@Sky: Xandus is annoying me as well. I even went so far as to PM Sam about it. I don't know much about Fury's posting, apart from the non-sequitur hoof that really shouldn't be there.
Serial Killer Round 12: Now with Free Bacon! (The Killer is Dead! New Round will begin shortly!)
- Thread starter NeoAC
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Prepare thine staring organs; this one's a doozy.
A scraggly goatee and wide-brimmed glasses were briefly illuminated by blue light, in stark contrast to the warm, yellow tones that reflected off the rest of the pale-skinned face. A spark flew up and crested a head of dark, unkempt hair, barely missing the man's head and softly sizzling to the floor somewhere behind him. A small, hopeful smile lit up the man's face as he gazed upon yet another glowing ring.
Yorg Miester sat hunched over a table, surrounded by futuristic-looking components and parts, lit by the sickly glow of a single yellow light-bulb from behind, and the pale blue shimmer of the strange accessories arrayed before him. Vials, books, scraps of paper, pencils, dead rats, and all other manner of bizarre experimentation equipment covered the desk and surrounding floor, spilling onto another table nearby and up onto a whiteboard, which was in turn swamped with graphs, scribbled thoughts, and scrawling mathematical equations.
The walls were completely plastered with newspaper clippings and torn pieces of paper, pictures of murders and detective's notes. One section was devoted entirely to questions, questions of the "who" "when" and "why" variety, questions written in a desperate, frenzied hand, with lines and offshoots pointing to possible answers, possible leads. All lead to dead ends, angrily scribbled out or slashed away.
"Aha!" another glowing ring reached fruition, and Yorg set it down atop the first one, taking a moment to admire the little circular salvations.
Yorg had virtually been living in this room for three months, ever since the murders and executions began. First War Penguin, his throat slit on a dark path in the local park. Poor kid never stood a chance. Fury took the heat for that one. Then Toasty, slain at home in his bed. Axle had been "proven guilty" that time. Then Lost was killed, and they had all despaired, for that had set them back to square one. That's when Yorg's project had really heated up.
Through a myriad of different techniques and ventures he himself had proven CounterAttack to be the killer. There had been no doubt. But ultimate was owned the very next night. The possibility of multiple killers had arisen, but had been swiftly beaten down. They would catch the murderer next time, he had been sure of it.
Just as he had been sure about Pm0n3y.
Asturial was murdered, and Schizzy convicted. J1-2themax was killed next, the groups' only doctor, and Yorg had been rash, piling the evidence against Lambi with wild abandon. In truth it was not totally his fault; they had all become paranoid by then. That didn't change the fact that he had directly influenced the death of six innocent people. It haunted him, driving him even further into this hellish and inflammatory project that brought as many questions as it did help.
And now here he was, gone nearly mad from his long seclusion. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair greasy and uncombed, his fingers rubbed raw from constant work. He was a disgusting, smelly, secluded mess; but he was close.
Closer than he had ever been before.
And he was sure of it this time. There was no way he could be wrong. Everything was falling into place, all the pieces fit together. Everything made sense. The big picture was coming into the light; only a few more inches now. Only a few more threads to connect the tapestry, only a few more blocks to complete the wall. Not only was he on the verge of discovering the Killer's identity once and for all... he knew how to kill him.
Standing up from his hunched position, Yorg pushed the chair away and walked across the room, ignoring the pain that emanated from his spine. All this sitting had given him some kind of chronic back problem, to be sure, but it would be worth it in the end.
The wall opposite his desk was home to a myriad of different computers and servers; backup machines, decoys, alternate connections, powerful processors working nonstop on incredibly complex operations. System cloaking devices and proxies, heat signature recognitions and hidden cameras. Layers and layers of security measures. Multiple LCD screens marched in ranks in front of him, each displaying statistics, audio samples, video footage. Two cell phones sat on a table nearby, wired to a million different places, playing recorded messages and faked answering calls.
So close.
