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STATIC: SPECIAL CROSSOVER ISSUE # 3


EVENT: ABSOLUTE CRISIS


Cold. That was the first word on his mind, flying upwards above the Narrows. Teeth chattering, he wiped a sheen of dew that had accumulated on his googles from his trek towards Staten Island.

Then, a face-full of sea-gull slammed into him.

“ Motherfu-” His shouts were blocked out by the wild roar of the southerly wind. Feathered wings flapped in his face, the smell of bird poo and sour fish choking his senses. He waved his arms uncoordinatedly, one foot coming loose. Crud. He slipped off the slick metal and would have nearly fell into the murky depths below. If it wasn't for his last minute thinking. Static charge built up on his fingertips, allowing him to stick to the bottom of the manhole like an old piece of gum. He watched as the flock dispersed, squawking in laughter. Virgil swayed in the air precariously for a few moments before managing to haul himself back up on the thick disc of grilled steel. He'd imagined his obituary for a second.

VIRGIL HAWKINS. 2001 - 2019. DIED BECAUSE HE WAS SURPRISED BY BIRDS.

He would never live that one down if it happened.

Virgil found it odd that he’d never seen the ocean before. He’d explored swimming pools, rivers and lakes before but nothing could compare to the wide open blue vistas in front of him. Sea salt flecked on his lips, soaking in the cold, briny air. The polarized goggles protected his pupils from the blistering autumn gales, eyes narrowing on his target. Staten Island. The site of one of the last towers. He was still too far away and worse of all, the weather wasn't helping either. The Dakotan native muscles bunched up in the chill. The cloth of his jacket flapped relentlessly in the middle of the bay. That and his reserves were beginning to peter out. His legs were beginning to feel like jelly. He hadn’t traveled this far and for so long before. The glowing stripes on his jacket began to dim in luminescence in a traffic light.

Screams echoed over the waters. Words that he heard a dozen times over in different contexts over hundreds of patrols, coming somewhere over from the bridge between Brooklyn and Staten Island.

No. He couldn’t give up now. He still needed to do this. If he'd give up now, then, what about Dakota? Dakota could have been hit by this damn thing and he'd have been none the wiser for it. Hell, if Sharon and Dad were in the thick of it right now......A look of grim determination spread upon his face. He needed more speed. The low hum of current increased in volume and the bottom of his surfboard exploded in a burst of blue brilliance. Air parted and rushed into the void, thunder reverberating behind him.

The Verrazano sliced through the bay like a rib-cage, a bulky mass of gun-metal steel protruding above the swirling water. He flew in closer, hovering above the chaos of beeping cars and shouting drivers. The intersections were gummed up with mile-long traffic jams, everyone trying desperately to flee from Brooklyn towards Staten Island. At the back were a school of buses and behind them were a crowd of infected individuals that were slowly closing their jaws on the rear of the conga line.

He came down like a streak of lightning, standing with his arms crossed between the school bus and the horde.

“ I’ve had a real long day today. So, here’s what I’m only gonna say this once. All of you can just go have fun with one another while I escort these people out of here. Sound like a deal?”

There was a pregnant pause. The crowd remained glued to their position whilst the bus passengers behind him waited with bated breath. A scream followed by several others dashed Virgil’s hopes as dozens charged towards him, leaping and vaulting over cars and obstacles.

“ All right, then.” Virgil grunted, electromagnetically pushing a sedan that had stopped in the middle of the intersection in front of the crowd to act as a shield.

" If you're still alive after this - " Virgil looks back at the crowd. " I'm gonna need to borrow one of your buses for a second."

Looks of confusion were shared between each of the passengers. Virgil signed. " Trust me. It'll make more sense later."




Drone 4_A_23_Alpha . It’s host would soon expire within 23 hours, 15 minutes and 10 seconds from a blood hemorrhage. It was enough time to fulfill the parameters of the task that it had been given. A number of unknown variables hadn’t been taken into account. Other drones relay across the network, Group Beta 3 klicks away whilst Group Cossack is 5 klicks away. The mission parameters wouldn’t be satisfied if

The target is currently airborne, a distance of 80 meters above and 0.5 klicks away from the central node. Further analysis through the drones infra-red sensors and through the vision of their hosts indicates that this unknown variable, 'Static', is on top of this bus. He breaches through the outer perimeter.

Drone 4_A_23_Alpha signals to the rest of the swarm to move in on the coordinates.

High priority.

The tower is under attack.




“ WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

The bus slammed into the base of the tower like a battering ram, shaking from the impact.

There!

Well, only one way to find out. Virgil gingerly removed the gloe right hand, already feeling the heavy voltage seeping into the air. The hairs on his fingers were on end, only millimeters away from touching the power conduit.

He screamed as he pushed the electricity out into the web of wiring interlaced throughout the tower. Circuits overloaded, capacitors shattered apart and internal resistors melted like wax. Every drop of electricity he had within him and more was forced within the machine.

Something trickled down his nose. He wiped his upper lip with a finger and saw crimson stained on the whorls of his fingerprints.

That wasn't supposed to come out of your nose like that.

Why was he feeling tired so suddenly?

And then, Virgil collapsed.
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" In this line of work, death's an occupational hazard. "






The Venataan Consortium




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This is Central Officer Bradford, hailing all surviving XCOM operatives on this channel.

Protocol Ember is now in effect. All surviving XCOM units and outposts are to maintain radio silence with one another and are now given permission to operate independently from HQ.

While we have lost the battle, the war has not been lost.

Vigilo Confido.





X.C.O.M

PROTOCOL EMBER







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Let me ask you an AP Philosophy question.

Can something still exist if no one remembers it?

Some strangers take their tales with them to their graves in alleyways or under the bottom of bridges. One thing I've learnt is that truth fades over time. It's got an expiration date.

Mom once told me that Dakota City is a land of forgotten stories. I'd like to think that's true, you see. Me and Black Lightning can't have been the only one to have been tested with power. Not everyone gets the chance to stand in the spotlight.

Believe me, after everything that's happened to me over the past week? It would make me happy if someone else could go onstage for once.





ABSOLUTE COMICS SPECIAL EDITION


INTRODUCING....


The MileStone Anthology - Chapter One


















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STATIC: CRISIS EPILOGUE





An earth-shattering boom rouses him from his dream. Storms are like monsters under the bed. A moment later, rainfall ruins his hopes of trying to sleep again. A yawning Virgil slowly crawls out of his bed. It's dark but navigating the corners of his house is second nature to him. He climbs down the stairs, one step at a time, stomach growling for a bowl of cereal.

By the time he makes it down to the living room, he notices that the front door is open. For a moment, he thinks a thief has broken into their house. He snorts at the thought. A thief tried to break into Black Lightning’s house. The silhouette of a person is standing in the doorway, looking out towards the streets with drenched gutters of rainwater. His dad freezes, caught like a deer in headlights. Worry begins to worm and nestle inside Virgil’s gut. It's not because he’s carrying an overstuffed suitcase, bursting at the seams. It's not the fact that his right cheek is stamped with a red mark that looks suspiciously like a hand.

It's the fact that his dad, the Black Lightning, is scared that makes Virgil so nervous.

Black Lightning shouldn’t be scared. What could a superhero be afraid of anyway?

His face is a muddled mess of anger, sadness and regret. He flinches every time Virgil waits expectantly for an excuse. An explanation. His

“ I- I’m sorry.”

For what? He doesn’t have the chance to reply back as his dad disappears in a blinding flash, leaving him with only the pitter-patter of raindrops for company.

