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Project Strelitzia: When The Stars Withered

Project Strelitzia: When The Stars Withered

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A damn depressing mecha roleplay.
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Novelight

Novelight

Reverence In Stars
Project Strelitzia: When The Stars Withered
Lore Information
World
World
Cast of Project Strelitzia
Characters
Characters
The Story
Roleplay
Roleplay
CODE & ROLEPLAY BY SEROBLISS
 
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Project Strelitzia: When The Stars Withered
ARC Executor
Auberon
General Description
After the apocalyptic occurrence of a meteorite brushing the earth and discharging a noxious mist that transformed the healthy populace into ghastly creatures, the military was hastily dispatched to tackle the matter at hand, despite being inadequately trained for such an exigency. As a result, the armed forces were overwhelmed by the otherworldly threat, as the deceased metamorphosed into the very monstrosities they were fighting against, escalating their numbers as the military suffered defeat after defeat. Consequently, the military was forced into a defensive position and took shelter behind The Frontier, a colossal artificial barrier that obstructed the miasma's entry.

In the midst of this chaos, a lone individual distinguished by his military accolades emerged onto the global political stage, advocating for a coalition to be formed amongst the factions, where the soldiers would be trained to combat the crisis. His name was Castro Pharesk, a high-ranking military officer hailing from the east, who was resolute in his mission to confront the extraterrestrial threat. With the essential funds and the army's consent, the paramilitary group, Armored Response Coalition, was established. However, the founder's demise was prophesied when he was slain by a delirious soldier - his own son and the elder brother of his successor.

In the wake of tragedy, Auberon Pharesk took up the mantle of leadership, succeeding his father as the head of the organization after the second hive operation. Emulating his father's methods, Auberon fostered and honed the talents of skilled individuals, training them to become powerful Warframe operators. With a sharp intellect and strategic prowess, he proved to be a formidable adversary against the monstrous threats lurking within the purple mist. It was soon clear that no one could fill the shoes of the great Castro Pharesk except his own direct subordinate. Over the years, Auberon forged strong alliances and led six successful operations against the hives, despite the inevitable heavy loss of life due to the deadly nature of the enemy.

As he braces himself for the ninth and ultimate assault against the heart of the apocalypse, he resolves to assume control of his own Warframe, and personally guide the Strelitzias to triumph rather than barking orders from behind his desk. With an unyielding determination to bring an end to the worldwide chaos, he takes on the challenge of leading the charge into battle, ready to confront the enemy head-on and claim a decisive victory.
Matchless Prodigy
Yurievna
General Description
Among the multitudes who confronted the extraterrestrial menace, a select few have ascended to the status of legend, revered for their courage and proficiency that has spared them from the jaws of death on numerous occasions, enabling them to participate in multiple missions. Yurievna Kasyanova stands tall among this esteemed group as a distinguished operator who has earned global recognition from the military, with her tales serving as a beacon of inspiration to the countless individuals who aspire to emulate her footsteps.

From the ashes of a humble beginning, Yurievna Kasyanova has risen as a formidable source of inspiration for those who have been dealt a tough hand in life. Born into poverty just prior to the apocalypse, she refused to succumb to the fate of her circumstances and instead chose to fight with a ferocity that propelled her through the ranks of the military. When given the opportunity to pilot an Armored Warframe, she seized it with unwavering conviction. In the face of the harrowing sixth and seventh hives' onslaughts, Yurievna stood tall as a rare survivor, often returning to base with only minor scratches and bruises, in stark contrast to the maimed and mutilated bodies of her fellow soldiers.

Alas, the beginning of Yurievna Kasyanova's end commenced during the eighth operation, where she vanished into thin air following the hive's eradication. With the entire battalion laid to rest, she disappeared into the miasma all on her lonesome, sealed away within the confines of her Warframe. Without a second thought, she tore out the communication device implanted inside her mecha, bidding farewell to her former comrades and severing all ties with the military. Yurievna embarked on a perilous journey into the unknown, chasing after the enigmatic calling that beckoned her forward.

The truth behind Yurievna Kasyanova's fate remains shrouded in mystery, a tale of uncertainty and conjecture. Some speculate that she fell prey to the clutches of death, succumbing to the perils that lurked in the shadows of the unknown. Others harbor darker suspicions, suggesting that she may have taken her own life in a moment of despair or desperation. Whatever the truth may be, one thing remains clear: the chances of her surviving for long in such a treacherous and unforgiving environment were slim at best. The legacy of her unwavering spirit, however, continues to inspire and resonate with those who knew her or came to know of her.
Saint of Arcelius
Faustina
General Description
Faustina, the emblem of hope for Gestalts worldwide, possesses a rare gift that distinguishes her from her kind. Her extraordinary ability, Anamnesis Cognition, enables her to delve into the metaphysical realm of an individual's consciousness and mirror their neurons, thereby absorbing their memories into her own.

But her unparalleled ability came at a great cost. A defect in her DNA caused her physical strength to dwindle, rendering her unable to bear any weapon. Nevertheless, she dedicated her life to gathering the recollections of fallen warriors, using her profound intellect to enlighten the coming generation of pilots.

Despite enduring a surgery that prolonged her existence by a couple of years, her corporeal form deteriorated, and her faculties waned as she lost her memories. Her skin turned ashen, and her hair lost its luster, except for a few strands that took on a peculiar hue.