Behind Yorg's sweat-stained glasses, a pair of piercingly desperate eyes scanned the equipment , picking up on any oddities and filing them away, or acting upon them. His fingers swept the keyboards in front of him, his commands filtering through again and again. Windows appeared, information was gathered, systems were checked.
A speck suddenly appeared on one of the screens, a tiny energy signature.
"No..." his hands froze as he backed away from the console. "No, not yet... no, no NO!" Nearly falling over himself, the terrified man rushed back towards the table, retrieving his pistol on the way. Whirling around to face the screens as he hurriedly stuffed a briefcase with notes and papers, he watched as the lights outside his bunker began to flip off, one by one.
"No, no no no..." Yorg chanted, running back to the computers. Typing erratically, he started the emergency wipeout system. A countdown appeared, in huge red letters, which he ignored, continuing to type. A small, oval-shaped device ejected from one of the computers, and he grabbed it instantly, running back across the room.
"37, 36, 35, 34..." the countdown echoed in his head as he stuffed the device into a secret pocket in his briefcase. Turning to the glowing rings and other contraptions, he began pouring them in as well, when there was suddenly a loud bang nearby, and the hiss of melting steel.
"Damnit!" Yorg yelled, swiping one hand across the table, sending all of his hard work crashing to the floor. "You can't come yet! You can't! I'm not finished!" backpedaling across the trash-strewn linoleum, he flicked on his lighter and threw it to the floor, where it caught the blue substance aflame. Turning away, be bolted through the back door and shut it behind him, just as the table and walls were engulfed in fire.
"21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16..." his feet made a loud metallic clanging as he barreled down the fire escape, the cold city air leaving it's cruel caress on his skin. The instantaneous change from the dank, close, hot air of his hideaway and the frigid, stony air outside nearly took the breath out of him, but he had no time for awe.
"10, 9, 8,7..." He wasn't going to make it... he still had three stories to go! Smashing into the railing, he leaned over it, casting about desperately with his eyes for anything to land on below.
"5,4,3,2..." He turned back and stared at the apartment above in fear for a spilt second, and then jumped.
The explosion shook the pavement and shattered the brickwork, as the building behind Yorg erupted in fire and brimstone. The force of the blow sent him rocketing across the alleyway and into the opposite wall. A windowsill caught his jaw, a shard of glass his shoulder. Down he went, landing hard in a pile of trash and refuse, where he lay still, taking shelter from the falling stones and heat.
Rising shakily almost a minute later, Yorg gazed about him, taking in the sight of the burning building and the destruction all around. One hand absently rubbing his bruised jaw, he stared with incredibly strong and varied emotions up at the room where he had spent himself for the last three months, working to end this maniac's reign of terror. Now it was all gone; all he had were the bare bones of the project, the skeleton structure needed to support all else. It would be arduous work to do it all over again, but at least it was not forever lost. At least they still knew how-
Wait, he's dead!
The revelation suddenly found him, and Yorg lay back on the garbage bags and laughed, all the strain and pressure and fear leaving him. The killer was dead! Finally dead! Nobody would have to be murdered anymore, they were all safe! His mind could barely comprehend it, after so long living under the mysterious entities' shadow. Speaking of shadows, what was-
He froze. There. Nearly six stories above. Amid the flames and ruin. A figure, a shadow. Standing. Watching.
Moving.
Yorg suddenly realized his peril and rolled to the side, diving towards the pavement. The bullet caught his left forearm and he cried out in pain. Trash flew as he leaped to his feet and took off down the alleyway, towards the street, a billion thoughts and emotions rushing through his head.
Despite his adrenaline rush, the sharp jolt of pain he received from his right ankle was more than enough to slow him. Wincing and biting his tongue, he slumped onto the moist brick wall for support, hobbling along on one good leg, his briefcase held in an iron grip.
No! No no no no no no no he's supposed to be dead! I killed him! I blew him up, burned him alive! How can he still be coming for me?!