His mom came down a minute later, something strange on her face. Virgil hugs her because that's the only thing he knows how to do. Something wet drops onto his pajamas.

It must be the rain.





Warmth.

Lights overhead.

Where was he?

No, he's not in Dakota City, nor is he five years old anymore. His mind scrambles to remember where he currently is right now. New York. The tower. He blew it up. It’s hard to make out the surrounding details. He tries to move his right leg...and it doesn’t want to budge. Left leg….no luck. Negotiating with his right arm resulted in a spike of pain that makes him shout a few curse words out loud that would have earned him an ear-pinching from his father.

He hears the sounds of graphite snapping against something hard. He looks up and sees an adult woman in white garb, black circles around her shocked eyes. She waves and motions towards someone out of sight. Moments later, a bespectacled sandy-haired man wearing a coat comes into view. He makes out a badge that reads ‘ CAMPBELL’. It’s seeing the stethoscope around his neck that makes Virgil realises that he’s in a hospital.

“ Easy there. You’ve been out for at least several hours and your body’s still recovering.’ The person begins pulling out instruments, poking and prodding at him.

“ Am...am I dead?” His throat feels like waxy sandpaper, gargling out each syllable in a pained grimace.

“ If that’s your first question after waking up, then, I’d be more worried about your choice in career, son.” The doctor replies testily to his question as he flashes a light in front of Virgil’s eyes like an annoying fly.

It’s a familiar position that he’s found himself in before. One of overwhelming helplessness like that of shelled turtle. The hazy fog of fatigue disappears over time and Craning his neck slowly from side to side, he can make out the disinfected white walls of a hospital building.

Wait, if he’s out in the open like this….The EKG began to beep erratically, the screen short-circuiting in a spastic blur of pixels. Virgil’s breathing hitches up a notch as his left hand reaches towards his own face. His heart-rate subsides once he realises that his goggles are still strapped on his eyes. The doctor’s concern fades away as he begins to relax once more.

“ W-” His dry throat makes it hard for him to enunciate. The doctor offers a paper cup of water in his hand. He takes it and sips it slowly. “ W-where am I?”

“ Columbia Hospital. One of our emergency team found you unconscious on Staten Island. You could imagine the shock we got when you still had a pulse. I’d be more worried about long-term symptomatic damage in your right arm. Third degree electrical burns aren’t exactly something that you can just brush off.”

The doctor stares pointedly towards Virgil’s right arm. Burned was an understatement to Virgil. Barbecued would be more appropriate. Blisters lined his cherry-red palms, scar-skin zig-zagging all the way up to his elbow like a demented tattoo. His fingerprints had been sanded away by high-voltage current into the texture of baby-skin. The feeling of numbness prickled in his nerves with every tug he forced into his fingers.

The only silver lining in this whole mess is that at least he didn’t break his right arm again.

“ Thank you. For everything. But, I just need some time alone to myself.”

There are multiple cards by his bedside. Hastily scrawled binder notes of one-word expressions of gratitude in ink. Pastel crayon doodles of him on the bridge. A box of chocolates (He’s allergic to hazelnut, but he doesn’t bother to tell the doctor).

Virgil lets his head rest on top of the pillow and lets out a sign of unbearable exhaustion that has been building up within him ever since the start of the attack.

How was he going to explain this to Dad?




It’s a Monday midnight by the time he arrives back at Dakota with Richie in tow.

The Hawkins household is located in the southern boroughs of Hemingway. He doesn't bother to wear the mask at midnight. Most of Dakota is asleep at this hour anyway.

“ Young man, do you know how much you had me worried - “

He ambushes his dad with a silent hug that says more than a thousand excuses. A moment later, arms wrap around his shoulder in a fatherly embrace. He pushes his face into his chest and exhales slowly.

“ I need to tell you something, Dad.”

" We'll talk about it over on the dinner table." There's a gentle pat on his back. " Now, come on in. There's a plate of ricotta I've been saving for you in the fridge...."

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Arc 2: + Power Outage +


STATIC SHOCK



Episode 1.1: - Back With a Bang -


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♦ Topic: Mayoral Election in Dakota City - The Future of Bang Babies Uncertain?

In: Boards ► General Affairs ► East-Coast

Peasant_Ghoul - (Meta Groupie)

http://www.whih.org/news/mayoral-showdown-at-dakota-city

" It's all too easy to mistake them as just monsters when in reality, they're kids. Misguided and lost boys and girls from Paris Island. From Utopia. From Hemingway. From Washington Avenue. Who all need a second chance at life."

This was just one of many choice quotes spoken by Robert Hawkins, head manager of Freeman Community Center and current mayoral nominee for Dakota City spoken during last week's campaign rally.

Today, on September 7th, marks two months since the infamous chemical incident that struck the harbors of Dakota City. The Big Bang, as dubbed by the local civilians living in Dakota City, resulted in the largest recorded artificial boom in metahuman populations in America since experimentation by the SSR in WW2. The status of metahumans as having access to human rights has long been a long contentious issue nation-wide.

His opponent, current incumbent Mayor Morris Jefferson is an active supporter of police militarization, advocating for the occupation of the D.M.A and a hostile policy towards meta-humans........
WHIH NEWS - 7th September 2019 - Christine Everhart


Hopefully, the DMA doesn't get their hands on Dakota City. It's surprising that Dakota's been left unscathed by the Stryfe Attack. My relative says that they're planning to break out mandatory checks for metas in every city....

StainedDuCChess
Replied on 13:24:20, 5th September

What's more surprising is that Static's managed to keep a tight noose on all those metas. Someone at least give this man a pat on the back.

Ram Mette
Replied on 13:42:35, 5th September

Hope that the new mayor puts all those dirty fuckin' mongrels in camps. Police should gas them again and make sure it works this time.

STAFF NOTICE: Honestly, Ram Mette, we are sick of your shit. You can get your anti-meta tirade out of here and off to whatever bridge you lurk under.

SpamLetters
Replied on 13:44:42, 5th September

ugh, crowd were friggin' packed when I went there.

Krimson Angel
Replied on 14:12:29, 5th September

Say, anyone still got footage of Static at NYC? I'm planning on using it for a school project.

HarryMan45
Replied on 14:30:01, 5th September

[@Krimson Angel] PM me and we can work something out.



“ LLLLEEETTT’SSS PARTAAAYY!” Boom pumped his fists in the midst of his jockeying, the crowd jumping up and down in erratic waves, as another track came on. The sub-woofer growing out of his chest reverbated and vibrated sporadically, electronic bass shaking the air. The music was infectious to the point where Ebon began to tap his feet in time with the beat.

It feels good to be king.

Paris Island barren wastes were teeming with wild hoots of celebration and the raucous cacophany of Just the way he liked it. Ebon watched from a corner as Talon dropped a crate of beer to the frenzying crowd of Bang Babies down below. Racks of meat and sausages were being cooked over campfires. He looked around at the shadows of corroding shipping containers cast by moonlight. The only other illumination available on the island were bonfires and the lightbulbs that his men had managed to scrounge up.

There was a muffled sound of gagging that he heard but no one else could. His stomach as his mind began to buzz with headaches. “Quit being shifty. Your time will come soon, Buchinsky.”

