HokumPocus — Roleplayer Guild

Files.>Documents.>Introduction.docx.>

Gray. That was the first word that came to the mind of every poor soul unfortunate enough to awaken in the city. It was gray in color, as thick panels of fog routinely suffocated the concrete world and cut it off from the blinding sun. It was gray in heart, as every building and billboard was covered in slogans and phrases that were as nonsensically generic as they were vaguely threatening. And finally, it was gray in soul. The cityscape was dotted with others, though their status as human was questionable upon second glance. A parade of dress shirts and suitcases that filed through the dreary city, scuffed leather shoes clacking on the pavement with no hope or destination. The men and women stared dead ahead with empty eyes and no emotion. 

In truth, nobody knows where the city came from, or what it’s even called. People arrive in the hundreds, most of them brain dead, though there are exceptions. Like you, on this fateful day.

Your memories are hazy but intact, yet you´re not sure where you actually are. Hell? Heaven? Something else? There are others as confused and sentient as you, so you reasonably think to reach out to them. But then again... the world is strange and filled with irregularities. The calendars stretch into hundreds of months, the clocks have more arrows than necessary with numbers that aren´t supposed to exist, the advertisements are so generic that it´s almost offensive. And the food? The textures are off and blander than you ever thought possible. It´s as if the world was created halfway and abandoned for eternity. 

Information is hard to find in this world, and you´ll have to risk your life for any decent answers. Between conflicts with other strays, malevolent entities, and a city that defies reason, it's not going to be easy.

Files.>Documents.>Clarification.docx.>

drone from the monotone is a roleplay set in a strange world vacant of life and color. You are someone who has died, and regardless of the circumstances you now find yourself inside of a bizarre urban environment where staying alive is now a key part of your schedule. 

As the prologue has implied, you have left life with feelings of dissatisfaction and an unwillingness to let go from sentience, and must now come to terms with what that means for you. This will be a slice of life roleplay set in an unorthodox location, though expect action and problem solving elements as well. Dying is possible. Keep in mind your character has the ability to revive, however. 

Files.>Documents.>On.docx.>

There are many different emotions and feelings that one can experience at waking up from a nap. This wasn´t a pleasant awakening. Cracked lips, sore throats, the looming and dominating feeling of suffocation. Their eyes were clamped shut in a thin layer of rheum and seemed to almost beg to remain closed. The clothing on their bodies consisted of what bound and trapped them in their past lives, uniforms and formal clothing in full display, topped off by a lanyard hooked to a sheet of printer paper with a target on it. The words DO NOT REMOVE were right below it, imposing and capitalized. An inspection of their surroundings would reveal no useful information, as the offices were clearly removed from any sense of reality. There were several clocks, but none of them seemed to agree on what time it was. The calendars had days that didn´t exist for months that were random strings of letters and numbers. Even the posters on the walls made no sense, as they were coated in thick layers of unnerving and strange sentences. It was hard not to feel bewilderment at the sight of a kitten poster with the words WATCH YOUR BACK displayed so boldly.

Building 1713 BB clicked to life as the last of the new strays had arrived. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered on to the sound of hundreds of outdated computers whirring their fans in a cold fury all together to the loud ding of the elevators that connected every floor. And every floor needed to be connected, as there were one-hundred and seven of them within the enormous building, all identical in structure save for the rooftop and entrance. 

The many, many elevators of the building revealed their plain interiors at once with a slow and unsettling hum that almost seemed deliberate. They began to close and open, open and close, losing their shared tempo as they buckled and struggled to continuously do so. Some refused to open after several repetitions. Others, perhaps?

The floor that the inhabitants occupied seemed random, and though it was unlikely that more than one could end up sharing one, it wasn´t impossible. Entering one of the elevators had revealed yet another restriction imposed on them: from here on out, they had to go up. Only one button was functional, glowing the soft yellow of a used machine. Floor 107.

The childlike professor, Emilya Vance, waited outside of Laboratory room One for the rest of the students to enter, then followed after them and gave them a chance to inspect the table from where they stood. After a few moments, she began to speak, instructing them to step forwards and demonstrate their abilities one by one.

A student named Cazel went first, followed by Bayamaar, Karatos, Milit, and Braunschweig. And finally, Professor Vance turned to Mark. "Mr. Steel, whenever you're ready, please demonstrate your magic."

Mark had been as stiff as a brick, hoping to be the next one chosen. Unfortunately for him, he was last.

"MARK STEEL, READY TO BEGIN THE FIRST SECTION OF THIS EXAM, SIR."  Mark saluted the official in front of him, staring dead ahead in a display of soldier behavior rather than look her in the eyes. He continued. "IN ORDER TO EMPLOY MY DYNAMIC MAGIC ENHANCED COACHING SYSTEM I NEED A VOLUNTEER TO AMPLIFY THEIR ABILITIES." 

