Hahaha, tennants is bloody horrible. I'm surprised you're still breathing
Yin Jingshin Member
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Hahah, I wouldn't quite say ghost rider, but astetically, yeah, totally.
The Womb slunk around the deserted alleyways of Perth. He had lost any pursuers, not that he had tried. It was as easy as walking away. He had come to know his surroundings as Australia. The land of Criminals and Aborigines. He had visited the place in his past, yet he did not remember it being so Babylonian in scope. Buildings tore into the sky like mighty fingers reaching. They were impressive. As impressive as the Incan pyramids or Tibetan temples. He wondered what it was they represented, if they were used for worship or some other kind of tradition. The sun had begun to touch the horizon, and the skies were turning an eerie blood red in their twilight. As he walked and pondered, he spotted a gruff looking man at the end of the alleyway. He was clad in black leather, spikes adorning the outfit. He had a hooded jacket underneath, and fingerless gloves and boots. He seemed to be meddling with a metal horse of sorts.
“Fackin motor, she’s nearly there, come one,” the man muttered to himself as he bent lower and twiddled at the insides of his vehicle. The Womb approached from behind and stood motionless behind him. After a short while, the man leant back in triumph, “there she is! Good as new. Let start ‘er up,” He stood up and turned to straddle the bike, yet as he did so he was suddenly met with The Womb’s naked form. “Jesus mate, what the fackin ‘ell are you doing? You looking to catch a beating? Where’s yer fackin clothes? Are you drunk?” The man didn’t seem to notice The Womb’s genitalia, or fleshless face; the twilight skewing his vision.
“I am not this Jesus you speak of. I believe you mean Yeshua. He was a good man. He wanted peace. But he worshiped the wrong God,” answered The Womb.
“What the fac--?” The man’s expletive was cut off as the Womb’s hand shot out and gripped the the leather clad brute by the throat. With seeming ease, the Womb gradually lifted the man from his feet, slowly choking him to death. The man kick out, but his kicks did little to nothing to Phase The Womb. Soon enough the man was limp, the only life left in him being the twitching of his nervous system. The Womb threw the body to the ground and began to rifle at its clothes.
“If I am to survive in this world, I must dress accordingly,” muttered The Womb to himself, as he eased off the man’s trousers and jackets. Soon enough, The Womb was suited and booted in the biker's outfit. It was a snug fit, but would work for now. He took the bikers full face helmet and eased it onto his head. He took the bike by the handle bars and sat aboard it’s seat. He fiddled with the controls, trying to figure out how to work the machine. After some time, he found out how to start the engine. As he continued to investigate, he pulled back on the throttle and was suddenly thrust forwards at a high speed. At a good forty miles per hour, The Womb sped out onto the streets of Perth. He swerved and nearly hit a car. Using his enhanced reflexes, he was able to right himself and keep balanced, however he did not know how to slow himself down. He drove on into oncoming traffic, cars veered out of his way as he tried fruitlessly to understand what he was doing. He came to a corner and turned himself into a skid that sent him rolling across the ground and his bike sliding in a sea of sparks further down the road.
The sounds of horns and sirens alerted The Womb. He couldn’t have lawmen approach him again. He had already created enough of a scene in his disoriented state on the beach. He ran to the bike, hoisted it up, and rode it yet again. This time he took it to the side in which others seemed to be driving and found himself in a much better position. He took little notice of road signs or lights, and zipped through the streets at high speed. Using his reflexes, he began to find it easy dodging through traffic, only having to slow at corners. The streets were more or less straight, and were wide. This made things much easier for The Womb. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the city and felt safe once again. He slowed down outside a string of backwater stores. He leant his bike against a nearby lamppost and gazed into a shop window. Inside were many screens with moving pictures. He remembered when these were grainy, soundless spectacles. ENjoyed by the masses with piano accompaniment.
“How far have my children come? These images, they look like portals…” The Womb whispered to himself. He stared into the screens and could make out the faint sounds of speaking.
