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Doctor Who/Cosmere rp


Kestrel

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(Will post link to planning later, my kindle is dumb)

In any case, roleplay posts here only. Try to limit chat to either Random Stuff or the ooc thread (and keep all off topic things in Random Stuff, if possible)

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"I will only ask this once," Dame Galsikar of the Nineteenth Genocide Fleet growled, pressing the barrel of her ion rifle to the base of her lieutenant's skull. "Where are they?"

The lieutenant squealed and scrambled across the bridge, his many legs slipping on the chrome floor as he manned the radar station and attempted to avoid the Dame's gaze. "W-we are still searching, my lady. We're not finding their life signs on the ship, but none of the escape shuttles are missing..."

Galsikar roughly shoved the imbecilic officer out of the way as she loomed over the radar, affirming what the idiot had managed to bark out. "They must have their own ship," she hissed in some fusion of thoughtfulness and hatred. "But how? Our security is flawless!"

She drew herself to her full height, nearly brushing the ceiling of the bridge room. She stared out the window into the black outside of space, at the tiny blue world that had brought the Nineteenth Genocide Fleet here in the first place. Earth, it was called. Such a dirty, pathetic name. The inhabitants that named it should have been radioactive stains in the soil by now. Instead, those primitive primates were still breeding, eating, and draining resources that rightfully belonged to the Empire.

It was a grim thought, but Galsikar managed to hold on to a small glimmer of hope.

She gestured with a hairy limb towards the front of the fleet, irritably snapping her pincers together. "What is the state of our collective weapons systems?"

A technical officer quivered in fear. "All of our Plague Torpedoes have been jettisoned into one of the system's stars. The Quantum Blade Projection is offline, and we can't guarantee their sabotage didn't extend to the Doomsday Ray itself."

Galsikar let out an internal scream of fury that made the crewmen quiver enough to indicate she'd bellowed it out loud. "How in the goddess's name did they even get into the weapons level?"

The technical officer backed into a wall, his abdomen pressing into the corner as his legs still tried to put distance between him and the raging Dame. "Th-they displayed all the proper authorization," he stammered by way of excuse. "They were genocide inspectors, with orders signed by the Empress herself! They were just here to make sure all the bolts were fastened straight."

"And since when," Galsikar seethed, "Has the Empress employed filthy mammalian two-legs as her inspectors?"

The officer stopped quivering long enough to look thoughtful. "I-I hadn't thought of that," he admitted. "They were very persuasive. Or at least, the brown one was. The red one was just sort of... loud."

Dame Galsikar looked at the abject incarnation of stupidity that stood in front of her, raised her ion rifle, and reduced it into a pile of quivering burning dust. Her legs pounded against the floor as she ran to the flagship's controls, determined to salvage some level of proper genocide from this fiasco.

"Charge the Doomsday Ray," she ordered, glaring at the greenish blue planet on the view screen as if it had caused her some personal grievance. "We can't wipe out the lot of them, but we can make craters where a few of their filthy cities were."

There was a flurry of activity that was more satisfying than any "Yes, my lady." Galsikar grinned--or gave the closest rendition of a grin possible to a giant tarantula-centaur from the Irigaspis Galaxy--and imagined the ensuing devastation the fleet was about to inflict.

"My lady," a voice exclaimed in alarm. "An unidentified vessel is coming into view!"

Earth had come to take up much of the view, but now there was an extra splash of blue coming into focus. What appeared to be a tiny, wooden blue box with alien writing etched upon it spun onto the scene, fixing itself directly between the Nineteenth Genocide Fleet and the planet below. Right in the path of the Doomsday Ray, like a mother throwing herself in front of an endangered child.

"Incoming message," a lieutenant squeaked. A box appeared on the viewscreen, alien text translating into words the Dame could read.

DON'T SHOOT.

Dame Galsikar found herself laughing. "So that is where our intruders have gotten to," she leered, leaning her thorax into the controls. "They think themselves in some position to threaten us. Continue charging!"

"Charging at 80% and rising, my lady."

A second message appeared on the screen: REALLY, DON'T.

Something unsettled the Dame, but she elected to ignore it. Instead she clapped her pedipalps in delight as the weapon finished charging.

