Cold. That was the first word on his mind, flying upwards above the Narrows. Teeth chattering, he wiped a sheen of dew that had accumulated on his googles from his trek towards Staten Island.
Then, a face-full of sea-gull slammed into him.
“ Motherfu-” His shouts were blocked out by the wild roar of the southerly wind. Feathered wings flapped in his face, the smell of bird poo and sour fish choking his senses. He waved his arms uncoordinatedly, one foot coming loose. Crud. He slipped off the slick metal and would have nearly fell into the murky depths below. If it wasn't for his last minute thinking. Static charge built up on his fingertips, allowing him to stick to the bottom of the manhole like an old piece of gum. He watched as the flock dispersed, squawking in laughter. Virgil swayed in the air precariously for a few moments before managing to haul himself back up on the thick disc of grilled steel. He'd imagined his obituary for a second.
VIRGIL HAWKINS. 2001 - 2019. DIED BECAUSE HE WAS SURPRISED BY BIRDS.
He would never live that one down if it happened.
Virgil found it odd that he’d never seen the ocean before. He’d explored swimming pools, rivers and lakes before but nothing could compare to the wide open blue vistas in front of him. Sea salt flecked on his lips, soaking in the cold, briny air. The polarized goggles protected his pupils from the blistering autumn gales, eyes narrowing on his target. Staten Island. The site of one of the last towers. He was still too far away and worse of all, the weather wasn't helping either. The Dakotan native muscles bunched up in the chill. The cloth of his jacket flapped relentlessly in the middle of the bay. That and his reserves were beginning to peter out. His legs were beginning to feel like jelly. He hadn’t traveled this far and for so long before. The glowing stripes on his jacket began to dim in luminescence in a traffic light.
Screams echoed over the waters. Words that he heard a dozen times over in different contexts over hundreds of patrols, coming somewhere over from the bridge between Brooklyn and Staten Island.
No. He couldn’t give up now. He still needed to do this. If he'd give up now, then, what about Dakota? Dakota could have been hit by this damn thing and he'd have been none the wiser for it. Hell, if Sharon and Dad were in the thick of it right now......A look of grim determination spread upon his face. He needed more speed. The low hum of current increased in volume and the bottom of his surfboard exploded in a burst of blue brilliance. Air parted and rushed into the void, thunder reverberating behind him.
The Verrazano sliced through the bay like a rib-cage, a bulky mass of gun-metal steel protruding above the swirling water. He flew in closer, hovering above the chaos of beeping cars and shouting drivers. The intersections were gummed up with mile-long traffic jams, everyone trying desperately to flee from Brooklyn towards Staten Island. At the back were a school of buses and behind them were a crowd of infected individuals that were slowly closing their jaws on the rear of the conga line.
He came down like a streak of lightning, standing with his arms crossed between the school bus and the horde.
“ I’ve had a real long day today. So, here’s what I’m only gonna say this once. All of you can just go have fun with one another while I escort these people out of here. Sound like a deal?”
There was a pregnant pause. The crowd remained glued to their position whilst the bus passengers behind him waited with bated breath. A scream followed by several others dashed Virgil’s hopes as dozens charged towards him, leaping and vaulting over cars and obstacles.
“ All right, then.” Virgil grunted, electromagnetically pushing a sedan that had stopped in the middle of the intersection in front of the crowd to act as a shield.
" If you're still alive after this - " Virgil looks back at the crowd. " I'm gonna need to borrow one of your buses for a second."
Looks of confusion were shared between each of the passengers. Virgil signed. " Trust me. It'll make more sense later."
Drone 4_A_23_Alpha . It’s host would soon expire within 23 hours, 15 minutes and 10 seconds from a blood hemorrhage. It was enough time to fulfill the parameters of the task that it had been given. A number of unknown variables hadn’t been taken into account. Other drones relay across the network, Group Beta 3 klicks away whilst Group Cossack is 5 klicks away. The mission parameters wouldn’t be satisfied if
The target is currently airborne, a distance of 80 meters above and 0.5 klicks away from the central node. Further analysis through the drones infra-red sensors and through the vision of their hosts indicates that this unknown variable, 'Static', is on top of this bus. He breaches through the outer perimeter.
Drone 4_A_23_Alpha signals to the rest of the swarm to move in on the coordinates.
High priority.
The tower is under attack.
“ WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND, MOTHERFUCKERS!”
The bus slammed into the base of the tower like a battering ram, shaking from the impact.
There!
Well, only one way to find out. Virgil gingerly removed the gloe right hand, already feeling the heavy voltage seeping into the air. The hairs on his fingers were on end, only millimeters away from touching the power conduit.
He screamed as he pushed the electricity out into the web of wiring interlaced throughout the tower. Circuits overloaded, capacitors shattered apart and internal resistors melted like wax. Every drop of electricity he had within him and more was forced within the machine.
Something trickled down his nose. He wiped his upper lip with a finger and saw crimson stained on the whorls of his fingerprints.
That wasn't supposed to come out of your nose like that.
How long do you usually write? Several paragraphs Do you enjoy writing collaborative posts for things like conversations, combat, etc.? It's not that I enjoy. It's that I haven't had many chances to do it before. Is grammar and depth of writing important to you? Abso-fucking-lutely. Are there any writing subjects you particularly enjoy exploring? Moral ambiguity. Angst. Regret. War. Is there anything you really dislike and want to avoid like the plague? Sexual violence. ERP fetishization. Slavery fetishization. Gratuitous scenes of sadism and torture porn. Is there something you are uncomfortable with happening to your character? Nope. The mos I would be uncomfortable is if some player hijacked my character and did something with them without my say-so. Do you have any short-term or long-term goals with this character?
Short Terms: Explore the underworld of the galaxy, interact with multiple different characters that are scraping the bottom of the barrel and are on top of the barrel as well as fun bounty hunting jobs.
Long Term: A long ardous journey of growth. I'm really enamored with the whole concept of someone going from ' no-one to a monster'.
" In this line of work, death's an occupational hazard. "
Name: Khoss Liell Species: Human Homeworld: Hoth Age: 26 Gender: Male Specialization: Stealth Infiltration, Close Quarters Blasting Current Area of Operation: Unconfirmed. Rumored to be operating within Hutt Space or hiding under Lower Coruscant* as of 5 ATC.
ADDENDDUM 3-A_42: Tell the Lieutenant to stop wasting our time patrolling around for this kriffing scum-bucket. We've combed every street and I'm telling you, the man's several systems away from the Core right now.
Detailed appearance. Imagery insufficient.
Anyone wondering what's underneath the emotionless, helmeted visage that's garnered fame in the Outer Rim may find Khoss's true appearance slightly underwhelming. Khoss Liell is your galactic standard human male of stout stature, at a height around 5'9 according to measurements during his imprisonment at Coruscant. Time spent in the gyms of Republic maximum security prisons has led to a physically robust yet lithe form. His only physical features of note are his missing right eye which he has deigned not to replace with a cybernetic and a long, grooved scar running along from his mouth to his left cheek. His skin is dotted with remnants of frostburns and scars from his long life on the frozen wastelands of Hoth. Republic agents should also note that Khoss is also currently missing his left ring finger which was lost during his escape attempt from Coruscant prison.
In terms of professional attire, Khoss resembles many of his Mandalorian contemporaries working in the field. Heavily armored, a one-note static face-plate and often decked in gadgetry. His typical trademark is a blood red uni-visor helmet with a blue streak on top of it. He often carries his sawed-off blaster rifle in a sling alongside a eclectic collection of various bandoliers on his body. He is overtly fond of wearing baggy, thick clothing, no matter the temperature.
As of now, escaping from Coruscant maximum security prisons doesn't leave a bounty hunter with a lot of time to play dress up. He now wears a tattered cloak around him to keep a low profile.
Report on skills and talents, including level of skill.
The wonders of working in a guild is that you pick up tricks of the trade from every flavor of hunter who has their own modus operandi. You pick up blasting lessons from a Twi'lek sharpshooter, how to lockpick with nothing more than bantha shit from a Duros slicer and speeder stunts from a Tatooine Tusken raider. Through a mixture of osmosis and personal threats, Khoss has picked up a variety of skills from his time as a bounty hunter.
Perhaps, his most frightening talent is his capacity to remain covert. Khoss is a natural at being stealthy and sneaking through trap-infested vents and the most gargantuan fortresses. Combined with his talents for scaling and climbing vertical surfaces, Khoss can infiltrate any place to acquire his acquisition.
Khoss has a noted tendency for personal modification and tinkering of both personal weaponry, equipment and munitions. His childhood as a scavenger of Hoth's frigid junkyards means that he has a knack for salvaging run-down technology to be repurposed for further use. He is also relatively adept at tracking targets in concealed environments, albeit his skills of 'interrogation' aren't as finessed as one might think.
He is adept at piloting space-craft, although, is not capable of piloting dedicated fighter craft to a level which may be considered competent.
Khoss is fluent in Basic, conversational in Huttese and passable in Tusken. He has also picked up a medley of insults in various different alien languages.
Curiously, Khoss has also admitted to possess an almost encyclopediac knowledge of the 850 uses of taun-tauns. Some of these uses are under question.
Report on known combat experience, training and weapons training.
Khoss's marksmanship focuses on efficiency and accuracy, rather than pumping out as many blasts as he sees fit over a period of time. He almost never resorts to using a blaster unless his cover is blown or if the contract requires it to be used. He has a noted pattern of avoiding prolonged melee combat and predilection towards use of silent incapitation such as grapples, chokes or holds, rather than using lethal weaponry. Security footage and witness testimonies indicate seamless proficiency in utilizing both his unarmed skills and skills with a blaster interchangeably in close quarters combat. Recommended solution would be to maintain long distance away from individual in order to reduce probability of death.
From his time on Hoth, Khoss is trained in creating improvised and mechanical traps for his targets to wander into.
Detailed notes on common/favored employers and any noteworthy contacts.
Nunonna the Hutt -
Detailed notes on known rivals and enemies.
The Black Sun -
List and description of other known associates, including subordinates.
Kroosk -
Yieh Yahn -
List of known belongings, including but not limited to planetary surface property, civilian and military vessels, vehicles, weapons, tools.
Modified Heirloom Duranium Alloy Helmet -
BlasTech DXL-7500 Assault Carbine -
Miniature Micro-Rocket Derringer -
Psychological evaluation of Bounty Hunter.
List and description of known and suspected flaws. To be put into restricted database.
Known interests of the Bounty Hunter.
- Hunting for exotic game in various locales. - Shock-ball fan. - Field striping his rifle. - Brewing tea.
Major achievements on record.
-
Major failures on record. Confidential.
- Presumably during the start of his career....
Short description of the operative.
Personal biography, as detailed by the subject for future record. Acquired shortly after last achievement of note.
The Venataan Consortium
The Venataan Coalition
Thick Through Blood
Chapter Leader: Mac Ordwell (DECEASED)
Specializations: Group Missions, Guerilla Tactics, Stealth Infiltration, Production of Tactical Equipment
Members:76 Unknown as of 3 ATC.
House Code and Conduct
SHARE OF PROFITS - Every member of the Coalition is required to give 10% of their profits to the chapter to be redistributed into its budget.
PACK OVER LONER - The Venataan Coalition never sanctions, unless a member of the chapter has proven themselves or allowed by the leader, a solo hunt. A neophyte member or a recently inducted hunter is partnered with a veteran in order to ensure that contracts are achieved with minimal losses.
MURDER, NOT MASSACRE - Needless death of civilians, especially of children, outside of acquisitions is frowned upon within members of the Consortium. The Venataan Coalition makes an effort to repatriate family members of those who have been caught as collateral.
NO KILLING ON CONSORTIUM GROUNDS - In territories, properties owned by the Venataan Coalition or used in order to conduct formal meetings with their clients, there is to be no bloodshed or violence whatsoever committed by any hunter. Violation of these rules, depending on the circumstances and the nature of the violation, will lead to repercussions ranging from expulsion of membership to death.
Chapter History: Like all great Bounty Hunter houses of the galaxy, it begins with ambition.
This is Central Officer Bradford, hailing all surviving XCOM operatives on this channel.
Protocol Ember is now in effect. All surviving XCOM units and outposts are to maintain radio silence with one another and are now given permission to operate independently from HQ.
While we have lost the battle, the war has not been lost.
Vigilo Confido.
X.C.O.M
PROTOCOL EMBER
- Elders don't start merging alien DNA with human DNA. ADVENT's rank and file are ordinary soldiers who have been indoctrinated into ADVENT propaganda and are not genetically modified. Yet. XCOM has to deal with the potential of ADVENT sympathisers and counter-spies within their own ranks as well.
Some strangers take their tales with them to their graves in alleyways or under the bottom of bridges. One thing I've learnt is that truth fades over time. It's got an expiration date.
Mom once told me that Dakota City is a land of forgotten stories. I'd like to think that's true, you see. Me and Black Lightning can't have been the only one to have been tested with power. Not everyone gets the chance to stand in the spotlight.
Believe me, after everything that's happened to me over the past week? It would make me happy if someone else could go onstage for once.
An earth-shattering boom rouses him from his dream. Storms are like monsters under the bed. A moment later, rainfall ruins his hopes of trying to sleep again. A yawning Virgil slowly crawls out of his bed. It's dark but navigating the corners of his house is second nature to him. He climbs down the stairs, one step at a time, stomach growling for a bowl of cereal.
By the time he makes it down to the living room, he notices that the front door is open. For a moment, he thinks a thief has broken into their house. He snorts at the thought. A thief tried to break into Black Lightning’s house. The silhouette of a person is standing in the doorway, looking out towards the streets with drenched gutters of rainwater. His dad freezes, caught like a deer in headlights. Worry begins to worm and nestle inside Virgil’s gut. It's not because he’s carrying an overstuffed suitcase, bursting at the seams. It's not the fact that his right cheek is stamped with a red mark that looks suspiciously like a hand.
It's the fact that his dad, the Black Lightning, is scared that makes Virgil so nervous.
Black Lightning shouldn’t be scared. What could a superhero be afraid of anyway?
His face is a muddled mess of anger, sadness and regret. He flinches every time Virgil waits expectantly for an excuse. An explanation. His
“ I- I’m sorry.”
For what? He doesn’t have the chance to reply back as his dad disappears in a blinding flash, leaving him with only the pitter-patter of raindrops for company.
His mom came down a minute later, something strange on her face. Virgil hugs her because that's the only thing he knows how to do. Something wet drops onto his pajamas.
It must be the rain.
Warmth.
Lights overhead.
Where was he?
No, he's not in Dakota City, nor is he five years old anymore. His mind scrambles to remember where he currently is right now. New York. The tower. He blew it up. It’s hard to make out the surrounding details. He tries to move his right leg...and it doesn’t want to budge. Left leg….no luck. Negotiating with his right arm resulted in a spike of pain that makes him shout a few curse words out loud that would have earned him an ear-pinching from his father.
He hears the sounds of graphite snapping against something hard. He looks up and sees an adult woman in white garb, black circles around her shocked eyes. She waves and motions towards someone out of sight. Moments later, a bespectacled sandy-haired man wearing a coat comes into view. He makes out a badge that reads ‘ CAMPBELL’. It’s seeing the stethoscope around his neck that makes Virgil realises that he’s in a hospital.
“ Easy there. You’ve been out for at least several hours and your body’s still recovering.’ The person begins pulling out instruments, poking and prodding at him.
“ Am...am I dead?” His throat feels like waxy sandpaper, gargling out each syllable in a pained grimace.
“ If that’s your first question after waking up, then, I’d be more worried about your choice in career, son.” The doctor replies testily to his question as he flashes a light in front of Virgil’s eyes like an annoying fly.
It’s a familiar position that he’s found himself in before. One of overwhelming helplessness like that of shelled turtle. The hazy fog of fatigue disappears over time and Craning his neck slowly from side to side, he can make out the disinfected white walls of a hospital building.
Wait, if he’s out in the open like this….The EKG began to beep erratically, the screen short-circuiting in a spastic blur of pixels. Virgil’s breathing hitches up a notch as his left hand reaches towards his own face. His heart-rate subsides once he realises that his goggles are still strapped on his eyes. The doctor’s concern fades away as he begins to relax once more.
“ W-” His dry throat makes it hard for him to enunciate. The doctor offers a paper cup of water in his hand. He takes it and sips it slowly. “ W-where am I?”
“ Columbia Hospital. One of our emergency team found you unconscious on Staten Island. You could imagine the shock we got when you still had a pulse. I’d be more worried about long-term symptomatic damage in your right arm. Third degree electrical burns aren’t exactly something that you can just brush off.”
