Writing Prompt: Your Character and Their Faction

Ash let out a short 'hmm' as she looked at the model of the glove, turning it around on the holographic display. After hollowing removing all the irrelevant parts of the cyborg, she was left with an opening in the design. But what to do with it, that was the question... the right arm already had all the computing and interface tools she'd want, so making a wearable computer out of the left glove would be more trouble than it was worth.

A weapon, perhaps? There was definitely room for a hidden blade, and if those come in handy are certainly a treat... but that's a big 'if'. She'd had a blade hidden in her wheelchair for years, and it had never once come up. A hidden gun of some kind, maybe? That wasn't a proven non-starter yet, but she might have to upsize the glove a bit to fit the necessary firing mechanisms. That's just going to make it more obvious, and it's already going to be a bit blatant--

*ba-dink!*

The short, synthesized chime from across the workshop pulled Ash out of her own mind. Reflexively she brought her hand to her hip pocket, before quickly remembering that A: she had left her phone at the workbench she was at earlier, and B: she wasn't wearing an outfit with hip pockets today. Spinning her wheelchair around, she made her way over to pick it up, quietly guessing at who it was. A commission? Xi, wanting to set up dinner? Maybe those parts she ordered that had been delayed...

The smile she didn't even know was on her face faded the moment she saw the source of the message.

Oh.

Them.

Anyone else, and she probably would have responded to the message immediately. But the Illuminati? It was never good news when she picked up the phone to the Illuminati. Although it had taken her years to realize that...

She closed her eyes, taking in a few deep breaths to try to ease what she could already tell was a growing temper. It was more than just 'not good news' to deal with the Illuminati; it was thankless torment. Her work was criticized--torn to shreds, at times--no matter how much she did, no matter how much others would compliment the same product. She was paid a pittance compared to others, which she supposed was a reflection of the scorn to her work.

And yet she'd remained loyal, taking every heaping of shit they'd given her.

Ash clenched her fists, that temper rising. And was she ever rewarded for that loyalty? For that work? For operations she'd saved, entire vital projects that would have collapsed without her? No, other people picked the corpse clean, made millions off of her work. Was she even thanked!? Not bloody well often! The few times she was only served to emphasise the countless times she wasn't.

And yet they keep calling! She had to make the most of freak chance to even get the money for her workshop, they don't give her anything. And she can't well exploit circumstances like that very often! What do they even think they offer her anymore!

It was too much to keep in. Her hand already balled into a fist, Ash didn't even think as she reeled it back, bringing it full-force to the brick wall next to her.

...

"...Fuuu-huuuuu-huuuck...!" Shaking her now-loosened hand in the air, Ash blew on it, looking over the damage to her knuckles. She wasn't bleeding, but she'd clearly cut some layers of skin in the impact. Figures, she didn't have enough physical strength to do the wall or herself any damage with that one...

It had at least redirected her energy a bit. Waiting for the pain to subside, she steered her wheelchair over to that central, holographic display. She wasn't paying it any mind, though, instead grabbing the vape pen sitting near the edge of the table. With the press of a button, the taste of green tea filled her lungs, the involuntary shakes of rage subsiding.

Exhaling, she watched the puff of scented smoke waft into her workshop, slowly dissipating. She still wasn't quite sure if it was the chemicals in that cloud or something else, but she wasn't inclined to ask.

They'd have to wait for her. She'd come in her own time. She needed a fucking break.

Aka was meditating after his morning chores, a daily routine he had performed since he was a young boy. His mind was wandering away from the now, into the before and into the next.

When the Tokyo accident took place, he thought that he would be able to find a way to deliver his family from the curse that the Dragon had bestowed upon them, an eternal servitude toward the Invisible Masters that now lived in Seoul until their debt was paid. Only when he learnt from a group of revolted Blessed Ones, those that are more often called Bees, that the Dragon might have foreseen the Tokyo events and chose to sacrifice part of the capital to prevent a more terrifying disaster, did he realize that he was wrong from the start.

The Dragon did not put a curse on his family, but a blessing, It allowed him and his kin to be part of a something greater. There will be more sacrifices to come and he may lose both his life and his soul, but he knew that what the Dragon brought was Change and that was what the Earth O-Kami needed. The status quo could no longer be maintained; in order to restore balance, unbalance had to be created first.

With the confidence that fanaticism built, he took a long breath as he returned to the now:
“Today was a good day to live and to die for the Dragon!”

The alarm started blaring at 4 AM sharp. Not that it mattered much. Matt couldn't sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time for weeks. He halfheartedly shut the alarm clock down, coffee already brewing in the kitchen. No nightmares tonight at least. He thought.

He grabbed his enormous coffee mug and filled it with black gold. Almost. He left a generous ammount of space for some some 16 year old Lagavulin.