Believing that she had fulfilled her purpose, Faustina offered herself as a subject for scientific experimentation, leading to the inception of artificial intelligence, the Strelitzias. Yet, destiny had more in store for her as she continued to endure her chronic ailment, barely clinging to life. Through her plight, Faustina remained a ray of hope for all those she touched, inspiring them with her valor and sagacity.
CODE BY SEROBLISS
 
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PROJECT STRELITZIA
[
Project Strelitzia
When The Stars Withered
Official Document: Untitled
Project Strelitzia
A life consumed by the pursuit of revenge is akin to a haunting epitaph, inscribed with the sanguine ink of those who have fallen victim to your relentless thirst for retribution.
Identity
Physical
Warframe
  • Identity
    Name
    Untitled
    Gender
    Untitled
    Height
    Untitled
    Traits
    Untitled
    Interests
    Untitled
    Skills
    Untitled
Personality
About the Character
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Ambitions
Blooming Aspirations
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Warframe Proficiency
Mecha Performance Aptitude
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Background
Two Years of Solitude
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Associates
Opinions On The Crew
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CODE BY SEROBLISS
 
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PROJECT STRELITZIA
[
Project Strelitzia
When The Stars Withered
Official Document: Warmonger
Project Strelitzia
Nothing to discover, all in life already having been given: there are no mysteries, and no wanderlust. Lose the self, instead, to the motions; the rhythms of the murder and the devastation that the life given had been born for achieving; grow great at this, and maybe, you will soar. Once and for all.
Identity
Physical
Warframe
  • Identity
    Name
    Endymion Leitz.
    Gender
    Male.
    Height
    188cm (6'2'').
    Traits
    Bold, Energetic, and Ill-mannered.
    Interests
    Battle, Sports, and social gatherings.
    Skills
    Exceptional reactiveness, Warframe aptitude.
Personality
About the Character
Endymion is an energetic sort with an hyperactive attention, resulting in paying great heed to even the most minute details; a playfully pedantic socialite who prefers engaging with people and activities that demand his fullest focus. With a tendency for boredom, the man requires and even seeks out, to his own detriment, challenging situations solely for the express purposes of relieving the existential itch for action. When matched with his Warframe aptitude and general compatibility, it makes him an excellent pilot, and competent frontline brawler so long as the brawling itself is not reliant on doing nothing. At which point he is more than happy enough to seek greater danger out headfirst, but with calm mind, to pursue the thrill, resulting in him taking part in numerous sports events hosted between allied forces. Though an exceptional athlete, he is a horrendous loser, turning to petty moping if he's ever on the back foot in any competitions; whether on the field of battle or in the barracks, capable of losing his own temper in fiery flurry provided he wished to win well enough. Endymion seeks to engage himself in as competitive a manner as plausible with as many things as physically achievable to stave the looming dread at bay, sensing within his bones a lingering compunction hereto unuttered and unknown within his deepest recesses..

Addicted, instead, to the activity; as opposed to the purpose, for the purpose was set in stone since the start, and all else is merely its carrying out. Though by no means intelligent enough to loom upon the intents of his emotions, he is more than naturally talented enough to sense the prevalent error which seeps itself through his every fibre of being. Combating this errant distaste, through the subconsciousness of his character, he dons the smile and laughs amongst peers, whilst carrying the entirety of it all upon himself whilst alone: resulting in two gravely different personalities displaying themselves, one more serious, cruel, and hostile- pinned down by the wrongness, unnerved and agitated by it. A flipped switch, so to say, which oft shows itself when entombed within the cockpit of the Omen. Seldom wishing to be on his own therefore, much preferring the joy of camaraderie even though he oft seeks the faults in others, admittedly beyond his control. Some may find themselves put off by his character, oft lacking the necessary tact that can see others prosper when they've fallen down or done wrong; he is of a style, instead, which tests, playfully upsets, jokes, and makes fools of people at no care for their emotions during their moment of weakness. But even so, he can be the best of friends, with tendencies for compliments and willingness for trust. Provided they are capable of enduring his heightened energy.