The doctor stares pointedly towards Virgil’s right arm. Burned was an understatement to Virgil. Barbecued would be more appropriate. Blisters lined his cherry-red palms, scar-skin zig-zagging all the way up to his elbow like a demented tattoo. His fingerprints had been sanded away by high-voltage current into the texture of baby-skin. The feeling of numbness prickled in his nerves with every tug he forced into his fingers.
The only silver lining in this whole mess is that at least he didn’t break his right arm again.
“ Thank you. For everything. But, I just need some time alone to myself.”
There are multiple cards by his bedside. Hastily scrawled binder notes of one-word expressions of gratitude in ink. Pastel crayon doodles of him on the bridge. A box of chocolates (He’s allergic to hazelnut, but he doesn’t bother to tell the doctor).
Virgil lets his head rest on top of the pillow and lets out a sign of unbearable exhaustion that has been building up within him ever since the start of the attack.
How was he going to explain this to Dad?
It’s a Monday midnight by the time he arrives back at Dakota with Richie in tow.
The Hawkins household is located in the southern boroughs of Hemingway. He doesn't bother to wear the mask at midnight. Most of Dakota is asleep at this hour anyway.
“ Young man, do you know how much you had me worried - “
He ambushes his dad with a silent hug that says more than a thousand excuses. A moment later, arms wrap around his shoulder in a fatherly embrace. He pushes his face into his chest and exhales slowly.
“ I need to tell you something, Dad.”
" We'll talk about it over on the dinner table." There's a gentle pat on his back. " Now, come on in. There's a plate of ricotta I've been saving for you in the fridge...."
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♦ Topic: Mayoral Election in Dakota City - The Future of Bang Babies Uncertain?
" It's all too easy to mistake them as just monsters when in reality, they're kids. Misguided and lost boys and girls from Paris Island. From Utopia. From Hemingway. From Washington Avenue. Who all need a second chance at life."
This was just one of many choice quotes spoken by Robert Hawkins, head manager of Freeman Community Center and current mayoral nominee for Dakota City spoken during last week's campaign rally.
Today, on September 7th, marks two months since the infamous chemical incident that struck the harbors of Dakota City. The Big Bang, as dubbed by the local civilians living in Dakota City, resulted in the largest recorded artificial boom in metahuman populations in America since experimentation by the SSR in WW2. The status of metahumans as having access to human rights has long been a long contentious issue nation-wide.
His opponent, current incumbent Mayor Morris Jefferson is an active supporter of police militarization, advocating for the occupation of the D.M.A and a hostile policy towards meta-humans........
Hopefully, the DMA doesn't get their hands on Dakota City. It's surprising that Dakota's been left unscathed by the Stryfe Attack. My relative says that they're planning to break out mandatory checks for metas in every city....
►StainedDuCChess Replied on 13:24:20, 5th September
What's more surprising is that Static's managed to keep a tight noose on all those metas. Someone at least give this man a pat on the back.
►Ram Mette Replied on 13:42:35, 5th September
Hope that the new mayor puts all those dirty fuckin' mongrels in camps. Police should gas them again and make sure it works this time.
STAFF NOTICE: Honestly, Ram Mette, we are sick of your shit. You can get your anti-meta tirade out of here and off to whatever bridge you lurk under.
►SpamLetters Replied on 13:44:42, 5th September
ugh, crowd were friggin' packed when I went there.
►Krimson Angel Replied on 14:12:29, 5th September
Say, anyone still got footage of Static at NYC? I'm planning on using it for a school project.
►HarryMan45 Replied on 14:30:01, 5th September
[@Krimson Angel] PM me and we can work something out.
“ LLLLEEETTT’SSS PARTAAAYY!” Boom pumped his fists in the midst of his jockeying, the crowd jumping up and down in erratic waves, as another track came on. The sub-woofer growing out of his chest reverbated and vibrated sporadically, electronic bass shaking the air. The music was infectious to the point where Ebon began to tap his feet in time with the beat.
It feels good to be king.
Paris Island barren wastes were teeming with wild hoots of celebration and the raucous cacophany of Just the way he liked it. Ebon watched from a corner as Talon dropped a crate of beer to the frenzying crowd of Bang Babies down below. Racks of meat and sausages were being cooked over campfires. He looked around at the shadows of corroding shipping containers cast by moonlight. The only other illumination available on the island were bonfires and the lightbulbs that his men had managed to scrounge up.
There was a muffled sound of gagging that he heard but no one else could. His stomach as his mind began to buzz with headaches. “Quit being shifty. Your time will come soon, Buchinsky.”
The struggles ceased. Ebon snorted. Was that all it took to silence the Electrocutioner? Hard to believe that he once believed this washed up old timer could bring down the Kilowatt Kid. However, it was still annoying that he still hadn’t managed to figure out the problem of containing living beings in his shadow dimension. Transporting Buchinsky all the way from Ryker’s to Dakota probably had a factor in how the criminal had managed to figure out how to affect Ebon from another dimension. He made a note for himself to fix it later. Right now, Buchinsky had other uses than being a thorn in his backside.
Ebon moved through the shadows like a serpent, gliding in between the darkness until he was on top of a shipping container, surveying the scene below him. The moonlight fully illuminated his figure. It took only a few moments before one person noticed him. Then, the next. Then, the few other dozen. It was a game of Chinese whispers and shoulder nudges that soon had made him the sole attention of the largest population of Bang Babies on the east coast. For anyone else, it would have been suicide.
But he wasn’t anyone. He was the Master of Shadows and not some normie chump but the boss of the Meta Breed. He was on top of the food chain as far as he was concerned and everyone else that he was staring right now got his scraps.
" How's it hanging, y'all?” Ebon shouted down towards the silent crowd. It was disappointing that they only reaction he got were coughs. Boom’s music was still on, though, it’d now had switched to a reggae track.
“C'mon, guys. Just cause they call me the Shadow Man don't mean you all gotta get cold feet.” He spoke exasperatedly. “ Makes me sound like some sort of pedophile, now that I think about it.”
The levity cut through the tension like a needle popping a balloon. There were giggles and sounds of laughter elicited from every Bang Baby. Boom took it as a signal to continue on, inserting a new track of Europop into the mix, to the cheers of the mob that had formed around his station.
“ Now, that’s what I like to hear! C’mon, Talon, gimme your poison of the day.”
Talon soared overhead and tossed him a bottle from her clawed feet which he caught deftly. He uncapped it and began to chug it down. It was all an act, of course. One of the downsides of his powers were that everyday normal sensations for him were dulled right now. Of course, that had upsides. The cheap beer now tasted faintly of apple juice to him instead of the bitter crap that so many swallowed down their throats.
Ebon hopped down from the metallic crate in a dark blur, looking where exactly to plan his little stunt. Funny. Nightinggale was nowhere to be seen, though, given how skittish the Night Breed were -
“ Look who came crawling back out of their cave again….”
He’d recognised that snide accent anywhere. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a lone individual part out from the crowd, ginger haired with yellow streaks dyed throughout. Hotstreak. The man toed the line so many times that Ebon was considering tossing him out of the Meta-Breed. He decided against it. Having a loose cannon on a leash was better than having a loose cannon on the leash pointed against them. Thankfully, Hotstreak’s brains didn’t match his skills for being a firestarter.
Hotstreak’s stabbed his finger into Ebon’s jacket, the tip glowing like a fire poker. Singe marks peppered the expensive leather. He knew it would make him mad. He wouldn’t let this jumped up chump get to him.
“ Fancy seeing you here, Hotstreak.” Annoyance edged into Ebon’s normally suave baritone. He was almost tempted to drop Hotstreak into a portal and out into Hemingway Harbor.
“ Why are you here, Ebon?” Hotstreak stared at him with barely veiled suspicion.“ I thought you were supposed to be out doing your own business?”
" I’m glad you asked, Francis.” The pyrokinetic bang baby looked as if he’d been slapped. “ Cause I hauled myself a fish I think everyone’s itching to get a piece of.”
A black chasm formed above him, dripping shadows. Hotshot’s arms spread out, pointing towards Ebon, burning orange . Funny. He actually thought he could take him in a fight. A moment later, the prisoner tumbled onto the ground. He hit the ground writhing. Someone screamed and for a moment, the bustling atmosphere had been shattered. Hotstreak lowered his arms, cutting off the flames, his cheeks pale white, as he rubbed the back of his head. He gave him a look that said 'Am I off the hook?'
Ebon stared back and then, slowly nodded. We'll see. Hotstreak’s expression returned back to his arrogant demeanour.
Meanwhile, he had everyone’s attention now. Boom had thankfully cut his music off. Ebon cleared his throat.
" Everyone. May I introduce Larry Buchinsky, the Electrocutioner and the ho-mo sapien who tried to ice our good old friend, Static."
" Now, I know that there are plenty of us here who share a certain...history with Static. We know Talon's sob-story about how he nearly sent her falling from five stories up. The truth is...I don't hate the he-ro.” He drawled out the syllables mockingly. “ I just pity the fool.” He paused to let it sink in. “ Think about it for a moment. Here's a brother who's the same blood as us. He's out there bleeding sweat and tears for those filthy normies, fighting their battles instead of ours. He thinks they're the oppressed instead of the rest of us here on Paris Island.”
He turned his gaze towards the crowd, slithering through the small gaps like quicksliver as he spoke.
‘All of you know what they call us. Freaks of nature.” he said, his eyes searching through the crowd. Murmurs of anger spread through the crowd. The muties. Monsters."
" So, I say, if they live in fear of us, then, why not embrace it?"
" I’ve told you all before and I’m gonna tell again. I'mma make sure that Dakota belongs to us. The city is our turf. Our territory. Stick with me, my friends, and ain't nobody gonna mess with us ever again. Not the mayor. Not the government. Not the D.M.A. Not Supergirl. Not Wondie. Not Spider Man. Not anyone!"
Not even the Kilowatt Kid.
" We're the beginning of a new century, my friends! And it only begins when we have the guts to do what's right!"
“ Starting with this Bang-Baby murdering homosapien.”
" Shiv, would you so kindly do the honours for us?"
The crowd parted, out of fear and in disgust, to reveal a grinning man, pierced lips stuck in a perpetual smile. He sauntered over towards Ebon, hands loosely hanging by his side, radiating confidence. His arm began to glow pink, shimmering light shaping into a bladed mass that resembled the man’s namesake.
" What are we?" he shouted out.
" A NEW BREED!"
" WHAT ARE WE GONNA BE!?"
" A BETTER BREED!"
All of the crowd was into it now. Ebon grabbed Larry by the scruff of his neck, dragging him through as Bang Babies spat curses and threw empty bottles and trash towards the convict.
" Who are we?"
" THE META BREED!"
He slammed Larry onto the hood of an old forklifter, positioning his neck so it stuck out over the side.
" And our time starts right here! Right now! We’ve all lived in the shadows long enough! It's time this city stands in ours."
“ EBON! EBON! EBON! EBON!”
The chanting loudened and Ebon in that moment felt that the world was his stage.
After all, when every player had a shadow, who couldn’t he beat?
Shiv’s hand swung down at the peak of the crowd’s roar. Flesh boiled and bubbled away in a hissing slash. The Electrocutioner’s head rolled on the ground, blinking, the gag around his mouth missing to reveal a gormless expression.
Ebon’s boot then slammed down on his head and crunched it into a red puddle. Electrocutioner had taken his secret with him to his grave.
You know who I am. You've heard of me. You've probably seen my work. I'm quite famous with the federales on the Mexican border after all. But you don't know the man who made the mask.
This is the story of how I painted the Artistomancer.
Chapter 1 - The Pledge
All good things begin with a mother and a father. I was born in a family of five sons and two sisters. My parents married each other out of necessity at first, not love. That was what Mama accidentally told me when she fixed up a scrape I got from attempting to climb the border wall. I guess, things change over time. Mama was a nurse who worked in the slums. Papa, on the other hand, was a travelling bicycle mechanic who tried to escape the 2010 coup de'tat in Sao Paulo. It's hard to believe that the conditions in Sao Paulo were worst than Juarez.
Oh, Juarez? The wall was a constant across. Juarez was a life of living on the margins. What can I say about Juarez that hasn't been blasted and smeared across every news outlet in North America? The only kind thing I can say about Juarez is that if you ignore the corruption, cooperate with the cartels and keep your nose clean of crime; then, you can make a decent living.
When my papa gave me my first set of cheap color pencils as my 10th birthday gift, I was initially angry. Looking back, I wouldn't have traded it for anything else in the world. I began to draw. I drawed instead of doing homework at school. I stained my handprints on the walls. I made chalk drawings on the pavements. I painted the pottery my mom brought home. When I didn't have enough money to buy dollar-store chalk or spray paint, I mashed cactus juices together and mixed crayons with water. My inspirations were not Leonardo Da Vinci or Michaleangelo but the street artists and holo-taggers of Mexico.
Some discover theyNo, it wasn't some freak accident nor was I experimented in one of those corporate laboratories. For me, it was desperation that led me to discovering my powers. One of the waterlines . The corporations barred any news of it getting out to the NGO's, leaving thousands of us to die from dehydration in the slums.
That was my first art-piece. An oasis in my desert.
Eventually, I caught the attention of. I was young, foolish and naive back then. I thought I could outsmart the Los Diablos. However, they were stringing me along, treating me like a tool.
I did the only thing my thirteen year old mine thought was the smart move. I tried to resurrect them, bring them back to life...
Well, there's a reason why no one dares to speak the name of the Los Diablos anymore in Juarez.
That's when I met Hex.
Chapter 2 - The Turn
So, when the corporations tried to silence me, I struck out on my own. I saw that we were always playing into the hands of the corpos, the fat cats, the men who controlled the world and made us play their cops and robbers games.
“ Yo, yo, yo, what’s hanging, Dakota CITY?! Welcome back to Dakota Midnight Central live. It’s your boy, DJ Rubberband, keeping you wonderful people company with the freshest tracks and beats. Today, we’ve got a very special guest folks. You may have become acquainted with his magnetic personality over the last few months. He’s the defender of Dakota City, the Kilowatt Kid, Lightning Junior. May I introduce STATIC! What’s up, my man?”
“ Rocking a new costume, I see. What happened to the good old white, black and blue?”
“ Well, yellow’s the new lightning in town, you see. One thing’s for sure. It makes laundry easier.”
“ I bet. Now, we heard about your scuffle on the street with the leader of the Wild Pack yesterday. Down near Washington Avenue? ”
“ Yeah. I've been trying to help Dakota PD stop the feud that's been happening between the Wild Pack and the Blood Syndicate. Let's just say both gangs got really peeved 'bout me intereferin' with their right to kill one another.”
" You didn't get hurt too bad, did you?"
" Hurt? Please, Rubber. Nothing can touch me."
Why was it always the windows?
Dark spots danced in Virgil’s eyes, brushing shards of glass off his jacket. Several oranges rolled aimlessly on the ground beside him, some relatively unharmed by his landing whilst others were squashed underneath his weight. Standing up with a grumble, he ignored the faint scent of sweet. Ending up in a greengrocer’s wouldn’t have been his first choice but at least the fruit made the landing softer. The crash had scrambled his mind, jumbled it up until he could no longer tell what day it was anymore. He readjusted his googles and stared through the open broken window.
What was he doing here in the first place anyway? The answer soon came to him in the form of a tip jar jiterring relentlessly before toppling off the side of a counter. Then, the ceiling above him began to shift. He first confused the rumbling for an earthquake and then, corrected himself. Dakota City hadn't seen an earthquake in over fifty years. The entire world was shaking up and down that he couldn't make sense of where was up and where was down.
BOOM.
Oh, right.
BOOM.
Him.
BOOM
The source of the shaking arrived around the corner, leaving cratered footprints in the concrete with every step they made. It sounded as if a Tyranosaurus Rex with diabetes was taking a tour of the city. He wasn’t sure if there was a word in the dictionary to describe how big the man’s feet were. Huge? Ginormous? Colossal? His knees were slightly bent, as if he was preparing to take flight at any moment. It would have been comical, if it wasn’t for the fact that there were remnants of dried blood stuck on his heels. His corn-rowed hair was hidden underneath a red cloth bandanna. Underneath the man’s shades, a thick cigar was stuck in his mouth as he stared at Virgil as if he was nothing more than a bug to be crushed.
“ Ya must be a crazy interferin’ with ma businezz, Kilowatt boy." Kangor drawled his words lazily in a thick Jamaican accent. “ Washington Avenue is ma territory and everyone knows what happens if you get in an animal’s territory.”
