Afro Samurai

Tear the World Down - Dark Fantasy Done Differently

CS's came in fast and now I'm sweating. Time for maximum effort.

Tear the World Down - Dark Fantasy Done Differently

You'll have a CS from me by Saturday at the latest.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

_{For Those Who Cannot}

_or

_{Your Day Begins, Hassan}

Attack on Sherman Square

---

Metal howled and crashed against concrete. Mechs, fighter jets, a sea of armored trucks with equally armored Hounds. Ground shook beneath his feet; he was still sitting in the movie theater chair he had procured for his conversation with Charlie. Disappointment washed down his face. Before he could see to the business of decimation, he had to return the stolen chairs to their rightful owners. Or… or he could use them as weapons.

In the footsteps of Icon, Pantheon burst from his seated position and into flight. With dwindling space between himself and the mammoth of technology, lust cradled the warrior. Battle. It was his purpose; open palms crushed into fists and locked the closer the compendium of mystic energy came to the mecha. The pull. Wretched boy and his squeaking pleas; muscles resisted advance.

”There is no time for this, child!”
“D-don’t make me hurt you!” Hassan squealed, the crack of thunder and cuts of wind a violent murder of his voice. Children were better silent, anyway. The mecha pilot trained the machine’s automatic mini guns and its rocket launchers directly at Pantheon; no warnings were heeded, especially not by those of an unconvincing child.

This child was the weakest yet. The boy’s great grandfather was a veteran of Korea and Vietnam; his great great grandmother a doctor and healer. His grandmother never realized her potential, but she was a teacher, one of the top students at her university. This one, Hassan, was nothing but a whiner: full of sarcasm, indecisive, quarrelsome, jealous. Resilience, that was the boy’s one redeeming quality. It alone did not constitute the warrior the child wished he was.

Still, there was a surprising amount of mental fortitude the child possessed. This much resistance Pantheon had yet to face in any of his ancestors, and they had died for it; it was too easy for Pantheon to assume control of their minds, wills, passions. Reckless was Pantheon’s nature. He would lead them all to their deaths naturally: for his grandmother and all her knowledge, a vascular carotid disease which onset dementia for her failure to realize the power she had at her disposal. For his great grandmother the healer and doctor, Aabidah , and her inquisitivity and greed, a necrotic disease for her failure to uphold a deal between herself and Iblis. For his grandfather, death on the frontlines.

Hassan was harder to repress, and Pantheon could not force unnatural demise on any of his inhabitants, nor could he forcibly interfere with their wills. A passive god who had yet to be conquered within or without. No man made machine would be the first to do it, either. Rain pellets clanged against the body of the mech in violent stoccato; Pantheon faired no better, arms crossed as he floated in front of the story tall machine. Elevating himself to the mech’s head, his rainbow colored orbs glared into the pilot’s pit. Pantheon was forefront with Hassan acting as the only tether of restraint

”I am in a generous mood, human. I will spare your life if you take the rest of these fools and return home. If not, you will die.”
Defiance abound, the pilot’s mech fired its machine gun rounds at Pantheon which--as they had with Icon--fell harmless from his body. The rockets followed, and Pantheon was too close to dodge them; atop the shock from the mech’s electrical defensive systems, impact from the first rocket sent him careening backwards. Black and gold shirt ripped to shreds, pants too. Pantheon himself unphased except for some black smoke which steamed from his mostly exposed torso and partially exposed legs.

Thunder boomed across the sky following the silent and soft arc of sea blue lightning rolling across the heavens. Hard contours of Pantheon’s face lit beneath the brief flash of aqua colored light, a sneer distorted itself into a smile, the sides of Pantheon’s mouth curling sinister. There were no words, only a blurred advance shrouded beneath the night sky and lashing rain.

A clenched fist plunged through the cockpit, but the pilot was steeled. The Hounds had trained these men not to wither in adversity, even if death was certain. One did not have to be a zealot in order to be willing to die for a cause; and not all of these men and women who donned black gear and Hounds insignias were evil or crazed. They fought for the same reasons the metas did; preserving their way of life, protecting those they loved. Ill knew no side, no ideology. So, it was no surprise when the mecha pilot continued to fight even when the protection he was assured (by his superior officers no less) would hold fast against metahuman onslaught was dismantled.

Pantheon had wedged his hands between the gaping hole of the glass which sat between himself and the presently nameless Hound. It was no wonder why Pantheon was surprised when his body was enveloped by a large mechanical hand and constricted--the harder the metal hand clenched, the more its screws popped and its gears whined against Pantheon’s otherworldly durable frame. The pilot wised up once he realized he couldn’t crush Pantheon to death and instead rose its metallic arm over its head slammed Pantheon into the pavement below. But the pilot knew he was fighting a losing battle; Pantheon admired the pilot’s resolve, and he may--he just may--not kill him for his insolence.