Every vessel in the Nineteenth Genocide Fleet began to glow with an infernal red light, as lines of pure energy crisscrossed between them. The whole fleet was connected. The energy of every ship was being brought into a unified whole--every ship in the fleet would contribute to the extermination of the native filth-apes on the planet below.

It was beautiful.

Another message on the viewscreen. LAST CHANCE.

"Fire," snapped Dame Galsikar. "Fire straight through their vessel and into the planet. Show no mercy."

A switch was flipped. An electronic command was sent to the Doomsday Ray to fire. At some point along its path, a mush of dough that a human would have identified as a jammy dodger blocked the signal, and the tremendous energy the Ray required continued to build between the fleet's ships.

Dame Galsikar was aware of a building heat for only a moment. In that moment she realized something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, and that something almost certainly had something to do with the filthy two-legs' visit.

A wave of incineration washed up from behind her, catching crewmen and experienced officers alike in its burning wake. On the radar screen the blips that signified the Genocide vessels went out all at once. The blast of annihilation burned straight through the Dame's back, and with her dying breath she found herself screaming the name of the terrible duo that had brought this black day to pass.

"DOCTOR-DONNA!"

And the Nineteenth Genocide Fleet was no more.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Not wanting to watch the incineration he caused, the Doctor gave the viewing monitor a shove that carried it to the far end of the TARDIS console, and flipped a few random switches he didn't know the purpose of to make it look like he was doing something clever.

"That," he mused as he began pacing down a set of clanking stairs. "Was the third Genocide Fleet I've seen this year. You'd think they'd be as sick of building them as I am of blowing them up."

He paused, folding his brainy specs and stowing them back into a spare pocket. "Well, I suppose technically this only the second time this millennium from their point of view. But I think the point stands, don't you?"

An acrid odor and an unusual silence from Donna snapped his attention to her. The human woman was just standing there, smoking slightly from burnt patches of her clothes.

"Er, no more distractions. You've been wanting to get your hair done, right? I can take you to the best stylist in the Andromeda Galaxy. She usually works with two heads, but I'm sure..."

Sniff. There was a scent of slightly singed hair coming off Donna now. Maybe bringing up hair after the incident with the plasma control vent wasn't one of his brighter moves.

The Doctor disembarked from the last step, standing on a flat even level with his companion--who was smoldering both literally and figuratively, as it happened.

"Alright," he sighed, trying to meet Donna's furious gaze and failing. "On a scale of nine to ten, how much trouble am I in?"

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  • 3 weeks later...

Donna intensified her glare. “Eleven. You honestly thought the vents were a good idea? Do you know how it feels to have plasma burning on your head while someone else just marvels at it? Ooh, look, your hair's burning periwinkle, isn't that wizard? And that ‘coolant’ spray you found? Absolute rubbish. My hair smells like slugs, and it hasn’t stopped with all of the green smoke yet. Not to mention the ambush by those octopus-thingys, which was entirely your fault...” Her ranting soon grew incomprehensible. Eventually, she ran out of steam and resumed her silence.

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  • 1 month later...

Florianne Samrial, heir to her house, soared through the mists on ribbons of blue. A freedom she felt nowhere else enveloped her as she spun in the air, her cloak splaying out around her. But it always ended. She to return to the ground, eventually.

Her mist cloak rustled slightly when she landed outside Keep Samrial. Dropping a clip, she steelpushed up to her balcony and strode into her rooms.

"Lise?" She called, as she undid the clasp of her mistcloak.

"Yes'm." Came the reply. Lise stepped around the corner and came to assist her.

"Lisa, can you please tell my father I've returned?"

Florianne had changed into a simple silk gown, by the time Lisa returned with her father. He was slightly taller than Florianne, with the same auburn hair, though his contained a few streaks of gray.

"I trust you had an enjoyable night out?" Florianne could feel him pushing on her emotions, trying to make her slightly more talkative. Her father was not a full mistborn, only a soother. He had never known the joy of dancing on the mists. Though, he was exceptional at what he did. He had taught her himself, and she could only recognize his touch after years of being influenced by him.

"Yes, Father." Florianne answered. "How was yours?"

"Productive. I've arranged for you to attend tomorrow's ball with Laurent Izenry."

Florianne cocked her head. "But I went with him last time, Father. Shouldn't I attend with a variety of people, as to not show . . . " Her green eyes narrowed. "Are we trying to make a statement of preference?"