“ Some business you’re running, Tim!” Virgil flicked off several squashed fruit peels off his shoulder and winced at the bruises beginning to form on his backside. He raised his hands in front of him in a placating manner. " Look, we don't have to fight. We can settle this like civilised -"
Kangor leapt towards him mid-speech, one leg raised outwards to kick him. You didn’t expect a man with such abnormally sized feet to be so nimble. Virgil rolled out of the way just in time to avoid becoming a human pancake.
" Da name is Kangor." The Bang Baby criminal wrenched his foot free from the ruined shelf. “ Now, step out before you get stepped on.”
“ Step out?” His fists glowed with lightning “ We’ve only just begun this dance, Kangor.”
Kangor skipped out of the way to avoid getting drenched in a gout of electricity. It was almost infuriating how deceptively quick the Jamaican was, dancing around him in a slow yet efficient manner. The din of his stomps filled his ear, not enough to distract him from dodging a elephant-sized foot. The back wall of the small store was pulverized into smithereens by Kangor's twenty-inch long boots.
“ Dance? I doubt a little boy like you can handle my style.”
“ Style?” Virgil gave a wild grin as he backed himself against a rack of ripening bananas. “You’ve got as much style as your choice in footwear.”
There! Static ducked underneath a wide kick before delivering a stinging payload of electricity into Kangor’s opengut. The Bang Baby’s face contorted in pain for a moment, teeth gritted in annoyance before shoving Virgil back with his left foot. Virgil wheezed, his back slamming into a shelf of homemade jam jars that rattled upon impact. He’d just hit him with enough volts to knock out a man. It looked like the Bang Gas changed him on the inside as well as on the outside. Kangor's confident gait had been broken now, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath as he eyed Virgil with a conviction to kill.
Playing cockroach was only going to get him so far. A construction site half a block down. If he made his bets right. Virgil leaned against the store shelf behind him, steadying himself as Kangor charged towards him. At the last minute, his right arm snapped out, radiating electrical energy, and a volley of jam jars flung itself into the Bang Baby's face. Kangor yelled out in surprise and spat jam out of his mouth, Static taking advantage of the distraction to summon a nearby man-hole towards him. Virgil grabbed onto both sides of the manhole, legs squirming in the air as he pulled himself up onto the levitating cast-iron disc.
“ That all you got, Kangor?" He taunted from on top his surfboard. " I hear they’re looking for an Easter Bunny mascot in Utopia!”
Kangor growled, wiping apricot jam off his face, and began to chase after Virgil.
The construction workers wisely began to flee the scene, dropping whatever they had on hand, and ran away from the ongoing brawl between the two super-powered youngsters.
" I hear they're looking for
“ You ain’t gonna be saying no more words when I squash you into da ground -”
Unable to change his trajectory mid-fall, Kangor fell with a splat into the pool of wet cement.
“ I've got this sinking feeling that you'll be more willing to cooperate now..."
" You! Gemme outta dis mess!"
" Sure, you just hang tight." " In the meantime, there's a great coffee shop down the next bend. I'm aching for an macchiato after all that trouble you put me through. Is there anything you want?"
" Iced latte."
So, how’s the life of being a teenage superhero?”
“ Well, it’s probably one of the worst jobs ever. No pay, you can’t use it for your CV and no insurance either. ”
“ There’s gotta be ups as well as downs, man. Something tells me you ain’t no Mother Teresa.”
“ Well, some of the shops down in Upper Hemingway do give personal discounts to me while I’m on the scene.”
“ I’d bet. You got any special person in your life yet, Static? With a magnetic personality like yours and all the fame you’ve been cumulating.…..”
“ I know what you’re trying to do, Rubber. Stop teasin’ me like that. It ain’t gonna work.”
“ “ Chillax, bro. I was just playing with ya. So, one of our listeners asked this question that I think has been on everyone mind for quite a while.”
“ Shoot.”
“ Is Black Lightning your Dad?”
“ Is that the new principal?”
“ Good morning, everybody."
" Oh, come on. You can do better than that!"
" That's what I like to hear. I am glad to be honoured with this prestigious position and will continue to build upon the legacy that Principle Forrester left behind."
There were several chuckles and hushed whispers followed by the silencing hisses from teachers to keep quiet. From what he heard, Principle Forrester had ‘resigned’ after Shocker had torn up the dorms at Hemingway High.
" I'm not here to teach you about how to maintain your GPA. How to get into Ivy-League universities. How to succeed in your academics. I'm here to teach you how to exercise your responsibility to choose."
" The responsibility to choose a better life for yourself. The responsibility to do good from wrong. The responsibility to recognize when something is wrong. The responsibility to take care of yourself and be the best person you can be for other people and you."
“ When I see Hemingway High, I don't see see potential. All of you, no matter where you come from, who you are or what you did in the past, share that same potential. I believe that we’re not aiming to prepare you for the future at Hemingway. We’re making the future at Hemingway High and that future starts with you."
“ 'Cause in Dakota City, you always have a choice, and it's your job to find out what that choice is."
" That sounds like a lot that I'm asking of all of you, but, I'll be behind you. Every step of the way to support you in your journey."
“ I’m starting to like this guy already.” “ You’re lookin’ a little lost, V? Something on your mind?”
“ No, no. “ “ I just didn’t get enough sleep, last night.”
“ Everything all right there, Static? It’s not too personal a question, is it - “
“ Personal? Nah. Look, for the final time, there ain’t no relationship between Black Lightning and me. End of story. Nada. Zilch. The sooner that everyone abandons that tired, old rumor, the better everyone will be. ”
...try sourcing your tungsten filaments from lightbulbs. They should provide enough resistance to produce enough light.
Your confidant, Herman Schultz
You sensed it, didn’t you?. Virgil shook his head. It’s just an illusion. The lamp bulb behind him flickered like a trapped firefly. Is that what you’re telling yourself? His computer monitor flickered uncontrollably before resuming its soft hum.
“ This is Robert Hawkins. If you’re interested or have questions about Freeman Community Center, please leave a message at the - “
Ever since he’d revealed that he was Static to Dad, it didn’t have the reaction he’d expect him to have.
“ Ahem.”
“ Whaddya want? Can’t you see I’m busy here, Sharon?”
“Apparently.” “Virg, this is the tenth time you’ve called Dad today”
“Can’t he spare some time for me?”
“I remembered you were supportive of him in the beginning.”
“We both were.” “C’mon, sis, don’t you feel that the house is a little more empty now?”
“Look, Dad still cares for the both of us, alright? It’s just that….he loses sight of the smaller picture once in a while.”
“ Besides, we still have each other, you dork.”
“Night, Virgil”
“ Night, Sharon.”
“ Robbery in progress at Dakota City Bank. All units on route…”
Check Out. Who hasn't heard of the fabled land, where we are no longer haunted by the drones of Sekyuritee, the mutated pests that roam the aisles, the tyrannical horror of the Smilers or other nightmares that haunt us daily in the Wal. Some say it is an illusion made up by the Employees to give us false hope, whilst others claim they have seen the pearly doors of Sliding, opening to reveal glimpses of the Unknown Lots. The line to Check Out is soiled with the blood of trippers, lifters and shoppers that have attempted to seek haven and escape the confines of the Mart.
Yet, every shopper eventually learns of the eternal truth about this quest, this unquenched desire, the dream which may come but never will.
The Wal is all.
Think of an average Walmart. Picture it in your mind. Think of every shelf, every sample stand, every product, every waiting line you've been in.
Now, think of a Walmart the size of a city, where banks are Wal-Banks and restaurants serve Walmart branded products. You live inside a Walmart manufactured home cube.
Go even bigger. Think of a Walmart the size of a nation. A Wal-nation. You pay your taxes to the Walmart. Your citizenship is instead a Walmart customer account. No matter what job you take, you are always an employee of Walmart. Your national anthem is Walmart advertising jingle. Your housing complex is located on the 2nd row of a shelf and your neighbor is located across the aisle.
Then, we've reached the logical conclusion. There is no mart anymore. Aisles the size of highways, shelves stories tall, rows upon rows of fridges to populate a city, food courts the size of beaches, signs that have replaced skies and forests of grocery sections. The world has become Wal-World.
The future is the Wal.
Walmageddon: Shopping Spree is an roleplay that is based upon /tg/'s homebrew setting, Walmart Apocalypse, which was further derived from a now sadly defunct Wizards of the Coast forum thread spanning hundred of pages long. Taking the concept of a supermarket arcologies to its most logical conclusion and dialing it up beyond safety regulations, Walmageddon is set in a satirical mass-consumerist post-apocalyptic future where Walmart rose in prominence in both socio-economic and political power during the 21st century, spreading and outsourcing its facilities in every part of the globe. The corporation eventually became a sovereign power that was a virtual nation unto itself, with superstores around the globe that acted as miniature cities that could house millions of people inside its confines. After a catastrophic war between the few federal third-world governments that were left and Walmart, humanity was forever sealed within the giant stores that over generations, they would learn to call home.
Pockets of human civilization, known as Departments, live on within the aisles of these humongous supermarkets, whilst the shelves are continually refilled by the deadly Stocker bots who will kill with extreme prejudice if they catch those who try to 'shop-lift'. Those who survive must contend with the myriad of various dangers that inhabit the Wal such as malfunctioning automated artificial intelligences, hostile religious groups such as the Cult of the Smiling One, mutated animals, lobotomised Greeters and worse. Furthermore, rivaling factions and mysterious forces work to claim control of the Wal and ultimately, the future of humanity itself.
You are a Lifter, a catch all term for scavenger for hire in the Wal. You, along with a crew of several other Lifters, have been tasked with delivering a mysterious high value product from the Bargain Bin to an unknown department far away on the other side of the Wal. The risks are high but the payout is even higher. What seemed like a simple package delivery has taken a turn for the worst....
$$$
SHOPPING LIST
1. Don't engage in any behaviour that disturbs the other customers of this roleplay such as harassment, godmodding, metagaming, flame wars in OOC, posting inappropriate content without the GM's permission and etc. If you've been caught engaging in any behavior that's not consistent with the rules of this site or any roleplaying standard that hasn't been consulted with the GM prior, then, you'll be banned from shopping at Walmageddon forever.
2. Quality over quantity is best, but when quality is matched with quantity, it's even better. For the purposes of this RP, I am encouraging you to write whatever length you desire, whether it's short, pithy posts or long, detailed posts. There is no post length requirement but be reasonable in whatever choices you make. If you want to know, my minimum requirement for a post is at a paragraph at the minimum. Don't go and make a post which the number of sentences can be counted with my fingers.
3. I don't have any posting activity requirements, given that I'm a frequent hypocrite in both the frequency of posts I write in roleplays that I have done previously. All that I ask is that you are active in both the OOC and the IC. If you wanna hang out in the OOC and lay back and relax, that's fine by me (As long as you don't start acting inappropriately)
4. Have fun. No, seriously, have fun. This is a ridiculous concept with ridiculous ideas that takes pot shots at corporate capitalism and 21st century consumer culture. If you have any worldbuilding ideas or suggestions you'd like to post, you are heavily encouraged to do so. As most of the lore for Walmart Apocalypse is heavily vague, incomplete and scattered, your imagination and creativity is required to fill in the gaps. Worldbuilding in this RP will be mainly contributed by the roleplayers, funneled through me. Bending lore for our own benefit is going to happen a lot on a case by case basis.
$$$
Customer ID
Disclaimer: You don't have to strictly follow this format. You are allowed to make your own additions or your own alterations if you want to do so.
PERSONAL ACCOUNT
NAME: (Self Explanatory)
GENDER: (Self Explanatory)
DEPARTMENT: (Remember that your department is the single biggest consideration for how it affects your character concept. The traits, personality, skills and equipment your character has will be exemplified by what department they come from.)
AGE: (Fairly self explanatory, though, be realistic. Anything less than 18 years old is pushing it mildly.)
APPEARANCE: (Again, fairly evident by what it means. Describe your character as much as you want to. Obviously, if you have no image to supplant the text description, then, you're gonna need to put a whole lot more effort into fleshing out the visual image of your character here.)
RESUME
(Your character's life until the beginning of their first job. How did they become who they were? What were the most important events of their life? Why did they decide to become a Lifter? Make it as long as you want to be.)
RECEIPT
PERSONAL GOAL: (What are you trying to achieve in the Wal?)
LIKES: (List a few trivial things that your Shopper likes)
DISLIKES: (List a few trivial things that your Shopper dislikes)
REPUTE: (We've been asking a lot about how your character looks at the world, so, let's reverse it around. How does the world view your character? What status does your character have in the world?)
HEEL:(Heels are basically an over-riding character flaw that exemplifies the type of person your character is. It's what other people know your character for being. Examples of Weak Spots can be: Hubris, Selfishness, Naivety, Easily Angered, Inferiority Complex, Napoleon Complexes, Vengeful, Sadistic, Paranoia. A Heel is different from just another normal character flaw because they are an essential part of your character that makes your character who they are. They can never escape from a Weak Spot.)
CODE: (Codes are a deep sentiment, passion or virtue that a character holds dearly to, in spite of the hostile and unrelenting nature of the Wal. It's a trait that someone would have if they lived in a sane world outside the Wal. Soft Spots can be: Valuing freedom, A Hero Complex, Social Justice, Friendship, Honesty, Being Protective of your Family, Protecting the Weak, A Pact that You Abide By, Veganism, Empathy.)
QUIRKS:(Unique traits that your character is known for doing such as collecting ears off their dead enemies, always ordering their drinks with a single cube of ice, whatever strange things that immedietely makes them distinct from everyone else.)
PERFORMANCE REVIEW
(What skills does your character have that allowed them to survive this long without dying? One thing that you may be noticing here is that I'm not including any flaws in here. That's right. You wanna know why? Because, I believe having many flaws is just an excuse for an roleplayer to switch between them willy nilly and disregard them. Therefore, there is only one, great singular flaw that will inhibit your character every step of the way. Any of the skills that you have has to be justified by the Department you came from and your character's backstory. )
(SKILL) ► (DESCRIPTION)
GROCERIES
(Your character's equipment. Include as many things that you think are necessary for your character. I want the most wacky shit you can come up with. But, be reasonable, however. Don't make your character carry a microwave that can turn into a nuclear bomb.)
For he is his eternal messenger and we his servants
Always Low Prices, Always Faithful
For our smiles are our faith and the Wal his temple
Always Low Prices, Always Faithful
" Welcome to Wal-World Sector 14-A-Delta! We hope that you enjoy your stay here! Please go to the Customer Service desk if you have any questions. For inquiries about Wal-Coupon deals...." It's a wonder that the PA is still working. You're sprinting down an aisle, the only sound you can hear are your thumping heartbeats and heaving breathes. The loud thumps make you realise that it's coming closer. Scrambling yourself up onto a shelving unit, you hide behind the boxes. You've heard rumors about Sekyuritee drones. No one ever manages to describe how they look like because no one ever manages to live and tell the tale. A metal behemoth ponderously creaks down the hallway, metal joints buckling and bending to support its gargantuan weight.
You close your eyes, hoping that the Great Sam is watching over you right now. Grasping the handles of your plunger with your sweaty hands, red light runs down the cracks of the shelves, intruding into the safe harbor of the shadow, Sekyuritee bearing down upon you,
The Wal is everywhere. The Wall is everything. The Wal is eternal. The Wal is all.
In the distant future, monolithic superstores the size of small countries lay unblemished on the ruined and blasted landscape of the Old World after the collapse of civilization. Within these colossal wrecks lie the last bastions of human society. For a period of time, these pockets of humanity were scattered, eking out a harsh and weary existence within the confines of the Wal, scavenging from its shelves. Eventually, enclaves of human survivors known as Departments began to form within the confines of the Wal, each with their own unique culture, their own methods of surviving, of living. However, in spite of these miracles, there are still threats to contend with inside the Wal. The lunatic Cult of the Smiling One, dedicated to purging all non-believers and heretics to the Great Sam. Malfunctioning automatons who persist in carrying out their duties in the absence of customers. Horrific, mutated monstrosities from within the deepest depths and outside of the Wal. Violent, mindless Brand Gangs who terrorize, raid and kill innocent Shoppers.
Walmageddon: Shopping Spree is an roleplay that is based upon /tg/'s homebrew setting Walmart Apocalypse, which was further derived from a now sadly defunct Wizards of the Coast forum thread spanning hundred of pages long. Taking the concept of a supermarket arcologies to its most logical conclusion and dialing it up beyond safety regulations, the roleplay is set in a satirical mass-consumerist post-apocalyptic future where Walmart rose in prominence in both socio-economic and political power during the 21st century, spreading and outsourcing its facilities in every part of the globe. The corporation eventually became a sovereign power that was a virtual nation unto itself, with superstores around the globe that acted as miniature cities which could house millions of people. After a catastrophic war between the few federal third-world governments that were left standing and Wal-World, humanity was forever sealed within the giant stores that over generations, they would learn to call home.
