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Sorry about the delay, boys. Loooooooooooooooooooooooong week at work, not done by a long shot - and then my days off will consist of even more being busy. I managed to eek out a modest post for now, though.
Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Nigh on seven hundred and thirty days inside of a supermax in Wakefield, spending twenty-three of the day's hours inside a damnably tiny cage should have yielded some sort of sleep. If anything, it had produced a sleep debt; Captain Bishop had been a buuusy boy - oh yes, he had - what with the escapes, the riots, and one fine English morning (shortly after tea, shortly before Jammie Dodgers) coming to within a hair's breadth of beheading Warden Janwari. To Jon's chagrin, HM Prison Wakefield's just-so-close-to-astute armed security retainers had battered the door to pieces and shattered his left hand, along with the ceremonial - yet ever so battle ready - saber that the former Intelligence Officer had been keen on since he had first met Janwari.
He held a record, you know. Prestige followed that young posh boy from Northampton wherever he went; a Victoria Cross tucked away into a shoe box somewhere, hours of footage from Wakefield CCTV used to train hostage negotiators and supermax facility guards alike on handling the impossible scenario. That is to say, to clarify - when a genuine mad man has taken control of - or escaped from the confines of - your prison.
Even more prestigious (or perhaps bordering on a silly gag) was Bishop's final escape from HM Prison Wakefield: in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, some big bald northern bloke had informed Captain Bishop that he was to be remanded to the custody of the United Nations Extraterrestrial Investigation and Policing Unit - or UNXIPU. Oonzi Poo. What a delight, he had decided - Wakefield and Janwari had become so dreadful boring. There was nothing worse than being a bore, in Bishop's universe.
"Let the bloody nutter whinge about little green men with the rest of the mad hatters, 'eh?" the northerner had remarked to a colleague on the long walk down Wakefield's main corridor. "Fuckin' Looney Tunes, the lot of 'em."
During his supervised transport, by appearing aloof and uninterested, Jon had silently observed several conversations that revealed the global opinion of UNXIPU - that being, of course, that they were all nuttier than a bleeding Dundee cake. Bishop was unconcerned; if these blokes had any notion of the coming storm, perhaps he could help them sort out a way to avoid complete and utter annihilation.
In ode to his decision to perform great work with UNXIPU, the Captain decided to repay his sleep debt on the lengthy Libyan Chinook ride. Despite the buffeting of crosswinds and the general rachety shake of thirty thousand unstable parts in motion possessing of a strong desire to murder you, Jon was to all the world a piece of furniture. He slept seated sideways across the bench, a harness underneath his knees and his arms wrapped about his legs, head jammed against his legs. He remained motionless for an incredible amount of time, becoming animate only upon their arrival.
After the Chinook had landed, the Captain abruptly rolled backwards onto his hips and bucked up onto his feet in the aisle - nearly losing his balance and upending onto the cold, steel floor, before grasping two harnesses, one in each hand, and righting himself.
"We've arrived," he declared in wonder to the strangers around him. "How wonderful!"
Bishop marched haphazardly alongside his new companions, taking in the dusty airstrip outside with bright, fidgeting eyes; he twitched here and there, never quite still, always in motion, a none-too-small glint of utter lunacy behind intelligent, probing eyes.
Nigh on seven hundred and thirty days inside of a supermax in Wakefield, spending twenty-three of the day's hours inside a damnably tiny cage should have yielded some sort of sleep. If anything, it had produced a sleep debt; Captain Bishop had been a buuusy boy - oh yes, he had - what with the escapes, the riots, and one fine English morning (shortly after tea, shortly before Jammie Dodgers) coming to within a hair's breadth of beheading Warden Janwari. To Jon's chagrin, HM Prison Wakefield's just-so-close-to-astute armed security retainers had battered the door to pieces and shattered his left hand, along with the ceremonial - yet ever so battle ready - saber that the former Intelligence Officer had been keen on since he had first met Janwari.
He held a record, you know. Prestige followed that young posh boy from Northampton wherever he went; a Victoria Cross tucked away into a shoe box somewhere, hours of footage from Wakefield CCTV used to train hostage negotiators and supermax facility guards alike on handling the impossible scenario. That is to say, to clarify - when a genuine mad man has taken control of - or escaped from the confines of - your prison.