Though he is good-natured, he remains ill-mannered, clearly raised and grown under strict supervision for strict purposes; morals, therefore, are jargoned, and the compass itself misaligned. A personality built for the purposes of ending a long-standing conflict, one which threatened existence, at any and all costs. Boosting certain qualities at the expense of others, finding the unappreciated aspects of his character morph and mutate in unsupervised fashion. Caring little therefore, but the obligatory, over loss of life, civilian or military: his own or others. He seeks the joys of the moment, but pays no heed to when anyone's moments may last. Lacking the long-sightedness of any strategist or ambitious career-builder; thriving over the sporadicity innate in battle, war, and people. Sometimes even going so far as to intentionally push others off their toes to interact with them in less controlled circumstances.
Ambitions
Lost in the Moment
Though traditionally talented, the qualities of his talent do not point him towards dreams or ambitions in their common understanding. Endymion knows no other life than the one he's lived and been living: one of war, built and made for the express purposes of combating the greatest and most bloody conflict civilization's here-to observed or known. Billions lay beneath the rubble of countless cities beyond what havens remain, and billions more can only be expected to litter the streets which presently contain only life, foolish joys, and lingering worry were he and his ilk of pilots to fail in their vanquishing of the Hives. Frankly, he cares incredibly little about either plausibility, knowing well enough that he either dies on the battlefield, or lives as he's been designed to, for battle and for war: though he's not thought about it, if the day comes where the menace is culled and the normalcy of before once more returns, the only alternative realistic enough would be for him to find battle elsewhere, however plausible such a prospect proves itself to be.
Warframe Proficiency
Mecha Performance Aptitude
Through his high innate reactivity and reflexes, Endymion is amongst the more talented pilots when it comes to control and the manoeuvering and utilization of the hardware and software systems of a Warframe: having been deployed with the NGX003-V/A for a long time now, it fit him like a glove from the moment he left the laboratory and entered the hangar where his Omen loomed waiting. More than capable enough to adequately deal with the demanding task in front of him, what will stand as his crutch is far less his own competency, but the hardware in which he is utilizing. Capable of outliving most mistakes through Ace skill provided the Warframe stands itself capable of enduring any potential mistakes he may or may not find himself in the midsts of. Therefore, when it comes to sheer ability as a pilot, he is exceptional: when it comes to his qualities as a soldier, there are question marks which neutralize his extraordinary competencies.
Background
Two Years of Solitude
The white halls of the facility were as poison to every synapse, creativity drained and shallowed; droughted freedoms and expressions, confined to the procedures and the tests within halls as vast as they were lifeless. His father and his mother were but coated character ever-distanced, his relation to them as one-sided as any instance he'd found himself prior to his release outward into the freer world. But the purpose was clear, and the ends towards which he would serve was as gospel to him and the words therefore- as had been told repeatedly unto him- were all he could ever dream and all he could've heard for years. He would run, far; upon the treadmill starred a movie most gruesome, a recording of prior Hives laid to waste and the endless deaths they'd demanded and had levied upon the lands upon which they'd once governed. Duty, therefore, instilled: but cared little did he, he was bored senseless, always itching to be seated within the great confine of the warmachine. To star in the movie, to sing the lyrics of battle, as cartoonish as it'd seemed to him in the instance of his watching, through the instrumental of bullets hosing; cases clamouring as ejected from chamber they were, falling elegantly and with weight upon rubbled flooring.

He would go through intellectual trialing, at which point he would receive intermittent praise; clear preference taken into actions requiring greater intuition as opposed to well-thought out planning. He was not given the opportunity to become a smart kid, he was bred to be something different: cleverer than genius, snake as opposed to wolf- though he wished to be naught but the dragon. Casual commentary made in passing, at the hands of doctors managing their tedium through the procedures, etched themselves into his mindscape, and molded his fantasies. He was young, and therefore receptive to any and all concepts, most of which he seldom understood then, and clearly has refrained from being able to understand now- their programming worked wonders, after all. He became as he was intentioned to, braindead in all pursuits but what he was fashioned to do.

Where once he hated the procedures, the tests, and the exam; the things which occupied all his time, and the things he would watch in-so performing, became his shield and his spear as the time passed on. Molded, correctly, into the character he was always meant to become; for as the Facility's grand gate opened, and he'd left the white rooms and their colourless corridors behind, he was fast-tracked through ARC, and put into the Hangar Space where his dragon-bodied self await: the Omen, taller than anything he'd ever put eyes upon, spoke to his childish heart. It said, 'I am the dragon, and you are my heart', though with neither words nor sign- it was voiceless, it was motionless: its simplest presence told him much, and from that moment he was ensnared into the life designed for him.

He felt cool, he felt mighty; finally able to put himself to the test of what he'd worked so hard for, all the tedium and the endless incessances of the Facility were for this pure moment. He could see the odd-tinted remains of whatever carcass the ironed beast had prior felled and was bewitched. Desensitized to the gore and the grime, effort no difficulty for him to produce; he simply wished thereafter, until the end of his time, to be the mind which propelled the iron into motion, and swung the metaphorical lance through the chest of what was destined felled.

It was the greatest of his days, though his days unto then had not been many; he was of an estranged joy, like the retired warrior once more put to service. His calling, at last, had called him: it had found him, ARC was his salvation, and for the world, he would salvage a future from the pried carcass of whatever monster put itself between himself and the mission. But time passed him, and the first weeks became months, and then they took to years, and process became repeated and the different became the same. Boredom hard to alleviate, the joys of his life, once simple, grew complex; he'd laugh over the harshest of battles, and partake in bloodied skirmishes with delight enough to put the minds of those around him to unease.

He'd fell into conflict with certain members, and cared little for it once they, themselves, found themselves buried in ceremonial fashion; the casket filled by mangled corpse or exploded fragments. It was difficult to adjust- not to the death, but to those living. He was clearly of a differing capacity from most others, and he could sense himself estranging further and further from the normalcy of the dynamics within his own Squadron by the middle of his first year. But the Medicine calmed him, it curtailed his greatest erraticisms and limited his looming dysfunction into the dimensions of ill-mannered childishness. People thought him inexperienced, but by the time he'd become a veteran of several battles, the clarity of his condition became less fogged and his character grew more known.

His position was threatened for a time, but thanks to the support of his maintenance crew he was able to normalize, bonding spontaneously over a sport known colloquially across City 17 as CFL; a name who represented the league as well as the sport: the sport, itself, having lost the whole of its name beneath the prevalence of its league's marketing genius. It was a violent one, and demanded great physical skill: one which fitted well for a soldier, and one which he would take great interest in since the day he first laid his eyes upon it. It was twisted fantasy, but nonetheless one which was far healthier than his prevalence, thereto, to affix himself unto the gore and the carnage of battle.

The mechanic would teach him the movements, and they would tackle and play during their off-hours. But the Mechanic was of older years, and retirement loomed ever closer. Nonetheless, he felt compelled, through whatever strange compulsion he may have self-manifested, to at least attempt to put Endymion upon a path which did not lead towards the inevitable self-destruction which it had therefore made itself inevitable. He'd been successful, and as a goodbye gift, Endymion would receive a gameball, and he would shadowspar and shadowplay on his own where time would allow it.