The struggles ceased. Ebon snorted. Was that all it took to silence the Electrocutioner? Hard to believe that he once believed this washed up old timer could bring down the Kilowatt Kid. However, it was still annoying that he still hadn’t managed to figure out the problem of containing living beings in his shadow dimension. Transporting Buchinsky all the way from Ryker’s to Dakota probably had a factor in how the criminal had managed to figure out how to affect Ebon from another dimension. He made a note for himself to fix it later. Right now, Buchinsky had other uses than being a thorn in his backside.

Ebon moved through the shadows like a serpent, gliding in between the darkness until he was on top of a shipping container, surveying the scene below him. The moonlight fully illuminated his figure. It took only a few moments before one person noticed him. Then, the next. Then, the few other dozen. It was a game of Chinese whispers and shoulder nudges that soon had made him the sole attention of the largest population of Bang Babies on the east coast. For anyone else, it would have been suicide.

But he wasn’t anyone. He was the Master of Shadows and not some normie chump but the boss of the Meta Breed. He was on top of the food chain as far as he was concerned and everyone else that he was staring right now got his scraps.

" How's it hanging, y'all?” Ebon shouted down towards the silent crowd. It was disappointing that they only reaction he got were coughs. Boom’s music was still on, though, it’d now had switched to a reggae track.

“C'mon, guys. Just cause they call me the Shadow Man don't mean you all gotta get cold feet.” He spoke exasperatedly. “ Makes me sound like some sort of pedophile, now that I think about it.”

The levity cut through the tension like a needle popping a balloon. There were giggles and sounds of laughter elicited from every Bang Baby. Boom took it as a signal to continue on, inserting a new track of Europop into the mix, to the cheers of the mob that had formed around his station.

“ Now, that’s what I like to hear! C’mon, Talon, gimme your poison of the day.”

Talon soared overhead and tossed him a bottle from her clawed feet which he caught deftly. He uncapped it and began to chug it down. It was all an act, of course. One of the downsides of his powers were that everyday normal sensations for him were dulled right now. Of course, that had upsides. The cheap beer now tasted faintly of apple juice to him instead of the bitter crap that so many swallowed down their throats.

Ebon hopped down from the metallic crate in a dark blur, looking where exactly to plan his little stunt. Funny. Nightinggale was nowhere to be seen, though, given how skittish the Night Breed were -

“ Look who came crawling back out of their cave again….”

He’d recognised that snide accent anywhere. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a lone individual part out from the crowd, ginger haired with yellow streaks dyed throughout. Hotstreak. The man toed the line so many times that Ebon was considering tossing him out of the Meta-Breed. He decided against it. Having a loose cannon on a leash was better than having a loose cannon on the leash pointed against them. Thankfully, Hotstreak’s brains didn’t match his skills for being a firestarter.

Hotstreak’s stabbed his finger into Ebon’s jacket, the tip glowing like a fire poker. Singe marks peppered the expensive leather. He knew it would make him mad. He wouldn’t let this jumped up chump get to him.

“ Fancy seeing you here, Hotstreak.” Annoyance edged into Ebon’s normally suave baritone. He was almost tempted to drop Hotstreak into a portal and out into Hemingway Harbor.

“ Why are you here, Ebon?” Hotstreak stared at him with barely veiled suspicion.“ I thought you were supposed to be out doing your own business?”

" I’m glad you asked, Francis.” The pyrokinetic bang baby looked as if he’d been slapped. “ Cause I hauled myself a fish I think everyone’s itching to get a piece of.”

A black chasm formed above him, dripping shadows. Hotshot’s arms spread out, pointing towards Ebon, burning orange . Funny. He actually thought he could take him in a fight. A moment later, the prisoner tumbled onto the ground. He hit the ground writhing. Someone screamed and for a moment, the bustling atmosphere had been shattered. Hotstreak lowered his arms, cutting off the flames, his cheeks pale white, as he rubbed the back of his head. He gave him a look that said 'Am I off the hook?'

Ebon stared back and then, slowly nodded. We'll see. Hotstreak’s expression returned back to his arrogant demeanour.

Meanwhile, he had everyone’s attention now. Boom had thankfully cut his music off. Ebon cleared his throat.

" Everyone. May I introduce Larry Buchinsky, the Electrocutioner and the ho-mo sapien who tried to ice our good old friend, Static."

" Now, I know that there are plenty of us here who share a certain...history with Static. We know Talon's sob-story about how he nearly sent her falling from five stories up. The truth is...I don't hate the he-ro.” He drawled out the syllables mockingly. “ I just pity the fool.” He paused to let it sink in. “ Think about it for a moment. Here's a brother who's the same blood as us. He's out there bleeding sweat and tears for those filthy normies, fighting their battles instead of ours. He thinks they're the oppressed instead of the rest of us here on Paris Island.”

He turned his gaze towards the crowd, slithering through the small gaps like quicksliver as he spoke.

‘All of you know what they call us. Freaks of nature.” he said, his eyes searching through the crowd. Murmurs of anger spread through the crowd. The muties. Monsters."

" So, I say, if they live in fear of us, then, why not embrace it?"

" I’ve told you all before and I’m gonna tell again. I'mma make sure that Dakota belongs to us. The city is our turf. Our territory. Stick with me, my friends, and ain't nobody gonna mess with us ever again. Not the mayor. Not the government. Not the D.M.A. Not Supergirl. Not Wondie. Not Spider Man. Not anyone!"

Not even the Kilowatt Kid.

" We're the beginning of a new century, my friends! And it only begins when we have the guts to do what's right!"

“ Starting with this Bang-Baby murdering homosapien.”

" Shiv, would you so kindly do the honours for us?"

The crowd parted, out of fear and in disgust, to reveal a grinning man, pierced lips stuck in a perpetual smile. He sauntered over towards Ebon, hands loosely hanging by his side, radiating confidence. His arm began to glow pink, shimmering light shaping into a bladed mass that resembled the man’s namesake.

" What are we?" he shouted out.

" A NEW BREED!"

" WHAT ARE WE GONNA BE!?"

" A BETTER BREED!"

All of the crowd was into it now. Ebon grabbed Larry by the scruff of his neck, dragging him through as Bang Babies spat curses and threw empty bottles and trash towards the convict.

" Who are we?"

" THE META BREED!"

He slammed Larry onto the hood of an old forklifter, positioning his neck so it stuck out over the side.

" And our time starts right here! Right now! We’ve all lived in the shadows long enough! It's time this city stands in ours."

“ EBON! EBON! EBON! EBON!”

The chanting loudened and Ebon in that moment felt that the world was his stage.

After all, when every player had a shadow, who couldn’t he beat?

Shiv’s hand swung down at the peak of the crowd’s roar. Flesh boiled and bubbled away in a hissing slash. The Electrocutioner’s head rolled on the ground, blinking, the gag around his mouth missing to reveal a gormless expression.

Ebon’s boot then slammed down on his head and crunched it into a red puddle. Electrocutioner had taken his secret with him to his grave.

And no one would be the wiser.
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You know who I am. You've heard of me. You've probably seen my work. I'm quite famous with the federales on the Mexican border after all. But you don't know the man who made the mask.

This is the story of how I painted the Artistomancer.

Chapter 1 - The Pledge

All good things begin with a mother and a father. I was born in a family of five sons and two sisters. My parents married each other out of necessity at first, not love. That was what Mama accidentally told me when she fixed up a scrape I got from attempting to climb the border wall. I guess, things change over time. Mama was a nurse who worked in the slums. Papa, on the other hand, was a travelling bicycle mechanic who tried to escape the 2010 coup de'tat in Sao Paulo. It's hard to believe that the conditions in Sao Paulo were worst than Juarez.