Even more prestigious (or perhaps bordering on a silly gag) was Bishop's final escape from HM Prison Wakefield: in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, some big bald northern bloke had informed Captain Bishop that he was to be remanded to the custody of the United Nations Extraterrestrial Investigation and Policing Unit - or UNXIPU. Oonzi Poo. What a delight, he had decided - Wakefield and Janwari had become so dreadful boring. There was nothing worse than being a bore, in Bishop's universe.
"Let the bloody nutter whinge about little green men with the rest of the mad hatters, 'eh?" the northerner had remarked to a colleague on the long walk down Wakefield's main corridor. "Fuckin' Looney Tunes, the lot of 'em."
During his supervised transport, by appearing aloof and uninterested, Jon had silently observed several conversations that revealed the global opinion of UNXIPU - that being, of course, that they were all nuttier than a bleeding Dundee cake. Bishop was unconcerned; if these blokes had any notion of the coming storm, perhaps he could help them sort out a way to avoid complete and utter annihilation.
In ode to his decision to perform great work with UNXIPU, the Captain decided to repay his sleep debt on the lengthy Libyan Chinook ride. Despite the buffeting of crosswinds and the general rachety shake of thirty thousand unstable parts in motion possessing of a strong desire to murder you, Jon was to all the world a piece of furniture. He slept seated sideways across the bench, a harness underneath his knees and his arms wrapped about his legs, head jammed against his legs. He remained motionless for an incredible amount of time, becoming animate only upon their arrival.
After the Chinook had landed, the Captain abruptly rolled backwards onto his hips and bucked up onto his feet in the aisle - nearly losing his balance and upending onto the cold, steel floor, before grasping two harnesses, one in each hand, and righting himself.
"We've arrived," he declared in wonder to the strangers around him. "How wonderful!"
Bishop marched haphazardly alongside his new companions, taking in the dusty airstrip outside with bright, fidgeting eyes; he twitched here and there, never quite still, always in motion, a none-too-small glint of utter lunacy behind intelligent, probing eyes.
I'm having the same problem.
Are you sure that you don't need to give us specific privileges to edit it?
Are you sure that you don't need to give us specific privileges to edit it?
Darkraven said
Scribbles: Alright. His past brush with conspiracies and earlier alien contact would come in handy. I just so happen to have done a lot of research in all that, so I know how it's going to be like. Your character'd have plenty of things to do, as I plan to incorporate real-world conspiracies and purported alien contact incidents into the storyline, though they'd more likely be reimagined to fit XCOM.Your character's destiny will become clearer as the RP moves on
Sounds excellent my man.
Lennon79 said
Out of interest scribbles, is Bishop ex-Royal Signals or military intelligence?3 Military Intelligence is a TA unit if memory serves.
I had planned him as Military Intelligence, because it doesn't seem like Signals (unless they're much different across the pond than in the States) would have a lot of chances to stumble across information like that.
Per 3 Military Intelligence, honestly, the Army's own website lists every Intelligence group as a reserve unit, which is weird, but I couldn't actually locate any active duty Intelligence units so I just sort of... fudged... that.
Yeaaah.
Darkraven said
Not the talkative type, are you? Nice CS, considering that it just came out of the blue. But I've got a few questions though before accepting it. From my understanding, he's currently a non-combatant officer, am I right? He doesn't seem to have any rank even after getting out of that prison. Furthermore, what kind of role do you hope that Jonathan would be given? No promises that I'll deliver what you want though, because it's not up to me, but it's up to the characters of the story. :DRPCWhite: Noted.
Ah, didn't have much to say.
At any rate, he is - strictly speaking - a civilian adviser that at one point held the rank of Captain. He was stripped of all titles and accolades upon imprisonment in HMP Wakefield.
I don't really want him to be a gung-ho Jack Bauer murder machine. I feel like that's a bit too... obvious, you know? My plan was to have him fulfill more of a non-combat role, particularly focused on Intelligence. I gave him a DMR because I figured he'd still need a reason to tag along, so he can more or less post up and provide tactical details or cover from a short distance.
