Post by havoc on Jun 11, 2009 14:30:31 GMT -5
ooc: I feel obliged to post a warning...Saturn's gonna be hella dark, so sensitive ppl beware~ sorry!
ooc: I do believe my muse music was River Below, Billy Talent. Omai.
[The room darkens as the day passes, and the room remains vacant. That is, until late in the evening, when the occupant returns to rest for the night. Not for a moment does he relax after closing the door, and his stiff and cool appearance remains even behind closed doors. It seems the man really is as cold as he appears.]
[Saturn catches sight of the file lying on his desk. A brief frown crosses his features as he walks over to examine it, yet the crease vanishes instantly upon reading the post-it note attached to the front of said document. Tugging it off, he crumples the scrap of paper, throwing it into the empty waste bin. Picking up the chair so it wouldn’t scrape along the floor, he pulls it back and sits down to examine the contents of the document properly. Flipping it open, the frown returns as he reads through the pages within, slightly moving his lips silently as he reads, a habit he has not been able to cease. The document, it turns out, is a form sent by Cyrus, which apparently he would like filled out. “Cyr-” can be seen on the crumpled post-it.]
[The form is not surprising, as Saturn often receives paperwork to be filled in from his boss, but the contents of this one are…interesting, to say the least. It almost appears as if it was some sort of personal advertisement, or an application for some dating site. Had Cyrus’ name not been on the post-it, Saturn would have simply put it aside to be disposed of later, taking it as some lame joke played by Mars or Jupiter. However, if his boss wished this filled out, no matter how eccentric it may be, Saturn would fill it out. Of course, he would complete it with as little detail as possible, so if it was simply some joke, it would not harm him or Team Galactic in any way. And anyway, Cyrus knew most these details.]
[Pulling out a plain black biro, he set about completing the form, so he could go and rest once he finished.]
My Parents call me…
‘My parents did not call me anything.’
[His script was plain and unsophisticated, but he made up for that with the rather formal language. The reply to the question was brief, without an actual proper answer.]
They were too busy with their own collapsing lives to ever bother. He didn’t even know if he had a Birth Certificate, let alone what name would have been on it. But he had given himself a name when he realised everyone around him had one. It had been plain and simple, like he had wished to be, but which never seemed to have been used. He was plain and simple only because he kept away, or tried to at least, from the people around him. This lack of contact was probably what gave him the cool, if not frosty demeanour today.
But he had named himself Shinobu. Not that he ever told anyone. It was just nice to have an identity.
My Friends call me…
‘Commander Saturn, if you please. Or Lieutenant. Either shall do. Though I do not care much for the “friends”. Those people that believe to be such have a poor understanding of what the word implies.’ He had overheard himself being called “kitty-head” or other cat-related nonsense before, but decided not to mention that in Cyrus’ form.
‘Opponents, however, have called me many other things, though their opinion does not matter when they are no longer amongst the living.’
[For some reason, that note makes him wince slightly, only perceptible by those who know him well enough, and those you can count on the fingers of one hand. Obviously, there is nobody in the room to recognise this small gesture, seeing as the room is, in fact, empty apart from Saturn himself.]
I'm not an it! I'm a…
[One of his eyebrows raises slightly at the odd phrasing.]
Honestly, weren’t these questions meant to be more along the lines of “Circle here: M/F”?
[He quickly jots down the answer before he can reconsider and get distracted by it.]
‘Male. You should know.’
[The smirk on his face grows more pronounced as he does, in fact, get distracted. That could be misinterpreted, so he neatly crosses out the words, and simply replaces them with different ones.]
‘ I am, in fact, of the male gender, and have both biological and sociological aspects of said gender, and it seems one of my colleagues has noticed this fact.’
Why not play along with the strange phrasing of this strange form?
I am a.…
[At this, he stops, pen hovering slightly above the paper, a pensive look on his face.]
Is this some sort of confession? Does this want him to list his personal philosophy? What exactly does this entail?
[In the end, he makes up his mind, and with a slight glint in his eyes fills in the answer he feels is appropriate.]
‘Galactic Commander, and devoted to the Cause. I shall one day be the creator of a better world, along with my colleagues, and I am proud of this. I thank Cyrus for the second chance I received, years ago now.’
[He stops abruptly, almost forcing himself to stop writing.]
It seems the answer was a confession of sorts, but luckily, he realized before he said too much. Information IS power.