Oh, Juarez? The wall was a constant across. Juarez was a life of living on the margins. What can I say about Juarez that hasn't been blasted and smeared across every news outlet in North America? The only kind thing I can say about Juarez is that if you ignore the corruption, cooperate with the cartels and keep your nose clean of crime; then, you can make a decent living.

When my papa gave me my first set of cheap color pencils as my 10th birthday gift, I was initially angry. Looking back, I wouldn't have traded it for anything else in the world. I began to draw. I drawed instead of doing homework at school. I stained my handprints on the walls. I made chalk drawings on the pavements. I painted the pottery my mom brought home. When I didn't have enough money to buy dollar-store chalk or spray paint, I mashed cactus juices together and mixed crayons with water. My inspirations were not Leonardo Da Vinci or Michaleangelo but the street artists and holo-taggers of Mexico.

Some discover theyNo, it wasn't some freak accident nor was I experimented in one of those corporate laboratories. For me, it was desperation that led me to discovering my powers. One of the waterlines . The corporations barred any news of it getting out to the NGO's, leaving thousands of us to die from dehydration in the slums.

That was my first art-piece. An oasis in my desert.

Eventually, I caught the attention of. I was young, foolish and naive back then. I thought I could outsmart the Los Diablos. However, they were stringing me along, treating me like a tool.

I did the only thing my thirteen year old mine thought was the smart move. I tried to resurrect them, bring them back to life...

Well, there's a reason why no one dares to speak the name of the Los Diablos anymore in Juarez.

That's when I met Hex.

Chapter 2 - The Turn

So, when the corporations tried to silence me, I struck out on my own. I saw that we were always playing into the hands of the corpos, the fat cats, the men who controlled the world and made us play their cops and robbers games.

Chapter 3 - The Prestige

I joined The Third Rail.

Hex says an apocalypse is coming for us all.
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Arc 2: + Power Outage +


STATIC SHOCK



Episode 1.2: - Circuit Failure -


“ Yo, yo, yo, what’s hanging, Dakota CITY?! Welcome back to Dakota Midnight Central live. It’s your boy, DJ Rubberband, keeping you wonderful people company with the freshest tracks and beats. Today, we’ve got a very special guest folks. You may have become acquainted with his magnetic personality over the last few months. He’s the defender of Dakota City, the Kilowatt Kid, Lightning Junior. May I introduce STATIC! What’s up, my man?”

“ Rocking a new costume, I see. What happened to the good old white, black and blue?”

“ Well, yellow’s the new lightning in town, you see. One thing’s for sure. It makes laundry easier.”

“ I bet. Now, we heard about your scuffle on the street with the leader of the Wild Pack yesterday. Down near Washington Avenue? ”

“ Yeah. I've been trying to help Dakota PD stop the feud that's been happening between the Wild Pack and the Blood Syndicate. Let's just say both gangs got really peeved 'bout me intereferin' with their right to kill one another.”

" You didn't get hurt too bad, did you?"

" Hurt? Please, Rubber. Nothing can touch me."





Why was it always the windows?

Dark spots danced in Virgil’s eyes, brushing shards of glass off his jacket. Several oranges rolled aimlessly on the ground beside him, some relatively unharmed by his landing whilst others were squashed underneath his weight. Standing up with a grumble, he ignored the faint scent of sweet. Ending up in a greengrocer’s wouldn’t have been his first choice but at least the fruit made the landing softer. The crash had scrambled his mind, jumbled it up until he could no longer tell what day it was anymore. He readjusted his googles and stared through the open broken window.

What was he doing here in the first place anyway? The answer soon came to him in the form of a tip jar jiterring relentlessly before toppling off the side of a counter. Then, the ceiling above him began to shift. He first confused the rumbling for an earthquake and then, corrected himself. Dakota City hadn't seen an earthquake in over fifty years. The entire world was shaking up and down that he couldn't make sense of where was up and where was down.

BOOM.


Oh, right.

BOOM.


Him.

BOOM


The source of the shaking arrived around the corner, leaving cratered footprints in the concrete with every step they made. It sounded as if a Tyranosaurus Rex with diabetes was taking a tour of the city. He wasn’t sure if there was a word in the dictionary to describe how big the man’s feet were. Huge? Ginormous? Colossal? His knees were slightly bent, as if he was preparing to take flight at any moment. It would have been comical, if it wasn’t for the fact that there were remnants of dried blood stuck on his heels. His corn-rowed hair was hidden underneath a red cloth bandanna. Underneath the man’s shades, a thick cigar was stuck in his mouth as he stared at Virgil as if he was nothing more than a bug to be crushed.

“ Ya must be a crazy interferin’ with ma businezz, Kilowatt boy." Kangor drawled his words lazily in a thick Jamaican accent. “ Washington Avenue is ma territory and everyone knows what happens if you get in an animal’s territory.”

“ Some business you’re running, Tim!” Virgil flicked off several squashed fruit peels off his shoulder and winced at the bruises beginning to form on his backside. He raised his hands in front of him in a placating manner. " Look, we don't have to fight. We can settle this like civilised -"

Kangor leapt towards him mid-speech, one leg raised outwards to kick him. You didn’t expect a man with such abnormally sized feet to be so nimble. Virgil rolled out of the way just in time to avoid becoming a human pancake.

" Da name is Kangor." The Bang Baby criminal wrenched his foot free from the ruined shelf. “ Now, step out before you get stepped on.”

“ Step out?” His fists glowed with lightning “ We’ve only just begun this dance, Kangor.”

Kangor skipped out of the way to avoid getting drenched in a gout of electricity. It was almost infuriating how deceptively quick the Jamaican was, dancing around him in a slow yet efficient manner. The din of his stomps filled his ear, not enough to distract him from dodging a elephant-sized foot. The back wall of the small store was pulverized into smithereens by Kangor's twenty-inch long boots.

“ Dance? I doubt a little boy like you can handle my style.”

“ Style?” Virgil gave a wild grin as he backed himself against a rack of ripening bananas. “You’ve got as much style as your choice in footwear.”

There! Static ducked underneath a wide kick before delivering a stinging payload of electricity into Kangor’s opengut. The Bang Baby’s face contorted in pain for a moment, teeth gritted in annoyance before shoving Virgil back with his left foot. Virgil wheezed, his back slamming into a shelf of homemade jam jars that rattled upon impact. He’d just hit him with enough volts to knock out a man. It looked like the Bang Gas changed him on the inside as well as on the outside. Kangor's confident gait had been broken now, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath as he eyed Virgil with a conviction to kill.

Playing cockroach was only going to get him so far. A construction site half a block down. If he made his bets right. Virgil leaned against the store shelf behind him, steadying himself as Kangor charged towards him. At the last minute, his right arm snapped out, radiating electrical energy, and a volley of jam jars flung itself into the Bang Baby's face. Kangor yelled out in surprise and spat jam out of his mouth, Static taking advantage of the distraction to summon a nearby man-hole towards him. Virgil grabbed onto both sides of the manhole, legs squirming in the air as he pulled himself up onto the levitating cast-iron disc.

“ That all you got, Kangor?" He taunted from on top his surfboard. " I hear they’re looking for an Easter Bunny mascot in Utopia!”

Kangor growled, wiping apricot jam off his face, and began to chase after Virgil.

The construction workers wisely began to flee the scene, dropping whatever they had on hand, and ran away from the ongoing brawl between the two super-powered youngsters.

" I hear they're looking for

“ You ain’t gonna be saying no more words when I squash you into da ground -”

Unable to change his trajectory mid-fall, Kangor fell with a splat into the pool of wet cement.

