lokystro

Reform

He had to force his mind passed the strange prospect that this was some bizarre hippie three-some, as all three of the gentlemen he saw were struggling to get clothes on as he switched the engine off. As he remembered the true purpose of his arrival, however, he also remembered that these could very well be dangerous men. Therefore, he kicked himself mentally once again for not having thought this through.

The fuck was he supposed to say?

Hey, I was just in the area and heard explosions, so I'm here for the party?

I come in peace? Take me to your leader?

Got any...chips?

These folks obviously weren't expecting company, and were even more obviously adamantly opposed to it. But this was it. He was here, and there wasn't a shot in hell he was just gonna drive off back where he came from. He hadn't seen any abilities used thus far, but that was caution on their side, most likely. However, if he just stepped out of the car and started psycho-tossing shit and these WEREN'T the authors of the explosions, then what?

He grabbed the revolver, just for good measure, and shoved it in the back of his jeans. And he stepped out of the car. He decided to just play it cool. He sat down on the hood, lit another cigarette. Took a long drag.

"Boys, I think we need to talk. Cigarette?"

Reform

The ratty ass old Lincoln made for, surprisingly, quite a comfortable sleeping arrangement. That is, until some fucking soccer mom cunt in a mini-van tore past him, spraying the car with gravel and filling the air with dust. Not exactly an ideal alarm clock. Still, the Lincoln was the closest he'd been to sleeping inside for quite a while, so he muttered a few curses under his breath, of course, but all in all, he'd slept well. He was grateful for being out of reach of the elements, if only for a moment.

He had followed his dirt road of choice for quite a while, but the momentary jolt of energy the snap decision afforded him wore off quickly. In all fairness, he was about to fall asleep at the wheel before the explosion inspired him to take an unplanned (and frankly, rather impulsive) turn onto some desolate, fucked up "road" that probably didn't even have a name. He pondered his rash decision for a bit, wondering if his impulse had led him to some sort of--

"I need a goddamn cigarette," he said aloud, his subconscious rudely interrupting his musings. The car smelled like smoke, but he was unsure if it was the previous owners habit or the engine. Come to think of it, after boosting the ride, he hadn't really even thought to inspect the vehicle. He threw open the center console, revealing quite conveniently exactly what he was after. Not his preferred brand, but fuck it. Lighting something on fire and inhaling what happens is obviously not going to yield positive results, regardless. He rolled down the window (manually, piece of shit), pulled a zippo out of his jacket pocket, lit the cigarette, and continued his investigation of the center console.

Fuck yeah. A flask. He took a sip. Whiskey. Double fuck yeah. And a wad of cash, all Benjamins, that he didn't even bother to count.

The fuck is a dealer doing in this piece of shit? he thought. Wait...if it's a dealer, then...

He opened the glove compartment to find a fully loaded, solid black .45 revolver, and a SHIT ton of bullets. Fucking score. Not that he needed a gun, really, but...the cowboy his childhood imagined him to be had always wanted one. Just call me Maxwell, he thought. He pointed the weapon at no-one, menacingly, and ran through a few of his childhood hero's most memorable lines:

"Imps!"

"Pussyfootin'!"

As he chuckled to himself, suddenly the soccer mom tore past again, going the opposite direction, and looking VERY confused. He'd finished the cigarette, so he rolled the window back up (manually, piece of shit) to escape the dust cloud.

"Fuckin' crazy ass bitch. The fuck is so important this early?"

His childlike revelry having been spoiled for the moment, he took another swig of the flask, coaxed the Lincoln into starting again, and continued down his path from the night before. He drove for quite a ways, listening to some whack-ass mix-tape the previous owner undoubtedly got at a gas station for a couple bucks and a joint. It was terrible, but even so, catchy. You know, in that sort of ironic "this-is-the-worst-attempt-at-witty-lyricism-I've-ever-heard-but-it-will-hopefully-at-the-very-least-make-for-a-semi-humorous-reference-later-winky-face" kind of way.

