Hound55

Hound's Wacky Shack of Miscellaneous Clap-Trap

D E F E N D E R S O F T H E E A R T H
D E F E N D E R S O F T H E E A R T H

^{"An athlete, a traveler and a mad desperate scientist. Alone against an empire. But Dale never gave an inch. You had two hands, breath in your lungs. It doesn't matter what changes from there. Whether it takes a few days or ninety years. You keep fighting the fight. And then the next one. Until they're all saved, every one of us." - Doctor Hans Varkov to and of Flash Gordon.
"Magic, my friends, is simply the art of illusions. Of course it's always important to spice up illusions with a little razzle-dazzle." - Mandrake the Magician
"You never find the Phantom. He finds you." - Old Jungle Saying
"Always figured Prince was just a name. Took a white bloke in purple to tell me I'm actually African royalty. Dear old Dad never had that talk with me, did he?" - Prince 'Lothar' Diallo}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Alex "Flash" Gordon _________________________________________________________ King of the Impossible, Saviour of the Universe _________________________________________________________ Pilot, athlete, adventurer | Interplanetary Freedom Fighter Open C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Mandrake The Magician _________________________________________________________ Illusionist, Hypnotist, Adventuring Crime Fighter _________________________________________________________ Multiverse 668 - Prime | SRS&F is... Open C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Kit "Walker*" The Phantom _________________________________________________________ The Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die _________________________________________________________ Multiverse 668 - Prime | SRS&F is... Open C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Prince "Lothar" Diallo _________________________________________________________ Strongest Man in the World _________________________________________________________ Former Performing Strongman | Adventurer and Crime Fighter Open C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Three Heroic selfless defenders of justice and humanity find that the fight for justice is on an even bigger scale that they never considered. The boys names were Tim Tyler and 'Spud'. Mandrake, known as a man who could find justice and someone whose interests in challenges spanned wide, was approached with a request to find the two orphaned runaways. As always, he put the case forward to his friend, former performer and compatriot Prince 'Lothar'. The trail led them through India and Africa, as the boys last whereabouts put them working for the Ivory Patrol - a small, poorly funded group who task themselves with the destruction of the poaching industry. As the case delved deeper, and Mandrake used his many and varied means to attempt to find the boys, it looked like they had been taken, as the poachers' paths found themselves delving deeper into jungle, towards the almost untouched and unknown grounds of the Bandar - a little known pygmy tribe scarecly touched by the ever-probing hands of modern civilization. A tribe with their own interesting lore, myths, legends, and sayings. The echoes of drums became ever more prevalent as the men reached deeper into the jungle. For the Phantom has a thousand eyes and ears#. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? Possible Plots: T H E W O R L D ( S ) O F T H E D E F E N D E R S T H E W O R L D ( S ) O F T H E D E F E N D E R S ________________________________________________________________________________________ MONGO The Planet of Ming the Merciless and his evil designs on the Earth. XANADU The mansion home of Mandrake the Magician and Prince 'Lothar' Diallo. BANGALLA The land of the Phantom

---

* For 'The Ghost Who Walks'
^# Old Jungle Saying

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

"Fiat justitia, rust caelum."

"Let Justice Be Done Though the Heavens Fall."

"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."

"If I can not bend the will of Heaven, then I shall move Hell" - Quoting Virgil's The Aeneid.

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Foundation, Various Locations Within - Present}

Human #5.056: Horses

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation}

Previously: Midnight Man

He was far from okay.

He regretted the Beam he'd drank on the plane. Hunched and shuffling slightly ahead of where he'd stayed from the lack of space, with his pants around his heels and pissing in the corner like an animal, he had a horrible sensation that they'd choose that exact moment to open the door on him. It was what kept him from removing his makeshift scrub pants altogether, and what had piss on his shoes.

The internal conflict that wavered and tried to convince him that the nightmares he had, weren't the engraved hauntings of a past moment he no longer possessed the memory of, and were instead premonitions of his own demise.

That this is where he'd be kept to the end. How it would all end.

That his death would deny any semblance of justice. Any hope of restoring what was.

The acrid smell of his own urine periodically distracted from the worst thoughts, but ultimately they'd return to him again.

When the door flew open, the light was blinding.

He wanted to eat it all and leave everyone, victim and tormentor alike, shivering in the cold. Compensation.

But that wasn't the justice he was here for.

The hose which blasted, and then sprayed the ground and his own mess onto his clothes and himself only further cemented his resolve, as bad as it was.

Trying to keep you off balance.

He was given a beige set of clothing. He kept his mouth shut, because it was easier than trying to control what would have spewed forth if he didn't. Opening it may have meant the end of all of this; the worst of all outcomes.

Others were given black garb.

Looking around at the people given similar attire, after what they had just been through, it was easy to see he wasn't in the group which had made a stellar first impression.

He spotted two of his three roommates taking tan coloured clothing as well. Alex Zimmerman being the lone exception, led away in his black dress.

Taking his time to observe, he saw that the tan clothes were all ill-fitting. Everyone bunched at the pants in front, far too big, and with no belt included. Including some of the much larger students; and coming from the Hyperhuman school as they did, the much larger students were very sizeable indeed. It was no coincedence.

He sidled up to Big Steve in the changing facilities and swatted his pants from his hands, dropping his own in the process.

_{"No bloody point us both walkin' the traps holdin' our pants up the whole time."}

He picked up a pair of pants which were more akin to a sack than recognisable as clothes for someone his size, and left Big Steve to pick up his own which he assumed should fit comfortably.

_{"What're you going to do?"}

Keep wearing others ill-fitting bloody pants, apparently. And haven't things gone wonderfully when you did that before, Banjo...

When he finally pulled them on, they were so large at the top, he thought he could just about try to bunch and tie the waistline in a knot. But they were getting called forward before he could figure out the best way to do so.

