The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
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A lot of people are not so much being evil, but more Badass.SargentToughie said:
Therefore, I have decided to come up with a true antagonist.
And Ivan will have a problem with him being in with the crowd... Anybody want to see a Krunk / Toughie rematch?Lord Krunk said:
I'm going to be making a new, better character soon that I can actually, you know, write for on a regular and constant basic. Look for a new post with a new character soon...
It was raining outside. Heavily. The kind of rain that drove lesser men indoors with their tails between their legs. The kind of rain that drove great men into shelter as well. After all, no one likes being rained on unnecessarily. Nevertheless, he was out there, in the streets, completely uncaring. After all, he had work to do. He always did.
He walked amongst the rabble that congregated in the back alleys of the city. People that could be confused with the likes of him. People that, by all rights, looked a lot like him, but by all means were in no way nothing like him. Sure, they were homeless. They were penniless. Hell, some of them were just as mentally unbalanced, but none of them were like him. They lacked purpose. All of them. Not like him. He had purpose. Well, he thought he had purpose, so it didn't really matter what the group of people that call themselves the "populace" thought.
He was known by many names. "Ronald", for one. "That dirty guy", "the source of that foul stench" or simply "yick" if the company was less kind. Above all, though, he was known as "Organ Theft Ronnie". It was a moniker that he resented. The word "organ" implied to narrow of a focus and "theft" implied ownership. Surely a dead man no longer has the need of many things, his spleen and his femur bones being among them. He considered himself a scavenger and an innovator, a view that "civilized society" obviously didn't share with him.
It was the dead of night and after business hours at the local hospital. Ronnie was out at the back of the building by a locked service entrance. Digging through the confines of his coat, he began to pick through various odds and ends, one of them hopefully being of use. Random square of cardboard, pack of matches, a credit card belonging to someone named "Cliff Masterson". Nothing useful, at least not until he located a worn flat-head screwdriver. Smiling, he unshouldered his knapsack and reached in a hand, rummaging around in it. It was almost empty, but it still had a few slimy and unsavory items inside of it. After a moment of searching he pulled out forearm bone of a human being, which he promptly used as a hammer to force the screwdriver between the seems of the door. After a few minutes of overly taxing physical activity, the door burst open, it's lock now rendered useless and broken.
He was running out of supplies, that is why he was doing this. Yesterday he uses up the last of the intestines and his one pelvic bone to create a grappling hook. If he was to continue with his work he needed more supplies to work with. He always did. The Work was unforgiving that way.
Ronnie tried his best to move quietly through the hospital's hallways despite the handicap of both his girth and his array of objects inside the confines of his coat that had a tendency to make a variety of clattery noises. Regardless, he did arrive at his destination without incident: the morgue. He came to places like this often. He had to, out of necessity. After all, everything he needed was readily available here.
After locking the door and turning on the lights, Ronnie proceeded to begin his task. He opened up the first morgue drawer he came across, the body of what used to be an old man residing within. Without hesitation he produced from the folds of his coat his one true "weapon", a rusty meat cleaver. With what can only be described as a motion devoid of any kind of finesse or skill Ronnie used the cleaver to open up the old man's body, revealing the spoils within. His hands rummaged through the man's chest cavity, identifying parts by touch. Heart, spine, lungs. He would need them all. As he took the cleaver in hand and began separating one piece of flesh from another, a voice called out from behind him.
"Ronald Bustinalinuski, it is time."
Ronnie abruptly turned and hollered in surprise, a cancerous human lung flying from his hands in the general direction of the voice. The fleshy projectile struck the chest of a handsome man wearing a crisp white suit that had an otherworldly glow about him. The organ simply slid off of the man's chest and impacted the ground with a disgusting and squishy sounding splat. The man didn't seem to notice, let alone care.
"A call has been issued, and you are being given a chance to prove yourself. A chance to become something... greater. Do you accept this challenge?"
Ronnie was shocked and dumbfounded, mainly at how the man didn't flinch while having human organs thrown at him. That usually has a tendency to freak the average person out. Far more important but farther down on the list of priorities on Ronnie's mind was who this person was, where he had come from and what he wanted. Ronnie wished to voice all of these questions, but lacking the ability to speak all he managed to say was something akin to "blargh".
"I'll... take that as a yes. Follow."
The man in the white suit walked over to the door exiting the morgue and opened it, revealing not the hallway outside but instead nothing but solid white light. Ronnie began to follow but stopped in his tracks. Instead, he turned around and started pulling various bodies out of morgue drawers and started piling them up on a nearby gurney. He would be needing them, wherever he was going. The Work always required them...
My goal for this incarnation of Ratings War was simple: make the most outlandish, impractical and strange character possible. So, from the dark bowels of the evil place sometimes referred to as the "Escapist IRC" comes the one, the only, "Organ Thief Ronnie".
Resembling a more decrepit, mangy, and all around sinister and ominous version of Silent Bob, the disheveled mute man known as Organ Thief Ronnie is a traveling vagrant that collects various organs and other body parts from corpses. In turn, he uses these harvested organs for his "work". What exactly Ronnie's work is can be considered open to interpretation, mainly consisting of vigilantism and general tinkering (in addition to the organ harvesting). None of what Ronnie does seems to makes sense outside of the confines of his own psyche. The truth is that there isn't method to his madness, but madness itself is in fact his method.
Organ Thief Ronnie wears a very dirty and beat up faded green trench coat, it's contents unknown. From within it's confines he is able to produce any number of objects, all of which fairly useless and worthless in nature, ranging from boxes of paper clips to broken pez dispensers and just about everything in between. Around his neck he wears a small dry erase board he found in the trash attached to a piece of string. Being a mute all his life, he can't actually speak, so he uses the board to communicate. On his back he wears a perpetually moist knapsack that's contents best not be described in depth (here's a hint: it's organs). Between the contents of his coat and his knapsack he acts as a very macabre and demented version of McGyver.
Oh, and Toughie: Ronnie here can be classified as being "Chaotic Good". Well, maybe Insane, Amoral, Demented Chaotic Good, but in this thread he's the best your going to get.
Resembling a more decrepit, mangy, and all around sinister and ominous version of Silent Bob, the disheveled mute man known as Organ Thief Ronnie is a traveling vagrant that collects various organs and other body parts from corpses. In turn, he uses these harvested organs for his "work". What exactly Ronnie's work is can be considered open to interpretation, mainly consisting of vigilantism and general tinkering (in addition to the organ harvesting). None of what Ronnie does seems to makes sense outside of the confines of his own psyche. The truth is that there isn't method to his madness, but madness itself is in fact his method.
Organ Thief Ronnie wears a very dirty and beat up faded green trench coat, it's contents unknown. From within it's confines he is able to produce any number of objects, all of which fairly useless and worthless in nature, ranging from boxes of paper clips to broken pez dispensers and just about everything in between. Around his neck he wears a small dry erase board he found in the trash attached to a piece of string. Being a mute all his life, he can't actually speak, so he uses the board to communicate. On his back he wears a perpetually moist knapsack that's contents best not be described in depth (here's a hint: it's organs). Between the contents of his coat and his knapsack he acts as a very macabre and demented version of McGyver.
Oh, and Toughie: Ronnie here can be classified as being "Chaotic Good". Well, maybe Insane, Amoral, Demented Chaotic Good, but in this thread he's the best your going to get.
It was raining outside. Heavily. The kind of rain that drove lesser men indoors with their tails between their legs. The kind of rain that drove great men into shelter as well. After all, no one likes being rained on unnecessarily. Nevertheless, he was out there, in the streets, completely uncaring. After all, he had work to do. He always did.
He walked amongst the rabble that congregated in the back alleys of the city. People that could be confused with the likes of him. People that, by all rights, looked a lot like him, but by all means were in no way nothing like him. Sure, they were homeless. They were penniless. Hell, some of them were just as mentally unbalanced, but none of them were like him. They lacked purpose. All of them. Not like him. He had purpose. Well, he thought he had purpose, so it didn't really matter what the group of people that call themselves the "populace" thought.
He was known by many names. "Ronald", for one. "That dirty guy", "the source of that foul stench" or simply "yick" if the company was less kind. Above all, though, he was known as "Organ Theft Ronnie". It was a moniker that he resented. The word "organ" implied to narrow of a focus and "theft" implied ownership. Surely a dead man no longer has the need of many things, his spleen and his femur bones being among them. He considered himself a scavenger and an innovator, a view that "civilized society" obviously didn't share with him.