Dragging Pantheon along the concrete, the giant mecha hand tossed Pantheon aside. He blasted through a building’s walls and his trajectory only halted thanks to a display of mannequins inside of a store several blocks away. It never got less annoying. He only hoped people didn’t start billing him for collateral. After he had crashed through the window, skidded along the shopping mall’s floor and created a fissure, it took him a few seconds to rise to his feet. Horrified mothers screamed and lustful wives settled on him a second too long for their husbands’ likings. Children were wide eyed and had jaws ajar.

“Mommy, look!” a young boy wearing wearing an Icon shirt exclaimed, ‘It’s Icon!” Pantheon was fixing the mannequins he had knocked over, accessories and all. Twisting on his heels, he approached the kid; his mother maneuvered her son behind her where he had latched one arm around his mother’s leg. Pantheon stood and stared down the mother for a few seconds before he tore off a patch of what was left of the sheared shirt completely, a portion of the gold lightning bolt emblem visible on what was left of its stitching and handed it to the child.

”No, little one,” the underlying aggression typical in his voice gone, ”I am not. I am Pantheon, superior to Icon.” the store shook as the mechas moved in unison and were taken apart by Angel and Icon; Pantheon’s business was unfinished, he turned to the young boy again,

”Take your mother and leave, child. If you are ever in need, concentrate on that lightning bolt, and I will come to you.”

Pantheon took to the skies again. He bulleted himself into the side of the mech (who had begun unleashing his machine guns upon fleeing citizens, cutting them down without mercy) he was fighting before, the force of impact caused the mech to lose balance and begin to topple sideways. He would not let the mech or the pilot off that easy. Changing his flight path, he twisted around and used his blinding speed to fly to the opposite side of the mech which was upside toward the sky and wrap his arms around its arm. Generating enough resistance to pull the mech’s arm off while it was completely vertical was easy enough, but he had to make it harder for the pilot to react first.

Using the counterbalance, Pantheon created enough resistance to disarm the mech completely. He clasped the arm in both hands and maneuvered to the mech’s front.

Smack
Wham!
THWACK!

The mech’s cockpit was being compressed and crushed systematically. Critical system failure imminent. He tossed the arm aside. He’d done the same for the other arm with less restraint than before. Sparks flew from both sockets where the mech’s arms used to be. The pilot was busy trying to get the mech’s systems online. Meanwhile, Pantheon slapped both palms against the left leg of the mech and dug his fingers into its metal; audible groans from the mech’s stressed metal pierced the wind. Digging his feet into the concrete, Pantheon tore the leg from beneath the mech upon which it immediately began to collapse, the stress of bearing so much weight on one of its artificial legs too great. Before the mech could tilt sideways into any buildings, Pantheon flew to the opposite leg and wrapped his arms around it. He tore it from beneath the mech, leaving the massive torso to plummet to the ground.

Pantheon hurled the mecha leg a distance ahead of himself. Where it landed did not matter to him. The mecha’s other leg shared the same fate; the pilot was trapped in the compressed wreckage of the cockpit, for Pantheon knew he would attempt to run otherwise. Laying in a pool of wires and foiled scientific advancement, the pilot coughed violently. Panic wore on his face as Pantheon walked up the mecha’s torso to its head where the cockpit was, dug his hand in, and forcibly ripped the pilot from his deathtrap--for his vindication the pilot got a deep gash along both thighs, and cuts along his arms; metal lodged into his shoulder. Pantheon grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up, the pilot’s feet dangling in desperation. Death creeping upon him.

”I gave you a choice, Hound. Now you rot.” Pantheon tossed him aside and walked away. The Hounds had come with numbers, and this would be a long, gruesome fight--the kind of fight Pantheon was made for.

Streets on Fire

Sorry for the holdup lol

Streets on Fire

---

Lamarcus Hawthorne

Interacting with: Adrienne and Demetrius Hawthorne

---

The blow up mattresses were stained and were not deserving of their namesakes. Of the three inhabitants, two were up and about. To meet the 8 a.m. bus deadline, Lamarcus had to ready both of his young siblings before 7:30 so he could walk them to the bus stop before their transport arrived. Adrienne, Lamarcus’ younger sister--and the most dutiful of the trio--was up and dressed at five thirty. Demetrius was still sleep. Lamarcus kicked the base of the mattress where Demetrius slept,

“Get up, fat head. Time to get dressed.” Demetrius moaned his rejection,
“Can’a skip today? We ain’t even doin’ nothin’ in class.” Lamarcus’ silence provided Demetrius the answer to his inquiry. Reluctant and with some resentment, Demetrius rose and as morning zombies do, slogged a path to the bathroom.

