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Massive Disaster 4 - Interlude VIII
🕑 Added 2025-10-19 09:00:08 +0000 UTCInterlude 8
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Metallic-looking clouds churned in dark red and muddy orange, the planet below almost invisible through the haze. Despite the lack of visibility, though, a ship broke through from orbit and aimed its way down to the surface.
The ship itself was a beautiful thing, a bright blue heavy interceptor with a lavender hull and pearl white accents; the words SSV VENTURE emblazoned across its side. Still though, at thirty-five meters of pure refined aggression, the vehicle looked less like a warship as it hurtled through the atmosphere and more like something designed for luxury almost.
Something designed for the purpose of transporting VIPs.
Or professionals.
Executives, even.
As important as the ship’s occupants were, however, they were far from professional.
"I'm not saying they have to be gourmet, y'know?"
With a quick cut that was almost seamless, the shot entered the somewhat cramped yet undeniably comfortable interior of the transport. From the ceiling above, the lens slowly panned down between the occupants of what appeared to be the main hold of the ship itself, a conversation already in progress.
“A man deserves decency. A man deserves justice. A man deserves… let’s be real, a man deserves sugar.” Said young man, all silver hair and pretty-boy features, paced a tight vibrating circle in the center of the hold. The edges of his body seemed to blur with the motion, the view switching from camera to camera simply to keep track of him. “Not too much to ask here, people.”
Gloved hands clapped themselves together, even as no one seemed to pay him any attention for all his ranting. "For a multi-trillion-credit company, you’d think our snack selection wouldn’t be a goddamn travesty." He spun on his heels, hand blurring all over the place as he pointed at everyone and no one in particular. "Who was on restocking duty? I want a name! I want their rank!"
A graphic burst to life over his head, text appearing in bursts of wind like miniature air cannons.
MATEO “VECTR” EISENHARDT — SCOUT
A grunt came from the massive figure occupying a bench seat that looked entirely too small for his seven-foot frame. Shoulders broad enough to eclipse the viewport behind him, clean-shaven face staying impassive as scarred hands moved with methodical precision. The weapon in those hands was cannon-sized, each component being wiped clean before being slotted back into place with practiced movements. "I was," the voice rumbled out low, barely audible over the atmospheric friction humming through the hull. "Compartment three is full. Nutrient bars. Optimal."
Another graphic appeared centered above his head, text materializing in layers of hardened steel plating.
PATRICK “ALLOY” ROSTOW — HEAVY
"Optimal?" The new voice came out all theatrical, drawn-out and passionate as the camera angle shifted down and past the hold; panning towards the front of the ship. A figure sprawled across two empty seats came into frame, all bouncy curves and red hair spilling over a set of dark-skinned thighs.
Head resting in the lap of the young man at the pilot console, the sprawl looking entirely unselfconscious, said figure let out yet another dramaticized moan. "Scot, baby, they're trying to kill me."
Purple-lensed visor hiding his eyes entirely, the pilot didn’t flinch his attention away from the main display, hands steady on controls even with the weight of a beautiful young woman resting in his lap. "Babydoll, they’re not trying to kill you." There was a patience to his voice, measured but unsure in a way that suggested this was not the first iteration of this argument, but also an argument he was used to losing. “It’s just… healthy.”
"Healthy? Scottyyyyy, they taste like seaweed, sawdust and wet compressed sadness." She scoffed into his stomach, only to lift her head up a second later to glare up at him. "My pyrokinesis literally runs on calories and glucose; I am a finely tuned engine of creative destruction, and you fuel your babydoll with sawdust. Sawdust!"
Yellow and red flames flickered above her head for a fraction of a second, heat shimmer distorting the air before text materialized in the wavering space.