He ambled through the maze of corridors and hallways in his clown pants, up and down, and even up and through a connection point at the surface, between two of the pods. Until he heard the clatter of metal on metal and more solid thuds, and uproarious sound of amassed people.

So I guess this is the bloody gladiatorial stadium where they're finally gonna bloody kill us...

But no. As he got closer the metal clatter became more defined. Cutlery. Tabletops. More jeering, more of the student body seeming to size up the weakest amongst them.

And Banjo wearing ludicrously sized clownish pants, even amongst the group he came in with.

Would they assume he was one of the weaker? That a larger one amongst the group stole his pants? Had he just put a brighter spotlight on himself as weaker, lesser?

He looked up to see an assortment of black clad students seated above them. Subtle. Zimmerman briefly spared a second to check on who he knew down amongst the beige morass, but not long enough to risk reprisal from assocation.

Banjo turned as a hush fell over everything.

Doors had been opened by hustling attendants to allow the entry of a solitary gray haired figure, with a stylish suit and cane.

The hush implied a degree of respect for this unassuming figure. He walked to the centre of the room and gave a singular clap, held in stark contrast to the silence his presence had drawn.

Never heard a clap and hundreds of sphincters tighten in perfect bloody harmony before...

He seemed to enjoy the silence and fear his presence drew.

Ego. Banjo thought to himself. Ever so present in people seeking the authority of the profession in the first place, but this was next level.

Then it grew, other students picked on his applause and it spread fast as others fell into line. But it quickly hushed again as it became clear he was about to speak.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Montgomery called, as his eyes scanned every new student. “I understand, it’s not quite the lavish lifestyle you’ve all grown comfortable with.”

Banjo saw no sign of recognition, or if he were in any way familiar with him. It was as if he was making it a point that all would now be within his notice. Taking them within his scope of awareness.

“My name is Dr. William Montgomery,” He introduced himself, “I am the ‘Mind’ behind the Foundation Institute, its curriculum and the strategic advancements of the Foundation. Unlike what you’re used to, I’m sure you’d consider my methods to be cold, cruel even, but I’m afraid they get results and they get results quickly. Mr. Nakamura himself has personally approved each and every one of my methods.”

“Those of you currently bearing your ‘Phi’ proudly are off to a great start and are on the path towards becoming a ‘Force’ to be reckoned with.” A smile towards the students in black, “The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.” Montgomery added, a flat, matter-of-fact address to the beige brigade.

“That said, we have newcomers and that calls for a feast!” He shouted, and the banging of silver resumed until Montgomery waved his hand, once again immediately stilling the noise.

“Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U. students, our chefs were able to prepare you a delicious and fresh meal. A completely authentic Polpette di Cavallo con Salmoriglio.”

Banjo didn't know Italian. But he did take more than a few units of Latin for its proximity to law, and one word stuck in his craw for a few reasons, he remembered it through no small part due to a phrase that seemed less poignant right now, as he looked up to the black garbed group.

Optat ephippia bos, piger optat ardre caballus.

"The ox wishes for the horse's trappings, the lazy packhorse (or nag) wishes for the plough."

He doubted there would be a horse above them who'd be willing to settle for his plough.

The gray haired man kept talking, but Banjo barely listened. Passively absorbing whatever was said. He couldn't move beyond that one statement.

He was pretty sure he knew where 'cavallo' derived from. And the use of the word 'donation' it took little guess as to what was on the plate. The hushed whispers and murmurings only confirmed his suspicions.

His ears felt hot as the rage hit him, the anger at his own stupidity. But the broad smile on his face did nothing to betray any signs of regret or dismay. But all the while, It never met his eyes. He thought for a moment, before deciding to break the hushed whispers.

"Hey, you lot ever heard this one..?"

"There's this local country cricket team, see. Worst in the sticks. Real buncha chaff. Haven't won a match in about a dozen years. So anyway, this horse is leanin' over the fence whilst they're havin' practice in the nets one week, right? Gettin' ready to get rumbled when they play the next week. Buncha no-hopers... not much... y'know... not much reason for positivity among 'em-- Oi, perk up sour-puss, you can relate, eh?"

Banjo shovelled a fork full of his pony and noodles into his gob and never broke stride.

"So the horse is leanin' on the railin' and watchin' on, and he chimes in just as the Captain comes back out of the net from his mediocre bloody session, and asks him 'Oi cob', any chance of a game?' And the Captain replies, 'Oi turn it up, horses can't play bloody cricket.' And the cheeky bastard replies. 'Well, I can. And more to the point, a damn sight better than the bunch of you, by the looks.' And the Captain of the team, figurin' as he hasn't got so much to lose anyway, well he says. 'Right, pad up. If you can play as well as you talk, we'll see what we've got here.' 'Scuse I..."

He shovelled more food into his mouth, and kept going.

"So, anatomical difficulties aside, he pads up and wanders his way out inta the nets, right. The team gets a bit shirty, but the Captain tells 'em to pull their heads in and that if the rest of them were any great shakes, he wouldn't be sendin' a horse out in the first place. So the first bowler comes hurtlin' in on his run up, WHACK! horse smacks it straight back over his head, out the nets, out the bloody park. Bowler spends the rest of the session lookin' for the bloody thing in the scrub it's gone so far. Next bowler comes dancin' in on his spin bowler's run up. Horse picks it beautifully, WHACK tonks the bloody thing over mid wicket, same story. Bowler goes lookin' through the scrub. Third bowler. 'Watch me give him somethin' short.' Comes flyin' in, bowls a bouncer. The horse... WHACK! Perfect bloody hook shot. Stays in the nets, but if there weren't nets... into next bloody week, that's where it would've gone. So before the horse can decimate the confidence of their bowlin' attack any more than he already has, Captain walks over 'Mate, that was bloody amazin', call it a day though. D'ya reckon you can make it out for a match this Saturday? We're playin' the grainies from two towns over.' Horse says that's fine. He's got nothin' on over the weekend, he'll come out and smack the ball about. Hold up..."