Just for the record, I'm DTF as soon as everybody else is ready. I can have Fischer at the library in my next post. I was just being suspenseful.
I'm still 'round.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” David murmured, a low undercurrent of profanity standing in as the soundtrack to this nonsensical, straight-out-of-Hollywood nightmare that he was inhabiting. He was, conservatively, ‘old’; he had never seen 28 Days Later or its sequels, nor had he played any of the Resident Evil or Silent Hill video games. David Fischer had seen George Romero’s defining pictures when he wore a younger man’s clothes, but that time had passed, and a combination of literature, talk radio, and his career occupied David’s life.
So, naturally, he was a bit skeptical that this was widespread - and furthermore, he was unprepared to grasp the scope of this situation as a whole.
“You’re going t’get in the Prius, you’re going t’call the police, and they’re going to sort this mess out most ricky tick, mate, don’t you worry - you’ll see, it’s going to be A-OK.”
Fischer continued to babble to himself as he hurried across the abandoned street and into the Rankin Avenue garage. He was cut short as glance at the other side of the ground floor revealed a tiny mob of very frenzied looking folks staring at him intently, perhaps caught in the twilight of deciding whether or not he was one of them or another piece of meat.
“Fuck!”
Turning to his right, David ascended the stairs to the second floor of the parking structure at top speed; he could hear the low footfalls of the lunatics beneath him, scurrying as quickly as they could to mount the stairs, eager to get ahold of the old boy. At the top of the flight he rushed forward, taking the next set of steps two at a time to the top floor of the garage.
Out in the open, David could see for miles; smoke in places, fire in others, a general audial cacophony billowing out across Asheville. What was going on, exactly?
Nothing good, David decided, remembering his current dire predicament and hurrying across the lot to C7, where a simple silver Prius hybrid was parked. Removing his keys from his coat pocket - and fumbling with them briefly, just to put a cliché spin on the whole affair - he deftly thumbed the symbol of an open lock: the Prius unlatched all four of its doors in agreement.
Wrenching open the passenger’s door and staring down at the wheelless dashboard, it took David several costly minutes to realize that this was an American car, and that the steering wheel was on entirely the wrong side of the damned thing.
“Fuck’s sake.”
At precisely that moment, a front runner managed to catch up with the Englishman; David whirled about just in time to see the bastard hurtling towards him. On sheer survival instinct, Fischer took a step back and held the door ajar, allowing the man to collide with the side of the car, denting it with his knee. David then threw his shoulder into the passenger door, causing it to crash into his crazed assailant.
The man’s leg broke, with a sickening snap, crack, and David yanked the door open, allowing him to crumple in a heap on the asphalt. He shut the door and proceeded quickly to the wrong side of the car, climbing in and shutting the door behind him. With a quick jab, twist motion, the Prius hummed to life - yes, hummed, not roared, it’s a Hybrid - and David snapped his seat belt into place. Safety first, gents.
Throwing the Prius in reverse, the Brit swiveled about and brought the car around in a J-turn fashion, shifting into OD just in time to whir past the horde of enraged pedestrians sprinting towards him.
“Eat it, you bloody cunts!” he roared, hauling ass around the two half-circles that took him down to the bottom floor. It was then that he realized that the orange-and-white entrance block was down - and he gunned it without a second thought, shattering the wooden blockade to pieces.
Simultaneously, a rather craft woman in sweats missing her left hand flung herself onto his hood, grappling with his windshield wipers and screaming at the top of her lungs.
“MOTHER OF GOD,” David yelped, tires squealing as he burned rubber against the pavement, picking up speed. The woman refused to relent, winding up and slamming her knuckles into the windshield. After two or three blows, the skin on her hand was giving way to raw red tendons and scraped bone beneath, but she continued, indefatigable, insistent that she shatter this windshield and perhaps kill this man.
David whipped the wheel back and forth, swerving across an empty street and slinging the woman onto the left side of the hood, where she found her grasp on an engine vent at the top of the hood, her lower body dangling and grinding against the street, blood spraying against the sidewalk.
Maneuvering the Prius into the left-hand lane, David nearly side-swiped a parked sedan, and the woman was struck, flipping up over the hood of the sedan and smashing through the windshield of the innocent vehicle.
