Project: Spartan

July 10, 2016:

Deathstroke fills the rest of the team in on Spartan

The Resolve

Characters

NPCs: Peabody

Mentions: Lux

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Just 2 days does wonders, borderline miracles in fact, for the wounds Slade suffered on Lynch's ship. But it's 2 days they can sorely afford to lose. The hall of the Resolve echoes with a soft click-clack sound as Slade shuffles his way towards the warroom, the crutch under his arm doing the lions share of the work for him. He makes it to the room and slides down onto the nearest bench with a grimace of pain. The lacerations, the cuts and burns, they're all gone, completely vanished as if they had never been, and his broken fingers seem whole and hale again, dexterous as ever. If they were the worst of it everything would be fine. They were not. His broken arms, legs, and ribs are knitting, at an astronomical rate, but they take time, a week, maybe two before he's his old self again. Assuming he were to rest and allow his body to do it's work. Instead he's using broken arms to support his weight on crutches to take some of the weight from his broken legs that he's walking around on.

A drop of sweat slowly winds it's way down his face, a sign of the exertion the short walk was, and it hangs from the tip of his nose for a moment before his cheeks puff in an angry exhilation of breath and the small drop of water is blasted apart and flung away into space. "Call them to a briefing Peabody." he says into the silent air, knowing the other man is watching him like a mother hen and he won't even have to use the coms. "It's been two days and that's to long. We need to move."

+MEET: Lunair has arrived via +meet.

And Lunair is an immunocompromised disease reservoir. It's always those with weakened immune systems who help create more powerful pathogens. But Lunair is treated, kept clean and resting. So while she's mildly feverish, she's tired and pale looking. But she's no longer contagious, and even mustered up enough energy to make reubens for Rant and try to find her.

Otherwise, there's chai macarons for Deathstroke. But for the most part? Lunair is a Sleepair.

Whelp. They received the call. Rant wasn't doing much but reading a book, all barefoot with baggy sweats and tank top. She was one of the ones who practically made it out alright, save for the gut shot that left her stomach hurting just for a little bit.

So, she was there. Heading right into the Warroom after Lunair, a picture of perfect health as she takes a plate and a reuben for herself to slide down into her designated seat. Especially with her feet upon the seat of the chair.

"You rang?" Yeah, Deathstroke looks like two paces away from hell. It's kinda.. amusing.

Deathstroke's cheeks are full of stubble, the pale white kind that older men get when they don't shave for a day or so, a raspy thing one could likely use to properly smooth out rough hewn oak boards. He turns his head far enough to shoot Rant a look. She's not entirely wrong, his body has been consuming calories at an astronomical rate, repairing the damage done to him. He's eaten nearly 8k a day and still appears hollow cheeked and sunken eyed. At least he's not head to toe purple anymore, "We have a problem." he says, fumbling a table out from where it's attached to his crutch by a magnet. He uses his fingertips to coax it to life, their usual grace somewhat hammpered by the casts still on them. After a few taps he brings up an image, a flick of his finger sending the image to the rooms holo table and letting it blow up to a large size.

It's a man with strawberry blond hair, tossled somewhat by a breeze, his perfectly tanned skin is just the right shade to make one think of being out doors without really leathering him up any. He's of indeterminate age, somewhere between 30 and 50, his features are a little hard to make out but the over all shape of them is pleasing. He's clearly good looking, fit, but he's not stunning or breathtaking, the sort of face one might find in a crowd and remember for a short while but never for very long. He's wearing a beige colored suit that was clearly tailored to him specifically, which makes sense since the photo appear to have been taken as he was exiting a car somewhere bright and sandy and hot. There are a trio of other men in the pic, the sort who's body language screams 'bodyguard' at the top of it's silent lungs. "Meet the enemy code named Spartan." he says with a grunt before slumping back slightly in his seat.

On one hand, Lunair has to wonder if one of his signature moves is punting foes into a pit. On the other, if they had to deal with that Lynch guy then this and BOTH worry Deathstroke, Lunair is *very* concerned, too. She watches, listening, too. She sets the cookies out for Deathstroke, glad to see he's at least up and about. She sits nearby, and looks attentive.

