Peace and Turmoil

Humanity has found itself leashed. After overcoming their prejudices with tolerance to bring their dying world back from the brink, they began to look to the stars. Humanity's golden age brought exploration, and with it, new discoveries. In this brave, new frontier they found other races and cultures waiting for the chance to bring these fledglings to their knees.

There was no real resistance. Humanity's spacefaring technology was no match for the more advanced developments beyond their sight, and its leaders submitted to the will of greater cultures, dismantling their own beliefs to conform to the greater good of the galaxy at large. At least, that was how they spun the tale to those they betrayed. However, there were always those willing to struggle, who found ways to fight back.

These rebels retreated and found untouched havens, far away from the galactic core. Spending decades building up numbers and resources, stealing the technology to give themselves the power to resist. But inevitably, once they were discovered, war was the only answer. Then was time for humanity to take back what was theirs, and leading their offensive on the ground were the M.A.S. battle armor.

With a cry towards the heavens, they began their campaign. Death to the alien, glory to mankind.

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This new Death gazed around his room. There was but a single bed, with someone else's blankets covering it. This person must have been a minimalist, he surmised, as it did not seem to be as cluttered as he was led to believe. The stale air from the rest of the base had not infiltrated this room yet. It was dusty, yes, but surprisingly clean. A single window allowed for some sun to shine through, though it had a heavy metal shutter as well, letting only slits of light inside. He found it to be satisfactory to keeping his room secure, with no easy way to enter besides the one door in. Similar metal plating across the floor kept his feet cool, and there were no unnecessary obstructions littering the open space. It is perfect.

Death sat down, legs crossed, in the middle of the room and shut his eyes, breathing deeply. There was nothing left to do but wait. This was not his home, he thought, that place doesn't exist now. War could not hold his leash for long and keep his freedom from him.

Freedom... Death was taught this word during his training, but not by any of the instructors. He spent an uncounted amount of time thinking about the meaning of that word, and how he could take it for himself. Although he was finally away from that accursed place, he did not yet feel free. He was still prey in the eyes of others; thus, he could not truly be free. He wondered how long he would have to go on killing to earn his peace and quiet. Who he would have to target and how many? What enemies he would have to make, and then squash? It didn't seem impossible, just exhausting to consider.

Freedom… he was told It was a home. A family, friends… and comfort. That was what it meant to her, but he did not have a home. He never knew his blood family, his only friend was gone forever, and comfort… comfort was something earned only at the end of battle, when everything is quiet. In his eyes, he could not have been further from freedom. A icy chill ran up his spine the more time he spent alone, with his thoughts. Something like an itch formed in his mind, and all he wanted to do was scratch it. Being alone let his ghosts haunt him more easily, those that showed him kindness and will never be seen in this galaxy again. One in particular always found her way to his side, and he felt his stomach turn at her presence. He could almost feel her gentle hands on his shoulders, whispering nostalgic songs and wordless commands in his ear. It felt as though it was eternally out of earshot, yet close and chilling.

Death sat motionless in the center of that room for what seemed like forever, as though trying to piece together a puzzle he had only half the pieces to. The itch in his mind endured and forbade him from focusing, and eventually his frustration won out, and the image of her in his mind shattered. He shut his eyes tightly against the head pain that surfaced and chose to forget about freedom for now. Instead, he turned his mind's eye towards his battle with War.

He straightened his sitting posture and clenched his fist. The room filled with imaginary gunshots and tearing metal as the simulations in his head roared to life. Death would stay low this time, darting in a zigzag pattern to throw off War's aim, and War would shoot him. Death would jump backwards and attempt to kick off the wall upwards towards the ceiling, to get distance and allow him to cause chaos to distract War, and again, War would shoot him. Death would open by throwing a knife to create an opening, and War would simply shoot the knife and him in short order. Every time he changed his tactics, he found himself being shot, but never killed. He knew the bastard was toying with him, and it infuriated him. Somehow the man could trace when and where his opponents would be, with no effort on his part, and be able to incapacitate them with a single shot. Death cursed himself for not being careful enough and not watching War during their raid, but now he knew better. At least he hoped so.

Death tried to formulate a plan, but he knew the outcome each time. A thousand battles would be fought, and a thousand losses would be incurred. If he wanted any hope of victory then he would need to recover and find more indirect means of attack, or to learn the secret to War's seemingly omnipotent senses.