”...The Champions have been difficult to get hold of after the incident with only limited statements being released. After Nagoya many are wondering if the Champions should be arrested, or hailed as heroes for stopping a dangerous mafioso group. We have Ben Shapiro and Noam Chomsky debating the topic with us here tonight on the Hannity Show on FOX News…”
“Fackin motor, she’s nearly there, come one,” the man muttered to himself as he bent lower and twiddled at the insides of his vehicle. The Womb approached from behind and stood motionless behind him. After a short while, the man leant back in triumph, “there she is! Good as new. Let start ‘er up,” He stood up and turned to straddle the bike, yet as he did so he was suddenly met with The Womb’s naked form. “Jesus mate, what the fackin ‘ell are you doing? You looking to catch a beating? Where’s yer fackin clothes? Are you drunk?” The man didn’t seem to notice The Womb’s genitalia, or fleshless face; the twilight skewing his vision.
“I am not this Jesus you speak of. I believe you mean Yeshua. He was a good man. He wanted peace. But he worshiped the wrong God,” answered The Womb.
“What the fac--?” The man’s expletive was cut off as the Womb’s hand shot out and gripped the the leather clad brute by the throat. With seeming ease, the Womb gradually lifted the man from his feet, slowly choking him to death. The man kick out, but his kicks did little to nothing to Phase The Womb. Soon enough the man was limp, the only life left in him being the twitching of his nervous system. The Womb threw the body to the ground and began to rifle at its clothes.
“If I am to survive in this world, I must dress accordingly,” muttered The Womb to himself, as he eased off the man’s trousers and jackets. Soon enough, The Womb was suited and booted in the biker's outfit. It was a snug fit, but would work for now. He took the bikers full face helmet and eased it onto his head. He took the bike by the handle bars and sat aboard it’s seat. He fiddled with the controls, trying to figure out how to work the machine. After some time, he found out how to start the engine. As he continued to investigate, he pulled back on the throttle and was suddenly thrust forwards at a high speed. At a good forty miles per hour, The Womb sped out onto the streets of Perth. He swerved and nearly hit a car. Using his enhanced reflexes, he was able to right himself and keep balanced, however he did not know how to slow himself down. He drove on into oncoming traffic, cars veered out of his way as he tried fruitlessly to understand what he was doing. He came to a corner and turned himself into a skid that sent him rolling across the ground and his bike sliding in a sea of sparks further down the road.
The sounds of horns and sirens alerted The Womb. He couldn’t have lawmen approach him again. He had already created enough of a scene in his disoriented state on the beach. He ran to the bike, hoisted it up, and rode it yet again. This time he took it to the side in which others seemed to be driving and found himself in a much better position. He took little notice of road signs or lights, and zipped through the streets at high speed. Using his reflexes, he began to find it easy dodging through traffic, only having to slow at corners. The streets were more or less straight, and were wide. This made things much easier for The Womb. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the city and felt safe once again. He slowed down outside a string of backwater stores. He leant his bike against a nearby lamppost and gazed into a shop window. Inside were many screens with moving pictures. He remembered when these were grainy, soundless spectacles. ENjoyed by the masses with piano accompaniment.
“How far have my children come? These images, they look like portals…” The Womb whispered to himself. He stared into the screens and could make out the faint sounds of speaking.
”...The Champions have been difficult to get hold of after the incident with only limited statements being released. After Nagoya many are wondering if the Champions should be arrested, or hailed as heroes for stopping a dangerous mafioso group. We have Ben Shapiro and Noam Chomsky debating the topic with us here tonight on the Hannity Show on FOX News…”
Also, how does posting work? Do we wait in a specific order, or, do we use the "@" function to let people know who's posting in which area etc? Just wondering cause I wanna do the second part to Womb's intro (I'll have him interact with other players soon, just want to give him some cotext as to why he's doing what he's doing) maybe tonight or tomorrow? If I have to wait though that's fine, just wanna know the deal
Waves crashed onto the overly populated beachhead of Perth, Australia. Children and adults alike ran along the sand, dived into the sea, cooked food and sunbathed to their hearts content. It was the height of Australia's summer, and the height of winter almost everywhere else. Atop his lifeguard outlook, Jim was sat in his chair applying sunscreen to his browned legs.
“Jim, cunt. Stop waxing yer legs and look over there,” ordered Jim’s senior lifeguard.
“Fackin ‘ell Steve, have you always gotta speak to me like that?” replied Jim.
“Shut yer fackin mouth yer blasted baby and do yer fackin job,” snapped Steve.
“Jesus,” muttered Jim as he got out of his seat and waltzed over to the fixed binoculars. He looked over onto the beach and noticed a group of people clammering out of the ocean, seemingly in terror. Jim darted his gaze to the source of the commotion, and could see a floating body.