"I'm guessing he's a total badass."

"Spartan?" Hah. That was almost her nickname from Green Arrow. But seeing the man has her nose wrinkling every so faintly, the sandwich soon dropped upon the plate again after a bite has been taken and pushed in Deathstroke's general direction. He possibly needed it more than she did right now.

"Total badass and kind of good looking. What's his deal? Why are we looking at him?"

Deathstroke moves and another picture takes that ones place, "I'm not sure what he is exactly." he points out, this time there's an image of gunfire ripping into the car and men around him, big impressive sized holes chewing up the vehicles frame. He flips through the pictures, forming a sort of slow motion film as this 'Spartan' person turns, one of his guard's head exploding like a watermelon next to him, and the next frame another guard goes down, his arm spiraling away from his body in a spray of gore that's almost beautiful in it's whirling arc. The third guard finds himself in the third picture kneeling behind the trunk of hte car and firing back. He's just vanished in the fourth image and most of the back end of the car is shredded up like paper, it's metal peeled apart under what must have been a heavy fusillade. But Spartan, save for a few holes in his jacket and a missing coat sleeve, appears none the worse for wear. In the fifth picture the car isn't in the frame anymore and Spartan's hand it outstretched as if he'd just underhand chucked something, his features a calm placid expression, not even anger to be found there. The final image shows a cadillac, shredded by gunfire imbedded firmly into the second story of a building made mostly of brownish clay bricks, the impact of the car having sent slow crack outward like a spiderweb. There is no sixth picture, "We're calling him that because Spartan was what the alien bio-tech virus called itself when we ran into it in Kenya," he rolls his eye oever to look at Rant, "you /remember/ Kenya, right?" his tone is flat. Kenya, the land of nightmares and nanotech gone horridly wrong. Yeah. No one forgot Kenya. He also takes the sandwhich and stuffs it in his face, which is impressive since Lunair's cookies have already suffered a high rate of casualties of their own. "I believe," he says around a mouthful, "that this is what we've been looking for all this time. This is that thing my people and I buried in Kenya more then a decade and a half ago, it's what Waller in her stupidity dug out of there and poked with sticks, and it's what escaped her notice and vanished into the world over ten years back." he points with a floppy sandwhich, "I think that's what crashed landed in Greece five thousand years ago and slept undisturbed until we decided it needed probing."

They were chai macarons, painted half and half like DS' mask. They were meant to be devoured. Lunair seems glad the food is going over well, and oddly? There's no flinch at the combat. She's far more used to it than someone her age should be, red rivers haunting her dreams and nightmares. Rictus-grinned victims disappearing into nooks and crannies of memories. She inclines her head a bit. "Mmn." She nods, indicating she's listening. "So they took some of it from this guy and it got poked with sticks, then ran off? Geez."

Rant remembered Kenya. She still has nightmares about it. Even the cut of his eye wasn't as terrifying as that day..

She shakes it out, clearing her throat and shifting a little bit uncomfortably, her arms drawn around herself as she rubs against her bare skin with her prying fingers.

"Or.. was this guy a test subject and now he's walking around free and cool with this.. Spartan mutation?" Melody frowns, frowns completely. She wanted to say to leave it be, but she knows damn well she'd be put to the task of running five hundred laps nonstop.

Deathstroke shakes his head, "No. I think this is what that stuff built." he says after a long few moments chewing. "Remember the way things in Kenya were set up? We talked to Henshaw before it all went to shit, I've been doing some thinking about that and I believe he's right. The tech that was invading all the biomater it could find and rewiring it into those monsters wasn't intentionally doing that. I think it was learning. Think about it. When you're a kid, how did you learn about things? You took them apart, saw how they ticked, then you tried to put them back together. There were a couple of screws left out, a weird plastic gear thingie, maybe some kind of washer or two, in short you did it wrong. I think the alien was sent here after the Deamonites, I think it was meant to be… I dunno a scout or something. And to do that it had to know how to blend in. So it found biomater and it took it apart, saw how it ticked, then put it back together wrong. Not intentional, just ignorant. A child but on a whole different level." More cookies go in his mouth.