Another bullet struck the brick as Yorg rounded a corner. Retreating from the scene with all the speed he could muster, the terrified man weaved in and out of alleyways, taking short cuts and long cuts, trying without success to lose his pursuer. Time and time again a deadly projectile would tear the environment right next to him, and a shadow would leap from the rooftops.
He's toying with me, Yorg thought as he ran, his desperation spurring him on. The case repeatedly hammered against his side, a constant reminder of the Holy Grail he carried.
Diving through a doorway that suddenly appeared to his right, Yorg ducked inside and scurried into the shadows. He was in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, with a high ceiling and few walls. Whipping out his cell phone, he began dialing numbers.
"Come on, Nukey, pick up..." the impact of his feet on the floor pounded in his chest as he searched about in the dark for some stairs. He cursed as the answering machine took over, hurriedly dialing a second number. Maddawg didn't pick up either, nor did Sky. Elementsoul's phone was busy. Yorg wanted to scream his frustration to the heavens. Why the fuck would nobody pick up?!
A scratching noise. Yorg whirled around, staring into the blackness.
About a hundred yards away, a ceiling light turned on. Standing directly below it was the killer, his form and features hidden by cloaks and clothing of shadow. A strange weapon rested in his right hand, a long and cruel knife in the other. Raising the weapon, the murderer fired.
The shot grazed Yorg's head, taking part of his left ear in a spout of blood. Flying to the floor, he clutched the side of his face, thinking himself mortally wounded. The case's handle nearly bent in the steeled clutch that held it.
"NO!" Yorg screamed, scrambling to his feet and backwards, as the killer advanced at a steady pace, the lights flicking on before him and off behind him. It raised it's grisly weapon once more and fired another shot. This bullet struck it's target on the left arm, causing the man to cry out once again in pain.
"No, you fucking... you bastard..." Yorg panted, struggling to get away. He rose to his feet and started to run, but a third bullet tore into his right calf, and he went sprawling, crumpled to the floor. Using the precious briefcase as a crutch, he slowly began to crawl, still trying desperately to escape.
"No..." he repeated over and over as the killer approached. A fiercely powerful hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was forcefully turned around. A weak attempt to bash the murderer with his briefcase resulted in not but a blow to his own jaw, sending him back to the floor.
The killer said nothing as it bent down and stared at Yorg with invisible eyes. The knife in it's left hand twirled absently, and with a very casual motion it raised it's gun and fired yet another shot, planting this one painfully into Yorg's left foot.
"AAAAAUGH!" Sweat poured from the man's body, soaking his already filthy cloths and running slick on his skin. Blood poured from his multiple wounds, mixing with the salty liquid and joining on the floor beneath the pair in a gruesome puddle.
The killer continued to stare, not making any movements other than twirling the knife in it's hand. Yorg lay bleeding on the floor before it, gasping for breath, tears streaked down his face. For what seemed like hours they sat there, murderer and victim, joined in a cruel, cruel bond of blood.
Presently the killer raised its' knife, grabbing hold of Yorg's shoulder and turning him over to face his doom. Then, something unexpected happened.
A crash of windows and a shattering of silence. Both men looked up abruptly, into a shower of broken glass, as the window high above them was suddenly broke asunder. Down into the warehouse fell a massive jumble of white steel and moving parts, whirring motors and flashing lights; a Protectron.
The Killer was smacked out of the way and into the darkness as the huge robot landed. A giant red red eye stared down at Yorg, unblinking in its' futuristic chrome fitting. A metallic voice spoke in a flat tone, relaying it's information to the frightened man.
A slug slammed into the robot's head in a shower of sparks, sending it reeling to the side momentarily before swinging back. In one fluid motion the sleek machine had picked Yorg up and dove to the side, an automatic weapon appearing on one of it's many arms and firing into the shadows.
The robot leaped upwards, latching onto a huge metal beam several dozen feet above. From there it soared through the window above in another shattering of glass, landing on a building across the street in a single bound.
