trans_9 | Gently, but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. (Pt. 5: Chances)

The plan was...well, it wasn't simple, but it sort of was.

While the CLF attacked multiple Clone Processing centers to distract the government, the group with the CLF would target one particular one in the region that'd once been New Jersey. The group with the government would offer their services in putting down their own people.

In the center, they'd split up into several groups. One would fight a fake fight, create a massive diversion, and blow up the room where the samples their DNA were being kept in the process. Another group would secure a teleporter pad. That team would teleport out other teams to steal a ship, steal some med tech to teleport to said ship, and steal a medical database. Another team would go to the main command center and hack into the government mainframe to down the sensornet around the planet so they could escape. And Nightwing himself would accompany the clones to upload the harvested memories to the Mother Brains, left unguarded because of the diversionary fighting, and make sure that was all they did.

Meanwhile, there'd be a standing order for all teams to avoid killing other crewmates, and avoid killing guards unless absolutely necessary.

It was a complicated plan. If a single part fouled up, they might find themselves dead, trapped, or worse. But if it worked, it'd work pretty spectacularly and leave them with medtech, a medical database, the clones helped, and possibly a grateful Council depending on how the fight went, because of the ones seemingly aiding the government.

In some worlds, things that were a million-to-one-chance (exactly a million-to-one) by their nature had to work. Let's hope this world is one of them, eh, mission crew?

[ooc: Only comment to threads if it says they are open here. All threads: OPEN. Characters may get injuries up to and including 7 on the Injury Scale (scroll to the bottom). Any higher, and they must ask permission of the plot-runners, just to make sure everyone isn't immobilized without enough people to help move them.]

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Zouichi deemed most of his memories unsuitable to be shared; they mostly consisted of battle in which the only two choices were swift, ruthless ferocity or death at the hands of someone more willing to kill. Perhaps punctuated by the brief stretches he spent traveling between mission objectives.

No one had ever never really taught him what humanity was or why it was worth saving. In fact, one could argue that it was not. Humans tended towards cruelty and excess. Their history was filled with bloody war over property, natural resources, and religious dogma. But how would any of that information help a marginalized group of humans survive, much less find hope?

He found himself gravitating toward a single memory, though he could not ascertain its actual value. Perhaps it would be of use. He could not be sure.

The room was darkened, mostly empty. A series of long windows, half-curtained and set into the far wall, were its only source of illumination. Beside them, a young woman with dark hair stood, her features indistinct with the sunlight at her back. Zouichi was seated in front of a large black grand piano, hands resting on its keys. For a moment, there was no sound but that of the breeze moving through the leaves outside. Then he began to play (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAAsth8eLps).

Beethoven's Sonata No.8 in C minor, Op.13. "Adagio cantabile". His playing was quiet, measured -- a remarkably light touch for someone whose hands would be more often occupied with the brutal snapping of bone or the fatal pull of a trigger.

As he continued, Zouichi closed his eyes, playing by feel. The feel of the cool keys depressed under his fingers. Of the crisp bar of sunlight that fell past the curtains and brushed past his cheek to fall on the the instrument itself. Of the notes themselves, somehow both vibrant and still, like a heartbeat from a thousand years long past. A faint, unnoticed smile found its way past his usually dispassionate expression.

Outside, the cicadas took up the endless rustling call of summer.

As the last notes of the piece faded away into the warmth of the early morning air, he opened his eyes again, turning to look over his shoulder as if waiting for appraisal.

Though the young woman's face was rendered almost invisible in the light, he could hear the smile in her voice.

"You've gotten better."

Gently, but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. (Pt. 5: Chances)

Re: Subthread 1: Pre-fight Memory Download