“ I've got this sinking feeling that you'll be more willing to cooperate now..."

" You! Gemme outta dis mess!"

" Sure, you just hang tight." " In the meantime, there's a great coffee shop down the next bend. I'm aching for an macchiato after all that trouble you put me through. Is there anything you want?"

" Iced latte."




So, how’s the life of being a teenage superhero?”

“ Well, it’s probably one of the worst jobs ever. No pay, you can’t use it for your CV and no insurance either. ”

“ There’s gotta be ups as well as downs, man. Something tells me you ain’t no Mother Teresa.”

“ Well, some of the shops down in Upper Hemingway do give personal discounts to me while I’m on the scene.”

“ I’d bet. You got any special person in your life yet, Static? With a magnetic personality like yours and all the fame you’ve been cumulating.…..”

“ I know what you’re trying to do, Rubber. Stop teasin’ me like that. It ain’t gonna work.”

“ “ Chillax, bro. I was just playing with ya. So, one of our listeners asked this question that I think has been on everyone mind for quite a while.”

“ Shoot.”

“ Is Black Lightning your Dad?”




“ Is that the new principal?”

“ Good morning, everybody."

" Oh, come on. You can do better than that!"

" That's what I like to hear. I am glad to be honoured with this prestigious position and will continue to build upon the legacy that Principle Forrester left behind."

There were several chuckles and hushed whispers followed by the silencing hisses from teachers to keep quiet. From what he heard, Principle Forrester had ‘resigned’ after Shocker had torn up the dorms at Hemingway High.

" I'm not here to teach you about how to maintain your GPA. How to get into Ivy-League universities. How to succeed in your academics. I'm here to teach you how to exercise your responsibility to choose."

" The responsibility to choose a better life for yourself. The responsibility to do good from wrong. The responsibility to recognize when something is wrong. The responsibility to take care of yourself and be the best person you can be for other people and you."

“ When I see Hemingway High, I don't see see potential. All of you, no matter where you come from, who you are or what you did in the past, share that same potential. I believe that we’re not aiming to prepare you for the future at Hemingway. We’re making the future at Hemingway High and that future starts with you."

“ 'Cause in Dakota City, you always have a choice, and it's your job to find out what that choice is."

" That sounds like a lot that I'm asking of all of you, but, I'll be behind you. Every step of the way to support you in your journey."

“ I’m starting to like this guy already.” “ You’re lookin’ a little lost, V? Something on your mind?”

“ No, no. “ “ I just didn’t get enough sleep, last night.”




“ Everything all right there, Static? It’s not too personal a question, is it - “

“ Personal? Nah. Look, for the final time, there ain’t no relationship between Black Lightning and me. End of story. Nada. Zilch. The sooner that everyone abandons that tired, old rumor, the better everyone will be. ”





...try sourcing your tungsten filaments from lightbulbs. They should provide enough resistance to produce enough light.

Your confidant, Herman Schultz


You sensed it, didn’t you?. Virgil shook his head. It’s just an illusion. The lamp bulb behind him flickered like a trapped firefly. Is that what you’re telling yourself? His computer monitor flickered uncontrollably before resuming its soft hum.

“ This is Robert Hawkins. If you’re interested or have questions about Freeman Community Center, please leave a message at the - “

Ever since he’d revealed that he was Static to Dad, it didn’t have the reaction he’d expect him to have.

“ Ahem.”

“ Whaddya want? Can’t you see I’m busy here, Sharon?”

“Apparently.” “Virg, this is the tenth time you’ve called Dad today”

“Can’t he spare some time for me?”

“I remembered you were supportive of him in the beginning.”

“We both were.” “C’mon, sis, don’t you feel that the house is a little more empty now?”

“Look, Dad still cares for the both of us, alright? It’s just that….he loses sight of the smaller picture once in a while.”

“ Besides, we still have each other, you dork.”

“Night, Virgil”

“ Night, Sharon.”

“ Robbery in progress at Dakota City Bank. All units on route…”

“ Seems like these nights get longer and longer…”
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Always Low Prices In the Apocalypse


Genre: Post-Apocalyptic, Satire, Science Fiction, Cyberpunk, Supernatural



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PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT


Check Out. Who hasn't heard of the fabled land, where we are no longer haunted by the drones of Sekyuritee, the mutated pests that roam the aisles, the tyrannical horror of the Smilers or other nightmares that haunt us daily in the Wal. Some say it is an illusion made up by the Employees to give us false hope, whilst others claim they have seen the pearly doors of Sliding, opening to reveal glimpses of the Unknown Lots. The line to Check Out is soiled with the blood of trippers, lifters and shoppers that have attempted to seek haven and escape the confines of the Mart.

Yet, every shopper eventually learns of the eternal truth about this quest, this unquenched desire, the dream which may come but never will.

The Wal is all.
Excerpt from Brochure of Wal-History, Chapter 10 - Written by Ken Dal, Head Archivist of the BOOKS Department


Think of an average Walmart. Picture it in your mind. Think of every shelf, every sample stand, every product, every waiting line you've been in.

Now, think of a Walmart the size of a city, where banks are Wal-Banks and restaurants serve Walmart branded products. You live inside a Walmart manufactured home cube.

Go even bigger. Think of a Walmart the size of a nation. A Wal-nation. You pay your taxes to the Walmart. Your citizenship is instead a Walmart customer account. No matter what job you take, you are always an employee of Walmart. Your national anthem is Walmart advertising jingle. Your housing complex is located on the 2nd row of a shelf and your neighbor is located across the aisle.

Then, we've reached the logical conclusion. There is no mart anymore. Aisles the size of highways, shelves stories tall, rows upon rows of fridges to populate a city, food courts the size of beaches, signs that have replaced skies and forests of grocery sections. The world has become Wal-World.

The future is the Wal.

Walmageddon: Shopping Spree is an roleplay that is based upon /tg/'s homebrew setting, Walmart Apocalypse, which was further derived from a now sadly defunct Wizards of the Coast forum thread spanning hundred of pages long. Taking the concept of a supermarket arcologies to its most logical conclusion and dialing it up beyond safety regulations, Walmageddon is set in a satirical mass-consumerist post-apocalyptic future where Walmart rose in prominence in both socio-economic and political power during the 21st century, spreading and outsourcing its facilities in every part of the globe. The corporation eventually became a sovereign power that was a virtual nation unto itself, with superstores around the globe that acted as miniature cities that could house millions of people inside its confines. After a catastrophic war between the few federal third-world governments that were left and Walmart, humanity was forever sealed within the giant stores that over generations, they would learn to call home.

Pockets of human civilization, known as Departments, live on within the aisles of these humongous supermarkets, whilst the shelves are continually refilled by the deadly Stocker bots who will kill with extreme prejudice if they catch those who try to 'shop-lift'. Those who survive must contend with the myriad of various dangers that inhabit the Wal such as malfunctioning automated artificial intelligences, hostile religious groups such as the Cult of the Smiling One, mutated animals, lobotomised Greeters and worse. Furthermore, rivaling factions and mysterious forces work to claim control of the Wal and ultimately, the future of humanity itself.

You are a Lifter, a catch all term for scavenger for hire in the Wal. You, along with a crew of several other Lifters, have been tasked with delivering a mysterious high value product from the Bargain Bin to an unknown department far away on the other side of the Wal. The risks are high but the payout is even higher. What seemed like a simple package delivery has taken a turn for the worst....