It was the dead of night and after business hours at the local hospital. Ronnie was out at the back of the building by a locked service entrance. Digging through the confines of his coat, he began to pick through various odds and ends, one of them hopefully being of use. Random square of cardboard, pack of matches, a credit card belonging to someone named "Cliff Masterson". Nothing useful, at least not until he located a worn flat-head screwdriver. Smiling, he unshouldered his knapsack and reached in a hand, rummaging around in it. It was almost empty, but it still had a few slimy and unsavory items inside of it. After a moment of searching he pulled out forearm bone of a human being, which he promptly used as a hammer to force the screwdriver between the seems of the door. After a few minutes of overly taxing physical activity, the door burst open, it's lock now rendered useless and broken.
He was running out of supplies, that is why he was doing this. Yesterday he uses up the last of the intestines and his one pelvic bone to create a grappling hook. If he was to continue with his work he needed more supplies to work with. He always did. The Work was unforgiving that way.
Ronnie tried his best to move quietly through the hospital's hallways despite the handicap of both his girth and his array of objects inside the confines of his coat that had a tendency to make a variety of clattery noises. Regardless, he did arrive at his destination without incident: the morgue. He came to places like this often. He had to, out of necessity. After all, everything he needed was readily available here.
After locking the door and turning on the lights, Ronnie proceeded to begin his task. He opened up the first morgue drawer he came across, the body of what used to be an old man residing within. Without hesitation he produced from the folds of his coat his one true "weapon", a rusty meat cleaver. With what can only be described as a motion devoid of any kind of finesse or skill Ronnie used the cleaver to open up the old man's body, revealing the spoils within. His hands rummaged through the man's chest cavity, identifying parts by touch. Heart, spine, lungs. He would need them all. As he took the cleaver in hand and began separating one piece of flesh from another, a voice called out from behind him.
"Ronald Bustinalinuski, it is time."
Ronnie abruptly turned and hollered in surprise, a cancerous human lung flying from his hands in the general direction of the voice. The fleshy projectile struck the chest of a handsome man wearing a crisp white suit that had an otherworldly glow about him. The organ simply slid off of the man's chest and impacted the ground with a disgusting and squishy sounding splat. The man didn't seem to notice, let alone care.
"A call has been issued, and you are being given a chance to prove yourself. A chance to become something... greater. Do you accept this challenge?"
Ronnie was shocked and dumbfounded, mainly at how the man didn't flinch while having human organs thrown at him. That usually has a tendency to freak the average person out. Far more important but farther down on the list of priorities on Ronnie's mind was who this person was, where he had come from and what he wanted. Ronnie wished to voice all of these questions, but lacking the ability to speak all he managed to say was something akin to "blargh".
"I'll... take that as a yes. Follow."
The man in the white suit walked over to the door exiting the morgue and opened it, revealing not the hallway outside but instead nothing but solid white light. Ronnie began to follow but stopped in his tracks. Instead, he turned around and started pulling various bodies out of morgue drawers and started piling them up on a nearby gurney. He would be needing them, wherever he was going. The Work always required them...
<spoiler=Character>Name: Corbett Amadeus (Latin; translates literally as "the black crow loved by God")
Gender: Male
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 240 lbs.
Apparent Age: 25
Actual Age: Around 2500
Characteristics and Oddities: Corbett's most prominent feature is his namesake, the great black-feathered wing that sprouts from his left shoulder blade, which gives him the power of flight. His second feature is his lifespan: it is almost immeasurable. As long as he is never killed in the same fashion twice in a row, he will revive. His third feature is his scythe, which never leaves his side and is in fact a source of much of his power. This all-metal scythe is a normal scythe to all appearances, but has the same number of molecules as a steel wall that is 6'x6'x6' and is thus quite a bit heavier, as you can imagine. He has enchanted it so that it is infinitely light to him, simply because he finds it tiring to constantly run at full strength.
He was born in the time of the Roman Empire and has, in that time, mastered many martial arts, magic, and skills useful in battle. You never quite know how he's going to hit you next: if it'll be a simple straight punch, a slash with his scythe, or a devastating spell that leaves your mind and soul on the brink of some chasm of madness never before reached by humanity. His very unpredictability is what makes him such a strong fighter.
Aditus (Entrance)
The apartment building was old and dingy, mostly unused anymore. But still, on this crystal clear winter night in Chicago, with the skyline breaking the starscape like glass, a 3rd floor light burned.
The room was small, a huge, antique bookcase covering one wall, filled with well-worn books, making it feel even smaller. The room was filled with the soft, yellow light of candles in stands spaced around the room. The carpet, deep and soft, enhanced the feeling of coziness. A recliner was settled in the middle of the room, facing the surprisingly modern (given it's surroundings) computer setup. This was a traditional bachelor's room. The bachelor, dark of hair and eyes, wearing a black gi and what appeared to be a long black cloak, was speaking on a cell phone. "Thanks "K". You're a lifesaver. I'll get that code finished and get back to you soon."
"Don't rush yourself, "C". You're good, but you're only just beginning. Give the language time to sink into your brain. Assimilate it and you will become a great hacker."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, "K". I gotta go. I got company." As he spoke another man, fair of demeanor and color, appeared with the quiet *chuff* of displaced air. He seemed mildly surprised that "C" knew of his presence so quickly. Then he settled himself on the table next to the computer, awaiting "C"s attention. He got it, but not in the fashion he expected. "C" waved him over to the chair and brought out a folding chair for himself. His "cloak" twitched and rustled as "K" spoke, flexing and opening, revealing itself to be a large black-feathered wing.
"Alright. Any idea when me and "I" can expect you over for dinner?"
The bachelor's voice grew deeper, and he seemed more weary, as though his life was simply the repeating of cycles. And he was bloody tired of it. "I get the feeling that it won't be for a while, Karen. Tell Irene I'm sorry."
"Jeez, Crow, you don't have to get all serious. It's spooky when you do."
"I know. It's not intentional. I'll see you later. 'Bye."
Karen seemed hesitant to hang up. "...'Bye. And it's not final, you understand?"
"Yep." Crow sighed as he closed the phone and gazed balefully at his uninvited guest.
"Wow, Corbett, it seems your skills were not overrated! It's rare that a mortal, even one as...special as yourself, should sense my presence that quick."
"People displace air. You don't live several thousand years without noticing what a room with a being in it feels like. What do you want, Mr....?" Crow's manner was tight and unfriendly, though his words were nothing if not polite.
"Please, please, call me Mike. Short for Michael. I'm the Angel of Battle, but I hate the title. Heck, I hate formality in general. It's something Gabe just hasn't been able to drill into me. Anyway, we up there in the Front Office..."
"Woah, woah, woah." Crow burst in. "You show up in the middle of the night. You come into my living area uninvited. And you have the gall to say you are an angel? An Archangel at that? Have you the slightest idea what kind of thin ice you are treading here?"
"Yes. Yes I do. You are Corbett Amadeus, born June 30th, 300 B. C. You died for the first time on the field of battle, at the age of 25. Your sense of morality is strong, and you attempt to right every wrong for every person you meet. You have lived so long that nothing fazes you. Your unique abilities make you extremely suited to taking on the more powerful echelons of evil, and that's a very good thing as they also make you a target. You have even successfully killed a demon. A minor one, but a demon nonetheless. Your resistance to death is extraordinary. That wing of yours seems to have the properties of a force field. And on top of that, you have so rarely quit training that you now seem to be skilled in all areas of combat operations. You are the perfect operative. And you are my choice for the tournament I am about to explain to you."
"I need proof that you really are Michael, the Angel of Battles. You may have pulled off the cleanest teleportation I have ever had the privilege of witnessing, but that doesn't mean you have divine backing. You could be a minor magician on a good day. Or a truly powerful wizard on a really good day."
Michael started to answer, but a look of confusion passed over his face before he could open his mouth. "Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Wouldn't a more powerful magician have an easier time teleporting than a less skilled one?"
"You'd think so wouldn't you? For some reason, more powerful magic users have very flashy entrances. There's so much power that some of it leaks on reentry to the dimension and shows itself as sparks or puffs of smoke or, in extreme cases, such as Merlin, matter itself: doves, popcorn, and the like. Merlin's was a whole bunch of clocks winding backwards accompanied by a descending whistle, not unlike a bomb falling. We never did figure out why...Anyway, keep going with your story."
"That's a quick turnaround. Weren't you going to test me?"
"I just did. You passed. A magic user would have known that and a demon would have pretended to know. Only an angel would ask."