The CFL grew greater in inter-sector popularity over the years thereafter, affording the pilot the vaunted fortunes of playing in the Coalition Forces' internal military league. Though more of an international bonding exercise, he was simply not the sort not to take it to the greatest degree of seriousness he could, but to his team, at least, he was a good sport.

Since those days, he's grown more humane. Less of a psychopath, and more misunderstood. The energy, however, had always been there; it had simply been turned less from becoming as efficient a machine of war as was plausible for the childish notions of living up to the cool image he'd been instilled to believe, and more towards being an actual human being. Even so, he'd always enjoyed people, it just happened to be the case that they enjoyed him so much more now when compared to before.

Were the people that he'd been with during the time of admittance into the Squadron alive by now, and were they willing to see beyond his prior behaviour, they would at the very least not snarl at his simplest utterance. He was contented with this for now, they'd afford him the opportunity to speak with them, at least, were they alive.

He hopes only that the new squadron would prove itself to be as stimulating as the last.
Associates
Opinions On The Crew
Endymion cannot help but feel the man tries a bit too hard, living up to the mantle of leadership or so to say; always feeling the man- though no doubt good- strains himself for the position he is in. Though impossible to dislike the man for such a thing, one cannot help but wonder for what reasons he may be clutching on to the position of ARC's management. Though, then again, politics and ambition never were things Endymion held to any regard; if he refrains from micromanaging there would be few issues.
The wandering warrior is as dead as she possibly could be, either that or she walked off the front and went somewhere else- dead to him either way. A shame, she was a good pilot, whatever might've compelled her to walk off into the shadows and the gloom as she did- wherever it took her corpse or yet-breathing lungs- is however not anything which he chooses to concern himself with. He'd spoken with her before, but everyone's got their time to go.
Endymion Leitz is a warrior through and through, he does not think deep nor long-sightedly; Faustina is as non-existent to him as a regular upbringing. Though the name, when spoken, playfully echoes with nostalgia as per the phantom past, he, himself, has no personal opinions nor contemplations of either character or her existence.
CODE BY SEROBLISS
 
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PROJECT STRELITZIA
[
Project Strelitzia
When The Stars Withered
Official Document: Milo
Project Strelitzia
Fall into formation with the rotation of the earth. March to the cadence of planets, stars, and sun. Watch over mankind with ceaseless vigilance. Live, breathe, fight, and die for those you hold in your heart. This, little soldier, is your raison d'etre.
Identity
Physical
Warframe
  • Identity
    Name
    Milo
    Gender
    Male
    Height
    178 cm/ 5'10"
    Traits
    Conscientious, Idealistic, Earnest
    Interests
    Film, Novels
    Skills
    First Aid, Tactical Acumen
Personality
About the Character
Intelligent and naive, social and awkward, logical and passionate- while complex for an artificial intelligence, Milo believes himself to be simple. In truth, his entire persona is built on a single concept: that of the 'ideal soldier'. Inspired largely by Yurievna Kasyanova as well as a number of fictional examples, this ideal encompasses his tactical mind and unwavering drive as well as his compassionate heart and need for camaraderie. Every attribute has been consciously honed like a razor's edge, as befits a weapon forged for a singular purpose.

Every choice is either concordant with his broader mission or immaterial; right or wrong; correct or incorrect. Since those in authority know best what is "correct", he prefers to act under orders. That's not to say he lacks initiative when left to his own devices; quite the contrary. Level-headed and pragmatic, he is fully capable of devising a plan of action independently so long as an overarching goal is understood. In the event he encounters a block of unstructured time, he keeps in mind a hierarchy of tasks to make the best use of it. Only when a decision comes down to personal preference does he struggle.

In his mind, there is no meaningful distinction between what is expected of him in a given situation and his private feelings and intentions; his intention is to convey what is expected, and therefore, "correct". When in doubt, he draws upon observations, past experience, and stories to guide him. Despite his outgoing, friendly, and enthusiastic demeanor, this simplistic understanding of social dynamics lends him a certain awkwardness. More subtle forms of humor are liable to go over his head. Having learned much of his vocabulary from literature, he speaks in a formal, erudite manner.

While his perfectionism drives his determination to excel, it also feeds an underlying neuroticism. If he, not only created with a singular purpose in mind but also with the capacity to understand said purpose, were to fail, what excuse could there be? Every endeavor is directly or indirectly related to that duty, so the outcome seems nearly as dire. Mistakes will be relived over and over until the exact cause how to avoid it are known in detail. If mistakes can't be avoided altogether, repeating them can and should be. Performing as expected is the bare minimum.