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SHOPPING LIST


1. Don't engage in any behaviour that disturbs the other customers of this roleplay such as harassment, godmodding, metagaming, flame wars in OOC, posting inappropriate content without the GM's permission and etc. If you've been caught engaging in any behavior that's not consistent with the rules of this site or any roleplaying standard that hasn't been consulted with the GM prior, then, you'll be banned from shopping at Walmageddon forever.

2. Quality over quantity is best, but when quality is matched with quantity, it's even better. For the purposes of this RP, I am encouraging you to write whatever length you desire, whether it's short, pithy posts or long, detailed posts. There is no post length requirement but be reasonable in whatever choices you make. If you want to know, my minimum requirement for a post is at a paragraph at the minimum. Don't go and make a post which the number of sentences can be counted with my fingers.

3. I don't have any posting activity requirements, given that I'm a frequent hypocrite in both the frequency of posts I write in roleplays that I have done previously. All that I ask is that you are active in both the OOC and the IC. If you wanna hang out in the OOC and lay back and relax, that's fine by me (As long as you don't start acting inappropriately)

4. Have fun. No, seriously, have fun. This is a ridiculous concept with ridiculous ideas that takes pot shots at corporate capitalism and 21st century consumer culture. If you have any worldbuilding ideas or suggestions you'd like to post, you are heavily encouraged to do so. As most of the lore for Walmart Apocalypse is heavily vague, incomplete and scattered, your imagination and creativity is required to fill in the gaps. Worldbuilding in this RP will be mainly contributed by the roleplayers, funneled through me. Bending lore for our own benefit is going to happen a lot on a case by case basis.


$$$



Customer ID


Disclaimer: You don't have to strictly follow this format. You are allowed to make your own additions or your own alterations if you want to do so.




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Low Prices in The Apocalypse


Genre: Post Apocalypse, Satire, Science Fiction, Futuristic

Type:Linear Narrative

Source Material and Inspiration: Walmart Apocalypse, Fallout, Mad Max



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ENTRANCE


Praise be upon Smiley, son of Great Sam

Always Low Prices, Always Faithful

For he is his eternal messenger and we his servants

Always Low Prices, Always Faithful

For our smiles are our faith and the Wal his temple

Always Low Prices, Always Faithful
The Cult of the Smiling One - The Fifth Canticle - Smiles Be Upon Sam


" Welcome to Wal-World Sector 14-A-Delta! We hope that you enjoy your stay here! Please go to the Customer Service desk if you have any questions. For inquiries about Wal-Coupon deals...." It's a wonder that the PA is still working. You're sprinting down an aisle, the only sound you can hear are your thumping heartbeats and heaving breathes. The loud thumps make you realise that it's coming closer. Scrambling yourself up onto a shelving unit, you hide behind the boxes. You've heard rumors about Sekyuritee drones. No one ever manages to describe how they look like because no one ever manages to live and tell the tale. A metal behemoth ponderously creaks down the hallway, metal joints buckling and bending to support its gargantuan weight.

You close your eyes, hoping that the Great Sam is watching over you right now. Grasping the handles of your plunger with your sweaty hands, red light runs down the cracks of the shelves, intruding into the safe harbor of the shadow, Sekyuritee bearing down upon you,





The Wal is everywhere. The Wall is everything. The Wal is eternal. The Wal is all.

In the distant future, monolithic superstores the size of small countries lay unblemished on the ruined and blasted landscape of the Old World after the collapse of civilization. Within these colossal wrecks lie the last bastions of human society. For a period of time, these pockets of humanity were scattered, eking out a harsh and weary existence within the confines of the Wal, scavenging from its shelves. Eventually, enclaves of human survivors known as Departments began to form within the confines of the Wal, each with their own unique culture, their own methods of surviving, of living. However, in spite of these miracles, there are still threats to contend with inside the Wal. The lunatic Cult of the Smiling One, dedicated to purging all non-believers and heretics to the Great Sam. Malfunctioning automatons who persist in carrying out their duties in the absence of customers. Horrific, mutated monstrosities from within the deepest depths and outside of the Wal. Violent, mindless Brand Gangs who terrorize, raid and kill innocent Shoppers.

Walmageddon: Shopping Spree is an roleplay that is based upon /tg/'s homebrew setting Walmart Apocalypse, which was further derived from a now sadly defunct Wizards of the Coast forum thread spanning hundred of pages long. Taking the concept of a supermarket arcologies to its most logical conclusion and dialing it up beyond safety regulations, the roleplay is set in a satirical mass-consumerist post-apocalyptic future where Walmart rose in prominence in both socio-economic and political power during the 21st century, spreading and outsourcing its facilities in every part of the globe. The corporation eventually became a sovereign power that was a virtual nation unto itself, with superstores around the globe that acted as miniature cities which could house millions of people. After a catastrophic war between the few federal third-world governments that were left standing and Wal-World, humanity was forever sealed within the giant stores that over generations, they would learn to call home.

You are a Lifter, a catch all term for scavenger for hire in the Wal. For whatever reason, you, along with a crew of several other Lifters, have been tasked with delivering a mysterious high value product from the Bargain Bin to an unknown department far away on the other side of the Wal. The risks are high but the payout is even higher. Will you make a story of your own amongst the thousands in the Wal or will you meet your end? The choice is yours.


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TERMS AND CONDITIONS


Before you begin shopping at Walmageddon, please take a moment to consult our Terms and Conditions.

No rule-breaking behavior whatsoever that is in disregard of the rules of the Guild. Usual roleplaying standards also apply which means no god-modding, meta-gaming, twinking, cheesing, powerplaying or retconning. Doing these without the consent of the Wal-Master will most likely result in permanent expulsion of the player from the mart, depending on the circumstances.

There is no strict post length requirement in this RP other than "Don't give me a post where I can count the number of sentences with my two hands easily". A post of about three decently sized paragraphs is enough to satisfy me, though. If you can make a post in the format of a haiku, a poem or a rap work, then, do it. However, I am expecting posts that both move the narrative along as well as being detailed. My overall rule is that quality beats quantity but when they both go hand in hand, it's even better.

Likewise, there is no strict restriction for posting frequency. I am fully aware of my own hypocrisy when it comes to advocating weekly posts, and of the issues people face in IRL that may prevent them from posting. Therefore, when you are unable to post for a duration of time that may been seen as long, please inform me beforehand.

Character sheets can and will be rejected, depending on how well they compare with other applications. Remember that your character must be able to

Wheaton's law is in full effect, so, be friendly with one another and try to cultivate an atmosphere of shitposts and fun times in the OOC. If any drama occurs between members of this RP, keep it away from the OOC and take it to the PMs if you dearly want to win an internet forum battle.

Be aware of the 3 C's: Communication, Criticism and Cooperation. Discussing with each other, giving suggestions and offering criticism is the best way to ensure that no future problems pop up in this RP. If you have any problems with the way the Wal-Master handles things or have any questions about how to create your character, please PM me about it, or if you think it's serious enough, post it in the OOC.

If by some off chance you want to kill off your character and make a new one, go ahead. However, you can't make more than one character. Only the Wal-Master (me) is allowed to play a multitude of characters.

18+ content is allowed within this RP, as long as it serves its purpose and doesn't break the rules of the RP. Touching upon controversial themes carelessly could potentially result in the shopper's permanent expulsion from the RP which again depends on the circumstances.

Any player who joins this RP should be and willing to be open to the process of worldbuilding.