I don't need wrinkle cream! I'm..
‘Twenty five.’
[The statement is short, much briefer than the previous ones. It seems as if he has nothing much to say in regards to his age. But something hardens in his eyes, and he adds a bit to the end.]
‘And it has been seven years since my life began.’
Do you think I need a diet?
[At this point something extraordinary happens. Saturn smiles. Not smirks, not grins, but an actual smile. Not too open, mind, but still, an improvement on the rather cold demeanour before.]
‘A diet. Diet’s are for those who cannot take care of themselves, and I have certainly learnt how to do that.’
[His eyes, however, go hard at that point, making his brief smile vanish.]
Yes, he had learnt how to take care of himself, but with no help from his parents. They had never bothered. And so he had taken care of himself in the end. And taken care of them too.
‘My physical appearance is nothing extraordinary. Lack of physical labour means I am barely muscular at all, yet lean. I eat little, a habit, per se, from the past. Eye colour is deep blue. Hair colour is naturally a dark blond, though the offensive and weak colour has been replaced by something…cooler. A rich blue. And my hair is shoulder-length, when down. There is a lack of body piercing, tattoos or other such frivolities, along with birthmarks.
‘Fashion-wise, I do not mind much what I wear, as I usually only wear my Commander uniform. The uniform is comfortable, and a non-obtrusive dark grey and white colour. Personally, I chose a design that was more…practical than fashionable, unlike others.’
[The smirk returns by the end of that sentence, and a minute passes before he continues writing.]
‘I wear a long-sleeved, black and white lined turtleneck top, with two white stripes down the front. The Galactic logo is clearly visible, applied in gold. To compliment this, I wear long black lined trousers, and on my feet, a pair of suitable white buck shoes. That would about sum up my appearance.’
[He puts the pen down for a second, examining what he has written so far. Pleased with his findings, he picks up the pen, moving on to the next question.]
My emotional disposition?
[He puts the pen back down.]
Emotions? Why would anyone want to know about that? Why would Cyrus want to know that? Didn’t he already know Saturn was an emotionless bastard?
Alright, that was a lie. Of course he had emotions, like everyone else, but simply refused to show them. They served no purpose but to hurt him, and they did nothing to further the Cause. So like a personal philosophy, he refused to show anything but the most harmless emotions. A sneer could cover almost everything, though a frown did come in useful when he was angry, and glaring worked when intimidating people into obeying or backing down. The rare smile showed he was pleased with something. But then, he didn’t smile much when he was happy anyway, as that was a sign of weakness. Happiness and dreams can be shattered in an instant.. Happiness can lead to someone relaxing too much, and when you relax, things go wrong. And when things start going wrong for Saturn, hell may just break loose.
And there isn’t even a point to mentioning love. It is expendable. It does not have a purpose, and once again, can simply lead to betrayal and more pain. What is the point of something without a goal? The point of something that can turn on you? Something that cannot be controlled…?
[Picking up the pen, he slowly writes down his reply and moves on.]
‘I prefer not to disclose this information.’
Things that are
[After methodically crossing out the offending word, he sets about replying to the posed question/statement.]
‘Fulfilling a mission that had been set by Cyrus. Or a personal goal which I set myself.
‘Eliminating opposition to the Cause in any way possible.
‘Being appreciated…being understood…
[He smiles slightly before he jots down the next point.]
‘Arguing with Mars. Winning is optional, though frequent.
‘Correct grammar.’
Things that are
[He repeats the methodical replacement of the word, then replies.]
‘An uncompleted mission.
‘A failed mission is worse than an uncompleted one. Subtle difference.
‘Any opposition to the Cause.
‘Ignorance. It is irritating and completely useless.
‘Failure.’
But…I'm afraid!
‘Team Galactic members prize themselves in their fearlessness and devotion to the cause. It is the fear that stops you from achieving your dream. So in other words, I do not fear anything.’
[He writes this with a slight twitch of his right eye, once again a habit that few would recognise as him holding back what he would wish to mention, a habit that has been honed almost to intractability. After all, what was information but power?]
But as everyone does, also Saturn has a fear. And it comes in the form of repercussions. A form of karma. The fear of what will happen through the series of events in his life which he did not stop or alter, or downright encouraged. The fear of the consequences of his achievements and failures. And there is one thing you can never get away from, no matter how hard you try, and that is your own past.
I like to...