He shovelled more food, and the smile widened as he remembered how the joke went.

"Anyway... cut to that Saturday, horse strolls out, Captain sends him in to open the batting. Y'know... for the intimidation factor, and curiosity, I guess. The grainies pace bowler hurtles in at a million clicks, WHACK! just like in the nets. Six on the board, just like that. Next he decides he'll bounce him... WHACK! six again. Tries to york him... You ever tried to find a decent bowlin' line to a bloody horse? No chance. Six once more. Keeps on like this and the over ends, he's smacked six sixes off the over. A regular Gary bloody Sobers, he is. The other opener wanders down the pitch to congratulate the horse on a good start, and cos its cricket, the bowlers obviously change ends and the other bloke's on strike now. So he thinks, 'Right, I'll just sneak a little curly single, get this bloody wonderhorse back on strike.' Bowler comes in, and he plays a fine one for a quick single down to fine leg. Takes off like a shot. 'Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes, mate!' He's callin' for the horse to go through, whilst lookin' behind him at the ball..."

He barely pauses to shovel more food in, and keeps going with the rhythm and the pace of the joke.

"...and then he looks up, and sees the horse hasn't moved a muscle. Chewin' on a bit of straw and leanin' on his bat up the non strikers end. Old mate's eyes go wide, and he turns and quickly tries to scamper back to his crease to no avail. Bails get whipped off. Umpire's finger raised. They send him packing, and at this point he's bloody furious. Just really fumin'. So as he's got the long march back to the pavillion he detours by the horse."

Shovels more food in and chews it, before restarting so the rest don't miss any of the punchline.

"'Mate, what the bloody Hell do you call this?! Why didn't ya run!?' And the horse calmly says to him 'Cob, it's Sat'dee. If I could run I'd be at the track.' HA HA HA HA!" He broke out laughing at his own joke, which if nothing else had held all of the tan dressed sufferers attention for a few minutes, and stopped the somber whisperings and occasional sobs. A few chuckles, but no real laugh.

"Bah! That was told perfect, I bet if it were a baseball or hockey joke you'd have been laughin' your arses off..."

A thought came into his mind. "Anyhow... 'Scuse I." Trying his best to do it clean, he yanked and tore the sleeve off his shirt at the stitching around the shoulder. He did the same on the other side, and slid one sleeve inside the other before twisting the whole thing into one cord of material.

He wrapped it around his hips, just under the trouser-line and tied it off. Before pulling his pants up and rolling the waist band down until the whole thing found its tight level, having now made a makeshift drawstring, he rolled the cuffs of his pants up to a decent length and sat and waited for everyone else to finish.

He'd bounced around on farms, sheep-shearing a refuge when they had needed a temporary new room and board during school holidays. He'd seen people fed 'pet sheep', watched people cry over their favourite pig getting the slaughter.

Once it was dead, it was just meat. But that didn't make him any less angry. Most angry at himself, if anything. But that didn't mean he didn't take it as the insult, the statement it was intended to be.

But he had no intention of letting them know they'd gotten to him.

It was bad enough he couldn't mask his claustrophobia.

Obviously he hated that they had done this to his innocent pony, but also that they did it as a statement to him. An act against his interests to put him in his place. And to show what they were wiling to do.

But he even took insult in other things.

The waste of it all. It was a great horse. Incredible on the hill country.

And something else scraped up against him as well.

Cavallo, caballo...

It had a specific meaning. A word to diminish. A horse of finery... was 'equus'. Cavallo derived from the other term. A packhorse. A nag. The horse version of a beater.

For some reason that final indignity scraped more than he felt it probably should.

He shovelled the final morsel from his plate and gave a grin, holding steeled eye contact with the gray haired man.

So that's your first play, eh? Well, if I could run anywhere, I wouldn't bloody be here.

So gimme your next best bloody bowl, cun^.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Alumni Village Port - And Surrounding Waters}

Human #5.045: I'm On A Boat

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village}

Previously: Not Applicable

Wingtips clacked along the pier. His cheery visage swept down to admire his most recent big purchase.

The newly painted 'Thorpedo' punctuated by a green and gold surf lifesavers hat adorned a pristine hull, scrubbed clean and ready for a new launch. A new day. A new life.

He swept onto the deck, with a singular bounce off the gangplank.

Harold Holt. Captain of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power undisclosed.

He bounced past a figure with deep rouge skin, who was ironically turning a metaphorical shade of green already, before the launch had even begun. The Captain had attempted to optimistically assure him he'd find his level and the nausea would leave soon enough.

"Mornin' Jase. Still feelin' rough 'round the edges, mate? Get y'self to sickbay, when you get the chance. I made a run and stocked up on seasickness tablets, after the last chat. They scrubbed the muck right off of the deck too. Never-you-mind- mate. It's a boat, stuff mops right on out. Nobody thinks less of ya, and the Hell with any who would."

The red figure turned back and tried to respond, only for the bubbles to rise, and he quickly shut his mouth and clung tighter to the ladder he was attempting to steady himself on with complete futility.

Jason McGee. Regular passenger pending responsibilities. Proprioception (absolute knowledge of self-movement, force and location, generally leading to perfect balance on dry land... he is not on dry land). Also... red skin.

The Captain stepped on by and passed through a hatch to the interior, advancing further through his vessel.

"Celeste, what did the inventory wind up workin' out to?"

A woman in crisp, but non-uniform dress answered in the clipped dialogue of a chef reporting with other things on her mind.

