(HS) Fairgates:Antithesis

9/19/2011 16:48:29

Antithesis
Member

Yes, I started up again!

DISCLAIMER: All parts of this story belong to me, and are written by me. Most characters in the story are also works of my imagination, although it is possible that some characters are based on other user's ideas. I will only use those with permission, and will give credit when it is needed.
I would like to thank Artix Entertainment for everything, YOUR GAMES RULE.

Enjoy!

Fairgates:Antithesis

Discussion is here.

Currently In:
Prologue: Part 3

Current Characters:
The Russian/Kruschev
The American/John Saturnia
The Eventide
Contrast
Special guest soon to come? :o

I have editted out all the mature content in this story ~Gianna Glow

< Message edited by Gianna Glow -- 5/27/2013 14:21:02 >

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Post #: 1

9/19/2011 16:49:37

Antithesis
Member

Prologue: Part 1

Year: 1942
Location: New York City
---------------
“You’s e’bsolutely sur'a dis?”
There was a man sitting in the room. He wore a brown trench coat, and had a fedora under his hand. He was a large, round, Russian man. A Russian man who spoke with a twisted accent, somewhere between a Brooklyn New Yorker and a Ukrainian.
The room itself was fairly shabby. It had concrete walls, a steel floor, a metal table, and some briefcases laying around near bookshelves that were lined up in the room, books strewn throughout. The room was dimly lit, with a single metal lamp laying on the table turned on so the Russian could see.
“I cen-get ‘hem dere... I jus’ need ye’ word dat d’ranks’re clear. Mmkay?”

“You have my word.”
This other man was an American. He clothed himself in a black business suit, with no tie. He had a white collared shirt underneath his closed suit-jacket. He was roughly 6 and a half feet tall, aged, and looked as though he had fought a multitude of wars in his many years of life. He was in excellent shape, even for someone half his age, and he reminded the Russian man of an oak tree. He spoke in such a way that his authority was not doubted. He had pride in his rough, edged voice.
“This man has been alive too long, and he got lucky. He doesn’t age like the rest of us.”

“Heh, yeh’ a’supose he dun’t.” The Russian man gave a gruff laugh under his breath.

“He doesn’t. He’s not like the rest of us. He got his nanites in excess. This should have killed the poor kid, but it didn’t. He’s different. Enough said.”

“Eh, ya’kay. So, lem’me get back t’work? I ‘ave a lot to do, and I dun like dis’urbensis.”

“Get it done swiftly, Kruschev. You know I don’t tolerate latency. It’d be a shame if I had to teach you to work. I’m not your father.”

At this, the Russian man, Kruschev, gave a hard stare.
“D’ya know who you’s talkin’ to?” He spoke calmly, before exploding into anger. “YOU ‘AVE FIVE SECONDS TA GID’OUT OF MY FACE ‘FORE I KICK YOUR TEETH IN, AN’ TEAR YOUR ARMS OFF, AN’ BEAT YA’ WITH ‘EM! GET OUT!”

The American sighed, took his jacket off and lay it on the chair. He walked over slowly with a sick look on his face.
“Nope.”
He flew his fist towards the Russian man’s face, landing right on the side of his head. Kruschev fell to the floor, breathing heavily.

“S’dat da best you’s got?” Kruschev said, standing up un-phased. “Hit m’again, I dare ya’.”
He stood there, calmly.

The American, frustrated, threw another punch at the Russian. Kruschev stood there, took the hit, and didn’t even blink. The American threw another punch, another hit, another punch, another hit, and so on and so forth for about two minutes. Kruschev bounced around a little, moving with the American’s punches.
“Hah! Dis s’pretty fun, ah? Lem’me give it a try.”

Kruschev grabbed the American, and slammed his face with massive force directly onto the metal table next to them. A loud *pang* noise reverberated through the room, and
the American lay there; bloody, mangled. After a few moments, he pulled himself up, slowly.
“Well, there you go, Kruschev. You pissed me off.”
The American jumped into the air, kicking the Russian square in the jaw, and proceeded to jump over the table and slap Kruschev with his fist. He ran towards his opponent in a fashion similar to a rhinoceros, throwing Kruschev towards the wall.
Kruschev shook his head a little, dazed.

“Well... dat one kind’hurt.”
The Russian flew his hands in the air and flew both of them, straightened, to the sides of the American’s face.

“No.”
The American grabbed Kruschev’s arms mid-air, pulling them past him as he flung his feet straight into the Russian’s chest, over and over again. He then grasped the Russian’s left arm, spun it over his back, and threw him to the ground. A large dent formed in the middle of the steel floor around Kruschev.

“Ha, well pla’d, American, well pla’d.”
The Russian stood up, brushed himself off, and sat down at the bloody metal table.
“Le’s talk. Tell me ‘bout dis kid, Scott or whatev’s ‘tis you’s call him.”