"You're so sharp you'll cut yourself!" laughed Michael. "As I was saying, we're having a bit of difficulty at the moment. One of our own seems to have been...corporeally inconvenienced? Stupid Gabriel with his stupid bureaucracy and his stupid vocabulary, can't even be straight with the messenger's Oh, no, have to be..."Michael muttered to himself as he rifled through a dictionary that he pulled out of his pocket. "OK...the upshot is that he's dead. Gone. Finished with his post. Which happened to be the, quote, "God of Earth," endquote. You see, Corbett...Can I call you Crow? It seems shorter, less stiff. Even we up at the Front Office don't speak Latin anymore."
"Do as you wish, Angel of Battle. But I reserve the right to call you anything and everything I can think of." said Corbett with a mischievous smile.
Michael laughed again. It was a light, jovial sound, reminiscent of bells on a clear day. "Fair enough, Crow. Fair enough. Anyway, as I was saying..."
The two of them sat long into the night, discussing the current situation in the Republic, as well as reminiscing of old battlegrounds and places long forgotten to everyone else but history professors and dusty old texts.
After the night spent reminiscing, Corbett came to a decision. "I believe I shall join you, Michael. It seems a worthy cause, and, if I understand what you are saying, I will be able to right many of the wrongs in this world if I win. Plus, to quote an old Hobbit, "I believe I need a holiday." Heroing is not as black-and-white as it once was. Increasingly, the enemies I face are either clinically insane or convinced that what they are doing is right. This is a world of grays, and I am a being of white. A break to fight a battle I know I am in the right in will be a welcome change. I have only one question: If I die in this battle, will I be returned to my corporeal self, or will I watch the rest of the tournament from the Afternow?"
"It all depends, Corbie. It all depends." replied Michael, for the first time showing the weight of the many battles and years on him. A heaviness of demeanor came over him. "I don't know what the Big Man's plan for losers is. I'm not that close to him, though I used to be, before he went and had a son and made the Messenger his man as opposed to the Fire. I ain't bitter, but it weighs on me: did I do something to displease Him? I may never know. Oh well!" Michael returned to his cheerful self. "Live and let live, as that famous line goes! Shall we?" he asked as he opened the door to Corbett's apartment.
Beyond was not the usual dingy hallway, but rather a piercing blue wall of light. Corbett took one last look around the apartment, his gaze lingering on the phone abandoned on the table next to the computer. He reached over and crushed it in one hand. Then he shut the computer off and moved from one candelabra to the next, blowing them out one by one. As he neared the last one, the one near the door, he pulled at a book on the shelf. It came away grindingly, as though it resisted his touch. When he released it, it sprang back to it's place, but the wall next to the door opened, revealing a gleaming metal warscythe. "I have not touched you in many years, old friend. This is perhaps our last foray. I almost hope it is."
He seemed about to leave, but he stopped in the doorway. He turned back to the room and leaned his scythe carefully against the wall. He spoke, and he seemed to pick his words more carefully than the situation called for. "Karen, Irene, I hope I will return to this world able to help you and your kind better. May your lives be filled with peace, at least until my return. Fortasse fortuno Deus te." He picked his scythe back up, slung it across his back, and walked into the light with some regrets, but no fear.
Terminus Aditum
That's a much better showing of my skill. Still not my best, but much farther from my worst. I'll get better as I get more into the character.
The last one, the timing was off, there was little to no humor, and the characters seemed very two dimensional to me. i took some time this afternoon to revise it and finalize it. I won't do this during the RP, obviously, but I wanted to cinch a spot in this one, so I did it quick and dirty, and then it bothered me all day. God, I hate being a perfectionist.
Please, please, any advice you can give will be greatly appreciated.
I'm just guessing at the Latin conjugations, so don't quote me. His last line is supposed to be "May God bless you."
Gender: Male
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 240 lbs.
Apparent Age: 25
Actual Age: Around 2500
Characteristics and Oddities: Corbett's most prominent feature is his namesake, the great black-feathered wing that sprouts from his left shoulder blade, which gives him the power of flight. His second feature is his lifespan: it is almost immeasurable. As long as he is never killed in the same fashion twice in a row, he will revive. His third feature is his scythe, which never leaves his side and is in fact a source of much of his power. This all-metal scythe is a normal scythe to all appearances, but has the same number of molecules as a steel wall that is 6'x6'x6' and is thus quite a bit heavier, as you can imagine. He has enchanted it so that it is infinitely light to him, simply because he finds it tiring to constantly run at full strength.
He was born in the time of the Roman Empire and has, in that time, mastered many martial arts, magic, and skills useful in battle. You never quite know how he's going to hit you next: if it'll be a simple straight punch, a slash with his scythe, or a devastating spell that leaves your mind and soul on the brink of some chasm of madness never before reached by humanity. His very unpredictability is what makes him such a strong fighter.
Aditus (Entrance)
The apartment building was old and dingy, mostly unused anymore. But still, on this crystal clear winter night in Chicago, with the skyline breaking the starscape like glass, a 3rd floor light burned.
The room was small, a huge, antique bookcase covering one wall, filled with well-worn books, making it feel even smaller. The room was filled with the soft, yellow light of candles in stands spaced around the room. The carpet, deep and soft, enhanced the feeling of coziness. A recliner was settled in the middle of the room, facing the surprisingly modern (given it's surroundings) computer setup. This was a traditional bachelor's room. The bachelor, dark of hair and eyes, wearing a black gi and what appeared to be a long black cloak, was speaking on a cell phone. "Thanks "K". You're a lifesaver. I'll get that code finished and get back to you soon."
"Don't rush yourself, "C". You're good, but you're only just beginning. Give the language time to sink into your brain. Assimilate it and you will become a great hacker."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, "K". I gotta go. I got company." As he spoke another man, fair of demeanor and color, appeared with the quiet *chuff* of displaced air. He seemed mildly surprised that "C" knew of his presence so quickly. Then he settled himself on the table next to the computer, awaiting "C"s attention. He got it, but not in the fashion he expected. "C" waved him over to the chair and brought out a folding chair for himself. His "cloak" twitched and rustled as "K" spoke, flexing and opening, revealing itself to be a large black-feathered wing.
"Alright. Any idea when me and "I" can expect you over for dinner?"
The bachelor's voice grew deeper, and he seemed more weary, as though his life was simply the repeating of cycles. And he was bloody tired of it. "I get the feeling that it won't be for a while, Karen. Tell Irene I'm sorry."
"Jeez, Crow, you don't have to get all serious. It's spooky when you do."
"I know. It's not intentional. I'll see you later. 'Bye."
Karen seemed hesitant to hang up. "...'Bye. And it's not final, you understand?"
"Yep." Crow sighed as he closed the phone and gazed balefully at his uninvited guest.
"Wow, Corbett, it seems your skills were not overrated! It's rare that a mortal, even one as...special as yourself, should sense my presence that quick."
"People displace air. You don't live several thousand years without noticing what a room with a being in it feels like. What do you want, Mr....?" Crow's manner was tight and unfriendly, though his words were nothing if not polite.
"Please, please, call me Mike. Short for Michael. I'm the Angel of Battle, but I hate the title. Heck, I hate formality in general. It's something Gabe just hasn't been able to drill into me. Anyway, we up there in the Front Office..."
"Woah, woah, woah." Crow burst in. "You show up in the middle of the night. You come into my living area uninvited. And you have the gall to say you are an angel? An Archangel at that? Have you the slightest idea what kind of thin ice you are treading here?"
"Yes. Yes I do. You are Corbett Amadeus, born June 30th, 300 B. C. You died for the first time on the field of battle, at the age of 25. Your sense of morality is strong, and you attempt to right every wrong for every person you meet. You have lived so long that nothing fazes you. Your unique abilities make you extremely suited to taking on the more powerful echelons of evil, and that's a very good thing as they also make you a target. You have even successfully killed a demon. A minor one, but a demon nonetheless. Your resistance to death is extraordinary. That wing of yours seems to have the properties of a force field. And on top of that, you have so rarely quit training that you now seem to be skilled in all areas of combat operations. You are the perfect operative. And you are my choice for the tournament I am about to explain to you."
"I need proof that you really are Michael, the Angel of Battles. You may have pulled off the cleanest teleportation I have ever had the privilege of witnessing, but that doesn't mean you have divine backing. You could be a minor magician on a good day. Or a truly powerful wizard on a really good day."
Michael started to answer, but a look of confusion passed over his face before he could open his mouth. "Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Wouldn't a more powerful magician have an easier time teleporting than a less skilled one?"
