowly. In and out…in and out. Slowly I stood, opening my locker where my gear was. With trembling hands, I reached into the locker, pulling my white-embroidered hostile environment suit. It had attached to it my PCD, or Personal Cloaking Device. I got myself into the suit without hesitation, and activated it quickly. It was at this time my emotions uncontrollably took over. I became jittery, yet I was stable. I was nervous yet confident. Uncontrollable, yet at peace. Violent, but only at the right times. My heads-up display shot on, the green letters showing my mission objectives on the glass faceplate. Again, I breathed slowly, taking full, deep breaths. Next came my weapon. My C-10 25mm canister rifle. Semi-automatic. It was beautiful, simply beautiful. Ammunition and lockdown shells were attached to my HES, so I was set. Silently and swiftly I moved down the halls of 188-AE-9, heading slowly to the exit where my dropship would be waiting. I pushed open the final door to the beautiful building, and went slowly to the dropship pad. Silently I climbed in. A double tap against the metal of the dropship let the pilot know that I was safely aboard, and with that double tap, the beginning of the end of Irr started.
The ride seemed to take forever. About an hour after the ride had started, it had ended. The dropship hovered silently above a building where I dropped quickly, activating my PCD telepathically while landing on the top of a building, allowing my knees to buckle to help cushion my fall. My C-10 was pulled from its back-holster immediately, and I simultaneously activated my night-vision. It was pitch black, after all. After looking around for anyone who was guarding, I loaded a lockdown shell into my C-10 rifle, and fired it straight at the dropship. I don’t think the pilot ever knew what happened. The round slammed into the dropship’s massive hull, sending it spiraling towards the ground while the electronics were disabled due to the contents of the round. This was effective for two reasons: First off, security and other such obstacles were effectively eliminated, for they would be at the site of the crash. Also, the dropship pilot now had no chance of ever telling how Irr was really killed. Because, quite frankly, he was dead. Both of them were and would be, in fact.
After my first-ever kill on a mission, I ran towards a large staircase that went straight into the heart of the building. Quickly I opened the door, which allowed access into the Senate Building, putting a foot towards the gleaming metallic blocks. And abruptly I heard an explosion. Quickly I rolled down the first flight of steps. The metallic colored steps were, of course, made from metal, and hurt when my body impacted against them. With a muffled THUD, I hit the first landing, groaning a bit as my ribs burned from their torture. Telepathically I shut the door, so it looked like no one had ever been here. What had that explosion been? And then, it clicked. It was the dropship explosion. Calmly, I returned to my feet, brushing off my uniform a bit, although there was no need. The Senate Building was sterilized every twelve hours via the air ducts, to disallow poisoning of the Senate via chemical and biological agents. The Senate Building was always one hundred percent sterile. This was true with all government buildings. Silently I went down thirty floors, my intense physical training allowing my breath to stay steady. I checked around every corner very thoroughly, timing my steps just right so I avoided security cameras. I was forced to disable some of the security cameras when necessary. Finally I arrived on the twenty-first floor, where Mr. Irr’s offices were. The twenty-first floor would have been beautiful if I had cared. It was a tropical type of design, with many different tropical plants and flowers scattered about. To my left was a very luxurious break room, with a huge TV and multiple ration-suppliers. And these weren’t military ration suppliers. They were top-end stuff. To my right were the actual cubicles. Irr’s was number 2104. I stopped at a corner and glanced around, looking for patrols. It was, of course, relatively empty, for no one thought that anyone could ever manage to get past the security of twenty floors. And the airspace around the Senate Building was strictly forbidden at an altitude of les than 1,000 feet, so no one could get to the building on top. Except for cleared Confederate military vehicles. And General Duke himself had cleared this dropship. Slowly my C-10 was gripped from its back holster. I dropped into an army crawl around the corner, squeezing the wall where a security camera was installed and slipping right around the corner past the camera. I then returned to my feet. 2104 was three steps away from me, and sure enough, there was Mr. Wesley Irr. Slowly I reached into a pocket on the left of my utility belt, a silencer cylinder present. I screwed it on tightly onto the end of my C-10, which was very quiet compared to the Impaler, and the cylinder was then connected to my weapon via air and the grooves, which were on my gun. I pushed the station-alert button to his cubicle, which would alert the Senator, and only the Senator, that someone was at his door. These were used for only emergency situations. And with the Senator getting ready to give a huge speech, emergencies were probably likely to come up. I shouldered my C-10, waiting for the Senator to show up at his door. Slowly the door opened, and there stood Mr. Irr. He was about 6’2” I’d say, very tall and lean. He had nicely kept jet-black hair, and his face was freshly shaved. His eyes were an icy blue, and they were what I noticed about him first. He had a smile on his face. He was dressed in a suit, and had a tie around him, untied at the moment. It would stay untied. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger. Abruptly a 25mm round ripped silently from the barrel in his gun, the air compressing and sending the bullet flying from that barrel at eight hundred, fifty kilometers per hour. The bullet did not get to see much of the world before it met flesh, the bullet tearing apart the skin in which it had impacted, blood staining the round as it dug even deeper into to flesh. Now it met bone. This, again, was no match for the bullet, although it was relatively thick. It cracked the bone apart, shattering it within the body before it found its prize: A human brain. It buried itself deep into the brain, and stayed there, shutting the brain down as it damaged multiple systems. Mr. Irr’s face was not recognizable from the bullet. I had sent it a point-blank range straight into his forehead. His face was torn apart from such a large round, and the rather good-looking Senator was not so attractive anymore. Blood stained his face, and was now dripping onto his uniform. He fell backwards, stumbling a bit before he crashed into his computer on which he was working. Shit. Loud noise.