You are a Lifter, a catch all term for scavenger for hire in the Wal. For whatever reason, you, along with a crew of several other Lifters, have been tasked with delivering a mysterious high value product from the Bargain Bin to an unknown department far away on the other side of the Wal. The risks are high but the payout is even higher. Will you make a story of your own amongst the thousands in the Wal or will you meet your end? The choice is yours.
$$$
TERMS AND CONDITIONS
Before you begin shopping at Walmageddon, please take a moment to consult our Terms and Conditions.
► No rule-breaking behavior whatsoever that is in disregard of the rules of the Guild. Usual roleplaying standards also apply which means no god-modding, meta-gaming, twinking, cheesing, powerplaying or retconning. Doing these without the consent of the Wal-Master will most likely result in permanent expulsion of the player from the mart, depending on the circumstances.
►There is no strict post length requirement in this RP other than "Don't give me a post where I can count the number of sentences with my two hands easily". A post of about three decently sized paragraphs is enough to satisfy me, though. If you can make a post in the format of a haiku, a poem or a rap work, then, do it. However, I am expecting posts that both move the narrative along as well as being detailed. My overall rule is that quality beats quantity but when they both go hand in hand, it's even better.
►Likewise, there is no strict restriction for posting frequency. I am fully aware of my own hypocrisy when it comes to advocating weekly posts, and of the issues people face in IRL that may prevent them from posting. Therefore, when you are unable to post for a duration of time that may been seen as long, please inform me beforehand.
►Character sheets can and will be rejected, depending on how well they compare with other applications. Remember that your character must be able to
► Wheaton's law is in full effect, so, be friendly with one another and try to cultivate an atmosphere of shitposts and fun times in the OOC. If any drama occurs between members of this RP, keep it away from the OOC and take it to the PMs if you dearly want to win an internet forum battle.
►Be aware of the 3 C's: Communication, Criticism and Cooperation. Discussing with each other, giving suggestions and offering criticism is the best way to ensure that no future problems pop up in this RP. If you have any problems with the way the Wal-Master handles things or have any questions about how to create your character, please PM me about it, or if you think it's serious enough, post it in the OOC.
►If by some off chance you want to kill off your character and make a new one, go ahead. However, you can't make more than one character. Only the Wal-Master (me) is allowed to play a multitude of characters.
►18+ content is allowed within this RP, as long as it serves its purpose and doesn't break the rules of the RP. Touching upon controversial themes carelessly could potentially result in the shopper's permanent expulsion from the RP which again depends on the circumstances.
►Any player who joins this RP should be and willing to be open to the process of worldbuilding.
$$$
CUSTOMER IDENTITY TUTORIAL
Lastly, all shoppers should proceed towards Customer Service and begin the process of creating their very own custom Wal-World Customer Identity Card! Please be noted that the initial charge for purchasing your identity card is 50.50 Wal-Credits. Please exchange all foreign currency at your nearest Wal-Bank kiosk...
PERSONAL ACCOUNT
NAME: (Self Explanatory)
GENDER: (Self Explanatory)
DEPARTMENT: (Remember that your department is the single biggest consideration for how it affects your character concept. The traits, personality, skills and equipment your character has will be exemplified by what department they come from.)
AGE: (Fairly self explanatory, though, be realistic. Anything less than 18 years old is pushing it mildly.)
APPEARANCE: (Again, fairly evident by what it means. Describe your character as much as you want to. Obviously, if you have no image to supplant the text description, then, you're gonna need to put a whole lot more effort into fleshing out the visual image of your character here.)
RESUME
(Your character's life until the beginning of their first job. How did they become who they were? What were the most important events of their life? Why did they decide to become a Lifter? Make it as long as you want to be.)
RECEIPT
PERSONAL GOAL: (What are you trying to achieve in the Wal?)
LIKES: (List a few trivial things that your Shopper likes)
DISLIKES: (List a few trivial things that your Shopper dislikes)
REPUTE: (We've been asking a lot about how your character looks at the world, so, let's reverse it around. How does the world view your character? What status does your character have in the world?)
HEEL:(Heels are basically an over-riding character flaw that exemplifies the type of person your character is. It's what other people know your character for being. Examples of Weak Spots can be: Hubris, Selfishness, Naivety, Easily Angered, Inferiority Complex, Napoleon Complexes, Vengeful, Sadistic, Paranoia. A Heel is different from just another normal character flaw because they are an essential part of your character that makes your character who they are. They can never escape from a Weak Spot.)
CODE: (Codes are a deep sentiment, passion or virtue that a character holds dearly to, in spite of the hostile and unrelenting nature of the Wal. It's a trait that someone would have if they lived in a sane world outside the Wal. Soft Spots can be: Valuing freedom, A Hero Complex, Social Justice, Friendship, Honesty, Being Protective of your Family, Protecting the Weak, A Pact that You Abide By, Veganism, Empathy.)
QUIRKS:(Unique traits that your character is known for doing such as collecting ears off their dead enemies, always ordering their drinks with a single cube of ice, whatever strange things that immedietely makes them distinct from everyone else.)
PERFORMANCE REVIEW
(What skills does your character have that allowed them to survive this long without dying? One thing that you may be noticing here is that I'm not including any flaws in here. That's right. You wanna know why? Because, I believe having many flaws is just an excuse for an roleplayer to switch between them willy nilly and disregard them. Therefore, there is only one, great singular flaw that will inhibit your character every step of the way. Any of the skills that you have has to be justified by the Department you came from and your character's backstory. )
(SKILL) ► (DESCRIPTION)
GROCERIES
(Your character's equipment. Include as many things that you think are necessary for your character. I want the most wacky shit you can come up with. But, be reasonable, however. Don't make your character carry a microwave that can turn into a nuclear bomb.)
(ITEM NAME) ► (DESCRIPTION)
(ITEM NAME) ► (DESCRIPTION)
(ITEM NAME) ► (DESCRIPTION)
$$$
Cast List
The Bork Lazer - WalMaster Moskau Spieluhr - Z-Grip the Penja AmpharosBoy - Blothmerche Assiosales, Dorf Warrior of Fort Pathfunder
We, at Wal-World, would appreciate the assistance of our ear customers in removing any disrepencies. Send in a letter to our Customer Complaint deparment and we'll have your problem fixed in no time flat!
Departments
Residents of the Wal
Bestiary
Catalogue
Lexicon and Slang
//Aisler/Shopper - General slang for average person living in the Wal.
//Check-Out - A rumored section where people are able to exit the Wal. Most believe it to be fiction. Most shoppers commonly use check-out as a euphemism for 'death'.
//Kleaner - Denizens of the Cleaning Supplies Department.
//Roofers - Shoppers that come from the Roof Department.
//Sampler - Slang for merchant.
//Smiler - An indoctrinated member of the Cult of the Smiling One.
APPEARANCE: Feral. Rabid. Primal. Scat is noticably wilder than most other inhabitants of the Wal. In fact, the wild lives on in his body. Literally. His shaggy, unkept hair is a nest for cockroach lice, dwarf ticks and all manner of pest to make their home in with one single green eye peering curiously through his bangs. Stripes of dried pond scum tinged with smudges of dirt layer cover his tanned cheeks with the heavy odor of animal dung following him like a second shadow. Needless to say, it's unsurprising at this point to also notice that his left eye is missing, a wicked grooved scar running down from his forehead to his chin.
However, he is not so uncivilized enough to go out nude into the harshness of the Wal, even if he would like to. Scat's baggy cloak of stitched together pet pelts and animal feed bags belie a hardy and lithe developed body, borne from living in the inhospitable jungle-like quagmires of Pets and Animals. Outwardly marking himself as a person of superstition, Scat wears a straw-hat with various talismans of pet bones and parts dangling from the rim. In terms of protection, he wears the trademark fish-bowl helmet of the Pet-Hunters underneath his hat, bane of all Brand Gangs who dare stalk within their territory.
RESUME
They said when Scats was born, he wrung a dire-racoon’s neck off with his bare hands and beat a dire-pidgeon to death with its tail. At the age of five, he tamed a dire-lizard the size of a Stocker bot. At the age of ten, he disemboweled a rat-roach the size of a -
By the Great Sam, that doesn’t sound quite right. Perhaps another consultation of the sacred historical pamphlets are required……
Let’s try this again.
They said when Scats was born, a dire-pidgeon carried him off into the ceilings and dropped him on his head. When he was three, a dire-racoon nearly bit his neck off when he attempted to tame his first beast. When he was five, he ventured out into the FROZENS Aisle and was nearly eaten alive in the aisles of fridges. When he was ten -
You get the idea, don’t you? Whether it's wholesale lies, truth or a mixture of both, it's still hard to believe that this lunatic shopper is indeed the son of the greatest Pet-Hunter who ever lived, Litterbox. Born in the Mannapro Tribe, Scat wasn't the most mentally sound of all of Litterbox's spawn. Sure, he had the appearance of an warrior and the physicality to match it but what was more disconcerting to Litterbox was his son's primitive behavior. He couldn't even speak complete sentences, walked around on his fours and communicated his displeasure with grunts and signs. Over time, Litterbox learnt that his son had a miraculous intuition to understand and comprehend what animals were saying. The way he tossed out rationed Cereai oats to dwarf dire-crows or bark at the guard wolf-hounds, it wasn't just the mindless ramblings of an insane individual. Each incomprehensible blabber, grunt and hiss had a logic to them. A pattern. Litterbox saw the potential for Scat to become an excellent Pet-Hunter and was about to propose to the Pet Judges about his capabilities......
However, disaster struck when Scat's father died after defending an outpost from a roving clan of Greenthumbs. They had been furious at the department for daring to let their pets graze on their sacred hills. They never found his body after the raid, though it is agreed that the Greenthumbs mulched all Pet-Masters who went missing into fertilizer. That's when the ostracization began. Not outright, open bullying, mind you, since any one of Litterbox's children garnered a certain level of respect within the tribes.
One day, whilst sheparding a flock of parakeets towards the Aviary, Scats noticed that a group of Pet-Hunters was restraining the most vicious and unruly pet he'd ever seen packed in the form of a small rabbit. Word around was that it'd had gone insane after the last Pet=Hunter it'd bonded with died on a scavenging trip. Whilst the law of the Judges forbade that any pet be wantonly killed without a proper reason, muzzling seemed almost a worst fate than death for any pet. Invoking the last of the authority that he had as the son of LitterBox and sacrificing his own left eye to ensure his ownership of the pet, Scat managed to save the rabid dire-rabbit in time from a life of being trapped within a cage for eternity.
Unfortunately for Scat, the rabbit didn't seem to be grateful. Merely just more aggravated than it had been before. Although their relationship was rocky at first, involving ludicrous amounts of getting liberally drenched in pet piss and nearly having his throat ripped out by the ruthless rabbit, they slowly grew to become steadfast companions. Naming him Paw, Scat
RECEIPT
PERSONAL GOAL: To successfully complete the Pet-Master's Pilgrimage - a ritualistic journey only undertaken by the most suicidal of Pet-Hunters in order to prove themselves as a worthy Pet-Master. Only 8 former Pet-Masters have managed to complete the Pet-Master's Pilgrimage successfully. Those who prove themselves to be worthy of the title of Pet-Master will possess the most authority within Pets and Animals.
LIKES - Getting up close and personal with deadly dire-animals that could fit a man in their jaws. - Booping the snoot. - Collecting
DISLIKES
- Greenthumbs. -
REPUTE: Insane supernatural animal pies piper
HEEL: Call of the Wild
CODE: Pets Friend; Not Food
QUIRKS: Picking bugs from people's hair, scratching his pet's nose or belly and cutting off the ears of his enemies.
PERFORMANCE REVIEW
The Critter Whisperer ► Whilst most PetMasters can command their chosen Pet effectively, Scat is only one of the few PetMasters in the Wal who is effectively able to both empathise and communicate with them reliably.
How To Train Your Pets - For Dummies ► Every Pet-Master is expected to only know how to kill but to skin, to hut, to know what their mounts and prey are capable and how best to foster their talents.
Pet-Hunter Extraordinaire ► You aren’t a son of a Pet-Hunter if you don’t know how to hunt.
GROCERIES
Purlina Satchel of 100% STRONG AND TUFF Herbal Supplements - Now in 21 Different Flavours! ► Every shopper knows of the reknowned STRONG AND TUFF that has earned Pets and Animals its rightful status as one of the most powerful departments in the Wal. This pet food additive contains a cocktail of mutagenic steroids and exotic hormones radically causes extreme physiological and genetic changes within any animal who consumes it. The chemical recipe is a guarded secret of the Breeder tribes who live within Pets and Animals; each having their own unique effect. This chemical mixture, brewed by Scats, is specially designed to be able to be consumed by any species, albeit at a reduced potency compared to STRONG AND TUFF that specifically targets single species. Extended feeding is required for STRONG AND TUFF to have any effect.
Reinforced Cruft's Canine Frisbee-Rang ► When all you have is a rock, you throw it. In this case, this modified frisbee is Scat’s preferred weapon of choice out in the wastes of the Wal. Covered
Portable 650 nm Tronic Laser Pointer ► The light that this laser point emits is extremely receptive to the enhanced senses of the dire-animals that roam inside the Wal.
ACME Portable Brass Dog-Whistle ► Experienced Pet-Masters are capable of conversing with their animal worth the variety of pitches and sounds this whistle can create.
Pet-Hunter's Habit ► A durable patchwork cloak composed of pet leathers, feathers and scales held together by shoestring and rubber bands.
Ssorry, but I'm already cold-blooded. I prefer to kill in hot blood.
How long do you usually write? Several paragraphs or more. Do you enjoy writing collaborative posts for things like conversations, combat, etc.? Absolutely. Is grammar and depth of writing important to you? Abso-fucking-lutely. Are there any writing subjects you particularly enjoy exploring? Moral ambiguity. Angst. Regret. War. Normalization of violence. Honor. Is there anything you really dislike and want to avoid like the plague? Sexual violence. ERP fetishization. Slavery fetishization. Gratuitous scenes of sadism and torture porn. Is there something you are uncomfortable with happening to your character? Nope. The mos I would be uncomfortable is if some player hijacked my character and did something with them without my say-so. Do you have any short-term or long-term goals with this character?
My short terms with this character is to explore the underworld of the galaxy, interact with multiple different characters that are scraping the bottom of the barrel and are on top of the barrel as well as fun bounty hunting jobs with gratuitous consumption of flesh on the side. My long term goals overall are to explore whether or not a Trandoshan can still be a real lizard bean and a real hero, despite their status as a monster, by forcing him through morally complex situations, along with his ambition to form a new Bounty Hunter House in the Guild.
Name: Cleqq Yrsbahk Species: Trandoshan Homeworld: Trandosha Age: 41 Gender: Male Recorded Specialization: Close Quarters Brutalization Assassination Current Area of Operation: [UNKNOWN] Individual's last known sighting was within the Nal Hutta system.
Detailed appearance. Imagery insufficient.
Standing a head and a half above most individuals in the Mid-Rim, Cleqq boasts the typical recognizable reptilian characteristics of a Trandoshan. Having suffered enough combat for multiple lifetimes, his coat of scaly emerald skin is positively riddled with the past signs of blaster burns and grievous scars. His left nostril looks as if it's been chewed off by a sarlacc and black, pupiless eyes stare out from his frilled head. The amputated claws on his left hand have been replaced with durasteel substitutes, no less deadly than their original counterparts. His mouth is locked in a permanent fanged smirk, more than often subconsciously licking his lips with his slimy tongue. He bears a tattoo of the Trandoshan sigil for 'Hunt' on his left jowl.
Given that there's no footwear in the galaxy that can accommodate Trandoshan claws, Cleqq forgoes boots and mostly walks around bare-foot, unless under exceptional circumstances. Cleqq prefers to heighten his bulk with a suit of protective armor, preferring to walk around in a full tanned body-suit all the time with thick pauldrons and heavy plating. Both of his pauldrons have been decorated to include the symbol of the Bounty Hunter Guild as well as his serial bar code from his time spent as a Republic mercenary on his left breast. Whilst he doesn't prefer to wear a helmet under the justification that it restricts his line of sight, Cleqq has acquired a simple uni-visored helmet to avoid getting his head blown off.