[Once more, he put down his pen.]
Like? He didn’t like anything. There were no emotional attachments between him and a specific action or thing or person. It was his modus vivendi.
W-well…there were some things… like his hair. He liked it spiked up. It was one of the only things he took extreme care with. He had no idea why he was so particular about it, but he was. And he got rather upset when it was messed up. Not that he’d ever show it, mind.
And his Toxicroak. It was one of his, dare he call it, friends. He liked training it. There he admitted it. But no way would he put that on paper.
‘I am partial to a good cup of berry tea.’
[The smirk on his face was subdued, a rather more gentle look in his eye. Shaking his head slightly, he moved on, the twitch returning once before he moved on.]
My reason?
Ah. This was definitely an exam. This was to see if he was still worthy of being a Commander. This would prove if he was able to take responsibility without being distracted by personal issues. He was certain he had the perfect answer to this.
‘My reason is simple. I wish to co-create a better world. I wish to help Cyrus free people of this hellhole that this earth has become.’
But it was also so he could escape. Escape from his own past. Create a new world where past mistakes could not come back and haunt him. Escape from his own worst nightmare.
Mandatory Angst:
‘I am the Lieutenant Commander of Team Galactic, and though it was not always so, that is all that is needed now.’
But his eyes, if possible, have become colder and harder than before. His past was anything but stellar. Even remembering it gave him chills which he would never admit to. Not that Saturn would ever admit to anything, mind.
For what could be the hundredth time in his short life, six year old Saturn found himself swathed in clean bed sheets, with a drip in his arm, in a hospital ward. He was in there, once again, because he had fainted. He was a weak, sickly child, always with a runny nose and headache and fainted often, though nobody worried too much, as medical tests had proven he was fine, apart from a rather weak immune system. Had his parents cared, perhaps he could have become better faster, but they were too busy with their own little problems to worry about one more. They hadn’t cared for him at all since the day he was born, but simply made sure he didn’t die. After all, a death would be yet another problem for their already messed up lives to deal with. So every so often, he would end up back in the same whitewashed room, in the same bed, catered by some stranger.
He resented them for that. His carers. His ‘saviours’. Why did they keep helping when it was obvious his parents didn’t care? Just let him alone. Let Fate take its course. “Che sera, sera”, right? But no, they all had to interfere.
He’d lie there, resenting them all, while they bustled about, ‘saving’ him. And once they turned their backs, he’d be gone. Tugging the drip out of his arm, despite the pain, he’d leap out of the cold metallic clean bed and simply walk out. Every time nobody paid much attention. And every time he was back they would all ‘tut’ at him and say he shouldn’t do that, say it was bad, he would be ill and on and on and on… he’d ignore them, as always, and be gone again the first chance he got.
He was pretty sure his parents didn’t even realise he was gone. They were either apart, enjoying life‘s virtues, or at home, at each other’s throats. Or on each other, upstairs. He’d hear them, and they wouldn’t know. Or care. That was the point at which he’d go out, to get away.
He went to school almost religiously, always on time, always eager to learn something new. Always quiet, unlike the other kids running around, attacking each other with crayons and rubbers, while he’d sit there with his first book, looking at it and smiling as the strange scribbles on the page began to make sense, as the letters strung themselves together into words, words into phrases, and then finally full sentences. But he stood out. And when you stand out, you attract attention. And attention attracts violence, as he soon found out.
They were siblings of some of the kids in his class. They didn’t like him being better, and so decided to beat it out of him. One would hold him, while two or three others slugged punches at him. He never complained. What would it help? He never even cried. The grudge he bore against the nurses intensified, and turned to the bullies. Of course, he never did anything about it. Not then. But later…later was later. Things changed later. But three times a week, he’d get his dose of pain. Then back at home, nothing would change, nobody would notice him. So he’d go out, trailing across the neighbourhood. He’d often go to this one place he’d found, off the rail tracks, where there was a patch of wild grass growing. There he’d break down and cry. He’d let it all out, then once his tears ran out, he’d sit there until after dark, and make his way back home.
Later, he began collecting information on people, their daily lives, fears, dislikes. He began making plans. Plans of payback. He was older now, but still they came at him. Always the same ones. The other kids kept away, snickering behind his back at the oddball, the weirdo, the creep. He had no friends among them, no allies. No backup. As always. But he began helping himself. He began planning his own revenge.