The American stood, breathing slowly and deeply. He sat down and looked the Russian dead in the eyes.
“I understand I can’t force you to do anything. So I’m going to ask you. Now, normally I don’t ask anyone anything. I tell them. But, for this, I’ll make an exception.”
The American, moving faster than the human eye can see, pulled a syringe from his coat pocket and stabbed the Russian in the side of the neck, injecting its contents into him.

“What da he-” The Russian cut himself off as he started screaming in pain. His skin shaded itself to a deep purple color, his veins seeming to come out of his flesh. His eyes immediately bloodshot, and every muscle in his body seemed to tighten up as if he had a severe case of tetanus.
“What d-did ya’ do ta’... me?!” He yelled out, in between sharp waves of pain.

“I showed you what pain was, in its truest, most pure form. You’re going to get this job done. I do not want to have to come back here and kill you. You’re valuable to me. I need you alive. That’s why you’re not already dead. In about thirty seconds you’re going to black out. In eight hours, you’ll wake up. You’ll be sore. In fact, I won’t lie, it’ll hurt like hell. That’s what happens when every single one of your non-vital muscles pull as hard as they can. Like a strong rope.” The American acted as if his hands were holding a rope, pulling them apart, mimicking its existence. “Don’t let me down, Kruschev. It’d be a shame if I had to do this again.”

The American stood up, grabbing his jacket. The Russian lay with his face on the table, passed out cold. His flesh was still purple, and his body bounced back and forth as if he was having a seizure, yellow foam dripping from his closed lips.
The American was simply standing for a second or so, adjusting his jacket so it looked professional. He then waited a few moments, observing Kruschev’s pained body.
Slowly, he reached over and grabbed Kruschev’s hat.
“It’s a nice hat. Thanks.”
He walked away and opened the door, placing the fedora on his head as he made his way out into the pouring rain.

< Message edited by Antithesis -- 9/20/2011 3:13:19 >

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Post #: 2

10/3/2011 17:50:36

Antithesis
Member

Prologue: Part 2

---------------
The Russian jolted his body upward. Gentle light gleamed in, as it was very early in the morning. Something like four or five o’clock.

“… ’Oly-zest’kost…” 

He could feel his heart pounding- deep in his skull. He spent a short time sitting and staring off into space, after which he drifted his gaze downwards; and observed his swollen hands.
The nails were dark red, seeming to pulse as if they were about to tear open a rift in space itself. He felt nothing but confusion and pain; a cloud of amnesia forming over him.

“What da’ell happened…?”

The Russian was trampled by a stampeding herd of buffalo. His ribs seemed to tremble under the beat of his heart, his hands shaking spastically.
He wiped his sweat covered forehead and, with a sigh, planted his face into the metal table. It was only then that he noticed the pool of blood on the table, which he could tell by the smell wasn’t his.
Then, as if struck by lightning, he remembered the events from hours before. 

You’re going to get this job done. I do not want to have to come back here and kill you.

The Russian lifted his sweaty, purple, bleeding face, and rested it in his hands as he cried soft sobs to himself.
 “Why ed’I take dis-god forsaken…” 

Weak and teary-eyed, Kruschev stood up from his seat and meandered over to the wall. His crippled body wouldn’t permit him to raise his arms above his waist.
Sweat dripped from his body. The cramps and pains he felt were agonizing- Kruschev winced at every movement, giving a sigh of pain after every wince.

He swiftly reached over and grabbed the rusted metal suitcase that was laying against the wall, very quickly unlocking it with a key he had pulled from underneath the table.
The suitcase locks popped open with a clinking noise. He sat down, and squeaked it open slowly.
Inside, there was a flat black tablet, roughly a centimeter thick, with a glossy front. He put four fingers on the front and brushed them across it; spelling the word Contrast, all fingers working in unison, each finger producing two letters.

The black tablet lit up, the shape of a Mantis’ head glowing on the top. 

A feminine robotic voice came from the tablet.
  User Confirmed as Kruschev Makarov-Volgin. Welcome.

“Six. Z’ro. Nine. Five. Eps’l’un. Foxtrot.”
 Activating security interface, please state the current month and year.

“April, Nine’ten Forty-two.” 
April, Nineteen Hundred and Forty Two. All drones set to lethal. Termination of Scott Fairbanks is the priority. Deactivating...  

With three clicking sounds, the Mantis emblem faded away from the screen of the tablet. Kruschev brushed the glossy front once more, this time spelling out seemingly unintelligible things onto it.
The Mantis face returned, but it was a dim red color. 
Confirm Orders? 

“Yes.” Said Kruschev quietly, tapping the tablet four times, once on each corner. 
Goodbye. 
The tablet’s screen went white, and sat still.

