Bork Lazer

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

S T A T I C

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^{_{V I R G I L O V I D H A W K I N S ♦ C O L L E G E S T U D E N T ♦ D A K O T A C I T Y ♦ B A N G B A B Y V I G I L A N T E}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

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^{“ If you want to test a man, give him power. “}

Year 0 interpretation of Static that examines the political effects of having a massive metahuman diaspora in an urban city. Toss in corporate malfeasance, corrupt law enforcement and gang warfare for a cocktail that examines what it means to make true change in a world that doesn’t want to.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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I’m returning back to Virgil’s world once more because 1) I’m bored as fuck out of my mind and 2) I think his story resonates now with me more than ever. The story focuses more on exploring Dakota City rather than a character study of Virgil himself and his trials and tribulations as a hero. This story is different. This story explores Virgil attempting to solve the ever escalating problems of his hometown and realising that you can’t just punch away all the crime and expect everything to be perfect. Dakota City with all of its various parties of interest, nooks and crannies should be considered the secondary character of Virgil’s story.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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N/A

S A M P L E P O S T:

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He’s drowning yet rising, becoming something else. Water fills his lungs as his bones crack and reform. His nerves are on fire as the Dakota Bay grows murkier around him. His brain struggles for the last gasps of oxygen as he sees the world around him light up like a neon sign and he blacks out and and

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“ Virgil? Virgil? Are you listening?”

Teenagers. Diane groused mentally. Ever since the Paris Island riots, she hadn’t slept for more than 2 hours a night. You couldn’t blame Dakota Union High’s superintendent for not taking into account a national bio-chemical incident but you could blame them for a lack of funding. Working 24 hours, 7 days a week with no overtime bonuses, in hindsight, seemed like less of a move of altruism on her part and more of a desire to fulfill some sort of hidden sado masochistic tendency within her.

Besides, she wasn’t here for self-pity. She was currently focused on the boy in front of her looking out at the snow in a daze. His frizzy black hair was like an overgrown bush with dandruff peppered throughout. An oversized Lululemon fleece jacket, navy blue, hangs around his slim figure. She can just make out the black and yellow symbol of a clenched fist with the words ‘JUSTICE FOR - “ raised sky high on his white t-shirt before it moves out of view. His bright brown eyes flicker out of whatever daydream he was in, flushing in embarrassment as he rubs the back of his head.

“ Yeah, sorry, miss Franklin.” Virgil’s fingers were tangled together in a knot. “ Just a lot of thoughts going through my head right now.”

“Well, part of my job is to help you sort through all those thoughts.” She tapped the end of her clipboard for a moment before sighing. “ Did you listen to my question just now?”

“ No. No. I remember. You asked….ummmmm….Do you think the Dakota Destroyers will win this weekend’s playoffs?”

“ No. I’m of the opinion that the Gotham Gargoyles have a better chance than our sorry sack of a team.” She chuckled. “ But I digress. How have you been feeling?”

“ Good. You know, fine.”

“ Better than the last time we met?”

“ Well, uh, like everyone says, it’s a process, right? Everyone’s different and I’m different and uh….well…..therapy’s not a quick fix unlike those shrinks you see on TV. Like, you know, I’ve been keeping active if that’s what you’re worried about. “

“ You seem a little tense.”

“ Tense?” He nervously chuckles. “ Nah, why would I be tense? I’m not trying to hide anything or….”

“ Virgil.” Her voice becomes suddenly sharper before taking on a more gentle This is not an interrogation. This is just a conversation.”

“ I don’t know if I can believe that.”

“Nothing leaves this room without your wish.”

The lights in the room dim for a moment, and then, flare back up. Odd. They just did renovations for this block a week ago. She’ll have to call maintenance tomorrow to take a look at lighting. Virgil exhales, rubbing his hands together to warm himself in the chill of silence.