It was small at first. The bullies would find things in their rooms missing, then they’d turn up, destroyed almost beyond recognition, on their desk in school. They’d wonder, but never believe it could be the creep Shinobu. And still, he’d take the beatings. And things would still go missing, and turn up mangled.
Then they would find that for example, if one feared the dark, he’d be woken up by a tap at the window, and their nightlight would be off. The light wouldn’t work either. Saturn would do that. He’d set it up, and then watch and listen as they ran crying to their parents. And he’d turn away, pain in his eyes, as their parents would comfort them, make things better, replace the batteries and the fuses. Comfort them, hug them, say it was alright. He’d go back to the small wild patch by the tracks, and though he had stopped crying long ago, he would still brood over things. Still think of the unfairness of it all, that people that could hurt others could still get love and attention, while others simply got pain.
He finished school, aced all his exams. And after seeing all the parents and kids leave the gates together, he’d walk home alone, the certificate folded and shoved into the back pocket of his pressed jeans. He was very picky when it came to personal hygiene, but he could do nothing about the clothes he stole for himself from the bags left outside charity shops. He’d wash them, iron them, make sure everything was as neat as it could be. He was different from others, he knew that, and didn’t care about the strange looks he got from others. What did their opinions matter, anyway?
He never went to high school. His education finished with the certificate that was lost, when he was cornered once more by the usual group, and they decided they’d serve their last bit of punishment by after beating him up, throwing him into the nearby river. Of course, they threatened that if he got out while they were there, they’d do him in again, and make sure he didn’t leave. So he stayed in the river, treading water for almost two hours, before they got bored and left. Only then did he crawl onto the bank and, gasping and dripping wet, fainted on a nearby patch of grass.
He woke up in a hospital ward. Someone had found him there on the bank and once again, had brought him to the place he resented so much. Those hypocrites had, of course, ‘saved’ him, putting him back under a drip, and tending to some of the open wounds he had. The window was open and sunlight was streaming inside, and reflected off the white sheets to play up on the ceiling he had stared at countless times over the course of his life, closing his eyes, he placed his free hand on his face, simply wishing they hadn’t bothered. Those hypocrites thought they were doing so much good. Thought they were making things better, when in fact, they were creating yet another opportunity for more pain. They believed so strongly they were helping, every time they took him in off the street, battered and bruised. Or simply fainted. His immune system, though not much better, had grown stronger as he began to look after himself. He would shoplift when he got hungry, or if he was at home, take whatever money was lying around or in one of his parent’s wallets and go out and get something. Not that he was hungry often, mind, having had survived on meagre rations for so long he had got used to small amounts of food.
Pulling his hand off his face, he ripped the drip out of his arm, and after getting dressed back into his still damp clothes, left the ward. He picked up a bottle of pills off a different patients table, and left the hospital. Back at his usual haunt, by the side of the tracks, he took a bunch of the pills. Not too many, mind, he didn’t want to actually kill himself. No, he took just enough for his mind to become clouded, and his sight unclear. He felt very light. He didn’t have any strength to move, so he just lay there in the sunlight. Vaguely he realised if there was sunlight, it meant he had probably been on the ward overnight. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered in this light state of mind.
He woke up later, in the dark, still thankfully on the grass, with a splitting headache. Glancing at the bottle in one hand, Oxycodone, he slipped it into his pocket, and noticed that his certificate from before was missing. Damn. Six years of work, and it was all gone. Nothing to show for it. He swore quietly at all his bad luck, and got back up, as he had so many times before.
From then on, he got hooked on painkillers. He always had a bottle or packet at hand, and took one when the light-headedness passed. He passed his days sitting around, often with a stolen book or magazine, either at home, or at his usual patch of grass. Some dealers contacted him, asking whether he would be interested in something stronger, but he declined. He wasn’t completely stupid. He knew what that could do to you, and what consequences would be if he was caught.