Yorg could hardly believe it. In a matter of seconds he had gone from being as good as dead to being safe in the arms of a gigantic robot protector. He had been certain that he was about to die, he had resigned himself to his fate! Clutching the briefcase to his chest, he slowly let out a groan of relief, the aches and pains of the night's harrowing events flooding into his body as the adrenaline wore off.
Yorg's stomach lurched inside him as the Protectron suddenly vaulted over the rim of the building, a barrage of bullets glancing off of its' sides. The small man in its' grasp heaved out his lunch, partly due to the motion and partly due to the fact that his hope had been torn away from him for the second time tonight.
The robot squawked again as it began clambering over buildings, vaulting over rooftops, and sailing through the air. It's numerous limbs caught hold of the wet concrete environment perfectly, sending it somersaulting with beautiful agility and speed through the cities' tangled districts.
The robot repeated, coming to halt and holding Yorg behind itself as it lined up a shot, firing over and over at something behind them. The petrified cargo caught a sudden glimpse of something darting to their right, just before the machine whirled to face an oncoming missile.
"OH MY GOD!" Yorg screamed as the explosion broke against the robot's shield, the impact waves sending it hurtling off the roof and down into a busy street below. Cars swerved and screamed as the protector deftly leaped through the traffic and up onto another building. Taking off into the high-rises, it ran once again, bullets bouncing off of its' metallic shell.
Yorg puked again as his body rushed through the air. He was loosing his grip on reality and life in general; all he knew was the cold steel against his torso and the buzz of wind passed his ears. The briefcase remained in his sweaty grasp, his fingers locked around the handle of their own accord.
There was a deafening CRASH as a sniper bullet struck one of the Protectron's legs, just as that particular limb was about to make contact with a roof. Sparks and bolts of electricity flew as it slipped and fell, sliding to its' left with a grating of metal. Struggling to regain it's footing, it sprung off the side of the building and into thin air.
The robot caught hold of the tower's side and instantly began the climb, scurrying up the side of the monolith like a spider. A distinct sense of vertigo caught hold of Yorg as he was suddenly staring down nearly three hundred feet to the sparkling city floor far below. Looking upwards instead to ease the nausea, he caught sight of a dark slash against the night sky.
"NO!"
The Killer smashed into the tower's side and stayed there, perched like a frog on the building's surface, aiming his monster gun. In the next second a bullet had struck the robot in the head, sending it backwards into the air. It's eye flickered erratically as it and it's precious human cargo plummeted downwards, off the side of the tower.
Yorg was dimly aware of somebody screaming, then realized it was his own voice. The icy air rushed past him, chilling him to the bone. The defending machine who held him in its' grasp slashed and jolted, flickering in and out of awareness, trying to get it's landing protocols to function. The ground rushed to meet them.
All of it for nothing. Nothing at all.
CRUNCH
Yorg awoke to the sound of gentle beeping. Opening his eyes slowly, he groaned the deepest groan he had ever uttered. Pain permeated every fiber of his being, every movement, however tiny, was agony. He couldn't move his arms or legs; in fact he couldn't feel them at all. All he could feel was pain, and the gritty pile of refuse that he lay in.
Nearby lay the Protectron, it's eye flickering dimly, it's voice crackling the words 'I will protect you' on a loop. It's shell and parts were bashed to pieces, scattered all over the filthy ground. Somewhere far above the sounds of the city could be heard.
"You fell far," said a familiar voice.
Yorg stiffened, an action that caused searing pain. He cried out briefly, a hoarse sound, and then relaxed, watching in resigned sadness as the Killer stepped into his limited field of vision. Their mask was off, their voice undisguised. Yorg's part in the game was over. His work was all for not. He had almost won, he had almost succeeded. But in the end the Killer has the last laugh.
"You." The dying man croaked, as a statement of his final realization and defeat.
"Me." The Killer smiled sweetly, and then plunged the knife into Yorg Miester's forehead.