Report on skills and talents, including level of skill.
Cleqq, like every Trandoshan, has an inborn talent for hunting and tracking down his targets, having spent most of his childhood tracking beasts through the jungles of Trandosha. A city is just a jungle with buildings and skylanes. Years of serving on the Bounty Hunter Guild sharpened and honed his innate tracking instincts by looking for and connecting together clues that would seemingly have no relation with one another. His relentlessness allows him to track targets systems away.
In a bounty hunter’s short yet terribly exciting life, they are bound to encounter numerous cultures and races from every sector of the galaxy and are expected to communicate with all manner of creature. Cleqq is able to to speak fluent Dosh and Basic, whilst being conversational in Jawa Trade Talk and a beginner in Huttese. Nevertheless, he has picked up a truly impressive amount of slang from all cultures in the galaxy; half of which consists of heinous profanity, a quarter of which consists of directions to the nearest space dock and another quarter that consists of sexual innuendos.
Cleqq is a terrible pilot and every neophyte pilot with a probationary space license could probably outfly him. He knows how to park a vehicle and safely engage hyperspace but the amount of times he’s had to pay for spaceship repairs because of his negligence has cut into his yearly salary. Therefore, Cleqq usually hires pilots for his job or takes public transportation.
A history of violence and survival is embedded in a Trandoshan's genetic code which is responsible for their reputation as being the rivals of the savage Wookies. Cleqq possesses his species extranormal strength and physical constitution, allowing him to crack necks with a twitch of his hands and snap blasters in half with ease, as well as being able to regenerate lost tissue and limbs from wounds sustained during missions. His natural claws can be useful in a pinch to flay unarmored targets. As the Trandoshan are a warrior species, every member of their species is noted to have an especially high pain tolerance as well. Infrared vision supported by hypersensitive pupils help him in tracking down a target.
Also, he’s a great cook. Just don’t ask where he gets his meat from……
Report on known combat experience, training and weapons training.
Having taken over 300 bounty hunting contracts throughout his 15 year career and having been mentored thoroughly by Treak, Cleqq has experienced a wide array of hostile combat situations ranging from Outer Rim pirates, rogue mercenaries, hired guns and even the odd Force user. There is rarely anything that will phase him nor is there anything that he doesn't have a backup plan for.
Cleqq's reputation as the SlaughterHouse within the Bounty Hunter Guild are mainly due to his preference for close quarters brawling, mixing firepower and his Trandoshan strength to absolutely destroy anyone who gets in the way of his acquistions. His unarmed skills focus on crippling and dismantling the target with as little fuss, striking vital points and preferring lethal incapacitation whilst using superior firepower to blast away anyone else who tries to make it close to him. Unless you’re one of those stinkin’ Force sensitives, a combat droid or another Wookie, going into personal combat with Cleqq is considered hazardous for your health.
However, he has a great deal of difficulty using weapons that are not adapted for Trandoshan digits, finding it difficult to adapt in situations whereby blasters of his size are not avaliable. Likewise, Cleqq has a reputation within the Bounty Hunter's Guild for being horrendous at being a sniper, thus, his preference to do close quarters assassinations with his bare hands rather than killing someone from far away through the lens of a scope.
Detailed notes on common/favored employers and any noteworthy contacts.
//Yiilo Vans - A Pyke member of the Black Sun Syndicate and a notable employer of Cleqq's who wants to advance his way up the totem pole of the organisation ladder by having Cleqq do his dirty deeds.
//Aiolin Gavell - A corrupt Republic peacekeeper who cooperates with the underworld and bounty hunters, believing it to be the only way to control crime in the Outer Rim. He frequently employs Cleqq to assist him in Republic peacekeeping matters in return for keeping him clean on Republic records.
//Bim Bom - A Jawa tech smuggler and tinkerer who uses the guise of a space-borne restaurant as a front for his illicit activities. He considers Cleqq to be his most reliable customer and supplies the Guild with tech to use on their contracts. In return for his services, Bim Bom gets a small cut of Cleqq's bounties.
//Kuyaipa Gjunc - A Rodian representative of the Bounty Hunter's Guild who acts as Cleqq's handler and fixer of sorts, informing him of current bounties to pursue and acting as a middle man for Cleqq's clients.
Detailed notes on known rivals and enemies.
// Rann Dyhl - Famed Mandalorian mercenary. Cleqq suspects him of having murdering his old mentor.
// Racallakrsk - A Wookie Bounty Hunter who possesses a deep hatred of Trandoshans as his father was a veteran of the Trandoshan-Wookie wars. He’s itching to find an excuse to kill Cleqq by any means necessary.
// Zym Gesell - The leader of a notorious band of Outer Rim pirates, Azure Glaive, and the survivor of the Red Rancors, a pirate crew that was exterminated by none other than Cleqq Yrsbahk himself on a government contract.
List and description of other known associates, including subordinates.
// Khoss Liell - Cleqq's professional partner whom he owns a life debt to and unofficial second-in-command of the Venataan Consortium, even though he pathologically insists on striking out on his own.
List of known belongings, including but not limited to planetary surface property, civilian and military vessels, vehicles, weapons, tools.
// Biragwin DXR-A - Formerly belonging to his former mentor, Treak Villis, this gun fires a high -powered energy blast that wreaks havoc on the molecular structure of anything it touches. Flesh,duraplast, starship hulls, nothing is immune except for the strongest of materials in the galaxy. This devastating power comes at the cost of being hideously ineffective at long ranges and heavy recoil. Modifications have been made such as filing the grip to be used with Trandoshan digits, Tibanna porting to reduce recoil as well as a LR scope.
// The TripTrap - A makeshift bola launcher scavenged from the remnants of a Wookie bowcaster. This contraption uses a gas compressed mechanism similar to slugthrowers to launch a bola composed of carbon-durasteel fibre. The momentum is enough to knock the wind out of most acquisitions and any of those who are still sensate will find themselves unable to move.
// BL-90 Special - Heavy blaster pistol. Reliable, durable and packs a punch in a tiny package.
// Chalon Hatchet - Chalon is the discount version of the Mandalorian’s Bes’kar steel. It can’t resist lightsabers but it’s versatility is almost as reknowned as its rarity, only being available in small deposits on Trandosha. This hatchet was a birthday gift to Cleqq from one of his Trandoshan friends.
// Armored Vac-Suit - Cleqq’s old security guard vac-suit, a keep-sake from his time in Kuat Drive Yards, has been modified with duraplast and durasteel plating for protection. No helmet, of course. It’s Trandoshan tradition to never wear a helmet into combat.
// ZX Dual-Spectrum Electroscope - A portable electroscope with modular magnification with a maximum range of 3.0 klicks. It includes thermal imaging software for one to spot their targets from far away during night time.
// Utility Bandoliers - Instead of carrying on him in one giant pack, Cleqq instead has multiple bandoliers strapped on his person to carry all his supplies such as water purification tablets, his set of playing cards and ammo for his blasters.
// Mystery Meat Ration Sausage - As Trandoshan are obligate carnivores, this dried log of meat is packed full of proteins, with each bite a full meal. The recipe on how to make it is a family secret. Just don’t question what’s in it and the taste is bearable.
Psychological evaluation Of Bounty Hunter.
List and description of known and suspected flaws. To be put into restricted database.
Cleqq regularly consumes the flesh of other species or individuals, taking every opportunity he can to either slice a body part off a corpse or a dead acquisition to store in his freezer. His appetite is voracious and can be naturally quite distressing to many people who are looking to work with him.
Known interests of the Bounty Hunter.
Cleqq takes an interest in eating and cooking the meat of other species. He is also a fan of combat sports and sparring in general, particularly the brutal game of shock boxing. In terms of collections, he likes carving out statues from wooden branches picked up during his galactic ventures. Like any yellow-blooded Trandoshan, he also is fond of a good bit of hunting every now and then, but don't ask him to do fishing. Being a blaster nut is a recent interest he’s picked up out of necessity, especially from Bim-Bom’s incessant meddling.
Major achievements on record.
- Earned 'Employee Of the Month' award as security guard at Kuat Drive Yards and was responsible for a 50% reduction in illegal tech trafficking from their Corellian Ship Reclamation Center. - - Accidentally captured and successfully subduing an Sith Knight. - Responsible for single-handily destabilizing and eliminating the Azure Glaives, a notorious band of Outer Rim pirates, with minimal assistance.
Major failures on record. Confidential.
- Accidentally murdered ? - Failed to ...... - Violated Bounty Hunter Guild codes...... - Accidentally captured and subdued an Sith Warrior by mistaking them for another acquistion, who was by pure chance, their twin brother, along with sawing off and eating their arm. Cleqq's mistake nearly led to war between the Bounty Hunter Guild and the Sith Empire, if it wasn't for careful diplomacy. As a result, Cleqq had his license suspended for a period of one year.
ADDENDUM: This recording of a conversation on 3.8.5 ATC between Khoss Liell and Cheqq Yrsbahk in Mon Eisley was obtained from the remnants of a high-frequency audio recorder by Larsoon Kells. It is unfortunate that Second Lieutenant Kells was unable to survive alongside the vital information that he transmitted to us about the inner workings of the Bounty Hunter Guilds.
We have the Trandoshan to thank for that. Scum didn't even have the courtesy to give us an open body funeral......
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Well, well, well. If it isn't Khoss Liell, the Huntsman of Hoth. Last I heard, you were operating . I don't suppose you came back all the way to Hutt Space just for little old me.
KHOSS LIELL: Came to turn in several bail jumpers at a Republic outpost south of here. Heard you were in town and figured I would stop by to meet a fellow professional.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Sshould I be flattered, Liell?
KHOSS LIELL: Stop looking so down, Yrsbahk. I didn't come here with empty platitudes and empty hands.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Hrm. Alderaan liqueur. Blowing all your credits like this ain’t considered a wise move, Hoth Man.
KHOSS LIELL: Look, scale-skin. The way I seen it, you’ve earned it after that job you pulled down in the Core. Everyone in the Guild’s been talking about what you did on Coruscant with House Berkaat.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Costed me a good ship. I'm not gonna blow all my credits right now just to get another vehicle.
KHOSS LIELL: So, what? You're the headline in the entire parsec, Yrsbahk!
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Well, wait a few weeks and some Mando hotshot will probably be the new face in the spotlight. Besides, it's nothing to warrant celebration over.
KHOSS LIELL: Lucky day for me, then. Guess I'll enjoy this bottle all to myself....
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Fine. Beats a swig of Jawa Juice from Bim Bom any day. Cheers.
KHOSS LIELL: Cheers.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Oh, and one more thing. Call me scale-skin again and I'll hang you with your own intestines.
KHOSS LIELL: I wouldn't expect anything less from the Slaughterhouse. So, tell me, Cleqq. How exactly did you get into bounty hunting in the first place?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: You expect a little refreshment to loosen my tongue, Liell? 'Cause you ain't getting anything out of me.
KHOSS LIELL: Fine, I'll just make it up in my head. I know you grew up on Trandosha. Your mother died after giving birth to you. Your clutch bullied you, which I assume is the origin of your stunning anger management issues. I'm guessing your father was a little hard on you when you were young, perhaps a little too strict, gave out regular beatings with a shock baton -
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: My father tried to eat me.
KHOSS LIELL: Go on.....
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: It happened after my first molt. I still have the shedding with me in my ship cabin. In our culture, its expected for the siblings of a brood to fight each other to the death until the fittest and the strongest is left remaining. Combat means everything on Trandosha. It's how we paid tribute to the Scorekeeper. It's how we got Jagganath points. Get enough and you get to go to paradise when you die. When it came on that day where I was to fight my brothers and sisters...., I was the odd one out.
KHOSS LIELL: Your father didn't take it well, I suppose.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: He didn't. He threatened to suck out my marrow and boil my eyes into a stew if I didn't kill my siblings. So, I did what any Trandoshan should have done at that moment. I killed him and ate him back. Costed me my left claw, though.
KHOSS LIELL: And your mother?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: She didn't take my choice of meal very kindly, so, she decided to kick me out of Trandosha after telling the other clans about my ' lapse in judgement'. It was worth it, though. Some of my siblings are still kicking around to this day, although, some of them weren't grateful for what I did to Father. Heh. One of them's even an ambassador in the Republic senate for Trandosha.
KHOSS LIELL: So, what happened after all of that? You just signed up on the Bounty Hunter Guild as a fresh rookie?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Nah. I stowed away on a merchant freighter to a Mid-Rim space-dock and ended up in one of Kuat Drive Yard's ship reclamation centers as extra muscle. It was….Corellia if I remember correctly. You'd be surprised at the amount of scavs that try and loot the place. Orders were simple: warn once, shoot twice, don’t think thrice. That's how I first met Bim Bom.
KHOSS LIELL: Our Bim Bom?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Yeah, our Bim Bom. I caught him trying to scavenge a class 1.5 hyperdrive. Once I got him in the corner of an engine room, he begged me to spare him. My Jawa was a little rusty back then, but if I remember correctly, he said that he would pay me back a thousandfold if I let him go alive.
KHOSS LIELL: So, why'd you leave?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Leave? I was fired. Got caught by the boss for engaging in my dietary habits. What? You used to live on a blasted frost-pit. Didn’t you get desperate sometimes?
KHOSS LIELL: The most we did was sleep in a taun-taun, not eat other people as daily meals.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Hrm. But if I had to admit, I would have left eventually.
KHOSS LIELL: Why?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: For me, Corellia was too quiet. Too safe. It's the type of place where you went to die slowly. Sure, there was some good excitement once every now and then, but those were too far and few. You get me, Liell? Sure, there was excitement on the job but it was rare.
KHOSS LIELL: So, how'd you found out about the Bounty Hunter Guild?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: I found out about a Guild Outpost on Nar Shaara on a Holo-Ad and got in contact with a representativ. Paperwork was a maze to get through though. Guess the Republic doesn’t just hand out bounty hunting certificates on a whim. I would have nearly gotten killed on my first contract if it wasn’t for Treak.
KHOSS LIELL: Treak?...I’ve heard about him once or twice. We’re talking about the same Ortos Treak. The HeadHunter?
CLEQQ YRSBAHKL: Yup. Taught me everything I knew. He was tough but bounty hunting’s tough. Those were the good days, the both of us working together bounty by bounty. Racking up my Score. I...I thought I could earn enough to return back to Trandosha. Then, the Great Galactic War reached the Outer Rim.
KHOSS LIELL: I heard about it. Treak died. ?
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: It was 10 years before the Treaty of Coruscant. He spoke to me about retirement plans. Wanted to make a Nysillin Farm. He had just one more contract to go through before he was out of the Guild. I offered to join up with him, just out of old time’s sake but he wasn’t having it. Next thing, I know, I’m reading on the holonet that Ortos Treak was found dead in a garbage bin on Nal Hutta. Half of his body was disintegrated.
KHOSS LIELL: Now, you're here.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: And I'm here now, alive and breathing. Curiosity satisfied for now, Hoth-Man?
KHOSS LIELL: Definitely. The Slaughterhouse acting all sentimental in front of me....The amount of credits I could get if I got a holo-vid of this....
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Hrm. You didn't happen to miss the Republic peacekeeper whose been looking at us right?
KHOSS LIELL: Yup. Oh, he's spooked now.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Didn't even know you humans could sweat that much...... And he's making a break for it.
KHOSS LIELL: Thanks for telling him that, Cleqq. Must have bugged the table whilst we were having this conversation.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Well, you know the drill. I'm going around the back.
KHOSS LIELL: Guess that means I'm front.
CLEQQ YRSBAHK: Right. Take care of that bug, will you?
KHOSS LIELL: Alright, alright. Where could it - BZZZZTTTTTTTTTTTTT
PEOPLE DON'T HAVE BOUNTIES. ACQUISTIONS HAVE BOUNTIES.
CAPTURE BY DESIGN. KILL BY NECESSITY.