He didn’t have a job. Really, who would employ a twelve-year old? But he did small back street jobs. Things people didn’t want seen. Things people didn’t want others to know about. And his resentment for all these people grew. How they could live with their families while doing those things, and pretend everything was alright? For protection, he obtained his first pokemon, a Croagunk. His jobs ranged from drugs to evidence. Nobody would stop a kid with Saturn’s serene face. Who would suspect a twelve-year old of being anything but a brooding teen? That was why he became popular with the black market. They paid him, and he moved things for them. He got more and more involved in what they were all doing. But something changed one day. One day, things went wrong. One of his bullies met him again on the bridge across the river, as he was returning from a delivery, having passed something over to the customer, who had then given him a bag to return to the traders. The bully obviously wasn’t interested in what he was doing. He snatched the bag, mocking him, and threw it into the river. Saturn knew there’d be trouble if the transaction wasn’t completed. He jumped in the river after it, but could no longer find it. He returned to the trader. They had just lost almost $20,000. There was no punishment. They searched for it, them owning a motorboat and all, but it was not found. So instead they found the bully.
He was rather a pathetic kid, whining and crying the whole time as they drove out of town. And then, unloading them both, they made Saturn watch as they beat him up, explaining to both of them why they were doing this. And then they shot him. His name had been John something. He soon became John Doe. Saturn had been sick when they did that. They had just put a price on human life. He didn’t cry, as he hadn’t cried for a very long time now, but his anger towards the world intensified.
He didn’t want any more dealings with them. But the only way to get out of the system was either dead, or so far away they couldn’t find you. So he had run away. He ran as far away as he could, travelling day and night. And he changed his name to Saturn. The name had no meaning, and he had no links to it apart from the first letter being the same as his own name, but he liked it. It was what he wanted, to be far from this cruel godforsaken place, where all there was, was pain. The universe was so vast, yet he was stuck here in this shithole, and nobody seemed to care about anything.
He ran from everything he had known, and ran into the unknown. He got to some small town, and stayed there. He still felt he was too close to what he had known, but he was also afraid of being too far away from it. He kept to himself, and trained up his Croagunk. But something made him go back. A message on the radio. He had been blamed for John’s death. He had been blamed by his parents. They had finally noticed him for something he didn’t do. He had to go back and clear his mane. After all, he hadn’t ever done anything wrong. Not this wrong. There might have been the odd breaking and entering, and a bit of property damage, but that was it. Never violence. Never murder.
So he went back. He went back, and got interrogated by the police. But they had found nothing against him. So they set him free. But he was hunted now. Hunted by his past employers. They’d think he told on them. He dyed his hair blue, not wanting the weak blond colour anymore. And then, before he managed to get away, he got a warning message. His parents were killed. Of course, it all looked like an accident, a gas leak, and unfortunate circumstances, but amongst the crowd watching as the house burned down as fire-fighters tried to put it out, there stood one of his employers. Saturn looked him straight in the eye, his face expressionless, then turned on his heel and walked away. He didn’t cry for his parents. Who had they been to him, after all? But the message was clear- if he said anything, he’d end up just like them. So he moved away. Permanently.
He was thirteen by then, but he was tall and horribly mature for his age, and people believed him to be much older, sixteen seventeen at least, and so he managed to get a job. Nothing special, mind, just a shop assistant. But he began to earn something, and he took night courses, trying to make up for the education he had lost. He stopped taking the painkillers. And of course, he trained his Croagunk, which liked to help him around the shop. Four years passed in this way, and he finished his courses, having caught up with all the other students his age. His employer had known all along how old he really was, but said that Saturn had been so down, that he had let him work there for a quarter of the usual pay anyway. And Saturn, for once, was grateful.
He met this girl, and they had been happy together for a while. But obviously, Fate wasn’t supportive of his happiness, and decided to once more deal out his cards. It was just after his eighteenth birthday. He was cleaning in the isles, and his boss was at the till, talking to his girlfriend, when the car sped through the window. He had seen it happen. He had seen it speed through the glass almost as if everything was moving in slow motion. The glass shattered as the bonnet of the car hit it, and scattered like diamonds on the inside of the shop. The counter was smashed against the far wall, crushing his employer. And his girlfriend had been hit by the skidding car. She lay crumpled against the far wall, like a rag doll. Saturn watched it all, and his legs gave way, and he dropped to the ground, surrounded by the tiny glistening diamonds of glass. And then he began to laugh.
Of course he wouldn’t be let to lead a normal happy life. Of course something would have to happen. How could he have been so stupid, believing that having given up his past would have meant he would be free from everything? He walked out of the shop through a nonexistent door, and still laughing, walked down the street, looking for a suitable place for his finale.