“Bloody ‘ell steve we’ve got a floater!” Yelled Jim as he hurried down the fixed steel ladders.
“Bloody ‘ell,” echoed Steve as he too hurried behind Jim. The pair ran across the beach at speed, and reached the scene within a few minutes.
“What’s ‘appened?” Demanded Steve as he approached the now amassed crowds of terrified people. Jim dived into the ocean and swam out to the body in the hopes of retrieving it.
“We were just out swimming and we saw this body floating, we thought somebody had drowned so we went to help, but we noticed the bleedin thing didn’t have any skin on the noggin, so we scarpered,” a bewildered, middle aged fat man informed Steve.
Jim made his way back to the beach, dragging the corpse with him and laying it down on the wet sand. “Good work Jimbo lad. Now go alert the coastguard and the police would ya? I’ll keep everything under wraps here,” said Steve and Jim obliged, his young heart racing at the thought of recovering a corpse from the ocean. As Jim raced back to the lifeguards outlook, Steve began fanning people away from the scene. “Alright people, give the guy some dignity, move along. Take your kids, they don’t wanna see this, come on, move along!” As he waved, he noticed that the people were not moving, in fact, they seemed to be stood still, almost in shock or fear, “What’s wrong with you folks? Get a move on would y--” Steve was cut off as a hand gripped him by the throat from behind. Steve gasped for air and struggled to claw at the hand to win his freedom.
“Where am I? Who are these gluttoned parasites?” A bold, yet harsh voice boomed into Steve’s ear. Of course, he couldn't answer, with fingers so firmly clamped on his windpipe that he was about to faint. Steve did all he could to try and gasp an answer yet instead went limp and unconscious in the hands of his assailant.
“It’s a monster, everybody run!” came the screams of the congregation. Pandemonium ensued, families, friends and foes alike scrambled for their lives towards the carparks and promenades. The figure from the sea let loose his grip on the now deceased Steve, and left his body to flop unflatteringly to the ground. The figure watched as the people ran, showing no signs of moving.
“They run from me. My children run,” whispered the figure, “They always run.”
Suddenly, sirens could be heard in the distance, their proximity getting closer at every moment. Jim had informed the police of the goings on at the beach step by step. He was horrified to have seen his long time friend Steve killed in such a brutish manner, and hoped the Police would be able to deal with this terrible creature.
Down on the beach, groups of Police officers made their way down, guns in hand, pointed at the figure on the beach. When they were in earshot they began to scream “Freeze!” and other such phrases associated with law enforcement. As they drew nearer the men began to freeze and take caution. They noticed the exposed neck muscles, the lack of skin and the exposed skull of the figure. It became apparent the man was lacking in a penis, also alarming some of the officers due to the uncanniness. A senior officer stepped forwards, his gun pointed squarely at the figure.
“Who are you? Are you one of those meta-humans? Identify yourself!” He almost screamed it, yet the nervousness he was trying to hide was still apparent.
“Hu-man? I am not Hu-man. I am before Hu-mans. I created thee. I begot life on this planet, just like all the others before this. And I shall continue to do so,” replied the figure.
“Identify yourself!” barked the officer, sweat covering his brow and his hands shaking.
“After all these years, my children still do not know me,” said the figure, almost to himself, “I am The Womb, child. The ever living, ever present Womb. I give life that it might die. I create, so it might exist. I am the Lord of this world. I am the Adam and the Eve, the fruit and the tree. I, begat thee,” responded The Womb, his hand stretching out as he spoke.
“What in the fackin hell is this?” muttered an officer, visibly shaken by what he was witnessing.
“Gentleman, lay down your weapons! I must reclaim this world! Join me and we shall triumph,” The Womb clasped his hand tightly as he spoke, emphasising the word “triumph” as he did so.
“Put ‘im down lads!” screamed the senior officer. Within seconds shots rang out all around. .22 caliber rounds and some of slightly heavier duty slammed into The Womb’s flesh, tearing it apart. A gutshot spilled his intestines to the ground, his dark red blood staining the sand. The Womb fell to the ground and the shooting stopped. The Officers stood wiping their brows anticipating a job well done. As they looked around in relief, one of the officers noticed something strange about the corpse. The holes and wounds they’d opened up on The Womb’s body had largely vanished, and the gutshot seemed to be almost sewing itself back to normalcy, as if it hadn’t even happened at all. There was a deafening groan. The source of which was the now flailing body of The Womb. After the groan seemed to have come to a crescendo, The Womb then began to scream in what felt like a mixture of pain, anger and murderous intent.