Yorg Miester sat hunched over a table, surrounded by futuristic-looking components and parts, lit by the sickly glow of a single yellow light-bulb from behind, and the pale blue shimmer of the strange accessories arrayed before him. Vials, books, scraps of paper, pencils, dead rats, and all other manner of bizarre experimentation equipment covered the desk and surrounding floor, spilling onto another table nearby and up onto a whiteboard, which was in turn swamped with graphs, scribbled thoughts, and scrawling mathematical equations.
The walls were completely plastered with newspaper clippings and torn pieces of paper, pictures of murders and detective's notes. One section was devoted entirely to questions, questions of the "who" "when" and "why" variety, questions written in a desperate, frenzied hand, with lines and offshoots pointing to possible answers, possible leads. All lead to dead ends, angrily scribbled out or slashed away.
"Aha!" another glowing ring reached fruition, and Yorg set it down atop the first one, taking a moment to admire the little circular salvations.
Yorg had virtually been living in this room for three months, ever since the murders and executions began. First War Penguin, his throat slit on a dark path in the local park. Poor kid never stood a chance. Fury took the heat for that one. Then Toasty, slain at home in his bed. Axle had been "proven guilty" that time. Then Lost was killed, and they had all despaired, for that had set them back to square one. That's when Yorg's project had really heated up.
Through a myriad of different techniques and ventures he himself had proven CounterAttack to be the killer. There had been no doubt. But ultimate was owned the very next night. The possibility of multiple killers had arisen, but had been swiftly beaten down. They would catch the murderer next time, he had been sure of it.
Just as he had been sure about Pm0n3y.
Asturial was murdered, and Schizzy convicted. J1-2themax was killed next, the groups' only doctor, and Yorg had been rash, piling the evidence against Lambi with wild abandon. In truth it was not totally his fault; they had all become paranoid by then. That didn't change the fact that he had directly influenced the death of six innocent people. It haunted him, driving him even further into this hellish and inflammatory project that brought as many questions as it did help.
And now here he was, gone nearly mad from his long seclusion. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair greasy and uncombed, his fingers rubbed raw from constant work. He was a disgusting, smelly, secluded mess; but he was close.
Closer than he had ever been before.
And he was sure of it this time. There was no way he could be wrong. Everything was falling into place, all the pieces fit together. Everything made sense. The big picture was coming into the light; only a few more inches now. Only a few more threads to connect the tapestry, only a few more blocks to complete the wall. Not only was he on the verge of discovering the Killer's identity once and for all... he knew how to kill him.
Standing up from his hunched position, Yorg pushed the chair away and walked across the room, ignoring the pain that emanated from his spine. All this sitting had given him some kind of chronic back problem, to be sure, but it would be worth it in the end.
The wall opposite his desk was home to a myriad of different computers and servers; backup machines, decoys, alternate connections, powerful processors working nonstop on incredibly complex operations. System cloaking devices and proxies, heat signature recognitions and hidden cameras. Layers and layers of security measures. Multiple LCD screens marched in ranks in front of him, each displaying statistics, audio samples, video footage. Two cell phones sat on a table nearby, wired to a million different places, playing recorded messages and faked answering calls.
So close.
Behind Yorg's sweat-stained glasses, a pair of piercingly desperate eyes scanned the equipment , picking up on any oddities and filing them away, or acting upon them. His fingers swept the keyboards in front of him, his commands filtering through again and again. Windows appeared, information was gathered, systems were checked.
A speck suddenly appeared on one of the screens, a tiny energy signature.
"No..." his hands froze as he backed away from the console. "No, not yet... no, no NO!" Nearly falling over himself, the terrified man rushed back towards the table, retrieving his pistol on the way. Whirling around to face the screens as he hurriedly stuffed a briefcase with notes and papers, he watched as the lights outside his bunker began to flip off, one by one.
"No, no no no..." Yorg chanted, running back to the computers. Typing erratically, he started the emergency wipeout system. A countdown appeared, in huge red letters, which he ignored, continuing to type. A small, oval-shaped device ejected from one of the computers, and he grabbed it instantly, running back across the room.
