01-23-2011, 04:25 AM
Prototype's propulsion system, a crude but small jet-pack fitted into the space between the shoulder blades, spewed out fire and skin searing heat onto the space port floor. Slowly his feet slipped from the ground until they hung limply by the ankles, the jet-pack usurping his feet's responsibility for direction. Robert felt the artificial energy draining from his core at a speedy rate. He made a mental note to work on a cleaner burning form of flight.
He flexed his fingers. They weren't covered in armoured plating, merely sheathed in the nervo-skin, which he had recently named. The nervo-skin, which was a body tight suit with a synthetic nervous system added to it, was a necessary component to operate the robotic machinery. It allowed him to synchronise his own thoughts and physical feedback with the power suit. It was of brilliant design, and he often daydreamed about utilising the same principles for a far larger concept, but right now his experience as Prototype was proving to be fantastic field testing.
Yet as he craned his neck upward, staring through the emerald visor into the innumerable metal drones bobbing up and down like an aerial minefield, he realised again that the power suit had never come up against such an intimidating, unknown test. While it performed well in short, controlled experiments, Robert had no idea how long he could maintain flight with the thrusters, nor if they would eventually overheat or suddenly guzzle an inordinate gulp of his energy. The retractable energy barrels from his wrist worked simply enough, he couldn't tell if they would inopportunely jam or malfunction, or that they would even manage to contain the energy projectiles ready for firing.
Why was he seizing up? Earlier he was ecstatic about ditching the stuffy, numbers-based upper management meeting for untold adventure and excitement, but now that the moment was here, a strange fear clouded his mind. This is exactly what he wanted, wasn't it? Truthfully he didn't expect his next mission after a simple bank heist to be one of a few super-powered protectors of an alien invasion that wasn't even on Earth, but surely that should have been more stimulating. For all the times he flung scrunched balls of copy paper across the room with the aid of a yielding plastic ruler, wishing he was out making a difference, he decided that now that he got what he wanted, he didn't want it anymore?
No, he told himself. It was just nerves. That was fine. That was natural. He was about to rocket himself towards an unidentified alien mother-ship in an experimental shell of gadgets and wires (albeit expertly created, he smugly reminded himself). That was the entire thrill, though! Without a safety net, riding on his own intelligence, skill and instinct into the gaping maw of an enigmatic beast was what it was all about! Robert grinned within his helmet, noticing the nervous trepidation converting itself into inflated, over-compensatory confidence. He was one damn bad-arse, and he was about to stomp that all over the aliens' faces.
Just then, his communicator tuned into a frequency transmitted from the militia, apparently outside the Ja City space port. The sound was so sudden that Robert almost jumped out of his skin.
'An assault on the Great Ship Myreen is currently being prepared. Gifted warriors who are able to help should report to their Militia to be added to this assault team.'
Robert cooled his jets. The militia were calling out to members that were in a position to assist in taking the massive floating city, ostensibly called the Great Ship Myreen. While Falconer was set on skirting into the alien ship and performing his own examination and subterfuge, a niggling doubt returned to whisper in his mind. What if he wasn't enough? There was a gathering force of like minded individuals who also wanted to remove the giant mechanical blight from the sky, so why not go with others? Safety in numbers and all that.
Prototype attempted to thought-activate the integrated scouter feature of the power suit, but for one reason or another did not respond. He tried a few more times, since the speed of thought made several retries a non-issue, but it refused to listen. Bad wiring, he pondered. In any case, he seemed to recall where the militia were situated.
The bright orange-red hue of the jet-pack's flames lashed from his back, launching him towards where he believed the militia to be.
He flexed his fingers. They weren't covered in armoured plating, merely sheathed in the nervo-skin, which he had recently named. The nervo-skin, which was a body tight suit with a synthetic nervous system added to it, was a necessary component to operate the robotic machinery. It allowed him to synchronise his own thoughts and physical feedback with the power suit. It was of brilliant design, and he often daydreamed about utilising the same principles for a far larger concept, but right now his experience as Prototype was proving to be fantastic field testing.
Yet as he craned his neck upward, staring through the emerald visor into the innumerable metal drones bobbing up and down like an aerial minefield, he realised again that the power suit had never come up against such an intimidating, unknown test. While it performed well in short, controlled experiments, Robert had no idea how long he could maintain flight with the thrusters, nor if they would eventually overheat or suddenly guzzle an inordinate gulp of his energy. The retractable energy barrels from his wrist worked simply enough, he couldn't tell if they would inopportunely jam or malfunction, or that they would even manage to contain the energy projectiles ready for firing.
Why was he seizing up? Earlier he was ecstatic about ditching the stuffy, numbers-based upper management meeting for untold adventure and excitement, but now that the moment was here, a strange fear clouded his mind. This is exactly what he wanted, wasn't it? Truthfully he didn't expect his next mission after a simple bank heist to be one of a few super-powered protectors of an alien invasion that wasn't even on Earth, but surely that should have been more stimulating. For all the times he flung scrunched balls of copy paper across the room with the aid of a yielding plastic ruler, wishing he was out making a difference, he decided that now that he got what he wanted, he didn't want it anymore?
No, he told himself. It was just nerves. That was fine. That was natural. He was about to rocket himself towards an unidentified alien mother-ship in an experimental shell of gadgets and wires (albeit expertly created, he smugly reminded himself). That was the entire thrill, though! Without a safety net, riding on his own intelligence, skill and instinct into the gaping maw of an enigmatic beast was what it was all about! Robert grinned within his helmet, noticing the nervous trepidation converting itself into inflated, over-compensatory confidence. He was one damn bad-arse, and he was about to stomp that all over the aliens' faces.
Just then, his communicator tuned into a frequency transmitted from the militia, apparently outside the Ja City space port. The sound was so sudden that Robert almost jumped out of his skin.
'An assault on the Great Ship Myreen is currently being prepared. Gifted warriors who are able to help should report to their Militia to be added to this assault team.'
Robert cooled his jets. The militia were calling out to members that were in a position to assist in taking the massive floating city, ostensibly called the Great Ship Myreen. While Falconer was set on skirting into the alien ship and performing his own examination and subterfuge, a niggling doubt returned to whisper in his mind. What if he wasn't enough? There was a gathering force of like minded individuals who also wanted to remove the giant mechanical blight from the sky, so why not go with others? Safety in numbers and all that.
Prototype attempted to thought-activate the integrated scouter feature of the power suit, but for one reason or another did not respond. He tried a few more times, since the speed of thought made several retries a non-issue, but it refused to listen. Bad wiring, he pondered. In any case, he seemed to recall where the militia were situated.
The bright orange-red hue of the jet-pack's flames lashed from his back, launching him towards where he believed the militia to be.