He had studied the table and its contents earlier while the others were being tested, but shot a quick look at it again in case any of the more mysterious looking materials had decided on becoming sentient. The bowl of slime he had locked his eyes on from the beginning continued to gently swish around, prompting Mark to swivel his head towards it. "WILL THIS WORK SIR?" It was obvious from the tone in his voice that he wanted nothing more than to appease his superiors.

Professor Emilya responded in what she hoped wasn't what he was hoping for. Mages needed to be less interested in following orders and more willing to take initiative. "Follow your instincts, Mr. Steel."

The bowl of slime stared back at Mark, almost challenging him to try something.

His original strategy was to attempt to amplify the professor's abilites, although he later reasoned that it would be disrespectful. Mark carefully stood in front of the bowl of slime and watched its contents whirl around sluggishly. Mark's coaching students usually resisted his words at first, and insisted that Mark wasn't a coach, and that they weren't his students. This bowl of slime, however, wasn't going to try and get a restraining order against him anytime soon. In a lightning fast movement the silver whistle that hung on his neck met his lips and pierced the air with a high pitched cry. 

"YOU THERE, HAVE YOU NO WISHES OR HOPE? I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT YOU DO, BECAUSE EVERYONE DOES." Using his powers felt like hunting an animal, strategically drawing out his target's insecurities and striking, amplifying their inner strength. The bowl of slime's problems seemed obvious enough. "EVERY SINGLE DAY YOU WHIRL AND YOU TWIRL INSIDE THAT LITTLE BOWL. DO YOU DO IT BECAUSE IT'S SAFE? BECAUSE YOU'VE BEEN -HURT-?!"  

"THERE'S A WHOLE WORLD OUTSIDE OF THAT BOWL FULL OF SO MANY AMAZING THINGS. REMEMBER WHEN I SAID THAT EVERYONE HAS WISHES? MY WISH IS FOR YOU TO BE FREEeeeeeeeeEEEEEEeeeeeeEEE!!!!!!"

Professor Vance stared for a moment, unsure of what to do, and brought her hand up to muffle Mark's shouting and protect the rest of the students from his almost absurd volume. The bowl of slime just swirled around in place during Mark's inspirational speech, almost seeming to glare at him, and bubbled and swirled more aggressively the more he talked. And then at the end of his inspirational speech, something finally happened. The slime flopped out of its bowl and onto the floor, formed a mouth, and replied in a high pitched, shrill, rubbery voice. "Don't tell me what to do, mom! I've had enough of your shit! I'm leaving for good this time, and don't try to follow me!", the blob of algae cried, and it ran towards the door sobbing. It leapt up, slapped the exit button, and rolled out of the room. Professor Vance's jaw dropped as the test materials made their escape.

"I... Uh... What?", she said. She'd never seen that happen before. The pen didn't even touch the clipboard for a few moments as she tried to collect herself, and she eventually responded. "Mr... Mr. Steel, er... You pass, I think?"

"THANK YOU -SIR-."  Mark shouted, as he awaited further instructions.

Some moments of confused silence passed as Emilya scribbled down her notes on Mark's performance. She eventually made her way to the other side of the room and flung the cloth off of the rattling cage in the back to reveal a huge insectoid Monster, which was buzzing angrily and throwing itself towards the rack of gas masks in the back with no success. She explained what the creature was, why it was dangerous, and what the test would be, then called upon various students to enter the test chamber one by one. Berke Bayamaar went first, followed by Milit, and the third student, Braunschweig stayed in the testing chamber for far longer than expected. After perhaps twenty minutes, the door rolled open and Emilya called for medical staff to carry the student to the infirmary.

"Mr. Steel, please put on one of the filtration hoods and take this knife. It's your turn to take the combat test."

The professor offered a large Unoctocan military knife to Mark near the entrance to the test chamber, ready to begin his combat exam.

The power of emotions is immense, and is the tool of choice for many magicians. It can be used on beasts just as effectively as on humans, although it involves simpler, more brutish emotions. Establishing communication with their target is crucial for many practicioners, and the methods employed can range from singing, playing musical instruments, performing ancient dances, holding a flag with the text "eat shit" embroidered on it, and so on. While an expert would be trained in various communication mediums, Mark was only proficient in releasing his powers verbally.

One by one, the securing straps of the Gaaspazeten-G2 tightened around his neck forming rings of constant pressure around his throat. The thick and rubbery black cloth suffocated his mouth and face, fused with a hose that was connected to a canister in his chest. HIs steadily increasing heartbeats shook it repeatedly. Mark gulped. Hard. 

