Does it matter why?

What do I want? I had thought that was clear. I want it all.

[wellpolishedconqueror-blog]

not-human-anymore has been happened upon

     It’s a pet project, really. 

He barely has time for his own research anymore, what with Cobra commanding most of his attention. He is a scientist at heart, the bedside of his youth decorated with blue ribbons from national fairs, and curiosity rules whatever sense isn’t reserved for keeping his people in line. 

     He has... associates, if you will, ones that still call him Rexford and follow anarchy in its loosest terms, sipping away at overpriced coffee and scouring the internet for nonsense to prove their feeble claims. They send him things sometimes, pictures of unusual mutations in lizards and dissertations of classes they deigned to visit, the strangest occasionally forwarding ‘proof’ of Obama being some sort of reptile-inspired alien. 

    If only.

    He receives a link one day, checking his email in the morning, to a strange little blog buried in the darker sections of the Internet. Xeno based and mostly nonsensical, he peruses it briefly, marveling at stupidity and the result of closely-linked genetics. Yet something catches his good eye, a closely caught and realistically blurred image of something crystalline and blue, red eyes and what appears to be a very sour disposition.

    He copies the file’s source, runs a quick search upon it, and finds more pictures. One of them is titled with a name: ‘Maddie.’ He suspects it to be some sort of meme, a SCP or urban legend. It’s not a terribly spread one, whatever it is. 

   He sends a reply back with the image in question, accompanying the thing’s apparent name. His source pulls up information, whatever they can find, and, somehow, there’s a phone number imbedded in it. 

    (He can hear his sister’s chiding, don’t trust anything on the internet, and elects to ignore it. Ana never has good advice anyway.) 

   He, without much else to go on, quickly scavenges up a old phone and unused number, applies it to a fake name, and sends the number a text message. Forward, perhaps, and a bit silly, but curiosity is a fearsome beast, and the chances of this number ringing true are terribly unlikely. Worst case scenario, the Joes go after whoever used to own this number and he gets away wiser yet unscathed. Best case scenario, he confuses someone and they both go on their way.

    Oh well. Ana always did tell him to be more social.

    [txt: to Unknown] Hey, so I saw your picture on Facebook. You’re a pretty unique person, ain’t you?

Nailed it.

[wellpolishedconqueror-blog]

sveltewaves has appeared on the radar

    Cobra Island was hardly the easiest place to get to, even when one was well aware of it’s location, hours by a Blackbird and days by a Helicopter, a spot of silver and green amongst thousands of miles of unyielding blue. So, really, it’s understandable that he tends to sleep somewhat soundly, unconcerned with the possibility of someone breaking into the base in the middle of the night. 

    Ah, irony. Or poor planning on his end. Murphy’s Law and whatnot. Not a mistake to be repeated.

    He’s irritated enough to personally greet the intruder, a platoon of semi-aware Vipers running point around him, high-impact AKs strapped to their hands. This isn’t one he plans on leaving sentient, if alive. He barely gets enough REM sleep, and he had been in the midst of a lovely dream about rocket-powered alpacas. 

     The intruder is... far larger than he would have previously assumed. He expected a Joe or three, maybe a lost castaway, but not... this. A drone, he presumes, his Vipers lifting their guns above their heads in a effort to intimidate. One of Destro’s, perhaps. 

    “You are intruding on private property.” he greets, barely, finger poised over the command to shoot. One of the Vipers swayed, vertigo taking ahold, and he flicked his thumb over their control to steady them. “You have thirty sssecondsss to leave your vehicle before my Sssoldiersss ssshoot.” 

[wellpolishedconqueror-blog]

     The world changes in but a blink of a eye. 

It’s poetic, he thinks, even as carefully laid plans crumble before him in shades of pale blue. Years of work, millions of dollars, sanity and blood wasted, a single battle determining the outcome of a war meant to end only minutes ago. He expected resistance, force from larger countries, but not this.

      (Storm Shadow must have gone insane. Odd, how a piece so meager toppled his painted King. The Arashikage were but foot soldiers, pawns, fodder of a particularly flashy sort.)

       It’s... irritating. He hates to lose, to forfeit and flee, even if it leaves him wiser. He has new information, a new target, something beyond Duke and North Korea and the easily-derailed United States. Roadblock, his intelligence supplies, second-in-command to the Joes. 

      First in command now, he supposes, and revises the dossier. He’ll fix Duke’s up later, when he’s back at the Island. 

      Firefly’s signal goes offline not long after Zartan’s. A shame greater, really, even as he re-lights his flame with a tap or three. His soldiers will pick the two back up later, after the Joes have left and their bodies have moved back into something akin to a human shape. Firefly will require a bit more stitching, and perhaps a bit more time under a knife. 

     He’ll chew him out later, when he’s done patching the idiot up.

     Now, now he needs to plan. Reformulate, reorganize, rest, recalibrate. Soldiers need to be taken inventory of, and stock should be refilled. Cobra’s in enough of a mess as it is, and perhaps revenge can wait. Roadblock grows only older, and Duke only moldier. 

    (He’s not growing any younger either, aging twice as fast as them, his lungs decaying at a pace that frustrates him more than anything else.)   

     Rest, supplies the memory of a fond croak, heavy hands on his shoulders that urge him into looseness. Ain’t no’ne gonna deny you a nap. G.I.Joe ain’t goin’ anywhere. 

     Yes, a nap sounds lovely. He reprograms the pilot to face forward and not bother him unless in a emergency, recalibrates his respirator to hold him out until his C-PAP is available, and settles back, choking on a cough. 

     The next few days will be long and grueling, and he’s barely recovered from his stay in Germany. Whatever rest he can scavenge will only benefit his clever mind, and his sanity, over the coming hours.