The officers began to quickly reload their weapons, all of them in disbelief as The Womb rose to it’s feet.
“As much as I create, I too, destroy,” uttered The Womb as he suddenly smashed the ground with his fist. The impact was so hard, the ground around the group was blasted into the air by the tons. It was almost as if an explosion had gone off underneath their feet. The officers were unanimously crippled, every one either critically injured due to falling from height, or buried underneath hundreds of pounds of wet sand. The Womb stood in the center, unphased. His skin covered in dark sand, the grit covering his entire body. He began to walk towards the promenades, calmly and with purpose.
“Times have changed dear Womb. It seems you must acclimatize yourself with this wonderful new world,” he muttered to himself pensively.
“Jim, cunt. Stop waxing yer legs and look over there,” ordered Jim’s senior lifeguard.
“Fackin ‘ell Steve, have you always gotta speak to me like that?” replied Jim.
“Shut yer fackin mouth yer blasted baby and do yer fackin job,” snapped Steve.
“Jesus,” muttered Jim as he got out of his seat and waltzed over to the fixed binoculars. He looked over onto the beach and noticed a group of people clammering out of the ocean, seemingly in terror. Jim darted his gaze to the source of the commotion, and could see a floating body.
“Bloody ‘ell steve we’ve got a floater!” Yelled Jim as he hurried down the fixed steel ladders.
“Bloody ‘ell,” echoed Steve as he too hurried behind Jim. The pair ran across the beach at speed, and reached the scene within a few minutes.
“What’s ‘appened?” Demanded Steve as he approached the now amassed crowds of terrified people. Jim dived into the ocean and swam out to the body in the hopes of retrieving it.
“We were just out swimming and we saw this body floating, we thought somebody had drowned so we went to help, but we noticed the bleedin thing didn’t have any skin on the noggin, so we scarpered,” a bewildered, middle aged fat man informed Steve.
Jim made his way back to the beach, dragging the corpse with him and laying it down on the wet sand. “Good work Jimbo lad. Now go alert the coastguard and the police would ya? I’ll keep everything under wraps here,” said Steve and Jim obliged, his young heart racing at the thought of recovering a corpse from the ocean. As Jim raced back to the lifeguards outlook, Steve began fanning people away from the scene. “Alright people, give the guy some dignity, move along. Take your kids, they don’t wanna see this, come on, move along!” As he waved, he noticed that the people were not moving, in fact, they seemed to be stood still, almost in shock or fear, “What’s wrong with you folks? Get a move on would y--” Steve was cut off as a hand gripped him by the throat from behind. Steve gasped for air and struggled to claw at the hand to win his freedom.
“Where am I? Who are these gluttoned parasites?” A bold, yet harsh voice boomed into Steve’s ear. Of course, he couldn't answer, with fingers so firmly clamped on his windpipe that he was about to faint. Steve did all he could to try and gasp an answer yet instead went limp and unconscious in the hands of his assailant.
“It’s a monster, everybody run!” came the screams of the congregation. Pandemonium ensued, families, friends and foes alike scrambled for their lives towards the carparks and promenades. The figure from the sea let loose his grip on the now deceased Steve, and left his body to flop unflatteringly to the ground. The figure watched as the people ran, showing no signs of moving.
“They run from me. My children run,” whispered the figure, “They always run.”
Suddenly, sirens could be heard in the distance, their proximity getting closer at every moment. Jim had informed the police of the goings on at the beach step by step. He was horrified to have seen his long time friend Steve killed in such a brutish manner, and hoped the Police would be able to deal with this terrible creature.
Down on the beach, groups of Police officers made their way down, guns in hand, pointed at the figure on the beach. When they were in earshot they began to scream “Freeze!” and other such phrases associated with law enforcement. As they drew nearer the men began to freeze and take caution. They noticed the exposed neck muscles, the lack of skin and the exposed skull of the figure. It became apparent the man was lacking in a penis, also alarming some of the officers due to the uncanniness. A senior officer stepped forwards, his gun pointed squarely at the figure.