MADELYN “PYRE” GREY — ASSAULT
"No, noooo, Maddy." The voice came from the other side of the pilot, as a cherubic-faced young man with long blond hair turned in her seat. Golden eyes, bright and glowing, caught the light as she smiled down at the redhead. "Psionic, not metabolic, but ja, low blood sugar does make you a menace.” The girl nodded her head, a single finger tapping at her chin as she seemed to rethink her point halfway through. “Very irritable, not good for mental powers at all. Poor decisions, sloppy thinking, all around."
Gold light pulsed in gentle waves, elegant cursive script forming overhead as the camera’s augmented reality named her for the audience.
ANGELA “ANGEL” VICTORS — MEDIC
"See? The sweet sweet sweet Angel gets it!" Mateo's voice rose again, lips pursing as he blew a kiss over in the blond girl’s direction.
A kiss she simply ignored.
The silver-suited figure didn’t even seem bothered by the dismissal, his entire form humming with barely-contained motion that seemed to make the footage stutter the longer it kept a continuous shot on him. "We're irritable! Each one of us a liability to the mission because we’re stuck with shit-quality in-flight snacks. This is a risk that should be planned for."
Bonk!
“Wait, wait, wait… A young man with tall blond hair styled with visible amounts of gel bounced a small rubber ball off the bulkhead as he lay on a bench all his own, bodysuit all red, whites, and blues.
Bonk!
Bonk!
The throw and catch were quick, strangely too quick, seemingly happening at speeds that required several cuts from multiple camera drones just to accurately follow. “Speedy got a point here.”
Mateo’s gaze rounded on the new speaker. “WhaddidIsayaboutcallingmeSpe-”
Before the white-haired young man could finish, the other figure suddenly shifted, body and motion blurring in a way not too dissimilar from Mateo. A split second later, he bounced up beside Patrick in a motion the cameras could barely capture. "Big guy, all respect to you, seriously… I respect anyone that could crush my skull even before the upgrades and probably after too, right?." The words came rapid-fire, breathless, accent carrying that particular spacer cant as the skinny blond clicked his tongue just as quickly. "But your lil friend Bobby’s burning a good 10k calories just sitting here. How about you share the real goods, eh?"
His hand reached out, aiming for one of Patrick's oversized ammo pouches. "Where'd you hide the jerky? Know you got some on you, don't lie."
Blue kinetic energy crackled and sparked over his head, text appearing overhead like electrical discharge.
ROBERT “KINETIX” WARREN — TANK
Patrick's hand moved surprisingly quick for a man that weighed at least half as much as a minicar, oversized mallet of a hand catching Robert's wrist in a grip that made the other young man's forward motion stop dead. "Nyet. Jerky after. Bar now."
"C'mon, man, one stick?" Robert's free hand gestured at himself, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he did his best to mimic a dying man. "Wasting away! Look! Wasting!"
A petite figure tucked in a corner seat looked up from an active omnitool, the glow washing purple across her face. Her bright purple undercut matched her sleek padded bodysuit down to the same exact hue, both a sharp slash of neon color against the ship's basic blue. A smirk pulled at her lips, the girl doing her best to fight the humor and clearly failing. "Leave him alone, Bobby. Don't piss off the giant."
Said giant just grunted.
"Mateo is right, though,” she glanced at Patrick, bright purple eyes narrowing just a little. “Those bars taste like a Batarian jockstrap."
Bobby blinked over at her, the colorful blond’s mouth falling open. “... you know what Batarian jockstrap tastes like?”
Purple light shimmered and distorted above the girl’s head as she glared his way.
OLIVIA "BUTTERFLY" CLAIRE — TRANSPORT
"You see? You seeee? It’s not just me." Mateo's hands shot up, grin triumphant and eager all across his face. "Thank you, Liv! My sister never has my back like that anymore. Good to know someone does." Tongue out, he spun toward a young woman sitting opposite Patrick, red hair cut short under a crimson tiara. "Ana, you see that?"
"Liv, don't encourage him." Ana’s voice was all heat and sharpness, the way it cut straight through her brother's noise the way only a sibling could.
