Concaved Morality/Mortality [stalker free-for-all]

The network of tunnels under the airfield were the only home he knew.

At first, Tristan Rowan was fine with this and the tunnels were widespread and complicated enough to keep him busy on his off-time. He walked the halls with all the trained posture befitting his rank... more than footsoldier, more than grunt, he was expected to be every inch the tactician he was and psychic adept he was crafted into, so he put his own dignity into his step. But, it was because of his tactical prowess that three months of work saw the tunnels all mapped out in his head, no new discoveries were to be had, save for those few places that existed beyond his clearance.

Naturally, this put him in a position in which he had two options: Explore the city outside and break protocol or explore the labyrinthine maze commonly known as co-workers. Before he'd only answered to orders, taken time sidestepping to avoid Grimke's tricks and stuck mostly to Torran, but now he'd garnered enough experience with his telepathy that he felt more confident in learning more.

The knowledge would serve him, the experience would be welcome, and the action would be far better than the now mind-numbing miles of tunnel he had walked before.

Social diplomacy was in order. He knocked on the door and reached his mind inside, playing a quiet church-organ so that whoever was inside would know exactly who was at the door.

He had just returned. Ace did not look as though he had just been in the company of 30 odd ravenous, starving toothdogs, but he had; and he had just unleashed them all into the warehouse district. They had been locked up, with no food and minimal drink, for weeks. He terrorized them to rage, and then he sharpened their teeth to awful points. He also suspected that they had been modified somewhat, outside of his ordered supervision—their eyes were fiercer and less vacant than the others. But, of course, that could be the hunger. Not that it was really supposed to concern him, however. His task regarding that pack was finished, and his obligation to them was now through, and thus, was his resulting connection to the havoc and bloodshed they were bound to cause. He was now obligated to remain unconcerned.

But he was. Only slightly.

He had executed this task the same way in which he handled all his duties: with mechanical, calculated precision. And slowly he sensed he was rising in the ranks, being trusted with more dangerous and covert missions. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

He now stood over his sizzling teapot, appreciating the sense of security he received from the ambiguity of scalding water: holding the possibility of either being served as tea to a welcomed guest, or being wielding as an awful weapon—and a highly under-appreciated one at that. Of course, it was strictly forbidden to assault a fellow stalker for no reason whatsoever, but Ace found an odd comfort in such options anyway. He also had no problem with the Tristan fellow. He had never been formally introduced to him, as he had spent the majority of his time so far in the Pit executing solo, relatively low-risk missions: replenishing the occasional food dump, and raising and terrorizing toothdogs. Truthfully, after he had assisted in dumping the unconscious 2nd gen's in the Pit--his job suddenly became a great deal less interesting. He was bored. He was ready to mess with some of the experiments.

He could sense Tristan approaching yards before he had reached the door and pushed his mind inside. He sat on one of the stools that occupied the room (an office? An old kitchen? He hadn’t yet figured out), and placed his teapot in his lap (he loved his teapot. It was pink and flowery, and apparently the one undamaged teapot left in all the Pit). He unbolted the door, and it slid open on its own accord. Tristan walked in and Ace eyed him, unblinking, still and silent as a statue. He had heard brief stories about the Stalkers skill and precision, but in reality, he knew nothing. Nothing at all.

Retired. What good is it to be retired if they people who told you your job was finished call you back for some "field work" due to lack of "capable hands". Was this an issue? Naw. Said was getting bored back home anyways; people seemed to be lacking from the outback nowadays, and his once source of entertainment was making itself rare. He was more then glad to receive a phone call (which he miraculously got after about 5 times of trying to figure out how to work the cell phone he was provided due to the lack of a land line for about 200 kilometers around his...erm, home.) from his previous employers demanding he come back on the job. Lack of capable hand, as if. They just missed his presence.
Quite typically speaking, hardly anyone would be dared to miss him. He is a dirty, old, ragged, rough, and perhaps a little too enthusiastic Aussie. His co-workers know him for three things; his hat, his shovel, and his stench.
He emptied a room faster then one can say "FIGJAM". Upwind, downwind, to the east, underwater, it did not matter, you could always catch the delicious wiff of 100 rotting skunk corpses, dunked in a mix of bad milk and strong chemicals, baked on the side of the road on a humid day and then stuffed into a small musty room for a week. No exaggeration. In other words, he smells like shit.

So here is is now, back to the place he'd been working at for so many years, his mandatory Aussie hat, ragged tan leather jacket and what used to be red bandana around his face, walking towards the building he'd been instructed to meet people at. He knew the pit backwards and forwards and upside dow. He could hear the 30 or so ravenous toothdogs in the distance, probably on the hunt. It took him a minute to realise he had stopped his trot to listen to them. He'd always wanted a toothdog. They were such beautiful creatures, and all the other dogs he had owned died of either some terrible skin rash, food poisoning, suffocation or cancer.
Might as well not get into this topic now, he'll go on and on and on and never end.

Shovel strapped to his back, bandanna over his mouth and nose, Said trots towards one of many rather decrepit buildings. From a distance he could see a younger man, much like himself, heading into the building. Said thought for a moment; it would be too funny to walk into that room and watch the looks of horror as they began to smell him. He knew he could push his luck very far before his "bosses" got angry. Then again, this was his first day back on the job with a 3 month hiatus, so might as well be nice. The Aussie made his way into the window near the door, rattling it until it springs open. He sticks his upper body in,

"G'daaaaii. 'ow 're thin's 'ere?" he says, his voice greasy, sticky and disgusting. He noticed the teapot, and fell into blubbering Aussie once more "Shiiiiiii' yer makin' tea? Yer a pommie? Croikey, whus yer name? S'first pommie aye've seen 'ere."