"You'd think so wouldn't you? For some reason, more powerful magic users have very flashy entrances. There's so much power that some of it leaks on reentry to the dimension and shows itself as sparks or puffs of smoke or, in extreme cases, such as Merlin, matter itself: doves, popcorn, and the like. Merlin's was a whole bunch of clocks winding backwards accompanied by a descending whistle, not unlike a bomb falling. We never did figure out why...Anyway, keep going with your story."
"That's a quick turnaround. Weren't you going to test me?"
"I just did. You passed. A magic user would have known that and a demon would have pretended to know. Only an angel would ask."
"You're so sharp you'll cut yourself!" laughed Michael. "As I was saying, we're having a bit of difficulty at the moment. One of our own seems to have been...corporeally inconvenienced? Stupid Gabriel with his stupid bureaucracy and his stupid vocabulary, can't even be straight with the messenger's Oh, no, have to be..."Michael muttered to himself as he rifled through a dictionary that he pulled out of his pocket. "OK...the upshot is that he's dead. Gone. Finished with his post. Which happened to be the, quote, "God of Earth," endquote. You see, Corbett...Can I call you Crow? It seems shorter, less stiff. Even we up at the Front Office don't speak Latin anymore."
"Do as you wish, Angel of Battle. But I reserve the right to call you anything and everything I can think of." said Corbett with a mischievous smile.
Michael laughed again. It was a light, jovial sound, reminiscent of bells on a clear day. "Fair enough, Crow. Fair enough. Anyway, as I was saying..."
The two of them sat long into the night, discussing the current situation in the Republic, as well as reminiscing of old battlegrounds and places long forgotten to everyone else but history professors and dusty old texts.
After the night spent reminiscing, Corbett came to a decision. "I believe I shall join you, Michael. It seems a worthy cause, and, if I understand what you are saying, I will be able to right many of the wrongs in this world if I win. Plus, to quote an old Hobbit, "I believe I need a holiday." Heroing is not as black-and-white as it once was. Increasingly, the enemies I face are either clinically insane or convinced that what they are doing is right. This is a world of grays, and I am a being of white. A break to fight a battle I know I am in the right in will be a welcome change. I have only one question: If I die in this battle, will I be returned to my corporeal self, or will I watch the rest of the tournament from the Afternow?"
"It all depends, Corbie. It all depends." replied Michael, for the first time showing the weight of the many battles and years on him. A heaviness of demeanor came over him. "I don't know what the Big Man's plan for losers is. I'm not that close to him, though I used to be, before he went and had a son and made the Messenger his man as opposed to the Fire. I ain't bitter, but it weighs on me: did I do something to displease Him? I may never know. Oh well!" Michael returned to his cheerful self. "Live and let live, as that famous line goes! Shall we?" he asked as he opened the door to Corbett's apartment.
Beyond was not the usual dingy hallway, but rather a piercing blue wall of light. Corbett took one last look around the apartment, his gaze lingering on the phone abandoned on the table next to the computer. He reached over and crushed it in one hand. Then he shut the computer off and moved from one candelabra to the next, blowing them out one by one. As he neared the last one, the one near the door, he pulled at a book on the shelf. It came away grindingly, as though it resisted his touch. When he released it, it sprang back to it's place, but the wall next to the door opened, revealing a gleaming metal warscythe. "I have not touched you in many years, old friend. This is perhaps our last foray. I almost hope it is."
He seemed about to leave, but he stopped in the doorway. He turned back to the room and leaned his scythe carefully against the wall. He spoke, and he seemed to pick his words more carefully than the situation called for. "Karen, Irene, I hope I will return to this world able to help you and your kind better. May your lives be filled with peace, at least until my return. Fortasse fortuno Deus te." He picked his scythe back up, slung it across his back, and walked into the light with some regrets, but no fear.
Terminus Aditum
That's a much better showing of my skill. Still not my best, but much farther from my worst. I'll get better as I get more into the character.
The last one, the timing was off, there was little to no humor, and the characters seemed very two dimensional to me. i took some time this afternoon to revise it and finalize it. I won't do this during the RP, obviously, but I wanted to cinch a spot in this one, so I did it quick and dirty, and then it bothered me all day. God, I hate being a perfectionist.
Please, please, any advice you can give will be greatly appreciated.
I'm just guessing at the Latin conjugations, so don't quote me. His last line is supposed to be "May God bless you."
What the hell... I'll join.
Micah came inside his house and left his keys in the bowl on a table next to the front door. He heard his room-mate/tenant, Dan, playing Halo 3 on the downstairs 360.
"Hey Micah." Dan grunted. "How was class?"
"Classy..." Micah joked. "What's the game?"
"Team Slayer on Sandbox, I've got HaloBoy and BagOTea on my team. Five teams of three. We're coming up on a Hog."
"Don't let HaloBoy drive, he plays with his sensitivity too high and can't turn properly. Also, BagOTea can't shoot the Turret, you should handle it and let her drive."
"Gotcha. Oh, there's someone here to see you, he said somehthing about a tournament or some shit like that. Also, we're out of Red Bull."
"Put it on the list... and I guess I'll see him. Where is he?"
"He's in your room, lookin' at your gear."
"Thanks. Hey, keep an eye on your radar, there's a dude on your left."
"Not anymore..."
Micah walked up the stairs to his bedroom, inside there was a man dressed in a white business suit, with a white fedora that had a black feather pinned to it.
"Can I help you?" Micah asked.
"No, but I can help you..." The mysterious man said, smiling. He had a strange air about him, his voice rang with perfect melody and warmth.
"Help me with what?"
"I can help you to attain greatness... Nice sword, is it custom-made?"
"Yes it is, it's also very expensive. You're welcome to see it, just don't smudge the blade."
"Very nice... it reminds me of the one I used to to rain sulfur upon Egypt with. Man, those were good times."
"Egypt? Wait, you mean... rain sulfur as in.. the plagues?"
"Yes indeed. My name is Uriel, and I have a proposal to make."
Micah began to laugh.
"You're kidding right? I mean, there's no such things as angels and things like that, is there?"
"Indeed there are such things as angels... and demons as well. Not to mention Gods."
"If that's the case... why are you here?"
"There is a tournament... the winner of which will become a God of this realm of mortals, you call Earth. Are you interested?"
"Yes, I'm interested... what exactly do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. If you fight in this tournament and win, you will become the God of Earth. How does that sound?"
"It sounds amazing... but why are you coming to me? What makes you want me?"
"Honestly, I came to you because I'm worried about some of the other contestants... a nice level-headed boy like yourself would make an excellent God in my opinion. Do you have a decision?"
"I'm all for it... What do I need to bring?"
"Only what you need to fight with."
Micah changed into his most form-fitting and comfortable clothes, then placed his armor over this, layering leather, chains and plates. He strapped his sword and scabbard onto a belt and grabbed his shield. He rummaged into his dresser drawer and pulled out an M9 pistol, a birthday present he got for himself when he turned 21. He loaded up a few boxes of rounds for it into a small bag and tied this to his belt. He strapped the gun to his side and turned to Uriel.
"Alright, I'm ready. Hold on a minute, though. HEY DAN!" Micah yelled.
"What?"
"I'm going on a trip... I don't know how long I'll be gone, probably quite a while. Keep the house clean and don't smoke inside."
"Okay... anything else?"
"Don't go into my room."
"Kay... peace out."
Micah also grabbed his Zune and Laptop, but stopped and asked Uriel:
"Do they have WiFi where we're going?"
"Yeah, so do Heaven and Hell. Hell's is a little shaky, though. Too many people on at once, it sucks up the bandwidth and you lag like crazy."
"Wow... that is Hell."
"You got that right. So, you ready?"
Micah placed all the things was bringing in a backpack and slung it across his shoulder.
"Yeah, let's go."
Uriel opened Micah's closet door, revealing a white light leading inside. Micah and the angel stepped inside and Uriel led the mortal to their destination.
Micah is considered among all things... a nerd. He cosplays, he plays D&D and WoW, he even owns a combat-ready suit of chainmail armor along with a sword and sheild. Unlike other nerds however, Micah has the physical strength, emotional readiness, and skill to use them. He has treated his life exactly like a video game, seeing exercise and study as chances to 'level up' and gain status and renown in the game of life. He is 21 years old, in his Junior year of college. He is in good physical shape, but from his outer appearance, you could not tell. He is rather pale, with short dark blonde hair and green eyes. He stands at 5'9" tall and a mere 135 lbs.
