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Animorphs

I always forget that six-year-olds people didn't have cell phones in the 90s...Dang. You kids today.

Animorphs

It was funny.

Later, Max would reflect, albeit briefly, on how even she had been shaken when the blue creature had emerged from its spaceship thing. Voices in her head, burns on her fingers -- it was enough, more than enough to unsettle her, push her close to something she vaguely recognized as panic not related to the wellbeing of her mother or the twins. She had flinched somewhat as the voice reverberated through her head, hardly even aware of her schoolmates behind her. The strange metal orb had gone still beneath her fingers, and she was just starting to think she'd been too late, when -- BAM -- blue thing.

Definitely alien.

Definitely hurt.

It was stupid, she knew, even Max knew, to rush toward some giant, maybe dangerous thing. It had at least a foot and a half on her, probably a hundred pounds, and its weird tail-cutty-thingy was playing no games. But he collapsed, and then she forgot all the danger. Again. Suddenly, the smell of smoke and hot metal in the air was replaced with an unfamiliar tang she instantly knew was blood.

The thought that this thing might be dying filled her mind with the intensity of a tsunami, and she darted forward as cautiously as she could manage.

There was no thought in her head about whether or not the creature was dangerous, where it had come from, or how, or whether such a thing had ever been classified on earth before. Her normally over-active imagination was nearly dormant as warning lights flared in her mind along with the creature's fading voice.

"He's dying," she whispered to herself, without really knowing how she knew -- and she did know -- the blue thing was a he. Then louder, "He's dying!" She gestured vaguely to Mario, the only one she really knew was still behind her. "Call the police," she demanded, her voice high and tight with fear. "No...and ambulance. 911, tell him he's..."

She shook her head, unable to finish the thought, and wriggled out of her sweatshirt. She'd seen this on TV once. Blood, she was almost certain, was important to everyone.

She scooted closer, and in the instant before pressing the balled up hoodie against the largest patch of dark blood, whispered, "Um...please don't kill me, okay? But don't die, either."

Never Lose Your Hat!

It took her until the end of his tirade and several seconds of bloated silence afterward for Ivy to realize she had, in the interim, moved toward the Jaeger, and not away, like she'd almost certainly intended to. Like any sane person would. Even a Spark.

Possibly a Spark.

But then...when had Spark's ever been considered sane?

The possibility that he might be right, no matter how strange and confusing his words, that they might be fated together forever more, two dangerous, uncanny outcasts doomed to wander the Wastes forever, taming danger and losing limbs...it unnerved her, yes. But it didn't frighten her, or not nearly as much as it ought to have. And it ought to have. Two days ago, she'd been a girl in a small town with a penchant for daydreaming and fixing her father's watches. And now she was a Spark being hunted by family and friends, limbless and lost with no plans and no maps and no inklings of where she ought to go next.

Though...Mechanicsburg sounded intriguing. Her apron was running low, and she certainly did not intend to stay long without her only operational hand.

She realized she was staring, dazed, at the Jaeger, and abruptly looked down to a shorn off arm that was a little less shocking every time. And wouldn't it be something if she could just carry the apron with her? Not literally, of course -- though there would be an attachment for that, too, just in case -- but a sort of never-ending tool kit she could have with her for any such occasion. She would need extra fingers, too, and something more durable than flesh, lighter than bone...she would be able to move faster that way, and in the future, protect against further Jaeger attacks. She would need a weapon, then, she could worked out whatever processes had made the ÜberOven quite so....well, frankly, it had been perfect, its only real flaw that it hadn't followed her out here, though now she was thinking some sort of cloaking device might make all the --

"What?"

Her head snapped up and her eyes cleared as Jötz began speaking again. She realized once more she was standing closer than she'd intended, given that he had cut off her arm without so much as blinking an eye. Even if he did seem somewhat apologetic. Even if she had maybe been a little bit worried by his outburst, and not in the way she might have guessed. Even if she did sort of understand, and now didn't have to go through the trouble of trying to remove her own inferior limb. In fact, she'd been thinking she could get around faster if she didn't have such boring feet --

"Yes. Okay. Fine," she blurted. "We'll go to the next town, sure. But only because you know the way. And none of this...minion stuff." She made a face. "Don't be weird. Let's just go, okay?"

Saloon City -- A Rural Noir RP

Jack had been working almost three weeks to gather enough evidence even to confront the Norman boys, and that was a big stretch. He didn't think anyone had ever told him outright the Normans ran and owned their own still, but they didn't have to. Most of the time, he was almost sure he wasn't just biased against them. Hell, little John Norman -- though the kid had grown since Jack had left for New York, little wasn't quite the right word anymore, even if he was the youngest of his family -- had joined the count police...though of course, that was under his piece-of-shit dirty sheriff of an uncle, so Jack wasn't so sure that counted.