“ All right, then.” He looks up, his face haunted. “ It all began with a Big Bang.“

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

eyes thread

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Well, there was a familiar face. Marcus slowly stood up, the hydraulic joints implanted in his legs creaking, as he bade Nicolas to come closer. His face was crinkled in a leathery smile, eyes brightening in recognition.

“ Nicolas.” He stuck out a scarred hand to shake the Filipino’s own. “ Nice to see you’re caught up in this mess too. Just don’t make me burn my own pay like I did for you in Vietnam, okay?”

He ended it with a firm squeeze in his handshake, giving the Black Yangtze gunman a smile, before patting him on the shoulder genially and sitting back down. Nicolas was a little greyer around the hairs the last time he worked with him but the Black Yangtze gunman’s stony countenance was unmistakable. You had to have a certain self-assured confidence to survive New Malacca, enough to push without getting pushed back but not to the point where you made too much attention. Some learned that lesson by force whilst others never took it to heart.

After Del Rosa settled himself down, several more came behind him, each more annoying than the last. One of them was a Russian that smelt of seawater and port rust. That Toma girl. His eyes met hers with repricatory acknowledgement, of the past they had with one another. The next came in a blur. A walking rainbow that looked more like a glamour girl than a professional mercenary. A girl that was young in both age and experience. A man built like a brickhouse who was relaxing in the corner, cigar fumes wafting from the blunt in his mouth like a lit fuse. Marcus’s jagged cataracts flickered back and forth each new arrival that passed through the doors of Suraiboshen. He remained passive, his chin angling towards them as they sauntered into the quiet hall that was quickly filling with chatter by the second. Marcus counted eight in total. You had to have a certain self-assured confidence on you to survive New Malacca, enough to push without getting pushed back but not to the point where you made too much attention.

Eight people. Eight complications. Eight potential guns pointed at his back when he would be least expecting it. The money it would take to finance an operation like this, though…...The former cop frowned. The client had promised 500 grand. Simple arithmetic brought the figure to 4 million asyuan in total, split between the 9 of them. The only people who could afford to burn that kind of money on the underground black market were the type whose shadows stretched across the canals, the kind of people you tended to avoid the footsteps of. CEOs,drug lords, federal executives, industrial magnates.

Who could throw that kind of money around without making a big splash in the pool?

He mulled on that for a second. And then another. Marcus shook his head, clearing away the doubts that were floating to the top of his mind like pond scum.

No time for regrets. He took the job and he’d deal with the newcomers, damn the consequences.

For the next couple of minutes, nothing happened other than the odd bit of chatter. Marcus thought about striking up a conversation with Del Rosa and decided against it. Marcus sighed and then, unclipped a thermos from a magnetic strip on his belt. The silence of the waiting hall was broken by a pressurised hiss followed by the sound of an 80 year old throat slurping down spoonfuls of something that smelt like mouldy socks.

“ Look at you. ” Marcus stopped drinking and looked up to see who had spoken to him. The cocky little shit across from him, the one with the longcoat, was lounging on his chair, legs crossed together. The edges of his lips were curled in contempt, the toothpick tucked in between waving back and forth. He then leaned forward and glanced at him in amusement. “ I mean, what’s an old guy like you doing in a place like this? No offense but the nearest retirement home is three blocks from here. I can take you there if you want, hell, call a cab for you given your…” Marcus noticed his eyes flickering down at his prosthetics. “ condition.”

“ I needed rent.”

“ Well -” The merc guffawed. “ Never heard of a hab block that cost 500,000 to stay in.”

Marcus was beginning to hate him already. He merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to sip his soup. The merc didn’t take a hint and proceeded to chatter on about crap that Marcus couldn’t care less about, his accolades, various jabs taken at how old he was and other things that the taste of ginseng soup helped him weather through. Eventually, the one-sided conversation reached the point where the merc drew back a sleeve of his jacket and revealed a sleek cybernetic arm that looked more like a teenage girl’s birthday gift fashionware.