His fighting style is peculiar, having learned it from several JRPGs and MMORPGs, he has adapted several styles into his own. He opts for mid-level attacks, balancing the heft and speed of his attacks to best suit the situation. Among all other things, though, it is his stamina that is the most remarkable. When he was 10 years old, he was riding his bicycle and was hit by a car travelling at 40 miles an hour. He curled himself into a ball and placed his arms in front of him to brace the impact. Miraculously, he survived with only minor fractures to his arms and some bruises on his torso. He attributes his ability to take a hit to the sheer amount of physical violence he's suffered over the years. He has a desire to keep anything of his meticulously clean, keeping sanitizing wipes in every room of his house.
His personality alignment could best be described as Neutral-Good. He doesn't do anything major to help people, but makes smaller gestures such as simply holding a door or loaning a friend a couple of dollars. In all his life, he has never really gotten into fights that he had started. He defends himself if provoked, but gets out of the fight as quickly as possible. He tends to over-analyze things, often resulting in things not getting done, or people getting harmed. He is not overly social, preferring a dozen or so close friends to hundreds of acquaintences. He is the leader of his Guild in WoW, leading them on raids and earning major lewtz. His main character is a Blood-Elf Paladin, acting as the Tank of the party.
He has made a lot of money doing things that are less than reputable, mostly minor vandalism and thefts, with one account of arson, all to get payback for people who were wronged. He has been arrested twice, both times turning himself in once the heat got turned up. He used the money he earned to invest, and he invested in Blizzard before the WoW craze started, seeing it as big money... he was right. He now owns his own house a few miles from campus, along with a Vespa scooter and a Scion Xa. Inside his house are various pieces of memorabilia from video games and movies.
((I hope that's good enough, I'm hoping it is.))
His fighting style is peculiar, having learned it from several JRPGs and MMORPGs, he has adapted several styles into his own. He opts for mid-level attacks, balancing the heft and speed of his attacks to best suit the situation. Among all other things, though, it is his stamina that is the most remarkable. When he was 10 years old, he was riding his bicycle and was hit by a car travelling at 40 miles an hour. He curled himself into a ball and placed his arms in front of him to brace the impact. Miraculously, he survived with only minor fractures to his arms and some bruises on his torso. He attributes his ability to take a hit to the sheer amount of physical violence he's suffered over the years. He has a desire to keep anything of his meticulously clean, keeping sanitizing wipes in every room of his house.
His personality alignment could best be described as Neutral-Good. He doesn't do anything major to help people, but makes smaller gestures such as simply holding a door or loaning a friend a couple of dollars. In all his life, he has never really gotten into fights that he had started. He defends himself if provoked, but gets out of the fight as quickly as possible. He tends to over-analyze things, often resulting in things not getting done, or people getting harmed. He is not overly social, preferring a dozen or so close friends to hundreds of acquaintences. He is the leader of his Guild in WoW, leading them on raids and earning major lewtz. His main character is a Blood-Elf Paladin, acting as the Tank of the party.
He has made a lot of money doing things that are less than reputable, mostly minor vandalism and thefts, with one account of arson, all to get payback for people who were wronged. He has been arrested twice, both times turning himself in once the heat got turned up. He used the money he earned to invest, and he invested in Blizzard before the WoW craze started, seeing it as big money... he was right. He now owns his own house a few miles from campus, along with a Vespa scooter and a Scion Xa. Inside his house are various pieces of memorabilia from video games and movies.
((I hope that's good enough, I'm hoping it is.))
"Hey Micah." Dan grunted. "How was class?"
"Classy..." Micah joked. "What's the game?"
"Team Slayer on Sandbox, I've got HaloBoy and BagOTea on my team. Five teams of three. We're coming up on a Hog."
"Don't let HaloBoy drive, he plays with his sensitivity too high and can't turn properly. Also, BagOTea can't shoot the Turret, you should handle it and let her drive."
"Gotcha. Oh, there's someone here to see you, he said somehthing about a tournament or some shit like that. Also, we're out of Red Bull."
"Put it on the list... and I guess I'll see him. Where is he?"
"He's in your room, lookin' at your gear."
"Thanks. Hey, keep an eye on your radar, there's a dude on your left."
"Not anymore..."
Micah walked up the stairs to his bedroom, inside there was a man dressed in a white business suit, with a white fedora that had a black feather pinned to it.
"Can I help you?" Micah asked.
"No, but I can help you..." The mysterious man said, smiling. He had a strange air about him, his voice rang with perfect melody and warmth.
"Help me with what?"
"I can help you to attain greatness... Nice sword, is it custom-made?"
"Yes it is, it's also very expensive. You're welcome to see it, just don't smudge the blade."
"Very nice... it reminds me of the one I used to to rain sulfur upon Egypt with. Man, those were good times."
"Egypt? Wait, you mean... rain sulfur as in.. the plagues?"
"Yes indeed. My name is Uriel, and I have a proposal to make."
Micah began to laugh.
"You're kidding right? I mean, there's no such things as angels and things like that, is there?"
"Indeed there are such things as angels... and demons as well. Not to mention Gods."
"If that's the case... why are you here?"
"There is a tournament... the winner of which will become a God of this realm of mortals, you call Earth. Are you interested?"
"Yes, I'm interested... what exactly do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. If you fight in this tournament and win, you will become the God of Earth. How does that sound?"
"It sounds amazing... but why are you coming to me? What makes you want me?"
"Honestly, I came to you because I'm worried about some of the other contestants... a nice level-headed boy like yourself would make an excellent God in my opinion. Do you have a decision?"
"I'm all for it... What do I need to bring?"
"Only what you need to fight with."
Micah changed into his most form-fitting and comfortable clothes, then placed his armor over this, layering leather, chains and plates. He strapped his sword and scabbard onto a belt and grabbed his shield. He rummaged into his dresser drawer and pulled out an M9 pistol, a birthday present he got for himself when he turned 21. He loaded up a few boxes of rounds for it into a small bag and tied this to his belt. He strapped the gun to his side and turned to Uriel.
"Alright, I'm ready. Hold on a minute, though. HEY DAN!" Micah yelled.
"What?"
"I'm going on a trip... I don't know how long I'll be gone, probably quite a while. Keep the house clean and don't smoke inside."
"Okay... anything else?"
"Don't go into my room."
"Kay... peace out."
Micah also grabbed his Zune and Laptop, but stopped and asked Uriel:
"Do they have WiFi where we're going?"
"Yeah, so do Heaven and Hell. Hell's is a little shaky, though. Too many people on at once, it sucks up the bandwidth and you lag like crazy."
"Wow... that is Hell."
"You got that right. So, you ready?"
Micah placed all the things was bringing in a backpack and slung it across his shoulder.
"Yeah, let's go."
Uriel opened Micah's closet door, revealing a white light leading inside. Micah and the angel stepped inside and Uriel led the mortal to their destination.
Two chapters tonight, so I can get them all out in time.
Note: If you don't read them all, you're going to miss out on the plot. The plot is the point of Eviljoe. He's Evil for a reason.
Act 1: Fall
Chapter 3: Soft
-Suffering is relative-
I have a problem with maturity. I want, need to be taken seriously... but keep doing immature things. I hate feeling stupid, I hate being treated like a child, which makes it all the more frustrating that there?s someone who makes me feel and act like a stupid child. It doesn?t help that she keeps catching me doing idiotic and childish things. It?s like a knife stabs into the smart parts of my brain when she?s around, and i default for a state of mind I usually only get when I stay up for 36 hours straight, I call it the ?Amy-Brain?. It doesn?t help that she looks at me like I?m a leper. Doesn?t help that I keep going to bits, either, Whaha, get it? Don?t laugh, it?s not that funny.
Oh fuck, I actually giggled a little.
?What?s funny? She says quickly, giving me the leper-stare. Oh balls, she thinks I?m laughing at her, this could be going much better. Ok, think, engage the brain this time and don?t loser-upt. Ok, look her straight in the green stare and say:
?Oh, not you, you?re not what?s amusing?
Smooth. I can just see that line coming back to haunt me... forever. Wait, here comes the memory right now for a second pass. The important thing to do at this point is not to blither. Because when I blither, things go to pieces, leper style. Now fix this. Grin slightly, wave away her accusing stare, good, and now say: ?I mean, you are, but that?s not what I was laughing about?
Ok, blithering avoide- ?Well, you were, but not really about you so much as it was involving you. The joke, I mean. It wasn?t really a joke, more like a... pun... haha?. Oh, Balls.
