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14 September 2006 @ 11:29 am
So this is Old Portland.Collapse )

((Please read this and this prior to replying.))
11 September 2006 @ 05:12 pm
In an instant, the mismatched group of weapon-toting invaders is replaced by something a little more promising . . . at least to Saddler's eyes.

The warehouse is dark, but for a handful of flickering, florescent lights -- enough to allow one to see a large number of monstrous, slouching forms lining the walls. Most are obviously immobile -- or, judging by the smell, very dead -- but two spasm and jerk to life at the presence of their master. Snorts and growls echo against the thick walls as the pair of gigantes fight their bonds.

He puts up a clawed hand. "Patience. Our guests will be along shortly..."
Current Location: Research Facility: Storage
Current Mood: deviousdevious
08 September 2006 @ 10:50 pm
Saddler flexes his fingers, so recently deceased. Still a little stiff, but this isn't too much of a problem for now. With a feat of physics, he's managed to compact his master plaga, which is now mostly contained within his "revived" human body.

He certainly didn't expect someone would be foolish enough to attack alone. But he knows the wizard wasn't really alone. He was one of Salazar's comrades, and the rest of his band of riffraff would be barging in soon.

The cult leader digs around in the folds of his (somewhat tattered) cloak and finds his PINpoint. He sets the coordinates.

Not that Osmund Saddler ever "retreats". He only buys time.
01 September 2006 @ 07:55 pm
The White House. The veritable HQ of America, the free world.

Not so much 'free' anymore, however, now under Saddler's control. Any uses of the red, white and blue flag, such as the one fluttering on the roof, is replaced by one boasting the jagged symbol of Los Illuminados. All the paintings inside the building have been replaced by ones showing the hooded visage of the cult leader.

The interior of the White House is devoid of light. The things being kept inside of it operate better in the dark.

Aside from the few dim squares of light the meager, overcast outdoors offers, it's nothing but shadows in these desecrated halls.

The intrepid band PINpoint into these disturbing surroundings, now probably being the only genuinely living creatures inside it.

All is silent. Sans the distant sounds of...things breathing.

((Phase 2, guys. :3 Here we go!))
Current Mood: uncomfortableuncomfortable
Current Music: "Inertia Creeps"-Massive Attack
01 September 2006 @ 03:09 am
As the group discussed their tactics, Snape learned what he needed to in order to finalize his destination. The White House it would be, then.

He comes up behind Hips and slightly to the side, puts a hand on her shoulder and says "I will scout ahead. Meet you there." And then he strides away.

Once out of visual range of the group, Snape gives a long, weird whistle, then crosses his arms and waits.

((throw stuff at him now or later, whatevs. He's just summoned Murgatroyd, a thestral. It'd take forever on a broom!))
Current Mood: determineddetermined
28 August 2006 @ 08:38 pm
About forty miles northeast of Las Vegas, Nevada, there's a piece of land that's hard to tell if it's part of this earth or if it's a Martian landscape. The rocks are sandstone, dyed bright red with iron, twisted over the eons by rains and erosion.

In the middle of this red blasted landscape, the only movements are the small desert creatures native to the area. Normally, this time of day, there are tourists clambering over the rocks. Taking pictures and marveling at the landscape, touched by the natural beauty of the Valley of Fire.

There are no tourists on this world anymore.

A single jackrabbit thumps and pounds across the sand. Then freezes. Raises its head.


The jackrabbit is off and running away, not looking back at the nine figures that just PINpointed there.
07 July 2006 @ 09:59 pm
Saddler waits for word from his second in command. He could have observed the situation through Chief Mendez's eyes, but he was well without the sphere of the plaga's communication. This was yet another thing Saddler wished to improve upon -- the plaga's limitations. He wanted to work cross-dimensionally, and at current, had to rely on others with master plagas to carry out his orders.

Raccoon City's infection was a small task compared to what he'd accomplished in the past several months, but it wasn't so much about collecting more ganados as the meaning behind the maneuver. Raccoon City was where Umbrella failed. It apparently wasn't his Leon Kennedy's city, but it was still a soft spot, and he didn't hesitate to strike it.

Always one for the grandiose, Saddler managed to commandeer the very White House itself on the...well, the planet he now owned. One of the near-infinte variations of Earth that he'd insidiously infected, one continent at a time. Hit the bigger cities first. Infect animals. Spread the nearly-indetectable spores. Harness their minds as quickly as possible to thwart countermeasures. Cut off communications. Not too much trouble, really. The human race is usually fairly disorganized when it comes to disaster management.

He almost laughs to think of all the time he'd wasted in that worthless village. He looks out across the White House lawn. Through the muted light of the setting sun, he can observe the movement of vehicles on Pennsylvania Avenue. The ganados still need repetitive tasks to keep them busy, so they fall into simplified versions of their old routines, all the while ready to stop immediately at their master's command.
29 June 2006 @ 09:17 pm
The Orbital Anti-Plaga Laser's done its work. Or as much of it as possible, being thousands of miles distant from Raccoon City in the cold of space. In short, there are still infected citizens that slipped by the OAPL in residences and public buildings.

A number of individuals, yet undetermined, has gone missing entirely. This is apart from those residents who immediately (and perhaps unwisely) took refuge with relatives out of town at the sign of another outbreak of...something. Those stubborn citizens that remain are either holed up in their houses, or have banded together to appropriately determine countermeasures, 'put down' the now-savage animals that prowl the streets, and quarantine any infected.

The infected gathered thus far (and still hidden in the city) are in the primacy of their infirmity -- coughing up blood, losing consciousness, and in some cases, displaying uncharacteristically aggressive behaviors. In another several hours, the plaga will have fused inextricably to their nervous system, surrendering body and will.

Depending on where you are in the mountain town today, it's either eerily quiet, or filled with the sounds of Raccoon City's residents doing their best to organize against the second mysterious threat in three months.

Their scars haven't even had time to heal, and still they fight again.

(( Set-up post for Team Good's AURC plaga-cleansing endeavors. ))
Current Music: "Stealing Fat" -- Dust Brothers
24 June 2006 @ 03:50 pm

(Just tweaking the layout.)
Current Location: a chair!
Current Mood: amusedamused
Current Music: "True Nature" -Jane's Addiction