Avatar of Bork Lazer

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2 yrs ago
Current Auld Lang Syne, everybody. roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Vote in my new quest, Mirage, a RP quest set in the far, far future roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Kink-Shaming. Kink-Shaming Never Changes.
3 likes
4 yrs ago
roleplayerguild.com/posts/5… Vote for Dead in Depression. The mechanics of the quest have now been posted!
4 yrs ago
Voting is open until the end of the week! Please come and vote! - roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
1 like

Bio





ROLEPLAY BUCKET LIST
- Walmart Apocalypse Roleplay
- Nightmare Gas Station
- Underrail/Fallout/Post Apocalyptic Roleplay. Codename: Clausterclysm
- Anthromorphic Grimdark Animal Fantasy Roleplay. Codename: Fallowbrook.
- Eldritch Abomination Garfield Roleplay. Codename: Lasagna.
- Infinite IKEA Roleplay. Codename: God Morgon
- Roleplayerguild High School RP. Codename: Highschool Roleplay
- Cyberpunk South East Asia RP. Codename: Straits of Malacca. [CURRENTLY HAPPENING]


CURRENT PROJECTS

- FRAYED TAPESTRY - AN EPIC FANTASY RP (WIP)
- THE LAST DEPRESSION - A RED MARKETS QUEST/PLAY BY POST RP (UNDECIDED)

Most Recent Posts

Here is sheet #1, boss. I had two different ideas vying for control, and may try to formulate the other next week when I have time. Let me know what you think.

I would like my Wal-Coupons now.





I really love that fluff text in your Resume about the inner workings of the Stationary Shogunate. Shit like this is what the Wal was made for. There were ideas that I had for a faction that lived in the vents and on the Roof Tops but I digress. I could nitpick stuff like Bushido having been bastardised into Brushido by the Stationary Shogunate and other minor things, this is a really good sheet.

My only complaint is that you didn't make this more insane that it already is.
Hey, guys, guess what? I need more customers for the Wal. Please join. You will get free guaranteed Wal-Coupons if you join within the next 48 hours.

INTERLUDE: A SUDDEN DETOUR


l0cati0n: The_Detroit_Stacks

y3ar: 2050



“ Nice ride, tailgater. Where’cha get it? From some corpo expo?”

The windows slowly rolled up, the jeers and laughs of mockery outside quickly deafening to mute mumbles. He signed, keeping one eye on the digital homing display on his helm and on the cramped road. Hopefully. he's not too late.

Don’t stop moving, Keah. Never look back.


Maybe, he should have stopped moving now. He felt like a mouse walking along the feet of giants. The recyc-centres in Seattle were mere puddles in the water compared to the roiling sea of scrap that towered, enclosed on him on every side. The Detroit Stacks lived up to their name after all, poking through the foggy clouds as if they were supporting the sky itself. As soon as he turned the wheel around a corner down past a jammed overpass, flashlights turn on, illuminating the silhouettes of a dozen barrels pointed at him.

A heavily armored figure steps towards his car, his lower jaw replaced with an affixed respirator. He taps twice. Keah lowers down his window. His glowing blue pupils stare him, not lost in thought, but analyzing, communicating through the invisible web of the Labyrinth. After what seems like eternity, he nods.

“ Go through and meet with your pit crew. Race is in ten.”

Keah gives a short nod. The gate opens and he drives through, the crowd of guards parting ways. It wasn’t the prim or proper assembly areas of the Death Derby. It was impromptu, unofficial and ramshackle. He had to bash his wheel several times to horn idling passerbys out of the way. There was a jolt as his wheels transitioned from smooth syn-crete to granulated plastic. The pit assembly area was a collection of tents, smoke streaming out of them. He turned left into a checkboxed tent, sparsely occupied compared to the others next to it. Hanging by one string from the rafters was a sign “ THE SEATTLE STREET SURFERS.”