“Who are you? Are you one of those meta-humans? Identify yourself!” He almost screamed it, yet the nervousness he was trying to hide was still apparent.
“Hu-man? I am not Hu-man. I am before Hu-mans. I created thee. I begot life on this planet, just like all the others before this. And I shall continue to do so,” replied the figure.
“Identify yourself!” barked the officer, sweat covering his brow and his hands shaking.
“After all these years, my children still do not know me,” said the figure, almost to himself, “I am The Womb, child. The ever living, ever present Womb. I give life that it might die. I create, so it might exist. I am the Lord of this world. I am the Adam and the Eve, the fruit and the tree. I, begat thee,” responded The Womb, his hand stretching out as he spoke.
“What in the fackin hell is this?” muttered an officer, visibly shaken by what he was witnessing.
“Gentleman, lay down your weapons! I must reclaim this world! Join me and we shall triumph,” The Womb clasped his hand tightly as he spoke, emphasising the word “triumph” as he did so.
“Put ‘im down lads!” screamed the senior officer. Within seconds shots rang out all around. .22 caliber rounds and some of slightly heavier duty slammed into The Womb’s flesh, tearing it apart. A gutshot spilled his intestines to the ground, his dark red blood staining the sand. The Womb fell to the ground and the shooting stopped. The Officers stood wiping their brows anticipating a job well done. As they looked around in relief, one of the officers noticed something strange about the corpse. The holes and wounds they’d opened up on The Womb’s body had largely vanished, and the gutshot seemed to be almost sewing itself back to normalcy, as if it hadn’t even happened at all. There was a deafening groan. The source of which was the now flailing body of The Womb. After the groan seemed to have come to a crescendo, The Womb then began to scream in what felt like a mixture of pain, anger and murderous intent.
The officers began to quickly reload their weapons, all of them in disbelief as The Womb rose to it’s feet.
“As much as I create, I too, destroy,” uttered The Womb as he suddenly smashed the ground with his fist. The impact was so hard, the ground around the group was blasted into the air by the tons. It was almost as if an explosion had gone off underneath their feet. The officers were unanimously crippled, every one either critically injured due to falling from height, or buried underneath hundreds of pounds of wet sand. The Womb stood in the center, unphased. His skin covered in dark sand, the grit covering his entire body. He began to walk towards the promenades, calmly and with purpose.
“Times have changed dear Womb. It seems you must acclimatize yourself with this wonderful new world,” he muttered to himself pensively.
I don't intend to be swearing often in my posts, however my opening post features australians. And they tend to be very foul mouthed. i kinda just wanted to reflect that, for comedic perposes. If it needs to be toned down, let me know. For now, I'll roll with it
btw, is swearing allowed?
@MrDidactAhhhhhh I see. I thought the splinters were past champions which is why I went with my generalized theory. But this is some good information right here, thanks.
The way I see the splinter team is that they're disenfranchised with the Champions and their wanton displays. They want to crate some kind of order, or some kind of due process to go along with this whole "hero" business. Like, they may want to restrict heroes from using their powers in particular ways (and of course, minimize collateral damage). And if they break the rules, are subject to some kind of arrest or something. Wheras the champions seem to be more like "meh, shit's gonna happen, lets just keep hero-ing it up and hope the bad shit that happens isn't as bad as last time". Basically, the Champions are having a hard time understanding if they're really heroes or not, and are essentially in denial.
So as far as I can tell, the line of hero/villain is being blurred here. What is bad? What is good? Perhaps a bit of both is in order? It's tought o see where the lines are and I think that's the point. The Champions are not the good guys, and the splinter are not the villains. They're just a bunch of people with good intentions that have different ideas of how to achive those intentions.
@Polyphemus sound about right?
EDIT: also, any word on when we can get this show on the road? I'm fond of lurking up to a point but, my fingers are starting to get a little....itchy
So as far as I can tell, the line of hero/villain is being blurred here. What is bad? What is good? Perhaps a bit of both is in order? It's tought o see where the lines are and I think that's the point. The Champions are not the good guys, and the splinter are not the villains. They're just a bunch of people with good intentions that have different ideas of how to achive those intentions.
@Polyphemus sound about right?
EDIT: also, any word on when we can get this show on the road? I'm fond of lurking up to a point but, my fingers are starting to get a little....itchy
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