With his deadly concoction in hand, he went back to the bedroom. Besides the various video game posters decorating the wall, there was also a painting, an exact replica of Waterhouse's version of The Lady of Shallott. He uncereminiously pulled the painting aside revealing a keypad. After carefully wiping his hands he entered the code.

A *click* was heard as one of the bookshelves on the side of the room slid across the floor, revealing a staircase to the basement.

Down in his "lair" among the assortment of weapons there was already a sports bag packed and ready next to a laptop case with the unmistakeable logo of the Orochi Group on its back. He sipped his coffee and moved deeper into the hideout. Handguns and rifles, both the assault and marksman variety lined the  walls. Some of them seemed to be one of a kind. Deeper in the sanctum the walls were filled with books. Actual grimoires down here, unlike those in the apartment proper.

None of those seemed to have interested him at the moment. He walked to the end of the corridor, to a stand with an ancient but well maintained set of armor with a very visible Templar cross on the breastplate. To the side, he opened yet another safe that contained nothing but a pin forming the Eye and Pyramid symbol of the Illuminati. He grabbed the pin in his left hand. Such a tiny thing... But removing it has changed so much. I knew they would  not understand. It doesn't matter anymore. He did a little toast to the empty air. "To former friends! Know that I'm fighting for you too." He drained the cup, replaced the pin and relocked the safe.

On his way back out he glanced back at the armor on the rack. Sometimes I wonder what you would have to say about all this Grandpa. He thought bitterly. Nothing good I imagine. Well, there is a world to save and someone has to do what needs to be done. If the lack of bribery, trickery or perceived righteousness makes me someone to be detested, so be it.

He left the basement, grabbing the bag and laptop on his way out. There was work to be done. It was time for a dynamic fucking day.

Breath in. Aim. Shoot.

Lee was old, reaching his late fifties soon, he didn't know how long he could hold out these raids for. A dive, somewhere in Canada. It smelled of oil and pine, an interesting combination. He was mortal, but he had a purpose. He was a soldier in an army, the Templars. He wore a brown jacket, with leather padding on the sides, and an ammo carrier at the lower waist. On his neck was a cross, crimson and silver. He was pure.

Darkness is broken by light. Blood, there's a body. One of his comrades, Lee knew not his name. Clad in a t-shirt with a Kevlar vest. A rookie mistake. Sorcerers and demons did not use guns. He glances around. In his hand is a M16a4. Flicked to semi automatic. He had two magazines left.

Screams, yells, shouts. He was hiding behind a wall, awaiting. The target, why they were here he finally remembers. A sorcerer had been dabbling in powers dangerous and evil, so his commander said. Demonic summoning. He saw the target. Young, kind eyes, and fair blond hair. Lee held his breath, and fired. Three shots into the torso. The boy falls dead within the instant. With a brisk motion, Lee shifts to raise his rifle and fire a few more in order to ensure the sorcerer is dead. He had no mercy for this boy. He took the side of the demons, of the enemy. The boy had sacrificed his humanity to serve alien and evil powers. Lee felt hate fester within him, before he turns around to the rest of the dive.

Disgust, cheers, clarity. The signs of the end of a battle. There were three of them still alive. Two of the rookies had fallen. Lee knew not their name, he knew not to bond with those that may die in a hunt. The veteran, a Gladiator. An Old-Guard. . He knew his commander's name, Grigori, as he had seen many battles with him. He bore a red shirt, and combat pants, along with a baseball bat and a catalyst of Chaos Magics. Covered in ash and blood, he had slayed demons today, Grigori approached Lee and spoke.
"Are you getting too tired, old man?" A polish accent, brimming with a rich sense of superiority. Grigori's
Lee grunted. He was a New-blood. Recruited recently, one of the many indoctrinated and sent to fight and eventually die in backroom raids for the cause of humanity. Grigori was younger than Lee, but his family was all that matters.. A sorcerer in his own rights, a mix of Chaos Magics and Templar rituals were practiced by the scion. Lee hated him.
"No, sir." Lee almost groaned with his speech.
"Than stop staring and get the gas. This building never existed."
The Commander brushes past Lee, and returns to the car. Lee helps the other men in sealing bodies in body bags. He collected every necklace, and stuffed them away. And then, he spoke.
"What's your name?" Lee asked to one of his younger comrades. Only after a comrade survives his first raid, does Lee learn his name. Don't get close to those that will die soon. Grief has been the death of many soldiers. He knew that too well.

And so, when the night was up, and Lee was loaded back into the van to be brought back to the nearest safehouse, and whisked away via airplane, he prayed. The Templars were not christian, despite what movies say, but he was. He prayed for safety, and thanked the Lord for another successful purge. He prayed that the burning dive may wither away, and it's evils never be exposed again. He was a fanatic, he was a militia. He was a Templar.