He took the knife carefully and stared at it the best he could through the filtration hood. Normally, he would be elated to hold an official piece of soldier gear, but his emotions were suppressed underneath the stuffy chunk of head equipment, and all he could do was gaze at it vacantly. For a split second, he thought about if this was how it felt to be a soldier. Mark shook his head a bit and entered the test chamber. Being a soldier is good. Being a soldier is good. It has to be.

The flora within the blast doors was every bit as colorful and sharp as a shattered kaleidoscope. As soon as Mark stepped foot into the Deadlands-esque environment, the door slid shut behind him with a soft 'thunk', sealing him within the darkness and the faint purple-pink glow of the simulated Deadlands, only intensifying the kaleidoscopic look of the plantlife. A soft hiss filled the room, accompanied by the thin white fog that promised to choke and possibly kill Mark were he to make any missteps. It wasn't deadly officially, but it felt that way. And immediately after the room was flooded with the choking gas, he felt the soft, tickling sting of magic strike the base of his brain, followed by hearing the almost overwhelming buzzing of an insect in the darkness, and many sets of feet softly clicking on the ground around him. The sounds all came from somewhere ahead of him.

Mark awkwardly crouched, the weight of his filtration hood applying pressure to his skull in a way that made it tougher to take in his surroundings. Ashhoppers, possessing the highest kill count of all the many abominations found within the deadlands, have been commonly featured in propaganda-stuffed comics as harbingers of EVIIIIL. But Mark, for the first time in his life, thought about how ridiculous that sounded. His sharp sense of hearing was badly impacted by the hood and it quickly became nearly impossible to predict where his opponents were scuttling to and from. 

A set of eyestalks gleamed in the darkness ahead of him, sparkling momentarily under the pink-purple glow of the fruitlike pods hanging from the parasitic vines above. The eyes disappeared with a louder rustling sound, and several tufts of the crystalline grasses filling the room shook ever so slightly from the creatures shifting about. The buzzing noise grew louder, and a very dim purplish glow shone off of a waxy brown carapace headed directly towards him. The legs of the creature hung below its body limply, in an almost alien way. It was in no rush, as though it sensed that he wasn't a threat. Or perhaps it didn't quite sense the charcoal filtration cartridge yet? After a minute of hovering just barely inside view, the Ashhopper lurched forwards and hurled itself at Mark's chest, buzzing loudly.

Although he had spent countless hours playing soldier with his fellow orphans, those games consisted of bare fists and the occasional pointy stick. The knife in front of him was dreamlike. It was something he had coveted for so long, but served no purpose other than protecting his life now that it was in his hands. It seemed as cold and as alien as the insect that was aiming its body at Mark. 

All his plans had to be discarded now that he was handicapped, and he acted based off of adrenaline, or "soldier instincts" as he would probably call it. Mark gripped the knife tightly and slashed wildly in front of him, with the strength of an average human. 

The insect did as insects did, and tried to halt its momentum before running into the blade. It was heavier than it remembered, at around ten pounds, and wasn't able to stop itself. As it slowed down, Mark's knife failed to connect and instead he put his fist through the creature's side, tearing it open with an enormous splatter that showered thick, cold, brown goop across the front of his hood. The cracked carapace fell to the ground at his feet, though the sound was masked some by the sounds of two loud gunshots echoing out from the left side of the room and the wall directly across from him. Two more Ashhoppers came just barely into view from behind the splattered goop on Mark's viewports, hurtling towards him almost faster than he could hope to react.

The twin banging noises shook Mark's entire body with surprise and uncertainty, traveling from his legs and echoing over and over again in his suffocated head. He was stomping on the remains of the carapace wildly as an extension of his insecurity. The adrenaline pumping through him increased now that he had a kill under his belt. A muffled war cry of "HMMMPHHHHHH" came out of his gagged mouth and stayed there, as it had no real way to leave.  

A pair of ashhoppers zoomed towards him with a velocity and hunger that his first opponent could never hope to match. He had one knife, and there were two of them. Mark used the only sliver of time he had to adopt a defensive stance with his knife pointed outwards. He had no time to properly think of a strategy, or to vaguely pinpoint their location. Just enough time to stand still and hope. 

The creature beneath Mark's foot thrashed wildly in pain, still not quite as dead as he'd thought, and just before its brothers connected with him, he felt tight pressure around the toe of his boot and a grinding vibration. With each stomp, the pressure tightened, and the carapace cracked further, until the downed Ashhopper's remaining flailing legs stopped brushing his ankle and the grinding stopped. The other two Ashhoppers finally connected, one striking him in the chest and the other wrapping its six legs around his outstretched knife arm, drawing blood through his sleeves. The two flailed as they tried desperately to reach the filtration cartridge, and in a moment, Mark found himself unable to breathe.