Ok, she?s just standing there. With any luck, she?ll be hit by a bus and forget this ever happened, and you can try this again in a week... or fifty. Nope, she?s not moving. Ok, this Is why I hate this, because right now I feel like a deer in the spotlight, a stupid deer. I?m a sucker for a brunette, that?s my problem; I need to find an escape route. My preferred one would be collapsing into a singularity and exploding. And by god if she doesn?t say something I?m going to blither agai- ?Silence is golden, but right now I?m not feeling any richer?
It must be a mental disorde- what now? I think I just managed to put out a coherent point of conversation! This is good, this is words, good words, good words from mouth! Balls, she?s laughing. And I thought my laugh got to people, to me, her laugh is like someone emptying a sub-machine gun into my gut, and the bullets are poisoned, and on fire. Wait, she?s looking at me again, ?You are such an idiot? She laughs with a smile. Wait, that?s not an insult, she?s genuinely amused! Ok, the important thing to do now is not to-
?Go out with me?
Oh. Balls.
Chapter 4: Fumble
-Be careful what you wish for-
I looked all over for Stuart afterwards, desperate for someone to anchor my thoughts, because right now my brain feels like a chocolate flake in a blender full or razors. I nearly ran into some old lady when I was halfway to a park table roughly between our houses, the regular choice of dining scenery after we?d picked up something unhealthy. Sure enough, he was there, and with a grin he pushed over my share of the food that he?d grabbed without me. Right now, I wasn?t that hungry, but I wordlessly handed him the cash anyway.
?I?ve taken a finders fee of your fries as punishment for your late arrival? he said, slurping on his coke. You know, I have no idea how to tell him what happened, so I just bite into the burger as he says ?And I pissed on your pickles for being late last week as well?. Oh man, that?s funn*Hrrk*
I?m choking *Gnnh* to death on crappy burger, what a way to go. I really can?t *Krrk* die now, not after this morning. Staurt?s laughing, but it?s dawning on him that I?m starting to un out of air, and he reaches over and punches me in the back as hard as he can. Great, now I?m bruised and suffocating. He shuffles around in a panic and slaps me across the back until I cough up a sorry pickle into my fries, and he sits down beside me while I suck down all the air I can get my hands on. ?See? My piss is potent stuff?
As hard as it is to guffaw while seeing stars, I manage it as he retrieves his own fries and starts to talk over my half laughing, half wheezing snorts. ?I have some good news for you, by the way, my uncle said he can fix you up with a job. You know, Jed? The man?s as thick as his own waistband but you did say you didn?t mind lugging crap if it got you paid. Well, this job is just that, lugging crap?. I can feel the blue draining from my face, and it?s just dawning on me what he said. A job? This day is just about the second, no the most awesome day ever. I sit up and shoot stuart a grin, ?I?ve got better news, I?m going with Amy to see a movie.?
Stuart?s face doesn?t move, he?s giving me a look like I?m a leper. ?That?s great!? He exclaims from his leper-face, and moves back to his seat where he studies his fries intently, rolling them in his fingers. ?What movie?? he asks after a while, but cuts me off before I can say anything with ?Wait, don?t tell me, you have no idea. You have no concept of planning, you know??. And quicker than I can respond (Because he?s right), Stuart shoves all of his food into the bag and starts to leave. ?Listen, I?ll send you my uncles number and he can set you up with the job, I?ve got to go.?
And then, he?s gone.
The most awesome day just got a lot crappier, because I think I just stole Stuart?s girl.
Note: If you don't read them all, you're going to miss out on the plot. The plot is the point of Eviljoe. He's Evil for a reason.
Act 1: Fall
Chapter 3: Soft
-Suffering is relative-
I have a problem with maturity. I want, need to be taken seriously... but keep doing immature things. I hate feeling stupid, I hate being treated like a child, which makes it all the more frustrating that there?s someone who makes me feel and act like a stupid child. It doesn?t help that she keeps catching me doing idiotic and childish things. It?s like a knife stabs into the smart parts of my brain when she?s around, and i default for a state of mind I usually only get when I stay up for 36 hours straight, I call it the ?Amy-Brain?. It doesn?t help that she looks at me like I?m a leper. Doesn?t help that I keep going to bits, either, Whaha, get it? Don?t laugh, it?s not that funny.
Oh fuck, I actually giggled a little.
?What?s funny? She says quickly, giving me the leper-stare. Oh balls, she thinks I?m laughing at her, this could be going much better. Ok, think, engage the brain this time and don?t loser-upt. Ok, look her straight in the green stare and say:
?Oh, not you, you?re not what?s amusing?
Smooth. I can just see that line coming back to haunt me... forever. Wait, here comes the memory right now for a second pass. The important thing to do at this point is not to blither. Because when I blither, things go to pieces, leper style. Now fix this. Grin slightly, wave away her accusing stare, good, and now say: ?I mean, you are, but that?s not what I was laughing about?
Ok, blithering avoide- ?Well, you were, but not really about you so much as it was involving you. The joke, I mean. It wasn?t really a joke, more like a... pun... haha?. Oh, Balls.
Ok, she?s just standing there. With any luck, she?ll be hit by a bus and forget this ever happened, and you can try this again in a week... or fifty. Nope, she?s not moving. Ok, this Is why I hate this, because right now I feel like a deer in the spotlight, a stupid deer. I?m a sucker for a brunette, that?s my problem; I need to find an escape route. My preferred one would be collapsing into a singularity and exploding. And by god if she doesn?t say something I?m going to blither agai- ?Silence is golden, but right now I?m not feeling any richer?
It must be a mental disorde- what now? I think I just managed to put out a coherent point of conversation! This is good, this is words, good words, good words from mouth! Balls, she?s laughing. And I thought my laugh got to people, to me, her laugh is like someone emptying a sub-machine gun into my gut, and the bullets are poisoned, and on fire. Wait, she?s looking at me again, ?You are such an idiot? She laughs with a smile. Wait, that?s not an insult, she?s genuinely amused! Ok, the important thing to do now is not to-
?Go out with me?
Oh. Balls.
Chapter 4: Fumble
-Be careful what you wish for-
I looked all over for Stuart afterwards, desperate for someone to anchor my thoughts, because right now my brain feels like a chocolate flake in a blender full or razors. I nearly ran into some old lady when I was halfway to a park table roughly between our houses, the regular choice of dining scenery after we?d picked up something unhealthy. Sure enough, he was there, and with a grin he pushed over my share of the food that he?d grabbed without me. Right now, I wasn?t that hungry, but I wordlessly handed him the cash anyway.
?I?ve taken a finders fee of your fries as punishment for your late arrival? he said, slurping on his coke. You know, I have no idea how to tell him what happened, so I just bite into the burger as he says ?And I pissed on your pickles for being late last week as well?. Oh man, that?s funn*Hrrk*
I?m choking *Gnnh* to death on crappy burger, what a way to go. I really can?t *Krrk* die now, not after this morning. Staurt?s laughing, but it?s dawning on him that I?m starting to un out of air, and he reaches over and punches me in the back as hard as he can. Great, now I?m bruised and suffocating. He shuffles around in a panic and slaps me across the back until I cough up a sorry pickle into my fries, and he sits down beside me while I suck down all the air I can get my hands on. ?See? My piss is potent stuff?
As hard as it is to guffaw while seeing stars, I manage it as he retrieves his own fries and starts to talk over my half laughing, half wheezing snorts. ?I have some good news for you, by the way, my uncle said he can fix you up with a job. You know, Jed? The man?s as thick as his own waistband but you did say you didn?t mind lugging crap if it got you paid. Well, this job is just that, lugging crap?. I can feel the blue draining from my face, and it?s just dawning on me what he said. A job? This day is just about the second, no the most awesome day ever. I sit up and shoot stuart a grin, ?I?ve got better news, I?m going with Amy to see a movie.?
Stuart?s face doesn?t move, he?s giving me a look like I?m a leper. ?That?s great!? He exclaims from his leper-face, and moves back to his seat where he studies his fries intently, rolling them in his fingers. ?What movie?? he asks after a while, but cuts me off before I can say anything with ?Wait, don?t tell me, you have no idea. You have no concept of planning, you know??. And quicker than I can respond (Because he?s right), Stuart shoves all of his food into the bag and starts to leave. ?Listen, I?ll send you my uncles number and he can set you up with the job, I?ve got to go.?
And then, he?s gone.
The most awesome day just got a lot crappier, because I think I just stole Stuart?s girl.