“Jesus Christ,” David muttered, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
SUMMARY: Fischer gets his hybrid, runs over some punk ass bitch, and cruises into the sunset like a true player. Still hasn't reached the library. Get on my level, I'll be there on post 550, boys.
So, naturally, he was a bit skeptical that this was widespread - and furthermore, he was unprepared to grasp the scope of this situation as a whole.
“You’re going t’get in the Prius, you’re going t’call the police, and they’re going to sort this mess out most ricky tick, mate, don’t you worry - you’ll see, it’s going to be A-OK.”
Fischer continued to babble to himself as he hurried across the abandoned street and into the Rankin Avenue garage. He was cut short as glance at the other side of the ground floor revealed a tiny mob of very frenzied looking folks staring at him intently, perhaps caught in the twilight of deciding whether or not he was one of them or another piece of meat.
“Fuck!”
Turning to his right, David ascended the stairs to the second floor of the parking structure at top speed; he could hear the low footfalls of the lunatics beneath him, scurrying as quickly as they could to mount the stairs, eager to get ahold of the old boy. At the top of the flight he rushed forward, taking the next set of steps two at a time to the top floor of the garage.
Out in the open, David could see for miles; smoke in places, fire in others, a general audial cacophony billowing out across Asheville. What was going on, exactly?
Nothing good, David decided, remembering his current dire predicament and hurrying across the lot to C7, where a simple silver Prius hybrid was parked. Removing his keys from his coat pocket - and fumbling with them briefly, just to put a cliché spin on the whole affair - he deftly thumbed the symbol of an open lock: the Prius unlatched all four of its doors in agreement.
Wrenching open the passenger’s door and staring down at the wheelless dashboard, it took David several costly minutes to realize that this was an American car, and that the steering wheel was on entirely the wrong side of the damned thing.
“Fuck’s sake.”
At precisely that moment, a front runner managed to catch up with the Englishman; David whirled about just in time to see the bastard hurtling towards him. On sheer survival instinct, Fischer took a step back and held the door ajar, allowing the man to collide with the side of the car, denting it with his knee. David then threw his shoulder into the passenger door, causing it to crash into his crazed assailant.
The man’s leg broke, with a sickening snap, crack, and David yanked the door open, allowing him to crumple in a heap on the asphalt. He shut the door and proceeded quickly to the wrong side of the car, climbing in and shutting the door behind him. With a quick jab, twist motion, the Prius hummed to life - yes, hummed, not roared, it’s a Hybrid - and David snapped his seat belt into place. Safety first, gents.
Throwing the Prius in reverse, the Brit swiveled about and brought the car around in a J-turn fashion, shifting into OD just in time to whir past the horde of enraged pedestrians sprinting towards him.
“Eat it, you bloody cunts!” he roared, hauling ass around the two half-circles that took him down to the bottom floor. It was then that he realized that the orange-and-white entrance block was down - and he gunned it without a second thought, shattering the wooden blockade to pieces.
Simultaneously, a rather craft woman in sweats missing her left hand flung herself onto his hood, grappling with his windshield wipers and screaming at the top of her lungs.
“MOTHER OF GOD,” David yelped, tires squealing as he burned rubber against the pavement, picking up speed. The woman refused to relent, winding up and slamming her knuckles into the windshield. After two or three blows, the skin on her hand was giving way to raw red tendons and scraped bone beneath, but she continued, indefatigable, insistent that she shatter this windshield and perhaps kill this man.
David whipped the wheel back and forth, swerving across an empty street and slinging the woman onto the left side of the hood, where she found her grasp on an engine vent at the top of the hood, her lower body dangling and grinding against the street, blood spraying against the sidewalk.
Maneuvering the Prius into the left-hand lane, David nearly side-swiped a parked sedan, and the woman was struck, flipping up over the hood of the sedan and smashing through the windshield of the innocent vehicle.
“Jesus Christ,” David muttered, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
SUMMARY: Fischer gets his hybrid, runs over some punk ass bitch, and cruises into the sunset like a true player. Still hasn't reached the library. Get on my level, I'll be there on post 550, boys.
Avery Calhoun said
Don't threaten me with a good time.
don't threaten me with an erection
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