In practice, his zeal even for mundane tasks reaches comedic levels. Failing to comprehend the concept of leisure, he may mistake others' need for it as laziness. Ever eager to make himself useful, he pushes himself to the limits of his endurance, filling every spare moment with some "practical" activity. At a fundamental level, Milo still sees himself, not as a person in his own right, but as the biological component of the Atlas warframe. An individual identity, he assumes, is a means to make him a better soldier, not an end in itself.
Ambitions
Raison D'Etre
To see dealt, within his own short lifetime, the decisive blow that irreversibly turns the tides against the foes of mankind- Milo's ambition is nothing more and nothing less than this. For this, if it comes to pass, will justify the sacrifices of all those that came before him, as well as the labor and resources spent on his own creation. Standing at the very pinnacle of human effort and achievement, he is bound to honor all the hopes and dreams invested in him. This is his purpose. Even his own fleeting days will not have been in vain if his efforts serve to pave the way forward for humanity. All of it will have been worthwhile.
Warframe Proficiency
Mecha Performance Aptitude
Piloting the Atlas warframe requires a careful, methodical mind to memorize its many controls and to manage its high energy consumption. While it excels at keeping hordes of creatures at bay with its heavy firepower, firing excessively and indiscriminately will waste ammunition and cause its weapons to overheat. To efficiently utilize its capabilities, the pilot must strategize to determine the most effective use of the resources available. To compensate for its lack of speed thanks to its heavy armor, the pilot must also account for the time it will take to get into position. Anticipating comrades' needs and thinking ahead are crucial.

Milo certainly possesses an aptitude for this type of thinking, especially in terms of being mindful of the battlefield as a whole and coordinating with his teammates. During the testing phase, he was quick to grasp the objective of each exercise and act accordingly. Aided by the memories of previous pilots, mastering the warframe's controls was not an issue. He also possesses the dexterity and spatial awareness to operate the controls by hand while his eyes remain fixed on the monitor. As expected for a pilot created for this role, his command of the Atlas is excellent. Even his temperament its well suited to its combat style.
Background
Two Years of Solitude
Like any birth, Milo's emergence into self-conciousness was a painful and messy process compared to the tranquility of oblivion. It all began the day he received orders he didn't understand. Explore. Verb. To travel to a new place to learn about it or become familiar with it. He knew the word. What purpose it served to his training, he had no idea. Clearly, something was expected of him, but no one would give him the specifics. Meaningless words swirled around him- "personality", "freedom", "want", "like", "interesting". In lieu of anything that could be construed as a command, he stood still for what the ARC personnel considered an alarmingly long time.

At at last, amidst their coaxing and cajoling, it dawned on him that if he played along, they might reveal what they wanted him to do. At first, it was merely a puzzle. By trial and error, gauging their reactions, he managed to get as far as the train station. There, he finally hit a wall. "For the last time, where do you want to go?"

"Where should I go?"

"Wherever you want!"

"Where should I want to go?"

"...You're still not getting it. You have to pick." What was this? People like him gave orders, and the pilot obeyed. That was how it worked. Why had the rules changed? He was supposed to make a choice, but had been given no criteria with which to decide. Incomprehensible. Though he wasn't exerting himself, his heart rate spiked, and he began to sweat- the first stirring of what he'd later come to know as anxiety. Wide-eyed, he simply stared, frozen in place. The operative sighed. "Fine, I'll pick for you."

Wait. If his mission was to choose, and his chaperone completed his mission for him, wouldn't that constitute a failure? "There!" He pointed randomly to the letters at the top of the kiosk.

"See? That wasn't so hard. A ticket to Ferr, please!" Some small papers were shoved into his hand. "That's your itinerary. You'll change trains halfway, got it? There will be someone to keep an eye on you when you get there." Before he could get his bearings, he had been bundled onto the inter-sector transit, and the train was pulling away from the station. His heart still pounded, and his hands were shaking. Never before had he made an independent decision, much less an arbitrary one. Now, at least, it was over. Once again, he knew what to do. Content to absorb the scenery outside the windows, his mind slipped back into its normal passive state.

When he got off the train in Ferr, however, his instructions ran out, like a strip of road coming to a dead end. No one met him. People swarmed over the platform. Horns blared. Trains came and went, announced by the intercom. A chiming song played from loudspeakers all over the city, signaling the end of a shift, as uniformed workers flooded the station. In the midst of all this commotion, the pilot stood like a statue. Would no one come? Where should he go? What should he do? He knew he must do something, but he could not act. With innumerable directions open to him, but no guiding principle, he was robbed of all volition. It seemed as though the universe had been turned upside down.

As he stared at the lit display over an exit, the letters blurred. His chest constricted painfully, his lungs gripped by a kind of spasm. Something warm ran down his face. When he touched his cheek, the tips of his fingers came away wet. What was this? Water? There was water leaking from his eyes. Was that supposed to happen? He was sick. Yes, that must be it. If he was sick, he must go to the medical bay. He turned around, only to realize that he was miles from the medical bay at the training facility and had no idea how to get back. In that case, he should find a different one, but he didn't know where to look. Meanwhile, more and more water kept leaking from his eyes while his shoulders shook. He stared blankly at the droplets splashing onto his open palm. In all probability, he would stand here until the day he died.

"Hey, Mister. Are you okay?"

Looking down, the pilot saw that the owner of the voice was a child of about nine. "'Okay'...? I... I don't know. I think I'm sick."

"Well, if you're sick, you should see a doctor. My mom's a doctor. I can take you." As soon as the boy grabbed his hand to lead him out of the train station, his body relaxed, and his strange symptoms abated. Finally, someone was giving him directions! The universe was turning right-side up again. Outside, billboard displays, street lights, traffic lights, and headlights from regular and airborne vehicles whirled together in a kaleidoscope of color. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, jostling him on either side. Echoes of voices and traffic sounds reverberated between the grey skyscrapers towering over them like cliffs, driving home the impression of immense depth and space. Snowflakes drifted down from the slate-colored sky in the gathering dusk. All of this passed in unmeaning yet mesmerizing panorama. Without the hand tugging him along, he would have been lost instantly.