“ Check this out.” The merc flexed his right arm and grinned at Marcus’s unimpressed face. “ Titanium alloy actuators. Custom inter-neural gel relays in the millisecond. High broadband Deep connectivity. Plus - “ He twisted the elbow to the right and a wicked barrel unfolded from under the palm of his arm. “ Don’t get me started on the integrated weapons systems. What about you?”

“ Couple of hip replacements.” Marcus paused, taking a sip. “ Vitamin supplements. Hearing aids. ” He patted the side of his leg and detached a part of the exoskeleton. “ Built in walking stick.”

The slick haired merc shook his head in mirth before his gaze darkened. “ The way I see it, we need the best for this job. Not some old geezer.” His hand then wandered towards the inside of his coat. “ How about we make the pay bigger for everyone?”

His eyes were still focused as he took a long draught from his thermos. It was only after he took a swallow that he realised his hand had moved towards his holster. The bastard had gotten under his skin. He then wiped an oily smear off the corner of his lips before speaking.

“ I’ve lived this long. Can’t say the same about you.”

There was only the industrial puff of air conditioning, the hallway growing more cramped and small by the second. He stared back calmly at the blonde haired punk while the merc grinned ,egging him on. For a moment, it looked like a gun fight would break out within the five star restaurant. The doors broke the din of silence as they opened, revealing a pale emaciated waiter. His cheeks were gaunt and he barely filled the black yukata that he wore. A large metal orb replaced his left eye, dancing around excitedly as it spastically twitched around whilst the other eye remained looking forward. He gave a cough and then, spoke quietly.

“ He’s waiting. “ He stepped to the right and bowed his head slightly. “If you would follow me, please.”

Marcus let the others go through first, sitting in his seat until he was the last one behind. The slick haired lan jiao, meanwhile, flicked his toothpick at him while he was passing by, bouncing off his cheek and onto the floor.

As he stood up and made his way behind the group, Marcus swore that he would ram the next toothpick he saw into the man’s uvula.

The first thing that was disconcerting to him were the glass walls, ceilings and floors that surrounded him as he followed the waiter. The tunnel branched off like an ant farm into several smaller rooms that were blocked off from view by smeared plexiglass. Cages of bleached coral hanged, multicolored schools of fish swimming in and out of them. If they could be called fish. They were more crude hybrids, caricatures of the time he went out fishing in the Andamans during his childhood. Tuna the size of pygmy whale sharks, the heads of freshwater fish stapled onto their saltwater relatives, crabs with more than a dozen claws. Out further past, he could barely make out the murky forest of high tension cables and struts that anchored New Malacca to the sea floor. As the waiter led them down a transparent staircase, the water darkened, looking more like a hungering void.

The group stopped at the furthest edge of the tunnel, where it led into a rocky outcrop. A pair of paper doors laid in front. Marcus could make out muffled shouts from the inside that made him slightly cautious, The waiter didn’t seem to mind, lifting his sickly hand out underneath a laser scanner. The machinery whirred before a needle protruded out of the wall. It pricked the palm,a tiny bead of red fading from sight. The paper doors shuddered and then parted, folding into the floor and ceiling.

The sound of rushing water greeted him. In contrast to the wooden makeup of the entrance, the sushi bar was downright industrial. The rock the bar was built in had been sheared, moulded, melted and polished into a perfectly square interior, free of cracks or jags. The walls weren’t stone, though. They were water, falling endlessly. The pools they rested in were bereft of life, of lily pads, of the koi fish you usually see in tourist places to invoke some cheap sense of orientalism. It just flowed and flowed, never resting in one place as the water reflowed back up.

Shame the scream broke the ambiance of zen the architect was trying to go for.

In the center of the room was a circular bar in the middle of the room with mounted stools surrounding it like the spokes of a wheel. From far back, Marcus could barely make out one man sitting on the stool flailing his arms around like an angry child while the other, standing in the centre, paid him no attention. He did manage to catch one part of the argument as the man sitting on the stool screamed out in harsh Cantonese.

“ - This was not part of the deal!”

