Over the years and months, the Hell had been prosperous. Four of its levels still remained operational as Islay's favourite (and only) beergarden. Two, however... Did not. After the fall of the Nature's Last Hope, the short-lived reign of the Underloch, and finally, the stillborn Death Cult, including the vanishing or deaths of some of the greatest personae Islay had ever known, two levels of the Hell were locked away. The lowest two levels, those normally having housed the... less than lucrative, yet favourite corners of the complex for the few loyal, old-time Gaians.
Heavy footsteps rung through the mostly vacant Hell, the few patrons inside casting suspicious eyes to the rushing, shambling figure. Its silhouette was unremarkable, apart from its morbidly malnourished appearance, shrouded in a tattered, filthy old trenchcoat. Open in the front, all it gave notion of was the handle of a thigh-sheathed sawed off shotgun. An ancient double-barrel implement, nonetheless quite effective at point blank range in a place where rarely anyone wore body armor of note. A cascade of grimy, messy, dark brown dreadlocks hung from the figure's bowed head, all the way down to the back of its knees, drawing attention to the limping gait this person sported.
There had been word around the Hell of a return- An unorthodox return. Islay's dock had recently approved mooring rights for an obsolete design of the 'Claymore' gunship, and rumour had spread across the base, making many swarm to the dock to see the abomination of technology- The boat looked nothing like its former glory. Its hull was dented, scraped, burned and perforated in countless places, the larger tears and punctures obviously, and inexpertly, patched up with what looked to be hull fragments of all manner of ships. Here, a Decurion's wingtip welded to hold two panels together- There, a salvaged Gallic gunship stabilizer forced into place. It seemed like a wonder this thing even flew at all- What with its left engine missing, and a makeshift ballast bolted together in place to keep the weight in place.
Yet, as the crowds scratched or shook their heads, or even laughed at the sad sight in the dock, a keycard was used. Once the figure had reached the old, run-down door, unopened in months, a card was quickly swiped, followed by a paranoid glance-around, dreadlocks swinging. Slowly, with a pained, rusty old squeal, the door parted and slid open, letting the stale, stinking air out in a gust to mix with the... well, not much more pleasant atmosphere of the remainder of the Hell. The door then slid shut, as the figure secured it behind itself, turning on several of the atmospheric fans that had once supported an entire cell of men and women. Further footsteps begun to raise dust, of which a thick layer had formed over everything present- It muffled the heavy bootsteps, leaving prints in an awkward, mismatched pattern behind the figure, which had now begun to glance around the second deepest level. The info wall was old- Set to dates long gone, with information still new to the man.
Light shed onto the figure's face revealed scarred, rarely untouched dark skin, hidden partways by the dreadlocks. A previously milky white eye was now replaced by a surgical cyber-implant, projecting a dot of green light as its focus, whooshing over all the history on this wall, most jarring this scarred man's memory. Notes of the Sirius Coalition's Revolutionary Army and the long-forgotten treaties, the ancient rosters of the various organizations the Hell had housed- All but forgotten after the move to Faroe. Islay was, mostly, a dead base.
Yet, no concern was shown by the man about all this, or at least it seemed. A light frown adorned his features as he set his course directly over a set combination of hallways, and a staircase, leading him down, into the forgotten dark of the lowest level. The air there was even thicker, and it reeked. The stench of mold and stale air was so powerful, he had not even had time to register the utter emptiness of the level before retching uncontrollably over the mesh stairs, slowly staggering back up over the stairs. It was most likely wiser to wait until the air fans did their magic before going down- Not to mention, he was fairly sure that most of what had been left behind by the former leaders and members was gone by now.
Most of the members' quarters, he noticed, were empty- Cleared of all their possessions, stripped even of the furniture and basic holo-panels on the walls. Thankfully, some were still untouched. Covering his nose, he swiped another card through the reader next to a nearby door, to be greeted by a rush of warm air carried from out of his own old quarters. It was all still there, preserved surprisingly well... Apart from anything organic, naturally, which had decayed and faded long ago. A small measure of contentment spread through his being, and a smirk appeared on his lips, just before he turned about, taking a few paces over the platform he stood on, leaning onto the squeaking railing and looking down onto the dry rocks and dirt that had once been lush with vegetation.
His smirk widened considerably, revealing his decayed and broken teeth in a newly crafted grin. "Looks to me... Dis place be cryin' for a rebirt'."
Sucks to be a weight on the wrong side of the brilliance-insanity scale.