Soon, the pair ducked into a tunnel to ride the subway. When they emerged under the sky again, they were much closer to the fortified walls. Stores, clubs, and bars catering to off-duty soldiers lined the way. Somewhere, live music was playing. Uniformed soldiers dotted the crowds. A sound like thunder marked the periodic bombardments from the walls. "Hey, Mister. You got ARC guys tailing you," the boy whispered. "You're not a troublemaker, are ya?" Glancing over his shoulder, the pilot did see two ARC operatives following at a distance. He faced forward again, his heart pounding. They were probably here to see if he was doing his mission correctly, and he still didn't understand it! Water streamed from his eyes again. "Hey, hey, what are you crying for? I don't think they'll stop you from seeing a doctor."

At last, they entered a medical facility inside the wall itself, meant for the garrison stationed there. Since it was a slow day, Dr. Gemma Cole could spare the time to look at her son's new friend. An examination found nothing wrong whatsoever. It had to be explained to him that crying was the body's natural response to stress. After that, the two ARC operatives entered and explained the situation. As it turned out, they'd been keeping an eye on the pilot from a distance to see if he'd make a move on his own. When the boy, whose name was Colin, learned the pilot's identity, he begged that he be allowed to stay with his family. According to his supervisors, the family could host the pilot for as long as they wished in exchange for a commission from the ARC.

"Do you want to stay with them?"

The pilot looked at Colin. He still didn't know what it meant to "want", but this person gave him directions. Perhaps agreeing to this arrangement would buy him time to figure out his broader mission. As his only link to a world he understood, "the mission" had acquired an all-consuming importance. "Yes."

"Now that that's settled, why don't you two go pick up Peter from daycare?" said Dr. Cole.

The pilot sat up straight, his eyes bright. "Is that a mission?"

"...Sure, kid. It's a mission."

By now, he had grasped that his objective was to become more like an ordinary human. Other people came and went and did things with no apparent rhyme or reason, as if they had a commander inside their heads. Since the pilot didn't have that, all he could do was watch and learn. After returning home with the family, he began to imitate their activities, cooking meals with Gemma, working on projects with her husband, Alan, and playing games or watching television with the boys. Within a few days, it was apparent that if he wasn't given something specific to do, he became restless and agitated. So, Gemma taped a list of "missions" to the refrigerator which he could complete whenever he ran out of tasks, which included both chores and leisure activities.

A few days after he began living with the Cole family, the pilot pointed out a picture of a young man on the living room wall. "Who is this?"

"That's my brother, Stephen," Cole replied. "He was a soldier. He died in the Eighth Hive Invasion."

Something struck him as he looked at their faces. "Dying... is sad," he observed. Familiar with the concept, he'd had yet to grasp its emotional consequences.

"That's right," said Gemma. "We miss him a lot. But we're also very proud of him."

I can do something about this. With that thought, his inner voice had awakened. By piloting his warframe, he had the power to prevent the deaths of others. To see the world through the eyes of those he would fight to protect- this was his mission. From then on, he devoured information of all kinds with a hungry fascination, making use of Ferr's public library. To record important observations, he carried a notebook with him everywhere. Trips to the park or the supermarket became glorious adventures. Intently reading the labels on the groceries as he followed behind the cart, he would occasionally blurt out something like, "What is 'non-hydrogenated vegetable oil'?" In public, he would often strike up conversations with strangers, asking them about their experiences. Given his naivety and tendency to become distracted, it was best not to let him go out by himself.

Stories of all kinds opened the world to him in a new way. From classical literature to cartoons for children, all of them contained priceless insights regarding human nature and values. There were stories detailing adventures in strange worlds or in the distant past as well as more realistic tales of the present day. War stories, with varying degrees of accuracy, abounded, but what fascinated him the most was the sense of purpose that united each individual soldier with his comrades. A fantasy franchise called The Knights of Valemar gave the pilot his name, at Colin's suggestion. Milo, the Sapphire Knight, was an upstanding individual, if somewhat bland compared to the rest of the cast. Even so, the pilot couldn't help but feel a certain kinship with him. He, too, had an important legacy to uphold... Still more was he delighted to learn that "Milo" meant "soldier".

With the input of those around him, he was learning to put labels to his emotions, and to identify the characteristics that set him apart from others. As soon as he grasped the concept of "personality traits", he wanted to know which ones where "the best", or at least which ones would be of benefit to his role as a warframe operator, and to go about acquiring them. It took him a while to learn that even neutral traits were still valuable. Apparently, these arbitrary features made up one's "identity". Soon Milo began to actively structure his learning. Since it was impossible to acquire all the world's knowledge in the time left to him, he would have to prioritize. Which subjects and skills were most universal to human experience?

Having already read Gemma's medical textbooks, he had little trouble convincing her to teach him first aid. When an outbreak of sickness caused by a spike in miasma levels impacted a nearby sector, she invited him to accompany her on a relief mission. This experience of real, meaningful work brought him to another turning point. Through Gemma's connections he became involved in local volunteer efforts, frequenting soup kitchens, a home for war orphans, a veteran's center, and even an animal shelter, where he made plenty of friends. In particular, he developed a close bond with Darren, an elderly disabled veteran, spirited despite his infirmity and brimming with stories which helped Milo contextualize his memories. When Darren's health declined, Milo acted as his aide, coming by his apartment regularly to cook, clean, and assist with personal care.