NO HUNTER SHALL EVER SLAY ANOTHER HUNTER
NO HUNT SHALL EVER INTERFERE WITH ANOTHER HUNT
IN THE HUNT, ONE CAPTURES OR KILLS, NEVER BOTH
NO HUNTER SHALL EVER REFUSE ANOTHER HUNTER
THOSE WHO VIOLATE THE CREED SHALL BE HUNTED
The Venataan Coalition
The Venataan Coalition
Thick Through Blood
As of now, we're no longer ruffians scrapping by on ration bars. We're bounty hunters. We stick with each other through thick and thin. - Cleqq Yrsbahk
Status: Minor House
Chapter Leader: Mac Ordwell (DECEASED)
Current House Leader: Cheqq Yrsbhek
Specializations: Group Missions, Guerilla Tactics, Stealth Infiltration, Unorthodox Tactics
DISCLAIMER: WIZARD COPS IS FILMED WITH THE MEN AND WOMEN OF ANY MAGICAL SPECIES OF MAGIC LAW ENFORCEMENT. ALL WIZARDS ARE INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT IN A COURT OF LAW.
concepts
- script style format like the TV show? - no big bad guy. dark wizards are like the equivalent of serial killers. - tv show being filmed live to educate modern society about the dangers that the Wiz-Cops face on a daily basis.
crimes - wand licenses, broom licenses, - potions and talisman and rare magical parts trafficking - magical creatures - drug stings - voodoo doll assaults
" Shit, I'm zoning out of here to Vegas before he notices - "
" You saw his race in 55' with the OverDriver?-"
Turn on the taps. Wash the whispers away with water.
3. 2. 1. GO!
The neon scream. The knocking of ethyl gas in the carburetor. The pounding in your head, a war dance of high speed collisions and illegal stunts. The edge of death that he craves for, yet, he knows he has to avoid.
3. 2. 1. GO!
He closes off the taps and stares back haggardly as if he's been holding his breath underwater for several hours. Blood, sweat and dead skin swirl down in the bone-white porcelain basin. Hands, of both flesh and chrome, grip the side of the sink steadiy as he stares back at his broken reflection. He's careful not to let water spill on the biweave jacket hanging on the lip of the basin. He dips his head back into the basin and gurgles out his anxiety in slow spits.
The tap-water between his fingers still feel like molasses. It's unbearable to him how slow the world outside of an 1500 HP engine is. To feel the syn-crete on your feet instead of asphalt on poly-plas tires. To see a frozen world with your corneas instead of the blurry, high-speed dream. To walk instead of drive. He splashes a few more droplets on his face, trying to rinse off the smell of stewed sweat in his hair. The jitters of race-fueled adrenaline in his fingers are long gone now, its absence making his hairs feel clammy like old snake skin. He grabs the hood of his jacket before pushing open the door only to be met with a blast of coppery air.
A single street light barely manages to illuminate the contours of his ride's bulk. Just as he's a few meters away, the automatic doors peel open like an butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. He checks his gloves, tightening the straps, whilst checking the horizon. Him, the gas station attendant and a couple of no ones lazing about underneath the roof. Just how he liked it. The less busier the crowd, the more free the roads would be for him.
500 feet above the teeming masses, a tri-copter drone slowly takes pictures of the lonely figure with its hyperspectral cameras, the lenses shuttering and opening with minute clicks. It flutters mid-air for a while before disappearing in the dead of the night. >CONNECTING TO LABYRINTH VPN...... >SCRAMBLING IDENTITY SIGNATURES >GENERATING SECURITY KEYS >CONNECTED TO ROUTERS
>LOGIN >ENTER PASSWORD
*****************
>ENGAGING BIO-VOC CONFIRMATION. >USER 45-239-#9050 CLEARED TO ENTER THE LABYRINTH >OPENING DATA SIFTER..... >ENTER QUERY >:THE DRIFT DEMON >PROCESSING............
Alright. Let's see whose dirty little secret you are, Drift Demon.....
://DRIFT_D3MON.EXE
Put the pedal to the mettle and pedal to the metal
TOP SPEED OF 29 KPH| MALE MODEL | 5'8 HP ENGINE| RATED B FOR BURNING RUBBER
PROVIDING GENERAL INFORMATION
He’s encountered plenty of strange Zoners over the years from Bangkok techno-pilgrims to Johannesberg mercenaries. This one's new, though.
“ Card please.”
Another quarter hour on his paycheck meets him dressed in a striped thermoweave 2020 bomber and plated slacks. Connie, for a moment, curses Gatch for defunding the regional borders of South City and reducing regulations. Being the only booth in 100 klicks means that every nobody and no ones wanting to go into the Reclaim Zone needs to go through him. He stares at the clock. 30 more minutes. Half an hour. Just a little while longer. He stares back up at the silent statue of a man and repeats his request again. " Card please." Connie wonders or not he needs to repeat his question but the stranger seems to read his mind. A aramid-plated fingerless glove slides a smudged NID over on the countertop. , Slotting in the NID, the monitor begins to whirr, carbon-silicate processors fishing out data from the depths of the Labyrinth.
“ Had to come at midnight, didn’t you?” Connie muses as he extends an Engitech stylus, doing standard calibration procedures that have become habit by now. “ You’re lucky that you caught my last shift.”
“ Not luck.” The mysterious rider says. “ Speed.”
You're not just some upstart, are you? No, this stranger's a racer. As he waited for the data retrieval to complete, Connie looked at the new arrival to South City more closely. His eyes were hardened and wizened beyond his years like old tarmac. His mud-brown hair was pepper gray at the fringes. The pungent aroma of micro-lubricant cloyed on his skin. So, you're a greasemonkey too, eh? The only chrome on him was a jack-port growing out of his collarbone along with a maze of circuits and surgery scars criss-crossing up the right side of his neck. The beeping from his monitor forced him to pay attention to it as the data records scrolled up line by line on the LED screen.
NAME: Keah Kaito
ALIASES//TITLES: N/A
CURRENT AGE: 26
SEX: Male
PAST OCCUPATIONS
- Professional Combat Racer (APEX Incorporated) - Assistant Automotive Technician (The Drive-Through)
CURRENT OCCUPATIONS
- Delivery Man (Suraiboshen Standard)
Suraiboshen Standard….Isn’t it that fancy omakase place down near the corporate districts?
“ I don’t suppose you have any aliases, do you?” The racer pauses. Connie takes it as a signal to continue on. “ I mean, it’s optional but you know, not asking for a fingerprint- “
The answer nearly made him drop his stylus. He tries to fill in the empty field but he balks at the first letter already. He slides the nid over back towards him in a hurry and tries to keep his composure until the fucking - why? - goes out. He sits back and processes what he just saw before shaking his head. Nope. Nope. He didn't see anything. Absolutely nothing at all.
It’s probably about time that he took early leave too. He taps a button, the neon sign outside the booth switching from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED' before checking whether or not there's any good tour deals this season.
Why did South City have to attract the fucking Drift Demon of all people?
://open message Y/N?
>Y
://opening private file .....
Congratulations on making it to South City. I hope the drive through the wastes wasn't too inconvenient for you. You probably knew this already but you've made the position. It took a lot of convincing but you're now the personal driver of the Pirate Party's campaign.
Your personal responsibilities are as follows.
- Transportation and transfer of all members involved in Serena Petrukov's council campaign, from locations within and out of South City. - To consult on and advise on possible transport schedules and routes - To maintain, modify and change your transport vehicle of choice in order to ensure that all journeys will be as smooth as possible. - To evacuate Serena Petrukov and all relevant personnel in the Pirate Party away from danger.
Confirmation and discussion of your payment and benefits will come in later meetings. For now....
KZZZZZTTTTT - Another delivery today. Two servings of chutoro to some cushy corporate woman living up near Hostel 13. Rent's going up. Mohan's joking that they'll be making tuna an extinct species if business like this keeps going up.
Look at me. Going from the Drift Demon of the Death Derby to Deliveryman of South City. What would you think of me, OverDriver?
You once told me that drivers like us get to have quick deaths or live quick dreams. That you'd prefer a quick death. A quick death was my dream. Once. I don't know how you can bear it. Being lost. Believing that you've got only one road in life and disregarding all the other routes you could have taken.
That's where we're different, OverDriver. I came here for a dream. The dream to free the Islanders. To free the Sunken. To free my people from their chains of those filthy corporate omoomo ule. Even if they don't want me to.
No more driving away from my problems. I'm going to drive towards my problems now.
- KZZZZZTTTTTTT
CAMPAIGN GOAL
Chado,
I need three assurances if the Party wants me as their driver.
- Give all remaining documented and undocumented Pacific Islanders living within South City official citizenship and legal personhood.
- Section off a block for us to live in safely.
- To open investigations into Amalgamation's conduct and charge them with corruption and corporate misconduct.
If the Pirate Party isn't willing to gut Amalgamation for me and my people, then, you're not the fixer you claim to be.
Do this for me and I'll drive whoever you need. Whenever you need me. Wherever you need me.
>READY TO SEND MESSAGE Y/N >Y >SENDING..... >PRIVATE MESSAGE SUCCESSFULLY SENT
PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY:
I want to be free. We all deserve to be free. It's in our natural states to be freed, not to be tied down and neutered by the whims and wishes of those living in their ivory towers. I'm not gonna be a passenger and wait for someone to drive me to my next destination. The only way to achieve freedom is to live life fast and on the move. To live life between the ticks of the tachometer. To feel the engine thrumming between your fingers. To slow down is to surrender. There is only one way to move and that's forward.
I'm a driver. I drive wherever I go, whenever I want and whoever I want in my car.
POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY:
The Luddites. Hyperhumans. The Transhumans. The Central Party. I only have one question to ask them.
Where were you?
When our islands sank to the ground, when our councils sat on their asses and shrugged their shoulders, when no aid was sent, when our people died from dehydration by the thousands, what did the world do? Nothing. What did years of bureaucratic bargaining and corporate deals do for the Islanders? Nothing. We were an political inconvenience to them.
We got our food supplies when fixers set us up with underground hydroponic smugglers from the East. We got our work visas from Cuban hackers who got in touch through fixers. Our corporate taxes got filed and burned by a Thai slicer. We got access to the Labyrinth from black-hat hackers. If my time in the Ark has taught me, it's better to deal with those who get their hands dirty rather than the ones who have clean hands. That's why the Pirate Party's got my support in this election.
SECRETS:
If word was to get out that I was a Pacific Islander, the Enforcers would come after me and send me back to wherever they've got the rest of them holed up now. Given that I'm also a member of the Ark, well, I don't think life imprisonment is something that I want to risk at the moment.
The Drift Demon isn't my personal secret anymore. It's a secret shared among a group of individuals and I'm not keen on shouting out who I am unlike some other racers. Let's just say I didn't make a lot of friends back in the Death Derby. Word goes out that the Drift Demon is around and they're going to greet with open guns instead of open arms.
FEARS:
For most of us Islanders, it's the sea. It's not the storms that kill you. It's the thirst and then, the madness. People adding caff sweeteners to salt water to rid them of their throats. I'll never go on a boat as long as I live. Never again.
But, that's not what I fear most. Or rather, who I fear most.
I fear myself. Of losing myself to the race and becoming a slave to my own desires. To forget those closest to me and favor the wheel. The Drift Demon. I didn't earn it from some hungry media journalist. I earned it through a road paved on blood, bones and treachery. If I lose control, if I give myself over to the car, what becomes of me?
To be the Drift Demon is my greatest nightmare of all.
REPUTATION:
Yeah? Like I said before, better luck for Yialla next season. If she was a little more confident on her turns, I could see-
What? The Drift Demon? I thought this interview was about me?
Who’s the Drift Demon? I’ll tell you who he isn’t.
He’s not my buddy. He’s not my cousin or brother. He’s not some experimental full-body aug Android like those conspiracy types like to say nor is he some genetic freak of experiment from Gaea Naturae. Don’t believe everything from the Labyrinth is.
He’s a racer. Back in 53', he arrived on the scene with a beat up Toreador that looked like it came straight out of the scrapyards. Everyone was laughing at him until he made third place. A fresh rookie who rejected every sponsorship from APEX to Engitech. Six months ago, he tied with me. Who knows what will happen during the next season finals? No, I'm not going to say it.
So, who is he to me? I’m the OverDriver and he’s the Drift Demon. That’s who he is. He’s the yin to my yang, the north to my south, whatever feng shui Buddhist crap comes from Tokyo. It’s me and him going for first place and everyone else gunning for last.
So. Who are you, then?
LIKES: - Racing No - Fresh Sushi - More Racing Stop it - Automobile Modification - Did we mention Racing? Definitely not. - Being on the Move
DISLIKES - Pre-Pack - Racing Are you sure? - Gaudy Cars - The Sea - Racing I don't think so. - Oppression of The Deprived - Corporate Scum - Racing You're lying to yourself - Bosozoku Bastards
QUIRKS: - Tapping his foot, his finger, snapping, to move and fidget when he's staying still. - Commenting and criticizing on vehicles he encounters whenever he gets a chance. - Flipping off bosozoku.
Background Information
" Gah, don't stop movin' that arc-cutter before ya burn yourself, boy!" Gasket's growl interrupts him from his focus as the plasma welder nearly falls out of his hand. " Jeez, these islanders.....telling you Rob....never shoulda allowed them here."
Don't stop moving. It's the last words that his dad ever told him. The memory of his parents, his brothers, his sisters may have rotted and decayed from the tides of time but he keeps their last words closely like a treasure.
He remembers the Great Pacific Exodus. Unstable climatic conditions and rising water levels were an annoyance to the rich nations of the world but for his people, it was an existential crisis.A Category 3 hurricane first took Kiribati. Then, the flooding made Samoa uninhabitable. The rest of Polynesia and Micronesia followed. The corpo execs and employees were evacuated first, along with all of the tourists. The rest of them were forced to fend for themselves in that boiling sea. All he remembers is of it is the journey, his ship waterlogged, the hull sinking to the ground 10 miles from shore. How Amalgamation offered them resettlement programs that offered them safe harbor in South City.
The dissapearances began 4 months after they arrived. Rumours that Amalgamation were forcibly kidnapping people to test new augs spread around their little neighborhood. He was young and foolish, trapped in naveity, content to believe the sweet patronisations of corporate figureheads. That was until the remaining leaders of their little bloc didn’t take their mutiny well. He wondered if it was right that day to join on the side of the rebels, to lick the sewer water of the streets instead of corporate boots.
Whilst the rest of the Islanders stayed behind, content to stay imprisoned and chained to Amalgmation's whims, the Ark formed; a group of exiles who decided that they weren't going to stay under Amalgmation's They moved north to Portland and spread out to shake their trail as Enforcers began trailing them. The strategy by their leader, Noah, was simple. Spread out, decentralize and integrate into their communities. Every member of the group had to chip in as well. Some chose a life of crime whilst others chose honest work. Like him.
" What are ya doin' just standin' there, boy!" Gasket shouts out towards him. " Keep moving!"
He picks up the titanium gyro-mallet and begins hammering out the bent and buckled chassis of the 2030 Courier with solid strikes.
Don't stop moving.
Can't stop moving.
Won't stop moving.
A climate refugee. An exile from a group of exiles. His nation underwater. His family gone. Every race fan and driver would be shocked to learn that the Drift Demon, the Dock Devil himself, would come from such a rough and tumble background. Keah’s young and impressionable mind, needless to say, wasn’t in the most stable of states when he signed up for Portland’s local Death Derby at the ripe age of 17. He made a name for himself in the pits when rumours started spreading among the regular racers that they would be facing a guy who had made a car entirely by himself. The absurdity of the situation only increased when they realised that the racer was a greasemonkey.
All of it was worth it, though. In his first race, Keah took third place. Local commentators immediately wrote it off as a fluke. Then, he took second. Then, first. People woke up and began to pay attention.
Things began taking a turn, though. Witnessing the famous crash of the OverDriver in 57’ was a wake up call for Keah.
Realising that he’d been driving away from his responsibilities and the fate that his desires would eventually land him in, Keah took an early retirement, much to the chagrin of every race fan and rival. A racer retiring in his prime was equivalent to a predator hibernating in the middle of a kill. His prodigious skill set eventually landed him the job of a sushi delivery man at Suraiboshen Standard, which outsourced Michelin three star grade omakase meals to anyone. At the right price.
Eventually,
Operative Information
AUGMENTATIONS:
//Custom Vinci Dynamics Octo-Dactyl CyberHand 5.5
Vinci Dynamics. A New Renaissance for a New Age.
After losing most of his right hand in a grievous post-race feud with the Car Czar, Keah agreed to be the primary test bed for a start-up Italian tech corporation known as Vinci Dynamics. Whilst Vinci Dynamics no longer lives on due to becoming a subsidiary of Amalgamation, their augmentations and products have become valued keepsake items in America. Vinci Dynamic's augmentations notably differ from the rest of the market by pushing the envelope of design and pursuing a more avant-Garde approach towards cybernetic physiology.
Composed out of a mixture of carbo-aramid fiber and a specialised composite metallic foam alloy, this eight digited cybernetic hand comes with miniaturized rotary joints that allow a high degree of inhuman flexibility and reinforced myolon systems strong to crush concrete. Each digit can move independently of one another, thanks to an inbuilt intuitive artificial redundant neural system linked up to Keah's brain.