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CUSTOMER IDENTITY TUTORIAL


Lastly, all shoppers should proceed towards Customer Service and begin the process of creating their very own custom Wal-World Customer Identity Card! Please be noted that the initial charge for purchasing your identity card is 50.50 Wal-Credits. Please exchange all foreign currency at your nearest Wal-Bank kiosk...




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Cast List


The Bork Lazer - WalMaster
Moskau Spieluhr - Z-Grip the Penja
AmpharosBoy - Blothmerche Assiosales, Dorf Warrior of Fort Pathfunder
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CUSTOMER SERVICE (WIP)


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We, at Wal-World, would appreciate the assistance of our ear customers in removing any disrepencies. Send in a letter to our Customer Complaint deparment and we'll have your problem fixed in no time flat!




Departments



























































Residents of the Wal





















Bestiary





Catalogue





Lexicon and Slang


//Aisler/Shopper - General slang for average person living in the Wal.

//Check-Out - A rumored section where people are able to exit the Wal. Most believe it to be fiction. Most shoppers commonly use check-out as a euphemism for 'death'.

//Kleaner - Denizens of the Cleaning Supplies Department.

//Roofers - Shoppers that come from the Roof Department.

//Sampler - Slang for merchant.

//Smiler - An indoctrinated member of the Cult of the Smiling One.
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Ssorry, but I'm already cold-blooded. I prefer to kill in hot blood.










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THE BOUNTY HUNTER'S GUILD


TERMINOLOGY

HISTORY

HOUSE SYSTEM

THE BOUNTY HUNTER'S CREED


NO BOUNTY IS WORTH DYING FOR


PEOPLE DON'T HAVE BOUNTIES. ACQUISTIONS HAVE BOUNTIES.


CAPTURE BY DESIGN. KILL BY NECESSITY.


NO HUNTER SHALL EVER SLAY ANOTHER HUNTER


NO HUNT SHALL EVER INTERFERE WITH ANOTHER HUNT


IN THE HUNT, ONE CAPTURES OR KILLS, NEVER BOTH


NO HUNTER SHALL EVER REFUSE ANOTHER HUNTER


THOSE WHO VIOLATE THE CREED SHALL BE HUNTED


The Venataan Coalition


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WIZARD COPS - NEW ORLEANS




DISCLAIMER: WIZARD COPS IS FILMED WITH THE MEN AND WOMEN OF ANY MAGICAL SPECIES OF MAGIC LAW ENFORCEMENT. ALL WIZARDS ARE INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT IN A COURT OF LAW.


concepts

- script style format like the TV show?
- no big bad guy. dark wizards are like the equivalent of serial killers.
- tv show being filmed live to educate modern society about the dangers that the Wiz-Cops face on a daily basis.

crimes
- wand licenses, broom licenses,
- potions and talisman and rare magical parts trafficking
- magical creatures
- drug stings
- voodoo doll assaults
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The old world is the new gold in this new world.

ALAN GORSKY

120| Big Sky, Northern Commonwealth | 169.5 cm / 155 pounds | Ghoul


A P P E A R A N C E.
" Yeah, yeah, I see the way you're eyeing at me, smooth-skin. You're probably thinking a few things about me right now. A talking Brahmin testicle. A piece of mutfruit that was left out in the sun. A shriveled cave fungus that grew legs. Trust me. I heard it all. So try to be more creative the next time you try to insult a ghoul."

A common adage in the ghoul town of Gecko is that every ghoul looks alike and Gorsky believes it. No nose. Mummified skin. Radiation burns. Simply put, Gorsky is about as off-putting as any ghoul could be. His balding head contains wisps of sandy hair growing at the fringes. If one were to use their imagination, perhaps, they could craft a human simulacrum of what Gorsky once looked like in their minds. The only feature that distinguishes Gorsky from other ghouls is his glowing eyes. No, not metaphorically, literal glowing in the dark pupils. This freaky mutation is a reminder of the circumstances that resulted in his ghoulification.

Due to living as a Old World prospector and scavenger, Gorsky has developed a weathered yet still-emaciated physique with a stout stature that belies hidden cunning and tenacity. With time, he has gained numerous scars from his misadventures that are in a constant state of flux, closing and reopening at ill-opportune times. Though his choice of apparel varies depending on the climate, he is never seen without an white-star ushanka on his head.


E Q U I P M E N T.
Orion - A hand crafted scoped crossbow cobbled together from a makeshift selection of gun parts, energy weapon parts and scrap waste found littered in the Wasteland. Silent and deadly at a range of 50 yards.

Quiver Belt - A belt that allows Gorsky to access and load his bolts easier.



Trenchcoat - A furred long-coat tailored from rad-elk leather and partially fortified with laminated polymer weave plating. Comes with extra pockets for storing small objects.

Portable Repair Kit - An old Vault-Tec Lunchbox that contains all the necessities of post-apocalyptic DIY repair such as WonderGlue, Duct-Tape, wrenches, a soldering iron, screwdrivers and all the tools needed to fix up anything you need.

Lockpicking Kit - A leather wallet containing bobby pins, staplers, tension wrenches, screwdrivers and enough picks to crack open any safe with the exception of Fort Knox. If it's still standing.

Collection of Poisons - A satchel containing three 500 ml ampules, each containing man-made poisons known as Bleak Venom, Mother Darkness and Sliver Sting. Bleak Venom acts as a lethal cardiotoxin, Mother Darkness is a potent neurotoxin and Sliver Sting is known to be an easily acquired cytotoxin. Gorsky most often dips his arrows in poison whilst hunting for food.

Talon Knife - A one-edged five inch curved ivory knife carved from the bone of a deathclaw talon. It's sharper than it looks.

Dog Whistle - A high pitched dog whistle that transmits a specific frequency only a mutated giant cockroach would hear.


M I S C E L L A N E O U S G E A R
- Rolled Up Sleeping Bag
- Electric Lighter
- Box of Spare Electronic and Mechanical Parts
- Satchel of 100 Caps
- Brahmin Leather Waterskin
- Container of Coyote Tobacco Cigars
- Frying Pan
- Compass
- Packet of Kindling
- Army Brand Ushanka
- Tribal Dreamcatcher Necklace
- Pet Brush for Chaff
- Journal and Charcoal Pen
- Fishing Rod, Line, Hook and Sinker


S K I L L S.
// SURVIVAL (CORE) - Having been raised in the harsh wildernesses of Montana and ran solo scavenging operations for nearly most of his life, Gorsky knows virtually every survival trick in and out of the book to prevent your ass from being gnawed off by a mole rat. Crafting poison, making poisons, identifying plants that don't poison you; Gorsky is a natural outdoorsghoul. Also, it doesn't hurt to know how to make a good bloatmfly brisket every once in a while.

// REPAIR (GOOD) - " Duct Tape and Wonder Glue. Two things everyone needs in life."

// SCIENCE (GOOD) - " My scientific methodology? Throw it at the wall and see if it sticks. Try to relate it to physics, biology, chemistry, astrology.....wait, scratch that last one. "

// BARTER (AVERAGE) - " 1500 caps? How about we lower it down to 500 caps if I buy a bottle of Sarsparilla for you?"

// GUNS (AVERAGE) - " N99. 10mm semi-automatic. 12 round magazine. You can do a nice little magic trick with it. Point the barrel at someone and you can make a dead person."

// LOCKPICKING (AVERAGE) - " A safe is just a birthday gift wrapped in deadbolts, cams and mortises."