At the same time, three months after his arrival, Milo had decided to live independently. With some assistance from the ARC, it was a simple matter to acquire his own apartment, as well as an entry level job at a weapons manufacturing plant. With the start of the new semester, he enrolled in the local university. All of these things were milestones of a "normal" human life. Without the need to worry about a career, he took whatever courses fit his personal plan, which included history, philosophy, art appreciation, literature and film classes, and participated in theater productions. Though it was pointed out to him that there were better universities in sectors less centered around blue collar work, he elected to stay. For one thing, he wanted to be able to visit the Cole family regularly. For another, Ferr was supposed to have "character".

Northernmost of the sectors, Ferr was built on mining and manufacturing. In spite, or perhaps because, of it's inhospitable weather, it was a lively place with a thriving local culture. Public facilities such as stadiums, theaters, and recreation centers abounded. Parks boasted ponds for swimming in summer and skating in winter. Festivals, parades, concerts, sporting events and the like marked the passing of every year. "Work hard, play hard" was the general ethos, drinks and entertainment with friends after work being the norm. One could hardly walk a block without tripping over some local hangout. As its citizens took great pride in their role in supplying the UNS' war machine, the whole city thrummed with the exuberant patriotism of a military parade while factory shifts changed to the chiming of the clock in Central Square.

Seeing ample opportunity to make new memories, Milo seldom turned down an invitation, even when the pace of life grew overwhelming. As an observer he had come to love humanity, and now he wanted to belong. Intellectual understanding wasn't enough. He had to immerse himself completely in life, drink it in, let it penetrate every fiber of his being. In all its raw intensity, being part of a crowd, getting swept up in the atmosphere and sharing the emotions of those around him became almost addictive. Whenever he could spare the time, he would climb the Lawrence Tower, part of a defunct refinery that served as a local landmark and lookout, to contemplate the city below. From here, especially at night, he could imagine the luminous streams of traffic as the lifeblood of a living organism and himself standing at its heart.

Palpable energy radiated from the activity below. There was a poignant pathos in the striving of mankind; in their creativity, their tenacity, their nobility. Sometimes, when he was alone, he would cry over some heartfelt movie or a documentary on the horrors of war, and even as he shed these tears, he reveled in them as proof of his humanity. Through these experiences, the friends he made, and his volunteer work, he gained confidence in his developing persona. Increasing awareness of the passage of time pressed in on him, and he made use of his enhanced stamina to attend classes during the day, explore the city and volunteer during the afternoon, and work the night shift at the plant. In late spring of the second year, Darren passed away, and thus Milo witnessed a death of personal significance apart from his inherited memories.

With this tie severed, he decided to spend his second summer traversing the continent to visit museums and other places of cultural significance. While he did set foot in many tourist spots, in his own mind he was a pilgrim seeking hallowed ground. Every museum was a shrine to the achievements of mankind in ages past. Every destination he shared with hundreds of others was like the end of a quest. Every bond forged with a stranger was engraved into his memory. As summer turned to autumn, he returned to Ferr, to school and his job and his comfortable routine, and contemplated the start of his true mission. As the time of departure drew nearer, he visited the Coles as often as he could.

Finally, under a wintry sky just like the one that had greeted him the day he first stepped off the train, he exchanged tearful farewells with the family that had treated him as one of their own. As he turned to leave, Colin pressed something into his hand. It was a family photo with Stephen at the center, in his uniform- a soldier, just like him.
Associates
Opinions On The Crew
Due in no small part to his interest in fiction, Milo's perception of leadership in general, and the ARC Executor, in particular, is somewhat romanticized. While Pharesk's accomplishments are widely known throughout the sectors, Milo's admiration of him is more akin to awe, comparing him to the larger-than-life figures of his favorite stories. The Executor's decision to take command of the ninth hive operation evokes the image of a noble king of legend descending from his throne to traverse the mud and blood of the battlefield alongside his soldiers. For his part, Milo can only hope he will prove worthy of so great a commander.
As Milo's primary role model, Yurievna Kasyanova holds an enduring fascination. During his time in Ferr, he sought out and studiously watched and re-watched old interviews, news reports and archival footage concerning the war's most notable hero. Even her demeanor and mannerisms are something he unconsciously imitates from time to time. Despite the controversy surrounding her whereabouts, Milo refuses to believe that she deserted the cause. After devoting her life to this battle, it is incomprehensible that she would give up the fight. Whether she is dead or alive, she must have believed she was doing the right thing at the time.
Someone once pointed out that Faustina is a bit like a mother to the Strelitzias. While Milo finds this association almost vulgar in its familiarity, there is a certain truth to it. All that they have and are they owe to her. As such, he regards her with appropriate reverence and gratitude. Yet this feeling is tinged with guilt. If he were to become incapacitated for the remainder of his life, could he bear it with equal grace and serenity? Regardless, her example proves that as long as one is alive, they can make themselves useful. Right now, the way for him to honor Faustina is to pilot his warframe to the best of his ability and thereby ensure that her life of sacrifice was not in vain. Perhaps when he dies, his body will also provide some value to the ARC's research.
CODE BY SEROBLISS
 