The knife was outstretched, further than the ashhopper on his arm was, rendering it completely and totally useless. The pain caused by the insect made Mark invest all of his energy into not dropping the weapon out of sheer instinct.

His head felt like a balloon in a tight box that shrunk and shrunk, as if it would mush all of his insides into a soupy bubble of meat before finally popping. His legs, no longer being paid attention to, gave in, and he crashed onto the floor in seconds. The weight of both ashhoppers was in the front part of his body, steering him towards a face first collision with the ground. Would the ashhopper on his chest be hurt? Most likely, but the one on his arm would remain, and that was without taking his inability to breathe into account. He sucked the hose furiously, but the lack of air only made his lips latch on to it tighter and tighter until they were swollen. He shut his eyes, and the darkness surrounding him remained unchanged. 

A soft crunch could be felt beneath him, followed by violent thrashing, and he found himself able to breathe once more. Except this time, the air hurt. It burned. The lump of insect beneath him lashed out with its legs with all of its remaining strength, pushing him upwards just enough to escape, and the weight on his knife arm fell away with a soft tearing feeling that made the burning itch of the Ashhopper's thick, spikelike hairs erupt into the pain of an open wound. The sound of a scuffle erupted before him, with more splatters raining down upon his clothing until silence came once more, followed by the sound of quiet grinding and munching. And then he passed out, with his last sight before darkness taking him being a blurred firsthand view of the brutality of nature.

When Mark finally opened his eyes, the pain was gone. The burning was gone. He could breathe. In fact, his clothes were completely undamaged, and he was lying on a small bed in a sterile white room with no windows.

Mark looked around the pristine room with suspicion. All of his doubts seemed to have been erased, as well as his pain and damage. While many would have regarded the events that took place as a colossal failure, Mark was beaming with incandescent pride. He liquified an ashhopper, all without using magic! He wielded an official military knife! He almost died!

A soft knock came at the door, followed by it creaking open. An old woman in a hair net poked her head in to check in on him, then stepped into the room to reveal the Institute medical uniform - olive green, official, and only identifiable by the icon of a steaming mortar and pestle on her chest. She was holding a clipboard and smiling. "How do you feel, dear?", she asked. "You had quite a time, from what I hear."

The sight of a motherly figure in a uniform made Mark have an immediate connection to his upbringing. He felt as if he was home, in a strange way. "I HAD AN AMAZING EXPERIENCE, AND WOULD LOVE NOTHING MORE THAN TO DO IT AGAIN." His words had a softer quality to them. He began lapsing into an even more direct form of speech as he got increasingly comfortable with his surroundings. 

"Oh, my. You're taking this well - people usually panic after being 'killed' by Ashhoppers," she said, beaming. "Professor Vance told me to tell you that you've got the rest of the day off and that you'll be getting your test results in the morning, dear. You seem like you're fit as a fiddle, so if you'd like to leave, you can. Otherwise I'll bring the lunch cart along, alright?"

"I WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH." Mark subconsciously expected her to continue talking to him, although he quickly left before the thoughts solidified into something odd, such as him calling her "mom" unintentionally. Mark sped off into the athletics department, eager to train his body. Of course, he's never operated an exercise machine in his life, but that wouldn't stop him from trying. 

A loud call came from across the room, and a man perhaps in his early twenties charged out, directly towards Mark. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, NEWBIE? HOW DARE YOU USE THE WEIGHT RACKS WITHOUT A SPOTTER. I VOLUNTEER, AND YOU WILL ACCEPT MY HELP." He was enormous, musclebound in ways that only comic book superheroes ever appeared, and he wore the shining patch of the Kio-Farat Fraternity on his chest. Mark's interactions with the Kio-Farat boys had been limited to moving furniture silently before, but he was on their home turf now, and a small herd of similarly built men filed into the room after their leader. Mark was in for a top-notch KIO-FARAT workout.

Mark quickly blushed like a schoolgirl who had caught her crush rescuing a stray puppy, smitten over the sight of such a powerful student. His shock seemed to have turned into actual electricity, zapping his body into action. "UNFORTUNATELY I AM NOT FAMILIAR WITH THESE MACHINES FELLOW STUDENT, AND I -WILL- ACCEPT YOUR HElP!" It was thought to have been impossible for Mark to speak even louder than he usually does, but now the volume of his voice had the power and force of a gatling gun aimed right at the cluster that had formed in front of him. Bless any poor soul caught within their chaos.

"THAT'S THE SPIRIT, NEWBIE! FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT, BUILD THAT BODY, HUAAAAAA!", the leader screamed. All of his followers responded, and shouts of "BUILD THAT BODY, HUAAA!" filled the room.

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RATS WE'RE THE RATS WE ARE THE RATS

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