And then, there they were. The tents. Fuck. He hadn't thought ahead this far.

But they were there, waiting, undeniably present.

So what to do, presently, about these...present...

...tents?...

Reform

He soon found his city an even less safe place than he remembered. The blue were EVERYWHERE. He tried hanging in the subway. No dice. Two different bus stations. Cops. Even his old neighborhood alleyways that were ALWAYS clean were crawling with police. But it was in that alleyway off Mockingbird that he heard something that set his heart to racing, and nowhere near in a good way.

"Ay Wolf!"

He whipped around to see his old buddy Ritz strolling towards him, smiling wide as the chapel doors. Noah laughed and ran to him, nearly knocking the man down with a massive bear hug.

"Fuckin' shit, Ritz! How are you bud?!"

"I'm makin' it, brother, I'm makin' it! Ain't seen you on this side of town in a hot minute. What you been gettin' into?"

"Shit, I've been in the east end under the Red Line. Had some nice digs over that way but I ran into trouble. 3 years I've been there, and I never talked to not one cop. Two nights ago there's three, under the bridge at my place! So I tossed 'em cold and split, but I can't find no kinda place that ain't fuzzy here. What the hell is all that?"

"Tell the truth, I've been thinkin' of ya lately. Couple whack jobs are on the run, blowin' shit up. Cops are everywhere lookin' for 'em, trouble is each place that goes up don't leave no clues as to who or how. Got me thinkin' that maybe...maybe it's some cats like you, Wolf. Doin' shit folks ain't supposed to be able to do, ya know."

"Fuckin' hell..." Noah sat down in the alleyway utterly dumbfounded. Maybe Ritz was right, maybe he wasn't. But the idea had never occurred to him. That there were others. "...damn. Maybe...listen, Ritz, I gotta blow. It was good seein' ya, but if there's a manhunt goin' on I better skip out too. Maybe catch up with these cats and check what they're about."

"Shit, yeah you better go. Keep a tight head, brother. And keep a bullet out of it."

They shook hands and parted ways, maybe for good.

So here was Noah, hitchhiking out of town. Two drivers had picked him up and he was getting practically nowhere. So he had the last one drop him at a service station where he promptly boosted an old ratty Lincoln.

Finally making some distance, he was about to doze off at the wheel before he heard an explosion.

"The hell? More explo...SHIT." That's GOTTA be them.

He just barely saw an old dirt road in time to tear off the pavement (rather loudly and jarringly) and follow it for a spell. He was gonna check these bastards out, for better or for worse.

Reform

He saw a police spotlight sweeping over the ground next to the bridge he was under. Whatever. Same shit as always. It's not illegal to be homeless. They could fuck right the hell off.

This had been Noah's "home" for quite a while, going on about three years now, he guessed. He was pretty well set up, for a street rat. He had "acquired" quite a few amenities and pleasantries in his time under the bridge. He had a mirror, a bed, a recliner. He'd pinched a propane stove and never lacked in canned goods, as they weren't necessarily difficult to come by. He even had one of those tiny battery operated televisions like in all those greasy restaurant kitchens in Queens, some fat "chef" in a wife-beater watching the game. Named...Lou, or something like that. In fact, he had been in a kitchen like that here in the city well over a few times, as "Fat Louie" shouting Italian obscenities at the whatever-the-fuck-ball game on his tiny TV set left the kitchen in prime condition for some surprisingly choice ingredients to be liberated. Then, of course, later he took the TV.

Of course, such a lavish set-up brought quite a lot of unwanted attention from other street rats, so he had to defend it quite viciously. He'd stabbed a man's hands together and sent him on his sniveling way. Broke a mans jaw with a can of chili. Then ate the chili. He'd carved out a name for himself in the underground as "the Wolf". He'd had to, to keep his home. Noah was a generally nice guy, but he could be damned mean if he needed to, which was often. Then, there was the gift, which helped.

Noah perused some of his spices and canned foods, wondering what to fix up that night. He could crack open some chicken noodle and throw in some thyme, paprika, maybe a little--

"Hey!"