"37, 36, 35, 34..." the countdown echoed in his head as he stuffed the device into a secret pocket in his briefcase. Turning to the glowing rings and other contraptions, he began pouring them in as well, when there was suddenly a loud bang nearby, and the hiss of melting steel.
"Damnit!" Yorg yelled, swiping one hand across the table, sending all of his hard work crashing to the floor. "You can't come yet! You can't! I'm not finished!" backpedaling across the trash-strewn linoleum, he flicked on his lighter and threw it to the floor, where it caught the blue substance aflame. Turning away, be bolted through the back door and shut it behind him, just as the table and walls were engulfed in fire.
"21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16..." his feet made a loud metallic clanging as he barreled down the fire escape, the cold city air leaving it's cruel caress on his skin. The instantaneous change from the dank, close, hot air of his hideaway and the frigid, stony air outside nearly took the breath out of him, but he had no time for awe.
"10, 9, 8,7..." He wasn't going to make it... he still had three stories to go! Smashing into the railing, he leaned over it, casting about desperately with his eyes for anything to land on below.
"5,4,3,2..." He turned back and stared at the apartment above in fear for a spilt second, and then jumped.
The explosion shook the pavement and shattered the brickwork, as the building behind Yorg erupted in fire and brimstone. The force of the blow sent him rocketing across the alleyway and into the opposite wall. A windowsill caught his jaw, a shard of glass his shoulder. Down he went, landing hard in a pile of trash and refuse, where he lay still, taking shelter from the falling stones and heat.
Rising shakily almost a minute later, Yorg gazed about him, taking in the sight of the burning building and the destruction all around. One hand absently rubbing his bruised jaw, he stared with incredibly strong and varied emotions up at the room where he had spent himself for the last three months, working to end this maniac's reign of terror. Now it was all gone; all he had were the bare bones of the project, the skeleton structure needed to support all else. It would be arduous work to do it all over again, but at least it was not forever lost. At least they still knew how-
Wait, he's dead!
The revelation suddenly found him, and Yorg lay back on the garbage bags and laughed, all the strain and pressure and fear leaving him. The killer was dead! Finally dead! Nobody would have to be murdered anymore, they were all safe! His mind could barely comprehend it, after so long living under the mysterious entities' shadow. Speaking of shadows, what was-
He froze. There. Nearly six stories above. Amid the flames and ruin. A figure, a shadow. Standing. Watching.
Moving.
Yorg suddenly realized his peril and rolled to the side, diving towards the pavement. The bullet caught his left forearm and he cried out in pain. Trash flew as he leaped to his feet and took off down the alleyway, towards the street, a billion thoughts and emotions rushing through his head.
Despite his adrenaline rush, the sharp jolt of pain he received from his right ankle was more than enough to slow him. Wincing and biting his tongue, he slumped onto the moist brick wall for support, hobbling along on one good leg, his briefcase held in an iron grip.
No! No no no no no no no he's supposed to be dead! I killed him! I blew him up, burned him alive! How can he still be coming for me?!
Another bullet struck the brick as Yorg rounded a corner. Retreating from the scene with all the speed he could muster, the terrified man weaved in and out of alleyways, taking short cuts and long cuts, trying without success to lose his pursuer. Time and time again a deadly projectile would tear the environment right next to him, and a shadow would leap from the rooftops.
He's toying with me, Yorg thought as he ran, his desperation spurring him on. The case repeatedly hammered against his side, a constant reminder of the Holy Grail he carried.
Diving through a doorway that suddenly appeared to his right, Yorg ducked inside and scurried into the shadows. He was in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, with a high ceiling and few walls. Whipping out his cell phone, he began dialing numbers.
"Come on, Nukey, pick up..." the impact of his feet on the floor pounded in his chest as he searched about in the dark for some stairs. He cursed as the answering machine took over, hurriedly dialing a second number. Maddawg didn't pick up either, nor did Sky. Elementsoul's phone was busy. Yorg wanted to scream his frustration to the heavens. Why the fuck would nobody pick up?!