Oh dear Lord. Ace remembers hearing snippets of gossip about this weaselly yobbo—but at the time his understanding had been that he was currently unemployed in the field. Apparently he was mistaken. He tries to keep his face from contorting and scowling when Said’s awful stench assaults his nostrils. And why is he even?—was he told to come here?? He sighs. Oh, if only he had words to speak right now.

But there is no real point in wishing such things. And making unnecessary enemies would certainly serve no real purpose. So he stands up and gestures in the filthy Australian with his teacup, along with the other mute. He assumes that the yobbo is in no way tailored to the past-times of High Society, so didn’t bother to offer him any drink. He didn’t seem to notice that rudeness though, as Said instead glances momentarily between the two cold, silent men.

Unfortunately there was little reply Tristan could make, so he attempted to formulate one swiftly, to prevent himself from looking an ass. A simple greeting would have sufficed, but before he could really put much into the airwaves except the basic idea of a greeting... well. By the time Said had arrived, Tristan had already smelled him a good way off, but remained stoic even in his thoughts.

Unfortunately, he would be betrayed by his eyes watering involuntarily. It became very difficult for him to order his thoughts above concentration on remaining emotionless and reactionless in the face of something so unexpected...

No answer from either of them it seems. Said doesn't even notice Tristan's eyes watering.

"Whuz goin' on? Som'kinna game? Shhiiiiiiiiii', aye ain' gonna win this mate." he says through a sticky laugh, grinning wildly with all his sharp crocodilian teeth. Not that either of them could see that anyways; not with the red bandanna covering his mouth and nose, but perhaps they could notice the subtle changes in shape of the fabric on his face. Most people's smiles could be seen through their eyes; this was impossible to notice on Said. He did not smile with his eyes. Maybe he didn't have the proper facial musculature to be able to do that, or maybe it was because there was no actual emotional attachment to that smile.

"Croikey, yer blokes 're no' much fer yabber." he thought about what he just said, and maybe thought he was being redundant. No matter. It's not like either of them were going to say anything about it it seems.
"We gunner ge' 'er stan'over man?" he asks, looking at them both, with a slightly smug, slick smile. "Yer blokes 're no' buil' like a brick shi' 'ouse." he snorted, not even trying to restrain himself.

With orderly, timed mechanical strides, Reissner walked without real conviction toward a discreet building in the Pit where those in his mysterious maker's employ would meet according to the coordinates he had suddenly received, causing his until then stationary body to begin moving. He didn't really know whether or not this happened by his own will, which he'd assume it was. The man, or robot did not in fact know much of anything about... anything, or anybody. And he didn't see why he would need to, if he could even have relations. Reissner's mind had been so thoroughly emptied, there wasn't much for him to think about.

Ever since... coming to, he had been remarkably uneasy about some things, but only kept denying this feeling. There was nothing to be uneasy about. That would be illogical. He was a robot. (He was not, in fact, a robot- rather a human brain in a robotic body, but nobody could tell him that.)

Thus with nothing else than unease and lack of understanding of why he was even doing this, Reissner opened the door and stepped in without eagerness. His large camera eye, a single circular lens in the center of his 'face', did him the service of bringing all of the people into focus at once with outlines to boot. A synthesized voice emerged from his speakers with a distinctively British accent (who has enough free time to program that? Who knows.) "Afternoon gentlemen, I don't believe we've met...? Is there a problem?" Reissner had noted the tension in here.

[YOU GAIS I REALIZED. Isn't Reissner 3rd gen? o-o You can just ignore this post
But please don't delete it, I don't like my writings poofing xD ]

He didn't much care for the medication that he was given to take, but without it he became "delusional". Snarling at the thought, Torran continued to walk on towards his destination. It was much preferred to be at the old run down carnival in town but there were things he needed to get done today.

Toothdogs were heard growling in the distance. It left a bad note in his ears after his pleasant night of torture and killing at the carnival. Poor unsuspecting experiments had crossed his path. It hadn't been the first time he had killed and it most certainly wouldn't be the last. Perhaps he was a little unstable... A maniac's grin crept its way across his face and was only dimmed by the horrendous smell that reached his nostrils. The smell derailed him from his objective as he ventured to a building close by, wanting to see what smelled so badly. A single voice was speaking inside and yet he felt that there were three. Tristan was one of them.

Tristan...

From his left he could hear someone walking over. Someone. He removed himself from the windowsill for a moment to see who was coming along. It was a man. Obviously. But...something struck his attention. He gazed at the one who was coming from outside, and then peeked at Tristan who was still standing around inside the building. One look back, one look to the front. And then, a greasy laugh.

"Croikeh, aye didn' thaink they toohk twins. Yer got ther same hares 'n all. Shhhiiiiii', s'like Tweedle Dee 'n Tweedle Dumm!" he burst out into a loud, sticky, sickly cackle. "C'mon 'n join 'em, we be playin' charades..." he exclaimed, smacking the mindow still he was leaning on as though the joke he had made was the best one in the world. He fixed his nasty stare at them all, awaiting somekind of response. "Yer folks are sure not much fer a laugh...didn't quite catch yer names." he boomed at the two silent ones.
Truth is, this old aussie was perfectly capable of filling in the two silent one's voices, if need be, to everyone's discontent. Every time he opened his mouth the smell seemed to intensify, get more rancid with every syllable.