Aside from this, the index finger contains an inbuilt manual ignition key for the TrailBlazer as part of a two-step security protocol.
EQUIPMENT:
EngiTech Auto-Division RedLine III
EngiTech's new RedLine is a reliable favourite of racers who compete in both the underground Death Derbies and the nationally beloved Metro Prix. Whilst aesthetically less sleek and modern than most of its other competitiors such as the FuryTech Prism, it makes up for it with reliability and protection. The carbo-plast titanium dipped bi-weave affords the user an incredible amount of trauma protection with the polarised uni-aperture visor shielding the user's eyes from distractions.
As with most modern racing helmets, the RedLine HUD can be interconnected to the sub-systems of the user's vehicle, allowing the user to view details such as the condition of their vehicle, the level of charge left remaining in the users batteries and mileage. Similar to the ubiquitous Tele-Links, the RedLine provides an option for the user to control their car through voice commands whilst being outside of the vehicle. However, the user must maintain proximity within a 200 m radius of the car.
//The TrailBlazer
I'm not gonna ride on the backs of giants. I'm gonna make one from their corpses.
The personal vehicle of the Drift Demon, having gone extensive modifications over the years since Keah first received it. Unlike most other drivers who stick to one brand and one brand only, Keah's car is entirely jury-rigged from a collection of other cars, collecting the best parts of each to fuse into one Frankenstein monstrosity. The only distinguishing trait that marks it out from other cars is the distinctive striped '666' painted on the front hood. The rear compartments contain toolboxes and spare parts in which Keah can perform quick fixes when he's not at his own personal garage.
CURRENT SPECS
Plate: CA 6117
Color: Two Tone Vanta Obsidian/Hot Rod Crimson
Engine: Rear-Mounted Turbo-Charged 10.00 L 1200 HP XLRH99 Fusor
Transmission: Digital Assisted Manual Sequential AWD
Body: Carbon-Boron Oly-Laminate Sheeting With Reinforced Titanium-Ceramic Plating
Chassis: SLS Manufactured Composite Alloy
PERFORMANCE
- 0-60 in 0.9 seconds - Top Speed of 580 MPH
OTHER PARTS - Takahashi-Avica Conqueror VERGE Front Bumper - Toreador Motorworks Nimbus Dual-Nitro Injection System - Engi-Tech Axle-Back Integrated Sifter Exhaust System - Tamago MG-LV WindRose Model R Smart Tires - APEX Auto-Division Gull-Wing Steering Wheel - Engi-Tech Auto-Division Orbital Memory Foam Cushioning
SKILLS
//Death’s Chaffeur - He's not that Driver. He's the Driver. Keah's driving skills are unparalleled and seemingly supernatural, even amongst the veteran racers of the Death Derby or the Iron Rally 500. To survive and thrive in the deadly, high-stakes environment of Combat Racing and earn the name of Drift Demon takes not only talent and technique but the ability to adapt to any situation at hand, which Keah has in spades, able to switch on fly from a careful, rule-abiding citizen of the Zone to a law-breaking turboblazer. This experience also allows him to act as a capable getaway driver and instinctively predict the mannerisms and actions of other drivers on the road without a single mistake. One thing's for certain. You don't get publically announced as an official 'rival' by the OverDriver without something to back up your reputation.
So, when you decide to challenge the Drift Demon in his territory, you better be prepared for him to take you to deep water and drown you in asphalt.
//P.H.D in Auto Physiology - What distinguishes Keah from most other racers on the streets is that he doesn't rely on a Keah doesn't merely know how to drive a car; he knows a car from inside to out. Whilst he's not a talented Ripper Doc or a HyperHuman augmentation specialist, Keah possesses adaquate knowledge on how to repair, maintain, modify and ,yes, manufacture automobiles to suit his needs or the needs of anyone else. This also extends to a keen understanding of being able to intuitively pick up and assess the advantages and weaknesses of every car possible, just based on the sound of the engine.
//5-Star Delivery - Keah is singlehandidly responsible for why Suraiboshen delivery services are so valued among those who can shell out enough dollars for it. Years of experience driving within South City has bestowed upon Keah a encyclopediac GPS within his own brain of every possible journey, tour, route and detour within the vast arcology. Keah has also become a meticulous indivdual when it comes to planning journeys and routes, scouting out roads and thoroughly researching potential hazards and secret routes in order to reduce his boredom on the mind-numbing amount of sushi deliveries he has to make.
FLAWS
//Speed Samurai, Not Street Samurai
- Driving skills do not translate to an ability in combat situations outside of vehicles. Whilst Keah isn't completely blind to the art of spilling blood with your own bare hands, he can't be counted to do much in combat situations other than running people over with his car.
//Turbo'Blazin Blood - All those who follow the path of the High Way are known to have high-octane blood that reeks of ferocity and unbridled rage. This same blood boils within the Drift Demon's veins, making him extremely reckless in pulse-pounding situations and always resorting to violent responses when he is emotionally compromised or agitated. This may be harmless outside of a car but when he's inside a car, good luck getting him out. Keah's refusal to take Neurosynth to reduce the mental degredation caused by his cybernetics also excaberates his blood thirsty tendencies.
//The Price of a Name - You don't get called Drift Demon without breaking a few eggs and bodies along the way. Keah's reputation as well as his past actions have attracted unsavory individuals, including riled gang members, uppity street racers and disgruntled bosozoku, itching to challenge him in his territory. Whilst going to South City has turned the heat off his back, Keah's involvement in the elections may prove to bring back familiar faces.
OCCUPATION: (What did you do before the campaign? Or what do you still do? This can be held prior to the campaign or ongoing.)
CAMPAIGN TEAM POSITION: (Your position under Campbell. What do you do? See first post for various ideas.)
Psychological Profile
Trait | Trait | Trait | Trait | Trait | Trait
PERSONAL GOAL: (Why are you still around? What are you trying to achieve?)
CAMPAIGN GOAL: (Why did you link up with Campbell? What are you trying to do for his platform?)
PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY: (Who are you really? What morally defines you? What drives you?)
POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: (What are your views on the world? While a partisan identity would be nice to include, feel free to define yourself outside of the five parties.)
SECRETS: (What are you hiding? What would it cost you if someone found out what’s behind the veil?)
FEARS: (What keeps you up at night? What makes you freeze up in the moment? What do you avoid at all costs?)
REPUTATION: (How does the world view you? What are you known for? How do your people act around you?)
LIKES: (Feel free to list a few.)
DISLIKES: (Same as above)
QUIRKS: (What makes you unique for better or worse?)
Background Information
”Character Quote”
Operative Information
AUGMENTATIONS: (What sort of Cyberware are you equipped with?)
EQUIPMENT: (What are you carrying on the job?)
SKILLS: (Feel free to list a few and elaborate a bit.)
FLAWS: (Aim for three or so. Equal or greater to your number of skills.)
Taste it! If you don't taste it now, I'll shove this heretical offering down your mouth! If you were trying to poison the mayor, you failed! This slime spittle couldn't even kill a pygmy squirrel. What are you standing there for? Get. OUT, you profligate! Garrakg curse your soul to the bowels of the soup bowl!
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪
ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖: Lak Lok Coalcleave 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕤: The Cleaver Cook 𝔸𝕘𝕖: 59 𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕖𝕤: Kobold 𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣: Male 𝕆𝕔𝕔𝕦𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: Culinary Adventurer, Hunter, Chef For Hire and Cleric Of Garrakg, The Orcish God of Chefs 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥:Chaotic Good
𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖
ℍ𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥:2'9 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕕: Scrawny and of miniscule size like most of his other brethren, time hacking and working in the kitchens has bestowed well-worn cords of muscle on Lak Lok's lizard frame. 𝔼𝕪𝕖𝕤: He possesses beady slitted eyes that are of a gold yellow hue. ℍ𝕒𝕚𝕣: Lak Lok wishes that he had a luxurious mane of blonde locks to adorn his scaly head. Instead, he has to settle for being a hairless reptile. 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕟 𝕋𝕠𝕟𝕖: He has mottled green scales that are slightly tanned and blackened from spending time cooking near the fireplace. 𝕋𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕤/𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕤/ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: During his 50 years of culinary endeavors, Lak Lok has gained numerous scars from mishaps in the kitchen, from fading bruises to a sliced finger on his right hand. In terms of both tattoos, Lak Lok bears the sigil of Garrakg on the back of his right palm. ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕪𝕝𝕖: The kobold prefers to wear simple, rugged and practical clothing which can survive the sweltering heat of the cookery. No matter what he wears, his distinctive bone-white smocked apron is always found on his person.
" My recipes make the better impression than me. It's better that they look at the meal in front of them rather than the Kobold who cooked it. I don't get why no one likes me. Cooking is an art and the lot of them scumbuckets can go drown themselves if they think they can just go ahead and tell me how to pay tribute to my god. I mean, look at these complaints. 'Arrogant'. 'Anger issues'. 'Unreasonable'. Pah. These are obviously the words of backwater heretics.
Every man, woman, orc, centaur, elf, gnome or whatever species leaves with full bellies and a smile whenever they eat my food, that's for sure. "
What are you like in a high stress situation?
High stress? High stress! HIGH STRESS?! My entire life's a high stress situation! You think cooking for every adventurer, hunter, sell-sword and merchant that comes into the tavern simple? Well, you don't have to cook a hundred different dishes all at the same time while making sure you've got enough beer to keep their meals down and clean plates to serve!
But.....when all's said and done, I live for it. Stress is where we cooks thrive after all. Makes your blood pump into your brain. You gotta tenderise the meat if you wanna bring out the best flavors after all.
What are your best and worst qualities?
" My best qualities are my determination and most importantly, my cooking. I've yet to hear someone complain about my food and if they did, I would gut them and turn their intestines into soup stock.
My worst qualities....well, even though I don't like to admit it, I do get a little carried away with my...um...tantrums every now and then.
It's not my fault I begin shouting Kobold swears everytime someone overcooks the Hydra flanks."
What is something about yourself that you would never admit to anyone?
" Believe me. I've got plenty of things that I'd like to keep private. There's not much anyone would want to ask a Kobold like me anyway, but if you must know....
I've....
I've....
I've killed a unicorn. And ate its corpse.
Best damn steak I ever had.
That's all I'll say.
What are your dreams?
" My very own tavern to pay tribute to Garrakg, a temple to his glorious preeminence. I've been saving up enough money to buy a patch of land near some trade route in the southern reaches of this continent. Ah, I can see it now. Two storied, with ebony wood tables, enough ale and wine barrels to drown the Soltude Plains, five course menu selections without those pesky tavern owners interfering in my business and servers that do what they're told. To cook what I want instead of what others want. To achieve the feasts of feasts, banquets of banquets, an eternal cornucopia in his Name.....
Of course, you don't make a dragon egg omelete without breaking a few eggs. I need money. Lots of money. Fast."
How do you want to be seen by others?
" Well, I want to be....recognised by others. Everyone laughs at the idea of a kobold chef but I've made it this far without a single bit of attention. When I finally get a tavern of my own, they'll all see."
How do you see yourself?
" I see myself as a humble follower of the Hungry One, a mere messenger of his flavors and recipes to the masses of this Continent. Life gave me the ingredients for success and I'm gonna make a meal out of it, for me and others. "
Do you tend to make snap judgements, or stop and think about things?
" Do you think a chef can afford to contemplate when there's hungry mouths waiting to be fed? The greatest flavors are born from the soul, never from the brain. Sure, all cooks follow recipes but the best of us use the recipes as guidelines, never as doctrine. If you keep using the same ingredients, your dish will become stale and rotten like moldy bread. Recipes were meant to be changed after all. This is the way of Garrakg. "
What haunts you?
" You see many things that you make the other races throw up their breakfast, lunch and dinner when you're a Kobold. You ever saw a mother Kobold eating their young? You ever saw children bake cookies out of dirt and grass, shoving it into their mouths and pretending they weren't starving.
There was one time, though, when an high elf lord criticized my butter root stew for being too 'salty'. It was the most horrifying moment of my life. I cried myself to sleep that night. "
What is your philosophy on life?
" Everywhere on this continent, I see people surrender, settle for less, say that they have become full. The retired adventurer, the deposed king, appetites that were once big becoming small.
Life and all of its uncertainties can be certainly hard to swallow sometimes but it is a feast that I still hunger for. To push your passions to your limit, to overcome instead of stop, that is the point of life for me. To achieve culinary perfection is my dream and to attain the recipe of the gods, that is something worth dying for. "
ℍ𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕤:
Picking and scavenging herbs off the ground.
Sharpening and oiling his equipment.
Chewing on a snack.
Praying to his Provider Of Plenty, Garrakg
ℍ𝕠𝕓𝕓𝕚𝕖𝕤:
Hunting and Foraging
Cooking
Tavern Food Tours
Ale Brewing
Experimenting with New Dishes
Learning New Cuisine
𝔽𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤:
Making Bad Food
Bad Reviews
Becoming Repetitive
Running Out of Ingredients
Patron Complaints
Food Poisoning
Dying an unknown
𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Eating
Cooking
Learning New Cuisines
New Recipes
Drinking
Hunting for Rare Delicacies
𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Bad Food
Incompetent Cooks
Lack of Organisation
Uncleanliness
Contamination
Disrespecting Fine Cooking
Stupid Patrons
Wasting Food or Opportunities for Food
𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟:
𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Flavor Favors - Providing delicious meals free of charge can get you a lot of good will. And a lot of friends. Lak Lok's cooking has made him multiple allies and acquaintances over the years, who are eager to renege on their debts to him.
Trapsmith - Like all Kobolds, Lak Lok is extremely good at the art of booby trapping, managing to capture and entrap many prey just by using sticks, stones and his own ingenuity.
Taste Palette - Lak Lok possesses an extremely acute sense of smell and taste, able to distinguish between 99 varietals of peppercorns or determine what type of milk was used in his berry meringue.
Ser Swears-A-Lot - Lak Lok is prone to fits of inventive swearing and cursing to humiliate someone, especially if they serve him bad food or desecrate his god.
Culinary Expertise - From Orcish banquets, Minotaur curries and the fare of the Lizardfolk, Lak Lok is quite knowledgeable in the culinary arts, adept in the food cultures of every race and how best to cook their cuisine.
Ambush Master - Kobolds are reviled amongst all races for their despicable, cowardly tactics. Lak Lok is no different from his kin, excelling in surprise attacks and catching someone offguard with his dastardly array of kitchen tools or from the barrel end of his absurdly oversized rifle.
Big Game Hunter - Lak Lok is experienced in using his blunderbuss to its maximum effectiveness, able to compensate for the massive recoil and turn someone or something from not dead to dead in an instant.
𝕄𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝/𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Iron Chef - Lak Lok has dedicated his entire life to the art of cooking culinary dishes and is one of the finest chefs one can expect to encounter. He’s not a chef. He’s THE chef. This proficiency has become almost supernatural, to the point where Lak Lok is able to visualise the magical energy that suffuses each of his ingredients and shape it to make the most delicious foods.
Dark Vision - Having spent most of his childhood living underground, Lak Lok is able to see his surroundings in the most darkest of environments. Due to his Kobold biology, this makes him extremely susceptible to sudden flashes of bright lights.
Divine Spell Specialization: Domain of Life: While Garrghk is a minor god, enough faith can give boons to the most devoted of followers. Lak Lok is able to use spells from the Domain of Life, albeit with one caveat. The effects of his spells only occur when one consumes his food.
𝕀𝕟𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
Cooking Satchel - An artifact granted by Garrakg to Lak Lok that magically preserves the food that the Kobold cooks and the ingredients inside them.
Selection of Mithril Knives - From cleavers to paring knives, the edge of knives is enough to cut through fruit, veg, meat or bone with ease.
Adamantine Frying Pan - Adamantite finds use in being one of the most valuable forge metals in existence but its ability to conduct heat perfectly along with its non-stick surfaces also makes it highly useful as a cooking utensil. It comes in handy as a makeshift shield in a pinch.
Venatio Flintlock Breech Rifle - Somethings, bigger is better. Designed by Venatio Firearms for big game hunting of owlbears, this massive rifle has been sawed down and modified to be used by a Kobold. Whilst this gun is unwieldy and is about the length of Lak Lok's entire body, it more than makes up with it with sheer firepower required to obtain the most tastiest of meats.
Bandolier of Enchanted Seasonings - Lak Lok's selection currently includes: sea shroom salt, twilight ginger, sunset saffron, ivory peppercorn, grounded beach seed spice, ember cloves, ivy seed and many more obscure spices.