"When we leveled the place the virus had stopped making new horrors, which was good because there were already to many in there. Team 7 left that place a crater. Then Waller came along with Stormwatch and dug it up, made her project Tick Tock. It was processing what it had learned, then they poked it with sticks for a few years and it decided it had learned enough and left." he flips up a new photo, and this time there's an image of a guy in a labcoat walking out of a parking garage, glasses on his nose, labcoat covering his body, set of car keys in his hand. The photo is zoomed in on, showing off the man's apparent bare feet, then to the sleeve of the labcoat where there are two drops of blood on the cuff, then up to the face. Spartan. "I think it took apart enough people to do it's job, it made a person of it's own, one to blend in and work among us without us knowing. That was about ten years ago, all these images were erased, there's no record of them, these seven photos are all that exsist of this man on the planet, and they were all taken old school style, with film." he looks around the room. "I think he's the thing that crashed here, I think he disassembled enough biomass to learn how life on this planet worked, then he built himself a flawless body to hide in, and then ten years ago he was unleashed into the world to follow his mission." he seems winded and leans back against the seat behind him, "He's the best I've ever seen. For fucks sake, Lynch works for /him/."

Oh god. Lunair winces at that. She doesn't even care if it's visible. Few people escape the infamous portal loop. Plus, Lynch has HORRIBLE BRAIN POWERS and those are difficult to deal with beyond 'shoot the damn psychic in the throat'. "… well, hell." Lunair frowns.

Melody didn't know what to say. All of this was jarring. The revelation of Spartan, Henshaw fitting into the picture, the ruined mass of his body with other parts and rats connected to machines and her 'freezing' up like a computer that was just about to blue screen..

And Lynch works for him. An alien devil. One that would almost look like perfection if he chose a much more handsome face.

"..we.." She says nothing, her hand pressing against her cheek to shake her head. She was floored. "Is Lynch like him too?"

Deathstroke shakes his head, "No." he says after a moments thought, "I know that bastard to well. But he's different on some level. I put a bullet in his head fifteen years ago and he's up and walking about. If I had to guess?" he reaches up subconciously and touches the center of his own chest with his fingers, "They sent him in to I.O. and the mad doctors there did something to him, let him live. It's what happened to all of us on the Team once we were hurt bad enough." which is how Slade's a 70+ year old badass and not a geriatric in a retirement home. And a few others like him. "He's still just a man, though I might be a bit more thurough next time I hollow out one of his eyes. Use a bigger gun and more bullets." the last part is a growl, "Spartan is our big consern. Lynch has problems of his own. On her way out of the ship I had Lux completely liquify their coms, and the only satelite phone with a signal on that container ship I tossed over the side just as we were leaving, with most of his fuel going up in smoke on the deck and his little army suffering a bad case of massive burn injuries and death, we have time. Lynch can't get word off of his dingy that we got out, much less that we did so with intel, for that matter, he can't tell Spartan that I'm not still captured. For the first time since we started this fucking scavenger hunt we're a step ahead of the opponant. That's the good news."

Lunair listens. She nods. She lilts her head a bit. She frowns. But there's a faint smile at the good news. Though, she seems distant at mention of death of his men. Lunair probably WAS responsible for most of that. "What about a weapon that stops healing factors? Deadpool gave me a sword forever ago…" She recalls. "Then again, I don't know if it's work on a virus like that." Lunair frowns faintly. A shrug. "I will listen."

"Osiris." Melody states, gesturing towards the table. "Seperate limb from limb and scatter it to each ends of the earth." Hey. It works. Why not?

Though she nods a little, her gaze falling towards Lunair, a secret jealous type look drawn upon her as she lets out a sigh.

"What's the bad news?"

Deathstroke eyes both of the ladies and almost smiles at their trains of thought before continueing, "The bad news is that I can't stand on my own." he points out, flicking one of his crutches with an annoyed fingertip, "Which means we're in a race now. Between Lynch's half crippled ship and my healing factor. Which ever one finishes repairs first…" he shrugs and goes back to looking at the floating image of the man in the suit. "Our greatest problem is ignorance." he says softly, "We have no idea what we're dealing with, what it's mission is, what is going on. We need to know all of this. Before we begin planning to dismember this thing," he eyes Rant, "perhaps we should learn what it's purpose is exactly?" he offers with a small wry grin. The intercom pops to life, «The voice of reason just came from the professional killer of human beings. We're /so/ fucked.»