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PROJECT STRELITZIA
[
Project Strelitzia
When The Stars Withered
Official Document: Evangalist
Project Strelitzia
What does it mean to be alive? Don't ask me, I won't know until I die.
Identity
Physical
Warframe
  • Identity
    Name
    Saraphina Asmodeus
    Gender
    Female
    Height
    178 cm
    Traits
    Tenacious - Conscientious - Empathetic
    Interests
    Reading - Engineering
    Skills
    High Precision & Accuracy - Inventing
Personality
About the Character
Seraphina is a very driven individual and puts a lot of effort into almost everything she does. Though there is no contempt behind it, she pities those deemed 'weaker' by her own metric. Her determination unwavering, convictions unyielding; once she's decided on something there is little that can impede her. Seraphina takes her role in the ARC extremely seriously and can sometimes come off a bit harsh and pedantic when it comes to rules and regulations. Otherwise, she can be rather gentle if not a little hot headed, but she cares about almost anyone and everyone. It's one of the reasons she has pity towards individuals who she feels aren't rising to their own potential. Typically she views herself as extremely competent, and such that failure is not an option, no matter the cost.
Ambitions
Blooming Aspirations
Seraphina wants nothing more than to free humanity from the shackles of Soltera-XI. To put an end to the oppression imposed by environmental and extraterrestrial perils lurking beyond the confines of the protective barriers that separate them from the outside world. To her, the remaining sectors aren't safe havens, they're prisons, cages.



Seraphina doesn't want to die, but she does not fear death. Seraphina will lay down her life for humanity without a second of hesitation. The short life span of the Strelitzias is only of any consequence to her because it limits her ability to achieve her goals.



If the conflict were to ever end before she expired, Seraphina would love nothing more than to take Cherubim out to the uninhabited continents beyond Tarsaris and expand civilization as far as she could before her body inevitably shut down for good.
Warframe Proficiency
Mecha Performance Aptitude
Seraphina like all other Strelitzias, is incredibly skilled at operating warframes. Her true combat ability is in her pinpoint accuracy and high rate of precision in a wide variety of weapons. Her all-time record was hitting an unmarked target at 6,534 meters with aid of her specialized B-12 reconsience drone. Seraphina attributes her talents to a combination of mental calculation and instinct.



While she is sufficient in most warframe variants, she's most comfortable and performs best with her personalized unit Cherubim in which she feels the most at home. When operating Cherubim, Seraphina had been quoted stating "It never feels new when I operate with her. I don't feel familiarity with the actions, I know them. We were made for each other after all."
Background
Two Years of Solitude
When Strelitzia-04 first came online all she understood was the innate impression that she was dying multiple deaths simultaneously. The feeling faded quickly enough, though there was lingering sense that she needed to keep going. She had to hold on as long as she could, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she lost. Strelitzia-04 unconsciously reached out to one of the many people standing around the table she was laying on. When they inevitably took her hand, she squeezed. Gripping onto them as she stared at the individual with equanimous confusion.



Weeks later Strelitzia-04, now going by Seraphina Asmodeus; a name given to her by an old world historian on base whom she had 'befriended' during her frequent visits to the base archives whenever she had down time. Seraphina didn't fully understand what friendship meant in it's entirety, but she didn't mind the company. They told her all kinds of things about Earth and the history of the human race. It wasn't particularly interesting, she simply was doing her best to get more information in order to be more effective in combat. At the very least she had a name, and she appreciated the small nuances in symbolism in contrast to strict ideas. Eventually, she ended up with the codename Evangelist, for as far as she saw it; her purpose was to utter deliverance to humanity.



Twenty-five months after waking up for the first time, Seraphina had grown into her own distinct identity. She spent a lot of her extended leave from the ARC visiting numerous libraries and archives, having developed a personal interest in reading. Otherwise, she was tinkering with spare parts and creating simple machines, finding the act of creating something animate rather satisfying. Perhaps because she related to her inventions in some way.



Seraphina had also met a small child, a young boy who would always ask her to read him story books at the library near his house. The biomechanical woman had no reason to object, in fact she rather enjoyed the company, reminding Seraphina of her time at the ARC base where she was born. At some point, she also met the boy's mother, a widow who'd lost her husband to the eighth operation. With permission from her handler, Seraphina moved in with the small family for the rest of her time before deployment. Spending time doing chores and helping out around the house, running errands, tucking the boy in at night when his mother was too exhausted. It was all rather enjoyable if anything; being useful, taking the load off of others, knowing that she made a difference with the smallest of actions.



The strelitzia returned to the ARC with a burning passion and a sense of purpose far beyond the advent of following orders, of fighting just to fight. Seraphina would dedicate everything to end the conflict once and for all. She would fight to the bitter end to see her ambitions come to fruition. Seraphina knew that she needed to keep going. She had to hold on as long as she could, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she lost.

Associates
Opinions On The Crew
There is no other that Seraphina could have any more respect for; in her eyes Auberon Pharesk is almost like a father figure of some sorts. She had studied his combat strategies over and over to the point of full memorization of each command he'd given through the main battles of his six operations. Unlike other high ranking officers, she not only wants to follow orders and perform at her best, but aims to be the kind of soldier that he would be proud of.
Yurievna Kasyanova to Seraphina is an interesting case and in truth has taken up a lot of her nights in contemplation of their circumstances. The MIA operative was certainly dead, but Seraphina couldn't help try to conceptualize any possible ways her senior officer could have survived somehow. Regardless, Yurivena was only another reason to fight like hell, even if just to recover her body for a proper burial.
Seraphina owes her very existence to Faustina, and knows her predecessor's history extensively. The one thing that Seraphina never quite got used to was the feeling of innate connection to Faustina, even if it wasn't specifically their memories that were passed down to her, there was something... More tangible about it. Though it was doubtful she'd ever actually get an explantation.





Seraphina spends a few moments to honor Faustina in silent reverence every Sunday.
CODE BY SEROBLISS
 
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