Steel Cauldron and Mixing Ladle - The foundation of all good cooking is in a cauldron. Lak Lok usually ties it around his back, using it to carry most of his belongings.
The Sacred Menu of Garrakg - A tome that contains the sacred commandments and recipes of Garrakg and also acts as a means of empowering Lak Lok's divine spells.
ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
“ Yes, yes, what do you want? The rabbit stew with wild slaw? Or today’s special? Spill it out, will you? I don’t have all day. A tale? A bloody story? That’s what you demand of my talents? This is a fucking tavern. Do you take me for some flowery bard? Go on! Get out of here!
Hold on...Wait. Wait. Wait! Don’t leave. Please. Sorry for the outburst. My….temper gets the best of me sometimes. Do sit down. May I interest you in a pint of elderberry ale? Perhaps, some highland tea to soothe both our moods? I normally don’t take unusual requests from strangers but Garrakg has spoken on your behalf. Do you see that? The bacon began to blacken as soon as you took the first steps out of this tavern. Garrakg would have taken my soul to the Oven if I was to deny your request.
Where to begin exactly……….
I was born in a clade of Kobold merchants in Darayeich. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Back then, we Kobolds didn’t exactly live high and mighty like you humans or your elves. When the rest of the world closed their doors on us, we formed our own communities in the underdark. When the Battle of Abbyn began, one of my ancestors had the bright idea of forming a town underneath one of the war-torn areas. The surface had been blasted to bits, every other race was unwilling to touch the place out of respect but not us Kobolds. Ah, what I would dream to see Darayeich again. Tunnels of crystals glimmering in the dark, the scent of cured meat rolls…….
Where was I? Anyway, I was in Darayeich and then, I was kicked out along with my family. Turns out my old man, Garrakg rest his soul, had accidentally offended a Kobold crime boss and was told to get out of town or get his guts streamed across the tunnels by the crime boss’s necromancer for his nephew’s birthday party. So, we packed up our bags and headed north towards the mountain orc settlements as roving traders. My brothers were swindlers. My sisters were thugs. My parents were thieves. I was the first Kobold to break the mold.
The first and last thing I had ever stolen at the ripe old age of six was a old bound leather cookbook. I don’t remember the title, but oh, that mouldy old piece of parchment was everything to me. My first recipe was a cattail-bark ear pie dressed with sweetgrass cream. That first bite made me hunger for more.When I reached the ripe age of six years old, I set off on my own, leaving my nest and venturing forth into the wilds in search of opportunity. I went from tavern to tavern, all across the continent, from peasant taverns to high end kitcheneries serving noble lords. Oh, those were the good years.
I began to find myself in a state of ennui, though. I was cooking but for what purpose? For profit? For glory? For fame? No one cared about a kobold cook.
One day, I received strange visions of a kitchen, a massive figure standing above me and telling me a strange recipe.
Now, I’ve never been happier than before. Garrakg has given me new purpose and I am the messenger of his will. Forsaken is the new frontier of cuisine, a new garden in which to experiment and blossom and where I will build a holy shrine to his Glorious Gluttony, Garrakg. Now, is there anything you would like to eat, instead of listen to? I personally recommend ordering the alligator casse-
Hold on. Excuse me. It’s one of my chefs again…..
I’M GONE FOR A MERE MINUTE AND ALREADY, YOU TWO KNOBHEADS HAVE BLIGHTED IT ALL TO HELL. YOU THERE! ARE YOU GRILLING LETTUCE, TROLL?! THIS IS AN ELVISH SALAD, NOT A TIEFLING CHAR FEST! WERE YOU DROPPED ON THE HEAD AS A BABY?! SAY YES! NOW, CLEAN THIS MESS UP AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!
…….
So, what will you be having?"
Summary: To make a Lak Lok, all you need is mix together an ancient minor god of cooking, a orcish druid, tavern roadtrips and an outcast family. Bake it in an oven of adversity, and season it with a holy quest.
𝔼𝕩𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕤
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℚ𝕦𝕠𝕥𝕖:A snack soothes one's stomach, a dinner brings families together, feasts unite towns and banquets build kingdoms. Cooking is the true magic of the gods. 𝔸𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔼𝕝𝕤𝕖: N/A
◄The old world is the new gold in this new world. ►
ALAN GORSKY
120| Big Sky, Northern Commonwealth | 169.5 cm / 155 pounds | Ghoul
A P P E A R A N C E.
" Yeah, yeah, I see the way you're eyeing at me, smooth-skin. You're probably thinking a few things about me right now. A talking Brahmin testicle. A piece of mutfruit that was left out in the sun. A shriveled cave fungus that grew legs. Trust me. I heard it all. So try to be more creative the next time you try to insult a ghoul."
A common adage in the ghoul town of Gecko is that every ghoul looks alike and Gorsky believes it. No nose. Mummified skin. Radiation burns. Simply put, Gorsky is about as off-putting as any ghoul could be. His balding head contains wisps of sandy hair growing at the fringes. If one were to use their imagination, perhaps, they could craft a human simulacrum of what Gorsky once looked like in their minds. The only feature that distinguishes Gorsky from other ghouls is his glowing eyes. No, not metaphorically, literal glowing in the dark pupils. This freaky mutation is a reminder of the circumstances that resulted in his ghoulification.
Due to living as a Old World prospector and scavenger, Gorsky has developed a weathered yet still-emaciated physique with a stout stature that belies hidden cunning and tenacity. With time, he has gained numerous scars from his misadventures that are in a constant state of flux, closing and reopening at ill-opportune times. Though his choice of apparel varies depending on the climate, he is never seen without an white-star ushanka on his head.
E Q U I P M E N T.
Orion - A hand crafted scoped crossbow cobbled together from a makeshift selection of gun parts, energy weapon parts and scrap waste found littered in the Wasteland. Silent and deadly at a range of 50 yards.
Quiver Belt - A belt that allows Gorsky to access and load his bolts easier.
Scrap Bolts - An eclectic collection of crossbow bolts composed of bone, steel, rebar, wood, glass and whatever detritus of the wastes Gorsky happens upon. Gorsky has approximately 20 scrap arrows with him and has the capacity to craft more easily.
Microfusion Bolts - A microfusion cell capped with a electrical fuse replaces the arrowhead of the crossbow bolt. Contact with the head of the bolt will release the full charge of the microfusion cell in one thermal blast. Depending on the internal charge of the cell, this can range from the power of a fiddly firework to a bastardised plasma grenade. At the start of the journey, Gorsky has brought only 5 with him due to how time consuming it is to craft these arrows.
Trenchcoat - A furred long-coat tailored from rad-elk leather and partially fortified with laminated polymer weave plating. Comes with extra pockets for storing small objects.
Portable Repair Kit - An old Vault-Tec Lunchbox that contains all the necessities of post-apocalyptic DIY repair such as WonderGlue, Duct-Tape, wrenches, a soldering iron, screwdrivers and all the tools needed to fix up anything you need.
Lockpicking Kit - A leather wallet containing bobby pins, staplers, tension wrenches, screwdrivers and enough picks to crack open any safe with the exception of Fort Knox. If it's still standing.
Collection of Poisons - A satchel containing three 500 ml ampules, each containing man-made poisons known as Bleak Venom, Mother Darkness and Sliver Sting. Bleak Venom acts as a lethal cardiotoxin, Mother Darkness is a potent neurotoxin and Sliver Sting is known to be an easily acquired cytotoxin. Gorsky most often dips his arrows in poison whilst hunting for food.
Talon Knife - A one-edged five inch curved ivory knife carved from the bone of a deathclaw talon. It's sharper than it looks.
Dog Whistle - A high pitched dog whistle that transmits a specific frequency only a mutated giant cockroach would hear.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S G E A R
- Rolled Up Sleeping Bag - Electric Lighter - Box of Spare Electronic and Mechanical Parts - Satchel of 100 Caps - Brahmin Leather Waterskin - Container of Coyote Tobacco Cigars - Frying Pan - Compass - Packet of Kindling - Army Brand Ushanka - Tribal Dreamcatcher Necklace - Pet Brush for Chaff - Journal and Charcoal Pen - Fishing Rod, Line, Hook and Sinker
S K I L L S.
// SURVIVAL (CORE) - Having been raised in the harsh wildernesses of Montana and ran solo scavenging operations for nearly most of his life, Gorsky knows virtually every survival trick in and out of the book to prevent your ass from being gnawed off by a mole rat. Crafting poison, making poisons, identifying plants that don't poison you; Gorsky is a natural outdoorsghoul. Also, it doesn't hurt to know how to make a good bloatmfly brisket every once in a while.
// REPAIR (GOOD) - " Duct Tape and Wonder Glue. Two things everyone needs in life."
// SCIENCE (GOOD) - " My scientific methodology? Throw it at the wall and see if it sticks. Try to relate it to physics, biology, chemistry, astrology.....wait, scratch that last one. "
// BARTER (AVERAGE) - " 1500 caps? How about we lower it down to 500 caps if I buy a bottle of Sarsparilla for you?"
// GUNS (AVERAGE) - " N99. 10mm semi-automatic. 12 round magazine. You can do a nice little magic trick with it. Point the barrel at someone and you can make a dead person."
// LOCKPICKING (AVERAGE) - " A safe is just a birthday gift wrapped in deadbolts, cams and mortises."
H I S T O R Y
2385, August 5th
Thought I might start writing down stuff, in case I forget. Doc I met in Vault City said that ghouls don't have eidetic memory. That common symptoms were dementia, amnesia, a Sugar Bombs box of mental illnesses. Might be good to have things written down in case somebody finds my grave. Can't rely on Chaff to tell my story anyway. Doubt anyone can speak Radroach.
I was born in the Rockies 120 years ago, somewhere north of the Great Salt Lake and westwards of NCR territory. Everyone called it the Big Sky. It used to be part of the pre-war Northern Commonwealth before the last war happened. Luckily, the surrounding mountain ranges allowed us to escape the worst of the bombs. Some of the elders had stories around what happened that time, when the Black Rain poured down from the clouds and flooded the valleys, when the Wendigos came from the forests to feast on us, when the six moon snow silenced the sunlight. It's been....40 years since I last visited there. All I know about them is through word of the monthly supply caravans that go there. They're still doing good. Best as you can out here in the wastes.
I grew up in a tribal village where blood didn't matter and everyone shared everything. The origins of our founding are spotty but our archive keepers agreed that some group of outcasts from the eastern continents moved into the USA and hid in the mountains during the Pre-War. My father worked in the coal mines while my mother worked as a hunter. Me and the rest of my five siblings simply survived. I learned what plants I could eat, how to skin a giant rat, how to fish for mirelurk pups and making fire from sticks and stones. Anyway, Big Sky was boring. In the sense that our neighbors were unfriendly, the air was cold enough to freeze your balls off and there were bobcats in every bush you wanted to take a dump in.
That was until the first caravan came. I was at the ripe old age of 18. Old enough to be independent yet young enough to be stupid and dumb. I made a promise to myself then that I wouldn't die languishing in Big Sky. I wanted to explore. I wanted to live. In the morning, I left a note on the table for my parents and sneaked onto a supply caravan that was headed California by bribing one of the guards, with nothing more than a bindle and a crossbow on my back. One of the head merchants found me in the back gnawing on their tato crops but I soon silenced their complaints about extra weight by rustling up a few gecko steaks for them when we hit the border of Klamath.
I was dropped off at the Hub. The Hub. One of the Five Great Territories of the NCR. I got my first job in a 'prospector crew' there. Some people saw it as dirty but it was the dream for some tribal out lander like me. Exploring pre-war ruins. Cracking open safes. Unearthing treasures? It was more than I could ask for. Life was good. Caps were flowing in. I grew older. Fell in love. Bought a house. Got married. Thought of retiring. Same story you hear nowadays from every citizen of the New California Republic. Back in Big Sky, retirement wasn't an option but here in California, it was a land of opportunity.
Then, it happened.
December 24th, 2299. Christmas. The dawn of the next Millennium. The day that I became a ghoul.
The old ruins were becoming sparse now. The NCR was grabbing onto every territory it could and promising spots became blocked off by garrisons. The only choice was to go to more further and dangerous places.
I chose to do a job in New Mexico. Five man crew. Pre-war military site. Unlooted. Unscathed. Only problem was that there were enough rads to make a man grow extra arms. A nuclear warhead struck the coastline of the base and turned it into freak central. The facility we entered into was some kind of some old vehicle manufacturing factory. Tanks the size of freaking cottages. Wandered around for a little bit until we hit a vaulted door. Nothing I couldn't handle. A little bit of thermite and picking later, fell apart like cotton candy.
We went inside and hit the jackpot. Blueprints. Safes. Enough loot to make a man rich for lifetimes.
I only had five seconds to react before the bullet tore through my chest.
In hindsight, it made sense. Get rid of the extra weight and split the loot between themselves. My death could be written off as an accident since I was travelling into a high risk area. No one would try and bother to find my body too. The perfect plan.
Instead of putting me out of my misery, they stripped me of all my gear and left me to rot. While they looted the room. Last thing I remember before blacking out was the sound of my Geiger counter screeching, the burning pain in my chest and how my head pounded like a drum.
I woke up. Afraid, hungry, thirsty and alive. I was still inside the loot room. It’d been stripped bare to the walls. My voice sounded like I’d been gurgling stones for a lifetime, I had no nose and the hole in my chest was missing. I didn’t have time to come to terms that I’d become a ghoul. I was only concerned about finding a way out of this place.
That was when I was attacked by the biggest radroach the wastes had ever conceived. My Chaff. We got off to a rocky start but eventually, things settled between the both of us after I gave her a little bit of food from some expired MRE I found in a storage locker.
I crawled my way out of New Mexico and walked back to the Hub on foot. Me and Chaff fell a little bit off course every once in a while but we pulled ourselves back towards our goal. When I finally reached there, I was prepared for the worst. What would you do if your husband or wife suddenly became a ghoul? I opened the door, Chaff behind me, expecting to be screamed at and tossed out from the house.
Nothing, in fact. My wife told me to stop with the self-pity, move on with my life and that I was still the same old dumb tribal underneath that skin. To this day, I never did manage to find those guys who shot me and I never will. Revenge is fool’s gold. By now, they’re either old men waiting to die or two feet under already. Seems petty to hunt them down.
In spite of common sense, I returned to work as a prospector, albeit with caveats. I never took group contracts again and went solo. Well, semi-solo. Chaff doesn’t get a part of the profits. I continued to live and continued to work, looking for pieces of the old world to collect.
Time moves differently when you’re a ghoul. Wife died from a nasty bout of pancreatic cancer when I was 60. My two sons became water merchants when I was 85. I became a grandfather at the age of 100. My trips became further. I returned back to Montana for a bit and then, went back to the Hub. I……I can’t remember. It’s like an old reel movie in my head. A collection of moments. I can barely even remember her voice anymore.
There’s word spreading around the Hub right now. Rumours of a Vault in Cascadia. Untouched. Lack of NCR presence.
Perfect for prospecting.
P S Y C H E.
Gorsky’s takes a sardonic yet professional approach to his work as a prospector, viewing the wastes as a land of opportunity rather than a land of desolation. His only concerns are the wellbeing of his own relatives, Chaff and his own collection of items. He distances himself from other people out of reflex and often uses acerbic jabs as his weapons to keep people away. However, those who earn Gorsky’s trust and loyalty earn themselves a friend. Gorsky also holds a relative dislike of government authorities and inefficencies, particularly the NCR, holding nothing but contempt towards their imperialistic policies which he sees as strangling the freedoms of the Wasteland.
That is not to say Gorsky is without his imperfections. Gorsky is a prospector and a scavenger at heart, willing to haggle and bargain for anything. He hold a streak of being greedy and the promise of treasure and old world tech will dissuade any moral qualms he may have about committing any act, albeit to a point. Good luck on trying to get him to commit murder. Gorsky believes in defending himself from danger and never attacking in response to danger.
D R I V E.
Other than surviving, Gorsky’s main incentive for living the way he does is for the pathological thrill of adventure he gets whenever he happens upon an artifact of the Old World. He believes that the Óld World’ is the new gold and that it holds power and value over caps, money, armies and wealth.
However, the truth is more complicated than it seems. Gorsky also collects artifacts of the Old World, not out of the thrill, but out of fear for his deteriorating memory. He’s not sure how ghouls can stay sane for but he’s not willing to rot in safety and wait for his mind to disintegrate. Taking advantage of the long life span of ghouls, Gorsky continues to explore and search for nuggets of the Old World, hoping that he can stay ahead of memory loss one treasure at a time.