H I S T O R Y
2385, August 5th

Thought I might start writing down stuff, in case I forget. Doc I met in Vault City said that ghouls don't have eidetic memory. That common symptoms were dementia, amnesia, a Sugar Bombs box of mental illnesses. Might be good to have things written down in case somebody finds my grave. Can't rely on Chaff to tell my story anyway. Doubt anyone can speak Radroach.

I was born in the Rockies 120 years ago, somewhere north of the Great Salt Lake and westwards of NCR territory. Everyone called it the Big Sky. It used to be part of the pre-war Northern Commonwealth before the last war happened. Luckily, the surrounding mountain ranges allowed us to escape the worst of the bombs. Some of the elders had stories around what happened that time, when the Black Rain poured down from the clouds and flooded the valleys, when the Wendigos came from the forests to feast on us, when the six moon snow silenced the sunlight. It's been....40 years since I last visited there. All I know about them is through word of the monthly supply caravans that go there. They're still doing good. Best as you can out here in the wastes.

I grew up in a tribal village where blood didn't matter and everyone shared everything. The origins of our founding are spotty but our archive keepers agreed that some group of outcasts from the eastern continents moved into the USA and hid in the mountains during the Pre-War. My father worked in the coal mines while my mother worked as a hunter. Me and the rest of my five siblings simply survived. I learned what plants I could eat, how to skin a giant rat, how to fish for mirelurk pups and making fire from sticks and stones. Anyway, Big Sky was boring. In the sense that our neighbors were unfriendly, the air was cold enough to freeze your balls off and there were bobcats in every bush you wanted to take a dump in.

That was until the first caravan came. I was at the ripe old age of 18. Old enough to be independent yet young enough to be stupid and dumb. I made a promise to myself then that I wouldn't die languishing in Big Sky. I wanted to explore. I wanted to live. In the morning, I left a note on the table for my parents and sneaked onto a supply caravan that was headed California by bribing one of the guards, with nothing more than a bindle and a crossbow on my back. One of the head merchants found me in the back gnawing on their tato crops but I soon silenced their complaints about extra weight by rustling up a few gecko steaks for them when we hit the border of Klamath.

I was dropped off at the Hub. The Hub. One of the Five Great Territories of the NCR. I got my first job in a 'prospector crew' there. Some people saw it as dirty but it was the dream for some tribal out lander like me. Exploring pre-war ruins. Cracking open safes. Unearthing treasures? It was more than I could ask for. Life was good. Caps were flowing in. I grew older. Fell in love. Bought a house. Got married. Thought of retiring. Same story you hear nowadays from every citizen of the New California Republic. Back in Big Sky, retirement wasn't an option but here in California, it was a land of opportunity.

Then, it happened.

December 24th, 2299. Christmas. The dawn of the next Millennium. The day that I became a ghoul.

The old ruins were becoming sparse now. The NCR was grabbing onto every territory it could and promising spots became blocked off by garrisons. The only choice was to go to more further and dangerous places.

I chose to do a job in New Mexico. Five man crew. Pre-war military site. Unlooted. Unscathed. Only problem was that there were enough rads to make a man grow extra arms. A nuclear warhead struck the coastline of the base and turned it into freak central. The facility we entered into was some kind of some old vehicle manufacturing factory. Tanks the size of freaking cottages. Wandered around for a little bit until we hit a vaulted door. Nothing I couldn't handle. A little bit of thermite and picking later, fell apart like cotton candy.

We went inside and hit the jackpot. Blueprints. Safes. Enough loot to make a man rich for lifetimes.

I only had five seconds to react before the bullet tore through my chest.

In hindsight, it made sense. Get rid of the extra weight and split the loot between themselves. My death could be written off as an accident since I was travelling into a high risk area. No one would try and bother to find my body too. The perfect plan.

Instead of putting me out of my misery, they stripped me of all my gear and left me to rot. While they looted the room. Last thing I remember before blacking out was the sound of my Geiger counter screeching, the burning pain in my chest and how my head pounded like a drum.

I woke up. Afraid, hungry, thirsty and alive. I was still inside the loot room. It’d been stripped bare to the walls. My voice sounded like I’d been gurgling stones for a lifetime, I had no nose and the hole in my chest was missing. I didn’t have time to come to terms that I’d become a ghoul. I was only concerned about finding a way out of this place.

That was when I was attacked by the biggest radroach the wastes had ever conceived. My Chaff. We got off to a rocky start but eventually, things settled between the both of us after I gave her a little bit of food from some expired MRE I found in a storage locker.

I crawled my way out of New Mexico and walked back to the Hub on foot. Me and Chaff fell a little bit off course every once in a while but we pulled ourselves back towards our goal. When I finally reached there, I was prepared for the worst. What would you do if your husband or wife suddenly became a ghoul? I opened the door, Chaff behind me, expecting to be screamed at and tossed out from the house.

Nothing, in fact. My wife told me to stop with the self-pity, move on with my life and that I was still the same old dumb tribal underneath that skin. To this day, I never did manage to find those guys who shot me and I never will. Revenge is fool’s gold. By now, they’re either old men waiting to die or two feet under already. Seems petty to hunt them down.

In spite of common sense, I returned to work as a prospector, albeit with caveats. I never took group contracts again and went solo. Well, semi-solo. Chaff doesn’t get a part of the profits. I continued to live and continued to work, looking for pieces of the old world to collect.

Time moves differently when you’re a ghoul. Wife died from a nasty bout of pancreatic cancer when I was 60. My two sons became water merchants when I was 85. I became a grandfather at the age of 100. My trips became further. I returned back to Montana for a bit and then, went back to the Hub. I……I can’t remember. It’s like an old reel movie in my head. A collection of moments. I can barely even remember her voice anymore.

There’s word spreading around the Hub right now. Rumours of a Vault in Cascadia. Untouched. Lack of NCR presence.

Perfect for prospecting.


P S Y C H E.
Gorsky’s takes a sardonic yet professional approach to his work as a prospector, viewing the wastes as a land of opportunity rather than a land of desolation. His only concerns are the wellbeing of his own relatives, Chaff and his own collection of items. He distances himself from other people out of reflex and often uses acerbic jabs as his weapons to keep people away. However, those who earn Gorsky’s trust and loyalty earn themselves a friend. Gorsky also holds a relative dislike of government authorities and inefficencies, particularly the NCR, holding nothing but contempt towards their imperialistic policies which he sees as strangling the freedoms of the Wasteland.

That is not to say Gorsky is without his imperfections. Gorsky is a prospector and a scavenger at heart, willing to haggle and bargain for anything. He hold a streak of being greedy and the promise of treasure and old world tech will dissuade any moral qualms he may have about committing any act, albeit to a point. Good luck on trying to get him to commit murder. Gorsky believes in defending himself from danger and never attacking in response to danger.


D R I V E.
Other than surviving, Gorsky’s main incentive for living the way he does is for the pathological thrill of adventure he gets whenever he happens upon an artifact of the Old World. He believes that the Óld World’ is the new gold and that it holds power and value over caps, money, armies and wealth.

However, the truth is more complicated than it seems. Gorsky also collects artifacts of the Old World, not out of the thrill, but out of fear for his deteriorating memory. He’s not sure how ghouls can stay sane for but he’s not willing to rot in safety and wait for his mind to disintegrate. Taking advantage of the long life span of ghouls, Gorsky continues to explore and search for nuggets of the Old World, hoping that he can stay ahead of memory loss one treasure at a time.






hissssssssss

CHAFF

N/A | New Mexico | 60 cm / 30 pounds | Radroach

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