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whiskeysoul
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Aaaaaaand bam! Posted.
Isolation. Solitude. Solitary.
Yeah, that had a nice ring to it, a distinctly familiar ring. Solitary.
The ceiling looked as damaged as the drab, inhospitable walls surrounding him; those were smudged with some kind of dark grease. He flicked the tip of an index against the stain, rubbed it between narrow digits until it sunk into the distinct whorls and crests that gave him his identity. His identity. Sniffing apathetically, the man sat up, the ancient springs of his tattered mattress squealing in vehement protest, as if to say: get your scrawny ass up and do something. "Yeah? Well fuck you too," mumbled PR-451 in muted, grumbling discontent as he indignantly launched a abandoned yellow nail from the rumpled, off-white bedspread - made of some scratchy, mutant material he didn't give two shits about evaluating. It was so quiet, he could almost discern the miniscule thwack as the exiled keratin crescent made contact with the chilled floor.
"Charlie." PR-451 began, testing the name on his tongue. Didn't quite sound right. "Chase. Chris."
Craig. Your name's Craig, dumbass.
"And who the hell are you?" Craig hissed, scanning the disemboweled helper bots strewn haphazardly around his room's less-than-accommodating confines. Like a macabre work of mechanical art, he thought. Exposed skeletons. Innards. Guts. The voice came back to him a couple seconds later. It's Jim, don't you remember me? PR-451 shook his head rapidly, quick enough that he swore his brain thudded against the sides of his skull. He decided he sort of liked the temporary giddiness the action gave him. "I don't remember shit." 'Course you don't. That's what I'm for. I'm your buddy. We're buddies. "Since when?" C'mon man, we've been tight since just about forever. "We ain't. Now get lost." Nah. I'll be around. Around. Where was 'around'? Despite the fact that his memory was gaping hole, this place seemed pretty darn cozy; it made his skin all tingly in that good way, like warm stew. And boy, did he want some warm stew.
He rubbed his nose with the back of a hand, disliking just how cold it was. Whoever ran the environmental controls in this here station needed to be shot. Bludgeoned for good measure. Maybe shot again. He couldn't decide which was better, though an enormous explosion of scarlet and gray matter seemed worlds better when he pictured it in his haze-addled mind. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Heck - years? There was a mirror mounted on the wall across him - a pathetic square reflector with dust-choked borders and a sizable crack right smack in the center. Shatter lines radiated outward like long, grabby fingers, comically distorting his image as he approached.
"Yeah, you're a handsome fuckin' bastard, ain't ya?" He grinned at the copy of himself, pinching a stubble-covered cheek and pulling, then letting the skin snap back with bubbling relish. 'Course you are. I wouldn't be here otherwise. "You're good with flattery, Jim, I'll give ya that much." Mmm-hmm. Bored with admiring himself, Craig now diverted his attentions to the collection of hotmodded techpads and smirked toothily, a flash of recognition briefly returning. Yep, all his handiwork. He'd be pleased with himself, but some suppressed bit of his mind indicated it wasn't such a monumental achievement. He was supposed to be able to do shit like that in his sleep. But this - this was a wondrous little amusement park where he could play creepy voyeur to the goings-on outside his burrow. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! The fun never ends! But he couldn't particularly pinpoint the exact beginning, and that - well, that pissed him off.
He glanced at one of the screens - it flickered, then stabilized to an image of a sparse corridor. Nothing much. Too cramped and too damn deserted. Too shiny, and he actually liked shiny things, liked them even more when he actually had memories explaining his acquisition of them. But the rust and the bloodstains made it better, homier. Talk about tasteful interior decoration. And for a moment, PR-451 paused to contemplate if he was truly alone and the undisputed master of this dirty, prison-like sanctuary. A second thought struck - maybe it was them. Maybe they did this. In a sudden midst of wild postulations he imagined a couple of masked men in black bodysuits marching up and down his corridor, carrying stun-guns and flash grenades and other things they could use to beat him into submission. His bones ached at the visualization - or maybe he was falling apart too early.
But nope, he decided. He wasn't going to dismantle himself that easy. If they wanted to play, he'd do the same. You move, I move. You move, I move. Zugzwang. No passes. Checkmate. He had to lure 'the man' out. No one kept him in unless he wanted to stay in. And he didn't like not remembering. And right now, those invisible memory thieves could be prowling the halls of his bleak paradise, using their tiny thought devices to leech on his brain. Monitoring him from afar. Like he didn't know. He wanted to believe he had the advantage. Now, what else did he have to look at?
The second room. Nondescript. He noted the incessantly blinking red lights, finding them amusing to stare at as they flashed him with flagrant, hypnotic manner. Is it Christmas already? They looked like eyes. Maybe he was jealous, because somewhere inside he wanted red eyes. Red, real red, enough to scare people - if there were even people here for him to scare. But he made do with how his flat, unremarkable brown irises and the whites they lay on wore their thin crimson veins. Now, PR-451 turned with brimming anticipation to the final screen. He wasn't disappointed.
Well, what do we have here?
Someone else. The crooked image showed what seemed like a medical bay, a distinctly humanoid shape lurking silently within it. Craig leaned a teeny bit closer, till his face was almost pressed up against the lit screen. A friend. But then, whoever-it-was could be working for 'the man'. Maybe it was an enemy. He had to take precautions before he decided if the target was to be eliminated. Glancing around again, he reached for a makeshift gun nearby and tried it in his grasp. Solid. Now that was the weight of self-preservation. Still, he was almost sad to leave his pit of squalor behind; in the brief period of time since his confused awakening, it had reached out and embraced him with all the comforts of home. It was a veritable lair. Still, he could always return if he could make out the way. In the process of leaving, he seized an additional techpad. PR-451, it addressed him helpfully as he padded out into the frigid corridor.
Careful! The disembodied voice chided. "I know, I know," he muttered, twitching visibly, the words barely audible to anyone or anything save for himself. Answers. He needed answers. Yep, he was starting to feel that bite of anger again, mixed in with all that egotistical mania. Medbay, medbay...which direction to the medbay? His ears perked up and the enormous quiet loomed with ominous intent.
Hold on, I'll be there in a sec.
Yeah, that had a nice ring to it, a distinctly familiar ring. Solitary.
The ceiling looked as damaged as the drab, inhospitable walls surrounding him; those were smudged with some kind of dark grease. He flicked the tip of an index against the stain, rubbed it between narrow digits until it sunk into the distinct whorls and crests that gave him his identity. His identity. Sniffing apathetically, the man sat up, the ancient springs of his tattered mattress squealing in vehement protest, as if to say: get your scrawny ass up and do something. "Yeah? Well fuck you too," mumbled PR-451 in muted, grumbling discontent as he indignantly launched a abandoned yellow nail from the rumpled, off-white bedspread - made of some scratchy, mutant material he didn't give two shits about evaluating. It was so quiet, he could almost discern the miniscule thwack as the exiled keratin crescent made contact with the chilled floor.
"Charlie." PR-451 began, testing the name on his tongue. Didn't quite sound right. "Chase. Chris."
Craig. Your name's Craig, dumbass.
"And who the hell are you?" Craig hissed, scanning the disemboweled helper bots strewn haphazardly around his room's less-than-accommodating confines. Like a macabre work of mechanical art, he thought. Exposed skeletons. Innards. Guts. The voice came back to him a couple seconds later. It's Jim, don't you remember me? PR-451 shook his head rapidly, quick enough that he swore his brain thudded against the sides of his skull. He decided he sort of liked the temporary giddiness the action gave him. "I don't remember shit." 'Course you don't. That's what I'm for. I'm your buddy. We're buddies. "Since when?" C'mon man, we've been tight since just about forever. "We ain't. Now get lost." Nah. I'll be around. Around. Where was 'around'? Despite the fact that his memory was gaping hole, this place seemed pretty darn cozy; it made his skin all tingly in that good way, like warm stew. And boy, did he want some warm stew.
He rubbed his nose with the back of a hand, disliking just how cold it was. Whoever ran the environmental controls in this here station needed to be shot. Bludgeoned for good measure. Maybe shot again. He couldn't decide which was better, though an enormous explosion of scarlet and gray matter seemed worlds better when he pictured it in his haze-addled mind. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Heck - years? There was a mirror mounted on the wall across him - a pathetic square reflector with dust-choked borders and a sizable crack right smack in the center. Shatter lines radiated outward like long, grabby fingers, comically distorting his image as he approached.
"Yeah, you're a handsome fuckin' bastard, ain't ya?" He grinned at the copy of himself, pinching a stubble-covered cheek and pulling, then letting the skin snap back with bubbling relish. 'Course you are. I wouldn't be here otherwise. "You're good with flattery, Jim, I'll give ya that much." Mmm-hmm. Bored with admiring himself, Craig now diverted his attentions to the collection of hotmodded techpads and smirked toothily, a flash of recognition briefly returning. Yep, all his handiwork. He'd be pleased with himself, but some suppressed bit of his mind indicated it wasn't such a monumental achievement. He was supposed to be able to do shit like that in his sleep. But this - this was a wondrous little amusement park where he could play creepy voyeur to the goings-on outside his burrow. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! The fun never ends! But he couldn't particularly pinpoint the exact beginning, and that - well, that pissed him off.
He glanced at one of the screens - it flickered, then stabilized to an image of a sparse corridor. Nothing much. Too cramped and too damn deserted. Too shiny, and he actually liked shiny things, liked them even more when he actually had memories explaining his acquisition of them. But the rust and the bloodstains made it better, homier. Talk about tasteful interior decoration. And for a moment, PR-451 paused to contemplate if he was truly alone and the undisputed master of this dirty, prison-like sanctuary. A second thought struck - maybe it was them. Maybe they did this. In a sudden midst of wild postulations he imagined a couple of masked men in black bodysuits marching up and down his corridor, carrying stun-guns and flash grenades and other things they could use to beat him into submission. His bones ached at the visualization - or maybe he was falling apart too early.
But nope, he decided. He wasn't going to dismantle himself that easy. If they wanted to play, he'd do the same. You move, I move. You move, I move. Zugzwang. No passes. Checkmate. He had to lure 'the man' out. No one kept him in unless he wanted to stay in. And he didn't like not remembering. And right now, those invisible memory thieves could be prowling the halls of his bleak paradise, using their tiny thought devices to leech on his brain. Monitoring him from afar. Like he didn't know. He wanted to believe he had the advantage. Now, what else did he have to look at?
The second room. Nondescript. He noted the incessantly blinking red lights, finding them amusing to stare at as they flashed him with flagrant, hypnotic manner. Is it Christmas already? They looked like eyes. Maybe he was jealous, because somewhere inside he wanted red eyes. Red, real red, enough to scare people - if there were even people here for him to scare. But he made do with how his flat, unremarkable brown irises and the whites they lay on wore their thin crimson veins. Now, PR-451 turned with brimming anticipation to the final screen. He wasn't disappointed.
Well, what do we have here?
Someone else. The crooked image showed what seemed like a medical bay, a distinctly humanoid shape lurking silently within it. Craig leaned a teeny bit closer, till his face was almost pressed up against the lit screen. A friend. But then, whoever-it-was could be working for 'the man'. Maybe it was an enemy. He had to take precautions before he decided if the target was to be eliminated. Glancing around again, he reached for a makeshift gun nearby and tried it in his grasp. Solid. Now that was the weight of self-preservation. Still, he was almost sad to leave his pit of squalor behind; in the brief period of time since his confused awakening, it had reached out and embraced him with all the comforts of home. It was a veritable lair. Still, he could always return if he could make out the way. In the process of leaving, he seized an additional techpad. PR-451, it addressed him helpfully as he padded out into the frigid corridor.
Careful! The disembodied voice chided. "I know, I know," he muttered, twitching visibly, the words barely audible to anyone or anything save for himself. Answers. He needed answers. Yep, he was starting to feel that bite of anger again, mixed in with all that egotistical mania. Medbay, medbay...which direction to the medbay? His ears perked up and the enormous quiet loomed with ominous intent.
Hold on, I'll be there in a sec.
corneredbliss said
Well, it's not really a play for the class. I'm an Acting major, so instead of written finals, we have to perform scenes, etc. That's all!And a quick (perhaps silly) question for clarification as I write my post: When Amelie blacks out again, does she no longer remember her name? Or are would she have retained those few facts when she woke up?
Oh yeah, that's what I was wondering as well.
I'll try and get a post in by tonight, if not tomorrow; uni assignments, bleh.
Awesome. But isn't my designation PR-451 and Sadko's TRT-377? Just double-checking, because the second post mentions TRT-377.
Aw yeah, this is going to be exciting.
Ah, the awesome Star Wars universe. This sounds really intriguing - unfortunately, I'm relatively new to the fandom and am not confident enough in my (probably comparatively sparse) knowledge, mostly of the Old Republic. I wish you best of luck on your search.
Apologies for the wait. Here we go:
"Did Jim send you?"
The room is swathed in darkness; there is the discernible stench of smoke and traces of human filth. The shape huddled in a chair in the far corner taps a booted foot against the dirty ground. Tap, taptap, tap, tap. Sometime later he rises - you estimate a height of about 5'10" - and stretches, arms unfurling outward in a theatrical, catlike manner. The body is thin, but wiry with muscle; red-rimmed brown eyes swivel suspiciously in your direction - they are the unremarkable shade of mud, graced with a manic gleam, bloodshot. A bony hand palms his shaved head, fingertips tracing listlessly the swirls of blue tattoos running about the skin of his skull. "Jim sent you didn't he?" He repeats; the voice is gruff, throaty and surprisingly baritone. He pauses; a pointed chin inclines briefly to the left. "What did you mean you didn't send no one?" Silence. One second, two seconds, three. "I told you I already took care of him. He ain't gonna be a problem no more."
The eyes return to you.
"Don't worry 'bout Jim, he's an asshole. Likes to play games." He extends a hand. "You can call me - " He pauses, glares daggers at you; sucks a mouthful of saliva and spits loudly to the side. "No, not PR-451. What the hell is that, anyway? No, no. I'm Craig. That's my name." The accent - American. Craig scratches the hollow of his right cheek, skin stretched tautly over high, pronounced cheekbones. He keeps a lingering gaze on you - a hawkish, wary stare. You take his hand and shake - his grip is firm and his fingers close on yours with unrelenting force, like a vice. You pull away abruptly once those grimy nails start to really dig in. He reads your expression and grins up at you, a hoarse chuckle against the back of his throat. "You're real twitchy, aren't ya?" A rat scuttles into the room's bare glow, then slinks back into the dark.
"There's one thing I'm gonna tell you, so listen close. Real close." He hisses. "Don't trust 'em. Don't trust me." He hacks a laugh, wheezes. "I got thirty years experience in the lyin' department. You?"
You start to back away, toward the exit. The light flickers and you see the rest of the tattoos spanning his body; numbers, pictures. A death's head, hellfire, a series of lines which looked like they'd been scratched in with a blade. Old scars, raised ridges of damaged flesh. A hand raises and performs a mocking little wave; you see a bracelet dangling, light sparking off its precious stones. An urge arises to question him of its origins, but you decide it is better not to. The hand lowers; the fingers pluck insouciantly at a tarnished silver earring. The cold eyes continue to trail you keenly, and for a moment you think you catch a glimpse of weakness, the minutest smidgen of self-doubt. But then it is gone, and the strange man begins to hum a lilting tune, a mangled variation of 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider'. His foot has resumed its tapping.