I didn't mean to have One-page chapters, as it makes some of them absolutely monstrous, but it was the only way i could cut it up properly and keep the story coherent between readings. Besides, it let me have my way with chapter names, which i adore conceiving even more than the story, at times.
There are 4 more chapters in Act 1, these two being the shortest by a fair margin. At that point i will make a spoiler post including all of them (For you lazy bastards), and begin Act two, which includes the proceedings of RW3. Act 3 will depend on the outcome of RW3, so i have no idea what will happen.
Hope you're all enjoying the story so far, feel free to PM Me With Your Critiques And/Or Approvals
There are 4 more chapters in Act 1, these two being the shortest by a fair margin. At that point i will make a spoiler post including all of them (For you lazy bastards), and begin Act two, which includes the proceedings of RW3. Act 3 will depend on the outcome of RW3, so i have no idea what will happen.
Hope you're all enjoying the story so far, feel free to PM Me With Your Critiques And/Or Approvals
I'll jump into this hurrah. Wait for a character sometime later today or tomorrow, depending on time.
I am seriously considering taking after Ultrajoe's example and making prologue stories for my character, because I want to go into better detail about his past, but I don't want it to get mixed in with the battle stories... bad things happen when you do that
so, expect a story coming up in the next few days, and I'm going to actually put some effort into them
so, expect a story coming up in the next few days, and I'm going to actually put some effort into them
I Give You
Mr. Malcolm Lynch
Chernobyl; April 26, 1986
After dinner I made my way back to the house to prepare for tonight's events. Taking a quick shower, I shaved and brushed my teeth. I then continued to put on my black robe and white collar. As I left the house I wrapped the pure silver cross around my neck. Traveling by car I made my way to church to lead tonight's service.
My daughter already stood at the door to greet my arrival. Giving her a kiss on the forehead I wandered throughout the congregation greeting everyone. It had been an exceptionally good turn out for a Saturday night, much to my surprise. Wasting no time I scurried off to the podium and opened my bible.
"Alright everyone. I'd like to wish you all good evening and welcome."
"Good Evening Father Mikhailo"
"Hahaha thank you all. If we have any visitors sitting with us I'd like to thank you to coming and I pray you enjoy yourselves. If you have any questions ask the people of our congregation with the smiley face pins on their shirts. And without further ado let's get started. I'd like you all to turn to page 82 in you bibles. Before we start though, if you all wouldn't mind I would like to ask us all to take a moment to pray for the safety of my wife. As you all may or may not know my wife is at the power plant tonight, working some overtime in preparation for the maintenance on Reactor 4 tomorrow."
We bowed our heads in silence for a few moments and prayed before carrying on. I continued on with the service, with everything going as planned.
"Now if you would please look to Genesis 2:3. And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God creat-"
Sha-Boom
The church shook and screams echoed through the walls. Sprinting outside I saw what caused the noise. To the south of us the Nuclear Power Plant was engulfed in flames. Seconds later a second reactor exploded as a fiery inferno engulfed the whole area. Debris shot through the sky as the grass was lit ablaze. The ground trembled as our whole group stood there dumbfounded.
The silence was broken as a large hunk of concrete slammed through the roof of the chapel. As we finally realized the extent of what happened I sprinted to my car. Not rationally thinking I immediately drove towards the plant. As I continued down the road I saw the sight of fleeing cars, as the fire raged on. I examined each car in hopes of seeing my wife's but that hope failed.
When I finally arrived I pulled in the parking lot. Sprinting out of my car I ran through the lot in search of her car. Then I found it. Literally a few meters away lay her body, crushed by debris from the upper level of the parking garage. Her body lay their limp, only the top half of her body showing. The lower half lay crushed, blood streaming from underneath.
Collapsing to my knees, tears streamed down my eyes.
"Why? What have I done to you to deserve this? I have praised you night and day, and lead prayer to worship you and this is how you thank me?"
Enraged I beat my hands on her car and continued my fit of rage. Then the ground shook again as another fiery blaze exploded to the left of me. Jerking my head that way I saw a huge gust of wind showering over in my direction. Inhaling the air I started to choke and gasp for air. Knelling down vomit poured out of my mouth to the ground and I passed out.
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Rising to my feet, I felt light headed and weary. Looking around it seemed as nothing was living for miles. All vegetation was dead, and remnants of the explosion scattered the land. Looking down my robe had been tattered and torn to shreds. Something was wrong with my leg. It was engulfed in green ooze. The skin was shedding off leaving only dead tissue. Looking at my hands they were almost all bone, the skin rotting off. Laughing to myself thoughts poured through my head, this seemed like something out of the head of Romero.
Immediately I placed my middle and index fingers on my wrist. My pulse wasn't beating. Doing the same thing to my neck I was greeted to the same results. My pulse wasn't beating. I was dead. Drooping to my knees I brought my hands to my face and prayed to god to asking what has happened to me, and why have you done this.
Then I felt a large sharp pain in the back of my head.
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As I awakened the room around me seemed like a dream. The bed I was on was composed of clouds, and in front of me was a big man sitting in a desk, typing on a computer. The man was big, buff you may say, and had a long white beard.
"W-who are you?" I suddenly asked.
"Ahh, you're a wake. Good I've wanted to talk to you. I am god"
"Wow...It's an honor to meet you. First, pardon my language, but what the hell happened?"
"Your excused it's a legitimate question. As I pray you know the Cold War is taking place right now. I've sided with Democracy, and I'm slowly trying to intervene without drawing attention. The explosion was an event I caused. I apologize for the pain that has occurred to you. Now as I'm sure you're wondering, you are dead. You are currently a zombie. You are the only person in the area that this occurred to. Now I must ask...Do you wish to still serve me?"
"Serve you how? I'm dead"
"I want you to be a protector of earth for me. I want you to help me eliminate the scum that inhabit it. I will have my informers find corrupt beings, give you the target location, and you will execute the order"
"So...Like a hitman?"
"Precisely"
"This doesn't seem very godly"
"Its not. No one knows about what I'm asking you and if you choose to accept this will stay between me and you. I will outfit you with all you need if you say yes. Now do you wish to still serve me?"
"Will I have to still stay in this state of being?"
"Yes"
"Okay. I don't like this but I will do anything to serve you."
"I'm happy. In time you will get use to this. There are a few rules though, and if you break them you will be sent straight to hell."
"And these are?"
"First, you can not tell anyone about this. Second, you can not kill any innocent civilians. And Third, you must still remain loyal to me. Understood?"
"Yes my lord."
"Also when on Earth I can't heal your wounds. I can lightly intervene and help if needed but I can only heal your wounds in heaven. Immediately following each job I will heal you. You are still mortal remember this. You are stronger and can take more damage than the average mortal but you can still die of wounds. If all this is understood lets proceed to the armory. I have a job for you."
Walking into the armory I was amazed at how much was in there. Shotguns, pistols, grenades, flamethrowers, machine guns, and for some peculiar reason crucifixes hung on the wall.
"Beautiful isn't it" god politely asked me.
"It is. Why are there crosses hanging from the wall?"
"In due time my son. I will explain on the tour." And with that we walked through the armory, God explaining everything to me as we walked through. "This is your standard action shotgun. Only thing different than a regular one is that when the shells explode and acidic holy water shoots out."
"Sorry to interrupt but, wouldn't holy water kill me too?"
"It will. If you use the shotgun make sure you aren't in splatter distance of the water. Now back to business, in front of you is our selection of rifles. We have sniper, bolt, and standard action. To your left are our SMGs and assault rifles. Standard stuff. Here we have the flame thrower, which you will not use since you are extremely vulnerable to fire, grenade launchers, and grenades. Now as we near the end of our tour we encounter my personal three favorite weapons."
"And those are?"
"The dual, pure silver, Desert Eagles, the shuriken crosses, and the broadsword."
"Shuriken?"
"Sorry. Ninja Stars."
"You have ninja stars in the form of a cross?"
"Yes sir I do."
"Okay I see the crosses and pistols, but what about a broadsword?"
"You see that large cross hanging up? The one you would wear over your neck during a sermon."
"Yes. That's a sword?"
"There is a button on it. When you press it a sword's blade shoots straight out. It's the sharpest blade known to man. Ha, man doesn't even have a sword this sharp!"
"Wow. This is impressive. I'm guessing I don't get all of this?"
"Haha you guessed right! You can take the shuriken, sword, and two firearms per mission. I can also custom make you weapons, but this will only be done in extreme cases. One cool thing is on all the bullets the words 'Rest In Peace' are imprinted in. Also remember you are now a zombie. Don't feel the need for weapons. Embrace this. Rip a few people to pieces. Eat a few brains!"