His image training was brought to a sudden end as loud bangs on another door snapped his attention towards his own entrance. The sound was loud, yet muffled, and the tone of it suggested it was the long-haired woman from before – the one who instructed him to go to his quarters. He believed her name was Strife. She was loud and obnoxious, he thought, disturbing his respite with the wailing of a banshee. A complaint must be made, and it must be made immediately.

Creaking his door open slightly, Death found Strife banging relentlessly on a neighboring door. She noticed him quickly and whipped around with a panicked look in her eyes.

"You are loud. Stop that. You are acting like a child," he glowered at her from his doorway, his blasé expression dripping with subtle disapproval.

"Oh, uh… hey… you. You, uh… what should I call you, anyways?" Strife squeaked, continuing to rap on the door more quietly but with frenetic speed, her right side pressed against the door in an attempt to force herself through it.

"I believe that the one known as War has designated me 'Death'. You may call me that." Death inclined his head, looking down the hallway and he could see that his box had been moved. His eye twitched as all attention was now focused solely on Strife.

"I see that you are a thief… You seem to have a lack of self-control. I will keep this in mind and keep my possessions in here from now on," Death casually remarked, dislodging himself from the doorway and leaving to retrieve his box.

Strife watched him go with widening eyes as the quieter knocks reverted back to loud bangs. "Damn it, open your fucking door! Emergency! Emergency!" she shrieked, causing Death to cover his ears in annoyance.

Famine finally opened her door, her face a mirror of Death's annoyance. She grabbed her sister's arm in an attempt to avoid being punched in the face from continued knocking. Before Famine could complain or cuss her sister out, Strife pushed her inside and shut the door behind her with a feverish smack.

"What the hell is your problem? Go bother someone else and fuck off!" Famine began to fume as her sister pressed her ear against the door, listening carefully.

Famine's room was a sharp contrast to the boy's nearly empty room. The bed sat in the same place, but different types of computer servers lined the walls, tangled cords connecting different spots from the front, tucked into different nooks and crannies. The floor is littered with unused cables and plugs, some frayed with the ends cut off. The only 'neat' spot was a lone desk with several computer monitors.

"Did you lose your brain watching the holovid or something? Did you watch a scary movie and need to sleep in my room? Well too ba-" Famine was interrupted by Strife holding the memory drive she had stolen from Death's box in front of her lips. "…What is this?"

"It's that kid's. Found it in the little box War brought him in with…" said Strife, shoving it into Famine's chest and laying down face-first on her sister's bed. "I tried to take a look at it myself, but… it did something to my datapad. It red-screened it, and I snapped the pad in half."

"You… snapped it in half? That's not coming out of my pay you kn…" Famine trailed off as she processed her sister's words. "Red screen… with white letters?" Her dismissal morphed quickly into the same brand of curiosity Strife shared during her rummaging.

"Yeah. I didn't know what the error was about, so I broke it just in case..." said Strife, turning over onto her back and gluing her eyes once more to the doorway.

"Well, good thing you did, I guess. I made a program that stops other programs from hijacking our equipment, but really it only delays the process. It sounds like you found something worth looking at... somehow," Famine mused thoughtfully, plugging the memory drive into her own datapad and clicking through some of the information on her own. "Though, I wish you brought this to me first instead of breaking our own shit."

"I'll take some time to check into this safely. Just promise not to start psycho-smashing my stuff if you see the red screen again," said Famine, sitting back in her seat with her legs crossed. Strife expected her sister to be furiously smashing her keyboard to decrypt the thingamajig and start messing with the cables with excited fervor to bypass the this-and-that, but all Famine did was sit there and watch the screen. Maybe she really did watch too much holovid, Strife thought as she sighed.

They gave each other a moment of peace and quiet, since there wasn't anything to argue about. Strife closed her eyes and began to nod off, the adrenaline from stealing from the boy having run its course. Famine, on the other hand, was reading over the data from the memory drive much more slowly than her sister, finding files Strife hadn't touched and sending her decryption programs to work.

Famine worked feverishly on her datapad in spurts, and other times she would put it down and take a drink while watching it, processing the information internally. Although she had been digging deeply into its files, she found nothing new from what her sister uncovered. Her tools were failing her, and her frustration was rising. The final straw came as the last of her decryption programs had failed to break whatever was trying to track them, and her fist came slamming down onto her desk, waking Strife from her nap with a start.

"Fine… time for the big guns, bitch…" Famine whispered as she prepared to plug the drive into her own computer.

A small knock came from her door, and she froze dead in her tracks. Strife, having just jumped awake, had her eyes frozen upon the entrance to the room, and Famine stopped just short of her intended action. Then the knock came again.