"Per head. Eighteen days of three meals a day. Additional omnipresent 'snack' foods for turnover throughout. Ration from sixteen days and we should be able to stretch food three weeks, unless you have a hyperhuman here with particularly special nutritional needs or demands that you haven't told me about. I'd recommend re-stock between day fourteen and sixteen."

"Two weeks. Should be able to get 'er well clear of here by two weeks. That or I'll throw a rod over the side to bolster it, eh?"

Celeste didn't see the humour in this comment, and had already gone on to more pressing matters. Settling in to a welcome job of high responsibility.

Celeste Boucher. Head Chef (only chef...) of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power: Ulfactory and Gustatory Hypersensitivity.

The man in the dishevelled suit continued walking through his boat, cutting through the dining room, where a girl who looked somewhat out of the ordinary in as crisp a dress as she was currently wearing. She was slowly working her way around the room polishing and replacing crockery and cutlery where it would be deemed necessary by her regimental co-worker.

"All good, Lil'? Celeste not givin' ya too hard a time?"

The girl stopped and smiled at the older man. Raising a hand to wave. Around her wrist, a swirl of ink whirled and crawled onto her palm, showing a 'thumbs up' tattoo upon her bare palm to the Captain.

"Good to hear... but ya know ya could've just given an actual thumbs up, right? Now ya just showin' off."

The girl laughed soundlessly and both continued on their tasks.

Lilly Marks. 'Thorpedo' Wait staff. Mute. Hyperhuman power: Skin Art Projection.

The Captain stepped out of the hatch to the dining room back to the open air.

"V, how we lookin'? Good for a launch this arvo?"

From above, two women peered down at him with contrasting expressions to his presence.

He seemed somewhat taken aback by the exuberance of the first. Before the second gave a more verbose answer, yet with less weight of word.

"No less suitable than if you asked me at any other time... Clear skies are waiting whenever you're ready. And if you want cloud cover on our tail, I can manage that too."

"Bloody rippa. Uhh-- good... seein' you too. Suze."

He ducked his head back underneath in a hurry, and the more energetic woman hid her face in her hands.

"Smooth." The flat utterance of the more caustic of the pair.

Viola Figueroa. Sickbay Attendant - in lieu of nurse. Hyperhuman Power: Weather Manipulation.

Susan 'Suze' Scrivener. Early Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power: Spoken Word Manifestation.

He continued on through the boat, passing a table of four men playing cards and laughing.

"All good, lads? None-ya have anythin' ya need to be doin'?"

One of them spoke up, in a garbled Irish brogue, before slapping down a winning hand, to the groans of the others.

"Wouldn'e say that. But asked 'round, everythin' seemed taken care of. Need anytin' doe, feel free to ask. 'Specially Dougie. Probably be eager to stop losin' his dosh at this point."

Ste Aisling. Night Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.

Dougie Simmons. Ship's Liaison / Radio Officer. Hyperhuman Power: Can understand any spoken language (even the thick accent of Ste Aisling...) even if he lacks the capacity to speak it himself.

Elijah Parks. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.

Timothy Adams. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Levitation, not to be confused with 'flight'. JUST levitation. His skin is an instantly recognisable sky blue.

He left the quartet to their pre-launch redistribution of wealth, and pushed on again.

He opened the hatch to the helm and a man covered in cuticle filament made efforts to scramble to stand to attention, whilst a weathered woman remained head down over an assorted series of digital mapping screens.

"Nah, mate. It's not that kind of tub."

Earl Fisher. Secondary Helmsman (owns a fishing boat). Hyperhuman Power: Covered in cuticle filament - nails or scales.

"Charlie, how we lookin'? Got it figured?"

Charlie Millett. Navigator. Hyperhuman Power: Electromagnetoreception.

"So long as it's the Pacific, mapping's good to go. And unless this tub's a secret spaceship, there's not a place you can put it, that I'm not gonna know where we are."

"Oi... Steady on. I can call 'er a tub. Let's not go gettin' too comfortable."

Earl looked at the woman out of the corner of his eye, uncertain of what to make of things.

"What? Not gonna stand at attention now when the Captain's on the bridge?"

Earl's discomfort became even more palpable. The fisherman rested his hands on the helm, if only to do something with them.

"I'm takin' the piss." The Captain finally broke, with a broad cheeky grin.

"What..?" Earl uttered.

"He's joking." Charlie replied, not looking up from mapping. "Relax.

The hatch was already open and he was gone. Earl gave a sigh of relief. Charlie shook her head.

He walked back along the starboard deck to the stern, passing three figures looking out to sea.

"Ready and eager, eh? Rafe, Kath', Zara?"

A transparent figure turned back in surprise, before realising who had addressed them.

"Oh, yes, Captain. Present for duties, sir."

Rafe LeBlanc. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Transparent flesh."

"Calm down, Rafe, I can see your heart's goin' a mile a minute. You're not going to... put on a shirt or anything?" The Australian asked.

"Ah, no sir. I know how it looks--" The polite young hyperhuman started before being interrupted.

"We can all see how EVERYTHIN' looks..."

"--But, even with the transparent flesh, I'm not susceptible to sunburn. And I'm, well, pretty comfortable with my body at this point." He explained.

"Well, ok. But if I see a burp or fart brewin' in there I'll give you a heads up, so you can keep on top of it..."

"That would be appreciated, sir."

The Captain shook his head and moved on from the earnest young man.

"How 'bout you two? Kath', Zara, all good? Any questions?"

"Yes, how can you tell the uhh-- what is it? Port from the starboard? Which side are we on?" One of the two women spoke up.

Kathleen Burns. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Undisclosed.

"Okay, well, are we still moored?"

"Yes."

"And can you still see the wharf out there? The port?"

She turned back and looked at the clear water.

"It's that easy?"

"It is when we're moored on the port side."

"Wait, so... We don't have to moor on that side?"