Lamarcus was moving a tad slower this morning as well, tonight’s business with the Ones wore itself on the back of his mind. But tonight was tonight, not the present; Lamarcus tried to keep the things in front of him as near as possible. Whatever was in the future was out of his control and he tried his best not to bother himself with its inevitable consequences. To stymie his incessant worry, Lamarcus fired up the stove. A bowl, a whisk, some eggs. He cracked six eggs and plopped them into a bowl. A little water, some cheese, some pre-diced tomatoes. Into the skillet the liquid went.

In the “TV room” which was just what the kids called it--it was the main room of the apartment--Adrienne sat watching the news. Her massive afro extended and poofed so wide it looked like it was burdensome on her thin neck. Tangling with that monster was the first of ‘Marcus dreads each morning. It was 5:45. Demetrius had just finished showering and one could hear the bathroom faucet creak. The eggs were done. Demetrius didn’t like his scrambled, but he would have to deal with it this ‘morrow. A shout from the bathroom,

“YOU MAKIN’ EGGS AGAIN? I DON’T WANT NO EGGS.” picky. He was always picky, just like their father,
“He always actin’ bougie.” Adrienne conided to Lamarcus, a kiss of her teeth against her jaws,
“Yeah, well, you ain’t no better Miss ‘I only eat sandwiches with the crust cut off!’” a twelve year old girl penetrated Lamarcus’ gaze with pent up spite, a demon all its own.
“Shut up, ugly.” was all she could muster as retort. Games of wit were not ones she played. Lamarcus let her have a pity chuckle before he replied,
“Come on and eat so I can do that nappy ass hair of yours after.” she stuck out her tongue. On cue, Demetrius joined the other members of the house for breakfast.

As the secondary man of the house, Demetrius was charged with readying the table and assisting Lamarcus with any grunt work around the house. The senior Hawthorne thought setting the table would teach the young one some etiquette. Manhood wasn’t just about protecting and providing, one needed a sense of order as well. Both the young Hawthornes were blooming into adolescence: Adrienne twelve, Demetrius eleven. Boy trouble, girl trouble, bullies, bad influences--and with the way the city was now--drugs, violence. They only had their big brother to protect them, and he only had them and the Lost Ones to give him purpose. But of the two, only his siblings were tangible to him. He didn’t understand the Lost Ones, he was a cog. Invisible, nameless. Lamarcus--or Hawk as he was known on the streets--accepted it.

Adrienne and Demetrius both asked too many questions: what Lamrcus did for money, why he was always coming home so late, did he have a girlfriend, was he a drug dealer. They were all the right questions but Lamarcus always gave them the wrong answers. He came home late because he was ‘working’ long hours at the grocery store. He did have a ‘girlfriend’--the Ones. He didn’t deal drugs, he shut drug dealers down. The trio ate, forks clinking almost in sync. 6:45.

Demetrius attended to the dishes as he did every morning, grumbles beneath his breath. Lamarcus never loved it either, but ‘it was part of being a man’ their father used to say. Every chore their father didn’t want to do was part of ‘being a man.’ Lamarcus sat with Adrienne’s head between his legs as she returned to watching the news. Rubberbands, berets, and combs of varying sizes in his hands as he twisted, parted and pulled sections of her massive ‘fro into manageable sections before sectioning them into puffs. 7:10. He had become an expert at it. They had just enough time to get to the bus.

Out the door they went. The walk to the bus-stop was quick and uneventful. The three sat there until the bus came. Kisses, hugs, waves. A soft and playful pap on the back of the head for Demetrius before they both got on the bus and were off.

Now, Lamarcus would ready himself for tonight’s protection run.

Streets on Fire

Posting tomorrow

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

WIP

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Streets on Fire

Nah I'm still here, lol. I just need to get around to posting.

Streets on Fire

Like a shadow council. Yeah, makes sense.

Streets on Fire

To answer Faded's second question from my POV, someone like Hawk wouldn't be scared of wearing colors or paraphernalia to represent the Lost Ones because he is a front-line soldier and ready to bump heads with Wolves if it comes down to it. But Hawk also tends not to venture out of Lost Ones territory so he doesn't run a high risk of getting his head split because of his decision to fly colors.