Chapter 2 - Foreign Rubble

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Infobox
Canon: Baseline
Series: Plainswalking
Canon: Baseline Series: Plainswalking

Plainswalking
Chapter 2 - Foreign Rubble

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Agent Peter Urquhart had had just about enough bullshit for one week. He looked up at the rusted, slightly weathered ceiling of the giant skeleton's inner cranium. The last thing he'd seen before the light.

It was a tremendously bright light. He remembered Dr. Ames and his team scurrying in and out of the mechanical monstrosity, the retrieved relic from the Russian sea. Like ants bringing food to a queen, the scientists took notes and tapped metal. Urquhart could swear that half the scientists were only pretending to be busy, but he didn't particularly care. He thought it pointless to stand guard and watch as they busied themselves on a neutralised specimen. He rested easily on the fact that he was paid to follow orders, not question them.

That was, until the light.

Until Ames called out for help.

Until he charged in, finding the doctor caught in tangled wires.

Until Urquhart freed him, and pushed him through the machine's jaws.

Until he saw the light.

Now, he was definitely reconsidering the value of that paycheck.

He growled in both annoyance and pain as he brought himself up from the hard, steel surface. It took a moment for his legs to respond. A twinge of pain shot through his right arm, and he winced. The pain felt incapacitating, his body silently warning him not to move. He looked towards his shoulder, recognising the sprain. He rolled his eyes.

Perfect.

He removed a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his faculty guard uniform, folding it over itself. He bit down hard, his mouth slowly dampening the handkerchief. He raised his left hand to meet his shoulder. He gradually slowed his breathing down, steadying it, and readying himself for the agony he was about to inflict upon himself.

Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed the shoulder back into place. A muffled roar escaped from the top of his lungs, echoing through the belly of the machine. His teeth began to ache. The pain was an evil violation of all of Urquhart's senses.

I fuckin' haaaaaaaaaaate that shiiiiiiiiiiiiit. He silently exasperated.

He removed the handkerchief from his mouth, and threw it to the ground. He removed the coat of his uniform, a bare white t-shit remaining underneath. With only a couple of folds, he had made a makeshift cast for the shoulder to heal.

With the shoulder taken care of, he surveyed the nearby area. He could practically smell the rust of the machine. The gun metal pallet was blotched with several brown smears. It was evident that the machine had not been in use in many years.

So, why turn on now? He pondered.

Marshall turned to his right, and thanked the heavens. Lying on the floor was his beloved IMI Galil automatic rifle. He picked it up with his free hand by the stock, and struggled briefly to wrap the sling around his person.

With a gun loosely in hand, his shoulder mending itself, and a mood foul enough to put off the Devil himself, Agent Peter Urquhart turned to the inner lining of the mechanical beast's jaws, and marched towards them, grumbling with every step.

A rhythmic, yet unpleasant series of bangs echoed throughout the empty halls of the repurposed synagogue. Adrik was not one to care for the disruptions his noises may have brought upon others. He was already too busy unravelling his own mind, like a tangled lump of wool, to be empathetic. Not that empathy was of any help to anyone, in a place like this.

He perked slightly, as if noticing something else brielfy. He then stopped. Adrik's neck let out a muted, creaking series of cracks as his head turned into a faraway direction of his workspace. An unpleasant, high pitched pinging sound echoed throughout the halls. Adrik placed an unrecognisable tool back on the bench, and began walking in the direction of the pinging sound. He racked his brain, wondering what the noise was.

He stopped. He remembered.

No.

His walk became a maddened sprint, as Adrik navigated the halls of the synagogue, searching for the source of the noise.

The building was a mess. Various scraps of metal and pieces of junk were strewn all around, the by-product of an active mind. Jaws, circuits, unfinished limbs; All were the deserted fragments of past ideas long forgot, now discarded by the lack of determination behind them. The wooden walls had begun to rot, the very fabric of the building peeling and buckling under its own pressure.

As he sprinted, the pinging grew louder, echoing through the hollow shell of his brain. He squinted, his head panging with every ping.

No. No. NO.

He finally stumbled upon an open room, and found the device; a tablet of wires and lights, with various antenna stemming from it in disorderly, chaotic fashion, mounted to a lecturn formerly used by those who once met within the building's walls. He regarded the several green lights, searching for a problem. His eyes locked. He glared at the one inconsistency. His breathing tightened.

One of the lights had turned red.

An Ossa had fallen.

His shoulders heaved in and out, rising and falling, faster and faster as every second went by. Finally, his anger peaked. He let out a shriek of rage, ripping the tablet from its place of rest and hurling it far into a mountain of garbage that rested nearby. His eyes shone a blindingly bright white light.

"Fucking… BASTARD!" he screamed. He lashed a gloved hand out, striking the mountains of garbage with crackles of white electric power, erasing everything it touched from existence. His arms became a flurry of bright white lights, electricity arcing in every direction.

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After several minutes of this, he brought himself to a gradual halt. He looked around, his neck cracking with every exertion. The destruction was monstrous. The building had been reduced to the rubbish that had once resided in the halls, now strewn across the coarse dirt surrounding the area the synagogue had once stood.

Adrik raised his arms, and gritted his teeth. He began to raise them slowly. His hollow breath grew louder and louder the higher they rose. The synagogue rose from the ground, as if being pushed from the very bowels of the earth itself.

The building had been rebuilt. Almost the same as before, but stronger. He would attend to the recreation of the various tools inside later.

Right now, he had another problem to take care of. And it was urgent.

He raised his arm, turning nobs all across the mechanical augmentations running along his forearms. A sharp, high pitched static could be faintly heard from what was formerly a radio speaker. A small antenna raised. The static cleared.

Adrik's soldiers had been mobilised.

It was time to crush the rat.

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The crackle of the fabric of space and time being torn echoed throughout the desecrated valley. The rift materialised, and from it, the figure stepped. Dressed in a clean, recognisable British Army 20th regiment officer uniform, he surveyed the surrounding area. He was accompanied by the faint crackle of radio static, elicited by the portable HAM Radio kept on his person.

He observed the destruction, the torn and broken cobbles of the buildings that had once permeated the area. His gaze fell upon the mighty iron giant that had fallen before him.

He lifted the radio, holding his thumb down on the button.

"He's here." the soft, yet violent voice uttered into the radio.

"Good," a soft, yet firm, female voice responded. The voice was slightly distorted by radio static. "Then you know what your assignment is, Officer Arkus."

Arkus placed the speaker back on his person. He angled his metallically enveloped head towards the ground, observing the freshly marked boot prints in the snow and the mud.

Arkus raised his hand, light glowing around his white uniformed glove. In a flash of blinding light, his halberd manifested. The technology attached crackled and whirred softly. A soft glow permeated from within the mask, glowing through the three slits on its face.

"The scouting mission is over," he murmured softly. "It is time for the hunt."

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