The tablet’s screen grew brighter slowly, and the room itself seemed to light up. The blinding light shifted to a redish color as the tablet spastically folded in on itself.
The room became engulfed in what appeared to be ruby flame, Kruschev’s body seemingly being torn apart piece by piece as he calmly sat, sipping from his glass.

A bright beam of red light shot upward, through the roof of the building. Outside, crowds of onlookers stared as the swirling beams struck the clouds.
The sky shifted to a black color, and the air was filled with nothing but eery silence. The anticipation of what would happen next permeated the air.

The building Kruschev was sitting in exploded into magenta-colored energy, stretching towards the crowds like the arms of death.
Some in the mob stared in horror as buildings and people were obliterated in the blast, others fled for life like ants from a flame. The radius expanded towards them with great speed, absorbing them.

Nobody in the crowds escaped the wave of destruction, no buildings stood up to it. The ground shook as it tore open, large canyons forming amidst the violence. 

And then it stopped.  Time froze for what seemed like a few minutes. No sound was heard.

Gradually, the wall of death pulled back. Buildings seemed to repair themselves as the waves dispersed. The bodies of the women, children, and men flashed back into existence.
The sky regained color as the red beam of light sunk back into the now stable building. Life had returned to normal, as if nothing had happened. The legions of people were oblivious.
The room Kruschev sat in dimmed itself once again, the single lamp sitting on the table, as the particles that were left of him reformed together.
He sat there, the screen of the tablet returning to the red Mantis emblem. 
Projection complete.

 Kruschev stared wide eyed at the machine.

“Wha’s dis trickery?”
 He placed one fist onto the table, confused.
 Transmitting recording . . . 
The robotic voice shifted to the voice of a human woman.

The woman spoke with an elegant, but very official and hardened, British accent.
 “The current motives of the Eventide are unknown. All information collected thus far indicates that the horde intends to eliminate all life on our Planet.
It also shows that Fairgates is related. We believe he has something to do with the Eventide, but as to what that is we have no clue. If he is killed, it is possible to prevent this catastrophe.
This message has been blocked from his nanites as to prevent resistance. Further details will be uploaded in March of 1964.
Until then, keep a low profile and try to take care of Fairgates. End.” 

The voice recording stopped, and the tablet’s voice returned to the feminine robot it was before. 
Transmission Closed.

 “Swe’t Jesus...” 
The Russian shook his head in disbelief, fixated on the tablet.
At this point, his skin had returned to its normal shade. His eyes were white again. His body had stopped shaking. On the inside, however, he felt great pain.
It was almost physical to him. He knew that the world may very well end sooner than he would ever have expected. His friends, their friends, his family, or what is left of it, would all be killed.
The people outside would all die. Their friends and family would all die. Every living organism on the face of this planet would be wiped clean from existence.

He balled his hands into fists and slammed them on the metal table, bending it in around his hands as the great force of his strength was thrown down onto it. 

“NO!” He yelled out to no one in particular. “THE’LL DIE BEFORE THA’HAPPENS!”

His face was red, his body shaking. This time, however, it was not pain.  It was pure, psychotic vengeance for something that hadn’t even happened yet.
He stood himself up, slamming the case shut, and picking up the rusted briefcase, he stormed from the messy room out into the still-moist back streets of New York City.

< Message edited by Gianna Glow -- 5/27/2013 14:49:12 >

AQW

Epic

Post #: 3

12/7/2011 22:53:03

Antithesis
Member

Prologue: Part 3

---------------
The sound of heavy feet echoed through the damp alleys of New York. Kruschev was filled with rage: rage at The American for putting him into this position; rage at this ‘Fairgates’ person, responsible for all of this chaos that the sleek-black machine projected.
But most of all he felt rage at Contrast. It has been known for years in secret circles that Contrast was in charge of just about every military force in the United States. Every Private Military Corporation. Every paid militia.

Every goddamned government military personnel... and they don’t even know it. Every single damned marine. Even the Mantis. Everything.
Kruschev scowled in his mind as the humid air blew, almost mockingly, past his face.

At this point it became increasingly clear that he had almost no idea where he was running. He was running completely on instinct... but... something... didn’t feel right. It was as if some invisible malevolent force was pulling him somewhere. Somewhere dark. Somewhere without hope.

Then the image of The American stabbing him in the neck with the syringe entered his mind. The sudden realization of what happened earlier hit him straight in the chest, almost dropping him to the ground mid-run.
A dark, hazy voice echoed through his mind.
Yes, that’s right, Kruschev. You belong to me now. And they are going to test you when you arrive. Pry you open like a little pig. Torture you. Kill your family. Right now they’re safe. But... are you?

He could hear deep rumbling sounds rattling in his brain. His head started beating loudly in his ears. His vision blurred as it faded in rings of black. Ink-like substance oozed from the ground.
And then it faded away quickly. Kruschev came to a dead halt.