He had bought a gun for self-protection, he had said. But who can fight against Fate? Who can fight against the biggest bitch on earth? He found the perfect setting for his big finale, in the dark concrete of a back alley. Pulling the gun out and cocking it, he put it against his head. This was the only way out. No longer would those fucking nurses be able to bring him back to face more pain after this. No longer would he be hurt by anyone on this fucking shithole of a planet. No longer would any of this mess concern him.
“What a vast place, the universe.”
The one phrase stopped him from pulling the trigger. A man stood behind him, with grey/white skin, sunken eyes and pale grey blue hair. That man was Cyrus.
He gave him a second chance. A second chance he hadn’t been offered by anyone. The chance to change everything. Forever. To get away from everything, and still keep on living.
He proposed they worked together to create a new universe. A universe with no more of this sort of shit, a universe in which none of this would occur. A universe where he could get away from it all.
How could he refuse?
Oh and by the way...
‘I like things neat and tidy.’
[This is rather an understatement. The room is not only neat and tidy, it is also practically bare of anything that might show somebody lived there at all. His appearance mimics that, with barely a hair out of place, and uniform neatly pressed.]
He thought about all the things he could write here, like the fact he never got close to anyone or anything anymore, with the exception of his Toxicroak. Like the fact he was secretly all too willing to try and believe people to be good, despite all else. Like the fact that sometimes, alone in his room, in the dark, he cried to himself, trying to forget.
But none of that would ever be put on paper. Ever. It would never be admitted, either.
That was for him to deal with.
I'm just a proxy for…
[Saturn finally puts down the pen, satisfied with what he had written. Getting up, he stretched slightly, a weakness he would only permit to show behind closed doors, and prepared to go to sleep. It had taken him longer than predicted to finish filling out the form, and now he was tired, as it was well past midnight, and there was a 5o’clock morning to look forward to later. He stripped from his uniform and hung it up on the door next to the fresh one. A grunt would remove it to be cleaned during the night. Slightly odd this system, where he trusted the Team members so much he was not afraid to leave the door unlocked for them to get in. Turning off the light, he almost crawled beneath the sheets, the darkness bringing back with it the memories which he would rather keep buried. After a few restless minutes, he settles down, and soon is fast asleep.]
[Not long after, a small swirling black blob materializes beneath the table, and oozes its way up to the top, where the closed file now lies, not a single page out of place. Snickering to itself, the blob of havoc covers the file, and dematerialises again, leaving not a trace of its passing, except the forgotten post-it in the waste bin. In the morning, once woken, Saturn simply believes one of the grunts was ordered to remove it and take it up to Cyrus. No need for suspicion.]
Here's some of their writing!
Saturn had received his mission. It was his first one flying solo. He really couldn’t mess it up. It was simple enough, especially for a Grunt that had been on the team from the very beginning. Saturn had been one of the first recruits of Cyrus’ Team, and he had devoted all his time and money in trying to improve it. Obviously, he received no special treatment from Cyrus, and didn’t expect any. After all, who was he to expect anything from anyone? But he always gave the missions his utmost attention, and completed them to a t. He couldn’t let Cyrus down. Not after what he’d done for him.
The mission was not overly complicated. He had been ordered to immobilise some communication between a corporate building and the outside world through any technological means. Nothing too complex. He simply needed to access the mainframe, get into the control room and disable the communication. It didn’t need to be permanent, so no signal scrambling was needed, so it was only a matter of disconnecting a cable. Saturn smiled slightly. This should be a breeze.
He adjusted the cap he wore over his blue hair, not wanting to be too noticeable in a crowd. After all, nobody would remember a normal man with a hat on his head from a crowd of people. They would, however, recognise a spiky, "Kitty-headed" blue-haired man from a crowd of normal people. He also wore a coat over his uniform. Team Galactic couldn’t go public quite yet under the name of Galactic Technologies, as they weren’t quite ready. But if Saturn completed this mission successfully, they’d be that one step closer to everything. And he would finally get away from this nightmare.
He entered the building. It wasn’t anything impressive, hardly any security about, and a couple of cameras lazily screening from side to side. He flashed the fake ID he had received for this task at the receptionist, and after having his toolkit shabbily inspected for anything suspicious, calmly got into the lift, crowded with people going up to their office. He smirked slightly. So far so good, with no trouble at all. He could see the logic in sending only one team member in to complete the task, as a group of people would have attracted too much attention. And one was enough anyway.