As Olivia simply shrugged, Ana glared back at a smirking Mateo with narrowed eyes as red as her hair. With a single pulling gesture, a single protein bar lifted itself from a nearby crate. A faint red telekinetic aura wreathed it and, with another gesture, it floated over to rest in front of her open hand. "Mateo, don’t test me. I will crush your balls."
Crimson energy bled from the edges of the font appearing overhead.
ANA "CRIMSON" EISENHARDT — CONTROLLER
"You wouldn't!"
Ana tilted her head to the side as the bar fell in her lap. Crossing her arms over her leather jacket clad chest, she simply grunted. "...I might." Brother and sister stared at each other, playful and heated in equal measures.
“No more jerky.”
A quiet voice cut in from another corner. The drone panned smoothly as several heads turned in time with the sound, light levels adjusting automatically to capture the figure there. A young woman with long black hair hanging over her face sat there, methodically sharpening one gleaming metal claw that protruded from between the knuckles on her right hand.
"Was jerky," she said without looking up, voice a low unused rasp. "Gone now."
Text appeared jagged overhead, carved in like claw marks through metal.
KIMIKO "TALON" HARRIET — SKIRMISHER
Bobby’s face fell as he dropped to his knees in the hold, the blond acting like he’d just been shot. "Kimmy, nooooo! You didn't! Whole stash?"
"Alright, enough." Scot's voice came calm and steady, cutting through the chaos from the pilot's seat. He hadn't taken his eyes off the descent vector on the main console, hands moving with economic precision over controls. "Impress me on this op and I’ll treat the team to Spacey’s before we head back. Now, we're over the drop. Get ready."
A beam of violet light highlighted the final graphic overhead.
SCOT "BEACON" WINTERS — LEADER
The bickering stopped, everyone’s head snapping to attention and sitting up just that much straighter. Bobby burst up from his knees in a blur of motion as Mateo stopped vibrating, posture snapping sharp and military in under a second. Madelyn swung her head off her boyfriend’s lap and Patrick slammed the last piece of his cannon into place with a thunk as heavy as his fists.
The rear ramp of the Venture whined, the thing lowering as wind roared into the hold. The screaming air was its own blatant wall of sound and pressure, camera audio peaking for a split second before it auto-adjusted.
Music began to blare, the sound of the wind almost inaudible as a triumphant pop-rock medley surged to life.
The team moved to the edge as one unit, snack argument forgotten entirely, postures sharp with professional focus visible in every line of their bodies. The specific drop zone was visible even from up here hundreds of feet in the air, a drab unadorned garrison compound of all Batarian raiders; squat ferrocrete structures amid a single central plaza, tall guard towers maintaining each corner.
"Showtime, kids!" Robert yelled over the wind, a manic joyful grin plastered all across his boyish face. "Let's drop the bomb!"
Not another word was needed.
They moved.
Talon on her back, small arms wrapped around her chest, Pyre rushed forward and launched herself off the ramp edge, her running leap enough to carry her out. The instant she cleared the ship, the pyrokinetic spread her arms out, fire flaring from her hands and feet afterburner-bright against the murky sky.
The drone tracking her descent held impossibly stable, following the fiery comet as she angled downward. Heat shimmer distorted the air around her, orange and yellow trails streaming behind. Talon's black hair whipped violently in the wind, face pressed against Pyre's shoulder, expression focused and silent.
With a burst of laughter, Vectr’s silver-suited form blurred off the ramp’s edge right after his two teammates as he dived straight down, arms out in front of him as his voice faded away. “Sis, I’m gonna diiiiiiieeeeeee…”
“Idiot!” A miniature nova of red light flared around Crismon, the girl diving right after her brother with a litany of curses on her lips. A drone circled her descent, tracking two figures suspended by the pure force of will of one. Vectr's silver suit blurred even suspended in midair, body still vibrating with anticipation.
Unlike the others, Alloy just walked off the edge.