“By god... what’ve the’done...” He looked down at the rocky alleyway as he began to understand that he had been infected. By The American.
Look harder. Feel it drag you in. The power. The fury. The rage. The sorrow. The joy. The pain.
Then the voices stopped momentarily.

The end.

Kruschev dropped to his knees in agonizing pain, screaming out into the streets of New York like a siren. His skin rippled, black blood seeping out of every single one of the pores on his body.
He cried and screamed endlessly for mercy as the world closed around him in gripping darkness.

~~~~~~~

The American sat aboard the strange aerial transport, staring at his computer screen, the only thing he appeared to be able to concentrate on. He tapped at the keyboard, quietly, as he pondered what had occured earlier.

Heh. Soon, I will be able to upload the data onto Contrast. See how The Eventide effects him. He was a good man, no doubt, but this was for the best of us all. I just hope to God that he didn’t open that briefcase. It was stupid of me to not confiscate it. If he fell with that information...
His thoughts trailed off.

He had just finished typing a sentence when an eerie emptiness imploded deep inside his thoughts. It faded quickly, but left the American frozen, confused.

Abruptly, the aircraft around him shook violently. He had been in New York barely a few hours ago, now on a swift flight to Alaska on technology designed by the Contrast program. He and his pilot assumed that it was merely slight turbulence, when The American slowly drifted his gaze to the back of the plane at the Contrast Item. The large black machine was so vastly intelligent it surpassed human intelligence by millennia. It invented itself, so to speak. Smiling, he shifted his eyes out the aircraft window.
A distorted, black, mutilated face with glowing yellow eyes was staring directly through him, seemingly into his soul.

“HOLY-” The American threw himself out of his seat instantly, running to the other side of the aircraft. “PILOT. FLY THIS GOD-FORSAKEN THING FASTER, AND TAKE EVASIVE MANEUVERS! NOW!”

The pilot promptly jolted downwards on the controls, causing the aircraft to go spiraling downwards. The added weight of this beast was going to destroy the plane, taking The American, the pilot, and the Contrast Item down with it.
Time seemed to slow down as the American’s thoughts drifted into the depths of madness.
All is going to be lost, years of research from our best scientists... gone. He was horrified.
A large black tentacle tore through the smooth, decorated walls. Out of seemingly nowhere, the Contrast Item’s eyes lit up.
Eventide detected. Jump into the safe-room now, John Saturnia.

The metallic body shifted stances and ruptured through the walls of the aircraft with a loud tearing noise, the sonic-boom nearly deafening John Saturnia, the American.
He bolted for the safe-room in the back of the transport, directly behind where Contrast was standing. Completely oblivious to the chaotic, bloodcurdling screams of the Pilot as he was slowly torn to shreds by what was clearly The Eventide. John’s heartbeat seemed to be a constant single beat as he pulled the large red lever inside of the squared, metal box he had hastily thrown himself into. Large metal latches shuttered to life and closed around him as the crate-like safehaven plummeted to the Earth.

However, he wasn’t aware they were already at their destination, as he was hurled into the Arctic Ocean just past Alaska’s borders...
The Plane itself didn’t even hit the ground before it was devoured into complete nothingness.

The only sound in the air was the slight breeze of Arctic wind...

And what seemed to be the muffled screams of a forsaken man trapped in a steel box sinking into the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~
Time: 5:33 P.M.
Year: 1964
Location: Anchorage, Alaska

Wake up, John. Yes. Open your eyes, there you go. Recognize my voice?
He opened his eyes, weakness draped over him like a blanket. His head pounded several times every second. He couldn’t see anything, as it was completely dark.
A dark voice echoed through his ears much like a waterfall blasting into molten lava during a hurricane.

You died, John. You died over twenty years ago. Do you remember that, John? You ran from me. And what is rightfully mine flew away. It escaped. But you didn’t. Are you ready, John? Are you ready for what has been waiting for you for over a century?

He didn’t even respond. His heart wasn’t beating, literally. He looked down at his chest and saw nothing but a large, rotting hole.
He remembered nothing. Vague images brushed over his mind. He remembered dealings with a Russian man, and brief fleeting thoughts about going to...

It was a town, John. What was the town’s name? The dark voice tore into his mind again.
 “Kaktovik.” He spoke under his breath with words that were barely audible.
A few memories flashed back into his brain. He was going to meet a man by the name Rashklov-Strebor... and then his mind started drawing blanks again. There was vital information, somewhere.
He could feel paranoia creeping up on him. A tiger sneaking through the grass ready to pounce, so to speak.

The darkness closed in, threatening to consume his body and soul for eternity.
But John did not feel pain.

He felt mania.

< Message edited by Eukara Vox -- 5/27/2013 15:09:22 >

AQW

Epic

Post #: 4