His smirk became more pronounced as he met no resistance in accessing the control room floor. He waited until the lift had closed behind him before he walked calmly down the corridor, as if on a routine check. There, only a few feet away, the door to his destination stood clearly labelled, with an electromagnetic card reader to access it. His smirk became more pronounced. Though this would deter many, he hadn’t wasted the year being a member of the Team, and being pretty bright, quickly self-taught himself some basic tricks of the trade that helped him on many an occasion thorough other missions. This included basics on how to bypass security systems. His breaking and entering skills had been honed from the very youngest, breaking into the houses of some of the other students from his school to…settle some scores, but that would never have passed with proper missions such as this, so he hadn’t been idle. And now he was pleased with the outcome.
Gently prising open the metal casing off the wall, he examined the circuit board beneath. It wasn’t advanced, like all the other security thorough the building, but it was better than the security cameras dotted about. He had immobilised the one on this floor when it turned to scan the second section of the corridor, having simply put a loopwire into it. It would show the same picture over and over again, and as long as the corridor stayed empty of any proper security, nobody would be any the wiser that there was any problem at all. That is, until all communication failed. And then it would be too late to go stop him, as he’d be long gone.
Quickly, he deactivated the card reader, and the door beeped open. Really, this was too easy. He opened the door. Looking back out into the corridor to make sure that it was still empty, he stepped inside. His smirk returned. Really, the security here was very shabby. The room beyond the door was nothing special. Circuit boards and panels and stacks littered the room, in rather a but of disarray, as if someone had slowly added bits and bobs as they became necessary, without paying any attention to detail. He shook his head slightly. Shabby. Cyrus would burst a vein if his building was so badly secured and maintained.
But he didn’t get distracted by this. Calmly, he walked over to the first stack, inspecting it as to what functions it performed. It seemed to link up internet access to all the computers in the offices. No wonder it was big; you needed a lot of ports for that. But it wasn’t what he was after. He was after the mainframe communications, after all, which controlled all incoming and outgoing signals. A bit of examining and cautiously manoeuvring himself between the various panels, and he found what he was after. This was almost over. In quick succession, he clipped simple timer capsules to the two main exchange cables. They both contained some acid graciously supplied by his Toxicroak, and the acid would quickly burn through the cables as soon as it was out of those capsules. That would give him about three minutes to get away before the system communication failed, and everyone would become on alert. He burst the capsules.
The acid immediately spilled onto the cables and began fizzing. The timer had started. Quickly yet calmly, he stepped back out of the room, replaced the cover on the card reader, which reset and locked the door behind him. Then, not bothering to wait for the lift, he took the stairs down to the ground floor, where he was once again lazily searched by the receptionist and permitted to be let out.
Only once he was beyond the door did he permit himself to smile slightly. Mission successful, and a bit of disruption sustained. Now he’d simply wait thirty more seconds, and connect the call to his boss, telling him of the outcome. After all, as soon as the systems were out, Cyrus would be able to begin whatever second stage he had planned. And that would bring them one step closer to freedom. And him one step closer to salvation. He pressed dial.
“Three seconds left.” he spoke into the small device. The silence on the other side intensified, as the receiver was put down. He wasn’t expecting an answer, he’d get his debriefing when he got back, but it meant that at least it wasn’t bad. Had it been bad, Cyrus would have made some comment. His smile widened slightly as people began rushing around behind the dusty glass of the corporate building.
They would learn of the full power behind Team Galactic soon enough.
…
‘Was it satisfactory?’
He hated failure, but standard had to be maintained. If it wasn’t satisfactory, it was almost as bad as a failure. He stood in Cyrus’ office, awaiting his reply, when instead of receiving the usual “Yes, it was.” or “No it wasn’t”, Cyrus turned his chair around to face him, and stood up. Saturn was filled with a sense of dread. Something must be terribly wrong if Cyrus actually got up to talk to him. He stood absolutely still, his face a complete stoic mask behind which he contained his fear, as Cyrus stepped past him. A second later, he returned, and looking Saturn in the eye, handed him a small box.
‘It was satisfactory.’
Only then did Saturn relax. It was satisfactory. He took a look at the small box in his hands. Within it was a small golden G, one of those that were applied to uniforms of the members of the Team.
‘What is this for?’ After all, he had his on his uniform, which as always, was clean and neatly pressed.
‘For your new uniform, Commander.’ came the brief reply from Cyrus.
ooc: okay, I tweaked it slightly and it fails less, and I no longer want to kill things because of it. <3