"I was asked to not start fights with my comrades by War. Return it, and I will not break your fingers." The boy's voice came from the other side, with no obvious signs of anger behind it.

"That's pretty specific…" Famine muttered as she palmed the memory drive and opened her door. "What do you want, you little weirdo?"

Death looked up at her, palm outstretched expectantly. "It is not yours. Give it back."

"And what makes you think I have whatever it is you're missing? Maybe you just lost it?" Famine replied coolly. She had seen the same logs Strife had, and she wanted to see more.

"Because your sister went through my belongings and ran to your room. You are not comrades to me…" Death trailed off, producing his handgun from behind his back before pointing it at her chest. "And I do not consider killing you as an act against my orders."

Strife and Famine's eyes widened, having thought War would have the hindsight to disarm him after he made threats to kill him. Famine looked back at her sister and nodded her head towards the boy, as though to ask for help with him. Strife looked to the side and pursed her lips, gesturing for her sister to just give it back.

"Now." Death hissed, his voice startling the girls. Famine hastily showed him the memory drive in her hand.

"Fine. Here you go, kid. Just point that piece somewhere else!" she said, sweat dripping down her neck.

Death snatched the drive away from Famine, inspecting it carefully before slipping it and his gun into a hidden pocket behind him. As he turned to return to his room, he was stopped by a cough behind him. Famine, with all of her courage, stepped through the doorway after him. She leaned on the door frame to try and hide her shaking knees, flipping her hair with one hand to try and look cool.

"You know what's on that? Some pretty good stuff about where you come from is in it. Maybe you could lend it to us to build some trust." she probed, trying her best to see if the boy would relent.

Death stared at her for what felt like hours. He looked down at her knees and back up again, not fooled at all by her faux calmness. Famine met his gaze for a short time before looking away and pursing her lips. She was increasingly finding it impossible to read this boy. He opened his mouth slightly, and Famine gave him her best smile.

"I… have decided your voice annoys me and that you must be out of shape for your legs to shake like that, please exercise if you plan on going on a mission with me. I don't understand why War lets his soldiers gain weight, but I can see why he wouldn't care about you anyway. Please do not speak to me again," he stated plainly before walking back to his room, shutting the door behind him. After a brief pause, the compression locks engaged, finalizing his departure and leaving her dumbstruck by his words.

Neither of the girls moved. Strife was taken aback by the sheer audacity the boy showed in calling her sister fat, whilst Famine's face was rapidly reddening at an alarming rate. Despite her status as the teams tech geek, her temper was much fierier than her sister's.

"…Where's my gun? Where's all of our guns?! I'll kill him!" Famine snapped, running through the door at the opposite end of their entertainment room. Strife just sat there and watched her go. One way or another, she thought, this would be fun to watch. Strife could hear her sister taking weapons off the walls with bangs and clanks. From the sound of it, she probably got hold of the explosives too. More loud noises crashed from the armory suggested she had intentions to empty the whole place to eliminate one pest.

"Oh, if only you girls had this kind of motivation when it came to fighting me," came a voice from the War's doorway. War came into view, with his usual slimy grin on his face. Every time Strife saw it, it made her feel sick.

"Your boy is about to die, War. Better get out of the way before she kills you, too," Strife growled, flipping War off and leaning back to watch the fireworks. War simply sighed, shrugged and walked into the armory.

Strife couldn't see what was happening, but several familiar gunshots came from their heavier ordnance, and a heavy crack silenced them, ending with a thump to the ground.

"One job. You had one job! No fighting! And I come back to your sister arming herself for a full-scale war. So, what did Death do? I kinda wanna do it now too, if it means getting that kind of rise out of you two," said War, coming back into view dragging an unconscious Famine by the leg before throwing her back into her room with a brown envelope.

"None of your business, asshole… Is that a job?" inquired Strife, laying back on Famine's bed and glaring between War and the envelope.

"Yeah. Do it right this time… and bring Death. Do some teambuilding exercises or something! I don't really care… I'm taking the next few days off," said War, waving her off nonchalantly before walking back to the holovid room. "And clean his damn room out! That means the bed too! Kid's gotta earn a place to sleep, damn it!" he shouted from the other room, cracking open one of the unopened beer cans left by the sisters.

Famine groaned from the ground, a single ammo belt still draped over her back clinking together as she rolled over on her side.

"Stupid cunt…" muttered Strife before helping her sister to her bed and taking the envelope to read later.