There's clear signs of an argument happening as he rolls into the center of the tent, grimy ashen-faced gear jockeys being scolded at by a person more metal than man. The exo-suit he was using to support his ematicated body screamed Scrapteam.

" WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR REPLACEMENT DRIVER? I SWEAR TO GOD, I'LL FUCKING RIP HIS - "

He paused in the middle of his rant, looking straight at Keah's car with a stare that makes his insides squirm. The other members of the crew look at him with a mixture of relief and revulsion just as his dingy little car halts, chassis lurching back and forth. He hits the handbrake into neutral and lowers down the polarized window. " I'm here." Keah coughs awkwardly. " I heard that there's a Cranks I'm supposed to meet?"

“ Shit, dude." One member of the pit-crew, chomping down a elec-cig, examines his vehicle closely with a scrutinizing scowl. " We’ve got an EngiTech Downstreamer? Doubt it even has a V8 - “

“ V10, actually.” He pipes out. “ Nitro-charged. Made it myself - ”

"That would be me." Cranks stomps over, hydraulic whining issuing from his exo-suit with every step and shooes the pit-crew member away. “ I've heard from the Car Czar that he’s a devil on the turns. This is the guy that beat him in the Stateboard." Whispers of disbelief begin to spread before a single glare shuts down the gossiping. " Doesn’t matter ‘bout the car. What matters is the driver." Cranks looks pointedly You can handle this. Right?”

“ Y-yeah,” Keah stammers. He’s got this. He reviewed the course twenty times last night. Of course, he’s got this. “ Yeah. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“ Remember, you’ve got 20 minutes to make it back here. And no bumping, got it? This ain’t the Death Derby.” He pats the hood. " All right, we've got 7 minutes. Let's do a final check up before we get him out there."

Keah sighs. He finds it all unnecessary as the pit-crew goes into formation, checking the vitals of his car. Knowing the insides and outs of his car was a job every racer except him seem to take fore granted. As soon as they're done, he drives out onto the gravel road towards the start line. There were twenty cars, all of various shapes and sizes, besides him. He can feel them all gazing on him. The lonely newcomer. Sizing him up. He takes pole at his starting position, stuck in between two ginormous FuryTech Skyskippers. A broken down traffic light, repurposed as a timer, lights up.

Don’t stop.
3. Foot on the throttle.

Won’t stop.

2. Shift to first gear.

Can’t stop.

1. Breathe.

To stop is to surrender.

0.

The air boils with the sound of cheers, keys turns, engine roar, tires spin, combustion chambers popping and electric motors whirring in a cacophany of chrome and all Keah can do is drown himself in the thrill of eternity, slamming down the pedal to chase down the horizon.


The burning. That was the only thing which kept Keah’s senses alive. Without the internal atmospheric scrubbers in his helmet, the smog would have been choking, blinding. The acrid smell of flaming spirits was palpable in the air, the inferno in the Duat turning the temperature up from cold to hot fast.

“ Come on, Demon! Don’t you feel at home here?”

Monica came tumbling out, a chariot wreathed in flame. The car went through the Duat. He’d still have to be insane to drive around. But the OverDriver was no ordinary driver. Even with half of his windshield being aflame, the King of the Detroit Stacks manuevered his way through the nightclub with surgical precision. Keah was forced to slide out of the way again just as Mackwell made another pass at him.

Alright. Playing roadkill was getting tired fast. He wasn’t just some rogue turbo-blazer who knew how to turn the wheel. He didn’t get through the Death Derby through just instinct but with knowledge. He didn’t spend ten months in an auto-garage for nothing. The inner workings of Daedalus may have been blackboxed from the public eye but even great artists had to steal from somewhere else, right? He took a moment to hide underneath a bar, the Victory’s eth-cooled hybrid engine growling in the background, while he took a moment to think.

The Jury-Rigg’s far away…..I attempt to call anyone, all they’d have a conversation with is a corpse…...Even if I had a gat, I’d get run over before I popped him…..If I run out of the Duat, he’ll just chase me down…..

He heard the growling getting closer. He just managed to avoid getting crushed as the bar turned into splinters, the front hood ramming through the extinct mahogany, more bottles clattering on the floor. Front hood lodged in the wall, the wheels spun in the opposite direction silently -

No noise. That’s strange.

The answer then clicked. Motorised mag-suspension. Mag-wheels. Of course. Every auto-train on the west coast used the same principles on a larger scale. Only a few manufacturers in the world ever tried mag-lev and only Daedalus managed to perfect and miniaturise the tech. The results spoke for itself. Frictionless acceleration that allowed any chassis to achieve 0 to 60 in a blink of an eye.

However, there was a reason why mag-suspension wasn’t widespread amongst racers, even in the black markets. The biggest problems were that no one could get it to work When it did work, there were few racers who could handle the dizzying speeds without extensive illegal booster-ware modifications to compensate for the increase in acceleration. The OverDriver’s unmatched success in the past Death Derbies suddenly made sense. Who else but him could master the hurdles that mag-wheels required?

Of course, there were weaknesses. Keah picked up a bottle of Angel Absinthe rolling absent-mindedly on the floor with his flesh hand. It wasn’t his throwing hand but you didn’t need aim to hit it. Popping off the cork, he took one of the bar napkins left strewn on the shag carpeted floor and stuffed it into the neck. The soaked rag lit when he moved it near to the sparkling end of a broken neon sign-board.
Tires reaming across the littered floor, Monica’s headlights glared back at him. Locked into first gear. Waiting.

Well, getting run over by a Daedalus prototype wasn’t the worst way to die in this world. He lifted up his left prosthetic, making a come-hither motion. The message was clear.

Come get me.
The Victory’s engine gives out one final blood-curdling roar of burning ethyl before gunning forward, building up speed, tattooing tracks onto the dance floor.

60 mph.

His breathing quickens.

120 mph

His knees quaver.

180 mph

The bumper’s almost kissing him.

210 mph

Now!

He lobs the bottle in an uncoordinated throw before ducking, Monica clipping his left ankle. The molotov lands inside the groove of the left upper chassis, its contents spilling around the disc-like wheels. The Daedalus prototype begins swerving, slowing down to a trudging crawl, weight concentrated on its left side. The upper left wheel detaches itself and the entire chassis tips over, front bumper grinding on the Duat’s intricately paved floors until it comes to a halt.

Keah gimps over towards the wreck, his ankle anchoring him to the ground. Surprising that the OverDriver hasn’t escaped yet. Good. Bringing him to the Ark alive is his first priority. His fingers clasp the front door, pulling it open slowly, preparing for the worst -

Empty.

Before the shock could set in, the stereo bursts in a crackle of static.

“ You may want to look to your right.”

He turns and sees the OverDriver standing at the entrance. Unharmed. Unblemished. The only damage on him is a long jagged crack on his Prism.

“ That was fun, wasn’t it?” The OverDriver tapped the side of his helmet playfully. “ Telepathing’s the new rage these days. You’ll figure it out soon. In the meantime, enjoy a little gift from me.”

The Victory began to shake erratically before it exploded. Keah’s world went tumbling up, down, left and right. His body was bending in ways it shouldn’t have and feeling. The last thing that he felt along the skin-searing heat that he felt was his back colliding with hardness, a starburst of pain lancing out, then darkness.




“ there’s only one path for us, Drift Demon. we either reach a quick dream or a quick death. i’m not sure how they’re different.”

I see you’ve narrowed the scope a bit this time around


I mean, it was either this or doing an IKEA roleplay.
so cool.
i've a few character ideas milling about. leaning heavy towards the cult angle though.


Sounds good. Anything is possible in the Wal. Keep in mind that your character is currently being kept as a prisoner in Smiler territory, though.













Hello! Good morning! How are you doing today? May I help you with anything?