A flashlight. A cop.

A real shitty situation.

"Hands up," said Porky the Pig, waving a gun around like he actually had the balls (or the cause) to use it on some rat under a fucking bridge. Noah covered his face quickly with a scarf.

"Fuck you," he spat, turning to run...and face another jackass with a flashlight. And another. They rushed him all at once, slamming him to the ground, hard. He kept his hands moving so they had trouble cuffing him.

"The fuck am I under arrest for?!"

A flashlight to the back of his head sent stars spinning.

Ohhh, no. Fuck that. He smiled to himself. Alright, three little pigs. Meet the Wolf.

He clenched his fists, and tightened all of his muscles. Took in one deep breath, and forcefully exhaled it as all three cops went flying, one hitting the ground, another Noah's mirror, and, alas, one destroying his tiny television set. All three were out cold.

"Bastards. Now I have to fucking move."

He began to walk off, spitting on one of the officers, stopping himself to load up some of his canned goods and stove, a few utensils and a small soup pot in an old backpack he'd held onto since high school.

"AND find a new fucking TV."

He kicked him in the head and shuffled off.

Reform

Name: Noah Foster

Age: 24

Ability: Just plain ol' telekinesis.

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

God, how he loved perusing the ruins of this bygone era. To witness firsthand the myriad ghosts of a former age never ceased to arouse a childlike curiosity in him that very rarely extended itself to such an aged soul as he. What the hell was this thing for? How do you work this colorful contraption? Oh, what a fun little bauble...would that I knew what it was!

Vyvyxx delighted to allow himself this small vacation from the unforgiving wastes every so often. His former tribe would have been bursting at the seams with derision should they have seen him here, giggling like a child at this and that, old as he was, thoroughly amused by the sheer whimsy of it all. By and large, he limited his existence to the "in-between", those wide stretches of voided earth that held little to no trace of their former inhabitants, or in some rare cases had never been inhabited at all. But his search for water had led him here, and he was content to revel in this brief recess from the wilderness for a while.

Certainly no water was to be found here, one would be remiss not to mention. Or at least none clean. And a significant portion of his better judgement had told him as such from the very outset of his impromptu exploration. But he was never one to shy away from a diversion from his less-than-desirable lifestyle, and he found himself bound by the spectacle of it all; certainly he had done so before, and without doubt would do so again.

Content that he had unraveled all the mysteries of one particular household (if household it may have been), he placed the shiny, spinning, colorful whatever-the-fuck back on the shelf where he had found it, and ventured once more out into the empty street. Whistling a jaunty tune he had forged and perfected though his decades in the ash, he continued down the avenue, tapping his staff in time, as he often did. His intent had been to continue his journey through the city and plunge himself headlong into the wastes once more; he had his fill of revelry, and it was time to live again. Just before the outskirts of the town, however, a large, brightly painted sign caught his eye. It was a sign he had become very acquainted with in his wanderings, and a sign he had learned he couldn't resist:

HALF PRICE BOOKS.

"Well," he chuckled aloud to himself. "A sight for sore eyes indeed. What fresh knowledge have you in store for me today, old friend?"

He ambled casually over to the door way, and was overtaken by a deep sigh. Perhaps he could find water soon, but for now, he had lessons to learn, worlds in which to live that were not his own, and places to see that even had he been alive 200 years earlier would not have held on to their beauty such as those rare, untouched by plague volumes portrayed.

He smiled to himself, opening the door. In a jest he intended purely for his own satisfaction, he called into the dark space:

"Anybody home?"

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

Vyvyxx

Full Name:
Vyvyxx. ("vihv-icks")

Nicknames/Aliases:
n/a

Age:
Unknown; for all intents and purposes, friggin' old.

Gender:
Male.

Gift:
Telekinesis. Movement of foreign objects through intense concentration and visualization. I'm sure you catch the drift.

Loyalty:
Survival.