Arguments were as common as oxygen in New Malacca. The man sitting on the stool was corpo, much of that evident from his Cheffron suit to the Malaccan Pewter watch on his right hand or the barely visible surgery lines on his head that spoke of next-gen cyberware, only available for those of top societal pedigree. However, corporate skin therapies couldn’t cover up the fact that he looked like he was a man on the run from the law. The top right quarter of his forehead looked as if it had been charbroiled. His clothes were tattered at the sleeves and ridden with dried sweat. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stank of sake.

He stabbed a pudgy finger towards the chef in the centre. “ You think these are acceptable terms?”

The chef was the bigger of the two. Half of his stocky body was draped in a white yukata that was stained with blood, draped diagonally across his sternum. The other half was tattooed, an intricate drawing of Kali on his belly and a dragon skirting across his chest. Keeping in line with the fashion code of the establishment, his hair was tied in a bun on his back. The only thing cybernetic about him was the cybernetic arm that gripped the head of the fish by the gills, myomer fibers pulsing in the bicep, and those eyes. Well, what was left of them. They were replaced by red lenses surgically inserted into his skull, never blinking, constantly open. He didn’t seem to pay any attention to the man yelling at him, focused on the large flounder he was currently descaling.

“ You should have been more specific in the terms of your contract, Mister Chan.”

“ I’m the one paying you!”

That was the moment when the chef cut off the head of the flounder with a single stroke, gumming up the corpo’s mouth. He paused before speaking slowly.

“ You think your...money gives you any authority here?” He set the knife down, wiping the grease of fish fat with a towel. “ You came to me. I didn’t come to you. I have resources that you require, contacts that only I can acquire and the mind to make your wishes reality. If you want our partnership to prosper, Mister Chan, I suggest you be more respectful.”

“ There will be time for introductions later.”

It was then they both noticed the band of mercenaries that had arrived in the midst of the argument. Marcus stayed quiet as he gave a bow of deference.

“ Irasshaimase. I apologise for the introduction of your client.” The corp moved to speak but was silenced by the pupiless glare of the chef. “ For now, please, relax. You all must be famished after travelling here. Please sit, we have much to discuss.”

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Getting hemorrhaged by job applications and uni assignments atm. The progress bar is currently an astounding 25% for this IC post. I'll most likely get it out by the end of early next week if I don't procrastinate. Anyway, please ask any questions you may have.

Update: 75%, again. Sorry for the delay.

Sheet Critiques and Free Hugs

Hey, Stormflyx. This is a lovely thread you have here. I was looking back at my old character sheets and was wondering whether or not the concepts in them could be updated for newer RPs. Could you take a look at them, please?

Maximum Radical

Secret Identity – Max Tacticularius Radical
Codename – Maximum Tacticularius Radical
Age – 17
Powers – Have you ever thought what an eagle can do? Have you ever thought about how many eagles currently exist on this earth. Have you ever fully read the wikipedia page of an eagle. Have you ever vigorously pondered upon the very concept of eagles mating together? Maximum Tacticularius Radical will make you consider all those questions when you battle him for the first time.

Now, you're probably wondering what I meant. Was Maximum Tacticularius Radical raised by an eagle? Is Maximum Tacticularius Radical the genetic hybrid of an eagle and a human? Does Maximum Tacticularius Radical know the magical arts of eagleomancy? Can Maximum Tacticularius Radical copulate with eagles?

Maximum Tacticularius Radical would like to say yes.

Because the actual truth is that he doesn't have any powers at all.

He's just a man in an eagle costume.

Weaknesses - Maximum Tacticularius Radical fears anything un-american. Chinese food, communism, refugees, the very concept of something existing outside of America makes him recoil in fear. If you were to make him eat a single dumpling, he would start convulsing and fall on the floor in a spastic, foaming fit.

Personality – Patriotic - Nationalistic - Jingoistic - Awesometacular - Brotacular

Experience – 0

Day Job – Being a mascot for a cereal brand.

How did Arrowcaster find you? Offering free cereal samples at the supermarket.