You may call me the First Greeter. No, not like my other.....mentally troubled brethren. I am the first and last person everyone meets. Once upon a time, I guarded the fabled Gates of Sliding, ferrying all wayward souls into the safety and comfort of the Wal. Once. That was eons ago. Now, I simply watch, witness and greet all who wander by me. My fate is tied to the Wal itself. I will live as long as it's shelves are filled.

But who I am is none of your concern. You are your own concern. Managing to live a long life in the Wal is certainly impressive. It takes a toll on you. I have seen countless like you searching. But, for what exactly? The rare 25th flavor of Ice Cream within the frigid refrigerator section? A master coupon? The safety and comfort of a Department? Some archaic piece of Wal-Tech lost within a Manager Office? The Wal offers both reward and punishment for those who are filling to pay low prices. You just need to have the will to take what is yours.

I digress, though. I mean not to hamper you on your shopping trip. Srange receipts await you, aisler. Do promise to show me yours when we meet at the Checkout. Trust me. We all meet at the Checkout sooner or later.

Oh, I almost forgot one thing.

Welcome to Walmart. I hope you enjoy your stay.







What wakes you up first is the smell. The styrofoam walls squeak and squeal with every moment you make. It’s so cramped that you’re forced to stand up. Thankfully, your captors have allowed you to keep your clothing to maintain your dignity.

You try to remember how you got here.

The Bargain Bin. That’s what you first focus on.

Any traveller would be hard pressed to miss the Bargain Bin in these times. A monolithic pile of refuse strewn out like an ant hill, lines upon lines of Stockers building up its foundations from the chaff of the Wal. Within its nooks, crannies and shadows lie the last bastions of humanity, eeking out a meagre existence.

Though you’re not well enthused with the inner politics of the Wal unlike the aislers of the Books Department, your days of being a shelf-dweller have passed. The Bargain Bin has been bled, fought and, pardon the phrase, bargained over longer than you were alive.

On the eve of the last Black Friday, the Bargain Bin had become a veritable battleground. An ocean of red flowed through the shelves, the tributaries inundated with bodies. It was said that the clean up that day took 2 months. It was clear by then that both the Stationary Shogunate and Tech Support were tired of support. A truce was formed with the Bargain Bin being divided in two, the north and the south.

Since then, an uneasy detente has settled over the Bargain Bin, with each faction occupying and dividing up its numerous territories. The Stationary Shogunate and the Noble Houses of Clothing have allied together, occupying the North of the Bargain Bin. The technocratic factions of Automobiles and Homeware have been bullied into supporting the all encompassing Tronic Temple, occupying a former Manager’s office as their base of operations in the South. The nomadic Grocery tribes, the numerous Dorfs of Fort Lego and many more factions are teeming within the Bin, seeking opportunity wherever they can in the chaos.

Your thoughts travel back to the present. How did you get captured? Somehow, the sinister followers of the Cult of the Smiling One somehow ambushed you during what was supposed to be a routine trip to the Bargain Bin. With your wrists zip-tied and your feet chained to the other captives with thick ropes of shoelace, it’s near impossible to escape. Escape seems a near impossibility. They’ve herded you all here for an unknown purpose. The echoing chants of the Smilers above seem to provide an answer for what that purpose might be.

“ PRAISE BE ONTO HIS EMINENCE, SMILEY. THE HERALD OF SAM.”



$$$



> PLEASE ENTER CUSTOMER RFID SEQUENCE
> *********
> ERROR. 2 ATTEMPTS LEFT.
> *********
> ERROR. WARNING. 1 ATTEMPT LEFT UNTIL CUSTOMER MALFEASANCE PROTOCOL ACTIVATION.
> *********
> SUCCESS.
> WELCOME TO WAL-INCORPORATED INTER-COMMUNICATIVE CUSTOMER SERVICE NETWORK BETA. HOW MAY WE HELP YOU TODAY?
> PROCESSING........
> LOADING ........
> AUTHETICATING .........
> OPENING CUSTOMER INTERFACE MENU .........
> ACCESS GRANTED. WE HOPE THAT YOU ARE SATISFIED.












$$$


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