"I'm not eating brains"
"You think I'm joking? You are a zombie now, you damn well will eat brains if you want to survive!"
"Dammit"
"Watch your language please."
"I'm not allowed to curse, but you are?"
"Damn straight son"
"Alright. I want the dual pistols and shotgun as my weapons."
"Oh! I almost forgot. You need a new name. I'm not calling you Mikhailo."
"Do you have anything in mind?"
"I'm happy you asked! I like Malcolm Lynch. Waddaya think of that?"
"I don't like it"
"Okay so it's settled. Your name from now on is Malcolm Lynch."
"Whatever"
"Good. Let's get you briefed."
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Several Years Later
Standing on the edge of the cloud I put the parachute onto my back. Hearing the familiar ring buzz through my ears, I pressed the side button.
"Mr. Lynch this is command are you ready to go over?"
"Yes command I'm ready to go over." And with that I leaped off of the cloud and fell towards the building.
"Okay Mr. Lynch your target is a 27 year old male known only as Xav. According to intelligence currently they are in the basement of the building packaging cocaine for distribution. Xav is the biggest dealer in the area and is also notorious as a child molester so it is key you take him out. Outside the building there is one guard in front of the door."
Pulling the string on my backpack the parachute shot out.
"Just inside the door will be three others. Once they are eliminated proceed down the stairs into the basement where the rest will be. Down there will be five men, this is where Xav will be. They are all armed with AK-47s so proceed with caution. Good luck Mr. Lynch over."
"Thanks command. Over and out."
Landing on the roof of the building, I threw the parachute off. Digging through the back, I pulled out the large coat and put it on storing the shuriken crosses in the pockets. I attached the sword and pistols to my belt and strung the shotgun across my back. It was go time. Standing at the edge of the roof I peered over. A considerable distance from the door stood the lone man. I jumped.
I landed behind the man, and before he could react I put my hand around his mouth to muffle his screams as I dug my teeth into his head. Ripping away at the hair and skull I devoured his brain as blood oozed out and got all over the floor and my coat. Kicking the motionless body aside I cracked the door open and peered in. Two men sat at a table playing cards. I assumed the other was around somewhere.
Pulling out the shuriken crosses I kicked the door open. The men's jaws dropped at the sight of my dead body, covered in blood. I threw the crosses their way as they picked their guns up to begin firing. Before they could get a shot off the crosses lodged their way in between their eyes.
Knowing the others must be alert now I pulled the pistols out and looked around for the remaining man on this floor. Walking by a side door I heard heavy breathing. Looking down the light in the room was on. Slamming the door opened, he opened fired. Bullets ravaged through my body as I brought my arm up and fired. One hit kill. His body slumped over and fell into the tub.
Groaning I saw the wall behind me had blood all through it. I had three bullets in my chest. Nothing I wasn't used too though. Proceeding through the first floor, the whole area was clear. Then I found the stair case. As I proceeded to open the door I felt the buzz in my ear again. Lightly tapping it I sat and listened.
"Mr. Lynch can you hear me over?"
"Yes what the hell do you need over?"
"God needs you back immediately. There has been an emergency over."
"Tell him to wait, I'm proceeding to take out Xav over!"
"He told me that if you said that, then you have permission to use the emergency weapon over."
"Fine, over and out."
I loved the emergency weapon. As I once again opened the door, I pulled back my jacket and dug my hand into my chest, digging around for my liver. Pulling it out finally I shook it up and threw it down the stairs.
"What the hell is that?"
"Holy shit hit the fucking floor!"
Music to my ears as the vermin below screamed in terror.
Walking down I saw the toxic green gas engulf the room from the aftermath of the explosion. Three set of limbs and appendages splattered across the room, blood still traveling through the air. The two survivors kicked a table over, taking cover behind it, and started blind firing their guns at me. Bullets ricocheted off the walls, one hitting me in the leg.
Groaning in pain I dropped to my knees. If they wanted to play this way I'd happily oblige. As they continued firing their AKs I waited for the fire to stop to reload. As I waited I pulled the shotgun off of my back and waited. *Click* Standing up I quickly shot three times at the table. Hearing a groan and a thump I knew I downed one. Then I heard the sizzling noise and the screams as one man immediately popped into the air and sprinted around like a chicken without a head. The remaining man ran in tears as the holy water burnt through his skin. Then, almost as if planned, he dropped to the floor.
"Command targets eliminated over."
"Pick up is waiting outside."
Exiting the building I promptly sat in the chariot as it took off to heaven. As we arrived I quickly hurried to God's office.
"Please take a seat. God will be with you in a minute" His secretary politely said to me.
"Must have been really important."
I waited what seemed like an hour, until I saw someone I couldn't believe was here. Lucifer exited the room. As he walked out the secretary waved me in.
"What's going on? Why was Lucifer here?"
"That's why I have called you. The God of Earth has been assassinated."
"When did this happen?"
"Today. We don't know who did it."
"How are you going to replace him?"
"That brings me to why you are here. We are having a tournament to decide who will now be the God of Earth. Winner takes all. It is a free for all fight for victory. I want you to go and fight there. I want a chance of having someone worth two shits be the new God of Earth."
See Toughie, we aren't all demigod villains!
Also I did change the time of the nuclear reactor explosion, and magnified the effects of it. More details about his life as a hitman will be revealed in future posts. And yes he used his liver as a grenade.
Additionally instead of giving a specific date I said several years later because Sorrow made the date this occurred unknown.
Also please tell me all your thoughts on how I can better my writing.
Thanks
Also I did change the time of the nuclear reactor explosion, and magnified the effects of it. More details about his life as a hitman will be revealed in future posts. And yes he used his liver as a grenade.
Additionally instead of giving a specific date I said several years later because Sorrow made the date this occurred unknown.
Also please tell me all your thoughts on how I can better my writing.
Thanks
Name: Originally Father Mikhailo. Now goes by Malcolm Lynch or Mr. Lynch
Sex: Male
Appearance: Malcolm is a zombie. His flesh has turned a light green color, and is peeling off. There are parts of his body that are barren to skin. His teeth have become jagged and crooked, some have fallen out. His hair is short and black. He wears a cold black suit with a red tie on all days but Sunday. On Sunday he dresses in his old, ragged and destroyed, priest attire.
Short Bio: Malcolm was a Ukrainian priest. When the Chernobyl Power Plant exploaded instead of killing Malcolm it zombified him. Malcolm now serves as God's Hitman.
Equipment: Throwing Crosses (Think Shurikens in the shape of a Cross), Cross Sword (A crucifix with a button on the side. When you press the button a blade shoots out from the top.), Dual Desert Eagles, Shotgun (Shoots regular shells with one change. When the shells penetrate the target acidic holy water splatters out).
Powers: He is a zombie. Has all the powers of a zombie. Think the Left 4 Dead zombies except he is much stronger. God will also at times lend him a helping hand but nothing to overpowered that would give away the truth that he worked for god.
Sex: Male
Appearance: Malcolm is a zombie. His flesh has turned a light green color, and is peeling off. There are parts of his body that are barren to skin. His teeth have become jagged and crooked, some have fallen out. His hair is short and black. He wears a cold black suit with a red tie on all days but Sunday. On Sunday he dresses in his old, ragged and destroyed, priest attire.
Short Bio: Malcolm was a Ukrainian priest. When the Chernobyl Power Plant exploaded instead of killing Malcolm it zombified him. Malcolm now serves as God's Hitman.
Equipment: Throwing Crosses (Think Shurikens in the shape of a Cross), Cross Sword (A crucifix with a button on the side. When you press the button a blade shoots out from the top.), Dual Desert Eagles, Shotgun (Shoots regular shells with one change. When the shells penetrate the target acidic holy water splatters out).
Powers: He is a zombie. Has all the powers of a zombie. Think the Left 4 Dead zombies except he is much stronger. God will also at times lend him a helping hand but nothing to overpowered that would give away the truth that he worked for god.
While not everybody is evil, or a demigod. most people have some sort of tragic backstory, or a mental disorder. This is why I chose to play with a character like Ivan
he has issues, but he's perfectly sane, and wants to do good. And that's the greatest oddball of all in a competition like this
he has issues, but he's perfectly sane, and wants to do good. And that's the greatest oddball of all in a competition like this
I know, and you fail to realize that these lunatics and villains are what gives Ivan his reason to fight.Lord Krunk said:
