PrivateVentures

Mass Effect: Underworld

@Dervish@Rithy I think you mean 'Turbo Space Nazis'. You gotta remember Cerberus does dress really fancy.

@rivaan Wonder how she'll react when she finally remembers...

It's a Lonely World - Open for Apps

Joseph Ferrier

Her hair glowed like the sun, in white-gold curls, thick and deep. She stood in front of the window, transcendent beauty, clad only in a white silk robe, the cloth translucent in the morning light. She held a cigarette in one hand. Her breath smelled like coffee and smoke. Her skin smelled like lavender, and that perfume I like. Her skin was so soft. In that light, she was an angel, holding inside her blue eyes all the divine light of God-

Blood dripped from my forehead. More, from my nose. My right leg ached, a sharp flare of pain each time I tried to pivot my knee. My vision was blurry. My head swam, and I grasped, desperate, at straws of memory that slipped through my fingers like water.

Screaming. I thought, there was screaming.

But there had been more than screaming, had there not? There had been sirens, gunshots... And screaming.

There was fire and smoke, filling the air...

But what happened before?

I rolled over to examine my surroundings. My flask, reflecting the sun's white, smiling face, bore a wound from the day's ordeals, a bullet hole, perhaps a .22 or .32 calibre, stood, juxtaposed against the stainless steel. Whiskey poured from the puncture like blood from a wound, my little soldier slowly bleeding out in a Vancouver alley.

Why are there no passerby? But, maybe, there were, and I just hadn't noticed. Or, maybe there were none, because this was still a disaster site. Or maybe-

Another scream. Piercing, female, mortal terror if I'd ever heard it. I forced myself to my feet. My knee threatened to buckle beneath me, and it ached like rain.

There were gunshots, light, rhythmic pops that denoted the offending weapon both semiautomatic and small-arms, likely a small calibre rifle or handgun. Then, there was another sound: a low, deep growl of a moan. It had the sound of a grazing animal, but bore the edge of a predator. And above it all, it sounded human, in a way.

Another memory tore its way to the forefront of my mind, of me, flashing my badge at several young men, standing on the sidelines-

The sidelines of what?

Why, of the disaster, of course. I reached into my jacket for my gun. Surprisingly, it was still there. I was almost certain that someone had robbed me while I lay there. After all, I had no way of knowing just how long I'd been there... But judging from the time of day in my memory, it must not have been long.

As I slipped my gun from its holster and racked the slide, the noises stopped. Not just the screaming. The moaning and the gunshots too. The latter gave two last little struggling pops, the universal sign for "Shooter Down". I kept my gun out, and checked the safety. "Red equals dead", I said to no one in particular, while I limped out onto...

"Main street?" It was completely empty. "God damn..."

Then another memory hit me. TVs, stacked up in a grid, each displaying the same anchorwoman, each showcasing the same story, focused on 'seminecrotic reanimation'. But what had happened next?

Fire. Smoke. A thrown bottle? A Molotov cocktail. A Molotov Cocktail through the window, and the electronics shop had burned. The man inside had been trapped-

Stay on target. What happened next?

My boots crunched on broken glass like eggshells, the silent street serving to magnify my every noise-

"WAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!" Someone charged straight through a nearby shop's glass door, the plate glass bending and bursting out like lethal glitter as a man's silhoutte cheese-grated itself on the doorframe. Brown blood gushed from the man's wounds like toothpaste, congealing in his veins. I had time for only one thought: WHAT THE FUCK-

Stinking, putrid flesh plowed into me, with all the weight of an obese linebacker focused behind two palms as they struck my chest and shoulder, fingers gripping my jacket as the man forced me to the ground. My hand struck the open grate on the sidewalk, rusted metal tearing a rude gash across my knuckles. The man went wild, all but foaming at the mouth, in an attempt to bite and even lick at the blood that bubbled up from my fist like a fucked-up fountain of youth.

I could hear more moaning in the shop, the one this freak had torn out of. There was the sound of shuffling, something breaking as dozens of feet stepped onto it, the sickening CRACK of a splintering bone-

My bone. My cut arm. I screamed when a white flash of agony tore through my brain like Apollo's chariot. My left arm reacted instinctively, slugging a savage blow with my elbow across the man's jaw, throwing him face-first into a fire hydrant. He was unfazed, and kept ahold of my broken arm with his hands.

My knife was swift, and my aim true. The blade sank into flesh, then a sudden give, as steel penetrated skull, and my attacker lay dead at my feet. No longer was my screaming in pain, but in fury, the "battle-rage" that Vikings liked to talk about. But the bodies shoved one another aside, peeling and tearing the flesh from their arms and faces as they pushed through their peers through the shattered door, glass drawing oozing slash-lines on their rotten skin.

I had only enough time to curse my luck and recover my firearm. I ran.

I had two destinations in mind. The first, my apartment, on the corner of Majestic and Sterling. The second, my office, wherein lived a Mossberg 1014, with two hundred Ten-gauge shells that I most certainly was not allowed to have in this country. Ah well.

Once an American, always an American.

Another memory: young men, familiar- Bad men. Gang members. Stomping me. A boot in my ribs. Air Jordans dancing on my face. A baseball bat, maybe, or a piece of pipe, on my shoulders. Then, screaming. Them, screaming. I ran then, too, when I saw the hands.

The hands all over him. They pulled him down. They peeled him open. They felt around inside. I didnt see any of these things happen, as I was long gone. But I know that they did happen.

The same fate that awaits us all. As I ran for the second time that day, so far as I could recall, a poem came to mind.

I am Oxymandias, king of kings.
Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.

Mass Effect: Underworld

@Leos Klien@Silver Fox Oh, for some rrason, I thought there was someone else. Never mind. The general consensus on Ellis is :"Man, that guy is big. Man, that guy is weird. All work and no play makes Ellis a dull boy"

Mass Effect: Underworld

D'awww, Balak has a crush on Alria. That makes the Ellis-Sicaria-Alria love triangle a Ellis-Sicaria-Alria-Balak love square! It's like high-school!

@BlackSam3091

Unfortunately, due to the wishy-washy nature of organic love, we refer to this as a "Love Cube" or "Shrodinger's Infatuation", simultaneously hate and love at the same time while also having two feet in the friendzone. How can a bipedal entity have two feet on one side, you may ask? Simple. It doesn't.

Also loving how every character has said, in one way or another, "If Ellis puts one toe out of line-"

It's a Lonely World - Open for Apps

Joseph Ferrier

Name:
Joseph Gaius Ferrier

Nickname:
"The Ferrier" (High School) "Joseph Finder" (Current)

Age:
35 years old

Gender:
Male

Nationality:
American born and bred

Appearance:
5'9", 160 (app.) lbs., military-style buzzcut, unkempt 5 o' clock shadow, white t-shirt under a brown leather jacket, dark jeans, dark brown combat boots over khaki socks. Caucasian, athletic build, former police officer, wears his gun in an over-the-shoulder holster, brown leather. Carries a second firearm in a black nylon ankle holster. Wears polypropylene kneeplates and shinguards under his jeans while on duty.

In-Depth Personality:
He is not a social person, despite how much he has been forced to fraternize. He is inquisitive, taking things apart, and studying passerby to learn about the workings of the world. He is a talented investigator. He has had trouble in the past with painkiller addiction, due to his subconscious need to "mimic the mind" of various perpetrators and victims in relation to his cases.

Character background:
Joseph Gaius Ferrier was born in Newport News, Virginia, United States, to an FBI agent mother and local Sherriff father. He lived his early life adhered strictly to a code of rules and regulations, and did little to stray from it. He showed a proficiency for baseball, though he had not the interest. What Joe really wanted to do was follow in his mother's footsteps. She came home every day with a briefcase, full to bursting with images of violent crimes and mugshots and police reports. His father, as he saw it, did little more than watch the city destroy itself.

During high school, Joseph started to stray, getting involved with a local gang. In a drug deal gone wrong, he was shot in the leg. He was sixteen. His knee still aches to this day, when signaling rain or snow. The bullet wound healed slowly, and Joseph was bedridden for the better part of eight months while his leg pieced itself back together with the aid of silicone and titanium, the bullet having shattered his kneecap. His delinquent friends visited him often, to the point where he suggested that they use his hospital room for drug deals. His parents worked often during this period, as a serial killer, having claimed the lives of two couples and six individuals with a pickaxe, was quite active in the town. He retained a strong hereditary sense of justice, and once paid to have a man shot, the individual in question was accused of assaulting one of Joseph's couriers. Joseph became known on the street as "The Ferrier", as in "One who operates a ferry", as he was the one individual through whom one was able to acquire cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin, cannabis, and prescription painkillers, and deliver them safely and reliably, as guns were unable to brought into the hospital due to the metal detectors at the door, and a constant security presence prevented people from getting out of hand. He paid his three regular nurses to ignore it. Joe enjoyed this for quite some time, amassing profits he'd never dreamed of. But, he was healing fast, on the "up and out" as they say.

When he was discharged, seventeen years old, he was at a crossroads. He'd lost his safe haven for trade, but found that he no longer felt the same enjoyment from the money. He wanted to do something, as teens often do. Despite his new lease on life, he passed his High School finals as the definition of average, and applied immediately to the FBI Academy in Quantico. He was notified that he needed a degree to qualify, and opted instead, for Langley's Police Academy, scoring high marks in Logic and Deductive Reasoning, low ones in Public Relations. He was twenty years old.

He served for four years as a beat cop in Newport News, before an argument with his father prompted him to leave his hometown in search of a career elsewhere. He found a job listing in Detroit, and found a place on the streets. After witnessing a murder of an unarmed civilian by one of his coworkers, and watching as Detroit PD ignored it, and protected the killer, he checked back through the department's record, revealing a long line of corruption. He fought for two years to have the cases reopened, but to no avail. Gradually, after receiving no help from DPD and IAF, he denounced federal policing altogether, and left the country after publicizing the information. At the time of leaving, he was twenty-nine.

He used his life savings to lease a building in Vancouver, Canada, hanging up a sign that read simply "Joseph G. Ferrier, Private Detective", and has used the rest of his life solving discount homicides, overindulging, and being a mean old bastard. At this point in his life, he finds himself in a six-year rut, temper growing shorter and shorter, bottles becoming emptier, baggies lighter. He finds it more and more difficult each day to keep his finger off the trigger, and his hand off his baton. His badge is no longer a shield in his mind, but a war banner. He is thirty-five years old.

Equipment:
- 5 oz. Stainless steel flask (Jim Beam, Devil's Cut)
- 5" Maglite, x2 AA batteries
- Detective Shield
-Polypropylene Kneeplates & shinguards
- Swiss Army Knife multitool, 4" blade, 13 tools total

Weapons:
-.45 Calibre Beretta M92fs, rechambered from 9mm (primary)
- 36" ASP Airweight titanium extending police baton
- Smith & Wesson .38 Calibre Detective Special (secondary)
- Cold Steel Kobun tanto-tip high-carbon stainless steel knife, kydex sheath

Pens and Swords (PV's literature dump)

@Hanleth I was actually thinking it might be interesting to introduce the Christian therapist as a sort of demonic "mystery shopper", who reviews possessions for Satan's pyramid scheme. So, he would be really annoying, and pushing Timmy's buttons, until Timmy's demon manifested, and the Psychiatrist would record just how well the demon had possessed him, for quality assurance purposes.

I like the idea of introducing another demon. I'm sure you can tell, but the demon didn't really develop a character until partaway through, so the rewrite will encompass that. But yeah, another demon, especially an ultra-professional demon, like, all evil, all the time, would be extremely fun. Like, literally, to the extremes of fun. And yeah, it's sacrilegious for fun. I figured if angels are always praising God, demons would always be damning him and expressing fear of Satan.

It's a Lonely World - Open for Apps

@SgtEasy Hey! Small world!

It's a Lonely World - Open for Apps

Room for one more?

Joseph Ferrier

Name:
Joseph Gaius Ferrier

Nickname:
"The Ferrier" (High School) "Joseph Finder" (Current)

Age:
35 years old

Gender:
Male

Nationality:
American born and bred

Appearance:
5'9", 160 (app.) lbs., military-style buzzcut, unkempt 5 o' clock shadow, white t-shirt under a brown leather jacket, dark jeans, dark brown combat boots over khaki socks. Caucasian, athletic build, former police officer, wears his gun in an over-the-shoulder holster, brown leather. Carries a second firearm in a black nylon ankle holster. Wears polypropylene kneeplates and shinguards under his jeans while on duty.

In-Depth Personality:
He is not a social person, despite how much he has been forced to fraternize. He is inquisitive, taking things apart, and studying passerby to learn about the workings of the world. He is a talented investigator. He has had trouble in the past with painkiller addiction, due to his subconscious need to "mimic the mind" of various perpetrators and victims in relation to his cases.

Character background:
Joseph Gaius Ferrier was born in Newport News, Virginia, United States, to an FBI agent mother and local Sherriff father. He lived his early life adhered strictly to a code of rules and regulations, and did little to stray from it. He showed a proficiency for baseball, though he had not the interest. What Joe really wanted to do was follow in his mother's footsteps. She came home every day with a briefcase, full to bursting with images of violent crimes and mugshots and police reports. His father, as he saw it, did little more than watch the city destroy itself.