Description:
As previously stated, Vyvyxx is by no means a young man. A conservative estimate would place him roughly within the mid-to-late 60's. Being a wanderer of the Ashlands, born to the Ashlands, there exists no formal record of his birth. His hair and beard are a long, scraggly, unkempt and very often unwashed steel gray. His eyes are an extremely light shade of blue. His age, however, does not foster frailty. Wandering the wastes is no easy task, and as such he diligently maintains his strength and vigor; he has but one vessel to experience the beauty and terror of this world, best to take care of it. His face wears the lines one would expect of a man his age, though deeper still in the near endless assault of an unforgiving sun.

He is clothed in the traditional garb of his former nomadic tribe, a remarkably nondescript robe the color of desert sand held at the waist by an equally nondescript rope. He is shod in worn leather sandals. He carries a staff, no taller than himself, a near-even six feet. A waterskin on his left hip, a small cloth sack on the right.

Personality:
Despite his lonely and often treacherous path, he is a remarkably serene old man. He is in a constant state of calm awe concerning the duality of such a beautiful earth with such unforgiving ways. A solitary nomad, he is few of words, save talking himself through situations in the same manner we all do when performing tasks to which we are accustomed: skinning a kill, preparing a meal, etc. He whistles incessantly.


Skills:
-Accuracy/Dexterity: Having honed his gift for so many years, and especially considering the paramount necessity of a sure shot when bringing down what could be his only meal for a few days, he has become extremely accurate concerning his propelled missiles, chief of which being the smooth stones in his cloth sack. He also has perfected many games and elaborate aerial displays with said stones, just for fun.
-Contentment: It is very nearly impossible to frustrate, dismay, or even offend this man. He is at peace with most every predicament.
-Concentration: Being that concentration is paramount to his gift, and given that his gift is his only livelihood, he has grown very adept at reigning in his attention to a very, very, fine point.

Weaknesses:
-Again, Concentration: Difficult as it may be, to distract Vyvxx from his current concentration is to weaken, or even nullify his intent.
-Again, Contentment: In times of dire distress, it may be hard to press into his mind the urgency of a given situation.
-Social Skills: Let's be real. He's a solitary nomad and has been for many, many years. He has himself only to talk to save scarce passersby, and does fancy little tricks with rocks for fun. He is severely lacking in social graces. Being a wanderer his entire life, he is extremely perplexed by modern "civil"-ization and it's underlying mechanisms, and often chuckles to himself in spite of it. He is never intentionally rude, but tact is nowhere near his strongest suit.
-Mercy: If at all avoidable, Vyvyxx will not kill another sentient being. The only kill he accepts is that which will feed him.

Brief History:
Vyvyxx was born to an ancient, archaic, old-world though clearly living in the new, nomadic tribe. It would seem to some that they are stuck in some far distant past, but in truth they choose to live as they do. Technology is for the most part considered superfluous. Civilization in its permanence in their eyes is a lead weight to the soul, which should always be free to roam. The gift of telekinesis has been held within this tribe for centuries, an homage to the idea that "nothing is at rest".

In his tribe, the rites of passage into manhood were never discussed until the trial was to begin. The young man would be led away from the group into extreme isolation by the elders. Once at the desired location, the elders would then lift a large, heavy stone, and bury the boy beneath it, crushing his body into the earth. And there he would stay, until he could exercise enough control over his gift to remove his own heavy burden.

In this trial, Vyvyxx was trapped for nearly three whole days. He had enough strength of will to keep the boulder from crushing his bones, but the pain was still very, very real. When he finally focused his mind enough to remove the stone, he was so bitterly angry at his tribe for such a cruel and unmerciful test, that he chose then and there to abscond from them.

And he never looked back.

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

Sonofabitch!

Also, hi, I'm Logan.

But also SONOFABITCH. I really love this idea and I'd love to join, and I was soooo close to being done with my character sheet, but I'm on a library computer and accidentally ended the session, so I lost it all. And I can't bring myself to go through with typing it all over again quite yet. But I'll post tomorrow for sure!