Toxx — Roleplayer Guild

Jackson attempted to keep his calm, even as the plane began jumping around. The pilot announced that it was simply turbulence, but the man was almost completely guaranteed that they were going to crash. He hadn't been on a plane before...in his entire life, and googling 'deadly plane crashes' didn't help his confidence in the matter at all. Not at all. With a silent sigh, he rested his elbows on the rests, quickly flicking through his cheap iPod and selecting the iTunes app. He didn't have much music, but, as always, listening to some Skillet seemed to calm his nerves and force him to think rationally. They wouldn't crash. They wouldn't crash. They wouldn't crash. "The secret side of me, I never let you see...I keep it caged but I can't control it." The man murmured under his breath, sharp eyes turning towards the window of the plane as he attempted to keep his breathing under control. The 'turbulence' was beginning to act up again, and Jackson clenched his tanned hands over the top of the arm rest, teeth gritting.

"I-is that smoke?!" A random passenger suddenly yelled out, forcing Jackson to pause his music and arch his head awkwardly against the window. Sure-fucking-enough, there was smoke coming from the plane's wings, and he could hear the pilot attempting to keep the peace over the intercom. Sadly, people were now standing, cramming against the windows in a futile attempt to get a good look at the smoking turbine motors. There was a haze of conversation and hysterity, but, for some reason, no one was outright panicking. Maybe some sort of weird, twisted sense of amazement overtook their forms, or something similar. Jackson, however, was overcome with a sense of realization. "We're going to fucking crash." He growled, half in shock, and half in annoyance. The man tore off his belt, arm tearing upwards to grab his lowered oxygen mask and slam it onto his face, just as the plan began cramping and losing altitude at a heavy rate. Metal began bending, shrapnel flying everywhere, and finally, people began screaming and yelling as their forms were thrown to and fro. Jackson stood up, barely maintaining his balance as he grabbed his water-proof bag, strapping it securely across his back. He wasn't going to die here.

A snag caught onto the front of his shirt, and the man barely released a growl of annoyance as the metal ripped open his shirt, quickly slicing the loose fabric into ribbons. Grabbing an iron-clad grip onto the piece of metal, Jackson tore it away from his shirt, thankfully only slicing a shallow cut on his chest. His shirt was completely ruined however, and as he was jostled and pushed by rushing and panicked passengers, Jackson tore off the shirt, leaving his torso breathable as his pants were lightly torn from the flying shrapnel. Small, shallow, and non-lethal cuts began littering his arms and torso as the plane began dropping altitude faster and faster, and Jackson couldn't see...anything. Everything was a haze. A haze of crashing, slicing metal, smoke, and fire. As soon as he felt the torn plane crash into the ocean, the man managed to kick open his glass window, leaping out just as the plane broke the surface of water....

Jackson was awoken by the stinging of salt water on his sore wounds. He slowly opened his eyes...only to close them immediately as they were swarmed by what seemed to be oil and water. Blubbering and coughing, the man shot up to the surface, rubbing his wet hair off of his forehead and glancing around. It was chaos. The plane was crashed in the water, nothing but smoldering ruins, and the cries and yells of injured and dying passengers tore through his sensitive ears. Treading carefully on the water, the man cautiously checked his back for his brown backpack. Sure enough, it was still there, and so he glanced back out into the ocean, mentally thankful for the swimming lessons he was forcibly shoved into by his father. "Think...think...think..." He growled to himself, glancing around. Through the haze of smoke, he could see what seemed to be sand - an island! Without even a backwards glance at the wreckage, Jackson dived into the water, swimming towards the, in his eyes, paradise for sore eyes. Adrenaline blocked out the stinging of his cuts, and the salt water sparked up his energy. He would make it through this.

Within seconds, he made it to the island, and the shirtless man bravely climbed into the warm sand, not even pausing when he noticed the appearance of two survivors nearby. He headed straight towards the closest tree, collapsing against it's bark and gazing at his small injuries. "Shit...

Delilah panted, half-submerged in water, near the shore. She coughed out yet another galloon of the salty liquid, a large, bloody gash carving across the back of her neck. Her eyes were half-lidded, and she seemed faint.

It's called the Void Digger, and it's super sw33t, yo. Thing can accelerate to above 100mph after squeezing the gas, and it has a few built in technology junk. Squeezing the left handle blasts plasma rockets from between the two split parts you can see in the front, and the vehicle moves around by levitating, not using wheels...because it has none. It's materialized from a dark blue rune he keeps on the palm of his right glove. Squeeze yo' hand, form an orb of artificial blue flames, throw dat 'shizz on the ground, and bam, the Void Digger's right there, revving and ready to go.

That's the description, at least. Custom-built by Grave himself. He can build others. Thinkin' 'bout making an anonymous business for custom weapons and vehicles one day. Maybe.

I'll edit that into his CS.

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