BRIEF Bio – Born to a rich family in the Bronx, Max Radical was rejected from NYU when he attempted to publish a paper claiming that eagles could be used as an unlimited source of power. He went on a journey of self-discovery, spending all of his wealth to become the eagle.

It failed miserably.

Five years later after his self-imposed quest, Max was discovered by a cereal salesman by the name of Dick Dastardly Richard in an alleyway, hungry, skeletal and in a pitiful state. He demonstrated to the salesman his impressive knowledge of eagle reproductive cycles. Dick Richard saw a talent in this young, able soul as a mascot for his failing cereal brand.

Armed with a signpost and a 10 dollar eagle costume from a furry convention, Max found completion.

He was the eagle.

He felt like an eagle.

Sample Post -

Arrowcaster had heard rumours in the neighborhood about a strange person who had a manic fit with eagles. Someone that he could mould and train to be a part of his team. He had spotted it and gone over to offer it a position on his team.

The eagle turned around. It took a few seconds for Arrowcaster to realise that it wasn't a large eagle but rather a large man in an eagle.

" I'm looking for special - " A large wing batted the side of Arrowcaster's head, interrupting him as the man-eagle began to speak.

" What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my nest in the Navy Eagles, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Eagle , and I have over 300 confirmed prey kills. I am trained in eagle warfare and I’m the top shitter in the entire US eagle forces. You are nothing to me but just another prey. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of eagles cross the USA and your nest is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare wings. Not only am I extensively trained in eagle combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Eagle Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit eagle fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo."

There was a moment of silence. Arrowcaster wiped a tear from his eye and raised a hand out, the first contact between man and majestic man-eagle.

" You're in."

Pineapple Pizza

Archetype: Other

Name: Pizza, Pineapple Pizza

Alias: The Hawaiian Heathen

Age: Unknown

Alignment: Villain

Powers: Tell me. Have you ever eaten pineapple pizza? It's an unnatural eldritch paradox, isn't it? The disgusting yet tempting trap of sweet and salty. It is a law that was never meant to be broken. KFC has a sweet and sour sauce for their Mc-nuggets, not an sweet and salty sauce. Combining the elements of melted mozzarella, tomato sauce, yeast crust and tropical fruit in one 16 inch unholy sentient package, the Hawaaian Heathen's true power is not being able to speak in human languages or being mobile as an epileptic slug but the paradoxical demonic taste of his pizza flesh.

The first bite will have you think " Oh, that isn't bad". The second will send you in a state of shock, cursing yourself at your lack of hindsight. The third will give you a seizure, your mouth foaming as you overdose on the traitorous taste of pineapple pizza. The fourth excommunicates you from being a member of the human species.

The fifth sends you to pizza hell where you are forced to eat a mountain of pizza eternally, using only a knife and a fork.

Weaknesses: Cardboard pizza boxes, good pizza and leaving him out in the sun for too long.

Appearance:



Personality: Evil, Sweet, Salty, Machiavellian, Cheesy

Brief BIO: Was it a wizard? A genetic experiment? Some freak accident? The will of Satan or some deity? No ones knows but this pizza. The pizza's age is indeterminate. Some theories propose that it was born out of the first man putting pineapple on his pizza in Ancient Rome. One thing is for certain; this maniacal cuisine tyrant has been hell-bent on violating the norms of pizza consumption, one world-threatening plan at a time. During his time, the Hawaiaan Heathen has been banned from every major villain organization such as The Not-Good Guys and the Black Grey Nietzsche Abyss Followers. For now, he currently inhabits the mind of Papa John's, waiting, watching, planning for his time to reveal himself truly to the world and rid all those who don't eat pineapple pizza.

Potential Storylines:

- Joining forces with Deep Dish and Sushi Pizza against Neapolitan and New York Pizza.
- Taking over the world's pizza restaurants and becoming crime boss of underground pizza smuggling.
- Creating an offshore PPMC (Private Pizza Military Corporation) to destablize Italy's government.