“Wesley?” I heard a voice. Jesus, this would make his deadline much shorter. The last thing I saw of Wesley was that stupid smile still on his face. Pools of blood were forming around the senator.
I raced out of the cubicle, swift yet silent. I pulled the nearest fire alarm I could find, the bell ringing throughout the entire building. He turned and saw a man entering Irr’s cubicle. I took him out without hesitation, sending a 25mm round straight into that man’s back. I then found his way to the grand audience chamber, running down the aisle quickly, not care about security cameras anymore. Abruptly, I dropped a bomb off under the podium, set it for two minutes, and dashed out. I went up, yes up, many flights of stairs, and I cannot recall just how many. I cannot recall what I saw. It was a mad rush. Security was after me, I knew it. But they would not live to tell the story of how a Confederate Agent had killed Wesley Irr. Finally, after a minute and forty-five seconds of running, I came to the top. I looked around for about five seconds, wasting those precious five. A stupid mistake. Then, abruptly, I ran to the edge of the building jumping off quickly. The explosion happened as I was in the air. The force of the explosion altered my fall, and sent me heading towards the ground way too fast. I looked at my options. Luckily, right under me was a sign. I fell, grabbing the sign for a split second before letting go. It slowed my fifty-story fall just enough. My HES activated its cushion and I hit the ground hard, getting the wind knocked out of me. But that’s all that happened. I could see other Confederate ghosts firing off shots at people who probably knew too much. The building did not look very sturdy. I pushed myself awkwardly behind a building before radioing into base,
“1147 here. Alpha Mission Nine is a success, repeat Alpha Mi…” I was abruptly interrupted,
“Yeah, we got you. Good job. What do you need?” said a rather impatient voice.
“I’m requesting immediate evacuation at location 11-24-99, my planned arrival point.”
“Evacuation confirmed, dropship on the way. Base out.”
I sighed in relief. I took the dropship only three minutes to arrive, and jet back up. No one noticed it due to the other dropships in the area. I was going home, my mission a success.
3 Feb, 2279
A week after my mission and the story of how a suspected Terrorist had assassinated Wesley Irr still flooded the media. The terrorist was suspected to be from the Sons of Korhal organization, a rebel organization run by Arcturus Mengsk. It is funny to me how censored the media is. The government controls everything in the Terran world, absolutely everything. And through that, they have successfully established a false sense of freedom in their citizens, which in turn keeps them happy, and which, has an absolutism affect towards the government over the planets. It is quite ingenious, if you ask me, but no one has ever bothered to. However, this particular story is nothing new. These types of assassinations have always been planned like this, with the Confederacy eliminating their political enemies with a swift strike, laying a fist of iron on the Senate. They were always in complete control of everything, whether the people wanted to believe it or not. I myself did not grasp the concept until the day I got my first mission. It was then that reality struck, when it all came to me. You just do not know the affect a simple thing like censorship has on an entire universe until you are the reason it’s censored. You cannot possibly imagine what anarchy would occur should the real story leak out of how Irr died. But that would never happen, the Confederacy made sure of that.
I was sitting on my bed in my living quarters when Captain Yetts first appeared. Yetts had made quite a name for himself at the Battle of Mon Sara, and the Battle of Advancements, which was a Protoss/Terran skirmish that ended in several nuclear explosions wiping out the Protoss’ carrier fleet that was currently refueling. He was a tactical genius. The man was about 6’2” in height, had jet-black hair and emerald green-colored eyes that could stare anyone down, and had a perfect, crisp uniform on. He always had that crisp, new-looking uniform. He knocked on my door before it opened automatically, and I shot up like a rocket, putting my feet together, making a perfect forty-five degree angle, my left arm resting loosely at my side while my right arm was thrown quickly towards the near-side of my forehead, stiffly pressing against my skin, “Sir.” I said quickly, looking just above 15 degrees. I had a perfect military stance on. Yetts smiled, returning the crisp salute before muttering,
“At ease, at ease. I’ve come to talk to you about a battle plan I have. Sit down, please.” He was such an arrogant man. But he deserved it. This wasn’t his office, yet he requested I sit. I complied, however, sitting on my bed and looking up at his menacing figure, “In three years’ time I plan to take the Protoss stronghold of Raighnes. This resource rich planet serves as the backbone for the Protoss economy. If we took over this planet, not only would our economy vastly increase, but also the Protoss’ vastly decrease. I am requesting a major tactical strike, but a quick one. The Protoss will rally if we do not strike quickly. We mustn’t give them time to have reinforcements arrive. This will require the best troops, however, and this means the use of Omega Squadron.” The man never quit. He constantly thought of himself as the best,
“I want you with me, soldier. I know in three years’ time you will be the top ghost in Alpha Squadron, and then you will be the top ghost in Omega Squadron. I want you in Omega Squadron.” He pressed my door, and it quickly opened, “Consider my offer, 1147. With much power, will come much glory.” With that, he walked out of sight and the door slid shut. I did not know what do do.
Well there you have it. Part II will come out soon, I imagine, I just need to get started writing on it first. For the second time in a row, here is some eye candy for my readers' enjoyment, though nothing can beat ~Ling's Zurich girls. ;]
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