"No. It's a modern cruise vessel. Can moor either side."

"Then why would you explain it like that..?"

"Cos..." He pointed out to the water. "Starboard side."

The other woman broke into the conversation, until now she had been deep in thought, looking out across the water. Some thought or another. A common occurrence. After finally putting down roots on this island, she still struggled the idea that now she would once again sea other places beyond its shores.

She had long made her peace with the notion that her days of adventure and world-wandering ways.

"In his defence, he never said that was the reason why. He merely gave unconnected information which may lead you to remembering that this side of the boat is starboard."

Zara Catrell. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Powers: Undisclosed.

"Yeah. That. See in old timey boats, before a central rudder system, they used to have a guy working the tiller with a massive stearboard which would jut out on the right side. When ships would moor, they'd do it on the other side so the stearboard doesn't get all banged up and congested. So it's sort of the reason, but not on this occasion."

Kathleen looked more confused than ever and just shook her head and walked away.

"Hey... I tried." He shrugged. Then turned to address the remaining woman. "Thanks, anyway."

"Don't mention it. I know a bit about unconnected information and seemingly unrelated barely tangential thinking."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do."

Not only was her career gone, not that she hadn't been clinging by her fingernails for some time now, but the prospective island home that she'd worked for all of these years was behind her as well now.

Zara once again looked forward - well, starboard - to the seemingly boundless open ocean ahead. Always moving, even when it was time to stop.

"You have more to check on as well..."

"That I do." The Captain adding a simple nod, and opened a hatch and climbed down an interior ladder to the engine room.

The change in aesthetic was swift. Dark, dank and with no time for setting an inviting mood, he advanced to where he could hear murmuring and the sound of metal on metal ahead.

"How're we lookin', Vincenzo, ya little master? Redundancies all good?"

A face looked up from re-tightening screws after having cleaned a spare engine block.

"Harry, please. There was only one Master, the ultimate renaissance man of the Renaissance. You do him disservice."

"Well, I sure don't want to bloody do that. How are the engines lookin' though?"

Vincenzo Angellotti. First Mate. Hyperhuman Power: Instant Mastery of Any Tool, Vehicle, Weapon or Instrument.

"The engines in place, the redundancies and working in pristine condition. Bellisimo! These, the regular engines, just been cleaned, and are awaiting final visual testing, replacement and a test."

A young woman working on the other side of the engine block held out a hand. Five eyes suddenly formed on her fingertips, and were used to scan the harder to get to locations, underneath and behind, in the darker shade of the engine block.

"Visual check comes up fine, Vincenzo... oh, and Captain. We should be good to change them back now, if needed."

Natasha 'Tash' Stone. Part-time Engineering Officer and Assistant to Vincenzo. Hyperhuman Power: Variable Cell Matter

"First, we will lunch. Then the engines this afternoon. Molto rapido. Should be ready for castoff early evening, Captain Harry.

He scratched his chin and the facial hair that resided there.

"That is pretty quick. Good work, you two. Yeah. I'd say you both earned smoko. Get it intaya."

His heels clicked crisply back towards the ladder, where he climbed up and out of the hatch once more.

"Early evenin' castoff. That'll do."

Stepping out of the hatch he crossed to the portside and heard her before he saw her.

"Yoo-hooooooo! Captain?! I'm ready for our boarding party!"

Margot Saunders. Passenger with no Additional Duties. Hyperhuman Power: Physical Rejuvenation / Agelessness

He looked out to the pier and saw Margot Saunders standing on the wharf complete with extravagent dress, wide brimmed hat and full length gloves.

And more than a half a dozen suitcases.

"How the bloody Hell'd she get all of that here..." He muttered to himself in astonishment.

"Yep, we'll get you on board lickety-spli--"

Then what he saw, chilled him to his bones. A sight he never thought he would expect to see.

A mob. He'd heard of bigotry against hyperhumans, he'd encountered it in rare pockets and on the rare occasions he'd endeavoured a trip to the mainland by ferry, and when he'd first arrived here with the boy.

But the recent news had emboldened them. They'd been waiting for a chance to move on those that had been scapegoated and maligned for so many years. A pestilence now within grasp.

The Captain ran down the gangplank and attempted to usher Margot aboard the boat, but she wouldn't move on without her luggage.

He began to throw cases up and onto the deck from far beneath and grabbed the last two, before tloosing the rope at the stern, and with one arm mustering her onwards and up the board.

"CAST OFF! EARL! BLOODY CAST OFF! VEEEEEEEEE! COVER! NOW!"

Having boarded Margot in a hurry, he quickly raised the gangplank, and with long strides ran towards the helm. Engines could be heard to re-start, but could take time.

"CAST OFF THE FORE ROPES! WE'RE GOING! NOW!"

People scurried to attention to quickly cast off, as per their Captain's orders.

He managed to get to the wheelhouse, moved Earl on and fired up the ship's thrusters and powered up the engines higher still. They'd not realised the reason for the sense of urgency in his voice.

With the manuevering thrusters in effect, the boat separated itself from the dock, as the mob came ever closer. He heard some kind of glass object shatter against the hull. He hollered out the starboard side, away from the mob.

"VEEEEEE! THAT CLOUD COVER! ANY BLOODY TIME NOW!"

Soon thick rolling fog descended all around the portside of the boat, mostly between the mob and the boat. Obscuring his view somewhat on that side, but he had no intention in going that way at all. Getting clear of other moored vessels, he opened up the engines in full and powered down the manueverability thrusters. More objects had cluttered against their hull, but fewer now. With the fog, they were now throwing blind. He began to feel safer, and his breathing and muscles less tense.

Then the shot rang out.

"Sweetbabyjesusonajetski!" The three in the wheelhouse ducked on instinct, even though they were in the safest place possible.