Still. If John really was the good apple Jack though, he'd fallen far from the tree. His older brothers had been reported by some 'anonymous tip' left in town (usually from the only church left in Pickett) to have been seen out in the woods carrying those infamous clay jugs. Now, on its own, that didn't mean nothing. But Jack had been by their old store, and they didn't make dirt. If that was the only way they were keeping food on the table, then Jack'd eat his hat.

Besides, Tommy had told him a couple weeks ago he'd seen John chatting Kitty up outside her school. John was a good boy. But he wasn't that good.

Jack and Tom had been driving around the far side of town for a solid twenty minutes before they finally spotted the Norman's car. They'd parked half a block down from Water's (another establishment that ought to have crumbled to dust by now but still seemed to scrape by) and waited, Tom feeling antsy somewhere between boredom and frustration.

"Aw, hell, Jacky -- Chief -- we know 'least Luke's in there, why cain't we just go bust 'em?"

Jack hadn't turned his heavy gaze from the window. He felt his jaw twitch slightly, but he kept his tone patient. "Don't wanna spook 'em too early. We're looking for something can put 'em away, not just scare 'em."

Tom sucked his teeth. "Well, shit, Jacky, I don't see why we cain't do both."

Jack looked at his partner with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's why you're the Lieutenant and I'm the Chief."

Tom looked back like he wanted to say something, unsure of whether he should play off Jack's joking tone, or his more serious expression. Something dark passed across his face real quick, and then it was gone, and Jack wondered just briefly whether he'd made a mistake. Then Tom was leaning over, squinting up the road.

"Look," he said evenly. "Luke Norman. Got 'im."

Jack started up the truck without a word and met Luke at the steps of the feed shop. He turned off the engine and he and Tom stepped out in practiced unison.

Jack spoke first. "Luke. Evenin'. Don't think I've ever seen anyone leave a store empty-handed before. Mind if I ask what you're doing here?"

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

It happened fast -- black late, blue ice, green thunder, white wolf -- a cacophony of color, a rainbow of ruin, and Daisy was frozen, stupid and useless and unwitting as the proverbial deer in the headlights of a massive fucking shit storm.

One minute, she'd been talking to Veti, not looking at Veti, quiet when she finished, because Veti needed it, though the gratitude made her stomach turn (if she received even one more undeserved thanks, she was sure she was going to burst into flame) and then Veti was gone, and everyone was freaking about the wolf that had killed Aislinn, indirectly, at least. Daisy was surprised to find the thought filled her with an acrid sort of detached rage, as if someone else had told her to feel angry, and she was complying. She was just trying to puzzle out the strangeness of it all -- it paled, somehow, in comparison to the almost painfully banal introductions going on around her. She pretended not to hear what their own werewolf had said, instead glaring at the recipient of her words. Fucking newbies. There was always one -- and then she was in the air, and on her back, feeling her inhuman lungs spasm back into life. Or something.

Artie was over her in a second, making a sound somewhere between a whine and a growl, and it took Daisy just half a second to figure out what had happened.

Of course it was Jay-Jay.

To its credit, the Wight was already in attack mode, Veti beside him, though everyone else stilled appeared somewhere in varying stages of shock.

And Daisy...Daisy was trying to wonder whether the thing had a soul.

She knew of only one way to figure out.

"Artie," she barked, without taking her eyes off the towering thing. "C'mon. Let's go introduce ourselves." She hauled herself up onto his back, his true form writhing beneath her under a mass of rotting fur and rippling (decaying) muscles. In her left hand was the glittering aura of her Scythe, seconds before it took form as a Disney-princess-esque crossbow. Hackneyed, perhaps, but effective. She just needed to test a theory.

And then Artie was galloping off while Daisy prepared to go all Hunger Games on the big wolf.

"Too many fucking dogs here," she muttered.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Only sort of. Sorry again for the lack of post guys, minor postwork emergency. I have a post half written now and I'll have it up by tomorrow afternoon/evening. I'm missing all the action! =(

Saloon City -- A Rural Noir RP

And a couple weeks, I think. I wanna take my furniture with me...I feel like I may end up dead somewhere in fucking Nevada.

Saloon City -- A Rural Noir RP

Post up tomorrow, kid. FOR REAL this time.

Never Lose Your Hat!

I will have your post for you by tomorrow night. Thanks for your patience!

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Hullo all, sorry for the radio silence. I'm a bit behind on RPing business, but I'll have something up for all of you by tomorrow night. =)