Strait Of The Americas

Dozens of copies of North America cascade through here - left and right, up and down, North America is all you can see from a birds-eye view. The various Americas seem to have been a relatively good place for a staging ground for the Union, though, for whatever reasons they may be, and as such, out of one that was unfortunate enough to not survive a nuclear war, the new capital of the Union was forged - New Washington.

Contents:

Unit 05-A Skidplate <UN>

ShinRa Mansion Dallas-357

Canada Dark Cave

New Washington

Obvious exits:

<N>orth leads to Frigid Reaches.

<S>outh leads to Planetary Plains.

It began as an ordinary day, or as ordinary a day as one can expect in a place such as this. A light breeze pushes the clouds along, the sun peeking through from time to time.

A perfectly ordinary day.

At least until a man appears about three feet above the ground. There's no clap of thunder, no brilliant flash - a sharper gust of wind is all that heralds his arrival. With nothing to support him, he falls limply to the ground, landing on his stomach, arms and legs sprawled.

Of course, the sharper gust of wind catches the attention of an apricot-colored canine.. and the apricot head sticks out of the access port of a simply large mechanical device; vaguely bug-like with a trace of lemur and canine, covered with a black carapace-like substance... and the apricot-colored canine head holds out a... banana.

"Who goes there?!" she calls out "Identify yourself or I'll... make a banana split!"

The man doesn't answer immediately. He doesn't answer after a moment or two, either. Upon closer scrutiny, he appears to be...smouldering.

Sniffing the air, the canine drops down out of the hatch, landing in a crouch on the ground.

"Umm... sir?" She asks, standing -- she appears to be only about four-and-a-half feet tall, and maybe a little chunky. "... are you on fire?"

The man stirs faintly, his only answer a soft but pained moan. He rolls his head to one side, toward the voice. His face is obviously burned, the skin an angry red. He does not yet open his eyes.

Skidplate frowns slightly, and dashes back to the mech, smacking the side of the ankle to release the catch on the med kit. She digs through it, pulling outa few odd looking cynanders, and runs back to the man.

"Sir, I need you to talk to me. What's your name and rank? What world are you from? Do wake up sir ... does this hurt?"

With that, she shakes the cylendar and sprays something on the side of his face; it should be a cold sting.

The man slowly begins to come around. He groans again, then coughs sharply several times. The sting of cold spray stinging his face brings him closer to consciousness, if not coherancy. He opens his right eye partway, seeing but not really focusing up the very strange person trying to help him. "nnngh...where...?"

Skidplate shushes, and puts a hand on his chest.

"Stay still, you look pretty banged up..." she mutters in her husky voice, spraying some guaze with the cold spray, then laying it over his eyes -- better he not freak out when he looks at her.

"My name is Private Second-Class Skidplate, I'm with the Union, I'll take care of you." she gives a small smile.

The man has little choice but to let her minister to him. He's hardly in any condition to do otherwise. "D...did..." he begins, trailing off for a moment. Then, he take a deeper breath, mustering his strength. "...per-i-ment...did...did...it work?"

Skidplate thinks a momment, applying more spray to guaze pads, and frowns.

"I really have no idea, sir." she answers after a short while, giving a very dog-like whine of worry.

"Wai...waiting..." The man manages a few more words. "Shi-zuma..." He coughs again, clearing who knows what from his lungs, then falls silent. He remains still as he's tended to, giving an occasional hiss of pain when the disinfectant(?) spray hits a burn that's a bit worse than the others.

Skidplate frowns at the hiss of pain.

"Sorry..." she mutters softly, applying more guaze.

"What planet are you from?"

Planet?

That question doesn't parse at first. Were he more coherant than this, he would think it to be a very odd question. In his present state of mind, however...

"Earth," he rasps.

Skidplate nods slightly.

"What country?" she asks again, trying to determine whether it was a short-distance space-time jump, or whether it was dimensional.

She shouldn't have to deal with this stuff!

The man's clothes don't appear to have fared any better than he has. His labcoat is charred at the hems, and both his shirt and pants are scorched. It must have been pretty intense, whatever happened to him.

Again, it takes him a long moment to answer. "Aus-tria..." Then, after another moment, he adds, "...Bashtarle..."

Skidplate nods slightly.

"And can you tell me your name sir?" she asks, committing the strange sounding places to memory. "I can get in contact with the other Air Calvary members and get you to medical help."

The man is swathed in gauze and well doused with that stinging spray at this point, which is more than likely an improvement. This question is far simpler for him. "..Vogler...Franken..von Vogler."

Skidplate nods slightly.

"Stay still for a few minutes, Vogler Franken von Vogler. I'll be right back, I'll radio in for some advice on what to do with you." she says hushedly, then stands, running over to the opened mech and grabbing the comm link.

Dr. Vogler certainly isn't going anywhere. He continues to lie there, moving only so far as to find a position that is slightly more comfortable.

<Union-IC> Skidplate says, "Private Splitter reporting in, this is Skidplate.... ah...s ome guy from a place called Aust-riea Bashtarle on Earth named Vogler Franken von Vogler has suddenly appeared -- he's about medium-rare. I need some assistance to get him back to HQ."

Skidplate blinks worriedly, not getting an answer back from the Union. Is anyone on? She looks back to the burned Vogler, and takes a deep breath. If she has to transport him, it wouldn't bode well for his poor skin.

Dr. Vogler cannot see anything through the gauze bandaging his eyes, but he can still hear. He turns his head toward where he heard her walk, but otherwise keeps still.

<Union-IC> Skidplate says, "Repeat, this is Private Skidplate, I have an injured Vogler done about medium-rare, requesting advice or a transport. Ricochet's too small for passengers?"

<Union-IC> Optimus Prime says, "I am authorizing a transport dispatch now."

<Union-IC> Optimus Prime says, "OOC: I'm too tied up to NPC it, Skids."

<Union-IC> Skidplate says, "Thank you sir. Much apretiate it"

Skidplate hops down, and runs back over to the human, her tail wagging slightly.

"The Union's sending a transport with a real medic on it -- you just have a mechanic, unfortunately." she smiles, kneeling at his side, then tries to keep him talking.

"What were you working on, Mr. Vogler?"

Dr. Vogler's breathing evens out, though it remains labored. The words come in fits and starts, with pauses in between to catch his breath. "Power source...perfect...perfect energy.......no pollution...the world....is waiting...nngh..."

Skidplate gives a nod, then flicks an ear with the audiable rattle of her pencil-width "dreads".

"That's such a good idea, Mr. Vogler..."

It slowly begins to dawn on Vogler that he does not recognize the voice speaking to him. "Who...are you?"

Skidplate gives another little nod.

"My name's Private Second-Class Skidplate Splitter, pilot of Ricochet. I'm with the Union -- don't worry, you're safe."

There is another long pause, broken by another coughing spell somewhere in the middle. "...Local Four-twelve?" Vogler questions.

Skidplate shakes her head "The Union as opposed to the Confederacy." she answers.