After a few seconds, pulling away, the Australian turned to Earl and commanded him to take the wheel and keep the current bearing; Away from the fog of the port and out to open waters.

He had to check the ship for damage.

First he went to the aft where he saw a shocked Kathleen still standing by the aft ropes.

"It-- it was a molotov cocktail." She was shell-shocked from the ordeal. "It didn't catch, but-- it was right by where I was pulling the lines up."

"It's alright, Kath'. Like you said. It didn't catch. Just gave 'er a helluva bloody christening, eh? All things bein' equal, probably would've just been better with the customary champagne bottle, eh?"

He stepped away before calling back.

"If you need, check in with Vee down in sickbay, once she's done with the cloud cover."

He didn't know what exactly that would accomplish, his ship lacked an established nurse and there was only one on board with any kind of medical training for emergency situations, and he had no intention of giving her that kind of responsibility on this boat. But if nothing else, it'd keep Kathleen from being alone, which was probably not a bad thing at this point.

He kept moving towards the stern. He saw it before he heard it.

He doubled his pace along the port-side deck. A scream came next.

By the time he got there, there was little to be done.

Quinn Spence. The Corpse on the Stern Deck. Formerly Service-time Kitchen Hand. Hyperhuman Power: Radiation Immunity.

He had no idea what to expect. But it wasn't this.

He dropped to his hands and knees to check for a pulse.

"No need. Too late for that. Through-and-through. Right temple to left cheek." A crisp, clear voice came.

The captain rocked back and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and looked to where the voice had come from.

"You're going to need to hold an investigation." She said. Almost resigned to the fate, events would undoutedly bestow upon here.

"Investigation? It was a mob of regular humans. Stormed the island. Came after the boat. Kath' said they threw a molotov cocktail at the bow."

Zara Catrell explained her reasoning. The former H.E.L.P investigator seemingly doomed to spend her retirement back on the job.

"The mob was about thirty metres clear. Thick cloud cover. The shot was a through-and-through from right temple down through left cheek. Elevated. The pier is not from an elevated position."

"A ricochet. A lucky shot. They weren't shooting at anyone in particular." He argued. "Just angry people lashing out hoping to hit anything."

Zara sighed.

"Which would be far less likely to hit anyone or Quinn in this case, than an intended shooter aboard the ship."

A small group of people by now had gathered around the body on the stern deck.

"I don't know. I think I'd feel far better if we at least had an investigation, so we could know we DIDN'T have a potential murderer anywhere onboard amongst us." Rafe said. His stomach bubbled and churned at the sight of the body.

"I mean... we're lucky enough that we HAVE an investigator here in the first place. It kind of doesn't make sense to not have her look into it, Harry. If only just to clear everyone."

But the Captain wasn't so sure.

"The last thing we need, though, is a bunch of baseless bloody accusations going on. And everyone turnin' against each other, though. That seems like a recipe for disaster... and we've been simmerin' up a big bowl of disaster for quite some time now on the mainland, let alone bringin' it out in my boat."

Zara nodded. Taking on his concerns. "Maintain discretion. Priority. Fair. I could conduct interviews in my own quarters. Is there anywhere clean where the body could be inspected?"

"Aww, Hells bloody bells, you're not lookin' to carve up a cadaver in my bleedin' sickbay, are ya?"

Zara gave a solitary grim chuckle.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm not trained in how to perform an autopsy. And we're unlikely to get ashore in any kind of meaningful time, where one could be performed by anybody who is. So probably, little more than bullet retrieval..."

"Bullet retrieval? What could you learn from that?"

"Easy way to find out." Came the flat reply.

"That is, of course, if you're not still afraid of allowing an investigation?"

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

@Roman 38 too few for Lex.

@mattmanganon

Terrible...

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

@Roman

What's the bet the artist is secretly loathing the stick figure nature of his artwork on this perfectly illustrated point...

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

A bit of real talk, something that I've been thinking about and that I'm sure has been discussed before: are we placing too much pressure-to-perform on ourselves?

@AndyC

Yes. In fact, I'd go so far as to say 'almost entirely'.

Don't get me wrong; you guys are incredible writers, and I really do love reading your material. But at least from my experience, the pressure to keep up with you all and live up to my own standards means I end up taking longer and longer to get posts out, and I start to develop a mentality of "no post is better than a bad post." That starts becoming a whole negative-feedback-thing, where I feel bad for not posting, so I start writing a post, and then I burn myself out trying to make it perfect, then I end up not posting it, and then I feel bad for not posting, etc.

@AndyC

I stopped aiming for an unattainable perfection long ago. But conversations with others... I'd say this hits the nail on the head perfectly.

While I'm not suggesting we lower our standard of quality, maybe we reduce the expected quantity. Say, five to seven paragraphs per post, something you can knock out relatively quickly and keep the pace going (and make it easier to post multiple times per day). That would hopefully reduce the pressure of feeling like one has to write a chapter of a novel every time one logs in. It'd also hopefully encourage more interaction and collaboration, getting everyone out of the proverbial gates a lot faster, and might allow for more emergent storytelling rather than feeling like we need to have whole complex plots laid out from the start.

@AndyC

I think this will fall short, because I suspect its self-driven and more a case of people trying to 'keep up with the joneses' without factoring in the fact that many of us are harsher with ourselves, than assessing the works of others and/or have higher expectations for ourselves after seeing what others do.

This isn't the situation in my own case, its just been entirely lack of personal time as other aspects of my life grind me into the dirt. But it HAS been the case for me in the past when I was younger. The perfect being the enemy of the good.

In all honesty its a personal problem for each and every one of us, rather than something that could be fixed by rules at the outset, however well-meaning. Because people don't compare their work and production to the rules minimum in most cases, and rather their impression of the works of those around them that they've been reading.