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Alright, then. Guess all the attention's on me right now. I will probably get a post out by the end of this week. Fingers crossed.

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

I love the recent uptick in posts. I'm aiming to probably get a second GM post out by the end of next week or the early week before. (At least, before my birthday) Nevertheless, I am very encouraged by the quality of the posts that have arrived so far. I'm just typing up the skeleton of my post at the moment.

The Consortium

Barnabum Yericksford

Once the Sky Maiden had eventually reached an altitude high enough for a blind man to see the stars, Barney gave a wistful sign. His analytical mind yammered away at the back of his mind, pointing how the specific names of star systems that he was seeing, the location of various nebulas that buffeted the blackness of the cosmos and the paths of various comets that streaked across the night sky like migratory birds. The skyport soon became a speck in the distance.

Stardust looked beautiful from a skyship rather than through the suffocating guise of a planetary atmosphere. Barney briefly remembered an elf sorcerer who tried to enchant his corneas for a university project. He ended up being blinded for the next semester until a nearby cleric could provide their services. He had to thank the benefits of gnomish darkvision, though.

The Skyship swayed a little as it ascended, a bobbing lurch like a feather floating about in a gale. It was imperceptible to most of the crew but Barney frowned. He double checked to make sure that the engines wouldn’t hiccup. It was his finest work yet. For a newly built engine to have a slight malfunction in the first few hours…….The gnome checked over his shoulders to make sure no one was following him before sneaking down towards the engine room. Perhaps, he’d tightened the bolts too much or -

Uh oh.

“ KILL IT! KILL THE STAR DRAGON!” The pixie pirate along with several others were banging the engine with pieces of lumbar and their swords, slashing away at the assembly with all the fury their tiny bodies could muster. The engine was belching smoke and coughing, several nicks in the pressurised valves and tubes that connected it to the thrusters. The pixies eyes were bloodshot and the room smelt heavily of smoked mushrooms.

“ Alright, that’s it, ya little blighters.” Barnabas was picking up the pixies one by one and tossing them out of the engine room but it was too late. He then stared in horror at the mangled mess of the engine and began to pull on the roots of his hair. Oh, he should have never given those damn flowerspawns his supply of mushrooms. What was he thinking? What would the captian do if she found out? Nevermind that, the whole crew would die once the engine self-dest-

He paused for a moment. Why did he need to tell her in the first place? The mushroom fumes gave the air an electric tingle as he breathed it in, wondrous ideas flashing in his mind. Oh yes, he could improve the engine. He could make it even better than it was before.

“ Well,” He strapped on his googles and took out his trusty wrench. “ What the captain doesn’t know won’t harm her.” He rubbed his hands eagerly together as he pulled out a cobweb tattered box from the corner. Blowing the dust off, he clicked open the lock and opened it, the room filling with a nauseous green glow.

“ Besides, I’ve always wanted to experiment with radioactive fuel.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Before Petrukov could get in, the garage door slammed down. The rest followed, making him feel like a cornered mouse.

He should be afraid. That made sense.

So, why wasn’t he?

His muscles are tense, his stomach flutters, his skin trembles but it’s not due to fear. It’s the thrill. The excitement. The fear of being afraid that runs through his nervous system. He hates this. How the odds excite him more than they frighten him. The flutter of adrenaline in his chest. How his heart beats so fast that his rib cage feels like it might break. It’s as if everything before this was a hazy daydream.

A jolt from the back knocks him out of his stupor. Damage readings, blinking inside his iconoclast, pop up and mark out a portion of the Jury Rigg as burning red. A quick glance makes him slightly worried. He’s built the chassis to take punishment but even carbon-laminated steel has its limits. There’s more dull thumps that follow, sparks combining with shrieks of metal to form a single drawn out sound that reminds him of a rope being pulled to its seams. The Jury Rigg’s audio receivers pick up the words of the Herald’s leader, who speaks about him casually as if he’s an animal in a slaughterhouse.

“ Aim for the wheels and we’ll drag him from out the back.”