During high school, Joseph started to stray, getting involved with a local gang. In a drug deal gone wrong, he was shot in the leg. He was sixteen. His knee still aches to this day, when signaling rain or snow. The bullet wound healed slowly, and Joseph was bedridden for the better part of eight months while his leg pieced itself back together with the aid of silicone and titanium, the bullet having shattered his kneecap. His delinquent friends visited him often, to the point where he suggested that they use his hospital room for drug deals. His parents worked often during this period, as a serial killer, having claimed the lives of two couples and six individuals with a pickaxe, was quite active in the town. He retained a strong hereditary sense of justice, and once paid to have a man shot, the individual in question was accused of assaulting one of Joseph's couriers. Joseph became known on the street as "The Ferrier", as in "One who operates a ferry", as he was the one individual through whom one was able to acquire cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin, cannabis, and prescription painkillers, and deliver them safely and reliably, as guns were unable to brought into the hospital due to the metal detectors at the door, and a constant security presence prevented people from getting out of hand. He paid his three regular nurses to ignore it. Joe enjoyed this for quite some time, amassing profits he'd never dreamed of. But, he was healing fast, on the "up and out" as they say.

When he was discharged, seventeen years old, he was at a crossroads. He'd lost his safe haven for trade, but found that he no longer felt the same enjoyment from the money. He wanted to do something, as teens often do. Despite his new lease on life, he passed his High School finals as the definition of average, and applied immediately to the FBI Academy in Quantico. He was notified that he needed a degree to qualify, and opted instead, for Langley's Police Academy, scoring high marks in Logic and Deductive Reasoning, low ones in Public Relations. He was twenty years old.

He served for four years as a beat cop in Newport News, before an argument with his father prompted him to leave his hometown in search of a career elsewhere. He found a job listing in Detroit, and found a place on the streets. After witnessing a murder of an unarmed civilian by one of his coworkers, and watching as Detroit PD ignored it, and protected the killer, he checked back through the department's record, revealing a long line of corruption. He fought for two years to have the cases reopened, but to no avail. Gradually, after receiving no help from DPD and IAF, he denounced federal policing altogether, and left the country after publicizing the information. At the time of leaving, he was twenty-nine.

He used his life savings to lease a building in Vancouver, Canada, hanging up a sign that read simply "Joseph G. Ferrier, Private Detective", and has used the rest of his life solving discount homicides, overindulging, and being a mean old bastard. At this point in his life, he finds himself in a six-year rut, temper growing shorter and shorter, bottles becoming emptier, baggies lighter. He finds it more and more difficult each day to keep his finger off the trigger, and his hand off his baton. His badge is no longer a shield in his mind, but a war banner. He is thirty-five years old.

Equipment:
- 5 oz. Stainless steel flask (Jim Beam, Devil's Cut)
- 5" Maglite, x2 AA batteries
- Detective Shield
-Polypropylene Kneeplates & shinguards
- Swiss Army Knife multitool, 4" blade, 13 tools total

Weapons:
-.45 Calibre Beretta M92fs, rechambered from 9mm (primary)
- 36" ASP Airweight titanium extending police baton
- Smith & Wesson .38 Calibre Detective Special (secondary)
- Cold Steel Kobun tanto-tip high-carbon stainless steel knife, kydex sheath

Pens and Swords (PV's literature dump)

Okay, confession time. When I made the character for BlackSam3091's Mass Effect: Underworld, I used the bio from a villain I had for a different Sci-Fi universe. In fact, the Ellis Taevon they're familiar with is nothing like the Ellis Taevon I originally made. He's better humored, and less unpredictable. He's also not nearly as smart.

Plus, in my original works, NERO was a extradimensional parasite that had latched itself to Ellis' mind, convincing him it was the voice of God, using the man's opportunities to achieve dimensional domination.

NERO wasn't even its real name. It was the designation of a simple AI that Ellis had installed in his exo-suit, that NERO devoured, and mimicked.

The true Ellis, in fact, is nigh invincible, an indestructible villain for a hero whose luck is practically is a skill in itself, an enemy that could only be destroyed by his own hand. I'm gonna let the ME:Underworld Ellis Taevon continue to grow on his own, as he'll likely end up being the other Ellis' role model, in my head.

Plus, let's hope Jeb can find him first.

Pens and Swords (PV's literature dump)

New Idea: Okay, small town, population 400 at the most, maybe like a tiny coastal community, probably pretty poor area, actually, maybe the population is closer to a thousand. Okay, anyway, it's a fishing community that starts hearing weird things in the night, weird noises coming from the sea. maybe it turns out to be some ancient sea-god come to reclaim the coast. Maybe its aliens. Maybe its nothing.

Fuck, what is it?