People just need to be aware that everyone would rather read and see something that surpasses their own personal standards which keeps the RP moving, then read the works of an RP which becomes consigned to the scrapheap in a month or two.

And then once you realise you're just appealing to peoples own standards... which are entirely subjective in nature... ultimately, volume becomes more valuable than a handful of masterpieces which appeal to our own sensibilities before the whole thing collapses under its own lack of momentum.

I'm an old man and I've come to realise my bullshit is my bullshit, and at some point I've just got to get over it. Get the thing done.

Or, as a wise Southern philosopher managed to say in more concise terms than I am capable of mustering...

POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOST!

I'd also kinda like to see a more focused scope, having all of the player-characters be in roughly the same place at the same time. If, say, everyone's already a denizen of Gotham City, or a member of the X-Men, or what have you, it might be easier to jump in and start jamming with each other than when everyone has to spend weeks or months establishing their particular lore before venturing out to cross paths. More often than not, that leads to less of a group roleplay and more of a collection of individual fanfics with the occasional crossover.

@AndyC

This is one of the things I liked seeing about one pitch I saw someone working on.

Not even necessarily JUST one city, either... but yeah, limiting the world in scope.

One thought I had was a world with three major cities, and GM posts addressing specific cities in addition to whatever character posts those GMs have.

I'll need a few weeks to get a handle of stuff in my own life, move house and get settled, but yeah, stuff to think about.

While I'm always gonna be the type to hyper-obsess over how I'd reimagine every detail of Superman or Spider-Man (even though you bastards never pick me when I apply for them), I'm also seeing that the familiar approach pretty much always leads to me burning out fast and then feeling bad about getting burned out. Once upon a time, those of us who came over from the old Superherohype forums were able to sustain games for a year or more at a time, and a lot of that was a more rapid-fire output of short-form posts only punctuated with the occasional big one. I think the key to sustainability is the ability to make something a routine, and I think recalibrating to shorter (but still high-quality) posting would be a lot easier to make a routine out of.

@AndyC

I don't disagree with anything I've seen, with the possible exceptio of thinking 'smaller minimums' as a set rule would actually have an impact.

Most of the issues have been pressure applied by the self-driven nature of things.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

He snored with his eyes open.

"Hey! Hey! You're not asleep, asshole! I know you heard me!"

Banjo snored louder, the sides of his mouth curled into a broad smile.

"I said 'Put your goddamn seat up!' I know you're awake!"

He made eye contact with the flight attendant, and raised his eyebrows and gestured 'two' mouthing the word and raising his fingers for two of the small bottles of Jack Daniels from her cart. Before returning to snore.

"Hey! I saw that! Put your seat up!"

Banjo curled up and snored, whilst the back of his seat was repeatedly kicked until it did actually rock him to sleep.

The smile never left his face.

It would be the last smile which would be there for quite some time.


^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Foundation and Various En Route - Present}

Human #5.042: Midnight Man

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation}

Previously: Do You See What I See? / Nothing Left to Burn

The ocean-forced isolation was intense, and was experienced immediately.

As he stepped forward to feel the sea mist hitting him in the face, his first thoughts went to whether bringing the horse here was the humane thing after all.

He'd worn a black band T-shirt repping 'The Vines' and their 'Highly Evolved' album. When the bundle of white scrubs were thrust into his chest, he grimaced. The people doing so offered no conversation. No conversation, they were presumably trained, would lend itself to less argument. Silent arms pointed the way to where they were to progress.

The silence they had been instilled with was a brittle one, however.

Silent until they were very much not. Outbursts were met with quick reprisal.

The exact kind of situation which would normally see Banjo shattered upon the rocks.

But he NEEDED to get in here.

In over twenty years he hadn't needed anyone or anything. But justice didn't exist outside of these walls, and right now that was all he had left.

Justice, a pony, a footlocker full of two decades worth of accumulated shit and a rage which could burn him from the inside out, if permitted.

Zimmerman seemed perplexed by the scrubs, but shrugged and pushed onwards. Assuming it was part of the initial boarding and orientation process, perhaps they took quarantine seriously. These were people isolated from much of the world, maybe they lacked the same immunities to land-borne disease?

They dressed without conflict, Banjo made a mental point of the sterile decor much akin to what he'd seen projected in the Trials.

They loathed the Houses. The Teams.

Was this because they truly believed in individuality? Or was it just more easy to bend and mold a person alone, than when they seek the security of the pack? The strength of collaborative effort?

Now, more than ever, he felt he played his situation with Katja right.

He couldn't see her anywhere, but he hoped she hadn't done anything... well, anything he would do... when going through this 'introduction' herself.

He could think of little more valuable than numbers right now, and began to wonder if the isolation and reputation he'd been more than willing to lean into at P.R.C.U wouldn't bite him in the arse NOW when he might need to be able to find people to trust and depend on, and have those people feel for half a second they could actually trust and depend on him.

Crazy. A joker. A joke.

“When you have changed, please deposit your personal belongings to the right for inspection. Everything that passes inspection will be returned to your assigned room. When you have completed this, please line up for your student identification.”

After a half a second's hesitation he deposited the contents of his pockets where directed.

I just got this bloody phone...

It mattered not. He NEEDED to get in, after all. It raised his blood, but he wasn't going to have it be a sticking point.

“Please place your left wrist in the hole to your left, underside facing up.” He heard the attendant utter, further ahead in the queue.

“Next.” The delivery flat as a tack.

All within the line took their turns, having pain inflicted upon them, grabbing the hand at the wrist on the way out. Next. Ahead of him in the line, he spotted it.

A barcode. Burnt into the flesh.

The person ahead of him stepped forward with no small amount of anxiety, she tried to resist and her arm was thrust within.

“Next.”