Familiar words from long ago slither into his ears, above the belching groan of the exhaust. He remembers the cold chill of the Ni-Cola in his left hand. The feel of flesh sticking to metal. His car parked right next to OverDriver’s Monica. They’re both sharing crappy instant-ramen and then, out of nowhere, when Detroit just begins to set, he says the words.

“ There’s two endings for people like us in this world, Demon. Dying quick or dreaming quick. I’m not sure which one comes first.”

He thumbs the gear stick, fiddling with it, deciding his next course of action. As if he has a choice. Petrukov was trapped away from him. The Ark hated him. He was trapped within this shithole of a city trying to claw itself out from futility.

They wanted to drag him out? He’d let them drag the Demon out.

He shifts into reverse gear, ripping out the front of the Jury Rigg embedded in the garage door before chucking the stick left and swinging it into a high third. He sends it into a sweeping pendulum drift before pushing the gear forward into first and sending the Jury Rigg zooming forward in a blazing trail.

The first Herald slammed wetly into his windshield, cracking the right upper glass. The second became a road bump under his wheels. They’re just meat to him. Everything outside the car is a blur of gunfire and flailing bodies. Inside the air-conditioned filter-scrubbed interior is his world. His second body. He whips the wheel to the left and shatters a Herald’s spine from behind, sending the merc crawling on the ground like a newborn.

The brakes squeal, the extra momentum swinging his helmet right and left. He’s staring face to face with the leader. His Octadactyl grips the wheel tightly with its titanium paddings, leaving a shallow indentation in the carbo-olymer framework. There is only anger now, an ocean that fills his lungs and makes his head light and hot. There is no man in front of him. Only a target.

His boots slams down on the accelerator and the Jury Rigg burns forward, a half-ton blur of blood-spattered steel and eth-fumes.

50 kmh.

He closes his eyes.

100 kmh.

His heart beats in anticipation.

150 kmh.

“ Swim, Keah. Swim away”

He gasps, rising out from the tide of rage, and pushes on the brake, just barely managing to avoid the leader. The interior of the car begins to feel like summer, the roof above his head glowing like a hotplate. He turned to the right, the laser raking a trench across. Then, something that sounded like a wet balloon popping rang his eardrums as he could barely make out the shrill alerts from his helmet.

WARNING. WARNING. FRONT LEFT TIRE IN CRITICAL CONDITION. FRONT LEFT TIRE IN CRITICAL CONDITION.

The Jury Rigg, for the first time, spins out of control, his grip of the wheel loose and slack. The ruined. Maneuvering with three wheels is easier than maneuvering with two. It feels like sailing in the Atlantic with only a lifebuoy and two spoons for paddles. He’s not sure whether or not he’s driving or a passenger along for the ride. His mind soon fills in the patterns for his vehicle’s drunken chaos as he slightly turns the wheel to the right, swerving past a trio of Heralds that blast at his bullet-riddled doors with wild abandon.

Keah doesn’t question his luck when the garage doors open again in unison. All he focuses on is Petrukov and Lovecraft standing out in the open, the Pirate Queen looking paler than ever. To his left, the Bannerlord was in the midst of the firefight. The bullets currently raining down on the both of them left him little choice. He brushed past a Herald, the sideswipe leaving the merc tumbling and clutching his hip in pain, thundering towards the shellshocked form of Petrukov and Lovecraft.

“Maám, get in. We can still get you out of here. The election matters more than a dea-” Keah’s head flinched as his right side mirror exploded into a puff of glass and metal. He was more worried about whether there would be a Jury Rigg left to repair rather than how much it would cost to repair his ride after Petrukov’s botched deal. The side door clicked open with a screeching whine, Keah waiting for both of them to get in.

“ Lovecraft, I only got three wheels left.” He pumped up the gearstick to first and squeezed the accelerator, the engine purring gently in response. “ Make sure it doesn’t get below that number.”

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Loving the posts so far. Just remember that there's no official posting time or posting order so just keep working at your posts while you're at it, guys!