Lunair listens. She nods. "I believe in you." She'll help with cooking as they like. Protein and carbs help with healing, right? "And that's true. I'm just cautious of trying to wrangle a lion covered in knives soaked in tetradotoxin," She notes. "The cost of the information may prove great. But then, I guess ignorance is expensive, too." A nosewrinkle.

She points out to the intercom, "Some of us were professional killers before this." Freaking child soldiers. Lunair doesn't press it. "But at least one killer is thoughtful enough to leave some of the Yay DeathStroke is Alive Cookies for you." She really does seem to care about her minionboss.

"Lunair could just use her healing ray gun on you. Worked for me when my throat got slit by those death machines.." But he was right. They had nothing to go on and no reason as to why they're after the man. Melody just shakes her head slightly at Lunair, a slight grin dropping upon her face as she speaks up herself to the comms. "I wasn't. So maybe it's a bad thing the voice of reason came from him and not me?" Little joke aside, Melody's face falls as she leans forward, fingers pressing lightly into the holo table.

"You know, Lunair is innocent seeming. Capable fighter. Can probably hold her own against her lot. Send her out there to get buddy buddy with the guy. Red velvet cupcake and maybe a nudity ray and fun in the sun later he'd be telling her all the business." Yes. She just suggested Lunair go out there and sleep with the guy.

Deathstroke quirks a brow at Rants words, "I'm going to assume that's a bad joke." he says flattly, his tone suggests he did not find it amussing, "He's dangerous, more dangerous then almost anyone I've ever met. Long as he's been around, the tech he's made from, the way he can seem to reach out and touch other machines. I suspect he's in all of our systems, anything linked to the net at any time, and he's been at it since the internet was new, which means there's no telling how deep in the systems he's imbedded himself, assuming he's capable of that sort of thing." he leans back in his seat again and sighs, reaching up to wipe a bit of sweat from his forehead, "AI's aren't new enemies to us, but when they're fought they're still new. I mean, one pops up and then the JLA stomps it back down into the mud or something. But imagine if this thing's been here since the internet's framework went up, since everything became highspeed, and it didn't try to nuke us or take over the world or anything. It's quiet, lurking, so far off the radar that Stark and his ilk havn't even seen a shadow of it's passing. You don't lay that low if you have that much power unless you have a reason for doing so. I want to know what it is. He's built a network of intelligence gatherers so compitent it's more then a little disturbing, but what data is he gathering?" he sits up again, a thought striking him, "What's he /looking/ for?" he seems thoughtful for a few silent moments, then shakes his head, "I guess we'll have to ask him. For the time being there's such thing as 'off duty'. Assume that you're on call 24/7 until I say otherwise. I need to rest, heal, soon as that's done we," he glances up at the image again, "go ask a man about a thing."

Lunair listens. She blinks owlishly. She hms. She considers it. "Thank you. I'll take note. Let me know what you guys want for dinner, and I'll catch a nap then get it cooking." She is considering Deathstroke's words.

Though, Rant's eyes go wide. "I think he might prefer a girl with more USB ports." Oh, that was bad. "Thank you for letting us know. And I wish I knew more for you."

"I was actually being serious but sure!" Melody perks up. But she listens to the entire tirade then slowly stands. "Funny, I've been doing the exact same thing since I was 16. Lord knows what I probably dug up and stashed away in these little brains of mine. But, shockingly enough no ones considered me dangerous.." It was a thought. She was already heading towards the door, only able to say this because she knows that a Deathstroke hobble at the moment won't beat her breakneck run.

"How about we just reach out and -talk- to the man. Sounds crazy. You know. Embedding little imprints in the net that only he'd be able to find and notice and say.. 'Hey. What's up!'"

And she was pretty much out the door then. At least to avoid the Deathgaze. Cause she's probably going to do what she suggested anyways. Just for funsies.

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