"Alright, hold up... Are we talkin' a brand here, or some kind of laser? I'm not resistin'--"

His arm was grabbed and stuffed in the hole. He made no effort to struggle. "--I'm not resistin'. I'm just askin' cos I don't want my powers to trigger on instinct and make ya have ta-- Hnng!"

The laser started burning his skin.

"Do it twice... Never mind. Laser, eh?" He stuffed his tongue deep in his cheek, and screwfaced.

The boy who was burned repeatedly by the sadistic teacher of his youth wouldn't permit him to make anymore disruption than the initial surprise of when the laser hit his flesh. It took a concerted effort to not juice and absorb all the heat of an implement like a cigar, cigarette or branding iron, but the concentrated heat of the laser seemd more than he would have been able to take on even if he was ready.

This was just another burn. Another power-hungry teacher. Another sadist. The role bred a will to power, why would Banjo ever be surprised?

It burnt. More than the cigarettes. More than the cigar. But he refused to let it be anything more than just another burn.

“Next.”

He wouldn't grab his wrist. He wouldn't whimper. He turned his hand to check the print and the ten digit number they'd denoted him with and then a horrible thought drifted across his mind.

I'm gonna have to do this all bloody over again, when juicin' makes the scar tissue fade, aren't I?

The burning took a nagging tone, ever antagonising the front of his mind. Reminding him of its existence, the way pain only could. But refusing to dwell he stepped forward into the common space, somewhere behind him his roommates were being processed, but his attention needed to be here now.

His eyes scanned the upper deck and the faces of Foundation regulars who were curious about what the newcomers from P.R.C.U had to offer and it took Banjo's complete attention. He kept scanning the faces, committing them to memory.

If Daedalus had no knowledge of where Haven was going, and was still somewhere within the Foundation, wouldn't he take an interest in every dropoff of new students in case she numbered amongst them?

If that was the case, would he be amongst them?

He considered it unlikely... but not necessarily someone who might work for him.

The thread which would lead back to the man.

His face held no humour, no mirth. Eyes that looked like they could burn a barcode into a man, scoured those raised in assembly. More than a few directed their attention elsewhere, either finding him disconcerting or not fit for purpose.

"Whoa... That's them!"

The voice came from behind him. Zimmerman had presumably finished being processed, and was distracted enough by some large banners featuring the pride of the Foundation, that he'd forgotten all about whatever pain he'd just endured.

"I-- uh--- probably should have warned you about that. The comics used to use like these communicards that the Force had to confirm their ID and stuff, but I mean... they're comics. I'd read that wasn't what they go with in a letters section, but-- well-- yeah. Sorry."

If Zimmerman was in anyway disturbed by the reality which surrounded them, it didn't show at all on his face.

Banjo wasn't sure if that was something to be comforted by, or very much not.

Banjo looked back up to the upper deck after the brief distraction and saw some faces missing. He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who had left. Had Daedalus' man not seen who they were looking for and gone to pass the message on that Haven wasn't in this load of students either? Or had he gone to tell him about the presence of another? Or was it just coincidental... an irrelevancy.

“Keep it moving!” The yell came from behind them, another attendant directing them out of the common space.

“You’re to report to temporary holding.” He ordered, “Solitary until evaluations are complete. When the door opens, you’re free to report to your quarters.”

Solitary... I could do solitary standing on my head. Doin' me a favour, takin' me away from these other jokers and givin' me time to think about everythin'.

The path ahead gave way to a hallway with a series of doors on either side.

Only about a metre between the centre of each door.

Something about this... didn't seem right, Banjo realised.

The mathematics, unless some're deeper and then wind around... with different antechambers. There's not enough--

A door was opened and he was directed inside.

Oh you miserable bloody arsewipes...

The boy in the box entered, and turned and sat on the bench in his metre squared recession. To call it a room would have been to do these Foundation fucks a service they had not earned.

Seconds later the lights went out. Terror and darkness enveloped the boy in the box.

It had been twenty years. He couldn't hush his breathing anymore, as the darkness swept through, poured in like a torrent.

His voice made an ugly wheezing noise, that sounded like it was coming from outside of him.

_{"Banjo-- Banjo, are you OK?"} Came a voice ever in need of being helpful.

But it was imagined, wasn't it? It had to be. This was soundproofed. And if he knew anything in this world he knew that the darkness lied.

The darkness lied and it had a cruel laugh. It had horns.

It just wanted to see his weakness. To find it so it could mock and exploit it.

He--he couldn't breathe! The darkness was too thick! Like treacle, it oozed. It wasn't breathable! It was--

He pressed himself up against the sides of the box and wheezed.

Fuck! You! You Fuckin' Fucks!

His breath scraped and rasped as he wheezed. Trying to kill him?

The darkness held cruel mirth and would devour--

No.

His breathing didn't sharpen or clear, but his mind came back into focus.

THIS darkness doesn't have a presence.

He wheezed, but he'd live.

THIS darkness doesn't have horns.

He'd hate it, but he needed it. He needed what it would get him.

THIS darkness wasn't lying. Wasn't looking to mock and break him.

With teeth gritted, the boy in the box beared down.

Banjo didn't peek. He threw himself to the darkness. He ran the faces in the upper deck and tried to remmeber who was missing the second time.

Trying to draw clarity of thought from a moment of distraction, or distraction from a moment clear of thought.

All the while Banjo worked, trying to keep one thought from worming its way into his skull.

...that they never said how long this evaluation would take.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Sounds like several of you have tentative thoughts forming. Maybe getting together and working on something cohesive would have a better chance of succeeding.

@Retired

You mean... some kind of... collaborative writing..?

...it'll never catch on.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by Retired>

Because the veil has been lifted. We no longer feel the pressure of 'oh we better not post in the OOC cause I don't have time to post and I don't want to feel/look bad

@Sep

I'd have to be capable of experiencing shame first.