Seven feet of muscle and nanite-reinforced biology dropped from the sky with all the grace of a hunk of metal. It took no time for him to land, not at terminal velocity. The massive body hit ferrocrete with a THUD, the impact a localized earthquake that cratered the street in a spiderweb of cracks exploding outward in a ring.
Alloy rose from the very center of the crater, completely unharmed but not unchanged. Skin shimmering with a dull metallic sheen, steel-like and reflective, the massive man cracked his knuckles, the sound like a pair of pistols going off. “...simple.”
Kinetix leaped after, body immediately wreathed in a shimmering rainbow-hued kinetic field that pulsed and crackled with barely-restrained power. "WAHOOHOOOHOOOOOOOOO!"
The scream was cut short, quickly and suddenly, as the blond cannonballed into the side of a fortified Batarian watchtower with all the force of a living missile. The impact was concussive on its own, a blast that rippled through the structure, windows shattering in sequence, walls buckling inward and crumbling to the ground.
Laughing like a madman, Kinetix ricocheted off the ruined building, bouncing off the pavement like his favorite rubber ball, kinetic field flaring bright, as he landed perfectly in the street center.
Skidding to a halt on a pair of bright blue armored boots, he spread his arms out above his head in a perfect ‘V’. “Anyone score that landing?”
Butterfly smiled at the drone hovering near her just off the edge of the ramp, shot zooming in tight on her face. Wind whipping her hair back, the girl raised one hand, two fingers held up as they began to glow a dense roiling purple.
With a simple downward swipe, the girl sliced the air and rended it apart.
The tear in reality was butterfly-shaped, edges glowing purple and rippling, the landing spot below directly in front of her. The smile on her face widening just a bit, Butterfly saluted her leader and stepped through without hesitation, the construct collapsing behind her almost immediately.
Finally, it was just Angel and Beacon.
The cherubic blonde stood at the ramp's edge as she looked back over her shoulder toward the cockpit. "And how are you getting down, Scot?"
The leader of the team smiled back at her, a flash of white teeth visible under the shadow of his tactical visor. "C’mon, Angel. You know me. I always have a plan."
The girl simply nodded, the tilt of her head showing how much she couldn’t exactly deny that.
Without another word, she jumped.
A drone followed her for a few seconds in a heart-stopping vertical freefall, her descent tracked frame by frame in perfect clarity as a white and gold streak against red rock and rust-colored sky.
Then came a sound like tinkling bells, crystalline and clear, and two massive wings of pure golden hard light erupted from her back. The constructs caught air immediately, several drones converging on her as she flew. Angel carried herself in a graceful soaring arc toward the battlefield below; a literal angel descending on glowing wings.
Beacon watched from above, having left the pilot seat as he stood on the ramp having witnessed the landing strategies every member of his team had chosen. "You know the drill," he said to the empty cockpit, the drone inside the cabin holding steady on him. "Low-orbit loiter till we call for pickup. Keep the engines hot."
Nothing left to say, he let himself drop.
Head aimed down towards the groun, a reckless grin his teammates almost never saw spread itself wide across his face. “God, I love my job.”
Scot lifted his gaze and focused, and a constant controlled beam of violet psionic energy erupted from his visor, aimed straight down in an oversized column of thrust. The beam kicked up a massive cloud of dust, sustained force transforming a fatal plunge into a controlled high-speed drop.
As the beam came to a sudden stop, Beacon hit ground in a perfect three-point landing: one knee down, one fist planted in cracked earth, head bowed, the picture of dramatic heroism. The drone circled, capturing the moment as dust billowed around his still form.
Beacon rose to his full height and pointed toward the compound, voice carrying across the open square with calm absolute authority. "V-Force. Take 'em down."
A stylized, winged “V” slammed hard onto the screen, impact cracking the "lens" of the camera, as a “FORCE” appeared directly below it.
V-FORCE.
All new. All different. Coming this fall, exclusively on the Victory Network.