As the door slams shut, the last ring of his voice bursts through. "Aw, leavin' so soon? Well, Jim says bye."
"Did Jim send you?"
The room is swathed in darkness; there is the discernible stench of smoke and traces of human filth. The shape huddled in a chair in the far corner taps a booted foot against the dirty ground. Tap, taptap, tap, tap. Sometime later he rises - you estimate a height of about 5'10" - and stretches, arms unfurling outward in a theatrical, catlike manner. The body is thin, but wiry with muscle; red-rimmed brown eyes swivel suspiciously in your direction - they are the unremarkable shade of mud, graced with a manic gleam, bloodshot. A bony hand palms his shaved head, fingertips tracing listlessly the swirls of blue tattoos running about the skin of his skull. "Jim sent you didn't he?" He repeats; the voice is gruff, throaty and surprisingly baritone. He pauses; a pointed chin inclines briefly to the left. "What did you mean you didn't send no one?" Silence. One second, two seconds, three. "I told you I already took care of him. He ain't gonna be a problem no more."
The eyes return to you.
"Don't worry 'bout Jim, he's an asshole. Likes to play games." He extends a hand. "You can call me - " He pauses, glares daggers at you; sucks a mouthful of saliva and spits loudly to the side. "No, not PR-451. What the hell is that, anyway? No, no. I'm Craig. That's my name." The accent - American. Craig scratches the hollow of his right cheek, skin stretched tautly over high, pronounced cheekbones. He keeps a lingering gaze on you - a hawkish, wary stare. You take his hand and shake - his grip is firm and his fingers close on yours with unrelenting force, like a vice. You pull away abruptly once those grimy nails start to really dig in. He reads your expression and grins up at you, a hoarse chuckle against the back of his throat. "You're real twitchy, aren't ya?" A rat scuttles into the room's bare glow, then slinks back into the dark.
"There's one thing I'm gonna tell you, so listen close. Real close." He hisses. "Don't trust 'em. Don't trust me." He hacks a laugh, wheezes. "I got thirty years experience in the lyin' department. You?"
You start to back away, toward the exit. The light flickers and you see the rest of the tattoos spanning his body; numbers, pictures. A death's head, hellfire, a series of lines which looked like they'd been scratched in with a blade. Old scars, raised ridges of damaged flesh. A hand raises and performs a mocking little wave; you see a bracelet dangling, light sparking off its precious stones. An urge arises to question him of its origins, but you decide it is better not to. The hand lowers; the fingers pluck insouciantly at a tarnished silver earring. The cold eyes continue to trail you keenly, and for a moment you think you catch a glimpse of weakness, the minutest smidgen of self-doubt. But then it is gone, and the strange man begins to hum a lilting tune, a mangled variation of 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider'. His foot has resumed its tapping.
As the door slams shut, the last ring of his voice bursts through. "Aw, leavin' so soon? Well, Jim says bye."
Teknopathetic said
I am glad you could make it, although I imagine the trip was a short one.If you would like to be the hypothetical sacrificial lamb to allow me to test my random generation process, let me know what vague character concept you would like me to distort on your behalf.
Gladly. Hmm...
I would like to play a male survivor with an extensive criminal past, but who harbors a sizable inferiority complex and negative worldview. He'd be calculative, hot-tempered, slightly off his rocker and gifted in physical combat and deception. However, he's not too bright when it comes to undertakings such as engineering and hacking. There would've been a good amount of death somewhere in his background which may or may not have left its mark on his psyche. I'd probably like the starting point to be a place echoing his lifestyle where 'trust no one' is the resident mantra.
Hope that's acceptable; if not, let me know and I'll alter it.
Present and reporting.
Possibly interested. This would be the first group RP I've joined since...well, never, so yeah. Trying something new and all that jazz.
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