A scratching noise. Yorg whirled around, staring into the blackness.
About a hundred yards away, a ceiling light turned on. Standing directly below it was the killer, his form and features hidden by cloaks and clothing of shadow. A strange weapon rested in his right hand, a long and cruel knife in the other. Raising the weapon, the murderer fired.
The shot grazed Yorg's head, taking part of his left ear in a spout of blood. Flying to the floor, he clutched the side of his face, thinking himself mortally wounded. The case's handle nearly bent in the steeled clutch that held it.
"NO!" Yorg screamed, scrambling to his feet and backwards, as the killer advanced at a steady pace, the lights flicking on before him and off behind him. It raised it's grisly weapon once more and fired another shot. This bullet struck it's target on the left arm, causing the man to cry out once again in pain.
"No, you fucking... you bastard..." Yorg panted, struggling to get away. He rose to his feet and started to run, but a third bullet tore into his right calf, and he went sprawling, crumpled to the floor. Using the precious briefcase as a crutch, he slowly began to crawl, still trying desperately to escape.
"No..." he repeated over and over as the killer approached. A fiercely powerful hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was forcefully turned around. A weak attempt to bash the murderer with his briefcase resulted in not but a blow to his own jaw, sending him back to the floor.
The killer said nothing as it bent down and stared at Yorg with invisible eyes. The knife in it's left hand twirled absently, and with a very casual motion it raised it's gun and fired yet another shot, planting this one painfully into Yorg's left foot.
"AAAAAUGH!" Sweat poured from the man's body, soaking his already filthy cloths and running slick on his skin. Blood poured from his multiple wounds, mixing with the salty liquid and joining on the floor beneath the pair in a gruesome puddle.
The killer continued to stare, not making any movements other than twirling the knife in it's hand. Yorg lay bleeding on the floor before it, gasping for breath, tears streaked down his face. For what seemed like hours they sat there, murderer and victim, joined in a cruel, cruel bond of blood.
Presently the killer raised its' knife, grabbing hold of Yorg's shoulder and turning him over to face his doom. Then, something unexpected happened.
A crash of windows and a shattering of silence. Both men looked up abruptly, into a shower of broken glass, as the window high above them was suddenly broke asunder. Down into the warehouse fell a massive jumble of white steel and moving parts, whirring motors and flashing lights; a Protectron.
The Killer was smacked out of the way and into the darkness as the huge robot landed. A giant red red eye stared down at Yorg, unblinking in its' futuristic chrome fitting. A metallic voice spoke in a flat tone, relaying it's information to the frightened man.
Code:
"Fear not, citizen. I will protect you."
Code:
"You are safe."Yorg could hardly believe it. In a matter of seconds he had gone from being as good as dead to being safe in the arms of a gigantic robot protector. He had been certain that he was about to die, he had resigned himself to his fate! Clutching the briefcase to his chest, he slowly let out a groan of relief, the aches and pains of the night's harrowing events flooding into his body as the adrenaline wore off.
Code:
"Danger!"
Code:
"Fear not citizen. I will protect you."
Code:
"Danger!""OH MY GOD!" Yorg screamed as the explosion broke against the robot's shield, the impact waves sending it hurtling off the roof and down into a busy street below. Cars swerved and screamed as the protector deftly leaped through the traffic and up onto another building. Taking off into the high-rises, it ran once again, bullets bouncing off of its' metallic shell.
Yorg puked again as his body rushed through the air. He was loosing his grip on reality and life in general; all he knew was the cold steel against his torso and the buzz of wind passed his ears. The briefcase remained in his sweaty grasp, his fingers locked around the handle of their own accord.
There was a deafening CRASH as a sniper bullet struck one of the Protectron's legs, just as that particular limb was about to make contact with a roof. Sparks and bolts of electricity flew as it slipped and fell, sliding to its' left with a grating of metal. Struggling to regain it's footing, it sprung off the side of the building and into thin air.