Lord Samrial smiled. He was a shrewd man and never did anything without purpose. Of course he was trying to show preference. "You are at eligible age to be married, Dear. If all goes well, I would like to see you with the Izenrys."

The Izenrys were nearly as wealthy as the Samrials. If Florianne married the heir of their house, their house, being just slightly smaller than her's, would be folded into their's and nearly double the Samrial wealth.

Florianne curtsied low. "Of course, Father."

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Lord Merth strolled through the crowded ballroom, enjoying himself thoroughly. Say what you will about these stuck-up Tekiels, they knew how to throw a party. Soft music filtered through the crowd, the refreshment tables were kept well-stocked and the dancing was divine. What a wonderful evening, thought Merth.
Torque, however, disagreed strongly. He was bored out of his mind. How did these nobles get together almost every night just to do absolutely nothing but twitter and twirl? Merth must be crazy, he concluded. The worst part was, Torque couldn’t just get away from him. He was in his Torque’s head.
Torque was on a job and he couldn’t very well go as himself. The dirty skaa thief would stick out a mile in a place like this. For this purpose he had brought Merth into existence to help him through the job. He had to convince Lord Tekiel to invest in a shipping company owned by Merth. Of course, the company was as non-existent as Merth was.
A slight glimmer of warmth persisted in the pit of Torque’s stomach as zinc smoldered softly there, making all the surrounding nobles just that little bit more content, confident and trusting. Merth could use all the help he could get. He wasn’t the brightest alloy in the bunch, bless his soul.
What are you going on about, my good man? Merth asked.
Nothing. Nothing at all. Torque replied. Focus on the job.
Torque would probably get rid of Merth after this job. It always made him feel guilty, like he was killing a man. They sometimes pleaded with him, some threatened, and some accepted their fate with stoic silence. Those were the worst kind.
Torque made sure to think these things quietly. He didn’t want Merth to discover his fate and go into a panic.
Lord Tekiel appeared on the far end of the ballroom with his wife on his arm. Merth approached them diffidently.
“My lord, my lady,” he said, nodding to the two of them.
“Ah, Merth, was it?” Lord Tekiel neglected to use Merth’s title. This didn’t bode well for the rest of the conversation.
“Yes, my lord. I wanted to know where you stand on the shipping investment.”
Tekiel frowned. “I’m not certain I want to invest in something with so little promise of a profit.”
“But my lord, you have seen our operations.” All a front. Skaa hired to walk around a large warehouse and look busy but not actually do anything. These nobles sure were gullible. “Surely you see the potential of my company.” Torque stoked his zinc, the faint, warm glow becoming a small fire.
You’re probably already confident enough. How about some trust? Counteract that nasty suspicion. Merth’s just a new lord getting started in Luthadel. No need to be paranoid. And pity. Pity’s good right now. And generosity. Help out a poor soul.
Torque watched Tekiel’s face and body language carefully as he reacted to Torque’s gentle touch on his emotions.
“Very well, Lord Merth,” Tekiel said, squaring his shoulders. “You will have your money. When can you prepare a contract?”
“I have one right here, my lord.” Merth removed a piece of paper from his jacket. “I have been eager to begin work.” This would cement Tekiel’s opinion of Merth as a slightly desperate new lord with little to lose. Partners like those were the best kind. As long as they were real, of course.
The contract was signed and sealed by a passing obligator. The job was done. Torque would deliver the contract to his employer who would collect the money from the Tekiel treasury and give Torque his cut. Hopefully. You could never be sure in the underground, but that was life.
Merth was overjoyed. He finally had his first major investor! This would lead to other Great Houses taking notice, until-
Oh, shut it, you fancy twit. You sound like an excited schoolgirl.
He couldn’t leave just yet. It would look suspicious. He mingled with the nobles a bit more. As soon as it was socially acceptable, Merth began to head for the doors.
Once in his carriage, Torque began the hardest part. Explaining to Merth what would happen. He always believed that they should at least know what was going to happen before they faded into oblivion.
Merth was one of the beggers. His pleas echoed plaintively through Torque’s head and bounced around in his skull long after Merth had been smothered, joining the others.
And everyone wondered why he was crazy.

Edited by Pinnacle-Ferring
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