Code:
"Danger!""NO!"
Code:
"Danger!"Yorg was dimly aware of somebody screaming, then realized it was his own voice. The icy air rushed past him, chilling him to the bone. The defending machine who held him in its' grasp slashed and jolted, flickering in and out of awareness, trying to get it's landing protocols to function. The ground rushed to meet them.
All of it for nothing. Nothing at all.
CRUNCH
- - -
Yorg awoke to the sound of gentle beeping. Opening his eyes slowly, he groaned the deepest groan he had ever uttered. Pain permeated every fiber of his being, every movement, however tiny, was agony. He couldn't move his arms or legs; in fact he couldn't feel them at all. All he could feel was pain, and the gritty pile of refuse that he lay in.
Nearby lay the Protectron, it's eye flickering dimly, it's voice crackling the words 'I will protect you' on a loop. It's shell and parts were bashed to pieces, scattered all over the filthy ground. Somewhere far above the sounds of the city could be heard.
"You fell far," said a familiar voice.
Yorg stiffened, an action that caused searing pain. He cried out briefly, a hoarse sound, and then relaxed, watching in resigned sadness as the Killer stepped into his limited field of vision. Their mask was off, their voice undisguised. Yorg's part in the game was over. His work was all for not. He had almost won, he had almost succeeded. But in the end the Killer has the last laugh.
"You." The dying man croaked, as a statement of his final realization and defeat.
"Me." The Killer smiled sweetly, and then plunged the knife into Yorg Miester's forehead.
This killer is playing games with me, the sadistic bastard 
Poor Yorgy! D:
@CA: It's mainly the fact that he's trying to make his character "bad-ass" or something, by not being impressed by anything at all... Yet he expects us to act overly-dramatic surprised when he gets crushed by a hoof. :/
@CA: It's mainly the fact that he's trying to make his character "bad-ass" or something, by not being impressed by anything at all... Yet he expects us to act overly-dramatic surprised when he gets crushed by a hoof. :/
@lambi Well it was Fubar for the longest time. It was alright by my books but the five episodes in Rei were unnecessary.
@Element: Yeah I found Rei to be abit needless and annoying. Twas a fantastic anime though, even if towards the end it did mercilessly torture metaphors, seriously, some of those monologues were painful. I'm looking forward to Elfen Lied next though, bring on the confusion!
@Sky: I see.
I'm not posting until something happens concerning Xandus's character control. No-one shakes hands using a power claw.
I'm not posting until something happens concerning Xandus's character control. No-one shakes hands using a power claw.
@CA: I just think he still thinks it's like the Avatar Adventures RP. In there you can go batshit loopy >_> Although I usually contain myself. I just make very silly things happen instead xD
@Sky: I think it's supposed to be serious, rather than something where anyone can do anything and people will go with it. I don't usually work that way anyways.
I just started to watch darker than black with subs so I can do an accurate opening background for an RP I'm planning on making after exams are done.
Also I got 90% on the fight club presentation.
Also I got 90% on the fight club presentation.
@CA: Yeah, it's rule 2 (I think) Where it says he wants a more serious RP. Although he did also say we should stick to what our characters would normally behave like. It's a conundrum.
@CA: =P Yeah I guess.
I don't think I've ever been in a fully serious RP... I've always played a comical character >_> in a way. Or a light-hearted one anyways <_<
I don't think I've ever been in a fully serious RP... I've always played a comical character >_> in a way. Or a light-hearted one anyways <_<
@Sky: Most of my characters can be comedic when I need them to be, but most of the time they're a mix of serious and light-hearted.
@Sky/Counter: I always play as a drunk or a Russian when playing a serious character. Hell, at one point, I had 3 drunk characters named after me in RPs that I wasn't even in. I'm an inspiration.
@Lost: Nope, you either play a dark character in general. Remember Retran? He wasn't crazy. D=
@maddawg: True but he did struggle with his powers speaking to him, twisting him just as bad as insanity
